Marguerite was filled with pity and fear. 'What is this abomination?' she whispered to her husband.
'Have you never seen such an animal?' Donskoy asked lightly.
'No.'
'You have led such a sheltered life, my angel. This creature was a gift from a Lord Markov, a boon for a favor I once paid him. In fact, it is one of three such creatures he awarded me.'
Marguerite wondered what had become of the other two, but she did not voice the question; she had no desire to hear the answer. Doubtless, she would see for herself soon enough.
Ekhart entered the room with a trio of black hounds, securely leashed. He reached forward and cut their tethers.
The hounds scrambled toward the prey. When they came within striking range, they moved slowly into position, circling. The hooded beast swung blindly. Still, it landed the first blow, drawing five red iines across a dog's shoulder. The hound did not flinch, pressing forward to receive another wound. The maneuver gave its companions opportunity; they moved in behind the beast and fixed their jaws on its hind legs. The beast turned wildly, but it was too late; its attackers had already ripped its tendons to bloody shreds.
The creature toppled, then struggled to right itself, its useless legs sliding back and forth and painting the floor with red streaks. The hounds circled, darting in to snap at the pitiful beast until the thing, too exhausted to flail at its attackers any longer, lay still and panting, its neck fully exposed.
Drooling, the dogs began to gather near the head of their prey. The creature's great barrel of a chest heaved slowly and painfully, and Marguerite imagined she could hear its drumming heart.
Donskoy raised a hand. Ekhart whistled, freezing the hounds. Whimpering and whining, they returned to him.
'Azroth shall have the honor,' announced Donskoy.
The man nearest to the high table left his seat and walked over to the beast. With his short sword, he slashed at the back of the creature's head. It was not a killing blow. As the beast writhed, Azroth snatched at the hood, now bloodied but free, and removed it.
Marguerite gasped. The creature had the head of a boar, but the eyes were unnatural-like a man's eyes, she thought. Its gaze, filled with fear and supplication, fell on her, silently pleading for mercy from the one soul who might grant it.
Marguerite winced and turned away.
She heard Azroth's sword strike again. The creature gave a sharp cry.
Marguerite did not look up, but she felt a string of moist droplets strike her face, then she saw the tiny red stains upon her gown, a spray of blood. Azroth had struck an artery.
'Sweet Marguerite.' Donskoy gentty wiped the blood from her face with a cloth. 'So innocent and gentle. Does this sport pain you? You said yourself the creature was an abomination.'
Marguerite did not offer an answer, nor, she knew, did her husband really expect one. When she looked up, Ljubo was dragging the bloody carcass from the hall.
Donskoy rose. 'The feast has ended,' he announced. 'All hail my bride.'
'Hail,' droned the men, voices bare of enthusiasm.
'All hail the renewal.'
They raised their palms to the ceiling and snapped their fingers.
'Come, my dear,' said Donskoy. 'Let us leave them. I have eaten well, but I am still ravenous.' He turned to Jacqueline. 'Entertain yourself as you wish. Ljubo and Ekhart will assist you in the morning.'
'You are too kind,' said Jacqueline. 'Marguerite, it has been a pleasure to meet you.'
Marguerite merely smiled.
The man who had slain the beast spoke up. 'And is this all for the entertainment, then, my lord?' His voice sank low with subtle menace. 'You promised us more.'
Donskoy chuckled. 'Yes, of course. And I have kept that promise.' He nodded to Ekhart. 'Show them to the dungeons.' With a gracious wave, he added, 'Gentle rogues, faithful friends, your prize awaits.'
They filed out slowly, the men's faces twitching in childish anticipation.
Marguerite mustered the courage to ask the question that had formed in her head. 'What prize awaits them, my dear husband?'
Donskoy looked at her beneath lowered lids. 'That is not your concern, my dearest. You must concentrate on the prize that awaits you.'
SEVEN
Donskoy led Marguerite to the foyer. Wicked laughter drifted up from the depths of the castle, distant and muffled. His men were enjoying their prize.
The couple crossed into the sitting room where they had first spoken. Now the hearth was cold, the black embers void of life. A small arched door lay in the corner. Donskoy withdrew a key and opened it, and with a bow and a flourish of his hand, he motioned for her to enter.
Marguerite closed her eyes and steeled herself, half-expecting to enter some chamber of horror-a gallery filled with a contorted and unnatural menagerie, stuffed yet animate; a dank closet with a soiled pallet and darkly stained manacles, where «unfresh» wives were left to rot. She swallowed hard to regain her composure; her imagination was running amuck.
As she crossed the threshold, she exhaled sharply, her relief mingled with awe. She had stepped into a strange and lovely dream, a fantasy in red. One by one, the heavy thoughts that played in the back of her mind and weighed on her spirit simply melted away- the crude men, their pox and their disease and their wicked games, her fear that Donskoy's tastes might run in similar veins. Soft opulence enveloped her.
No other room in the castle had coverings upon the stone or wood floors, save for herbs and straw, and the occasional pelt. Here in this small chamber, layers of ornate red tapestries and plush fur rugs cloaked the polished planks, leaving only the outer rim of the floor exposed. Long swaths of crimson velvet hung from the paneled walls, pooling on the dark, gleaming wood. The ceiling was low and divided into gilded squares, each housing a carved rosette, tinted scarlet. A single chandelier dangled in the center of the room. It resembled a large, ornate cage of gold filigree, imprisoning a circle of wax candles carved in the shape of doves. Long strands of red glass beads dripped from the bars of the cage like sparkling droplets of blood. They tinkled softly, stirred by the soft breeze that rushed through the open doorway.
The room was lush, lavish, and decadent, unlike any place Marguerite had ever seen.
'My private salon,' murmured Donskoy. 'My oasis from decay and despair. I hope it pleases you.' He peeled off his jacket and tossed it thoughtlessly onto the floor.
Marguerite nodded.
'I am glad,' he continued. 'I do not extend the honor of a visit to just anyone.'
He watched as she continued to survey the room and its furnishings-the plush red divan, stretched languidly before a pair of low round tables; the throne-like chair and stout square table sitting beside it, each resting proudly on lion's legs; the profusion of red velvet pillows scattered across the floor. A warm fireplace glowed on the left side of the room, with a chimney and a golden hood to keep back the smoke. exotic water pipe rested on the floor nearby, its glass bowls red and as round as a spider's abdomen, the long hose coiled beside it like a patient black snake with a slim silver head. A row of white marble pedestals stood along the opposite wall-the kind that displayed busts in a gallery, though they were headless at present. On the rear wall loomed a fruitwood cabinet with gleaming inlaid panels and carved rosettes that echoed the pattern in the ceiling. Marguerite realized she had seen similar designs once before, though in a smaller piece-a chest her father had imported from Lamordia, a northern land noted for its craftsmanship.
Donskoy settled himself on the floor beside the water pipe, lighting it with a slender stick from the fire. 'Sit.' He motioned toward the divan. 'And let yourself relax.'
She obeyed, at least the first command. His second wish would be harder met.
Donskoy pressed the tip of the black hose to his lips, inhaling deeply. Marguerite stared. When he exhaled, she noticed that the silver tip was shaped like the head of a cobra; the artisan, too, had envisioned a serpent and conjured its likeness.
'Have you never seen a hookah?' Donskoy asked.
