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He dropped his gaze, distinctly uncomfortable with the question. “Lord Iani is with her still, to put our safeguards in place, before she leaves this house.”
Safeguards. A chill passed through Ilse. “What kind of safeguards?”
Another uncomfortable pause. “Lord Iani has operated upon her with magic,” he said slowly. “Rosel is sleeping now. She feels no pain, but when she wakes up, she will be in a sick house, fevered and unable to remember anything that happened in the past two months.”
Ilse’s stomach turned over. Briefly she wondered what Lys would say about her best friend’s sudden departure. From there, it was an obvious leap to her own situation. “Is that what you planned for me?”
“Yes.”
Wrong. That was so very wrong. “Why that?” she whispered. “Why not dismiss her from the household? Send her to another city where she cannot do you any harm.”
“That city does not exist. We have allies and colleagues everywhere in Veraene, even in Károví. Besides, I was trying to protect her.”
“How? By destroying her wits?”
“We have not—” With an obvious effort, Kosenmark lowered his voice. “We have not damaged her. We simply removed the dangerous memories—the ones that are as dangerous to her as they are to me. Ilse, look at me.”
He reached toward her, but she recoiled. Kosenmark vented a sigh. “I am telling you the truth. If we did nothing but dismiss Rosel, the men and women who hired her would kill her, for no other reason than to make certain she could not tell anyone about them. Now they must realize she cannot betray them. It was the best I could do.”
And he would have done the same with her. He would have obliterated her memories and tossed her into Tiralien’s streets without any regret. Once, she had admired him. Now …
“You don’t believe me.”
“I do,” she whispered. “That is what frightens me.”
Kosenmark opened and closed his mouth. “I wish I could convince you that I’m not a monster. But that might be another lie.” A pause, while he appeared to struggle for what to say next. “Can you possibly understand how it was, in Baerne’s Court? Yes, we practiced intrigue. We had to so we could survive. Politically survive, I mean. Then came Armand as the king, with Markus as his adviser, and the survival became literal. Fara—”
He broke off and rubbed a hand over his eyes. That name was like a cry, and for a moment, a much younger Raul Kosenmark sat opposite her.
When he did continue, he kept his hand shading his face. “Fara was the Countess Hanau. You wouldn’t know her. She took me as her student when I was a boy. She taught me about political factions and alliances and how they shifted from one quarter hour to the next. She told me, bluntly, that my personal disappointments were nothing compared to my duties to king and kingdom. Then she taught me how to fulfill those duties. How to think. To listen. Yes, in that way, too. And when they said to me, Oh you cannot be a lover, you cannot be a man, she said, Oh yes, you can. Then Armand killed her.”
She had not thought the silence could deepen, but it had. It was like a tangible thing, heavy and dark.
Kosenmark eventually lowered his hand. He kept his face averted, but Ilse could see a silvery gleam in his eyes. “She trusted,” he said. “So did I. We hoped that Armand would prove another Baerne—Baerne in his younger days. It was a foolish hope, given what we knew about Armand’s character, but not completely unreasonable. We had not reckoned with Markus Khandarr. He saw Fara as a rival. He convinced Armand that she was dangerous to his authority. Then, one day, she complained 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.”
His voice wavered. He clenched his fist and went on in a harsher tone. “The mage-physicians who attended her, one after the other, could do nothing. They couldn’t even help her to an easier death. She lay there, burning and burning and yet never able to die. Not until Khandarr decided she had suffered enough. No, I have no proof, other than the man’s character. He
might have assassinated her. He might have struck her down suddenly. But it is a sign of his character that he did not want to simply eliminate a perceived adversary. He wanted to punish her. Of that I am certain.”
She had heard scraps of this tale from Mistress Raendl and others, but nothing so harrowing as the complete story. “I’m sorry about what happened. Very sorry. It does … explain things.”
Kosenmark flexed his hand and studied it dispassionately. “Perhaps. But it does not entirely justify how I treated you. You had it right. I am both arrogant and afraid. To that I can add ashamed and sorry. More than sorry.” He laughed a dry pained laugh. “Khandarr hardly needs to plot against me. I do well enough myself. You see, we can always arrange another meeting, but I cannot replace someone who cares as deeply as you do for truth and honor.”
Ilse shook her head, uncomfortable with his praise.
“It’s true,” he said. “Whether you accept it or not.” Now he drew a deep breath. “We’ve made a false beginning. I would like to make amends, but though such grievous misunderstandings can be mended …”
“They cannot be forgotten,” Ilse said, finishing the quote from Mandel of Ysterien’s essays on alliances. She smiled faintly. “You gave me those essays to read last week.” And then she saw where the conversation was heading. “Do you want me here still?”
“I do. Do you wish to stay?”
She meant to say no. But what came out was “I don’t know.”
He nodded, his manner subdued. “Please take another day—as many as you need—to decide. If you decide to leave, I can recommend several good households in Tiralien. Or even Duenne, if that still appeals to you. You might go anywhere you like.”
“What about …”
“My shadow court?” He smiled briefly. “A good name for it. Shadows are dark things. We need more light. Let me just say that I trust you. I would not make you a prisoner for my own shortcomings. Meanwhile, you’ve had a difficult week. Stay in your rooms and rest before you make any decisions.”
