Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Kosenmark gave a soft exclamation, but motioned for her to go on. She nodded, wet her lips with the wine. It was hard, painfully hard to recall that evening. How she had hoped its success would mean her chance to escape her father’s household. Laughter fluttered against her ribs. Oh, yes. It had been a success, and she had

escaped, only not in the way she expected. But Kosenmark was waiting for her answer.

“We talked, my lord,” she said. “At dinner, dancing. He and Baron Mann both said that in Duenne there were a thousand opportunities.”

“I shall have to warn Rudolfus about dangling such allurements in front of young girls. Why did you not ask him for help then?”

“My lord, why would he give me help? Besides, I didn’t hear of my father’s plans until after the dinner. My father said he would sign the marriage contract the next day. That was when I remembered what Baron Eckard said about Duenne. I was to go there in the summer, you see, to visit my cousin’s family. They couldn’t take me in, of course, not without telling my father, but I thought I might find a place as someone’s scribe—I write well and I know about trade and arithmetic and prices and goods. You do, if you grow up in a merchant’s family.”

He nodded. “Good plans so far. What happened to your money?”

“Someone stole most of it. Then the caravan master told me he knew my name. I tried to get away, but they caught me. The caravan master said he would send me back, unless I gave him a good reason to keep me.” Her breath came short at the memory of that exchange and its outcome. She swallowed and went on. “I couldn’t go back. Not to that house. I said I would do anything he asked.”

“I see. What was the caravan master’s name?”

Her mouth had gone dry again, just thinking of his name. “Alarik Brandt.”

Kosenmark said nothing. He appeared to be turning over her story in his thoughts. Ilse cradled the cup in her hands, watching his face but seeing nothing beyond his abstraction. Without looking up, he said, “I know your father by reputation, Therez. He would take you back, if you wished.”

“No.” Ilse flinched, spilling the wine. “No, my lord. Please. You don’t know what he’s like. Please, no.”

Kosenmark offered her another handkerchief. Still shaking, she dried her hands. “It was only a suggestion,” he said. “You have my promise that I will not force you to leave here.”

He crossed back to his desk where he poured wine for himself. When he returned, he sat in silence for a while, his expression thoughtful. “I have another suggestion,” he said at last. “Would you consider a change in your duties here? You said you wanted to work as a scribe. You could serve Maester Hax as his assistant.”

Ilse looked up, startled. “Why, my lord?”

“Because Maester Hax is growing old. Because I need someone with your skills in writing and language. Because whatever your father’s failings, he did educate you, which makes you a better scribe than a cook’s helper. Or do you prefer washing out pots and barrels?”

So he knew about that, too. She touched the minute cracks in her work-roughened palms. “But my lord, you don’t know me. How can you trust me?”

“I know you well enough. I’ve heard what Kathe and Greta say of your character, and I’ve observed you myself. The offer is not charity,” he added in the face of her continued silence. “I have more concerns than just this house, and Maester Hax needs someone to handle the everyday correspondence, so he can concentrate on more intricate matters. And you would not be running away, Mistress Ilse. Not this time.”

It made her skin prickle to hear her private thoughts spoken out loud. “How did you—?” Comprehension came at once. “You heard.”

Kosenmark shrugged. “You might as well say I spied on you. Yes, I heard, both the situation and your solution. You are not running away, Mistress Ilse, but moving on to the next challenge. Besides, it will give you money enough for Duenne, should you decide to go.”

He set his wine cup aside and held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she took his hand, which encompassed hers easily. His palm was callused, the rest smooth and warm to her touch. She felt a trace of magic’s current. Within came an easing of long tension. The sensation was painful, as though hope were a physical thing, too long kept imprisoned inside its cage, and only now unfolding after a very long time.

I have a choice. I can choose—not a new life entirely, but a next new step toward it.

Briefly, she thought of Lys and Rosel, and felt a twinge of misgiving. They would not take this new favor well. But then, she shook away the thought. “My lord, I am grateful … with the sweetness of true gratitude offered freely.”

A smile lit his face briefly. It was like a flare of sunlight on an already bright day. “And as freely returned. Now I remember you also like Tanja Duhr’s poetry. I shall take that as proof I chose well. Come. We begin tonight.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

KOSENMARK WENT TO his inner rooms for a few moments and returned with a damp cloth and a comb, so that Ilse could make herself presentable. When she had finished, Kosenmark studied her with an appraising look. “Well enough. Now to Maester Hax.”

They arrived at Hax’s office just as he was clearing off his desk for the night. Hax paused and glanced from Ilse to Lord Kosenmark. “Are you paying a visit for pleasure or business?”

“Both,” Kosenmark said. “I’ve brought you an assistant.”

“Ah.” Another expressive glance. “Have you found my services lacking, my lord?”

For the first time, Kosenmark looked uneasy. “Do not argue with me, Berthold.”

“Why not? You like a good argument, or so you claim.”