Allegiance (River of Souls 3)

Ilse released a long slow breath and glanced from them back to the letter. She reread its contents more closely, taking in all the details of the proposed title, seeing them now against Marte’s and Olivia’s words. T

he signature was from Lord Alberich de Ytel himself, Regent to the Council. She tried the title out on her tongue. Lady Ilse. It felt awkward, wrong. She tried again. Lady Ilse, member of the court. That went better. She had earned a place among the advisers in court, but nothing official. Perhaps this was the means for her to step from the shadows at last.

“You are right,” she said.

“Of course I am,” Olivia said.

Ilse hardly paid her any attention. She attempted a third pass through the letter, but though she had nearly memorized its contents by now, she found herself unable to truly assimilate its meaning for her and her future. She started up. “Excuse me. I must go.”

She made directly for Raul Kosenmark’s apartments.

Once Iani had declared his friend recovered, Raul had requested, and received, separate quarters from his father and sisters. They lay on an entirely different floor, in a different wing, which Ilse could see from the balcony of her own rooms. The appointments for these new quarters seemed relatively plain and small compared to the Kosenmark family suite. A modest entry hall, leading into a sunny parlor, with a second more spacious sitting room that served as his library.

Ilse found him in the sitting room, dressed in a plain shirt and loose trousers. His sword lay on the cushions next to him, along with various tools for sharpening and cleaning. Almost three months after his ordeal in Anderswar, his flesh and bones had healed, though he still tired easily. It was the new hesitation in his manner, the gravity that had overtaken his passion and joy, which troubled her.

He smiled as she came into the room. “My love.”

“My love,” she replied.

She was tense and breathless, uncertain how to proceed.

“You seem anxious,” he said at last.

Ilse laughed softly. “That is because I received a most interesting letter this morning.”

“About your pardon?” He smiled faintly. “I have mine as well.”

“That and more.” She hesitated a moment, not certain how to relay the news, nor how to frame the questions that came with it. “The council … It appears the council wishes to confer a title on me.”

His golden eyes widened and there was a quirk at his lips that reminded her of the old Raul Kosenmark. She wished she could leave the matter at that, but she could not. The truth, she told herself. No more secrets, especially not between us.

“Was that your doing?” she asked lightly.

The quirk vanished and he shook his head. “Not mine, nor my father’s. You have won this on your own, my love.”

So. He understood. She glanced at his sword. There were rust stains on the blade, as if it had been stored away without proper attention. Raul had the cloth and oil and tools ready to clean the weapon, but he had made no progress, and she wondered how long he had sat there, dreaming and doing nothing.

“Will you take up drill again?” she asked.

He shrugged. For that one moment, he had seemed alive and amused—ready to engage with the outer world—but the animation had leaked away, and he was staring at the sword as though it were an alien thing.

A rack of weapons stood by the wall, including two wooden swords for practice. Ilse took the shortest one from its hook. Its grip felt familiar, and she thought that it came from the old pleasure house in Tiralien—a coincidence, but one that confirmed her impulse. “Perhaps I should challenge you,” she said. “Lady to Lord.”

Raul glanced up, startled. “Ilse…”

She smacked him on the shoulder with the flat of the blade. “Get up. Show me you haven’t forgotten.”

Another hard smack sent him scrambling from the chair. He caught up the second wooden blade, but not before she landed another blow.

Raul grabbed her wooden blade. “Stop. I know what you’re doing.”

“Do you?”

She yanked her sword free and circled the chair to launch a flurry of strikes. Once and twice she penetrated his guard, but he managed to block the rest. Now he pressed forward to force her retreat. She circled around the table and chairs. Perhaps she ought to suggest a new drill to Benedikt Ault—swordplay with obstacles. It would prepare a student for a genuine skirmish, she thought, remembering her first true battle, the terror and confusion, the sick feeling when she killed a man, and how she nearly died.

She lunged forward, only to have Raul catch her blade on his. Before he could return the attack, she danced backward and out of his reach. Raul was grinning now. She laughed. When he flung down a chair between them, she leaped over it to engage with his blade. This time she was not quick enough. He caught her blade near the hilt and twisted his around, sending her sword spinning through the air.

Raul closed the distance between them and caught her in his arms. He bent to kiss her.