Against a Rising Tide

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  István must have napped, and Szombor must have dealt with the guard checking tickets, because no sooner had he closed his eyes than the train’s whistle shrieked, announcing their arrival in Budapest. He managed to get to his feet unassisted, while Szombor turned his back and carefully busied himself collecting coats and parcels. It hurt István’s pride. Well, pride was a deadly sin, although István preferred lust and gluttony if he was looking for sins enough to keep the priest happy at confession. A blast of cold, wet air washed into the railcar, along with the scent of coal smoke, damp wool, and cabbage. Why did railway restaurants always smell of cabbage? He let the question go as he stepped carefully down from the car to the platform, left leg first, then right, slow and cautious.

  Ivan Denisivich waited for them. He took a few parcels from Szombor, then fell in behind István as they snaked through the crowd. People still thronged the station, going to and fro, following carts full of luggage, or leading strings of children. One young boy in a much-mended coat clutched a battered toy rabbit and looked everywhere but where he was going, eyes wide, his mouth an O, as he stared around. His almond eyes gave him a Mongol cast, and István wondered if he came from the same area as Joszef Meciar, who’d been one of the thousands who relocated into Hungary from the new Czechoslovakia because he and his family spoke Hungarian and Latin as well as Slovak. István watched the boy disappear amidst the sea of coats and baggage and returned his attention to his own path.

  The carriage trip passed quickly despite traffic on the bridge. István got out unassisted, climbing the steps without Szombor’s aid. Before long, he sat in his office in the town palace, hot coffee steaming in a blue and white cup on the desk beside him, a small tray of sandwiches and little cookies perched on a little table. And it was real coffee—unadulterated, strong and black, with real sugar. He read his mail, sipped the wonderful brew, and felt the past month’s woes falling away.

  Erzsébet appeared with a giggle and a squeal as he returned from a stretching session.

  “Daddy! Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

  Whump, she ran into his legs and hugged them. He crouched and hugged her back, squeezing her until she squeaked. Proper young ladies did not behave so, but István didn’t care at that moment. He let her chatter about her tutor, and Christmas, and shopping with Aunt Judit, and this and that.

  “Will you be here for Christmas?”

  “No, because you, and Imre, and I will be at Nagymatra for Christmas.”

  She smiled and leaned on him.

  “Good. I like the mountains.”

  “Mistress Erzsébet also likes gingerbread, and rabbits, and too much plum jam,” Marie Denisevich said, frowning and dropping a curtsey. “Your pardon, my lord, but Mistress Erzsébet needs to change shoes.”

  He looked down and saw muddy tracks across the end of the antique Turkish carpet.

  “Yes, she does.”

  He picked her up, ignoring the pain, and carried her to the doorway. Your mother is going to kill me. If Barbara hadn’t been deceased, she might have, since Erzsébet had managed to get coal ash as well as mud on her boots. Had they been at Nagymatra, Agmánd would have scolded István. Instead it was Mistress Nagy who gave István the rough edge of her tongue, although not over the mess on the Turkish carpet. He had asked if they should temporarily block the part of Erzsébet’s Gift that marked her as a proto-Guardian.

  “No, my lord, I will not. She is Guardian born, and to block that part of her mind, against her will, at this age with her full Gifts still unknown?” The Healer’s black eyes drilled into him, pushing all the way into his soul. “At best she would always miss the lack. At worst it would destroy her Gifts and drive her mad in the process. No. And you are a fool for even asking, my lord. Such Gifts do not appear unless there is need for them, as all the Chronicles swear. To deny them is to deny a gift from the Lord.”

  He’d never thought about the consequences, and withered a little inside.

  “Blocking the Gift would hurt her mind?”

  “Yes, my lord, because she would fight it. Her mind is not fully formed, and the struggle would cause permanent damage, as well as destroying any trust she had in us. Because you would have to assist me.” Nagy wagged one finger at him and he felt like a very naughty schoolboy. “An adult mind, fully formed, is far more compartmentalized, and locking down or blocking a Gift, even involuntarily, does not damage the rest of the mind if it is done properly. There is only one Gift that can be blocked in a child without causing damage, and even that I have only read about because that Gift is so very rare. In fact, it may have disappeared completely, because the last reference I know of is over four hundred years old, and that was a copy of an older work.”

  István considered her words, sipping tea to buy himself a bit of time.

  “Thank you, Mistress Nagy. I believe that answers my question once and for all.” If only because I do not care to get another scolding like that one. I’d rather take Pater’s razor strop on the seat of my pants like when I was a boy—it hurt less.

  “Miss Erzsébet’s Healer training has also reached a plateau. Her body needs to catch up to her mind.” The brown woman drank some of her own tea, shaking her head a little. “Would that I had her energy and enthusiasm, my lord. Until she develops greater stamina and focus, trying to do more will only frustrate her because her desire and knowledge exceed her physical capacity. Once she finishes growing, then we can return to Healer training. She should learn some hand skills as well, and basic bandaging and the like, but those will come with time. For now let her be a little girl, at least for a few more months.”

  A wistful smile bloomed on the Healer’s face, then faded again.

  “And you, my lord, no more hand-to-hand combat, please. The inflammation will be worse each time until finally it will not go away, and you know what that will mean.”

  Paralysis, constant pain, loss of motion, he knew all too well.

  “I do not intend to repeat that exercise, Mistress Nagy, I assure you.” He shifted in his seat, not quite willing to ask the next question but knowing that he had to. “Um, about that. Ah, well, will the injury interfere if I remarry?”

  It hadn’t with Barbara, but that had been six years ago, and . . .

  She raised one angular eyebrow and he squirmed. This was worse than going to confession!

  “That is, um, can I do my marital duty? My back won’t interfere?”

  The words came out in a gush and he stared at the carpet, feeling his face turning red. Mistress Nagy didn’t laugh.

  “Yes, you can, my lord. Do not attempt to carry anyone over the threshold, but you have no need of finding a marital proxy.”

  A what? No. I do not want to know.

  “Thank you.”

  “If she is a HalfDragon, my lord, be careful when the time comes for her to deliver. Some surprises are not taken well by new, young mothers, especially if they have been sheltered.” She shook her head, looking sad. “Think how Marie Novak reacted, but more so.”

  He hadn’t considered that, and added it to his mental list with a sigh.

  “Thank you, and yes, the most likely candidate is a HalfDragon.”

  “You have my best wishes, my lord, whatever decision you and the young woman come to.”

  He sensed that she spoke for the House and he bowed his head, quashing the last bit of resentment.

  His sister, Freiierin Judit von Eschingen, came by the next afternoon. She’d aged as much as he had, and for similar reasons.

  “Are you going to sent Erzsébet to the Ursulines?” she inquired over tea.

  “Probably. Magda can no longer keep up with her, I need Jirina for other things, and Rose as well.” He decided this was the best time to break the news. “I may be remarrying.”

  She stared at him over the edge of her teacup. All he could see where her brown eyes, much like his own. “Do you have a candidate?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  One thin brown eyebrow rose until it almost vanished und
er the narrow brim of her dark blue felt hat. “Does she have a name?”

  “Weronica Potoki.”

  Judit choked, almost dropping her teacup.

  “Potoki? The crazy Potoki’s sister?”

  “Not sister, aunt, I, no,” he ran through the family tree. “You’re right, half-sister. Apparently Cousin Imre does not keep life exciting enough for me.”

  Judit’s chuckle sounded a little too malicious for her older brother’s taste.

  “Well, family gatherings should be entertaining, so long as you can keep Cousin Imre and K.T. Potoki isolated from the rest of the party.”

  He reached forward and rested his hand on top of the handle of the three-tiered cake and sandwich carrier.

  “If you keep scaring me, I’m taking your sweets away.”

  “Thppppth.”

  “Mother will lecture you,” he retorted.

  “Have you spoken with Duchess Agatha?” she prodded.

  He lifted the treats and moved them out of her reach. “No, not yet. I do not intend to until after the banns are published, assuming Weronica accepts my suit.”

  His mother-in-law would not be pleased, but he preferred to deal with her after he had made the official announcement, if there was one. Judit grinned, pointing with her empty hand to her full plate.

  “Too late, as usual, brother of mine. But in all seriousness, I wish you well. And to go back to where we started, I will be sending Margaret to the Ursuline school next spring, so Erzsébet will have someone she knows in her class, if you are planning on entering her for the spring term.”

  “I am.”

  He’d miss her, but she needed to be around other young ladies of her rank and station, and to have female guidance that the servants could not provide.

  “Good. Now, what did you get me for Christmas?”

  “You will just have to wait and see.” He helped himself to a jam-filled pastry as she pouted. “And I replaced the crèche you stole.”

  She sniffed, doing a commendable impression of Duchess Agatha.

  “I did not steal it, Lord István. It has been relocated to another family property.”

  “Thppppth back.”

  Their parents would have swatted both of them for such unbecoming behavior.

  The children liked the crèche, and devoured the little treats that Sv. Miklos had tucked in with their toys and had left at their breakfast places. The toy soldiers and doll and other playthings, along with new books, kept them busy for another hour. And István’s warning about not carving his initials into anything or he would lose both the knife and his other privileges made Imre tuck the ivory-handled blade into his pocket and look for other things to do. Imre had grown several centimeters over the late summer and autumn, and it made István feel old. He would probably be taller than his father at this rate—where would they find trousers for him? Maybe if they stopped feeding him . . .

  István took a solitary hunt on St. Stephen’s Day, tracking several deer and a boar with no success. It didn’t displease him, though, not entirely. The woods smelled green and clean, and the air was quiet and heavy as if it waited for a signal to begin snowing. Green winter, full graveyard, István recalled, crossing himself. Well, that was England, not Hungary, and if they got enough snow for the wheat but not enough to aggravate the coal and wood shortages, he’d give thanks.

  He returned to the lodge to find his children waiting, along with a good coffee feast. This is probably the best time. After coffee, he led Imre and Erzsébet into the library and sat them down on the bench by the fireplace.

  “What do you remember of your mother?”

  Erzsébet hugged her doll, resting her chin on the china head. “She was warm, and soft, and loves us.”

  “She laughed a lot, Pater, but she didn’t play with me, not often.” Imre frowned. “I think she was tired. And she had big eyes, and her hair matched her eyes.”

  “She was tired, but not because of you, Imre, or you, Erzsébet. The war took her strength because she had to be your father and mother while I was gone.” István gathered himself and put his hands on their shoulders. “I am going to ask Weronica Potoki to marry me. If she says yes, she will be a second mother to you.”

  “Don’t you love Mother anymore?” Imre sounded as if his father had betrayed him.

  “I love her very much, and I always will.” István swallowed hard. “But the House needs a Lady, and cannot wait until your sister is old enough. And Aunt Judit said no.”

  She’d married out of the House and had chosen to renounce her right to rank within it. Erzsébet’s thumb crept into her mouth. “Will you still love us?”

  István pulled her against himself, holding her and Imre both.

  “Yes,” he whispered into her hair. “I will love you. I will always love you, no matter where I am or what I am doing.”

  Damn you, he thought well behind shields, deep in the secret corner of his heart that was his alone. Damn you for making my children even think about asking that question. Damn you for politics, and House business, and everything that goes with them. Now, at last, he understood what his brother had felt, understood why Mátyás had kept his mistress and daughter secret, and understood the loathing Mátyás had felt toward the House. Damn you to the deepest hells and then some.

  With great reluctance he returned to Vienna for the first of the balls and the start of the social Season. Imre’s face haunted him, as did the hurt silence the boy had carried with him for the rest of that day. The children were young and would heal, he kept reminding himself. The surprise of telling them had probably caused more upset than the news itself did. Maybe he should have waited? No, he recalled, that did not always end well. A hundred years before, the Head of House Tarn had done that—marrying and then informing his children afterward—and the outrage and trouble that ensued almost split the House. István looked at the fat snowflakes plunging down outside the hotel suite window and wondered if his ancestors had found life less complicated. Maybe during the Mongol days, he thought, turning away, closing the curtain, and starting to dress for the evening. The Mongols had clarified a great many things, including the line of inheritance, as he recalled.

  Szombor refused to allow his master to set foot outside the suite without repairing István’s tie and collar. “My lord, no.”

  Skilled fingers undid the entire mess, resetting the collar and studs, and then turning the starched strips of cloth into a proper bow. Then he whisked away a bit of fuzz from the lowest hem of István’s tailcoat. A quiet sigh. “My lord has a gift.”

  It hadn’t been that bad, had it? Apparently so.

  “Thank you, Szombor. Don’t wait up.”

  Of course he would.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  The Dietrichstein-Löbkowitz Palace dominated the square, a lovely, old, and very large town palace that sprawled as it faced the Minorite Square. New electric lights shone from the windows, illuminating the night, and a parade of cars and a few coaches lined up at the door as the nobility gathered once more. House Dietrichstein had been the first permitted to rebuild after the last Turkish siege, and the core of the yellow and cream building dated to that momentous event. Well, the Turks had failed, and the French had failed twice now, István thought. He handed his invitation to the butler and entered the over-warm entry hall.

  “Count István Josef Eszterházy,” a footman announced.

  István joined the receiving line, paying his respects to Countess Löbkowitz and her brother and sister-in-law, the hosts for the evening. Then he joined the others circulating around the room, renewing acquaintances and making new ones, studying the other guests and passing judgments. He found more friends than strangers. Perhaps I have been away too long.

  “His Highness Prince Alojyz Potoki. Her Highness Princess Marie Potoki. Lady Weronica Potoki.”

  István saw Weronica, who was dressed in pale blue, almost white, with a darker blue sash. Her dark hair had been styled into ringlets straight out of a pain
ting from the 1820s, and István wondered whose idea that had been. It matched her dress, but not her personality. She seemed pale and nervous, as if this was her first introduction to society.

  Surely not. She had to have been presented before . . . but she’s too young.

  She would have been a child when the war started, he realized, and then the unrest in Poland, and all the changes that followed, had disrupted the usual social calendars. This might not be her first formal evening, but certainly one of the first, and probably the most elite. Some of the families represented in the room traced their lineages back a thousand years and more, and had connections with every crowned head in Europe. Her look of pure relief when he appeared at her side told the tale.

  “My lady.” He bowed low, kissing her hand. It shook as hard as when they’d first met, and felt like ice through her delicate, light blue kidskin glove. “You are as beautiful as the first rose of spring.”

  A touch of color appeared on her cheeks.

  “Thank you, my lord Eszterházy. You are most kind.”

  At least she knew how to dance, and did so with commendable grace and ease. He alternated between dancing with her and with the other ladies, lest any one take offense, and because that was part of tradition. The midnight dinner found him seated away from her, but once the one a.m. bell rang, he approached her again. He’d already spoken to Prince Alojyz, reconfirming the prince’s approval.

  Now or never. István took Weronica’s hand and led her into a quieter corner.

  “My lady, a question?”

  “My lord?”

  She’d gone pale again and fanned herself with a very old-fashioned painted ivory fan. All the fancy words he’d planned on went out the window.

  “Lady Weronica, will you marry me?”

  She blinked, fanned, and as his heart seemed to stop, she answered in a whisper.