Passion Play

by Beth Bernobich

  “They are not my people,” Ilse said softly. “And even though my father and grandparents came from Duszranjo, they didn’t believe those old laws.”

  “Not in this life, perhaps,” Hedda said, undaunted.

  She came with Ilse down the stairs where the guards waited. “Go home and rest,” she said. “Think if you want to go on. If you do, send me word. We can work out a schedule with Lord Kosenmark.”

  A message waited for her in her rooms when she returned.

  Come to my office. A matter of some importance has come up within the last day, and I need your advice.

  Khandarr. So Kosenmark would meet with her today. She was afraid he would put her off. She read the note again, taking in its impersonal wording, the fact that this message carried no signature, and that he had not sealed it with magic or wax, as was his habit. Uneasy, her hand went to her arm, where the healing scar itched.

  When she arrived at the landing, Kosenmark opened the door at once and ushered her inside. There had been no runner outside the door, which told her that he wanted no chance listener, even though the door was thick and spelled with magic.

  “Did a letter come?” she asked.

  “Yes. But not the kind you think.”

  He was studying her intently. Only now did Ilse notice that he wore a plain brown shirt and trousers, as though he had come directly from drill. He even wore a knife at his belt and one in his left boot. A letter, but nothing to do with the king’s business. What then?

  “I made a discovery,” he said bluntly. “One that concerns you.”

  Her pulse jumped. “What kind of discovery?”

  “About your recent past. I nearly dealt with the matter alone, but since it does concern you, I reconsidered. Are you strong enough for a short expedition across town?”

  Her father had returned. Or Klara had arrived in town.

  Kosenmark tilted his head. “Your father is not here. Nor anyone from Melnek.”

  “Are you reading my mind, my lord?” she said in a shaky voice.

  “Just watching the pictures on your face. No, the matter does not concern your father, though that might be easier. Perhaps you should stay here …”

  “I want to come,” she said quickly. “Please.”

  He nodded slowly. “Very well. But you look too conspicuous in those clothes. Change into your drill uniform, or something like it, and meet me by the stables.”

  When she arrived at their meeting place, she found Kosenmark and several guards standing by a covered wagon. Stable boys were guiding horses between the wagon’s shafts, while Kosenmark’s chief groom supervised the saddling of more horses. All the guards were heavily armed, some with crossbows, some with knives and swords. Even the driver carried a spiked club, which he set into a socket by the dashboard.

  “Get in back,” Kosenmark told Ilse. “We have a distance to cover.”

  He helped her into the wagon, which had low benches along each side. One of the guards climbed up beside the driver, and she could hear the others mounting their horses. In the shadowy light inside the wagon, Kosenmark’s face looked grim and drawn, as though he had not fully recovered from his injuries. She wanted to ask more details about this expedition, but when she opened her mouth to speak, he immediately shook his head. “You will understand soon enough.”

  Out the stables. Along the packed dirt lanes behind the pleasure house. Gates squeaked on their hinges, but no one challenged them as they left the grounds. Soon Ilse lost track of where they might be. The ride took them over smooth pavements, onto uneven stones, over more dirt that squelched beneath the wheels, and then onto a wooden roadway that creaked with their passage. She smelled saltwater and heard the thin cries of gulls overhead. A gulping sound reminded her of waves against pilings. Were they by the wharves?

  At last the driver reined the horses to a stop. The guard came round and opened the flap. “All clear, my lord.”

  Kosenmark dismounted and helped Ilse down from the wagon. They had come to one of the many warehouse districts by Tiralien’s northern docks. The closest slips were empty, but farther on, Ilse saw crowds of sailors and dockhands swarming from ship to shore. No one looked in their direction. She glanced at Kosenmark, who was inspecting their immediate surroundings. His left hand rested casually on his hip, near the knife.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  With their mounted guards as escorts, Raul and Ilse followed the docks until they reached a narrow lane heading north. When they came to an old warehouse, Raul knocked softly. The door opened to reveal more guards, who stood aside to let them enter. Raul went inside at once. Ilse hesitated a moment, thinking she did not like where he was leading her. Inside, she could just see Raul’s figure. He had halted, his back toward her. So. He would not persuade or refuse. She followed.

  They threaded their way through a maze of rooms to a staircase, which brought them down to an underground storage room, lit by torches. Two more guards, armed with swords and dressed in leather armor, came to attention. Behind them, Ilse saw a low wooden door, with bars across it. The smell of salt and mud was strong here, as well as other smells she could not identify.

  Raul gestured to the guards, who unbarred and opened the door. The chamber beyond was pitch-dark. Something inside grunted and Ilse heard a scuffling. Raul took one of the torches and passed within. Ilse took a moment to collect herself before she came after.

  The room was dank and close, its floor a composite of mud and rotting planks. Above the ever-present salt tang, Ilse smelled sweat and urine and dung. The grunting had stopped, but something or someone was breathing loudly.

  Kosenmark held up his torch. By its light, Ilse saw that a naked man lay on the ground. Ropes bound his hands behind his back. Chains shackled him to the wall, and a knotted rag pulled his mouth into an unnatural grin. When Raul thrust the torch at the man’s face, the man recoiled. Ilse recognized him at once.

  Alarik Brandt.

  She pressed a hand to her mouth. A glance toward Kosenmark did nothing to reassure her. He was staring at Brandt, his face strange and masklike in the torchlight. “How?” she whispered. “When?”

  “He was delivered into my hands last night. Why and by whom you need not know.”

  Brandt had stiffened at Raul’s voice. Now he moaned, trying to speak through the gag. Even in the sputtering torchlight, she could see the fresh blood on the man’s swollen face, the livid bruises around his throat, arms, and groin.

  “What will you do with him?”

  “Whatever you like. We are here to render judgment.”

  Raul shoved the torch into a bracket and hauled Brandt to his feet, one arm hooked around his arms. He took out one knife and held it pressed against Brandt’s throat. Brandt struggled briefly, then went limp. Ilse moved until she was in his sight. She wanted to shut her eyes, turn away, but could not bring herself to do either. Fascinated and repelled, she ran her gaze over his body, seeing where his captors had beaten him, wondering if he, too, had screamed and struggled and railed against them.

  Brandt’s eyes focused gradually on her face. His mouth worked at the gag—he was trying to say something. Possibly her name.

  “Do you remember cheating me?” she asked softly.

  Brandt shook his head. She took that for denial.

  You lied to me, she thought. You lied to my father. You are lying to yourself. Is that how you manage to go on?

  “Four a night,” she said in a low voice. “Six when I got used to the work. You wanted me to last. And I did.”

  With a muffled cry, Brandt lunged at her. Ilse started back, but Raul had already yanked Brandt off his feet and twisted his arms backward until the man collapsed. With a glance toward Ilse, Raul drew his knife and bent over him. “Wait for me upstairs,” he said to Ilse.

  Her stomach lurched. “That’s murder.”

  “No more than he murdered the boy Volker.”

  Ilse went cold. “Volker? Dead? Are you certain?”

  “Yes. I have
the word of his brother. He beat the boy to death, the day after you escaped. Now go. Or you will see things you should not.”

  “His blood is already on my hands,” Ilse said. “By my word he stands accused.”

  “By yours and others’,” Raul said thickly. “Now go and leave me to my work.”

  He indicated the door. Brandt had begun moaning, a high-pitched keening that made Ilse’s skin crawl. I’m a coward, she thought, turning around. A weak and treacherous coward.

  Her blood pounding in her temples, she climbed the stairs to the next floor. Her legs gave out then and she sank to the floor. None of the guards spoke or approached her. Perhaps they guessed what was happening in that room below. Finally Raul appeared and held out his hand. Silently she shook her head and stood without his help.

  Outside, they climbed into the wagon, and the guards took their places. She remembered little of the ride back. Her thoughts kept going back to that underground room. Flickering images of Brandt’s face. The stink of blood and human waste. How strange Raul’s face looked in the torchlight.

  Only once did she speak. “He is guilty. Yes. But so are we.”

  After that, she sank back into reverie. When the wagon stopped with a jerk, she cried out. The guards dispersed. Raul escorted Ilse into the pleasure house by one of the side doors. The corridors here were empty. Perhaps he had given orders to keep these halls clear. She didn’t know. She found it hard to collect her thoughts. When he touched her arm, she jumped.

  “Come upstairs,” he said softly. “Please.”

  Still numb, she mounted the stairs behind him. Once they reached his office, however, she hurried past him to the garden door. She went outside, still walking as though in a dream, until she came to the stone wall by the garden’s edge, where her strength finally deserted her. She sank onto the nearest bench and closed her eyes. Evening had fallen during their expedition. A cool breeze spun around her, carrying the rich scent of blooming roses.

  She heard footsteps. A whiff of musk as Raul sat beside her. She detected another scent, too, a rich and coppery one that she thought must be Alarik Brandt’s blood.

  “You killed him.”

  “Yes.”

  A shudder went through her. “How?”

  “A knife across his throat.”

  Ilse’s hand went to her own throat. “So I thought.”

  “I gave him a warning before I did,” he said. “I told him that Lir and Toc did not suffer cruelty. Nor would I tolerate human predators in this kingdom. I killed him, but first I castrated him.”

  “Was that necessary?”

  “Yes. I killed him quickly—he did not suffer long—but I wanted to make sure that Alarik Brandt remembers this deed and this judgment in his next life. It’s a fair trade. His nightmares in reparation for yours.”

  Against her will, Ilse’s gaze went to Kosenmark’s hands. They were clean of blood, as were his clothes. He must have taken care not to bloody himself. She looked into his face then, but his expression was blank of any emotion.

  “Tell me why you did this,” she said. “Was it for Veraene?”

  “In part.” His voice was as unreadable as his face.

  “Meaning …”

  “Meaning whatever you like.” He drew a long breath. “Meaning that you are free to travel anywhere without fear of Alarik Brandt. I dislike cages. If you wish to leave this house, you will find none to prevent you.”

  On impulse, she reached out and took his hand. Raul started but did not draw back.

  His skin was warm and smooth. His pulse, underneath her touch, was soothingly regular. Lord Raul Kosenmark, she thought. Prince of shadows. Secret guardian of Veraene’s honor. Perhaps that was the difference between him and Markus Khandarr.

  I love him, she thought. We all do.

  A part of her wanted to flinch away from that thought. A part accepted it. After all, Hax had loved this man. So did Lord Dedrick and all the rest of Raul Kosenmark’s shadow court. They were all like flowers turning to follow the sun.

  And sometimes, the sun turns its face to follow us.

  And like a flower in the sun, she had no reason to question why he had acted for her. It was enough to sit beside him, hand in hand. She closed her eyes, thinking she could remain there indefinitely, breathing in the cool sweet scent of roses. The next hour bell sounded from the nearby tower, sweet chimes that rang softly through the twilight. In rooms far below, clients were choosing their partners, and pairs of lovers had retreated into private chambers. Raul withdrew his hand from hers and held out his arm. “Come,” he said. “The kingdom’s further business awaits us.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  THE KINGDOM’S FURTHER business appeared to consist of waiting.

  “No letters,” Ilse said, after a few days had passed without any correspondence.

  “I expected none. At least, none written with paper and ink.”

  Raul had taken to reading old epic poetry and teaching himself to play the newest game imported from Duenne. He would like it, she thought, viewing the multileveled board with its game pieces carved to resemble gods and characters from those same epic poems. He carefully moved one ivory prince toward another, paused, and scowled. A deadlock, Ilse observed.

  Raul moved the piece back and tried a more oblique set of moves. He seemed entirely unconcerned with her presence or anything else, as though capturing Alarik Brandt had been his last act in the outside world. There was not much they could do, Ilse admitted to herself as she went on her rounds for the day. A few last reports had trickled in from their fishing fleets in Károví, but until he and Faulk had reorganized their courier system, Raul had stopped the flow of messages to and from the pleasure house. And without Benno Iani, they could not track Leos Dzavek’s investigations into Anderswar. Ilse proposed once that she make the journey, but Mistress Hedda bluntly told her that she was not ready. For once, Lord Kosenmark agreed.

  At least she had her sessions with Maester Ault, who added sword work to her drills with knives and hand-to-hand combat. And two afternoons a week, she rode with her guards to Mistress Hedda’s sweet-smelling rooms, where she worked through a series of exercises that would give her better control over her magic. In many ways, those lessons resembled the exercises Maester Ault assigned, and Ilse came to view them—magic and swordplay—as two sides of a single coin.

  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.<
br />
  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.