To Sleep With Evil (Ravenloft The Covenant Book 16) by Andria Cardarelle

Author:Andria Cardarelle [Cardarelle, Andria]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9780786964710
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2013-04-16T00:00:00+00:00

The stable yard was a broad, muddy expanse. In the most remote corner rose the dung heap, its base as solid and ancient as a volcano’s. A long, two-story wattle-and-daub building huddled against the castle wall opposite the keep. The wall’s crenelated crest loomed twice as high above to meet the cap of leaden sky. Stables and animal pens occupied the lower half of the building. One end housed a smithy’s firepit, stone cold. The second floor, ostensibly, held storage rooms and workshops. Time and the elements had treated the structure unkindly; a third of the mossy, wood-shingled roof had collapsed.

Marguerite had expected the court to be as empty of life as the castle itself, but she was pleasantly surprised. A flock of black geese wandered at will, honking noisily. A goat bleated, and she spotted it near the gate, tethered on a circle of well-trodden ground. A peacock strutted around the perimeter of the court with a slow, lurching motion, dragging its closed tail behind. In the stables, a row of black, swishing horse tails sprouted from broad gray rumps. The tails swept slowly and rhythmically over the gates of closed stalls, like unnatural pendulums, their effect strangely hypnotic.

An angry growl broke the trance, and Marguerite turned toward the sound. Ekhart was working the hounds near the rear of the court, setting each one in turn to the savaging of a bloody rag. He commanded the activated beast to dive left, then right, then called off the attack to exercise his authority. Marguerite watched with a mixture of disgust and fascination, then turned her head away.

“Shall we?” said Donskoy, gesturing toward the stables and taking Marguerite’s hand.

She used the other to lift her skirt. For the occasion, Donskoy had given her a new gown of wool as blue as sapphire, with a matching cape and gloves. The court’s flagstones lay half-buried in mud, and the geese had covered them further with an impressive array of slick droppings. She stepped forward cautiously, staring at the ground.

A sound ahead drew her attention. Ljubo appeared, leading a handsome gray gelding and a smaller white mare, dirty, and with a sagging back. Obviously, the mare was meant for her.

“A thousand pardons, Lord Donskoy,” said Ljubo, bowing deeply and peering up from beneath his fleshy brow. “I was taking the mounts out front. You never come here to retrieve them—and-and, good day, Lady Donskoy.” His eyes slid readily in Marguerite’s direction, and he grinned. Something dark and green flecked his broken teeth.

Donskoy replied, “Marguerite is the curious sort. I thought she’d like to see the stables.”

“Yes-yes, of course,” answered Ljubo, head bobbing. “And I’ve given her Lightning as you suggested.”

“So I see.”

Marguerite stared up at the weary-looking horse.

“Pay no heed to the name, my bride,” Donskoy added. “The mare is called Lightning because she acts as if she’s been struck. She’ll never bolt, if you pardon the pun. She’s too numb to spook easily.”

Ljubo clutched Marguerite’s hand, soiling her blue suede glove with his

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