Baroness of Blood

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.

Building up the fire, she lay in a tight ball in her bed, her eyes wide open until well after dawn, when she got a few hours of restless sleep.

The strange beauty she had noticed last night had subsided somewhat by the following morning. No wonder, she thought, as she studied the circles under her eyes, the sallow look to her skin. She stayed in her rooms all day. That evening she left them only because her absence at Greta's funeral would have been noted and questioned.

She wore a dark cape, the hood pulled up so shadows would hide her face. Though she stood close to Peto and her brother, her attention was fixed on the feelings of the other servants, who had formed a wide circle around the pyre.

Many of them were as old as Greta and had known her for years. Some were crying. Others were stoically standing there, wondering with quiet fear who had poisoned her and which one of them would be next.

She felt traces of the same energy she'd experienced when Greta died, but now she began to understand it, even warm to it. By the time the ceremony was over, she would be able to look at Peto through the same magnificent eyes he found so irresistible. It troubled her that this beauty came from devouring the emotions of death and pain. Yet it seemed a small price to pay for revenge.

But a thought had begun to nag at her, a feeling that when her vengeance was complete, she would still need to poison, to cause pain, to kill. Like a vampire, she might have no choice but to feed.

She dismissed the thought, threw back her hood, and raised her head, catching Peto's eyes, noting how his grim expression changed to one of support, of love.

Later, alone in her rooms, she watched the moon-shadows of tree branches moving on the walls of her room. She waited, afraid to sleep, afraid that if she closed her eyes the ghosts would come. Finally, exhausted, she drifted off, waking suddenly when she heard voices outside her door.

At first she was relieved to recognize them, then curious when she made out Jorani's and her brother's. The voices grew dimmer as the men walked down the hall. From the direction they'd gone, she guessed they were going to her brother's rooms, which adjoined her own.

Pulling on a dark cape, she lit her smallest lamp, bolted her door and made her way into the secret passage. There, she moved as quickly as she was able down the winding corridor to the nearest spyhole that gave access to her brother's rooms. After shading the lamp, she pulled back the cover and stole a quick peek at Mihael and Jorani. Certain she'd be seen by Jorani if she continued watching, she closed the hole and stood with her ear to it. In the silent space, she could hear nearly every word they spoke.

Jorani sat on the edge of her brother's bed. He kept his expression guarded as he watched Mihael pace. "You know it was her as well as I do," Mihael was saying. "I could overlook the rebels she killed, she had plenty of reasons for hating them. Even Dark's death would have been logical, though I can't be certain she had a hand in it. When Marishka died, I was suspicious of her, but Peto seemed so sure of what killed her. I was foolish to believe him.

"Now Greta is dead. That woman raised me and my sisters. She loved Usabet as much as she would have loved her own daughter. There's no plan of revenge in Greta's death, no reason for it at all except for the pleasure of killing."

"It may have been an accident," Jorani suggested.

Ilsabet winced. Was Jorani really betraying her so easily?

"You tell me Greta's death was an accident! If so, who was the intended victim?"

Jorani ignored the question. "Then again, Peto may be right. The poison may have been for your sister."

"Who here has the skill to kill so quickly besides you, Jorani?" Ilsabet had no trouble hearing those words, Mihael all but screamed them.

"Quiet," Jorani cautioned. "We don't need this conversation to go beyond these walls."

"Yes, we do. Peto needs to listen. He's so under her spell that he can't understand what she's capable of."

"Someone may have been trying to kill Ilsabet to prevent a marriage between the ruling houses of Kislova and Sundell."

"That's preposterous and you know it."

"Do you really want her dead?" Jorani asked bluntly.

"I want her brought to justice before she turns her attention to me."

"She wants you restored to your rightful place as ruler of Kislova. So do I," Jorani said in a concilia-tory tone.

Though he'd kept the means by which this would happen deliberately vague, Mihael suspected the worst. He bristled and headed for the door. "So you're plotting against Peto as well."

"Plotting? It's you who sees plots everywhere."

"I was a fool to come here and speak so frankly. I've undoubtedly sealed my own death warrant, haven't I? Well, Peto will hear of this now whether he believes me or not."

His voice was so full of hate that Ilsabet risked a look into the room. She saw Jorani rush after her brother, grip his arm and swing him around. Placing both hands on Mihael's shoulders, he said, "You must let me handle this."

"You?"

Ilsabet stifled a cry as Mihael's hand fell to the hilt of the long dagger he carried. Jorani was unarmed. She had to do something.

Rushing back to her own room, she set the light beside her bed and ran into the outside hall.

On Peto's orders, guards patrolled the hallways. She ran and found the nearest one, pointing to Mihael's door. "I heard men arguing in my brother's room. It's late and after what's happened…"

"I saw him go in there with Lord Jorani."

"Someone else may have joined them," she said.

The guard nodded, cried for assistance and rushed down the hall with her behind him. At Mihael's door, he paused, not certain how to proceed. Ilsabet pushed past him and flung open the door.

In the few moments since she'd seen the beginning of the fight, Mihael had drawn the dagger. Jorani had managed to get a grip on the young man's wrist, but though he was more powerful than Mihael, anger and fear gave the youth enough strength to resist. The dagger was still in Mihael's hand, Jorani's hand around Mihael's wrist. Jorani had just managed to turn the tip of the blade toward Mihael when Ilsabet barged in.

Jorani let Mihael go. Mihael stumbled backward. Ilsabet stepped aside, and he fell against the guard's blade.

It wasn't a deep cut, one more painful than serious, but Mihael whirled and saw Ilsabet. Certain he was being attacked by a paid assassin, he held up the knife and charged the guard.

"What's going on here!" someone bellowed.

Mihael recognized Shaul and backed off. "I'm being attacked in my own chambers," he said and pointed to the guard.

"The baroness came to me and said she'd heard arguing in here and thought someone might be attacking her brother," the guard said and went on to describe what he'd seen.

"Isn't that your own knife you're holding?" Shaul asked Mihael.

"It is," Mihael admitted.

Shaul sighed. "I'll send someone to dress your wound. I'm sure the baron will want to see all of you in the morning," he said.

"I'll stay with you until someone comes," Ilsabet said to Mihael.

"Mo! I'd rather be alone."

Ilsabet looked at Mihael as if he'd lost his mind. "Please stay with him," she said to Shaul with an apologetic smile and followed Jorani into the hall. "We'll sort this insanity out tomorrow." She spoke loudly enough for Shaul to hear, then went into her own room and bolted the door.

Jorani exchanged a few words with Shaul, keeping his side of the incident as close to the truth as he dared, and went upstairs. There he heard a tapping from the hidden room beneath his floor. As he expected, Ilsabet was waiting for him.

She had lit all the candles and her hair glowed in the light. She wore the same robe as earlier, the lace hem of the nightshirt just visible above her slippered feet. She stood in the corner of the room, flanked by the hanging web-filled globe and the glass bowl of ants, as if she were a part of some deadly tableau.

"Tomorrow morning, Mihael is probably going to accuse you of murder," Jorani told her.

"I know. I doubt Peto will listen, especially when Shaul tells Peto how Mihael was raving tonight."

"He was hardly raving," Jorani countered.

"I know what Shaul thinks he saw." She picked up one of the candles and held the flame against the side of the glass ant bowl.

"What are you doing?" Jorani asked.

"Watch." The creatures nearest the heat fled to the surface and milled around, climbing over one another, their legs and antennae flailing. She kept the heat on the side of the bowl for a few more moments, then pulled it back. The ants gradually calmed and made their way back into their nest.

"Fire seems to truly terrify them. The powder is much more potent now." She picked up the mortar and spooned a pinch of the sand into it. Wrapping a scarf around her face to keep from breathing in the drug, she stood at the table, slipped on some leather gloves and began grinding the sand into a fine powder.

"When they are truly terrified, you need so much less to create complete hysteria in your victim."

"How did you discover it?" he asked.

"By accident when I held up a candle to get a closer look at them. I tested the powder on the blind rebel leader. He knew what I had done but had no choice. He rushed after me. I stepped aside and he went over the edge."

Jorani thought of Mihael's accusation. He doubted Ilsabet would tell the truth, but he had to ask, "Did you kill your sister?"

She looked at him, as if weighing her answer. "Do you really think I would kill my own kin?"

"Mihael does," he said. He expected her to be angry. Instead, she continued grinding the sand. "What are you going to do with it?" he asked.

She held up the pestle, showing him the grinding end coated with the powder. "Does it look like dust?"

"Quite. But it's such a little bit."

"It's more than enough." She smiled as she took a length of hollow reed from the vase in the corner. Using a folded piece of parchment, she tapped the powder into the reed. Laying it carefully on the table, she cleaned her tools, then carried the powder-filled reed to the secret door.

"What will you do with it?" he asked.

"You'll see tomorrow," she said. "Rest easy, Jorani. Peto will never believe him when he sees how Mihael acts tomorrow. Incidently, when Peto summons you, don't rush down." As she walked past him, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips. Some of the dust must have leaked through her makeshift mask because he felt suddenly confused himself, and a bit dizzy. He sat at the table and stared at the spider in its hanging crystal home.

So deadly. So innocent. So like the child.

The pounding on his door woke Mihael the following morning. He'd intended to get up early and speak to Baron Peto before anyone else did, but apparently he'd misjudged the time. Still hoping to tell his side of the events before Ilsabet and Jorani met with Peto, Mihael dressed quickly, taking time only to wet down and comb his unruly hair and to brush his mustache-or what there was of it.

People had been laughing at him ever since he began growing it in the hopes of looking older, more worthy of respect. Even though it was finally thick enough to be noticeable, he still heard comments that it seemed out of place on a face that otherwise only needed a shave every three days or so.

"Compensating for youth," he repeated aloud, wondering why the taunt that he usually ignored seemed so galling this morning.

His nerves were on edge, he decided, and rightfully so. Peto wasn't likely to believe him, but then Peto was a fool for a pretty face. As he bent over to wash his face, he grimaced from the pain of last night's wound. They were all fools, including himself for letting Jorani enrage him so.

Vowing to keep his temper today, he went downstairs. When Mihael arrived, Peto and Shaul were sitting at the table and a servant was pouring tea. Peto had apparently just risen. His hair was uncombed, his feet bare. "Would you like a cup of tea while we wait for the others?" Peto asked.

"Actually, I'd like a chance to speak to you in private," Mihael replied.

"I believe this is private enough," Peto replied and placed a cup and saucer in front of him. The cup was large, the handle delicately curved. The rim was trimmed in gold and a painted black dragon curved around the inside of the cup.

Mihael was used to two meals a day; one late in the morning and the other at dusk. To him, Peto's habits seemed far too civilized. And having his lieutenant sit at his table clearly created a lack of respect. Peto was the ruler, but all too often he seemed to forget it, giving his iackeys a respect they did not deserve. For the first time, he considered that Peto's sophistication might be a handicap in Kislova. Indeed, as he thought of it further-with incredible speed-he reached the conclusion that it was amazing that Sundell had managed to defeat Kislova at all.

"I understand that you and Lord Jorani were arguing last night?" Peto began.

Mihael nodded. Now that his hair was almost dry, the locks fell forward and Mihael ran his hand through them, pushing them back. He felt dull from lack of sleep and nervous as well. Last night anger and fear had made him impetuous. Today, he wasn't certain how to approach this matter.

"Can you explain?" Peto asked.

The baron's voice was too gentle, patronizing. But Mihael was no child, and this was not his imagination. "I believe that the poison in my sister's room was left there by her. I think she killed Greta deliberately."

"And this is what you were discussing with Lord Jorani?"

The thinly veiled sarcasm in Peto's reply infuriated Mihael. He fought down the urge to beat some sense into the man. With Shaul sitting between them, Mihael would never have a chance to reach him. Mihael took a deep breath. "In part," he said, then plunged on. "Though you refuse to consider it, I also think she killed Marishka."

"What was her reason?"

"Because Marishka was going to marry you."

"She knew the marriage would benefit your family," Peto replied.

"Her family doesn't matter," Mihael said. Though he saw the disbelief in Peto's expression, he continued. "It's revenge she wants, and she got it. You loved Marishka, and Ilsabet took her from you. If you knew my sister as well as I do, you'd know that was motive enough."

"What did Jorani say when you told him this?"

Peto didn't believe him, would never believe him.

Mihael licked his lips, then wiped them with his hand. His heart raced as if he had been running, raced faster than it had last night when he faced Jorani. "He didn't deny it. Instead he said that they both hoped that I would one day rule Kislova."

"I see. Why did you draw your blade?"

"Because he lied. They're plotting against me just as they are against you. I'll be their next victim. I can see it in how she looks at me. I told Jorani that, but he said I had to calm down, to try to be reasonable and rational. My life and yours are both at stake and he would not let me come and warn you."

As he spoke the last few words, Mihael's voice grew louder, and there was a sharp hysterical tone to it. He pushed himself to his feet and walked around the table toward Peto. Always protective of his lord, Shaul drew his sword and placed himself between the men, using the side of the blade to hold Mihael back.

Mihael pressed against it and was flung back. To Peto, both men seemed overwrought, almost dazed by strong emotion.

"He protects you," Mihael said. "But can you really be so certain about his loyalty?"

"I am," Peto answered evenly.

The servant knocked, entered. "The baroness is here. Shall I send her in?" he asked.

Peto considered speaking to her separately, then decided it was best if brother and sister confronted one another in his presence. He nodded, then told Mihael to return to his chair. The young man didn't seem to hear him, and instead stayed where he was, shaking with rage.

Ilsabet entered the room. She wore a white morning gown trimmed in pink satin ribbons and a pair of delicate white sandals. Her hair was tied back, her face washed free of all powders and colors. She looked younger than usual, calmer, and far more beautiful.

"Hello, Mihael," she said as she walked past him, taking the chair he'd abandoned. Peto noted that Mihael backed away from her, as if she had ingested some poison that could harm him if she touched him. "You wanted to see me about what happened last night, I assume," she said to Peto.

He asked her to tell her story. She did, lying only about how she had heard the argument. She told him that she had been getting ready for bed when she heard someone fall against the wall separating their rooms. "I knew someone must be fighting in there. I was concerned for my brother so I found a guard."

"Your brother says you were less concerned about him than you were about what he might say to me."

Ilsabet frowned and looked at her brother. "I don't understand what's gotten into you, Mihael."

"All these deaths," Mihael replied. He wanted to end this once and for all. If he'd been armed, he would have fought his way past Shaul and stuck a sword in her heart. She deserved it for what she'd done. He'd undoubtedly die as a result, but it was better to go that way than to wait until she brought him down some night when his back was turned.

He thought of all the ways she could do it. His horse could spook as Marishka's had. He could drink from a glass with a poisoned rim. He could eat, could touch, could breathe, could…

His mind went round and round from one deadly scheme to another and another. As it did, his rage increased to such intensity that he wondered why Peto could not hear the beating of his heart.

"Mihael tells me you and Jorani wish to see him one day rule," Peto went on.

"Don't you?" Ilsabet replied. "Wouldn't Mihael ruling as your ally mean that you could finally return to Sun-dell? You've said often that's what you truly want."

"So I have," Peto admitted.

Why didn't Peto see what she was doing with those pale eyes and those long blond lashes that shaded them. Even the white dress had been deliberately picked to give her the guise of an innocent child.

"I'm disappointed," she said. "Unless he stops seeing plots everywhere, he'll never be able to succeed my father, and that would be the real tragedy."

"How dare you!" Mihael screamed.

Shaul moved close to him, ready to hold him back if need be. Mihael whirled. For an instant, they locked arms, almost as if they embraced, then Shaul flung him away and wiped his eyes with the back of one shaking hand. He looked at Mihael, his face flushed and ugly in its rage, then at Ilsabet-calm, serene, beautiful. She plays games with the lieutenant as well as the baron, Mihael thought. She has everyone fooled.

"A ruler has to be level-headed, Mihael," Ilsabet said patiently. "A ruler has to be prepared to fight real threats, not imaginary ones."

"This threat is very real," Mihael countered.

"In your mind," Ilsabet replied.

The tone she used, as if she were placating a small child, infuriated him more than anything she had done so far. His anger surged, and he reached across the table and gave her a hard slap on the face.

The act should have dissipated some of his anger, but instead it made it worse. He would have hit her again, harder, but Shaul wrenched him back. Mihael fought with more effort than he'd ever expended before, but Peto joined in. The two of them managed to wrestle Mihael to the floor but he continued to struggle, and they hit him until his face was bloody.

"Stop it!" Ilsabet screamed. She stood above them, her hands clasped in front of her. "You're insane, all three of you! Look, you've even opened his wound."

Peto pulled back and saw the bloodstains on the floor. "Let him go," he said to Shaul.

As Shaul obeyed, Mihael began pushing himself to his feet. At the last moment, he grabbed a knife that had fallen in the scuffle and lunged toward his sister.

Shaul flung himself between them, his own blade out to repel the attack. Mihael must have seen it, but he never stopped his forward rush.

He died quickly, struggling to his last breath against the men who tried to help him, while Ilsabet backed away as if hoping that her distance would calm him.

Jorani arrived just as Mihael died. Ilsabet gave a terrified cry and rushed into the comfort of his arms.

"You saw what he did," Peto said to her.

"I saw," Ilsabet whispered, pressing close to Jorani. "And it makes no sense."

"What happened?" Jorani asked.

"The man ran up my blade," Shaul said incredulously.

Baron Peto provided the rest of the story while Ilsabet sat beside him, her expression dull with shock.