Passion Play (33 page)

Of course. She was not alone in this house. Runners sometimes came through the courtyard. With the coming of spring, the gardeners were out weeding and pruning and clearing away the winter’s dead leaves. It might even be Kathe, who sometimes walked through these gardens during her breaks. She would write a note, wait for someone to pass, and fire off her message.

One chance. Kosenmark would not give her another. She had to make it count.

She made another search of her rooms, this time with an eye for writing materials. At first, she was dismayed to find nothing. Then, behind her bed, she found a scrap of paper wedged between the bedpost and the wall. Evidently the chambermaid had missed it.

By jiggling and rocking the bed, Ilse worked the paper loose. She set the paper aside and went in search of ink or lead or anything that she could use for writing.

She found nothing. She had dozens of lead sticks in a jar in her sitting room, but nothing in her bedroom. Nadine’s cosmetics would have worked, but Nadine had taken them away after she and Kathe helped Ilse to dress.

She made another circuit of the room. What else could she write with? Her own blood? The thought made her queasy. She paused by the windows, shivering in the cool air. The early spring mornings were cool still, and her fire had burned down. Would they leave her in the cold as well? Or would they give her wood to build a fire?

Wood. Fire. Cold. Coal. Idly her mind skipped over the links, then stopped. Coal. Yes.

Ilse hurried to the fireplace. The chambermaid had been more thorough here, but Ilse found a heap of ashes in the back. Sifting through them, she dug out a thick piece of bark, scorched along one side. “You are my friend,” she whispered. “You are my voice to the world.”

It occurred to her that Raul Kosenmark would view any message as proof of her guilt.
Let him,
she thought.
I know I am innocent.

She dusted off her hands and carried the bark back to her bed. She had no desk in her bedroom, but the floor made a good writing surface. She smoothed out the paper. It was smaller than she first thought—hardly as big as her palm. She would have to choose her words carefully and write them strong enough to withstand smudging. Very carefully, she shaped the bark into a point and began to write.

My name is Ilse Zhalina. I am falsely held a prisoner here. Please help me—

The doors slammed open and one of the guards stalked into the room. Ilse scrabbled to hide her note, but the man shoved her away. He caught up the paper and charcoal and was out the door before she caught her breath. She lunged for the door. It slammed shut in her face.

“Please, let me go,” she cried out. “I did nothing wrong. Nothing!”

Her answer was a boom as the outer door slammed shut.

Ilse leaned against her bedroom door, shaking. “I did nothing wrong,” she repeated in a softer voice. “Nothing. I did not spy for Lord Khandarr. I told no one about your meeting or what you do here. I only opened that one letter by accident. And then I dropped all the letters onto the floor, and when I picked those up, I read the other one. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I knew nothing about you or your secret plans. I wish I were free and far away.”

Tears leaked from her eyes. Angry with herself for crying, she swiped them away. She didn’t want the guards to hear her crying. Kosenmark must have set them to listen at the vents, like dogs waiting outside a rabbit’s run. That meant he trusted them with his secrets. Them but not her. Or maybe he was listening himself.

“Are you?” she said out loud. “Are you spying on me? What makes you different from Lord Khandarr? Nothing. You both want power. You both like secrets. All those letters.” She spat out the word. “Stupid letters with secret marks and code words and talk about errant sons when you really mean Armand of Angersee. You make it into a game and call it politics. If you cared about the king, you’d be honest with him. You’d see that he did the right thing, instead of running away from court. But you won’t hear me, will you? Can you? Can you hear me, Lord Raul Kosenmark of Valentain? Why don’t you listen?”

Her voice broke and she slumped to the floor, breathing hard. What if he did listen? What if he sent more guards to silence her?

Let him. Let him do whatever he likes. But I’ll fight. I won’t pretend the way I did with Alarik Brandt.

The bells rang ten, followed by the fainter quarter bells. Soon Kathe would be awake and in the kitchen. She might try to visit Ilse, to ask about Lord Vieth’s banquet. What would she think when she saw the guards? Or would Lord Kosenmark use his famous discretion and give out excuses for Ilse’s absence until he verified her story? And if he was unable to do so …

Exhaustion flooded her without warning. She stumbled to her bed and lay atop the covers, but images from the past day flickered past in memory. Lady Alia leaning close to warn her. Baron Eckard’s shock upon seeing her. Kosenmark’s eyes, close to hers, when he studied her after their kiss.
He was testing me. He wanted to see how I felt.

How had she felt? She no longer knew. It had been so strange. Panic at first, when he took her face between his hands and pressed his lips hard against hers. But those second kisses, not so terrible as the first, those had dissolved her panic and called up warmth.

“And why not?” she burst out. “Why must I be a stone forever? Why can’t I feel love or passion or even lust? You aren’t made like that. You cut off your own flesh for king and court. And then you lost everything. Why are you allowed to go on? Why doesn’t someone tell you, oh,
you
cannot be a lover, you cannot be a man?”

Nothing. No response. He had locked her in and forgotten her. She let her head sink onto her hands. She could hear the thrum of her pulse at her temples. Her eyes felt dry and hot from crying. Dimly, she was aware the quarter bells were ringing again.

A loud click startled her, and the door swung open. Ilse lifted her head and sucked in her breath.

Kosenmark stood on the threshold, a tall dark statue outlined in sunlight.

“They did,” he said heavily. “They did tell me that.”

Before she could speak, he shut the door, leaving only the echo of his voice behind.

*  *  *

AT NOON, SHE
heard noises in the next room. Ilse pressed her ear to the door. One person walking about, she decided. She heard a clinking sound. More footsteps. Soon after there was a muffled knocking from the outer door. Curious, Ilse tried the latch and found it unlocked. Still unsure of what they expected, she pushed the door open.

Silence greeted her. Silence and an empty room.

Not quite empty, she thought. A large tray with several covered dishes and a sizable carafe waited for her on the table. A clean chamber pot stood by the door. So they did not mean to starve her. Nor would they make her live in filth, but the implications were clear. They did not mean to release her soon.

She tried the outer door next, but she wasn’t surprised to find it locked.

The smell of hot food enticed her back to the table. Lifting one lid after the other, she found a bowl of spicy stew and a dish of honeyed apples. There was also half a loaf of fresh white bread, and the carafe contained enough water to last her through the afternoon if she were careful. Better fare than she had expected.

“You can lock me away,” she said aloud. “But you cannot make me like it.”

A note was tucked underneath one of the plates.
Eat as you wish then go back into your bedroom. We will know when you are done.

She wanted to throw the dishes against the wall, but they had judged her hunger nicely. The savory clouds of steam reminded her that she had not eaten since the banquet. Hating her weakness, Ilse ate everything quickly and washed down the meal with a large mug of cold water. Then she moved the carafe and chamber pot into her bedroom. The moment she did so, she heard rapid footsteps outside the room and the lock clicked shut.

*  *  *

WHEN THE BELLS
rang the evening hour, the same routine took place. She ate less than before, but slowly, wanting to extend the time spent outside her bedroom. Eventually, however, she had to finish. She could guess what would happen if she did not willingly return to her bedroom.

Four times the next day, they allowed her to emerge from her bedchamber. The pattern varied only slightly. Mornings brought her hot coffee and a washbasin in addition to her breakfast. Noon meant a substantial meal. By afternoon, she was grateful when the guards brought her tea and biscuits and cheese. Supper came later than before. She had plentiful water and a clean empty chamber pot every time.

In between those visits, she paced her bedchamber. She had no books to read. She had no writing materials. Whoever had brought that first tray of food had also removed all her pens and paper and ink from the parlor. Besides, what could she write? Another note begging for her freedom?

“I begged you once,” she said out loud. “Not again. You’ll get no pleasure from my distress.”

She had taken to addressing the vent as though it were Lord Kosenmark. It
was
Lord Kosenmark, she was sure of it. These vents led up to his secret rooms on the fourth floor, where no one ventured except by his permission. And that he would not give. He had too many secrets to trust a mere guard to listen to Ilse’s ranting.

And so she talked, knowing that talking changed nothing, but it was such a relief to speak openly, she didn’t care what the consequences might be. She quoted every poem she knew by Tanja Duhr and the other poets she loved. She talked about the books she liked and the ones she thought pretentious or tedious or overwrought. She spoke of her brother and his flute. But speaking of home brought her close to tears. She broke off and paced for a while, until she recovered her composure. All the while, the silence drifted and settled about her.

“So I left home,” she went on. “You wanted to know why. I told you, but I doubt you understand. I hated home. It was like death. All wrapped in silk and scented with herbs, but dead. Dead and silent and locked in the dark. When I left, I said I would never go back. Never. No matter what happened. And so much did. So much.”

Her voice caught. She took a quick breath and went on. “Scared. Stupid, scared, and running away. And that was only the first quarter hour.”

It was too painful to talk about the caravan, so she didn’t. She talked instead about her time in the wilderness—of eating raspberries warmed by the sun, and drinking water so cold it made her bones ache. She talked of how a mouthful of smoked beef tasted like the finest dish served in the governor’s palace, and how magic’s fresh green scent was more intoxicating than wine.

“I had leaves for my featherbed,” she said softly. “I had the sky for my companion and stars for my poetry. And no one could harm me or lock me away. But then I came here.”

She paused and took a long drink of water. Three cups left. She would have to ration her water, just as she had rationed her food in the wilderness.

“Here,” she repeated, searching for the thread of her speech. “I was free here. For a while. Free to do my work and learn new things. And Kathe was kind to me. Kind and patient even with someone as clumsy and untaught as I was. That must be why Lys hated me so, though I did nothing to her. Janna said she was afraid. Maybe you are, too, and that’s why you have all these spy holes—because you’re afraid.”

Being afraid explained so much, she thought, and she continued on that theme well into the evening, not stopping even when the shadows deepened into night. The guards had left her firewood and new candles, but she left them untouched, preferring the darkness, which made talking easier.

She talked about secrets, speculating that secrets were a kind of contagion in Lord Kosenmark’s household. The most obvious were the secrets the courtesans learned from their clients, those details let slip during moments of passion, and those of the courtesans themselves, who came from such varied backgrounds. Just as plain to her were the spy holes set about the house, those she knew about and those she guessed at. She wondered aloud if Duenne’s Court was the same. If it was, such an atmosphere surely lay behind Armand of Angersee’s character. Most definitely behind Lord Kosenmark’s.

Her voice grew hoarse and low, but still she talked. About truth. About speaking out honestly, no matter how difficult.

She stopped, thinking she had heard something. She tilted back her head and listened hard. Yes, and it came from above, very faint but she was sure of it—a sound like the wind sighing through the trees. Then silence.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A THIRD DAY
passed. A fourth. By the fifth day, she stopped talking altogether and spent her time staring out the window. She had sunk deep into waiting, and when the knock sounded at her bedchamber door, she did not react at first.

A voice called out to her as if from a great distance. She ignored it. But whoever spoke proved as stubborn as she. They called and called again until eventually she roused herself and opened the door.