Marguerite found this odd. "Why not?"
Ljubo would not meet her gaze, "Ekhart wouldn't like it," he whispered, "It's forbidden-even to say her name is forbidden."
"Forbidden?" Marguerite asked. "Why?"
Ljubo's only response was to shake his head. He cast a nervous look toward the corner where Ekhart was working and said nothing.
"What's wrong? Why are you so afraid?" Marguerite started to reach for his shoulder, then drew back, a terrible prospect taking shape inside her mind. "What happened? Did Lord Donskoy kill her?"
Ljubo's round head snapped around to look at her. "Oh, no. Lord Donskoy loued her. But-"
"But what?" Marguerite persisted.
"She didn't like it here. She didn't want to stay, and she got sick."
"Sick? How?"
"Strange sick. Crazy sick. She got weak, and then she got strange."
"And then she died," Marguerite concluded.
Ljubo was quiet. He looked nervously toward Donskoy and Ekhart, who continued their conversation across the yard.
Marguerite said gently, "You can tell me, Ljubo." She touched his cheek with her hand. "After all, we are friends."
Ljubo's eyes darted. He ticked his lips.
"Tell me," whispered Marguerite. "How did Valeska die?"
"She did it herself," said Ljubo suddenly. His eyes were wide and frightened. "She jumped into the pit. Zosia said it was the only way she could escape."
"Zosia told her to jump?" Marguerite gasped.
Ljubo frowned. "No-she said it after. When we went down to …" He bit his iip, allowing the sentence to trail off.
Marguerite was quiet. An immense relief settled over her. She had not allowed herself to confront it, but the fear had lingered all along-the fear that Lord Donskoy had murdered his first wife. But it wasn't true. What was it Ramus had said? That gypsies fear confinement. Perhaps that was why Valeska had committed suicide. Donskoy had kept her under lock and key, just as he imprisoned Marguerite. For Valeska, perhaps, it had been too much to bear.
"I shouldn't have told you, Lady Marguerite."
"Yes you should have, Ljubo. You did the right thing."
"No," he hissed. "I shouldn't have spoken of her. It's forbidden."
The sound of clattering hooves brought them both to attention. Lord Donskoy was coming across the courtyard.
Marguerite leaned down and placed a hand on Ljubo's shoulder, as if steadying herself. "It will be our secret."
Her husband arrived before Ljubo couid respond.
"Ready now?" he asked, frowning at the sight of Marguerite touching the stablehand.
Marguerite pulled herself upright. "Ready."
Donskoy swatted his gray with a crop. The horse lurched forward, starting toward the gate. Marguerite nudged Lightning after him.
Meanwhile Ljubo raced toward the gate in a wild waddle. Purple-faced and damp, he barely had time to lift the crossbar and push the great doors apart before Donskoy passed beneath the lintel, preceding Marguerite by several lengths.
As she emerged behind him, she felt as if a tightness had been eased, as if she had been freed from the dark, tortuous gullet of some bilious beast and cast back into the open air. The deep wall of pines stretched out to her left. She peered into the feathered screen and saw herself, two days earlier, huddled in the protective embrace of the gypsy. Ramus-that was his name. Incredibly, she had almost forgotten. Donskoy paused and allowed her to come alongside. Then they trotted down the road together.
The clearing ended, and the pair slipped into the forest, passing over the little stone bridge. The road was soon joined by the black, glistening stream, which flowed attentively along its flank. Marguerite wondered about the water's source-a spring, perhaps, bubbling up from the depths? Perhaps these same depths gave rise to the stream that ran beneath the castle. Perhaps, in fact, this very water flowed through the dungeon, skulking through the bedrock like a prisoner tunneling an escape route, re-emerging well clear of the walls. Marguerite half-expected to see the gypsy's smiling apparition bobbing down the brook, but the shining water offered up nothing. The road turned sharply, and the stream trailed away into the pines.
They came upon the fetid marshes, with their blood-red brambles and rocky outcroppings, unchanged since Marguerite had passed here in the jostling cart with Ljubo and Ekhart (After only days, what had she expected?) The slender leaves still clung sparsely to the shrubs, like a bald man's last hairs; and once again, they seemed to shiver at her passage. Then Marguerite noted that one thing had changed: she no longer found the scent of decaying flora quite so nauseating as before. Either the last remnants of the Vistani sleeping potion had left her body completely, or she was becoming acclimated to her new home. Indeed, the bitter, earthy scent seemed faintly pleasing, and she inhaled it deeply.
At the fork, the couple paused. They had been riding for about half an hour. Mear this spot, Arturi and his caravan had deposited Marguerite, along with her bridal chest and the strange black box. The place had tost its foreboding edge.
Donskoy reached out and plucked Lightning's reins, drawing the mare closely alongside his own mount. He pecked Marguerite on the cheek. "Still fresh, my dear?"
"Yes," she said. "It's exhilarating."
"I am glad," Donskoy replied. "I used to take this ride often with Ljubo and Ekhart, along with a few associates, but now their company bores me. Unless some extraordinary event dictates otherwise, they go alone." He reached into his jacket and withdrew a silver f!ask. "A libation to keep you warm. From here, the air may grow colder."
She sipped tentatively at the mouth of the flask, encountering a spiced, thick liqueur that tasted of honey. It delighted her tongue.
Donskoy fixed his eyes on the roadside and scowled suddenly, swinging down from his horse. A small sigil had been carved into one of the trees beside the neck of the fork. Marguerite squinted. It appeared to be an upside-down triangle crossed by a line, but she could not get a good look. Donskoy withdrew a blade and began erasing the symbol, savagely tearing the bark from the tree.
"Wretched Vistani," he grumbled. "They leave their marks as freely as dogs."
"What do they mean?" she asked. She recalled that Arturi had made a sign in the dirt, but he had done nothing to the tree. Of course, she could have failed to notice the mark. Or perhaps another caravan had passed this way in intervening days. Or perhaps, not a caravan, but a single man. Ramus.
"They?" Donskoy growled, scraping busily.
"The marks."
"Nothing. Just insults to my honor, and now, I suppose, to yours. They gain power only if we acknowledge them. So don't speak of them again."
Don't speak of this. Don't venture there. Don't. Don't what? What next?
Donskoy returned to his saddle, saw her pinched face, and reached over to retrieve the flask from her hands.
"They are nothing. Signposts left by those who would claim every road as their own. Don't let them trouble you." He took a thick swallow of the honeyed brew, then replaced the stopper and returned the flask to his black velvet saddlebag. "Ready?"
Marguerite nodded.
Lord Donskoy backed his gelding in a tight circle, surveying the fork. Then he dug his heels into its flanks, steering it left, the direction in which Arturi and his caravan had gone after ejecting Marguerite. She hesitated, watching her husband, then followed directly behind. His back was as rigid as a sword, as if his spine had been encased in iron. When it appeared to melt and his countenance relaxed, she urged her horse forward until she came alongside him.
"Your lands are beautiful," she said. "Where does this road lead?"
"To the rim. The edge of my domain."
"I thought that was quite far."
"Sometimes it seems that way. And sometimes not," he said. "Like matter over mind. But the views are worth the trip."
The forest hemmed in the road. It was rougher here, with scraggled saplings filling the underforest and pockets of sharp-looking oak. The trail began to ri
se slowly. Mow and then, Marguerite could see a distant red cliff, rocky and bare, jutting out from the face of the low mountains.
As they rode, a fog settled in. Soon, it swirled around them like a soup. Marguerite's hair grew damp with droplets.
"Should we go back?" she asked.
"Why?11
"We cannot see."
"We are not lost," he said simply. "But we may be near the edge."
The horses started to climb out of the fog, and Marguerite was forced to lean forward and grip her mare's neck to keep her balance. Then the road crested a ridge and, on the other side, began to traverse the hillside above a deep, sweeping valley filled with a sea of mist. Here and there a tiny island of green pierced the veil, the tip of a spruce.
Marguerite heard a sound in the distance. Someone was calling. A woman, crying anxiously. Another voice answered. And then a male, calling to the rest. Marguerite could not make out the words-they were muffled. The tones, however, carried a note of distress. The phantom voices echoed across the valley, first near, then far, then near again. It was impossible to tell how distant the people truly were.
Donskoy reined his horse to a halt and listened. He tugged at the corner of his mustache contemplatively. He appeared unconcerned.
"Are they gypsies?" Marguerite asked.
Donskoy barked out a laugh. "What makes you think that?"
"They are travelers."
"Vistani rarely lose their way in the mists."
"If the people are lost, shouldn't we help them?"
"Help them?" He gave a dark laugh. "You don't even know them, who, or what, they are. Besides, I-we-cannot reach them. They must come to us."
"I don't understand," Marguerite replied.
Donskoy studied her damp face. "No, I suppose you do not. Perhaps I should acquaint you with one of the strange truths of our realm, which only a few seem to have mastered. Do you remember commenting on the legends that the mists can be magical? On the night you first came to me?"
"Yes. But I only half believe it."
"Believe it in full. Those mists hem in my lands, ebbing and flowing like the tide. They are like a strange, great sea, cloaking dangers more horrifying than you can imagine. The Vistani boast the ability navigate this sea, and they seem virtually immune to the dangers within. And, too, there are a few without gypsy blood who manage passage through other means, though never as well. Jacqueline Montarri is one such. But they are all exceptions.
"I believe there are currents in those mists, strange tides or tendencies that are more. ethereal than tangible. One of those currents leads near to my land. It often carries the lost, the forsaken, those who attempt to journey through the fog without aid of the gypsies, or who simply find themselves immersed. The people we just heard are undoubtedly adrift on such a current." He sighed. "But such is life. Let us return to the castle." He steered his horse back down the road.
"If there are dangers, as you say, then we should help those travelers," Marguerite insisted. "Is there no way?"
Donskoy looked at her sternly. "Never presume to tell me what I should or should not do, my dear."
"But. "
She bit her tongue; his jaw had become rigid.
He smiled, and added, "Though, in this case, you are quite right, of course. We should not leave them to drift. And we will help them find their way. After we return to the castle, I'll send Ekhart and Ljubo back to attend to them."
"Won't that take hours?"
"They are not as near as you think; it's a trick of the fog."
"We could call out to be sure.," she said softly.
"And perhaps lead them into greater danger Most likely, they will only become more lost, searching for your phantom voice-or fleeing its sound, which the mists might alter to sound like a monstrous roar. No, your attempts would cause more harm than good. Ekhart and Ljubo are quite practiced at such things. Come, let us go. The sooner we reach the castle, the sooner my men will return."
He turned and started down the road at a canter. Reluctantly, she followed.
When they rode into the castle nearly two hours later, Marguerite was exhausted, Donskoy, in contrast, seemed remarkably spry. They stopped their horses before the keep. The lord dismounted and gave a sharp whistle, then helped Marguerite to the ground. Her legs were tired and unsteady. Ljubo emerged from the stables to take the horses.
"You haven't forgotten the travelers in the fog, have you?" Marguerite asked.
"Of course not, my dear," Donskoy replied, taking her hand.
"Travelers?" piped Ljubo behind them. His eyes sparkled, and his tongue darted ever so lightly between his broken teeth.
"Yes, Ljubo," said Donskoy evenly. "Travelers. We would like you to effect a rescue, if possible."
Ljubo Looked puzzled.
Donskoy continued, "You and Ekhart must see to them as usual. Summon the associates, if you'd like."
"Yes-yes, of course," said Ljubo, nodding. He rubbed his fraying fingers together. "At once, Lord Donskoy. Are there many?"
"At least three."
"Three. Three. Yes, well, three is three."
"But maybe more. "
"Ah-yes." Ljubo nodded as if he were incapable of stopping the motion. "Yes-yes, Lord Donskoy." Then he turned and waddled hastily back into the stables, tugging the horses behind him.
Marguerite and Donskoy climbed the long stair toward the looming keep.
"Does this happen often?" she asked, legs protesting the ascent.
"I do not understand your meaning."
"A rescue attempt. You used the phrase 'as usual' with Ljubo."
"Often enough, but not every day. It appears tied to the moon. Don't let it trouble you. Ljubo and Ekhart have the situation well in hand."
"Will they go straight away?"
"Straight away, my dear. You can be sure." He gripped her hand firmly. "It is no longer your concern."
And he was correct: Ljubo and Ekhart did depart immediately. As she and Donskoy crested the final stair, the two men burst from the stable doors, riding side by side at the front of the jostling cart. The wagon bed carried a small mass covered by a black tarp. Beside it crouched the three hounds, pressed low against the boards. Ekhart held the reins. He gave a curt nod at Donskoy as the wagon moved swiftly past. Ljubo grinned wildly over his shoulder, one arm clutching a lantern. He lifted the other hand to wave to Marguerite, then quickly returned it to the seat, gripping it for support as the cart careened across the clearing and went out of sight.
"You see?" said Donskoy. "They are making haste. If your travelers are still adrift near the rim, Ljubo and Ekhart will take care of them soon."
Marguerite did not like the sound of that. Somewhere, buried in the back of her mind, was a comment-something relevant, something Ljubo had said to her as they rode together to the castle when she arrived. She struggled to recall it. Something., Then Ljubo's voice echoed inside her mind: "We retrieve things, like. " followed by Ekhart's curt interruption. Like the lost, thought Marguerite. But surely there was nothing sinister in that.
"Come inside, my dear. I am feeling invigorated by our excursion." Indeed, his face, normally pasty, seemed flush with excitement. "We shall retire to my salon."
Suddenly, she did not like sound of that either.
ELEVEN
In the crimson cocoon that was Donskoy's salon, the lord peeted away his outer wear and tugged the bell-pull to summon Yelena. The fire burned brightly beneath its golden cowl, the velvet pillows upon the floor were plumped and neatly arrayed, and the red hookah with its silver-headed snake sat poised before the hearth, ready to serve its master. A sweet, musky scent filled the air. The room had been well tended in their absence.
Yelena appeared at the door to receive Donskoy's command for food and libation, then scuttled away in compltance, scarcely acknowledging Marguerite's welcoming smile. Marguerite felt somewhat abandoned.
Donskoy removed her cloak and gently tugged off her matching blue gloves, then bade her sit on the r
ed velvet divan. His own gloves, of course, remained in place. She noted they were faintly soiled from the day's activity; a streak of something clear and shining had crusted upon the black suede. As her husband leaned close, she smelled the strange perfume of sweat, smoke, and horses that now permeated his hair and clothing.
"Do you think we'll have guests tonight?" she asked, self-consciously smoothing her skirts. "Perhaps we should tell Yelena and Zosia."
"Guests?" Donskoy strode to the fire and looked down at the water pipe.
"Yes," Marguerite replied. "If Ekhart and Ljubo are successful, perhaps they will bring the travelers here."
Donskoy chuckled. He left the hookah unattended and retrieved his long, slender white pipe from a wooden stand on a side table. "Perhaps," he said.
"Have you entertained such travelers before?"
"After a fashion. But one does not often encounter strangers who make good-" Donskoy had reached into the fire with a taper to light the pipe, and he paused now, bringing the bowl to red, glowing life with a few gentle puffs, then finished, H-who make good guests."
"I see," replied Marguerite, though she did not. She stared at the carved stem of Donskoy's ivory pipe, which displayed a strand of interwoven humanoid bodies, writhing and entwined, mouths agape, like a crowded scene from purgatory.
Yelena appeared bearing a tray with two chalices and a jug of wine, along with a finger-bowl of scented water and a cloth, which she carefully laid on the small round table before Marguerite. After a second brief foray, the mute returned with a silver tray laden with meats, cheeses, and pastries. A pair of roasted starlings lay dead at the side, their feathers twice speckled, first by nature, then by the oven's ash. After the mouse-haired mute had decanted the wine, Lord Donskoy dismissed her.
Marguerite dipped her fingers in the bay-scented water to wash. Her husband left his pipe to burn itself out on the stand and busied himself in his cupboard behind her. She peeked over her shoulder and glimpsed his turned back, the cabinet door open just a sliver as before. She looked away, fearful of what would happen if Donskoy caught her spying.
When he returned, he wore a fresh pair of gloves. As he lifted his chalice to his lips, Marguerite stared at the plush, velvety suede covering his hands. Donskoy caught her glance.
To sleep with Evil (ravenloft) Page 15