CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

THE NEXT FEW hours passed in a confused jumble of faces and voices. At Mistress Hedda’s orders, Kathe took charge of Ilse. She soon had Ilse lying in her own bed, dressed in clean clothes and with most of the blood washed away. Within the hour, Mistress Hedda came to her side, and with Kathe assisting, she cleaned out Ilse’s many scrapes and cuts, muttering words like stupid and arrogant and reckless all the while.

We were both stupid. Stupid and careless, Ilse thought hazily. Raul should have gone directly to Lady Theysson’s house instead of trying to lure out Khandarr’s agents himself. And she, she ought to have notified the watch the moment Lord Dedrick came with his news. But the watch patrols were stretched thin these past few weeks, with everyone clamoring for more patrols, and more guards, in every quarter of the city.

Warm water splashed over the gash in her arm. A shock of pain went through her, and she cried out. Dimly she heard a commotion outside the door, but then Mistress Hedda’s face appeared above hers. Someone placed a knotted cloth between Ilse’s teeth. “Bite down.”

Ilse bit down while more warm water flowed over her arm. A pause. Then the pungent scent of garlic filled the air. Mistress Hedda dabbed at the wound with a gentle touch, commenting, “Wine is well enough, I guess, if there’s nothing else, but for today, you’ll stink a bit so we can clean out the infection. Tomorrow we try rose tea. At least he knew better than to close the wound. Otherwise, I’d have to cut it open to pick out all the dirt and threads.”

“How is he?” Ilse whispered.

“Well enough,” Mistress Hedda said drily. “Better than he deserves. There’s a lovely long gash across his scalp. He’s been kicked and scratched and slashed and even bitten. I did work enough magic to open that eye, but he’s not so pretty right now.” She paused in winding a fresh bandage around Ilse’s arm. “He told me one of those thugs made a mess of his ribs, but that you helped him use magic to mend them enough so he could walk.”

“A little.”

“Interesting. Is that why Lord Kosenmark asked me to teach you magic?”

Her pulse jumped in surprise. “When did he say that?”

“Last hour. In between cursing me for scrubbing his tender scalp too hard.” Hedda set aside the roll of bandages, then carefully soaked a sponge in the garlic mixture. “Come. We must clean out these scratches and scrapes. Even the tiny ones can be death.”

She worked with a gentle and sure touch. Still Ilse was trembling before she had done. “It didn’t hurt so much last night.”

“You were too busy to notice,” Hedda said with a sympathetic smile. “And what with you and Lord Kosenmark working magic, that held off the worst of the aches. Which was lucky for both of you. Otherwise I doubt you or he would have lasted so long. You never told me that you knew magic.”

“I don’t. Just a few words.”

“Perhaps you had a talent in a previous life. That happens, you know.” Hedda patted Ilse’s skin dry with a fresh cloth. The garlic mixture stung, marking all her scrapes with pinpricks. Knuckles. Mouth. Knees. Palms. Her throat still hurt when she swallowed. Tentatively she ran her fingers over it. The flesh felt swollen, and she could almost feel the imprint of fingers around her throat.

She glanced up to see Mistress Hedda shaking her head. “What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? Nothing more than you almost died.” Hedda took up a packet of herbs and fussed with it a moment, picking at the threads sewed along its top edge. In a softer voice, she said, “The first night you came to us, I said you had trusted someone too easily. Do not make that same mistake again. Lord Kosenmark …” She glanced up toward the ceiling to the vent over Ilse’s bed. “He asks a great deal of everyone,” she said distinctly. “Too much, in my opinion.”

“He does the same with himself,” Ilse said.

Hedda sighed and shook her head, but did not argue the point. “Well, you’ve had enough of nursing for now. Sleep. You won’t have much choice, I imagine. I’ll come back this afternoon to change these bandages. If we keep these wounds clear, you shouldn’t need more than a week in bed.”

She gave Ilse a tonic, which sent her into a deep and dreamless sleep. It was late afternoon, the bells striking six, before she woke again. Someone had drawn the curtains, leaving only a thin gap where the setting sun streamed through. The air smelled of crushed herbs, and for a moment, she imagined herself back in Melnek. She turned her head toward the window, saw her tapestry of Lir, and remembered in a rush where she was.

“Ilse?”

A tall sinuous figure rose from the nearby bench and came to her bedside. Nadine, dressed for the evening in a costume of pale rose silks that flowed around her like a strangely colored waterfall, lit by the evening sun. She laid her hand over Ilse’s forehead. “How do you feel?”

“Nadine.” Ilse coughed to clear her throat—it hurt less than before—and tried again. “Nadine, what are you doing here?”

“Watching over you, oh foolish one. And a thankless chore it is, listening to you snore the afternoon away. Or rather a part of the afternoon. Kathe had the hour before me. Hanne watched before her. Mistress Hedda told us that we were not to leave you alone.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why did we volunteer? Or why did you try to get yourself murdered?”

It was too difficult to work through Nadine’s intricate nonsense. Why indeed? She opened and shut her mouth, suddenly overcome by a great apathy. Speaking was too much trouble. So was thinking. Her nose itched. She tried to scratch it, but her hands had turned heavy. Nadine delicately rubbed it for her, then fell to stroking Ilse’s hair. Soothing. Yes. That was all she wanted, to lie here with her eyes closed and let her thoughts drift without care.

“You scared us all,” Nadine said softly. “Running off alone through the streets. Idiot. You might have killed someone.”

I did kill someone, Ilse thought.

She must have spoken out loud, because Nadine’s hand paused, then resumed its gentle caress. “With a knife? Is that what Lord Kosenmark has been teaching you, down there so early in the morning? Ah, never mind. I can guess. Kathe nearly chased after you last night, when the first guards came back alone. She was sensible, however, and sent out the watch. They found Herrick and the other guards, but no sign of you or Lord Kosenmark. What happened?”

“A fight.”

“So I gathered. What kind of fight?”

“Attacked. By brigands.”

“Ah, yes. Those brigands. I’ve heard a multitude of fascinating rumors about these mysterious robber bands who descended upon Tiralien in the past month. Strange that they have never before attacked someone outright. But never mind. I understand you cannot tell me anything more.” She smiled unhappily. “So, my warrior maid. Are you strong enough for a visit from him?”

Her voice was low and sad. Her expression strangely compassionate.

“You mean Lord Kosenmark?” Ilse asked.

“Who else?”

Without waiting for Ilse to answer, Nadine touched her cheek and withdrew. Voices sounded outside the door. A moment later, Raul Kosenmark entered her bedroom. In the dim light, he looked no different from any other day, but when he happened to cross through the band of sunlight, she could see that bruises mottled his face, and a pink scar showed at the edge of his scalp. One eye still appeared puffy and dark.

He sat by her bedside and gave her a crooked smile. “So. We lived.”

In spite of her cracked and swollen lips, she smiled in return. “We did, my lord.”

“Mistress Hedda tells me that you need a few days to rest. You lost a great deal of blood.”

Ilse’s smile dropped away with the memory of Herrick jerking and twitching as he died. She turned her head away and stared out the gap between the curtains. She let out a long sigh, which did nothing for the tightness in her chest. Raul gathered her hands in his. “Think of it this way, Ilse. We must live well, so that we honor their memory.”

“How many died?” she whispered.

“Everyone who came with me—Herrick, Klaus, Varin, Azzo, and Bekka. In the second squad, we lost no one, but Captain Gerrit was badly wounded. Mistress Hedda saw to him last night long before we returned. The first squad never met the enemy, it seems. Before they reached the bridge, the city watch intercepted and detained them, saying someone had accused them of public brawling. They would have brawled,” he added under his breath, “if they had reached their goal, so perhaps it’s fitting. I shall have to see to their release tonight.”

“Who sent them? Khandarr?”

“I believe so. I collected a few items—a knife and a ring. Those might tell us something.”

Ilse nodded. She tried to think out the implications of last night—the runners intercepted, the broken code—but her thoughts scattered and whirled in useless confusion. All she could think was that her advice had wrecked everything. Tears leaked from her eyes. She tried to swipe them away, but her hand flopped to one side.

Raul took a handkerchief and did it for her. “What’s wrong? Other than murder and betrayal?”

“I was stupid,” she whispered. “Stupid and reckless.”

He tucked the handkerchief in his pocket and resumed possession of her hands. “You are second-guessing yourself. Yes, we made a mistake—one with terrible consequences, which I see you have thought of.”

“I did everything wrong.”

“Not everything. You lived. I lived. We won’t make the same mistakes again.”

“Just different ones,” she whispered.

“That, Anike, is called life. And you must not brood. I’ve taken measures to guard the house. And by the way, Lord Dedrick returned home safely, if not directly. The watch took him up with the brigands at his heels, and returned him to his father.” His voice turned dry. “Baron Maszuryn wrote to me himself. He has suggested that Dedrick remain within the household until he recovers his senses. I agreed. The streets are not safe.”

The news about Dedrick made it all clear to her. He wanted to encourage her, the way a general or prince would a valued soldier.

What about his words to you outside? whispered her treacherous memory.

It means nothing, nothing, nothing.

That Raul smiled at her again, a strange twisted smile that made his bruises and scars ripple, did not help. “Stubborn woman,” he said. “I was going to make a suggestion, but I see you are in the mood to oppose everything, sensible or not.”

Ilse opened and closed her mouth. Something in his tone pricked at her memory. Then she recalled Mistress Hedda’s warning. “Is it about magic?”

Raul made an exasperated noise. “Ah, that woman. She told you, didn’t she?”

“Of course she told me.”

“She should not meddle so.”

Ilse wanted to observe that he meddled, all the time, but she could not bring herself to make a joke. Not yet. He seemed to read her mood, because this time he leaned forward, so that she could not avoid his gaze. “I am serious about everything I said. You must not blame yourself for last night. And you do have a talent for magic. How much I cannot say, but I do know that I could not have walked home without your help. So I ask you, would you like to learn more? Mistress Hedda is willing to teach you.”

She looked away, then back, unnerved by his proximity. However discolored and distorted his features, this man knew how to use voice and presence and warmth to persuade, and even though she was aware of the ploy, she found herself responding. She frowned, irritated with him and with herself.

“You look suspicious,” Raul observed. “Or have I sprouted wings and scales?”

“Just the scales,” she said weakly. “Green ones.”

He grinned. “Shall I take that as a yes? You could start tomorrow.”

“No. No and no.” Mistress Hedda appeared in the doorway, glowering at him. “My lord, I told you this morning, you cannot rush these things. Mistress Ilse lost a great deal of blood, not to mention her bruised and mangled arm. And the knee, which traipsing about the streets all night did not help. She cannot think of starting magic lessons before ten days.”

“Four days,” Raul countered. “I could hire a mage-surgeon to cure the arm and knee.”

They were arguing over her like cooks in the marketplace, Ilse thought. She also noticed he had not let go of her hands. “Ten days,” she said, extracting them from his. She had the satisfaction of seeing Raul look self-conscious. “When may I start my work?” she asked Mistress Hedda. “My real work, for Lord Kosenmark.”

Mistress Hedda shooed Lord Kosenmark to one side. She touched her warm dry fingers to Ilse’s throat and then her wrists. “Bend the knee.”

Ilse drew her knee up slowly. It twinged, but not as badly as she expected. Hedda nodded, then gently probed the flesh around Ilse’s bandages. “No fever. No sign of infection. Good, good.” She studied Ilse’s face closely, lips pursed, as she considered her patient’s health. “You do sound stronger. Let us revisit the question in four days. By then, the worst bruising will be over, and you’ll have more strength. You were lucky not to injure your writing hand. Lord Kosenmark?”

Kosenmark had taken a seat on the bench. He glanced from Hedda to Ilse and back. “Very well. I would not have it said I bullied her. Have I bullied you?” he said to Ilse. “You must tell me when I press my arguments too hard.”

“That,” Mistress Hedda said, “would be a daily recital.”

Raul rubbed his hand over his mouth. He was frowning, but Ilse could see that his eyes were bright with amusement. “I did not ask you,” he said. “But my secretary.”

Ah, yes. His secretary. Ilse dropped her gaze to the covers, where her hands made two small humps underneath. She had nearly forgotten.

You must never forget again, she told herself. He is your master, not your friend. Nothing has changed.

*  *  *

TO HER RELIEF, she did not receive another visit from Lord Kosenmark for nearly three days. Others came to visit, but for the most part, she drowsed and slept and drowsed again. Judging from Mistress Hedda’s muttered comments, her arm was healing well. She would always have a twisting scar from her forearm to her elbow, but the wound had closed, the muscles and flesh were no longer so bruised, and there was no sign of infection.

Her strength came back rapidly, and by the fourth day she grew bored. Another good sign, according to Kathe. With Mistress Hedda’s permission, Lord Kosenmark had Ilse’s locked letter box moved into her bedroom, where she sorted through his dwindling correspondence. Most of the letters she could forward directly to Lord Kosenmark—they came from his father, the duke, and concerned the family estates, or from Lord Kosenmark’s younger brother, who had recently married. Nothing came from Duenne or Károví, or even from agents located within Tiralien.

“I sent word out about the recent … incident,” Kosenmark told her, when she commented on this. “Faulk and I need to devise a new set of codes. And Faulk does not trust all our couriers these days. Until things are more secure, we can only work through slower channels.”

He made it sound as though they had suffered only a temporary setback to their plans. But Ilse had other visitors from within the pleasure house, and from those conversations, she pieced together a different picture.

“Poor Lord Dedrick,” Kathe said. “Lord Kosenmark paid him a visit yesterday, which did not go well. Or rather, he paid Baron Maszuryn a visit. A very short one. I doubt Lord Kosenmark will repeat it.”

She said nothing more, but Mistress Denk added later that Baron Maszuryn had ordered his son to remain at home for the next month. “They had a rare argument, Lord Dedrick and his father. In the end, Lord Dedrick won another six months at home, but eventually he must return to Duenne or forfeit half his inheritance.”

That, Ilse thought, might account for Lord Kosenmark’s distracted manner. Strange that he had not mentioned the episode to her. It’s his private affair, she reminded herself. He might have discussed such a matter with Berthold Hax, who had served Lord Kosenmark and his family for decades, but not her.

Still, she found it unsettling when it was Hanne, and not Lord Kosenmark, who told her about the many new guards patrolling the grounds, and how all deliveries to the kitchen were inspected before Mistress Raendl allowed them inside. “Janna says it’s because someone is making war on Lord Kosenmark. That is why they attacked him in the streets, and you, too, when you tried to warn him.”

“Are you afraid?” Ilse asked her.

“Oh, no. Well, sometimes. Janna tells me not to be foolish. They won’t attack here, not with six guards at every window, and the city watch making extra patrols in our neighborhood.”

Ilse watched Hanne’s face as the girl chattered on, telling her more about the guards, and how some were women, and she had never imagined that women could fight, too, though she ought to have guessed, since Ilse took lessons from Maester Ault.

“Is it true you killed a man?” Hanne said in a breathless voice.

“I don’t know. I tried. Is it true that you’re happier?”

Hanne flushed and dropped her gaze. “Yes. I still miss my mother. And my older sister. Not my brothers,” she added with a shy smile. “But Kathe says I might make a trip north this summer. Just for a visit.”

Eventually the ten days came to an end. It was a bright hot day. The sun was little more than a white smudge overhead as Lord Kosenmark helped Ilse into the carriage that would take her to Mistress Hedda’s rooms. He seemed more preoccupied than usual, she thought.

“I wish you success,” he said.

“And you, my lord,” she replied.

He started. “In what matter?”

She glanced pointedly at the three guards just mounting the carriage, then toward the driver with his club and the two other guards on their horses. Kosenmark’s gaze followed hers, and his mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Oh that. Yes, we can talk more about those matters tomorrow.”

“Today,” she said. “If your schedule permits. And I know it does.”

Kosenmark muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling.

Mistress Hedda lived just a few streets away, where she rented a set of rooms above a prosperous inn. As Ilse came into the common room, escorted by her guards, Hedda took in the scene with a grimace, but said nothing. “Come with me. They”—she indicated the guards—“can wait down here. I won’t have your concentration broken by their fidgeting.”

Her rooms occupied one corner of the second floor. The main room was large and sunny, cluttered with tables and benches in a brightly colored chaos of jars and vials and books and artifacts. Herbs hung from the ceiling and more herbs grew in pots by the window. Ilse sniffed. She smelled magic, mixed with the scents of rosemary and thyme and damp earth.

“I would think you didn’t need the herbs,” she said. “Though they do smell nice.”

“And that’s good enough for me,” Hedda said as she puttered about the room, collecting candles and boxes as she went. “Besides, magic costs more than a few herbs do. It costs me and it costs my patients, and I’m not just talking about money. It changes us. Like poison, some say. Sit over there,” she said, pointing to the table and its benches.

Ilse took a seat while Hedda set a candle on the table, then scattered dried herbs around. A light green scent filled the air around them. Hedda touched her fingers to the candle and spoke a few words in Erythandran. A light sparked at her fingertips, then a flame caught at the candle’s wick. “We start slowly. We start with you, your thoughts, and your concentration. Nothing more. Did you ever work magic before Lord Kosenmark showed you?”

“A few times. Nothing much.”

“Are you thinking of turning mage?”

The older woman’s tone was dry. Ilse could not tell exactly what Hedda thought of the matter. Oh, yes, she had agreed to teach Ilse, but only after a few crisp exchanges with Lord Kosenmark, which Raul had reported to Ilse, laughing as though he found her arguments amusing. Ilse herself wasn’t sure what to make of these lessons. Try them, Raul had insisted. Think of them as one more weapon at your command.

Except that magic isn’t a weapon, Ilse thought. It is only mankind that changes its nature.

But Raul Kosenmark had read her wishes very well. She did want to learn. She wanted to know what the old mages of Erythandra knew, when they first summoned the magic current. To ride upon the song and storm, to other worlds and other planes, as Tanja Duhr had written.

“It’s too soon for me to know,” she said. “I only know that I would like to learn more.”

Hedda shrugged. “We start with the same lesson, no matter what. Make yourself comfortable first. Now I want you to look at the candle. Don’t let your gaze wander. Just look at the candle and nothing else. Concentrate on the color, how it smells, the shape of the flame. Good. Now draw the circle tighter. Shut out everything but the wick and the flame. See the flame’s heart. Look for how it changes color. You can, you know. With magic, you can see the specks of time as it passes through the air.”

Her voice dropped into a singsong. Ilse barely heard it as she tried to concentrate on the flame and nothing but the flame. Breathe, she heard, half aloud, half in memory. Watch. Touch with your mind. Hold fast and let go. Remember and forget.

She heard laughter, felt the shift of balance. For a moment, she remained poised on the brink. She thought of the scholar painting her veins with fire. She thought of Raul Kosenmark. Then her balance tipped toward magic and she forgot all about the world.

A clawed hand touched her cheek. Ilse my love, my love, my love. She turned toward the voice but saw only the surrounding darkness. A rank scent brushed against her senses. Stiff feathers, like countless minute spines, tickled her bare skin. Ilse, Ilse, Ilse.

Words melted from one language into the next, from Veraenen into Károví into Immatris into ones she had never heard before except in dreams. The air stank with smoke though no fires broke the darkness. Her awareness was but another stream of her magical reverie, upon which she floated as though a bird upon the wind while darkness cradled her and the clawed hand teased and stroked her, calling up desire.

It might have been an hour, or a century later when she woke to a gray twilight, and the sight of Mistress Hedda’s square dark face opposite her. The candle, now a misshapen heap of wax, had burned out. The air felt warm and close, in spite of the open windows. From the nearby tower, the bells were just striking late afternoon.

Ilse blinked. Her head felt light, as though she were not quite entirely connected to her body. “What happened?”

“You summoned the current,” Hedda said. Her face was still, her eyes watchful.

“Was that wrong?”

“No, just … unexpected.” Hedda glanced toward the door. “The guards came up last hour. I sent them away. You didn’t hear?”

“No.” She wet her lips and felt tiny cracks. “I was looking at the flame.”

“What else?”

A claw tracing patterns on her bare skin. A voice saying, Ilse my love, my love, my love.

“What is it?” Hedda demanded. “What are you remembering?”

“A voice,” Ilse said weakly. “A voice that knew me from before. I can’t remember all the words, but I remember a hand touching me. Not a human hand. It said I’ve been to Vnejšek—to Anderswar, I mean.”

Without a word, Mistress Hedda rose and busied herself by the fireplace. Moments later she returned with a cup of tea, which Ilse gratefully accepted.

“You went beyond what I intended today,” Hedda said, her voice thoughtful. “It means you have a talent, and memory of past talent in magic.”

“Is that good?”

Hedda smiled faintly. “Yes and no. The memories will help in studying magic, but all magic is dangerous. That much your people had right.”

“They are not my people,” Ilse said softly. “And even though my father and grandparents came from Duszranjo, they didn’t believe those old laws.”

“Not in this life, perhaps,” Hedda said, undaunted.

She came with Ilse down the stairs where the guards waited. “Go home and rest,” she said. “Think if you want to go on. If you do, send me word. We can work out a schedule with Lord Kosenmark.”

A message waited for her in her rooms when she returned.

Come to my office. A matter of some importance has come up within the last day, and I need your advice.

Khandarr. So Kosenmark would meet with her today. She was afraid he would put her off. She read the note again, taking in its impersonal wording, the fact that this message carried no signature, and that he had not sealed it with magic or wax, as was his habit. Uneasy, her hand went to her arm, where the healing scar itched.

When she arrived at the landing, Kosenmark opened the door at once and ushered her inside. There had been no runner outside the door, which told her that he wanted no chance listener, even though the door was thick and spelled with magic.

“Did a letter come?” she asked.

“Yes. But not the kind you think.”

He was studying her intently. Only now did Ilse notice that he wore a plain brown shirt and trousers, as though he had come directly from drill. He even wore a knife at his belt and one in his left boot. A letter, but nothing to do with the king’s business. What then?

“I made a discovery,” he said bluntly. “One that concerns you.”

Her pulse jumped. “What kind of discovery?”

“About your recent past. I nearly dealt with the matter alone, but since it does concern you, I reconsidered. Are you strong enough for a short expedition across town?”

Her father had returned. Or Klara had arrived in town.

Kosenmark tilted his head. “Your father is not here. Nor anyone from Melnek.”

“Are you reading my mind, my lord?” she said in a shaky voice.

“Just watching the pictures on your face. No, the matter does not concern your father, though that might be easier. Perhaps you should stay here …”

“I want to come,” she said quickly. “Please.”

He nodded slowly. “Very well. But you look too conspicuous in those clothes. Change into your drill uniform, or something like it, and meet me by the stables.”

When she arrived at their meeting place, she found Kosenmark and several guards standing by a covered wagon. Stable boys were guiding horses between the wagon’s shafts, while Kosenmark’s chief groom supervised the saddling of more horses. All the guards were heavily armed, some with crossbows, some with knives and swords. Even the driver carried a spiked club, which he set into a socket by the dashboard.

“Get in back,” Kosenmark told Ilse. “We have a distance to cover.”

He helped her into the wagon, which had low benches along each side. One of the guards climbed up beside the driver, and she could hear the others mounting their horses. In the shadowy light inside the wagon, Kosenmark’s face looked grim and drawn, as though he had not fully recovered from his injuries. She wanted to ask more details about this expedition, but when she opened her mouth to speak, he immediately shook his head. “You will understand soon enough.”

Out the stables. Along the packed dirt lanes behind the pleasure house. Gates squeaked on their hinges, but no one challenged them as they left the grounds. Soon Ilse lost track of where they might be. The ride took them over smooth pavements, onto uneven stones, over more dirt that squelched beneath the wheels, and then onto a wooden roadway that creaked with their passage. She smelled saltwater and heard the thin cries of gulls overhead. A gulping sound reminded her of waves against pilings. Were they by the wharves?

At last the driver reined the horses to a stop. The guard came round and opened the flap. “All clear, my lord.”

Kosenmark dismounted and helped Ilse down from the wagon. They had come to one of the many warehouse districts by Tiralien’s northern docks. The closest slips were empty, but farther on, Ilse saw crowds of sailors and dockhands swarming from ship to shore. No one looked in their direction. She glanced at Kosenmark, who was inspecting their immediate surroundings. His left hand rested casually on his hip, near the knife.

“Come with me,” he said.

With their mounted guards as escorts, Raul and Ilse followed the docks until they reached a narrow lane heading north. When they came to an old warehouse, Raul knocked softly. The door opened to reveal more guards, who stood aside to let them enter. Raul went inside at once. Ilse hesitated a moment, thinking she did not like where he was leading her. Inside, she could just see Raul’s figure. He had halted, his back toward her. So. He would not persuade or refuse. She followed.

They threaded their way through a maze of rooms to a staircase, which brought them down to an underground storage room, lit by torches. Two more guards, armed with swords and dressed in leather armor, came to attention. Behind them, Ilse saw a low wooden door, with bars across it. The smell of salt and mud was strong here, as well as other smells she could not identify.

Raul gestured to the guards, who unbarred and opened the door. The chamber beyond was pitch-dark. Something inside grunted and Ilse heard a scuffling. Raul took one of the torches and passed within. Ilse took a moment to collect herself before she came after.

The room was dank and close, its floor a composite of mud and rotting planks. Above the ever-present salt tang, Ilse smelled sweat and urine and dung. The grunting had stopped, but something or someone was breathing loudly.

Kosenmark held up his torch. By its light, Ilse saw that a naked man lay on the ground. Ropes bound his hands behind his back. Chains shackled him to the wall, and a knotted rag pulled his mouth into an unnatural grin. When Raul thrust the torch at the man’s face, the man recoiled. Ilse recognized him at once.

Alarik Brandt.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. A glance toward Kosenmark did nothing to reassure her. He was staring at Brandt, his face strange and masklike in the torchlight. “How?” she whispered. “When?”

“He was delivered into my hands last night. Why and by whom you need not know.”

Brandt had stiffened at Raul’s voice. Now he moaned, trying to speak through the gag. Even in the sputtering torchlight, she could see the fresh blood on the man’s swollen face, the livid bruises around his throat, arms, and groin.

“What will you do with him?”

“Whatever you like. We are here to render judgment.”

Raul shoved the torch into a bracket and hauled Brandt to his feet, one arm hooked around his arms. He took out one knife and held it pressed against Brandt’s throat. Brandt struggled briefly, then went limp. Ilse moved until she was in his sight. She wanted to shut her eyes, turn away, but could not bring herself to do either. Fascinated and repelled, she ran her gaze over his body, seeing where his captors had beaten him, wondering if he, too, had screamed and struggled and railed against them.

Brandt’s eyes focused gradually on her face. His mouth worked at the gag—he was trying to say something. Possibly her name.

“Do you remember cheating me?” she asked softly.

Brandt shook his head. She took that for denial.

You lied to me, she thought. You lied to my father. You are lying to yourself. Is that how you manage to go on?

“Four a night,” she said in a low voice. “Six when I got used to the work. You wanted me to last. And I did.”

With a muffled cry, Brandt lunged at her. Ilse started back, but Raul had already yanked Brandt off his feet and twisted his arms backward until the man collapsed. With a glance toward Ilse, Raul drew his knife and bent over him. “Wait for me upstairs,” he said to Ilse.

Her stomach lurched. “That’s murder.”

“No more than he murdered the boy Volker.”

Ilse went cold. “Volker? Dead? Are you certain?”

“Yes. I have the word of his brother. He beat the boy to death, the day after you escaped. Now go. Or you will see things you should not.”

“His blood is already on my hands,” Ilse said. “By my word he stands accused.”

“By yours and others’,” Raul said thickly. “Now go and leave me to my work.”

He indicated the door. Brandt had begun moaning, a high-pitched keening that made Ilse’s skin crawl. I’m a coward, she thought, turning around. A weak and treacherous coward.

Her blood pounding in her temples, she climbed the stairs to the next floor. Her legs gave out then and she sank to the floor. None of the guards spoke or approached her. Perhaps they guessed what was happening in that room below. Finally Raul appeared and held out his hand. Silently she shook her head and stood without his help.

Outside, they climbed into the wagon, and the guards took their places. She remembered little of the ride back. Her thoughts kept going back to that underground room. Flickering images of Brandt’s face. The stink of blood and human waste. How strange Raul’s face looked in the torchlight.

Only once did she speak. “He is guilty. Yes. But so are we.”

After that, she sank back into reverie. When the wagon stopped with a jerk, she cried out. The guards dispersed. Raul escorted Ilse into the pleasure house by one of the side doors. The corridors here were empty. Perhaps he had given orders to keep these halls clear. She didn’t know. She found it hard to collect her thoughts. When he touched her arm, she jumped.

“Come upstairs,” he said softly. “Please.”

Still numb, she mounted the stairs behind him. Once they reached his office, however, she hurried past him to the garden door. She went outside, still walking as though in a dream, until she came to the stone wall by the garden’s edge, where her strength finally deserted her. She sank onto the nearest bench and closed her eyes. Evening had fallen during their expedition. A cool breeze spun around her, carrying the rich scent of blooming roses.

She heard footsteps. A whiff of musk as Raul sat beside her. She detected another scent, too, a rich and coppery one that she thought must be Alarik Brandt’s blood.

“You killed him.”

“Yes.”

A shudder went through her. “How?”

“A knife across his throat.”

Ilse’s hand went to her own throat. “So I thought.”

“I gave him a warning before I did,” he said. “I told him that Lir and Toc did not suffer cruelty. Nor would I tolerate human predators in this kingdom. I killed him, but first I castrated him.”

“Was that necessary?”

“Yes. I killed him quickly—he did not suffer long—but I wanted to make sure that Alarik Brandt remembers this deed and this judgment in his next life. It’s a fair trade. His nightmares in reparation for yours.”

Against her will, Ilse’s gaze went to Kosenmark’s hands. They were clean of blood, as were his clothes. He must have taken care not to bloody himself. She looked into his face then, but his expression was blank of any emotion.

“Tell me why you did this,” she said. “Was it for Veraene?”

“In part.” His voice was as unreadable as his face.

“Meaning …”

“Meaning whatever you like.” He drew a long breath. “Meaning that you are free to travel anywhere without fear of Alarik Brandt. I dislike cages. If you wish to leave this house, you will find none to prevent you.”

On impulse, she reached out and took his hand. Raul started but did not draw back.

His skin was warm and smooth. His pulse, underneath her touch, was soothingly regular. Lord Raul Kosenmark, she thought. Prince of shadows. Secret guardian of Veraene’s honor. Perhaps that was the difference between him and Markus Khandarr.

I love him, she thought. We all do.

A part of her wanted to flinch away from that thought. A part accepted it. After all, Hax had loved this man. So did Lord Dedrick and all the rest of Raul Kosenmark’s shadow court. They were all like flowers turning to follow the sun.

And sometimes, the sun turns its face to follow us.

And like a flower in the sun, she had no reason to question why he had acted for her. It was enough to sit beside him, hand in hand. She closed her eyes, thinking she could remain there indefinitely, breathing in the cool sweet scent of roses. The next hour bell sounded from the nearby tower, sweet chimes that rang softly through the twilight. In rooms far below, clients were choosing their partners, and pairs of lovers had retreated into private chambers. Raul withdrew his hand from hers and held out his arm. “Come,” he said. “The kingdom’s further business awaits us.”