Baroness of Blood r-10

by Elaine Bergstrom

  Ilsabet waited a few more days before sending word that she would be down for dinner and requested an audience afterward to plead Lord Jorani's case in person. She chose a black gown that made her pale skin and hair look exotic rather than faded and went downstairs, sitting beside her sister.

  As was his custom, the baron had entertainment between the main course and the sweets, this time a singer who'd sung for Baron Janosk on many occasions. While the diners listened, servants carried in a tray of pastries from the kitchen. Though the baron was by custom served first, Ilsabet reached back and grabbed the top piece from the tray, laughing so sweetly at her sister that her impoliteness was seen as childish exuberance, not a formal slight of their new lord.

  Ilsabet took a bite, gave a strangled cry, and spit out the piece. Fire filled her mouth and throat, making it hard to breath, to speak. Tears rolled down her face as she grimaced in pain. No sooner had the agony hit, however, than an uncontrollable rage came. Unfocused at first, it was soon directed at the person she hated most.

  Consequences be damned! She would kill the baron now; kill him and be done with it. Why wait? Why scheme when she had the means right in front of her? Pushing herself to her feet, she picked up a waterglass and broke it on the side of the table. With the edge held out like a dagger in front of her, she lunged for Peto.

  Everything happened so quickly that she almost reached him before the baron's guards rushed forward. Her rage gave her terrible strength, and it took four to subdue her, one of whom was slashed across the arm while trying to wrest the makeshift weapon from her hands. At Peto's order, she was carried kicking and screaming from the dining hall to her chambers.

  Servants tied her to her bed. Someone pried open her clenched teeth and poured a liquid tasting of honey and poppy down her throat, but the elixir brought no comfort. She screamed in rage. More liquid followed. This time she bit down on a hand, and blood filled her mouth.

  The taste of an enemy! The taste of vengeance!

  The baron's face hovered above her. She growled, spit blood and saliva at him and screamed again.

  She felt as if she were buried in the belly of some terrible beast, her emotions magnified in its primitive mind, her hidden urges propelling it to act, but her bonds making action impossible.

  Another sweet infusion. This time the potion made her sleepy but did little to calm the burning in her mouth and throat, which seemed to be spreading through her body, borne in her blood.

  Peto stood at the end of the bed and looked down at Ilsabet. She lay with her arms and legs tightly tied to the four posts. Even through the heavy woolen gown and underskirts, he could see how thin she was. As he watched the healer go about his work, the potions calmed her but did nothing to neutralize the poison in her system. He felt a tremendous guilt.

  The sweet she had stolen from the plate had been meant for him. Ilsabet coughed, her eyes still watered, and her lips were turning a pale shade of ash blue.

  "What's happening?" Peto asked the healer.

  "Her throat is swelling shut," the man replied. "I'm doing what I can."

  Not enough! Peto thought. Fearful of the outcome and the terrible future of his conscience should she die, he turned to Shaul. "Bring Lord Jorani here," he ordered. He spoke loud enough that Ilsabet could hear him, then moved out of her line of sight, hoping his absence would help calm her.

  "Is she going to be all right?" Marishka asked.

  Her voice surprised him. Until she spoke, Peto had forgotten she was in the room. She stood by the door, out of the way of the men trying to save her sister's life. Now he focused on Marishka-her clasped hands, her too-bright eyes.

  "Don't cry," he whispered and held out his arms.

  She stepped into them and began to sob.

  Jorani seemed to take forever to answer the summons, but he came prepared. The elixir he gave Ilsabet cooled the fire in her throat, as well as the one in her mind. Even so, it was some minutes before she could force more than a trickle of air into her lungs. When she exhaled, she started to scream, and cut off the sound.

  "Let out the rage," Jorani said to her. "You have to."

  She did as he said. Each cry calmed her as if the sounds were emptying the mind of the emotions that caused them.

  Hours passed. Ilsabet's voice grew hoarse, her throat sore. Finally, when the cries subsided to frightened whimpers, Jorani ordered the bonds cut. She immediately hugged her teacher, making him stay after the others left. "Do you think he'll lock you up again now that I'm better?" she whispered.

  "You little fool! If you'd taken a bigger bite or if Peto had waited longer to send for me, I'd be heaping wood on your funeral pyre now," he said without real anger.

  The moment she'd risked her life to free him, she ceased being merely his pupil and became something more. He wished there were not such an obscene difference in their ages, for he loved her-her daring and spirit even more than her faith in him.

  In the morning, Jorani sought out Baron Peto, meeting with him in his private chambers. Peto's suspicions had turned away from Jorani, and his guards had been questioning the kitchen staff, dismissing the servants employed since the rebellion.

  "Mihael and I have decided that from now on, he will be the one to taste my food. Since I've grown rather fond of him, I'd prefer to have Obour servants prepare it," Peto said to him. "I also request that you stay in the castle. You seem to be the only one capable of treating the poisonings."

  "I'll be glad to remain," Jorani replied.

  "There is one restriction on you. I will not arm my enemies. I therefore order you not to share your knowledge with Baroness Ilsabet."

  So Peto guessed she might have poisoned herself. Well, Jorani thought, only a fool would not. He agreed, then made a request of his own. "It seems to me that the constant reminders of her father along with your presence are detrimental to the Baroness Ilsabet's health. My estate is close by. She could stay there for a time. My servants know her well, and she would be quite safe. If you're concerned about her safety, there is a guardhouse for your own men."

  As Jorani anticipated, Peto understood his reasoning immediately. Til order it," he said.

  "Thank you, Baron."

  Jorani was about to add a final remark when they were interrupted by one of the castle guards. "Baron, I've been sent to tell you that the Baroness Marishka and a servant have left the castle."

  "How did the girl get by you?" Peto demanded.

  "She was dressed like the servant, Sire. I wouldn't even know now but one of her maids discovered her missing. She left a letter for you."

  Peto unsealed it, frowning as he read the contents. "Who is Sagesse?" he asked Jorani.

  Marishka's personal maid, Kashi, came from a family of fisher folk that lived on the opposite bank of the Arvid river, a few miles upstream from Nimbus Castle. With one of Kashi's hooded capes covering her distinctive copper-colored hair, Marishka crossed the river with her, then followed the foot trail upstream. At the village, she paid for a pair of horses and supplies for Kashi and herself. Once outfitted, they followed the river northwest, heading for the high grasslands of Kislova's central plain, and the mountains beyond it.

  Marishka had never been so far from the castle, and never traveled outside the castle alone, but pilgrims to Sagesse, no matter how wealthy, were required to travel there as common folk. As to the traveling customs of common folk, Marishka had to take Kashi's advice that no matter how poor, a woman would not travel through Kislova alone. Besides, Kashi would never have helped Marishka leave the castle unless she were allowed to come along.

  As they rode, the sun warmed them, and the misty skies of the lowlands cleared. That night, Marishka lay back and, for the first time in her life, beheld the full splendor of the stars. The universe was so vast, and she so tiny. She threw a branch on the fire, lay down, and tried to sleep, but it eluded her. Finally, bowing to the inevitable, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and moved closer to the warmth of the flames.

 
As she sat there, she began to understand Sagesse's wisdom. Without friends and servants, without a tent to shelter her, she would realize her small part in the universe, contemplate fate, and be ready for the Seer's advice.

  Through the wind, she heard the distant howl of wolves grow closer. The horses whinnied in fear With one hand on the hilt of the knife she carried, Marishka reached out to wake Kashi. As she did, the sounds stopped. Marishka froze and listened, her eyes straining to distinguish reality from shadows and from phantasms born of her fear. The grasses on the edge of their sandy clearing rustled, a discordant noise amid the steady whisper of the wind.

  "Who's there?" Marishka called.

  Eyes glowed in the firelight and a white wolf stepped into the dancing glow.

  Marishka pulled a burning branch from the fire. With it in one hand and her knife in the other, she pulled off her cape and moved between the animal and their horses. She took the wide-legged stance she'd seen her brother use in his training. "Go!" she ordered, and though she was terrified, she advanced on it. "Shoo! Go away!"

  It stood its ground, head cocked, seeming to appraise her with a calm intelligence and a feral longing that made her heart beat even harder.

  She glanced down for a moment and kicked at Kashi. When she looked back, the wolf was gone, and in its place, crouched low against the sand, was a naked young man no older than her brother. His hair was white, his skin tinged silver in the moonlight, and his colorless eyes were the eyes of the wolf. He might have been solid and alive, yet there was something strange in his form, as if his image had been painted in the air. She looked down at the ground. His body threw no shadow.

  Until now she had never believed in werebeasts, let alone the ghosts of them. She'd paid little attention to the legends concerning them but knew that black ones foreshadowed plague and disasters. The silver were the harbingers of sudden, violent death, and in wolf form were the guardians of the ghosts of the victims.

  "Go!" Marishka exclaimed again, certain the creature could see her terror, hear it, smell it.

  "Why?" he asked, the sound soft, almost one with the breeze.

  "I am on pilgrimage to the Seer. Will you honor this?"

  A terrible look of regret fell across the youth's face. "I must, at least for now, though you'll be mine soon enough. I smell the reek of death on you already," he replied and turned away from her. His form stretched and flowed from man to wolf, then vanished into the shadows, the night.

  Marishka sank beside the fire and shuddered with fear and doubt. What was she doing here? Did she honestly think the advice of the Seer would alter anyone's plans for her future?

  The thought was so troubling that she did not sleep at all that night, or the next. By the time she and Kashi reached the footpath leading up the mountain to Sagesse's cave, Marishka wondered where she'd find the strength to make the climb. Though Kashi's steady arms would have been welcome, Marishka had to go alone. No one was allowed to hear the Seer's advice but the petitioner. She looked up at the winding path, the cave itself shrouded in dense clouds. After so many days of riding, her journey was almost over. She sighed with weariness and began the climb.

  It seemed that her strength increased with each step. Perhaps hope caused this; perhaps magic. No matter, Marishka's spirits lifted. The climb would be easy, and then she could go home.

  Then she stepped into the clouds. Engulfed in a glowing mass of white, she lost sight of the trail before or behind, lost all sense of the future or even the present. Only the past was real and all around her. Inexplicable before, it stood out now with new clarity.

  She saw her mother die, her beautiful face twisted with agony at the end. She saw her father's grief change him from a man who looked after his subjects into a tyrant, hated by all save those close to him. She saw Peto's resignation as he raised his sword, his remorse as he looked down at her crying over her father's body, the kindness he had shown to even her sister.

  No, she could not hate him; nor could she listen to Ilsabet's warnings, fueled as they were by her terrible need for vengeance.

  "Peto," she whispered and fell to her knees. In spite of her heavy boots and leggings, the stones in the path cut into her, the physical pain as painful as the choices she had to make.

  But the first and the most important had already been made. She'd come here, and the Seer was near.

  Afraid to stand, she crawled upward, out of the mist. Though the mountainside fell off to her left, the path was widening and the cave opening was just above her. With her cloak pressed tightly to her body by the unceasing wind, she finished the climb.

  There was no sign of life outside the cave. She stepped into its mouth and let her eyes become accustomed to the darkness. When she did, she saw a flickering light coming from farther in.

  "Sagesse?" she called. "I have come to ask your advice."

  No response. Marishka went on as the light grew brighter, seeing finally the source, a huge cavern just ahead. At the edge of it stood a great polished slab of granite, on which sat empty cups and plates, a sharp knife with a roughly carved hilt, and an unbleached woolen blanket.

  She had brought gold for an offering. She laid it there, but it looked silly beside the more practical things that someone living alone might need. She unfastened the gilded clasp of her thick blue cloak and laid it beside the other offerings.

  "Come forward to the pool," a voice called.

  Marishka walked forward, but it was only when she stood on the very edge of the milky water that she saw an old woman sitting on a rock just to her left.

  Her hair was white, long and soft, hanging in thin wavy strands over her shoulders. Her gown was also white. Her skin was just as pale, parchment-thin with age but unblemished. Marishka wondered if she ever sat outside in the sun or if this cave-the source of her power, it was rumored-was also her prison.

  "Marishka Obour, you would see your future?" Seeing her shock, Sagesse laughed, not the cackle of some old crone, but the beautiful voice of a woman who has known decades of wisdom. "I know your name because I shared your vision. Even without it, I might have known you. Visitors have spoken often of the beauty of your face and hair. Come, sit beside me, and we will seek your fate together."

  Marishka did as the woman asked, and stared into the milky waters of the pool. Afternoon turned to evening. The light that shone on them from some hidden place far above changed from white to pink to mauve and slowly faded. Sagesse lit torches, and they stared into the pool, waiting for some great revelation.

  "There is nothing," Sagesse finally declared.

  Marishka shuddered. "What does it mean?" she asked.

  "I believe that your future was decided in the moment your father died. No matter what your course, you cannot change it." She took Marishka's hand, holding it as she added, "It may mean something else as well-you will not live a long life. But at least you may do as you like and take comfort from the happiness you find in what is left of it. Now go, your companion is growing anxious."

  Marishka turned to leave. At the edge of the cavern, she turned back and saw that Sagesse had vanished as mysteriously as she had appeared.

  As Marishka walked down the path, she saw extra horses tethered beside their camp, and the dark forms of men against the flames. If there had been another way down, Marishka might have considered fleeing, but with no choice but to face them, she put her hand on the hilt of her knife and went more quickly on.

  As she moved closer, she saw the black-and-gold livery of Sundell and Baron Peto waiting for her.

  "They told me I must not follow you to the cave," he said, then held out his hand as if uncertain she would take it. When she did, he moved closer to her, pulled the cloak off his shoulders, and wrapped her in it. It smelled of smoke from the fire and of sweat from his long ride. "Can you share what you learned?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "The Seer said that I should follow my heart."

  She tilted her head up for him to kiss her. As he did, she felt such a terribl
e presentiment of doom that she wondered if Sagesse had lied, then shuddered at the sacrilege of even the thought.

  "Is it possible for me to go up?" Peto asked.

  "I'm sorry, but you must come here seeking her, and travel as any common man would."

  He seemed to consider. "She has already answered the question I would have asked. Now we must talk."

  He led Marishka into his tent and had a servant bring her food and wine. Until it was set in front of her, she hadn't realized how hungry she'd become in her hours on the mountain. She ate feverishly while Peto sat, content to watch her and say nothing.

  When she'd finished, he took her hand again. "When you turned up missing, I realized how much I cared for you. I've asked your brother for permission to wed you," he said. "He has pledged you to me. He said that arranged marriages are your custom. They aren't mine. So I ask you, will we wed?"

  Yesterday, she would not have known how to answer. She did now. "Of course," she said. "At summer solstice. The priests will have no choice but to see the union as a hopeful sign."

  TEN

  Jorani's house, called Argentine because of its white stone facade, was far smaller than Nimbus Castle, but far more beautiful. As the elixirs Jorani had sent with Ilsabet slowly brought her old strength back and added to it, she roamed the estate gardens where early spring flowers poked their heads through the frost-covered soil. At her request, the marble fountain was turned on during the day. As she stared into its swirling water, she contemplated revenge. At night before she went to bed, she would unwrap her father's clothes. The first time she did so, she shuddered, recalling the terrible vision she'd had before. But there was no repeat of it. The blood on the cloth had all dried, and it would flake off in her hands and dust the thin white cotton of her nightdress.

  As the days grew longer, her isolation grated on her. "Is there a library here?" she asked her maid.

  "In Lord Jorani's private chambers."

  "Take me to it," Ilsabet ordered. When the girl hesitated, Ilsabet added, "I was told to treat this estate as my home. Am I not allowed in every room of it?"