She was now left with a tiny scar near the corner of her mouth. Each time she looked at it, she recalled exactly how the woman had shrieked, how the animal's teeth had felt as they sank into her flesh, how the servant had beat at her bedcoverings then killed the beast with a fire iron.
When she had heard about the rats swarming through the dungeons, Marishka had summoned two of her maids. Hours had passed, and there had been no sign of the animals aboveground, so she dismissed them, took a fireplace poker, and sat in the center of her bed, determined to remain on guard all night if need be.
Someone knocked. She ran and threw the door open, relieved to see her sister. "I've come to sit with you," Ilsabet said. "I know how terrified you are of rats."
Marishka made Ilsabet sit beside her on the bed. "Stay with me tonight," she whispered. "There's plenty of room in the bed, and you've always been so brave about such things."
Ilsabet kissed her sister's cheek and laughed. "Marishka, it's all right. Even the dungeons are quiet now. Whatever infuriated the beasts seems to have vanished as mysteriously as it appeared."
"Really?"
"The infected rats are all dead. They say there's over a hundred bodies in the tunnels."
Marishka took a deep breath, let it out, and smiled. "Stay the night with me anyway, like you used to," she said. "I've hardly seen you or Mihael since…"
"Since father died?" Ilsabet asked, then went on. "I haven't seen Mihael either, but I assumed you did. After all, I'm the enemy here."
"No one sees you that way. All our servants say that what you did was very brave. I wish I'd had the courage to stand up to Peto. Then maybe things would be different now."
"Different?"
Marishka frowned, trying to think of some way to explain without making Ilsabet angry. "Maybe if I'd shown some defiance, Mihael and Baron Peto wouldn't be bartering over me as if I were a spoil of war."
"Bartering? Are you for sale, sister?"
"Mihael seems to think so. As for Peto, well at least he's polite enough to try getting to know me before he makes a bid for me. What do you think of him?"
"I think he murdered our father," Ilsabet retorted. "You talk about him like a girl falling in love."
"I'm not!" Marishka insisted. "I meant, what sort of ruler do you think he'll be?"
"I'm not sure I should answer, just in case you do fall in love with him and repeat it."
Marishka stared at her sister, then seeing the hint of a smile on Ilsabet's thin mouth, she flung a pillow at her. "Tell me!" she demanded.
"All right. Peto thinks father was a ruthless barbarian, and the rebels, too. Kislovans-peasants and nobles alike-share the same blood, and the same passion for hate and love. In the end blood will win. Peto's rule will be short and tragic. He deserves what comes."
Marishka considered this but could reach no conclusion. Perhaps Ilsabet was right, but she was certainly at odds with Mihael's opinion. "What should I do?" she asked.
"Just what I said before, Marishka. Do what you're told, since you have no choice, but see that he doesn't fall in love with you."
Ilsabet looked at her so strangely that Marishka changed the subject. They slept together in the big bed, as they had so often when they were younger. She woke in the morning as her door was closing. Ilsabet had gone.
When Ilsabet reached her own chambers, she bolted the door behind her and went to the cupboard beside her bed. She rummaged behind some old scarves and ribbons and pulled out a wooden box. She opened it, inhaling a musty stench, then carefully lifted a bundle of soft wool fabric, unfolding a blue-and-gold cape and the white wool tunic hidden inside it. The stains of her father's blood had grown darker, and there was a thin coating of mold on the ones that had not yet dried.
She knew that if she wanted to keep the garment intact, she ought to wash it, but she wanted to see the stains there and through them to remember her father's head rolling away from his falling body, to see Peto above him, victorious, and gloating in his victory.
Someday, she thought, I will look at him that way. Someday I will have my revenge.
"At what cost?" These words of doubt were spoken an almost-familiar voice-feminine, gentle, and firm.
Had Ilsabet not been certain that she was alone in this room, she would have whirled and faced the intruder. Instead, Ilsabet pretended not to have heard the spectre. She began to fold the bloodstained tunic into the center of her father's cape. As she did, the stains brightened and began to spread, dripping from the woolen folds onto the polished wooden floor. Ilsabet stifled a scream and dropped the tunic, then looked down at her hands.
They were coated with new blood, which dripped from some hidden source off the tips of her fingers, leaving black stains on the brilliant green satin of her robe. The hallucination stole the breath from her lungs, and her heart pounded.
"At what cost?" the voice repeated.
Then she did whirl, but there was no one there at all.
PART II
EIGHT
Jorani had been nine years old when he first entered Nimbus Castle. He had no title then, his family no wealth. His father played the flute and dulcimer, his uncle the drums, while his mother danced and sang. His duty was to keep watch over their instruments, and to bring new ones when needed.
He was sitting at the side of the hall, engrossed in the beauty of his mother's singing, when out of the corner of his eye he spied a boy a few years older than he moving toward the family's pipes, lutes, and drums. He did not notice the boy's rich clothing. If he had, it would have made no difference. Everyone in the castle seemed wealthy to him, which made his family's scant possessions all the more precious.
Jorani waited until the thief picked up the set of carved wooden pipes, the most beautiful instrument his family owned and his own favorite to play. Jorani faced him. " Put that down," he ordered.
Instead the boy turned to run. Jorani sprang. He had expected the boy to put up a silent fight and run as soon as he broke away. Instead, the youth, who turned out to be considerably more muscular than he, let out a terrible scream, then got the better of him and dragged him through the center of hall to the baron's table.
"The gypsy brat attacked me, Father," the boy declared. "I want him executed."
The baron stood. His ice-blue eyes stared with such intensity that it took all of Jorani's courage not to look away. "You attacked my son?" the baron asked.
"I didn't know he was your son, Sire," Jorani said. "He seemed about to make off with one of our instruments. It was my duty to protect my family's goods."
"You thought my son was a thief?"
Jorani sensed some amusement in the baron's tone and tried to take comfort in it. "I only knew what my responsibility was, Sire," he replied.
"Please explain, Janosk," the baron said to his son.
"In private," the boy whispered.
"You're the one who made the matter public," the baron retorted.
"I wanted to play it. I would have put it back."
"I see." The baron focused on Jorani once more. "Do you play?" he asked.
Jorani nodded, picked up the pipes, and played a slow, mournful song.
"Will you teach my son to play?"
Jorani looked up at his father, saw him nod eagerly, and understood. They were poor people. This might give them a chance for more.
The baron seemed to read his mind. "Will you?" he asked more gently.
"Will your son let me teach him?" he responded.
Janosk nodded.
"Then I will do it," he said.
The future baron proved to be a far better friend than a musician, but by the time the baron discovered this, he could not have separated the two boys. In time, Jorani forgot the ambitions of youth. Since then, he'd moved from commoner to knight to lord with his own magnificent estate less than a day's ride south of the castle. He was proud of his lands, and it pained him to think how rarely he visited them.