"Stop it," she choked, pulling away. She pushed at him. "What do you think you're doing?"
Ramus laughed. "Pardon me," he replied, a sly smile on his lips. "Surely a married woman knows the answer. I thought it prudent to warm your blood. You look half-frozen."
She stared at him in astonishment, clutching her arms across her chest. Her cheeks did grow hot; she felt them redden with anger and embarrassment. Marguerite looked away from him to avoid his gaze, suddenly aware that he might be attempting some kind of magic. She began to wonder if the castle might have been a better choice after all.
I'm sorry, Marguerite," said Ramus soothingly. "I should not tease you. Obviously you've had a difficult night."
"I have,” she stammered. "How did you know?"
He chortled, raking her wet body with his eyes. "Besides the obvious signs? I've been watching. From a distance, of course, but I've been watching. I'm never far from you, Marguerite. Haven't you realized that by now?"
"Then you know. You know about my husband and his associates, and about her, that. creature, his paramour."
"I told you the last time we met that your husband is vile. But I suppose, like most giorgios, you deny the true eye within in favor of the deceiving eye without."
She kept silent, ashamed.
Ramus continued, "And, like most giorgias, you are not made for the elements. Even a firebrand will shiver itself out, if exposed too long. Come with me. I'll take you someplace warm."
Marguerite hesitated.
He shook his head. "Trust me," he said. "Or don't. Who knows? Perhaps you can make it back to the castle before you drop dead from the chill or become the meal of some hungry beast. Follow me or not. As before, it's your choice."
Marguerite kept silent. Hadn't she sought out his help in the first place? Still, she wished she didn't require it at all-wished that she felt certain she could survive a coid night in a haunted forest alone, and could find her own way back to Darkon. But even if she could make a fire from damp wood, even if she could escape the piercing fingers of cold and keep back the forces of the night, she could not navigate the mists. Only the Vistanj could manage that-or someone with powerful magic, like Jacqueline. And Jacqueline was not an appealing guide. You could lose your head if you kept company with Jacqueline Montarri.
"Please," said Marguerite softly. "I do trust you. Can you help me leave this place?"
"Leave your husband?"
"Yes. And go back to Darkon, my home."
Ramus laughed darkly. "Tonight is not the time to depart. First, we must seek sheiter and get you dry and warm. Then tomorrow we shall see whether you still wish to flee."
He whistled softly. Marguerite heard a rustling in the trees, and Ramus's horse appeared. The Vistana swung up into the saddle and pulled Marguerite up behind him. They passed into the forest together.
There was no path. Marguerite pressed her body behind the gypsy's, trying to shield herself from the clawing of branches. But the branches were soft, stroking her with pungent, feathered arms. The rhythm of the horse was hypnotic; she pressed her face against the damp, musky wool of Ramus's jacket and closed her eyes.
When she reopened them, they had reached the base of a cliff. It looked familiar, and Marguerite realized she had indeed seen it before-the night she had sought out the white spider's web for Zosia's potion. Ramus dismounted, then reached up and helped Marguerite down from the horse, gripping her firmly at the waist. When he released her, Marguerite's knees buckled, weak from the cold. With effort, she straightened them and stood.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
She nodded.
He started up the rocky slope. Marguerite plodded on behind, stumbling, and he seized her hand to steady her, drawing her upward.
They entered the cave. A smoky haze filled the air; a fire already blazed in the center of the cavern. Ramus's dark satchel lay nearby, beside a log cut to make a stool.
She looked about curiously.
"My sanctuary," he said. "And it has no other occupants now. You'll be safe here till the dawn."
She was shivering with cold. Ramus retrieved a black wool blanket from his belongings and tossed it In her direction.
"Take off your clothes," he commanded. "Or you will grow weaker still. You can wrap yourself in this while your garments dry by the fire."
Marguerite looked about for some kind of privacy. Ramus shook his head and laughed softly, then stepped out of the cavern. She glanced over her shoulder. When she was certain he had actually left, she stripped off her muddy wet clothes and spread them out over a stalagmite, then settled beside the fire with the blanket pulled around her like a tent. She sat as close to the flames as she dared; still, she shivered. The blood bubbled and burned in her feet and calves; they ached painfully as they warmed.
Ramus feigned a rough cough, then stepped back into the cavern. A small kettle lay beside the fire. The bottom and sides were black, but Marguerite could still see the ornate designs etched in its sides. The Vis-tana went to his satchel and withdrew a metal cup and a small white kerchief, neatly folded. He opened the cloth carefully, then sifted half the contents into the cup before folding back the white cloth and returning it to his satchel. He added the water from the kettle to the cup, then waved his hand to dissipate the steam.
"Herbs," he said, passing her the cup. "To give you strength."
Marguerite wrapped her hands around the mug, grateful for anything warm. She sipped at the rim, and a bitter, searing tea warmed a trail from her throat to the pit of her belly. She sighed. It occurred to her that the brew might contain something she did not wish to swallow. She quickly brushed the thought aside; obviously the tea was medicinal. And apart from a few roguish advances and his mysterious ways, Ramus had given her little cause to be so wary.
The warmth of the tea spread to her limbs, melting away the cold ache that had seized them, Marguerite lay beside the fire. Her lids sank of their own accord, then fluttered and sank again. The embers glowed before her like a red-gold haze.
Music began to fill the cavern. Lazily, she rolled her head toward the sound. Ramus stood beside the fire, one biack boot planted upon the log he had cut to make a stool, playing his violin. She listened, enrapt and dreamy, saying nothing. Ramus watched her as he played, his dark eyes damp and warm, his lips stretched into the slightest glimmer of a smile. The fire cast a glow upon the polished fiddle, and upon his shining black hair, which seemed shaped from the same gleaming piece of coal. He was playing slowly, methodically, sliding the bow back and forth, then back again, spawning the most bittersweet stream of notes that Marguerite had ever imagined. His fingers on the neck of the instrument fascinated her; she watched them as if nothing else existed, watched them arch and dance, moving like the white spider that once had inhabited the same cave. And then suddenly, as she stared at the fingers on the violin, it seemed to her that those same fingers were stroking her neck, her spine, her thighs, as if she were the instrument being played. Ramus pressed deeply into a string and shook it teasingly, then moved to another and pressed again.
A soft moan of pleasure escaped Marguerite's lips. The music had pierced her heart, then mixed with her blood and flowed out into her body, flowed through her, slipping into the deep, dark recesses where things lie forgotten and denied. She gave in to it, telling herself there could be no harm in listening. The music coursed into her and sought out her terror, then gently carried it away. Gone were her thoughts of Donskoy orchestrating the murder of the lost travelers, gone were the images of Jacqueline and her lovely embroidered sack, filled with the golden-haired head. Gone too was the picture of Ljubo, scuttling into the woods with his beheaded prize flung over his shoulder, like the carcass of the swine he had brought back for the wedding banquet. And gone were Marguerite's thoughts of the keep, her memory of the cold couplings in the red salon, brusque and endless. She heard only the music of the fiddle, felt only its warmth, knew only its agony and bliss.
She became aware that Ramus had m
oved beside her, had drawn the blanket from her body. Her flesh shimmered with sweat; she felt aflame. His hands slid over her, and his skin pressed against hers. The violin had been set aside, yet the music continued. His fingers played at her thighs. Marguerite did not resist; she was molten. They melted into one another, merging like two parts of the same melody, and with ever a quickening tempo, they moved passionately through the phrases, notes rising and falling, then rising higher still until at last the music crested in a fierce, climactic crescendo.
In the quiet that followed, Marguerite felt herself settling back into her body, regaining a sense of its weight. It was if she had been lifted out of it entirely.
Ramus had wrapped himself around her, warm yet strangely light, like steam. Her mind drifted, and she knew she no longer wanted to return to Darkon. She wanted to stay with Ramus, if he would have her, and travel the mists wherever they might lead, as far away from this domain as possible. Part of her realized it was a fantasy, but it was so sweet, so appealing, that she allowed herself to pursue it.
After a time, Ramus rose and dressed himself, then stepped toward the mouth of the cave. Outside, it was still dark. He cocked his head. Then he stepped back into the cavern, picked up Marguerite's clothes, and tossed them on the ground beside her.
"Get dressed," he said. "It's time to part ways."
"Part?" she said. "I thought you would help me return to Darkon, or at least help me to go elsewhere. I thought-"
"You were mistaken."
'lMo. You said we would talk of it. You were going to take me back to Darkon, I can't go alone. I need your help to get safety through the mists."
Ramus turned and looked at her strangely. "I could not take you through the mists, Marguerite, even if I desired it. If Donskoy chooses to seal you in, there is nothing I can do to stop him. Now get dressed. I'm taking you back to the keep,"
"No, I can't. I don't want to return to the keep." Her words quickened. "How can you suggest such a thing? You have told me that Donskoy murdered your tribe. If you send me back, you'll only be adding my blood to his hands. Surely you can't be so cruel. Surely-"
"You are wrong, Marguerite. I hear his hounds in the wood. Your husband is searching for you even now. It is your fate to return to him."
"But he will kill me!"
"He will not. Lord Donskoy wants one thing more than all else. A son, And now he believes you are pregnant, Zosia showed him the test last night. He will never let you leave, so you must return to him. Unpleasant, I agree, but he will not harm you so long as he believes you are with child."
"How do you know these things?"
"I know ali that occurs in the castle. I share a bond with Zosia. and with Donskoy as well."
"Bond? What sort of bond?"
Ramus did not answer.
"What bond could you share with Donskoy?" Marguerite demanded, struggling into her clothes. "He is a fiend. I don't-I can't go back to him. If Zosia has deceived him, she has only delayed the inevitable. He will find out soon enough. A month will pass, and then he'll know. He'll see that I have not conceived. And then I'll be dead. Or worse." Her voice ascended to a higher pitch. "Or worse. He has warned me. Let me leave here with you. Else! shall certainly depart this domain in a long black box!"
Ramus merely chuckled.
"It is true!" she cried.
"The truth is, a month wili pass and you shall grow round with child."
"You can't possibly know that."
"But I do. I have given you a gift, Marguerite. Our paths may part, but I have left something behind."
Marguerite stared at him with a shocked expression. "What do you mean?"
"The web, Marguerite," Ramus said. "Or do you think Zosia's potions as barren as your husband?"
Marguerite's jaw fell, and she said nothing.
"You wanted me to keep you safe," said Ramus. "I have done so in the only way I can. Lord Donskoy is rotting from the inside out. He can no longer spawn a son. So I have done you the courtesy. I have spared you your head, pretty giorgia. How I suggest you use it wisely. Return to the keep and act as though nothing has happened. Play the role you seized upon so eagerly just a short time ago. Donskoy will dote on his burgeoning bride. Play him well, and you wilI survive to see my son born."
Marguerite sat down hard. Of its own accord, her hand passed over her stomach. "I don't believe you …"
Ramus shrugged. "That is nothing to me."
Outside, in the distance, Marguerite could hear the hounds baying. They were growing closer. Her panic rose.
She scrambled back to her feet. "Did you use me only to win your vengeance? Is your heart as black as Donskoy's?"
Ramus threw his satchel over his shoulder, then turned to look at her. "It is not."
'Then take me with you," she whispered. "You must."
Ramus shook his head sadly. "You do not know what you ask. You do not know what I am."
"I know enough," she said. "I know I cannot bear to stay here, i know that only you can help me escape. I know your touch."
Ramus choked on a bitter laugh. "You know nothing. You have no idea what [am."
Outside, the dogs began to howl.
Ramus continued, "Shall I show you then, what you must fear?"
"I am not afraid of you," she said. "Whatever secrets you hold, I do not fear them,"
The Vistana shook his head. "You should, This is what I am." He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. "Watch carefully, and then ask yourself whether you want to go with me still."
Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it from his body, and then each garment in turn, until he stood naked before her, adorned only by the play of light and shadow that fell across his smooth, sculpted skin. Each muscle was cleanly defined; compared to Ramus's body, Donskoy's seemed a statue of soft white dough. The Vistana's powerful arms bulged with muscle and vein.
And then it seemed that the veins rose higher and propagated, pressing themselves up against the restraint of his translucent skin, until a pale blue net covered his entire form. The whole of his body rippled beneath the strange mesh, quivering as though his flesh were a separate entity, struggling to break free of the restraining blue web.
Some of the veins darkened, becoming blue-black as they rose higher than the rest. They marked the joining of each appendage to his trunk, of each finger to the palm. Like seams. Like someone had sewn him together.
Ramus raised his index finger high, and the nail lengthened into a long black talon. It was a strange, ugly thing that sprouted from the end of his finger, not like an overgrown fingernail, but like a bone grown too long. He began to cut himself, slicing three deep gashes down his chest, then another across his stomach. Three diagonal lines, raining down to a fourth. The Vistani sign of the curse.
Snakes of red mist poured forth from the wounds. They hissed with blue forked tongues, writhing until their tails slipped from his body; they wriggled away into the night, dissolving into smoke as they left the cavern.
Marguerite sat shaking upon the ground.
"You are flesh and blood." Ramus's voice seemed to rise from the cavern floor. "And what am I? Do you know, Marguerite?" His wounds began to close and disappear.
Marguerite's lips quivered, and she felt tears spilling from her eyes, burning on her cheeks like fire. Her head shook slowly.
"I am blood and mist," Ramus continued, "the thing that steals your breath while you sleep, the thing that pours nightmares into your ears, the thing that makes you grow old and feeble before your time. Do you still want me, Marguerite?"
Horror-struck, she said nothing.
He laughed, then turned toward the mouth of the cave. "I thought not."
Marguerite heard a small voice speaking close to her. It was herself, uttering something softly, a half-choked reply. "Yes," she rasped.
Ramus paused. "Yes, what?"
"Yes. i still want you." She tasted the salt of her tears in her mouth. "I still want to go with you."
Ramus laughed
again, more darkly than before. "My own race lives in fear of me-those who know what I truly am." The hounds howled again, this time from the base of the slope. "But you, the little giorgla. You would have me."
"Yes."
Then he said soberly, "More's the pity then. But, Marguerite, you should understand by now that desire and destiny rarely share the same path."
And then he was gone.
Marguerite sat huddled on the cavern floor, quietly rocking herself, one small hand nervously picking at the other. Outside, she heard the dogs scrabbling up the slope. She started to rise. The dogs. They had tracked her. But how? She had left no trail. Of course, how did not matter.
She had to escape. The woods might conceal her; she would hide out. She did not need Ramus. Surely, other gypsies traveled across Donskoy's land from time to time. She would wait near the fork, lurking, until at last she spotted them. Or perhaps she could leave Donskoy's domain without a Vistana's aid. If desperate enough, she could stow away beneath Jacqueline Montarri's carriage, and-
"Weil, well, well." The voice came from the mouth of the cavern.
Marguerite turned. Ekhart stood just outside, accompanied by two of Donskoy's associates, a half-faced brute and a man with only half a right arm. She shouldn't have been surprised to see them-she had heard the dogs-but somehow she was. Mow that Ramus had left her, everything seemed a fog.
Ekhart continued, "The rabbit has legs. But not for long." The associates slipped into the cavern, seizing Marguerite by the arms. She thrashed, but it was useless. Even the one-armed man had an iron grip. He poked at her with his stump, sliding it toward her throat as if it were a knife.
"What now, Ekhart?" Marguerite hissed. "Will you strike me with a flail and pick my body clean?"
Ekhart snorted, but his somber expression scarcely changed. "A pretty prospect. But alas, your lord intends to keep you safe from harm. For a while yet." The associates dragged her to the cavern entrance. Ekhart leaned in close, and she could smell his sour, bilious breath. "For a few months. But when that child is born, Lady Marguerite, it might be a different picture then. Then you'll learn what it is to obey. And when Donskoy has done with you, you'll answer to my hand."
To sleep with Evil (ravenloft) Page 22