'I do.'
'And you will hold me alone accountable for the invasion?'
'I do,' Peto replied.
'And you will spare my family and allies? And accept my son's offer to be a vassal to you?'
'I agree.'
'Then raise the sword you carry, and end this.' With these final words, Janosk knelt for execution.
Peto dismounted. 'I'll never understand what made you invade my lands, but we were once allies and can be allies again. Will you pledge to serve me?' he asked, his voice conciliatory.
Janosk slowly shook his head, and in a gesture of trust, removed the cape and handed it to Jorani. As he did, Peto saw the raw pain in his eyes, glimpsed the fresh blood seeping onto his tunic, and understood. With a nod of acknowledgment for his foe's brave move, he raised his sword and slashed sideways through the man's neck.
As the head fell away, the woman behind Janosk fainted. His older daughter threw herself over her father's body and began to scream. The son bore his father's death well, but it was the youngest child that drew Peto's attention. The girl stood trembling at the sight of the blood, then raised her icy blue eyes, looking at him with such intense hate that he wondered if she were some sorcerer able to kill with a glance. Without a word, she turned and walked up the stairs, her step firm, her hands tight fists at her sides.
Peto turned to Shaul and the Kislovan rebel mounted behind him. 'Is it the Obour custom to burn their dead?'
The girl who had been weeping raised her head and answered for them. 'It is,' she said.
'Then take him away and prepare the body as custom demands.' He looked at the girl and asked, 'Is there any waiting period required?'
'Mo,' she said.
'Then let this be over at nightfall,' he ordered.
Peto waited until the courtyard was empty save for his personal guards. He had already admired the beauty of the lands around the castle. Now he stood in the center of it, looking at the imposing outer walls and gate, the airy design of the living quarters rising before him with their delicate oval windows covered in clear crystal, their towers lifted majestically toward the sky.
Nimbus Castle-his spoil of war.
This should have been his moment of triumph, indeed would have been save for the sudden chill he felt. He might have rationalized and said it was caused by the clouds moving in front of the sun, or the evening mists already rising from the river and curling through the open doors, or by the weariness of battle, but in truth the chill was caused by none of these. Instead he had a feeling of doom so strong it seemed as if someone were speaking words of dread clearly into his mind:
No good will come from this victory-not for your family or for the Obours or for the citizens of Kislova who I am sworn to protect. Leave this place. If you are wise you will never return.
He spun and looked toward the path leading to the river. In the place where the mists were the thickest he saw the floating figure of an old woman, her long white hair flowing like the folds of her gown. There, yet not there, but whether this was vision or spectre he did not know. 'Leave this land,' she whispered and raised one pale hand, pointing at him.
'I cannot,' he replied. Nonetheless, he mounted his horse, and without a backward glance at the castle or the apparition, rode quickly toward his camp.
FIVE
Ilsabet retreated to the great hall and paced the length of it, hysterical with shame and sorrow. She'd seen the blind rebel leader ride up beside Baron Peto and knew exactly how Peto had been warned of the invasion. She wondered how she'd live with the guilt of her father's death, then alternately how she would survive now that he was gone.
Greta found her standing at the window, motionless and rigid as she watched servants stack wood for her father's pyre. Greta put her arm on her charge's shoulder, but Ilsabet did not lean against her, nor acknowledge her presence in any way.
'Servants know so much, Greta,' Ilsabet finally said. 'Have you heard who gave my father his lethal wound?'
'I understand he fought with Baron Peto, himself.'
'Ah! So I can hate him. How marvelous.' Ilsabet turned to Greta then, and the servant must have seen the sheer joy she felt in that hatred, a joy that brought with it a kind of madness.
'There is little you can do to him no matter how much you loathe him, child,' she said.
'Never call me 'child' again,' Ilsabet responded. 'And I have no need of consoling. Why are you here?'
Greta looked at her uneasily. 'The rite will be start-ing in an hour. Baron Peto has sent word that he wishes to meet with the family afterward. I thought you might wish to prepare.'
'Prepare? Yes, I suppose so.' She followed Greta to her chamber where she deliberately chose the same gown she had worn on the day she'd visited the camp. She wanted it to serve as a reminder of her rash words, and of her vow to never be so impulsive again.
'You should wear red or black, the colors of mourning,' Greta chided.
'I've chosen the colors of our house,' Ilsabet replied. 'Father would want someone to do so.'
'So he would,' Greta agreed. She was putting the last pins in Ilsabet's hair when they heard the ringing of the huge iron bell in the courtyard, summoning the castle to the funeral rites.
'Go on ahead, Greta,' Ilsabet ordered. 'I'll come soon.'
She waited until Greta had gone, then ran down the hall to her father's room, retrieving some of his treasures, which she carried to her own room and hid in a cupboard. Downstairs, she moved through the crowd to take her place beside her brother, just as the priests were beginning their chant.
Ilsabet was not the only one wearing the blue and gold of the Obour family. Her father's valet wore his livery, as did a number of the serving maids. Lady Lorena was dressed in similar tones, and her richest gown, Ilsabet noted. Her hair was unbound, a sign of sorrow among her own people, and her face was a moving pattern of fear and grief. Mihael and Mar-ishka stood beside her, black-cloaked, heads bowed.
Baron Peto stood nearby. He'd also dressed simply, his expression as somber as the family's. 'At least he shows respect for his enemy,' one of the house servants whispered loud enough for his companions to hear.
Respect! Ilsabet thought. The fact that he is here at all shows his lack of respect for our grief. She looked at her father, his body covered by his war shield, his face so serene in death as to seem almost dull. However, the servants who had prepared the body had done well. There was no sign that her father had been beheaded, save for the wide strip of leather covering his neck. She glanced around but saw no sign of Dark or any of the rebels. Apparently, Peto had the good sense to order them to stay away.
Had her father died victorious, one of the priests would pause at the end of the ceremony to recount his deeds and valor in battle. Instead, the service ended with the prayer. Then with a sudden wailing, the priests threw torches on the oil-soaked pyre.
The torches sputtered, then the heated oil flared and spread, the flames so high and hot that the mourners had to step back. As they did, Ilsabet saw Lorena sway on her feet. Was she about to faint again? It would be like her, Ilsabet thought.
Baron Peto moved through the crowd, possibly meaning to catch her when she fell, but just as he grabbed her, she pulled herself out of his grasp, leaving him holding only the ripped hem of her sleeve. Then, with her wail merging with the priests', she flung herself forward onto the pyre. With a wall of flame between her and the crowd, she was beyond the reach of any rescuer.
Her skirts flared, giving a glimpse of the long legs that had served her so well through countless hours of courtly dances. Then the smoky fire swallowed her form as it had her husband's. She died without a sound.
Ilsabet heard Peto's oath, her sister's scream, but she felt only satisfaction. Her father had released Lorena from her duty, yet the woman had chosen to die anyway. Ilsabet regretted only that she had not known how much
