"It is said that one of your ancestors kept a slave girl secretly imprisoned here," Jorani said. "When his wife heard of it, she waited for him to leave the castle, then accused the girl's servant of some crime and had her killed. Though no one brought her food, the girl was able to obtain some water. She died of starvation not more than a day before her lover returned. It is said that if you go into the room at dawn, you can hear her weeping."
Ilsabet walked slowly toward the door, turning at the threshold. "Have you done so?" she asked.
Jorani nodded. "I heard nothing. Perhaps I do not have that gift. Come, I'll show you a way to the dungeon."
It descended in the same steep spiral as the known stairs, curving below them with little more height than that of an average man. Jorani had to walk in a crouch lest he hit his head on the staircase above him and alert some sharp-eared servant to his presence.
As they passed below ground level, the walls and stairs became damp and slippery. "Hold tight to the rail," Jorani cautioned. The slimy coating on it made Ilsabet thankful she was wearing gloves, but she wondered how well her grip on it would hold if she lost her footing.
The staircase ended below the level of the cells, then a narrow passage slanted upward at an easy angle. It had been designed that way on purpose, Jorani had told her earlier, so that anyone coming down the stairs could use a light, then extinguish it and travel on in the darkness, secure in the knowledge that the floor was smooth and they would not fall.
Jorani did so now, and they used the passage as it was intended to be used, exiting in the back of a subterranean storage room. As they felt their way around the kegs and rotting chests of forgotten supplies, Ilsabet groped for Jorani's arm and whispered, "There's light ahead."
His fingers touched her mouth, then her ear. Understanding, she listened, and heard voices-one soft, almost consoling; a second, louder and angrier.
"The rebels…"
This time he covered her mouth. She understood and fell silent, following behind him in the near perfect dark.
When she could see his body as a dark shadow against the light, he stopped and found a convenient hiding place behind one of the abandoned cell walls. She stood beside him, and together they listened to Baron Peto discuss his plans with the rebel captives.
Baron Peto was explaining what safeguards he planned to make certain that Mihael Obour would not become the monster his father had been. He explained about the advisors that he would leave behind, the troops that would be loyal only to Sun-dell. He spoke persuasively, and given their circumstances, they seemed inclined to listen.
Til admit things have changed already," one said. uBut the Obour family has been tainted by that tyrant."
"Tainted?" Peto asked. "Was Janosk's father not a wise ruler, Imre? I've spoken to Mihael Obour. He told me that he was sickened by his father's excesses and pleased to see the fighting ended. I believe him."
"Our lives are to hang on the word of boy?"
"Your lives hang on my word," Peto answered sharply. "I suggest you consider that along with the rest."
With that he left them, the servant traveling close behind, holding the torch high to light the way. Left once more in darkness, the men returned to their debate.
Ilsabet bristled when she heard one of the thugs call her family "tyrants" but found herself more disturbed by how much she approved of Peto's reply.
As soon as Peto and his servant retreated, Jorani and Ilsabet did the same. At the end, he showed her the peephole and tiny doorway into her own room, then took her back to the tower.
"What do you think of Peto's plans?" she asked him as soon as they were safe in his room.
"I think he defended your family most admirably," Jorani replied.
"If Kislova is a holding of Sundell, with their troops in our castle, his admirable defense of Mihael is irrelevant," she said with open fury.
"Don't ever act out of hatred, Ilsabet. Hatred makes one rash and inclined to mistakes. Your father's fate should be example enough."
She opened her mouth but held back the hasty and insolent reply. "Don't speak of him so lightly, Jorani," she said after a moment, her voice husky with apparent grief.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I know how much you loved him, but I think he would be the first to agree with me."
"Perhaps," she whispered and sniffed as if fighting back tears. Hatred made one see things clearly, she thought. For all his talk that she might one day rule, Jorani now served Mihael. Avenging her father's death, and restoring the family's honor was her duty alone.
She'd show them all what "a slip of a girl" could do. And she knew exactly where to begin.
Dark had been well compensated for his service to Sundell and likewise invited to remain in Nimbus Castle. He'd sent the money to his family but chose to remain in the castle not out of any love for the place but because he had no desire to ever become the object of pity to his family. He kept to his little room during the day. At night, he would feel his way down the open walkway and along the flight of stairs that led the kitchen. There he would sit among the servants listening to their conversation. He was hardly happy, but he was more content than he'd thought he'd ever be.
The sun had left the room hours ago, its warmth replaced by the chill of night. He'd just been getting ready for his evening walk when he heard the grating of metal on metal, felt a rush of cool air. Had he means to speak, he would have asked who was there. Instead he waited.
A woman whispered his name. He smelled a beautiful scent like the blue meadow flowers in the hills above his home, yet it brought only fear and the terrible memory of a perfumed wind that had rolled across the battlefield. It had driven horses wild, driven men mad.
"Dark." The voice was louder now, little-girl sweet, sweet like the flowers. He knew the voice all too well.
Ilsabet, he thought, and with the thought came a return of everything he'd suffered at the hands of that family. The memory of the pain became somehow the pain itself. He tore at the bandages covering his eyes. Bending his scarred fingers made him cry out, a long terrible sound, barely human.
"Dark," she said and laughed. "Darkdarkdarkdark-dark…"
He lunged for her, but she stepped out of his way. "Darkdarkdarkdarkdark…" she called, laughing.
The rage was wrong, was deadly, but he had no choice except to give in to it and follow her. Blind, unable to call for help, he ran after her voice, heedless of the wind blowing his hair, the damp, slippery stones beneath his feet.
"Darkdarkdarkdark…"
He thought of nothing until she stopped calling his name and he realized he was outside and lost. He groped about. His scarred hand touched a rail for just a moment. Then someone pushed him from behind, and he went over, falling, falling, screaming finally just before he hit the ground.
Ilsabet would have loved to remain, to watch the servants discover him, to claim victory for his death, but it would be impossible. Instead, she retreated through a nearby chamber and into the passage that led to her own room. Once there, she changed quickly into one of her more colorful gowns. If any servant suspected her part in Dark's "accident" she would be here writing a letter to a distant cousin in Tygelt.
She wondered if the deed had caused some change in her. She studied her face in her mirror. There was nothing save the triumphant smile she would have to hide when questioned and the added color to her cheeks-caused no doubt by her quick return to her chambers. She brushed back her hair, then held her hands close to the fire. When they came to question her, there would be no sign that she had ever left the warmth of her room.
She heard a knock and was ready. "Come in," she called and looked up from her writing desk, frowning when she saw Peto, looking even more confused when Mihael followed him. "Is something wrong?" she asked.