not removed it before. Ilse tugged the ring off and turned it over in her hands. Very plain. Carved from a dark wood, which felt silk-soft to her touch, the ring felt strangely heavy for such a small object. And there were clear traces of magic.
The woman’s eyes blinked open. With a strangled cry, she lunged toward the ring. Galena grabbed the woman’s wrists and shoved her back to the floor, her elbow pressed against the woman’s throat. Ilse threw the ring aside and snatched up one of the knives. She pressed its point under the woman’s ear. “Do not attempt any magic,” she said. “You would be dead before you spoke a syllable.”
The woman opened her mouth. Galena immediately leaned closer, cutting off her words.
“Don’t kill her,” Ilse murmured.
“Why not? She’d kill us.”
Possibly. The woman glared at them both. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth, and she breathed in quick, noisy breaths, like a ferocious animal brought to bay. Terror and desperation. A dangerous combination.
Ilse bent over the woman, until her face was inches away. She noted a tattoo on the woman’s cheek, on the outside corner of her eye, drawn in a reddish-brown ink. Another under her bottom lip had faded into near invisibility. She wished she knew what they signified.
“I have questions for you,” she said slowly in Veraenen. “You will give me answers. But first, let me tell you what I already know.”
She waited. The woman’s eyes narrowed in obvious suspicion. Interesting that she could be so self-possessed, in spite of the situation. But she was listening. Good.
“You came with Károvín soldiers,” Ilse went on. “But you are not Károvín. You are Morennioùen. A mage, obviously. Someone very important. A member of their court, I would say. Leos Dzavek sent his ships to your kingdom to recover a particular item of great value to you both.”
Guesses, all of them. But she had the satisfaction of seeing confirmation in the woman’s reaction. The signs were few—just a flicker of her eyelids, a sudden still remoteness. It was enough to tell Ilse she had guessed correctly.
She smiled at their captive, keeping her satisfaction deeply buried. “You do not need to speak. I know my information is correct. Now for my questions. You were a prisoner. Did a man named Lord Markus Khandarr question you? He is tall and thin, his hair is gray. He is a mage. Don’t lie. If he spoke with the other prisoners, he would not neglect you. Tell me what happened. Let her speak,” she said to Galena.
As Galena relaxed her hold, the woman swallowed audibly. Her irises, wide in the dim light, contracted as she turned toward Ilse and the candlelight. “Who are you?”
Her voice was low, rough. She spoke Veraenen with a lilting intonation.
“My name isn’t important,” Ilse said. “Answer my question.”
Silence.
“Do you wish me to send for Lord Khandarr? Galena—”
“No!” The woman made a convulsive movement. “No. Please.”
“Speak, then. Your name?”
A pause. “Valara Baussay.”
Ilse suspected the woman possessed quite a few more names. She had not admitted to a title either, but those omissions might be caution, not outright lies.
“You came from Morennioù. Are you a member of their court?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
Her tone sounded high, restrained. Nothing close to natural. But then, this was no normal conversation. “Tell me what happened between you and Lord Khandarr,” Ilse said. “Tell me everything. The truth, or I send you back to prison.”
Valara Baussay closed her eyes. The pulse at her temple and throat beat visibly faster. Arranging her lies? Reviewing a horrifying memory?
“It was Leos Dzavek,” she said at last. “He sent ships to invade my homeland. We have only a small army, and it’s scattered around our islands, but we do have guards at the castle. They were not enough. The soldiers took the castle and murdered my … murdered everyone at court. The king. His councillors. Everyone.”
“Except you.”
“I was to be a hostage.” Her voice sank into a bitter whisper.
“Why?”
Valara’s eyes opened. They were dark, so dark a brown they appeared black. Slight folds at the corner of her eyelids were like a brush from the artist’s thumb, softening an otherwise sharp-featured face. Again the similarity to Raul Kosenmark struck Ilse—the lines and angles an echo of those old portraits from the empire days. Valara Baussay was not a beautiful woman by ordinary standards, but hers was a face not easily overlooked or forgotten.
“He came for the jewel,” she said. “Lir’s jewel. He did not find it. So he