Helena said, — You chose that price.
“Oh? Had I refused the pain, what other price could I have paid? Should I have asked what the alternative was?” Eternal hellfire?
One of the voices sighed, probably Helena, but it was Victorinus who said, — Danger. All pain is a warning of danger. Pain teaches you not to touch hot dishes or break the law. The alternative to pain is danger and possibly worse pain later.
Worse pain than what Wulf had endured recently was almost beyond imagining, but perhaps not beyond experience in the afterlife. “What sort of danger?”
Silence.
Wulf had told Anton that he would never again call upon his Voices’ help, but now that help was needed to save his brother’s life. Marek had warned him that asking became easier and easier. Marek had also warned that the trial for Speaking was “most arduous” and he had talked of tongues being burnt out. But Anton was about to die, and if Wulf let that happen he would always wonder if he had done so because he wanted Madlenka for himself.
He could. He could let Anton die and then declare himself count, as his brother’s heir, marry Madlenka, explain to the king later. He could have everything he could ever want: the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory.
But in this case the devil was tempting him not to ask his Voices for help. How did that work?
He could hear voices, mortal voices, approaching along the corridor.
“I chose pain as the price for bringing my brother here. Can I change my mind now?”
— Yes.
“Then, most holy Saints Victorinus and Helena, I beg you to cure my bruises. I will risk whatever danger this brings. But please leave the marks on my face to heal normally.”
— Oh, Wulfgang, Wulfgang! Helena said sorrowfully. -You are going too fast, far too fast! You are blundering into a wilderness, alone, untrained, and unprepared. You do not know the perils that await you.
“Then teach me.”
— We cannot.
“Then do as I say and I accept the price, whatever it is.”
— If that be your wish, then be it so.
“Thank you.”
The pain had gone. He had forgotten how pleasant life could be without it. The Light faded. He opened his eyes and folded his arms. A glance in the mirror made him chuckle. His eyes were so ringed with dark bruises that he looked like a badger.
Suddenly the room was crowded-four troopers bearing Anton on a stretcher, Madlenka and Giedre, the odious doctor from the infirmary, plus several more that Wulf did not know. Anton was laid on the bed and everyone else packed around. Deciding that it was time to intervene, Wulf muscled his way in until he reached the bedside. Anton was ready for laying-out already: face bone white, lips blue, eyes closed. His right arm was bare, with a bloody bandage around the upper part; his armor was bloody.
Wulf bellowed. “Quiet! That’s better. You! Yes you, Doctor! Go away.” He bent close. “Anton! Brother, it’s Wulf. Who else do you want here?”
Without opening his eyes, Anton mumbled. “You… Radim, Kaspar… Constable Notivova.”
Wulf straightened and repeated those names. “Everyone else leave. Now.” He waited, interested to see who stayed.
Madlenka, on the far side of the bed, was giving him puzzled looks, surprised by his sudden return to health. Nobody else should notice that, except possibly the drunken old leech of a doctor, but he likely wasn’t capable of counting to three, let alone putting two and two together.
Madlenka was the last one out, leaving a rakish-looking young man in mail-who must be the constable-plus an elderly man and a youth leaning on a cane.
“Who first, Brother?”
“Kaspar…”
The old man stepped forward. “My lord?”
“Hot water. Towels. And wine.”
Wulf added, “And good water to drink.”
Kaspar hurried out, moving as if his feet hurt. He must be the count’s body servant, and old enough to have been Barbarossa’s.
“You look as if you came off worst,” Wulf said cheerfully, stepping closer. Any more worse and he would be dead already.
Anton ignored him. “Constable?” He licked his lips.
“My lord?” said the man in armor.
“Send out funeral party tomorrow. No troopers.”
“No guards?” Notivova looked puzzled.
Anton mumbled something incoherent, but it was obvious enough.
Wulf explained. “We can’t afford to lose more men, and the Wends can. They probably won’t harm civilians, but you’d better pay them danger money. Get Bishop Ugne to assign a priest or two. How many men did you lose, by the way?”
Cold eyes stared at him out of the steel coif. “You are His Lordship’s brother?”
“I am. Squire Wulfgang. You must be Constable Notivova. I’m not giving you orders; I just know how the count’s mind works. He’ll overrule me if I’m wrong. How many men did you lose?”
“Fourteen, squire.”
Hellfire! “Bad! Surprise attack, I suppose?”
“So the only survivor told us.”
“Butchers! Any more orders for him, Brother?” Wulf had to bend right down to hear the reply.
“Double guards. Full war footing. ’Ware surprise attack.”
Kaspar scurried in, bringing a bottle of wine and an armful of towels. Knowing that Anton must be parched by his loss of blood, Wulf raised his brother’s head and put the bottle to his lips. The constable left. A servant brought a steaming pitcher of water. Another brought a flagon of cold, and Wulf sweetened it with wine before letting Anton drink any.
He realized that the youth with the cane was still there, clutching a waxed wooden tablet and looking half dead with worry.
“You are Radim?”
“Yes, squire.”
“You want to dictate a letter, Brother?”
Anton murmured something about the king, but he was barely conscious now. He might be about to die.
“I think you’d better rest for a while first. Radim, why don’t you find out exactly what happened and draft a report from the count to His Majesty? I’m sure you can put it in proper form better than he can. Bring it back here when you’re ready.”
Having disposed of everyone except himself, Wulf got down to the horrible job of removing his brother’s blood-caked bandage.
He would have known that Anton was dying even without the Voices’ prophecy. The bolt seemed to have missed the bone, but internal bleeding had made his arm swell up like a sack of melons below the bandage, all the way to his fingers. Using great care, Wulf managed to cut the knot with his dagger and unwind the sodden cloth. Both the entry and exit wounds had been very clumsily sewn shut, but they still oozed and the flesh was so puffed up around them that he could barely see the stitches, let alone remove them.
“Am I going to lose my arm?” Anton whispered, eyes closed.
“Not if my Voices will help. Try a few prayers of your own.”
Wulf washed his bloody hands as well as he could in the scarlet water. He then went over to the fireplace and knelt to pray, ignoring the slurred and incoherent mumble in the bed.
“Most holy Saints Helena and Victorinus, I humbly beg that you will restore my brother Anton to health.”
Light shone through his eyelids.
