and no. There had been a minor scandal, when this king’s officer and nobleman had married a Duszranjen woman. Did the shepherd know the ending to that story?
The old man Matus looked nervous, as if he feared he had angered the nobleman’s son. Miro roused himself from memories to ask about Matus’s family, and about life in this remote province. He drank cup after cup of bitter hot tea and listened to tales of marauding wolves, mountain panthers (Miro’s father had died, hunting one), and the illicit trade between the northern kingdoms. The old man mentioned rumors about war. News about troop maneuvers had filtered to the populace, obviously, and so they worried, imagining more and less than what actually happened.
They were still talking about those rumors when hoofbeats sounded outside. The garrison must have sent an escort back with Fedor. Matus opened the door to a lean gray-haired man, who ducked under the doorframe. Not just any escort, this man wore a captain’s insignia stitched over his heart.
“Donlov.”
Grisha Donlov crossed the room and knelt at Miro’s feet. “Your grace.”
There was profound relief in Donlov’s tone. So others had expected, or hoped for, Karasek’s death. Those speculations could wait. Miro stood and gestured for the man to rise, saying, “No formalities, Grisha. We’re not at court.”
Donlov grinned, a wolfish grin that creased his weathered face. “Not yet, your grace.” He nodded to old Matus. “Grandsir, I left your son with a full plate and a full mouth. One of my men will ride him back when he’s done. He eats like a soldier, that one.”
After some argument, Miro persuaded the old man to accept a handful of coins for his hospitality. Then he and Donlov went outside to where Donlov had left two horses tied to a post. Donlov relit the lantern he’d brought along. By its light, they picked their way between the sheep pens into the fields leading toward the river.
“You made good speed,” Miro commented.
“I’d’ve made better in daylight, your grace.”
“Next time, I’ll wait until morning. What brought you to Dubro?”
“Orders. Duke Markov wanted a firsthand account of our garrisons in Duszranjo. The king agreed.”
Markov, Dzavek’s other general. Interesting. “Any news then?”
“None. Unless you bring us some, your grace.”
Miro glanced at his companion. Grisha Donlov’s attention seemed wholly on their path, but Miro could tell by the tilt of his head the man listened intently for his reply. Rumors about his mission must have percolated downward.
“Whatever news I have belongs to the king, Captain.”
“Of course, your grace.” Donlov’s tone betrayed no disappointment. He was a good soldier, and a loyal one. “So you go directly back to Rastov?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll need a fast horse, provisions, and an escort.”
Donlov saluted. “That you will have, your grace.”
* * *
THEY REACHED THE garrison without incident. The commander, an old friend of Miro’s father, provided Miro with a generous supply of new clothes and weapons. He had also arranged for an escort, mounted and fully provisioned, with Grisha Donlov at their head.
The following afternoon, they set off.
The company rode hard for eight days. Miro felt a peculiar haste driving him onward, through the narrow mountain roads, to the highways leading to Rastov and Zalinenka. Once they reached the open plains, they could gallop from garrison to garrison, taking fresh mounts at each stop. Overhead, the pale blue sky stretched into a dizzying arc, and at night its black expanse glittered with stars brighter and colder than Miro remembered. With every mile north, he had the impression he rode just ahead of the greening spring.
Soon the highway rejoined the Solvatni River. Cities replaced the farms and outpost villages, and within another week, Miro sighted Rastov’s dark red domes on the horizon. They gained its outer gates that same evening. Guards saluted Miro as he rode past. He returned the gesture absently, his thoughts now fixed on Leos Dzavek and his own report.
He touched a hand to his breast. Success. And failure.
Streetlamps dotted the avenues, and in the larger squares, the buildings were bright with candles and more lamplight. Despite the approach of dusk, Rastov’s streets were crowded with merchant caravans and cargo wagons. The wine shops, taverns, and inns also looked busy with customers, whose faces might appear angry or sullen or carefree, but none was anxious. The rumors of war might be unique to the borderlands.
Solvatni Square was empty, and its many government buildings were dark. The previous year, lamps had illuminated every window past midnight. That was before the invasion.