Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“Lord Khandarr is a subtle man.”

“Which adds to the danger. He has an army, and I do not.”

“But you do have an army,” Ilse said. “An army of ordinary people who do not wish to go to war unless war is truly necessary. Merchants. Farmers. Scholars. Weavers.”

Kosenmark shook his head. “It would take an entire kingdom in revolt, and then we have war within, which is no better than war with Károví. Ah, but—” His gaze went inward, and his fingers tapped a rapid beat. Ilse wished she could read his fleeting thoughts, but she kept silent, waiting for him to speak again.

“An army,” Kosenmark breathed. “The soldiers themselves, and their officers, would dislike going to war against an invincible enemy.”

“But he’s not—”

“They do not know that. A feint, Mistress Ilse. You said it yourself. However, it will take careful planning. We must use hints instead of petitions, suggestions rather than open action.”

And so they began with rumors. Kosenmark laid out the initial plans. Lady Theysson and Lord Iani offered improvements. Ilse spent her time writing letters in different scripts, addressed to strange names in faraway cities. With these letters, which traveled circuitous routes, Kosenmark spread rumors among the border garrisons that Károví was rebuilding its defenses, inspired by the weaponry and tactics from the empire days.

“Will he understand?” Ilse murmured.

“He will. He already knows Dzavek has renewed his search for the jewels.”

Using Faulk and his agents, Kosenmark planted more rumors deep within Veraene’s borders. Rumors about dire increases in taxes, disguised as new fees laid upon guilds and independent merchants. And there would be more fees and taxes in the years to come, and more levies of troops. From there, ru

mors became genuine news of unrest in the border provinces. Within three months, reports about riots came back to the pleasure house.

“Have we gone too far?” Ilse said.

“I don’t know,” Kosenmark said. “My hope is that we demonstrate the consequences of war to Armand. Let him see what it means to him, and to Veraene, if he embarks on a long troublesome bloody war, with only uncertain support among the populace.”

“He is a stubborn man,” Ilse said. “Lord Khandarr, I mean.”

“Much like me,” Kosenmark said.

She wanted to disagree, but stopped. Though she could supply a dozen arguments against the comparison, there were similarities between these two men. Both were stubborn. Both were ruthless. Intent, she told herself. That is the difference between them.

But would intent matter to those who died?

She took up a much-folded square of paper from the stack of reports they had received from Ournes, where a garrison had mutinied. Ordered by the king to quash the rebellion, Khandarr himself rode to Ournes to resolve the matter.

… he arrived while the soldiers were still fortifying their position. The king had assigned him a company of guards for protection, but of course he needed them no more than the sun needs the candle. I saw it all from the nearby hills. The mass of soldiers advancing toward the garrison walls. The glitter of spears and swords atop the walls as the mutineers watched. Then a single man approached the gate alone. He shouted. I thought at first he demanded entrance. Fool. Then he proved me wrong. Whatever he shouted made the air turn bright and heavy. So heavy, I found it difficult to draw my breath, even so far away. Then came a wind. Then came a burst of fire within the walls. Then … And you must credit with what I say next. I saw the soldiers along the perimeter wall burning, burning, and yet they did not die. Even when their bodies fell into ash, I saw the shimmering outline of their souls twist in agony.

Shivering, Ilse folded the paper again and set it aside. No matter how many times she read the account, the horror never faded.

“That bothers you,” Kosenmark said. “What Khandarr did to those soldiers.”

She met his unblinking gaze. “It does, my lord. Those who died in Ournes. Or in the riots last month. They are not markers on a map. They are not numbers in a game. How many have died to serve our secret plans?”

Kosenmark did not flinch away. “Too many. I agree. But those numbers will be as a few faint embers in comparison to the inferno of war.” He sighed. “If I could speak a single spell to visit wisdom upon the king, I would. I cannot. So, in my stead, I send portents and signs. And today I send a petition.”

Ilse started. “But you said—”

“That was before. I believe Armand is ready to hear us. I sent him a letter this morning, while you were busy with your other work. You see, I came here four years ago because the king dismissed me. I told myself that I could not act without his sanction, I could only influence. But I had made an oath to Baerne to serve Veraene with heart and mind and blood. That oath did not vanish on his death. The time has come for me to act.”

“What did you say?” Ilse whispered, going cold with apprehension.

“A warning. Anonymous for now.” He shrugged. “Call it habit, or call it ordinary caution. I am too close to the matter to tell the difference.”

It was a short note, he told her. Short and blunt, delivered like a thrust with the sword, Ilse thought as she listened. The note read:

We have secured word of Lir’s jewels, Our demand is this—break off your preparations for war, or we shall ensure that Leos Dzavek has the weapons he needs to defend himself.