Baroness of Blood

SIX

Two nights later, Peto and his generals sat in places of honor at a feast hosted by Mihael. Though the food had been prepared by Peto's own favorite cooks, it seemed dry and tasteless to him.

Since he'd witnessed Lady Lorena's death, he'd thought of it at the most inexplicable times. He used to find the sight of flames soothing, but not anymore. And tonight the glimpse of a serving girl's leg made him think of Lorena burning on the pyre.

When he'd assumed she'd immolated herself out of custom, he'd thought her death barbaric. When he'd learned that Janosk had released her from that duty, her death troubled him more. Did nothing stop the fanaticism of these people?

At least the son seemed level-headed. As for Mar-ishka, sitting so silently at her place at the table, he had to admit that he'd never seen a more lovely creature among all the noble maidens of Sundell.

Though her hair was piled high on her head and arranged in beautiful ringlets that glowed in the candlelight, though her eyes were accented with kohl, no amount of dress or makeup could disguise the expression of terrible sorrow on her face. Peto was the source of it, of course, but he longed to sit beside her, hold her hand and comfort her. In time, he thought, and turned to Mihael sitting beside him.

He looked as sad as his sister, and yet Peto thought there was almost a euphoria in the keen interest Mihael spent on all aspects the feast, and in the way he seemed to exude an unsure independence as he ordered the courses served, the entertainment to come forward. All of this made Peto wonder if Baron Janosk had been a tyrant to his children as well as his people.

"I'd like you to dismiss your remaining troops as soon as possible," Peto said, trying to make this sound like a suggestion rather than an order. "But I don't want the wounded to leave until they're well enough to travel."

"It won't make any difference. I suspect their own families will slip knives into most of them the first time they fall asleep."

"Was the rebellion so terrible?"

"The rebellion!" Mihael looked ready to laugh, and for the first time Peto realized that the thin youth had consumed far too much ale. "No, it was what we did. We…" Mihael stopped abruptly and looked down into his flagon, as if the amber liquid could drown his memories rather than make them more acute. "No need to speak of it. Though I'd hoped to one day rule in my father's place, I'm glad the fighting is over."

"And I, as well," Peto agreed. His estimation for the young man was growing. "What will happen to your sisters now?" he asked.

"Marishka's life will change, and not for the better, I think. She was raised to understand that she would one day marry for reasons of state."

"So now she can marry for affection."

"It's not what Marishka expected. Do you understand?"

Peto stared openly at the girl, saw her glance his way, then looked down again. A blush was spreading across her cheeks. He signaled a servant to pour Mihael another flagon. "Elaborate if you would," he said.

"She has put all her likes and dislikes on hold while she waited for someone to be chosen for her. Then, she would have become exactly the sort of person her husband desired."

"She doesn't seem as passive as that," Peto commented.

"Believe me, it was a survival technique. I think she tolerated the isolation of our upbringing far better than I did."

"And Ilsabet?"

"You confined her to the castle. There'll be no change in her life because of that. She spends most of her time in her own chambers or the tower studying who knows what with Jorani. She never leaves unless she is… that is, unless she was asked to by Father or Jorani. Neither of my sisters really knows what happened out there during those months of war."

"You were there?"

"No, but I made it a point to hear, if only to understand the problems I would have inherited had he fallen in battle. Over half the people of Kislova are dead, two villages were completely wiped out-children and women as well as men. Yes, I'm glad the fighting is over."

Outstanding children, all of them, Peto thought-Mihael for his candor, Ilsabet for her bravery, and Marishka simply because of the shape of her lips, the beauty of her green eyes and golden hair. Peto had a weakness for beauty. He thought that ail men did, but only the most honest would ever admit it.

"Would I be violating some custom if I spoke a few words to Marishka?"

Mihael looked at him curiously, then with growing understanding. "It would put her mind at ease."

Peto was aware of the youth watching him as he moved down the table to a vacant chair next to Mar-ishka. Mihael had ambition; that much was certain. From the young man's expression, Peto assumed he was already considering the advantages of a match between them.

With Mihael's last words fixed in his mind, Peto began to speak to the girl. "I want you to know that I have no desire to disrupt your life. Continue to live here with your servants as long as you desire."

She looked at him, her green eyes showing the first tiny spark of happiness. "I had hoped you'd give me leave to stay," she said. "I've never lived anywhere else."

"How do you pass the time?"

She pointed to the bellpull next to the lord's chair. It was a beautiful design of flowers and ferns. "That was my first piece. I've done others as well. Lorena recently started a large tapestry with me, but I've no desire to finish it alone."

"I'm sorry she died. We don't have that custom in my land."

"Nor here," Marishka said. "It was her people who made her take the vow."

"But he released her."

"It was their custom. How could Lorena have gone back to her family with her husband dead?"

"Why did she have to go back at all?"

Marishka looked puzzled. Peto felt a twinge of disillusionment at how narrow the girl's goals must be. Even so, Peto had to admit that the thought of a match between them-some time from now when the grief of her father's death was over-would be both physically passionate and politically expedient.

Besides, the demands of Sundell often took him away from home. Better to have a beautiful, placid wife; a mother for his children who wouldn't contradict him.

And yet, it was with a pang of sadness that he thought honestly how ideal it would be if the spirited Ilsabet had some measure of her sister's beauty, or if she showed some signs of forgiving his necessary act, enough at least to attend the dinner.

Jorani's hidden tower room had no windows to alert anyone outside to its existence. Whatever air circulated in it came from cracks in its inside wall or rose from the base of the tower itself. It had the musty scent of river fog, and in the flickering lamplight Ilsabet saw bits of deep green moss growing in the corners.

Jorani had taken advantage of the diversion of the night's feast to show it to Ilsabet. She'd expected to see piles of scrolls and dust-covered spell books, silver amulets, precious gems, the magical lights of a wizard's den. Instead, she saw nothing more than cages of insects and bundles of dried plants, a handful of scrolls and a single ancient-looking book on the room's only table-a slab of marble mounted on the sort of granite the castle was built of.

"The baron who built the tower added this room to the final plans. According to the old accounts left here, he then killed the workers who knew of it. It would hold the source of his power, and the power of his descendants. Your grandfather used this room. Your father had no skill at all for potions, so he utilized it through me. One day the knowledge contained here will be entrusted to you."

She felt confused. "Is this some kind of sorcery?"

Jorani's lips turned upward, as close to a real smile as his dour face could master. "Chemistry," he said. "The study of plants, of animals, of snakes, and of insects. There is my most treasured possession.

Be careful. Do not touch it."

Ilsabet peered into a blown-glass bubble hanging from one of the room's crossbeams, but it seemed to be filled with cobwebs, nothing more.

"Look closely," Jorani said.

Ilsabet did, squinting, finally making out the form of a tiny spider. It had spun its web so thickly that Ilsabet could hardly see it in the center of its container.

"Though the exit is uncovered, the spider is a lazy beast that has no inclination to leave the comfort of its home so long as I drop a fly into its web every day or so. No! Don't touch even the web, and don't put your face too close to the top of the bubble. It might think you are prey and attack."

As Ilsabet studied it, she had to admit it was a marvelous creature. Silver gray with white crisscross markings on its body and white bracelets at the end of each leg, it would practically disappear on a background of old wood or rotting fabric.

"It's the most dangerous specimen in this collection," Jorani told her. "A brush against its web will make a man ill. Put a pinch of the web in a man's food and he will have convulsions, mental confusion, fever. A bit more, and the victim falls into a coma and dies. Needless to say, the sting of the spider itself is lethal."

If it had moved in any way, Ilsabet would have fled the chamber in a moment. "Is there an antidote?"

"None, though it is believed that a person may build an immunity to the poison by touching or ingesting small pieces of the web. One of your ancestors experimented on prisoners with no success. They all died."

Ilsabet stared at the creature, so small, so retiring, its web gray like the fog that rose every night from the river.

"And here," Jorani went on, pointing to a number of glass vials arranged on a shelf, "are the more usual poisons-arsenic, bitter apricot, quicksilver, ergot, dried mushrooms…"

"What is this?" Ilsabet asked, pointing to what looked like a huge urn of sand that gave off a faint, sweet odor.

"The source of battle confusion. Deep inside the urn is a colony of cave ants. These creatures never see the light. When they do, they become frantic, confused. They secrete a drug that rubs off on the sand. I grind their bodies and the sand together to a fine powder. Released upwind from an enemy camp just before a battle, the powder raises the enemy's fear. The ant colony is much smaller now, their sacrifice hardly worth it."

"Such simple things," Ilsabet said with disappointment.

"Most things are simple at their core. The real talent comes in the combinations. I'm considering mixing ergot with the ant sand to see if there is a way of driving troops into a frenzy in which they would see their comrades as the enemy and kill one another. But now that the war is over, it would have no use."

"Just knowing would be reason enough," Ilsabet said.

"I also have no subjects for my experiments. The rebels are all being freed."

Ilsabet said nothing. There would be great poverty in their battle-torn land, and criminals in plenty soon enough. She pictured murderers and thieves in their underground cells, driven mad by the powders and potions, afraid of their comrades, the dark, the cells themselves. What remarkably fitting justice. The thought made her tremble, and she turned toward Jorani with her face pale, her lips slightly parted. "When will you start to teach me?" she asked.

"As soon as Peto leaves. In the meantime, there are things about this castle that I can show you, child."

She did not correct him as she had Greta. He was her teacher. She would have to prove herself to him. She'd do so soon, she vowed.

The rebels had expected Baron Peto to be their savior. Instead, after killing the hated Janosk, he seemed too willing to compromise with the rest of the defeated. When they learned that Nimbus Castle would still hold a breathing Obour baron, they mustered what forces they could and issued an ultimatum. Baron Peto did not respond, and they attacked the following day.

It was a suicidal gesture. They'd known as much even before they marched onto the peninsula and taken their places in front of the castle gates.

Ilsabet stood in her father's chamber room, looking down at the motley group of soldiers. She wanted to see everything, to experience the thrill her father must have felt as he rode into battle. She'd even toyed with the idea of hiding her hair under a helmet, her lithe form under padded battle armor, and joining the troops, but it was all a fantasy, nothing more. She'd have been discovered in a moment. So she settled for the best possible vantage point and prayed that river fog would not be thick that evening.

The castle gates opened, and the Sundell and Kislovan soldiers, united against a common enemy, marched out and fought side by side.

For a time, she was so lost in the emotions of the battle that she even forgot her hatred for Peto, or her fear for Jorani fighting somewhere on the field below her. Instead, she saw the obvious outcome by the numbers on both sides and thought with happiness of the captives that would be taken to sit miserably in the caverns below. Jorani would have no excuse for putting off her education any longer. They would learn together.

In the days since Ilsabet had visited Jorani's secret room, she had explored a multitude of such rooms and passages throughout the castle. There was, for example, the narrow corridor running from her father's chambers past the family's private rooms and the many guest rooms on both sides of it-with spy holes for each, she was pleased to note-ending finally in a pair of tiny, elegant rooms whose high arched windows faced the rising sun. Because of the placement of the outer walls, the windows were hidden from view from anywhere near the castle. As she stood there, she felt a sudden chill against her uncovered hands and thrust them deep into her pockets.

"It is said that one of your ancestors kept a slave girl secretly imprisoned here," Jorani said. "When his wife heard of it, she waited for him to leave the castle, then accused the girl's servant of some crime and had her killed. Though no one brought her food, the girl was able to obtain some water. She died of starvation not more than a day before her lover returned. It is said that if you go into the room at dawn, you can hear her weeping."

Ilsabet walked slowly toward the door, turning at the threshold. "Have you done so?" she asked.

Jorani nodded. "I heard nothing. Perhaps I do not have that gift. Come, I'll show you a way to the dungeon."

It descended in the same steep spiral as the known stairs, curving below them with little more height than that of an average man. Jorani had to walk in a crouch lest he hit his head on the staircase above him and alert some sharp-eared servant to his presence.

As they passed below ground level, the walls and stairs became damp and slippery. "Hold tight to the rail," Jorani cautioned. The slimy coating on it made Ilsabet thankful she was wearing gloves, but she wondered how well her grip on it would hold if she lost her footing.

The staircase ended below the level of the cells, then a narrow passage slanted upward at an easy angle. It had been designed that way on purpose, Jorani had told her earlier, so that anyone coming down the stairs could use a light, then extinguish it and travel on in the darkness, secure in the knowledge that the floor was smooth and they would not fall.

Jorani did so now, and they used the passage as it was intended to be used, exiting in the back of a subterranean storage room. As they felt their way around the kegs and rotting chests of forgotten supplies, Ilsabet groped for Jorani's arm and whispered, "There's light ahead."

His fingers touched her mouth, then her ear. Understanding, she listened, and heard voices-one soft, almost consoling; a second, louder and angrier.

"The rebels…"

This time he covered her mouth. She understood and fell silent, following behind him in the near perfect dark.

When she could see his body as a dark shadow against the light, he stopped and found a convenient hiding place behind one of the abandoned cell walls. She stood beside him, and together they listened to Baron Peto discuss his plans with the rebel captives.

Baron Peto was explaining what safeguards he planned to make certain that Mihael Obour would not become the monster his father had been. He explained about the advisors that he would leave behind, the troops that would be loyal only to Sun-dell. He spoke persuasively, and given their circumstances, they seemed inclined to listen.

Til admit things have changed already," one said. ^uBut the Obour family has been tainted by that tyrant."

"Tainted?" Peto asked. "Was Janosk's father not a wise ruler, Imre? I've spoken to Mihael Obour. He told me that he was sickened by his father's excesses and pleased to see the fighting ended. I believe him."

"Our lives are to hang on the word of boy?"

"Your lives hang on my word," Peto answered sharply. "I suggest you consider that along with the rest."

With that he left them, the servant traveling close behind, holding the torch high to light the way. Left once more in darkness, the men returned to their debate.

Ilsabet bristled when she heard one of the thugs call her family "tyrants" but found herself more disturbed by how much she approved of Peto's reply.

As soon as Peto and his servant retreated, Jorani and Ilsabet did the same. At the end, he showed her the peephole and tiny doorway into her own room, then took her back to the tower.

"What do you think of Peto's plans?" she asked him as soon as they were safe in his room.

"I think he defended your family most admirably," Jorani replied.

"If Kislova is a holding of Sundell, with their troops in our castle, his admirable defense of Mihael is irrelevant," she said with open fury.

"Don't ever act out of hatred, Ilsabet. Hatred makes one rash and inclined to mistakes. Your father's fate should be example enough."

She opened her mouth but held back the hasty and insolent reply. "Don't speak of him so lightly, Jorani," she said after a moment, her voice husky with apparent grief.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know how much you loved him, but I think he would be the first to agree with me."

"Perhaps," she whispered and sniffed as if fighting back tears. Hatred made one see things clearly, she thought. For all his talk that she might one day rule, Jorani now served Mihael. Avenging her father's death, and restoring the family's honor was her duty alone.

She'd show them all what "a slip of a girl" could do. And she knew exactly where to begin.

Dark had been well compensated for his service to Sundell and likewise invited to remain in Nimbus Castle. He'd sent the money to his family but chose to remain in the castle not out of any love for the place but because he had no desire to ever become the object of pity to his family. He kept to his little room during the day. At night, he would feel his way down the open walkway and along the flight of stairs that led the kitchen. There he would sit among the servants listening to their conversation. He was hardly happy, but he was more content than he'd thought he'd ever be.

The sun had left the room hours ago, its warmth replaced by the chill of night. He'd just been getting ready for his evening walk when he heard the grating of metal on metal, felt a rush of cool air. Had he means to speak, he would have asked who was there. Instead he waited.

A woman whispered his name. He smelled a beautiful scent like the blue meadow flowers in the hills above his home, yet it brought only fear and the terrible memory of a perfumed wind that had rolled across the battlefield. It had driven horses wild, driven men mad.

"Dark." The voice was louder now, little-girl sweet, sweet like the flowers. He knew the voice all too well.

Ilsabet, he thought, and with the thought came a return of everything he'd suffered at the hands of that family. The memory of the pain became somehow the pain itself. He tore at the bandages covering his eyes. Bending his scarred fingers made him cry out, a long terrible sound, barely human.

"Dark," she said and laughed. "Darkdarkdarkdark-dark…"

He lunged for her, but she stepped out of his way. "Darkdarkdarkdarkdark…" she called, laughing.

The rage was wrong, was deadly, but he had no choice except to give in to it and follow her. Blind, unable to call for help, he ran after her voice, heedless of the wind blowing his hair, the damp, slippery stones beneath his feet.

"Darkdarkdarkdark…"

He thought of nothing until she stopped calling his name and he realized he was outside and lost. He groped about. His scarred hand touched a rail for just a moment. Then someone pushed him from behind, and he went over, falling, falling, screaming finally just before he hit the ground.

Ilsabet would have loved to remain, to watch the servants discover him, to claim victory for his death, but it would be impossible. Instead, she retreated through a nearby chamber and into the passage that led to her own room. Once there, she changed quickly into one of her more colorful gowns. If any servant suspected her part in Dark's "accident" she would be here writing a letter to a distant cousin in Tygelt.

She wondered if the deed had caused some change in her. She studied her face in her mirror. There was nothing save the triumphant smile she would have to hide when questioned and the added color to her cheeks-caused no doubt by her quick return to her chambers. She brushed back her hair, then held her hands close to the fire. When they came to question her, there would be no sign that she had ever left the warmth of her room.

She heard a knock and was ready. "Come in," she called and looked up from her writing desk, frowning when she saw Peto, looking even more confused when Mihael followed him. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"There's been a death," Baron Peto said. He looked at her carefully as Mihael added the details.

Ilsabet tried to register just the right amount of surprise, but she could not hide the pleasure she felt at hearing the account of her deed spoken aloud. She looked up at Peto and shook her head. "I am well aware of why he resided in my home, Baron. I can hardly be expected to mourn him."

"So you might be expected to harm him?" Peto asked.

"If I had the opportunity, which I did not. I've been here all afternoon. My servant's been in an out a number of times."

"So Greta says," Mihael commented.

Aware for the first time of how her brother's loyalties had shifted, Ilsabet glared at him. He seemed about to add something, then apparently thought better of it.

"I've been here all afternoon," Ilsabet went on. "Put a truth spell on me and I will still say the same thing. But I will not pretend to mourn the man's death."

"I understand," Peto said. "But remain in these rooms until we've spoken to the servants about this."

"Remain here? It's ail I do anyway, Baron. I have no desire to walk these halls and see your servants and your guards pretending to serve me."

After Peto left, Mihael asked, "How long will you hate him, Ilsabet?"

"Someone has not forgotten the promise she made," she replied, then turned her back on him, laughing aloud as soon as the door closed behind him. Alone now, she began to finish her letter. On the edge of her vision she saw a shadow move through her room, but when she turned to find the source, nothing was there.

She opened her mouth to call for Greta, then cut off the sound. Children were afraid of the dark and the things that took their strength from darkness.

No! I will not be a silly child any longer, she wrote in her journal that night. I will make my heart and mind hard and fearless, cold as stone, cold as an avenger's heart and mind should be.

Nonetheless, she slept the night with a candle burning at her bedside.