the rosebuds in her hair. She looked so beautiful in the candlelight, so at peace that Peto said a prayer that if recovery was indeed hopeless, she would die that night, and her pain would finally end.
As she'd requested, he left her chamber doors open so that should she wake, she would hear the distant music of her wedding feast. She'd wanted him to rejoin it, but he could not do so. Instead he stood in the shadows at the top of the stairs and listened to the dancing, the toasts, to Ilsabet's bright laughter.
Marishka died three days later, with Ilsabet, Peto, and Mihael at her bedside.
On the night after Marishka's funeral, Ilsabet stood on the battlements that faced the shore. The fog had begun to form, languid waves of it rolling against the hillside beneath Marishka's tomb. The day had been unseasonably warm, so the fog would be thick tonight, rising from the damp ground as well as the river. Soon, it would begin its insidious invasion of the castle. Every cracked window, every tiny crack between walls and doors would give it a way in.
Ilsabet's rooms would be damp tonight, but Greta would deal with the fog as she always did, building the fire on Ilsabet's hearth, keeping it burning throughout the night to be certain its cold never touched her.
Would it touch Marishka? Would it caress her as her bridegroom had never done? Ilsabet smiled, a victor's smile, and stared at the white pillars of the tomb outlined clearly by the rising quarter moon.
As she did, she thought she saw something moving toward the tomb, a silver ribbon curling though the moonlight. She stared, frightened, awed, as the ribbon coiled upon itself and rose, finally taking the wispy form of a tall, thin youth. An instant later, a cry of grief rolled over the damp land, a cry that shifted slowly into the howl of a wolf.
This is a dream, nothing more, Ilsabet thought. I am safe in my bed dreaming. Her heart pounded; she fought to catch her breath; her hands gripped the castle wall as she watched and waited, certain of what was to come.
The rest of the dread scene was played out in silence. A wolf padded to the front of the tomb, joined a moment later by a woman whose loose robes glowed in the moonlight, rising and falling in some invisible breeze.
Ilsabet almost said her sister's name aloud, but certain it would attract the attention of the ghost, she bit her lip to stifle any sound. She retreated to her room. As she walked past the place from which Dark had fallen, she felt a cold hand press against her back. Whirling, she saw no one behind her. She felt like screaming-in defiance as well as fear. Would the dead never leave her alone?
Once she was safely in her room, she sat curled in a chair close to the raging fire. For the first time in years, she cried and did not hold it back.
She was still crying when Peto arrived at her chambers. He had come to sit beside her and take comfort in her strength. When he saw her, weeping in private as she had refused to do in public, his heart went out to her. When he sensed the terrible fear in her, he thought of her as hardly more than a beautiful child, orphaned, defeated, lost.
He wrapped his arms around her. She pressed against him and sobbed while his hand stroked her long, soft hair.
THIRTEEN
Three days after Marishka's death, Baron Peto lay in the bed he should have shared with his bride, trying to find sleep in a glass of strong, sweet Kislovan brandy. His valet knocked politely and said Mihael Obour wished to speak to him.
'I was speaking to him all afternoon,' Peto responded.
'I'm sorry,' Mihael said and pushed past the servant.
'Since you're here, come in,' Peto said wearily. He sat up and poured Mihael a glass of brandy, wondering vaguely what was so important.
Mihael looked anxiously at Peto. The baron was using drink to drown rage more than grief, but drink had a way of making rage worse. It also made the candid conversation Mihael had hoped to have with Peto impossible. He wished he hadn't barged in so rudely, now that he had no idea what to say.
'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
