Ah, such delusion.
She'd chosen the poison because it would cause pain, would make them scream, would give her the excitement of standing in the black depths of the subterranean space, listening to their agony.
She wasn't disappointed by the effect on her. As the screams began, wild excitement filled her. Its intensity gave such pleasure that she bit the palm of her hand lest she cry out and reveal her presence. As wave after wave of pain caressed her, she stood swaying on her feet. She retreated long after the cries ended and death came to her far-from-innocent victims. Then she ran as quickly as the slimy stairs would allow through the passages to her room. After, she stood in front of her mirror, laughing, then crying in awe of the beauty of her face, her hands, her hair.
The beauty had faded a bit since the night she had bowed to Peto. Now, standing in front of Marishka's mirror, she saw that it had returned. As she looked, trying to make sense of this curious change, she saw another reflection forming in the glass. It had the familiar auburn hair, the buxom body, the magnificent eyes. Ghosts did not reflect, did they? Hadn't she heard somewhere that they didn't reflect?
"Who are you!" Ilsabet whispered, and turned.
Her sister was behind Ilsabet. Marishka's tiny feet hovered above the flagstone floor, her hair floated insubstantial as a cloud over her white, thin shoulders. Ilsabet stared at her sister and slowly backed away. As she did, she heard the distant howl of a wolf.
"There will be no rest for your soul if you continue with your plans," Marishka whispered.
"As if there is rest now!" Ilsabet retorted. Though she was certain anyone seeing her would think her mad, ilsabet threw an arm over her eyes so she was not tempted to look at Marishka, and she ran down the hall to her now empty rooms.
Greta's spectre waited in the outer chamber. Her skin had the bluish tint of someone dying from lack of air, and she had a look of betrayal and reproach on her round face. Ilsabet gave a strangled cry and backed toward the door, though she dared not open it for fear her sister would be waiting in the hall. Instead, she bolted past the ghost into her sleeping chamber and slammed and locked the door.
Building up the fire, she lay in a tight ball in her bed, her eyes wide open until well after dawn, when she got a few hours of restless sleep.
The strange beauty she had noticed last night had subsided somewhat by the following morning. No wonder, she thought, as she studied the circles under her eyes, the sallow look to her skin. She stayed in her rooms all day. That evening she left them only because her absence at Greta's funeral would have been noted and questioned.
She wore a dark cape, the hood pulled up so shadows would hide her face. Though she stood close to Peto and her brother, her attention was fixed on the feelings of the other servants, who had formed a wide circle around the pyre.
Many of them were as old as Greta and had known her for years. Some were crying. Others were stoically standing there, wondering with quiet fear who had poisoned her and which one of them would be next.
She felt traces of the same energy she'd experienced when Greta died, but now she began to understand it, even warm to it. By the time the ceremony was over, she would be able to look at Peto through the same magnificent eyes he found so irresistible. It troubled her that this beauty came from devouring the emotions of death and pain. Yet it seemed a small price to pay for revenge.
But a thought had begun to nag at her, a feeling that when her vengeance was complete, she would still need to poison, to cause pain, to kill. Like a vampire, she might have no choice but to feed.
She dismissed the thought, threw back her hood, and raised her head, catching Peto's eyes, noting how his grim expression changed to one of support, of love.
Later, alone in her rooms, she watched the moon-shadows of tree branches moving on the walls of her room. She waited, afraid to sleep, afraid that if she closed her eyes the ghosts would come. Finally, exhausted, she drifted off, waking suddenly when she heard voices outside her door.
At first she was relieved to recognize them, then curious when she made out Jorani's and her brother's. The voices grew dimmer as the men walked down the hall. From the direction they'd gone, she guessed they were going to her brother's rooms, which adjoined her own.
Pulling on a dark cape, she lit her smallest lamp, bolted her door and made her way into the secret passage. There, she moved as quickly as she was able down the winding corridor to the nearest spyhole that gave access to her brother's rooms. After shading the lamp, she pulled back the cover and stole a quick peek at Mihael and Jorani. Certain she'd be seen by Jorani if she continued watching, she closed the hole and stood with her ear to it. In the silent space, she could hear nearly every word they spoke.
Jorani sat on the edge of her brother's bed. He kept his expression guarded as he watched Mihael pace. "You know it was her as well as I do," Mihael was saying. "I could overlook the rebels she killed, she had plenty of reasons for hating them. Even Dark's death would have been logical, though I can't be certain she had a hand in it. When Marishka died, I was suspicious of her, but Peto seemed so sure of what killed her. I was foolish to believe him.
"Now Greta is dead. That woman raised me and my sisters. She loved Usabet as much as she would have loved her own daughter. There's no plan of revenge in Greta's death, no reason for it at all except for the pleasure of killing."
"It may have been an accident," Jorani suggested.
Ilsabet winced. Was Jorani really betraying her so easily?
"You tell me Greta's death was an accident! If so, who was the intended victim?"
Jorani ignored the question. "Then again, Peto may be right. The poison may have been for your sister."
"Who here has the skill to kill so quickly besides you, Jorani?" Ilsabet had no trouble hearing those words, Mihael all but screamed them.
"Quiet," Jorani cautioned. "We don't need this conversation to go beyond these walls."
"Yes, we do. Peto needs to listen. He's so under her spell that he can't understand what she's capable of."
"Someone may have been trying to kill Ilsabet to prevent a marriage between the ruling houses of Kislova and Sundell."
"That's preposterous and you know it."
"Do you really want her dead?" Jorani asked bluntly.
"I want her brought to justice before she turns her attention to me."
"She wants you restored to your rightful place as ruler of Kislova. So do I," Jorani said in a concilia-tory tone.
Though he'd kept the means by which this would happen deliberately vague, Mihael suspected the worst. He bristled and headed for the door. "So you're plotting against Peto as well."
"Plotting? It's you who sees plots everywhere."
"I was a fool to come here and speak so frankly. I've undoubtedly sealed my own death warrant, haven't I? Well, Peto will hear of this now whether he believes me or not."
His voice was so full of hate that Ilsabet risked a look into the room. She saw Jorani rush after her brother, grip his arm and swing him around. Placing both hands on Mihael's shoulders, he said, "You must let me handle this."
"You?"
Ilsabet stifled a cry as Mihael's hand fell to the hilt of the long dagger he carried. Jorani was unarmed. She had to do something.
Rushing back to her own room, she set the light beside her bed and ran into the outside hall.
On Peto's orders, guards patrolled the hallways. She ran and found the nearest one, pointing to Mihael's door. "I heard men arguing in my brother's room. It's late and after what's happened…"
"I saw him go in there with Lord Jorani."
"Someone else may have joined them," she said.