"Ei ruf ane gotter. Komen mir de strom. Komen mir de vleisch unde sele ane Anderswar."

Hallau Island vanished. But the stink of blood and fire, the smell of panic-all the scents of battle-filled his nose. He felt everything ten times over, from the cold air in his lungs to his blood rippling beneath his skin. Vnejek in the flesh.

He spun around, searching for Valara Baussay. White vapor extended in all directions, shaped in pillars and canyons and shadowy halls of a gossamer substance. The air smelled of hot tallow and ashes and a scent he recognized as Leos Dzavek's. Vnejek was reading details from his secret thoughts and half-remembered dreams.

A wall of blue fire illuminated the horizon. Two shadows stood before it, tiny dark dots before that glaring light. One shadow turned. He recognized Valara Baussay's profile and the way she lifted her chin.

Her gaze met his. Miro sheathed his sword and lifted one hand. Hers lifted halfway. She stopped herself, leaned close to her companion. There was a blur of motion which he could not follow. The next instant, both vanished into the fire.

Miro ran forward along the edge between worlds. Stopped himself. The queen might flee through a hundred different paths, he told himself. In the end, however, she would return to her home. If he pursued her, he might-would-lose a month or longer to magic and its realms.

That decided him. He spun away from the void and into the maelstrom below. Karovi, Karovi, Karovi, he chanted.

A m.u.f.fled chorus of wails and gibbers rose up from the depths. Darkness pressed against him. His flesh turned heavy, heavy, heavier, until he lost his balance and plunged an immeasurable depth, to land on his hands and knees. His stomach lurched against his chest. He swallowed. Gradually took in a few more details. Wet. Mud. (Mud? Such an ordinary thing.) An ache shot up his arms, as though he had fallen a much greater distance than he had first estimated.

It took him even longer to recover his bearings, to focus his eyes. Which world had he landed upon? He might have misjudged, might have plunged into another time or another place far removed from the one he knew.

He drew a deep breath. His sense of smell told him the truth. The fragrance of clover struck him first, of spring mixed with snow, and far away, the newly flowered pamatka. These and all the other scents he knew from Karovi's northern plains. He rubbed a hand over his eyes to clear them. A muddy plain stretched out before him. Above arced the pale blue sky of his homeland. Karovi, yes. He almost laughed with delight and relief. And there, not a mile away, the walls of a garrison.

RAUL SWUNG HIS sword up to meet the next blow. A burst of magic illuminated the plaza. His vision blurred. He saw a ma.s.s of shadows against the brilliance. The shadows wavered, separated into three. Two vanished. A moment later, the third and last followed.

Then a bright shape arced upward. He met the blade with his own. For a long moment, he strained to hold his sword against the enemy, while all around, the magic current sparked and buzzed. When his vision cleared, he saw he faced a tall Karovin, a man nearly as tall as he was, but of a wiry build, obvious in spite of the layers of leather armor. The man's dark face gleamed with sweat; gray stubble along his jaw gleamed in the moonlight.

Everyone-Veraenen and Karovin alike-had frozen in momentary confusion. Kosenmark swiftly scanned the immediate area. There were several down, including Detlef. He could not tell if Ilse were among the dead and wounded. An inner voice whispered she had escaped, chasing after Valara Baussay. He almost laughed, until he remembered the third shadow. A Karovin must have dared the leap to follow them.

If he had possessed the skill, he would have done the same that instant. No. He would not. He could not desert his soldiers on this desolate island.

"Are you stuffed full of battle yet?" he said in Karovin to his opponent. "Or do you want to fight on?"

He caught a pa.s.sing expression of surprise on the man's face, followed by a studied blankness. "Not part of my orders," the other replied.

It was his voice.

I should be used to it by now, Raul thought. And yet I am not.

"So," he replied gruffly. "What were your orders? To start a war with Veraene?"

That provoked a harsh laugh, broken off. "Oh no."

Raul took in the man's military bearing, his reticence, and came to his own conclusions. "You are the king's soldiers. You came here for a purpose, and she is no longer here. Never mind whether I am right or not. Tell me- No, do not tell me anything except this-did your commander give you further orders?"

The other man hesitated, then said, "No."

Kosenmark released a breath-the moment of trust had come-and slowly lowered his sword. "A truce then. Agreed?"

The Karovin nodded. "Agreed."

There was the usual grumbling but soon enough, both sides withdrew, Karovin on one side of the square, Veraenen on the other, the dead and wounded scattered in between. The Karovin leader made a quick inspection of his people, then returned. "My name is Grisha Donlov," he said. "Captain Donlov. Do you need a mage-healer?"

"Mine is Raul Kosenmark. Yes, we do."

The aftermath took much longer than the battle itself. The Karovin and Veraenen worked together to sort out the dead and wounded. Katje had died in the first onslaught, as had Johannes and two of the fishermen. Detlef had taken a sword thrust to his belly. He would not survive the night, the Karovin healer told Raul. She was more a soldier than a healer, older than Raul, but only by a few years. For the dead, she called down the magic current to turn each body into ashes. For those who lived and suffered, she stayed by their sides to give such comfort as she could.

Raul visited each of his own wounded. The tally was less than he had feared. Gervas had taken a blow to the head, but other than a temporary deafness, he would be fit for duty the next morning. Others had bruises or cuts, which he or the Karovin healer dealt with. He checked over the dead twice. There was no sign of Ilse Zhalina or Valara Baussay.

Near the end, he came to the body of a young woman, dressed in secondhand clothes from his own stores, with a helmet set askew. The Karovin had carried her into the plaza from down the avenue.

Galena Alighero.

Her face was slick with blood. More blood soaked her clothes. Raul counted a dozen wounds on her body. She had fought on despite them. It was the deep gash across her throat that had bled her dry.

Raul touched the cold cheek. It was bare of any mark. Even as he took his fingers away, he felt the fading signature of Nicol Joannis of Fortezzien.

Death wipes all dishonor, Raul thought. Even yours, Nicol.

"She fought against all of us together," the Karovin healer said. "Back there. We might have taken you if she had not held us back." In a softer voice, she added, "She died bravely."

THE SHIP WITH Gerek Hessler and Alesso Valturri arrived off the coast, five days past the appointed time. They had spent three days, at least, skirting around the royal fleet, another day evading a mysterious single ship, sighted on the horizon. Only after they spent an entire day without further sightings did the captain and Gerek consent to head toward Hallau's sh.o.r.e.

Alesso had borrowed a gla.s.s from the captain, and he swept the coast for several long moments before he spoke. "Empty."

His tone was impossible to read. "What do you mean, empty?" Gerek demanded.

"Just that. Nothing and no one on sh.o.r.e."

Gerek s.n.a.t.c.hed the gla.s.s and made his own examination. Though the captain warned them what to expect, the sight unnerved him. The city blackened and ruined. Empty. The wharves a desolate expanse of broken stone. As the ship slanted toward the coast, he glimpsed a small, one-masted boat tucked into a hiding spot, but no sign of the promised signals.

"What next?" Alesso said.

Over the past ten days, Alesso and the captain both had showed more respect than Gerek felt he deserved. And yet someone had to make decisions. "We send a launch to sh.o.r.e with six men," he said. "You choose your followers. Make sure they are well-armed." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "I-I should go, too."

It was a strange and silent journey to the wharf. The crew landed them neatly beside the other boat, which rocked in the waves, its single sail fluttering in the breeze. No one was on deck. As a precaution, Gerek sent Alesso over to search the small cabin.

"No one on board," Alesso reported. "But no sign of any fight."

Then one of the crew sniffed the air. "I smell wood smoke."

There were fresh tracks in the dust, too, which another man discovered. Farther on, signs of a scuffle and dark stains in the dirt. Gerek sent the two men ahead to follow the scent and the tracks, while he followed behind with Alesso. "It could be a trap," Alesso observed.

"It could," Gerek replied, nettled. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

Alesso shrugged. "No. Only that we don't go rushing forward with joy at finding your beloved master. After all, that boat might belong to a crew of testy smugglers."

"Then we take precautions."

Precautions meant they kept well behind their advance scouts, gliding through the unnaturally silent ruins. There were no birds here, Gerek noticed. No mice or crickets or toads creaking in the twilight. He almost remanded his order, thinking they should retreat to the ship for a conference, when footsteps ahead brought them all to attention.

One woman, two men rounded the corner from an alleyway. They stopped at the sight of Gerek and his guards.

There was a snick of tension. Both parties shifted into battle stance with weapons drawn.

Gerek tried to speak, but his tongue stuck on the first syllable. Then he recognized Kosenmark's guards-Ada Geiss, Barrent, and Gervas. In the same moment, Ada spotted Gerek. She gave a signal. Her guards dropped back a few steps. A breath later, so did Alesso and the others.

Ada lowered her sword. "Maester Hessler," she called out. "A good thing you came along."

He nodded, not quite able to master his speech. She seemed to understand because she drew him off to one side. "I am glad you came, and not just because we knew you. We've had trouble. I can't say more here, but take care when you speak with him."

He found his voice at last. "What happened?"

"Karovin soldiers," she said. "They came for that woman. The stranger."

"Any dead?"

She shook her head, but Gerek understood her meaning. It was a thing she could not discuss yet, not here in the open. He motioned for the rest to stay behind with Ada and her crew, then hurried forward alone through the avenue, until he came to a wide plaza. More ruins met his gaze, more dust and emptiness. On the farther side of the plaza stood the campsite-several canvas shelters stretched between enormous fallen blocks. One man bent over a makeshift fire pit, stirring a pot filled with bubbling stew. Others were at work with different tasks.

One of the men recognized him. "Ah, Maester Hessler. You want Lord Kosenmark, don't you?"

He pointed out Kosenmark's tent, larger then the rest, which was situated at the edge of their camp. Gerek jogged toward it, taking in the sight of the wounded, the great charred square off to one side, and a lingering burnt stench that hung over everything. By the time he reached Kosenmark's tent, his steps had slowed. He stopped a few feet away. "My lord," he said, tentatively.

There was a pause. Then, that high familiar voice said, "Come in."

Kosenmark's appearance shocked Gerek. The man's face was bruised. His eyes were sunken, as if he'd not slept in days, and the once-faint lines beside them were etched deeper and stronger. It was then that Gerek realized he had seen no sign of Ilse Zhalina or anyone else except the guards from Kosenmark's own household.

Take care when you speak with him, Ada had said.

Gerek bowed. "My lord."

Kosenmark studied him with those great golden eyes. "I did not expect you."

"There were ... difficulties, my lord."

"Ah." A tiny smile lightened Kosenmark's expression. It vanished quickly. "Just as well. As you perceive, our agenda has changed somewhat."

He pointed to a wooden box with symbols burned onto the lid. The box was clearly a makeshift creation, unpolished and rough, but Gerek recognized the signs for a box of the dead. His breath came short. Ilse Zhalina's?

Kosenmark must have interpreted his thoughts, because his mouth twitched into a bitter smile. "She is not dead. At least, she did not die in battle. No, this was a soldier of the kingdom, who gave her life defending me. I would bring her ashes to her family, except that her family already believes her dead. I shall have to think over what to do."

His voice died away and his gaze went diffuse. He appeared oblivious-or indifferent-to Gerek's presence, and it took Gerek several moments before he could bring himself to speak and break that reverie. "What comes next, my lord?"

That distant gaze went blank a moment and then returned to the present. Kosenmark smiled, almost naturally. "We go home. I have a few promises to keep. And we prepare for the future, whatever it holds."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE.

FIRE. MAGIC. CONFLAGRATION.

Ilse gripped her sword, ready to ward off the next blow, but none came. The battle had vanished. No, she had vanished from the battle, translated by magic into Anderswar's plane. She still heard its echoes in her ears, still saw ghostlike images flickering before her eyes, like memories come to life. You are not true, she told them. You are base illusions, sent to frighten me.

As if Anderswar heard her thoughts, the images faded. She was alone, with flames and fog and the lights from a thousand worlds wheeling beneath her feet. Ilse swallowed, tasting grit and ashes from that faraway campfire on Hallau Island.

Onward, she told herself.

One step, another. The worlds shuddered and spun. She ignored them. Far ahead-if distance mattered here-she had glimpsed movement in the shadows. A third step and the shadow resolved into a tall figure striding along the bright-lit edge. Valara.

"Valara!" she called out.

Valara paid her no heed. She strode faster, sending the current whirling around her. Fox and stars, the signatures were unmistakable. Impossible, Ilse thought. No one had a double signature. And then realization came to her-the woman had a magical device. Something powerful enough that it made its own separate impression.

Ignoring the chasm on either side, Ilse raced forward and seized Valara above her elbow. Valara tried to shake off Ilse's grip, but Ilse's fingers tightened around that bone-thin arm. "We must go back," she said. "Valara, do you hear me? We must go back."

Her last glimpse of the fight had been of Raul, his face covered with blood, fighting off three attackers. It was impossible for him and his guards to defend themselves against the Karovin for very long. If they were quick enough, if they hadn't lost hours-or days-they might surprise the Karovin and overcome them with magic.

"No." Valara's voice was rough and quick. "You can go back to die if you like. But I won't. Not this time. Not again-"

She broke off with an exclamation. Her chin jerked up and she had a wild fey look in her eyes. "He came. I should have expected that. He would not let death stop him from pursuing me." Then in a softer voice, "Only an order from his king could turn him aside."

Ilse glanced over her shoulder.

Clouds roiled up from an invisible horizon, a vast expanse of silver and white in constant motion. Even as she tried to make out what caught Valara's attention, a dark shadow appeared against the bright mist, like an ink spot dropped onto snow. The spot grew larger, becoming the figure of a man, holding a sword. A breeze from nowhere ruffled the man's dark hair, sending a trace of his magical signature toward them. She had met that same signature in lives past ...

"He's one of the soldiers," she said.

Valara's lips drew back in a snarl. "Oh yes. His name is Karasek. He led the invasion against my people." She yanked free of Ilse's hold. "Come with me or not. But I will not let that man take me prisoner again."

She dived into the chaos below. Ilse barely hesitated before she dived after her.

... their world tilted upside down. A thrumming filled her ears. She had a vision of islands scattered over wine-dark seas. She knew them, had sailed to their sh.o.r.es in a different life. It was the lost kingdom of Morenniou. Valara Baussay was fleeing homeward ...

A voice rang out, a great harsh bell-like voice, so loud her bones vibrated. No and no and no, it cried. You must deliver us all ...

An irresistible force plucked them away from the islands and hurled them through a maelstrom of fire and smoke. Ilse heard a ragged scream-Valara, shouting curses to someone named Daya. Just as she thought they would be lost forever in the void, the world materialized around them and a cold wind struck Ilse in the face.

She crouched on a bare rocky plain. Her sword, dark with dried blood, lay beside her. She blinked. Her tears turned to ice. She brushed them away with one stiff hand and shaded her eyes. Snow whirled through the air. The sun was little more than a white disk hovering above the flat horizon.

Ilse drew a long painful breath. Her ribs ached. Her head rang with an echo of the shrieks and curses from the void. A rill of magic floated past, like a second current of wind, then vanished.

Where am I?

A dark ma.s.s huddled next to her-a woman, whose hair streamed loose in the wind. Valara.