He led her forward across the herb-strewn planks, past the empty dust-covered tables, past the grimly nodding men and up the shallow steps to the dais. All the while, Donskoy's followers continued to snap their Fingers. The lord took his place in the thronelike chair at the center of the table, before an eiegant saltcellar made of silver. He motioned for Marguerite to sit beside him. Then he raised his hand, and the men ceased their strange applause, taking their seats as well. They began to murmur softly among themselves, throwing the occasional glance in Marguerite's direction. One of the men nudged his companion and whispered into the fellow's ear, then both laughed darkly.
From this new vantage point, Marguerite could better view her audience. They formed an incongruous picture of fine clothing and imperfect bodies. One man was missing his right eye and half his face; it had caved in along a terrible scar. Another had only one hand; the left arm ended in a fingerless stump. A third had a hump. Others seemed less tattered, but even the fittest suffered some small deformity, such as a cauliflower ear or a blind white eye, or a profusion of sores and boils.
Smiling stiffly, Marguerite whispered a question to her husband. 'Do these people live in the castle?'
Donskoy chortled. 'No, my dear,' he said, patting her hand. 'Rest assured. My associates may lodge here on occasion, but they devote most of their time to … ah, watching the borders of my land. They prefer the wild, and I admit I prefer the solitude. You have nothing to fear from them. No doubt they are jealous, but they would never dare harm my pretty wife, if that's your fear. They are not as rough as they seem.'
Marguerite breathed a sigh of relief.
Her husband continued, 'Of course, they are easily summoned, should I require them. They are always close at hand.'
The places had already been set and the wine poured, with full jugs resting on each table. A pewter platter and mug lay before each man, while Donskoy and Marguerite were to dine with fine silver and goblets of precious red glass. The men were already drinking. As soon as Donskoy had taken his seat, they had returned to their libation and chatter. Yelena rustled in through a door behind the dais and added a third setting at the end of the high table. Marguerite raised a brow, recalling the uninvited guest, the woman.
Donskoy did not acknowledge Yelena's actions. He stood, raising a glass toward his associates. 'I present to you my bride, Marguerite,' he bellowed. The men lifted their mugs and gave a half-hearted hail. Marguerite nodded politely, but few met her gaze. The men's attentions had turned to the rear of the hall, to the sound of large doors opening.
The white-skinned woman from the chapel entered. She swept in as if she herself were the keep's mistress, well acquainted with every nook and shadow. Marguerite frowned. The men rose from their seats and they lifted their mugs again, this time toward the new arrival. The woman's traveling cloak was gone, displaying a sleek gown of dark green silk. It fit snugly to the hips, then flared to allow movement. The wide neckline boldly exposed her neck and shoulders, while the tight bodice thrust her round white breasts up toward her collarbone. Yards of black lace dripped from the gown's snug sleeves and trailed from the waist like a tail. As she crossed the floor, the dress rustled and hissed. Like a snake through autumn leaves, thought Marguerite.
The woman slithered up the aisle, nodding to each associate in turn. Pearls had been woven in the plaits of her raven hair. She stepped onto the dais, and draped her pale white hand across the table to Don-skoy, who pecked her fingers stiffly.
'Jacqueline,' he said, 'may I present my wife, Marguerite Donskoy, nee de Boche.'
Jacqueline nodded to Marguerite. 'Delighted, I'm sure.' She darted her pink tongue ever so slightly between her scarlet lips, which echoed the color of a velvet ribbon encircling her neck. 'Your bride is quite striking, Milos,' she added. 'An unusual sort of beauty. Those huge dark eyes against that pale amber hair. I never imagined you could unearth such a specimen from the piddling corners of Darkon.'
'I beg your pardon?' Marguerite was incredulous.
'Is Darkon not your home?' Jacqueline asked coyly.
'Yes, but-'
'Oh, I meant no offense. You must tell me all about your roots then, Marguerite. Later.'
Donskoy bade them sit. Jacqueline took her place at the end, where she enjoyed a vantage of both her companions. As Donskoy extolled the quaint rituals of the wedding and the lovely quality of his fresh bride, Yelena shuffled in with a tray, presenting a pair of finger bowls to the women. The servant's cheek was still marred by the long weal that looked like a leech sucking her vitality-what little remained to her.
Jacqueline toyed with a curl of her black hair, inspecting it carefully. 'It was indeed an entertaining ceremony,' she said, not bothering to look up. 'I'm so pleased I couid attend.'
'And I am pleased to see you are feeling better,' Donskoy replied, a faint chill in his tone.
'Thank you, my friend. Your kindness warms me.'
'Were you ill?' asked Marguerite. 'Then surely you should not have traveled.'
Jacqueline smiled condescendingly. 'How sweet of you to worry. It is nothing serious. I am prone to headaches, which can be maddening, but rarely fatal.'
Marguerite noticed a faintly bruised band of flesh that rimmed the woman's neck ribbon, and wondered if perhaps the fabric had been drawn too snugly.
'But I haven't a glimmer of pain now,' Jacqueline continued, stroking a pale finger thoughtfully along her jaw. The nail was short but pointed, and stained red with henna. She brightened. 'Indeed I feel like a new woman, thanks to Donskoy's generous gift. I couldn't wait to get home before I opened it.'
From the dim corners of her memory, Marguerite recalled the black box-the crate that Arturi had unloaded, and that she had last seen lashed to the back of the woman's carriage. Marguerite wondered how this could possibly have effected a cure. She was about to inquire when Donskoy interrupted.
'Yes, the new gown becomes you, Jacqueline. And home is where I thought you were destined. What has prompted your return?'
'You did, I thought,' she answered sweetly.
'And how might I have done that?' he asked.
'Soon after we parted, the road became impassable, blocked by timber.'
Donskoy seemed surprised.
Marguerite found the entire exchange quite curious. 'How could that have been Lord Donskoy's arrangement?' she asked. 'Are you suggesting he scurried out beforehand and felled the trees himself?'
Donskoy smirked.
Jacqueline smiled knowingly. 'The unconscious will,' she murmured. Her emerald eyes flashed, reflecting the shimmer of her dark silk gown. 'One should never underestimate its power.'
'You speak too dramatically,' said Donskoy.
'And you underestimate yourself,' replied Jacqueline. 'There is very little in this domain that does not reflect your wilt, my friend, or bend to your wishes.'
Donskoy gave a low chuckle. 'Except women, perhaps.' He patted Marguerite's hand. 'You see, Marguerite, my land tends toward self-destruction, especially during the spring, when one might expect just the opposite. But I am surprised to hear of it now.'
'Well, if you doubt it,' Jacqueline replied, 'you must see for yourself.'
'That won't be necessary,' Donskoy said. 'I will send Ljubo and Ekhart with a few associates to clear the road for you tomorrow.'
'A few fallen trees is hardly self-destruction, Lord Donskoy,' Marguerite offered. 'It must be a common occurrence when the soil is saturated and the roots are weak. Really, such attributions make things seem grimmer than they truly are.'
'Take note, Jacqueline,' Donskoy replied. 'Already she offers a fresh perspective. She'll bring renewal to this land yet, you shall see.'
'Yes, I shall,' said Jacqueline, smiling smugly. 'And I shall enjoy the spectacle.'
An awkward pause ensued. Then Ljubo and Yelena entered bearing the first course: two peacocks, cooked fully feathered. Their brilliant turquoise and emerald tails had been spared from the heat, then reattached with skewers to stand aloft. The necks, too, had been wired erect. Yelena strained under her load, but Ljubo waddled contentedly as usual, bobbing so that the bird's feathers waved before him like an exotic many-eyed fan. Marguerite suppressed a smile. He made a perverse sort of harem girl, she thought. For that matter, he made an equally unsavory eunuch. The peacock's loose head nodded in agreement on its spike. Ljubo had made an effort to
