Baroness of Blood
( Ravenloft - 10 )
Elaine Bergstrom
Elaine Bergstrom
Baroness of Blood
PROLOGUE
The Seer, Sagesse, had lived for nearly a century in the great cave in Tygelt Mountain. She had long since forgotten how she had come to be there, who her parents might have been, or where she had been raised. Tygelt Cave, with its tall pillars of amethyst crystal and milky white limestone, was her only past, her dreamlike present, and most importantly the all too real glimpses she had of the future.
She'd long ago understood that her gift was responsible for her lack of memory, as well as the fact that one day seemed so much like the last. She did no work except to care for herself. The merchants of Tygelt, the miners who dug for gold in the depths of her mountain, and all the others of Kislova, from the rich to the abjectly poor, kept her in food and clothing-in exchange for a glimpse of their futures.
She made no demands, because she needed little. Of late, her clothing had been tattered, her food more scant, but she understood. She had looked in the milky waters of the cave pools and seen the battles raging across the land, and the terrible future of her people. Her warnings were so dire that nearly all stopped seeking her advice.
It made no difference any longer. In her last vision, she had seen her own death.
PART I
THE LEGACY OF BARON JANOSH
ONE
"Ilsabet, wake up!"
Ilsabet pulled the down-filled covers tighter around her thin body and ignored her maidservant's call.
"You were up half the night writing in that journal, weren't you?"
Greta, Ilsabet's maid, could sign her name in a beautiful script, but that was all. Reading, writing, even contemplative thought seemed beyond her reach. But she was a practical and caring woman, and Ilsabet ignored the shortcomings. "No," she replied. "I just couldn't sleep."
Instead, Ilsabet had gone to Lord Jorani's chambers in the highest room in the castle tower. Nimbus Castle had been built on a narrow peninsula that stretched nearly to the center of the slow-moving Arvid River. The river's source was a hot spring in the mountains, the water always warm. Except for the hottest summer months, a fog usually hung around the castle, making it seem as if the thick stone walls rose from the mists themselves. The night fog was denser than usual, leaving Ilsabet alone above a world of faded colors and muted sounds.
It seemed that if she concentrated she could see the signal fires of her father's camp, could even hear the cries of the soldiers as they rode into battle, the screams of the rebels cut down by the soldiers' arrows, swords, and lances, or captured and beheaded on the battlefield, dying as rebellious subjects should die.
In the few hours she'd slept that night, she had dreamt of her father, Baron Janosk Obour, and how their life had been when there was peace in the land. Then he had ruled over the loose confederation of nobles with the same benevolence as his father and grandfather before him. All that changed in the course of a single year.
Her mother finally died of the same wasting sickness that seemed to affect Ilsabet herself. In the midst of the baron's mourning, the far northwestern provinces of Deneri and Kapem pulled out of the confederation. This was their right, but they also laid claim to the gold-rich region of Tygelt. If Nimbus Castle and the nearby town of Pirie were the heart of Kislova, Tygelt was its purse. With no choice, the nobles of southern Kislova declared war.
So the long, bloody feud had begun, ending finally three years later with the executions of a dozen defeated nobles, the annexation of their provinces, the marriage of state between Baron Janosk and Lady Lorena of Deneri, and the near bankruptcy of all Kislova.
Taxes rose. The gold of Tygelt was used to fill the nobles' coffers. The Kislovan peasants, who had been promised assistance after the war, protested the hardships and were imprisoned and executed by the petty nobles. The peasants then appealed to Baron Janosk, but his course was already set. The delegation that came to Nimbus Castle was imprisoned as insurance against rebellion. The rest went home and, ignoring the plight of their comrades, rose in open rebellion. In a desperate move, Janosk had the prisoners burned in the Pirie town square. In the two years since, Baron Janosk's reputation had become bloody, implacable. Now with one more battle the civil war would be over.
Her father told her that he would never be defeated, not so long as his family believed him to be invincible. She'd not given in to doubt even once through the night. At dawn, the commotion in the castle quieted somewhat, and she had returned to her room and slept.
No, let Greta scold, she would stay in bed this morning.
Much of the wood needed to heat the castle in the damp winter months had been taken for the smelters. No new logs could be cut until the rebels were driven from their strongholds, Ilsabet's breath frosted in the chilly air. She stifled the cough that would alert Greta that she was awake, and buried her face in her blankets.
Her peace was short-lived. A quarter hour later, Greta returned, standing by her bed, shaking her as if she were Greta's own child, not the daughter of the lord of her land. Ilsabet accepted the familiarity from the woman who had raised her. "Ilsabet, your father sent word that he is coming home to eat with his family," Greta said. "If you wish to miss seeing him then just go on…"
Greta never finished. Ilsabet had not seen her father in over a week. His presence was a gift she would not miss. She threw back the covers and reached for the robe Greta held out to her.
"I stole a basin of hot water from the kitchen when the cook wasn't looking," Greta said. "While you wash your face, breathe in the steam. It will help to clear your lungs."
"Did you hear how the battle went?" Ilsabet asked.
"No, your father will undoubtedly tell you though, then you can tell me." Greta studied the gowns arranged on hooks along one of the chamber walls. "The red one? It will give color to your face."
Ilsabet looked in the tiny mirror above the washstand.
"You're right about my pallor," she said as she stepped into the gown. "I wouldn't want father to worry about my health when there are more important problems to consider."
"But someone should worry," Greta insisted. "I am going to ask the Lady Lorena to move your chambers to a warmer room until you're better, perhaps the one above the kitchen."
"I will not use it! That was Mother's room."
"Given to her for a good reason, child. It is the warmest."
"I'm not that sick!" Ilsabet insisted, though fear of a death as pain-filled as her mother's was hardly the reason she would not sleep in those chambers.
The room in which her mother died was believed to be haunted by her ghost, and Ilsabet feared spectres. Greta said that in the ages since Nimbus Castle was built many had died within its walls, and many spirits stayed. Ilsabet had a certain sensitivity to them, glimpsing the almost-shapes that formed in the incessant river fog, in the smoke that rose from the hearths, or waiting in the shadows at the ends of the hall. It was said that the most powerful of these were the ones who had died through treachery or in great pain. If so, her mother's ghost would be powerful indeed for she had held tenaciously to life, battling death for every breath. Ilsabet hid her terror well; otherwise Greta wouldn't have suggested the move.
Greta recognized the uselessness of arguing. "As you wish, child," she said. "But tonight I will bring wood for your hearth if I have to destroy the dining hall chairs to obtain it."
"Take care not to get caught if you do," Ilsabet responded. "With so much unrest you might be taken for an enemy."
Greta's round face grew pale. Ilsabet noticed it and hugged the woman. "I was only joking, you old fool," she said, troubled by the sudden thrill she'd fel
t at seeing the woman's fear. "Now go. With half the household servants conscripted, I'm sure you have other duties. I can certainly dress myself."
"The steam," Greta ordered. Ilsabet sighed and lowered her head nearly to the water's surface, breathing deeply until the congestion in her lungs lessened. Then she stood in front of the mirror to arrange her hair.
Lady Lorena was fond of saying that Janosk's three children had each been given some special gift. Marishka, the eldest at nineteen, had inherited her mother's incredible beauty. Mihael, two years younger, had his father's rugged good looks and skill with weaponry, though it seemed that he would always be too thin to wield the heavier swords. And Ilsabet, almost sixteen, was the bookish one. Lorena listed her virtue with some regret, noting sadly that Ilsabet's intelligence had not made her a wit.
Ilsabet knew Lorena was right. She always had to weigh her words carefully before speaking, if she spoke at all. Ilsabet knew all too well that most nobles perceived her as plain and shy-perhaps even dim-witted.
But Ilsabet was certain of her worth. Her father reminded her of it often enough when he quizzed her about her lessons or stopped in when she was being tutored by Lord Jorani. Jorani praised her, too; he believed she would one day serve her brother as Jorani served her father-as advisor, family historian, and trusted friend.
Not a bad future, she thought. Better at least than an arranged, loveless marriage, such as her sister faced.
She plaited her thin blond hair in a single long braid and tied it with a red silk ribbon, then rushed down the winding stone stairs that led to the great tunnel and dining hall.
The tunnel dissected the lower floor of the castle and served as a link between the front gates and courtyard and the river. In times of need, soldiers could load supplies from land into barges to carry them downstream. When the tunnel was not in use, the doors were closed and the space used as part of the castle. The doors were of heavy oak, and their carvings depicted the history of the Obour family from the first baron to her grandfather, who had ordered them made.
She stopped at the top of the wide stone steps leading to the courtyard and looked across it to the iron gates.
The sharp spikes at the top were intended to keep enemies from scaling them. Now they served a more terrible purpose. Every spike held the head of an enemy-from the rebel leaders who had fought against the Obour family to the sympathizers from the villages to the few spies who had managed to infiltrate the castle itself. Ilsabet was fascinated by the number of women and children's heads mounted there. She felt an odd pride, almost a kinship in seeing them, in knowing that even children younger than herself could be so dangerous as to merit death.
"Ilsabet?"
She turned. Her father stood in the doorway. Though he'd stripped off his battle armor and bathed, she could see the brown bloodstains on his riding cape and the weary slouch of his head and shoulders. "Father!" she cried, then rushed to him, hugging him tightly, inhaling the scents of sweat, and smoke, and death.
"Still happy to see me, after all I've done?"
"You did what you had to," she responded. She took his hand and led him into the dining hall.
In honor of her father's presence, a small fire was burning in its huge stone hearth. The long table clos-est to it had been covered with a cloth. A plate of warm bread and fresh-churned butter had already been brought out, and a servant was just carrying in a bowl of sliced fruit. There would be meat and eggs as well. They might have a shortage of firewood, but there was no lack of food from the fertile farms to the south and east.
Five hundred years ago the Obour family had been no wealthier than the other farmers in the land of Kislova. With hard work and a little luck, the family gradually became its rulers. The structure that had become the Obour castle had been started three centuries before by Baron Mihael. Each subsequent ruler had altered and added to the original design-one an extra tower, another the huge outer curtain walls-leaving the dining hall the only part of the original structure.
A painting above the hearth portrayed the first Baron Mihael on his battle horse, sword in hand, ready to defend his lands and title. Since his time, the family had never been defeated. It was unthinkable that a handful of peasants could pose a threat now.
By custom, the duty of leading the baron to the table belonged to Lady Lorena, but the woman was undoubtedly upstairs making the final touches to her coiffure and dress, Ilsabet sat beside him, chatting happily, pleased to be given some time alone with him. When the others arrived, she yielded her seat to Lorena and moved to the farthest place at the table, as was fitting for the younger daughter.
While they ate, her father refused to discuss the battle, listening instead as Lorena detailed the petty problems of the household, the laziness of one of her maids. Afterward they drank herb tea while Baron Janosk told of the battles he'd fought. As Ilsabet had expected, his troops had won.
"We dismembered a hundred rebel officers last night," he said. "We'll behead a thousand soldiers today. We've ended the war simply by eliminating the supply of fighters."
"But the men have sons, Janosk," Lady Lorena said softly. "Perhaps if you showed them some mercy they would come to love you as we do."
"Silence!" he bellowed. "Do you think I like being seen as a barbarian? There is no other way, I tell you. But I have been wise, that's why Mihael here has not been fighting at my side."
"I'm old enough," Mihael insisted. "I should have training in what I'll need to know."
"On an invading enemy, not your own people," Janosk insisted. "I'll be the one to destroy the last of the rebels and take on the burden of my people's hate. You'll keep your hands clean of this, and when I die and you inherit my title, the people will see you as their savior, Baron Mihael the Good."
Mihael winced. "But an Obour nonetheless," he insisted.
"People will forget the past like the fools they are," Janosk said, his patience obviously wearing thin. Mihael's face reddened and he looked down at his plate.
As the meal continued, Baron Janosk quizzed each of his children on what they had done in his absence. Marishka had begun a new tapestry, one far more intricate than anything she had tried previously. It showed Janosk mounted on his war-horse and carrying a shield with the family's symbol-dragon's teeth above an unsheathed, bloodied sword. Mihael had begun studying battle strategy with old General Noire, a man who had trained Janosk himself when he'd been a child.
"And your studies, Ilsabet?" Janosk asked, leaning forward so he could look at her sitting, ignored, at the end of the table.
"Jorani said that before he can teach me anything more, he wishes to speak to you," Ilsabet replied sorrowfully.
"Did you ask him what that meant?" her father asked.
"No, but I doubt it is a good omen," she said.
"We'll ask him together as soon as the meal is finished, all right?"
Lady Lorena rested a hand on her husband's arm. "Don't you have to return to your troops?" she asked.
"Mot until this evening," he replied. "There's plenty of time for everything, beloved."
The endearment was spoken with sarcasm. Lorena's expression grew remote, and the meal ended in near silence. After, Janosk and Ilsabet climbed the curving stairs of the great stone tower to the uppermost room where Lord Jorani lived and worked.
Scrolls and ancient tomes covered the walls and the huge wood table in the center of his workroom. Today, he was seated at it, quill in hand, recording details of the struggle being told to him by General Raimundi, a huge warrior with a weathered face and thin beard, who had accompanied Baron Janosk home from the battlefield.
A pair of hawks, tethered to perches near the windows, screeched a warning of their approach. Jorani turned, saw his master, stood, and made a deep, respectful bow.
Ilsabet knew that he would not have bothered with the gesture had the general not been there. Jorani was, after all, her father's closest friend.
"Leave us," Jorani said to the general. When they were alone, he
gave Janosk his own chair, motioned Ilsabet into the other one, and sat on the edge of his table.
Jorani most resembled the birds he kept. Tall and cadaverously thin, he had deep-set, piercing black eyes, prominent high cheekbones, and a hook nose above a firm, expressive mouth. He once confessed to
Ilsabet that in his youth he had hoped to be a harper. Ilsabet had often heard him play and marveled at his skill, once asking if he regretted his choice.
"I would have perished from boredom, and undoubtedly starved," he'd told her and smiled. There had been no mirth in his expression, no warmth, and she understood. He was always kind to her, almost gentle, but something about his appearance terrified. No one would ask such a man to play at anything but a funeral.
"Ilsabet says that you wish to speak to me," Janosk said. "Has she become a lax student?"
"Lax? Not at all. If anything, she is too intelligent. There is little I can teach her of philosophy and the world. But given her intelligence, she may have talent to equal mine in other things."
Her father seemed to know exactly what Jorani meant. "Have you discussed this with her?" he asked, speaking of Ilsabet as if she were not present.
"I wished to speak with you first, and ask permission to begin her education. If you give it, I would like to start by bringing her to the battle site tomorrow to watch the executions."
"You think it necessary?"
"It is. And, yes, she is ready."
To reveal any bit of her excitement might make Ilsabet seem too young, too eager. So she listened carefully, her expression guarded.
"Do you want to come to the camp and see the carnage?" her father asked.
She nodded solemnly.
"Do you know the services Lord Jorani performs for me?"
She nodded again.
Baron Janosk stood, bent over Ilsabet, and kissed her forehead. Jorani followed him to the door, but when the scribe bowed, the baron waved him back impatiently. "As boys we wrestled one another," he said. "No need to be formal when there is no one here to notice."
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