which he had done the night before during Anton’s absence. But he would not endanger her reputation, and Anton would be making sure that she was never alone for more than a few seconds.
“He was in low spirits,” Otto said. “I think the best place to start would be a church.”
“A church?” Justina cried. “A church you say? Terrible things can happen in churches! Quickly, quickly, let us find him.”
CHAPTER 4
Downcast by lack of sleep and the nightmare of Marek’s death, Wulf had indeed gone in search of peace and solitude. Avoiding the cathedral, where he might run into that nosy, pompous bishop, he went in search of the other spires he had seen in the town. The first church he found turned out to belong to St. Sebastijan, which seemed a good omen, for he was the patron saint of soldiers. It was tiny and very bare, the air laden with old incense, murals hidden under layers of candle grease. Wulf wanted no other worshipers around, and especially did not want a priest. It was hard enough to imagine confessing to committing a couple of murders, but to admit to having dealings with the devil was unthinkable. He was cut off from the Church and hope of salvation. He was Faust, and had sold his soul to the devil to make Anton a count.
Staying well away from the altar and the Host, he knelt in a gloomy corner at the back to pray. Prayer to the Virgin was what he had tried as a youth when the Voices spoke. He still had calluses on his knees from the hours he had spent in the castle chapel.
He was determined not to swear more oaths. His journey from Koupel to Gallant had levied such a price in pain that he had vowed never to call on his Voices again. But two days later he had been forced to break his word in order to save Anton’s life a second time. That had seemed a worthy use of Speaking-Jesus had healed, so how could healing be evil? And yet evil had followed. Three men had died, all servants of God. Where had he gone so terribly wrong?
Despite his resolution not to use his Satanic powers, he could not help trying to see what was happening on the battlements. First he stole a Look throug lah Vlad’s eyes: Vlad was up on the roof of the north barbican, directing the construction of one of the trebuchets he had promised. But his attention never wandered to the north, so Wulf could not tell what the Wends were up to, if anything.
Madlenka was being bathed by her maids, under the direction of Giedre, her best friend and chief lady-in- waiting. Then it became impossible not to steal a Look from Giedre’s point of view, and… Stop it! He must not even think about Madlenka, let alone spy on her naked. But he found the temptation almost irresistible and hated himself for letting it distract him from his prayers.
He had received no answers and found no comfort before he heard the church door creak. Annoying boots came tapping over the flagstones in his direction. Standing over him, Otto said, “I almost didn’t see you there. It’s lucky your hair is so bright.”
“Go away, I’m busy.”
“There’s a woman outside needs to speak with you. Cardinal Zdenek sent her. She knew the password: Greenwood.”
Wulf was tempted to refuse. If Speaking was Satanism, then another Speaker was the last person to ask for help. Yet he desperately needed to talk with someone who could explain who the Voices were, and why they had chosen him for their favors. He also needed to let Cardinal Zdenek know that he was being unfair, making Wulf do all the work and giving Anton all the rewards. Shouldn’t Madlenka be allowed a say in which brother she married? And just to talk for a few minutes with another Speaker might save him from going crazy. If he was already damned, he had nothing in all eternity left to lose.
He sprang up and squeezed his face into a smile. “Is she beautiful?”
Otto led the way to the door. “No, but she has a wicked sense of humor. She started plucking Anton’s feathers in no time.”
“A lady after my own heart.”
“She doesn’t admit to being a lady. You wait here and I’ll send her in.”
Wulf stood back. An old woman entered, carrying a distaff, and Otto closed the door from the outside. She was garbed as a servant, but the nimbus around her head blazed very bright in the dim church, so Wulf bowed to her as he would to a countess.
“I am Wulfgang Magnus, my lady, an esquire in my brother’s service.”
She curtseyed with surprising agility. “Justina be my name today, squire.”
“And is your social status equally protean?”
She smiled. “Ah, a poor woman must beware young gentlemen seeking to beguile her with fine words. You haven’t been swearing any o Cweah, aths in here, I ween?”
“No.”
She seemed relieved. “Sooth, it is a drab, cold place. Will you come with me to one more pleasant, where we may talk undisturbed?”
He had already accepted that he had nothing to lose. “Omnia audere,” he said. That was the family motto, I dare all.
“Ha! You’re not risking a whit or tittle, boy. Your Voices will bring you back here anytime you want. Speak you Greek as well?”
“A few words.”
“Then we’ll go to Avlona and peradventure teach you a few more.”
A gate through limbo opened in front of them, a gap in the air admitting a blaze of golden light and a rush of warm, scented air. He followed Justina through and found himself not in Heaven, as he half expected, but in a tiny vineyard, about twenty yards square, enclosed by stone walls draped with creepers. The light that had seemed blinding in St. Sebastijan’s holy gloom was just sun-dappled shade below the ceiling of vines on trellises. The color came from their fall-tinted leaves; the grapes had all been harvested. Humid, cloying air told him that summer still lingered here, far from Cardice.
“Now, you come this way, young squire.” Justina headed along a path paved with red tiles, flanked by vines and trellis posts, and he saw that what he had taken for just another wall was the side of a low farmhouse of white walls and red roof, its windows masked by weathered wooden shutters.
She was already untying the laces on her cloak, which seemed like a good idea, so when they arrived at a lichen-blotched stone table flanked by stone benches, he tossed his down beside hers, to be joined by a distaff, a saber, and Justina’s felt hat. Her black skirt and white blouse were of finer quality than her outer garments. Although he could not identify any difference other than the clothing, she looked less a servant now, more a rich merchant’s wife, and much less ancient.
He sat opposite her and gazed around in wonder. The tiny paved area was littered with old presses, broken furniture, and cart wheels; even a rusty anvil. The house had been inhabited a very long time. A few straggly flowers grew in giant pots, but he could see no great distance in any direction except straight up, to a sky enameled in cobalt blue.
“Where is this, my lady?”
“Justina. Suffer me to play servant, lest you forget and misspeak when another is present.” She spoke more like a chatelaine lecturing a scullery wench than a servant addressing a noble.
“Tell me where this is, Justina.”
“Near Avlona, in Greece.”
If she worked for Cardinal Zdenek, why bring him to Greece? She read the question in his face before he could ask it.
“It is a safe place for Speakers. The Orthodox Church is less bloodthirsty than that rabid pack of cardinals in the Vatican, and their Islamic overlords won’t let them roast people anyway.”
He distrusted that gibe at Rome. “What do the Turks do to witches?”
“Stone them.”
“Much better.” He smiled a peace offering. “May I ask where your loyalty lies?”
“I am doing a favor for the Scarlet Spider. I am to hold your coat while you belabor the Pomeranians.”
