Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“I doubt it. That is something he would not conceal.”

“Why the troops, then?” said Baron Eckard. “Does he think the jewels are here, in Veraene?”

“I’m not certain what Leos thinks. This message answers questions I posed six months ago to my agents in Rastov: Has the king renewed his search for Lir’s jewels? Where is he searching?”

“So he’s looking in Anderswar,” Iani murmured. “That would explain so much.”

“But it does not explain the troops,” Eckard said. His voice shook with uncharacteristic passion. “Remember three hundred years ago. Remember how Leos Dzavek scoured the borders with magic and plagues. He left a string of ghost cities behind. We must warn the

king.”

He meant the second wars, Ilse thought—a hundred years after the first ones, when a thief had stolen Lir’s jewels from Leos Dzavek. Those were the wars that had redrawn the borders with blood and fire. The ones that had driven the island province of Morennioù to raise a fiery shield to protect itself. Soon after, other provinces had broken away from Duenne’s control. To some, those wars were the true end of the empire.

“Armand already knows,” Raul said. “As much as he wishes to know, which is not enough to reassure me. If I had one wish, it would be an hour with Armand of Angersee and him listening to my concerns about his kingdom.”

“Two desperate men.” It was the first Lady Theysson had spoken. She sounded thoughtful. “With the force of kingdoms behind each. Armand has wanted an excuse to attack Károví ever since he took the throne.”

“Annexation,” Ehrenalt said. It was not a question.

“Probably,” Kosenmark said. “We are not at that point yet. There are a few councillors who would require more proof of Dzavek’s intentions before they support a war.”

“And what constitutes proof?”

Ilse started. Lord Kosenmark’s back was toward her, but she saw how his shoulders stiffened, and his head jerked up. That strong, clear voice had not come from anyone inside this room. It had sounded from the air, as though a ghost stood in their midst to address them. Ehrenalt’s face went blank. Iani and Theysson made as though to stand, but when light flared at the glass windows, they subsided into their chairs.

The courtyard door swung open and a man entered the room. He was tall and thin, almost as gaunt as Lord Vieth, but without the same quantity of gems and fine robes. His hair was long and brown, streaked with silver. His eyes were the color of yellowed parchment.

He looked at each face in turn. A brief look of disappointment appeared and was gone, almost before Ilse registered it. Then he shook his head. “You have no answer for my question, none of you. How long must we wait before we defend ourselves? Until the gutters in Duenne are choked with blood?”

He’s a mage, Ilse thought. Powerful enough to send his voice through walls and doors, to stand among us like a presence. She had seen tricks before, magic workers who could produce the illusion of throwing their voices, but this was no trick. She had heard the voice emanate from air. She had heard it breathe.

Kosenmark bent his head, very slowly, as though it pained him. “Lord Khandarr. Greetings.”

Ilse stilled a tremor at the name. Lord Markus Khandarr, the King’s Mage. How had he found them?

Khandarr stared at Kosenmark without blinking. “You have no answer for my question, I see.”

Kosenmark shrugged. “As usual, I have only more questions. Why don’t you join us? We were having an interesting discussion.”

“I know about your discussion. And I see you are still courting power, Lord Kosenmark.”

“No more than you, Markus.”

Khandarr’s lips parted in a smile. He raised a hand, and Ilse felt the air ripple across her skin. Beeswax and expensive scents gave way to magic’s fresh green tang. Khandarr said nothing more, but the air grew thicker until it was hard to draw a breath, and her skin pulled tight across her forehead. A deep painful pinch in her gut made her gasp. Her throat clamped shut, and her vision went dark.

Dimly she heard Khandarr speaking. “Here is my power. It is enough to make you whole.”

He flicked his fingers. All at once, the painful hold upon her throat vanished and Ilse could breathe. She gripped the chair in front of her to stop herself from sinking to her knees. Khandarr would like that, she thought. She would not give him the satisfaction.

Kosenmark licked his lips. Sweat gleamed from his face, and his lips had turned pale from effort, but he did not look away from Khandarr. “Thank you, but no,” he said. “I shall have to make do with myself as I am.”

Khandarr crumpled his hand into a fist. The current vanished. Someone cried out in surprise, and Kosenmark lurched backward. He recovered himself with an effort and faced Khandarr. “Leave us,” he said softly, and there was a cold and unforgiving note in his voice that Ilse had never heard before.

“Why should I?” Khandarr said.

“Because you are not yet ready to declare yourself king.”

“Neither are you,” Khandarr snapped. With that, he whirled around and stalked through the courtyard door, into the darkness, and was gone.