Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Kosenmark watched her, still with that same bitter smile. “Dedrick is often late,” he said softly. “But I make allowances for his shortcomings, as he does for mine.”

Ilse averted her gaze, then belatedly realized he might take that as disgust.

Kosenmark laughed. “You say nothing. What is there to say? Greta explained it all, didn’t she?”

“My lord?”

His face was flushed, his expression was entirely unlike his usual demeanor. “I heard you when she talked to you in the courtyard. She’s careful of the spy holes and vents and air shafts. She knows about the listening closets, too, I think. She was here when I had the house rebuilt. But perhaps she didn’t realize how the walls carry sound upward—to the open windows.”

Impossible to pretend she didn’t understand. “Mistress Raendl was instructing me, my lord. Nothing more.”

“Of course. You were curious, and she didn’t want you to blunder.” His voice was smooth, whispery like silk, sharp like the keen edge of winter. “I wondered what you thought of the story. Perhaps you’d like more details about my operation, and what spells the mage-surgeon employed to give me a semblance of manhood, without violating Baerne’s decree.”

She wanted to make an excuse to leave the room, but the harrowed look on Kosenmark’s face made it impossible to interrupt, even if she had dared to.

“Or perhaps it’s not curiosity,” Kosenmark continued. “Perhaps you simply pity me. You shouldn’t. I’m luckier than most. Lord Pommersien killed himself within a year of Baerne’s death. Duke Sellen resigned his title to his sister and spends his days in seclusion. And Count Thorren—”

“My lord, I don’t wish to know more. And I don’t pity you.”

His mouth rippled. “But you don’t trust me, do you, Therez Zhalina?”

Above the roaring her ears, Ilse heard Kosenmark say something more about secrets. “No,” she whispered. Then louder, “No, my lord.”

She turned but his hand was already on her wrist. “Stop,” he said. “Mistress Ilse, I—”

Ilse twisted away, but he held her fast. “No,” she repeated. “I will not play your games, my lord.”

Tears of anger and fright blurred her vision. She swiped them away with her free hand. She wanted to say more, that Lord Kosenmark could flog her and dismiss her, but she would not make any trades, of honor or self or—

A rapid knock sounded at the door. Kosenmark immediately released his hold. Ilse sprang away. Kosenmark made a soft impatient noise in his throat and tossed his napkin to Ilse. “For your face,” he said in an undertone.

Cautiously Ilse knelt to pick up the napkin. At Kosenmark’s gesture, she retreated to the far corner, out of sight of the door.

“Enter,” Kosenmark said.

A runner came into the room. “Lord Dedrick has arrived, my lord. He’s just riding into the stable.”

“Thank you. Escort him here as soon as he is ready.”

The door closed again. Kosenmark glanced toward Ilse. She quickly blotted away the tears and smoothed her hair. He held out his hand. She darted forward and dropped the napkin onto the table, then stepped back.

Moments later Lord Dedrick Maszuryn swept into the room. He was a handsome young man, with a lean dusky face and abundant dark hair scarcely contained by its ribbon. “Father detained me,” he said, taking his seat. “But I brought you a gift to atone for my lateness.”

He slid a narrow leather-bound volume from his shirt. A book—an old one with pages darkened by age. Just in time, Ilse stopped herself from trying to get a closer look.

Kosenmark accepted the book with a smile. “Thank you. You’ve been hunting amongst the booksellers, I see.”

“Only for you. Because I know you like such things.”

When he reached for his wine cup, his hand brushed against Kosenmark’s. Kosenmark tilted his hand to meet that caress. “Tell your father that his son has quite atoned for his actions. Was he discussing the beloved familiar subject, or a new one?”

Ilse dropped her gaze, not wanting to witness anything more. But she could not help hearing Lord Dedrick’s throaty laugh. “Both. He reminded me of duty and of risks.”

“He’s not so very wrong, you know. We are both derelict, you and I, in performing our duties toward our families.”

“Now you sound like my father. He wants me to find a steady occupation for my life. I nearly told him you are my occupation.”

Raul murmured something under his breath—Ilse heard the word foolish—to which Dedrick gave an equally inaudible reply. Ilse glanced up and saw that Raul had taken Dedrick’s hand in both of his. His expression was thoughtful, and he no longer seemed angry or befuddled by drink. “We can talk about that later,” he said. “Or not. Greta will be raging in her kitchen if we do not proceed with our meal.”