"What do you mean?"
"He is as bound to this land as Lord Donskoy. He was born here. These are his roots."
"But he is a Vistana," Marguerite protested. "He is-" She stopped herself, recalling how Ramus had extended a talon from the end of his finger, just as she had seen Donskoy do when he struck Jacqueline.
Is something wrong, my child?" Zosia asked.
Marguerite shook her head. What she was thinking could not be. "You sent me to him. on the night you told me to search for the white spider's web."
The old woman cackled. "I sent you after something to heip you conceive," she replied. I did not tell you where to find it."
"But you knew I could find the web in only one place, a place that only Ramus could help me find."
Zosia pursed her lips. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. You are growing agitated, my dear, It is not good for the baby. Rest now, and we will talk iater."
"Ramus said that he had a bond with you," Marguerite saidt refusing to be brushed aside. "And with Donskoy as wet!. Who is he?"
"I think you know," Zosia responded. "It was not always difficult for Donskoy to sire a child."
Marguerite gasped.
Zosia smirked, then collected her tray and turned to go.
"Wait!"
The old woman sighed. "All right, child. One more question, then I shall go."
"Who is the father of this baby?" Marguerite asked.
Zosia raised a brow. "Not a pretty question for a married woman to ask."
"This is not a pretty place."
"I would have to perform a rite to know that answer."
"Yes," said Marguerite. "And you've already done it, I'm sure."
Zosia smiled at her. "Not so light-headed after all, my child."
"Is Ramus the father?"
Zosia shrugged. "What does it matter? Donskoy believes it is his. And after the child is born, he will require you no more, despite all his sweet promises. Then I will help you return to Darkort. That is what you truly want, is it not? In exchange for the baby, I will send you home."
Marguerite felt the color rising to her face. "A mother should not leave her child."
"In time, you may think otherwise,"
"No. I will not make this bargain with you." Marguerite swung her feet to the floor. "I won't abandon-"
As she started to rise, the dull pain of a overstretched muscle shot through her stomach. She hissed, then eased herself back onto her bed. Inside, Marguerite had the faint sensation of gnawing, as if something were scratching at her belly.
Zosia raised a bony finger. "This is enough disturbance for one day. You care for the health of your unborn; that is good. You must rest now." She walked out the door. With her hand on the latch, she paused. "You cannot escape the future, Marguerite. Your mind will turn in time."
The door creaked shut behind her.
Marguerite collapsed back on the bed. "No," she whispered. "I will not barter my child to buy my own future."
*****
Hours later, after the pain had passed, she rose from the bed and went to the cabinet. Taking care not to strain, she pushed at the massive piece of furniture again, this time from the back instead of the side. She could not slide it, she realized, but perhaps she could cause it to tip, toppling forward. Of course the resulting crash would be deafening. She would have only one chance to scramble behind the furniture and open the secret passage-assuming she could reach the trigger at all. So she could not overturn the cabinet now. This would have to be a test, a dry run. If she could budge it at all, she would take it on faith that she would be able to topple it later.
She slipped her fingers behind cabinet and pulled until they ached. It failed to move even the width of a fingernail. She searched the room for any object that might provide leverage. There was a stool in a corner. She carried it to the cabinet and forced a leg between the back and the wall, then jerked. The leg snapped off at the center, leaving the stool with a short, ragged stump.
Then Marguerite saw the poker on the hearth. She picked it up; it was warm, but not searing. With the tip inserted in the slim, dark space behind the cabinet, she tugged. The metal dug into the stone wall, loosening the mortar, yet the neither the cabinet nor its wooden frame yielded an inch.
A soft twinge of complaint rose from Marguerite's belly, but she did was not ready to give up yet. She opened the cabinet doors and pushed her gowns aside, exposing the back. To her dismay, the wood appeared to be a single piece; there were no gaps to dig at. Still, this seemed the best way to get to the passage beyond.
She thrust the poker into the fire until it grew hot. Then she touched it to the back of the cabinet, charring the wood. An acrid smell filled the room.
When the panel became soft and black, she chipped at it with the end of the poker, creating a small, jagged depression. It would be slow going, she realized, but eventually, she could create a hole, then pry and chip at the edges to make it large enough to crawl through. She would bum and burrow her way to freedom.
She only hoped that after all her efforts, the door at the other end would still function.
Three weeks passed, then a month. Donskoy scarcely visited her at all anymore, which came as a relief. Zosia had told him that constant rest was imperative for the health of his son, and that he should no longer join Marguerite in her bed, whatever the purpose. Lord Donskoy readily complied. His only interest was in the child; Marguerite was now just the carrier.
Zosia herself came to Marguerite's room each morning to lay a hand on her stomach and administer a potion. Yelena's visits were more frequent. She accompanied the old woman to help lift Marguerite from the bed and walk her about the room, and the mute girl returned alone three times thereafter each day, like clockwork, to bring broths and assist Marguerite with her personal matters. Each time she left, the dull click of a turning key sounded in the lock.
Between visits, Marguerite toiled at the back of cabinet, praying that no one would discover her work. She tired easily, so it was only possible to labor for a quarter hour at a time, slowly picking and chipping away at the wood. The panel seemed petrified, as hard as rock. Before returning to bed, she tried to conceal the damage by covering the hole with garments, but she knew her project would be readily discovered if anyone looked closely.
Fortunately, Marguerite had little reason to dress in finery, and few of her gowns could have covered her enormous belly anyway. And then, there was the damage, the slashed silk. Yelena had little reason to open the cabinet.
As far as her attendants knew, Marguerite still remained bedridden, moving only occasionally to a chair by the fire, and then with help. She worried that Zosia would see through her ruse, but so farf the old woman had said nothing to suggest she knew of her patient's true condition. She encouraged the mother-to-be to rest as much as possible, for the baby's sake; to all appearances, Marguerite was complying.
After a time, as the hole neared completion, Marguerite told Yelena she was feeling well enough to eat solid food. She requested hard cheese and bread. Of these, she ate half, then stowed the rest in her cabinet, She had no idea how long she would be traveling when she made her escape. But some preparations were in order.
Finally, the hole was almost large enough to crawl through. Just two more days-one if she pushed herself-and Marguerite could make her escape. If she waited any longer, she might be unable to walk. Her stomach was larger than that of any pregnant woman she had ever seen, though by her count she was only five months into her term.
Her plan was crude and desperate. She would steal down to the stables and take one of the horses, then ride out to the fork and turn right. She had never ridden past the rim. Perhaps her escape lay that way. It was not a good plan, she knew, yet it seemed her sole chance. Once the baby was born, she would be expendable. She knew it was true. And she did not wish to leave without her child.
Marguerite was comparing her own wide girth with the size of the hole in her cabinet when she heard a carriage approaching. She
had heard the same sound twice before. And both times, it had heralded the arrival or departure of Jacqueline Montarri. Apparently, with Marguerite bedridden, Lord Donskoy had forgiven his friend and welcomed her back to the keep.
Marguerite went to the window and glimpsed Jacqueline's slender form emerging from her carriage, heading toward the entrance to the keep. Ljubo stood at the back of the vehicle, examining a frayed rope. It had come loose from the parcel it entwined- the long black box.
Ljubo grabbed the crate and tried to wrestle it back onto the cargo platform. The box shifted suddenly and slipped to the ground, falling open. Marguerite put her hand to her mouth, stifling a cry. The crate was empty. She realized it would probably not remain that way for long.
The moon was waxing, nearly full. That meant the currents in the mists would be bringing more "lost travelers" to the rim. Jacqueline had not come simply to see Donskoy. As usual, she intended to mix business with pleasure. And, as usual, she would not go home empty-handed.
A smile spread across Marguerite's lips, one that was uncharacteristically wicked. Suddenly she knew how she was going to escape Lord Donskoy's castle.
That night, after the moon had fully risen, Marguerite heard Lord Donskoy sounding his horn outside on the grounds. His companions gathered as they had done before, preparing for another excursion. Marguerite spied on them from her window. Soon the cart and the riders departed, along with their pack of hounds. It reminded her vaguely of the hunts she had seen in Darkon-her father and his friends, riding out in pursuit of a stag. But in Donskoy's domain, the notion of a hunt was much more distinctive.
Marguerite gathered a few belongings in a makeshift sack: a water skin and food, dagger and flint, a wool cloak and a pair of leather gloves. She also included the brooch Donskoy had given her on their wedding day, the one inscribed "forever." Without funds, she might need something to trade. Then she selected a tunic that would fit over her bulging stomach and placed it in the cabinet beside her high suede boots. After that, all that remained was the waiting. Marguerite settled in a chair before the fire.
Hours later, the cart and horses returned. As the riders dismounted, Marguerite heard Jacqueline's purring voice and Donskoy's warm replies. The party had been successful; her husband was in a good mood. That meant Jacqueline would stay the night, as Marguerite had hoped. And in the morning, after a light breakfast, the dark-haired woman would depart-but this time the black box on her carriage would bear a souvenir from her trip to the rim. Marguerite crawled into her bed, satisfied.
Just after dawn, Yelena and Zosia appeared for the morning regimen, bringing her breakfast. The mute girl assisted with the nurse-maiding, then left the room.
"You have grown much stronger," said Zosia. "Perhaps you would like to step outside today. Some fresh air might do you good."
"Maybe tomorrow," said Marguerite, feigning weariness. "I don't want to take any chances." Her heart drummed and her breathing was swift. She hoped Zosia wouldn't notice.
The old woman grumbled, then lifted Marguerite's nightshift to feel her stomach. She raised her brow, then went to the black purse she always brought with her, extracting a needle attached to a string. Marguerite pushed down her shift and sat up, crossing her arms over her stomach.
"What's the needle for?" she demanded, unwilling to lie passively beneath a sharp metal object.
Zosia snorted. "I think your time is growing near. I want to confirm it."
"That's not possible," Marguerite protested.
Zosia shrugged. "The needle will inform me. I will suspend it above your belly as I ask the question, and it will spin to reveal the time of your delivery. Don't worry. There will be no pricking."
Reluctantly, Marguerite pulled her shift up for the test. Zosia began to hum, watching the needle as it turned one way and then the other, spinning in the air above Marguerite's stomach.
"Not long now," the old woman announced. She returned the needle to her purse, "hot long at all."
"That can't be right," Marguerite protested. "How could the baby be coming this soon?"
"The test tells the truth. But you needn't worry, my dear-this is perfectly natural."
"It is not natural!" Marguerite said. "I'm only five months along. If the baby comes now, it will not survive!"
Zosia clucked. "Your sickness has caused you to lose track of time. There's nothing to fear. The baby is very strong, and he wants to be born. Soon he will come."
The old woman left the room. Marguerite climbed out of bed and donned the clothes she had set aside.
Zosia's prediction had unnerved her, but she couldn't believe it was true. And even if it were, it only confirmed that the time to flee was now.
Marguerite retrieved the sack that held her belongings, then reached through the hole in her wardrobe to trigger the secret passage. To her relief, the portal scraped open, She pushed her gowns aside and wriggled through the gaping hole, entering the tunnel beyond. She was so broad that her belly scraped against both walls, but she managed to reach the opposite end without getting stuck.
Marguerite triggered the swinging stone. For what she hoped would be the last time, she crawled into the room beyond, groaning as she struggled to her feet. At the chamber door, she uttered a silent prayer. Donskoy might have locked it, she knew, once he had discovered her use of the secret passage. She held her breath and tugged. To her relief, it gave way. Muttering thanks to the fates, Marguerite slipped into the hall.
Time was not on her side. In three hours, maybe less, Yelena would go to Marguerite's chamber and find her missing. But Jacqueline Montarri might depart much sooner. With one hand supporting her stomach, Marguerite made her way to the circular stair and descended. She kept her back to the wall, eyes darting as she went, vigilant for any sign of company. As she slipped through the foyer, she could hear Lord Donskoy and Jacqueline chatting behind the drawing room's closed door. She did not stop to listen.
After completing the tortuous route through castle's abandoned wing, Marguerite stepped cautiously outside, into the court that held the stables. She ducked behind a barrel for cover. The expanse before her seemed huge and hideously exposed. Jacqueline's sleek black carriage stood across it. To her dismay, Ljubo was already busy at the front, securing the horses in the rigging. Marguerite peered at the rear of the conveyance. The long black crate had not yet been loaded.
Having finished with the horses, Ljubo disappeared into the low building behind him. Marguerite scanned the court for any sign of Ekhart, but neither he nor the hounds were in sight. She saw only the usual menagerie: the flock of black geese, the weary peacock, the tethered goat. She rose from her hiding place. Then she ran-or came as close to it as possible-hurrying across the muddy flagstones. She slipped once, and the black geese honked excitedly, but no one heeded their alarm. Marguerite ducked into one of the empty stalls near the coach. As soon as she was safely behind the gate, she collapsed.
She had arrived just in time. A sharp pain shot through her stomach, as if something had taken hold inside and had begun to twist. Curled on her side, Marguerite cupped her hand over her mouth to muffle her cry. After a long, horrible moment, the pain passed, and she lifted herself to her knees. The exertion of running had been too great; from here on, she knew she would have to be more careful.
Outside in the court, thers was a scraping noise, as if something were being dragged. A monstrous grunt followed, then the scraping briefly resumed. After it stopped again, footsteps sounded, trailing away in the distance.
Marguerite found a chink near the top of the gate and looked out to see what had happened. Ljubo was waddling across the court toward a small door that led into the keep.
After he disappeared inside, she took a chance and crept out, moving along the front of the stables until she reached the carriage. Jacqueline's coach required no driver, as Marguerite had observed the first time she saw it approaching the castle. Though Jacqueline had never said as much, Marguerite had concluded that the conveyance's magic bo
th drove itself and guided its passenger through the disorienting mists that surrounded Donskoy's lands.
She checked under the carriage and then peered inside, looking for somewhere to stow away. But the only cargo platform lay on the back, in plain view, and there was no other place to hide. Marguerite sighed. A comfortable place to ride would have been asking too much.
She went to the stable, where Jacqueline's long black box stilt lay in the back of Ekhart's cart, hanging partway over the back edge. With great effort. Marguerite climbed alongside the crate. It was relatively crude, like the one that had accompanied her from Darkon, with slender gaps between its rough black planks. It seemed unfair to call it a coffin; if placed underground, it would quickly fill with soil and water and worms. But then again, many paupers received less.
Marguerite gritted her teeth and pushed out the latch pin, then lifted the rusty hasp and opened the lid. Inside lay a woman, plump and white, lying on a bed of straw. She was naked, but for a black wool blanket crudely wrapped round her body. She had snowy blonde hair and a wide red mouth, which at the moment was stuffed with a gag. Leather straps bound her hands and feet. Marguerite pushed at the woman's flesh. Though the captive didn't stir, clearly she lived; her skin was soft and warm, and her chest was subtly rising and falling.
Drugged, Marguerite thought. Of course. She herself had made the trip from Darkon in a similarly unconscious state-though she had not been stuffed in a box. Yet that was precisely how she intended to make her escape.
Ideally, Marguerite would have removed the woman from the crate and hidden her away, then taken her place. But the situation was far from ideal. She had neither the time nor the strength to move the heavy captive. And there was still the matter of the latch. If her plan worked, she would need to open it from the inside.
Marguerite closed the crate and studied it. There was a fair amount of play to the lid; the hinges holding it to the box were loose. And the fastening at the side was ordinary: a flat piece of metal with a slot, hinged to drop over a round loop, through which a tapered pin was wedged to secure the flat piece. A chain anchored the pin to the box so it could not be misplaced.
To sleep with Evil (ravenloft) Page 25