The letter was a single sheet, filled from margin to margin with densely written paragraphs. Ostensibly, it came from an old acquaintance now living on the border between Veraene and the kingdom of Auszterlant. In it, the acquaintance detailed his foray into cattle farming. Number of head, how many herds, where they grazed, etc. Near the end, the friend gave a painstaking account of each member of the family, and asked when Lord Kosenmark might pay them a visit.

The meaning behind those phrases was clear. Ship maneuvers along the coast had ended. Troops recalled from the western border to the Karovin capital, Rastov. Additional ships-the swiftest in the royal fleet-rea.s.signed and docked at the nearest ocean port. Duke Miro Karasek temporarily appointed to a special command ...

A coldness rolled over his skin as he pieced the clues together.

Ah, Leos. Now I understand.

Four hundred years ago, Leos Dzavek and his brother, two princes of Karovi, had visited Duenne's Court. In those days, Karovi was a minor province within the grand Erythandran empire. Though historical accounts from that time were unclear-and indeed, rewritten by subsequent rulers-one point was clear. Leos Dzavek and his brother had stolen three magical jewels from the imperial vaults. Lir's jewels, gifted by the G.o.ddess to the Erythandran emperors, or so the legends claimed.

Whatever their origin, Leos Dzavek fled home to Karovi with all three. He had quarreled with his brother, however, so when Leos launched a revolt, the brother led the emperor's armies to retake the province. The brother was killed in battle, Karovi regained its independence, and several other provinces broke away in the turmoil.

The empire had collapsed into splinters and factions, leaving only the kingdom known as Veraene. Leos Dzavek, however, had lived. It was the jewels, said the rumors, and their extraordinary magic that taught this man how to live centuries beyond the ordinary life span.

Centuries, yes. It was a hundred years later when the nameless elder brother returned to a new life as Leos Dzavek's trusted retainer. Again the records contradicted each other, but the salient points were clear. The retainer stole the jewels and hid them, then killed himself before Dzavek could extract the truth from him. The jewels remained lost, most likely hidden in the magical plane. Since then, Dzavek had searched for them throughout Veraene, Karovi, and all the other known kingdoms.

And now you have found them, Raul thought. One at least.

But which one? And where?

"WOULD YOU LIKE to see the public rooms first?" the young man named Uwe asked Gerek.

No, he would not. What Gerek wanted most of all was to sit alone in the dark. With a wet rag over his aching eyes. Then he could think over his interview, and prepare himself for whatever came next.

Raul Kosenmark had not allowed him that luxury, however. Instead, Gerek had eaten his midday meal with Mistress Denk while they reviewed the current household accounts, the monthly schedule, and other necessary topics. Finally Denk had released him to a runner for a tour of the house, while servants fetched his luggage from the freight company. She would arrange to have his office and private rooms ready within a few hours.

The runner was polite enough, but Gerek could not give him proper attention. He followed the young man from the office wing, down one floor, and through a maze of corridors that ended at a wide balcony overlooking the pleasure house's entrance hall. It was all very grand. Tall windows lit the wide-open s.p.a.ce, illuminating the many fine paintings and tapestries. The style was deliberately antique, the young man explained. Lord Kosenmark had imported many of the decorations from his father's estates in Valentain. The rest he had acquired through antiquarian dealers along the eastern coast.

Gerek suppressed a yawn. He had risen well before sunrise that morning, endured three hours riding in the freight wagon, then used up his remaining wits and vitality during the interview with Lord Kosenmark. However, he suspected that Kosenmark wanted his secretary familiar with the house, so he dutifully followed the young man down the winding stairs to the entrance hall and gazed around.

Before them stood an arched entryway with a short hallway that opened into a much larger room beyond. Gerek could make out numerous couches scattered about, and several intimate groupings of chairs and low tables. Three maids were at work, dusting and polishing. One knelt on a richly dyed carpet, scrubbing at spots with a cloth. There was a musky scent in the air, an odor that reminded him of his father's quarters on those days when his mother spent the day locked in her private suite, weeping.

"That is the common room," the runner said. "Would you like to see it next?"

The common room was where the courtesans displayed themselves to potential clients. Of course, they were not so crude as to call it that. No, they entertained their visitors with music, conversation, and amusing games. They offered wine and a feast of delicacies from Lord Kosenmark's famous cook. But the purpose was clear. Did the runner expect him to show an interest in the courtesans, then? Most men would. He had no idea if he were like most young men.

"I-I-" His tongue tangled on several different answers.

He forced out a breath to quell the tremors. Was about to try again, when the sight of a familiar figure undid his efforts.

"Let me show him the house," Kathe said. "If Maester Hessler doesn't mind, that is."

Gerek swallowed. "N-n-n-not-not-"

His words came out stuttering and stumbling. Kathe laid a hand on his arm, as if to rea.s.sure him that she understood, and turned to the runner. "That is settled, then. Uwe, please go to the kitchens. My mother has an errand for you."

Apparently she had some authority, because the runner immediately vanished through a low doorway Gerek had not noticed before.

Kathe laughed softly and shook her head. Her gaze swept up to meet his, and to his surprise, her cheeks were edged with an embarra.s.sed flush. "I am sorry, Maester Hessler," she said. "I have ordered you and Uwe about most unfairly. Especially Uwe. But you see, I would like to keep away from the kitchens just now. My mother..." She drew a deep breath. "Let us say she finds the latest pastry cook unsatisfactory. It's better if I find useful work elsewhere until she's calmer."

"So I-I am useful work?" Gerek said.

Kathe visibly winced. "That was unkind of me. I am sorry again."

"You don't need to be sorry," he said at once. "I-I should- I am sorry. I was rude."

She had removed her hand from his arm. Now she touched him again, but briefly this time, as though she were not certain of his reaction. As though it mattered.

"Come," she said with a semblance of her former cheerfulness. "Let me show you the library first. You will like it, I know. Or would you rather I found you a room where you could sleep a few hours? If I know Lord Kosenmark, he will set you to work at once."

"Or perhaps you should leave him to us," said another voice.

A woman leaned against the pillars of the entryway. She wore a diaphanous robe that left her lean body in shadows, even in the bright sunlight pouring through the windows. She smiled at Gerek, but it was not a friendly smile.

"Nadine, you should not tease," Kathe said.

"I merely follow your example," Nadine replied.

Kathe ignored her pointed comment. "Why are you awake so early? Do you have an appointment?"

Nadine stretched out in one languorous movement. She was like a wild cat, Gerek thought. A panther from the mountains, strong and lovely and dangerous. Apparently his expression betrayed his thoughts, because Nadine paused in mid-stretch and drew her lips back from her teeth, which showed white and sharp against her brown skin.

"Nadine," Kathe said. "I'll tell you again. Do not tease."

Nadine merely laughed. "You eat too many prunes, Kathe."

To Gerek's relief, she flowed back into the common room to join another pair of courtesans-one woman and one man-who were gathered around an expensive-looking musical instrument. As Nadine rejoined them, the man ran his fingers over a series of levers. A bright, rippling melody echoed through the common room.

He let his breath trickle out. His first encounter with a genuine courtesan. Not a very successful one.

"Come with me," Kathe said, as if nothing had happened. "We should visit the gardens."

HOURS LATER, GEREK Hessler sat alone in his new office, one floor below Lord Kosenmark's s.p.a.cious private suite. After he and Kathe returned from the gardens, Lord Kosenmark had summoned Gerek to his office. There, they had talked-rather, Kosenmark had talked, and at length, while Gerek did little more than attempt to retain the tumbling flow of names and t.i.tles and historical events from the pre-empire early days, to the destructive civil wars that fractured the empire, severing Veraene from Karovi, Morenniou, Hanidos, and the northern kingdoms.

He rested his head in both hands. He had done it. He had inserted himself into Kosenmark's household.

It was but the first step. In all that excess of talk, Kosenmark had given nothing away. He had not mentioned Armand of Angersee or Markus Khandarr, the king's chief councillor and mage. Nor, of course, anything about his activities since Armand dismissed him from court. There had been one teasing detail-a brief mention of minor Karovin n.o.bility-but then the subject had veered to trading agreements between the two kingdoms, and Gerek had not dared to turn the conversation back.

He wished-again-that Dedrick had confided more during his final visit to Gerek's family. It had taken place directly before Dedrick went for the last time to Duenne and court. Gerek was certain his cousin had gone at Kosenmark's request to spy on the king.

And what shall you do if you can prove it? his brother had asked.

I don't know. But it's not right, what happened to Dedrick. And no one else cares.

His brother had argued, but in the end he had agreed, however reluctantly, to help Gerek with his plans.

Gerek poured himself a cup of water and drank. Kosenmark had given him a small task: Make a list of the supplies you need. Give the list to Mistress Denk, and she will see to everything. Tomorrow we shall start in earnest.

He searched the desk first, to see what it contained. Not much. One drawer held miscellaneous social correspondence from a year before. The others were empty, or nearly so. He found a pen in need of mending, a bottle of ink (almost empty), and several sheets of cheap paper, yellowed along the edges. The list would be a terribly long one. What had happened to the supplies for the previous secretary?

Ilse Zhalina. Secretary, then lover. She left. This was her desk; Hax's before that.

Curious, he rummaged through a few more drawers. Nothing. Then, wedged between the bottom drawer and the desk's side, he discovered a half-finished letter. He smoothed out the paper and examined it. The letter was addressed to a Mistress Adela Andeliess in Osterling Keep. It was written in a distinctly feminine hand-however neat and contained-and inquired about a possible post at Mistress Andeliess's pleasure house. It ended in mid-sentence.

Gerek Hessler carefully replaced the letter where he'd found it. He sat back and exhaled, pulse leaping in unaccountable distress. Tricks and traps of memory all over this house. How could he never mention her name when he continued to find traces of this woman wherever he looked? From Mistress Denk's warnings, to Kosenmark's oblique references, to the signs she herself had left everywhere.

Once more he wondered what was the true story behind her departure.

CHAPTER THREE.

ILSE ZHALINA STOOD by the window of her study in Osterling Keep. Outside, drifting clouds obscured the stars and darkness lay thick upon the city. Between the inn and bell tower opposite, she could see the lower rim of the crescent moon, dipping toward the watery horizon.

Early spring, almost winter still, and yet the season had turned astonishingly warm. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself back in Melnek, on a mid-summer's night in the northeast province of Morauvin. There was the same salt tang, the same thread of pine when the breezes curled around from the north.

No. Not Melnek. Not my father's house. It's not the same at all.

She blew out a long breath, wishing she could expel memories as easily as she could the air from her lungs. Any recollection of Melnek always called up more bitter memories-why she had run away from her father's house, how she had sold her body to every man in the caravan rather than return, and how that terrible journey had led her to Lord Raul Kosenmark's household, in Tiralien.

Five months since I left my love. I miss him.

An understatement. She missed Raul Kosenmark as she would miss air to breathe, or salt for meat. As the G.o.ddess Lir missed her brother Toc when he died, even knowing he would live once more come spring.

Her heart contracted into a painful knot. Ilse cursed silently as she swiped useless tears from her eyes. She hated herself for being so weak. A strong woman would soldier onward, through loneliness and terror and the ache of separation, to that shining selfless goal of peace between all the kingdoms. She would not mind a part of her self ripped away. Lir had survived until spring, waiting for Toc and their reunion.

Except, except ...

Except that Ilse knew she was no G.o.ddess, just an ordinary woman, and spring would come without any end to her separation from Raul Kosenmark.

It never will, unless we each do our part.

She drew a long breath and willed herself to calm. Stubbornness. That was the key. Raul often told her she was unnaturally stubborn. She could never tell if he meant it as compliment or complaint. No matter. It was a trait inherited from her father, and though she hated any reminder of that man, hated any thought of Melnek and the life that came before, she knew she must use stubbornness to her own advantage.

Because we are bound by blood and flesh, by past lives and memories. Tanja Duhr knew us all, she thought, when she wrote those words.

Ilse heard a soft creaking noise-of ropes drawn tight-the sound magnified by night. A moment's antic.i.p.ation followed, like the infinitesimal pause between a breath drawn and its exhalation, then a muted peal rang out. One, two, three chimes whispered along the breeze, like a song recalling older days and half-forgotten lives.

Another bell tower took up the count, then another, farther away. Ilse listened until the last bellsong faded, and silence washed over the city once more. In Osterling's fort and along the perimeter walls, soldiers kept watch, but here in Mistress Andeliess's pleasure house, these were the quiet hours. The courtyard below was empty of any pa.s.sersby. The courtesans and their clients slept, and the servants had not yet begun their day.

It was the hour for magic.

Ilse closed the shutters and set the bar. She locked her outer door and bolted it with st.u.r.dy iron. That, however, was not enough. She laid her fingers over the lock's metal plate and murmured an invocation to the magic current.

Ei ruf ane gotter. Komen mir de strom ...

The language was old Erythandran, the language of magic. The words she had learned in Raul Kosenmark's household, a place where magical guards were ordinary things. This one augmented the lock itself, so that no one could tweak the pins and levers within. An experienced mage could break these protections, but then, what she did here was simply the first line of her defense.

Once she locked the door and windows, she retreated into her bedchamber. Two lamps burned in their brackets, their scented oil giving off the aroma of lemons and oranges. The walls here were the same pale peach as her study, but with a darker border around the ceiling. Ilse locked and bolted the second door. She paused at the window for one last breath of the warm ocean breeze, then pulled the two shutter panels shut and barred them. The scent of her sweat and the sweeter scent of the lamp oil intensified. Just nerves, she told herself. Nothing more.

She extinguished the lamps and sat cross-legged on her bed, her back against the wall. She breathed in, felt the air catch in her throat, then slowly released it.

Ei ruf ane gotter. Komen mir de strom.

With every exhalation, her thoughts spiraled down to that moment between breaths, to the point where the magic current welled up, like water from a crack in stone.

En nam Lir unde Toc, versigelen mir. Niht ougen. Niht hren. Versigeln alliu inre.

A heavy silence enveloped her, as though someone had dropped a curtain between her and the physical world. Her rooms were still visible, but the objects outside her immediate circle appeared blurred. That was deliberate. No one must know what she did here.

Now for the next step.

Ei ruf ane gotter. Ei ruf ane Lir unde Toc. Komen mir de strom.

Blood pulsed in her ears. She could sense every minute ripple in the magical current against her skin, within her body. Another moment, and her soul would relinquish its purchase on her body, shrug away her flesh, and soar into the magical void between worlds. For over three months, she had practiced just that until the act came easily to her. But not today. Today would be different.

Komen mir de strom. Komen mir de vleisch unde sele. Komen mir de Anderswar.

The world tilted away, and she fell into darkness, into emptiness. A feathered hand brushed against her cheek. A harsh familiar voice whispered her name over and over, just like the first time she had crossed the void. She heard the thunder of waves, the gulls from Osterling's sh.o.r.e screaming, Lost, lost, lost.

And then, silence.

Eyes still closed, Ilse drew a deep breath and felt an unnatural weight against her chest. Her face and neck felt slick with sweat, and the soft linen of her gown chafed against her skin. She caught the stink of ashes and burning tallow, overlaid by magic's richer smell. Every sensation was stronger, sharper, than before. Her heart beat faster in antic.i.p.ation. She opened her eyes.

Osterling Keep and her bedroom had vanished, replaced by a thick fog. Odd sparks and embers floated past her face, and shadows appeared in the milky depths below-darting, hovering, sinking away. Her stomach swooped.

Anderswar. The point where all worlds met. Where lives intersected with lives, and memories with time.

Deep inside, she felt a strong tug from the ordinary world, as though someone had fastened a chain under her ribs. Flesh or spirit did not matter. She was poised on the sharp point of an abyss. One step and she might plunge back into her rooms in Osterling Keep. One minute tilt in any direction, and she'd fall into another world.

Or back to Tiralien and Raul Kosenmark.

Her breath caught at the thought of Raul. To see him once, just for a moment. To hear his voice and feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. His house would be quiet at this hour. Only a few servants were about, in case a customer wished for refreshment. She could steal through the empty corridors to the stairway leading up to Raul's private quarters. No one would ever know.

With an effort, she checked those lovely thoughts. She must not go back, not until she found the jewels. The risk was too great. She could not even allow herself the luxury of these fantasies, not in Osterling and certainly not here in Anderswar, whose denizens could read her thoughts and desires.

She blew out a breath and felt an ache spread throughout her chest. Onward.

Onward meant a different thing in the physical world, the ordinary world. There, it meant a difference of distance or time. Here ... Here it meant a difference of will. She willed herself to creep forward in halting inch-wise steps along the thin edge between worlds and the magical void. Her stomach heaved against her ribs as the sight of lands and spheres flickered into and out of view. There, a city with bloodred towers. Over there, a horizon of stark, straight lines, such as she had never seen before.

With her next step, the fog vanished. Overhead a band of stars streamed past-souls in flight to their next lives. Another step and the streaming stars vanished. A gout of fire burst from the mists at her feet. She leapt back ...