Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Her heart tripped and raced forward. The quarter and hour bells rang and rang again, echoing inside her head. Voices of the city, she thought. Melnek had a solemn voice. Practical dutiful Melnek. Tiralien. Fair and bright and deceptive, offering no shelter. Duenne …

There was a commotion behind her. Loud voices called out. Someone was coming for her. Before they reached her, a latch clicked, and the door swung open. A pair of strong arms caught Ilse before her head hit the stone tiles.

“I’m sorry I left,” she mumbled, thinking in her confusion Alarik Brandt had found her again. “I’ll do what you want now.”

She pulled up her skirt and reached for her new partner. Her hands encountered a smooth cheek. She stopped in confusion. A woman?

The person gently caught her by the wrist. “That’s not necessary. Here, let me bring you inside.”

It was a woman’s contralto voice. But it was a man who gathered her into his arms—a large man with a broad chest and muscled arms, who smelled of wood smoke and cedarwood and the unmistakable scent of a man’s spending.

The man did not touch her breasts or mouth. Instead he lifted her gently and stood. His shirt had parted, and her cheek rested against a smooth expanse of warm skin. No hair, not even as much as Volker’s wispy fuzz.

He carried her down a hallway. Music filtered through the walls. Laughter. Then she heard another man’s voice, deeper and rougher, asking questions. Her rescuer answered softly, something about fetching Hedda. Footsteps came and went. Eventually the man stopped walking and laid her on a soft, yielding mattress. A hand brushed her cheek, wiping away the tears she hadn’t noticed before. From his tone, he was asking her questions, but Ilse couldn’t hear much above the roaring in her ears.

“Please help me,” she whispered.

“I will. I promise.”

Again that voice, balanced between male and female. Ilse tried again to focus on her rescuer’s face. She saw large golden eyes, inches from hers, and an abundance of dark hair. Then her vision blurred, and she slipped into darkness.

* * *

HOURS LATER SHE woke to find herself lying beneath thick cotton blankets. Someone had stripped away her bloody clothes, bathed her, dressed her in a clean warm shift, and bound rags between her legs. Her hair had been brushed smooth and lay loose over the pillow. Though her body still ached from scalp to foot, it was a dull faraway ache.

A figure approached her bed—a stout woman, with skin so black, the lamplight hardly made a difference. The woman bent over Ilse and touched her throat. She looked old, her face creased and scored by wrinkles. Silver glinted in her dark cloud of hair, and her hands smelled of magic. She studied Ilse through slitted eyes.

“Is she awake?” said another voice, whose fluting tones sounded familiar.

“Yes, and she’s resisting my spells,” the woman said. “Not good.”

“Why not, Mistress Hedda? Resisting means she has the strength to live.”

At this comment the woman laughed softly. “You would argue with Toc himself, my lord, wouldn’t you? Yes, it means she has enough fight to survive.”

The second person came into the circle of lamplight and stood next to the bed. It was a man, with long dark hair, casually tied back with a ribbon, and skin the color of finely drawn honey. He wore loose clothing, drifting in swathes of jewel-bright colors around his body.

Ilse opened her mouth; nothing came out except a scratchy whisper.

“Hush.” Mistress Hedda brushed her fingers over Ilse’s damp forehead. She spoke again, and the green scent intensified, causing the pain to recede.

“She will live,” she said, as though answering an earlier question. “Despite the ill-usage. Despite losing the child.”

Child?

Ilse struggled to sit up. Two pairs of hands caught her and pressed her gently back against the pillows. She caught a whiff of cedarwood before the man withdrew.

“Now you’ve distressed her. She must not have known.”

“Impossible not to know, my lord. She was nearly two months gone—”

“Hush, I said.”

A long stiff silence followed. Then the woman cleared her throat. “My apologies, my lord. So you wish her healed?”

“Of course.”

“A stranger, my lord?”