Baroness of Blood

TWELVE

Though Marishka's condition improved for a time, the attacks of stomach pain gradually increased. They made her unable to eat, or to sleep save with the aid of strong potions. The healer added fumes to her treatment, and her room was often filled with smoke of sage and other herbs he laid on the hot stones of her hearth.

Fever blisters covered her lips. She could not eat or drink, taking only a little water when Ilsabet or Peto spooned it into her mouth. And she would have dreams, terrible ones of her father and mother coming back from the dead to claim her, or of leaping onto the pyre after Lady Lorena and being consumed by the flames. But the worst were the glorious ones when she dreamt herself dead, free of all the pain, running through the moonlit night with the silver wolf at her side.

"Don't let the fire claim my body," she said to Peto one morning a few weeks after her accident. "It's claiming it now, I will not have it taken twice."

"Don't talk about death," Peto replied, his voice breaking with grief.

"I must. In your land the dead are entombed, yes?"

He nodded.

"Do the same with me. Put the Obour and Casse crests on the door. Someday, Peto, you will be buried beside me, joined in death as we never were in life."

"We will be joined now if you will allow it," he replied.

For the first time in days, he saw Marishka smile.

Though the marriage would be hastily performed, Marishka asked for the traditional wedding feast. While soldiers took word of the event to nobles of the surrounding estates and the cooks began preparing the meal, Marishka rested.

The great hall had been cleaned, and its three long tables covered with brocade cloths. On them were goldleaf dishes, silver knives and forks and crystal goblets, all speaking of the wealth of Sundell. Cream and pink roses were scattered across the bridal table, and the corner where the ceremony was to take place was filled with flowers and lace and the soft flicker of candlelight.

Because only a handful of nobles were able to attend on such short notice, and because Peto rightly understood that this would likely be Mar-ishka's last appearance before her funeral, he invited some of the wealthy merchants families of Pirie as well as the castle servants who knew Marishka well. Conspicuously absent were any representatives of the rebellion. Peto would not insult the Obours and his noble guests by serving their former enemies in their fallen leader's home.

Peto stood beside the priest. Shaul, who would witness the vows on behalf of Sundell, stood to one side. The music grew louder as Marishka was carried to the altar.

She had chosen to wed in the blue-and-gold gown that had been her mother's wedding dress. Her still beautiful hair hung in ringlets over her shoulders, and a crown of white rosebuds covered the top and were braided through the delicate lace of the bridal veil. Makeup hid the sores on her face, and rouge its pallor. Though her eyes were dulled by pain and her cheeks sunken, she was lovely.

But the most surprising change was not in Mar-ishka, whose illness was well known, but in her sister. At Marishka's insistence, Ilsabet, not Mihael, would witness the marriage on behalf of Kislova. Ilsabet walked beside the bride, holding up the veil, her expression regal, her beauty all the more noticeable because everyone had always thought her so plain.

Ilsabet had tried to decline, but Marishka had insisted. "And you will wear one of mother's gowns. Pick whichever you like. They'll all be yours soon. I want you to wear them, to remember mother and father and me."

It was so like Marishka to put herself last that Ilsabet felt tears come to her eyes. Surprised by the emotion, she rubbed them away and kissed her sister's cheek.

Ilsabet had chosen an elegant gown of pale ivory trimmed sparingly in rose-colored lace. Her white-blond hair hung simply down her back in the style she had worn as a child though it was clear from the sudden shapeliness of her body and her serene expression that in the months since her father's death she had matured quickly from girl to woman.

She wore no jewelry save a locket that had been a gift from Jorani some years before and a gold-and-ruby ring on her wedding finger. When asked about the band, she said it had been her stepmother's wedding band, left in her room after the immolation. She said this with little emotion so that the questioners could not tell if she were reminding Peto of her father's death or merely honoring the woman's memory. She'd painted her nails a deep shade of garnet, and as she watched the ceremony her fingers moved, reminding many of the nobles of the blood that had been spilled here so recently.

"It's what she intends us to recall," one of the guests whispered to another, telling those close to him about Ilsabet's challenge to Peto's power.

Marishka held out her arms, and Ilsabet helped her stand beside the bridegroom. Whatever ceremony the priests had planned was eliminated since it was clear the girl would collapse within minutes if they didn't finish quickly. Peto and his bride exchanged vows, nothing more, and Marishka returned to her litter.

Servants carried her to the table where, propped by pillows, she sat beside Peto, raising her glass for the appropriate toasts, but drinking nothing.

Musicians played softly through the meal. After, they started the dancing with the slow, measured cadence that began the kardash, the national dance of Kislova.

"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.