Passion Play

by Beth Bernobich

  “Mistress Ilse.”

  The runner bowed and presented a thick packet to Ilse.

  Ilse glanced at Raul. He gave a tiny shake of the head. No gift then.

  She took the packet, which was heavy and wrapped in oilcloth and tied with leather cords, as though prepared for a long journey. Inside the oilcloth, she found an inner packet wrapped in heavy paper and a card with writing. She motioned for the boy with the lantern to come closer so she could read it.

  Mistress Therez Zhalina, Lord Kosenmark’s household, Tiralien.

  “Who brought this?” she asked in a faint voice.

  “A private courier,” the first runner said. “He arrived from Melnek, he said, and asked to wait in the house for any answer.”

  Raul leaned close. “Read it,” he said softly. “It’s nothing but words.”

  “Words.” She gave a nervous laugh. “Words are sharp and dangerous.”

  “Indeed. But don’t let his words be stronger than you.”

  He was right, as always. Taking a deep breath, she opened the inner envelope, which contained a thick sheaf of papers, tied with a ribbon. A smaller sheet lay on top. It, too, carried her name, and this time she recognized her brother’s handwriting.

  The letter was dated from Melnek, three weeks ago.

  Dearest Therez, I wish I had written earlier, when Alarik Brandt’s letter came to us. I wish I had written after our father came back from seeing you. I wish any number of things to make writing this letter easier. But I did not. So now I must write to say that I have very bad news. Our father has died …

  She must have made a sound, because Raul leaned close, his arm around her shoulders.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s dead. My father is dead.” Her throat closed on the word.

  “Oh my love, I’m sorry.”

  She tried to read on, but could not make sense of the words. She crumpled the letter and closed her eyes. Raul spoke quietly to the runner, who vanished at a run. Very soon the boy returned with a flask. Raul held it to Ilse’s lips. “Drink.”

  She did, the alcohol burning down her throat, making her cough. Anger was gone, so was the first shock. Inside she felt only emptiness, and a small bright flame of grief. She turned her head away. “No more.”

  “Are you able to read it now?”

  She shook her head. Raul sighed and took the letter, motioning for the boy to stand behind him with the lamp. As he scanned the page, Ilse saw him frown, then his face smoothed to a neutral expression. “What is it?”

  “He invites you to come home.”

  She flinched. “No. I cannot. What does he want from me?”

  “Nothing. Just the opposite. Your father made a new will this autumn, leaving you a third of his possessions. Ehren has sent you a copy of the will and a list of all your father’s possessions. He asks that you choose which items you prefer. You need not visit, however, though they would like to see you.”

  She hugged herself tightly, saying nothing.

  “He also says that your mother is not well.”

  If she knew Ehren, that meant seriously ill.

  “Just like our father,” she said. “He gives me a list of goods before he mentions our mother. Does he think I care about money?”

  “Ilse. He’s your brother, not your father. Do not blame him.”

  He reached toward her. She shook off his hand. “Do not tell me what to do, Raul. You were not there when Ehren told me to marry Theodr Galt.”

  “Does that mean I have no right to say what I think?”

  Two quarrels in one evening. Both left her shaken. Ilse took a deep breath. “Speak, then,” she said in a tight voice.

  Raul nodded. “Very well. I know you are angry. I understand. And perhaps your mother and brother might have done more. But Ilse, your brother grieves, however clumsily. Do not cut him off without any reply.” In a quieter voice, he added, “It’s the right thing to do. And you believe in doing the right thing, I know.”

  He made no move to embrace her, neither did he turn away. Another turning point—past the first joy, past the first genuine argument. She released a long sigh. “You are right. I should, I will write to Ehren. But no visits. Not yet.”

  “I say the same myself,” Raul said softly. “I mean to visit my father, who is old. I have any number of duties waiting for me. A brother.”

  “Three sisters,” Ilse added.

  “Three barbed and dangerous creatures.”

  He opened his arms. She leaned into them, feeling strangely bereft of desire, but craving his warmth and no longer caring about the presence of guards and runners. Gradually the strangeness fell away, as though an invisible, magical veil concealed the two of them from the world. Perhaps this was how kings and queens managed their lives.

  She almost laughed to think of it. Almost.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ILSE WROTE A short note to Ehren that same night, knowing delay would only make her task more difficult.

  “… I cannot promise when I will visit, but I can promise that I will. Someday. But please understand that I cannot make my home in Melnek. I’ve made a new life with new companions. I cannot fit myself into old expectations.…”

  The phrases sounded stiff to her ear, and she was painfully aware she had not mentioned their father’s death, nor their mother’s illness. With a sigh, she added a postscript. “Ehren, I’m sorry for how this letter must sound. It is difficult for me to express everything I think or feel or hope at this moment. I will write again before the month is over, and then I will answer all your questions about the will.”

  Before she sealed it, Ilse gave the letter to Raul to read.

  He read it through in silence, then regarded the last page a moment before he handed it back. “You are honest, not cruel. If your brother is as clear-sighted as you, he will understand.”

  Ilse folded the sheets together. “I hope so. To be fair, we were both trapped by our father. We just chose different paths.”

  Raul took her hands in his. “I’m sorry.”

  She started. “For what?”

  “For what I said outside. For not trusting you.”

  Ilse laughed softly. “That’s odd. That’s what I wanted to say to you.”

  * * *

  SHE SENT HER letter to Ehren the next day. She told herself she would send him a more complete answer within the week, but it was a full three weeks before Ilse attacked the set of papers Ehren had sent her. Finally, late one afternoon, she locked herself in her old office, vowing she would not emerge until she had read and answered everything.

  She started with the letter. For all its brevity, it took her an hour to comprehend.

  The facts were simple. Their father had returned from Melnek in good health but he had spoken little of Tiralien itself. They had lost their hoped-for contracts with the shipping guild, but had acquired new contacts for the overland routes through Baron Mann, and this new business required all of Petr Zhalina’s attention throughout the spring and early summer. In retrospect, we ought to have foreseen what happened, Ehren wrote. Worn by months of anxiety, he tired easily, and needed constant reminders for details he once recalled without effort.

  He grieved, Ilse thought. In his own way.

  You never acknowledged that before, said her conscience.

  She expelled a breath and willed her muscles to relax. Her father had grieved to lose his daughter. He had also tried to barter her life for a contract with Theodr Galt. Both statements were true. She could do nothing about it. She read on.

  In late summer Petr Zhalina had taken ill from the fever. By autumn, he gave the business entirely over to Ehren, thereafter growing so weak, so fast, that Isolde Zhalina asked him if they should write to Therez.

  Our father told us, “Therez is dead. I spoke with a stranger named Ilse.”

  Ilse propped her head against both hands. Eyes closed, she thought of Raul. She thought of magic. She thought of anything except her final meeting with Petr Zhalin
a. After a while, she had collected herself enough to go on.

  Little remained. Petr Zhalina refused to summon his daughter, but the next day he gave a new will to Ehren. A week later he died, and soon after their mother took ill from the same fever. Ehren thought she would recover with time and careful nursing.

  He had declared her dead. And yet assigned her a third of his possessions.

  Ilse slammed her fist against the desk. “Damn you,” she whispered. “Damn you twice over.”

  She set the letter aside and poured herself a cup of plain water, before she took up the inventory of her father’s possessions, all written in Ehren’s neat script.

  … One mansion in Melnek, thirty rooms, well-maintained. Attached to item 1, the following … Warehouse in Melnek center … Kerzstal Street … Storage barns, three, on the western docks …

  The list of properties and possessions covered twenty pages, including several tracts of land outside Melnek, which Petr Zhalina rented to farmers. He also owned town houses in Duenne, more warehouses in Mundlau and Donuth. Ehren listed each one by number of rooms, the land attached, its condition, and an estimated value. Lists of personal items came next—his clothing, jewelry, the painting and statuary in the house—and Ehren had included a brief description and a valuation for each. Ilse found herself reading each entry with care, half hoping the list might provide her with a new portrait of Petr Zhalina. Where is your heart? Do the clues lie in the goods you sold, or the gems you acquired?

  In the end, she found only a few more surprises and many disappointments. She reshuffled the pages into a neat square, retied the ribbons, and set the bundle aside. She drank a cup of watered wine, while she considered how to answer her brother’s proposal about the will.

  He offered her the choice of taking her share in money or lands or even in jewels and other personal items, saying that their mother agreed to abide by whatever Ilse decided. Making amends for the past, Ilse thought. She felt a twinge of anger. The offer came far too late, and yet …

  Unable to bear it any longer, she sought out Raul, who was gazing out the windows of their bedroom, an unheeded book in his lap. He looked around with a questioning smile.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Is that how you’ve spent your afternoon?” he asked. “Considering that subject?”

  “No. I already knew the answer.” Standing behind his chair, she rested her hands on his shoulders. Raul leaned his cheek briefly against her arm, and she felt a ping, a knot of tension sprung. Was this how love progressed, then? From passion to comfort to mutual sustenance?

  “I read Ehren’s letter,” she said. “And the will. All twenty pages.”

  “You have a meticulous brother. Have you made any decisions?”

  She took a deep breath. Of course he had read enough to know about Ehren’s proposal. “Yes. I will accept his offer. How or what, I don’t know yet.”

  “Ah.” Raul placed his hands over hers. “Would you like to hear my advice?”

  She liked how his hands felt, the palms warm and rough, the sense of strength and gentleness combined. She especially liked how his hands sought her, whether in the night or like now, to offer comfort. “Tell me. Or rather, tell me what you think. I can’t promise I’ll agree.”

  Raul nodded. “Fair enough. Consider this, then. You might find it easier to accept your inheritance in money. If your brother needs to, he can sell certain items. Let him choose what to keep and what to sell. I can have my agent contact his for the details of the transfer.”

  Ilse kept her gaze on their hands, brown against brown, like honey and tea. “Taking the money seems so cold.”

  “Not entirely. Accepting your inheritance will soothe your brother’s sense of guilt, and your mother’s. If it troubles you to accept only coins, then pick a few items for mementos—a painting you loved or some jewels that you used to wear.”

  Sensible advice, which took into account both her needs and her heart. Delicately given, too. Though he did not mention, nor did she, such an inheritance would grant her independence.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’ll write Ehren tomorrow.”

  Raul tilted his head back to look up at her. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Ilse shrugged. “It’s not that. It’s … It hurt to hear what my father said about me. It hurt that I can’t talk to him again. Or argue with him. Or even tell him I was sorry. And yet, if he were here, I couldn’t say any of those things.” She swallowed against the ache in her throat. “I am his daughter, whether I like it or not.”

  He lifted her hands and kissed them. “You are Ilse. You are yourself, and no one else.”

  * * *

  THEY DINED TOGETHER in midafternoon then separated once more, Ilse to write her brother, Raul to visit several city councillors. The visits were ostensibly social, but Ilse knew that Raul wanted news about Lord Khandarr’s doings in Tiralien. The war, as she called it, had subsided to doubts and suspicions on Raul’s part, but not entirely. It was not peace, it was more like an uneasy truce, where both sides ceaselessly watched the other.

  For her own task, she carried her papers and writing materials to her old office—the one Berthold Hax had assigned her when she started as his assistant. A whiff of paper and ink lingered in the room, along with a sense of hopefulness that she associated with those early days as Hax’s assistant. Her own held too many painful memories—Hax’s death, Dedrick’s return from the capital, the last and most bitter argument with her father.

  I lay with thirty men.

  Your grandmother is dead.

  She blew out a breath. Enough. She laid out her writing materials and arranged her pens, which helped to settle her thoughts. She selected a sheet of foolscap from the stack, dipped her pen in the ink, and tapped away the excess. Pretend you are writing a report for Mistress Denk, she told herself.

  Three drafts later, she had a letter she could send to Ehren without regret or shame. She made a fair copy on good parchment, signed it, and set the letter aside to dry. Her task was done. But she paused, the pen still balanced between her fingertips, as though it wanted to form another word or two. The runner would ride back to Melnek tomorrow …

  Ilse dipped her pen in the ink.

  Dear Klara …

  She crossed out the line and started over.

  Dearest Klara. You know I left home suddenly. I don’t know what my family said, or what other rumors you heard, but here is the truth—the truth through my eyes, at least.

  She wrote without pause, knowing that if she stopped, she might not have the courage to start again. She would not tell Klara everything—that would be too painful—but she would tell her as much of the truth as she could, as though Klara sat across from her, listening to the words Ilse set to paper.

  … and so I left home, as quickly and secretly as possible. It was a difficult journey. I had intended to vanish into Duenne’s streets and find a position, but I had to change my plans suddenly. I will not say more. Imagine what you like. Imagine a difficult painful time. That is all.

  She paused. There was no need to talk about her time in the kitchens. Or the business with Rosel’s spying. Even talking face to face, Ilse was not certain she could adequately explain things. She went on.

  Eventually I found a home in Tiralien. And Klara, I found more than I looked for. He is more than any poet or historian. He is … He makes me laugh, Klara. He makes me think. You would like him.

  Ilse spent the rest of the afternoon clearing up long-neglected business. Officially she was no longer Lord Kosenmark’s secretary, but she continued to handle most of the usual tasks. Before she was aware of it, evening had arrived. A runner brought her word that Raul had returned and was below in the common room.

  “Tell Lord Kosenmark I shall come down directly,” Ilse said.

  She washed away the dust and ink, then hurried down the stairs. The evening had already turned busy. Dozens crowded the common room, their voices rising in a thick hum. Ilse sighte
d Raul in the far corner, between Lothar Faulk and Emma Theysson. Covered dishes and wine jugs crowded the table in front of them. Raul looked up with a smile and beckoned to her.

  “You look virtuous,” he said as she took the seat beside him. “You must have spent the day in your office, penning reports.”

  Ilse laughed, self-consciously. “Kathe told you.”

  “Hardly. It was your own inky fingertips that betrayed you.” He leaned closer. “We’ll make up for the time lost between us.”

  Faulk made a wry comment about new lovers. Emma shushed him, but Ilse could tell she was thinking of Benno. Ilse evaded Raul’s embrace, staving him off by tossing a fresh plum at him. He caught it one-handed and bit into it, grinning. She was about to follow with a second plum, when a ripple of movement by the common room’s double doors caught her attention.

  A glittering, perfectly coiffed and ornamented Dedrick Maszuryn stood at the entrance to the common room. The dark red silks of his sleeveless jacket swirled around, as though he had just that moment arrived. His face, caught in the bright glow from the chandelier, was still and dark and resolute.

  Raul followed the direction of her gaze. Ilse heard his sharp intake of breath. Then, in one fluid motion, he stood and advanced toward Dedrick. Ilse held her breath, thinking she ought to call the guards. Surely Dedrick could see he wasn’t welcome here.

  They met in the center of the room, which fell silent. Both men spoke in low quick voices. Ilse could not hear what they said, but she could see how Dedrick punctuated his words with quick gestures, as though to forestall any arguments. Raul lifted a hand. Dropped it as Dedrick made a placating gesture and spoke urgently.

  Raul glanced back toward Ilse. He appeared to hesitate. Then, with a shake of his head, he took Dedrick by the hand. The two men vanished through one of the side doors.