Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

More silent laughter. “You are right. There are many more questions I would prefer not to answer. However this one I will.”

He took the seat opposite her, the cup with his untouched tea cradled in his hands. “You have guessed correctly. When Armand dismissed me from court, I did not give up my interest in Veraene’s politics. A reasonable person might call it arrogance. Berthold calls it my duty. But like anything to do with court, it’s complicated. I shall have to start a few years earlier—with Baerne of Angersee and his son.”

Armand’s father, who died twenty years ago. Even Ilse had heard stories about his death. A fall from one of the towers, which some called suicide, and some called an accident brought on by drink. The kingdom had mourned for weeks and months, according to her parents.

“Baerne was a good king,” Kosenmark said. “A strong one. But like other strong kings, he cast a long shadow over history. Armand’s father drank himself to death because he could not live inside that shadow. Armand might have done the same except that Baerne died first. Armand’s first act was to dismiss all his grandfather’s councillors. Very well. A new reign brings new ways. The difficulty lies with Markus Khandarr.”

Lord Markus Khandarr, the King’s Mage. Ilse had heard his name in connection with Armand’s often enough.

“Lord Khandarr had attached himself to the heir,” Kosenmark continued. “We all did, naturally. It’s part of the everyday intrigue you find at court. But Lord Khandarr—” He broke off and, with uncharacteristic hesitation, chafed his hands together. “I tell you my opinions, so you understand the work Berthold and I do. But you must not speak of it to Greta or Kathe. To anyone.”

Ilse nodded, her throat tight with anticipation.

“I have no proof,” Kosenmark said. “But I believe Lord Khandarr has encouraged the worst of Armand’s ambitions. Some say …” Another pause. “Some say Lord Khandarr has used magic to influence the king. I disagree. I believe Khandarr uses the king’s own fears and obsessions to forward his own position in court. I believe—and I have no proof, only intuition—that Lord Khandarr would use up our king and our kingdom as a fire would consume wood, so that he could eventually take Armand’s place.”

“He would rebel against the king?” Ilse said.

Kosenmark shook his head. “Not rebel. He would make himself indispensable, to king and court and army. At some point, the balance of authority would shift from Armand to Lord Khandarr.”

He made a gesture, one hand tilting to the side. Ilse could almost see one figure sliding into oblivion. “That’s treason.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not, if the kingdom wills it. But let me tell you the rest. Once Armand became king, he called us one by one into his chamber. He announced that he had no need of our advice. He offered each of us a princely sum to retire in silence.” He considered his hands and flexed them, then raised his eyes to Ilse’s. “I refused the sum. And I left, of course. I had no choice.”

And came here, a city far away from Duenne’s Court.

Ilse was acutely aware of Kosenmark’s gaze, and how he must be gauging her reactions.

“By continuing to stir the affairs of Veraene, I make enemies,” he said. “Hence Berthold’s worries. Hence, Lord Dedrick’s absence. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“So I ask again. Would you consider taking Berthold’s place at the banquet? I’ve arranged a meeting with some friends. We take no notes, nor will I bring papers, but I would prefer to have a second pair of eyes and ears for this discussion. Afterward I will ask you your impressions.”

&nb

sp; “My lord, I have no experience with politics.”

“No, but you have eyes and ears and opinions. I would find them all useful.”

Throughout the centuries, poets and scholars had argued whether lives were shaped by destiny or choice. The scholars wrote learned treatises about the matter, saying history itself proved their point, that souls were drawn again and again to like circumstances, until those same circumstances were resolved, while poets said our lives were our choices, that Lir and Toc—whatever the gods called themselves—gave us the freedom to choose our own future.

It is much the same thing, Ilse thought. I have been a scholar. Perhaps I was once a poet. I have lived as Veraenen and Károvín and more. But I have always dreamed of the jewels.

Destiny and choice together, then. She drew a deep breath. “My answer is yes, my lord. I would like to help you, however I can.”

“Good. Thank you.” He stood and took hold of her hands in his, pressed them briefly. There was a strange quality to his gaze, of the kind and intensity Ilse had always associated with a king taking an oath from his liegemen. Briefly, she wondered what other lives Kosenmark had inhabited throughout history. Had they, possibly, known each other before?

The thought made her cheeks turn warm. She stirred, and Kosenmark released her hands with a smile. “Until tomorrow then,” he said. “It shall prove a new beginning for us both, I imagine.”

Later, as she lay in her bed, chasing after sleep, she thought it must be another of his gifts, to inspire his people so effortlessly. The way mages called up magic, the way princes called up loyalty.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

FOR THE NEXT eight days, Ilse divided her time between Lord Kosenmark and the seamstress. Both were exacting, and more than once she thought fondly about her pots and pans. At least the pots did not drill her in political factions, or scold when she did not hold her pose through an hour-long fitting. Whenever she complained to Kathe, saying she wanted her old position back, Kathe disabused her of the idea.

“You like it,” she said.

“Why would I like being scolded and working from dawn until midnight?”