Morning was fuil upon them, though no sun was visible- The air was still damp, and the sky glowed faintly with a cold white light Black spruce and heavily fringed pines towered beside the road as far as the eye could see, leaning toward one another as if ready to fall. Some had already toppled against their neighbors, with tangled roots tilting out of the soil like bodies unearthed from the grave.
"Is it far?" Marguerite asked.
"Half an hour, maybe less," Ekhart replied.
Marguerite nodded and smiled faintly. She was glad the journey was near an end. Though part of her feared the future, she did not regret her decision to leave Darkon. She could not. There had been no choice.
"You're lucky," said Ljubo behind her. Ekhart frowned and glanced over his shoulder, but Ljubo ignored the look.
"Oh?" said Marguerite. She wondered if Ljubo had somehow been reading her thoughts.
"Often this road can't be traveled at all. The castle gets sealed in for months at a time, what with the ice or mud or fallen timber. Then, when we can travel out again, we've all but forgotten the paths. Some of them-"
"Ljubo," Ekhart interrupted. "Do not prattle on like a fool/
Marguerite turned to smile at the man behind her. "Oh, but I'm interested."
"Of course, milady," Ekhart replied evenly, "but it should be your lord's pleasure to acquaint you with your new home. He would be displeased-rather, quite disappointed-if we stole that opportunity by speaking out of turn."
Ljubo fell silent and stared at his nails, which were caked with reddish brown soil. He began to pick at the frayed dry skin around the nail bed, showering his lap with tiny flakes. He appeared to be disintegrating. Marguerite returned her gaze to the road.
For a moment, she remained silent as well. But her curiosity was piqued. Determined to learn something about her new home, she tried another tack. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me about yourselves, then," she said. "Are you native to these parts?"
"No, miss," Ekhart replied. He offered nothing more.
Marguerite was not daunted. "And how is that you serve Lord Donskoy?"
"We retrieve things," chimed Ljubo, "like-"
"Such as yourself, Mistress de Boche," interrupted Ekhart. "But 'retrieve' is not the best description of our tasks. Ljubo does not choose his words wisely. [am the stable master, and Ljubo is my assistant. Therefore we handle matters of conveyance." He paused. A little muscle in his cheek pulsed, "Truly, it would be best if you reserved your questions for Lord Donskoy."
Marguerite did not wish to vex him, so she remained silent.
The wagon journeyed on. Soon the dense evergreens gave way to a patch of beech and aspen. The forest retreated from the road, leaving marshy ground in its wake. Dead grass and fetid brown pools spread on either side, dotted with brambles and rocky outcrop-pings. The tangled shrubs had refused to iet go of their withered leaves; they shivered as the wagon passed.
Marguerite inhaled deeply. The cool air stung her nostrils, filling them with the nauseating smell of rotting flora. The road turned sharply, and her stomach twisted along with it. Bile rose suddenly in her throat, and she choked it back. The wagon plunged once more into the forest. A black, icy stream flowed along one side. Then the road began to rise, and they passed over a little stone bridge that crossed the stream.
Ljubo nudged Marguerite. "Look there," he said.
Without warning, the keep confronted them. The massive block of gray stone thrust up from a low rise, looming nearly twice as high as its width. A low curtain wall extended before it, crumbled and gaping, with only the skeleton of a gate remaining. A higher wall extended from the left side of the keep, creating a court. To the right, the ground gave way to a steep ravine. Round towers jutted from the corners of the castle and flanked the entrance. Decay had ravaged the entire structure. Dark red-brown lichens now spread their lacy fingers across the stonework and hung from the crenetation like sloughing skin. Tall, narrow windows pierced the upper half of the keep. Where they were barred, the ironwork had rusted and wept, creating long, dark streaks on the facade below.
"Impressive, huh?" said Ljubo.
Marguerite felt a fresh wave of nausea. She held her breath for a moment, then replied quietly, "Indeed." The keep was immense and chilling. Like Ljubo, it appeared to be falling apart. She hoped the lord of the manor was in better repair. Then she chided herself. Besides curiosity, pessimism was her worst trait-and it was one she had intended to leave behind in Darkon.
The wagon drew to a halt before the main entrance. Ekhart helped Marguerite down from her perch.
"I must assist Ljubo briefly in the stable," he said stiffly. "Then I will return to escort you. Please wait here."
"What about my bridal chest?" asked Marguerite tensely. Suddenly she felt a pang, as if parting with her possessions-the last vestiges of her former life- meant losing more than cloth and a few mementos.
"Ljubo will bring the chest to your chamber," Ekhart replied. Then he climbed back onto the wagon seat and guided the horse toward the doors that breached the wall flanking the castle. The doors opened. Ljubo gave a quick little wave from the back. Then the wagon disappeared through the gap.
Once again, Marguerite stood waiting, deposited like a sack of goods. She shivered. Somewhere just along the edge of her vision, she saw a dark shape moving. She looked toward the wood, but discerned only the swaying of a branch. The shape flickered again, disappearing at the corner of the castle. Was it, she wondered, a man perhaps? Someone observing her arrival?
Marguerite shook her head. "Your imagination," she said aloud. It was a phantom planted in her mind by the unsavory Vistana, who took pleasure in creating unease.
Marguerite gazed at the long stair before her. It seemed to stretch and retract subtly, beckoning. She was cold and weary, and simply standing made her more so. Who was this Ekhart to detain her? Wasn't he, indeed, soon to be at her command? Of course, he might be more than just a servant to Donskoy-his clothes and his manners suggested as much. She decided to climb the stair anyway, but to wait for Ekhart at the top.
The steps were narrow and awkwardly spaced. Each had been worn smooth by the not-so-gentle caress of countless feet. Marguerite tried to picture those who had passed before-loyal soldiers, lords and ladies, a swarm of hunched and hairy monstrosities prepared to batter the door above. For some reason it was easier to imagine a departure; in her mind's eye, men tumbled from the maw above like broken teeth. She grew dizzy with each step she took. She began to count them- thirty, thirty-one-but soon lost track.
When she reached the top, Marguerite fe!t disoriented and weak. Perspiration had glued fine wisps of reddish-gold hair to her forehead. Ahead lay the door, at the end of the short and gloomy passage embraced by the flanking towers. The door's wooden planks stretched to twice her height and were bound in rusty iron, The surrounding stones had been carved into an ornate relief of twisting vines; clawed, grasping hands; and ghoulish faces with gaping sharp-toothed maws. The faces were pitted and half the fingers had fallen away, as if claimed by leprosy.
Marguerite stepped forward, hesitantly. The doors were parted slightly, with the right side leaning inward. A thin, dark shadow bled between them. Without thinking, Marguerite called out "Hail," then added, "Is anyone there?" The voice did not seem like her own.
The doors parted farther, groaning on their hinges like a wounded warrior stirring on a field of dead. A musty breeze caressed Marguerite's face. Suddenly her head felt even lighter, her footing unsure. She swayed backward.