by Nancy Holder
Barna beamed, the self-purveyor of valuable advice; no doubt now he believed that Rendor owed him a favor. “My pleasure.”
Finally the other man was gone and her Watcher turned to her. “Two days,” he said. “It isn’t much time to prepare you.”
“Prepare me?” Ildikó asked. “In what way?”
“There are more things you must know,” Rendor said. “Mannerisms more befitting a young lady. The absence of these may well cause you to be passed over.” Ildikó had no idea what he was talking about, so she said nothing, choosing instead to follow him around the shop as he made a few purchases—a small feminine-looking satchel, a delicate comb, a pair of light-colored stockings that Ildikó thought looked incredibly uncomfortable. She wasn’t so daft that she didn’t realize these items were for her, but was she really going to have to don those ridiculous leggings and carry that comb in a purse? How can a Slayer be expected to fight if she is bound in such clothing?
“Come along,” her Watcher said. He held up the dress and the items he’d just purchased. “We have the tools and we have the time. Now we must prepare the package.”
* * *
Rubbing her arms beneath her cape, Ildikó stood with perhaps fifteen other girls outside the small shop owned by the most talented of the village’s seamstresses. Despite her popularity, the woman’s store was small, as was apparent by the need for them to wait for the countess’s ladies outside when inside a warm fire burned on the hearth and the customers and a few employees enjoyed tea and mulled wine. There was an undercurrent to the crowd—nervousness, discomfort, fear—and Ildikó heard more than a few girls whisper to each other of the countess’s rumored cruelties, how their families had ignored their pleas to stay home in favor of the possible compensation. How sad, Ildikó thought, to have so little control over your own lives and fate that others, even your relatives, could decide, based only on their own greed, whether you might live or die.
None of the others spoke to her, none stood by her side. The last two days had felt like the longest of her short life, Rendor’s repeated lessons in proper speaking, attire, and demeanor difficult for her to comprehend. Had her Watcher’s efforts succeeded? She felt no different than before, and she certainly looked the same as always save for the too-girlish dress and the stockings covering her legs, useless but for the added warmth they provided. Perhaps she would grow to find them comfortable when—if—she were taken into Castle Csejthe. Yes, she’d been told the right things to say and the way in which to speak, but she had no experience of such things in day-to-day living, in the real world of sewing and housekeeping and accounts. Rendor, who awaited the outcome with many of the other adults in the nearby shops, could teach her only so much—the rest of her learning would have to come from the surrounding girls, whether or not they wanted to associate with her.
Ildikó sidestepped a bit nearer to the closest three young women, pretending to study the hem of her dress. They didn’t say much, murmuring now and then about the cold and their parents, talking of sewing and using terms of which Ildikó had no knowledge. She might not do well with reading and numbers, but she quickly picked up on their mannerisms and speech patterns, the way they carefully pronounced each syllable rather than running everything together like the common peasants. Fearful or not, Ildikó knew each of these girls hoped that they would be an exception to the rumors, that they possessed some special skill that might catch the attention of a royal servant and guarantee them a better, and safe, place within the Bathory household. Everyone, the Slayer thought ruefully, holds fast to the belief that the bad things within the world would always happen to someone else.
“Why do you crowd us?” a voice beside her suddenly demanded. Ildikó glanced sideways and saw Marika, a pretty, blonde-haired woman of sixteen summers. Her brown gaze was full of derision. “Surely you don’t believe that you will be brought into the countess’s service?” She laughed, and a few of the girls around her joined in while the rest simply stood and looked on miserably, stomping their feet for warmth as they waited for the royal entourage. “Perhaps you haven’t recently seen your reflection in the washbowl,” Marika continued. “ ‘Tis well known that the countess prefers her serving ladies to look like ladies. The mannish style of your hair will hardly draw her eye. Whatever were you thinking to trim it in such a fashion?”
Ildikó started to retort, then Rendor’s warning about being disagreeable made her bite back the words. There seemed to be no one around to notice, but who knew? “It just . . . seemed like a good idea when it was done,” she finally muttered. The other girls giggled among themselves, and Ildikó felt her cheeks redden and her ire rise. She might have taken the conversation a step further had not three carriages bearing the countess’s coat of arms rattled to a stop in front of the shop. Steam plumed from the mouths and noses of the great black horses. Their hides were covered in ornately embroidered saddle blankets and carved headpieces were strapped to their skulls. Marika forgot Ildikó as they all stood a bit straighter and reflexively smoothed their hair into place beneath their hoods. It was a contradictory situation—being pressed to service Elizabeth Bathory might not be the goal for many, but they still didn’t want to face the shame of being passed over and having to return to their families.
Waiting with the crowd of young women, Ildikó was happy to be out of Marika’s attentions, since it gave her a chance to surreptitiously study the carriage and the two women who exited it. She and Rendor had heard about them, Jó Ilona and Kateline, and the rumors weren’t good—it was said they were responsible for not only recruiting serving maids but also sometimes personally disposing of them when they . . . were no longer needed. Perhaps it had been them performing the late-night burial Ildikó and her Watcher had witnessed that night outside the castle.
Now, despite the bitter temperature, Ildikó and her companions tried to curtsey appropriately then stand tall during their inspection.
There was little remarkable about the countess’s two main ladies, other than the obviously better quality and warmth of their garments. Jó Ilona was the older one, with a face road-mapped by time and the elements, her iron gray hair escaping her cap in frizzy tufts around a face that Ildikó immediately pegged as not to be trusted. Kateline wasn’t quite so old, but she was still past the bloom of youth; she reminded Ildikó of the gypsy camp followers she’d seen in her own childhood, women who did whatever they were told so long as they were given food and shelter in return. Of course, those women had not done such things as the unspeakable deeds committed by these two.
Jó Ilona began plucking girls from the bunch huddled together and directing them toward Kateline. One here, another there, and how many would be chosen? Five? Six? Surely no more than that, and Ildikó realized that the maximum number would be reached long before the two ladies made it to her position near the end of the group. Many of the girls were trying to slip toward the back without being noticed, their fear of the countess turning to slyness—where was the shame in saying they had not been chosen because the queue had filled before they were seen? Counting on that, Ildikó pushed her way quickly toward the front of the waiting girls, ignoring the mumbled, unladylike curses sometimes directed at her when she bodily moved a girl from her path. In only a few moments she was at the front, and only three girls had been selected so far; this was the best position she could get, and now she had only to somehow sell herself to Jó Ilona.
The old woman paused and studied the girl standing beside Ildikó, then frowned and moved on. Ildikó’s sensitive hearing picked up the young maiden’s nearly inaudible sigh of relief, then the Slayer stood straighter as Jó Ilona stopped in front of her. For a few seconds, she was at a loss; Render had passed along the rumors that Countess Bathory preferred well-endowed blondes. What on earth could she, slender and dark-haired, do to catch the eye of the woman’s recruiter?
Her gaze met and locked with that of Jó Ilona’s, and more than anything, Ildikó wanted to scowl at the evil she saw in those wat
ery brown eyes. Instead she forced herself to smile boldly, then drop into a deep curtsy. Her bow wasn’t perfect, but the winter cape and the skirt of her dress hid where her feet would have made the move too awkward.
“Stand up, girl,” the old woman rasped. Ildikó obeyed and found Jó Ilona standing only inches away and peering at her. “Open your mouth.”
Again, Ildikó obeyed, thinking crankily that she was being inspected as would the local mare before breeding. Jó Ilona’s next words drove that impression even deeper. “Good teeth,” said the countess’s lady, then she reached forward and dug her thin fingers into the flesh of Ildikó’s shoulders and upper arms. “Strong, too. Healthy. You’ll serve us well for chores and such—go to the carriage with the others.”
Rendor’s plan had worked! Ildikó curtsied again then did as she’d been instructed, struggling to mask a triumphant smile. Hustled to one side by Kateline, she waited with the three others chosen so far as Jó Ilona walked the remainder of the line and pulled out two more of the young women, including Marika. Mixed as it was with the dread of their families’ displeasure, the relief on the faces of those left behind was still obvious.
It felt like forever before they were moved into the carriage. Though cold, it was at least out of the brutal touch of the wind. Crowded together inside, they could at least build up a bit of warmth as they began the long and bumpy ride through the foothills. Although they knew one another, most of the girls were quiet as they contemplated what might await them at Csejthe Castle. Unfortunately, Marika seemed inclined to do little but snipe at Ildikó.
“How interesting that the countess’s ladies should select you,” the young woman said to the Slayer. With nothing to occupy their attention but dire thoughts of their future, the other girls seemed grateful for Marika and her words, eager for something else upon which to focus. “But then I suppose that even the countess needs workers in the kitchen, or perhaps women to clean her chamber pots.”
There were a few nervous giggles from the others, but Ildikó wasn’t deluded by Marika’s insults. She had found herself in terror-filled situations too many times not to recognize when someone was hiding behind bravado, masking their apprehension by lashing out at whomever was closest. Poor Rendor had suffered her harsh tongue many a time over the last half year. “Yes,” was all she said. “Perhaps she does.”
Marika said nothing, but one of the others, a young and pretty girl whose name Ildikó didn’t recall, leaned forward. Her eyes were wide, and even in the cold, a line of nervous perspiration rimmed her upper lip. “Why is it you do not seem afraid?” she demanded. “Have you not heard the stories? Do you not know what fate probably awaits us?”
Ildikó tried to think of something to respond, but before she could the words of another girl cut her off. “My mother says you’re a witch,” she announced. She sent a hard stare at Ildikó, then glanced meaningfully at the other girls. “Perhaps that’s why she isn’t afraid—she thinks to ally herself with those at the castle.”
Now the rest of them were staring at her in horror, literally trying to push away from her in the tiny carriage. “Don’t be absurd,” Ildikó snapped. “I’m no such thing.”
Marika sat up straighter, deciding to again join the conversation. “Then why else would you be chosen with the rest of us?” she demanded. She gestured at her golden hair and well-fed frame, then arched an eyebrow at Ildikó’s more lithe build. “You must have . . . cast a spell upon the countess’s ladies to make them see you as they see us.”
“You heard her,” Ildikó shot back. She could feel herself getting irritated despite her resolve to remain patient and understanding. “She believes I am strong and healthy enough for chores. ‘Tis nothing more than that.”
“So you say,” muttered one of the others.
The carriage hit a particularly nasty bump and the banter stopped as they all tried to find handholds. The roughness of the ride increased, and Ildikó was grateful for it; she was tired of defending herself against these gossipy, narrow-minded young women. How foolish that they would condemn her out of hand when in the not-so-distant future it was to Ildikó whom they might have to turn for help. Sometimes Ildikó thought that the wiles and whims of men and women ensured their own fates.
* * *
She was split from the others almost from the moment they were taken into the great hall of the castle. Ildikó watched with a feeling of foreboding as the others were ushered up the stone stairwell and into the shadowed recesses of the upper floors. Would she see them again? Would she be able to save them? Only time would provide the answer, and meanwhile the air inside the castle carried the heavy aura of fear. The servants went about their tasks quietly, sweeping, dusting, and working ceaselessly to add to or repair the heavy tapestries hung to block the dampness and drafts from the stone walls. Laughter was seldom heard here; when a few muted chuckles did escape, the sound was quickly muted, overridden by the fear of drawing unwanted attention.
As Jó Ilona and Kateline disappeared with the others, Ildikó was turned over to the housekeeper in charge of the countess’s larder, a florid-faced woman named Judit who, even at this early hour, had obviously already been tasting of the castle ale. The Slayer was given an apron, then instructed to perform a multitude of mundane but physically demanding tasks—no wonder Jó Ilona had felt her muscles. The hours passed quickly, with Ildikó keeping her eyes and ears attuned to everything, learning who was who and what went where as she carted supplies back and forth and learned of necessity how to turn a knife on cooking meat and vegetables; apparently the midday meal was the big event of Csejthe Castle, and everything must be perfect. One of her first unspoken lessons was that it was best under any circumstances not to draw attention to oneself around the countess or her main ladies-in-waiting; the second was to never, ever question the whereabouts of a serving girl who suddenly no longer reported for her duties.
No matter how she tried, Ildikó was never allowed in the great hall during the meal that first day. Judit kept a hawk’s-eye watch on her during that time, perhaps suspicious of all the questions Ildikó had been asking. She could hear the revelry and laughter, and they certainly went through enough food—a small army would have been well supplied for a week on what was wasted and thrown to the rather well-fed dogs and beggars. Ildikó herself enjoyed a small meal of ground meat, goat’s cheese, and bread, forgoing the offered ale in favor of fresh water. By the time she did manage to slip back into the main hall, the countess had already retired to her chambers, and other servants moved around and picked up the leavings, using rush brooms to sweep the expansive floor clear of food droppings.
Ildikó was given a pallet to the side of one of the kitchen fireplaces and instructed to keep an eye on the fire during the night and make sure it didn’t go out. She didn’t mind; becoming a Slayer had given her an entirely new perspective on the night, and she’d never needed much sleep. Besides, there were other things she wanted to do during the dark hours here, and tending the fire would give her the excuse to be up and about when others might have expected her to bed down like a normal person.
Csejthe Castle had a . . . smell about it. Unpleasant and heavy, Ildikó’s nose recognized the combined scents of blood and death and decay, and no amount of cooking smoke or airing could hide it. Even in its latest hours, the castle was never quiet—animal sounds filtered in from the courtyard, unintelligible voices were carried down on the tiny drafts and wind currents that worked themselves through the cracks in the heavy stonework. There were always servants and soldiers about, far too many for Ildikó to attempt exploring the darker recesses of the huge castle, the winding passageways and corridors that led to areas far larger than she could imagine.
Still, Ildikó would not give up.
Over the course of her first week, she had seen the girls with whom she had been brought here only intermittently, but those few glimpses had been enough to give her comfort that they hadn’t—yet—been harmed. By the time the Sabbath had come and g
one, however, fully half of them had mysteriously gone absent; no one said anything, and her inquiries were met only with dismayed glances and whispered reminders that some things were better left alone. As he had warned might happen, Ildikó had heard nothing from her Watcher, and it was obvious the worst had already befallen her peers. Ildikó could no longer bide her time and wait for opportunity—if she was to prevent the other three, and countless others, from perishing, then she must make her own way and not wait for happenstance.
A little past midnight, Ildikó slipped from her pallet in the kitchen, her path taking her within inches of another fitfully sleeping servant—it seemed no one in this castle slumbered well. Tied in the folds of the cumbersome skirts was the satchel Rendor had bought her, its only content the wooden stake that had served Ildikó well during her short time as the Vampire Slayer. She had no idea where to go, not even an inkling as to which direction marked the way to the countess’s living quarters. What she did have, however, was that same Slayer-developed sense of hearing; as she moved farther away from the kitchen than she’d ever gone, she began picking up the cries of a person—female, and agonized—somewhere in this desolate structure. It was toward these muted sounds that Ildikó moved, scurrying from one shadowed corner to the next like a rat avoiding the household cat.
Up a flight of stone steps, down a nerve-wrenchingly narrow hallway, then she found another flight of stairs leading upward. The cries were clearer now, and while the average man might miss them, the faint words, over and over, of “Mercy, I beg you!” pierced Ildikó’s heart and fed her determination. Closer then, and she took another turn, viewing the hall that stretched long and dark beyond it with dismay. There was no place to hide here, no doorway or alcove in which to slip should someone enter it from the other end. Still, the shrieks of pain were closer now, undeniable; if she wished to find and help whomever was being tormented, it seemed this would be the only avenue.
