Passion Play

by Beth Bernobich

  “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.

  With another sigh, she put away her notes and checked over her writing materials. Paper for taking notes. Blotting paper. Pens and a penknife. Ink and water. All ready, including her self-control. She gathered up her materials and descended to the second-floor parlor where the meeting would take place. Raul had already arrived. He stood, bent over a table spread with papers. He glanced up, his expression the usual one of blank politeness. “Mistress Ilse, you are early.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She took a seat in the corner and opened her writing case.

  Raul turned his gaze to the papers, leaving Ilse free to watch him in silence. He looked weary, grieved and weary, as he had ever since Dedrick left him. Faint shadows circled his eyes, and his luminous skin was drawn taut beside his mouth. Oh but he was beautiful in her sight. It was not the gold of his eyes, but their shape when he studied something intently, the light catching the iris just so. Not the full mouth, but the shadow his lip made when he laughed. Not the long lean hands, but the way they gripped a knife or wielded a pen. He was unaware of her, and yet he had made it impossible not to love or desire him.

  Love. Once she had thought never to feel love or desire. Alarick Brandt, her time with the caravan, had burned away all such hopes. But then, like the bare trees, when winter gave way to spring, she had felt the warmth of passion. A painful, consuming emotion. A dangerous one.

  I wish my heart had remained dead, she thought.

  With a start, she realized Raul had stopped reading and was studying her in return.

  “You look wan,” he said. “Are you ill?”

  She shrugged. “Tired, my lord.”

  Raul went back to reading. Ilse fiddled with her pens, rearranging them in order by size. It had been a mistake to come early. It was all a mistake. No matter how she tried, she could not rout out this exquisite pain. The poets said it was the lover’s choice, to follow the knife from tip to hilt.

  But I am not a poet, and I do not wish to die of love.

  “Lord Kosenmark?”

  “Yes, Mistress Ilse?”

  “I need to speak with you, my lord. After your meeting with Duke Feltzen, of course. But soon. Please.”

  “What about?”

  She drew a breath to steady herself. “About finding you a new secretary.”

  Kosenmark straightened up. “You wish to leave?”

  She nodded. “I think it best.”

  “But why—” He stopped. A look of comprehension passed over his face, followed by a careful blankness. “Yes. I see. We must talk, but not here and now.” He glanced from her to his papers with a distracted air. “Let me conduct this meeting alone. Come to my office in two hours, and we can discuss everything in private.”

  She started to protest that she could work, but Raul had already turned his attention back to the papers. With a sigh, she put her writing materials back into her case. It was what she needed, she told herself. A fresh start, with new friends and a different employer. She might even go to Duenne as she first planned.

  She was telling herself the same thing two hours later when she arrived at the fourth floor. Lamps were burning in their brackets, but the alcove was empty. She tried the door and found it locked. Of course. He always kept it locked when he was absent. Locked to everyone except her and him.

  He shall have to change the spells once I leave, she thought.

  She almost turned around. Only the knowledge that it wouldn’t be easier tomorrow stopped her.

  Reluctantly, she laid her hand over the latch and spoke the words to unlock it. The door swung open and a puff of cool air blew from the dark rooms within.

  Ilse lit several lamps and built up the fire. Then she sat by the fireplace to wait. In the corner, the largest sand glass turned over slowly, its contents flashing like silver in the lamplight. A beat of silence, then the chimes rang softly. Once, twice … all the way to ten. Already the smaller glass was tilting toward its next revolution. It was impossible to stop time, she thought. Like the wind, like the ocean tides. Like the pull of her emotions. She could not resist it.

  Restive, she stood and went to the garden doors. Outside, a light snow was falling again. Clouds blotted out the stars and moon, but lamplight from the office illuminated the nearest paths. Summer’s lush foliage had long withered and blown away. Now silvery lines painted the stark branches. One intricate pattern exchanged for another, she thought.

  She pushed the doors open and went outside. The air was crisp, and a breeze whirled the snowflakes around her. Hugging her arms around herself, Ilse threaded her way between the rose-marble statues and ornamental trees. Clean cold air, like that of Melnek in late autumn. Memories of childhood chased through her thoughts. More recent memories soon overtook those. She passed the bench where Raul told her about Brandt’s death. He wanted to set her free, he’d said. Free to leave Tiralien, and make a life in Duenne if she wished. She’d misread his intentions then. She’d misread them during their long conversations, their lessons with Ault. She’d flirted with dreams and imagined herself Raul’s equal, like Stefan and Anike, free of titles and rank.

  But she was a merchant’s daughter, and he was Raul Kosenmark, heir to House Valentain, and Prince of Veraene.

  “Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she murmured. “Komen mir de lieht.”

  Light coalesced at her fingertips, casting a green-gold halo around her. She held the beacon aloft, then on impulse she set it free to drift skyward, catching on the falling snowflakes.

  “Ilse?”

  Raul stood at the open door.

  “Duke Feltzen?” she asked breathlessly, trying to bring her voice under control.

  “We completed our business.”

  His tone was unreadable, like his shadowed face. She wanted to make excuses, thinking that she had chosen a bad time for this interview, but Raul was beckoning her inside. “The night air is treacherous. Come inside, and we can have our talk.”

  Ilse walked past him swiftly, catching a whiff of cedar and wood smoke and musk from his skin. Desire welled up, that strange new desire, all the more powerful from its previous absence. She suppressed it ruthlessly, but she knew her face was hot. When she reached the chairs, she bent down to fuss with her skirt hem, brushing away bits of leaves and twigs from the garden path. Perhaps he would attribute her ruddiness to the cold.

  Raul had ordered wine. He poured for them both and handed her a cup. His favorite pattern, she remembered. Rose petals etched upon dark red crystal, the pattern so faint you only saw it when the light glanced over its surface.

  She drank a swallow. Raul cradled his cup in his hands, his gaze somewhat absent.

  “So you wish to leave,” he said at last.

  She nodded.

  “I admit I have been difficult to work with this past month.”

  His voice sounded higher than usual. She had once found that aspect of him unsettling—hearing a woman’s contralto tones from the throat of a fully grown man. No longer.

  “I
t was a difficult time,” she said. “I understand.”

  “Then why? Are you tired of your lessons? Have I given you too much work?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing. You did nothing wrong, my lord.”

  “Are you certain of that, Anike?”

  Ilse stood up with a start. “My lord …”

  Raul held up a hand. “Wait. Let me speak.”

  Her pulse beating fast, she sank back into the chair.

  “I once said I would not make a cage,” he said. “I meant that. And I think … I think I understand why you wish to leave. If you wish my help in finding a new position, I will give you that. It’s the least I can do for how I treated you.”

  “But my lord—”

  She broke off at the change in his expression.

  “I was wrong,” he said. “Wrong in so many ways. The way I acted. It was not fair to you or to Dedrick. But I was being selfish and arrogant. I told myself it was mere friendship. I lied. Or rather, I wanted your friendship and more, so I took more. In the end, I drove Dedrick away. Now I’ve done the same with you. I cannot ask you to forgive me, but I am deeply sorry.”

  For a moment, Ilse could do nothing but stare. It was impossible to take in his words at first. And then, like a star winking into existence, came the thought, That is why Dedrick left. He knew. He knew Raul Kosenmark loved me.

  An impossible word—love—too great for her to comprehend.

  But the star burned bright inside the darkness.

  She managed to draw a breath against the sudden thickness in her throat. Love. It was not just a creature of her imagination. It was real, this gift of joy. She had but to speak, to choose. Her heart, which had seemed to stop, raced forward.

  Raul had not moved since he spoke, did not take his gaze from her face. He looked, she thought, as though he were memorizing her features, one by one. Like a starved man who sees a feast receding from his grasp. Ilse set down her wine cup. Stood and circled the table. She felt weightless, skimming inches above the floor, and only when her fingertips touched his cheek, did she find herself anchored securely. Raul’s eyes went wide. Ilse cupped his face in her palm, bent down, and kissed him upon his lips. Once. Twice. His breath puffed against her, an exhalation of surprise and delight.