Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“I begged you once,” she said out loud. “Not again. You’ll get no pleasure from my distress.”

She had taken to addressing the vent as though it were Lord Kosenmark. It was Lord Kosenmark, she was sure of it. These vents led up to his secret rooms on the fourth floor, where no one ventured except by his permission. And that he would not give. He had too many secrets to trust a mere guard to listen to Ilse’s ranting.

And so she talked, knowing that talking changed nothing, but it was such a relief to speak openly, she didn’t care what the consequences might be. She quoted every poem she knew by Tanja Duhr and the other poets she loved. She talked about the books she liked and the ones she thought pretentious or tedious or overwrought. She spoke of her brother and his flute. But speaking of home brought her close to tears. She broke off and paced for a while, until she recovered her composure. All the while, the silence drifted and settled about her.

“So I left home,” she went on. “You wanted to know why. I told you, but I doubt you understand. I hated home. It was like death. All wrapped in silk and scented with herbs, but dead. Dead and silent and locked in the dark. When I left, I said I would never go back. Never. No matter what happened. And so much did. So much.”

Her voice caught. She took a quick breath and went on. “Scared. Stupid, scared, and running away. And that was only the first quarter hour.”

It was too painful to talk about the caravan, so she didn’t. She talked instead about her time in the wilderness—of eating raspberries warmed by the sun, and drinking water so cold it made her bones ache. She talked of how a mouthful of smoked beef tasted like the finest dish served in the governor’s palace, and how magic’s fresh green scent was more intoxicating than wine.

“I had leaves for my featherbed,” she said softly. “I had the sky for my companion and stars for my poetry. And no one could harm me or lock me away. But then I came here.”

She paused and took a long drink of water. Three cups left. She would have to ration her water, just as she had rationed her food in the wilderness.

“Here,” she repeated, searching for the thread of her speech. “I was free here. For a while. Free to do my work and learn new things. And Kathe was kind to me. Kind and patient even with someone as clumsy and untaught as I was. That must be why Lys hated me so, though I did nothing to her. Janna said she was afraid. Maybe you are, too, and that’s why you have all these spy holes—because you’re afraid.”

Being afraid explained so much, she thought, and she continued on that theme well into the evening, not stopping even when the shadows deepened into night. The guards had left her firewood and new candles, but she left them untouched, preferring the darkness, which made talking easier.

She talked about secrets, speculating that secrets were a kind of contagion in Lord Kosenmark’s household. The most obvious were the secrets the courtesans learned from their clients, those details let slip during moments of passion, and those of the courtesans themselves, who came from such varied backgrounds. Just as plain to her were the spy holes set about the house, those she knew about and those she guessed at. She wondered aloud if Duenne’s Court was the same. If it was, such an atmosphere surely lay behind Armand of Angersee’s character. Most definitely behind Lord Kosenmark’s.

Her voice grew hoarse and low, but still she talked. About truth. About speaking out honestly, no matter how difficult.

She stopped, thinking she had heard something. She tilted back her head and listened hard. Yes, and it came from above, very faint but she was sure of it—a sound like the wind sighing through the trees. Then silence.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A THIRD DAY passed. A fourth. By the fifth day, she stopped talking altogether and spent her time staring out the window. She had sunk deep into waiting, and when the knock sounded at her bedchamber door, she did not react at first.

A voice called out to her as if from a great distance. She ignored it. But whoever spoke proved as stubborn as she. They called and called again until eventually she roused herself and opened the door.

Raul Kosenmark stood at the opposite end of her small parlor, his back pressed against the wall. He looked so different, she nearly didn’t recognize him. Dark rumpled clothes. Hair pulled back in an untidy queue. His face slack with weariness. It was more than just his outward appearance, however. He seemed strangely diminished to her eyes.

He cleared his throat. “We found the farmers.”

Farmers? she thought hazily. Oh yes. Nela and Gregor. Kosenmark had wanted to confirm her story. A part of her wanted to ask how they did. The urge faded. Opening her mouth and producing words in a row felt like too much trouble right now.

“They spoke very well of you,” Kosenmark went on. “You need not worry about what they might think. The person I sent to make inquiries told them you were seeking a recommendation for a better posting.”

Ilse continued to stare at him silently. What kind of reaction did he want from her?

Kosenmark stirred uneasily. “I heard everything you said. And you are right. I am afraid. And arrogant. Or maybe they are two sides of the same page. My brother used to say the same thing, but it’s been years upon years since anyone else dared to. Thank you for being honest with me.”

Another pause. His gaze flickered to one side, then came back to hers. “And I wanted to say you were right about other things. About this house. And how I listen. It reminded me that someone else might have overheard my talks with Maester Hax.”

It took her several moments to comprehend what he was telling her. “Who?” she said at last. Her voice sounded rusty from disuse. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know yet. But I think I know how to find out.”

She waited for him to explain. Kosenmark smoothed his hands along his trousers. He looked unnaturally nervous, but she had had a great deal of practice with waiting.

“I’d like your help,” he said at last.

“With catching your spy?”

He nodded. “Berthold and I discussed the matter. We think the person belongs to this household. And they must have duties that take them throughout the house, but also they must have errands in the city, so they can pass along the information to their associates.”

Someone invisible, she thought. One of the runners? A guard? It couldn’t possibly be one of the courtesans. And yet they, too, left the house, either to visit special clients or on their twice-weekly rest day. Slowly her thoughts woke as she pieced the clues together.