Passion Play (28 page)

She closed her eyes and tried to focus only on the music, hoping it would lull her to sleep, but her thoughts skipped from one subject to another. Hax ill. Kosenmark troubled on several fronts. Her own secrets weighed upon her like a second piece of music winding through the background—her memories of home and family, of Klara and her grandmother. Her heart still ached to remember them, but she could bear it more easily now. Her grandmother— No, better to think about Klara. It was almost spring. Only a few months remained until her friend made the long journey to Duenne. She would be writing lists, ordering gowns and stockings and shoes and jewelry—all the accoutrements expected for a young woman’s season in the capital.

I will never make that journey,
Ilse thought.
Or if I do, it will be a very different one.

A loud knocking yanked her back from the edge of sleep. Ilse pulled on a long robe and ran into the parlor just as Kosenmark’s senior runner came through the outer door. “Lord Kosenmark wants you,” he said. “Come at once.”

But it was to Maester Hax’s suite that he took her. Mistress Hedda was just coming out, her dark face grim. “I told him,” she was saying. “I told him and told him but no, the stubborn old—” She broke off when she saw Ilse. “Go inside. Maester Hax and Lord Kosenmark wish to see you.”

Berthold Hax lay in bed, eyes closed and head sunk deep into his pillows. Kosenmark sat at his bedside, hands clasped together. The air smelled strongly of recent magic, and Ilse’s skin prickled as the current streamed over her skin.

Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm unde kreft.

Mistress Hedda’s magical signature was clear and strong. Only when Ilse approached the bed, however, did she recognize Lord Kosenmark’s subtler magic, like the impression of his fingers upon the air.

Kosenmark glanced up and nodded at Ilse. Though he masked it well, she could see his distress in the set of his jaw. Then Hax tried to speak and broke into a loud groaning.

“Hush,” Kosenmark said. “Save your strength.”

“You just want me quiet, my lord.” Hax’s voice was breathy and faint.

“I want you well.”

“I am well. Or I will be soon enough.”

“Nevertheless, you cannot attend. You must not.”

“I know that, my lord, but neither should the girl.”

“She’s here. Let us ask her.”

Kosenmark motioned for Ilse to approach. “Our friend is quite ill and must keep to his bed. I would like you to fill his place at the governor’s banquet.”

“And I disagree,” Hax said, somewhat louder than before.

“She must learn of it sometime.”

“Why? Because I’m dying?”

Kosenmark jerked his face away. “Berthold—”

“I already know about Lord Kosenmark’s business,” Ilse said.

Both men went still. Kosenmark slowly turned his head and stared at Ilse, his expression unreadable. “Go on,” he said softly.

Again she was reminded of a hunting cat. Wetting her lips, she said, “I saw—by accident—a letter with the words
Vnejšek. Jewels. Yes.
It came from your spies in Károví. I don’t know the question, but I know it has to do with Lir’s jewels. You’ve had other letters from Károví—I could tell by the handwriting. You are also in contact with nobles in Armand’s Court. They ask you advice, and you give it. At least, I suppose you do, since you often send letters to Duenne. You do this secretly, however, and the addresses you send letters to do not always match the ones for letters you receive. I believe … I believe you are running a secret court, here in Tiralien. A shadow court, my lord.”

A thick silence followed her announcement. Ilse’s pulse beat hard against her throat. Surely this time she had dared too much.

“Clever girl,” Hax whispered. “Too clever at times.”

“How long have you known?” Kosenmark asked.

“Ten days, my lord.”

“And yet you said nothing. Not to me. Not to anyone.” He turned to Hax. “You see, Berthold. We must let her attend.”

“No, my lord. You know my reasons.”

“I do. And I disagree with them. But to please you, I promise to take precautions. We both shall.”

He touched Hax’s hand and murmured a spell. Hax muttered a protest, but already his eyelids drooped. Within moments he was deeply asleep.

Kosenmark studied Hax’s face a moment longer. Whatever he saw did not reassure him, because he frowned as he turned away. “Come with me,” he whispered to Ilse.

They left Hax’s quarters for a nearby room, comfortably fitted with couches and padded chairs. Servants had built a fire; carafes of tea and wine waited on the low table by the fireplace. Rosel was just arranging napkins and silverware. She glanced at Ilse, plainly curious. At Kosenmark’s command, she poured out two cups of tea and withdrew, shutting the door behind her.

Kosenmark gestured for Ilse to sit. “So,” he said, “you’ve guessed what I do here. I’d like to know how. Was I careless? Was Berthold?”

Ilse took a moment to choose her words, knowing she had to tread with care. “You were not careless, my lord, and Maester Hax was more than discreet. It was more … a series of accidental discoveries.”

“Which you connected into a solution. I see.” He took up his cup of tea and began to pace the room. “I told Berthold that we had to decide how much to trust you,” he said. “I would like to make a trial with you and see how much more responsibility you could assume. Berthold disagreed for several reasons, but mostly because he thinks the burden too great. However, since you already know … Would you agree to attend the banquet in Berthold’s place?”

He was offering a great deal of trust, she thought. Even as it pleased her to make such a good impression, another part of her wondered why. Lord Raul Kosenmark had constructed an entirely new life in secret. She could not imagine him yielding those secrets to anyone other than an old and trusted adviser. And his oldest adviser, Berthold Hax, had not liked to include her, she could tell.

She met his gaze steadily. “My lord, may I speak plainly?”

“Yes. Please.”

She paused to give herself another moment. There was a tautness in his face, around his mouth, and the way he held himself. Perhaps he didn’t trust her entirely. The thought helped to dispel her suspicions … a little.

“My lord,” she said slowly, “I only guessed a part of your business. So I understand only a part of what you expect from me. I need to know more. I would like to know more,” she corrected herself.

Kosenmark smiled briefly. “You were right the first time. You need to know much more, I should say. Ask whatever you like.”

Anything. She drew a long breath. “Will you tell me why Maester Hax does not want me to attend Lord Vieth’s banquet?”

His lips puffed in silent laughter. “You are too clever. You’ve picked the one question I would not answer.”

“Only one, my lord?”

More silent laughter. “You are right. There are many more questions I would prefer not to answer. However this one I will.”

He took the seat opposite her, the cup with his untouched tea cradled in his hands. “You have guessed correctly. When Armand dismissed me from court, I did not give up my interest in Veraene’s politics. A reasonable person might call it arrogance. Berthold calls it my duty. But like anything to do with court, it’s complicated. I shall have to start a few years earlier—with Baerne of Angersee and his son.”

Armand’s father, who died twenty years ago. Even Ilse had heard stories about his death. A fall from one of the towers, which some called suicide, and some called an accident brought on by drink. The kingdom had mourned for weeks and months, according to her parents.

“Baerne was a good king,” Kosenmark said. “A strong one. But like other strong kings, he cast a long shadow over history. Armand’s father drank himself to death because he could not live inside that shadow. Armand might have done the same except that Baerne died first. Armand’s first act was to dismiss all his grandfather’s councillors. Very well. A new reign brings new ways. The difficulty lies with Markus Khandarr.”

Lord Markus Khandarr, the King’s Mage. Ilse had heard his name in connection with Armand’s often enough.

“Lord Khandarr had attached himself to the heir,” Kosenmark continued. “We all did, naturally. It’s part of the everyday intrigue you find at court. But Lord Khandarr—” He broke off and, with uncharacteristic hesitation, chafed his hands together. “I tell you my opinions, so you understand the work Berthold and I do. But you must not speak of it to Greta or Kathe. To anyone.”

Ilse nodded, her throat tight with anticipation.

“I have no proof,” Kosenmark said. “But I believe Lord Khandarr has encouraged the worst of Armand’s ambitions. Some say …” Another pause. “Some say Lord Khandarr has used magic to influence the king. I disagree. I believe Khandarr uses the king’s own fears and obsessions to forward his own position in court. I believe—and I have no proof, only intuition—that Lord Khandarr would use up our king and our kingdom as a fire would consume wood, so that he could eventually take Armand’s place.”

“He would rebel against the king?” Ilse said.

Kosenmark shook his head. “Not rebel. He would make himself indispensable, to king and court and army. At some point, the balance of authority would shift from Armand to Lord Khandarr.”

He made a gesture, one hand tilting to the side. Ilse could almost see one figure sliding into oblivion. “That’s treason.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not, if the kingdom wills it. But let me tell you the rest. Once Armand became king, he called us one by one into his chamber. He announced that he had no need of our advice. He offered each of us a princely sum to retire in silence.” He considered his hands and flexed them, then raised his eyes to Ilse’s. “I refused the sum. And I left, of course. I had no choice.”

And came here, a city far away from Duenne’s Court.

Ilse was acutely aware of Kosenmark’s gaze, and how he must be gauging her reactions.

“By continuing to stir the affairs of Veraene, I make enemies,” he said. “Hence Berthold’s worries. Hence, Lord Dedrick’s absence. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“So I ask again. Would you consider taking Berthold’s place at the banquet? I’ve arranged a meeting with some friends. We take no notes, nor will I bring papers, but I would prefer to have a second pair of eyes and ears for this discussion. Afterward I will ask you your impressions.”

“My lord, I have no experience with politics.”

“No, but you have eyes and ears and opinions. I would find them all useful.”

Throughout the centuries, poets and scholars had argued whether lives were shaped by destiny or choice. The scholars wrote learned treatises about the matter, saying history itself proved their point, that souls were drawn again and again to like circumstances, until those same circumstances were resolved, while poets said our lives were our choices, that Lir and Toc—whatever the gods called themselves—gave us the freedom to choose our own future.

It is much the same thing,
Ilse thought.
I have been a scholar. Perhaps I was once a poet. I have lived as Veraenen and Károvín and more. But I have always dreamed of the jewels.

Destiny and choice together, then. She drew a deep breath. “My answer is yes, my lord. I would like to help you, however I can.”

“Good. Thank you.” He stood and took hold of her hands in his, pressed them briefly. There was a strange quality to his gaze, of the kind and intensity Ilse had always associated with a king taking an oath from his liegemen. Briefly, she wondered what other lives Kosenmark had inhabited throughout history. Had they, possibly, known each other before?

The thought made her cheeks turn warm. She stirred, and Kosenmark released her hands with a smile. “Until tomorrow then,” he said. “It shall prove a new beginning for us both, I imagine.”

Later, as she lay in her bed, chasing after sleep, she thought it must be another of his gifts, to inspire his people so effortlessly. The way mages called up magic, the way princes called up loyalty.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FOR THE NEXT
eight days, Ilse divided her time between Lord Kosenmark and the seamstress. Both were exacting, and more than once she thought fondly about her pots and pans. At least the pots did not drill her in political factions, or scold when she did not hold her pose through an hour-long fitting. Whenever she complained to Kathe, saying she wanted her old position back, Kathe disabused her of the idea.

“You like it,” she said.

“Why would I like being scolded and working from dawn until midnight?”

Kathe laughed. “Don’t ask me. But I could tell ever since you asked to scrub the garbage barrels that you had strange tastes.”

Ilse studied her hands, no longer cracked from hot water and soap. Ink stained her fingers, and she had developed calluses from holding the pen. “I do have strange tastes,” she murmured. “And you are right. I do like it, in spite of the lectures.”

Lord Kosenmark had opened up many of his secret files. Not all of them. Not even half. And he continued to hold private meetings with Berthold Hax, in spite of Mistress Hedda’s lectures about allowing her patient to rest. Hax’s only concessions to Mistress Hedda’s demands were that he kept to his bedchamber and limited his work to a few hours each day, with frequent breaks in between.