Though the daughters of Kislovan petty aristocracy were lined up to dance with the baron, he stayed with Ilsabet. She danced as if she had no problems with her lungs, with weakness, with being touched by a man she'd said often enough that she despised.
With the girl's plan so clear, Jorani could not understand how Peto and the others could miss it. Through marriage, Ilsabet could reclaim control of the Obour lands.
The invasion her father had begun would be complete with an exchange of vows, followed at a polite interval by an heir, then a vial of poison, first for Peto, and if she desired both kingdoms, a second for Mihael.
With that, she would rule for her son not one kingdom, but two.
And Jorani had planted the terrible seed of her ambitions.
He left the fete early and went upstairs. Before retiring, he stole into his hidden room and took a careful look around. Books had been moved. His supplies of candles and lamp oil were depleted. His collection of herbs and exotic poisons had been touched and studied though nothing seemed to be missing.
With a shudder, he considered all that Ilsabet might have learned on her own.
FOURTEEN
After Peto took over Nimbus Castle, Mihael and Jorani sat at his side during all meetings of state, suggesting changes to bring about peace.
Nobles who once served Baron Janosk were persuaded to ally with Peto. Some required little persuasion, all along preferring peace over honor and fighting only out of fear of Janosk. Most of his true supporters were won over when Mihael swore allegiance to Peto, then used a skillful blend of bribes and threats to assure that other Kislovan nobles did the same.
At Mihael's suggestion, Peto mollified the rebels with return of some of the lands the nobles had taken from them years before. He forgave back-taxes owed by rebel and loyalist alike who had lost fathers and sons during the rebellion. At Jorani's suggestion, he sent Obour soldiers into the countryside to assist with the spring plantings. By working side by side for a common cause under the watchful eyes of Sundell guards, resentments between rebels and soldiers faded somewhat, enough that there had already been four marriages between Kislova soldiers and fatherless families in Pirie alone-more in the outlying areas. Kislovan blood ran hot, but cooled just as quickly, Peto decided.
Peto had meditated on all these accomplishments in the days after Marishka died but they'd brought him little comfort. Every now-familiar room in Nimbus Castle reminded him of her-of her beauty in life, the agony of her illness, and the irrefutable fact that she had moved beyond his touch until death claimed him.
Let Mihael have this cursed land and all its bloody memories, he decided. At the feast in Ilsabet's honor, he would announce that he was leaving.
That evening, as Peto had waited with his guests for Ilsabet to appear, he had gone over the words of his speech. In it, he had intended to mention Mihael's and his efforts to promote peace in Kislova. He would praise Mihael's honesty and assure everyone that nothing would hamper the fledgling alliance between the two countries.
Then Ilsabet Obour entered. As the sea of faces beneath his raised platform parted, he looked toward her. And forgot the speech, his loneliness, everything.
After she gave her oath, he reached down to take her hand, and she looked up at him. Her eyes were the palest blue, white circles around the pupils as pronounced as those around the iris.
Why had he never seen them as beautiful before?
Then the music began. It seemed wrong not to dance with her. It was a formality; but as he breathed in her perfume and looked down at her delicate face, he felt an odd vertigo. It stayed with him through the first slow motions of the dance, then passed.
Replaced by anxiousness? Desire?
He only knew that he stayed with her through the evening, leaving her with regret after the feast was over. Later, when he was alone in bed, he thought of how the night had gone and realized that, though he could remember her face and her delicate hands, he could not recall the color of her dress, or the design of the brooch pinned to her gown, or even what she had said to him during their hours together.
Yet he thought himself in love, and the intensity of it troubled him.
He did not think of himself as an inconstant man. He mourned Marishka, and would undoubtedly do so for the rest of his life. If so, why was he inflicted with such desire that he felt like an inexperienced youth in his first infatuation?
Marishka, he thought. If only you had lived, none of this would be happening. A pleasant thought, but was it true? From the day Ilsabet Obour had defied him so courageously, he had admired her. Perhaps, had he been paying closer attention, he might have come to love her rather than Marishka.
Terrible thoughts, yet they stayed with him as he went to sleep and dreamt of his lost bride.
They danced at her wedding feast, Marishka's delicate hands on his shoulders as they whirled through the hall. He smelled the rosebuds in the garland she wore, the scented candles that lit the space. She was whole, strong. He had never felt so thankful.
Others joined them. The dance quickened, breaking finally into a raucous folk dance. The hammered dulcimers set the pace as he and Marishka began weaving through the guests. In the midst of all his joy, the doors of the great hall swung open and the thick Kislova fog rolled through the room, covering the now silent guests, wrapping around Marishka until he could no longer see her. He heard her terrified cry and followed it into the entrance hall. The fog was even thicker there, lying like a blanket over the floor, covering him from the neck down.
Marishka's cries grew more distant, then faded altogether. He saw motion on the stairs above him and looked up. Ilsabet stood at the top, looking down at him. She wore Marishka's wedding dress. Her hair was arranged the same but the roses in her garland were dyed black for mourning. Though she looked at him with love, there were tears in her eyes mirroring the tears in his.
He woke, called in his guards and began giving orders. A short time later, accompanied only by Shaul and a second escort, he rode down the narrow peninsula to the mainland and began the steady climb to the tomb on the cliffs above.
The river moved languidly somewhere in the fog below him. He could hear the slow current trickling over the rocks and the few pieces of deadfall that collected in the pools near the shore. An owl circled in the moonlit sky, its distant cry echoed by the screech of a pair of forest cats and the howl of a lonely wolf.
The stone tomb rose from the black base of its shadow, its white pillars stark in the moonlight. Peto dismounted and handed the reins to his lieutenant. With his lamp held high, he walked forward alone. Though the entrance had been locked, it now hung open. He went inside, fearing that robbers had come and stripped Marishka's body of all its lace and silk, or worse that the coffin would be empty and he would forever wonder what fate had befallen her body.
But she lay as she had at the service. The embal-mers had done their jobs well, the only change in her was that some of the wax that fixed her expression had broken off, leaving her with lips slightly parted. It seemed as if she were smiling, and though he knew it must only be the natural changes of a decaying corpse, it made him glad.
"Marishka," he whispered. "I am so confused. What shall I do?"
He'd expected no reply, but he seemed to hear one anyway, borne in the soft breeze that touched the forest around the clearing.
"Ilsabet," it whispered. The sound held no warmth, nor any coldness, he thought, as if the spirit who spoke had moved beyond the pettiness of human emotion.
"I'll never forget you, Marishka," he said.
As he bent to touch her hand, he heard a growl coming from the deep shadows behind the coffin and its marble slab. Eyes glowed in the lamplight. He held the lamp higher and saw a white wolf, crouched and ready to attack. He stepped back, his hand on the hilt of his sword, but the animal remained where it was.