Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

But I did not do it. I did not.

Fury took hold of her. She pounded on the door. Someone shouted at her to leave off. Her answer was a shower of kicks and blows, until a burst of magic sent her flying across the room and into a bedpost.

She lay on the floor, bruised and breathless and her skin on fire.

“I didn’t do it,” she whispered. Then louder, “I’m not his spy. Not his. Not yours.”

She broke off, remembering the peculiar nature of this house. Not all the rooms had listening vents installed—Lord Kosenmark’s office was inviolate, and surely Hax’s rooms and office. But hers …

Ilse got to her feet, still unsteady from the magic, and made a careful examination of her room. Nothing hidden behind the tapestry of Lir. Nothing behind her wardrobe. She pulled up a corner of the carpet. The floor beneath was solid. Feeling foolish, she ran her fingers over the walls themselves, even the ones leading into her parlor. No chinks. No hollow sound when she knocked.

She leaned against the door, now quiescent, and released a long sigh. Doors, floors, walls …

Ceiling.

She looked up. There it was above the foot of her bed. A narrow recessed slot, covered with a metal grate. How had she missed it before? She climbed onto her bed, trying to get a better look, but the ceiling was too high, and the vent was a few feet beyond the end of the bed. She could see nothing but a dark hole behind its grate.

“Are you listening now?” she said to the vent.

Silence answered her. I’m a fool to think anyone could hear me.

She climbed down from her bed and paced the room, trying to think rationally about her situation. Lord Kosenmark had talked about further investigations. Did that mean he had

not yet decided her guilt? But what could they investigate? She had spent a few weeks starving on the streets, then found rescue at Lord Kosenmark’s pleasure house.

In frustration, Ilse rattled the door’s latch. Again, magic burned her fingers and palm. The doors, then, were impassable. Rubbing her hand, she went next to the windows. Gingerly, she tested the fastenings. Nothing bit or burned. Still cautious, she lifted the metal latch and pushed the windows open.

Fresh cold air blew against her hot face. In the distance, she heard Tiralien’s bells striking eight o’clock. A haze lay over the city, and the air smelled heavily of salt and mud and fish. More important, she discovered a drainpipe running along her window. Ilse looked down again to judge the distance and felt her stomach lurch. The courtyard’s paving stones, three stories below, suddenly looked very far away.

You said you would not run away again, whispered a voice inside her.

I said that when I believed that innocence was proof enough. Apparently it is not.

The next moment, a guard came into view. He glanced up. Ilse jumped back and shut the window. Lord Kosenmark had thought of everything. She’d have to wait until dark if she wanted to climb down the pipe. But at the thought of climbing down that narrow slippery pipe in the dark, she shuddered. It was no good. Even if she dared, the guards probably patrolled at night, too. Or someone else might see her, and report her escape.

Of course. She was not alone in this house. Runners sometimes came through the courtyard. With the coming of spring, the gardeners were out weeding and pruning and clearing away the winter’s dead leaves. It might even be Kathe, who sometimes walked through these gardens during her breaks. She would write a note, wait for someone to pass, and fire off her message.

One chance. Kosenmark would not give her another. She had to make it count.

She made another search of her rooms, this time with an eye for writing materials. At first, she was dismayed to find nothing. Then, behind her bed, she found a scrap of paper wedged between the bedpost and the wall. Evidently the chambermaid had missed it.

By jiggling and rocking the bed, Ilse worked the paper loose. She set the paper aside and went in search of ink or lead or anything that she could use for writing.

She found nothing. She had dozens of lead sticks in a jar in her sitting room, but nothing in her bedroom. Nadine’s cosmetics would have worked, but Nadine had taken them away after she and Kathe helped Ilse to dress.

She made another circuit of the room. What else could she write with? Her own blood? The thought made her queasy. She paused by the windows, shivering in the cool air. The early spring mornings were cool still, and her fire had burned down. Would they leave her in the cold as well? Or would they give her wood to build a fire?

Wood. Fire. Cold. Coal. Idly her mind skipped over the links, then stopped. Coal. Yes.

Ilse hurried to the fireplace. The chambermaid had been more thorough here, but Ilse found a heap of ashes in the back. Sifting through them, she dug out a thick piece of bark, scorched along one side. “You are my friend,” she whispered. “You are my voice to the world.”

It occurred to her that Raul Kosenmark would view any message as proof of her guilt. Let him, she thought. I know I am innocent.

She dusted off her hands and carried the bark back to her bed. She had no desk in her bedroom, but the floor made a good writing surface. She smoothed out the paper. It was smaller than she first thought—hardly as big as her palm. She would have to choose her words carefully and write them strong enough to withstand smudging. Very carefully, she shaped the bark into a point and began to write.

My name is Ilse Zhalina. I am falsely held a prisoner here. Please help me—

The doors slammed open and one of the guards stalked into the room. Ilse scrabbled to hide her note, but the man shoved her away. He caught up the paper and charcoal and was out the door before she caught her breath. She lunged for the door. It slammed shut in her face.