"I'd guessed your grief," he began. "I've come to offer what comfort I can."
"Comfort!" Peto laughed, a terrible mirthless sound. "I'd hoped to have children with her, to unite our kingdoms with our sons. I'd hoped for too much and now…" Without warning Peto flung his goblet across the room. The fine crystal shattered on the stones.
The valet peeked in, then withdrew at Peto's bellowed command.
"Now I'm beginning to understand why your stepmother killed herself," Peto went on. "A moment's pain is nothing compared to this sorrow."
Neither of them said anything for some time, then Mihael broke the silence. "I went looking for Lord Jorani today and learned he left yesterday for Argentine."
"You don't approve? He'd been away from his estate for some time. Since half its revenues now belong to me, I thought it wise to let him set his lands in order."
"I was only surprised that Ilsabet didn't go with him."
"She did not wish to go."
"You asked her?" Mihael could not believe the implications of this.
"Given how selflessly she nursed her sister, I could hardly banish her again so, yes, I asked her. She replied almost word for word what she'd said the night she refused to swear loyalty to me. However, she sounds far less defiant now."
"How long will Jorani be gone?" Mihael asked.
"A week or two at the most." Some of Mihael's emotion must have shown in his face, for Peto asked, "I did send some of my men with him. Is there anything wrong?"
"I don't know," Mihael answered truthfully. "I can't shake the feeling that something more than an accident killed my sister."
All effects of the brandy seemed to vanish. Peto stood, his muscular form towering over the slight youth. "If you suspect Lord Jorani of treachery, speak," Peto demanded.
"No, I don't suspect him. But he knows more than any man in Kislova about the sort of things that might have killed her."
"The sort of things?" Peto gave a dry laugh. "Mihael, the accident was cause enough. You've only been in battle once so you can't know how common that sort of death is. I've watched countless men fall from their horses, endure no more than a few scratches, then begin to bleed inside. They die days or even weeks later, just as Marishka did. My own battle surgeon tells me that's what killed her."
What could Mihael say? That both his sisters were expert riders and the accident itself could have been arranged? That Ilsabet's sudden beauty held hints of sorcery? His parents were dead. Marishka as well. There were only Ilsabet and himself left. He could not betray her, not until he was certain. "I don't suspect anyone. It was her death itself that troubles me."
"Her death should trouble us all," Peto replied and held up a new glass in a silent toast to Marishka.
Mihael left the baron soon after, returning to his rooms. He debated what to do, then decided on the direct approach.
He found his sister in her sitting room. She still wore the black of mourning, and there was a gray blanket thrown over her legs. She was napping on one of the couches, an open book on her lap. The light streaming through the window made her pallor even more pronounced. Here, she looked no different than in times past, and he began to wonder what trick of light or emotion had made him see her as changed.
"Ilsabet," he called softly.
She opened her eyes, smiled, and sat up. Holding out her hand, she drew him down on the couch beside her.
"You look so sad. What is it?" she asked.
"I came to speak about Marishka." He watched her face as he forged on. "There is no polite way to ask this, but I must. I know how opposed you were to Marishka's swearing loyalty to Baron Peto. But when Marishka brought you back to help plan her wedding, you and she were closer than you had ever been. I have to know why you had such a change of heart?"
Ilsabet looked out the window at the cloudy sky. The light seemed to steal all color from her eyes, making them look glazed over, white, dead. "In my days alone at Argentine, I began to realize we are all that is left of the Obours, and we must do what we can to survive and prosper. I decided my defiance of Baron Peto was ill-advised but I could see no way to mend the differences between us without losing all pride.
"Then Marishka wrote me about her marriage and asked me to come home. I did, and though I was opposed to the match, I thought it an expedient move for our family. Now she is gone, and there is only you." She paused, and her eyes widened with disbelief. Tears came to them, tears she tried in vain to hide. "You suspect me of killing her, don't you?"
Mihael had never seen his sister cry. Perhaps so much grief had worn down her defenses and softened her. "You've never spoken so openly about your feelings before. I had no way of knowing," he said sincerely.
"Does Peto think I had a part in Marishka's death?"
"I don't know," Mihael answered. "I hope not."
"Mihael, what am I to do?"
She'd also never asked his advice before. He looked at her and answered with words he expected would send her into one of her well-known rages. "Swear now," he said. "Peto hasn't asked it. If you do it of your own free will, your pride will be intact."
Surprisingly, she nodded, and actually seemed to be considering his advice when he left her.
Like Mihael, Jorani was troubled by Marishka's accident, illness, and death. Like Mihael, he dared not mention his suspicions to anyone.
Once he'd arrived and settled in, he began questioning his staff, concentrating finally on Rilca, who seemed to have spent the most time with Ilsabet.
The woman happily described the girl's interest in plants, and how she had wandered the fields alone. "She followed me around the kitchen asking me about the healing herbs and roots. I told her everything I knew. We got along well. When I was ill, she sat by my side every day reading to me."
Jorani had never known Rilca to complain of anything, but she was getting older and her joints had stiffened. "You were ill?" he asked.
"Stomach cramps such as I'd never felt before. I think my tonic had gone bad. I'd never known it to taste so bitter. I threw it out and blended some teas to help the pains go away."
At his prompting, she described her symptoms. They were so similar to Marishka's that Jorani became certain Ilsabet was at least guilty of allowing her sister's death. Otherwise, she would have mentioned Rilca's remedies.
"I've been teaching her some things myself," he said. "It would help to know about the plants you discussed."
Rilca told him. There had been nothing odd in their discussions of angelica and feverfew, or in the concoction of horseheal and mallow Rilca had suggested for Ilsabet's chronic cough. "We even discussed the old myths," Rilca continued, "like the banning of marjoram at a wedding feast and the eating of columbine seeds to hasten a baby's arrival and the old tale of what happens when you eat black nettle."
She prattled happily on for a few more minutes. Jorani barely listened. He'd just learned what poison had killed Marishka, as well as how it had been delivered.
As soon as he left Rilca, he went to the rooms Ilsabet had occupied. A careful examination of the drawers and cupboards revealed nothing, but when he sifted through the ashes in the bucket beside the hearth, he found bits of pottery and a black tar stuck to a few of the pieces. He took these to his own room. There he diluted the tarry substance with water until it formed a thick paste. He dabbed it onto his arm. A few minutes later when the blisters began to rise, he knew what Ilsabet had done.
Weeks passed, but he remained at Argentine, getting his estate in far better order than his emotions. Finally, he received an urgent letter from Lieutenant Shaul asking that he return: