Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Lys was sitting up in bed, hair tumbled around her shoulders. Ilse felt her stomach twist into a knot at the girl’s satisfied grin. You knew this would happen, she told herself. You expected it. Still, it took all her self-control to keep her expression bland.

“It’s true,” Lys said. “Isn’t it? You finally spread your legs wide enough, and someone fell in. Well, I’m glad to see you go. We all are.”

“Lys …” Dana groaned from her bed.

Ilse stood up, sat back down by Hanne’s side, and took the younger girl’s hands in hers. Running away would not solve anything, especially not with her staying in the same household. Janna rolled over and muttered something about late nights should mean late mornings, but by now Steffi was sitting up and demanding to know what the trouble was.

“It’s her,” Lys said, pointing at Ilse. “She’s the trouble.”

“Oh shut up,” Janna said. “You’re just jealous.”

“Jealous? And you’re not? Since when?”

“Since she did her work. Why are you so afraid of her?”

Lys spat out an ugly curse and launched herself at Janna, who scrambled from the bed. Ilse grabbed at Lys and caught the girl’s wrists. “Stop fighting. Both of you.”

Lys wrenched free and slapped Ilse across the face. Janna shoved Lys away. “Do that again and we’ll tell Mistress Raendl.”

“You would, you sneak.”

“If I’m a sneak, you’re a bully. I know why Steffi’s sister left. And I know why Hanne jumps when you come into the room. Pinch and punch and badger and bully. That’s you, and it’s not right.”

By this time, all the girls were standing around them in a circle. Rosel looked as though she wanted to join the fight, but didn’t dare. Dana and Steffi were whispering to each other. Only Hanne, silent and pale, had retreated toward the door.

It’s not enough to keep from running away, Ilse thought. She stepped between Lys and Janna. “Leave her be,” she said to Janna.

“So you’d rather fight me?” Lys said.

Ilse faced her. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Coward.”

Her dark face was blotched with anger; tears gleamed in her eyes. Strange how Ilse felt a sudden rush of pity for the girl. “Call me whatever you like,” she said. “I don’t care. But stop making trouble for everyone else.”

Lys jerked her chin up. “Why? Who made you the queen?”

“No one. No one made you the queen, either. Even if they did, they might change their minds unless you treat them better.”

Lys lifted a fist, as though to strike. Abruptly her expression changed and she dropped her hand, still clenched. Ilse glanced back. Janna and Steffi and Dana stood behind her, hands linked together. Lys’s gaze shifted from face to face as she took in the situation. “Like a damned princess,” she muttered.

Janna grinned. “’Smatter, Lys? Don’t like to see someone else wearing a crown?” She turned to Ilse and held out her hand. “Come on. We can have one last breakfast together.”

Ilse squeezed Janna’s hand. She found she was smiling. “Yes, I’d like that.”

* * *

THE BELLS WERE just ringing nine when she arrived at Maester Hax’s office. Kosenmark opened the door to her knock. “Good morning,” he said. “We were just discussing your new duties. Berthold, come to my office later, and we can review the latest dispatches.”

Maester Hax motioned for Ilse to sit, then poured two cups of tea. “Are you ready to begin?”

“As ready as I know.”

He seemed amused by her answer. “True enough. So let us begin.”

For the next hour, Ilse drank tea and listened intently, while Hax talked and talked about those expectations. He was so kind and patient, she could almost believe she had misunderstood his mood the previous night.

“You will run errands,” he told her, “for me and Lord Kosenmark. You will handle tasks the runners cannot, accepting items that come for Lord Kosenmark or me and securing them, handing off items to the couriers we use, arranging for delivery of packages, writing out fair copies of letters, and writing to his dictation. You will keep track of our supplies and order more through Mistress Denk. Mistress Denk can also assist you with dispatching the letters. Some correspondence travels with the governor’s post, some by private courier, others by merchant caravans and the like. Are you following me?”