Head aching, body aching, mouth dry, István opened his eyes to dim, flickering light, as an all too familiar voice came to him.
“You can stop playing dead.”
He blinked a few times, until the blurry glow resolved into an oil lamp’s flame. He tried to focus but the headache forbade it, and he closed his eyes again. “If I were dead, I wouldn’t hurt this much, Your Grace,” he managed.
“Point. I couldn’t let Hans drain himself Healing you any more than was necessary.” Rudolph sat down in the chair beside the bed. “A nurse is bringing water and other things for you, now that you can swallow on your own. You won’t die.”
Too bad, it might be more pleasant, István thought behind shields.
“Where are we, Your Grace?”
Not the main hospital in Budapest, that much he could guess from the absence of medical scents. Not the town palace, and not the Regent’s palace, either.
“In Óbuda, in a friend’s house.”
Rudolph got up, a door opened, and a woman in pale clothes and a white cap came in, then set a tray down, scraping it on wood.
“You need to sit up, Mr. Bethlen, I’m sorry.”
The woman wrung her hands a little. István gathered himself and, with her help, rolled forward as she stuffed pillows behind him, then adjusted the bed for more support. His vision seemed a little better, but the effort brought tears to his eyes. He ate a little and drank more, and felt less like a reanimated corpse. The nurse took his pulse and temperature, and looked into his eyes, then departed with the empty tray. Rudolph returned, sitting again.
“Perhaps I should correct my earlier statement, Little Stephen. In a way you are dead.”
“What—?”
“Count István Joszef Imre Eszterházy died in the riot three days ago. His body was found near a burned building where he’d tried to shelter one of his employees. The authorities,” Rudolph hissed the word, “only identified the remains because his wallet with his military identity papers and a watch survived the flames, charred but still readable.”
“You’re mad.”
Rudolph nodded. “Yes, I am. There’s one in every generation, as you well know. Madness excuses a variety of sins, including deceit, fraud, dissimulation, and on occasion, murder. But the last very rarely, and only when no other option remains,” he mused. “No matter how much the world might benefit from the demise of certain individuals, at least in my humble and inexpert opinion.” István could see a faint red tinge in the archduke’s tan eyes, and wondered whom he had in mind. “But your observation does not change the fact that you are dead.” He paused. “So is Georg Tisza. For which I owe you a profound apology. You were right, and I was wrong. I should have killed him when we caught him trying to control Prince Potoki, or later, when he ordered the attack against House Szárkány.”
István closed his eyes.
“The girl?”
“Told everything. She did not want you to die, you see, just to get what she thought the family owed her. Tisza had learned about your brother’s marriage, which was legal, as it turns out. Yes, he married her mother before he died. The girl, your niece, was his legitimate daughter. The bastard seduced her, promised to help her regain what was rightfully hers that you had denied her.”
“And he was willing to kill her to get to me.” István felt nothing but tired. No more anger, no more fear, nothing. “But the Power burned me out first.”
“No, although it was not for lack of effort, I’ll grant the Matra that. Scared His Highness and me when Pannonia pulled us into the battle.” Rudolph sounded mildly irritated. “We were hunting at the time, and I do not appreciate waking up on my back in dead leaves with a cold dog nose on my cheek. And the damn boar got away.”
István laughed. It hurt, and turned into a coughing spell that tasted like fire and he didn’t want to know what, but the laughter felt good.
“My apologies,” he managed at last, “Your Grace.”
“And then you tried to scare us by burning down half of Budapest. You Eszterházys do have a flare for the overly dramatic.”
The recitation ended and István opened his eyes. Rudolph looked older, much older.
“Your Grace?”
“He would have destroyed the Houses. Friends managed to get to his office and residence before the government did. He knew about us, Little Stephen, and had information that could have—” Rudolph closed his eyes and shook his head, then leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. “I should have killed him that night. I wanted to, but I hesitated. And you paid the price for my misplaced mercy.”
Should he tell Rudolph? Yes. “Your Grace, he also,” István coughed again. “He was not completely burned out. Or you did not find all his channels. He—I think it was Tisza—tried to intercept the energy you sent. I knocked him away but the distraction kept me from shielding myself.”
Not that it would have made much difference. No one could channel power like that without paying a high price.
“Dear God.” Rudolph rested his head in his hands. “I didn’t feel it, and neither did His Highness.” The archduke looked up again, carrying all the years of his House on his hunched shoulders. “Thanks be to all saints that he had no descendants or living relatives. He was a one-off from a family that never had talent before.”
Silence filled the small room and István wondered about it all. Finally he spoke.
“What now, your Grace?”
“You rest and heal, then return to the mountains. Your son Imre will be tested in a few weeks, but not by me.” Rudolph straightened up. “I must return to my duties, preparing a place for our people from Galicia and watching the pass. Siebenburgen managed to fend off the Eastern Evil, but the storm builds, Little Stephen, and the innocents must have shelter.”
“And me?” He barely heard his own whisper.
Rudolph gave him a sideways look.
“You are dead. And do not try and contact the House. Hans says you burned your telepathy away, to the point that you are almost head-blind. It may recover, but if you try now . . .” The archduke’s grim expression reinforced the Healer’s order.
“And once in the mountains, my lord?”
“You will see. Now rest.”
István leaned on Marie Anna’s shoulder as he walked onto the porch of the small wooden house tucked into a valley on the mountain flank. His True-dragon daughter, doubling as assistant, helped him balance until he reached the bench in the sun. There he sat, enjoying the late spring heat. She went back inside to finish tidying up. István watched a hawk circling and wondered again at the latest turn on his life’s path.
Imre now led House Szárkány-Kárpátok. István could still feel a very faint link to the House, and a stronger one to the Matra. Erzsébet acted as Guardian, but the Matra refused to release István, hiding him from the Guardian’s sight for some reason. The Power refused to say why, and István did not ask. He lived, his children lived, his niece lived. His wife . . . his mind shied away from the memory of the news from Poland. Perhaps it was just as well that he had died in the fire, freeing Weronica from her vows to him.
«Uncle Lukacz, we are almost out of morphine,» Anna Marie reported.
“Thank you. Mrs. Novak was unable to get more on her last trip to Eger. Apparently they were between shipments, and people are starting to store it away. Please put it on the list again.”
He’d used most of the precious painkiller on a woodsman whose ax had slipped, almost severing his leg. The blade had missed the veins and arteries, thanks be, but they healed slowly and caused much pain. István’s Gift was not strong enough to Heal such a major wound, and he’d done what he could with what he had. Who would have thought I’d become a secondary Healer? Perhaps it is a way to make amends.
That had been the Gift that Rudolph had wondered about. The ties associated with the Headship and Guardianship had concealed István’s other talent—Healing. He would never be as formidable as Mistress
Nagy, but he could continue to serve the House. He traded his services for food and firewood, as well as accepting coin. House Habsburg’s specialist had managed to repair István’s spine, but the burn scars on his torso left him with limited strength and motion in his shoulder and arm. He’d grown a beard to cover his facial scars, although the healer had assured him that those would fade with time.
But his telepathic Gifts would not return. He could speak with True-dragons, and with Rudolph and others if he was a few centimeters away, or had physical contact. He could hear thoughts a little better, but very little. He could not contact his children.
That had shaken him the most, still hurt. He lived on House lands, could feel them through the House and the Matra, but he lived as a ghost. Perhaps it was a fit penance for his sins, for the pain he had caused them through his foolishness and pride. Was this how lost spirits felt on All Souls Eve? István shook off the sense of mourning and concentrated on the moment. He lived, they lived, and the House survived. That much he knew.
So now he basked in the morning sun as his daughter finished cleaning up from breakfast. Her foster parents had allowed her to take up employment with the new Healer, “Mr. Lukacz Raba, a distant cousin from Transylvania.” A dead man living with the child he’d told the world was still-born. Rudolph had found it amusing.
Rudolph—he owed the man his life. At Rudolph’s urging, Josef Karl had ordered House Habsburg’s people in Budapest to go looking for István. Pannonia had allowed them to use its sense to find István in the cellar of the building, under half-burned debris. They’d gotten him to Obuda, and Rudolph had come, mad, crazy, blessed Rudolph, who had almost drained himself assisting the Healer to save István from both burns and blood loss.
It had felt distinctly strange to read his own obituary, István mused, but it had also been a relief. Weronica had attended the memorial mass, then accepted a widow’s portion and the return of her dowry. She’d kept the youngest children, taking them to live with her family in Krakow. Imre and Erzsébet now led the House, and had settled a small stipend on Josefina, who blamed herself for everything. He wanted to reassure her that it was Tisza who deserved the lion’s share of the blame, but, well, a dead man could not do that. Instead, he helped newly arrived True-dragons settle in, Healed those in need, and watched the sun rise and set, savoring each breath.
Levavi oculos meos in montes, unde veniet auxilium mihi. Auxilium meum a Domino, qui fecit caelum et terram, he thought to himself yet again. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help. My help comes from the Lord, who made Heaven and Earth.”
The words of King David had become István’s touchstone and meditation. Perhaps he had been saved from the fiery pit to protect his people after “death,” just as Saint István did. He would know, eventually. For now, in this moment, he savored the sun’s warmth on his face, and the smell of the woods in spring, and gave thanks that his family lived in safety.
István Eszterházy dropped the letter onto the table and rested his head in his hands, fingers in his white hair. Why me? The last eight years had aged everyone—at least those who survived the war, hunger, and evil. He sat up and stared at the wall. He knew all too well why: because he was dead. Neither the Russians nor the Nazis would waste time hunting a dead man. And he knew how to get out of the mountains, to move among the people of the plains. Why me? He asked again, this time of God.
But Archduke Rudolph would never, ever ask this of him if anyone else had a hope of success. Neither of them had foreseen the fury of the Russians, had imagined that they’d find a way to destroy a Power. Three now, perhaps, given Siebenburgen’s eruption in late 1944. The lingering waves from that had left the Matra shaken for months. István had not ventured to the plains since earlier that year, and he wondered what Pannonia’s reaction had been. He could guess, based on the coded letter that lay on his table.
Rudolph had traveled to Galicia, trying to get any survivors out and west, be they House or pure human, leaving the Houses’ greatest treasure at the mercy of the barbarians. Not that the Nazis were much better, both men agreed, and if the crown of Sv. István had been anything else, well, at least the brown hordes put things in museums, even if they had no idea what they were dealing with. The Red hordes, however . . .
István used the heavy table to help him stand, then leaned on his cane and limped to the window. Fingers of snow still hid behind the trees, pointing north, guiding the sun as it moved with the coming of spring. Spring, the season of life, of renewal—but not this year. The bonfires blazed in warning, not in celebration. Not this year and not for many years to come.
The bear never released what it dragged into its den, be the bear a Romanov or the man called Stalin. Cousin Imre had warned Imre and Erzsébet about the Soviets, and for once young Imre had listened, thanks be. Yes, well, your son listened because he’s had the optimism beaten out of him. And because it was Cousin Imre trying to talk sense into his head. Not that he gets any of that from his father, of course. The old man had to smile, though it hurt him to think about his son and daughter. He’d not seen either of them since Count István’s death in the riots in Budapest seven years before.
He turned his head and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His eyes, slit pupiled and amber, gave him away and he frowned, concentrating on relaxing and calming down. As he watched, his eyes darkened to a medium brown, the pupils now round. He’d grown lazy, living here in the Matra with only the True-dragon woodsmen and his daughter, Anna Maria, for company. He’d not had a patient come up in . . . he tried to recall. Since just before Christmas? No, there’d been the child with pneumonia at Candlemas. The tired man shook himself.
“I’d best get moving.”
Staring into the mirror wasn’t going to get the holy crown of St. Stephen out of Hungary and into safe hands.
Once he reached Budapest, Rudolph said, István would find documents and other things waiting. All he had to do was reach Budapest. István snorted a little as he limped to his bedroom, where he kept a traveling case partly packed, in case a patient needed him for longer than a single night. He’d turned into one of those healing hermits from House lore, only emerging from his retreat to do works of corporal mercy. Bah, stop that, István scolded himself, as he packed as little as he could. Carrying too much attracted attention, and the last thing he wanted was attention from anyone or anything. His clothes might draw a few stares, István decided, but not as many as they once had. Rationing meant patches and making do, which certainly described his heavy winter coat! And concealed the second lining.
Concealed, hidden, disguised, ah Blessed Lady, what has become of Your land? The years after the first war seemed almost a delightful paradise of plenty and good times compared to these days. Which, as István considered the case, provided him with a reason to go to Budapest without a military pass. Rudolph had thought to provide him with proper licenses and documents as a general practitioner, in case someone should ever ask. And he did need medicines, especially pain-easing drugs and any antibiotics he could find. István packed and considered what he would say if asked. Then he added a piece of wood to the fire and returned to his morning’s interrupted task of writing out the list of things he wanted from the lowlands, should the opportunity arise. One of the woodsmen had brought mail, including newspapers containing hints that the Admiral’s government might be releasing more medical supplies, increasing ration limits. Rudolph’s letter had come as well.
Did Pannonia, Bohemia, and Austria leave anything of Rudolph’s mind to Rudolph? István wondered, as he recalled their last meeting. “Dr. Lukaz Rabe” had met “Captain Nagy” in Eger, finding him with flesh pared away, and brought him up to the mountains for the air cure. The police informer listening in had probably assumed that Rudolph was dying of tuberculosis, and so informed his superiors, so thin and haggard did Rudolph look and so distractedly did he behave.
“You heard about His Highness?” Rudolph had demanded the moment they r
eached István’s small cabin.
“No, Your—” István caught himself. “No Captain.”
Rudolph had slumped down into a chair, tan eyes bleak.
“He died last month. Pneumonia. The House goes without a Head or War Lord and the lands have no Guardian. No,” he groaned. “Austria has one. A guardian who dare not stay in Austria’s lands, who must answer others’ calls. Pannonia has no master now.”
“God have mercy on his soul,” István had whispered, crossing himself. Josef Karl had tried so hard, so very hard. “You are Guardian.”
Rudolph’s laugh shattered as it touched the air, so brittle it sounded.
“Indeed, and Pannonia chooses not to release me, nor Bohemia. I am burning, Little Stephen, burning like the cities to the west and east. St. Ann hear my pleas, so little of Rudolph remains . . . but duty calls, or will soon. We know how the Soviets destroyed Ukrania, why it attacked Galicia and later Siebenbergen.”
“The Soviets can do that?” István had gulped, and even now, thinking back to the conversation, the words made his skin crawl once more as he crossed himself. “But they have no True-Dragons, no HalfDragons, do not know the Houses.”
“They can do that. They destroy the land, choke it with blood and hatred, destroy the spirits of men. It poisons the Power as well, taints the energies in ways that ordinary deaths, and even wars, have never managed to do since the Mongol days and before. The Nazis are cruel, Little Stephen, the Soviets . . . they combine the worst of the Nazis and the Bear. It is said that they are unleashing the Mongols once more.” Both men had crossed themselves. The Mongols had driven the Hungarians into the mountains, those few who had survived the first onslaught. “They found Ukrainia’s key, the one thing that allowed them to reach the Power without us, without the Power’s agreement. It was hidden among other treasures, but they identified it and used it against the Power. How I do not know,” Rudolph had snarled.
“And Johann von Hohen-Drachenburg died as well. His Heir died in battle, and Graf Johann could not bear the strain. He never recovered from what the brown monsters did to him.” Rudolph had shaken all over. “That House too goes without a Head, although they have a Guardian in Magda, the daughter.”
Against a Rising Tide Page 22
