Baroness of Blood

THIRTEEN

Three days after Marishka's death, Baron Peto lay in the bed he should have shared with his bride, trying to find sleep in a glass of strong, sweet Kislovan brandy. His valet knocked politely and said Mihael Obour wished to speak to him.

"I was speaking to him all afternoon," Peto responded.

"I'm sorry," Mihael said and pushed past the servant.

"Since you're here, come in," Peto said wearily. He sat up and poured Mihael a glass of brandy, wondering vaguely what was so important.

Mihael looked anxiously at Peto. The baron was using drink to drown rage more than grief, but drink had a way of making rage worse. It also made the candid conversation Mihael had hoped to have with Peto impossible. He wished he hadn't barged in so rudely, now that he had no idea what to say.

"I'd guessed your grief," he began. "I've come to offer what comfort I can."

"Comfort!" Peto laughed, a terrible mirthless sound. "I'd hoped to have children with her, to unite our kingdoms with our sons. I'd hoped for too much and now…" Without warning Peto flung his goblet across the room. The fine crystal shattered on the stones.

The valet peeked in, then withdrew at Peto's bellowed command.

"Now I'm beginning to understand why your stepmother killed herself," Peto went on. "A moment's pain is nothing compared to this sorrow."

Neither of them said anything for some time, then Mihael broke the silence. "I went looking for Lord Jorani today and learned he left yesterday for Argentine."

"You don't approve? He'd been away from his estate for some time. Since half its revenues now belong to me, I thought it wise to let him set his lands in order."

"I was only surprised that Ilsabet didn't go with him."

"She did not wish to go."

"You asked her?" Mihael could not believe the implications of this.

"Given how selflessly she nursed her sister, I could hardly banish her again so, yes, I asked her. She replied almost word for word what she'd said the night she refused to swear loyalty to me. However, she sounds far less defiant now."

"How long will Jorani be gone?" Mihael asked.

"A week or two at the most." Some of Mihael's emotion must have shown in his face, for Peto asked, "I did send some of my men with him. Is there anything wrong?"

"I don't know," Mihael answered truthfully. "I can't shake the feeling that something more than an accident killed my sister."

All effects of the brandy seemed to vanish. Peto stood, his muscular form towering over the slight youth. "If you suspect Lord Jorani of treachery, speak," Peto demanded.

"No, I don't suspect him. But he knows more than any man in Kislova about the sort of things that might have killed her."

"The sort of things?" Peto gave a dry laugh. "Mihael, the accident was cause enough. You've only been in battle once so you can't know how common that sort of death is. I've watched countless men fall from their horses, endure no more than a few scratches, then begin to bleed inside. They die days or even weeks later, just as Marishka did. My own battle surgeon tells me that's what killed her."

What could Mihael say? That both his sisters were expert riders and the accident itself could have been arranged? That Ilsabet's sudden beauty held hints of sorcery? His parents were dead. Marishka as well. There were only Ilsabet and himself left. He could not betray her, not until he was certain. "I don't suspect anyone. It was her death itself that troubles me."

"Her death should trouble us all," Peto replied and held up a new glass in a silent toast to Marishka.

Mihael left the baron soon after, returning to his rooms. He debated what to do, then decided on the direct approach.

He found his sister in her sitting room. She still wore the black of mourning, and there was a gray blanket thrown over her legs. She was napping on one of the couches, an open book on her lap. The light streaming through the window made her pallor even more pronounced. Here, she looked no different than in times past, and he began to wonder what trick of light or emotion had made him see her as changed.

"Ilsabet," he called softly.

She opened her eyes, smiled, and sat up. Holding out her hand, she drew him down on the couch beside her.

"You look so sad. What is it?" she asked.

"I came to speak about Marishka." He watched her face as he forged on. "There is no polite way to ask this, but I must. I know how opposed you were to Marishka's swearing loyalty to Baron Peto. But when Marishka brought you back to help plan her wedding, you and she were closer than you had ever been. I have to know why you had such a change of heart?"

Ilsabet looked out the window at the cloudy sky. The light seemed to steal all color from her eyes, making them look glazed over, white, dead. "In my days alone at Argentine, I began to realize we are all that is left of the Obours, and we must do what we can to survive and prosper. I decided my defiance of Baron Peto was ill-advised but I could see no way to mend the differences between us without losing all pride.

"Then Marishka wrote me about her marriage and asked me to come home. I did, and though I was opposed to the match, I thought it an expedient move for our family. Now she is gone, and there is only you." She paused, and her eyes widened with disbelief. Tears came to them, tears she tried in vain to hide. "You suspect me of killing her, don't you?"

Mihael had never seen his sister cry. Perhaps so much grief had worn down her defenses and softened her. "You've never spoken so openly about your feelings before. I had no way of knowing," he said sincerely.

"Does Peto think I had a part in Marishka's death?"

"I don't know," Mihael answered. "I hope not."

"Mihael, what am I to do?"

She'd also never asked his advice before. He looked at her and answered with words he expected would send her into one of her well-known rages. "Swear now," he said. "Peto hasn't asked it. If you do it of your own free will, your pride will be intact."

Surprisingly, she nodded, and actually seemed to be considering his advice when he left her.

Like Mihael, Jorani was troubled by Marishka's accident, illness, and death. Like Mihael, he dared not mention his suspicions to anyone.

Once he'd arrived and settled in, he began questioning his staff, concentrating finally on Rilca, who seemed to have spent the most time with Ilsabet.

The woman happily described the girl's interest in plants, and how she had wandered the fields alone. "She followed me around the kitchen asking me about the healing herbs and roots. I told her everything I knew. We got along well. When I was ill, she sat by my side every day reading to me."

Jorani had never known Rilca to complain of anything, but she was getting older and her joints had stiffened. "You were ill?" he asked.

"Stomach cramps such as I'd never felt before. I think my tonic had gone bad. I'd never known it to taste so bitter. I threw it out and blended some teas to help the pains go away."

At his prompting, she described her symptoms. They were so similar to Marishka's that Jorani became certain Ilsabet was at least guilty of allowing her sister's death. Otherwise, she would have mentioned Rilca's remedies.

"I've been teaching her some things myself," he said. "It would help to know about the plants you discussed."

Rilca told him. There had been nothing odd in their discussions of angelica and feverfew, or in the concoction of horseheal and mallow Rilca had suggested for Ilsabet's chronic cough. "We even discussed the old myths," Rilca continued, "like the banning of marjoram at a wedding feast and the eating of columbine seeds to hasten a baby's arrival and the old tale of what happens when you eat black nettle."

She prattled happily on for a few more minutes. Jorani barely listened. He'd just learned what poison had killed Marishka, as well as how it had been delivered.

As soon as he left Rilca, he went to the rooms Ilsabet had occupied. A careful examination of the drawers and cupboards revealed nothing, but when he sifted through the ashes in the bucket beside the hearth, he found bits of pottery and a black tar stuck to a few of the pieces. He took these to his own room. There he diluted the tarry substance with water until it formed a thick paste. He dabbed it onto his arm. A few minutes later when the blisters began to rise, he knew what Ilsabet had done.

Weeks passed, but he remained at Argentine, getting his estate in far better order than his emotions. Finally, he received an urgent letter from Lieutenant Shaul asking that he return:

"… In the last few days, there have been three mysterious deaths in the dungeons of the castle. The victims were outlaws who had been preying on shipments of goods between Kislova and Sundell. They'd been jailed in the town but escaped. When recaptured, they were brought here, as it is well known that no one escapes the castle's cells.

"They were hard, dangerous men, and they would have undoubtedly been executed after evidence against them was heard. However, in the days before their hearing, they began having frequent fallings-out. When they came to blows, they were separated.

"On the night before their hearing, one of the prisoners began to scream as if in terrible pain. The guard held a torch close to the cell but could see no reason for the man's agony. Because of the man's history, he decided the screams were some sort of trick to get him to open the cell door, and he ignored them. Later, the other outlaws also began to cry out, but again the guard could see nothing and thought it a trick.

"Gradually, the screams subsided. The guard assumed the men had tired of their useless ruse. In the morning, when trays of food were brought, two of the men were dead, the third unconscious. All had welts covering their bodies, as if they had been burned with hot coals. Indeed, it seemed they felt as if they were burning, for they had clawed at their clothing and scratched their skin trying to put out the invisible flames. The one survivor remains unconscious, but cries out often.

"Our healer suspects some plague. I remember the rats and wonder.

"The baron asked me to write you to return at once and lend us what assistance you can…"

Unable to ignore the summons, Jorani set a slow pace back to the castle, still not knowing what course to take, certain of only two things-

A single word or even a suggestion to Peto of what Ilsabet had done, and she would be killed; rightfully so.

And he could not bear to see her die.

When he reached the castle, he found the courtyard more crowded than it had been on Peto's ill-fated wedding day. Merchants from Pirie mingled with the Sundell officers and Kislovan nobles. Lord Ruven had even traveled from Tygelt along with his wife, Alasyn, a beautiful woman with a quiet dignity that had impressed Jorani often.

The Sundell guards who had ridden in with Jorani went directly to the stables, leaving him holding tightly to the reins of his nervous horse and trying to find a servant to take it from him.

"What's going on?" he finally asked one of the sta-bleboys who was trying to lead Lord Ruven's spirited team away from the crowd before someone was injured by their hooves.

"The baron is holding a feast for the Baroness Ilsabet."

"A feast is it? Whatever for?"

"She's going to swear her loyalty to him."

The words had all the effect of a hard blow between the eyes. For an instant, Jorani was speechless with shock and astonishment. Then, he thrust his horse's reins into a servant's hand and ran up the stairs to his tower room where he washed and dressed quickly.

In a different section of the castle, Ilsabet stood in the center of her dressing room surrounded by Mar-ishka's legacy. Her mother's gowns were there, Mar-ishka's own, and the few pieces that Lady Lorena had given her-all of them reminders of the Obour women who had died.

Greta had used all her considerable skill on Ilsa-bet's thin hair. She'd tied it at the crown then used the hot iron to form tight ringlets that fell over her mistress's shoulders. When she'd finished, she helped Ilsabet into the gown she'd chosen.

"Leave me," she said to Greta.

Once alone, Ilsabet studied herself in the mirror, trying to see what Peto would see. She pictured herself, the demure subject, kneeling before him-swearing allegiance for the sake of peace between their families, their countries. Swearing, she had made it clear to him, not because he'd ordered her to do so, but because he had earned her respect.

Just before she turned to go, she put of few drops of perfume at her temples and in the hollow between her breasts. Marishka had worn a scent much like this. Ilsabet had enhanced it a bit, enough to make it as potent as it was beautiful.

She heard a knock, then Mihael politely asking if he could escort her down. She knew Mihael privately gloated. No doubt he had spent the better part of the last few days congratulating himself for being so blunt with her. How would he feel, she wondered, if he knew that she had already made her decision and had been merely waiting for him to suggest it?

She saw no point in openly opposing him. Tonight she would kneel before Peto, would kiss his foot. A moment of debasement and the last barrier between Peto and his new Kislovan subjects would end. Peto was homesick, and Marishka's death had made it worse. It was only a matter of time before Peto left here, and he had already pledged to put Mihael in charge.

Kislova would return to the Obours. They would not have the power they once did, but at least an Obour would rule. And someday the power would return to them; she had her plans ready to assure it.

By the time Jorani joined the other guests below, he'd heard the rumors concerning Ilsabet's apparent change of heart. The servants could speak of little else but the sounds of weeping coming from Ilsabet's room, the quiet conversations between sister and brother, ending with her decision to swear loyalty to her new lord.

Jorani knew no one could persuade Ilsabet to do anything she did not want to do. Certain of this, he stood with the other guests and watched Ilsabet enter the room, hoping for an answer to the puzzle of her actions.

The crowd parted when Ilsabet entered, falling silent when they saw her. She had chosen a simple gown of deep green silk. The color made her fair complexion look even lighter and gave it a translucent quality as well. Features that had once been almost gaunt now appeared delicate. Eyes that were once considered pale now seemed exotic. Her hair curled and shone like platinum against the deeply colored fabric.

As she walked straight to the raised table where Peto was waiting, she moved confidently, serenely; a queen secure in her castle, mistress of the halls and the people within them.

The change from the plain, shy girl who dreamt of power to this magnificently beautiful woman was so sudden and so striking, it seemed to Jorani there had to be some kind of sorcery involved.

When she stood before Peto, they both hesitated, and for a moment it seemed Peto might kneel before her. She broke the tension, falling to one knee, reciting the oath in a loud, clear voice, then pressing her lips to his boot. When she moved back, he took her hand, helping her to her feet.

She turned to face the nobles and the wealthy of Kislova and said, "I swear allegiance to Baron Peto Casse not because of any threat he made to me, but because I have seen the peace he has brought to our people, and the promise of a prosperous alliance of our domains."

The musicians began a slow romantic song. Jorani wondered if it had been on Peto's cue or Ilsa-bet's. As he watched, still stunned by the incredible changes in her, Peto led her into the center of the room and began the intricate motions of the dance. With their arms raised, their palms touching, they began circling right, then left. The tempo quickened. They moved closer together and began the elegant steps of a stylized waltz, whirling around the edge of the dance floor.

Peto seemed pale, dizzy, but when the dance ended, he stayed with Ilsabet for another, and another. The band knew what their lord wished. The waltzes continued while Peto held her close, smiling at her wit, laughing when she laughed.

Jorani heard no mutter of Peto's fickleness and how he should not be flirting with the sister of his dead bride only weeks after the funeral. Instead the guests were all smiling happily, commenting on Ilsa-bet's brief speech as if they were witnessing some idealized growing romance between their queen and an invading lord.

Though the daughters of Kislovan petty aristocracy were lined up to dance with the baron, he stayed with Ilsabet. She danced as if she had no problems with her lungs, with weakness, with being touched by a man she'd said often enough that she despised.

With the girl's plan so clear, Jorani could not understand how Peto and the others could miss it. Through marriage, Ilsabet could reclaim control of the Obour lands.

The invasion her father had begun would be complete with an exchange of vows, followed at a polite interval by an heir, then a vial of poison, first for Peto, and if she desired both kingdoms, a second for Mihael.

With that, she would rule for her son not one kingdom, but two.

And Jorani had planted the terrible seed of her ambitions.

He left the fete early and went upstairs. Before retiring, he stole into his hidden room and took a careful look around. Books had been moved. His supplies of candles and lamp oil were depleted. His collection of herbs and exotic poisons had been touched and studied though nothing seemed to be missing.

With a shudder, he considered all that Ilsabet might have learned on her own.