There was a second variation of the spell. If you added the physical traces of a second magic worker, the spell would imprint that other person’s signature atop your own. The older accounts spoke of flesh or skin. Gerek had dismissed that as too difficult. But then Kosenmark had come to Gerek’s office with a fresh-bleeding cut from his morning weapons drill. Gerek had offered Kosenmark his own handkerchief, then accepted the cloth back with barely concealed excitement.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Komen mir de strôm.
The air pulsed, turned thicker and more pungent—a clear sign that he had deflected a portion of magic’s current into the ordinary world. It was a sensation he had grown used to over the past few months. He was no expert magic-worker, of course. But he had a scholar’s stubbornness and the luxury of solitude, which had allowed him to study and to practice until he had achieved success with a handful of spells.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc.…
Now a strong fresh scent washed over him, like grass crushed underfoot, or the traces of pine carried by the mountain breeze. He breathed it in, sensed a new fluency in his poor lame tongue. There were a thousand descriptions of how magic tasted and smelled. None of them were right, all of them were true. Gerek continued to recite the spell, words of the long-dead Erythandran language, which rolled from his mouth with an ease he’d never experienced before.
Lâzen mir drînnen Lord Raul Anton Maximilian Kosenmark.
His skin rippled, as though he were a metal speck caught halfway between two powerful magnets. Then he felt an inward ping. The current vanished, and the latch gave an audible click of release.
Gerek had to stop himself from laughing out loud. The spell had worked, mangled tongue and all. Then the urgency of his position overtook him. He stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket and pushed the door open.
Eight days. Twice or three times each day, he had entered this room. Today, he saw everything with fresh eyes, and a mind undisturbed by the presence of others.
It was a place of beauty and quiet and light. Polished red tiles lined the floors. Shelves with books and fine rare statuary covered nearly every wall. Here and there were tables with carvings in ivory or gemstones, done in the modern style. Off in the corner stood the sand glass he’d noticed that first day, an expensive contraption built from pulleys and weights, fashioned from rare metals and pure blown glass of enormous size. Through the windows of the opposite wall he glimpsed the rooftop garden—as yet unexplored territory. The scent of sandalwood hung in the air, like a memory of the man who ruled here.
Gerek went immediately to the iron letter box next to Kosenmark’s desk. His key opened the top lid. Inside was a wide slot where Kosenmark had instructed him to insert any letters that arrived during his master’s absence. He laid the handkerchief over the hinges and lock.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Ei rûf ane Lir unde Toc.
The magic current sighed into existence. Faster now, he recited the words for the spell and spoke Lord Kosenmark’s full name again. The current flickered with a short-lived tension. Disappeared almost before he could register its presence. A long moment passed before he could take that in. Less confident now, he tried the spell for his own letter box, but substituting Kosenmark’s name. Nothing, not even the faintest buzz of magic, as though the current itself recognized the futility of his attempt.
Gerek blew out a breath, disappointed.
Well, and if the first interpretation of an old document yields nothing, we try another theory, another approach.
Or another room.
Two more doors opened from Kosenmark’s office. One led onto the rooftop gardens. Gerek would explore that region later, if necessary. If he had time and opportunity. The second door was the key, he decided. It led into Kosenmark’s inner rooms—to his bedroom, and other secret chambers that Dedrick had mentioned to Gerek alone, and then only briefly, almost reluctantly.
He turned the chosen door handle. It gave way at once—unlocked. Not surprising, he told himself. The man employed dozens of guards to patrol the grounds. Still, his pulse beat faster as Gerek stepped cautiously over the threshold.
It was a dimly lit world of branching corridors that he faced. One lamp burned low in its bracket just inside the door, and farther off, a shaft of light penetrated from a window set in the ceiling, but for the most part, he had to pick his way through darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he took in the details—a miniature reading room off to one side, a closet with rich costumes, another closet with clothing wrapped in herb-scented covers. He passed by these, then paused beside a long narrow corrider, fitted with grills in the floor and along its walls. That had to be the listening room, where Kosenmark could spy on his own courtesans and guests, if he wished. Dust covered the floor, untouched.
The bedroom itself offered more surprises. From Dedrick’s comments, Gerek had expected an unrestrained opulence—a room swathed in silks and pearls, to use the fanciful words of the more romantic poets. Perhaps he had banished the excessive luxury along with Dedrick, because though the room was furnished with items of good quality, it was hardly a sybaritic vision.
He started with the superficial and the obvious—the clothes-presses, the vast trunk in one corner, the closets, and underneath the bed itself. Off in one corner stood a small desk. Gerek lifted the lid to find the usual writing materials, a few half-finished letters about nothing. If those were coded, they were beyond him. Maybe the next time he visited, he could make copies.
He had a momentary burst of excitement when he discovered a series of recessed buttons behind the desk’s main compartment. He pressed one. The bottom of the desk’s interior slid back to reveal a small space. Inside, however, was nothing more than a single book.
Gerek picked up the book. A volume of poems, by Tanja Duhr. An antique, judging by the worn leather cover and old-fashioned lettering. Tucked between the pages was a thin strip of paper, with writing in Kosenmark’s hand.
To Ilse Zhalina. A gift in return for your gift of conscience and truth. Thank you.
Carefully he replaced the book and shut the desk. It took him several moments to recover his outward composure. His inward composure was another matter. Clearly the book was a gift from one lover to another. And she had returned it. Did that mean their break was genuine? If it was, why did he keep the book in a desk by his bed?
Questions and more questions. He’d come for answers.
A further, more careful search revealed no secret compartments in the bedposts, nor any loose planks in the floor. The few other spells he’d mastered revealed nothing.
After an hour, he worked his way back through the various chambers and rooms and closets, to the outer office once more. Though no fire burned on the fourth floor, his clothes were soaked through with sweat, and he itched from the dust coating his skin. He sank into the chair behind Kosenmark’s desk and surveyed the room.
Imagine yourself in the writer’s skin, one of his professors had said. Use their words to see and smell and taste the world they lived in. History is not an abstract. It is blood and passion. It is real.
Gerek tried to imagine being Lord Raul Kosenmark, a man born to wealth and privilege. Someone ambitious enough at fourteen to have himself emasculated, just to retain his family’s position as councillors to the king. Impossible. I cannot imagine it.
He made a second, more perfunctory search of the desk and drawers. Nothing. Either Kosenmark was entirely innocent, or he’d hidden everything in that damned letter box, locked with a spell Gerek could not begin to guess at.
He hauled the letter box onto the desk and began to examine its surface. It was square, its width and height no longer than his forearm. The polished iron surface showed a blurry reflection of Gerek’s face. Much like Kosenmark’s eyes.
He ran his fingers over the surface. There were no obvious signs of magic, but he knew Kosenmark would have protected this box with magic set into the iron itself. Any attempt to break through the sides would trigger an
other set of spells to destroy its contents. Still, for every spell to safeguard a box, there existed another to breach those protections. He was no mage, but he could hire one to do the work. Or he might risk everything and simply carry the box to Duenne. He was calculating how he might smuggle himself and the box from the house when he heard footsteps. He heaved the box off the desk and tried to erase all traces of his activities.
Not soon enough.
The door crashed open. Raul Kosenmark appeared in the gap. He stared at Gerek with a hard unblinking gaze.
“So,” he said. “Maester Hessler. No, let us use your proper name. Lord Haszler. Lord Gerek Haszler. Have you found what you were looking for?”
CHAPTER NINE
GEREK FROZE. ONE hand still gripped the letter box by its handles, the other the edge of the desk. He considered a mad dash for the door. Quashed the urge before he’d done more than make a convulsive movement to stand. A far deeper silence had dropped over the room, and he distinctly heard the sand hissing as it fell from one globe to another in the vast hourglass behind him.
“Don’t bother answering,” Kosenmark said. “I doubt you could just now.”
Blood rushed to Gerek’s cheeks. He released his hold on the letter box and straightened up. “I-I can s-speak, my lord.”
“Then explain.”
Kosenmark’s voice was high and light. Gerek did not mistake that for fear. Anger. Certainty. An arrogance greater than any king’s. Was there anything that frightened the man?
A moonless midnight in the soul. A shadow over hope.
Words from a poet who lived centuries ago. Strange how they eased the tightness in his chest. He took his time, however, releasing each syllable in order.
“You s-set a trap, my lord. I fell in.”
Kosenmark’s lips parted in silent laughter. “Lies. Though very pretty ones. The trap was yours, Lord Gerek. You fashioned it when you wrote me two months ago, inquiring about a position as my secretary.”
He glided into the room. The door swung shut behind him, cutting off all sounds from outside. Kosenmark paced toward the desk and set both hands on its surface. Gerek fell back into the chair. It took an effort of will just to breathe. For the first time, he noticed the weapons Kosenmark wore at his belt. The sheaths at both wrists. The glint of chain mail under his shirt.
He goes nowhere unprotected, not even when he rides with his guards.
That was a clue. He would understand it later—if there was a later.
Meanwhile, Kosenmark was speaking in a soft, quick voice. “I did not guess right away. Your résumé and letters of recommendation proved well constructed, and the further inquiries I sent for confirmation were answered just as one might expect. You must have associates, yes?”
Gerek glanced up and away from that bright, intent gaze. He pressed his lips together.
Kosenmark leaned over the desk until his face was only a few inches away. This close, Gerek could see fine lines radiating from the man’s eyes. Caught the aroma of horse and sweat and leather. The scent of the man himself. He felt a tightening in his groin, in spite of the terror yammering inside his skull. Perhaps he had more in common with Dedrick than he’d thought.
“Do you work for Lord Markus Khandarr?” Kosenmark said.
“No,” Gerek said shortly.
“The king?”
“No.” And then, before he thought better, he added, “Do you?”
He regretted the words at once. Kosenmark made a sound, a growl deep in his throat. “You think I’m a traitor?”
What else should I believe? But he could not say that. Not when this man could summon a dozen guards. How easily could they dispose of his body? Far too easily, he decided. Dedrick had talked about the fortified household, the men and women chosen for their loyalty. Gerek had assumed the measures were a defense against robbers, not a private army, but now he wasn’t so sure.
“You are thinking too hard,” Kosenmark said. “Truth requires but a moment…”
“Except in the face of deception,” Gerek replied.
And to his surprise, he caught a smile of recognition on Kosenmark’s face. The book of poetry, of course. But then he remembered the slip of paper inside. Any quote from Tanja Duhr would surely call Ilse Zhalina to mind.
Do not mention her name, Mistress Denk had warned him.
He loves her beyond reason, Dedrick had said.
Meanwhile, Kosenmark’s smile had faded, and he studied Gerek with a new intensity, as though looking beyond the mask of flesh and into Gerek’s hidden thoughts. There was no sign of amusement, nor mockery, in that handsome face.
“You think I am a traitor?” he repeated. “Is that what Dedrick told you?”
At the mention of Dedrick’s name, Gerek started. “Who told—”
“No one told me. Not outright. Your papers were very good. But you have a slight resemblance to Dedrick, and though Dedrick was no scholar, you both shared certain turns of phrase. Baron Maszuryn was another member of the riding party today, and a few questions told me who you were. So I ask a third time, do you believe I am a traitor to the kingdom? No, a better one. Why did you come here?”
No more lies. No more subterfuge. I cannot stand it.
“I came for the truth,” he said.
“Ah. That.” Kosenmark exhaled and closed his eyes. “Truth is a chancy thing, soft and dangerous, armed with sudden sharp edges.”
He straightened up and turned around. Clasped his hands behind his back in a knot. Bookcases and tapestries lined the opposite wall, but Gerek could tell Kosenmark saw nothing of these, only some vision within.
“I killed him,” Kosenmark said quietly.
Gerek stilled the quiver in his throat.
“Oh, I did not draw the knife myself,” Kosenmark went on. “He came to me several months after we broke off. Offered to observe matters at Duenne’s Court and send those observations to me, by whatever means I thought wise. Though he didn’t admit it, I knew he wanted to revive our friendship. For that reason alone, I nearly refused. But Dedrick was right. I did need a friend at court—a secret one. I told myself that Markus Khandarr would not suspect Dedrick after our very public break. Deception,” he murmured, half to himself. “It was easier to deceive myself than admit I sent Dedrick into danger I dared not face.”
There was a pause. Then, “Do you know how he died?” Kosenmark said. “Did they tell you that much?”
If Gerek had not believed the room empty of air before, he did now. “Only what the king’s letter said, my lord.”
“Do you believe it?”
The official letter from court stated that Lord Dedrick Maszuryn died from a fall while riding in the hills north of Duenne. His companions had reported that he’d been unable to control his mount—a stallion that Dedrick had insisted on buying in spite of its wild character. The horse had been destroyed the same day. Dedrick’s ashes had been returned in a small silver box, fitted with priceless jewels.
He died by order of the king and his councillor. And no one grieved for him. No one. They uttered the most ordinary of platitudes and then continued with their lives, grateful that they were untouched by the scandal.
“No, my lord.”
“Your voice says you guess, however. He died…” Kosenmark drew a shuddering breath. “He died at the hand of Lord Markus Khandarr. It was magic. Lord Khandarr demanded the truth. Dedrick gave it to him, but his answer was not the one Lord Khandarr desired. He wanted proof of my treachery and used magic to force a different confession from Dedrick’s mouth. And so Dedrick, my friend, my once lover, died for his honesty.”
Kosenmark turned around. The brilliance had faded from his complexion. He looked older, and the late-afternoon sunlight, slanting in from the windows by the garden door, threw the lines beside his mouth and eyes into sharper relief than in days past. His cheeks were wet with tears.
“So,” he said, “you have the truth. My truth. What now?”
The question caught Gerek by surprise.
“I … do not know.”
The other man smiled. “A fair answer. What do you want, then? What did you want?”
“Justice.”
He flinched, expecting laughter, but Kosenmark was nodding. “Justice for the dead. I can understand that. How do you propose to achieve it?”
No explanations. No long tirades to justify himself.
“I don’t know,” Gerek said. “I-I thought— I meant— Dedrick was very trusting, my lord. Too trusting. He loved you.”
There. He’d said it.
“You believe I convinced him to commit treason.”
Gerek dared a soundless yes.
Kosenmark blew out a breath. “Words are useless. Mere sound of flesh and air. Yes, the poets were right, as always.” In a softer voice, he said, “I knew someone who felt as you do. She— They argued against my convictions—called me arrogant and— Well, never mind what they said. Their disbelief was good for me, urged me to do better, at least for a time…”
Silence filled the room, except for Gerek’s pulse in his ears. The groan of pulleys, the hissing of sand as the hourglass turned end over end, its luminescent grains spilling through the narrow aperture. Time, time, time slides away from our fingers, even as we try to grasp the moments and seconds.
“We are at an impasse,” Kosenmark said. “So let me propose a new idea. Let me tell you my intentions. Believe me or not, but listen. Stay in my household a few weeks longer and share my work. Judge for yourself if I am a traitor to the kingdom or not.”
He went on to speak of the kingdom, of old Baerne of Angersee, and his son who died of drink and despair. Of the present king, Armand, who desired to outshine his grandfather’s deeds. And how Lord Markus Khandarr fed the young king’s desire for glory, provoking him toward war with Károví without regard for the kingdom’s welfare.
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