"We'll talk more of this in the future," Jacqueline interrupted. She tipped her head toward the door. "When things become clearer, you may find we understand one another better."
Lord Donskoy had returned to the hall. A smile flickered across his face; the stormy mood appeared to have passed. Before returning to the head table, he stopped to talk with some of his associates.
Marguerite looked at the woman beside her, but Jacqueline did not return the glance. She was smifing sweetfy in Donskoy's direction. Without turning her gaze, she said, "Are you happy here, Marguerite?"
"Yes, of course."
"And do you sleep well? No bumps in the night to awaken you?"
"I have slept well for the past two nights."
"You have heard no strange creaktngs, Marguerite?" Jacqueline spoke softly, and she continued to smile in Donskoy's direction. "No unearthly shadows have come to hover about your bed?"
"Mothing has disturbed my sleep," Marguerite said. She did not add that the only unearthly shadow she had seen had been lurking outside the keep, on the day she arrived. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason," Jacqueline said, still not looking at Marguerite. "E find Donskoy's castle somewhat. . bothersome at night."
Donskoy gave a hearty laugh, then turned away from his associates. As he approached the head table, Jacqueline's smile became coy, and she leaned closer to Marguerite. "I'm glad to hear the castle treats you better than it does me," she whispered. "A good night's rest is what you need to stay fresh."
Sensing that it would not to do to probe further about Miss Montarri's troublesome nights, Marguerite sighed with exasperation. Fresh. Why must everyone speak as if she were a item growing stale in the pantry? Why must everyone be so eccentric?
Donskoy took his place behind the high table. "What we need now," he announced loudly, "is the entertainment!" He motioned to Ljubo, who was standing at attention near the men's tables. "Alert Ekhart," he commanded. "And fetch the hounds."
This development took Marguerite by surprise. She tried to imagine what would follow, daring to hope that the strange, somber banquet might give way to a more traditional celebration. In the castles of romantic tales, a feast never ended without the awe-inspiring turns of a juggler and acrobats, and the cheerful songs of a minstrel. Perhaps Donskoy was keeping them in the wings. Marguerite shook her head; it seemed unlikeiy. But what then? In Darkon's fortress Avernus, she had heard, «noble» guests often debauched themselves in the company of the castle guard, creating an obscene frenzy of pain and pleasure for the amusement of the great lord Azalin.
The door at the rear of the hall opened, and Ljubo reappeared, preceded by a hobbled beast that dragged itself forward on the ground. A leather hood concealed its head, but the rest of the body was exposed. It possessed the features of several animals, mostly bear and boar. A naked gray tail curled over its dark, bristly back. The slender rear legs, small for its immense bulk, ended in tiny hooves that clacked sharply against the smooth stone floor. The forelegs, covered by black shaggy fur, terminated in a pair of great bear paws. Its left front leg had been twisted around and bound against its flank with a barbed tether. Though Marguerite could not see the creature's face, she could hear it breathing heavily inside its hood. The nervous beast was swinging its head back and forth, from side to side.
The associates leaned forward at their tables, their eyes flickering with anticipation.
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.