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Ilse glanced toward her. “Shall I trust them?”
“As much as you can trust anyone in Duenne.”
Ilse nodded slowly. “Very well. Duke Kosenmark, if you cannot assist me, tell me so and I will not trouble you again. However…”
“I can,” the duke said. “And I will.”
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow. I promise you.”
He lifted a hand. At once, a trio of servants appeared from the shadows. “You and your friends will have shelter here. And you, if you will permit it, will have proper clothing for your interview with the king. Do not argue. I might know nothing but these court games, but I know them well.”
Humor leavened his voice.
Ilse sank into a curtsy. “Until tomorrow, your Grace.”
* * *
SERVANTS LED HER away from Mann and Iani, into a grand suite of rooms, including a bedchamber with a high ceiling and vast fireplace, already lit with its own fire. She had made a swift circuit and returned to the outer rooms, still attempting to take in her surroundings, when the door opened behind her.
It was Marte, the one who had laughed.
Marte, her face now grave.
“He is afraid,” she said. “My father.”
“So we all are,” Ilse replied.
Marte nodded. “We tend to forget that. A failing and not an excuse,” she added. “Though I wonder, and please excuse the impertinence, but I do wonder if you have ever feared anything in this world.”
I have, Ilse thought. I was afraid of my father and Theodr Galt. The nights spent alone in the wilderness. I am still afraid of failing. Of bringing death instead of peace. Of spending another life or three searching for my true love.
But when she attempted to speak, to describe the weeks and months of desperation, her throat went drier than the ashes from Anderswar’s last illusion. She could only shake her head.
Marte laid a gentle hand on Ilse’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I was clumsy to say what I did. But you offered us such a brave front, that I began to think you impervious to ordinary human frailty. So, come. Let us measure you for raiment suitable to your mission, and you shall present whatever evidence you must before the king.”
She gestured, and a half-dozen young women streamed into the room. Some of them carried ready-made garments. Others had tape measures and pins and sewing baskets. Ilse submitted to their ministrations though it made her twitch, having so many hands upon her body. It called up sudden vivid memories of her days with the caravan, when she had not belonged to herself. But she bit her tongue, and quelled the trembling. By the end, they promised her a costume fit for an audience with the king.
“Can he manage it?” Ilse murmured, half to herself. “A public audience?”
“He will,” Marte said. “He is Duke Kosenmark.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ILSE SLEPT SO deeply, she suspected Marte had drugged the water pitcher. No dreams of past lives interrupted the night, nor even an ordinary dream. It was as if she had exhausted her ability to see beyond the moment. Only once, toward dawn, did her thoughts rise toward waking, and she caught a glimpse of torchlight that reminded her of that clearing, centuries ago, where, in a previous life, Miro Karasek had captured a princess of Károví on her mission of peace.
She woke to pale sunlight streaming through half-open shutters. It was early morning, just after sunrise. The servants had opened the windows during the night, and a warm breeze grazed her face. From the streets below, she heard the clamor of many voices in many languages and dialects. Ilse stared up at the high ceiling with its paintings of women engaged in all manner of work. Stitchery. Weaving. Playing instruments. Dancing and reading. Swordplay and practicing medicine. The central panel, directly overhead, depicted a woman speaking before a grand audience that might be Duenne’s Council.
Duenne. Three years ago, she had sold her body and half annihilated her sense of self, attempting to reach this city. It seemed impossible that she had truly arrived here. That she would speak before the king.
So. Let us begin.
She rose and drew on the robe hung beside her bed. The servants must have set a watch, because she had no sooner done so when a maid scratched at the bedroom door. The girl provided Ilse with directions to the baths, and promised to have a hot breakfast ready on her return.
By the time she had finished her meal, a team of maidservants brought her new clothes. Seamstresses must have spent the night and dozens of candles to finish these costumes, Ilse thought. There were three new gowns, consisting of layers upon layers of false robes sewn over a plain shift, everything embroidered along the edges and weighted with jewels in the hem. The cloth was all dark blue linen, the embroidery of an even darker hue, stitched in tiny loops and whorls. Nothing ostentatious, not as these nobles would judge it, but everything fine and costly.
Working in swift concert, the maids dressed Ilse in the first of these new costumes. Ilse barely paid attention, only enough to obey their directions to step into the shift, my lady, lift your left arm, yes, just so, now please hold still just a moment. She felt removed from the present, as though her spirit had taken a few steps outside her body and was poised to spring into the magical plane.
