Baroness of Blood

FOURTEEN

After Peto took over Nimbus Castle, Mihael and Jorani sat at his side during all meetings of state, suggesting changes to bring about peace.

Nobles who once served Baron Janosk were persuaded to ally with Peto. Some required little persuasion, all along preferring peace over honor and fighting only out of fear of Janosk. Most of his true supporters were won over when Mihael swore allegiance to Peto, then used a skillful blend of bribes and threats to assure that other Kislovan nobles did the same.

At Mihael's suggestion, Peto mollified the rebels with return of some of the lands the nobles had taken from them years before. He forgave back-taxes owed by rebel and loyalist alike who had lost fathers and sons during the rebellion. At Jorani's suggestion, he sent Obour soldiers into the countryside to assist with the spring plantings. By working side by side for a common cause under the watchful eyes of Sundell guards, resentments between rebels and soldiers faded somewhat, enough that there had already been four marriages between Kislova soldiers and fatherless families in Pirie alone-more in the outlying areas. Kislovan blood ran hot, but cooled just as quickly, Peto decided.

Peto had meditated on all these accomplishments in the days after Marishka died but they'd brought him little comfort. Every now-familiar room in Nimbus Castle reminded him of her-of her beauty in life, the agony of her illness, and the irrefutable fact that she had moved beyond his touch until death claimed him.

Let Mihael have this cursed land and all its bloody memories, he decided. At the feast in Ilsabet's honor, he would announce that he was leaving.

That evening, as Peto had waited with his guests for Ilsabet to appear, he had gone over the words of his speech. In it, he had intended to mention Mihael's and his efforts to promote peace in Kislova. He would praise Mihael's honesty and assure everyone that nothing would hamper the fledgling alliance between the two countries.

Then Ilsabet Obour entered. As the sea of faces beneath his raised platform parted, he looked toward her. And forgot the speech, his loneliness, everything.

After she gave her oath, he reached down to take her hand, and she looked up at him. Her eyes were the palest blue, white circles around the pupils as pronounced as those around the iris.

Why had he never seen them as beautiful before?

Then the music began. It seemed wrong not to dance with her. It was a formality; but as he breathed in her perfume and looked down at her delicate face, he felt an odd vertigo. It stayed with him through the first slow motions of the dance, then passed.

Replaced by anxiousness? Desire?

He only knew that he stayed with her through the evening, leaving her with regret after the feast was over. Later, when he was alone in bed, he thought of how the night had gone and realized that, though he could remember her face and her delicate hands, he could not recall the color of her dress, or the design of the brooch pinned to her gown, or even what she had said to him during their hours together.

Yet he thought himself in love, and the intensity of it troubled him.

He did not think of himself as an inconstant man. He mourned Marishka, and would undoubtedly do so for the rest of his life. If so, why was he inflicted with such desire that he felt like an inexperienced youth in his first infatuation?

Marishka, he thought. If only you had lived, none of this would be happening. A pleasant thought, but was it true? From the day Ilsabet Obour had defied him so courageously, he had admired her. Perhaps, had he been paying closer attention, he might have come to love her rather than Marishka.

Terrible thoughts, yet they stayed with him as he went to sleep and dreamt of his lost bride.

They danced at her wedding feast, Marishka's delicate hands on his shoulders as they whirled through the hall. He smelled the rosebuds in the garland she wore, the scented candles that lit the space. She was whole, strong. He had never felt so thankful.

Others joined them. The dance quickened, breaking finally into a raucous folk dance. The hammered dulcimers set the pace as he and Marishka began weaving through the guests. In the midst of all his joy, the doors of the great hall swung open and the thick Kislova fog rolled through the room, covering the now silent guests, wrapping around Marishka until he could no longer see her. He heard her terrified cry and followed it into the entrance hall. The fog was even thicker there, lying like a blanket over the floor, covering him from the neck down.

Marishka's cries grew more distant, then faded altogether. He saw motion on the stairs above him and looked up. Ilsabet stood at the top, looking down at him. She wore Marishka's wedding dress. Her hair was arranged the same but the roses in her garland were dyed black for mourning. Though she looked at him with love, there were tears in her eyes mirroring the tears in his.

He woke, called in his guards and began giving orders. A short time later, accompanied only by Shaul and a second escort, he rode down the narrow peninsula to the mainland and began the steady climb to the tomb on the cliffs above.

The river moved languidly somewhere in the fog below him. He could hear the slow current trickling over the rocks and the few pieces of deadfall that collected in the pools near the shore. An owl circled in the moonlit sky, its distant cry echoed by the screech of a pair of forest cats and the howl of a lonely wolf.

The stone tomb rose from the black base of its shadow, its white pillars stark in the moonlight. Peto dismounted and handed the reins to his lieutenant. With his lamp held high, he walked forward alone. Though the entrance had been locked, it now hung open. He went inside, fearing that robbers had come and stripped Marishka's body of all its lace and silk, or worse that the coffin would be empty and he would forever wonder what fate had befallen her body.

But she lay as she had at the service. The embal-mers had done their jobs well, the only change in her was that some of the wax that fixed her expression had broken off, leaving her with lips slightly parted. It seemed as if she were smiling, and though he knew it must only be the natural changes of a decaying corpse, it made him glad.

"Marishka," he whispered. "I am so confused. What shall I do?"

He'd expected no reply, but he seemed to hear one anyway, borne in the soft breeze that touched the forest around the clearing.

"Ilsabet," it whispered. The sound held no warmth, nor any coldness, he thought, as if the spirit who spoke had moved beyond the pettiness of human emotion.

"I'll never forget you, Marishka," he said.

As he bent to touch her hand, he heard a growl coming from the deep shadows behind the coffin and its marble slab. Eyes glowed in the lamplight. He held the lamp higher and saw a white wolf, crouched and ready to attack. He stepped back, his hand on the hilt of his sword, but the animal remained where it was.

"Do you guard my Marishka?" Peto asked. "If so, I thank you." With a respectful bow, he backed from the tomb and retreated to where his escorts were waiting.

"It's a strange land," Shaul commented as they rode away.

Peto mumbled something in agreement. Just before they began their descent, he turned and looked at the tomb again.

The wolf had followed him outside. Now it sat in front of the doors. Some trick of light and shadow made it seem as if someone stood beside it, arm raised in farewell.

He recalled little of his ride back to Nimbus Castle. When he woke the following morning, none of his servants mentioned his abrupt exit the night before. He didn't either lest he discover that the entire journey had been one long and vivid dream.

Days passed during which he went about his work hoping for a few moments of conversation with Ilsa-bet. Usually they dined together, along with Mihael who still tasted Peto's food. When Peto suggested that given the peaceful state of Kislova such precautions were no longer necessary, Mihael only replied, "These are my people. I will not see you a victim of hatreds my family incited."

Mihael's constant apologies on behalf of the Obours irritated him. At least Ilsabet was proud of her lineage and stood up for her father. She'd even managed to make her oath to him less a concession to a conqueror than an acceptance of his skill at governing. He wasn't the only one impressed by her. Even Shaul, who had thought the Obours hardly more than savages, spoke often of her courage and beauty.

But if Ilsabet haunted his thoughts by day, Marishka controlled his nights. He would dream of her. In the dreams, they were always together in the beginning, and they always ended the same way-with Marishka walking away from him with the white wolf at her side. It seemed Marishka was telling him to accept the end of their life together. Another should take her place.

He began to seek out Ilsabet's company, to ask her advice on matters of state. At first, she seemed surprised by his questions, but her answers were always sensible and just. He flattered her and took her gifts, which she accepted as if they were her due. It always seemed she longed to send him away but did not. This intrigued him; if she did not like his company, she would be direct enough to make that plain.

One morning he found her standing on the battlements looking across the river toward her sister's tomb. "Do you think it a barbaric custom?" he asked.

"I think you loved her very much, so much that I wonder if you'll ever be able to love another."

"I think it's already happened," he said and took her hand. She did not pull away. "I dreamt she gave permission for me to love you," he said.

Ilsabet smiled, but it did not have the beauty he was used to seeing in her face. She seemed to have faded in the days since the feast. Perhaps the mourning drained the life from her; it certainly seemed to have done the same to him.

"That would be like her," Ilsabet said. "What did she tell you?"

"Nothing. But she came to me, sat with me, then walked into the shadows with a white wolf at her side."

"A wolf?" Ilsabet looked confused and frightened.

"Does the white wolf have some special meaning?" he asked.

"No, only that my sister had a fear of wolves. So do I. Natural enough, in this land," she said with a fleeting, anxious smile.

"It was just a dream. Would you like to visit her tomb?"

"No." Her fear had intensified. "It's… it's too close to the spot where Marishka had her accident. The place holds so many tragic memories, I'm astonished you can even stand to look at it." She pulled away from him and backed toward the doorway to the tower.

"Don't go yet," he said. "Let's walk for a while… on the riverbank."

He led her down the outside stairs, through the rear gates to the path that ran along the bank. The water lilies had spread their leaves in the pools, and two of the creamy pink blossoms had already opened. The air was warm, thick, heavy with scents; he'd learned enough to know the fog would be thick tonight.

"Have you ever thought of leaving here?" he asked.

"This is my home," she said, softening the now-familiar phrase with a sweet smile.

"Someplace drier, more elegant, not so filled with all the relics of the past."

She turned and looked at him. "Are you suggesting Sundell?" she asked.

"I'm asking you to think about it, that's all."

"So soon," she whispered and looked at him with her magnificent pale eyes.

"Consider it, that's all," he said. "I must go. Your brother, Lord Jorani, and I are going to discuss how to deal with the outlaws near the Sundell border.

Shall we walk back?"

"No, I'd like to stay here for a little while. The calm helps me think."

Ilsabet was astonished at how sweetly she could smile when all she felt was triumph. She paced along the riverbank, considering the implications: Had he actually suggested that they marry? She'd wanted him to feel some passion for her, for lust would blind him to the truth of what she'd done. But marriage?

Mihael had thought of it. She'd seen Jorani standing on the edge of the crowd. He'd considered it as well. The idea had struck her as ludicrous until now.

She had kissed his feet. She could as easily kiss his lips. As for the other, well he might have her body but never her soul. And when the time was right, when Mihael had stopped his constant tasting of Peto's food, she would act, and he would die. Mihael would rule Kislova. She would rule Sundell in the name of Peto's heir.

In the meantime, she would learn everything she needed to know. Whatever poison she chose would be slow, painful, perfect for revenge. She looked across the cold, placid water toward the forest.

Kislova. Obour lands once; Obour lands again.

Though she did not intend to do so, she raised her eyes toward the hilltop and Marishka's tomb. She could not see it from this angle but sensed her sister's presence there, and was thankful that no figure in white and no silver wolf stood there to reproach her.

She stared at the land a few moments longer, then turned and walked quickly to her castle, her room.

As she opened the door, she saw Greta standing in front of her cupboard, Janosk's bloodstained garments in her hand.