Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Magic prickled at her fingertips—she felt a brush of his signature as the magic recognized her voice and words—and the door swung open.

Raul had doused all the lamps, leaving the room in a dim gray darkness. Coming inside, Ilse could make out only shadows and the vague silhouettes of the desk and chairs. Farther on, tall gray squares marked the windows. These stood open to the evening sky, now obscured by heavy clouds. Rain was in the air, and the salt tang smelled heavier than ever.

“Lord Kosenmark?”

Silence answered her. He might be in the garden, she decided. Steadying the tray, she picked her way across the room. She had just reached the far doors when Raul’s voice broke the stillness.

“Go away.”

Ilse stopped. He was somewhere to her left—there among the thickest shadows. She turned, and a movement caught her eye—Raul, lifting a hand to his face.

“I brought you wine,” she said.

“I don’t need it.”

His voice was high and whisper thin.

Ilse set her tray on the nearest table and lit a lamp. Raul sat propped against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, one hand covering his face. She filled the wine cup halfway in case his hands were not steady. She thought they would not be. When she turned back, she saw that Raul was watching her through slitted eyes.

“Go away,” he repeated.

“No.”

His mouth rippled, but he said nothing. Ilse knelt in front of him and offered the cup. Raul stared at it, then at her. “Have you come for pity or curiosity?”

“Neither. I came for friendship.”

He made an inarticulate sound, deep in his throat, like an animal in pain. Then with an abrupt movement, he took the cup. His sleeve fell back, and she saw marks upon his wrists that looked like bruises. A faint scent of magic hung in the air, but she couldn’t tell if the magic came from him or her.

Raul drank. Blinked and peered at her, as though seeing her for the first time. “You look tired,” he said, his voice no longer so strained.

“A little.”

He nodded. “You brought only one cup?”

She shrugged.

“Here, share mine.”

His fingers were hot, hers cold. She sipped the wine, thinking she tasted salt tears on the rim.

“I’m sorry,” Raul said. “I was rude.”

She poured more wine and gave him the cup again. He drained the wine, then cradled the cup between his hands. This close, she could see tears upon his face. More gleamed on his lashes.

“Did you love him so much then?” she asked softly.

Raul’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Once. Very much. But he— I’m a difficult man, as you know.”

Ilse watched him, uncertain what to say.

Raul laughed faintly. “You don’t say anything. You must agree.”

“No. That’s not it—” She stopped and tried again. “You are not perfect. But you have been kind and generous to me.”

Color edged Raul’s cheeks. “I think you should go,” he whispered. “Please. I can’t— I ought to be alone. Thank you for your concern. But please go.”

Ilse nodded. She set the wine jug within his reach and the water jug beside it. Raul had closed his eyes, shutting her out. His face was stone-still, and his breath came deep and regular, as though he were exercising profound control.