Baroness of Blood r-10 Page 11

  "Do you know it?" Marishka asked Peto.

  "I do."

  "Then go. Dance with my sister."

  He led Ilsabet to the floor and joined a dozen other couples. With his palms pressed against her, they began the angled steps, first facing one another then moving one step forward and to their partner's side. When the music shifted to a faster beat and a whirling melody, Peto put his hand on Ilsabet's waist. She did the same, and with their free arms held high, they began to spin.

  One of the musicians handed them each a scarf-his Sundell black-and-gold, hers Kislova blue-and they held them high as they whirled.

  Each subsequent set of angled steps was faster than the first, the whirling acquiring breakneck speed. Couples dropped out until only Ilsabet and Peto were left, dancing as if they were at war and this the bloodless battle to settle the matter once and for all.

  The musicians settled it for them. The music slowed, stopped. Ilsabet and Peto leaned against one another, panting. As he inhaled, he smelled her perfume. Something about it made him giddy with desire, and the desire reminded him that he would not sleep tonight with his wife in his arms.

  "Now there's a real couple," a drunken Kislovan merchant whispered too loudly.

  Peto stiffened at the insult to his bride. With his hand balled into a fist, he took a step toward the man. Ilsabet waited, her expression unreadable. Mar-ishka, however, had heard the remark, saw Peto's reaction. "Husband," she called. "Come, sit by me."

  He did as she asked, and when he leaned over to kiss her, she whispered, "Don't be angry when someone speaks the truth. I thought it myself."

  Marishka retired a short time later. Peto lay beside her until she slept, then left her lying in her dress with the rosebuds in her hair. She looked so beautiful in the candlelight, so at peace that Peto said a prayer that if recovery was indeed hopeless, she would die that night, and her pain would finally end.

  As she'd requested, he left her chamber doors open so that should she wake, she would hear the distant music of her wedding feast. She'd wanted him to rejoin it, but he could not do so. Instead he stood in the shadows at the top of the stairs and listened to the dancing, the toasts, to Ilsabet's bright laughter.

  Marishka died three days later, with Ilsabet, Peto, and Mihael at her bedside.

  On the night after Marishka's funeral, Ilsabet stood on the battlements that faced the shore. The fog had begun to form, languid waves of it rolling against the hillside beneath Marishka's tomb. The day had been unseasonably warm, so the fog would be thick tonight, rising from the damp ground as well as the river. Soon, it would begin its insidious invasion of the castle. Every cracked window, every tiny crack between walls and doors would give it a way in.

  Ilsabet's rooms would be damp tonight, but Greta would deal with the fog as she always did, building the fire on Ilsabet's hearth, keeping it burning throughout the night to be certain its cold never touched her.

  Would it touch Marishka? Would it caress her as her bridegroom had never done? Ilsabet smiled, a victor's smile, and stared at the white pillars of the tomb outlined clearly by the rising quarter moon.

  As she did, she thought she saw something moving toward the tomb, a silver ribbon curling though the moonlight. She stared, frightened, awed, as the ribbon coiled upon itself and rose, finally taking the wispy form of a tall, thin youth. An instant later, a cry of grief rolled over the damp land, a cry that shifted slowly into the howl of a wolf.

  This is a dream, nothing more, Ilsabet thought. I am safe in my bed dreaming. Her heart pounded; she fought to catch her breath; her hands gripped the castle wall as she watched and waited, certain of what was to come.

  The rest of the dread scene was played out in silence. A wolf padded to the front of the tomb, joined a moment later by a woman whose loose robes glowed in the moonlight, rising and falling in some invisible breeze.

  Ilsabet almost said her sister's name aloud, but certain it would attract the attention of the ghost, she bit her lip to stifle any sound. She retreated to her room. As she walked past the place from which Dark had fallen, she felt a cold hand press against her back. Whirling, she saw no one behind her. She felt like screaming-in defiance as well as fear. Would the dead never leave her alone?

  Once she was safely in her room, she sat curled in a chair close to the raging fire. For the first time in years, she cried and did not hold it back.

  She was still crying when Peto arrived at her chambers. He had come to sit beside her and take comfort in her strength. When he saw her, weeping in private as she had refused to do in public, his heart went out to her. When he sensed the terrible fear in her, he thought of her as hardly more than a beautiful child, orphaned, defeated, lost.

  He wrapped his arms around her. She pressed against him and sobbed while his hand stroked her long, soft hair.

  THIRTEEN

  Three days after Marishka's death, Baron Peto lay in the bed he should have shared with his bride, trying to find sleep in a glass of strong, sweet Kislovan brandy. His valet knocked politely and said Mihael Obour wished to speak to him.

  "I was speaking to him all afternoon," Peto responded.

  "I'm sorry," Mihael said and pushed past the servant.

  "Since you're here, come in," Peto said wearily. He sat up and poured Mihael a glass of brandy, wondering vaguely what was so important.

  Mihael looked anxiously at Peto. The baron was using drink to drown rage more than grief, but drink had a way of making rage worse. It also made the candid conversation Mihael had hoped to have with Peto impossible. He wished he hadn't barged in so rudely, now that he had no idea what to say.

  "I'd guessed your grief," he began. "I've come to offer what comfort I can."

  "Comfort!" Peto laughed, a terrible mirthless sound. "I'd hoped to have children with her, to unite our kingdoms with our sons. I'd hoped for too much and now…" Without warning Peto flung his goblet across the room. The fine crystal shattered on the stones.

  The valet peeked in, then withdrew at Peto's bellowed command.

  "Now I'm beginning to understand why your stepmother killed herself," Peto went on. "A moment's pain is nothing compared to this sorrow."

  Neither of them said anything for some time, then Mihael broke the silence. "I went looking for Lord Jorani today and learned he left yesterday for Argentine."

  "You don't approve? He'd been away from his estate for some time. Since half its revenues now belong to me, I thought it wise to let him set his lands in order."

  "I was only surprised that Ilsabet didn't go with him."

  "She did not wish to go."

  "You asked her?" Mihael could not believe the implications of this.

  "Given how selflessly she nursed her sister, I could hardly banish her again so, yes, I asked her. She replied almost word for word what she'd said the night she refused to swear loyalty to me. However, she sounds far less defiant now."

  "How long will Jorani be gone?" Mihael asked.

  "A week or two at the most." Some of Mihael's emotion must have shown in his face, for Peto asked, "I did send some of my men with him. Is there anything wrong?"

  "I don't know," Mihael answered truthfully. "I can't shake the feeling that something more than an accident killed my sister."

  All effects of the brandy seemed to vanish. Peto stood, his muscular form towering over the slight youth. "If you suspect Lord Jorani of treachery, speak," Peto demanded.

  "No, I don't suspect him. But he knows more than any man in Kislova about the sort of things that might have killed her."

  "The sort of things?" Peto gave a dry laugh. "Mihael, the accident was cause enough. You've only been in battle once so you can't know how common that sort of death is. I've watched countless men fall from their horses, endure no more than a few scratches, then begin to bleed inside. They die days or even weeks later, just as Marishka did. My own battle surgeon tells me that's what killed her."

  What could Mihael say? That both his sisters were expert riders and the
accident itself could have been arranged? That Ilsabet's sudden beauty held hints of sorcery? His parents were dead. Marishka as well. There were only Ilsabet and himself left. He could not betray her, not until he was certain. "I don't suspect anyone. It was her death itself that troubles me."

  "Her death should trouble us all," Peto replied and held up a new glass in a silent toast to Marishka.

  Mihael left the baron soon after, returning to his rooms. He debated what to do, then decided on the direct approach.

  He found his sister in her sitting room. She still wore the black of mourning, and there was a gray blanket thrown over her legs. She was napping on one of the couches, an open book on her lap. The light streaming through the window made her pallor even more pronounced. Here, she looked no different than in times past, and he began to wonder what trick of light or emotion had made him see her as changed.

  "Ilsabet," he called softly.

  She opened her eyes, smiled, and sat up. Holding out her hand, she drew him down on the couch beside her.

  "You look so sad. What is it?" she asked.

  "I came to speak about Marishka." He watched her face as he forged on. "There is no polite way to ask this, but I must. I know how opposed you were to Marishka's swearing loyalty to Baron Peto. But when Marishka brought you back to help plan her wedding, you and she were closer than you had ever been. I have to know why you had such a change of heart?"

  Ilsabet looked out the window at the cloudy sky. The light seemed to steal all color from her eyes, making them look glazed over, white, dead. "In my days alone at Argentine, I began to realize we are all that is left of the Obours, and we must do what we can to survive and prosper. I decided my defiance of Baron Peto was ill-advised but I could see no way to mend the differences between us without losing all pride.

  "Then Marishka wrote me about her marriage and asked me to come home. I did, and though I was opposed to the match, I thought it an expedient move for our family. Now she is gone, and there is only you." She paused, and her eyes widened with disbelief. Tears came to them, tears she tried in vain to hide. "You suspect me of killing her, don't you?"

  Mihael had never seen his sister cry. Perhaps so much grief had worn down her defenses and softened her. "You've never spoken so openly about your feelings before. I had no way of knowing," he said sincerely.

  "Does Peto think I had a part in Marishka's death?"

  "I don't know," Mihael answered. "I hope not."

  "Mihael, what am I to do?"

  She'd also never asked his advice before. He looked at her and answered with words he expected would send her into one of her well-known rages. "Swear now," he said. "Peto hasn't asked it. If you do it of your own free will, your pride will be intact."

  Surprisingly, she nodded, and actually seemed to be considering his advice when he left her.

  Like Mihael, Jorani was troubled by Marishka's accident, illness, and death. Like Mihael, he dared not mention his suspicions to anyone.

  Once he'd arrived and settled in, he began questioning his staff, concentrating finally on Rilca, who seemed to have spent the most time with Ilsabet.

  The woman happily described the girl's interest in plants, and how she had wandered the fields alone. "She followed me around the kitchen asking me about the healing herbs and roots. I told her everything I knew. We got along well. When I was ill, she sat by my side every day reading to me."

  Jorani had never known Rilca to complain of anything, but she was getting older and her joints had stiffened. "You were ill?" he asked.

  "Stomach cramps such as I'd never felt before. I think my tonic had gone bad. I'd never known it to taste so bitter. I threw it out and blended some teas to help the pains go away."

  At his prompting, she described her symptoms. They were so similar to Marishka's that Jorani became certain Ilsabet was at least guilty of allowing her sister's death. Otherwise, she would have mentioned Rilca's remedies.

  "I've been teaching her some things myself," he said. "It would help to know about the plants you discussed."

  Rilca told him. There had been nothing odd in their discussions of angelica and feverfew, or in the concoction of horseheal and mallow Rilca had suggested for Ilsabet's chronic cough. "We even discussed the old myths," Rilca continued, "like the banning of marjoram at a wedding feast and the eating of columbine seeds to hasten a baby's arrival and the old tale of what happens when you eat black nettle."

  She prattled happily on for a few more minutes. Jorani barely listened. He'd just learned what poison had killed Marishka, as well as how it had been delivered.

  As soon as he left Rilca, he went to the rooms Ilsabet had occupied. A careful examination of the drawers and cupboards revealed nothing, but when he sifted through the ashes in the bucket beside the hearth, he found bits of pottery and a black tar stuck to a few of the pieces. He took these to his own room. There he diluted the tarry substance with water until it formed a thick paste. He dabbed it onto his arm. A few minutes later when the blisters began to rise, he knew what Ilsabet had done.

  Weeks passed, but he remained at Argentine, getting his estate in far better order than his emotions. Finally, he received an urgent letter from Lieutenant Shaul asking that he return:

  "… In the last few days, there have been three mysterious deaths in the dungeons of the castle. The victims were outlaws who had been preying on shipments of goods between Kislova and Sundell. They'd been jailed in the town but escaped. When recaptured, they were brought here, as it is well known that no one escapes the castle's cells.

  "They were hard, dangerous men, and they would have undoubtedly been executed after evidence against them was heard. However, in the days before their hearing, they began having frequent fallings-out. When they came to blows, they were separated.

  "On the night before their hearing, one of the prisoners began to scream as if in terrible pain. The guard held a torch close to the cell but could see no reason for the man's agony. Because of the man's history, he decided the screams were some sort of trick to get him to open the cell door, and he ignored them. Later, the other outlaws also began to cry out, but again the guard could see nothing and thought it a trick.

  "Gradually, the screams subsided. The guard assumed the men had tired of their useless ruse. In the morning, when trays of food were brought, two of the men were dead, the third unconscious. All had welts covering their bodies, as if they had been burned with hot coals. Indeed, it seemed they felt as if they were burning, for they had clawed at their clothing and scratched their skin trying to put out the invisible flames. The one survivor remains unconscious, but cries out often.

  "Our healer suspects some plague. I remember the rats and wonder.

  "The baron asked me to write you to return at once and lend us what assistance you can…"

  Unable to ignore the summons, Jorani set a slow pace back to the castle, still not knowing what course to take, certain of only two things-

  A single word or even a suggestion to Peto of what Ilsabet had done, and she would be killed; rightfully so.

  And he could not bear to see her die.

  When he reached the castle, he found the courtyard more crowded than it had been on Peto's ill-fated wedding day. Merchants from Pirie mingled with the Sundell officers and Kislovan nobles. Lord Ruven had even traveled from Tygelt along with his wife, Alasyn, a beautiful woman with a quiet dignity that had impressed Jorani often.

  The Sundell guards who had ridden in with Jorani went directly to the stables, leaving him holding tightly to the reins of his nervous horse and trying to find a servant to take it from him.

  "What's going on?" he finally asked one of the sta-bleboys who was trying to lead Lord Ruven's spirited team away from the crowd before someone was injured by their hooves.

  "The baron is holding a feast for the Baroness Ilsabet."

  "A feast is it? Whatever for?"

  "She's going to swear her loyalty to him."

  The words had all the effect of a hard b
low between the eyes. For an instant, Jorani was speechless with shock and astonishment. Then, he thrust his horse's reins into a servant's hand and ran up the stairs to his tower room where he washed and dressed quickly.

  In a different section of the castle, Ilsabet stood in the center of her dressing room surrounded by Mar-ishka's legacy. Her mother's gowns were there, Mar-ishka's own, and the few pieces that Lady Lorena had given her-all of them reminders of the Obour women who had died.

  Greta had used all her considerable skill on Ilsa-bet's thin hair. She'd tied it at the crown then used the hot iron to form tight ringlets that fell over her mistress's shoulders. When she'd finished, she helped Ilsabet into the gown she'd chosen.

  "Leave me," she said to Greta.

  Once alone, Ilsabet studied herself in the mirror, trying to see what Peto would see. She pictured herself, the demure subject, kneeling before him-swearing allegiance for the sake of peace between their families, their countries. Swearing, she had made it clear to him, not because he'd ordered her to do so, but because he had earned her respect.

  Just before she turned to go, she put of few drops of perfume at her temples and in the hollow between her breasts. Marishka had worn a scent much like this. Ilsabet had enhanced it a bit, enough to make it as potent as it was beautiful.

  She heard a knock, then Mihael politely asking if he could escort her down. She knew Mihael privately gloated. No doubt he had spent the better part of the last few days congratulating himself for being so blunt with her. How would he feel, she wondered, if he knew that she had already made her decision and had been merely waiting for him to suggest it?

  She saw no point in openly opposing him. Tonight she would kneel before Peto, would kiss his foot. A moment of debasement and the last barrier between Peto and his new Kislovan subjects would end. Peto was homesick, and Marishka's death had made it worse. It was only a matter of time before Peto left here, and he had already pledged to put Mihael in charge.

  Kislova would return to the Obours. They would not have the power they once did, but at least an Obour would rule. And someday the power would return to them; she had her plans ready to assure it.