Passion Play (52 page)

She also spent hours in Raul Kosenmark’s company. Talking. Arguing. Discussing matters as large as the kingdom, and as small as the weather. There were times she thought he liked her company for its own sake. Other times, he seemed moody or reserved. Some of that she blamed on the peculiar lack of news from abroad. Some, she reminded herself, came from Lord Dedrick’s absence. But it grew harder each day to keep Lord Dedrick in mind. It was as though she had spent a lifetime warming her hands over dead coals, only now to discover fire.

Fires warmed, she told herself. Fires also burned.

A month after Alarik Brandt’s death, she returned from Mistress Hedda’s to find Lord Dedrick in the entry hall, talking with Mistress Denk. She had one moment to see him—truly see him—before he noticed her presence. A handsome man. Long full hair drawn back in a jeweled band, a half dozen strands in narrow braids—the latest fashion among the young rich nobles. Today he wore an exceptionally rich costume of wine red silks that set off his dark complexion.

Dedrick smiled at something Mistress Denk said. Then he glanced toward Ilse; his smile faded and his expression changed from pleasantly bland to one she could not decipher.

“Mistress Ilse.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Dedrick.”

“I see that you recovered from your injuries.”

She nodded, smiling politely. Of course he came here as soon as his father allowed it.

“Does Lord Kosenmark know you’ve arrived?” she said. “Shall I send a runner?”

“He knows. He asked me here for dinner.”

Oh yes. She could have predicted that as well, if she were thinking clearly.

She made a polite excuse and hurried up the stairs. Just as she reached the balcony, a door opened below, and she heard Lord Kosenmark greet his lover.

His lover, she repeated firmly. Remember that. It didn’t matter how often Lord Kosenmark dined with her. It didn’t matter about Alarik Brandt. Or that night in the inn. Or any other memory she had used to feed these new feelings she had. (And if she was honest, not just abstract feelings but desire.) Lord Dedrick was his chosen lover, and nothing she wished or dreamed could change that.

With a start, she realized the voices were louder and more distinct. They were coming upstairs. Ilse fled through the doors to the far stairs and ran up them, not stopping until she had reached her rooms. Only when she had closed and locked the doors could she stop to catch her breath.

I know the word links now. Start with fool. Fool and idiot and thick wit—

Gradually she brought herself under control. She lit the lamps and poured herself a cup of wine with trembling hands. A headache nibbled at the edge of her awareness.

“Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she whispered.

Air brushed against her cheeks—thick and scented green, like the pine forests above the Gallenz River. Ilse breathed in the scent, feeling new energy course through her body. She stared at her own hand, clenched in a fist, as her focal point. Her vision narrowed to a vein along one knuckle, then to a single point where flesh and blood and bone coincided. The headache faded, her pulse slowed. She was poised between the here of Tiralien and the faraway of magic’s other planes.

Feathers and spines prickled her arm. Her focus broke, and with a sickening rush, she fell back into herself.

She lay facedown on the hard floor, her head spinning from hunger and magic. The lamp had burned down, and a twilight darkness filled the room. Ilse stumbled to her feet. She made it to the sideboard and drained three cups of water. Only then could she relight the lamp.

I must look terrible.

It doesn’t matter what you look like. You need to eat.

She washed her face and smoothed her hair. Outside her rooms, the wing was quiet, but she could hear sounds from the rooms below, signaling the start of business for the evening. She headed for the back stairs, where she knew she could avoid any of the guests. Midway to the next landing, however, she heard voices from above. Loud, angry voices.

“Bastard!” Lord Dedrick’s shout echoed down the stairwell. “You damned fucking bastard.”

“Dedrick, come back. I swear it’s not what you think—”

“And what should I think?”

Ilse strained to hear Raul’s answer. She heard nothing but the blood pulsing in her ears.

Dedrick laughed. “That’s what I thought. You can’t tell me any different than what the whole city is saying. Damn you for a liar and a coward.” Then louder, “Damn you, Raul. Damn you for every fucking hour I spent on you. I wish I’d never—”

He broke off and came hurtling down the stairs. Ilse tried to outrun him, but before she reached the next landing, Dedrick overtook her. He stopped at the sight of her, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. “You,” he breathed.

He pushed past her at a run, his boots ringing over the steps. Ilse closed her eyes and pressed both hands over her mouth, too shaken to move or think. A door banged open and closed below. Muffled shouts penetrated the walls—Dedrick shouting for his horse and groom.

She glanced up the stairwell. Silence up there.

It’s not my business.

He is my friend, at least.

She wavered a moment, then went up the stairs. The door stood closed. Ilse pressed her ear against it and listened. She heard nothing. No footsteps. No muttered soliloquies. Only a thick and unsettling silence. Her heart thudding faster, she knocked.

No answer.

Ilse retraced her steps to the kitchen. There she poured a jug of Raul’s best wine, and fetched a wine cup, napkins, and water carafe. The kitchen girls ignored her. Mistress Raendl accorded her a brief friendly nod; Kathe paused and glanced in her direction, obviously curious, but Ilse hurried away before she could say anything.

As she expected, no one answered her knock the second time either. Ilse balanced the tray on one hip and tried the latch. Raul had locked it. She hesitated only a moment before she laid her palm over the lock and spoke the words he had taught her.

Ei rûf ane gôtter. Lâzen mir drînnen Ilse Zhalina.

Magic prickled at her fingertips—she felt a brush of his signature as the magic recognized her voice and words—and the door swung open.

Raul had doused all the lamps, leaving the room in a dim gray darkness. Coming inside, Ilse could make out only shadows and the vague silhouettes of the desk and chairs. Farther on, tall gray squares marked the windows. These stood open to the evening sky, now obscured by heavy clouds. Rain was in the air, and the salt tang smelled heavier than ever.

“Lord Kosenmark?”

Silence answered her. He might be in the garden, she decided. Steadying the tray, she picked her way across the room. She had just reached the far doors when Raul’s voice broke the stillness.

“Go away.”

Ilse stopped. He was somewhere to her left—there among the thickest shadows. She turned, and a movement caught her eye—Raul, lifting a hand to his face.

“I brought you wine,” she said.

“I don’t need it.”

His voice was high and whisper thin.

Ilse set her tray on the nearest table and lit a lamp. Raul sat propped against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, one hand covering his face. She filled the wine cup halfway in case his hands were not steady. She thought they would not be. When she turned back, she saw that Raul was watching her through slitted eyes.

“Go away,” he repeated.

“No.”

His mouth rippled, but he said nothing. Ilse knelt in front of him and offered the cup. Raul stared at it, then at her. “Have you come for pity or curiosity?”

“Neither. I came for friendship.”

He made an inarticulate sound, deep in his throat, like an animal in pain. Then with an abrupt movement, he took the cup. His sleeve fell back, and she saw marks upon his wrists that looked like bruises. A faint scent of magic hung in the air, but she couldn’t tell if the magic came from him or her.

Raul drank. Blinked and peered at her, as though seeing her for the first time. “You look tired,” he said, his voice no longer so strained.

“A little.”

He nodded. “You brought only one cup?”

She shrugged.

“Here, share mine.”

His fingers were hot, hers cold. She sipped the wine, thinking she tasted salt tears on the rim.

“I’m sorry,” Raul said. “I was rude.”

She poured more wine and gave him the cup again. He drained the wine, then cradled the cup between his hands. This close, she could see tears upon his face. More gleamed on his lashes.

“Did you love him so much then?” she asked softly.

Raul’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Once. Very much. But he— I’m a difficult man, as you know.”

Ilse watched him, uncertain what to say.

Raul laughed faintly. “You don’t say anything. You must agree.”

“No. That’s not it—” She stopped and tried again. “You are not perfect. But you have been kind and generous to me.”

Color edged Raul’s cheeks. “I think you should go,” he whispered. “Please. I can’t— I ought to be alone. Thank you for your concern. But please go.”

Ilse nodded. She set the wine jug within his reach and the water jug beside it. Raul had closed his eyes, shutting her out. His face was stone-still, and his breath came deep and regular, as though he were exercising profound control.

A last glance from the door showed her Raul with his head tipped back against the wall, his throat exposed, as though offering it to an unseen knife.

*  *  *

RAIN BEGAN SHORTLY
after midnight. Ilse heard it thrumming against the windows and upon the roof in her dreams. In the morning, sunlight broke through the clouds, but by afternoon the downpour had resumed.

Raul did not appear that morning for drill. Ilse practiced knife blocks for an hour, jumping every time she heard footsteps outside the courtyard. Eventually Maester Ault dismissed her. “You’re not thinking. Besides, it’s too muddy and wet, and you don’t know enough about fighting in muck.”

If the schedule held, she would spend her next few hours with Raul. On coming to her office, however, she found a short message from him.
We have no business today.

No signature. No magic to seal its contents.

She let out a long breath. That, too, was predictable.

Throughout the day, she heard a dozen stories about what happened. Lord Kosenmark had tired of Lord Dedrick. No, it was Lord Dedrick who had broken with Lord Kosenmark. It was Baron Maszuryn who had forced the break. No, the break was Lord Kosenmark’s fault, because he had not pressed harder to see Lord Dedrick the past month. Whatever the cause, Lord Kosenmark had taken the matter badly.

Ilse smothered a pained laugh when she heard that last comment, spoken in whispers among the chambermaids.
Badly
seemed such an inadequate word for what she had witnessed last night. However, she said nothing, only shook her head and went about her work.

For three days Lord Kosenmark kept to his rooms. When he did finally emerge, he made no pronouncement nor gave any explicit orders, but he made it clear that he wished to be left alone. Ilse met with him but once a day, for less than an hour, while he reviewed his schedule with her. A schedule of nothing, she thought. He drilled alone these days. He spoke little to Ilse or anyone else, she learned from Kathe, though he was unfailingly polite. He spent his mornings writing letters to his family and sending them by runner to Ilse, who posted them. He spent long hours in his rooftop gardens.

In this way late summer passed away into autumn. Hanne made her visit to her family up north, and returned with breathless stories and laughter and a fervent wish never to repeat such a long journey again. The hills above Tiralien faded from green into yellow, the skies deepened in color, and the seas became an indigo expanse brushed with gray. Unusual storms were driving in from the oceans, some making their way into the bay. That same night, the temperature had inexplicably dropped and snow was falling, a bizarre autumn snow that melted as soon as the flakes touched the ground.

Even though her office had no windows, Ilse had the impression she could hear and feel the snow brushing against its walls. Cold and soft and relentless, like her father’s whisper. One of the lamps flickered, sending shadows over her desk. She paused in her work, a sheaf of papers in her hand. She had come to this house on the verge of winter.

Just one year ago,
she thought. It seemed longer.

She doubted anyone remembered, however. Nor that she had turned seventeen the previous month. Certainly not Lord Kosenmark. She sighed and went back to reading her notes about Duke Feltzen. Feltzen and his son had requested an interview with Lord Kosenmark. They had recently come from Duenne’s Court and wished to discuss the current situation. According to her notes, Feltzen was an unambitious man whose family had their duchy from the civil wars, three hundred years ago. Strange that he would choose to visit Lord Kosenmark so openly. Perhaps Lord Kosenmark knew the reason, but he had not shared it with her.