Passion Play (35 page)

Kosenmark slapped her across the face. “Shut up. You spied on me. You knew the consequences. You cannot tell me you did not.”

Rosel gasped once and went silent. Her cheek flamed red where he’d struck her. Without any apology, Kosenmark fished out the cord from beneath her collar. The metal rod dangled and spun from its clasp. “A thief’s finger,” he commented, handing his findings to Iani.

Iani examined the device a moment. “Treated with magic to draw the tumblers into position. An expensive tool. Whoever suborned the girl has money.”

“That much we already guessed. Take her upstairs,” Kosenmark said to the guards. “And keep her under control until Lord Iani and I arrive.”

Rosel wailed once, then went limp. Undeterred, the guards hooked their hands under her arms and dragged her away. It was all too much like her own ordeal, Ilse thought. She leaned against the wall, faint with disgust at herself and everyone else.

Garbled voices sounded on all sides. Kosenmark speaking with Iani. Kosenmark giving more orders to the remaining guards. Runners who arrived, only to be sent speeding away on errands. Ilse kept her eyes closed, wishing them all away. She sensed a presence close behind her. A hand gently touched her arm, and Kosenmark’s voice spoke into her ear. “You may go if you wish.”

She turned her face away. She knew what came next. Iani and Kosenmark would question Rosel. They might lock her away, or hand her directly to the watch. Or perhaps they would mete out their own punishment. After all, Lord Kosenmark’s was a shadow court. It might have its own shadow judges.

Kosenmark had gone. So had the others, thankfully.

Curiosity pricked at her. She hesitated. Curiosity was a dangerous thing in this household.

Ilse swung the door open. It was just an ordinary linen closet, lined with shelves that extended from floor to ceiling, all stacked with pillowcases, handkerchiefs, and baskets of clean rags. Ordinary, except for the magic permeating the air. Old faint magic from Rosel’s several visits with her lock pick. Fresh strong magic from Lord Iani.

Someone had pushed the baskets to either side on one shelf. Ilse saw a square panel measuring about a foot in either direction—a listening portal. A small lock, made of dark metal, was set into the panel’s left side.

She placed her palm over the lock. Even with all the magic buzzing around her, or perhaps because of it, she could tell the lock was metal and nothing more.

Careless,
she thought.
Or perhaps he had assumed he would never hold sensitive discussions in Maester Hax’s bedroom.
A dozen other explanations and counterexplanations presented themselves, spilling through her mind like glittering beads.

I don’t care. I don’t care anymore what he does. What or why or when.

Another wave of faintness came over her. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to sleep. She wandered through the wing, going from sitting room to parlor and once into a room obviously used by the courtesans. None were right. She needed to be private, secure from any chance visitor.

At last, she returned, unwillingly, to her rooms.

Someone (Kathe? Lord Kosenmark?) had thoughtfully left a tray of food for her on the table. Ilse ate mechanically. She rejected the coffee, and drank down mugfuls of water instead, trying to clear the sour residue from her mouth. She tried to think about her situation, but she was too tired and too distracted. Her thoughts flitted from Rosel’s pleas, to the crack of Kosenmark’s palm against the girl’s face, to the strong scent of magic inside the linen closet.

A quarter bell sounded. Another one. Finally a cascade of bells marked noon, and with it a soft knock sounded. A moment later the door opened and Kosenmark came inside. He surveyed the room briefly, then took the chair opposite her. “My apologies for intruding, but we have some unfinished business to discuss.”

Ilse shrugged, too tired to show any anger. “What else do we need to discuss? You caught your spy.”

Kosenmark folded his hands together and rested his elbows on his knees. “I came to apologize for lying. And to say I would lie again, if that meant I could prove you innocent.”

“My word wasn’t enough.”

He hesitated. “For me, yes. Berthold is harder to convince. He said I ought to watch your face when we caught Khandarr’s spy.”

Ah. Yes. And she thought it was for her benefit that Hax ordered her to observe the capture. She might have been angry, if she had not been so worn out by her own ordeal. As it was, she only felt a great weariness.

“Do you believe me now?”

“We do. Both of us.”

She shook her head. “What about Rosel? What are you doing to her?”

He dropped his gaze, distinctly uncomfortable with the question. “Lord Iani is with her still, to put our safeguards in place, before she leaves this house.”

Safeguards. A chill passed through Ilse. “What kind of safeguards?”

Another uncomfortable pause. “Lord Iani has operated upon her with magic,” he said slowly. “Rosel is sleeping now. She feels no pain, but when she wakes up, she will be in a sick house, fevered and unable to remember anything that happened in the past two months.”

Ilse’s stomach turned over. Briefly she wondered what Lys would say about her best friend’s sudden departure. From there, it was an obvious leap to her own situation. “Is that what you planned for me?”

“Yes.”

Wrong. That was so very wrong. “Why that?” she whispered. “Why not dismiss her from the household? Send her to another city where she cannot do you any harm.”

“That city does not exist. We have allies and colleagues everywhere in Veraene, even in Károví. Besides, I was trying to protect her.”

“How? By destroying her wits?”

“We have not—” With an obvious effort, Kosenmark lowered his voice. “We have not damaged her. We simply removed the dangerous memories—the ones that are as dangerous to her as they are to me. Ilse, look at me.”

He reached toward her, but she recoiled. Kosenmark vented a sigh. “I am telling you the truth. If we did nothing but dismiss Rosel, the men and women who hired her would kill her, for no other reason than to make certain she could not tell anyone about them. Now they must realize she cannot betray them. It was the best I could do.”

And he would have done the same with her. He would have obliterated her memories and tossed her into Tiralien’s streets without any regret. Once, she had admired him. Now …

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do,” she whispered. “That is what frightens me.”

Kosenmark opened and closed his mouth. “I wish I could convince you that I’m not a monster. But that might be another lie.” A pause, while he appeared to struggle for what to say next. “Can you possibly understand how it was, in Baerne’s Court? Yes, we practiced intrigue. We had to so we could survive. Politically survive, I mean. Then came Armand as the king, with Markus as his adviser, and the survival became literal. Fara—”

He broke off and rubbed a hand over his eyes. That name was like a cry, and for a moment, a much younger Raul Kosenmark sat opposite her.

When he did continue, he kept his hand shading his face. “Fara was the Countess Hanau. You wouldn’t know her. She took me as her student when I was a boy. She taught me about political factions and alliances and how they shifted from one quarter hour to the next. She told me, bluntly, that my personal disappointments were nothing compared to my duties to king and kingdom. Then she taught me how to fulfill those duties. How to think. To listen. Yes, in that way, too. And when they said to me, Oh you cannot be a lover, you cannot be a man, she said, Oh yes, you can. Then Armand killed her.”

She had not thought the silence could deepen, but it had. It was like a tangible thing, heavy and dark.

Kosenmark eventually lowered his hand. He kept his face averted, but Ilse could see a silvery gleam in his eyes. “She trusted,” he said. “So did I. We hoped that Armand would prove another Baerne—Baerne in his younger days. It was a foolish hope, given what we knew about Armand’s character, but not completely unreasonable. We had not reckoned with Markus Khandarr. He saw Fara as a rival. He convinced Armand that she was dangerous to his authority. Then, one day, she complained of a headache and dizziness. Twelve hours later, she lay unconscious in a wasting fever. But she didn’t die. Not right away. Not for three months.”

His voice wavered. He clenched his fist and went on in a harsher tone. “The mage-physicians who attended her, one after the other, could do nothing. They couldn’t even help her to an easier death. She lay there, burning and burning and yet never able to die. Not until Khandarr decided she had suffered enough. No, I have no proof, other than the man’s character. He might have assassinated her. He might have struck her down suddenly. But it is a sign of his character that he did not want to simply eliminate a perceived adversary. He wanted to punish her. Of that I am certain.”

She had heard scraps of this tale from Mistress Raendl and others, but nothing so harrowing as the complete story. “I’m sorry about what happened. Very sorry. It does … explain things.”

Kosenmark flexed his hand and studied it dispassionately. “Perhaps. But it does not entirely justify how I treated you. You had it right. I am both arrogant and afraid. To that I can add ashamed and sorry. More than sorry.” He laughed a dry pained laugh. “Khandarr hardly needs to plot against me. I do well enough myself. You see, we can always arrange another meeting, but I cannot replace someone who cares as deeply as you do for truth and honor.”

Ilse shook her head, uncomfortable with his praise.

“It’s true,” he said. “Whether you accept it or not.” Now he drew a deep breath. “We’ve made a false beginning. I would like to make amends, but though such grievous misunderstandings can be mended …”

“They cannot be forgotten,” Ilse said, finishing the quote from Mandel of Ysterien’s essays on alliances. She smiled faintly. “You gave me those essays to read last week.” And then she saw where the conversation was heading. “Do you want me here still?”

“I do. Do you wish to stay?”

She meant to say no. But what came out was “I don’t know.”

He nodded, his manner subdued. “Please take another day—as many as you need—to decide. If you decide to leave, I can recommend several good households in Tiralien. Or even Duenne, if that still appeals to you. You might go anywhere you like.”

“What about …”

“My shadow court?” He smiled briefly. “A good name for it. Shadows are dark things. We need more light. Let me just say that I trust you. I would not make you a prisoner for my own shortcomings. Meanwhile, you’ve had a difficult week. Stay in your rooms and rest before you make any decisions.”

“I’d rather not rest here,” she murmured.

To her surprise, Kosenmark flushed. “No, of course not.”

He did not linger, but took his leave with just a few words. Ilse closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Only then did she see a small wrapped package on Kosenmark’s chair.

She took it up and unwrapped it. A book. An old book—centuries old judging by the faded ink and delicate parchment.

Carefully, she opened the cover and drew a sharp breath. It was a rare volume of Tanja Duhr’s poetry—a priceless object. Hardly believing what she held, Ilse carefully turned the pages, breathing in the scent of old paper and leather. This was the same volume she had hoped to find in Duenne’s book markets, the volume of Duhr’s poetry from after the first wars. There, there was the poem she had written for her lover.

When you are gone, I feel more than absence.

The moon dims. The summer warmth recedes.

The air itself grows thin …

A thin strip of paper fluttered from between the pages. Cradling the book in one hand, Ilse retrieved the paper.

To Ilse Zhalina. A gift in return for your gift of conscience and truth. Thank you.

*  *  *

SHE SPENT THE
afternoon outside on Lord Kosenmark’s extensive grounds, wandering the intricate paths of the several formal gardens. When she tired of them, she took refuge in the tiny patch of wilderness, hidden in a grassy ravine between the paths. There, amid the luxurious tangle of old dried raspberry brambles, she found a bench carved to the likeness of a gnarled trunk. A few hardy wildflowers had spouted beneath it.

She made herself comfortable and leaned back, eyes closed, listening to the birds twittering. Off in the distance, Tiralien’s bells rang, but she did not count the hours or the quarter hours. She sat. She soaked in the warm sunlight, which told her about time’s passage by the change in shadows as they drifted across the clearing.

After a time, she heard leaves crackle along the path above her. Ilse said nothing, and soon the footsteps retreated. Another quiet interlude passed. She heard one of the kitchen cats hunting mice. She heard the birds twittering in the trees and the first frog chorus of the season. The sun was sinking, she could tell by the cooling of the air. More footsteps approached—louder and swifter—then a crashing sound as someone scrambled down the slope, ignoring the path.