Ilsabet took a deep breath and steeled herself for what must be done. She picked up the kerchief by the lace hem, set it on the table and began, "Have you noticed a change in me, Greta?"
The woman looked at her, frowned, nodded. "You've become so beautiful," she said. "Not that you weren't beautiful to me before, but now there is an added quality. The whole castle speaks of it and how Baron Peto cannot keep his eyes off you." She spoke quickly, as if the compliments could somehow make Ilsabet forget what she had discovered.
"At Argentine, I spent much of my time in Lord Jorani's library reading the books and journals of his work. One of them contained the recipe for this ugly mass. If you take a small bit of it and swallow it, it spreads through your body, taking plain features such as mine and making them beautiful. In older people, it takes away the signs of age. I talked to Rilca the cook about that. Do you know her?"
"I met her once when we traveled to Argentine, but that was years ago."
"Do you know that she looks younger than when you or I saw her last?"
"She must be nearing seventy," Greta said, staring at her mistresses face. Greta believed Ilsabet if only because of what her own two eyes had revealed.
"And looks a decade younger," Ilsabet went on. "She says she may even wed again for the fifth time."
"I see." Greta glanced at the kerchief, thinking no doubt of her own suitor, and how she had never been married even once.
"On her deathbed, Marishka asked me to wed Baron Peto," Ilsabet went on. "Such an alliance would be for the good of our people. But he had never looked me with any interest, so I used what I learned. It succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.
"You must promise to tell no one," she continued. "I would not want Peto to hear any rumors about how I caught his eye. He has a temper. I'd prefer he not have reason to lose it."
"I understand," Greta said. "I won't say a word."
She watched carefully as Ilsabet wrapped the kerchief around the tarry mass.
Ilsabet settled for the truth about the clothes. "After Father was killed, I took this to remember how he died, and how I hated those who killed him. Now I keep it because his scent is on it-his blood, his body. I loved him and I will not give it up."
"If anyone found it, they might not understand why you chose such a memento," Greta replied evenly.
"Do you?"
Greta hesitated, then nodded. "But you should protect it better if you wish to keep it," Greta said. "I saw a beautiful carved wooden box for sale last time I visited Pirie. It has a lock and key to keep your treasure safe from prying eyes as well as vermin. Perhaps you'd like me to buy it for you?"
"I'm so glad you understand." Ilsabet hugged her, then took the clothing, folded it carefully around the kerchief, and returned them both to their hiding place.
"Should I go?" Greta asked.
"Not yet. Come and unhook this gown. It's getting so much warmer in the afternoon, I want to put on something lighter." When Greta had, Ilsabet pushed it to the floor and stepped out of it. She sat at her dressing table and unpinned her hair. It fell in a silky mass over her bare shoulders and the ivory lace chemise. Greta picked up a silver hairbrush and began running it through Ilsabet's hair, watching her face in the mirror all the while.
Ilsabet noted the way Greta looked at her eyes, her lips, her skin, and she knew the old woman accepted her story completely. "The peach-color gown has a looser cut. It would be cooler," Greta suggested when she'd finished.
"Not yet," Ilsabet said. "I think I'll lie down until dinner."
"Then I'll leave you." Greta retreated, looking pleased to be dismissed.
Perhaps the story Ilsabet had invented would keep Greta quiet, but only for a while. How long before she spoke of this? How long before Jorani and Peto heard the gossip and came to question her? She knew of no potion or electuary that would do what she told Greta the black nettle tar would do. And she could think of no lie to explain the one she'd already told.
If she wished to ever have her vengeance, to ever sit in the ruler's chair of Kislova or even live to see another spring, she had to act quickly. And she was thankful: acting quickly would keep her from brooding on what she had to do. Moments later, she wrapped a black robe around her body and disappeared into the secret passage leading to Jorani's hidden room.
She used a single cased candle to light her way. Rats scurried through the tunnel, fleeing the light. One moved too slowly, and she kicked it away, pleased to hear its pained squeal. Once she reached the hidden chamber, Ilsabet went directly to the hanging glass globe that held Jorani's precious spider.
At first it seemed Jorani had been ignoring the creature. It was curled into a tight gray ball in the center of its cloudlike web. When Ilsabet moved too close to it, it uncurled and charged her, its gray-and-white legs beating against the glass.
She pulled a cricket from Jorani's feeding cage and dropped it in the web. Smiling at the bug's impotent struggles, she watched the little spider move on its struggling prey. She watched it feed.
When it had finished and rested with legs outstretched in an all too perfect parody of a sated human, Ilsabet took from her pocket a second lace-trimmed kerchief exactly like the one holding her black nettle poison. This one however contained a black molasses cookie, which she had crumbled and reformed with a bit of water. It did not exactly resemble the nettle tar, but Ilsabet doubted Greta had taken a good look at the noxious ball.
Once she had done this, she slipped on a pair of leather gloves and carefully brushed the fake ball against the web, creating a poison far more potent than the one Greta had discovered.
She wrapped the contents carefully in the kerchief, wrapped the kerchief itself in another scarf, and hid the deadly package in her pocket. After a quick glance around to assure her nothing had been disturbed, she returned to her room by the same dark route.
She had been gone less than an hour.
As soon as she had everything safely packed away in her cupboard, she dressed and rang for Greta, not at all surprised when the woman did not appear. Now that she had her excuse, she went downstairs. The cook gave her some slices o" f warm bread and honey. While she ate them, she kept an eye out for Garvin, the Sundell guardsman whom Greta often mentioned.
Peto's guards ate in shifts. She was fortunate Garvin was in the early group. When she saw him, she called him over.
"I understand you've been paying some compliments to my servant," she said.
His eyes narrowed. He frowned. Ilsabet hardly thought him handsome, but she wasn't over fifty and half again the weight she ought to be. Greta could hardly afford to be choosy. "No one told me I couldn't," he muttered.
"Her work has suffered. I prefer that she keep her mind on it."
"Is that an order, then?" he asked.
"A suggestion." Ilsabet slid a pair of silver coins across the table. "Be firm when you let her down today," she said in a low voice. "I would not want her to pine away, thinking you've any interest in her."
"And if I still do?"
"One more is all you'll get and only if you act tonight," Ilsabet replied coldly.
She left him to his supper and his thoughts, certain he'd do as she wished.
She found Greta upstairs, dusting her room. The cupboard had not been dusted, and Ilsabet was certain the woman was deliberately avoiding it.
After Greta had helped her dress for the evening meal, Ilsabet said, "I saw that Sundell guard in the kitchen. He was asking about you."
"He was?"
Ilsabet laughed, "Go on down, I can finish here."
Later, when she left the room, she didn't blow out the candle. All the better for Greta to see her way when she returned.
Greta had spent all afternoon thinking about Ilsa-bet's revelation. The temptation to take some of the concoction was tremendous, but she resisted until Garvin made it clear he had no interest in her.
She found out in a simple enough way. When she walked into the kitchen, one of the scullery maids was sitting on
his lap, running her fingers over the dome of his bald head.
He stood up too quickly when he saw her. His face went red, and he muttered something about the difference in years between them.
Fighting tears, Greta returned to the upstairs chambers. Ilsabet had gone, and Greta was thankful.
When she was feeling sad, Greta would often sit at Ilsabet's dressing table, looking into the priceless silver mirror, dreaming of what it would be like to be the lady of this castle, the mistress of all around her.
She did so now, but the daydream held no comfort. All she could see were the lines in her face, her thinning hair.
Ilsabet would never miss the loss of a tiny bit of her magic. And if Greta were careful, she could hide the changes. Ilsabet would never know.
She opened the cabinet and rummaged inside until her hand closed over the red silk scarf that hid the kerchief. Frightened of discovery, she unwrapped the contents quickly.
As she pinched off a small piece of the soft black mass, she kept her senses focused on the hall. It would not do for Ilsabet to come back unexpected and find her in the act.
The very feel of it in her hand made her dizzy. She ate it quickly, but as she tried to wrap the package to return it to its hiding place, her hands went numb, her knees gave way. Even then, she thought it was the magic working, and fell without making a sound. Though she still breathed, she could not speak. Though her eyes were still open, she saw nothing.
Kashi found her and screamed for help.
Ilsabet was summoned from dinner. Peto and Jorani followed her to her chambers. As she knelt beside Greta, her attention fixed on her servant, Peto saw the kerchief. His hand moved toward it.
"No!" Ilsabet cried and grabbed his wrist.
"Ilsabet is right," Jorani said. "Greta may well have been poisoned. The touch alone could be deadly. Leave it where it is until I return."
Peto pulled his hand back and looked at the dour man. Friend and advisor to his enemy, poisoner if the rumors about him were correct, yet Peto was now twice in his debt. He wondered if the deaths since he had come to Nimbus Castle were some sort of deadly play designed to push him into some unknown action. If so, who was writing the script, and was his own death a part of the plot?
If it were, Jorani could have killed him a dozen times over. As for Ilsabet, holding her servant close to her chest, whispering endearments, she could only be innocent.
Greta died minutes later, with Ilsabet still holding her. Even then, Ilsabet remained where she was, kneeling on the floor, hugging her until Peto reached down and gently pulled her to her feet.
As he did, he was struck with the same incredible passion he had felt the evening she swore loyalty to him. It was the brightness of her eyes, he thought, and the way she so stoically hid her grief. As he held her, he wished they were still on the riverbank, discussing happier days.
Jorani returned moments later, carrying a mongoose the cook kept in the kitchen to kill the rats that were constantly trying to destroy her larder.
He placed the creature on a table, then slipped on a pair of gloves and put the kerchief beside it. The animal sniffed at the dark mass. Smelling only molasses and flour, it tried to nibble at the edge, but Jorani held it back. Instead, he placed the animal's paw on the sticky lump and waited. The mongoose shuddered, rolled onto its side, and died that instant.
Ilsabet gave a strangled cry and turned to Peto. "It's not you they want to kill, is it? The poison was wrapped in my kerchief. If I had come back early from the meal and touched that horrid thing, it would be me lying there," she said, then pressed against him, trembling like a frail bird in his arms.
"You and Mihael have come to mean a great deal to me in the last few months. I won't let any harm come to you," Peto said.
"No harm? Your servants are in our halls. Your cook prepares the meals. Your healer treats our illnesses and injuries. Which of them was untouched by our invasion? Which has no reason to hate the Obours?"
He winced at the truth of what she said. "Hatred means nothing without knowledge," he reminded her. "I'll find the one who has both."
"My father. My stepmother. My sister. Now the servant who raised me. You'd best hunt quickly, Baron Peto, or there won't be any of us left."
Peto kept his word. By the following evening when the servants were laying the wood for Greta's funeral pyre, his surgeon, his healer, and two of his soldiers who had lost relatives during Baron Janosk's ill-fated invasion were already on their way back to Sundell. In doing this, Peto acted against the advice of his own advisors, as well as Jorani.
"The poisoner could easily be one of our own servants," Jorani had argued. "We caught a great many spies in the castle during the civil war. It's quite possible that we overlooked one or two."
Mihael had nodded, but his support was vague, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
"I'd feel more comfortable if I knew what sort of poison it was." Peto had looked to Jorani as he said this. Jorani shook his head, appearing as perplexed as he had earlier.
When he'd dismissed his staff, Peto had asked Jorani to remain behind. "Is there anything you wish to say to me in private?" he questioned.
"I wish there were," Jorani replied.
"I want you to know that whatever means you feel are necessary to end these strange deaths will have my blessing," he said.
Jorani understood exactly what Peto meant. He locked eyes with the baron for a moment, then bowed and left. Through the funeral ceremony he said little to Peto, nothing to Ilsabet. He left as soon as the pyre had flared.
He had not lied about his confusion. Though he'd seen no signs of the silky spiderwebs in the substance that had killed Greta, nothing else would have destroyed the mongoose so quickly, and Ilsabet was the only one who had access to the spider's poison.
Peto had just given him permission to end the poisonings by whatever means were necessary. And he had the means, didn't he? The means were all around him.
Jorani had never believed himself a weak-willed man until now. But as he sat, trying to consider the most humane means to end Ilsabet's life, he knew he could never do it. Nonetheless, he had to confront her, to find out why the woman closest to her had to die. Even at this late hour, he doubted she'd be sleeping. He picked up a lamp and went downstairs. Just outside her door, he encountered Mihael. The young man seemed as troubled as he and asked to speak to him in private.
Jorani could well imagine the subject, as he followed Mihael down the hall to his rooms.
SIXTEEN
Ilsabet had not slept more than a few hours since Greta's death.
Each time she closed her eyes, her mind took her back to those few moments she had held Greta before the woman had died. The pain, the fear of death, the terror of Greta's last moments had coursed through Ilsabet, filling her with energy as an empty goblet might be filled with wine. It seemed that in some unfathomable way she had fed on Greta's agony.
As soon as she was able, Ilsabet had fled her own rooms and the men bending over Greta's body. She took refuge for a time in her sister's chambers. The tall oval mirror before which Marishka had preened in her fancy gowns now reflected Ilsabet. Yet, if Ilsabet had not known it was a mirror, she would have thought the reflection was someone else-someone delicate, pure, and incredibly beautiful.
She could not ignore the obvious any longer-something was changing her, and it was not the deaths themselves.
She knew this to be true because she'd fed at other times: sitting with Peto as Marishka died, she had feasted on his grief; in Argentine she had sat at Rilca's bedside, not out of devotion but to take energy from the woman's pain.
But she'd only become certain of the change in her in the days before she swore allegiance to Peto, when she had poisoned the three imprisoned outlaws. No one cared, she had told herself then. And there had been no prisoners in Nimbus castle for weeks before they came. Here was a perfect chance to test a new poison.
Ah, such delusion.
She'd chosen the poison
because it would cause pain, would make them scream, would give her the excitement of standing in the black depths of the subterranean space, listening to their agony.
She wasn't disappointed by the effect on her. As the screams began, wild excitement filled her. Its intensity gave such pleasure that she bit the palm of her hand lest she cry out and reveal her presence. As wave after wave of pain caressed her, she stood swaying on her feet. She retreated long after the cries ended and death came to her far-from-innocent victims. Then she ran as quickly as the slimy stairs would allow through the passages to her room. After, she stood in front of her mirror, laughing, then crying in awe of the beauty of her face, her hands, her hair.
The beauty had faded a bit since the night she had bowed to Peto. Now, standing in front of Marishka's mirror, she saw that it had returned. As she looked, trying to make sense of this curious change, she saw another reflection forming in the glass. It had the familiar auburn hair, the buxom body, the magnificent eyes. Ghosts did not reflect, did they? Hadn't she heard somewhere that they didn't reflect?
"Who are you!" Ilsabet whispered, and turned.
Her sister was behind Ilsabet. Marishka's tiny feet hovered above the flagstone floor, her hair floated insubstantial as a cloud over her white, thin shoulders. Ilsabet stared at her sister and slowly backed away. As she did, she heard the distant howl of a wolf.
"There will be no rest for your soul if you continue with your plans," Marishka whispered.
"As if there is rest now!" Ilsabet retorted. Though she was certain anyone seeing her would think her mad, ilsabet threw an arm over her eyes so she was not tempted to look at Marishka, and she ran down the hall to her now empty rooms.
Greta's spectre waited in the outer chamber. Her skin had the bluish tint of someone dying from lack of air, and she had a look of betrayal and reproach on her round face. Ilsabet gave a strangled cry and backed toward the door, though she dared not open it for fear her sister would be waiting in the hall. Instead, she bolted past the ghost into her sleeping chamber and slammed and locked the door.
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