Baroness of Blood

TWENTY-TWO

From the Diary of Baroness Ilsabet

Messengers returned from Shadow Castle soon after Emory left. I took the packet of letters and went into the library with Jorani to read them. As I'd expected, my husband granted all my requests.

Jorani's letter from Peto asked for him to come as soon as possible to Shadow Castle, purportedly to assist Peto's advisors in understanding the special governing needs of Kislova. Jorani actually seemed relieved to be going. I suspect that our night together has unsettled him, and he wants the time to analyze what we've done. I made it clear that I would miss him and be lost without him. As he comforted me, I kissed him. Though he'd been avoiding me since our night together, I felt the passion in his response.

"Don't forget my pets," he said.

It seemed the ideal moment to whisper my news to him. "I think I'm going to have your child."

His shock quickly turned to amusement. "How could you possibly know?"

I explained about the tea Rilca had taught me to make and how I'd taken it faithfully since my marriage. His amusement faded. I think I've given him much to think about during his sojourn in Sundell.

Sagra had also arrived with the returning guards, looking pale and weary. I gave her Greta's room and asked that she go unpack.

Peto's correspondence to me included a detailed diagram and instructions on how to install pipes and pumps to add some luxury to Nimbus Castle. Soon I'll be able to take a hot bath in the privacy of my room instead of in the little bathing room behind the kitchen where the servants wash. I used to envy them their proximity to the hot water on the stove; now I can share their simple pleasure.

immediately sent letters to the most skilled masons in Pirie. Fortunately, Peto had also foreseen my difficulty with them, and though I hadn't requested any money, he sent more than enough to cover the work.

A breeding wife should have her luxuries, I thought. I went upstairs and found Sagra working alongside Kashi, learning how Nimbus Castle was organized. I was happy to have her replace Marishka's servant. Kashi always seemed to watch me as if comparing me to my sister and finding me lacking.

"Now that you see how we live, you probably think us barbarians," I said to Sagra."

"No one who reads as much as you do can be called a barbarian," she replied.

I wondered what she'd think if she knew of the creature pacing the tiny room where my ancestor had kept his mistress prisoner. In truth, I'm not certain what I think of him myself, but I'm thankful Jorani is gone; he'd know in an instant what I'd done if he saw Arman.

The peasant boy, Emory, has changed subtly. He apparently has a need for blood-for the life it gives, perhaps? — and a certain sensitivity to light, but he is hardly vampiric. I think he may have still been dying when I gave him the potion, or perhaps the way he died made the effects of death more subtle.

In any event, it took his brother far longer to revive, and no one who sees Arman will ever mistake him for a breathing, living man.

waited until long after Emory left before returning to Arman's body. I did so because I wanted to see if Jorani had heard news of my visitor but if he had he didn't think to mention it. When all my servants were asleep, I bolted my door, took the potion from its hiding place, and stole through the secret halls to the little room. My fear of the crying ghost made me light every torch, though I've never heard that spectres are frightened of light.

Arman's body was white from loss of blood. I pulled up his shirt and saw that the wound in his stomach was deep. Had he not been dead, he would have been a strong youth, and quite handsome with his thick dark hair, long oval face, and wide-spaced eyes. I thought of someone like him serving me, rushing to fill my every need.

I confess I have never dealt well with male servants. There's an insolence running under their obedience, often thinly hidden. As I'd questioned Emory at length, he'd shown none of it. I doubted his brother would either.

I'd had Emory place the body on the bed. I sat beside it and opened the jaws-not a difficult thing since the body had lost its stiffness-and I poured a few drops of the potion down the dead man's throat.

And waited. And waited. Emory's resurrection had been swift; this would apparently take time. I poured just a bit more liquid into him and waited again.

I'd just decided to go find a book to read when the index finger of his right hand twitched once. Another hour passed. I went for the book. While I was in my room, I opened my door and told the guard in the hall that I would be sleeping late the next morning and did not want to be disturbed. I had decided that it was of the utmost importance that I be present when Arman woke, as if seeing me would bond us as a newly hatched duckling bonds to the first animal it sees.

When I returned, his mouth had closed, and his lips were wet as if he'd licked them. I called his name and got no response. I sat by him through the night.

Certain my absence would be noted if I didn't make an appearance, I went to my room, crawled into bed and rang for Sagra. "I'm so tired," I said. "I'm going to sleep in. Don't bother with breakfast."

As soon as she'd gone, I returned to my experiment. Arman's hands were in tight fists now. The wound in his stomach seemed less raw.

He woke just after noon. He kissed my hand the way his brother had done, then clutched at my sleeve pathetically as a small, frightened child might do. When I ordered him to let go, he obeyed immediately. No problem with his senses, I thought.

"I'm going to leave you now," I said. "Rest. Recover your strength. I'll return tonight."

He looked as if he were ready to cry, but no tears came. The undead, I'd heard, cannot cry, and I wondered if that was the reason. As I moved toward the door, he watched me intently, and I saw a hunger in his eyes, the need that his brother spoke of.

But there are prisoners below, commoners, friends of his. How perfect. How very perfect.

I returned to my room contemplating how best to move a prisoner from his cell to the room where I was holding Arman. As I opened the secret door in the paneling, I heard a light knock on my door.

I checked my skirts for dirt, smoothed back my hair, and opened the door. Kashi stood outside. I tried to gauge from her expression how long she'd been knocking, but could read nothing in it but curiosity over my stare.

"I was just going downstairs. What is it?" I asked.

She looked uneasy, and I wondered how much she suspected. I motioned her inside, closed the door, and stood in front of it, blocking her exit. With nothing to do but continue, she said, "Mow that Sagra is serving you, I wondered if I could be discharged from my duties. You hardly need two personal maids."

"Quite so. What would you prefer to do?" I asked.

"My village's midwife is getting old. She would like to train me." She saw my expression, and went on. "I don't have to leave immediately. I can stay on long enough to show Sagra everything she needs to know."

"You don't have to wait so long to go," I replied.

"No?"

She looked frightened as I took her arm and moved her toward the panel. She had been knocking on my door a while. Perhaps she'd even called my name, or tried the door and wondered why it was bolted.

"First I need your help," I said. I kept a hard grip on her wrist, and the natural respect of servant for master kept her from making any effort to break loose. I controlled her easily as I pulled her through the secret door and down the long tunnel to the hidden room.

I walked by memory through the darkness, conscious of Kashi's strained breaths. In a moment, she'd find the strength to scream. "Don't make a sound," I whispered. "Do exactly what I say, and I'll give you three months wages as severance. I want you to sit with a very special prisoner of mine. Talk to him. Keep him calm. See what you can learn from him."

"A prisoner?"

"One of the rebels."

"Here?"

"I need to win him over." I unlocked the door to the hidden room. Light streamed into the dark hall. I saw Kashi's eyes begin to water from the glare. Arman's back was to the sunlit window, so all Kashi could see of the boy was his height, his slender body.

I've brought someone for you," I said to him, then pushed the girl inside, locking the door behind her.

I knelt in front of the door and looked through a narrow opening in the center of it. Plates of food had once been passed through it to my ancestor's mistress. I put it to a different use as I watched the drama unfold inside.

Kashi stood close to the door, her hands fluttering nervously as she decided what to say or do. Finally, she took a tentative step toward the boy. "Why are you here?" she asked.

He shook his head.

Another step toward him. "Are you hurt?"

Ah, yes, he was that.

"I can help you." She took his hand, and moved him around so he faced the light.

saw her expression change from doubtful confidence to utter terror. She let out the scream she'd managed to stifle in the passage. The fear she'd displayed in the passage was nothing compared to this, the high-pitched sound rising, extending so beautifully. The walls were thick, lined with earth. No one would hear her, no one but me.

She rushed to the door and pounded on it, then saw the little hole. Kneeling, she spied me looking in and reached her hand through the opening, clutching for my hand.

"Please," she begged. "Please. I won't tell anyone. I promise. Please!"

"Of course not," I replied and brushed my fingertips over hers, giving her just a moment of hope before Arman pulled her away.

It's hard to explain how I felt as I watched him wrap his pale hands through her hair, pull her head back and begin to feed. Exquisite terror. Glorious fear. Both faded as her life drained, gone all too

quickly, leaving me a faint glow of pleasure.

opened the door and went inside. Arman looked more alive than before though he still had a strange light in his eyes and lack of color to his skin. He stared at the body at his feet, and I saw his remorse, his guilt. Some of his humanity was coming back. I found that good, for if he can pass for human, I will place him in my personal guard. Slaves are always valuable.

I lifted up the corner of his shirt. The knife wound was less raw than before, but the scar would probably be with him forever. Kashi had been right about one thing. I had no use for her-willing slave or no. The terrible wound in her neck would be impossible to hide for very long.

I looked out the window at the river. Night was falling. I had to go. "When it's dark, throw the body down," I said and left him. This time he looked less sad to see me leave. I turned at the door and saw him crouching beside the girl's body, running his fingers across her still, pale face.

Back in my room, I paused to study my reflection in the mirror and saw that it was as beautifully altered as in the times I'd witnessed killing before. This would make no sense even to the most superstitious peasant. I did not make the wound in Kashi's neck or drink her blood. I only watched and listened. I have no special powers, yet I felt her fear, even her death. The work I do is changing me. A weaker woman might vow to turn away from vengeance and justice and death. I can't. My course is set. I welcome it.

Peto woke from the same dream he'd had for weeks, blinked his eyes, and scanned his room, the inlaid tiles with their tiny pattern of teal, gold, and rose, the play of light and shadows on the walls. As always, the dream had been so vivid he'd thought it real, then woke and mourned when he found Mar-ishka gone.

He didn't understand why she felt compelled to return to him night after night, her burial gown white in the dusty moonlight, tears glistening like crystal on her cheeks. "Be wary," she whispered, "Be constantly on guard."

As always, he could not help but question her, but as soon as he spoke, she faded with a look of terror on her face, her image replaced with that of a white wolf that bounded away into the swirling mists of sleep.

He endured the repetitious dream in silence for as long as he could, then sought out Levy, a scribe who had served his father diligently for many years. When the old man's eyes gave out, he was given a room in Shadow Castle and a promise that he could live out his life there. Now nearly blind, Levy taught servants to read and write with the same patience he'd used to teach Peto himself.

Levy heard him coming and identified him by his step on the stone floor of the hall. "What brings you to me after so many months?" Levy asked.

"I need to speak to you," Peto said.

Levy asked his students to go and motioned for Peto to take a seat.

Peto described his recurring dream. "Can you tell me what this dream means and why I keep having it?"

In most people, blindness seemed an infirmity. Levy, however, just looked contemplative, as if his thoughts were focused inward. Now his expression grew remote as he considered what he knew.

"In parts of Kislova, it is believed a white wolf is not a wolf at all, but the ghost of a werebeast whose soul is caught between the afterworld of men and that of beasts. To find redemption, it must help a spirit who is helpless to right a terrible wrong. Usually the one so helped died through treachery. You're surprised?"

"How did you know?" Peto asked.

"I heard your quick inhale. Why does this information surprise you?"

"When I told my wife about the dream, she said that she didn't know what it meant."

"Perhaps she doesn't know the legend."

Peto laughed. "Ilsabet knows everything. I have never met a more educated woman."

"Then most likely she doesn't believe the story and didn't want to worry you."

"Possibly."

"But you don't think so. You think she lied. Why?"

Was there nothing this man missed? He knew that Levy could be trusted to keep his confidence, so he poured out the story of the Obour family and how Marishka and Mihael had died.

"You're certain Marishka died from an accident?" Levy asked.

"My own surgeon said so. And Ilsabet was with her, right to the end. I've never seen her so distraught."

"And so you have no doubts about Baroness Ilsa-bet's innocence in her siblings' deaths?"

"She is my wife. She will bear my child."

"That wasn't what I asked," Levy said gently.

"I have doubts," Peto whispered, admitting the truth for the first time.

"Then you ought to heed Marishka's advice, at least until those doubts are resolved."

Peto agreed. He was always a direct man, and his plan reflected his personality. He went right from Levy to Jorani. Since his arrival, the dour Kislovan lord had followed Ilsabet's habits and spent most of his time in the library. When Peto joined him, Jorani was just finishing a history of the Casse family.

Peto patted the book. "The man who wrote it was seeking favors from my father," he commented. "So the account is far too flattering."

"So I guessed." Jorani's smile, while sincere, was unsettling. "Were you looking for me?"

"I was," Peto said and took a seat across the table from Jorani. "I want to ask your opinion about a dream I've been having." He described the dream exactly as he had to Levy. As he did, he watched Jorani for some sign of shock, of concern, anything at all that would tell him if Jorani had any doubts about the manner of Marishka's death. He saw nothing.

As soon as he'd finished and asked the meaning of the dream, Jorani replied with a story similar to the one he'd heard from Levy, though with more detail. "Legends say that the werewolf possesses power even in death, and that power enables it to serve the spirit it befriends. Once its job is complete, its human soul passes on to be judged by the fates."

"Should I be wary?" Peto asked.

"You rule one land. You have claim to a second. It would be naive to be anything but wary."

"Of whom?"

The lie came next; Peto was certain of it. "Most of the lords of Kislova are supportive of the alliance you and Ilsabet have created," Jorani said. "But not all. Ilsabet has powerful enemies, if only because she is a woman and people think her vulnerable."

"Is she?"

Jorani shook his head. "You know her better than that," he said. He hesitated, then asked, "Does Ilsabet know about these dreams?"

"I told her." Peto repeated what Ilsabet had said, and for the first time saw a hint of shock on Jorani's face and a bitterness Peto thought he understood. Jorani cared for Ilsabet, and had believed her innocent. Now he wasn't so sure.

"She knows the legend, though she doesn't believe it," Jorani said, concluding as Levy had. "She probably didn't want to worry you."

"But she has," Peto replied. "I intend to tell her so."

They spoke a while longer on other matters, then Peto left the Kislovan lord to his reading. He returned to his own chambers, sat, and contemplated the sudden change in his emotions.

Ilsabet! Lover. Wife. Mother of his child.

Ilsabet. Poisoner. Murderer of her sister, quite possibly her brother. Mother of his child. He'd been filled with joy when he'd gotten that news. Now there was some darker emotion attached to the pregnancy, something sad and inevitable.

Could she really be guilty of such terrible crimes? Looking at the matter logically, he knew she could. Even so, were she here now, he was certain he would take her in his arms, would love her.

However, he decided to keep well informed of his wife's activities. To that end, he wrote a letter and asked the messenger to deliver it in private to Lieutenant Shaul.