to his huge family in Sundell. I pictured him sitting at his desk, one hand on the carved chair arm, the other on the quill. The thought made me feel much better.
TWENTY-FIVE
Peto spent the day outside Nimbus Castle, sitting in the warmth of the spring sun, watching masons repair a crumbling section of the west wall. Ilsabet had managed well in his absence, well enough that he could simply sit and do nothing for hours. At nightfall, he went inside, took a long bath, and went to bed.
Other matters kept him occupied the following morning. At noon, he went out and inspected the work on the castle wall. Again, the sun reminded him of the high plains at home, and he ate his midday meal outside. That evening, he finally sat down to write his mother and tell her about the presentation feast and the gifts Lekai had received.
He had finished the second page of the letter when a wave of dizziness made the words blur and his stomach lurch. He managed to slip the letter into an envelope and seal it before making the mad rush for his chamber pot. He just made it, and some time later, when Gidden brought him a pot of hot tea, Peto was lying on his bed, his face white, his forehead dotted with beads of cold sweat.
'I probably ate some bad meat in the feast,' he said weakly. 'If so, half the Kislovan nobles will be abed by tonight. When they recover, they'll probably start another revolution.'
'It's been three days since the feast, Baron,' Gid-den reminded him gently as he pulled a coverlet over Peto's shivering body. 'More likely, the sun in this country is stronger than you suspected.'
Peto nodded. 'Start a bath for me and build up the fire. I'll stay inside tomorrow. I've at least a half-dozen letters to write.'
Gidden did as the baron asked. When he'd lit the fire, he noticed the quill lying uncleaned on the baron's desk. As he wiped it on the blotting rag, he felt suddenly strange, as if the room had shifted under his feet. Perhaps there was some illness running through the castle. If so, he'd have to take it easy, he thought. At his age, illness affected him more than it did younger, stronger men. He went into the bathroom, washed off the bit of ink that had stained his hands, then helped Peto undress.
Though Ilsabet thought the cool, dry weather marvelous, Sagra had been raised in a warmer climate. When they stopped to camp, Ilsabet chose the most sheltered place she could find. Nonetheless, Sagra shivered and moaned through the night, getting up often to build up their fire.
Ilsabet dreamt she was a little girl again, practicing penmanship in Jorani's sunlit tower room. Her father came in and looked over her shoulder. He complimented her on her work, then carried her on his shoulder down to the stables. His horse was saddled and ready, and with Ilsabet in front of him, he rode down the path that led to the mainland and up to Pirie.
It was the week of the harvest festival. Dancers and jugglers entertained the crowds; craftsmen from Kislova and Sundell did a lively business. When they saw the baron coming, they turned and cheered him.
Ilsabet flushed with nervousness and pride as they rode through the crowd.
He bought ribbons for her hair, a bound blank book-the first of her many journals-to record her thoughts. They ate honey cakes and laughed at the magician and the slapstick performers.
That night, in the stables, she turned to her father and wrapped her arms around his neck, planting a sticky kiss on his cheek. 'I love you more than anyone,' she said. 'I always will.'
And the dream folded in on itself, becoming dark and tragic with a sudden burst of red.
She woke and sat by the dying embers, beneath the multitude of brilliant stars that dotted the moonless sky. Here, in the stillness of the night, devoid of all the luxuries of her station, she faced the past and future honestly. She thought of her family and how only she and Lekai still held the blood, the essence, of her father. Her course had been deadly, and she had not reached the end of it.
The night wind increased, brightening the embers, whispering in the tops of the scrubby trees, moaning in the rocky outcroppings around them. It seemed to speak, the words simple, easily understood.
Turn back? From this visit to Sagesse? From the course she had set? She considered what she'd been forced to do-Marishka slowly dying while Peto mourned. Mihael. Greta. Kashi.
Their faces formed in the darkness; a hallucination this time, she decided, because the expressions were so human, so full of forgiveness, of understanding. Ilsabet saw Peto as he'd looked when he held Lekai for the first time. She moaned, a sound low, soft, and secret, and shut her eyes, concentrating on the one face she truly missed.
'No!' she whispered to the empty land. No. To abandon her plans now would make her brother's and sister's deaths useless. One more-the one she'd always intended-and the killings would be over.
Vengeance was waiting, more implacable than mercy. It would be hers.
'Go away,' she whispered to the visions, the whispers, and the remorse that accompanied them. Her decision made, weariness descended once more, and she returned to her makeshift bed, watching the stars as she fell asleep.
The following afternoon, she and Sagra reached the path that led to the Seer's cave. Many seekers had camped here while waiting for an audience. There were bits of broken pottery on the ground and a firepit within a circle of stones. Marishka and Kashi had undoubtedly camped here, Ilsabet thought, just as they'd undoubtedly shared the same route.
'I'll climb up with you,' Sagra suggested. 'With a path so steep, it would be best if we went together.'
Ilsabet tightened the laces on her high-topped shoes. 'We have to go separately,' she said. 'Build another fire. We'll stay here tonight.'
'There isn't a town nearby?' Sagra asked, hoping no doubt for a bed at least one night.
Even Sundell servants were accustomed to luxury, Ilsabet thought, then said, 'Tygelt is hardly a town for two unescorted women, and Lord Ruven's estate is a three-hour ride, best done in daylight.'
'We could have an escort back to the castle, couldn't we? The way Baroness Marishka did?'
'Shut up!' Ilsabet said, and slapped her. 'You don't mention the dead in Sagesse's land.'
Sagra began to cry. 'How was I to know?'
Ilsabet didn't comment. Instead, she began the climb. Pebbles rolled from under her feet, and once she fell and found herself looking over the side of the mountain at the piled rocks below. It seemed best not to look down, so she kept her eyes on the path or on the fog forming above her. Marishka had hinted about these mists during her last days of life. Steeling herself for what she might see, Iisabet went on.
Peto stood in the mists, so real that for a moment she wanted to scream at him and remind him that these were her customs, and he had no business stopping her quest. He isn't real, she reminded herself. He can't be, not here.
'Come home,' he whispered. 'Forget the past. Love me and your child. I know the truth, and I forgive.'
This was some trick of the Seer's, a test of Ilsabet's resolve. She would not be turned from her course, not by last night's vision, nor by this one.
As soon as she reached this decision, the mist cleared, and she saw the cave just above her, its dark mouth a perfect oval of surprise. She reached it quickly, and went inside, walking into the cavern and its milky light. She laid the dagger she'd carried on the journey on the flat stone, then stepped to the edge of a pool, where an old woman sat, a deep blue cloak over her tattered, shapeless clothes, her thin white body. Ilsabet recognized the garment by the clasp. She thought of Marishka leaving it here and just for a moment the memory softened her.
'I know you, Baroness Ilsabet Obour,' Sagesse said. 'I've seen you in your sister's vision, and in my own. I've seen the death your presence brings. Why do you come to me?'
'To ask about the future of my son.'
