would become a Kierstian crown holding after Lord Narat’s death. Slow poison lanced through the parchment of various letters sent to Cipris, before the latter could marry Halian of Meadowlord and produce a legitimate princely heir of Roelstra’s blood who might one day challenge Pol. A hunting accident to dispose of Rusalka before her marriage could produce an heir. The same reasoning applied to Pavla; the method, the gift of a necklace whose prongs were tipped with a slow poison. Rabia, wedded to Lord Patwin of Catha Heights, had borne three daughters and died in childbed of the third, who survived her—but there had never been a breath of rumor that the death had been anything other than natural. Yet she was on Pandsala’s lethal list, too, the means of her death delineated in bold pen strokes. Hired assassins in Waes had rid Pandsala of Nayati before she, too, could marry and produce offspring. Of Roelstra’s eighteen daughters, the Plague had taken five; Pandsala had eliminated five more; five still lived. Of the other three, Kiele had been executed for the murder of a Sunrunner and Pandsala was dead of sorcery. Ostvel himself had killed Ianthe.
But Pandsala’s crimes had not been limited to her sisters. An arranged accident for Obram of Isel, Saumer’s only son, had left Arlis, grandson of both Saumer and Volog, heir to both princedoms. Thus the island would eventually be united under Sioned’s kinsman. Reading this, Ostvel had thanked the Goddess he had not asked Alasen to help with the archives; her adored elder sister Birani was Obram’s widow.
There were similar cold-blooded horrors to be found in Pandsala’s records, all of them with justifications that were perfectly reasonable by her standards. None of her murders had ever been suspected, and some had been positively brilliant in their cunning. For example, she had marked Tibayan of Lower Pyrme for death because of his intransigence regarding certain issues. He had been one of those rare people to whom a simple bee sting was poisonous. Pandsala’s notes showed that in the summer of 714, she had arranged for a whole swarm of the insects to be set loose in his private chambers. This was her most creative kill, and even through his nausea at her logical reasoning and matter-of-fact death sentences, Ostvel was compelled to admire the woman’s ingenuity.
Success in another murder had not brought the desired result. Ajit of Firon’s death—a seizure of the heart caused by poison, according to Pandsala’s record—had left that land without a prince. But Firon had not gone to Pol, despite his superior blood claim. Ostvel now understood the reason Rohan had given it instead to Prince Lleyn’s younger grandson. Though he had unwittingly profited by Pandsala’s other political executions, on discovering the reason for Ajit’s death Rohan had refused to take the princedom Pandsala wished to give him and Pol.
Pandsala’s final murders, however, had produced exactly her intended result. The deaths of Prince Inoat and his son Jos had left Chale of Ossetia without a direct heir. His niece, Gemma of Syr, married Sioned’s nephew Tilal, and when the old man died they would become Prince and Princess of Ossetia. Pandsala had thought Gemma would wed Tilal’s brother Kostas, heir of Syr, and thus merge the two princedoms; but her major aim had been to bring yet another princedom under the control of Pol’s kinsmen. Through her efforts, Sioned’s kin would rule Ossetia, Syr, and Kierst-Isel; allies would possess Dorval and Firon; Pol himself would hold the Desert and Princemarch. Eight out of thirteen princedoms: not a bad return for a mere eleven murders, Ostvel thought acidly.
Pandsala had had four more deaths in mind. But Kiele had destroyed herself without any assistance. Ostvel wondered if an earlier attempt had failed—which led him to speculate about other murders she might have attempted that were not listed. But whatever her other vices, stupidity had not been among them. Eleven deaths in fifteen years were enough to fulfill most of her ambitions for Pol. More might have attracted suspicion.
It was the last entry that had given him the most worry. Ruval, Marron, and Segev, bastard sons of Princess Ianthe: locations unknown. They must not be allowed to challenge Pol for possession of Princemarch.
Ostvel had stared long and hard at the names, as if ink on parchment could give him sight of their faces. He knew what everyone else knew: all three had different fathers, young lords of surpassing physical beauty; all three had been born