move her limbs. But when she tried to sit up, she cried out in pain and pressed her palms to her head. Dow moved to her side, a bottle in his hand.
'Drink this,' he said. 'The mix is old, but your sister is out gathering the herbs for a more potent tea. We'll take the headache away soon enough.
'She has knowledge of what is needed?' Peto asked.
'A good deal, most of it self-taught. I think with proper training she could become a great healer.'
'Nonetheless, check the herbs she brings. I wouldn't want a mistake to weigh on her conscience or yours.'
'Certainly, Baron.'
When Ilsabet returned she seemed out of breath and her hair had fallen loose from its clip, moving in the faint breeze like the silver grass just beginning to bloom in the meadow. She handed Dow her cache and sat, obviously waiting for praise.
He would have given it anyway. Into the already boiling water he threw mugwort, valerian, wound-wort, and the potent wild onions that were just beginning to poke through the warm soil. He added a large quantity of honey to the mix, for the herbs would be too bitter to drink without it. Though Ilsabet had not been asked for them, she separately brought potent black nettle leaves, mullein, and yarrow. 'The cook at Argentine says these make an ideal poultice for bruises. I thought you might try it on her head and back.'
'Perfect, child, though I don't think her back needs any treatment.'
'She woke?' Ilsabet asked.
'Then dozed off again. Wake her, if you wish. She asked that you do so.'
Ilsabet turned to her sister and took her hand, calling her name, embracing her carefully when she opened her eyes. They propped up Marishka's head and shoulders so she could drink the tea while Dow applied the fresh poultice to the bruise on her forehead.
They stayed in the field that night. While the others slept, Marishka had strange dreams of Sagesse and her prediction, of being cold, alone. She stood outside a tomb in a land she did not recognize. Her body had lost its color, her hair and skin had become the silver of the moonlight. She heard a howl in the distance, but it brought no fear. Instead, she fell forward and, without knowing how, bounded in the direction of the cry.
She forced herself awake. Her head pounded. Not wanting to wake anyone, she reached for the teapot. Though the steeped herbs had become bitter, she drank the brew eagerly and slept.
In the morning, the guards placed her on a pallet and carried her down the steep road. Later, safely ensconced in her room with a pot of tea on the table beside her and her head wound washed and wrapped, she dined with Ilsabet, Mihael, and Peto, eating sparingly.
Peto was surprised at the change in Marishka's sister. Ilsabet seemed pleased to help plan the wedding, offering suggestions on how to decorate the great hall for the banquet. Peto wanted to request that she swear allegiance to him at the wedding, but recalling her defiant pose some months earlier, decided not to remind her of it. If she was content to forget the past, he would do the same.
When Marishka began looking tired, Ilsabet poured her a cup of tea. Peto said goodnight, but ilsabet stayed, holding her sister's hand until Marishka slept. Later, when Marishka woke with her head pounding, her servant came in, heated the pot, and poured a cup of tea. The brew seemed somewhat more bitter than it had been earlier, but it relieved Marishka's pain. Sleep came easily.
In the morning, Marishka and Peto ate together. Though Marishka felt famished, the first bite of her meat and apple tart made her gag, and she settled for a bit of fruit and some unleavened bread and more tea brought up personally by the healer.
'She seems so pale,' Peto commented to Dow.
'She's lucky to be alive. Give her time to recover,' the healer replied with a chuckle. 'She'll dance at the wedding, believe me.'
Marishka lay back and smiled bravely, though thoughts of last night's dream, the tomb, and the wolf refused to dissipate even with the soft sunlight falling through her open window.
'Let me sit there, Peto,' she said pointing to a chair beside the window. When the healer said it was all right for her to move, he carried her there, propping up her broken leg, moving a table and second chair close by. They played cards until afternoon when Ilsabet took his place.
'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.'
