Baroness of Blood

FOUR

Four days after Ilsabet had visited her father's camp, Baron Janosk summoned the family to an early breakfast. Marishka, never an early riser, wore a robe over her nightdress, and had her long auburn hair tied back with a scarf. Lady Lorena looked pale in her simple blue gown, but her eyes were, thankfully, clear, her expression stoic. As always she was perfectly groomed.

Ilsabet had also dressed with care. "I see that someone else gives your father the respect that is his due," Lorena said, not even glancing at Marishka, though her remark was certainly directed at the girl.

Marishka stifled a yawn. "Where is father?" she asked. "It would seem to me that if he wanted to dine at this odd hour he would…" Her voice trailed off as Baron Janosk entered the room. He was dressed for battle in a thick leather doublet. Mihael, who walked a few steps behind him, was similarly clothed.

"I present my new second in command," Janosk said, moving aside so the boy could walk in front of him to the table.

Lorena frowned. "Do we learn of your plans now, my lord, or must we wait until after the battle is over?"

"First we eat," he replied.

Lorena rang the servants' bell, and the food was carried in-trays of fruit and fresh bread, quail eggs poached in wine and glazed with butter, and a plate of trout pulled fresh from the river that morning.

Only the men seemed able to eat-her father voraciously, Mihael out of necessity. Ilsabet picked at the fish and nibbled a bit of bread and jam, waiting expectantly to hear the news.

After the table was cleared, Janosk ordered the servants to leave. Then, in low tones, he made his announcement. "Today we ride west to annex Sundell," he said.

"Sundell!" Lady Lorena exclaimed. "Janosk, this is madness."

"I will give the jewel of Sundell to my loyal subjects," Janosk said. "I do it as much for Mihael as for myself."

Lorena continued to object. "But Sundell has so much wealth, and the troops…"

"Silence!" he bellowed. "The decision is made. We attack tonight."

Lorena normally respected her husband's temper. Not now. "Tonight! Have you gone to the mountains and consulted Sagesse?" she asked.

"The Seer?" Janosk sneered. "Allied with rebels from the beginning. Why would I trust her advice?"

Ilsabet said nothing then. Jorani had undoubtedly prepared the troops well. Later however, Ilsabet went looking for Jorani. She found him downstairs with the troops, overseeing the loading of burlap bags.

Drawing him aside, she asked, "Does Lady Lorena have reason to be concerned?"

"In battle, there are always reasons, but now more than ever," he replied. "The troops are tired, many are wounded and cannot go with us. We should have a full force for this expedition. Your father, however, sees things differently. He thinks time would give the rebels a chance to regroup, and give Sundell a chance to learn of our plans."

"Is he right?" Ilsabet asked.

"I see the wisdom of his decision. A surprise attack should be successful." He pointed to the bags in the wagon and added, "I've done what I could. If things go as we hope, we'll win easily."

Soldiers were preparing their mounts. Servants filled the courtyard, bringing out fresh bread and dried meat.

"Someone so small could get trampled here," Jorani told her. "Go up to my chamber and pray for us."

An hour later, she stood in Jorani's tower room and watched the troops assemble and ride, their blue-and-gold banners waving in the morning breeze. She stood at the window, looking west until even the dust raised by the horses was no longer visible. Though news of the victory would not come for two days, she vowed to remain in the tower, watching and praying until her father returned.

But no potion of Jorani's could compensate for the trap Baron Peto's soldiers had laid. Even nature seemed to oppose the invasion. The wind had blown steadily from the west, making any use of Jorani's gasses and poison dust impossible. Of the thousand soldiers who had ridden west so confidently, less than two hundred returned. Many were wounded. All were exhausted, no match for the Sundell troops following closely on their heels.

Ilsabet reached the courtyard just as Jorani came riding in, her father strapped in front of him on Jorani's black stallion. "Close the gates," the baron whispered, and Jorani repeated the order loud enough for all to hear.

Mihael, who rode beside his father, protested, "There are stragglers behind us. Wait a bit."

"If they'd fought with greater valor, we'd be riding into Shadow Castle now," Baron Janosk mumbled.

The gates swung closed. The soldiers carrying out the order moved slowly, allowing another handful of men and the lesser lords and officers who had commanded them to retreat inside.

No sooner had they done so than they heard the huge war drums of their enemy, and saw their riders carrying the Sundell banners, black with huge gold suns centered on them.

"A thousand… no, more!" one of the soldiers on the battlement called down.

His men carried Baron Janosk into the great hall. While Lorena and the castle servants tended him, Jorani and Mihael went to survey the condition of their defenses.

As soon as the men had left, Ilsabet moved to her father's side, staying close to him while the servants removed his battle armor, gripping his hand while the healer examined his wound.

Even to Ilsabet's untrained eye, it was a dangerous one. A lance had pierced his side just below his ribs. Though the bleeding had stopped, the wound appeared deep and dirty.

"If I try to clean it now, it will only start to bleed again," the healer said. "I can't risk that. You've lost too much blood already."

"And if you leave it?" Janosk asked.

"It will most likely infect. Lord Jorani may know something to combat an infection so deep. I don't."

Jorani had always been ready with potions for strength and protection, but Ilsabet had never seen him tend the wounded. If the healer could not help him, no one could. She adopted the proud stand she thought meant Obour. After years of hiding her emotions, she would not let her father see tears. She held her head high and fought back all signs of her despair.

Ilsabet kept that regal stance even when her brother and Jorani returned with the worst possible news. The civil war had drained the castle's resources so there was no way they could wait out a siege for more than a few weeks. Worse, should Sundell attack, the castle would fall within hours.

The baron shut his eyes a moment, trying to accept what had to be done. When he opened them, all signs of weakness had vanished, replaced with new resolve. "Bring a potion to give me strength," her father said to Jorani.

"To fight?" the healer asked. "I must advise you that it's too dangerous."

"I only want to look as if I could fight," the baron replied.

Ilsabet understood what he planned to do. She shook her head and said to him, "They haven't won yet."

"They've won the battle. I must see to it that our family survives the war."

While Jorani went for the potion, Janosk wrote an offer to surrender and sent it Baron Peto's camp, requesting an immediate reply.

Lady Lorena cried openly, burying her face in her hands. Marishka, who had kept her distance, moved close and hugged the woman, sobbing with her.

Baron Janosk eyed their grief with distaste. "I release you from your pledge," he whispered to his concubine. "I spare your life."

She looked sadly at him. "Is that really why you believe I weep?" she asked.

"If there are other reasons, your devotion is somewhat belated," he replied. He might have said something to Marishka, but her grief had made her deaf to any advice he would have given. Ilsabet saw him looking at her sister, undoubtedly recalling through her his wife's beauty. He turned to his son. "Mihael, pledge allegiance to Peto and serve him well, then wait for the opportunity to regain what is ours."

Mihael nodded respectfully, yet Ilsabet could see that, though he longed to rule, he was already uncomfortable with the duplicity his father demanded. Poor Mihael, she thought, cursed with both ambition and conscience.

Her father had just turned his attention to her when Jorani returned carrying a carved wooden box. He knelt beside the baron and pulled a glass vial from inside. "I see that Peto and his men are at the bridge," he said. "You'd best drink this now."

The baron did, gagging from the cloying sweetness of it. He lay still a moment as the potion did its work, then took a deep cleansing breath and looked at Ilsabet standing beside Jorani, her expression as stoic as her teacher's, her father's. "Learn from Jorani," he said. "And never forget what is done here, until the day you can avenge my death. Now help me sit up."

Ilsabet did, and watched as the servants brought his formal dress-the white tunic and blue cape, both woven of Kislovan wool and trimmed in gold from Tygelt. Even the small exertion of washing and dressing caused the wound to begin bleeding again, and extra bandages were needed to cover it. With his cape arranged to hide any blood that might seep onto the tunic, Baron Janosk stood, and flanked by his family, went to greet the victor.

They stopped midway down the wide stone steps leading from the private rooms to the great tunnel, then waited as the lesser nobles of Kislova assembled behind their lord.

His subjects said that Baron Peto Casse of Sundell had been raised with all the indulgence that wealth and a doting mother could provide. He had his father's expressive brown eyes, unruly red hair, and muscular build; his mother's fine nose and golden complexion, and her volatility. Though easily frustrated, given to bouts of temper and impulsiveness, he would have made an admirable ruler in time.

But he'd had no time. His father died when Peto was only seventeen. Reluctantly, he found himself in charge of a kingdom so well managed that his guidance was unnecessary.

Though his intentions were good, he was likewise impulsive, and early in his rule had often acted without thinking matters through. Intending to make his mark on his kingdom, he dismissed his father's advisors and chose his own from among equally inexperienced friends. A series of disasters, both military and civil, had brought hardship to his land. The carnage of the battlefield and, worse, the sight of small children starving in their mothers' arms, made him realize the importance of prudence. Now, after a decade of seasoning, he eagerly consulted his father's advisors on all important matters, carefully choosing what was best for all his people.

When the civil war broke in Kislova, he'd put the welfare of his people first and remained carefully neutral. To enforce that position, he'd tripled the number of border guards, augmenting the foot patrols with mounted ones. It had been a fortunate decision, for he was certain that without warning of the invasion by the blind Kislovan rebel, his kingdom would have fallen. In the days since the man had been brought to him for careful questioning, he'd had little time to contemplate the whimsy of fortune.

But as he rode through the thick walls of Nimbus Castle with his sword held upright before him, he pictured for a moment his own stronghold, and Baron Janosk riding through its gates as victor. That was how fate would have gone if his men had not been in precisely the right place at the right time to save the rebel's life, or if the blind man had been less brave, or if the girl had been unwilling to accompany Dark on his quest.

The contemplation in this moment of victory made him merciful, as did the sight of a far different Baron Janosk than he remembered.

That man had been strong, powerful. This man looked old, his skin a sickly hue, his arms shaky. In spite of this, he walked unaided down the stairs and stood defenseless, with head uncovered before his enemy.

"Since you are here I assume that you agree to my terms," Janosk said in a voice all could hear.

"I do."

"And you will hold me alone accountable for the invasion?"

"I do," Peto replied.

"And you will spare my family and allies? And accept my son's offer to be a vassal to you?"

"I agree."

"Then raise the sword you carry, and end this." With these final words, Janosk knelt for execution.

Peto dismounted. "I'll never understand what made you invade my lands, but we were once allies and can be allies again. Will you pledge to serve me?" he asked, his voice conciliatory.

Janosk slowly shook his head, and in a gesture of trust, removed the cape and handed it to Jorani. As he did, Peto saw the raw pain in his eyes, glimpsed the fresh blood seeping onto his tunic, and understood. With a nod of acknowledgment for his foe's brave move, he raised his sword and slashed sideways through the man's neck.

As the head fell away, the woman behind Janosk fainted. His older daughter threw herself over her father's body and began to scream. The son bore his father's death well, but it was the youngest child that drew Peto's attention. The girl stood trembling at the sight of the blood, then raised her icy blue eyes, looking at him with such intense hate that he wondered if she were some sorcerer able to kill with a glance. Without a word, she turned and walked up the stairs, her step firm, her hands tight fists at her sides.

Peto turned to Shaul and the Kislovan rebel mounted behind him. "Is it the Obour custom to burn their dead?"

The girl who had been weeping raised her head and answered for them. "It is," she said.

"Then take him away and prepare the body as custom demands." He looked at the girl and asked, "Is there any waiting period required?"

"Mo," she said.

"Then let this be over at nightfall," he ordered.

Peto waited until the courtyard was empty save for his personal guards. He had already admired the beauty of the lands around the castle. Now he stood in the center of it, looking at the imposing outer walls and gate, the airy design of the living quarters rising before him with their delicate oval windows covered in clear crystal, their towers lifted majestically toward the sky.

Nimbus Castle-his spoil of war.

This should have been his moment of triumph, indeed would have been save for the sudden chill he felt. He might have rationalized and said it was caused by the clouds moving in front of the sun, or the evening mists already rising from the river and curling through the open doors, or by the weariness of battle, but in truth the chill was caused by none of these. Instead he had a feeling of doom so strong it seemed as if someone were speaking words of dread clearly into his mind:

No good will come from this victory-not for your family or for the Obours or for the citizens of Kislova who I am sworn to protect. Leave this place. If you are wise you will never return.

He spun and looked toward the path leading to the river. In the place where the mists were the thickest he saw the floating figure of an old woman, her long white hair flowing like the folds of her gown. There, yet not there, but whether this was vision or spectre he did not know. "Leave this land," she whispered and raised one pale hand, pointing at him.

"I cannot," he replied. Nonetheless, he mounted his horse, and without a backward glance at the castle or the apparition, rode quickly toward his camp.