Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Brandt pulled her head back and looked down at her face. Firelight cast blue shadows over his eyes, making her think of the fiends in her grandmother’s stories.

“You’re daydreaming,” he observed.

She licked her lips and suppressed a tremor. “I’m tired.”

His free hand circled her throat, fingers resting lightly against her pulse. “From sitting all day?”

Nervously, she nodded.

Brandt studied her, running one thumb along her jaw. “Go to bed. It’s a wet night. You can make it up in the morning.”

Niko led her to her bedding and made her ropes fast, grumbling all the while that Brandt had cheated him and the others. “He says tomorrow,” Niko said, half to himself. “But I know him. He’ll start us early, damn it, and me without a turn in three days.” He gave a last tug to the ropes, then tossed several blankets to her. “Keep warm for me, sweet.”

Ilse wrapped herself in the blankets and lay down. The ground was cold, and the air tasted of winter. In Melnek, there would be snow on the streets and tracings of frost on the windowpanes. Her mother would have ordered the heavy curtains hung and the fires constantly lit throughout the family and servants wings. Home. Did they remember her? Was her father still searching? Was her grandmother alive?

“Dobrud’n,” a man whispered. “Are you awake?”

She recognized the scholar’s voice.

“I am,” she whispered back in Károvín.

He squatted beside the front wagon wheel. “I heard what the boy told you. About Donuth and your father. I have something for you. Here.”

Uncertain, Ilse reached toward him. Their hands met, and he laid a hard round object in her palm. It was rough and gritty, flat like a disk, with sharp edges—a stone, shaped into a cutting blade. Ilse detected traces of magic beneath its surface, calling up images and textures that reminded her of the scholar’s hands and face and voice.

“Wait until moonset,” he whispered. “Use it to cut your ropes. When you get past the perimeter, head east, then south. That should take you into Gallenz, into the valley and away from Donuth.”

The valley was a week’s ride from here. Did he mean to give her food and a tent?

It seemed he had thought out everything. “Dig a hole to keep warm at night. Cover yourself with leaves and dirt, if you have to. Look for pine nuts and groundnuts. Carrots and thistles and cranberries if you can find them. Drink from running streams.”

He poured out a flood of details, things to remember, which foods to avoid and which to hunt for, how to build shelters and traps with just a knife and her own strength. Ilse listened hard, knowing she would forget the half of what he told her, but trying to remember just the same. In passing, she wondered where he had learned all these skills, or if he had read them in a book.

“Your best chance is to find a village,” he said. “There have to be dozens in these hills. Beg for food. They won’t refuse you, not these people. They know what it’s like to starve. Once you reach the highway, you can go west—to Jassny, even Duenne.”

“Not Duenne,” she said quickly. Not with Alarik Brandt heading there. And surely her father would expect her to go to Duenne.

“East, then. Tiralien is closest. It’s a big city. Girl like you can find work.” He paused. “I’m sorry I did not come to you sooner. I— I didn’t want to take a wrong chance and hurt you worse than before. No, that wasn’t it. It was because—”

Because he was afraid. Just as Brenn had been afraid. As she was now.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I understand. And thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

He stopped her with a gesture. “Do not thank me. Please.” Then his hand brushed her cheek. “You remind me of my sister,” he murmured before he crept away.

* * *

ILSE WAITED UNTIL Ulf had banked the fire, and the guards had dispersed to their first watch. She would not forget herself this time. Gripping the stone blade between her knees, she rubbed the rope over the sharp edge. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her hands went numb from holding the rope taut, but she kept going. Once the watch changed. She paused until the new sentries had taken their posts and the old watch had retired, before resuming her work. Her wrists were bloody from pulling against the ropes, but she was nearly free. Just a few more strands.

The last strand snapped. Ilse, taken by surprise, pitched forward and nicked her chin on the blade. She pressed her hand against the cut. Her hand came away sticky. She wiped her chin again before it came home that she was free of her bonds.

Free.

Her chin stung, but she was grinning. The first victory was hers.

She wrapped her skirt around the knife and cut through the remaining ropes, then hid the stone in her boot. She rolled up the bulkiest blanket and draped a second one over it. It cost her something to give up the blankets, but unless someone checked, the guards would think her still asleep.

She crept from underneath the wagon. The trees were little more than dark blotches against the gray mist blanketing the camp. Nearby, the horses shifted about restlessly. The horse pickets lay toward the sunrise, she remembered. She crawled in that direction. There was a danger that Brandt had posted an extra watch over the horses, but the horses themselves made enough noise to cover hers. If she were quiet and quick …