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 passersby. 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 sturdy 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 rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm …
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 rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm.
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 hœren. Versigeln älliu 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 rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc. Komen mir de strôm.
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 strôm. Komen mir de vleisch unde sêle. 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 shore 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 anticipation. 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.