Elaine Bergstrom
Baroness of Blood
PROLOGUE
The Seer, Sagesse, had lived for nearly a century in the great cave in Tygelt Mountain. She had long since forgotten how she had come to be there, who her parents might have been, or where she had been raised. Tygelt Cave, with its tall pillars of amethyst crystal and milky white limestone, was her only past, her dreamlike present, and most importantly the all too real glimpses she had of the future.
She'd long ago understood that her gift was responsible for her lack of memory, as well as the fact that one day seemed so much like the last. She did no work except to care for herself. The merchants of Tygelt, the miners who dug for gold in the depths of her mountain, and all the others of Kislova, from the rich to the abjectly poor, kept her in food and clothing-in exchange for a glimpse of their futures.
She made no demands, because she needed little. Of late, her clothing had been tattered, her food more scant, but she understood. She had looked in the milky waters of the cave pools and seen the battles raging across the land, and the terrible future of her people. Her warnings were so dire that nearly all stopped seeking her advice.
It made no difference any longer. In her last vision, she had seen her own death.
PART I
ONE
"Ilsabet, wake up!"
Ilsabet pulled the down-filled covers tighter around her thin body and ignored her maidservant's call.
"You were up half the night writing in that journal, weren't you?"
Greta, Ilsabet's maid, could sign her name in a beautiful script, but that was all. Reading, writing, even contemplative thought seemed beyond her reach. But she was a practical and caring woman, and Ilsabet ignored the shortcomings. "No," she replied. "I just couldn't sleep."
Instead, Ilsabet had gone to Lord Jorani's chambers in the highest room in the castle tower. Nimbus Castle had been built on a narrow peninsula that stretched nearly to the center of the slow-moving Arvid River. The river's source was a hot spring in the mountains, the water always warm. Except for the hottest summer months, a fog usually hung around the castle, making it seem as if the thick stone walls rose from the mists themselves. The night fog was denser than usual, leaving Ilsabet alone above a world of faded colors and muted sounds.
It seemed that if she concentrated she could see the signal fires of her father's camp, could even hear the cries of the soldiers as they rode into battle, the screams of the rebels cut down by the soldiers' arrows, swords, and lances, or captured and beheaded on the battlefield, dying as rebellious subjects should die.
In the few hours she'd slept that night, she had dreamt of her father, Baron Janosk Obour, and how their life had been when there was peace in the land. Then he had ruled over the loose confederation of nobles with the same benevolence as his father and grandfather before him. All that changed in the course of a single year.
Her mother finally died of the same wasting sickness that seemed to affect Ilsabet herself. In the midst of the baron's mourning, the far northwestern provinces of Deneri and Kapem pulled out of the confederation. This was their right, but they also laid claim to the gold-rich region of Tygelt. If Nimbus Castle and the nearby town of Pirie were the heart of Kislova, Tygelt was its purse. With no choice, the nobles of southern Kislova declared war.
So the long, bloody feud had begun, ending finally three years later with the executions of a dozen defeated nobles, the annexation of their provinces, the marriage of state between Baron Janosk and Lady Lorena of Deneri, and the near bankruptcy of all Kislova.
Taxes rose. The gold of Tygelt was used to fill the nobles' coffers. The Kislovan peasants, who had been promised assistance after the war, protested the hardships and were imprisoned and executed by the petty nobles. The peasants then appealed to Baron Janosk, but his course was already set. The delegation that came to Nimbus Castle was imprisoned as insurance against rebellion. The rest went home and, ignoring the plight of their comrades, rose in open rebellion. In a desperate move, Janosk had the prisoners burned in the Pirie town square. In the two years since, Baron Janosk's reputation had become bloody, implacable. Now with one more battle the civil war would be over.
Her father told her that he would never be defeated, not so long as his family believed him to be invincible. She'd not given in to doubt even once through the night. At dawn, the commotion in the castle quieted somewhat, and she had returned to her room and slept.
No, let Greta scold, she would stay in bed this morning.
Much of the wood needed to heat the castle in the damp winter months had been taken for the smelters. No new logs could be cut until the rebels were driven from their strongholds, Ilsabet's breath frosted in the chilly air. She stifled the cough that would alert Greta that she was awake, and buried her face in her blankets.
Her peace was short-lived. A quarter hour later, Greta returned, standing by her bed, shaking her as if she were Greta's own child, not the daughter of the lord of her land. Ilsabet accepted the familiarity from the woman who had raised her. "Ilsabet, your father sent word that he is coming home to eat with his family," Greta said. "If you wish to miss seeing him then just go on…"
Greta never finished. Ilsabet had not seen her father in over a week. His presence was a gift she would not miss. She threw back the covers and reached for the robe Greta held out to her.
"I stole a basin of hot water from the kitchen when the cook wasn't looking," Greta said. "While you wash your face, breathe in the steam. It will help to clear your lungs."
"Did you hear how the battle went?" Ilsabet asked.
"No, your father will undoubtedly tell you though, then you can tell me." Greta studied the gowns arranged on hooks along one of the chamber walls. "The red one? It will give color to your face."
Ilsabet looked in the tiny mirror above the washstand.
"You're right about my pallor," she said as she stepped into the gown. "I wouldn't want father to worry about my health when there are more important problems to consider."
"But someone should worry," Greta insisted. "I am going to ask the Lady Lorena to move your chambers to a warmer room until you're better, perhaps the one above the kitchen."
"I will not use it! That was Mother's room."
"Given to her for a good reason, child. It is the warmest."
"I'm not that sick!" Ilsabet insisted, though fear of a death as pain-filled as her mother's was hardly the reason she would not sleep in those chambers.
The room in which her mother died was believed to be haunted by her ghost, and Ilsabet feared spectres. Greta said that in the ages since Nimbus Castle was built many had died within its walls, and many spirits stayed. Ilsabet had a certain sensitivity to them, glimpsing the almost-shapes that formed in the incessant river fog, in the smoke that rose from the hearths, or waiting in the shadows at the ends of the hall. It was said that the most powerful of these were the ones who had died through treachery or in great pain. If so, her mother's ghost would be powerful indeed for she had held tenaciously to life, battling death for every breath. Ilsabet hid her terror well; otherwise Greta wouldn't have suggested the move.
Greta recognized the uselessness of arguing. "As you wish, child," she said. "But tonight I will bring wood for your hearth if I have to destroy the dining hall chairs to obtain it."
"Take care not to get caught if you do," Ilsabet responded. "With so much unrest you might be taken for an enemy."
Greta's round face grew pale. Ilsabet noticed it and hugged the woman. "I was only joking, you old fool," she said, troubled by the sudden thrill she'd felt at seeing the woman's fear. "Now go. With half the household servants conscripted, I'm sure you have other duties. I can certainly dress myself."