A Carpathian Campaign: The Powers Book 1

by Alma Boykin

  A faint presence touched his mind. Part of the land yet not of it, the Power brushed him, feather light against his awareness. Pain knocked him back into himself and István clapped his hand over his mouth, fighting back gorge, eyes full of tears, head aching in ways he’d never felt before. He managed to raise his shields without passing out, but the effort left him sobbing. What was wrong? What had happened? Had the shell’s blast destroyed his Gifts, destroyed his future with House Szárkány? Holy God what’s wrong with me? Was he going mad? If he hadn’t left his service revolver across the room, he’d have considered shooting himself just to end the pain. But he couldn’t convince his legs to carry him, or his eyes to focus. István breathed, in and out, in and out, trying to ease the pain before anyone found him.

  It receded, leaving him exhausted. István stopped panting, found the napkin from his coffee and wiped his face. The pain seemed to withdraw into his neck, along the spine, then disappeared, leaving a dull sense of “something wrong” but nothing more. I need a Healer. Aunt Claudia? No, she has not used her skills in years, more’s the pity. Maybe after her husband dies . . . Well, now that he could see something besides spots and water, he’d better look at those messages. Distraction, I need a distraction so I don’t think about what just happened. I can’t worry Barbara.

  That drove the last of his self-fear away. Barbara came first, Barbara and the child she carried. István took a deep breath, gathered himself, and heaved himself out of the chair. He managed it without upsetting the coffee table or tipping the chair over, although he did stagger a bit, getting his balance. He walked a step, then a second, and returned to the bathroom to take care of a pressing need and to look in the mirror.

  His grandfather looked back. If the eyes had been pine-green instead of amber, he’d have sworn it was his mother’s father staring from the silver surface. The little jowls had been pared off his cheeks, and any softness in his cheekbones and chin must have stayed in Przemysl fortress, or on the train. Cropped brown hair, now touched with a faint fuzz of . . . was that? He leaned forward a little for a better look. It was grey hair at his temples and in the middle of his forehead. Well, he’d earned it at least, like he’d earned the rest he needed to start enjoying.

  István walked through the quiet townhouse, navigating the stairs to the ground floor office with deliberate speed. The smooth, polished wood of the balustrade soothed the rough skin of his hand, a comforting reminder of normal things—young boys sliding down similar bannisters. His mother had almost beaten through the fabric of his trousers, she’d swatted him so hard after that little escapade, since he’d sailed off the end to collide with a butler carrying a three-hundred-year-old Turkish coffee set that an ancestor had captured after the relief of Raab. She’d used his father’s valet’s razor strop as well as her hand, he recalled, squirming a little at the memory.

  Well, now only his conscience could torment him, although he had no doubts but that his mother would swat him again if he did the like today, if she could catch him. He smiled a little as he crossed the slate-and-marble-floored entry hall to reach the office. A hint of Barbara’s perfume caught his nose, and he saw that she’d set up a smaller desk in one corner, where she could do her household work. A shopping list lay on top of a neat stack of receipts and other small papers. He did not touch anything. Instead he pulled out the chair at the large, age-dark oak desk that had belonged to his paternal grandfather and sat carefully.

  “Would my lord like coffee?” a young woman asked. He looked up and saw an attractive young thing in a black dress and white apron standing in the doorway.

  “Yes, I would. Put it on—” István caught himself. On the right and he’d just knock it over. “Have a table brought and set it here.” He pointed to the left end of the desk.

  She bobbed a curtsey. “Yes, my lord.”

  István discovered that he could use the casted arm, albeit awkwardly, to hold the letters while he cut them open with the letter opener, then pulled them loose for reading. He set Aunt Claudia’s aside for the moment, instead reading those from Mátyás and Uncle Tomas. They concerned House and family business, and how the war had affected things thus far. The prices for goods had increased, especially those that had to be imported from the west. The Americans had also raised some prices, notably on foodstuffs and industrial chemicals, although that would not affect things terribly for the moment. The British blockade was worrying, but the Austro-Hungarian navy seemed to be keeping them busy in the Mediterranean, at least as of mid-November, and the Empire did not depend on imported food as much as the Germans did. István frowned at the censor’s marks, wondering what else his uncle had written. Well, at the rate they’d gone through lumber and other wood products, the House’s timber income should soar.

  After a pause for coffee and to wiggle his arm and stretch a little, István returned to the pending messages. His father’s note informed him that he would be arriving . . . István stopped and looked up at the calendar, trying to recall the date. Tomorrow. Should I be pleased or no? I’ll be pleased, I think. His father would be arriving tomorrow, with staff and Christmas things. The message from his brother said that he’d be staying at the Budapest house for Christmas, along with their mother and sister, and that he had papers for István to sign. Could István come down, catch a train and spend a day or so? No, probably not, not right now. I just want to be with Barbara, Mátyás. He loved his brother, but Barbara came first.

  In fact, she should be awake, István decided after glancing at the clock. He’d done what he needed to, so he swept everything into a pile, pocketed the letters from Aunt Claudia, and wrestled open the top, right side drawer, the one that always stuck in winter. “Open, you,” he growled under his breath. It sprang open, almost falling out, and he hit his right arm against the top of the desk. Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow, that hurts. Even the furniture is conspiring to ruin my day. He swept the letters into the drawer with a mumbled curse and closed it most of the way, but—he hoped—not enough to stick again. Then he scooted the chair backwards, trying not to hurt his ribs.

  By the time he’d gotten shifted, Szambor appeared with the maid. She removed the coffee service while the valet helped István stand. “Thank you.”

  “Her ladyship is in the small parlor, if you care to join her.”

  István tried to remember where that was. “Yes, I would.”

  “This way, my lord, if you please. Her ladyship relocated certain chambers, and has closed others for the season.” Szambor led him back across the entryway, through a receiving room, the so-called public library, and the smaller dining room, to a not overly frilly small room with a blazing fire in the whitewashed fireplace. Someone had painted the room a tasteful green with cream trim, with matching heavy green linen curtains covering the windows, blocking both drafts and the overly curious gaze. There he found Barbara, now dressed in an attractive brown dress with a spill of lace at the neck, sitting by the fire. Szambor vanished and István walked over, bowed carefully, and kissed her hand.

  “My lady is lovely this evening.”

  She flushed a little, fanning with her other hand as she straightened up. “Thank you.” Her face had filled out, and plumper lips curved into an almost-shy smile. What he could discern of her breasts also looked larger—probably something to do with her pregnancy, he decided. “You look ready to ride across the Great Plain chasing robbers, my lord.”

  He glanced down at his costume and smiled in return. “Perhaps tomorrow. For now I am quite content to remain indoors and play the devoted husband, my lady.”

  “Good. It is a role quite suited to you, I believe.”

  He sat in the chair facing her and an awkward silence descended before she picked up some needlework and said, “So, what plans for Christmas?”

  “Father is coming here, will be here tomorrow, according to his letter,” he said. “Mother, Judit, and Mátyás will be in the house in Budapest. I suspect Cousin Imre and Uncle Tomas will be there as well.” His cousin never
missed a chance to eat at someone else’s table, a habit that irritated István almost as much as Imre’s pursuit of the latest craze in politics and philosophy did. “I intend to stay here, with you. Travel is not to be recommended this time of year.” Especially not at the moment, with all the military trains and troops moving north to prepare to recapture Lemberg and the rest of Galicia.

  “Good.” She nodded her head. “I’d better warn the staff about Lord Janos’s arrival. Is he bringing anyone with him?”

  “His letter said ‘staff,’ which I take to mean his valet and personal servants.” Assuming the men had not been called to arms. That could be tricky if they had. Janos liked his routine and comforts.

  “We have room. Mrs. Sisa will not be pleased, but I’ve never heard of a happy cook.”

  “Army cooks take pride in being grumpy and complaining, or so I am told. Perhaps it comes from being too warm all the time.” That would explain the Italians’ tempers, especially the southerners.

  Barbara nodded. “I imagine so.”

  After a few minutes of quiet, Barbara cleared her throat a little. István almost jumped out of his skin before remembering where he was. She did not seem to notice. “My lord husband, we have not discussed names for the little one.”

  “Um.” He thought for a bit. “I trust you were not planning on Wetzel.”

  She smiled a little. “No. Nor Stepen or István, unless he dallies and comes on the twenty-sixth.” She rested one hand on her belly and frowned a bit before smiling again. “If he does, I intend to have a word with him, because he will not continue as he starts. I dislike tardy people.”

  István chuckled at the thought. His mother would likely say the same thing, and may well have. “Not Franz Josef.”

  “Oh no, with all respect to his majesty. I, well . . . I was thinking Mátyás Imre and then the day’s saint.”

  Imre son of István, that makes sense and fits the family, and Mátyás could be for my brother or for her uncles. “That sounds like an excellent choice, my lady.”

  She sagged a little with what he guessed was relief. “Oh good. Because if not, my mother wants to call him Wetzel Martin, or Ludmilla Olga if everyone is wrong about him being a boy.”

  “Not Ludmilla Olga, absolutely not, especially not now. Too Russian by far, even if the names are for Bohemian saints.” He shuddered at the thought of the trouble that would cause.

  “Thank you, dear. That’s what I tried to tell mother, but . . .” she sighed.

  Well, he had final say, unless his father or the House decided something different, which he’d only read of happening once. He snorted a little at the memory, and Barbara gave him a curious look. “Oh, just thinking of the time that a family overrode the baby name, my lady. It was in the Gabor clan, several hundred years ago. The father wanted Martin Vladimir, but the family council stepped in. They had eight Martins and Martinas in that generation already, and the confusion . . .”

  Her laugh lifted his spirits. “Oh my, I can imagine. Like the story about the Russian village where every man was named Ivan Ivanovich.” She laughed again and hiccupped a little.

  They ate supper, then she retired to her room and he went to his. He wanted to stay with her, but something warned him off. If he had nightmares, he didn’t want to wake her. As it was, he startled out of a dream of screaming horses and dying men as multiple pairs of feet scuffed past his door. He got up, pulled on a robe to be decent, and opened the door. “What is going on?”

  One of the maids, her arms full of what looked like bed linen, stopped and answered, “My lady has started her labor, my lord.”

  He tried to get into Barbara’s chamber, but the midwife stopped him. “No. You may be her husband, my lord, but you do not need to be here. You’ll just be in the way. Shoo.” She shut the door quietly but firmly. István blinked, hard, fighting back the red rush of anger. How dare she lock him out of his wife’s chamber? He was lord István Eszterházy, heir to the House. You also know nothing about babies, his sense reminded him. Do you really want to be among that many women, in a warm, stuffy room? No, he decided, he did not. He gathered his dignity and returned to bed.

  “My lord?”

  István stopped pacing the library floor and turned to see a maid and his father standing in the doorway. The clock chimed ten. He must have caught the first morning train from Eger. “My lord father, it is an honor,” István began the formal greeting.

  “Sit down, boy. Miss, get us something hot to drink,” Janos ordered, stalking into the room. “I said sit. You look exhausted. And where is your lady wife?”

  István pointed up, to the first floor. “She has begun labor. The nurse midwife, Sonja, is with her. So I am here.”

  Janos turned, went back to the doorway, and spoke to the person waiting in the hallway in rapid-fire German. A woman replied, and István heard rapid footsteps. His father watched for a moment before stalking to where István stood by the closed window. “I said sit.” István felt a weight of command behind the words, House Head speaking to House member. And pain, pain of his father’s mind touch against his shields. István staggered despite himself and struggled to reach the settee before his legs gave out. He sat hard and heard the delicate wood creak in protest at the assault.

  “Blessed St. Imre,” Janos said. “What’s wrong?”

  Teeth clenched, István concentrated on breathing, willing the pain back into his ribs and arm, where it belonged. In and out, in and out, in-two-three-four out-two-three-four, he chanted silently, forcing his mind to focus on a tear-blurred flower on the carpet between the toes of his shoes. The pain faded, more slowly than before, until he could look up. He found a rumpled handkerchief in a jacket pocket and wiped his eyes. “I do not know, my lord father. It appears to have come about from a head injury.” The precise enunciation helped hide the fear.

  “Damn.” Janos stirred the small fire in the fireplace to life. István heard a woman’s step and Janos saying, “Thank you.” Janos waited until the maid, Ludmilla, finished setting out the coffee and curtsied her way out of the room before saying anything more. “What else?”

  “If you mean what else is wrong, I have cracked and broken ribs, and my arm is broken in two places.” The scent of the coffee turned his stomach and István breathed through his mouth. He looked up to see his father, turquois eyes unfocused, looking into the distance as he spoke to someone, perhaps the Power, or the House member on rely duty. As his stomach settled, István decided that he wanted a little coffee, and scooted to the edge of the settee, then leaned onto one knee. From there, if he stretched carefully, he could get a cup, pour, and return to the settee without twisting or reaching too far. Lord, how much longer before the pieces knit together? The ribs were the worst. The doctors wanted him to wear a corset brace, but he refused. He sat straight enough as it was, being a cavalry officer and a gentlemen, thank you.

  “I see.” His father returned, so to speak, and poured his own coffee before going to stand by the fire once more. “I brought letters that you need to see, perhaps answer for yourself, but not now.” He gestured with the delicate coffee cup. “I brought a Healer for Barbara, but you need her attentions more.” István’s hackles rose and he inhaled, intending to tell Janos what he could do with that thought. His father interrupted the unvoiced argument before it started, adding, “Barbara is well into her labor, Mistress Nagy says, and the child is safe to be delivered by the midwife.” He raised his eyebrow, letting his son translate the message.

  So my son is . . . ah, I’d never thought about that. If he had been a True-dragon, that could have been awkward. Very awkward. He suspected that human midwives did not react well to HalfDragons giving birth to True-dragons. For that matter, Barbara might not have, unless she’d been warned. István highly doubted that her mother had ever informed her of the possibility. Aunt Claudia might well have told her, though—probably in excessive detail in archaic Latin circumlocutions. “That is most reassuring,” he said. But Barbara still needed t
he Healer more than he did.

  “It is, and before you argue, that order comes from the House and Power both. It finds your distress distressing. The bond is already very tight, despite your absence.”

  That reminded István. “Pater, I noticed something up north that I wanted to ask about. The Power in Galicia. It felt . . . defensive and terrified both, but also as if it had turned inward. It reminded me of that picture of the armored animal from Brazil in our old children’s animal book, of the creature curled into a ball and trying to hide. I didn’t try and touch it.”

  Janos frowned, tipping his head to the side a few degrees as he sipped his coffee. “Intriguing. I have never heard the like, and I do not recall anything from the Chronicles. Ask Rudolph when you see him. If anyone would know, he would.”

  “Ask Rudolph? Archduke Rudolph?”

  “Yes. You will come with me to Szekesfehervar after the New Year, to meet with Rudolph. He can tell you what that meant, although I cannot think it anything good. I am told that the Power of the Matra was wild for a generation after the last Turkish battles, and Pannonia—” Janos stopped and glanced down at the carpet, then up again. “Pannonia is wild in ways I do not care to contemplate. Much like Logres, yet different again.”

  Logres had never allied with any of the Houses, that much István recalled. “I will need orders,” he began.