Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Kosenmark made a noncommittal noise and picked up a wooden knife. “Speaking of assisting, when did you intend to start Mistress Ilse with knife techniques?”

“When she was ready. Today would not be best, I think.”

“What about adverse conditions, Benedikt?”

“Perhaps you would like to take over as her teacher, my lord.”

Kosenmark glanced at Ilse. “No, Benedikt. This is your province. My apologies.”

“None required, my lord.”

Ault took Ilse through her first and second patterns, then set her to practice alone while he and Lord Kosenmark went through a long complicated pattern for swords. From what she glimpsed, it appeared to be a pattern that Lord Kosenmark had studied but not yet mastered. At Ault’s command, Kosenmark would perform one or two moves, then stop while Ault expounded on the proper stance or some other seemingly trivial detail.

“Now for the practical application,” Ault said, taking up a wooden blade.

Ilse paused in between repetitions of her drill. Ault glanced at her but said nothing. He and Lord Kosenmark touched blades.

“Begin with the first set, my lord.”

Their motions were slow, as Benedikt Ault countered and blocked with his blade, each stroke and parry meeting those Lord Kosenmark made while he executed the pattern. It was like a dance, Ilse thought. A graceful endless dance. Yet something about it bothered her. No matter how hard she stared, she could not discern any pattern in their movements.

Gradually Ault increased the speed of his blocks and parries. Kosenmark responded. Faster and faster, yet not the blurred speed of their sword bouts, and so Ilse could follow the action and reaction far more easily than she expected. Now she began to see what Ault had lectured Kosenmark about—the necessity for that particular lunge, followed by that particular block, followed by a curious sidestep that led directly to the next attack.

Strike. Parry. Feint. Strike. Disarm.

Just as she thought that, Kosenmark made another sidestep, then brought his blade up and, with a twist, wrenched Ault’s blade to one side. The next moment, he set the point of his sword to Ault’s chest. The final movement of the pattern.

Yes, she thought. That is how we must do it.

The two men bowed. Kosenmark turned around. He hardly looked winded, though the pattern had lasted more than two quarter bells. He must have seen something in her face, because his own expression changed at once. “Benedikt,” he said in a high light voice. “Would you indulge us for today? Mistress Ilse and I need to discuss a certain matter.”

Ault glanced from Ilse back to Kosenmark. “As you wish, my lord. We can make up the time tomorrow, if that meets your schedule.” He saluted Lord Kosenmark with his blade and bowed to Ilse, who thought she detected a glimmer of curiosity in his carefully bland expression. However, Kosenmark was urging her out of the drill yard.

“You have an idea,” he said, once they were alone in his office.

“A very vague one, my lord.” By now her first satisfied thrill had faded, speeded by doubt and the realization that she did not have an answer to his dilemma, only the barest insight into how she might approach it.

Kosenmark was tapping his fingers with obvious impatience. He stopped himself with a self-conscious grimace and let out a sigh. “I am not testing you,” he said. “I asked you for ideas, not a guarantee of success.”

Well then. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “It was during drill,” she began. “When I watched your pattern with Maester Ault. I thought …” It sounded worse and worse to her now, and in spite of Kosenmark’s encouraging expression, she found it difficult to say out loud her glimmering of an idea. She dropped her gaze to her hands, thinking that if she continued to drill, she would have new calluses from knife and sword, just like Lord Kosenmark’s.

“Go on,” Kosenmark said. “I promise not to laugh.”

Liar, she thought. But that reminder helped her to speak. “I thought of drills, my lord. Your drill, and how each move led to the next. And then I thought, what if … what if you used the book as a feint?”

Kosenmark quirked his eyebrows but said nothing.

“You cannot give the book away,” Ilse went on. “If you give it to Armand, Lord Khandarr would use it to recover the jewels, and once he did, Armand would declare war against Károví. It seems illogical, but I can imagine him saying that such a war was just and necessary to prevent future wars.”

“Yes,” Kosenmark said. “It is his favorite saying. Which proves you do listen closely.” He leaned back in his chair and touched his fingers together one by one, as though working through the implications of what she said. “But why not give the book to King Leos?”

“Because you cannot,” Ilse said softly. “Treason is not your nature.”

Kosenmark’s gaze flicked up to meet hers. “Very true.”

“So you must keep the book,” Ilse said. “Use it like a sword, and drive these two kings in the direction you wish.”

“A feint,” Kosenmark said slowly. “Yes, I believe I see what you mean. A dangerous course, Mistress Ilse. If we act too openly, the king could argue treason, no matter what our motives. Or if we act too subtly, the feint might go unrecognized and we achieve nothing.”