As in the torture chamber she had visited earlier, this room had another door in the back wall. From behind this barrier, so muffled and soft that Marguerite could not even hear it if she breathed too loudly, came a gentle purl of water. Curious as to the cause of the sound, she went to the door and pulled it open.
The space beyond seemed a part of the land itself, a cavern with rough walls of basalt. Only the smooth stone steps leading down from the door had been carved by man. Below, a small black stream snaked lazily across the floor, its surface slowly churning at each broad turn. Marguerite descended. From somewhere Far above came a soft wind, moaning down from a deep recess in the jagged ceiling. She remembered the pit that Ekhart had warned her about inside the castle's main entrance, and his warning about the demise of «impatient» invaders. Perhaps this was the bottom.
Marguerite reached the foot of the stairs and followed a path of sloping stone along the edge of the dark water. The stream seemed to end at the wall ahead, though she could tell by the swirling currents that it simply sank beneath the rock and continued to flow. She turned to retrace her steps, and saw a shape floating toward her, bobbing in the water. A log, perhaps. She held forth the light.
Then she screamed.
It was a woman's body, lying face down in the water. Marguerite regained her composure, letting a faint hiss escape her lips. She stepped closer to observe the corpse. Stop quivering, she admonished herself. The dead can cause no harm. Unbidden, her vampiric suitor from Azalin's kargat came to mind, and she added aloud, "Those who are truly dead, at any rate."
The corpse's long black hair swirled around her head like a nest of shining eels, The dark strands contrasted starkly with the woman's thin white blouse, which clung to her swarthy flesh in shreds, held in place by a tight purple corset. The cadaver's arms, cloaked in billowing sleeves, were spread wide like the wings of an angel. A delicate web of chains and coins defined her narrow waist, from which red and green silks swirled about her like scarves. The livid feet were bare, the ankles circled in gold.
A Vistana, thought Marguerite. But how did her body get here?
She looked again at the stream's slow currents. Of course. This was an underground river, or at least its branch. The gypsy must have begun her journey upstream. Perhaps she had even come from another land, eventually drifting to this natural tomb. How ironic that the nomad's final journey had occurred after death.
Marguerite thought briefly about what she could do. Alert someone, and let them know of her own wanderings? Certainly not. Attend to the body alone? Equally distasteful. And even if she had the fortitude to drag a corpse out of the water and bury it herself, the Vistani had their own customs. A «proper» funeral meant something else to them entirely.
The water gurgled, and the body slowly began to roll over. Marguerite watched with lurid fascination. It must be the release of internal gases, she thought. She had read of that once. Still, she took a few steps back.
When the gypsy's body rolled onto its back, Marguerite's mouth dropped open. She had steeled herself for the worst-a bloated face, a bobbing eye loosely tethered to its socket, a long, pale worm wriggling free of an orifice. After all, death held no vanity. But the Vistana remained beautiful, extraordinarily preserved. Indeed, she looked as though she were sleeping upon a black, watery bed. The corpse's soft bosom rose and fell with the swells of water, and her lips seemed full and ripe. The eyes began to move slowly beneath the woman's long-lashed lids, like a dreamer's, Marguerite pressed forward with her candle. It must be a trick of the light. Without warning, the woman's eyes flew open, locking their abyssal gaze on Marguerite.
Marguerite froze, suddenly paralyzed. Her mouth fell open, and she felt a cry welling up inside her-but no scream came. A motion flickered at the edge of her awareness; the woman's hand was rising out of the water, the long fingers uncurling slowly, opening like a flower.
Marguerite jerked back, screaming. She turned and fled, shielding her candle with her hand as she climbed the stair. Too frightened to look back even after she reached the top, she rushed into the crypts and slammed the door shut. She would have barred it, had there been the means.
Instead, she scurried past Valeska's crypt, through the tomb and out into the hall, also closing this door behind her. Only then did she stop to breathe, pressing her back to the wood as if to bar it. Her chest heaved like a bellows. Her candle flickered madly, filling the hallway with spasms of light.
Wait, she told herself. What if the woman is alive? Marguerite could not imagine someone surviving a journey through an underground stream, but neither could she imagine a drowned corpse raising a hand to gesture at her.
Perhaps the Vistana needed help. If that were so, Marguerite couldn't abandon her. Guilt woutd haunt her forever-if not the woman herself. Marguerite pressed her ear to the door but heard only the silence of crypts beyond.
She had to know. She put her hand to the latch and lifted it, then gingerly pushed the door open-just a crack. Nothing happened. What had she expected? Her mind was playing tricks on her; she had only imagined the open eyes, the fixed stare, the dead woman's subtle, welcoming smile. , Maybe, just maybe, Marguerite had imagined the entire body. After all, Donskoy had forced his hookah smoke upon her; who knew what effects it might have had? Perhaps she had experienced a kind of strange waking dream, brought on by the hookah and the foul dungeon air.
Marguerite pinched herself hard and winced. Then she opened the door and slowly retraced her steps through the crypt. She paused by Valeska's tomb to gather her courage. The sound of her own breathing echoed through the vault. She clenched her jaw and opened the next door, then stepped onto the stair, holding her candle out toward the dark stream.
There was no corpse, at least not where Marguerite could see. Grinding her teeth, she descended the stair, then walked along the bank until she had inspected the entire surface of the small stream. The woman was gone.
Perhaps the body had been caught by a current and dragged downstream. Else it had been sucked under the surface and now lingered somewhere below, waiting for its chance to re-emerge. Marguerite didn't like the thought of that. She turned to leave.
When she came to the top of the stair, she saw that the door had swung shut, though she couldn't recall the sound. No matter; she put her shoulder to the wood and pushed. It held fast. Frantic, she pushed again. Then she laughed. She reached for the latch and pushed a third time. The door swung open with ease. As she stepped past and closed it from the other side, she felt something cold on the back of her hand. It was a sticky black fluid, dripping from the door in a sort of pattern. The pattern looked vaguely familiar- three lines slanting down to the left, running parallel until they intersected a fourth. Like three lines of wind-driven rain, striking the ground. What was it-a devil's mark? And who had left it? Had someone lurked here in this room while she explored beyond? Could Griezell have made such a sign? She raised her candle, scanning the vault around her, but she was alone; only the epitaphs of the dead shone in the light.
Marguerite rubbed the ooze on her skirt. Then she hurried from the tombs, scurrying up out of dungeon and into the keep proper, up the winding stairs, past the low-burning torch now hissing and spitting black smoke. She came to the dismal room with the nest of blind mice and the secret passage to her own locked chamber, then winced at the loud creak as she opened the door and went inside. Crouching beside the stone wall, she searched for the trigger. The passage opened, and she went through, emerging at last in her own room. All the candles still burned in their holders, a dozen warm buds of light. The fire crackled in the hearth. The chamber seemed warm and welcoming. Even safe.