Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

No answer, except for a bird rousted from the brush. Cautiously Ilse approached the building. It was large, built of rough-cut logs and covered with creeping vines. Her first excitement faded when she realized it was not part of a larger village.

She edged closer, ready to bolt if necessary. Someone had dug a fire pit in the yard. It was cold, its ashes scattered with only a few charred sticks at the bottom. Closer to the lodge, she found a broken leash and a rusted knife, its blade chipped but still sharp. She picked that up, and holding it blade out, she pushed the door open. “Hello?”

No one answered. She ventured inside.

It was a hunting lodge, with just a single room and a stone-and-mud chimney. A few benches stood off to one side; straw pallets lay beside the empty fireplace. Most likely the owners used it in the autumn and winter, but visitors had come fairly recently—she found a stack of leftover firewood, three metal pans stacked in one corner, a net hanging from the rafters, with a cache of shriveled onions and smoked beef. Spare blankets and a carrying satchel had been stowed in one corner. It was the mantel above the fireplace that yielded the most valuable treasure.

A tinderbox.

She laughed, a breathy soundless laugh. With this she could boil water, brew hot tea, scrub herself clean. She could get warm.

That night, she built a fire and roasted slices of meat for her supper. Once she filled her stomach, she chopped up more meat and the onions, and set that mixture to simmer in the coals. She washed out another pan and brewed tea from raspberry leaves.

The night was fair, the moon full, and the skies clear. Ilse gazed upward into the violet expanse as the stars winked into life. “Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she whispered.

At her words, the air stirred, and a green scent, like that of pines, drifted past her face. She thought of the nameless scholar who had painted her fingers with magic. She hoped he was safe and wished him well.

CHAPTER SIX

ILSE STAYED THREE days in the lodge. She slept, she foraged, she spent hours staring across the undulating hills, until her muscles unknotted, and the ache in her throat faded. But she knew she could not remain here through winter, and so, reluctantly, she packed her newly acquired gear into the satchel, along with blankets and as much food as she could gather, and moved on.

She resumed her steady march through the hills, which changed over the miles from pines to stands of oak and beech, with their leaves a shimmering mass of scarlet and incandescent yellow. The autumn days were bright and clear, but cold. Ilse wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, and bent her head against the sudden bursts of wind, which plucked the leaves and sent them spinning round her.

By the end of two weeks, she came to the southern edge of the hills. Below, the land fell away in pleats and folds toward a broad sluggish river—the Gallenz River. To the east, she could make out a golden blur. That had to be the port city Tiralien. Beyond it lay the dark blue band of Keriss Bay, whose waters also touched Melnek’s docks and quays.

Within the day, Ilse reached the highway beside the river and turned east. Six more days to houses and inns, she told herself. Six days to people and work and living inside. People. It had been a month since she’d spoken with another human being. The thought made her mouth turn dry.

She had the road to herself for a day. Then, late the next morning, Ilse heard the tramp of footsteps behind her, then grunts and squeals. She plunged into the brush and lay still, her breath coming fast. It was a drover, herding swine, nothing more. Once he passed, she retook the road, cursing herself for being a coward

, but she did the same when a caravan of mules passed, and again, to avoid a farmer’s wagon.

On the third morning, she stopped to soak her sore feet in the river. One toe had a new blister. The heel was bruised from where she stepped on a rock. She would have to stuff more grass into her disintegrating boots. She had started to pluck some, when she heard a harness jingle. Ilse snatched up her boots and satchel, ready to dart across the road—

No.

She would not run away.

Ilse sat down by the riverbank, taking quick looks to the side as the two wagons approached. The horses were dusty and shaggy and broad-chested; they trudged steadily as though plowing fields, head down. Three men, and a woman. Farmers, most likely. None of them were young. It was the woman who held the reins of the lead wagon. Like the men, she wore a patched brown tunic and loose trousers, tucked into old scuffed boots. A yellow scarf covered her hair, making her square face stand out. From time to time, she tossed back a comment to her companions in the other wagon. Ilse’s pulse beat quickly, but she continued to stuff grass into her boots.

A rattling snort made her jump. It was the lead horse, leaning toward her as though to nip.

“Hey, Graysmoke.” Reins slapped against the horse’s flanks, bringing out another snort, and a shake of its head. “None of that.” Then, “Did that monster hurt you?”

Ilse shook her head. She edged back from Graysmoke, who eyed her from beneath his shaggy gray forelock. The woman slapped the reins again. The horse sidled, then took a few reluctant steps forward. “Stupid horse,” the woman muttered.

“What is it?” called a man from the second wagon.

“A girl,” the woman said. “Graysmoke playing his tricks.” She turned her attention back to Ilse. Narrow black eyes took in Ilse’s dirt-stained clothing, the worn-out boots with burst seams, the satchel and blanket. But all she said was, “You look tired, sweet.”

“I’m … I’m fine,” Ilse said. Her voice sounded rusty. “He just startled me.”

The woman tilted her head. A smile sent creases spreading outward from her eyes. “Glad to hear that. Where are you going? Tiralien? Or one of the little towns betwixt here and there?”

“Tiralien.”

“Want a ride?”

Ilse shook her head. “I’ve no money.”