Baroness of Blood r-10

by Elaine Bergstrom

  Servants helped him to his room. Jorani stayed with him a while, asking how he felt, then left him.

  "Will he be all right?" Ilsabet asked.

  "I think so. We can probably send him home in a day or two. Once he tells everyone about your plans for the castle, they'll think twice before continuing the foolish resistance to Sundell." He walked down the hall with her, stopping outside her door. "When you write your husband, tell him I believe that in a few week's time everything will be quiet here."

  "A bittersweet victory since it means that Peto will come back to me," she said and touched his cheek.

  Inside her room, she barred her door, as was her habit, and sat at her table. There she opened her journal and began to write.

  I've determined the concentration of web needed to produce illness rather than coma or death. It astonishes and heartens me to realize Jorani has no inkling of what I did, even though he was there when I served it to the boy. If one who knows of the poison can't detect its presence, no Sundell healer will.

  Tonight in private, I intend to administer another, smaller dose to the boy. I need to see if the tiny bit more will sicken him again, put him into a coma, or kill him. If the latter happens, I'll make use of it since I've also mixed the potion that is supposed to revive the dead.

  I wonder if the formula will work, and what the curse associated with it might be. I wish I could be more open about my work, but Jorani makes that impossible. I've decided it would be wise for him to be elsewhere for a time while I test all the new things I've learned.

  She put the journal aside and took out a sheet of parchment. Dipping her quill into the ink, she thought a moment and began to write.

  Dearest husband,

  It was a long and sad ride back to Nimbus Cas-tie, but a necessary one. We've arrested three men for attacking Sundell troops. Shaul believes they were more frightened than dangerous. Given their youth, I intend to be merciful but not overly so.

  I also want to share my good news. I think we're going to have a child. Think of it, Peto, an heir for both our lands. I know it's too early to be sure, but I have many of the first signs. If this news turns out to be only wishful thinking, I know we'll be together soon to try again. In the meantime, we have the duties of our lands to keep us apart.

  So far, things go well here, though I wish the people would look to me rather than Jorani for advice. Jorani supports me, but they are so used to him that it is difficult for me to take charge. Though it pains me to mention it, he is feared in this land; it is difficult for me to pacify the people with him here, and because of our years together I don't want him to know I need him well away. I'm hoping you can think of some reason for him to leave-either for Argentine or Shadow Castle-and word the request as if it were your idea. It only need be for a few months at most; then I want him back, for I have always valued his advice.

  With the most important news out of the way, she went on about more trivial matters, mentioning the primitive conditions at Nimbus Castle and the changes she hoped to make. Perhaps she should not have written him so quickly; the news might make him rush to her side. Nonetheless, it was better for him to think she was with child early rather than write later when she was certain. Better he be disappointed than suspicious. She also requested that he ask Sagra to come to Nimbus Castle. "Now that Greta is gone, I have no one whose company I enjoy as well," Ilsabet wrote. "But please ask her if she wishes to come. She may be a bondwoman, but we will get along much better if she has a choice."

  Now that the awe of being in this bed, this room, and inside the castle walls had worn off, Emory considered the reasons for his being here and decided he didn't like them.

  Jorani and the servants were far too kind, too ready with answers he wanted to hear. He was also beginning to doubt he would be released, especially now that he was ill. He'd just begun wondering if Jorani had done something to him when servants carried in his breakfast and a second plate for the baroness.

  Her hair, falling loose over her shoulders, was white against the deep blue of her gown. As they ate, he could not help noticing her perfectly oval eyes, the delicate hands that covered her mouth each time she laughed.

  She did not seem to be thinking of her impression on him. Nonetheless, she often watched him so intently that he began to wonder what she expected of him. When she poured him a glass of cider, he looked down at it without drinking.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  "I fear Lord Jorani."

  She frowned, then broke into laughter. "Ah, poisons! No, we would not go to such trouble if we meant to kill you," she said.

  "To experiment?"

  "Jorani outgrew that need long ago." She sipped from her own glass, then held it out. "If you're concerned about the cider, drink mine."

  He flushed. "No," he said and picked up his glass. He'd taken no more than a sip when the dizziness he'd felt yesterday returned. This time his hand went numb and the goblet fell, splattering the juice across the brocade tablecloth.

  "Baroness," he whispered, staring at her in horror as a triumphant smile grew on her thin lips.

  "Jorani has no need to experiment. I do," she said.

  As he fell backward, he opened his mouth to scream, but she was beside him in an instant, her hand covering it so even the croak that managed to escape his throat was muffled. In a moment, he stopped struggling and lay faceup on the floor, his eyes raised toward the ceiling, though they focused on nothing.

  "Your life depends on your answers," Ilsabet said. "Try to blink."

  Though it took effort, he did as she asked.

  "Try to move."

  His limbs were dead, save for his eyes, which blinked furiously until even that stopped. He feared going blind, losing one of the last holds he had on the world. Her lips moved close to his face. He could smell her perfume as she said, "I'm going to kill you now. It will be painful but brief.

  Though he could not move, his fear made him tremble. She raised his head, laying it across her knees. He heard her sigh of pleasure, her soft laugh. Then her hands covered his mouth, pinched his nose shut. Paralyzed, he could do nothing as his lungs began to fight for air.

  She broke her promise, letting in a bit of air each time he lost consciousness until finally his body was unable to fight the inevitable any longer, and he died.

  His spirit floated in a soft darkness that seemed neither frightening nor comforting. He had not been judged, he thought, and wondered what the fates would decide for him. As beams of light, bright and beautiful, began cutting through the dark veil around him, he felt warmth, life, and found himself pulled back into his body. He opened his eyes and cried out at the pain of the bright sunlight.

  "So quickly," she whispered.

  He tried to sit up. Pain coursed through him-an agony that made him cry out. She had killed him, then brought him back from the dead. Only the fates had that sort of power. He looked up at her, entranced by the beauty he seemed to notice for the first time. His first act when he was able to move was to kiss her hand. Then abruptly he dropped it. He seemed bewildered, as if the knowledge of what she had done had vanished as dreams do upon awakening.

  "Now you do as I command," she said.

  His expression did not change when she said those words, as if he had lost all his own will.

  Seeming to fear that his sudden adulation would be suspect, the baroness gave Emory a dozen silver coins and a final command. He was to return to Pirie, tell everyone her plans for Kislova, and come back to her in a month to discuss what he'd learned.

  She watched him go, walking swiftly down the narrow peninsula road and up the cliff road toward the village. An hour ago he'd been dead. She'd brought him back.

  What price would the fates demand for such power?

  The thought sobered her, but she put it from her mind and sought out Jorani, who was in his tower room writing letters for Sundell.

  "Tell Peto I let the boy go," she told him. "He looked well enough and when he asked it seemed the rig
ht moment." She told him what she asked Emory to do.

  "It's good that he's gone back because the two we let go earlier apparently told everyone Emory was our hostage. This morning five of his friends managed to separate one of the Sundell guards from the rest of his patrol and beat him nearly to death before they were overcome. We've locked them up. Since the guard will most likely die, I hardly think we can let them go."

  "You're right. What happened before could be seen as a misunderstanding. This, on the other hand, is sedition. Separate the men into individual cells. Let them sit in the darkness and rot until the town itself petitions for their release. That's the time to show mercy if we choose to."

  She left him to his letters. Later, in a sharp slanted script that showed her excitement, she described what she'd done.

  From the Diary of Baroness Ilsabet

  As the boy clutched his neck and fell, I watched him, feeling what he felt, the delight his pain gave me.

  I knelt beside him and told him I would kill him, intending to be swift. But when I touched him and felt him shiver like some helpless wild creature in my hands, something came over me, an excitement I did not understand. I played with him, bringing him to the edge of death a dozen times, then reviving him. It seemed I could feel his spirit pleading for release, begging me, then hating me for the pain, the death.

  And the first thing he did when he could move was grasp my hand as if he were not worthy to touch me, and kiss it. What a magnificently perfect curse-to

  Elmme Berqstrom kill a man and make him your slave. I find it ironic that such power should come from a book abandoned and forgotten in Sundell!

  Now that I know the amount of web necessary to induce a coma, I'll begin to perfect the amount. After I left Jorani, I went down to the dungeons, stood in the darkness and studied our new prisoners. One seems to be the approximate size and age of my husband. I'll use him as I used the boy until I have exactly the proper dosage to slowly destroy Peto.

  And after my child is born, I'll be ready. I wait anxiously for that moment.

  "Marishka's warnings be damned," she whispered aloud as she put away her book.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Emory's joyful rush toward his village quickly slowed to an unsteady walk. The headache that had pounded so mercilessly yesterday returned as the sun moved higher in the sky and beat down on his bare head. He pulled off the shirt they had given him at the castle, held it over his head, and took refuge in a grove of trees. Late in the day, he continued home.

  He stumbled through the door and into his mother's arms. "We thought you were dead," she said, joyfully running her hands over his face, studying his back and chest, clucking at the bruises he'd gotten in the fight.

  "I was well treated," he said. "And when I asked to leave, the baroness let me go."

  "She let you?" his mother asked incredulously.

  "She treated me like a guest. She gave me a message to relay to the village, but I can't talk to anyone now. I'm too tired."

  His mother brought him water and made him lie down. He slept through the night and late into the following afternoon, when the sparse trees threw thin shadows across the land and his stepfather and brother came home from the fields. He sat at the table with them and ate the food his mother had prepared only because it would concern her if he did not. Actually he had no appetite, but that hardly surprised him. He'd eaten so well in the last few days.

  When Erich, his stepfather, served Baron Janosk, he'd lived in the castle in the barracks and lower halls. Emory, on the other hand, could describe the rooms of state, and his family listened intently. As Emory spoke, he discovered broad gaps in his memory, especially in the last few hours before his release, but hid his concern as best he could.

  When he explained the baroness's request that he tell others about her plans for Nimbus, his brother Arman asked, "Should we walk to town with you?"

  "I'd like to walk there alone," Emory said. "I have to clear the cobwebs from my head."

  "It's almost dark. You shouldn't go alone. I'll come along, and I won't say a word," Arman said.

  Of course, he wouldn't keep his promise. Arman never stayed quiet for more than a few minutes, Emory knew, but his chatter was harmless and easily ignored.

  Arman's physical presence was harder to deal with. At first, his panting as they hurried on grated on Emory. Later, it began to excite him as did the heat of the boy's body whenever he moved close.

  They passed two other farms and were on the edge of the town when Arman heard the bleat of a lamb on the hill above them.

  "One of Mirci's flock, I suppose. Let's retrieve it so he owes us a favor for a change."

  Emory had also heard the low growl of a mountain cat, but felt no fear-not of the cat or the gathering gloom. He climbed the hill, his brother close behind.

  The lamb, just old enough to graze, was a white ball against the circle of rocks where it had taken shelter. The cat teased it, slashing out, watching the helpless animal cower, then attacking again. Blood stained the side of the lamb's nose, and one front leg. The scent of it seemed to hang heavy in the air. Emory was about to comment on the scent, then realized he shouldn't be able to smell it at all. The cat screeched as they neared, a hunter defending its prey.

  "What in the name of the fates…" Arman began.

  "Shhh," Emory said. "Move back."

  Arman did, keeping his eyes on the beast. Three steps back, he fell. Emory turned. As he did, the cat saw its advantage and attacked.

  Emory knew wildcats were wily; the way the animal fought proved it. It had no desire to attack Emory, instead trying to drive him from its meal. Emory stood his ground, pulling out his knife. Smelling no fear, the cat retreated, still between the boys and the lamb.

  Arman pulled out his own knife and tugged at Emory's sleeve. "It's Mirci's lamb, not ours. Let the cat have it," he said.

  Emory shook his head. In a move that would have seemed suicidal had it not felt so natural, he attacked.

  The cat fell onto its back, its claws ready to rake Emory's chest and belly. Instinctually, Emory did the same, landing next to the cat and sinking his knife into its side, ripping it open.

  The cat screeched again, this time in pain, and rolled to face Emory. As it did, Arman tried to move behind it. He was too slow, and the cat slashed his arm. Meanwhile Emory made a slash of his own, opening the feline's throat.

  Emory heard Arman whoop with triumph, but the sound was dim, meaning nothing. Only the blood coating his arms and chest was real. He licked it, then slid over to the dead beast, buried his face in the soft, wet flesh and began to drink.

  "Emory! What are you doing?" Arman grabbed Emory's arm, intending to pull him away.

  Reacting with the same instincts as the cat, Emory slashed backward with his knife.

  Arman fell, clutching his stomach, moaning as he tried to stop the flow of blood.

  Hearing his cry, Emory turned and rushed to his brother's side. "Arman, I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know why I did that."

  Arman looked up at him, seeing the bloodstained face. "What are you?" Arman whispered.

  "I don't know," Emory replied. But he did. The marvelous taste of the blood, the life he felt coursing through him, told him exactly what he had become.

  Arman sensed the lie, and the truth behind it as well. "You walked home in daylight," he said.

  "It pained me."

  "You ate Mother's food."

  "But I didn't like it."

  "Who does?" Arman coughed. "You ate it just the same."

  Though it was now fully dark, Emory could see the stain of his brother's blood spreading on the ground and knew the wound was mortal. He cut his arm and held it out. "Arman, if I am… if I am what I think I am, the only way you will survive is to join me."

  "Wh-What do you mean?" Arman whispered.

  "Do it!"

  "You're sure?"

  "Arman, please! Do it!"

  Arman drank, gagging at the thought of what he was doing, gagging
until he died.

  Emory sat with his brother across his knee, singing an old song they both loved. Arman never stirred. Emory felt the last shreds of life leave his brother's body, and he mourned. This gift, this curse, this thing that had happened to him probably couldn't be passed on. Arman's body was already cooling in the chilly night air. There was no life here, nor any hint of unlife.

  Emory picked up the body and carried it to the corpse of the wildcat. Let the village think his brother died valiantly, slaying the cat.

  He mourned, yes, but did he feel remorse? No. He found his lack of remorse natural. What he had done had been an accident, and though he loved Arman and mourned him, he didn't feel responsible.

  Not responsible for the boy's death… but responsible to carry the words of Baroness Ilsabet.

  He climbed up the stand of rocks where the Iamb had taken shelter, then picked up the frightened animal and took it down the hill to the tavern.

  Still dazed by what he'd done, he summoned tears to his eyes, walked through the tavern's doors, and set the lamb on a table near the door, where Mirci was sitting with friends.

  "That cat won't plague your flocks anymore," he said thickly. "My brother died while killing it. I left him there because I had no way to carry him home."

  Mirci looked up in shock, and saw Emory and his bloody clothes. "Arman is… is dead?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  Mirci wrapped his cloak about the shivering boy, sat him down, and bought him a drink. With halting phrases of grief, Emory explained about slaying the cat, that his brother had sought to rescue the lamb but was attacked, and only after a bloody battle did they bring the cat down. Then, shivering and tearful, he snuffled and changed the subject, as though he could speak no longer about the trauma. Instead, he told them about Baroness Ilsabet, relaying the message she'd given him.

  The sympathy of the men turned suddenly hard. They, too, seemed happy for a new topic, one that brought anger, not grief. "And we're to believe she has our interests at heart? What about the men her soldiers took?" Mirci asked.