She hardly noticed when the rope dug sharply into her chest; her lower ribs snapped, but she did not cry out. She did not move. She only watched as she was pulled farther and farther away from the monsters and what was left of the hollow-eyed children.
Father Lucas gasped as he dragged her over the lip of the crevice. He picked her up, carrying her beyond the border of the pentagram, and laid her gently on the limestone before turning back to the pit. He walked the perimeter of the blood-soaked symbol as he muttered the final passage of the binding spell. The last word came as he stopped at the top spoke. Flame shot up from the blood-covered stones and raced down the etched lines, forming a fiery pentagram with a black crack at its heart. And then just as quickly, the fire died and with it the raging screams of the creatures in the pit. The howls of the bear and the wolves fell silent.
Mouse was silent, too, and unmoving, her eyes open, the pupils gaping and the bright green grown dark.
Father Lucas lifted her again carefully, her body just bone and skin, and carried her up the staircase. He built a fire in the center pit of the great hall, tossing the dead bird to the side. Mouse’s tongue was withered, her lips cracked and pulled back from her teeth. He held a canteen to her mouth, but most of the water ran down her chin and neck, with just a few drops trickling down her throat. He heated more water in the bowl Mouse had brought, and he soaked strips of his ripped habit and wrapped them around her hands and feet, which were blackened by frostbite, the nails on her fingers and toes grown so long they twisted and curled. Her body showed the weathering of decades, just like the stories about the others, like his father, who had gone into the pit young and come out aged, dying.
Father Lucas pushed back matted hair from her face; her hair was still dark, her face smooth, but she was older—nearer to twenty than her fifteen years. He bent to kiss her forehead. She didn’t blink. “Oh what have I done to you, my little andílek?”
He fed her sips of water, shifted her from back to side, worked her arms and legs, talked to her. When the food ran out, he left her to find more, the nearest place a tiny village nearly a day’s walk away. When he got back, Mouse had not moved.
He stripped her soiled clothes, rinsed them with what water he could spare and laid them out in the sun. He bathed her, cut her nails. He prayed.
She screamed as her dried muscles and leathered skin came back to life; her body writhed and trembled as it healed.
“You left me,” she said between swallows of mashed bread and berries when she was finally ready to speak.
He sobbed with relief. “I did not. I never would.”
“You left me.”
He could see the pain of betrayal in her eyes. “On my soul, I swear it, Mouse. What passed as years for you was only minutes for me. What happened down there?”
Mouse just stared at him and did not answer.
Father Lucas woke one morning and Mouse was not in the great hall. He went to look for her in the courtyard, where she had started taking walks and picking up the dead birds and making a great pile of them, but she was not there. The gate was still closed.
He knew where she was.
She had not moved any farther than the last step of the staircase; she sat there, her head resting on her knees as she rocked back and forth. He sat down behind her.
“We cannot ever let it open again. They are hungry.” Her voice was still dead, like her eyes.
“Who are, child?”
“I am not a child.”
“What did you see down there?”
“Evil.”
Knowing that she had stopped its escape had been the one consolation Mouse had clung to during her recovery. Guilt gnawed at her. Nightmares woke her, mouth opened in a silent scream like in the pit, her body rigid with seizures. She wrestled with images of Father Lucas dead in her lap, of the fear in the hollow eyes of the child-things, of the monsters eating them. But even as she shouldered the responsibility for all those deaths, Mouse knew her purpose. She had seen evil, not just the vileness of humanity, but primal, original evil; it was the enemy.
Angel or saint or witch or just odd, noble-born or not, God had made her a soldier, despite what Ottakar had said. No one else could have decoded the book. No one else could have gone into the pit and lived.
“I must keep guard here. Like you said, we must be diligent and not forget like the others before us.” She sounded old.
“How long will the binding spell last?” Father Lucas asked.
“I do not know. Maybe it only lasts as long as someone remembers it, like a sentry keeping watch for the enemy. It does not matter.” She sounded tired. “Someone must keep watch here at Houska. But before I start my vigil, I have a promise I must keep. I will go back to Ottakar. To say good-bye.”
“You are not alone, Mouse. It is my burden, too.” Father Lucas laid his hand on her head, grieving for the girl he had lost in the pit. “We will make a life here. You and I. Watching. But we will need supplies. You go to Prague. I will write a letter to the bishop telling him what to send. It will help if you can get the support of the young King.”
Mouse sighed, letting go of the dreams she had dared to imagine for herself and Ottakar. She resigned herself to what her life would be; she felt too damaged to dream anymore. Prague and Ottakar seemed such a long time ago. Wearily, she pushed herself up. “Write your letter. I will go.”
Days later, in the dark hours of the morning, she came to the castle gate. She was so tired she could barely stand, her body stiff with cold. Like a ghost, she had wandered out of Houska and back into the world and none of it seemed real. Squinting at the colors and flinching at birdsong, she had walked until she couldn’t anymore, and then she huddled in the hollow at the base of a linden tree, dropping like rain into a deep sleep, waking only a few hours later, sore and cramping, to push herself up and do it all again. She avoided the villages, all of the people too bright, too bold, too alive.
Despite her soiled and torn clothes, the guards knew her and let her pass at the castle gate. She went straight to the bishop’s house, holding the letter Father Lucas had penned in berry ink on a page he had torn from his breviary. The monk, too, recognized her when he opened the door. He beckoned her in, pressing his hand to his nose as she passed.
Bishop Miklaus sat at a heavy table near the fire of his receiving room. “You do not seem well, Lady Emma. Sit.” Mouse was already leaning heavily on the chair. “Brother,” he said to the monk, “fetch some wine and bread.”
“Thank you,” Mouse said.
“And where is Father Lucas?”
“He is at Houska still. Here, he explains everything in his letter.”
She studied the bishop’s face as he read. Father Lucas had written only a few vague details about unnatural beasts and forces of evil at work as he called for the Church to take arms at Houska, but even these seemed to unsettle Bishop Miklaus, whose eyes widened as he read. “I must write to Rome,” he muttered to himself.
The bishop looked up with relief when the monk entered with food and wine.
“Here, my Lady, you should restore yourself. Brother, ready the west guest room for Lady Emma. She will want to rest after her journey.”
“Thank you, your Excellency,” Mouse replied, “but I mean to go see my Lord King Ottakar. He is still in Prague, is he not?”
“He is here, my Lady, but . . .”
Mouse’s senses fired at the sound of fear in the bishop’s voice; it pierced her fatigue. She slid to the edge of her seat. “But what?” she asked.
Bishop Miklaus cleared his throat and watched until the monk closed the doors behind him. “Much has changed in the weeks since you left, Lady Emma.”
“What do you mean?”
“King Vaclav has returned.”
“I know this.”
The bishop flinched. “King Vaclav and his son have not always lived in peace.”
“I know this, too.” Anxiety hardened Mouse’s tone. “By the saints, tell me what has happened
!”
“King Vaclav claims that it was the Younger King who plotted to poison him.”
“That is a lie.” She read his face. “And you know it.”
“With all respect, my Lady, who are you to question the truth of the King?”
“It makes no sense, Bishop. Someone plotted to kill Ottakar, too. Paid off one of his men. He came wounded to Teplá, nearly dead. Whoever made the attempt on Ottakar is likely the same person who tried to poison Vaclav.” The bishop chewed at his finger. The man stank with fear, and Mouse felt the same emotion sink its teeth in her. “What has he done with Ottakar?”
The bishop would not look at her. “I am not sure I am supposed to say. It is no business of the Church.”
Mouse saw the politics at play in the man’s mind; they were the same as among the ladies in the solar. Ally with the wrong king, the losing king, and you could find your privilege gone or your head on a stake at the Judith Bridge—right and wrong didn’t matter.
“Where is Ottakar?” she asked.
“It is no business of yours, either.” She could see the wall go up around him; he was protecting himself. He would not take sides. “It will be difficult under the circumstances, but I am sure we can manage to send some supplies back to Houska with you. We will talk more tomorrow after you have had time to—”
Mouse stood and leaned over the table. The bishop swallowed his breath at the smell of her and glanced nervously toward the door.
“Look at me,” she said with a voice that was quiet and controlled. He turned his face to hers. She had commanded him not with her power but with her desperation. “Is Ottakar dead?” She steeled herself for his answer.
“As far as I know, not yet.” He sighed as he settled back in his chair. “The King is afraid of an uprising. So he waits.” He lowered his eyes again, picked up a quill, shuffled some parchment on his desk. “Now I must finish some work, Lady Emma. The Brother will show you to your room.”
“Thank you, your Excellency.” Mouse tried to bow but her legs were shaking with exhaustion. “Would it be too much trouble to send for my maid, Gitta? I imagine she is still at the keep.”
“Of course, my Lady. Just instruct the Brother.”
Mouse fell onto the bed in the room she had been given and curled into a ball.
“Am I Job then, for you to test me so?” she whispered. “Does this mean you love me, too?” She closed her eyes, searching for an answer from God, but she saw only darkness inside her still.
“I did not think so,” she said bitterly.
She pushed herself upright, resting her head on her knees as she worked through the problem like a chess match. The game to be played here was a dangerous one. First, she needed to understand the pieces at work and how they moved. Ottakar and Vaclav she knew about; she needed to see who else was playing.
Soon, Gitta arrived, bringing some of what she needed—fresh clothes and information. Mouse was pleased to see her again despite the news she told: many of Ottakar’s men were imprisoned with him in the Black Tower. Others had fled, along with their wives, for home. Mouse would find no allies here at court.
When Mouse went down later for morning Mass, she was prepared for the unfamiliar faces. She felt the burning of curious eyes on her as she approached the bishop after the service. “Your Excellency, I am afraid that my return to Father Lucas will be somewhat delayed. I have matters to tend to here first.” She held her smile at his raised eyebrows and spoke loudly enough for others nearby to hear, wanting to make it as difficult as possible for him to refuse her. “You will be able to send a Brother with the supplies, will you not?”
“My Lady, I think it would be best if you—” Bishop Miklaus stopped short, looking over Mouse’s shoulder and bowing. “My Lord.”
Mouse turned to find King Vaclav behind her. “My Lord,” she said as she too bowed. She wondered if he would remember her from the brief encounter at the gate that rainy day, and, if he did, if he would see her as an ally to his son—and a threat to him.
The King took her hand. “It is Lady Emma, is it not? You were Ottakar’s ward.” His mouth lingered on the word, lips puckered like a kiss and then pulling back in a sneer.
“Yes, my Lord.” She searched his eyes for news of Ottakar but saw nothing besides lust.
“May I introduce you to my good friend, Lord Rozemberk?”
“I already know—” She stopped as she saw the man who had been standing behind the King. He was indeed familiar to Mouse, but he was not the Lord Rozemberk she knew.
“I am confident we have never met, my Lady,” the man said smoothly. “You mistake me with someone else.”
“She must know your son, the youngest—Vok,” the King said.
“He is no son of mine. He is a traitor and deserves the wheel.”
“Now, now. He is a younger son, like mine. Their place makes them desperate to grasp at power whenever they can, however they can. We will humble them soon enough.”
As this other Lord Rozemberk turned toward the King and Mouse saw his profile, she knew where she had seen him before. He had been the man on the other side of Lord Olomouc that night at supper, the night she had danced. In her memory, she replayed his words—“I think the Younger King may discover that he has more enemies than he knows.” It was another piece of the puzzle and this man another player, but she could not fit it all together.
“You look pale, my Lady,” King Vaclav said, lifting her face with a finger under her chin.
“I have been ill, my Lord. It was why I was away.”
Bishop Miklaus, nervously watching the tense exchange, interceded. “I will take her back to her room at my house and let her rest. She must return to Father Lucas tomorrow.”
Mouse could see he was trying to slip her neck free of the noose closing around it, but she was prepared to hang herself if that’s what it took to free Ottakar. “Thank you, Your Excellency, but I—” she started, and then the King interrupted.
“Send someone else to your Father Lucas, Bishop. Lady Emma will stay with us.” King Vaclav offered his arm. “Let me assist you to the hall. Some food will do you good, I think. Now where to settle you? The keep is quite full.” Mouse kept a taut smile even as she imagined the rope tightening around her throat.
“I am sure your sister, Mother Agnes, will have room for me at the convent.”
“No,” Vaclav said sharply. “Ottakar’s chamber is empty. You can stay there. You will find comfort in the familiar, I think, and restore yourself more quickly.”
“And where is Lord Ottakar?” she asked innocently, ignoring his insinuation that she had spent much time in his son’s room.
“Not here,” he said simply.
The smile Mouse wore felt carved, unnatural, as she lowered herself into her usual chair beside the King’s seat. Ottakar’s seat, she said defiantly to herself.
“He seemed to like you,” Vaclav muttered, leaning around her side from behind. “Very much, I think.” She could see him calculating her value as she found herself a piece now in play in his game. “I like you, too,” he said.
She held herself still against the shiver as his one eye traced her body. Vaclav was already talking about Ottakar in the past tense.
Mouse had little time, and she needed help.
NINETEEN
Later, when Vaclav and his men had ridden out to hunt, Mouse slipped out of the keep and across the Judith Bridge, which was covered in a swirly, dusty snow. Panic had driven her to the only person she could think of who might be willing to help. She tried now to calm herself as she paced in an unfamiliar room, her heart racing as the minutes passed. She started when the door opened.
“Mother Agnes.” Mouse bowed.
“I know you.” The Mother squinted her eyes, studying Mouse, but she would not come farther into the room. “You came with my nephew to see . . . her.”
“Yes,” Mouse said, relief flooding her. “I need your help.”
“For what?” Her eyes lowered to Mouse’s b
elly.
“Not what you think,” Mouse answered briskly. “We must save Ottakar.”
“From whom?”
“Your brother, the King.”
“Vaclav is teaching Ottakar a lesson in obedience,” Mother Agnes said, turning to leave. “But the King will not harm his only heir.”
Mouse crossed the floor quickly and grabbed the woman’s arm. “You are wrong. I have word that he means to kill his son.”
“I do not believe it.” Mother Agnes pulled her arm free. “And besides, I can be of no help to you. I no longer have any sway over Vaclav. Once, he counted me among his closest advisors but not since the Queen . . . died.”
“He is afraid of you.” Mouse had heard the fear in Vaclav’s voice when she’d suggested staying at the convent; something about Mother Agnes frightened him. Mouse needed to know what that was so she could use it against him.
“He is afraid of many things.”
“Tell me.”
“Why should I betray my blood to a stranger?”
“I am no stranger. You saw me here with Ottakar. I cannot imagine that you want harm to come to your nephew.”
Mother Agnes took a step back toward the door. “I must prepare for prayers.”
Mouse reached out again, gently touching the Mother’s arm this time. Her voice trembled with pent-up fear as she made a final plea. “Please, can you at least help me find a way to see him? To see if what you say is true—that he is unharmed and this only a father’s chastisement? I will leave it be then. But I cannot rest until I know that Ottakar is well. Please. You took his mother despite Church rules. You have watched him grieve. You must love him, too. Please help me.”
Mother Agnes sighed. “There is a guard—Havel, the smith’s son. I helped his family through a hardship. Tell him I sent you to check on my nephew.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“I want to know what you find,” she said quietly as she left the room.
Mouse sent Gitta to find out the guard rotations while she went down for the evening meal and entertainment in the Great Hall as expected. The plan was for Gitta to come to the hall if Havel was on guard; Mouse would plead ill and leave. But she had not anticipated King Vaclav’s attentions. He pulled her chair so close it touched his own; he cut the best pieces of meat for her, though she ate none of it.
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