courtyard.
Marguerite leaned down and placed a hand on Ljubo's shoulder, as if steadying herself. 'It will be our secret.'
Her husband arrived before Ljubo couid respond.
'Ready now?' he asked, frowning at the sight of Marguerite touching the stablehand.
Marguerite pulled herself upright. 'Ready.'
Donskoy swatted his gray with a crop. The horse lurched forward, starting toward the gate. Marguerite nudged Lightning after him.
Meanwhile Ljubo raced toward the gate in a wild waddle. Purple-faced and damp, he barely had time to lift the crossbar and push the great doors apart before Donskoy passed beneath the lintel, preceding Marguerite by several lengths.
As she emerged behind him, she felt as if a tightness had been eased, as if she had been freed from the dark, tortuous gullet of some bilious beast and cast back into the open air. The deep wall of pines stretched out to her left. She peered into the feathered screen and saw herself, two days earlier, huddled in the protective embrace of the gypsy. Ramus-that was his name. Incredibly, she had almost forgotten. Donskoy paused and allowed her to come alongside. Then they trotted down the road together.
The clearing ended, and the pair slipped into the forest, passing over the little stone bridge. The road was soon joined by the black, glistening stream, which flowed attentively along its flank. Marguerite wondered about the water's source-a spring, perhaps, bubbling up from the depths? Perhaps these same depths gave rise to the stream that ran beneath the castle. Perhaps, in fact, this very water flowed through the dungeon, skulking through the bedrock like a prisoner tunneling an escape route, re-emerging well clear of the walls. Marguerite half-expected to see the gypsy's smiling apparition bobbing down the brook, but the shining water offered up nothing. The road turned sharply, and the stream trailed away into the pines.
They came upon the fetid marshes, with their blood-red brambles and rocky outcroppings, unchanged since Marguerite had passed here in the jostling cart with Ljubo and Ekhart (After only days, what had she expected?) The slender leaves still clung sparsely to the shrubs, like a bald man's last hairs; and once again, they seemed to shiver at her passage. Then Marguerite noted that one thing had changed: she no longer found the scent of decaying flora quite so nauseating as before. Either the last remnants of the Vistani sleeping potion had left her body completely, or she was becoming acclimated to her new home. Indeed, the bitter, earthy scent seemed faintly pleasing, and she inhaled it deeply.
At the fork, the couple paused. They had been riding for about half an hour. Mear this spot, Arturi and his caravan had deposited Marguerite, along with her bridal chest and the strange black box. The place had tost its foreboding edge.
Donskoy reached out and plucked Lightning's reins, drawing the mare closely alongside his own mount. He pecked Marguerite on the cheek. 'Still fresh, my dear?'
'Yes,' she said. 'It's exhilarating.'
'I am glad,' Donskoy replied. 'I used to take this ride often with Ljubo and Ekhart, along with a few associates, but now their company bores me. Unless some extraordinary event dictates otherwise, they go alone.' He reached into his jacket and withdrew a silver f!ask. 'A libation to keep you warm. From here, the air may grow colder.'
She sipped tentatively at the mouth of the flask, encountering a spiced, thick liqueur that tasted of honey. It delighted her tongue.
Donskoy fixed his eyes on the roadside and scowled suddenly, swinging down from his horse. A small sigil had been carved into one of the trees beside the neck of the fork. Marguerite squinted. It appeared to be an upside-down triangle crossed by a line, but she could not get a good look. Donskoy withdrew a blade and began erasing the symbol, savagely tearing the bark from the tree.
'Wretched Vistani,' he grumbled. 'They leave their marks as freely as dogs.'
'What do they mean?' she asked. She recalled that Arturi had made a sign in the dirt, but he had done nothing to the tree. Of course, she could have failed to notice the mark. Or perhaps another caravan had passed this way in intervening days. Or perhaps, not a caravan, but a single man. Ramus.
'They?' Donskoy growled, scraping busily.
'The marks.'
'Nothing. Just insults to my honor, and now, I suppose, to yours. They gain power only if we acknowledge them. So don't speak of them again.'
Don't speak of this. Don't venture there. Don't. . Don't what? What next?
Donskoy returned to his saddle, saw her pinched face, and reached over to retrieve the flask from her hands.
'They are nothing. Signposts left by those who would claim every road as their own. Don't let them trouble you.' He took a thick swallow of the honeyed brew, then replaced the stopper and returned the flask to his black velvet saddlebag. 'Ready?'
Marguerite nodded.
Lord Donskoy backed his gelding in a tight circle, surveying the fork. Then he dug his heels into its flanks, steering it left, the direction in which Arturi and his caravan had gone after ejecting Marguerite. She hesitated, watching her husband, then followed directly behind. His back was as rigid as a sword, as if his spine had been encased in iron. When it appeared to melt and his countenance relaxed, she urged her horse forward until she came alongside him.
'Your lands are beautiful,' she said. 'Where does this road lead?'
'To the rim. The edge of my domain.'
'I thought that was quite far.'
'Sometimes it seems that way. And sometimes not,' he said. 'Like matter over mind. But the views are worth the trip.'
The forest hemmed in the road. It was rougher here, with scraggled saplings filling the underforest and pockets of sharp-looking oak. The trail began to rise slowly. Mow and then, Marguerite could see a distant red cliff, rocky and bare, jutting out from the face of the low mountains.
As they rode, a fog settled in. Soon, it swirled around them like a soup. Marguerite's hair grew damp with droplets.
'Should we go back?' she asked.
'Why?11
'We cannot see.'
'We are not lost,' he said simply. 'But we may be near the edge.'
The horses started to climb out of the fog, and Marguerite was forced to lean forward and grip her mare's neck to keep her balance. Then the road crested a ridge and, on the other side, began to traverse the hillside above a deep, sweeping valley filled with a sea of mist. Here and there a tiny island of green pierced the veil, the tip of a spruce.
Marguerite heard a sound in the distance. Someone was calling. A woman, crying anxiously. Another voice answered. And then a male, calling to the rest. Marguerite could not make out the words-they were muffled. The tones, however, carried a note of distress. The phantom voices echoed across the valley, first near, then far, then near again. It was impossible to tell how distant the people truly were.
Donskoy reined his horse to a halt and listened. He tugged at the corner of his mustache contemplatively. He appeared unconcerned.
'Are they gypsies?' Marguerite asked.
Donskoy barked out a laugh. 'What makes you think that?'
'They are travelers.'
'Vistani rarely lose their way in the mists.'
'If the people are lost, shouldn't we help them?'
'Help them?' He gave a dark laugh. 'You don't even know them, who, or what, they are. Besides, I-we-cannot reach them. They must come to us.'
'I don't understand,' Marguerite replied.
Donskoy studied her damp face. 'No, I suppose you do not. Perhaps I should acquaint you with one of the
