Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

With the coming of summer, all the foliage had turned lush and thick. To Ilse, Lord Kosenmark’s gardens were like the pattern of his mind—lovely and intricate and deceptive. Even so small a garden had its secret nooks, and the paths were laid out so that just a few steps had taken them out of sight of the doors. So she wasn’t surprised when Luise said to her, “Lord Kosenmark loves a good mystery. I sometimes think he ought to be a street juggler.”

“Or a trickster prince, sent to teach us truth with lies.” Ilse caught Luise’s curious look, and added, “Just a poem I once heard.”

“I know the poem,” Luise said drily. “And it fits. More than you might realize.”

They had reached the garden’s center, where benches circled a tiled section. Ilse busied herself with arranging her case and writing materials, aware that Luise Ehrenalt was studying her with that same curious expression. She was saved from any further comments, however, when Emma Theysson and Benno Iani made their appearance. While Luise greeted them, Ilse skimmed through her notes on the Károví situation.

Faulk arrived soon after and seated himself with an air of weariness. “My lords are coming in the next moment,” he said, waving a hand toward the doors. “Most likely they are arranging what and how they wish to tell us whatever they mean to tell us.”

“Lothar, you are being elaborate again,” Emma said, but she was smiling.

“You mean convoluted,” Faulk replied. “It fits my mood, and besides, that is my chief qualification for being here. Ah, here they come.”

Lord Kosenmark came into view, alone. He stopped at the edge of the clearing and scanned everyone’s faces, as though gauging their mood. Jittery, Ilse thought, supplying the answer she would give. Jittery and curious and hopeful all at once. His mood was harder to read.

“Where is Lord Dedrick?” Faulk asked.

“Home,” Kosenmark said. “It seems he made a promise to his father.”

“A promise or a compromise? And were the terms advantageous?”

Kosenmark sent him a warning glance, but merely said, “Our business does not depend on his presence, but on the news he carried from Duenne.”

Ilse let out a soundless exhalation. So it was news from Duenne—disturbing news judging by his expression. She expected him to lay out the details now, the way he spread out his maps and scrolls, but Kosenmark appeared strangely hesitant.

“What is it?” Faulk said. “A crisis? A scandal? Did Lord Dedrick discover a treasonous plot?”

“You might say that,” Kosenmark said. “First the part we expected—Armand has begun inviting certain nobles into private interviews, mostly the older and more conservative members of court. I’m interpreting these interviews as a means to forge alliances on smaller issues. Stepping-stones for the larger issue of war.”

“Is he having any success?” Theysson asked.

“Some. Baron Quint, among others, are persuaded by Lord Khandarr’s arguments that we would conquer the invaders before they cross our borders.”

“Quint.” Ehrenalt looked as though she had tasted something sour.

“What about your father?” Theysson said. “Where does he stand?”

Kosenmark shrugged, clearly uneasy. “He’s made no public declaration, but everyone knows his opinion. Which means he finds himself at the center of the opposition despite his efforts. Or rather, his studied avoidance of any effort.” In a softer voice, he added, “We cannot sustain a war without cause. My father should know it. He should take a stand.”

“Perhaps,” said Iani, “he waits for his son to take action.”

“I cannot. Not when the king himself dismissed me from Duenne.”

“He dismissed you from his Council,” Theysson argued. “But you could go back to court and lead the opposition yourself. Berthold once thought you might—”

“Berthold is dead,” Kosenmark said flatly. “Besides, we are caretakers, not rebels.”

The leader of the opposition is not a rebel, Ilse thought, but she could see that both speakers had left a great deal unsaid. Theysson and Kosenmark stared at each other a moment longer. It was Kosenmark who dropped his gaze to the tiled pathway. Theysson shook her head and sighed.

Faulk stared at Kosenmark, his eyes flat and bright. Kosenmark met his gaze steadily. “Lothar, you appear displeased.”

“Not displeased, my lord. Simply puzzled. You see, I have a dozen agents in Duenne—five in the court itself, one of them in the king’s bed. For all that, I have no genuine news from Duenne. Nor do you, except for insignificant rumors brought to us by the usual means. And yet Lord Dedrick has uncovered a raft of plots and alliances and schemes, all within a single month. And so I’m curious if Lord Dedrick mentioned the name of his excellent source.”

“He did. His sister.”

“Interesting. The queen recently appointed Lady Alia as one of her companions, am I right?”

“She did.”