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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.
