"Yes."
Then he said soberly, "More's the pity then. But, Marguerite, you should understand by now that desire and destiny rarely share the same path."
And then he was gone.
Marguerite sat huddled on the cavern floor, quietly rocking herself, one small hand nervously picking at the other. Outside, she heard the dogs scrabbling up the slope. She started to rise. The dogs. They had tracked her. But how? She had left no trail. Of course, how did not matter.
She had to escape. The woods might conceal her; she would hide out. She did not need Ramus. Surely, other gypsies traveled across Donskoy's land from time to time. She would wait near the fork, lurking, until at last she spotted them. Or perhaps she could leave Donskoy's domain without a Vistana's aid. If desperate enough, she could stow away beneath Jacqueline Montarri's carriage, and-
"Weil, well, well." The voice came from the mouth of the cavern.
Marguerite turned. Ekhart stood just outside, accompanied by two of Donskoy's associates, a half-faced brute and a man with only half a right arm. She shouldn't have been surprised to see them-she had heard the dogs-but somehow she was. Mow that Ramus had left her, everything seemed a fog.
Ekhart continued, "The rabbit has legs. But not for long." The associates slipped into the cavern, seizing Marguerite by the arms. She thrashed, but it was useless. Even the one-armed man had an iron grip. He poked at her with his stump, sliding it toward her throat as if it were a knife.
"What now, Ekhart?" Marguerite hissed. "Will you strike me with a flail and pick my body clean?"
Ekhart snorted, but his somber expression scarcely changed. "A pretty prospect. But alas, your lord intends to keep you safe from harm. For a while yet." The associates dragged her to the cavern entrance. Ekhart leaned in close, and she could smell his sour, bilious breath. "For a few months. But when that child is born, Lady Marguerite, it might be a different picture then. Then you'll learn what it is to obey. And when Donskoy has done with you, you'll answer to my hand."
Ekhart ran his dry, rough fingers over Marguerite's cheek. She spat in his gray eye, but he hardly blinked. He pulled his thin lips a fraction wider, then lifted his hand to his eye and wiped the spittle from his face. He touched his fingers to his lips and blew Marguerite a kiss.
"Enjoy your insults while you can," he said deeply, "They won't last forever." He turned and started down the slope.
The associates chuckled, shoving Marguerite after him.
SEVENTEEN
At the base of the cliff below the cave, Ljubo stood waiting with the hounds milling about his legs. When the snuffling beasts noticed Marguerite and her escorts, they commenced a chorus of eager baying. Ekhart silenced the pack with a wave of his hand.
Morning was upon them, turning the sky to the color of steel.
"Good day, Lady Marguerite," called Ljubo pleasantly. "We're so pleased to have found you."
Marguerite did not respond. She noticed that her hand had begun to turn blue, so tightly was the half-faced associate squeezing her wrist.
Ljubo began his characteristic nodding, then pulled his fleshy lips apart to reveal his flecked grin. The gesture was as sudden and lewd as a drunkard spreading his cape to expose himself. As Marguerite neared, she saw that a piece of pink, shredded meat jutted out from between the yellow clutches of the fat man's teeth. She recalled the image of him waddling into the forest with the headless corpse slung over his shoulder, and her gorge rose up. She choked it back, swallowing hard.
Seeing her revulsion, Ljubo turned his head shyly, then looked at her askance from beneath the awning of his fleshy brow. "So pleased to see you again," he murmured. "Yes indeed."
"Oh, shut up, Ljubo," snapped Ekhart. "There's no need to keep fawning over this bedraggled little bitch, even if she is whelping. Or will be.*
"Yes-yes," said Ljubo, rubbing his raggedy hands together. His smile never faded. "Just trying to make her feel welcome."
"A wasted effort," said Ekhart. He looked at Marguerite contemptuously, sliding his eyes across her body. "She's managed to take, but I have my doubts shell come to term."
Marguerite's right wrist, still caught in the grasp of the half-faced associate, was growing numb. His companion loomed close behind, touching her hair from time to time, or nudging her with the stump of his forearm. She could feel his fetid breath upon her neck.
"You can release her now," said Ekhart, addressing the associate. He winked at Marguerite-and she thought to herself that this was the greatest display of expression she had witnessed upon his face. He continued, "You won't run, will you Lady Marguerite?" He made the title sound obscene. "Though t'd like it if you did. ."
Marguerite smoothed her tunic and struggled to stand on her own. Her clothing was still damp, and she was panicked and cold, but she hoped Ekhart couldn't see her trembling. "[have no reason to run," she said evenly. "I am going home, escorted by my husband's faithful servants. [am glad you found me." She thrust out her chin. She had bitten the inside of her lip, and it was bleeding a Jittle, and she hoped this was not too apparent.
Ljubo snorted hard with mirth, then drew his sleeve across his moist, fleshy nose. Ekhart shot him a glance that could pierce armor. The fat man's eyes rolled meekly away, and he stared off into space.
With the associates flanking her and Ljubo and the hounds at the rear, the five figures walked together through the forest. Ekhart moved just ahead. Marguerite could not help comparing his rigid, brittle form to Ramus's sinewy, catlike body. She tried to thrust the gypsy's image from her mind.
In time the group emerged from the wood and stepped out onto the road. The cart stood waiting, with the pair of weary gray ponies anchored in the rigging before it. The associate's horses were tethered nearby.
The one-armed man and his half-faced companion swung astride their mounts. "Will you be needing us anymore?" asked the former.
Ekhart shook his head. "No indeed. Ljubo and I can handle the likes of this little rabbit. She may bolt, but she won't get far."
"Until next month, then," said the man. "Unless Donskoy summons us sooner." He whistled a long, low note, calling his hounds, which came to stand beside their master's horse.
Ekhart tipped his tall hat to the associates but said nothing. The men rode away, with most of the dog pack trailing behind.
Ljubo bowed deeply and motioned to the wagon. As Marguerite looked back into the forest, Ekhart cupped her elbow. She shook his hand loose, then pulled herself onto the bench. Ekhart slid into place beside her, pressing his side firmly against hers. He pressed a little harder
"No indeed," he said. "This little rabbit won't be running again. Mot unless she likes to be hunted. Do you. Lady Marguerite? Do you like to be hunted like an animal And what dank hole would you push your proud little head into next?"
Marguerite turned her face sharply away. Ekhart made a gesture to Ljubo, who bounded into the wagon bed, followed by the remaining trio of hounds. Marguerite cast a wary glance over her shoulder. To her relief, the black crate was gone. The wagon lurched forward, jostling along the track, carrying them back to Lord Donskoy's keep.
Presently Marguerite's stomach began to lurch with the motion of the wagon. Her face paled, and she lifted a trembling hand to cover her mouth.
Ekhart smiled. "Not feeling well, milady? Just like the last trip we made together, just a few short weeks ago. But already you look much older. Not very fresh at all. Soon you'll be shriveled and ugly, and who'll want you then?"
Marguerite lowered her hand and gave him an icy stare. "It must be the company I'm keeping," she said dryly. Her stomach twisted painfully, and she was forced to look away.
Ekhart chortled. "Let's see how Lord Donskoy likes his lady when she begins to rot just like the rest of us."
Marguerite's eyes fluttered. She felt a queer, hollow ache rising in the upper reaches of her gut, opening like a wound, slowing expanding with the rocking motion of the cart.
Ekhart continued, "Oh, it takes quite a long time for some, like Donskoy himself, and for me. The strong among us are barely affected by this land, compared to the weaklings. But someone so frail as you? Doubtless you'll be sloughing your own fingers just a few days after you've sloughed the child. You'll run them through your hair one day, thinking you're losing it, and your hand will come up bald instead."
Ljubo gurgled with mirth in the back of the wagon, but a quick took from Ekhart stilled him instantly.
Ekhart droned on. "Who'll want you then, Lady Marguerite? Maybe even I won't have a use for you …"
Marguerite had never heard so many words spilling from the old man's lips. Suddenly, she could contain her nausea no longer. She held her head over the side of the wagon and retched. When she had finished, she pressed her face to her shoulder, embarrassed. But the humiliation was nothing compared to the terror that had taken root inside her, growing with each turn of the cart's wheels, with each turn that brought them closer to the keep.
Ekhart gave the ponies a sharp siap with the reins. They lurched suddenly in surprise, spawning a fresh wave of nausea in Marguerite. She choked it down. Ekhart sneered. "Such a pity you're ill," he said. "Donskoy won't be pleased. Doesn't bode well for the child. Better hang on to that baby, Marguerite. It's the only magic that'll keep his temper at bay."
The cart jostled and creaked. Marguerite struggled to keep her head high, her eyes fixed ahead. She felt unsteady, but she refused to give Ekhart the pleasure of reacting. She would not let him see her swoon, nor would she allow him to goad her into a reply. She set her jaw, hoping her face would become a pale gray mask like his own.
The black stream ran alongside the road, winking reflections of the pale dawn light. Then the wagon traveled over the arched stone bridge. Mot long now, she thought, hot long before the keep rises up to swallow me. She closed her eyes to shut out the image, gripping the side of the wagon to keep from falling.
Unbidden, Ramus came to mind. She remembered the horrific display he had made, cutting into his own skin to release the crimson serpents. It must have been an illusion, she thought. It had to be. He did it to frighten me away. She remembered his "gift"-the child he claimed to have left behind. That, too, was probably a Me, another fiendish trick. And then she remembered his touch, the sweeping phrases of the violin's song, and suddenly she wasn't sure anymore whether truth was any better than a lie.