Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Kosenmark straightened up. “You wish to leave?”

She nodded. “I think it best.”

“But why—” He stopped. A look of comprehension passed over his face, followed by a careful blankness. “Yes. I see. We must talk, but not here and now.” He glanced from her to his papers with a distracted air. “Let me conduct this meeting alone. Come to my office in two hours, and we can discuss everything in private.”

She started to protest that she could work, but Raul had already turned his attention back to the papers. With a sigh, she put her writing materials back into her case. It was what she needed, she told herself. A fresh start, with new friends and a different employer. She might even go to Duenne as she first planned.

She was telling herself the same thing two hours later when she arrived at the fourth floor. Lamps were burning in their brackets, but the alcove was empty. She tried the door and found it locked. Of course. He always kept it locked when he was absent. Locked to everyone except her and him.

He shall have to change the spells once I leave, she thought.

She almost turned around. Only the knowledge that it wouldn’t be easier tomorrow stopped her.

Reluctantly, she laid her hand over the latch and spoke the words to unlock it. The door swung open and a puff of cool air blew from the dark rooms within.

Ilse lit several lamps and built up the fire. Then she sat by the fireplace to wait. In the corner, the largest sand glass turned over slowly, its contents flashing like silver in the lamplight. A beat of silence, then the chimes rang softly. Once, twice … all the way to ten. Already the smaller glass was tilting toward its next revolution. It was impossible to stop time, she thought. Like the wind, like the ocean tides. Like the pull of her emotions. She could not resist it.

Restive, she stood and went to the garden doors. Outside, a light snow was falling again. Clouds blotted out the stars and moon, but lamplight from the office illuminated the nearest paths. Summer’s lush foliage had long withered and blown away. Now silvery lines painted the stark branches. One intricate pattern exchanged for another, she thought.

She pushed the doors open and went outside. The air was crisp, and a breeze whirled the snowflakes around her. Hugging her arms around herself, Ilse threaded her way between the rose-marble statues and ornamental trees. Clean cold air, like that of Melnek in late autumn. Memories of childhood chased through her thoughts. More recent memories soon overtook those. She passed the bench where Raul told her about Brandt’s death. He wanted to set her free, he’d said. Free to leave Tiralien, and make a life in Duenne if she wished. She’d misread his intentions then. She’d misread them during their long conversations, their lessons with Ault. She’d flirted with dreams and imagined herself Raul’s equal, like Stefan and Anike, free of titles and rank.

But she was a merchant’s daughter, and he was Raul Kosenmark, heir to House Valentain, and Prince of Veraene.

“Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she murmured. “Komen mir de lieht.”

Light coalesced at her fingertips, casting a green-gold halo around her. She held the beacon aloft, then on impulse she set it free to drift skyward, catching on the falling snowflakes.

“Ilse?”

Raul stood at the open door.

“Duke Feltzen?” she asked breathlessly, trying to bring her voice under control.

“We completed our business.”

His tone was unreadable, like his shadowed face. She wanted to make excuses, thinking that she had chosen a bad time for this interview, but Raul was beckoning her inside. “The night air is treacherous. Come inside, and we can have our talk.”

Ilse walked past him swiftly, catching a whiff of cedar and wood smoke and musk from his skin. Desire welled up, that strange new desire, all the more powerful from its previous absence. She suppressed it ruthlessly, but she knew her face was hot. When she reached the chairs, she bent down to fuss with her skirt hem, brushing away bits of leaves and twigs from the garden path. Perhaps he would attribute her ruddiness to the cold.

Raul had ordered wine. He poured for them both and handed her a cup. His favorite pattern, she remembered. Rose petals etched upon dark red crystal, the pattern so faint you only saw it when the light glanced over its surface.

She drank a swallow. Raul cradled his cup in his hands, his gaze somewhat absent.

“So you wish to leave,” he said at last.

She nodded.

“I admit I have been difficult to work with this past month.”

His voice sounded higher than usual. She had once found that aspect of him unsettling—hearing a woman’s contralto tones from the throat of a fully grown man. No longer.

“I

t was a difficult time,” she said. “I understand.”

“Then why? Are you tired of your lessons? Have I given you too much work?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. You did nothing wrong, my lord.”