at him with those strange and clouded eyes. The impression of age was stronger now, lamplight shining through the man’s almost transparent skin, sending shadows of lines cascading over his face.
Like a death mask. Immediately, he quelled the thought.
With a sigh, Dzavek stirred, and the flush of life replaced that mortal stillness.
“I am glad you did not choose to lie, Miro.”
He touched his other hand to Miro’s mouth, his lips moving in a whispered spell.
“En nam Lir unde Toc, komen mir de kreft unde zoubernisse.”
The king’s fingers were hot—unnaturally so. It took all Miro’s discipline to remain still while Leos Dzavek continued to draw the magic into a thicker cloud.
Komen mir de strôm. Nemen mir de swîgen.
Dzavek was releasing Miro from the magic seal that he had set upon him two months before. A green scent filled the room, strong and invigorating. The miles of marching and riding dropped away like the snows in summer. Dzavek spoke another word to release the current, which faded into nothing, taking the spell with it. Only by its absence could Miro tell the difference.
Then it struck him. He knew already what happened in Veraene.
“Your majesty, has Anastazia Vaček returned?”
“No.” Dzavek smiled briefly. “Though she did try to send a messenger. They failed to break through the barrier, Rana tells me. You may stand now.” He retrieved the packet from the table and untied its leather strings. Within, the emerald gleamed with a dark green fire. “Do you believe this is a true jewel? One of Lir’s children?”
“I believe so, your majesty. It has the touch of magic.”
“An equivocal reply. If you weren’t certain, why did you guard it so long?”
Because you ordered me to. Because I vowed obedience.
Dzavek did not seem to want an answer, however. “Listen,” he murmured. “Watch.”
He held the emerald up to the firelight. His gaze went diffuse. Miro detected an electric quality to the air as the magic coalesced around them. He listened, every sense trained on the emerald, thinking that at last he would hear the same musical speech his ancestors had, when Károví had first claimed Lir’s gifts for its own.
The room seemed to grow smaller, the walls pressed inward, and in intense weight pressed against Miro’s chest. Still Dzavek did not stir, but continued to stare at the emerald.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane juwel. Sprechen mir.
Dzavek was commanding the emerald to speak, bidding it as he might a servant.
Ei rûf ane …
Miro’s ears roared as the air thickened to an impossible heaviness.
… ane gôtter. Sprechen mir. Iezuo.
A loud crack echoed through the room. The emerald vanished in a burst of light, leaving a tiny heap of gray dust in Dzavek’s palm. Dzavek glanced from Miro back to the dust. “A counterfeit,” he said softly.
Miro blew out a breath. All those months, all those lives, gone. For nothing.
The king scattered the dust with a flick of his hand. “Never mind the mistake. You lost the Morennioùen queen, but I found her. She has the true emerald. She used it to escape her prison. Or it used her.”
More surprises. Miro licked his lips and considered what he might safely say. “It appears you had no need for my report, your majesty.”
“Yes and no. You brought me news of the battle and its aftermath. And yourself. I need both for the next stage of my plans.”
He turned toward the table beside his chair. He unlocked a drawer and retrieved a wooden box, not much larger than his hand. Dzavek lifted the lid and took out a small dark ruby, which flared bloodred in the lamplight.
Miro knew this one. It was Lir’s second jewel, Rana. The one the king had recovered from Vnejšek the previous summer.
As Dzavek turned the jewel over in his palm, the ruby cast a red sheen over his skin. Miro suppressed a shudder. Anastazia Vaček had been quoting Leos Dzavek when she had told Miro her true orders for Morennioù. By blood and bone and magic, Vaček would prepare the ground for Dzavek’s second invasion. Leos Dzavek had not forgiven his brother’s treachery even though lives and centuries had passed.
“We can plan the next assault later,” Dzavek said. “Once we secure the emerald, Morennioù cannot resist long, not with hostages. We will hold the new queen against their surrender. And their welfare against hers.”
I loved her once.
But those were lives and days past. With an effort, Miro returned to the present.
“She might be difficult to locate, your majesty,” he ventured to say.