The room seemed incredibly warm, as if the air itself had stopped moving. The walls appeared to shrink, closing in. Footfalls muffled by the thick Persian rug, he shuffled across the floor, dragging the chains after him, until he heard a key turning in the lock.
The door opened and Sabine came in, a guard standing behind him. He stopped, taking in the sight of his master wrapped in chains like a slave, his clothing stiff with dried blood.
“My lord, I’m so sorry.”
The guard pulled the door shut.
“What’s happened, Sabine?”
“Céline’s notified the Domnitor,” the Frenchman answered. “She had to. With this many dead, there’s no way she could hide what happened, even if she wanted. One of her sub-Sectuini was killed and that makes this too important an incident to be tried under local aventurieri law.”
“Gods.” Marek dropped onto the chest at the foot of the bed. “How could this go so amiss? Is Ravagiu so eloquent?”
“Everyone’s in shock. They don’t know what to believe. The twins are defending you, as is Dan. Céline’s forbidden them to see you, fearing they might try to help you escape.”
“And Diana?”
“She refuses to believe any of us, declares you a madman to any who’ll listen. Says her beloved Mircea…” The name came out harsh as a curse. “…could never do what you said.”
“But the bracelet…”
“She says that’s some kind of trick. Marek, she’s laying tonight’s bloodbath entirely at your doorstep, claiming they’ve been persecuted by your family for years. He came here tonight to try and make peace. You attacked him. His threatening her was a bluff so they could escape...”
“Surely they don’t believe that. What about Ravagiu’s confession that Diana’s…”
“Apparently no one but you and Diana heard that, and she’s swearing she can’t remember exactly what was said. Everything they’ve been told is second-hand, and even if they don’t believe him, they believe her... Gods, Master, it’s a damned quagmire and you’re being sucked under.”
“He said she was his wife, Sabine.”
“That’s true. The girl confirmed it.”
The look Marek turned on him held pure horror. Sabine closed his eyes, unable to bear it.
“Your little sister’s married to your enemy.”
“I’ll kill him.” He was on his feet, hands curved into claws.
“How do you plan to do that?” Sabine seized his shoulders, forcing him back onto the trunk. “You’re in chains, awaiting trial for instigating mass murder. You’re not going anywhere, except back to Carpathius and certain death unless we can figure out a reasonable defense.”
“Reasonable defense? I’ll simply tell the truth.”
“That may not be enough.”
“Everyone in the Motherland knows what happened.”
“And they also know how the Domnitor ordered you to abandon your search for Ravagiu—which you ignored—and then exiled you.” Sabine shook his head. “It doesn’t look good, my lord. Not at all.”
“What about my brothers?” Marek attempted to shake off his disbelief. “And Dan?”
“Céline thinks she may be able to convince the prince they were simply being blindly loyal. After all, you’re still the head of your House, and they’re more or less dependent on you.”
“And Ruxanda? How has this affected her?”
The doctor shook his head, taking Marek’s place in pacing the floor.
“She’s defending you as strongly as the rest.” He fixed Marek with a serious look. “She went to Diana. Tried to talk to her. Got called a stupid pawn. Frankly, Master, I don’t think anyone’s going to convince the girl of who she is. Ravagiu has her thoroughly under his spell, and he’s had nearly eighteen years to work on her.”
Marek averted his gaze, staring at the floor, not wanting Sabine to see how those words affected him. The thought of Diana being possessed by that monster...
“I’ve managed to persuade Céline the girl shouldn’t talk to anyone. Said she was hysterical, needed complete rest. I felt it best to make certain she doesn’t tell anyone you think she’s your lost sister.” Sabine stopped directly in front of Marek. “Quite frankly, sir, I don’t believe that’ll help at this point, and it’ll definitely raise questions about Ruxan...” He stopped.
“What is it?” Marek looked down. The doctor’s gaze was riveted on the locket resting against his chest.
“Where’d you get that?” he asked in muted shock, as if the object were something Sabine never expected to see and now wished he hadn’t.
“I took it from Father’s dressing room when we left the castel. Why?”
“Get rid of it. Now.” The doctor held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
“Why should I?”
“Do you know what that is? Do you know what it contains?”
“It holds the picture of his mistress.”
“It holds more than that,” the doctor declared. “That locket means nothing but disaster. You have to destroy it.”
Marek’s hand closed protectively around the locket. His expression said plainly he didn’t understand the doctor’s agitation.
“Have you looked inside?”
Marek shook his head.
Sabine gave a deep, resigned sigh. “Perhaps you should.” When Marek didn’t move, he went on, “Go ahead. Open it.”
Frowning, Marek pressed the release on the side of the cover. It didn’t move. Sliding the edge of one nail under it, he forced it open. On the inside of the cover was a miniature of a blond man with a neatly trimmed courtier’s beard.
Papa.
Marek ran his finger over the painted face. He let his gaze move to the other picture, then stared silently. He wasn’t certain what he’d been expecting…some dazzling beauty perhaps, a female capable of driving a ghidaj mad with lust, making him willing to defy the Principiu and forsake his mate. There was no doubt the woman in the picture had a pleasing face, but there was nothing extraordinary about her.
Perhaps seeing the living woman would make a difference. Or a painting of her not done by a talented, but obviously amateur hand. A pale oval face with high cheekbones and a wide, solemn mouth, straight black hair falling to cover her breasts. The most arresting thing about her were her eyes. They were brilliant, luminous, and a pale jade green.
“Why does she look familiar, Sabine? I know I couldn’t have seen her.” He studied the image intently. “She looks…”
Abruptly, he couldn’t speak, refused to let the sudden, startling thought get past his lips. It seemed to escape of its own accord.
“…like me.” Mouth open in sudden horror, Marek raised his head to stare at Sabine.
The doctor nodded.
“No. Oh, no. No, no, no.”
The locket fell from his hands, striking his chest, swinging back and forth.
“Her name was Tereza,” Sabine said softly, as Marek sat staring at nothing. “She was Anastacza’s handmaid. A deomi. János barely noticed her until one night he and the mistress had a violent argument. Her ladyship was selfish and demanding and had an acid tongue. She expected to be catered to and though your father declared he loved her, they were often at odds over her treatment of the vanjosi.”
He paused, taking a deep breath. Marek raised his head, though he didn’t speak.
“That night Tereza dared offer him sympathy for her mistress’ verbal abuse. He sent her away, angry that a servant would think he needed comforting, but later, he accepted what she was willing to give.” Sabine lifted the locket, looking at the painted face. “He knew it was wrong, but she was kind and sweet-natured, and he was angry, and that one time, foolish. She became his mistress. Then...she told him she was with child. Of all the brainless things he could’ve done, going to that girl unprepared.”
He stopped as if realizing he was telling a child of his father’s act of stupidity that brought him into being.
“As luck would have it, his wife also info
rmed him of the same fact, and there János was, the luckiest and most unlucky man in Carpathius. With a mistress and a mate both about to present him with offspring, and one of them part-human.” Sabine sat next to Marek. “There was another problem, too. Prince Ciprian had visited the castel. This was in the days before he became such a recluse in that darkness where he now lives. He wanted the girl, too.”
He looked away from his master, voice dropping to a mutter.
“Pity he didn’t get her. That would’ve solved everything.”
“What...did...Father do? Marek’s words were dulled by shock.
“He hid the girl on the fifth floor of the castel, told His Majesty she’d run away. No one ever saw her again, except Sandor and me. We smuggled food to her and bed linens. I gave her medical care.” He nodded at the locket. “Your father didn’t wish it known, but he liked to sketch. He painted that picture of her, to keep her from getting bored. He had bought the locket for Mistress Anastacza, had a miniature of himself placed inside…and then he met Tereza.”
Marek caught up the locket, staring again at his mother’s image, painted inside what was to have been a gift for the woman who hated him so.
“When the baby came, she was in labor four long days. On the fourth day, Anastacza also began to give birth.” Sabine allowed himself a slight smile. “I spent a great deal of time traveling back and forth from the fifth floor to the Master’s chamber struggling not to be obvious about it.”
As if realizing this was no time for levity, he became serious again.
“Within hours of each other. Tereza gave birth to a robust man-child while Her Ladyship’s baby was stillborn.”
Snapping the locket closed, Marek looked at him. The doctor avoided his eyes.
“I went from the mistress’ lying-in to that little room where your father sat beside Tereza’s dead body, his half-human son in his arms. I tried to tell him his mate’s child, his only lawful offspring, was dead. He just sat there muttering something about the Oracle telling him you had to live, because you had a destiny—and he did the only thing he could do.” The words were a whisper. “He switched the babies. And Anastacza never forgave him for it.”
“No wonder she hated me,” Marek muttered.
“Can you blame her? Having to pretend her husband’s halfbreed bastard was her own child?”
There was nothing Marek could say. Memories of Anastacza’s cruelties flooded his mind. Even knowing the reason didn’t make them any easier to accept.
“You appeared as any other aventurieri offspring until you were thirteen. When you went into aberatie, your body tried to make you human.”
“My eyes.” Marek’s hand went to his temple.
“Luckily, only one eye was affected. Apparently, János’ heritage was stronger than your mother’s. Otherwise, you appear a normal aventuriera male, except for all that body hair. When János declared you his successor, no one thought to be suspicious.” Sabine stood up, again holding out his hand. “That’s why you must get rid of that locket. It’s a threat to your very life, because it marks you as a creature existing in defiance of the Principiu.”
Struggling to untangle the locket’s chain from those binding him, Marek got to his feet. There was a swirl of light in the air, a glowing figure. It formed into the Ingrijitor.
“Marek Strigoi, I have been sent by His Majesty to bring you to trial for the charges lodged against you. Come with me.”
He held out the staff he carried. Marek lumbered to his feet, placing his hand upon the golden ball. As he and the Ingrijitor disappeared, the room, and Sabine with it, morphed into a roiling mass of darkness slashed with explosions of fire and ice.
Part 4
Justice and judgment lie often a world apart.
― Emmeline Pankhurst
Chapter 49
Jury Chamber
His Majesty’s Consfatuire
Carpathius, Transylvania
Marek was startled to find himself lying in darkness, his chains gone. Shaking his head and sitting up, he peered around.
He was in a small, dimly-lit room. There was no furniture, not even a cot, only four bare, gray walls and an equally gray ceiling and floor. Behind him stood the Domnitor’s steward, staff gripped tightly in one hand, a dark garment of some kind across his other arm.
As Marek got to his feet, he held it out.
“Put this on.”
Marek took the garment. It was a loose-fitting robe of coarse, rough fabric, with no buttons or lacings.
“Black? Am I already condemned?”
“The color has no significance. All prisoners wear black robes. Put it on.”
Kicking off his shoes, Marek unbuttoned his trousers and removed them. He gathered the robe, thrusting his arms into the sleeves.
“Wait. What’s that?” A slim finger pointed at the locket.
“It holds a miniature of my father.”
“Give it to me.” A hand extended, palm up.
Pulling the chain over his head, he dropped the locket into the steward’s hand. “I’ll want it back.”
The steward didn’t answer. Marek had a sudden sense not many prisoners received their belongings back, and for a very good reason.
“Cover yourself.” The dark eyes flicked over his body and the steward turned his head, his beautiful features twisting in disgust. “Your body’s repulsive. Is that the anomaly earning you your ghidajship?”
Now knowing the real reason his body was different made Marek furious at the man’s insult. He dropped the robe over his head. It settled, hem touching his ankles.
The Ingrijitor looked back. “That’s better.”
He held out the staff again.
This time, when Marek raised his hand to place it upon the golden ball, the steward moved the globe, stabbing it against his chest.
Fire seared and slashed.
Shuddering with pain, Marek’s body stiffened, then relaxed, and he fell to the floor as the gray room and the Ingrijitor melted into brilliant fiery spirals.
* * *
He was in a cage of some kind, all railings and bars with a high circular dome. As Marek got to his feet, he realized he was confined within a prisoner’s dock, its enclosed sides preventing him from climbing out. The railings were mesh-like, constructed of thin wire woven together.
Marek touched one of the bars, jerking his hand away as a sharp tingle rippled through his fingers.
Silver.
There was no way he could break through that metal. If he tried to escape, he’d be terribly burned. The rest of the cage was iron, just as strong and impenetrable.
The area where he stood was illuminated, blinding brightness aimed directly at him. Putting one hand to his eyes, he tried to see beyond the lights but was unable to detect more than dark shapes.
The Domnitor’s throne was a high-back chair on a dais, the prince’s form barely distinguishable from its regal bulk. Below him were four other chairs, each occupied by a vaguely man-shaped mass
“Marek Strigoi!” Ciprian’s voice boomed from the darkness. It hadn’t changed since the last time he’d heard it three years before, still holding that wild erratic note. “You are accused of willful disobedience of an order given you by your lawful ruler. Namely pursuit of Mircea Ravagiu. An act culminating in the deaths of seventeen members of Aventurieri Fraternitate de France. With what plea will you answer these charges?”
“I never meant to kill anyone, but Ravagiu.” Marek dropped his hand. “The other deaths were caused by Ravagiu’s soldati.”
“We wish no explanations.” The prince’s voice was clipped as he repeated, “With what plea will you answer these charges?”
Taking a deep breath, Marek forced his response to sound confident. “I plead innocent, my lord, for I didn’t plan for any of the participants at the Sectiune’s Ball to be harmed. As for the other, I maintain you had no right to force me to give up a sacred oath of revenge sworn in my own blood.”
“Let it be recorded how the
prisoner has pled. Call the first witness.”
There was another swirl of glittering air. A second dock appeared, this one without an enclosing rail. Inside, Sabine looked around in bewilderment.
“State your name and relation to Marek Strigoi.”
“Sabine Lavelle.” He squinted into the light. “Physician and blood-thrall to Adrian Strigoi, his son János, and the present ghidaj, Marek.”
“Cézar Strigoi is the present ghidaj,” the prince corrected. “Marek Strigoi is an exile and holds no title.”
“He’s my ghidaj, sir, whether he holds a title or not.”
The prince ignored that. “You are well-acquainted with the prisoner, Dr. Lavelle?”
“I am. I attended his mother at his birth.”
Marek couldn’t help but give the briefest smile at the irony of those words.
“In your opinion, Doctor, is the prisoner sane and lucid? Is he competent to stand trial?”
“I’ve known Marek Strigoi all his life, my lord.” Sabine looked outraged that His Majesty would question his master’s sanity. “Of course, he’s competent.”
“Good. We have no wish to punish one whose faculties are diminished.”
Those words sent a wash of cold through Marek.
“Summon Vladislaus Strigoi.”
Sabine and the witness box disappeared as another, with Vlad inside, became visible. His hands rested on the edge of the low wall as if his tight grip would help him keep his temper under control. Looking at his brother, Marek was certain Prince Ciprian would consider Vlad, in his stylish Parisian evening clothes, nothing but an effete and dissolute dandy whose testimony was worthless.
“You are the younger brother of Marek Strigoi?”
“One of them, my lord.” Vlad’s answer was glib. “I’m his younger brother, but not the youngest.”
“Explain that statement.” The prince’s voice was even and without inflection.
“My brother, Andrei, is younger than I by three minutes.”
“You are twins?”
There was a nod of the blond head. “But not identical. We’re fraternal, sir.”
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