Passion Play (40 page)

“Have they vanished for the day?” Lady Theysson said.

“I believe so,” Ilse said. She settled herself on one of the chairs.

Nadine paused in her weaving and glanced at Ilse, a brief searching look. Ilse smiled faintly and shrugged. Nadine’s eyebrows lifted into an arch, but she resumed her weaving without comment.

“It was his wife who didn’t understand,” Eduard said.

They were talking about Hax again, obviously.

“Perhaps they both misunderstood each other,” Lady Theysson said. “Think, Eduard. He left her with three small children so he might study military history. You must admit that Berthold should have discussed the matter with her first.”

“He did. She refused to listen.”

“So he said.”

“Perhaps she loved him too much,” Josef said musingly.

“Hardly,” Nadine said. “She wanted to possess him. When he refused, she broke off the marriage.”

“A very strange way of possessing him,” Lady Theysson said.

“A very strange love,” Nadine said. “But consider, she never remarried, nor did he.” With a grand gesture, she unraveled her string. “But I say we’ve talked enough for the day. Eduard, go fetch us something to drink. And ask Mistress Raendl for those tasty sugar biscuits. The kind without the raisins.”

“I like the raisins.”

“They remind me of ants,” Nadine said tartly. “Go.” She waved her string at him.

Laughing, he went off to the kitchens and soon returned with a heavily laden tray. Nadine picked up one of the powdered biscuits and made a face. “Ants,” she murmured. She glared at Eduard, who grinned back. “Your punishment is to serve all these lovely people,” she declared. “All except Mistress Ilse, whose devoted servant I am.”

Lady Theysson tweaked Lord Iani’s ear. He woke with a snort. “Dinner?” he asked sleepily.

“Tea and biscuits,” Theysson said. “Get up, Benno. You’ve slept away the afternoon.”

Eduard served out wine and tea and biscuits, while Nadine supervised his work, her voice and gestures a perfect imitation of Mistress Raendl. “I can act the daughter as well as the mother,” she said. “But I know Mistress Kathe would set the girls upon me. Fierce creatures, they are.” She turned to Ilse. “Come, you’ve not told me what you’d like to drink.”

“Tea,” Ilse said mildly. “Just tea.”

“What about a biscuit with ants?” Nadine said, her eyes bright and challenging. “And after, you could tell us one of your famous stories.”

“Ah no.” Ilse shook her head. “No stories. Not tonight.”

“Why not? It helps us to pass the time. It takes our mind off troubling thoughts.”

She spoke lightly enough, but Ilse thought she heard an edge to Nadine’s voice. “Which story did you want to hear?”

“The one about Lir cutting her hair.”

“A story of grief,” Lady Theysson said. “Yes. That would be good.”

Grief and death and love. Ilse felt a pinch in her stomach. Not that story, not now, with her mood so strangely unsettled. She shook her head again. “I’m sorry. I’m not— I wouldn’t tell it properly. Not tonight.”

Nadine let her glance settle on Ilse’s face for a moment. “Perhaps not,” she said. “You do look tired. Let me play storyteller instead. You can tell me which parts I did well, and which I should practice more.”

She wrapped up her string into a ball and drew herself up straight, hands resting one within the other in her lap. Quiet dropped over the common room as the others settled to listen.

Like many legends about Lir and Toc, the story began with Toc’s gift of his eyes.

“When Nil pressed upon Darkness,” Nadine said softly, “he divided Day from Night. And yet that division was a subtle thing, a mere changing from pitchy blackness to a dim possibility of light. We are gods of mists and shadows, Lir said to Toc, and it was clear to him that though she loved their mother Darkness, Lir yearned for something brighter than this constant gloom.”

Nadine’s voice was soft but clear, evoking the whispers of dawn, Ilse thought. Closing her eyes, she leaned back into the couch, giving herself up to the story.

“You think her a shallow creature, perhaps,” Nadine went on. “But think. We are her children, born during that season of love at the Mantharah. In the midst of winter’s drear, or when our souls are wrapped in the shadows of inward gloom, we grieve. We grieve, and if we cannot find the sun within ourselves, we die.

“Toc saw that it was so with Lir. And because he loved his sister, he plucked out his eyes—one for the burning sun, one for the cold bright moon—and set them in the skies. Lir found her brother, sitting blind to the glory he had created, his face wet with blood. She wept. She wept and her tears spangled the night sky with stars. And when she had done with weeping, she forged a sword from sunfire and starlight and oiled it with their mingled blood. With that sword, she cut off her hair, her night-black hair, and from its length she wove a sheath for it.”

Ilse listened as Nadine recounted how Lir sang for a century and a day about Toc’s deed, and how, when she had done, she and Toc made love upon the Mantharah, from which flowed all the life in this world. Would she end the story there? Ilse wondered. No, her tale continued seamlessly into the next fable, when the season of delight ended with Death, another of Nil’s children, who came slouching from the edges of chaos. Love. Death. Grief. Rebirth. The gods serving as the mirror and pattern of our lives.

Nadine ended the tale with Lir brushing open Toc’s empty eyelids and seeing two bright points of light. “And so,” she said, “and so and so and so … he lived.”

A hush followed her last words. Benno Iani looked pensive. Eduard reached a hand toward Faulk, then withdrew it. Emma Theysson touched her fingertips to her eyes, lips, and heart.
Respect,
said the gesture. Respect and gratitude for the performer. Just at the point when the silence weighed upon them, Nadine stirred. “Eduard,” she whispered. “Music, please.”

Eduard rose without any banter this time and seated himself by the hammered strings. He touched the keys gently and soundlessly. Another pass, and Ilse heard the whisper of velvet upon the metal strings. Smiling, Eduard rolled his fingers lightly across the keyboard, and a shiver of sound broke the room’s hush. Within a measure, Ilse recognized the piece as a new composition by one of Tiralien’s well-known musicians, celebrating spring’s arrival. The first movement began slow and brooding, but soon brighter notes overtook the minor ones.

After Eduard played two more pieces, Mikka joined him at the keyboard, and they played a series of happier melodies. The others began to converse in low tones. Nadine resumed her string patterns, though her face had taken on a pensive air. One by one, the party broke up. Faulk beckoned to Mikka and Eduard, who broke off their playing to follow him into another room. Soon after, Emma Theysson whispered in Benno Iani’s ear, and they, too, disappeared to other regions of the house.

“Young lovers,” Nadine said in her most indulgent tone.

“And the not so young,” Josef said, grinning at her.

“Hah! I’m but a child, even more than Mistress Ilse here.”

She sent a sidelong glance at Ilse. Unsettled by the directness of her gaze, Ilse picked up the tea carafe but found that it was empty.

“Would you like more?” Nadine said.

Ilse glanced up and away. “No. Thank you.”

Nadine sighed and exchanged a look with Josef. “I told you,” he said. “She likes me better.”

“She likes prunes better,” Nadine said tartly.

They began to bicker, in the way old friends do. When Ilse stood to leave, they broke off only long enough to say good-bye.

With some relief, she came to the quiet upper regions of the pleasure house. No lamps burned here, leaving the halls in a pleasant half-light from the windows, their corners and alcoves brushed with faint shadows. By habit, she stopped by her office. Kathe had sent up a carafe of tea. Ilse poured herself a cup and sifted through a few invitations that had arrived in the past hour. A boating party with Lady Ulik and her family. A visit to the theater with Lord Rossim. An announcement of someone’s marriage. All of them went into her letter box, for Lord Kosenmark’s attention the next day. Or the day after, she thought. She had no idea how long he and Lord Dedrick would seclude themselves. She rubbed her head, which ached fiercely.

“Mistress Ilse?”

Ilse looked up. A runner stood in the door, an apologetic look on his face. “I did knock,” he said hastily. “Three times. It’s just that there’s a gentleman below. He says he’s to meet with you today, and that it cannot wait.”

One of Lord Kosenmark’s agents? she thought, her pulse beating faster. So far, she had met only Faulk. Then she recalled Mistress Denk mentioning that she had recently contracted with an architect for a pavilion in the upper gardens. “Did you send word to Mistress Denk or Lord Kosenmark?” she asked.

“No, Mistress. The gentleman said most definitely that he wished to speak with you.”

Very strange. “Send him up, then. And let Kathe know I’d like tea and fruit for our visitor.”

She searched through her cabinets for any papers concerning the pavilion. Mistress Denk had given her a copy of the plans and the initial estimate. Perhaps the architect had new drawings, or he wanted to confirm when to start work. If so, she would have to speak with Lord Kosenmark …

“Therez.”

Ilse froze. It was a man’s voice, soft as a whisper and low, with an accent she had not heard in over six months. Very slowly, she turned around.

Her father stood in the doorway. Tall and lean, just as before, but with a stoop to his frame. He was dressed in plain traveling clothes, gray layered upon gray, which gave him the air of having materialized from the shadows. In a way, he had.

“Therez?” he said, his voice uncertain now.

“How did you find me?” she choked out.

Petr Zhalina blinked and glanced around the office, taking in the books and writing supplies and locked chests. There was a new hesitation in his manner, as though he did not quite believe that he was looking at his daughter. “Never mind how. You are well?”

Ilse made a quick gesture. “Dobru. At least—well enough.”

Another pause while he stared at her. Then he cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you write to us?”

She said nothing. What could she say that she had not made clear by running away?

When she didn’t answer, Petr Zhalina frowned. “I looked everywhere for you. Everywhere. I sent Gersi out with messages to all the cities and towns within three days’ ride. I wrote your cousins in Duenne, asking if you’d found your way there. I even wrote to my uncles in Duszranjo.”

“Duszranjo?” she said, at last startled into speech. “Why there?”

He shrugged. “Because you always talked about it. Remember how you begged your grandmother for stories?”

That was years ago, when I was a child. Or have you forgotten?

“I wouldn’t go there,” she said. “I would have gone to Duenne—”

She broke off at the sudden quiet appearance of Hanne in the foyer, carrying a tray laden with dishes and carafes and cups. Ah yes, the refreshments. From the look on Hanne’s face, the girl had overheard enough to wonder and worry.

“Thank you, Hanne,” Ilse said quickly. “Just leave the tray on the table. We can serve ourselves.”

Hanne slipped past Petr Zhalina into Ilse’s office. As she set the tray on the table, she lifted her gaze to Ilse’s. Ilse gave a tiny shake of her head. Hanne sank into a brief curtsy and hurried from the room and down the stairs. But in making way for Hanne, Petr Zhalina had come inside the office. Now he stood just a few feet away, with only the desk between them.

He’s just a visitor. He cannot do anything more to me.

Kathe had included a carafe of wine and a plate of sugar biscuits, as well as the tea and fruit. Ilse gestured toward the tray. “Would you like tea or wine? Something to eat?”

“Tea. If you please.”

He spoke stiffly, clearly uneasy. Eyeing him with discreet glances, Ilse poured tea for him. He looked older, far older than half a year would make. His hair had gone entirely silver, and there was a new pinched look to his face. She could almost see the bones through his skin.

Unwilling to approach him, she set the cup on her desk. Her father picked it up with a nod and drank. “Thank you. This is very good tea, Therez.”

The name was like a tiny lash, flicking against her sensibilities. Willing her voice to remain calm, she said, “My name is Ilse, not Therez.”

Another blink. Now she could see that his hands trembled, causing the tea to spill over the cup’s rim. She ought to offer him a chair, but she could not bring herself to continue these pretend civilities. In a fit of contrariness, she poured wine for herself and drank, still watching him. He was drinking in fast deep gulps, as though desperate for it. When he set his cup down, she refilled it. His color had improved within the last few moments. He no longer looked so ill, though he did look weary. How long and fast had he ridden that day?

He refused a third cup. She gestured to the fruit, but he shook his head. “Therez … I don’t know what to say. We thought you died. Your mother hasn’t slept a whole night since you ran away, and your brother—”