"Why is this test so special?" Marguerite asked.

Zosia turned and walked toward the door. "Because when I am finished, it will show you carry a son."

Marguerite gasped. "But is it true?"

Zosia shrugged. "Maybe yes, maybe no, but either way it will be true soon enough. And for your sake, Donskoy must believe it is true now."

"But if I don't conceive-"

"You will," said Zosia. "I have seen it. But first, we must calm Lord Donskoy. He grows too anxious, and an anxious man fathers a nervous child."

Marguerite was too bewildered to protest. Then she thought of Donskoy down below with Jacqueline. Perhaps Zosia knew best.

The old woman motioned to Griezell, who leaped from the bed and shambled to the door. Then both the toad and the old woman departed.

Marguerite sat down at the edge of her bed. For a moment, she was quiet. Then she pressed a pillow to her face and screamed. And in the castle below, within the red walls of Donskoy's salon, another scream echoed her own.

FIFTEEN

Marguerite lay in her bed, drifting uneasily toward sleep. She wondered whether Zosia had showed her husband the results of the doctored test. Night had fallen hours ago, but Donskoy might still be preoccupied with Jacqueline Montarri, barring visitors from his salon. Even for such a momentous announcement, Zosia would wait.

From outside came a noise that brought Marguerite upright in an instant. She sat inside her bed curtains, listening. The sound came again: a long, peculiar wait, resembling the eerie moan of a wounded cow. The hairs on the nape of her neck rose like tiny quiils.

For a moment, Marguerite hid behind the walls of her velvet tomb. Then came the familiar crunching of wheels on gravel and the anxious, muffled whining of Ekhart's hellish pack. Marguerite climbed out of bed and went to her window. She parted the shutters only slightly, afraid that the light of her hearth would draw the gaze of someone outside-as if it were her actions that should be hidden under cover of night.

She needn't have worried. Earlier the clouds had opened themselves and drenched the land, Now the sky was almost clear, the moon full and bright. Its pale yellow glow readily overpowered the feeble light from her window.

Marguerite squinted, studying the scene below. She failed to see a tortured cow, but she really hadn't expected one; the sound that drew her from bed had not seemed natural. Ekhart stood beside his wagon, holding a lantern aloft. Three black shapes crouched in the back-the hounds, readied for the hunt. Beside them lay a long black crate.

Ljubo stood in the clearing beyond, facing away from the castle. He waved his lantern back and forth, as though signaling. He appeared to be waiting for something-someone. The associates? Jacqueline? The dark-haired woman had mentioned an excursion in the drawing room. But wouid she and Donskoy's men go out in the dead of night? Marguerite sniffed and shook her head, answering her own question. When else? The night suited this crew quite well.

A slender woman astride a dark horse appeared from the direction of the stables, then turned her high-spirited mount in a sharp circle. Doubtlessly it was Jacqueline. She wore black leggings and tunic, like a man, though her silhouette remained decidedly feminine. Lord Donskoy came next, pulling his mount alongside Montarri's. He raised a black, shining object to his lips, a crescent-shaped horn, and the peculiar wail sounded once more.

After several moments, a rider emerged from the forest that ringed the clearing and approached the castle. One by one, a dozen men followed suit, streaming out of the wood. They were Donskoy's associates, clad in black. Among them, Marguerite spied two guests she recognized from the wedding feast, a man with a humped back and another with only one arm. They each brought a hound or two of their own. Ljubo greeted the newcomers with a nod, then shambled to the wagon and climbed up beside Ekhart.

With the party fully assembled, Donskoy's loyal pair dimmed their lanterns. Ekhart raised a whip. It arched through the air, then cracked sharply over the ponies' backs. The cart jerked forward and rumbled into motion. The riders fell in behind, in pairs. Following the mud-and-gravel track, the procession snaked across the clearing and slipped into the woods beyond.

Marguerite knew where they were headed: to the rim, where lost travelers were brought close by the currents in the mists. And this time, she could hardly convince herself that Donskoy's men were attempting a rescue.

At first, she had no intention of following. Her chamber was locked, and the secret passage in her wall had proved dangerous. Besides, what was it to her how her husband and his men entertained a guest?

Marguerite paced, a caged animal. The hounds in the tapestry watched as she passed back and forth. Without thinking, she made a holy sign in the air, mimicking a gesture she had often seen in Darkon, when the village priest found it necessary to enter a temple defiled by undead.

Moments later, she had donned her leggings and her traveling gear and was crouching before the tapestry. She triggered the moving stone, then followed the dank artery toward the adjacent chamber, silently mouthing a prayer to keep the mechanism working. To her relief, the secret door at the opposite end swung open, allowing her exit. When the door to the hallway groaned and screeched, she did not even flinch.

"Let them hear me,I' she whispered defiantly. "I am not a prisoner." But her bravado was false; she knew that only Zosia and the mute remained in the castle.

Marguerite went directly to the stables, seeking the horse with the ridiculous misnomer of Lightning. One of the other mounts might have been faster, she knew, but her lack of skill made her choose the familiar beast. She rooted through the tack room for a saddle and bridle, then struggled to prepare the horse. Lightning puffed out her belly to keep the saddle loose, but Marguerite was wary. She waited until the horse exhaled, then drew the cinch tight. With bridle slipped over the mare's flickering ears, she led her mount to the gate and parted the enormous doors. When they were closed behind her, she hoisted herself into the saddle.

Glancing backward only once, Marguerite proceeded down the rutted track that led to the rim. The road was muddy and laced with puddles, but a grassy hump rose in the center above the muck. Marguerite kept Lightning to this ridge, hoping to make better time. She was not sure what she expected to accomplish by following her husband and his associates; certainly, she knew better than to dare interfere with whatever they were doing. But she had to see, to learn for herself if her darkest fears had substance.

As she crossed the stone bridge, a dark shadow swooped low past her ear-an owl perhaps. She gripped the mare's neck and pushed on, riding steadily until she reached the fork in the road. There she allowed herself to pause and regain her breath, wishing she had thought to bring a flask of something warm to drink, or least a skin of water. The wagon's tracks confirmed her suspicions about the group's plans; the mud showed the clear imprint of hooves and wheels, leading to the right, toward the rim.

Marguerite followed. The trees pressed in around her, dark and menacing. Shaken by the wind, a black spruce flailed its arms, freeing a rain of loose cones to assault her. Lightning twitched and whinnied as one struck her flank. Marguerite reached forward to pat the mare's neck, but the gesture was as much to reassure herself as her mount. She tapped her heels against the horse's belly, and Lightning trotted on.

As the road began to climb into the hills, fast, low-flying clouds cast flickering shadows across its surface. Soon, Marguerite knew, she would be approaching the spot from which she and Donskoy had gazed down at the mist-covered valley. She dismounted and led her mare by the reins, picking her way carefully over the sharp boulders that sprouted up from the rough track.