Kitiara caught her breath again, but silently this time, as the woman turned and the mercenary saw her cheek, then the side of her nose, then those unmistakable turquoise eyes. Dreena ten Valdane, outside the castle? Kitiara's thoughts raced as she tried to decide what to do.
It was clear that Dreena was disoriented by the fog. Why didn't she use her magic to probe the mist? The answer came to Kit instantly: Because if Dreena did, Janusz would sense where she was.
Dreena no longer sported the red and blue that she'd worn atop the battlements. Instead, her body was covered with shapeless homespun cloth in earth tones. A finger of fog curled around the woman. When the mist dissipated, Dreena was gone.
Kitiara gasped and rose from her half-crouch. She forced herself to be silent, to listen; she caught the sound of slippered feet hurrying down a damp footpath. Then—nothing. Kitiara stood erect, sword still ready. She shook her head. There was no point in remaining. Dreena was gone, and Kitiara had lost the chance to capture her. The woman could be anywhere under cover of this fog.
With an oath, Kitiara sheathed her sword and dashed through the mist toward the mercenary camp. With every step she took away from the castle, the fog lost a handspan in height, until it was again hugging only her knees as her slim figure flashed through the trees, past the tents, and up the incline to the mage's and Valdane's quarters. Soldiers gaped as she passed. She could see that Lloiden was again holding forth on the stupidity of the current campaign.
No guard waited at either tent. Pausing to take a deep breath and recover her air of assurance, Kitiara entered the largest tent, the one with the black and purple pennant dangling above it.
It was as warm within the tent as it was bone-chilling and damp without, and the occupants of the shelter glared at the intruder. The Valdane, a red-haired man of middle age, was hissing something at the mage. Janusz looked decades older than the Valdane but was, according to rumor, actually a year or so younger. Kitiara pointedly ignored the two generals, and they ignored her, busy as they were quailing under a tirade of the Valdane.
"I will not attack until we are sure where Dreena is!" the Valdane was saying. "Janusz has tried his magical skills several times since she left the battlements, but he cannot find her. We know only that she's alive. I must know where she waits before we risk an attack." He pounded the main tent pole for emphasis. The generals swallowed as the pole creaked and the canvas swayed. Janusz barked a single word, and the poplar pole became still. The generals glanced uneasily at each other.
Cowards, Kitiara thought. With a younger brother who was a mage, she was more at ease with spell-casting than were the often superstitious denizens of the region northeast of Neraka.
The men continued to ignore her. Kitiara raised her voice and interrupted. "Dreena ten Valdane has escaped."
The men pivoted back toward her. Kitiara felt the right corner of her mouth quirk. It was funny, really—frightened little generals swiveling back and forth like puppets jerked by strings. The Valdane squinted at her; she squelched a smile.
"My daughter has left the castle?" he demanded.
Kitiara kept her gaze steady, her voice clear. "Moments ago. I saw her myself."
"You are sure?" the mage pressed. "I have been scrying . . ." A look from the Valdane silenced him.
One of the generals, the self-important one, spoke up. "We must be certain," he said ponderously, narrowing his eyes and rubbing his chin. "It is better if she has fled. If Dreena ten Valdane were to be killed in combat, it could arouse the Meiri peasants to our disadvantage."
The second general chimed in. "The Meiri peasants were fond of the Meir, but they adore his wife. We'd best be sure the captain is correct." His stare indicated that he, at least, didn't think Kitiara was reliable. "I suggest we wait," he concluded.
Kitiara ignored the two and spoke to the Valdane. "I am as sure that Dreena has left the Meir's castle as I am that I stand before you now." Her gaze never wavered.
The leader nodded to Janusz. "Mount the attack."
Janusz bowed and left, and the generals scattered. Kitiara waited at the Valdane's tent until the mage, his thin white hair fluttering above the collar of his black robe, disappeared into his own tent before she followed. When she reached the mage's tent, she stationed herself by the tent flap, eased it open a finger's width, and watched. Knowledge was power, her mercenary father had often reminded her. It wouldn't hurt to know more about the mysterious mage.
Janusz looked neither right nor left as he moved directly to his cot and pulled out a trunk that lay beneath it. He released a pinch of gray dust into the air and whispered, "Rrachelan" releasing a magical lock. Then he slung up the heavy lid, reached inside, and drew out a sandalwood box carved with silhouettes of minotaurs and seal-like creatures with huge tusks.
He repeated the incantation, with a slight difference in intonation, then opened the box. A look of relief spread across his face. "The power of ten lifetimes for the man who unlocks it," he whispered. Kitiara felt the hair rise on the back of her neck.
Janusz's fingers disappeared into the box and emerged with two—two what? "Gems" was the obvious word, but the stones were more than gems. They glowed with unearthly light. Once, traveling south of the Khurman Sea, two hundred miles to the south, Kitiara had seen a necklace of amethysts that had gleamed violet in lamplight but, outside, had deepened to the purple-blue of the darkest ocean. Those Khurman stones, however, were mere pebbles compared to these. These radiated the heat of light and the cold of winter.
Ice,
