by Alma Boykin
The guns boomed, snow fell, and rations shrank. István, with Andrej’s help, shuffled to Col. Marbach’s office, once a convent’s storage space, now a military post. Something big was in progress, and an air of intense concentration and tension crackled through the rooms. “Welcome back, Major,” Scheele said.
“Th— Thank you, sir.”
Scheele studied István from the top of his still-bandaged head down to the top of his boots. “Here are your orders. So long as the Russians don’t produce some kind of a miracle, a relief train will arrive tomorrow. You will leave with it on the next day, taking a detachment of other wounded to Kassa.”
The words dropped into István’s mind like pebbles into still water, sinking without a trace. “Yes, sir.” After some moments he roused himself enough to understand, and asked, “Sir, the men that were with me when the shells hit. Where are they? I need to see to them.”
Scheele’s expression shifted to one of pity before he turned slightly, looking away from István. “They are beyond mortal need, Major Eszterházy. Take your orders, you are dismissed, and God be with you.”
“And also with you. Thank you, sir.” He saluted, turned, and left the room.
As he did, he thought he heard a voice hissing, “Poor bastard won’t see Easter.” Rage flashed up and the white wall in front of him shifted to red. I’ll show— But he was not certain he had heard truly, and Andrej’s grip did not allow him to turn and attack. The red faded as quickly as it had come, leaving him trembling from strain as if he’d just ridden through a full cavalry drill, then hiked the entire Carpathian range in knee-deep snow.
For once the Christmas miracle favored the imperial army, István mused a day and a half later. He watched the last of the wounded loaded into what had once been a stable car. Now men, not horses, sat and lay in the straw. The worst wounded had the saloon car—he rode with the slightly to seriously injured, those who could look after each other and who had sufficient winter coats and heavy uniforms. He counted once more, triple-checking both his mind and his numbers before nodding. A medical orderly closed the improvised door to the car. István made his way to his own car, four closer to the engine, and boarded unassisted. His right arm still ached, as did his head, but the pain was fading. The heavy cast made things tricky, and he had to remember to be extra careful in doorways and confined spaces. Bashing it twice had almost cured him of carelessness—almost.
István and Andrej took their places, Andrej where he could get up to fetch and carry, and to help István balance if necessary. István just wanted to sleep, but did not quite dare, not while they were in the war zone. Andrej also kept his rifle close, ready to fight if need be. Please, Lord, may we not have to fight. St. Imré hear my prayer, Blessed Virgin, Queen of Peace, hear my prayer. István fingered the rosary in his pocket and begged. He just wanted to sleep, to be clean, to see his family. The train lurched, clanged, rattled, and lurched again, straining into motion. They’d fought the Russians back from the southern side of the fortress city and the engineer seemed determined to make the most of the gap. The land passed by faster and faster, as fast as an express train, and instead of worrying about the Russians István began to worry about ice and snow on the tracks and an insane engineer.
“He must have left the Christmas goose in the oven,” a bland voice said. “Or got a telegraph from his wife asking about the gift he gave his mistress.” A pasty faced major in the uniform of the supply corps sat down across from István. He had a forgettable face, neither square nor round, with hair between brown and blond. One blue and one green eye regarded István with sympathy. What István could discern of the man’s build was as average as the rest of him, although his uniform and greatcoat looked newer and better than István’s own. In fact, as he studied them more closely, István realized that they had been custom tailored of very fine and expensive heavy wool. The major shifted a little, and a flash of dark silk lining in the greatcoat made István wonder.
His suspicions roused, István said only, “Or he knows that some of his passengers can not wait for a slow train.”
“Indeed, indeed. The wounded take first priority, as all well know and as it should be.” The fast words increased István’s misgivings. So did the man’s lack of injuries. Well, visible injuries, and he could be escorting others and carrying messages or other things that can’t be sent over the wires.
A major of the railway came through, checking orders. He looked over István and Andrej’s nodded and saluted. “Very good, my lord Major Eszterházy.” The bland man gave the railway soldier a single page. He read it, pursed his lips in disapproval, and read it again. “Thank you, Major Tisza.”
After he left, Tisza seemed to study István more closely. “My lord Eszterházy?”
“Yes?” Leave me alone. You bother me. And István’s arm and head had both begun to throb, gnawing away at his patience.
“I am Gregor Tisza, major with the supply corps for the seventh regiment of the Prince Lorraine Division. Perhaps I can be of service to your lordship?”
The faintly oily undertone in the man’s voice set István’s teeth on edge. “Thank you for your offer but at the moment I have no need of your assistance.” And where did you get the funds for such a lovely coat? Well, perhaps you saved for it. But still, after that colonel—Raedel was it?—got caught selling Austrian military secrets to the Russians because someone noticed that his cars, and apartment, were too fine for a major from a poor family. Even in 1911, the Russians had been sniffing around, looking for holes. But István was not in the mood to interrogate anyone, or even to think harder than absolutely necessary.
When the train stopped to take on water and coal, István and Andrej went back and checked on the men in the stable car. They seemed to be doing no worse. Duty complete, István let himself relax and look around the station. None of the usual sellers of buns, newspapers, or dubious sausages appeared on the railway platform, and he wondered why. It wasn’t that cold. “No gypsies or cigarette women, my lord,” Andrej observed.
“I was noticing that. Well, things are different in war time.”
“Yes, my lord Major.”
Andrej helped him up the steps into their car without being obvious, a grace István appreciated. Then he disappeared, returning with hot tea and some food from the canteen car. It was not to István’s standards, but he ate with a will for the first time in a month, at least. He felt better despite the poor fare, and wondered why. His shields seemed to be fine when he checked them.
“I say, where is my portion?” Major Tisza asked, giving Andrej a sharp look.
The corporal hesitated, obviously torn by the implied order, and István jerked his thoughts back to the moment. “I was not aware that you had difficulty moving, Major.”
“Oh, I don’t,” and Tisza caught himself. “That is, my injuries do not preclude me from walking. But since my aid is not with me, it appeared that the corporal should be doing his duty to all of us officers alike.”
Andrej ducked and started to leave.
“No,” István said, “I do not believe that is his assignment. Andrej, please see if the sleeper is ready.”
“Yes, my lord.” The square corporal hurried down the aisle and disappeared out the door, letting in a puff of coal-infused winter air as the train began chugging its way south and uphill.
István followed Andrej with his eyes, then glanced back at Gregor Tisza in time to see a flash of pure loathing in his mismatched eyes, a flash that faded as fast as it had appeared. The expression caught something in István’s memory, and he tried to dredge up where he had seen it before. But he’d never been anywhere near Major Tisza, had he? No, probably not, but one never knew. “Do not order my aid, Major Tisza.” I outrank you, especially here, so close to the House’s lands. Do not push me. The red film started rising and István almost let it, then stopped.
“I would not consider doing such a thing, my lord,” Tisza said. His mouth curved down with an air of affront. “As I said
, it seemed merely inefficient that he could not bring sufficient for two.” But that was not what István had heard.
István and about half the men with him left the train at Kassa. He took Andrej with him as far as the military hospital.
Where is it? I can’t feel it! István started up in a near blind panic, heart racing, head throbbing in time to his heart. Where was the House, the Power? He stood on House land, he had to feel something. But only emptiness, a hollow space, and a wall met his frantic mental grabs, a wall both diamond-hard and slick, impossible to hold onto or to shatter.
Gasping, he woke up drenched in sweat. The walls of the military hospital surrounded him with clean white, at least for now. Sunrise would bring details he preferred not to see. István tried to quiet his breathing before he woke anyone else. He began an Ave, using the old prayer to calm his heart and focus his sleep-furred mind. You felt nothing because you are hard shielded and asleep, he reminded himself. And you are not on House land, although close to it. Breathe. Ave Maria, gratia plena . . . he recited once more. The world returned to focus. Today, perhaps, he would be allowed to go on leave. The doctors had inspected him, a medical orderly had soaked the bandage off his head and removed it, saying, “Hmm, sir, I’ve seen worse.” And had cut back the hair that had grown everywhere, even into the edges of the wound. They’d changed the cast on his arm as well, giving him a lighter one and letting him see how well the edges of the cuts had healed. After each inspection, István had reached into the doctor’s mind, and the orderlies’ as well, fuzzing what they did not need to recall.
He’d been terribly lucky—when he’d been hit, they’d taken the scales on his chest for eczema and trench-skin. He could not be so fortunate twice, and he spent his small reserve of energy on hiding his nature. It hurt. His brain hurt, and his Gifts ached as badly as his arm and ribs did. And that terrified him.
Andrej appeared just after dawn, trailing one of the ward nurses. “So, good news, my lord major. You are well enough to take leave,” the nurse announced, but quietly. Andrej helped István dress, and supported a little of his weight as they walked down two flights of stairs in what had once been a lovely city building, now part of the hospital. White, red, green, blue, and gold patterns decorated the arched ceilings and walls in the main public areas, and even in the ward István had caught hints of murals buried under whitewash. They stopped long enough to collect István’s orders, then continued to the ground floor and out the doors into the busy street.
István blinked at the cold sunlight. He’d heard wind the night before, and it had blown the clouds away, at least for the moment. His breath steamed in the chill, and he squinted at the horses and carriage standing in front of the hospital. They looked familiar, but not quite.
Then he recognized Attila Szambor standing beside the carriage door. His valet bowed and opened the wood-and-glass door. István hesitated, then turned and dug an envelope out of the pocket of his greatcoat. “For you,” he told Andrej, pressing the envelope into the man’s cold hand. He’d already left a letter of commendation for the corporal to take to his next post. A hundred coruna would help him, or his family, and meant little to István, now. The money had come from his father, to spend in Galicia. Well, he’d spend it where it would do good. Before the man could reject the gift, István clambered into the carriage and let Szambor close the door. The driver clicked his tongue and horses’ hoofs clopped as the carriage rolled into motion, their iron shoes making bright sounds on the stone of the pave in front of the hospital as they trotted off. István sank back against the padding and closed his eyes, drained.
“István!” Barbara cried when her maid opened the door to her rooms. She somehow levered herself out of her chair and tried to walk toward him, her arms open. Instead he crossed the distance in two strides and caught her, amazed that she could walk, as swollen as her belly had become. She held him tight as they kissed. Protocol and manners be damned, but he wanted to hold her, to smell her, to fill his eyes with her and never let her go. She was everything good and clean in the world, everything he loved and trusted.
“My lady,” he whispered, kissing her full lips.
Behind him, he heard a woman protesting, “My lady, you are supposed to be resting, to stay calm and unworried.”
Barbara leaned her head back and twisted past his shoulder enough to say, “And I am very unworried, Sonja. My husband is home and safe, in time for Christmas and his son’s arrival.” Then she kissed István again.
Some time later the separated. He helped her sit, as best he could. Sonja, the nurse, bustled around rearranging the pillows and footstool, getting Barbara tea and making her displeasure known without resorting to mere words.
As much as he wanted to stay in the warm sitting room, István also wanted a bath and to put on civilian clothes. “Ah, if my lady will excuse me,” he began, awkward as when he’d first met her.
“Certainly, my lord. I believe the servants have water heating, if you would like to freshen up. Train travel can be wearying.”
“It most certainly is.” István took the excuse with both hands. He bowed and followed Szambor, who had been lurking just out of sight by the door. The valet led the way to a very masculine bedroom with an attached bathroom, with rich brown wood paneling and heavy curtains over the shuttered windows. A modern steam radiator, painted bronze, dispelled some of the damp chill. “Very good.” István began fumbling with his coat buttons. He managed to get them undone, and shook off the dark grey coat, then set about undoing his belt.
“If my lord will instruct me?” Szambor asked, one eyebrow raised. István gave in and let his valet remove everything down to his shorts. “My lord is thinner,” he observed. “I will need to have some things taken in, and the right sleeve, hmm.” He measured István’s cast with his hands. “Perhaps, hmm, I think . . . yes.”
István managed to bathe without getting the cast wet or calling for assistance. The old-style tub helped, giving him a place to prop his arm well clear of the warm water. It was not as hot as he’d have preferred, but he’d read about the fuel shortages and the government’s calls for people to use as little as they could. Silesian coal now had to pass through Germany into Bohemia and beyond, and the war’s maw ate much of that.
He’d also heard about the food rationing, in the big cities and in the areas with the most refugees. Blast the Russians for catching Galicia during harvest, István snarled silently. And even once the imperial army shoved them back out, it would be a while before the peasants and free-farmers returned, and longer still before sufficient horses and oxen could pull plows and wagons. Assuming the Russians left anything behind, he mused. They’d stripped the Jews and Poles and had run them out, at least those who could run. And the other stories . . . István frowned, anger rising once more. Maybe that was why the French and English were so quick to accuse Germany of rape and looting: they knew what the Russians could and would do, and assumed we would do likewise. As if we were the damn Turks, he snorted. Although, he’d heard rumors about the southern front, and a few about panicked troops shooting Ruthenes and Poles as spies. He shook his head. No. Leave the war in the bathwater.
Szambor dried him off. István bristled, then gave in again. He needed to keep the cast dry, and the wounds clean, and not pull out the stitches or move his cracked ribs, all of which would likely happen if he bulled his way through things. Gads but he missed having access to a House Healer. He managed the undershirt, and with a little help got the soft, loose-fitting peasant shirt on. It covered his cast and, once Szambor tied the drawstring on the cuff, it fit very well. The matching riding trousers sagged at the waist, but, God willing, that would improve soon. In fact, when he left the bathroom, he found bread, cheese, coffee, and potted meat waiting on a small table beside the chair.
“Her ladyship is resting, my lord,” Szambor explained. “Mrs. Sisa apologizes for the lack of pastries and sweets. Fine flour is especially difficult to obtain.”
“Ah.” István did
n’t really care. Just the prospect of normal food made his stomach growl with wolf-like ferocity. He made himself eat slowly, tasting the sharp, firm cheese and spicy meat paste, savoring the hearty brown bread and real coffee. “Do I have any messages?”
Szambor stopped, arms full of István’s uniform. “Yes, my lord, from his lordship your father, your honored brother, and one from your lord father-in-law. As I recall, my lord, none require immediate attention. You also have letters waiting, my lord.”
And I can’t write anything more than my name with this damn cast on. István was not quite certain if that was a good or bad thing just then. “Thank you. Carry on.”
“My lord.” Szambor bowed a little and rushed out, as if trying to dispose of István’s uniform before something crawled out of it, or it walked itself down to the laundry. István bristled a little again, then caught himself and made his shoulders relax and his hackles drop. Everyone knew about the things that tried to make their home in soldiers’ clothes, and had heard the tales of Galician fleas. Now that he had time to think about it, István realized that he’d been very, very lucky to escape the lice that plagued armies the world over. Pestilence and war always traveled together, after all, or at least they always had in the past. The Russians had brought Black Sea cholera with them, and only the good Lord knew what other invisible plague followed in their wake.
Thinking of invisible things reminded him. As soon as he finished eating, István leaned back in the chair, half-closed his eyes and recited a calming and stilling exercise, then lowered his shields. He did not reach for anyone, or for the Power, just let impressions come in. At first he felt nothing, and panic began rising in his heart. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on the grain in the wood panels across from him, on the feel of the wood and brass studded-tapestry chair arms under his hands, on the lingering scent of the coffee. The fear subsided and he relaxed again. Of course he would not sense anyone within the townhouse: all servants went shielded as a matter of course, and Barbara slept. He reached down and out, imagining the Matra as seen from the edge of Kassa, concentrating on the remembered smells of pine and beech, on the feeling of life from the animals and plants of the mountains.
