CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THEY DISCUSSED HIS future intentions, her departure, just as they had discussed politics or poetry or the interwoven threads of history, magic, and passion.

“Shall we start with your plans or mine?” Raul asked.

“Yours,” Ilse said. “Mine are indefinite.”

“As indefinite as the ocean mist,” Raul said lightly, “or the winter rain clouds drifting up toward the sun. Though Tanja Duhr reminds us that the ephemeral is not necessary intangible. All poetry aside, I have only the vaguest of notions yet. Do you wish to know them?”

She shrugged. “The question isn’t whether I want to know—I do—but whether my knowing is safe. Or useful.”

He studied her several long moments, and she had the impression of a dormant fire behind those golden eyes—as though he had buried his passion. Barely. She could sense the heat flickering against her skin. If he chose, he might awaken the embers and burn through all her defenses in a moment. But then his lids sank to half-slits, the warmth receded, and she found she could breathe more easily.

“Tell me what might be important,” she said.

“Ah, that. Well, I thought I might build a new shadow court. Not here, but in Károví.”

Startled, she opened her mouth to ask a dozen questions. She stopped herself.

“No curiosity?” he asked, half-smiling. “Or rather, you don’t want to know.”

“I do,” she confessed. “But I don’t know—I won’t—”

“Neither do I,” Raul said softly. “Call it instinct, or inclination. I think it’s time we paid attention to those who serve the kings, instead of the kings themselves. One rock cannot halt the running tide. Just so, a single man cannot contain the flood of history. We must build our bulwark against war using many grains of sand.”

Starting with Duke Feliks Markov or Duke Miro Karasek, Ilse thought. Both were long-standing members of the Imperial Council who shared responsibility for the armies. Karasek was more popular, but Markov was older, he’d advised the king decades longer. Rumor said that if Dzavek were to die, Markov had the larger faction and could take the throne. She wanted to ask how Raul intended to approach them. What assurances he would give them. (Because they would surely demand them.) What he meant to do with Simkov’s book, if anything.

But no, if she asked him those questions, he would expect answers to his.

Raul watched her intently, as though he could guess the link and chain of her thoughts. “Your turn,” he said.

Uncertain, she said, “What do you wish to know?”

“Very little.”

“Liar,” she breathed.

That provoked a tentative smile. “True. But let us confine ourselves to where you plan to spend the next months or years away from me. Will you grant me that much interference?”

Her heart gave a ping of grief. She contained it. “Yes. It’s only fair.”

They had been sitting on opposite sides of the desk, just as they had during her first interview. Raul stood and spread a detailed map of the continent over his desk. Ilse came around the desk and stood by his side. She knew this map well. Raul had commissioned it before leaving Duenne, and the mapmaker, an artist as well as craftsman, had created a work of exquisite precision. Different-color inks marked the political borders and differences in terrain—light brown lettering for the Ysterien kingdom in the far southwest, dark blue for Duenne and its environs in the central plains, and vivid green to represent cities along the east coast. Károví, too, was rendered in perfect detail from the green breadth of Duszranjo Valley set within the Železny Mountains to the silvery-gray that marked the snow-dusted plains stretching north of Rastov. Ilse ran her fingers over the point east and north where, if the legends were true, Lir and Toc created the world in their season of love.

Raul, too, studied the map. Once or twice, he touched a city’s name, shook his head, and let his fingers glide past.

“You have an idea?” Ilse asked him.

“Yes. No. My instincts suggest a city on the eastern coast.” He glanced at her. “However, I suspect those are not instincts, but selfish desire.”

Ilse touched his hand, which hovered close to hers. “Your instincts are not entirely wrong. But I cannot choose a home too close to Tiralien. That might provoke suspicion.”

“Markus will be suspicious no matter what.”

All their discussions came back to that concern. After some debate, Ilse had proposed that she find work as a secretary or clerk. Her newly acquired fortune made it unnecessary, but she wanted to keep her mind and hands busy, and both agreed that would create a more convincing impression of her building a separate life.

Raul made another circuit of the map with his fingers. North. South. The western provinces. “What about Melnek? It might look more natural if—”

“No.”

He breathed a sigh. “It was just a suggestion. You have friends as well as family in Melnek. More important, Baron Eckard resides there. He can provide some measure of protection.”

“I cannot,” she murmured. “Find another way.”

City by city, they examined the map. Matsurian and Tegel, on the southern coast, both had high transient populations, which worked in her favor. But Raul disliked the distance—a month by ship, two months by fast horses. Klee, another port city, was closer, but its sweltering climate often bred contagion, and Raul had no agents or friends or associates there whom he trusted.

Ilse ran her fingers along the coast, past Matsurian and Tegel and Luzzien, until she came to the province marked Valentain.

“That remains a choice,” Raul whispered in her ear.

“No,” she said softly. “We must not tempt each other.”

Back to Tiralien then, to examine the cities nearby. Leniz was a garrison town a week’s ride south of Tiralien. Compared to Tiralien, it offered little unless she took up soldiering. North was Idar-Alszen, a market port that served as an interim stop between Melnek and Tiralien. Back south, beyond Leniz to Osterling Keep.

“Osterling,” she said, half to herself.

Raul, who had been studying the northern provinces, glanced up. “What about Osterling?”

Ilse touched the gold circle marking Osterling Keep, which lay between Leniz and Klee, on a point of land jutting into the sea. A range of hills covered most of the point, except for a highway along the coast. It was not a large city, but Lord Joannis, the regional governor, had chosen it for his seat, and it served as an important garrison and watch point for the coast.

“Good positions would be plentiful,” she said. “And if there’s anyone from your shadow court with greater official influence than Nicol Joannis, you never told me their name. I should be safer there than in any other city. Unless you believe Dedrick gave away Joannis.”

“Dedrick knew nothing about him. Therefore …”

“Therefore we guess that Lord Khandarr has learned nothing since. What about Benno?”

“Benno swears Markus used no magic on him. We cannot be certain, of course, but every choice carries its own risk.” He traced a route along the Gallenz River, then southeast, through the hills, to the point next to Osterling’s name. “Three weeks by coach, following the highway. Ten days by an adventurous horseman—if that horseman has a change of mounts, and isn’t afraid of cutting through swamps and hills and wilderness.”

“Are you adventurous?”

“At times.” His finger edged closer to hers. “And it would comfort me to know you were not half a continent away. What do you say?”

She drew a long breath, considering the matter. “Osterling. Yes. That would be good.”

*  *  *

BY UNSPOKEN AGREEMENT, they left further plans for another week. In between weapons drills and managing the pleasure house, they gave themselves over to the silent exploration of each other’s bodies. Something of their mood bled through the rest of the pleasure house. Eduard and Mikka quarreled, Johanna wept between customers, and Nadine turned a closed face to the world. Even Kathe showed signs of prickliness.

“Will you change your name?” Raul asked her at breakfast.

Ilse paused in drinking her coffee. “Should I?”

“I don’t know. It might give you some scant privacy. On the other hand, if Khandarr’s spies track you down, changing your name implies you wished to hide something.”

She considered it a moment. “I’ll keep my name. Better if he thinks I’m acting openly.”

Raul nodded. “You are Ilse Zhalina, then. Lately of Tiralien and now seeking employment in Osterling Keep. Shall I write a letter of recommendation?”

They both smiled tentatively.

“The next point,” Raul said. “Why are you leaving me?”

Ilse blew out a breath. “Because of me. Something I did.”

“No,” he said roughly. “Not that.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Ilse studied her coffee cup, as though she might find answers in its dregs. What might drive two lovers apart? It could not be a sudden thing, or Khandarr would disbelieve it at once. It would have to be a difference rooted in her nature and Raul’s, something they could not overcome with logic or debate or simple passion.

“Children,” she said abruptly. “I wanted my own children.”

Raul visibly paled. “That’s … a very good reason. So we start a rumor that you became disgusted with my shortcomings.”

“Not disgusted,” she said hurriedly. “Frustrated, perhaps.”

His gaze flicked toward hers, then away. “I could understand that.”

Another silence, while Raul rubbed his hands together. Ilse instinctively reached toward him, but let her hand drop. We have only got to the truth by telling lies, she thought, watching his face as his expression grew more remote.

“Raul …” she said softly.

He nodded absently. “I am here. Thinking. We must convince everyone in this house as well, or our plans are worthless. Let me spend a few evenings away. Lord Vieth invited us to his estates for the hunting season. I’ll go alone.”

“A good idea,” she said carefully. “When you come back, we can have an argument.”

“Very well.” Now he glanced toward her. “Shall I take a lover?”

Again that high fey tone.

“Do you want to?”

“No. Never.”

He reached across the table and gripped her hands.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Too much,” he said thickly. “Why not marry me and forget the world?”

“Because we are Ilse and Raul. Because we must be true to ourselves.”

*  *  *

RAUL LEFT THE next morning for two weeks with Lord Vieth and several of the governor’s household. During his absence, Ilse moved all her belongings to her old rooms. Mistress Denk said nothing, except to ask if Mistress Ilse wished any assistance.

“None,” Ilse said, as calmly as she could. “Thank you. I would rather do the work myself.”

She heard whispers, whenever she passed through the public rooms. Stares, quickly averted. Conversations broken off. A sense of unnatural restraint from those she loved the most. Raul had told her they must lie to their friends. She had not realized how difficult it would be.

The worst, the most difficult moments were with Kathe.

“Why did Lord Kosenmark leave without you?” Kathe said.

She had brought Ilse’s supper tray herself. But her manner was odd and awkward, with none of the friendly chatter from before.

“He went hunting,” Ilse said. “Lord Vieth invited him.”

Kathe frowned as she laid out the dishes. “I know that. Why didn’t you go with him?”

“He wanted time alone. To think about Lord Dedrick.”

“Strange,” Kathe murmured. “Not what I expected him to want.”

She curtsied and withdrew, leaving Ilse to pick at her food without any appetite. There was some truth in what she told Kathe. Lord Dedrick’s death was the reason behind this dreadful charade. If Khandarr had not executed him, she and Raul might be together this very moment.

By afternoon she had recovered her nerve. A courier had brought a packet from Melnek. Ilse reviewed the latest papers from her brother. Her share of the inheritance came to twenty-three thousand gold denier. As she had requested, Ehren had sold off several of their farms and deposited the money with Lord Kosenmark’s agent in Tiralien. He had also signed over several other holdings; she would receive the rents and interest quarterly.

I am rich. I could live wherever I wanted.

She had her wish from long ago, when she had lived in her father’s house. The thought made her queasy. She sighed and poured herself a cup of strong tea, then reviewed the list of agents Raul had drawn up. There were three whom Raul recommended as the most reliable—Maester Harro Stangel, Mistress Emma Beck, and Maester Felix Massow. All of them had connections throughout the eastern provinces. Felix Massow had offices in Duenne as well, while Emma Beck had associates near Károví.

Ilse wrote letters to all three, asking for more details about their businesses, and how they might help her to invest her holdings. She secured the letters in her letter box—she would post them after she and Raul had had their first public argument.

Restless, she left her rooms for the rooftop gardens. It was a fair autumn day, the skies a clear dark blue. The seas were choppy, however, and low clouds obscured the eastern horizon. A summer’s day in Melnek is an autumn day here, she thought. What were the seasons like in Osterling?

She heard footsteps—Raul hurrying toward her. He swept Ilse into a tight and breathless embrace. “I came early. I couldn’t wait.”

She leaned against his chest, breathing in his scent. Horse and sweat and leather and musk. Him. Exactly him. “I’m glad. What did you say to Lord Vieth?”

“That I was ill with longing for you.”

She could almost laugh. “Unwise, my lord.”

He buried his face in her hair. “It’s the truth. But I was discreet. I told him that urgent family business awaited me. How have you been?”

“Very … not well,” she said. “I wrote to my brother and some agents in Osterling. I lied to Kathe.”

Raul drew back and touched her cheek. “I’m sorry for the necessity.”

He looked ill, she thought. Dark circles shadowed his eyes, there were faint lines around his mouth—lines of laughter transformed into lines of pain. Her heart ached at the sight, and when Raul touched the corner of her mouth, she nearly burst into tears.

She drew a deep breath. “So. When do we argue?”

“Tonight.”

A shiver ran through her. “So soon?”

“Soon or never,” Raul said. “I cannot pretend much longer. Besides, I heard talk at Lord Vieth’s. The sooner you leave, the better chance we have to avoid suspicion.”

“I thought the parole—”

“—is temporary, I believe. I doubt Lord Khandarr trusts me. And I learned years ago not to trust him.”

She nodded. Laid her palm against Raul’s chest. His heart was beating as fast as hers. If she pretended—

No more pretense. No more delays.

“Very well,” she said. “Tonight.”

*  *  *

RAUL SENT ORDERS to Mistress Raendl for a private dinner served in the Blue Salon. Ilse waited until the girls were laying out dishes and lighting candles, before she hurried into the room, just a few steps ahead of Raul.

Raul caught up and spun her around. “Why the old rooms?” he asked, in a tense whisper.

Steffi glanced up, her eyes wide, but immediately busied herself with the arranging the wine cups.

“Why?” Raul repeated, louder.

“Not here,” Ilse whispered. “Not now.”

“Because of them?” He flung out a hand, and Dana jumped. “Why do you care what they hear? You didn’t keep it a secret from Kathe.”

Ilse pressed her lips together, trembling. “Kathe is my friend.”

“So much your friend that you betrayed my concerns to her.”

“No!” Her chin jerked up. “I’ve betrayed nothing. But I’m tired of secrets, Raul. Sick and miserably tired. Do you understand?”

Raul smacked the wall with his hand. “Go!” he said to the serving girls. “We can serve ourselves.”

He slammed the door shut after them and rounded on Ilse. “You knew that I cannot have children. Are you blind? Deaf?”

“Neither. I thought—”

“What? You thought what?”

“Let me finish!” Her voice cracked. “I thought we could have children. You said it yourself. Magic crippled you. Magic can heal you. If you truly wanted children, you could find a mage—”

She broke off at his glare.

“Only Markus Khandarr,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Only Markus Khandarr has enough magic to heal this cripple. And I will not bear a debt to that man.”

Tears gleamed on his eyelashes. Raul brushed them away, paused a moment with his hand over his face. When he finally met her gaze, she saw that his face had smoothed and all trace of his pretended anger had vanished. I love you, he mouthed.

And I you, my love. And I you. She glanced pointedly at the doors. Do we continue?

Yes.

Ilse drew a long breath and prepared to scream with rage.

*  *  *

FOR THE NEXT two weeks, they divided their hours between scripted arguments and nightly conferences. Their quarrels and their lovemaking took on a desperate edge, until it became difficult to separate the two.

Meanwhile Ilse sent letters by special courier to Mistress Beck and Mistress Adela Andeliess, who owned the pleasure house in Osterling. Mistress Andeliess’s steward had recently left her service, so Ilse wrote to apply for the position, saying that her qualifications were similar, secretary to Lord Kosenmark, liaison to the steward here, her upbringing as a merchant’s daughter. Five weeks later, she had answers to both.

Yes, delighted, Mistress Beck wrote. Ilse forwarded her name and particulars to Raul’s agent, and asked him to transfer her moneys.

Please send me references, Mistress Andeliess replied. Ilse provided those, including a terse but businesslike letter from Raul, and another from Mistress Denk.

She had taken care to let others know about these transactions. Thereafter, Eduard and Mikka and Johanna and the other courtesans sent her curious glances. Dana and Steffi and Hanne and the rest of the kitchen girls grew very quiet in her presence. Nadine said nothing, but whenever their paths crossed, her gaze passed over Ilse, as though she’d turned as invisible as the air. As for Kathe …

Ilse went to Kathe’s rooms one afternoon, before she returned to the kitchen for evening preparations. Kathe opened the door to her knock. Her first reaction was a startled exclamation, followed quickly by wariness.

“Do you have a free moment?” Ilse asked. “I’d like to talk.”

“Do we have anything to say, Mistress Ilse?”

“I’m leaving. I wanted to explain.”

“Explain what? That you—” Kathe broke off with a grimace. “Come inside. We don’t need to start more gossip by arguing in the hallways.”

She stood aside and stiffly gestured for Ilse to enter. There were books open upon Kathe’s small desk, and papers covered with what looked like menus and recipes, all written in Kathe’s neat handwriting. Except for a new carpet, the rooms were just as Ilse remembered, from the days when she and Kathe had taken their late-afternoon breaks here. Or later, whenever their work allowed a brief visit. Kathe had taught her and befriended her. Even when Ilse moved from secretary to lord’s mistress, she had remained someone Ilse could trust and talk to. But now …

“I know you’re leaving,” Kathe said without preamble. “And I know why. Lord Kosenmark was honest with you. But you—”

“I thought it didn’t matter,” Ilse said quickly. “But it does. Very much. I’m sorry.”

Kathe’s lips puffed in silent laughter. “Why apologize to me? I am not the one you wronged. Go to Lord Kosenmark. Beg his forgiveness. Tell him you wish to stay.”

“I can’t. It’s too late.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.”

Ilse let her breath trickle out. “I’m sorry, Kathe,” she said softly. “I will not trouble you again.”

Kathe shook her head. If she grieved for their lost friendship, she hid it behind a remote mask. Ilse hesitated another moment, then silently left.

This moment, too, is part of the scheme. Unplanned and yet unavoidable.

*  *  *

ONE LAST TASK. One last visit.

“Where are you going?” Raul asked a few days later.

“To visit a friend.”

His mouth quirked in smile. “One of mine, or one of yours?”

“Yours,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll make new ones in Osterling.”

He opened his mouth, but whatever he meant to say, he didn’t. He kissed her softly on the cheek and said he hoped she would return in time for a late private dinner. Ilse suspected he guessed her destination, but he didn’t ask and she didn’t offer.

She was still divided in her own mind when she arrived at Benno Iani’s small elegant house, in the same neighborhood as Lord Vieth’s soaring palace. The footman showed a very polite face when she announced her name, but she could tell he, too, had heard of the break between her and Raul. Would Lord Iani refuse to see her? Would he simply announce that he was not at home?

The footman came back with word that Lord Iani would gladly see her. Ilse followed the man to a sunny parlor at the rear of the house. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows. Outside, a profusion of russet and golden flowers made a splash of brilliant color against a gray stone wall.

Lady Theysson was not present, she noticed at once.

Iani smiled at her. It was a brief smile, but genuine. “Emma was here,” he said. “She left because she cannot bear to see what happened to two of her best friends.”

“And you?”

“You are both my friends. It grieves me to see you argue. It would grieve me more to lose you entirely. Why did you come to me?”

To say good-bye. To see if you and Emma believed our lies.

“To ask a favor,” she said.

His smile turned wary. “What kind of favor?”

“It’s about magic …”

As she explained her request, Iani’s eyes narrowed in concentration. It was a question of security. She remembered the spell Benno had used to alter Rosel’s memories. It had very specific properties, she knew. With it, a skilled mage could obliterate days or weeks, or he could blur memories from a single hour.

“You wish me to make you forget,” Iani said. “Now?”

She shook her head. “I want you to explain the spell. Write down the words and how to use them. In case … in case, I need to forget certain important details.”

In case Lord Khandarr ever decided to extract a confession from her, as he had from Lord Dedrick Maszuryn. Iani turned gray at the implication, but he was nodding. “Of course. I understand. Let us go to my study. I have some books I could give you on the subject.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon in close discussion. Iani gave Ilse three treatises about memory spells, including one describing keys to undo the magic.

“I won’t need that spell,” Ilse said, trying to hand back the scroll.

“Take it anyway,” Benno said. “Please.”

Reluctantly she agreed, and he pressed the scroll into her hands.