He looked at her quizzically. She was as tall as he was and in other shoes might even be taller. That would not have bothered him, had things been different. And it certainly did not matter now, since the king had decreed that she marry Anton. “Vienna? Florence? Rome?”
“Mauvnik, probably.”
“Mauvnik doesn’t compare with those.”
“You’ve seen them?”
Anton would say of course he had, and describe them, quoting stories he’d heard.
“I’ve seen Mauvnik. It’s much bigger than Gallant, I admit.”
“Father always talked of marrying me into some noble family with influence at court. He almost never went to court himself, because his duty was here. A voice near the king’s ear was important, he said.”
“Near the crown prince’s ear might matter more now.” Or Cardinal Zdenek’s, although nobody knew how long the Scarlet Spider would remain as first minister when the crown changed heads.
“But now the king has sent a personal friend to marry me, instead,” Madlenka said wistfully. “So I must forget my dream duke in Mauvnik. I must live and die here in Cardice. Still, I should not complain. Your brother is young and handsome. I could have done very much worse.”
Or very much better, Wulf thought sadly. And never as well as she deserved. No man was that good.
“And Giedre,” she continued, “has refused a hundred suitors here because she planned to come with me when I went away to marry my dream duke. She was to be mistress of the robes.”
The wind was at their backs now, blowing up the valley, and Giedre would not be able to overhear.
“She’s very pretty,” Wulf said. “But I would never call her beautiful. I have only ever met one girl I would call truly, breathtakingly beautiful, like a dream of angels.”
Madlenka ignored that. “The rest of our plan was that Giedre would marry the duke’s younger brother, who would be even handsomer.”
“Well that part came true. Being handsomer, I mean. And if she fancies a serf’s cottage in Dobkov, then marriage might be negotiated. But staying with you would not be on the table. I am going away in a couple of days.” It was that or go crazy.
The lady bit her lip. “That’s probably a good idea. And one of us must go indoors now. Not because I don’t enjoy your company, Squire Wulfgang, but because we have been seen together long enough. You are my fiance’s brother, after all.”
“I am. And I love you.”
He hadn’t expected to say that.
Madlenka walked on, staring at the ground. The wind had reddened her cheeks. “You must not say that.”
“I swear as I hope for salvation that I never said it to any woman before, but I do love you. I don’t know how it happened-I think it was the first moment I saw you. Oh, I must sound like a fool! I’m sorry.”
“Keeping talking, fool,” she said quietly, so the wind snatched away her words. Would it spread them everywhere?
“You too?”
She nodded.
She loved him! He didn’t know if he should turn cartwheels or jump off the battlements. “Truly? You love me also? Say it, please, just once.”
“I love you. I wish it were you I am to marry, not your brother. But it is madness! We must not even dream of it. The king has decreed that I will marry Anton.”
Who cared nothing for her, who would cheerfully marry Medusa herself if she brought him an earldom. Wulf had not asked his Voices to make Madlenka love him. He would not ask them to interfere at all. He must not! Anton was his brother. Anton was a wealthy noble, outranking Otto and probably much wealthier, while Wulf was a penniless younger son, a mere esquire.
Marek had warned him: the girls will follow. “It is love,” you will tell yourself, and you will ask your Voices to bring her to you, or even to make her willing. Had any prophecy ever been fulfilled faster?
No, he must not think about it. No more Speaking!
But were she promised to any other man than Anton…
“Squire!” Giedre shouted, running closer. “My lady! Look! Coming down the north road. Only four of them? Isn’t that your brother on the white horse, squire?”
Yes it was, and two of the others were riding close on either side, as if they had to hold him in the saddle.
“He’s been hurt!” Madlenka said. “Run! Ring the bell.”
Giedre hoisted her skirts and took off at a very unladylike sprint toward the north barbican, but the watchers there had seen the newcomers and the alarm bell began to toll.
“Go to him,” Wulf said. “I’ll follow as fast as I can.”
Following would be a mistake. He did not go down to the city gate, nor even to the bailey. Anton would not slump on a horse that way unless he was seriously hurt, and he would never let them take him to that pesthole infirmary. So Wulf made his painful way back to the keep and started looking for whatever bedroom Anton was using until he could evict the ailing dowager countess from the master suite.
The keep, which from the outside seemed like a simple hollow box, had been built in many stages at many times, and was a labyrinth on the inside. Stairs led to passages and more stairs; levels changed; corridors ended without warning. Fortunately he had no trouble obtaining help. The new count was the talk of the town and everyone must have heard of his mysterious brother, who had been injured. All he had to do was find a page, explain who he was, and demand to be led to the destination he wanted. It was, not unexpectedly, the room formerly used by Sir Petr.
There Wulf made himself as comfortable as possible on the stool by the dressing board. He clasped his hands and bowed his head. Whispering did not work, but speaking softly did. “Most holy Saints Helena and Victorinus, hear my prayer.”
For a nerve-racking moment there was no reply. Then came the Light and Victorinus spoke at his shoulder.
— Say what it is you need, Wulfgang.
“How badly is my brother injured?”
— He took a quarrel through the arm and lost much blood.
“Will he recover?”
— No. He is too weak now to amputate the arm. Even if you can stop the bleeding the flesh will rot in a few days.
For a few minutes Wulf prayed in silence to greater authorities than his Voices. Then he spoke aloud again. “If I ask you, will you heal my brother’s wound?”
St. Helena said, — Of course. But you are still very weak from the last miracle. The pain would kill you.
There always had to be a catch. God did not dispense miracles without a price-why should Wulfgang Magnus be favored beyond all mortals? He was not a great sinner, but he was a sinner. All men were sinners. His lust for Madlenka was a sin.
“You are telling me that to save Anton I must die?”
Silence. The Light was still shining through his eyelids, so the Voices had not gone away. He had asked a forbidden question, or asked it the wrong way.
“Why do you answer some questions and not others? Why do I have to suffer pain at all? How am I special that you perform miracles for me when other people are not so blessed? Are they holy miracles or the diabolical false miracles that Marek said?”
Still no answer. Yet the Light remained, as if the Voices were waiting for him to issue them orders or ask a sensible question. Saints could be extraordinarily annoying at times. Thinking back to Father Czcibor’s hagiology lessons, he decided that this was probably their dominant characteristic.
“Do I have some great destiny, for good or evil? Am I fated to write my name in history? A prophet? A teacher? A conqueror?”
Again silence. They would never prophesy.
“Would you restore me to health if I asked?”
