his company crossed the bridge to the king’s castle. Word must have preceded them, because the guards were already at attention, and attendants waited inside the courtyard. Miro gave his horse over to a stable hand. With a brief farewell to Donlov, he crossed the final distance to enter the castle.
More guards saluted, and servants approached to take his cloak and gloves. Across the marbled entrance hall, Miro saw Duke Šimon Černosek and Duke Feliks Markov walking together toward the audience halls.
The Scholar and the Brigand. He paused, disconcerted by the unexpected encounter. Černosek happened to glance in his direction. He leaned toward Markov and spoke. Markov shrugged, as if indifferent to the news, but Miro noted how the man’s mouth tensed briefly. Subtle signs from a subtle man.
We shall have to speak honestly, one of these days.
Not today, however. A runner in the royal livery appeared at Miro’s side. “Your grace. The king awaits you in his private offices.”
“At once,” Miro said, with a last glance toward the pair.
He hurried after the runner, up the several winding staircases, and through the broad public halls, until they reached the king’s private wing. There the runner withdrew. The guards outside the king’s chamber announced his arrival.
In spite of the late hour, the king was immersed in the business of his kingdom, and surrounded by a host of servants, retainers, and members of his court. A scribe knelt at his feet, taking notes. Others hovered nearby, and several courtiers stood at the edge of the room, which blazed with light from the enormous fireplace. A chandelier hung from the ceiling; its dozens of candles, each enclosed in glass globes, poured more light over the room. The glass divided the light into a pale rainbow, scattering a suggestion of color over the white marbled floor.
At Miro’s entrance, Dzavek waved a hand. The courtiers and servants withdrew, and the guards shut the door, leaving Miro alone with his king.
Dzavek gazed at Miro, his chin resting on the curve of his wrist. Like the room, Dzavek was dressed without true color—in gray robes trimmed with darker gray. His long white hair was bound with a matching ribbon. His dark face seemed drawn tight with anxiety, and the cloudy veil over his eyes was more impenetrable than Miro remembered.
Miro knelt and took the packet from his tunic. “Your majesty, I have both good and bad to report.”
Dzavek accepted the leather packet and hefted it. “You took the castle.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
The king nodded. He set the packet to one side and extended his hand toward Miro. Silver rings covered every finger. Miro kissed them. Their gems felt cold to his lips.
“Tell me what happened, Miro. Leave nothing out.”
Miro’s relief drained away. So, here was the test.
Head bowed and kneeling, he delivered his report as he had imagined it while marching through the wilderness. Starting with the moment of departure, he recounted the rapid journey over the seas, through the barrier, and the first sight of Morennioù’s coast.
“We arrived at dawn,” he said. “As you predicted, we found the castle and its docks on the northwest point of the main island. But someone must have given alarm, because we met defenders at the castle gates.”
“The barrier,” Dzavek said. “I warned you that breaking through signaled anyone who listened. So you overcame these first obstacles.”
“Yes, your majesty. Their soldiers fought hard, but we outnumbered them. I ordered the castle surrounded and any fugitives detained for questioning.”
“Then you took the castle and recovered this emerald.” Dzavek nodded toward the leather packet. His tone—cool, almost indifferent—unsettled Miro Karasek. To his ear, it sounded as though Leos Dzavek already knew the invasion’s details.
“The king and his chief mage died in the attack,” Miro continued. “We captured the princess before she could escape. Our search uncovered this emerald. As you commanded, I left Anastazia Vaček to extend our hold on the island, while I returned with Lir’s emerald.”
“Two months ago, Miro. What happened?”
Miro raised his gaze to Dzavek’s face, hoping to read whatever minute reaction the king allowed to escape. He saw nothing but intense curiosity.
He dropped his gaze to Dzavek’s hand, which still clasped his. “A storm sank our ships off the Veraenen coast, your majesty. We brought our launches on shore, to Osterling. I was negotiating with their commander for transport when a … disagreement broke out.”
“But you escaped.”
“I did. Unfortunately, I had to leave the Morennioùen princess—the new queen—behind. The Veraenen took her prisoner.”
He looked up to see Dzavek gazing