Baroness of Blood r-10

by Elaine Bergstrom

  When the civil war broke in Kislova, he'd put the welfare of his people first and remained carefully neutral. To enforce that position, he'd tripled the number of border guards, augmenting the foot patrols with mounted ones. It had been a fortunate decision, for he was certain that without warning of the invasion by the blind Kislovan rebel, his kingdom would have fallen. In the days since the man had been brought to him for careful questioning, he'd had little time to contemplate the whimsy of fortune.

  But as he rode through the thick walls of Nimbus Castle with his sword held upright before him, he pictured for a moment his own stronghold, and Baron Janosk riding through its gates as victor. That was how fate would have gone if his men had not been in precisely the right place at the right time to save the rebel's life, or if the blind man had been less brave, or if the girl had been unwilling to accompany Dark on his quest.

  The contemplation in this moment of victory made him merciful, as did the sight of a far different Baron Janosk than he remembered.

  That man had been strong, powerful. This man looked old, his skin a sickly hue, his arms shaky. In spite of this, he walked unaided down the stairs and stood defenseless, with head uncovered before his enemy.

  "Since you are here I assume that you agree to my terms," Janosk said in a voice all could hear.

  "I do."

  "And you will hold me alone accountable for the invasion?"

  "I do," Peto replied.

  "And you will spare my family and allies? And accept my son's offer to be a vassal to you?"

  "I agree."

  "Then raise the sword you carry, and end this." With these final words, Janosk knelt for execution.

  Peto dismounted. "I'll never understand what made you invade my lands, but we were once allies and can be allies again. Will you pledge to serve me?" he asked, his voice conciliatory.

  Janosk slowly shook his head, and in a gesture of trust, removed the cape and handed it to Jorani. As he did, Peto saw the raw pain in his eyes, glimpsed the fresh blood seeping onto his tunic, and understood. With a nod of acknowledgment for his foe's brave move, he raised his sword and slashed sideways through the man's neck.

  As the head fell away, the woman behind Janosk fainted. His older daughter threw herself over her father's body and began to scream. The son bore his father's death well, but it was the youngest child that drew Peto's attention. The girl stood trembling at the sight of the blood, then raised her icy blue eyes, looking at him with such intense hate that he wondered if she were some sorcerer able to kill with a glance. Without a word, she turned and walked up the stairs, her step firm, her hands tight fists at her sides.

  Peto turned to Shaul and the Kislovan rebel mounted behind him. "Is it the Obour custom to burn their dead?"

  The girl who had been weeping raised her head and answered for them. "It is," she said.

  "Then take him away and prepare the body as custom demands." He looked at the girl and asked, "Is there any waiting period required?"

  "Mo," she said.

  "Then let this be over at nightfall," he ordered.

  Peto waited until the courtyard was empty save for his personal guards. He had already admired the beauty of the lands around the castle. Now he stood in the center of it, looking at the imposing outer walls and gate, the airy design of the living quarters rising before him with their delicate oval windows covered in clear crystal, their towers lifted majestically toward the sky.

  Nimbus Castle-his spoil of war.

  This should have been his moment of triumph, indeed would have been save for the sudden chill he felt. He might have rationalized and said it was caused by the clouds moving in front of the sun, or the evening mists already rising from the river and curling through the open doors, or by the weariness of battle, but in truth the chill was caused by none of these. Instead he had a feeling of doom so strong it seemed as if someone were speaking words of dread clearly into his mind:

  No good will come from this victory-not for your family or for the Obours or for the citizens of Kislova who I am sworn to protect. Leave this place. If you are wise you will never return.

  He spun and looked toward the path leading to the river. In the place where the mists were the thickest he saw the floating figure of an old woman, her long white hair flowing like the folds of her gown. There, yet not there, but whether this was vision or spectre he did not know. "Leave this land," she whispered and raised one pale hand, pointing at him.

  "I cannot," he replied. Nonetheless, he mounted his horse, and without a backward glance at the castle or the apparition, rode quickly toward his camp.

  FIVE

  Ilsabet retreated to the great hall and paced the length of it, hysterical with shame and sorrow. She'd seen the blind rebel leader ride up beside Baron Peto and knew exactly how Peto had been warned of the invasion. She wondered how she'd live with the guilt of her father's death, then alternately how she would survive now that he was gone.

  Greta found her standing at the window, motionless and rigid as she watched servants stack wood for her father's pyre. Greta put her arm on her charge's shoulder, but Ilsabet did not lean against her, nor acknowledge her presence in any way.

  "Servants know so much, Greta," Ilsabet finally said. "Have you heard who gave my father his lethal wound?"

  "I understand he fought with Baron Peto, himself."

  "Ah! So I can hate him. How marvelous." Ilsabet turned to Greta then, and the servant must have seen the sheer joy she felt in that hatred, a joy that brought with it a kind of madness.

  "There is little you can do to him no matter how much you loathe him, child," she said.

  "Never call me 'child' again," Ilsabet responded. "And I have no need of consoling. Why are you here?"

  Greta looked at her uneasily. "The rite will be start-ing in an hour. Baron Peto has sent word that he wishes to meet with the family afterward. I thought you might wish to prepare."

  "Prepare? Yes, I suppose so." She followed Greta to her chamber where she deliberately chose the same gown she had worn on the day she'd visited the camp. She wanted it to serve as a reminder of her rash words, and of her vow to never be so impulsive again.

  "You should wear red or black, the colors of mourning," Greta chided.

  "I've chosen the colors of our house," Ilsabet replied. "Father would want someone to do so."

  "So he would," Greta agreed. She was putting the last pins in Ilsabet's hair when they heard the ringing of the huge iron bell in the courtyard, summoning the castle to the funeral rites.

  "Go on ahead, Greta," Ilsabet ordered. "I'll come soon."

  She waited until Greta had gone, then ran down the hall to her father's room, retrieving some of his treasures, which she carried to her own room and hid in a cupboard. Downstairs, she moved through the crowd to take her place beside her brother, just as the priests were beginning their chant.

  Ilsabet was not the only one wearing the blue and gold of the Obour family. Her father's valet wore his livery, as did a number of the serving maids. Lady Lorena was dressed in similar tones, and her richest gown, Ilsabet noted. Her hair was unbound, a sign of sorrow among her own people, and her face was a moving pattern of fear and grief. Mihael and Mar-ishka stood beside her, black-cloaked, heads bowed.

  Baron Peto stood nearby. He'd also dressed simply, his expression as somber as the family's. "At least he shows respect for his enemy," one of the house servants whispered loud enough for his companions to hear.

  Respect! Ilsabet thought. The fact that he is here at all shows his lack of respect for our grief. She looked at her father, his body covered by his war shield, his face so serene in death as to seem almost dull. However, the servants who had prepared the body had done well. There was no sign that her father had been beheaded, save for the wide strip of leather covering his neck. She glanced around but saw no sign of Dark or any of the rebels. Apparently, Peto had the good sense to order them to stay away.

  Had her father died victorious, one of the priests w
ould pause at the end of the ceremony to recount his deeds and valor in battle. Instead, the service ended with the prayer. Then with a sudden wailing, the priests threw torches on the oil-soaked pyre.

  The torches sputtered, then the heated oil flared and spread, the flames so high and hot that the mourners had to step back. As they did, Ilsabet saw Lorena sway on her feet. Was she about to faint again? It would be like her, Ilsabet thought.

  Baron Peto moved through the crowd, possibly meaning to catch her when she fell, but just as he grabbed her, she pulled herself out of his grasp, leaving him holding only the ripped hem of her sleeve. Then, with her wail merging with the priests', she flung herself forward onto the pyre. With a wall of flame between her and the crowd, she was beyond the reach of any rescuer.

  Her skirts flared, giving a glimpse of the long legs that had served her so well through countless hours of courtly dances. Then the smoky fire swallowed her form as it had her husband's. She died without a sound.

  Ilsabet heard Peto's oath, her sister's scream, but she felt only satisfaction. Her father had released Lorena from her duty, yet the woman had chosen to die anyway. Ilsabet regretted only that she had not known how much they both had loved the baron, and that Lorena's spirit would undoubtedly join the spectral menagerie that inhabited the castle. She made a mental note to avoid Lorena's room as she now did her mother's.

  Soon after, Peto stood in front of the raised dining table at the end of the great hall. He was flanked by his generals, and some of the petty nobles of Sundell. His own troops ringed the hall, swords unsheathed, ready for use. "Baron Mihael Obour, come forward," Peto called.

  Marishka turned to Ilsabet. "He uses Mihael's title!" she whispered. "A good sign."

  Mihael moved forward, somewhat uneasily, Ilsabet noted with satisfaction. When he stood in front of the assembly, Peto continued, "Baron Mihael Obour, you have agreed to pledge your life to me?"

  In response, Mihael knelt and kissed the boot of the victor. "I am yours to command," he said.

  "Then this is my command. I ask that you take charge of this castle and the lands around it. That you rule in my place as I would rule, that you give me a monthly accounting of all matters of state. That you…"

  Ilsabet saw Jorani standing at the other side of the room, waiting to swear to his new lord. He'd grown up in these walls with her father, and she wondered if he was remembering that past now. If he did, he gave no indication as he followed Mihael and pledged his faith.

  The other nobles of Kislova followed, seeming almost eager to swear allegiance to their new lord. The generals went next, beginning with the troop commander, Raimundi, ending with old General Noire.

  "Marishka Obour," Peto called next.

  "Don't do it," Ilsabet whispered.

  Marishka looked at Ilsabet as if certain she'd gone mad. Still weeping, she went forward. Trembling, she knelt and swore as the others had, then kissed the baron's foot. She was so overcome with grief that Peto had to help her to her feet. Just for a moment, he paused and looked into her face, as if noticing her great beauty for the first time.

  Then came the moment Ilsabet had been waiting for. The audacity of her plan filled her with terror and excitement. Peto called her name. She did not move from her place in the crowd. "Ilsabet Obour!" he repeated.

  She remained where she was, though the crowd parted around her, and Mihael glared at her.

  "Come forward," Peto repeated, more gently, as if fear that kept her away.

  "No," she replied simply.

  Mihael moved to her side. "Father asked that we do this," he whispered fiercely.

  "Father ordered that you do this," she replied in a whisper loud enough for those nearby to hear. "The rest of us can do as we choose. Perhaps father's order is something Baron Peto should know." Whatever arguments Mihael might have raised vanished at the force of her threat.

  "This is an embarrassment," he went on.

  "Embarrassment! These are our conquerors. I will not pledge," she declared. Before the argument grew any hotter, she pulled her father's signet ring off her finger and held it up for all to see. "No one will ever take his place," she said, then threw it to the ground, cracking the crystal seal with the heel of her boot.

  Peto seemed uncertain how to act. It was her age,

  Ilsabet decided; that and her sex. If it had been Mihael who stood so boldly against Peto, he would be dead by now. Nonetheless, she fully expected death. She folded back the corners of her cloak and pulled her father's dagger from her belt. Holding it high, she cried, "The war is not over, Peto Casse of Sundell-not as long as there are those who revere my father's memory. If you wish me to pledge to save my life, I will do so, but in truth you know how much I will mean it."

  Jorani moved to Peto's side and said, "She was the favorite of her father. No one loved him as she did."

  "I see that," Peto answered, then faced Ilsabet. "I hope to one day have a daughter that so honors me," he declared and moved closer to her; but not within striking distance, Ilsabet noted with satisfaction. "I would not ask you to swear allegiance to me with his memory so keen in your mind. But until you do, you are confined to this castle. Regard it as your home."

  "My home! Peto, it always has been my home. It will forever be!" She turned and stalked from the hall. Once out of sight, she leaned against the wall, tried to breathe deeply, and coughed. Her body was trembling, and her hands felt icy cold. She'd fully expected to share her father's fate.

  Jorani joined her in the hall. "Your brother is inside, placating our uninvited host," he said. "May I walk with you to your chambers and talk with you a while?"

  "To convince me to bow before him as my sister did?"

  "Not at all. After I recovered from my shock, I realized that you did a very brave thing in there."

  "Then, yes, come with me. There's no one whose company I cherish more."

  The outer doors had been left open, but the dry warmth of the castle kept the fog at bay. Even so, the lower stairs were darkened by the damp, and beads of moisture had formed on the marble handrail. They climbed the stairs and passed through the cold hall to Ilsabet's chambers. Inside, she gave in to her weakness, wrapping herself in a blanket and falling into a chair.

  Jorani took a close look at her and rang the bell. Greta appeared soon after. "Bring some hot tea for your mistress," Jorani said. "And something to eat?"

  Ilsabet nodded gratefully.

  Jorani settled in the chair that faced hers. "I would wait to discuss some matters with you, Ilsabet, but I don't think time will mend your grief."

  "You're going to tell me that I should go on with my life, or some other platitude?"

  "Only that your hatred is misdirected. None of this was Baron Peto's fault; it was fate."

  "It was the rebel I let live who warned Peto," Ilsabet blurted.

  "No, some slip of a girl no older than you stole through the lines and heard your father and I planning the move. But even that isn't important. If Dark hadn't crossed the border to warn Peto, someone else would have done so. You are not responsible, believe me."

  Ilsabet remembered the 'slip of a girl*. She'd judged the girl to be as harmless as Peto judged her to be. No use confessing her tragic stupidity to Jorani. He'd blame fate, not her.

  "The point I am making is that most Kislovans welcome Baron Peto's victory," Jorani continued. "And if you oppose him so openly, you will not have the support of your people, or of his."

  "Why should I care. I'll never rule."

  "Fate combined with a certain bit of strategy and luck has a way of making the impossible real. You're the only one of his children who inherited his intelligence. Use it well and in time perhaps…"

  She looked at him incredulously. She had never even considered that possibility. "What would you advise I do until then, swear my allegiance?"

  "No. Be civil, even cordial to him, but never swear. He'll respect you that much more for your pride."

  And the others that much less, she thought, but
did not say it.

  Exhausted by grief and tumult, Marishka left the hall early. By the time she reached her chamber, she was once more in tears. As she stepped inside, she saw Ilsabet waiting for her. Ilsabet pointed at her.

  Marishka flinched, expecting to be struck. Though Ilsabet was smaller than she, Marishka had no taste for fighting and had been beaten often when young.

  "I saw how you looked at him after you kissed his foot. Peto may be handsomer than your pet in the guards, but you didn't have to gape at him with such obvious longing when your father's ashes were still smoldering outside."

  "I wasn't gaping at him, at least not that way."

  "No? It didn't once cross your mind that you could make a match like Lorena's with father?"

  Marishka's face reddened. "Get out," she said.

  "Your son would inherit Sundell and Kislova," Ilsabet continued.

  "Get out! I have no intention of marrying him or my 'pet' in the guards, or anyone."

  Ilsabet gripped her sister's wrist, squeezing hard enough to bring tears to Marishka's eyes. "See that you stay away from him. The Obour family has its pride."

  "I may have no choice!" Marishka blurted. "Mihael commented on the way the baron looked at me. If he gives me in marriage, what can I do?"

  "A simple thing-refuse. Be certain you do."

  "What if I'm forced to marry him? Mihael has that right."

  "Then be certain Peto never loves you."

  Even after Ilsabet had gone, Marishka wept, only now she had one more reason to add to the rest. If

  Lorena were still alive, she could go to the woman for advice. Without her, Marishka felt utterly alone, for she'd had no other friends.