Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Kathe glanced up. “What’s wrong?”

Ilse shrugged. “Nothing.”

“What kind of nothing? A large one, judging by your face.”

“Nothing at all.” Ilse pressed the chopped garlic into a flat mass and began a second pass, mincing the pieces into smaller bits. She had known, once, how to hide all her emotions. It had been a necessary skill in her father’s household. We were all afraid of him, even Ehren. We learned to make our faces into masks, our hearts into emptiness, all to avoid provoking his anger. And not just for ourselves, but for each other.

Here was nothing like Petr Zhalina’s house, and Kathe was her friend, but she still wished she had kept her expression under better control. It would be too painful to explain how she had failed, how she thought it necessary to leave this house. And why.

I can stay here six more months. Eight if I need the money. Then I can go to another house where no one knows about my past.

It was a lie, she knew. Wherever she went, the other servants would guess her background and mistrust her. Still, a new house would know nothing about her time with the caravan. She could reinvent herself, like Josef, one bit at a time.

Kathe was glancing at her from time to time, her expression thoughtful. “Is there anything I can do about this nothing?”

Ilse scooped up the garlic and deposited it in a bowl. Taking up a new clove, she peeled away the papery skin and snipped off the ends. “No. It’s something I need to figure out myself.”

“Ah. Very well.” Kathe paused, then continued in a softer voice. “But you do understand that you are as much my responsibility as Hanne or Rosel or the rest of the girls are. My mother trusts me to act for her. I hope you would trust me, too.”

Ilse shrugged. “Trust is a chancy beast,” she said, thinking of an old folktale her grandmother used to tell.

“One with a soft pelt and sharp claws,” Mistress Raendl said. Ilse jumped, then jumped again when the cook laid a hand on her shoulder. “Leave the garlic for Kathe, since she proves she can chatter and carve at the same time. You come with me. I have a new assignment for you.”

She beckoned Ilse to follow her through the kitchen’s outer doors and down the wide lane used by delivery wagons. A side pathway took them into a small bare courtyard—little more than an alcove, and occupied only by a stone bench and a few trees that had shed their leaves.

“We might be safe here,” Mistress Raendl said softly, scanning the windows above them. “Lord Kosenmark listens to us, you see. I told you that once, but I wasn’t clear enough. He listens all the time. Through the vents, in the corridors, with spy holes and other means. He had the architect and builders take this house apart, or nearly, and rebuild it that way.”

“Mistress Raendl, why are you telling me this?”

“Because he’s asked for you to serve at a private supper tonight, and I need to explain more about him so you don’t blunder. It’s not that I expect you to say the wrong thing, but you have a very expressive face. You might look … disturbed. Or even just curious. Both would be a mistake. How much have the girls told you about Lord Kosenmark and what happened to him at court?”

Ilse’s growing apprehension vanished at this new revelation. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Lord Kosenmark was at the King’s Court?”

Mistress Raendl sent her a sharp glance. “That is where I met him. He used to visit my mistress, the Countess Hanau. When Baerne died, and then the countess, Lord Kosenmark invited me and my daughter to serve in his new household. The duke was furious when he heard. He said he wanted his heir at home, if not at court.”

“Lord Kosenmark is the heir? I thought—” Ilse broke off, embarrassed.

Mistress Raendl smiled grimly. “I can guess what you thought. Yes, he is the heir. No, he cannot have children. It was the price he paid, to serve in Baerne’s Inner Council. So you see why you must not let any shock, or worse, pity, show on your face.”

Ever since she had first heard Lord Kosenmark’s strange high voice, she had refused to dwell on what that meant. There were any number of innocuous reasons—a childhood illness, an unusual trait inherited through the family. She had not wanted to think of the obvious one.

But Lev Bartov had guessed right, and Ilse remembered Eckard’s expression when he refused to speak of the matter. “The king ordered him to … to sacrifice himself?”

The cook nodded. “Baerne declared he trusted only men who spoke harsh truths in a woman’s voice. Five Houses accepted this decree. Three of them sacrificed their second sons. Those who had none to spare were faced with bitter choices indeed.”

“So they could not sire heirs,” Ilse murmured. “To keep their loyalty to him and not their family.”

“Yes,” Mistress Raendl said. “You see the results. Lord Kosenmark has a brother, but he chose to meet the king’s demands himself. He took it badly when the Baerne died and Armand chose new advisers.”

Ilse hugged her arms around herself and looked upward. The walls rose straight up toward the floor where Lord Kosenmark had his rooms. How to read those blank windows that hid more than they revealed? Just so Lord Kosenmark’s exquisite golden eyes told her nothing, really, even when he professed anger or kindness or simple curiosity.

“Was it by choice that he left court altogether?” she said. “Or did Armand dismiss him?”

“I don’t know. I just know that three years ago he moved here and set up this house. He gave me no reason, of course. I’m his cook, not his friend.”

But she knew him well enough to know this most personal history. Ilse took in Mistress Raendl’s voice and manner, which was brusque, almost angry, as though she was offended by what happened to Lord Kosenmark. “You like him.”

Surprise, then a soft laugh. “I do. I remember him as a page. He was a wild one, they said. That changed when the Countess Hanau took him as her friend.” Mistress Raendl’s gaze turned distant and she smiled, as though she saw another Lord Kosenmark standing in the courtyard.