by Rosalyn Eves
Then I stopped. Noémi’s horse grazed alone, lifting her head as we approached, her great limpid eyes indifferent to the upheaval we’d left behind. Starfire was missing.
A Romani man stood near Noémi’s horse, his arms folded across his chest.
“We’ve taken back our horse,” he said in accented German.
“What? But she was mine—my cousin bought and paid for her.”
He continued to stare at me, his gaze uncompromising. Realization swept over me, and I sighed. Likely Mátyás had not paid anything at all, only purchased her with a promise.
“I’ll walk back with you,” Noémi said, picking up her trailing reins.
As we headed toward the road leading to the village, I glanced behind only once.
Gábor had already vanished.
I wrote to Papa that evening, smoothing the paper beneath the fitful glow of the lantern. The pen wanted mending, but I hadn’t the time or means at the moment. I wished I’d thought to borrow one of Papa’s new steel pens before I left England, and hoped he could still decipher my wretchedly scratchy penmanship. I chewed on the feather tip, uncertain. My heart ached at the events of the day. I wanted to ask Papa about the baby, if it was possible I had indeed stolen part of her soul, and if so, what would happen to her. But I was not sure I could bear the answer.
I could not tell him of Gábor, since I could not tell myself what I thought of him, and even Papa with his liberal notions might not welcome my involvement with a Romani.
Instead, I told him of Noémi’s healing, as I knew familial magic lines interested him. I described the rides I’d taken and the way the smell of the linden trees filled my room in the morning when I wakened. I sent well-wishes to Mama and Catherine, and asked for word of James. In all, my letter might serve as a model for a dutiful daughter in a conduct manual.
The words were true, but the letter was a lie—it hid the truth of my life. And then I added a question no dutiful daughter would raise because it could only invite trouble, as I knew the scholar in Papa could not refrain from answering: Papa, what is Sárvár? I heard mention of a spell gone wretchedly awry….
An uneasy quiet settled over the village and the palace in the days and weeks following our expulsion from the Romani camp. Noémi spent much of the time in her room, recovering from her spell-casting. Word reached us that the Romanies had packed up and disappeared.
I spent hours rambling through the disintegrating gardens at Eszterháza, the ragged shrubs and tangled paths a fitting reflection of my tumbled thoughts.
I wondered what I ought to do next, since I could no longer learn Romani magic.
I wondered if I would ever see Gábor again.
The aching sense of loss would fade, I knew, as Freddy’s loss had. But the very existence of that ache meant I had begun to care for Gábor more than I knew. More than I wished to.
Sitting in the window seat of my room, I read Papa’s letter through once, then twice, frowning. He said nothing of my question about Sárvár, only mentioned a few mundane bits about the family estate and his research. Mellow afternoon light pooled in my lap as I turned the letter over in my hands. Then I saw it: a tiny imprint of our family crest—a phoenix—buried in one corner of the paper.
Papa had spelled the letter.
I pressed my finger to the imprint and waited for the spell to recognize my blood.
Papa’s voice filled the room, and tears pricked my eyes at its familiarity.
Of course I know of Sárvár. It is believed Countess Báthory attempted a blood ritual there. Historians such as myself are still not entirely certain of her aim—to break the Binding spell, or merely to access it herself and circumvent the Circle. Whatever its aim, the spell created a kind of bridge—a way station—between our world and the dimension where the Binding holds our magic. The Circle have tried repeatedly to dismantle her spell, as it creates a weak point in the Binding, but have been unable to do so, in large part because they are unwilling to re-create the blood magic she used to build her spell. Indeed, it’s a curious spell, one I have often wished to study from a closer vantage point.
There was a long silence, and I had begun to think the charm was finished, when Papa resumed speaking.
You already know I am a heretic. I believe the Binding should be abolished and magic should be allowed to run free, for use by all with a knack for it. When Charlemagne convened the first Circle and cast the original Binding spell, no doubt he believed it was a good thing. The Binding was crafted to protect spell-casters: too many magicians were dying because they misjudged the power required for their spells and burned themselves out. The first Circle decided to create instead a reservoir of magic all magicians might draw from, limiting that power only to those trained for it, thus protecting the untrained from using a spell beyond their capacity—and everyone else from the ruins of their spells.
But whatever good was begun with it, the Binding has ended by perpetuating injustice. Those with magic began to use their power to promote themselves, restricting the use of magic not to those with training but to those with powerful bloodlines.
I am not always a brave man. I know this. I do not always stand for the things I believe are right. But the more I study the history of magic, the more I come to see we have made a mistake. Magic should not belong solely to those who made themselves powerful at the expense of others. I believe we now know enough about magic to establish protections against the deaths that plagued ancient magicians. Anyone with talent should have access to magic—and to proper training. Imagine what we might learn if all those with talent and inclination could practice magic!
I find I am not so alone as I once imagined. Lady Berri has, surprisingly, indicated she shares my belief. I took the liberty of showing her your letter, and she was most intrigued. It occurs to us that you might be of use in breaking that spell at Sárvár. Lady Berri is preparing to come to you as I write, as such spell-breaking should not be attempted alone. I send this letter in the hopes it will give you some warning of what is to come. But do not fear—I am confident Lady Berri will keep you safe. She and I have spoken a great deal about the schools we shall build when—if—the Binding can be broken.
In any case, the castle bears an interesting history and is said to be worth the journey.
Your loving Papa
I stared at the letter. Pressing my finger again to the charm elicited no response, so I set the letter down and fell backward upon my bed, my thoughts reeling. Papa’s letter only confirmed what William had already claimed: nobles were not Luminate because of some inherent gift but because the Binding made them so, taking power from non-Luminates to augment a reservoir of magic reserved only for those already powerful. Seen this way, members of the Circle were not so much preservers of an ancient spell but gatekeepers arbitrarily determining human worth. This one was wealthy, let him be a magician. This one was not, let him be a serf. My stomach turned.
My thoughts shifted to Lady Berri. Papa had sent me away in part to keep me safe from the Circle, yet now he was sending one of them direct to me—and asking her to test my so-called ability? Papa seemed to think that she was also a heretic, that they shared the same goals, hence everything was all right.
But I was not so sanguine. I was not one of Gábor’s fish, a specimen for experimentation, regardless of whether everyone around me seemed to see me as such: William, Lady Berri, even Papa. I could not bear the thought of going to Sárvár under Lady Berri’s pig-eyed scrutiny. But if she showed up with Papa’s blessing, Grandmama would send me with her.
I pushed off my bed and began rummaging in my wardrobe.
Very well, then. I would go to Sárvár. But I would go on my own terms. Instead of running from my abilities, I would see what I was capable of. I had located Sárvár on one of János’s maps when William first mentioned it. If I left at night, I could be back before Grandmama noticed me missing.
Gábor’s words came back to me. Don’t go to Sárvár. If your friend is right and y
ou can break that spell—if you can break the Binding—you could destroy us all.
My hand froze on the sleeve of a yellow cotton day dress. Gábor’s grandmother had interrupted him before he could tell me how I might destroy us. What did he know that I did not?
I shook myself. Papa was confident the spell might be broken without ill side effects, or he would not send me to do it. Perhaps Gábor’s fear was mere superstition.
In any case, he was no longer here. He was not entitled to an opinion on my choices.
That evening, when heavy silence fell over the palace, I climbed out of bed and donned my most sensible gown, a plain navy broadcloth with only two bands of ribbons around the sleeves. Then I crept down the stairs, through the echoing hallways, the sheep-filled Sala Terrena, and the overgrown gardens to the stable.
A snuffling noise outside the stable doors stopped my heart for a moment with improbable fancies: an escaped lidérc, a rusalka. But it was only one of the sheep that had wandered from its sleeping brothers.
The loss of Starfire hit me anew with the strong smell of horse and leather. Ignoring my aching heart, I found a bridle and sidesaddle and carried them to the stall where Mátyás kept his horse, Holdas. The sidesaddle proved a bit troublesome, as the pale horse had an unusually broad girth. At last I managed by boring another hole in the leather with an awl I found among the stable tools. I led the horse to the mounting block.
The horse rolled an eye back at me. For a brief moment, red seemed to flicker in the eyes, like a still-burning ember. I dismissed the idea, and hauled myself up into the saddle. The horse bounced a little beneath me, as if testing my weight. I tapped his flank lightly with my heel, and we shuffled toward the stable doors.
Only to find the door blocked by Mátyás.
In the moonlight, his gaze took in the full saddlebags on his horse and my light cloak. His eyes widened. “What are you doing? Holdas will kill you.” He swayed a little, and my lip curled.
“You’re drunk.”
“Am not. Only happy. Now get down.”
“I need to borrow your horse.” I considered trying to ride past Mátyás, but I didn’t trust my drunk, feckless, foolish cousin to move out of my way.
“Why?”
“My actions are none of your business.”
“They are. It’s my horse. And my ancestral home.” He swung one arm out, waxing energetic, and nearly stumbled.
“It’s not your house. And I’m only borrowing your horse because the one you gave me was reclaimed for lack of payment.” I burned inwardly.
Mátyás closed one eye and peered at me through the other. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t answer.
“Get off my horse.”
I thrust my chin out and stared down at him.
“A fene egye meg!” Mátyás stalked toward me. My fingers tightened on the reins.
“I refuse to ride that slug of a horse.” Mátyás nodded toward Cukor, placidly chewing hay in a corner stall. “You ride him. I’m riding Holdas.”
I dropped the reins. “What—?”
“Daft girl. Haven’t you been listening?” Mátyás sighed. “I am trying to ensure my willful cousin does not kill herself on a stupid midnight ride.”
I blinked at him.
“I’m coming with you.”
It was not quite dawn when our road wound down into the Rába River valley, descending through gently rolling hills before arriving at the heart of Sárvár. Mátyás had worn off the worst of his intoxication (the singing stage had been impressive), and was now merely a little talkative.
“I admire your fearlessness,” Mátyás said.
“I’m not fearless.” My heart had kept up an uneven thumping all night, and I was beginning to think the line between bravery and stupidity was determined by whether or not one survived.
“Oh? What are you afraid of?”
The summer air was warm, even at the tail end of evening. A night for the safekeeping of secrets—and for sharing them. So I gave Mátyás the truth. “That I will live and I will die and none of it will matter. That I won’t matter.” Because this truth came too close to laying me bare, I covered it over with poetry, from Tennyson’s “Ulysses”: “How dull it is to pause, to make an end, / To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! / As tho’ to breathe were life.”
I half expected Mátyás to laugh, or to meet my poetry with a line of his own. But he met my sidelong look steadily. “You already matter, Anna.” His eyes darkened and my heart skipped. “There’s something I—”
“And you?” I asked, turning the conversation away before Mátyás could say something we would both regret. “What do you fear?”
He was silent so long I did not think he would answer. Then, “Sometimes I’m afraid I will turn into my father, disappointing everyone around me with my life—and with my death. It’s easier when no one has expectations.”
And so he cracks jokes and resists responsibility. I wondered if Mátyás knew just how revealing his words were. I cradled them to me, wishing I could put my arms around Mátyás as I would James, when he was troubled at heart. But now was not the time or place. We’d come in sight of Sárvár.
We rode beneath the castle, which I found, frankly, disappointing. It was not the fairy-tale castle I’d been spinning in my brain, all crumbling walls and turrets, but a rather squat, sensible edifice clearly built for defense. A short tower rose from one corner.
I knew from my reading that the castle had belonged to the Nádasdy family, one of whom had married the infamous Blood Countess, Báthory Erzsébet. Rumor held she bathed in the blood of virgins to preserve her youth and beauty. I did not know if rumor spoke truth, but Papa had confirmed that she used blood magic. I looked at the moonlight-drenched walls of the castle and shivered. What would I find in this woman’s blood-soaked spell?
Mátyás led me unerringly to the remains of an old Roman bath, a small square building with an arched roof, a mile or so beyond the castle, confirming my belief he had been here before. Part of the roof and one side had crumbled away, leaving the bath inside exposed to the elements. A Latin inscription flowed across the keystone over the doorway.
We drew closer, trying to peer into the gloom of the interior. Two men stood near the shadow side of the building, talking softly.
“The Circle guards,” Mátyás said. “I’ll draw them off.”
He darted to one side of the bath, melting into darkness. A crow lifted to the air in his wake, crying wildly. It winged toward the two guards and plummeted down on top of them. They cried out, throwing their hands over their eyes as the bird attacked.
I sent silent thanks after Mátyás and plunged forward into the opening.
The interior of the bath smelled of sulfur and steam. As my eyes adjusted to the new gloom, I found I stood on a tiled ledge running around the four sides of the room. An intricately patterned mosaic covered the bottom of the shallow pool. Outside, the two guards shouted and the crow answered back. I took a half dozen careful steps along the ledge toward the back of the bath, where stars shimmered through the missing roof.
Something brushed against my face, cobweb-light, but when I brought my fingers up to rub it away, nothing was there. Voices echoed in the ruined space, whispers of laughter, the jagged note of a woman crying. Papa had described the spell here as a way station, a bridge between our dimension and that of the Binding. I wondered, a shiver convulsing through me, if the voices I heard belonged to my world—or to the Binding.
As I crept forward, the heat in the room intensified, seeping through the soles of my feet to permeate my entire body. I paused for a moment, my eyes drawn to a dark line across the tiles in front of me. What material could leave such indelible trace? Some kind of dye? Surely blood would have washed away long since.
The air around me was curiously dense, like fog on a winter morning. I had the strangest sense that if I thrust my hands forward, they would plunge through an invisible barrier. I lifted my hands: the radiat
ing heat in my body erupted from my fingers, my eyes, my temples. The sharp smell of winter frost rose around me, and that invisible barrier tore open.
The space bloomed with darkness—and something clawlike closed over my wrist.
The clawed hands pulled me forward, and I stumbled, thrusting my free hand out for balance before I could fall into the pool. I half expected my fingers to snag against the stone wall, but nothing was there. Something brushed past me, bringing with it the scent of brine and smoke, and, so faintly I thought I might be imagining it, roses. My heart hammered. It smelled like the creature from Catherine’s debut.
Around me in the darkness, the voices crescendoed. The echoes of laughter were gone, replaced almost entirely by screaming. There were words too, but in a language I did not recognize. A cold wind caught my hair.
Still, that relentless grip pulled me forward, slipping and sliding across a stone floor. I could see nothing of my captor. The blackness was absolute—not just the absence of light but a presence itself.
The space around me had taken on the echoey quality of a cavern or cathedral. Though I could not see—even the stars had blinked out—I had the impression the space had expanded well beyond the confines of the tumbledown bath.
Countess Báthory’s spell. Somehow, I must have crossed into it.
I tried to look behind me, searching for the seam I’d come through, but blackness closed up my eyes. I took a deep, shuddering breath.
There were other creatures in the darkness with me. I heard faint splashing in water and the wet slap of limbs against the floor. Eyes glimmered briefly before their owners scrabbled away. Some distance from me, lit by a faint glow about his brow, a man with the head and horns of an elk strolled through the shadows. On his arm was a woman, naked except for the spiders skittering across her body, drawing the faintest skeins of silk webbing around her. Both of them wore shackles of silver, hammered to paper thinness. The woman turned a night-dark face to me, a third eye opening like a flower in her forehead.