"My son must survive," said Donskoy breathlessly. "Do what you must to ensure it."
"Of course," answered Zosia. "And now you must go."
"No." The reply was short, decisive.
"Birthing and midwifery are the province of women. Yelena will go to you when the child is born. You wiil only add to Marguerite's distress."
"I am staying/ Donskoy said firmly. "Marguerite's distress is nothing to me. And you will see to it that the baby is not affected."
Zosia shrugged. "As you wish," she said huskily. "But please, sit by the fire if you would.!t may be hours yet. Marguerite may cry out, but you needn't worry. Screams alone are not bad portent."
Donskoy grunted, then settled in by the fire. "Ljubo!"
The fat man poked his head through the door-Marguerite did not even remember him and Ekhart leaving-and asked, "Yes, milord?"
"My white pipe, and quickly!" Donskoy ordered.
Zosia pulled off Marguerite's shift and adjusted her position.
Jacqueline, who had been hovering the whole time near the fireplace, made a sour face, then headed for the door. "If you will excuse me, Milos," she said, "I will take my leave. I have always considered motherhood a messy business-best to be avoided whenever possible."
Without speaking, Donskoy waved her out the door.
Yelena scurried into the room with Zosia's black satchel. When the mute girl saw Lord Donskoy, she stopped short and curtsied feebly, then hurried to the bed.
Zosia withdrew a small scrap of leather, cut thin, like paper. She unfolded it slowly. Inside was a brown salve. She stroked it over her patient's bulging stomach, cooing. So lost in pain was Marguerite that she barely noticed as the oid woman turned her, pulling her feet off the edge of the mattress, until she half-hung and half-squatted beside it. Yelena climbed onto the bed to hold her arms from behind.
It was only a moment before another crushing ache came. Marguerite felt her body splitting, opening like a flower. She grunted and screeched through her teeth.
"Yes," Zosia hissed excitedly. "Come out to us, little one. Come out to us now."
Marguerite felt the child begin to pass out of her. She looked down, and saw a dark head, then a perfect shoulder, and a little fist, clawing and grasping the air.
She cried out in terror. The tiny fingers were black, and talons sprouted from the tips.
"Hush," commanded Zosia. "He is almost here."
Marguerite began to sob. With a sickening twist, the baby slid free of her into Zosia's welcoming hands-
Yelena gasped and shrank away, scurrying from the room.
"What is ft?" Donskoy demanded. Marguerite looked again, and again she saw the dark hands and the tiny claws. And there was something more. Upon the baby's chest lay a hideous purple mark-three lines at an angle, running parallel, slanting down to strike another.
She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound escaped her lips. For a moment, the room went dark, and somewhere in the distance, Marguerite heard her baby crying. Then at last her sight returned. She looked down upon the babe in her arms, a pink-skinned boy, amazing in his perfection. Marguerite put her finger to his pursed little lips, then guided the infant to her breast, and smiled.
*****
Lord Donskoy rushed to the bed. His wife was clutching an empty blood-stained shroud to her breast, rocking it gently. Zosia stood nearby with a swaddling cloth, wrapped around a small form. Its black, clawed hand groped the air.
Donskoy backed away, disbelieving, then spun at once toward the fire and seized a poker.
Zosia cackled, allowing the bundle in her arms to slowly unfold. Inside it, Donskoy no longer saw a child. Instead, he faced a black stain, a shadow, which slipped smoothly onto the floor, then rose up before him like a behemoth. A pair of eyes glowed white in the darkness.
Blindly, he swung, but the shadow disappeared. The poker struck the ground, landing with a peculiar noise, muffled and wet. At the sound, a red wound opened on Donskoy's face, extending along one cheek. The skin puckered and boiled beside the mark. A chasm formed from his temple to his jaw, and his ftesh caved inward, disappearing into the fo!d. Donskoy clutched a hand to his bloody face and screamed, dropping to his knees.
Zosia continued to cackle. "The seeds you have sown," she said huskily. "The seeds you have sown …"
Lord Donskoy turned to her in terror. "What are you saying?"
Zosia's voice became taunting and dark. "Have you forgotten Valeska's words, my lord? Have you forgotten your love so soon? The seeds you sown shall seal your damnation. The blood of your blood shall bring you to your /cnees."
"It cannot be," he whispered. "It cannot be."
"But it is … The son you forced upon Valeska has returned to fulfill her curse. To end it at last." The old woman tossed her head back and laughed wildly. "Though it will not end as you had intended."
Donskoy staggered forward, gazing at Zosia in disbelief.
"I will not fall for your trickery, old witch, With my own hands, I ripped that child from Valeska's womb. With my own hands [laid it to rest."
Zosia spat at him. "And with my own hands, I brought htm back."
Donskoy struggled to his feet. Again he raised the poker, this time at the woman before him. Out of nowhere came the shadow, assuming the form of an enormous serpent, coiling swiftly around his neck. He struggled to throw off the beast.
"Strike all you wish," laughed Zosia. "You cannot strike him down."
Donskoy stumbled toward the window. Still armed with the poker, he broke out the glass, creating a maelstrom of sparkling shards. He made one last cry and wrenched the snake from his body, sending it flying from the keep.
When the great serpent thudded to the ground, it was Donskoy's body that crumpled, his leg wrapping backward beneath him, his back twisting sharply. He lay still on the floor, his eyes rolled back in his head.
Zosia spat on his crippled, still body. "The old lord is dead," she rasped. "And the new lord has come."
In her arms she held a tiny bundle. She looked briefly toward Marguerite, still cradling the empty shroud at her breast, rocking gently in the bed. Then Zosia turned and left the room.
EPILOGUE
Marguerite dreamed she was rocking her baby, though somewhere in her mind she knew her arms were empty. The gypsy vardo slid into a rut and jerked sharply, throwing her head back against the planks. She awoke with a start.
In the darkness beside her, the driver called Arturi cleared his throat. The caravan was returning to Darkon.
The hours after the birth had been a blur. Marguerite had babbled incoherently, unable to control herself, terrified and yet ashamed. Her life, her body, her mind-not one had seemed her own.
Zosia had taken care of the arrangements. What Jacqueline had said was true-Darkon was a place for forgetting. Soon after Marguerite returned to its soil, she would cease to recall her former life. A new identity would rise to take its place. Arturi had agreed to take her just across the border. He claimed it was safer there; trouble was brewing at the heart of the domain. Marguerite did not care. One place in Darkon was as good as the other.
The wagon approached the fork and veered left.
As they slipped between the towering pines, Marguerite spied a dark-haired rider just behind the veil of the forest, astride a black horse. He tipped his hat and flashed a smile, then was gone.
Marguerite shut her eyes again.
She was going back to Darkon.
And in Darkon, she would forget.