Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“I’d rather not rest here,” she murmured.

To her surprise, Kosenmark flushed. “No, of course not.”

He did not linger, but took his leave with just a few words. Ilse closed the door behind him and leaned against it. Only then did she see a small wrapped package on Kosenmark’s chair.

She took it up and unwrapped it. A book. An old book—centuries old judging by the faded ink and delicate parchment.

Carefully, she opened the cover and drew a sharp breath. It was a rare volume of Tanja Duhr’s poetry—a priceless object. Hardly believing what she held, Ilse carefully turned the pages, breathing in the scent of old paper and leather. This was the same volume she had hoped to find in Duenne’s book markets, the volume of Duhr’s poetry from after the first wars. There, there was the poem she had written for her lover.

When you are gone, I feel more than absence.

The moon dims. The summer warmth recedes.

The air itself grows thin …

A thin strip of paper fluttered from between the pages. Cradling the book in one hand, Ilse retrieved the paper.

To Ilse Zhalina. A gift in return for your gift of conscience and truth. Thank you.

* * *

SHE SPENT THE afternoon outside on Lord Kosenmark’s extensive grounds, wandering the intricate paths of the several formal gardens. When she tired of them, she took refuge in the tiny patch of wilderness, hidden in a grassy ravine between the paths. There, amid the luxurious tangle of old dried raspberry brambles, she found a bench carved to the likeness of a gnarled trunk. A few hardy wildflowers had spouted beneath it.

She made herself comfortable and leaned back, eyes closed, listening to the birds twittering. Off in the distance, Tiralien’s bells rang, but she did not count the hours or the quarter hours. She sat. She soaked in the warm sunlight, which told her about time’s passage by the change in shadows as they drifted across the clearing.

After a time, she heard leaves crackle along the path above her. Ilse said nothing, and soon the footsteps retreated. Another quiet interlude passed. She heard one of the kitchen cats hunting mice. She heard the birds twittering in the trees and the first frog chorus of the season. The sun was sinking, she could tell by the cooling of the air. More footsteps approached—louder and swifter—then a crashing sound as someone scrambled down the slope, ignoring the path.

Ilse did not open her eyes. If it was Lord Kosenmark, she did not wish to speak with him. Not yet.

“Ilse.”

The sense of floating within a timeless empty bubble vanished, and Ilse reluctantly opened her eyes.

Nadine stood over her. Nadine dressed like a boy in loose cotton trousers, and looking not at all like an expensive courtesan.

Nadine folded her arms and glared at Ilse, plainly annoyed. “Idiot. Kathe searched the entire grounds looking for you. She came by here—I know it. But you hid.”

“I didn’t hide. I just … didn’t want to talk.”

“I call that hiding. Don’t you care how much you worried her? She was frantic. I told her I would dig you out of your hiding place and drag you back inside.” She tilted her head. “You do look ill. Lord Kosenmark told us you were, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Now you do?”

“Maybe.” She dropped gracefully into the second seat. “Why did you come out here?”

“Because I hated staying in my rooms.”

“Ah.” Nadine plucked one of the wildflowers and murmured a spell. Slowly, the petals unfolded into a velvety pincushion. “For you,” she said, handing the flower to Ilse.

Ilse accepted it with a smile. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I worried Kathe. I just needed time to myself.”

“Thinking time?”

Ilse nodded. “What about you? Aren’t you on duty?”

“I have permission,” Nadine said cryptically.

An unpleasant thought occurred to Ilse. “Did Lord Kosenmark send you out here?”