Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

stairs and through the pleasure house’s grand front doors, where the coach waited, her baggage already stowed. Ilse waved aside the guards and mounted into the coach herself. A glance at the house showed nothing—only dark windows and a blank facade of dusky red stone.

The guards closed the coach’s door and took their posts. The driver mounted to her seat. Ilse shut her eyes. No tears. No sudden weakness. But when the coach rolled into motion, she leaned out the window for one last hungry glance. Far above, golden firelight flickered in a window. Ilse caught the strong dark scent of magic with Raul’s signature. Until forever. That is my promise.

Magic and light both vanished. Ilse fell back against the cushioned seats. She dared not dwell upon how long forever might be.

The coach wound through Tiralien’s streets and avenues, from the elegant neighborhood where Raul Kosenmark’s pleasure house stood, through the merchants’ quarter, then to the public thoroughfares, already noisy with traffic. At the city’s western gates, they halted, and while the driver exchanged news with the guards, Ilse watched several caravans making ready for their own departure. Guards patrolled on horseback and on foot. Crewmembers stacked barrels into wagons. Young boys and girls darted between the wagons, as quick and lively as the dust motes whirling through the sunlight.

The driver finished her conversation. Once more the coach rolled forward. Ilse had the brief impression of the sentries bowing to her, the gates impossibly tall and bright. Then they were through, and leaving Tiralien behind.

* * *

ILSE TOOK HER journey in easy stages, stopping at inns or camping at the roadside shelters. Her guards, a woman and a man, doubled as Ilse’s servants. Deft and polite, they saw to all her needs—setting up camp, fetching water and cooking meals, and caring for the horses. When Ilse retired to her luxurious private tent, they stood watch in turns. Raul had discreetly checked their references himself. Ilse trusted them. Even so, she wore a knife strapped to her wrist and another in her boot—knives she knew how to wield.

Four days from Tiralien, after settling camp for the night, the senior guard approached Ilse, and presented her with a small wooden box and a sealed envelope. “My lady, a runner came to me right before we left Tiralien. He gave me these, said to wait so many days before I was to give it to you.”

The box was narrow and held shut with leather straps with buckles. Ordinary. The envelope was heavy—several sheets thick—and she detected strong magic saturating the parchment and wax seal. Neither of them carried any inscription. “Thank you,” she said.

She went into her tent, glad for the privacy, and lit a shaded lamp. The box first, she decided.

She unbuckled the straps and opened the lid. Straw filled the interior. On top lay a small square of paper with the printed words A Dangerous Gift.

Raul. Her heart beating faster, she cautiously reached into the straw and pulled out a dagger in a leather sheath. She exhaled in silent laughter as she drew the dagger from the sheath and inspected the dark blue blade. Dangerous, yes. Any gift from Raul Kosenmark would prove dangerous. Dangerous to her resolve. Dangerous if anyone discovered who had given her this very beautiful, undoubtedly very costly dagger.

And yet, it was a deliberately anonymous gift.

I will keep it.

She sheathed the dagger and set it aside. Next, the envelope with its seal. Magic nipped at her fingertips as the wax parted. The letter unfolded into her lap—five pages of closely written script that looked as though it had flowed from Raul’s pen without hesitation or correction. Had he written these pages during their hours apart? she wondered. Then she was devouring its words, while the scent and buzz of magic rippled over her skin.

He wrote of his unqualified love, of his admiration for her strength and bravery and intelligence. He wrote of trust in her decision, and of his hope that their lives would reunite without barriers or constraints, just as she wished. There was no word of politics or schemes or their shared beliefs, but she still read those thoughts behind every word he had written. As she read on, her heart lifted with a tenuous joy.

Beloved, you might find moments where you doubt my constancy, when you suspect I relinquished you too easily, because my love had faded to ordinary desire. Disbelieve those thoughts. Cherish our past memories only as they give you strength. Like swords tested apart, we will prove that much stronger when joined together.

He had signed the letter Raul of Valentain. Next to his signature, he had pressed a single rose petal, of a red so dark, it looked black.

Ilse folded the letter carefully and tucked it away. Soon she would have to destroy it. But not yet, she thought. Please, not yet.

* * *

WITHIN ANOTHER DAY, they met the southern highway, which looped between the hills in slow unhurried curves. Soon the Gallenz River disappeared from view, oaks and aspen gave way to scrubby pines, and the hard-packed road changed from dun-colored dirt to dark red clay. The driver stopped frequently to rest the horses and let them graze on the sparse grass, while the guards built a fire and prepared tea for Ilse. Ilse read from her favorite books or watched the guards practice their sword work. At times she simply gazed into the southern hills, remembering her own trek, alone, through their northern counterpart.

At the next valley, a road built of crushed stone and dirt led across the marshes and into the next range of hills. They traveled south and then southeast along a larger highway, where they encountered farmers and itinerant craftsmen, a scribe journeying to her next appointment, and even squads of soldiers marching in formation. There were garrisons all along the coast, set at regular intervals, first built against marauding pirates, then, in later years, to guard against Károví attacks. Spear points, the histories called them.

The longer the journey, the more Ilse’s thoughts returned to Raul and Tiralien. As the highway unrolled between the hills and the open seas, her gaze skipped past the foam-dotted swells, and she wondered how Raul had spent these past weeks, hardly noting what passed outside. So it took her by surprise when the coach halted, and a strong voice called out, “Who comes?”

“Mistress Ilse Zhalina of Tiralien,” the driver replied.

“Welcome, then,” said the man. “Welcome to Osterling Keep.”

* * *

THE THREE-QUARTER HOUR was ringing when Ilse’s coach stopped in front of Mistress Andeliess’s pleasure house, which stood at one corner of a busy main square. The house had three stories, built of dark red bricks, with a long veranda and graceful fluted columns. A smaller lane bordered one side; a second faced onto a courtyard with an arched passageway.

One guard held the horses, while the other helped Ilse to dismount. By the time Mistress Andeliess came out to greet her, Ilse had paid her guards and driver their final installment. Together they supervised as servants from the house unloaded Ilse’s baggage and carried it inside.

Soon the coach was gone. Ilse stood alone on the veranda with Mistress Andeliess.

“Come and see your rooms,” Mistress Andeliess said. “No doubt you’re tired and hungry, and a bit dusty from the road. I’ll send up food, and a girl to help with your things. Take today and tomorrow to settle in. Look over the house and walk around the town.”