ernosek's pale lips parted. "And?"

Miro was aware of Markov watching him closely. The man had no magic abilities, but he could read a human face with unnerving skill. He frowned, as if angry and embarra.s.sed. "She crossed the Gulf before I could stop her. I had no wish to lose weeks or months with a chase through Vnejek. I decided to return at once and warn the king-"

"Did you expect her to come here then?"

Markov spoke mildly, but Miro did not mistake that tone for indifference. "No. I expect she's fled directly to Morenniou. Which means we must prepare for a second invasion. Or rather, that would have been the king's wishes before..." He broke off, too shaken by the sudden reversal of everything he expected to keep up his inventions. He ran a hand over his face and managed to recover himself. "Tell me what happened here."

"An attack," Markov said drily. "Magical in nature. The king has vanished."

He continued to speak, something about how the entire castle had reverberated with magic, so that even the most oblivious had noticed, but Miro found it difficult to attend. He could only think that he had made the wrong choice and failed his king.

Weariness from the past week swept over him. He put a hand out to steady himself. ernosek caught his arm. "You are ill."

"No." Miro drew back from ernosek, mistrusting the man's motives. "Not ill. Tired and saddle-sore. I can sleep later. You say the king vanished. What else? Have you examined these rooms yet?"

"A cursory look," Markov said. "Enough to ascertain there was an attack. I wanted ernosek to inspect the magical traces himself."

He took the risk. "Let me do that. I know the Morenniouen queen's signature. I can confirm if she was present, or someone else." He added, "It would not do to a.s.sume anything about the ident.i.ty of those who attacked our king and our kingdom. We do have other enemies."

The Scholar and Brigand exchanged intent looks.

"He's right," ernosek said at last.

Markov appeared less convinced, but he merely shrugged. "We do not have time to argue. Examine the room. Meet with us directly after at my private chambers, so we might discuss how to proceed."

Miro waited until the two had rounded the corner before he pushed the door open.

Light from the corridor showed a chaos of papers and books strewn over the floor nearest to him. Windows at the far end admitted faint illumination from the stars. By their light, he could make out more destruction. Several shelves had collapsed, and the writing desk lay in splintered pieces. He drew an unsteady breath at the sight. The flux and whirl of magic were dying off, but the strong scent nearly overpowered him.

He took a torch from its bracket and walked inside the study, letting the door fall shut behind him.

Destruction. That was his first reaction. A chaos left by unrestrained magic. He closed his eyes and let his senses spiral outward. Definitely her signature. He picked it out from the confusion-the scent and image of a fox, swift and secret, gliding through the rooms. With a shift of focus, he turned to the magical plane to sift through the traces left by other visitors. Dzavek, of course. Several guards. A strange alien presence that had to be the ruby. Valara Baussay and another woman whom he could not identify. That gave him pause. One of the Veraenen company?

From a distance, he heard the guards' voices through the door. They had resumed their conversation about the night's events. Miro listened a moment, heard nothing that he had not already guessed, then turned back to examine the room in more detail.

"Ei ruf ane gotter," he said softly. "Komen mir de strom. Widerkeren mir de zeit. Ougen mir."

His vision darkened. Now he saw the room from the past. All the lamps had guttered, the fire burned low in its grate, casting a reddish hue over the tiled floor. On a tall marble pedestal, Miro saw the box where Dzavek kept Rana.

Servants appeared to rebuild the fire. Others took away a tray with its wine cups and flask. A brief interlude of waiting came next, while Miro wondered if he had misjudged his timing. Then, the door swung open. A shadowy figure stood framed in the lamplight from the corridor.

His breath went still. This was not Valara Baussay, but a stranger. A Karovin. No, he saw traces of Veraenen blood in her features, which were translucent in the vision, like the faded ink drawings of centuries past.

I know her. She was there, when we attacked.

Her signature intensified. It was like sunlight glancing through the clouds. He watched as she hurried into the room, making directly for the marble pedestal with its open box. She had just touched the ruby when Dzavek appeared, also in the spirit. He spoke. The woman turned and answered. Their mouths moved in a silent conversation that Miro wished he could hear. He watched the turns in her expression-fearful, controlled, a brief inward look that might be grief or shame.

Events moved more quickly. Dzavek rejoined his body. Unexpectedly Valara Baussay appeared. King and queen spoke at once. Or was it brother to brother? He could not tell. The air shimmered with magic's current, waiting only for a word ...

A blinding explosion lit the room with fire. The sight was so vivid, so real, that Miro imagined he could feel a hot wind blow through his hair. Before he could react, the bright light vanished, and smoke blanketed the room, making it impossible to see.

No movement. No sign of any presence, flesh or spirit. Miro waited, unable to breathe.

At last a shadow emerged from the haze. A thin arm swept upward, its motion echoed by a trail of gray and black. Gradually the smoke dissipated, revealing the destruction wrought by that explosion.

Valara Baussay crouched at the far end of the room.

Miro released his breath. She lives. She survived.

Leos Dzavek lay crumpled on the floor. The unknown woman knelt beside him. Dzavek jerked upright. His eyes stared, unseeing, but then he stiffened and his face swiveled toward Valara Baussay. His lips were moving. He meant to summon more magic before he died. And he would die-Miro saw that plainly.

The woman touched his cheek. Dzavek flinched, turned toward her. There was a look on the king's face that Miro had never seen before. An expectant look, as if the dark dreary centuries had dropped away, and the man saw the hope of sunrise. The woman continued to speak, her whole manner tense. He could not make out her words, but Dzavek's gaze was fixed upon her face, as though she were sharing a last and vital clue, one important to them both.

She leaned close. Kissed him upon the lips. Miro could almost hear the king's breath as he exhaled. He thought it was just an ordinary breath, but then the king went limp and collapsed onto the floor. The woman touched his brow. Her lips formed the words He is gone.

Around him, the cloud of magic ebbed away, leaving behind a burning smell. His torch, which guttered in his hand. By its flickering light, the room with its wreckage looked even more desolate now. Miro extinguished the torch.

For a while, he could do nothing but stare at the scene, thinking, The king is dead.

A deep, breathy note sounded, just below the surface of his thoughts. Rana's song. Here, in the study. Miro dropped to his hands and knees and plunged his hands into the debris covering the floor. Steady, he told himself. Do not lose this chance through panic or carelessness.

He closed his eyes. In spite of his weariness, he found it easier to draw his thoughts to a single point of focus. Ei ruf ane strom. Ei ruf ane juweln.

The current hissed and whispered.

Then, Ei bin unde was. Wir sint unde waerest unde werden.

Rana was babbling a confused chorus of tones. Each syllable merged with the next, rising in pitch until he no longer heard them, and then dropping into deep-throated chords that vibrated in the air.

The fireplace. Its song in his ears, Miro hurried to the grate and knelt. Yes. Beneath the thick ashes he saw a dark red glow. With a set of tongs, he pushed the still-hot coals aside, then drew the ruby toward himself.

The ruby's polished surface flickered with magic. Daya. Asha. Daya. Mantharah. My sistersbrotherscousinsloversI.

Miro cradled the ruby in his palm, his thoughts centered on Valara Baussay and all her possible plans. Clearly, the guards had arrived before she could make a search, and so she and her companion had abandoned the ruby. But they would return. And they were not the only ones. Both the Scholar and the Brigand knew about Rana's existence. If Miro did not produce the ruby, they would search the entire castle.

And we would have a greater war than even Leos Dzavek desired.

He took out a handkerchief and wrapped the ruby securely into a knotted bundle, which he tucked inside his shirt. It was no proof against magic probing, but the confusion outside might allow him to pa.s.s without facing ernosek or the other mages. A few words to erase all magical signs of the intruders' presence. ernosek would expect that. He wiped away his own recent past-a risky move, because ernosek's skill easily surpa.s.sed his own-then laid down a series of ordinary spells used by magical trackers. The spells would not stand against a thorough examination, but they would give him enough time for what came next.

He turned toward the door, thinking he must set off before ernosek decided to return. He had taken no more than a few steps before grief smote him.

My king has died.

It had seemed impossible. How could death take the immortal king?

Because he was never immortal. Dzavek had known that, though he'd never spoken his thoughts aloud. That is why he planned to take Morenniou and its emerald. Yes, it was a matter of revenge. More important, he wanted to provide for his own kingdom's future.

Contradictory reasons, from a contradictory man.

Miro rubbed a hand over his eyes. A dull pain had settled under his ribs, near his heart. Such a sentimental reaction. His father had trained him better.

No. He had not. He, too, grieved for the Leos Dzavek of history.

Miro shook away the present grief. He had to act.

Outside, the guards came to attention at his appearance. "Tell Duke Markov that our intruder died in battle with the king," Miro said. "However, this man had a companion who escaped with the king's ruby. We won't know more until we capture him. I'll track him down at once, while the trail is fresh."

The guard ran to execute his commands. Miro headed directly to the stables. Rumors must have spread even here, because the stable hands had all gathered to trade excited whispers. At Miro's entrance, they all stood.

"Saddle a fresh horse," he told them. "Send a runner for provisions and gear for a week's ride."

He drank a mug of soup while he waited. Sooner than he expected, the stable boy reported the horse saddled and ready. Miro swung onto the horse, felt it twitch and sidle in response to his own nerves. He settled it with a hand on its neck and soothing words. A st.u.r.dy beast, the kind he loved best. He took that as a good sign, and his heart beat faster as he pa.s.sed through the outer gates of the castle. Until this moment, he had felt his future unbounded. He might have done anything, gone anywhere.

This will be the end of my hunt, he thought as he urged his horse toward the northern plains.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR.

VALARA'S SPIRIT REJOINED her body with a shock that doubled her over. She gasped, choked out the words to summon the current. Too quickly, the magic overwhelmed her. She lay back, eyes closed, and breathed slowly through her nose until the nausea faded. It was the presence of the Mantharah. Its magic was too strong. It was like walking along Enzeloc's cliffs in a hurricane. She could not judge her balance.

Every bit of her from scalp to toe ached. Her hands felt as though her muscles had locked into fists a hundred years ago. She released a shaky laugh. Maybe they did.

She rolled onto her side. Her hand unfolded to reveal the sapphire. Asha. Her breath caught in renewed wonder. So I have not lost you yet. Not again.

Still cupping the sapphire in one hand, she levered herself to sitting. Overhead, the mid-morning sun shone down upon them.

My brother is dead, came her next thought.

It didn't matter that her body had died a dozen times or more since their plot to steal the jewels and divide an empire. They were brothers in the soul. Now he was dead, he who had defied the void between lives, who had survived four centuries, while an empire had broken into kingdoms, and the wheel had turned for new lives, new souls.

A strange sensation a.s.sailed her-one she could not properly identify. It was not precisely grief. Regret?

She glanced toward her companion. Ilse lay motionless on the ground, eyes blank and staring upward. One arm was flung outward toward the Agnau, the other lay over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She still wore Daya the ring on her finger, just as she had in spirit form. Valara set the sapphire to one side and crawled over to Ilse. Her skin was warm. A strong erratic pulse beat at her throat.

She lives.

Valara had not been certain. Those last few moments in Dzavek's chambers were a blur in her memory. She had tried to kill Dzavek. He had stopped her-easily. His reply was an explosion of magic that ripped through her spirit. She remembered then, the jewels, singing in great booming voices, like waves thundering against a cliff, like the bells of Morenniou castle. For a while after, she was too deaf and numb to understand much. Only when the guards appeared had she roused herself enough to escape with Ilse.

More tentatively, she touched the wooden ring. Its surface was warm and silken, with a strong current of magic rippling under her touch. Much fainter came the whispering of voices.

... awake, awake to the flesh, awake to life ...

Ilse gasped and pitched upright. Valara caught her before she fell against the stone cliff. Ilse fought her blindly. Her skin burned fever-hot. She was choking, a terrible strangled noise deep in her throat. Quickly, Valara summoned the magic current. Again, it was too much. The current rushed in like a flood tide, but then she found the balance. Soft, soft, softly, she thought, and the magic obeyed.

Ilse drew a wheezing breath, coughed, and breathed again. Valara continued to murmur in Erythandran until the fever faded and Ilse breathed more easily. Then she lowered Ilse to the ground and searched around for water. She found the shallow cook stone. It was dry, but a handful of snow lay next to it. Valara scooped that up and, holding up Ilse's head, let the melt-water trickle into the woman's mouth.

Ilse coughed up the first mouthful, but swallowed the next. "Leos," she whispered. "Leos, I'm sorry. It wasn't-"

"Hush," Valara said. "You did well."

"I betrayed him," Ilse whispered. "He thought I did. But it wasn't true. I wanted ... peace. No more war. He didn't understand."

Valara hushed her, ran her hands over the other woman's face with as much gentleness as she could. It wasn't something she had learned from mother or sister. Not in Morenniou. Ilse murmured something incomprehensible. As Valara bent closer, she caught a glimpse of strong memories running like a flood tide through the other woman's thoughts.

... she saw a young woman running through the snow-dusted forests. She wore the rich clothing of a n.o.ble, a jewel in her cheek. An equally young man waited in a clearing. He was handsome, his face the pale brown of the empire's southwest provinces. They spoke in Karovin. He was an emissary from the emperor. There was a chance for peace, he said. If she would but promise to persuade the new king to treat with them ...

I will, the young woman said.

Before she finished speaking, a shout echoed through the forests, and an army appeared ...

"He died."

"Yes. It was time."

"I never loved him. We were betrothed by our parents."

Ilse lay quietly, her gaze upward toward the sky, away from Valara. Her eyes were like dark bruises, her face gray with exhaustion. "So. What comes next?"

So many questions hidden inside that one.

"Our plans depend on the jewels," she said slowly. "We must withdraw, certainly. The king is dead, but the king certainly has advisers, councillors, other mages. We cannot remain here in case they track us. But where depends on Daya and Asha."

"We won't have long," Ilse murmured. "Nor will they."

Her gaze crossed Valara's. They both smiled faintly.

She was no bad ally, Valara thought. Clever. Stubborn. Subtle. She would do well in Morenniou's Court. Already her thoughts were running back to her kingdom, and how she would present this woman to her councillors.

They helped each other to stand. Valara retrieved the sapphire. It burned like a tiny blue flame in her hands, and its song rose up clear and bright and joyous, each word as distinct as a bell tone. Rana, my brother. Rana, my sister, my cousin, my love, myself.

There it was again, a sense of regret. Of things left undone. Awkwardly, Valara ran her fingers over the sapphire, sensed the threads of magic and song, like a fabric woven in several dimensions. Asha, I'm sorry. We ... We lost Rana. We had to leave too soon. Before the king's mages discovered us. But we will go back for her. I promise.

No and no. Turn. Open your eyes and you will see her.

Asha spoke so emphatically that Valara glanced over to Ilse before she realized she had done so. The other woman stood still. Her eyes were wide, her expression astonished. She was staring at Daya.

"Did you hear?" Valara asked.

"I did. And ... I think I know what Asha means."

Without waiting for Valara to reply, Ilse made for the gap between the cliffs and the ridge overlooking the plains. Valara hurried after her, the sapphire held tightly in one hand. Its song had fallen silent, but the magic remained, its current pulsing in time with her own heartbeat.

"Ah." Ilse exhaled. "I should not be surprised."