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“He knows. He asked me here for dinner.”
Oh yes. She could have predicted that as well, if she were thinking clearly.
She made a polite excuse and hurried up the stairs. Just as she reached the balcony, a door opened below, and she heard Lord Kosenmark greet his lover.
His lover, she repeated firmly. Remember that. It didn’t matter how often Lord Kosenmark dined with her. It didn’t matter about Alarik Brandt. Or that night in the inn. Or any other memory she had used to feed these new feelings she had. (And if she was honest, not just abstract feelings but desire.) Lord Dedrick was his chosen lover, and nothing she wished or dreamed could change that.
With a start, she realized the voices were louder and more distinct. They were coming upstairs. Ilse fled through the doors to the far stairs and ran up them, not stopping until she had reached her rooms. Only when she had closed and locked the doors could she stop to catch her breath.
I know the word links now. Start with fool. Fool and idiot and thick wit—
Gradually she brought herself under control. She lit the lamps and poured herself a cup of wine with trembling hands. A headache nibbled at the edge of her awareness.
“Ei rûf ane gôtter,” she whispered.
Air brushed against her cheeks—thick and scented green, like the pine forests above the Gallenz River. Ilse breathed in the scent, feeling new energy course through her body. She stared at her own hand, clenched in a fist, as her focal point. Her vision narrowed to a vein along one knuckle, then to a single point where flesh and blood and bone coincided. The headache faded, her pulse slowed. She was poised between the here of Tiralien and the faraway of magic’s other planes.
Feathers and spines prickled her arm. Her focus broke, and with a sickening rush, she fell back into herself.
She lay facedown on the hard floor, her head spinning from hunger and magic. The lamp had burned down, and a twilight darkness filled the room. Ilse stumbled to her feet. She made it to the sideboard and drained three cups of water. Only then could she relight the lamp.
I must look terrible.
It doesn’t matter what you look like. You need to eat.
She washed her face and smoothed her hair. Outside her rooms, the wing was quiet, but she could hear sounds from the rooms below, signaling the start of business for the evening. She headed for the back stairs, where she knew she could avoid any of the guests. Midway to the next landing, however, she heard voices from above. Loud, angry voices.
“Bastard!” Lord Dedrick’s shout echoed down the stairwell. “You damned fucking bastard.”
“Dedrick, come back. I swear it’s not what you think—”
“And what should I think?”
Ilse strained to hear Raul’s answer. She heard nothing but the blood pulsing in her ears.
Dedrick laughed. “That’s what I thought. You can’t tell me any different than what the whole city is saying. Damn you for a liar and a coward.” Then louder, “Damn you, Raul. Damn you for every fucking hour I spent on you. I wish I’d never—”
He broke off and came hurtling down the stairs. Ilse tried to outrun him, but before she reached the next landing, Dedrick overtook her. He stopped at the sight of her, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. “You,” he breathed.
He pushed past her at a run, his boots ringing over the steps. Ilse closed her eyes and pressed both hands over her mouth, too shaken to move or think. A door banged open and closed below. Muffled shouts penetrated the walls—Dedrick shouting for his horse and groom.
She glanced up the stairwell. Silence up there.
It’s not my business.
He is my friend, at least.
She wavered a moment, then went up the stairs. The door stood closed. Ilse pressed her ear against it and listened. She heard nothing. No footsteps. No muttered soliloquies. Only a thick and unsettling silence. Her heart thudding faster, she knocked.
No answer.
Ilse retraced her steps to the kitchen. There she poured a jug of Raul’s best wine, and fetched a wine cup, napkins, and water carafe. The kitchen girls ignored her. Mistress Raendl accorded her a brief friendly nod; Kathe paused and glanced in her direction, obviously curious, but Ilse hurried away before she could say anything.
As she expected, no one answered her knock the second time either. Ilse balanced the tray on one hip and tried the latch. Raul had locked it. She hesitated only a moment before she laid her palm over the lock and spoke the words he had taught her.
Ei rûf ane gôtter. Lâzen mir drînnen Ilse Zhalina.
