Allegiance, page 28
part #3 of River of Souls Series
Oh, yes, she could.
“Ah,” Marte exclaimed. “There is Lady Margarete and her family.” She waved with enthusiasm. The parties drew rein to speak with one another—nothing but inconsequentials, but Ilse felt the weight of Lady Margarete’s gaze on her. At least the Kosenmark sisters did not expect her to join in the conversation. After a few exchanges, Heloïse gave the excuse that they had an appointment, and on they went.
A second and third encounter and a fourth. Again, no one addressed Ilse, but everyone inspected her. Ilse understood. Duke Kosenmark wished to spread word of her audience with the king. This very public procession ensured she would at least attain that audience without any mysterious disappearance.
They arrived at their destination half an hour before the midday bells. The vast square before the palace was empty, however, as was the equally enormous courtyard within the outer walls. Ilse glanced from side to side. High stone walls lined the courtyard. The front of the palace was a blank facade, broken only by a vast set of doors, four times the height of any ordinary man, constructed from beaten copper and decorated with the arms of Veraene and Angersee. Beyond, towers and walls mounted upward to glittering domes. She tilted her head back to take in the rows of windows, the sense of concentrated power, the aura of magic that pervaded the air.
A squad of soldiers emerged from the doors to meet their company. As Ilse dismounted, the most senior officer stepped forward. The king required her immediate presence, he said, and she was to follow him at once. Her guards and escort were not necessary in the palace itself. He spoke politely, but she disliked how the other soldiers pressed forward between her and Kosenmark’s guards.
“I thank the king, but I find the presence of my escort necessary,” she said.
“Indeed,” Heloïse said, interposing herself between Ilse and the soldiers. “We dare not abandon our charge. It is a matter of the highest protocol.”
“But Lord Khandarr—”
“His Majesty will have Mistress Ilse in good time,” Marte said. “Tell them that our father gives his word in exchange for our behavior. Unless Lord Khandarr holds a greater authority than Armand himself. No? I thought not. Please convey our words exactly to the king. We understand the protocol. You will have the Lady Ilse, as promised, to deliver her testimony before the court and no sooner.”
The senior officer glared at her. Heloïse and her sisters smiled back, the tips of their teeth showing. With a grimace, the senior officer shrugged. “As you insist. I will relay your words to the king.”
“Thank you. I would be grateful.”
The soldiers withdrew. Heloïse closed her eyes momentarily, then glanced to Ilse. “Do let me know if I exceed my responsibilities.”
“Not yet,” Ilse said. “Though I will not be shy.”
“Oh. As for that, I have no fear.”
A runner in the king’s own livery appeared shortly after. Ilse and the Kosenmark sisters handed their horses off to their own guards and followed the man through the grand entrance and its equally grand reception chamber, lined with ivory marble. An airy entry hall stretched before them, but with an apologetic gesture, the runner directed them off to one side and down a parallel corridor, into a small chamber.
Marte motioned for the others to wait and entered first. She glanced around, then nodded to her sisters, who then escorted Ilse inside.
The room was small, the size of a generous storeroom in Raul Kosenmark’s pleasure house. Dark blue tiles covered the floor. A single tapestry, depicting a king accepting a vow of allegiance from his mage-priest, hung next to a narrow window, which overlooked a courtyard planted with flowering trees, already losing their blossoms to the autumn season. Such a plain, insignificant room, told Ilse the status of herself and her message. She didn’t care. The king would hear her. It was more than she had hoped for these past four months.
Next a squad of servants appeared. They requested, in soft but firm tones, that Ilse give up all her weapons. Heloïse nodded and Ilse complied, but she noted the servants made no such demands of the Kosenmark sisters, who took up stances around the room, knives drawn, hands resting on swords.
“Where are we?” Ilse asked.
“Next to the great council room itself,” Marte said. “The king will not allow you to enter armed, but the old laws permit your guardians to carry weapons.”
“Such a relief,” Ilse murmured.
She was rewarded by brilliant smiles from all three sisters. Olivia darted forward and kissed Ilse on the cheek. The gesture was so unexpected that Ilse flinched. Olivia paused, tilted her head as if asking permission this time, then repeated the kiss. So. Perhaps they had hearts after all. She would have to learn not to judge so easily.
The servants reappeared, clearly anxious. Ilse nodded to them, and proceeded through the door. They escorted her down the same corridor, to an entryway with double doors of polished darkwood, carved with emblems from the old empire.
The doors swung open onto a vast hall.
Ilse took in the rows of seats that circled around the floor, rising up tier by tier to the ceiling far overhead. She sensed the sisters behind her, a touch of badly needed warmth, strengthened all the more because she knew they came well armed. Ahead lay a smooth stone aisle, lined on either side by benches and chairs and richly appointed boxes; more seats rose up on either side, all of them occupied by men and women dressed in jewels that caught the lamplight and sunlight.
At the end of the aisle stood the royal dais, occupied by Armand of Angersee. One tall skeleton of a man stood behind the king, bending over his shoulder. That, she realized with an indrawn breath, would be Lord Markus Khandarr. Even from this distance he appeared markedly changed. His hair snow white. His body hunched over a stick.
If she had found the long march to Duke Kosenmark unsettling, this was ten times more so. She marched forward, down the long, long aisle, past the nobles and their minions, either seated or standing in small gatherings. She paused once to draw a calming breath and to remember Bela Sovic, Maryshka Rudny, Kathe and her beloved, so many others.
I am nothing. They are everything.
She continued on, advancing past a row of guards, past an empty moat between the audience and the king. Now she came to a second line of guards, these armed with swords drawn. One of them stepped forward to examine her. Through the gap in the line, she glimpsed a man in a drab brown tunic and trousers bent over a wooden table.
Raul Kosenmark.
Ilse stopped, her heartbeat stilled by the unexpected sight.
He sat alone, behind a plain small table, his hands clasped together before him, weighed down with chains. His face was drawn, his eyes dark from sleepless night, his mouth pinched in despair. There was no trace of beard upon his face, but there would not be. Not after Baerne extracted that most final promise of loyalty from his councillors.
One year since she had left Tiralien. Four months and more since Hallau Island.
Oh, my love, my love …
She had lied when she told Duke Kosenmark that his son didn’t matter. He did. But if his death and hers meant peace, she would not fail, not at this last moment.
The guard searched her person for weapons. Ilse bore the indigity with trembling anger. A few yards, a few moments of speech, separated her from her goal. Once the woman finished her inspection and motioned her forward, Ilse advanced toward the dais. As if he had finally become aware of her presence, Raul lifted his head and swiveled around.
His eyes were dulled, no longer the brilliant gold of her memory. His once-black hair was streaked with gray. There was an air of defeat about him, as though he had spent these past four months in despair.
My love, she thought, with all her will.
My love, came his clear reply.
It was as though she witnessed Toc’s resurrection. His eyes brightened. His lips parted in a smile beyond hopeful. Her own pulse beat quick and light with anticipation.
There was no time for more. The guard who had examined her resumed her position in line, blocking Raul from her sight. Ilse crossed to the last distance to face the king and his mage councillor.
“Your Majesty.” Ilse sank to her knees and bowed her head.
“They tell me you have evidence for this man’s trial,” Armand said.
His voice was high and light, like a string drawn taut, but clearly a man’s voice. This was the king who had determined to reinvent himself into a greater legend than his famous grandfather. She would have to tread carefully, for her sake and Raul’s. And Veraene’s.
“I have evidence and more,” Ilse said.
She rose and advanced up the half dozen steps to lay Miro Karasek’s letter at her king’s feet. Armand motioned to an attendant, who retrieved the envelope from the floor and offered it to the king.
“It is a letter from Duke Miro Karasek,” Ilse said. “He is— He was a general of Károví. While he addressed this letter to Lord Kosenmark, in truth he wrote to Veraene and you, your Majesty. On the matter of peace between our kingdoms,” she added, when the king still made no move to unfold the envelope or read its contents.
Armand regarded the square of paper in his hands. “You are not one of my diplomats,” he said. “Nor an envoy.”
His expression was bland, unnervingly so.
“No,” she replied. “I cannot claim any authority in this life. But once I was a princess of Károví, charged with the same mission. The circumstances of my life—the one before, the one today—brought me back to Károví.” When he continued to study the envelope, she said, “You have heard that Leos Dzavek is dead. There is more you ought to know. Lir’s jewels have departed this world. And Morennioù’s queen has returned to her homeland. Once she has dealt with those Károvín who remain in the islands, she will turn her attention to the continent. She has promised us peace, but in return, we must promise her the same.”
Now she had his attention.
“What queen?” Armand said. “And who made such promises to her?”
He had recovered himself quickly enough, but Ilse had not missed how his eyes had widened, nor how his gaze veered briefly to one side, to Markus Khandarr.
“The queen of Morennioù,” she replied. “The Károvín took her hostage, when Leos Dzavek sent those ships east. On their return, three of the ships foundered in the shoals off Osterling Keep. The queen was taken along with the Károvín survivors. Lord Khandarr questioned her himself.”
Another abortive glance toward Khandarr. Ilse felt the temptation to follow that glance, to observe Khandarr’s expression for herself, but she kept her gaze locked on Armand’s face. She read a flicker of doubt in his frown, whether directed at Khandarr or herself she could not tell.
“You say Duke Karasek is no longer a general,” Armand said. “Which means he no longer has any influence. His letter means nothing.”
“He no longer has influence, your Majesty. But the men and women he names, dukes and barons and lords, do.”
And never mind the common people who held equally strong opinions. But she knew Armand could not comprehend such a thing.
Meanwhile, Armand regarded her with that same maddeningly blank expression. He still had not read the letter—he might simply make his decision on a whim. Belatedly, she wondered if she had made a mistake, coming to him so openly. Perhaps if she had listened to the duke’s first suggestion, for a private interview …
No. All their misery, hers and Raul’s and Veraene’s itself, came from secrecy.
She pressed forward, trying to keep the desperation from her voice. “Your Majesty. Read the letter or not. But listen to me, please. You believe Lord Kosenmark a traitor—”
“I know it.”
She bowed her head. “As you wish. I came with evidence for his innocence.”
“This letter?” Armand said.
“No. My own memories.”
The hall, until then abuzz with whispered conversation, dropped into a hush.
“What do you mean?” Armand said.
“Exactly what I said, your Majesty. Consult Lord Khandarr about his ability to draw the truth and nothing else from those he questions. He did so with Lord Dedrick Maszuryn. He attempted to do so with Morennioù’s queen. Let me offer myself as another candidate.”
The hush dropped into a deeper silence. Ilse felt the air draw tight—not with magic but with the apprehension of an entire court as it watched its king poised to make a decision. Only now did Ilse dare to shift her gaze from Armand to the man beside him.
Markus Khandarr stood hunched over a thick black staff, his hands gripping the curved handle so tightly his knuckles were pale from the effort. But what astonished Ilse the most was his face. One half slack, the flesh hanging down, as if half of him had died. The other etched with deep lines, and the flesh drawn back tight against the skull, now visible through the thinning white hair.
An old man, made unaccountably older still and weakened by a confrontation with a stronger adversary. A man permanently furious at that defeat.
His expression frightened her. If Armand granted her the right to testify under magic’s influence, Khandarr would surely see that she died. It did not matter that this interrogation took place before a host of witnesses. He was a clever man. He could ensure that she died quietly in the night from a spell laid upon her now, under the guise of administering the truth spell, and no one could prove it was murder.
I must take that risk. I must deliver my evidence, persuade the king. If I die, so be it.
She rose to her feet and met Khandarr’s gaze steadily. “Do what you must, my lord. I am prepared to do the same.”
A strange emotion rippled over that distorted face. Contempt at her bravado? A reluctant admiration? Even the possibility of the latter unnerved her. The moment passed. Khandarr shook his head and in painfully slow, measured steps rounded the throne to approach Ilse.
“Kneel,” he rasped.
“I kneel to the king, not you,” she said.
The knotted half of his mouth twitched. He made no reply, but laid a hand against her throat, and despite her declaration, she could not suppress a flinch. But as he began the invocation to the magic, a voice rang out from the audience.
“Your Majesty. I claim the right to offer a gift to the kingdom’s welfare.”
Voices swelled in an access of surprise. Ilse attempted to turn away to face the speaker, but Khandarr tightened his grip on her throat. Magic stung her skin, and she had the impression that a single word might send the current across the divide between flesh and flesh.
Khandarr lifted his gaze to stare past Ilse and to the invisible speaker. “What gift, Lady Hanau? Amends for your daughter’s treachery?”
A shock of recognition washed over Ilse at the sound of the speaker’s name. Raul had told her the story of his first days at court. How the Countess Fara Hanau had rescued him from self-destruction, offering herself as a mentor at first, a friend, and though he had not said as much, a lover in later years.
Markus Khandarr saw Fara as a rival for the king’s favor. He dared nothing outright, but one day, Fara took ill, complaining of a headache and dizziness. Twelve hours later, she lay unconscious in a wasting fever. But she didn’t die. Not right away. Not for three months …
“My daughter never committed treachery,” Lady Hanau said, then to the king, “Your Majestry, treason is a delicate matter to judge. Lord Khandarr’s animosity toward Lord Kosenmark is well known. He is therefore unfit to conduct this interrogation. You might say my animosity toward this court is also well known. But I have a proposition. Accept the services of my personal mage. Let him question the young woman and I will no longer oppose you through my friends and allies.”
Ilse glanced up at the king, but Armand’s expression had turned even more remote and unreadable than before. “You will give up all claims against me and my court?” he asked.
“Against you, your Majesty, and everyone else concerned. Except,” she added, “Lord Khandarr himself.”
A breath of silence followed, just long enough for Ilse to sense a quickening of Khandarr’s pulse through his fingertips, to consider how swiftly a desperate mage could wreak destruction. Then …
“I accept,” Armand said. “Bring us your mage.”
He gestured sharply to Khandarr, who retreated once more to his position behind the king’s throne. Ilse bowed her head and breathed deep breaths. She heard, as from a distance, footsteps approach the dais, then a man’s voice offering fealty to his lord and king. His name was Emil Fass. On further questioning, he said he had studied magic as an apprentice in Melnek. With a gift of money, and a recommendation from his tutor, he had come to Duenne three years ago.
“I traveled by caravan,” Fass said. “I studied at the university a year before my Lady Hanau gave me a place in her household. With her permission, I have continued to study at the university, while I fulfill my obligations to her and her household.”
Ilse heard little beyond the words Melnek and caravan.
I know you. And now I know your name.
This was the nameless scholar who had watched her sell her body to Alarik Brandt and his men. The same one who had dared their punishment when he gave her a stone knife to free herself. She remembered the rush of his voice as he gave her advice on how to survive in the wilderness. His last words, when he said she reminded him of his sister. “I know you,” she said softly.
“And I know you,” he said, his voice pitched as low as hers. “Well enough to know that you are no traitor. Nor would you lend yourself to such a cause.” Then louder, “Will you allow me the privilege?”
He spoke to her, to Ilse Zhalina and not the king or Markus Khandarr. She understood. He wanted consent—true consent—before he worked any magic upon her.
“I do,” she said clearly. “I will speak only the truth. All of it. I want to.”
“Then proceed,” Armand said.
Emil Fass laid one hand on her head, one on her shoulder. His touch was gentle, but sure. Ilse trembled, then held herself still. She had not lied. She wanted to speak the truth. Whether Armand listened or believed, she could not do more.
