"Did you sleep well?" Ilsabet asked.
Marishka nodded, then tears came to her eyes. She dabbed at them and told her sister about the pain and terrible dream, and about Sagesse's predictions. "I'm probably just silly but I feel my life slipping away." She gripped her sister's hands. "Ilsabet, I'm so afraid. I don't want to die!"
Ilsabet held on to her tightly. "Then don't," she said. "Fight whatever happens, make your own fate."
"That's easy for you to say…"
"Don't talk about what I do. You do it!" Marishka cried openly. "The Seer said I would not have a long life."
"You never told me that."
"I never told anyone." Marishka calmed herself enough to describe everything she'd seen in the Seer's cave, and everything the Seer had said to her. "So you see, my fate is decided," Marishka concluded and began to cry again.
A servant heard the sobbing and came into the room, stopping when she saw Ilsabet at her sister's side, holding her tightly, stroking her hair. It occurred to the woman that Ilsabet had never looked so beautiful. There was no reason for the change-no special hair arrangement or color in her gown. A trick of the light, the woman thought as Ilsabet motioned her to go.
Even after her success with the rats, Ilsabet hadn't considered that she had any real power. The poisons from Jorani's collection had provided the means, and it had been Jorani's education that had shown her the way.
But once she had been on her own at Argentine, surrounded by a wealth of different herbs with a multitude of uses, once she had begun to read and study, her ability-her power! — became clear. Even then she had not been certain of it until the fox disappeared and she knew beyond a doubt that she had the ability to kill.
Her experiments with the nettle poison had been rash, but they'd taught her much. In large quantities, the poison killed immediately; in smaller doses, it took time.
ELAIME BERGSTROM
There would be more risk in repeated doses, but small doses would make it seem as if the victim had sickened and died, a more natural end than a healthy person suddenly keeling over. Sunstrokes were rare in this cloudy kingdom, and little else would kill so quickly.
So she had waited for exactly the right moment to arrange Marishka's accident. Now that it was over and the girl was confined to bed, she'd stay at Marishka's side, the perfect loving sister with plenty of opportunities to see that Marishka and Peto would never wed.
"She should never have sworn loyalty to him," she said aloud as she sat alone in her chamber, brushing her pale blond hair. She'd spent the entire day with Marishka. Now that their lives were not filled with the demands of their father or the constant nervous presence of Lady Lorena, they had a chance to know one another. Though Ilsabet still thought Marishka over-emotional and easily flattered, she had to admit Marishka admired her a great deal, and admiration itself made Ilsabet warm to her.
"If only she hadn't made Peto love her," she added, also aloud.
Marishka's death would be slow and painful, and Ilsabet would be at her side through it all, comforting her, crying with her. No, she'd never be suspected of any crime. If she considered the matter, she would have been astonished that she felt no pangs of conscience, but only a growing excitement more internal and intense than any she had ever felt before.
She did not consider it.
Instead, she thought of how devastated Peto would be as he watched the one he loved die. There would be no wedding, no rejoicing, no child to unite their kingdoms.
She smiled at the thought; she could not help but smile. As she did, she saw her reflection in her mirror blur and fade into a pale, swirling cloud. In the center of it, she saw an old woman's face.
"I know who you are," Ilsabet whispered. "Your threats don't frighten me. Go back to your cave where you belong."
She picked up her brush and began to run it through her hair, staring at the mirror as if Sagesse were not staring out of it, her eyes condemning Ilsabet for what she planned, her soft whisper trying to turn Ilsabet from the path she had chosen.
"Your power is not this great," Ilsabet whispered, and some moments later was rewarded with the sight of her own face once more clear in the glass.
She didn't look like a murderer. Her eyes seemed to have darkened to a more vivid shade of blue. Her hair, though still thin, had lightened and taken on the lustre of silk threads.
It's just the sun and all the excitement, she thought, then dismissed the matter before she might glimpse the truth.
TWELVE
Though Marishka's condition improved for a time, the attacks of stomach pain gradually increased. They made her unable to eat, or to sleep save with the aid of strong potions. The healer added fumes to her treatment, and her room was often filled with smoke of sage and other herbs he laid on the hot stones of her hearth.
Fever blisters covered her lips. She could not eat or drink, taking only a little water when Ilsabet or Peto spooned it into her mouth. And she would have dreams, terrible ones of her father and mother coming back from the dead to claim her, or of leaping onto the pyre after Lady Lorena and being consumed by the flames. But the worst were the glorious ones when she dreamt herself dead, free of all the pain, running through the moonlit night with the silver wolf at her side.
"Don't let the fire claim my body," she said to Peto one morning a few weeks after her accident. "It's claiming it now, I will not have it taken twice."
"Don't talk about death," Peto replied, his voice breaking with grief.
"I must. In your land the dead are entombed, yes?"
He nodded.
"Do the same with me. Put the Obour and Casse crests on the door. Someday, Peto, you will be buried beside me, joined in death as we never were in life."
"We will be joined now if you will allow it," he replied.
For the first time in days, he saw Marishka smile.
Though the marriage would be hastily performed, Marishka asked for the traditional wedding feast. While soldiers took word of the event to nobles of the surrounding estates and the cooks began preparing the meal, Marishka rested.
The great hall had been cleaned, and its three long tables covered with brocade cloths. On them were goldleaf dishes, silver knives and forks and crystal goblets, all speaking of the wealth of Sundell. Cream and pink roses were scattered across the bridal table, and the corner where the ceremony was to take place was filled with flowers and lace and the soft flicker of candlelight.
Because only a handful of nobles were able to attend on such short notice, and because Peto rightly understood that this would likely be Mar-ishka's last appearance before her funeral, he invited some of the wealthy merchants families of Pirie as well as the castle servants who knew Marishka well. Conspicuously absent were any representatives of the rebellion. Peto would not insult the Obours and his noble guests by serving their former enemies in their fallen leader's home.
Peto stood beside the priest. Shaul, who would witness the vows on behalf of Sundell, stood to one side. The music grew louder as Marishka was carried to the altar.
She had chosen to wed in the blue-and-gold gown that had been her mother's wedding dress. Her still beautiful hair hung in ringlets over her shoulders, and a crown of white rosebuds covered the top and were braided through the delicate lace of the bridal veil. Makeup hid the sores on her face, and rouge its pallor. Though her eyes were dulled by pain and her cheeks sunken, she was lovely.
But the most surprising change was not in Mar-ishka, whose illness was well known, but in her sister. At Marishka's insistence, Ilsabet, not Mihael, would witness the marriage on behalf of Kislova. Ilsabet walked beside the bride, holding up the veil, her expression regal, her beauty all the more noticeable because everyone had always thought her so plain.