Passion Play (62 page)

Magic and light both vanished. Ilse fell back against the cushioned seats. She dared not dwell upon how long forever might be.

The coach wound through Tiralien’s streets and avenues, from the elegant neighborhood where Raul Kosenmark’s pleasure house stood, through the merchants’ quarter, then to the public thoroughfares, already noisy with traffic. At the city’s western gates, they halted, and while the driver exchanged news with the guards, Ilse watched several caravans making ready for their own departure. Guards patrolled on horseback and on foot. Crewmembers stacked barrels into wagons. Young boys and girls darted between the wagons, as quick and lively as the dust motes whirling through the sunlight.

The driver finished her conversation. Once more the coach rolled forward. Ilse had the brief impression of the sentries bowing to her, the gates impossibly tall and bright. Then they were through, and leaving Tiralien behind.

*  *  *

ILSE TOOK HER
journey in easy stages, stopping at inns or camping at the roadside shelters. Her guards, a woman and a man, doubled as Ilse’s servants. Deft and polite, they saw to all her needs—setting up camp, fetching water and cooking meals, and caring for the horses. When Ilse retired to her luxurious private tent, they stood watch in turns. Raul had discreetly checked their references himself. Ilse trusted them. Even so, she wore a knife strapped to her wrist and another in her boot—knives she knew how to wield.

Four days from Tiralien, after settling camp for the night, the senior guard approached Ilse, and presented her with a small wooden box and a sealed envelope. “My lady, a runner came to me right before we left Tiralien. He gave me these, said to wait so many days before I was to give it to you.”

The box was narrow and held shut with leather straps with buckles. Ordinary. The envelope was heavy—several sheets thick—and she detected strong magic saturating the parchment and wax seal. Neither of them carried any inscription. “Thank you,” she said.

She went into her tent, glad for the privacy, and lit a shaded lamp. The box first, she decided.

She unbuckled the straps and opened the lid. Straw filled the interior. On top lay a small square of paper with the printed words
A Dangerous Gift
.

Raul. Her heart beating faster, she cautiously reached into the straw and pulled out a dagger in a leather sheath. She exhaled in silent laughter as she drew the dagger from the sheath and inspected the dark blue blade. Dangerous, yes. Any gift from Raul Kosenmark would prove dangerous. Dangerous to her resolve. Dangerous if anyone discovered who had given her this very beautiful, undoubtedly very costly dagger.

And yet, it was a deliberately anonymous gift.

I will keep it.

She sheathed the dagger and set it aside. Next, the envelope with its seal. Magic nipped at her fingertips as the wax parted. The letter unfolded into her lap—five pages of closely written script that looked as though it had flowed from Raul’s pen without hesitation or correction. Had he written these pages during their hours apart? she wondered. Then she was devouring its words, while the scent and buzz of magic rippled over her skin.

He wrote of his unqualified love, of his admiration for her strength and bravery and intelligence. He wrote of trust in her decision, and of his hope that their lives would reunite without barriers or constraints, just as she wished. There was no word of politics or schemes or their shared beliefs, but she still read those thoughts behind every word he had written. As she read on, her heart lifted with a tenuous joy.

Beloved, you might find moments where you doubt my constancy, when you suspect I relinquished you too easily, because my love had faded to ordinary desire. Disbelieve those thoughts. Cherish our past memories only as they give you strength. Like swords tested apart, we will prove that much stronger when joined together.

He had signed the letter Raul of Valentain. Next to his signature, he had pressed a single rose petal, of a red so dark, it looked black.

Ilse folded the letter carefully and tucked it away. Soon she would have to destroy it.
But not yet,
she thought.
Please, not yet.

*  *  *

WITHIN ANOTHER DAY
, they met the southern highway, which looped between the hills in slow unhurried curves. Soon the Gallenz River disappeared from view, oaks and aspen gave way to scrubby pines, and the hard-packed road changed from dun-colored dirt to dark red clay. The driver stopped frequently to rest the horses and let them graze on the sparse grass, while the guards built a fire and prepared tea for Ilse. Ilse read from her favorite books or watched the guards practice their sword work. At times she simply gazed into the southern hills, remembering her own trek, alone, through their northern counterpart.

At the next valley, a road built of crushed stone and dirt led across the marshes and into the next range of hills. They traveled south and then southeast along a larger highway, where they encountered farmers and itinerant craftsmen, a scribe journeying to her next appointment, and even squads of soldiers marching in formation. There were garrisons all along the coast, set at regular intervals, first built against marauding pirates, then, in later years, to guard against Károví attacks. Spear points, the histories called them.

The longer the journey, the more Ilse’s thoughts returned to Raul and Tiralien. As the highway unrolled between the hills and the open seas, her gaze skipped past the foam-dotted swells, and she wondered how Raul had spent these past weeks, hardly noting what passed outside. So it took her by surprise when the coach halted, and a strong voice called out, “Who comes?”

“Mistress Ilse Zhalina of Tiralien,” the driver replied.

“Welcome, then,” said the man. “Welcome to Osterling Keep.”

*  *  *

THE THREE-QUARTER HOUR
was ringing when Ilse’s coach stopped in front of Mistress Andeliess’s pleasure house, which stood at one corner of a busy main square. The house had three stories, built of dark red bricks, with a long veranda and graceful fluted columns. A smaller lane bordered one side; a second faced onto a courtyard with an arched passageway.

One guard held the horses, while the other helped Ilse to dismount. By the time Mistress Andeliess came out to greet her, Ilse had paid her guards and driver their final installment. Together they supervised as servants from the house unloaded Ilse’s baggage and carried it inside.

Soon the coach was gone. Ilse stood alone on the veranda with Mistress Andeliess.

“Come and see your rooms,” Mistress Andeliess said. “No doubt you’re tired and hungry, and a bit dusty from the road. I’ll send up food, and a girl to help with your things. Take today and tomorrow to settle in. Look over the house and walk around the town.”

Mistress Andeliess, too, was not what Ilse expected. Her voice was higher and sweeter; her gorgeously dressed hair fell in braids around her plump face. She herself showed Ilse to her new rooms, which were on the third floor. There were but two—a large outer room that served as both parlor and study, and a small but comfortable bedroom. They smelled of beeswax and soap and the faint traces of incense.

“I saw your many, many trunks,” Mistress Andeliess commented. “You had a much larger set of rooms in Tiralien?”

Ilse felt a brief pang of memory. “Larger, yes. I should have left more behind.”

Mistress Andeliess gave her a kindly smile. “No worry. We’ve plenty of storage behind the house.”

She did not chatter the way Kathe did, but her smooth flow of conversation helped Ilse through that first hour. Two girls arrived with hot coffee, cold soup, and fresh bread. Her appetite awakened, Ilse ate, then washed her face and changed into a new linen gown and robe.

See the house and town,
Mistress Andeliess had suggested.

Not yet. Too soon.

She wandered from her parlor into her bedroom and inspected its furnishings. The narrow bed looked soft and inviting. A larger wardrobe covered half of one wall—ample room for the clothes she brought. A series of shelves lined a second wall. Her books on magic and history would easily fill the lower ones. She could alternate poetry books with a few of her ivory figurines on the upper shelves. Her new dagger in its elegant sheath could hang over her bed. Perhaps she could buy a new sword to match, and make a display of weaponry. Thinking of weapons, she wondered if she might find a weapons instructor to continue her lessons, or if the garrison permitted outsiders to drill with the soldiers.

Ilse sank onto the bed and covered her face with her hands.
It’s true. I left him.

Dimly she heard the next hour bells striking. Late afternoon. Ebb tide’s pungent aroma filled the air. Ilse wiped the tears from her eyes. She was here. She would manage. Day by day.

She walked to the open window, which overlooked the courtyard she had seen from the square. A large prosperous inn stood on the opposite side. To her right, she could just see the governor’s mansion where Nicol Joannis lived. Beyond it, she saw the remnants of an old castle keep, which must have existed during the empire days or before, when Fortezzien was an independent kingdom. In the other direction lay the water-filled horizon. The air was warm and the sun as bright as a summer’s day in Melnek. Only a faint cast of gray in the sky hinted at winter.

A sudden noise below caught her attention—a group of soldiers were passing through the courtyard on their way to the square. Ilse counted six or seven, men and women both. All were armed with swords and armor; most were dusky or dark-complexioned—southerners—except for one plain-faced girl whose light brown coloring and hair stood out from the rest.

The soldiers were laughing and chatting. One young woman happened to glance up. She saw Ilse and waved. Another companion pulled the young woman to her side, and they were whispering in breathless tones. Gossip, Ilse thought. The same here as everywhere.

Soon the soldiers were gone, leaving only the echo of their presence. By now the sun slanted down between the buildings, casting longer shadows. Ilse turned back into the room and lit a lamp. Automatically she took Raul’s letter from her pocket and read it again, trying to memorize every line.

… I will love you forever, beloved. No matter what passes during our time apart, my love will not fail. Someday, by grace of Lir and Toc, in this life or the next, we shall find each other again …

Someday.

She lit a candle and held the paper to the flame until it caught. Words flared and turned black as she watched. When the flames had consumed everything but one corner, she dropped the paper onto the tiles. Even that corner shriveled into ashes, which she swept up and deposited in her fireplace.

I have burned my past,
she thought.

Then she had to laugh. She would burn her past day after day, she could tell. Every time she thought of Raul Kosenmark and her life in Tiralien, she would have to set a match to those thoughts, until the action became rote with her.

Oh, never entirely rote. Someday—

She broke off the thought before she could complete it.
Yes, someday,
she told herself. Someday she would recover Lir’s jewels, Raul would forge an alliance with Károví, and they could rejoin their lives. But not today. It was best if she gave herself a task instead of sitting and brooding. Something ordinary. Something tied to her new life in Osterling Keep.

Ilse retrieved her writing supplies from one trunk. There was a desk in her sitting room, another piece of furniture she would probably replace, but for now it would do. She sat down and picked up the pen. Hesitated. What to write? Her thoughts drifted back to her first day as Berthold Hax’s new assistant.

A schedule for my first month,
she decided.
After that, a catalog of supplies.

More voices drifted up from the courtyard. Through the plaster walls, Ilse heard soft laughter and a mandolin being played.
My new life,
she thought.
A future whose words I choose.

She dipped her pen in the ink and began to write.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

PASSION PLAY

Copyright © 2010 by Beth Bernobich

All rights reserved.

Maps by Jennifer Hanover

A Tor
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