Passion Play

by Beth Bernobich

  “Why should that prevent him?”

  That was harder to answer. She tried to put into words the vague impression she felt whenever she heard Leos Dzavek discussed. “Because he is old,” she said. “Because for all his magic, he will die someday. He would not launch a war if he could not live to see its end.”

  Kosenmark paused by the fireplace and stared into it. Except for the shadows, the tiredness had vanished from his face, and behind that shuttered face, Ilse sensed great concentration. Finally his gaze cleared and he looked around at her.

  “What if he thought the jewels were in Veraene?” he said.

  “That would be a provocation, I think. But what makes me curious …”

  She paused.

  “Go on,” Kosenmark said. “What makes you curious?”

  “Not what but why,” she said. “Why did he start searching for the jewels again? They were lost over three hundred years ago.”

  “Perhaps the key to that lies within our borders, with our king,” Kosenmark’s voice turned thoughtful. “Armand of Angersee spent a childhood immersed in tales of the old empire, and more tales about his grandfather’s victories over the Károvín. It was like growing up in the dark shadow of a mountain, with no chance to escape into the light.”

  “He wants to prove himself as good as his grandfather?”

  “Better,” Kosenmark said. “He wants to revive the old empire. But for all that he is king, he needs the support of his nobles. If Leos Dzavek does not provide him with sufficient reason, Armand might manufacture one.”

  “So Leos Dzavek’s motives do not matter?”

  “They do. Like you, I’m curious why he’s renewed the search for the jewels.”

  “Because he found a clue?” Ilse said. “Or because … because he knows of Armand’s character, and he wants to prepare his kingdom.” It was like piecing together a puzzle. One answer begat another and another. “He’s old,” she went on. “Old and possibly dying. He wants to ensure Károví’s safety, even after he’s dead.”

  “Ah, yes,” Kosenmark spoke in a wondering tone. “It is strange to think of a world without Leos Dzavek. It would be like seeing the sky without the sun, I think. And yet it must happen someday. He is a man, and however powerful his magic, he must someday cross the void. But that uncovers a new problem, one I think the priests had considered when they refused to let old kings prolong their lives with magic and the jewels. Any other kingdom expects their king to die. Any other king has appointed an heir. At least the sensible ones do. But Leos Dzavek has no queen or consort. His last heir died fifty years ago. There is no one to succeed him on the throne.”

  “Civil war,” Ilse said, breathless.

  Kosenmark nodded. “And more. Bloodshed and chaos within, and Veraene’s armies pressing across the borders. In that case, Armand would gain his victories, but the cost would be bitterly high. As you said, the people of Károví are loyal to their king and kingdom.”

  “But with Lir’s jewels, whoever succeeds Dzavek can defend Károví against anyone, including those within the kingdom.”

  Kosenmark did not look convinced. “Perhaps. Magic is well enough, but when you balance it against treachery and deceit, I wonder if treachery would win by a wide bloody margin. However, I imagine Leos Dzavek knows more about the factions in his court than I. His plan is a good one, as far as Károví’s welfare goes. Let us hope—”

  He broke off, frowning.

  Ilse waited a moment. “What do you hope, my lord?”

  He shrugged. “Merely a worry. Leos Dzavek has a reputation for strength and honor. Let us hope that in his quest for the jewels, he does not mislay those virtues.”

  Like the story of the woman who lost her beloved children while she bargained for a silver necklace. Ilse saw that Kosenmark, too, was lost in recollection. “I saw him once,” he said softly. “It was at Baerne’s Court, during negotiations over the Kranjě Islands. And once more, let us say, when he was not aware of my identity. His eyes are what you notice first—old and tired and clouded with age. But if we can believe the poets, his eyes were very different when he was young—a blue so dark, they appeared black.”

  “The darkest violet, like summer storm clouds,” Ilse quoted, “like the oceans at night.”

  She glanced up, straight into Kosenmark’s golden eyes. Unsettled, she looked away. Kosenmark stirred restlessly. “So. You know my thoughts now, and I’ve heard yours. Thank you. I only have one more request of you today, Mistress Ilse. That is to visit with Maester Hax.”

  She could not prevent herself from wincing at Hax’s name.

  “Do you object?” Kosenmark said.

  “No, my lord.” He was right—she had to speak with Hax before things could return to normal. “I do not object at all, but I confess I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “Ah.” He smiled faintly. “I sympathize.”

  She blew a breath and smiled. “Thank you. I will go to him now.”

  She collected her writing case and stood. Kosenmark had already turned toward his overflowing desk. Undoubtedly his own work had accumulated during the past five days while he kept watch over her.

  “My lord?”

  He looked up. “Yes, Mistress Ilse. You remembered something else?”

  She shook her head. “No. Not about that. But I wondered … Is it possible you might visit with Baron Eckard during his stay in town?”

  “Most likely,” he said, his tone cautious. “We were friends in Duenne. Friends make visits. Why?”

  This favor, asked face to face, was harder than all her speeches delivered to an anonymous air vent. “I had a question. Or rather a favor to ask him. If he could, when he returns home to Melnek, tell Mistress Klara Thaenner that he saw me safe and well. And if he could, tell her I found the books I was looking for, though not at the bookseller I expected.”

  It was a risk, letting Klara know anything, but she thought it one worth taking. Baron Eckard had proven himself discreet. Klara would do likewise.

  Kosenmark studied her a moment. No pity. No amusement. It was an expression she had not seen upon his face before. Then he smiled gently. “Of course. I’ll send him a note today.”

  * * *

  HER VISIT WITH Maester Hax turned out to be short, but less difficult than she feared.

  “So,” Hax said, when the servants admitted her into his bedroom. “We are to be colleagues again.”

  She heard no sarcasm in his tone, but she couldn’t be certain. “A chief secretary and his assistant are hardly colleagues.”

  “Ordinarily no,” Hax agreed. “But ours is not the ordinary household. You brought your writing case? Good. Unlike Lord Kosenmark, I do have a few tasks for you, and for these you will need to get the details exact. Write this down please …”

  And off he launched into a series of complicated tasks, so much like that first day that Ilse nearly expected him to hand her another list of names. He looked stronger, she thought, writing as fast as she could to keep up. She could see how his color had improved, even since yesterday. His voice, too, had more strength, and his gestures were once more airy and quick.

  “You’re smiling,” Hax observed. “Do you find our topic amusing?”

  He had been expounding on better accounting methods for the pleasure house expenses. Ilse shook her head but continued to smile. She would get no apology from Maester Hax, but she found she didn’t care. He was better, and she was glad. When he mentioned that she would see a greater quantity of correspondence than before, she nearly laughed.

  “All the letters this time?” she said, under her breath.

  “All of them,” Hax said drily.

  He turned a very bland expression toward her. That alone confirmed her suspicions that he had withheld most of the letters before.

  She spent the rest of that day immersed in work. By evening, it seemed as though the past week had not occurred. There were a few reminders—the book of Tanja Duhr’s poetry in her rooms, the new keys Lord Kosenmark s
ent to her, giving her access to his office, and a slight but noticeable difference in how Mistress Denk and Mistress Raendl addressed her.

  The changes rippled through her days. While Hax slowly recovered from his illness, Ilse took on more of his duties. Hax ordered new copies of keys for his office so that she might refer to his files. Lord Kosenmark reworked the spells for his own office so that she might have full access to all his correspondence.

  Hax had not lied about giving her all the letters. She read all Lord Kosenmark’s letters before Hax himself and, once Lord Kosenmark determined the answer, handled all the replies. Doing so, she learned to associate these names with faces she’d seen at Lord Vieth’s. Emma Theysson sent letters by private courier, in which she enumerated changes in the royal shipping patrols. Lord Iani wrote more obliquely, using excerpts from ballads and epic sagas, whose lines contained names for known points in Anderswar’s ever-changing realms. At times, his letters made no sense, speaking of color signatures and voice memories.

  “He is hunting Leos Dzavek,” Lord Kosenmark explained. “A soul leaves imprints in Anderswar. The imprints fade over time, but never completely disappear, so Benno has the difficult task of sorting through three hundred years of Leos Dzavek’s journeys.”

  “Is Lord Iani the only hunter?” Ilse asked.

  “No,” Kosenmark said softly. “We must expect that Lord Khandarr is searching there as well. That is the danger.”

  Hax supervised Ilse’s work from his rooms. She would visit him each morning to have him review what she wrote and how she sorted the letters. Lord Kosenmark was present for several of those sessions, and then they discussed not just the letters but also their implications.

  “You think Armand will be sensible, my lord?” Hax said.

  “Baerne was sensible,” Kosenmark said. “So was Armand’s father before he sank into drink and madness. Armand has the seeds to make a good strong king.”

  “You talk as though to convince yourself,” Hax observed.

  “I am convinced.”

  “For now.”

  Kosenmark glanced at his secretary. “For now,” he agreed, but he sounded uncertain.

  A month after Lord Vieth’s banquet, Hax resumed his duties, but with a less rigorous schedule than before. He spent his mornings with Lord Kosenmark. Most afternoons, he slept, waking in time to spend an hour or two with Ilse, reviewing her work and giving her new assignments for the next day. After a light dinner, he read, often falling asleep before the bells struck eight. The routine suited him, he said, and Ilse had adjusted her day to fit his.

  “Has Lord Khandarr left Tiralien?” she asked him one afternoon when Hax had declared that he felt too wakeful to nap. None of the letters implied that Khandarr had departed the city, but Ilse knew that Lord Kosenmark sometimes received news by visitors to the pleasure house.

  Hax shrugged. “Not yet. We’ve sent inquires to friends in Duenne, but we use roundabout messengers, as you can guess. Word should come back by next week, if the roads are good.”

  The roads were not good. Spring rains had washed out several highways, mudslides had made other points impassible for the caravans, and the Gallenz River had risen several feet, overflowing its banks at points. News traveled slowly, even by private courier, and though Lord Kosenmark hid his moods well, she knew he was fretful. He would be, until he had word that Lord Khandarr had appeared in court.

  “And if he hasn’t?” she said, half to herself.

  “Then we must inquire again. Lord Khandarr is a mage. As you observed to Lord Kosenmark, he might be investigating the same clues we do.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  Hax laughed drily. “Both. The king must know the state of his borders. Besides …”

  Without warning, the vitality drained from his face. Hax let his head sink onto his hands. “I hate it,” he whispered. “I hate that I have two good hours before my body wants sleep. Very well. We shall finish these letters, then I will nap.”

  Ilse watched him anxiously. His voice sounded fainter than usual, even knowing he was ill. She’d heard from Kathe that, tired and yet unable to sleep, Hax had finally relented and used Mistress Hedda’s sleeping potion.

  Hax lifted his head. “What?”

  She looked away, embarrassed that he had caught her staring. “Nothing, sir.”

  “You,” he rasped, “are too much like Mistress Hedda. Fetch me those papers from Lord Kosenmark’s office and we shall review the next week’s schedule. Now where is that ink pot? Ah, there.”

  He stood and reached across his desk for the ink pot. Unexpectedly, he stopped, and his eyes went blank with surprise. “Ilse?”

  Ilse looked up in time to see Hax’s face go stiff and gray. He collapsed, spilling papers and ink over the desk and onto the floor. No. No, no, no. Then she was running from the office and shouting for a runner. Within moments, a liveried girl clattered down the steps from Lord Kosenmark’s office.

  “Fetch Mistress Hedda,” Ilse said. “Now! Run!”

  She darted back into Hax’s office. Hax remained crumpled over his desk, motionless. Her heart thumping hard, she rounded the desk and saw that his lips moved. He was breathing, a frightening bubbling sound that made her go cold. She bent close and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Maester Hax, I’ve sent for Mistress Hedda. She will be here soon.”

  Hax’s fingers spasmed into a fist. “Soon. Get him. Please.”

  “Who? Lord Kosenmark?”

  He made a strangled sound, wet and harsh. Ilse dashed out the door again, and ran into Kathe, who carried a flask in her hand. “Ilse!” Kathe was gasping for breath. “Freda said that Maester Hax—”

  “He’s had a fit,” Ilse said. “Stay with him. I’m going to find Lord Kosenmark.”

  “In the training yard,” Kathe called after her.

  She hardly knew how she could run so fast without stumbling. Down the stairs. Out the closest side door. Down the lane and through the gates to the rear courtyard where Lord Kosenmark had his sessions with his weapons master.

  He was there, wooden sword beating a fierce attack against Benedikt Ault’s rapid defense. “My lord,” she cried, running to him. “Maester Hax needs you.”

  Kosenmark stopped in mid-swing. Not waiting for him to speak, Ilse seized his free hand. “Now, my lord!”

  She didn’t know what he did with his sword. She only knew that he had taken her hand and they were both running through the pleasure house and up the stairs to Hax’s office.

  Mistress Hedda had not arrived yet, but Kathe had been feeding Hax the concoction left for such a crisis. Kathe herself looked shaken, though she continued to speak calmly to Hax. She had made him as comfortable as she could in that short time—clearing away the papers, giving him sips of wine between those of medicine.

  “Come,” Hax whispered. “Raul. Please.”

  Kosenmark crossed the room. Kathe withdrew. Ilse started to follow, but Kosenmark motioned for her to stay. He dropped to his knees beside Hax and bent close. “Berthold,” he said, and his soft high voice went higher.

  “Closer,” Hax wheezed.

  Ilse heard nothing of their whispered conversation, but she heard how Kosenmark’s voice flattened out, and how Hax paused between each word. He’s dying. He knows it, she thought. How did a man bid a friend good-bye forever?

  “Promise,” Hax said. His voice had gained strength. “Remember.”

  “I remember, Berthold. Hush. Rest.”

  “Promise,” Hax repeated. “In case …”

  “In case, yes. Berthold, I promise.”

  A spasm rippled through Hax’s body. His head jerked to one side, and he went limp.

  Ilse pressed a hand over her mouth. He’s dead.

  She knew it from the dreadful stillness of his body, from the tears on Kosenmark’s face. From a deeper quiet in the room.

  Kosenmark took Hax’s hand and pressed it between his. “Good-bye, my friend.”

  Footsteps echoed from the entryway, and Mistr
ess Hedda appeared. “My lord.”

  She had a small box clutched to her chest. She was panting, and her hair had fallen from its coil. When Kosenmark did not acknowledge her, Mistress Hedda stepped forward and touched Hax’s wrist, then his temple and his neck. She nodded silently. “My lord, I’m so sorry. I was not quick enough.”

  Kosenmark let out a long trembling breath. “You … You could not have stopped it, Mistress Hedda. He was old and sick and—” He broke off and wiped his hand over his face. Ilse saw the sheen of tears upon his face; she heard more in his thick voice.

  He stood, a bit unsteadily. “See to his body. I must make arrangements for the death rites. Come with me, Mistress Ilse.”

  Ilse hurried after him, catching up to him in the stairwell. He headed upward, feet dragging over the tiled stairs. Once he stumbled, then caught himself. Today there was no grace in his step, no image of a hunting leopard. Every movement had turned heavy and slow.

  * * *

  ILSE WORKED THE entire afternoon under Lord Kosenmark’s direction, but she remembered only certain pieces, and those by the physical clues left behind. Ink stains on her fingers meant she had written letters at Lord Kosenmark’s direction. The ache in her throat and chest were reminders of grief. Receipts stacked on her desk came from public couriers hired to dispatch letters throughout Veraene.

  The first went to Hax’s scattered family—a much younger brother who worked a farm in the kingdom of Ysterien, a sister employed in Duenne’s largest counting house, an estranged wife and two sons. Ilse had come to think of Hax as someone born to serve the Kosenmark family, and so the news about this unfamiliar, unexpected past gave her a strange unbalanced feeling. She felt as though she had been walking upon a solid floor, only to have the wood and marble turn transparent and reveal the catacombs beneath.

  By evening the letters were dispatched, the body prepared, and the pleasure house was ready to receive those in Tiralien who gathered for the death rites. Lord Kosenmark had met with Mistress Denk and Mistress Raendl, then retired briefly to his private rooms. Ilse spent the last hour picking over her gowns, helpless to decide what was proper. When Kathe found her, she was still dressed in only a shift, weeping over an old scrap of paper with Hax’s handwriting.