She checked the knife in her boot, the other at her wrist. Not that that made any difference. When Brun had first announced their mission, Maté had insisted she learn the rudiments of what he called practical defense. How to hold a blade. How to throw a knife. Anna had spent her afternoons with a newly hired set of tutors for magic, and her early mornings with Maté in the stable yard. All very good, but she was a scholar and the daughter of a scholar, not a warrior. A shudder passed through her, despite the close, hot day.
After a long interval, Maté returned. His eyes were bright, and he had that same odd air of anticipation she had noted before, back at the temple. “I found only the one body,” he said softly. “Not our friend. But there are other signs I want you to see before our horses and guards trample over them.”
He headed back into the underbrush, beckoning her to follow. Anna hurried after him, swearing under her breath. A short distance ahead, the trees stopped abruptly.
They stood at the edge of a lonely inlet, little more than a notch in the coast, with a few dozen yards between them and the rushing surf. A wind blew steadily from the ocean, lifting the sweat from her face. Then a flicker of movement caught her eye—tiny crabs popped up to the surface, only to disappear as soon as she spotted them.
“Look,” Maté said quietly.
He pointed at the ground. Deep prints dug into the dirt and sand, heading straight for the ocean. Other footprints overlaid the first pair. They had converged from all different directions, and though wind and rain had smoothed the open shore, the sands closest to the trees still showed traces of a struggle. She glanced around quickly. No sign of blood here.
“They took him prisoner, then,” she murmured.
“Nothing quite so simple. Come with me. I have something to show you.”
With rising excitement, Anna followed Maté onto the open shore. He took a path that angled away from the confusion of footprints, then circled around cautiously until they came to a point where the sands were still damp from the tide.
More footprints.
A single line of footprints that arrowed directly toward the sea, remarkably clear even after three days and several tides in between.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“Our luck,” he answered with satisfaction. “We had a lovely high spring tide four, five days past. That means wet sand that takes a good set of tracks, and no more tides since to wash them away.”
The daily rains had softened the tracks, but she could guess what had happened. At the edge of the high-tide mark, their quarry had swiveled about, leaving a muddle of prints. Something—a momentary loss of breath? The sight of his pursuers?—had caused him to take a step back, leaving a deep, clear print. Then he had taken off again, straight for the ocean.
Where the tide had washed away all traces of what happened next.
Damn you, damn you, Aldo Sarrész.
She let her breath escape in a hiss that matched the soughing of the waves. Cursing a dead man would do her little good. Besides, Sarrész himself didn’t matter, not really—only the jewel.
So let’s find out what did happen to the jewel.
She knelt and let her hand hover over the sands. Oh, that was strange. Traces of strong magic itched at her fingertips, and the signature—the magical signature—reminded her of sunlight refracted by diamonds, bright and blinding and filled with all the colors of the universe. Except… According to all the reports Brun had supplied, Sarrész was a mere dabbler in magic.
She growled in frustration.
“What is it?” Maté asked.
“Magic,” Anna said. “Not Sarrész’s, however. I need to investigate.”
“First let me call Raab and the guards. We don’t want any surprises. Pretend you are enraptured with the beauty of the prospect, Lady Iljana.”
She wanted to argue—all her instincts yammered at her to investigate now, this moment, before the traces of that magical signature vanished—but Maté was right. They could not discard their roles yet. Not until they had recovered the jewel and bought their passage back to the mainland.
Anna fluttered her hand to one side in agreement and, with some effort, arranged her expression into one she hoped passed for enraptured.
She did not have to wait long. Maté returned with Raab close behind. They both surveyed the shore, then conducted a brief, tense conversation about logistics and the possible necessity of spending the night away from Iglazi. Then came the guards themselves, with the horses. Raab ordered three to stand watch while the others dug a firepit and set to work preparing a meal for the lady. Within a short time, Maté appeared with a plate of toasted bread and hot tea.
“For my lady’s relief,” he murmured.
She ate and drank mechanically, only half hearing what he said about the ride back to Iglazi and the possibility of visiting this inlet another day. Her attention veered back to those mysterious footprints just a few yards to the left. Once she finished her bread and tea, she set her cup and plate aside and knelt beside them.
Ei rûf ane gôtter, she whispered. Ane Lir unde Toc. Komen mir de strôm.
An invocation to the gods. To Lir and her brother Toc. To the magical current. Words spoken in the ancient language of Erythandra, the language of magic, of the Empire’s ancestors, who rode from the far north to conquer the mainland.
A soft green scent mixed with the ever-present salt tang. The air thickened before her eyes, then wavered, as her vision narrowed to the footprint, then to the individual grains of sand that glittered in the brilliant sunlight.
Lâzen mir älliu sihen. Lâzen mir älliu hoeren.
She recalled those hours in her father’s study as they practiced the invocation to magic, the simplest spells, to light a candle or seal a letter. Then later, as they explored far more complicated spells, to lift one’s soul from the body and wander free throughout time and place. It was her skill in magic, after all, that had inspired Lord Brun to send her on this mission.
Lâzen mir älliu sihen. Lâzen mir älliu der gëste sihen.
The crash and gurgle from the surf doubled, reverberating from past and present. A tiny bird wheeled past—just a black dot spinning across the skies. She turned in time to see it vanish into the forest. Down and deeper down into the past. Slow and slower still, until the moments stretched out, and she could examine each one as she would a physical object.
...the skies a dark blue, smudged with rain clouds. A wind blew steadily from offshore, clean and cool, buzzing with the residue of lightning. Then, a flock of birds exploded from the trees. She heard a garbled shout, the high-pitched squeals of panicked horses. Next came a series of thuds and metallic crashes. A man burst into view, running straight toward her. She recognized Sarrész at once—a slim man of middle height, thick dark hair tied back loosely. But unlike her memories of the man, this Sarrész was splattered with gore and his mouth was twisted in horror.
He passed directly through her. She gagged on the stink of blood and sweat….
Sarrész had escaped the first onslaught. But then what? There was a heaviness in the air that felt wrong. And the man was gabbling to himself. Prayers to the god. A plea for deliverance. Words of magic mixed with curses against the gods. What was he doing?
Her gaze flickered back to the jungle. Five men and a woman were hurtling toward her. All six armed with short swords stained with blood. The five men howling like savage beasts. The woman silent, her cold dark eyes fixed directly upon Sarrész.
Even though she knew she watched events from three days past, Anna flinched. Her vision wavered, then resolved to show the same six standing much closer, their sweat-soaked faces stiff with shock. She spun back to face the ocean.
Nothing except sand and bright