She closed her eyes a moment, remembering that exchange. Alarik’s eyes, glittering in the firelight. How she had deliberately shucked off her clothing. The sensation of his callused hand on her breast. Her father was leaning against the wall, shaking his head in disbelief. “No. That can’t be true.”
Stop it. You’ve done enough.
But she couldn’t stop, not until she had told him every ugly detail.
“It is true,” she said. “I lay with every man in that caravan. Six a night. Four in the mornings. Five weeks of that until I was sick and with child, but it kept me away from you. Now do you understand?”
He covered his face with both hands. “Oh, Therez. Oh, child.”
Ilse said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
Only then did she notice a shadow falling into the room. Lord Kosenmark appeared in the doorway. His glance swiftly took in Ilse and then her father. He came inside and laid a hand on Petr Zhalina’s shoulder. “Come, Maester Zhalina. You look ill. Let me escort you downstairs.”
Petr Zhalina slowly lifted his gaze to Kosenmark’s face. Only gradually did he seem to recognize who this tall, high-voiced man might be. He jerked away from Kosenmark’s touch and stumbled out the door. When he reached the edge of the foyer, however, he paused. “Your grandmother died last month,” he said without looking back. “We buried her ashes in the mountains.” Then he rushed down the stairs and was gone.
Ilse closed her eyes. Stone, I am rock and stone.
Kosenmark took hold of her elbow, laid another hand on her shoulder, and led her to her chair. He pressed her shoulder gently until she collapsed into it. Then he withdrew, but only to shut the door, for she could sense his presence as clearly as ever.
Moments later a wine cup was held to her lips. “Drink. Drink all of it.”
“Is he gone?” she asked.
“Yes. He is not here. He cannot harm you. Drink, please.”
Under his coaxing, she finished the cupful. He withdrew then. More sounds—of a fire lighting—then he was back and chafing her hands. She was cold, though the day was warm. Her stomach had squeezed into a knot. She thought she might be sick.
“No more wine,” he said. “Else that would send you to bed with a headache. And you looked quite ill when I saw you downstairs. I want a good return for my new secretary’s wages.”
He spoke lightly, teasingly. Ilse tried to laugh. A sob came out instead. She pressed a hand over her mouth to smother the next. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“Sorry for what?”
“For showing you that, my lord.”
“Ah. That.” His voice was gentle. “I think I’ve shown you that, too. And you might call me Raul. We’ve earned our friendship, I think. Or if you can’t think of me as a friend, what about a sister? I sound more like one, I know.”
She gave a strangled laugh, which turned into crying, as she finally gave herself over to an outpouring of grief. Raul stayed by her side, waiting in patient silence until her weeping quieted to sobs and then exhausted silence.
“I wish I had not told him,” she said.
“So does he.” Raul paused. “Would you like me to talk with him—privately?”
She shook her head. “No. It won’t take away what I said.”
“As you wish.” He paused again. “But there is another matter. I heard what your father said about Brandt. If he does travel here regularly, you will have to take extra care when you go abroad in the city.”
A shudder went through her at the thought of Alarik Brandt. She wasn’t safe anywhere, not even in Tiralien. Brandt might decide to do more than spy on her. Or her father might petition the watch, just as he threatened. Lord Kosenmark surely would not care for the notoriety from that.
“I’ll have to leave,” she said out loud.
“Leave?” Raul said, surprised. “Why should you leave?”
“To … to save you the trouble, my lord. My father said he would summon the watch.”
“That is no trouble. You are my responsibility.”
“But my lord—”
“Raul. Call me Raul. Would you like water now? Tea?”
She shook her head. “No, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed with the briefest hint of humor. “You are a stubborn young woman.”
Ilse tried to summon up a smile, but it was too soon. She rubbed her head with one hand. When Lord Kosenmark handed her a cup of water, she accepted it gratefully. Weeping had left her with a dry mouth and sore throat, and she felt shaky, as though she had run fast and far.
I have. I still am.
Kosenmark touched her arm. “You look worried. Is it about Brandt still?”
She nodded reluctantly.
“I have an idea about that,” he said. “It won’t make the precautions unnecessary, but it might make them easier to bear. Or rather, it might help you with being less afraid.”
Less afraid. That was something she wanted to hear. “I’d like that, but how?”
“Lessons. Ones without paper or pens or dusty old books. We could start now, if you like.”
There was nothing but kindness in his expression. So strange, so different from how he had looked just a few hours before when Lord Dedrick had arrived. Lord Dedrick. She gave a jump. “My lord, what about—”
“Lord Dedrick?” Kosenmark’s expression went opaque, making Ilse wish she had not asked. But the look vanished, to be replaced by a wry smile. “Lord Dedrick went home to plead his case with his father. Do not worry about him. Come, we have at least a few hours before dark—long enough for you to decide if you like this new venture. But you best change into clothes you don’t mind getting dirty—trousers and a jersey. Oh, and boots. Meet me back here when you’re ready.”
He urged her out the door. Still wondering what kind of lessons he meant, she hurried to her rooms and changed into a set of old clothes from her kitchen days. Her momentary energy deserted her suddenly. She sank onto her bed, thinking, What have I said to my own father?
Nothing more than what she’d thought these past six months.
A trembling overtook her. One, two quarter bells rang while she rocked to and fro. Stupid, weak, silly creature. No, not that. A stubborn creature, just like her father. But that was just as terrible a thought. Panic bubbled up into a high-pitched laugh. Ilse clamped her lips shut. Went rigid. Then forced out a breath, then another and another, until she thought she had recovered her self-control.
Never that. I shall never do that.
But it was enough to stand, to drink a long draught of water from the pitcher in her rooms. To think of what Lord Kosenmark had offered her. Lessons to defend herself. It was … not enough to erase what had happened before. But it was enough to give her strength for tomorrow.
Still unsteady, she finished dressing. When she returned to her office she found Raul wearing the clothes he used for his weapons practice. “I’ve notified your new tutor,” he said. “He’s waiting for us below.”
He led her down by the back stairs and out a side passage into the courtyard where Benedikt Ault waited, arms folded and smiling. He was a lean spare man, his dark hair brushed with gray, clipped so severely she could see his scalp. Though he stood a head shorter than Kosenmark, he had an air of strength and speed. He smiled faintly at them both. “Another session, my lord? Or was I too easy on you this morning?”
“Both and neither, Benedikt. Here is your newest student.”
Ault nodded, but he was studying Ilse with narrowed eyes—assessing her, she thought. She glanced from one man to the other. “Swords?”
“Knives, then swords,” Kosenmark said. “But first, the hand-to-hand techniques—if you agree. And if Maester Ault agrees. Benedikt, can you teach her enough to do battle with me?”
“Certainly, my lord. Stand to one side and watch,” he told Ilse. “I want to demonstrate first on Lord Kosenmark. Then you shall try the technique on me. Lord Kosenmark, if you please …”
Kosenmark took a stand op
posite his teacher, feet planted apart. “See,” Ault said to Ilse. “Square, like his. Now watch. My lord?”
Ault held out his right hand and made a fist. Kosenmark gripped Ault’s wrist. “Open the hand like so,” Ault said, demonstrating as he spoke. “Now step left, outside the attacker’s foot. Roll the wrist toward you, lifting your elbow. So.”
Ault broke free of Kosenmark’s grip, whipping his elbow past Kosenmark’s throat. One, two strikes toward Kosenmark’s face and his groin, stopping short each time. Then he swiveled around, swinging his other hand in an arc toward Kosenmark’s temple.
“Again.”
He repeated the movements slowly, explaining as he went. Then he dismissed Kosenmark to one side and told Ilse to take his place.
Kosenmark sat by the wall, while Ilse took his place. Ault studied her stance a moment. “Almost, Mistress Ilse. More like this.” His hands pushed and pulled her arms, shoulders, and feet until he was satisfied. “Now, hold out your left hand and make a fist.”
She did so. He grasped her wrist.
“Think of someone you hate,” Ault said under his breath. “Imagine they have just captured you.”
Her father. Alarik Brandt. Theodr Galt.
“Which one?” she whispered.
“The one you wish most to break free of.”
Ilse looked into his face and tried to picture Theodr Galt. No, she had escaped him thoroughly. Brandt, then. For a moment, she panicked. She fought down the panic. Concentrating on doing exactly what Ault showed her, she stepped left and pulled hard. Ault gripped tighter. Ilse jerked her hand back. When she felt him loosen his grip, she twisted free. What came next? A strike. And another. She tried copying Ault’s fluid movements, but she could guess how clumsy she looked.
“Make the fist before I grab you,” he said as she rubbed her sore wrists. “Then relax your hand and move fast. We’ll do it slowly until you learn the motions, however.”
They practiced that move a dozen times. Ault showed her two more techniques, both starting from the same position. Once she had them memorized, he made her repeat each one slowly at first, while he critiqued her every move. The next round he exhorted her to move as quickly as she could. By the time he announced the lesson was over, her arms and wrists ached.
“Good enough for one day,” he said, nodding. “We’ll repeat these techniques tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. Now sit over there and watch. You might learn something from Lord Kosenmark’s lesson.” He turned toward Kosenmark, who was already standing. “Shall we show her steel, my lord? Or do you prefer the wooden practice blades?”
Kosenmark’s teeth flashed in the bright sunlight. “Steel, Benedikt. It fits my mood today.”
Ault and Kosenmark selected their swords from the rack. “First position,” said Ault, raising his sword.
“Ready.”
Ault’s blade swung toward Kosenmark’s. A quick series of strikes and blocks followed, the swords moving so fast they changed into bright blurs as metal caught sunlight. Ilse held her breath. There was a pattern, she could almost see it from how one blade turned and twisted and met the other in a crash, and then the same happened but in reverse as Kosenmark and Ault each took turns advancing or retreating across the yard. Ault, of course, was the master, and every movement showed it, but Kosenmark was far faster and more agile than she had expected. He was strong, too; more than once he caught Ault’s sword and nearly wrenched it from his grip.
It made Ilse think how strength and skill were not enough. So many other factors could change a man’s life within a heartbeat.
I believed I was safe, too, she thought. Safe from Brandt. Safe from her father.
She began to see why Kosenmark had offered her the gift of these lessons. There were no guarantees, but with the right instruction, she could learn how to keep away from dangerous choices such as those that led her into servitude with men like Alarik Brandt.
Or if she could not avoid them entirely, how to break a hold, turn a weapon, run toward freedom.
Kosenmark sent her a glancing smile as he dodged a thrust from Ault. He was still smiling, grinning as he parried the next stroke.
That is what I want, Ilse thought. I want to be fast. Strong. Like him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ILSE REPORTED TO the practice courtyard early the next morning, expecting to find Kosenmark and Ault at their drills. To her surprise, the place was empty except for one long lean cat, which had stretched itself along the crown of the wall in the sunniest spot. It opened one eye lazily, yawned, then shifted to an infinitesimally more comfortable position.
“I wish I were still sleeping,” Ilse said.
The cat’s only response was to twitch one ear.
Benedikt Ault came through the gate. He glanced to where the cat had just moments before lain. He gave a wry smile, as though amused. “I see you are prompt,” he said to Ilse. “Good. Are you also ready?”
“As ready as I can be. Where is Lord Kosenmark?”
Ault opened up the weapons rack, shook his head, closed it. “He went on an errand in the city. We are to start without him.”
He had her work through the same techniques from the day before. More than once, Ilse allowed herself to be distracted by birds flitting past, or the cat, which eventually returned to its post on the wall. Her distraction earned her more than a few bruises and some sharp words from Ault. Trying to concentrate on his instructions, Ilse wondered briefly why she had agreed to these lessons. Because Lord Kosenmark suggested them. Because she wanted to please him. She frowned. No. Because she wanted that same grace and strength she saw in Kosenmark when he fought with Benedikt Ault.
“Better,” Ault said after the twelfth repetition. “Especially considering that you are a beginner. Remember what I told you about imagining your enemy. If you were to face a genuine attacker, you would not need that spur, but then you would also need to know the movements without thinking. Think. Memorize. Think again. Act. Ah, my lord, I’m glad to see you.”
Kosenmark came into the courtyard. He was barefoot and dressed in old cotton trousers cut very loose. He nodded politely to Ilse, but she could see the tension in his mouth and the faint line between his eyes. “How goes the lesson?” he asked.
“Well enough,” Ault said. “Perhaps you would like a bout while Mistress Ilse rests.”
Kosenmark hesitated, then nodded. Ault gestured toward the wooden practice swords. Both men picked out blades and took their positions.
It was like and unlike their bout from the previous day. After a salute, the two exchanged a flurry of blows, their wooden blades rattling loud in the morning. Kosenmark pressed hard, but as she watched, Ilse gradually realized that Ault did not press back. Though his blade moved in a blur, he used it only to guide Kosenmark, not to attack him.
Abruptly Kosenmark stopped. His face had a sheen of sweat, but he was not breathing hard. “Tired, Benedikt?” There was an edge to his voice, and he had not lowered his weapon.
Ault smiled grimly. “If you think so.”
“Benedikt …”
“My lord, I suit the lesson to the student and his condition. You know that.”
Kosenmark lowered his weapon. The tightness around his mouth had gone, and his eyes no longer had the unnerving blankness. “Yes, I do know that,” he said. “My apologies.”
“None required, my lord. Will you practice your next pattern, while I attend to Mistress Ilse’s lessons? Use the heavier blade, I suggest.”
Kosenmark exchanged blades and went to the far corner of the courtyard to practice a complicated series of moves. Ilse resumed her old position. She didn’t know Ault well—until yesterday, they had only spoken in passing—but she thought his smile was a shade warmer than before, as though he were satisfied about something. However, he only said, “Show me the second sequence, Mistress Ilse. The one that begins so …”
He guided her through the sequence, making comments and suggestions and corrections after every move. Off to
the side, she could hear the soft thump, thump, pause, thump of Kosenmark’s feet on the dirt as he practiced.
“Good enough,” Ault said. “We should end for today. You will be sore,” he added. “That, too, will pass.”
She nodded, absently rubbing her wrists, which ached. So did the bottom of her feet. And her legs. She was surprised her scalp didn’t hurt.
Glancing up, she caught Ault’s amused smile. He probably knew exactly how she felt. “Take a warm bath for your muscles, and I shall have Mistress Hedda prepare a salve for your wrists. Do not stint on the warm water,” he said. Then to Lord Kosenmark, “Your turn, my lord. Would you prefer unarmed combat today, or another bout with the sword?”
“Sword,” Kosenmark said shortly. “Steel this time. I believe my control is better. Mistress Ilse, when you are done with your bath, please report to my office. We have some business to discuss.”
Her pulse jumped. “New business, my lord?” she asked. “Or old?”
“Both and neither,” he said. “And ask Mistress Raendl to send up refreshments for five guests as well.”
He turned back to Ault before she could ask what or if he had discovered something.
Ilse hurriedly washed and changed her clothes, her thoughts running through all the possibilities for this meeting. We’ve received nothing in the past week. No letters. No special courier today. Even yesterday, the post contained nothing. Nothing, except …
Except Lord Dedrick, who had just returned from his father’s district.
She paused in tying the ribbon around her braid. Lord Dedrick must have heard new rumors. Yes, that had to be the reason. With renewed speed, she finished her toilette and caught up her writing case. A brief stop by her office for her notes on the Károví situation, and then she was running up the stairs.
When she came into Lord Kosenmark’s office, the vast sand glass was just turning over in its cage; the last sands of the old hours and minutes were still falling through the smaller glasses. A soft chime sounded, marking the new hour. Six months since she first walked into this room. How quickly she had accustomed herself to its rare beauty. These days, she noticed the books and papers and maps, less frequently the new paintings or statues that Lord Kosenmark sometimes acquired. Most days, her focus was on the man himself and what he said, not his belongings.
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