He made no move to open the door.
"Have you never required guards, then?" Marguerite asked, "if so, this land must be quite peaceful."
Donskoy laughed dryly. "You make it sound like a paradise. I have my associates, of course, but I do not require an army. No one dares to invade. This way, Marguerite."
He strode toward the great hall, and they went in together. During their feast, the straw and herbs upon the floor had seemed freshly applied. Only a day later, the mixture clung to the stones in moist, dark clumps, completely void of any sweetness. Marguerite brushed a heap aside with the point of her shoe. A shining beetle darted out, careening across the floor in search of new cover.
Donskoy led her to a door at the left side of the hall and inserted a key in the rusty lock, then gave a shove. The door opened just a crack, releasing a sour gust.
"Here lies one of the dangers I mentioned," Donskoy announced. His tone held only the barest interest. "It's the throne room, or once was, I suppose. It seems to me that the castle has undergone many changes through the years. The floor of this chamber is entjrely unsafe. Half of it has fallen, plunging to an old storeroom below." He stepped aside and gestured toward the gap. "Do you wish to peer inside, my dear?"
Marguerite shook her head. The stench was unpleasant.
"An intelligent woman," said Donskoy, shutting the door and turning the lock. "Perhaps I chose wisely after all."
Marguerite let the barb pass without response.
"Beyond the throne room lies the solar," Lord Donskoy continued, "a private apartment for the lord of the keep-for myself, I suppose. But it's nearly as ruined as the throne room, so naturally it goes unused. After all, I have my salon."
"How many years have you lived in the keep?I' Marguerite inquired.
"Too many," he answered vaguely, "ft has been both a boon and a bane."
"Were any of the previous residents kin to you?" she asked.
"You mean, was the keep passed to me by some fluke of relation? Hardly. I acquired all that I possess without benefit of blood-not my own anyway. Moreover, I no longer remember my people in any detail. I was sent away for study at a young age, but I struck out on my own as soon I was able. Now I cannot even recall my family's faces. Like the castle, some of the older recesses of my mind have crumbled."
Fearing a morose turn in his mood, Marguerite pointed to another door, opposite. It stood slightly ajar. "What lies that way?" she asked lightly.
"Ah, the stair to the gallery. The door remains unlocked at most times. Yelena seems to like the perch."
Marguerite peered overhead, gazing at the rait and the long, dark space that stretched behind it. The shadows shifted, as if a figure had moved forward, then retreated. Perhaps it was Yelena, hovering there now like some timid bird bereft of her wing feathers. Or perhaps.
"We can go up, if you like," said Donskoy. "You'll \x6 a few empYy ao.es' chambers oft the balcony, reserved for cackling and stitchery, and no doubt for cuckolding in bawdier times."
Marguerite bit her tongue, sure that truth lay in another direction. She stared at the gallery, but saw no further movement above.
Donskoy continued, "On the opposite side from the ladies' rooms lies a portrait hall, though at present the frames hold only dust. One day, when we have children and can fill the castle with life, we will restore the gallery. But for now I see no reason to venture there."
"Then of course we will forgo the climb," said Marguerite.
He nodded.
She noticed a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and she knew that her compliance pleased him.
Donskoy said, "If you do go up there alone, perhaps in search of Yelena, be mindful of the rail."
"Is it unsafe?"
He shrugged, then answered simply, "For the incautious.'I He scanned the wall beside the fireplace in the great hall. "Somewhere there's a secret passage leading to the gallery." He tugged at his mustache, pondering. "Ho, I believe the passage extends from the throne room, so a lord or vassal might steal to the gallery unobserved and look down at the hall. Or spy upon the ladies, I suppose."
Marguerite struggled to sound light. "How intriguing."
"Mot very," he said. "Ekhart tells me this place has many such passages. All lie in disrepair, and none of them leads outside, much less to anywhere new, so they are both useless and redundant."
Marguerite stayed her tongue. Did he know more than he let on? Was he probing to see whether she knew something more of secret doors, pressing her toward confession?
Donskoy continued, "If ever you should discover such a passage-inadvertently, of course-then I suggest you stay clear. It would be so easy for something to crumble or malfunction. You might find yourself entombed in a wall, while I might find myself without a wife, once again."
"I am sufficiently deterred by your description," she said quietly, wondering if he was hinting at the tragedy that cost Valeska her life. "But I'm sure I won't discover such a passage. I'm not that clever."
"You are too clever to meet such a fate, or so I would hope," he said. Lord Donskoy pointed to the rear of the hall. "Through there, of course, lie old pantries, a buttery, a stair to the great ovens where our nonexistent serfs might bake their weekly bread. Zosia and Yelena used the ovens to prepare our feast. Otherwise Zosia prefers the smaller kitchen, which gives access to her garden. They are linked by a passage."
Marguerite did not reveal that she already knew of Zosia's kitchen-and of the garden beyond. And she certainly could not comment on the garden's secret door.
Donskoy took her arm and led her out from the hall. They crossed the vestibule and climbed the stairs leading to her own chamber.
"Do you ever wonder who your companions are in this part of the keep?"
Marguerite lifted her brow. "My companions?"
"In the figurative sense, of course. Yelena acts as if the rooms are haunted. I imagine she is only hesitant to add their upkeep to her duties."
"It is so much for one woman,"
Donskoy paused as if to counter, then frowned, saying nothing. He opened one room after the other, revealing empty, decaying chambers. Half held only dust and long strands of cobwebs that waved from the ceiling as he pushed forth the door. The others contained a few formless pieces of furniture draped in damp-looking sheets.
"You see?" he said. "Mot worth your curiosity. Your own chamber is by far the largest and the best. A sanctuary well worth your appreciation."
Marguerite began to grow tired. "Yes, It's a wonderful room. I am honored to have it." And I should be, she thought. He has obviously taken great pains to make it so comfortable.
"Thanks go in part to Zosia, I suppose," Donskoy added. "She selected the chamber for you, knowing it to be among those least affected by rot." He forged ahead, moving down the hall as if eager to be rid of an unpleasant chore. "Mow then," he mumbled. "What else might I show you? Through the first door down in the vestibule, you can reach the east wing and the old workshops. A chandler's room, a joinery, a hermit's cell or two intended for visiting clergy. [Naturally we have no need of that wing. I suggest you let it go unexplored."
And what of the dungeons? thought Marguerite. What of the curse"? But she did not voice these thoughts.
"Are there many levels underground?" she asked.
He raised a brow. "Indeed. But I must insist that you leave them unexplored as well. They are riddled with tricks and traps, and the air is foul. The combination could prove dangerous, if not fatal."
"I see," she answered quietly, wondering if it had proven fatal in the past.
"You told me you were an accomplished musician, did you not?" asked Donskoy.
Marguerite gave a nervous laugh. "I am not accomplished, I'm afraid. Though I can play the clavier and lute, my skills are not really exceptional."
"I do not ask because I desire a concert," Donskoy replied. "So you needn't fret. However, during our first meeting, I did promise you a glimpse of the music room. I shall take you th
ere now. It is not far."
They headed down the hall, passing the door to her own room. The passage jogged, and they followed it to a tower stair-the tower stair, which she had descended in secret.
Donskoy began to climb, but Marguerite hesitated.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"No, I-"
Marguerite was about say, I wondered what lies below, but she stopped herself. Two steps down lay the candle she had dropped the previous night. The taper must have fallen from her garter as she raced back to the sanctuary of her room, fleeing Valeska's apparition.
"You must not lag behind," chided Donskoy. "Certainly a woman of your youth can keep stride with me."
She followed his ascent, ignoring the cool blasts from the open arrow slits along the way.
The stair ted to a half-rounded chamber. Lord Donskoy held the door open, and Marguerite stepped through. In the center huddled a large instrument beneath a gray blanket: the clavier, presumably. A lopsided stool and a lute with broken strings stood sadly against the wall, Beside them was a harp, threaded with cobwebs.
"What a coincidence," said Donskoy. "I have both your instruments of choice."
Marguerite stepped to the clavier and lifted the sheet, which bore a layer of dust as thick as fur. The keys beneath it were soiled. She pressed one gingerly, and the instrument gave out a sour, muffled cry, as if in pain.
Cursed, thought Marguerite. Suddenly it dawned on her she had been viewing the notion of a curse too directly. It did not portend some great horrendous event. Rather, its effects were immediate and obvious, visible all around her in the castle's steady decay and its melancholia, just as Lord Donskoy had implied. But would she too succumb and slowly rot? Would her mind soon have its own "crumbling recesses," like that of her husband?
"The instrument is worse than I recall," Donskoy said, gesturing toward the clavier. "Perhaps some day we'll repair it, so you can entertain yourself."
Marguerite pressed another key, but this time no sound came at all. "It may be beyond repair," she said sadly.
"I might procure another, I suppose, though cargo of this size is difficult to transport. Or you might wish to come here for other reasons. This is a good place for reading when you tire of your own room. On warm days, of course, for the firepit is small, and some of the glass panes are missing from the window. Yelena can clean things here, if you'd like."
Why would I wish to visit this sad place? she wondered. As if summoned, she walked toward the tall sliver of a window, aglow with a pale light.
Donskoy prattled on. "Feel free to come here and entertain yourself when you will. At least by day. Contrary to your belief, you are not my prisoner, Marguerite."
She made no response. A breeze wafted in, and she savored its coolness upon her face.
Then she leaned out. The view was breathtaking. The dark green-black sea of pines spread in waves toward the gray horizon. She had not realized how high she had climbed. It was as if the music room were perched as near as possible to the limits of the sky, so that the gods might hear the musicians and smile upon them. It seemed oddly complete. Above, the tower soared straight into the heavens. And below, well.
"How far do your lands extend?" she asked.
"As far as you can see,11 he replied.
The fresh air was bracing, refreshing, and she hated to pull away. The tour had left her drained. She no longer had any wish to revisit the dungeons. Hot today.
Donskoy suddenly stood beside her. "You are a picture, standing here with your hair alight. I am glad you do not observe the common style and keep it covered with some silly wimple."
Marguerite felt a blush in her cheeks, unbidden, almost ashamed that she was vulnerable to his flattery.
"You do ride, if I am not mistaken," he said.
She nodded. "Passably."
"Then would you like to explore the terrain? It can much more uplifting than these crumbling walls."
Marguerite turned. "Yes. I'd like that very much." She meant it sincerely. The thought of leaving the castle lifted her spirits greatly.
"Then, by all means, let us depart."
The stable yard was a broad, muddy expanse. In the most remote corner rose the dung heap, its base as solid and ancient as a volcano's. A long, two-story wattle-and-daub building huddled against the castle wall opposite the keep. The wall's crenelated crest loomed twice as high above to meet the cap of leaden sky. Stables and animal pens occupied the lower half of the building. One end housed a smithy's firepit, stone cold. The second floor, ostensibly, held storage rooms and workshops. Time and the elements had treated the structure unkindly; a third of the mossy wood-shingled roof had collapsed.
Marguerite had expected the court to be as empty of life as the castle itself, but she was pleasantly surprised. A flock of black geese wandered at will, honking noisily. A goat bleated, and she spotted it near the gate, tethered on a circle of well-trodden ground. A peacock strutted around the perimeter of the court with a slow, lurching motion, dragging its closed tail behind. In the stables, a row of black, swishing horse tails sprouted from broad gray rumps. The tails swept slowly and rhythmically over the gates of closed stalls, like unnatural pendulums, their effect strangely hypnotic.
An angry growl broke the trance, and Marguerite turned toward the sound. Ekhart was working the hounds near the rear of the court, setting each one in turn to the savaging of a bloody rag. He commanded the activated beast to dive left, then right, then called off the attack to exercise his authority. Marguerite watched with a mixture of disgust and fascination, then turned her head away.
"Shall we?" said Donskoy, gesturing toward the stables and taking Marguerite's hand.
She used the other to lift her skirt. For the occasion, Donskoy had given her a new gown of wool as blue as sapphire, with a matching cape and gloves. The court's flagstones lay half-buried in mud, and the geese had covered them further with an impressive array of slick droppings. She stepped forward cautiously, staring at the ground.
A sound ahead drew her attention. Ljubo appeared, leading a handsome gray gelding and a smaller white mare, dirty, and with a sagging back. Obviously, the mare was meant for her.
"A thousand pardons, Lord Donskoy," said Ljubo, bowing deeply and peering up from beneath his fleshy brow. "I was taking the mounts out front. You never come here to retrieve them-and-and, good day, Lady Donskoy." His eyes slid readily in Marguerite's direction, and he grinned. Something dark and green flecked his broken teeth.
Donskoy replied, "Marguerite is the curious sort. I thought she'd like to see the stables."
"Yes-yes, of course," answered Ljubo, head bobbing. "And I've given her Lightning as you suggested."
"So I see."
Marguerite stared up at the weary-looking horse.
"Pay no heed to the name, my bride," Donskoy added. "The mare is called Lightning because she acts as if she's been struck. Shell never bolt, if you pardon the pun. She's too numb to spook easily."
Ljubo clutched Marguerite's hand, soiling her blue suede glove with his grubby rust-colored fingers, then helped her up into the saddle, doubtlessly leaving a similar stain on her behind. Marguerite ignored the intimacy of the gesture, working to maintain her balance. She shifted uncomfortably and the horse stomped.
"You did say you could ride," said Donskoy flatly.
Marguerite nodded, struggling to adjust her skirts without sliding from her perch. "Yes. Only not recently. And usually a pony."
Donskoy sighed. "We could make adjustments, I suppose."
"I'm fine," she replied. "Just rusty."
He grunted, then swung into his own saddle.
"Take a moment to acclimate yourself," he said. "Have Ljubo lead you by the rein if necessary. I have a matter to discuss with Ekhart."
Donskoy gave the gray a sharp kick and rode toward the back of the yard.
"Are you all right?" asked Ljubo, taking the rein. "Hold onto her neck if you feel unsure."
Marguerite would have pre
ferred her leggings and a tunic to the slippery blue gown, but gradually she felt more comfortable. Ljubo led her in a broad turn.
"You look very lovely today," he prattled, wiping a sleeve across his nose. "Very lovely indeed."
"Thank you, Ljubo."
"It's so nice for Donskoy to have a wife."
"Yes," she muttered, adjusting herself in the saddle as it swayed. "Very nice." Then it occurred to Marguerite that an opportunity lay before her-one she shouldn't pass up. She glanced over her shoulder. Donskoy was still speaking to Ekhart from the saddle, waving a dark hand to punctuate his story.
"Ljubo," she said quietly. "May I take the reins now?"
"Okay," he said simply, handing her the leathers.
"But I want you walk here close beside me, in case I should fall."
Ljubo happily complied. "Like this, milady?"
"That's right. Like that."
They turned, walking away from Lord Donskoy.
"Ljubo," said Marguerite, with calculated smoothness. "Would you like to be my friend?"
Her admirer bared his broken teeth. "Oh, yes, Lady Marguerite. I'd like that very much."
"Good. I haven't many friends to talk to, you know. Yelena is mute."
Ljubo nodded. "No tongue."
"I was wondering if you could tell me about the castle," ventured Marguerite,
Ljubo eyed her over his shoulder, then muttered, "Ekhart doesn't like me to talk."
"But Ekhart isn't with us now," Marguerite replied evenly. "So it's alt right."
Ljubo stared at the ground, then shot her a sly glance. "So it's all right," he repeated, lifting one corner of his fleshy mouth.
"Did you know Vateska, Donskoy's first wife?" she asked.
Ljubo stopped suddenly, and the horse halted beside him, not needing any prompting. He looked away, rubbing his hands nervously.
"Vales-" He stopped short of saying the whole name. "Lord Donskoy's first wife, she's dead."
"Yes, I know. I want you to tell me how."
"Can't say," said Ljubo quietly.
To sleep with Evil (ravenloft) Page 14