George paused. “I should send her back to face Fen’ka and Svetovit,” he thought, “and let them punish her for keeping AAthem trapped and fettered, powerless to vent their wrath against the city.” But he wanted to be acclaimed as one of the greatest Grand Masters of magic even more than he wanted revenge. He wanted to be known as the one who had overcome the magic of the Charles Bridge. He needed the sword in his hands to do that.
Did he trust Jarnvithja? Would she clasp her hands back onto the sword and refuse again to let him take it? Did she seriously think that she could be the great heroine to liberate Svetovit’s power from the constraints the bridge and the other magical tools of Prague had placed on his power? George plunged back through the water and reached for the sword on her lap.
More swiftly than he could have imagined, Jarnvithja reached over with one hand and seized the barge pole from where she had wedged it between the underwater cobblestones and swung it in a wide arc. The pole crashed onto the back of his head as the troll-woman’s other claw-like hand wrapped itself around his throat. The pain and surprise nearly blinded the Jesuit as the claw tightened. His feet slipped on the cobblestones and his arms flailed, momentarily useless as his mind struggled to understand what was happening.
The boat rocked and glided back over deeper water. The barge pole cracked against George’s skull again while Jarnvithja struggled to keep her grasp on his windpipe. The sword slipped off one of her knees and the point of the scabbard thudded against the bottom of the boat. George kicked against the sideboards and tried to push himself away from Jarnvithja, but her stranglehold was too tight.
She dropped the pole into the boat beside her and clutched the top of the sideboards to steady herself. George could no longer feel cobblestones beneath his feet and his lungs burned from lack of air. He stretched his hand toward the boat, hoping to reach something to use as a weapon to free himself. He kicked against the sideboards, causing the boat to rock wildly.
Even as his body fought to free himself, his mind fought to find a reason for Jarnvithja’s murderous attack. The lack of oxygen, the pain, the physical effort made it difficult to think, but suddenly he realized why.
“Troll! You are known to lure swimmers and others into the river and then kill them, adding to the armies of the dead that you command beneath the waves!” George gasped at her with what little breath he could manage. “You think… killing me… I will have no choice but to do your will—and that of Fen’ka and Svetovit!” His fingers scratched at the sideboards, but Jarnvithja’s reach was too long and kept him from getting hold of either the barge pole or the sword.
Jarnvithja continued to hold tightly onto the sideboards with one hand and George’s throat with the other. Although she held his head at nearly the same level as hers, they were both drenched with water kicked up from the river by their struggle. He tried to swing his legs into the boat and she swept her hand along the top of the sideboards, knocking his legs back into the water with a tremendous splash that surged over the sideboards and into the bottom of the barge.
A dark miasma hovered at the edge of his mind and it was an unavoidable temptation to consider simply slipping into the dizziness and letting the darkness consume him. With a last effort of thought and strength however, George reached for the sideboards and grabbed them with both hands. Pulling up his feet and bracing them against the boat, he flung himself backwards into the river, pulling the boat over on top of himself.
The move caught Jarnvithja by surprise. Unable to shift her weight quickly enough, the boat capsized and plunged the Jesuit and the troll into the cold water.
Jarnvithja now clutched at George’s neck with both hands. He heard the water roar in his ears. Clouds of frothy bubbles swirled about, engulfing them as the last remnants of air were forced from the folds of their clothes. George kicked at Jarnvithja, tangling his legs in her long, flowing cloak. He swept his arms through the water as he saw the contents of the boat—the barge pole and the sword—sinking through the waves beside him. He lunged toward the descending sword, dragging Jarnvithja along with him. His lungs were bursting with pain and—unable to stop himself—he gasped for breath underwater, swallowing the river instead of air. He knew he was dying.
But then he felt something falling past his hand and he curled his fingers around whatever it was, hoping to use it to strike back in some last futile gesture of defiance. If it was the barge pole, he would plunge it into Jarnvithja’s torso; if her body was as solid as her hands around his throat, then perhaps that would drive her off.
But it was not the barge pole. It was one of the leather straps hanging from the scabbard of the sword. He couldn’t so much see as feel the embossed decorative work on the leather. He pulled it, hugging the scabbard as it slowly came through the dark water towards him. He clutched the hilt of the sword and wrenched it free of the leatherwork containing it as he took one last, desperate gasp of river water into his lungs.
A shimmer of light reflected off the edge of the sword’s blade, even in the turbulent water. The sword slid out of its scabbard, exposing the length of the great blade. George pushed the leather straps of the scabbard up along one arm, looping it around his elbow and grasping the hilt with both hands. Then he swung the blade in a long arc directed at the troll’s midriff.
Jarnvithja’s hands sprang loose from George’s throat as she fell back into the water, away from the sword slicing its way towards her through the water. At the same moment, George coughed and sputtered and realized that he was breathing air and not inhaling more water. There was also a surge of something not unlike electricity in the water around him, a hum and thrill of power that heightened his senses and raised the hair on his arms and neck. The barge pole rested on the bottom of the river beside him. Jarnvithja’s cloak swirled and coagulated in the river, concealing her face and hands and any semblance of a person that might be hidden in the roiling cloth, which continued its retreat from him, back towards the main body of the river.
George’s head burst through the river’s surface, his body propelled upward by a thrust from below. He stumbled onto the cobblestones and stood there, gasping and coughing, leaning on the sword as its point dug into the mortar between the cobblestones. He turned to look back over the river, water running down his face and clothes, streaming back to the river it had come from. There was no sign of the overturned boat, no indication of the struggle that had just taken place beneath the waves. The current surged in from the river and back out again, just as it had while he had been waiting for Jarnvithja’s arrival.
George bent his neck and shook his head, scattering drops of river water from his brow like rain. The sword, whose magic was crafted to protect and defend, had done just that for him: protected and defended him from Jarnvithja’s terrible assault. As long as the sword had rested in the bridge’s foundations, it had lent its power to the bridge and supported its magical defense of Prague. But now the sword was in his hands. Now he would wield that magic to protect and defend himself. He had intended to use it to protect and defend Fen’ka and Svetovit, but now, whether they had conspired with Jarnvithja to drag him into the river and slay him or not, he would use it to demonstrate the superiority of his power over theirs. Even Svetovit would learn to obey George now, after the fulfillment of the curse that was an unavoidable aspect of Svetovit’s liberation.
“But it will be the last time Svetovit will act on his own behalf. They will all pay for the troll’s betrayal,” George snarled his promise to the night sky. “Svetovit. Gadriel. Fen’ka. Jarnvithja. They will all learn to serve, rather than expect to be served.”
Fr. Dmitri and his companions stood in the arcade beneath the Powder Tower at the end of the street running alongside Our Lady of Tyn.
“All right, this was your idea,” Theo told Fr. Dmitri. “What do you think is the best way to begin?”
Dmitri had clearly been thinking about this very question. “I think that we should begin with a circle of salt here, in the portico beneath t
he tower itself, but a circle that opens out onto the Royal Road,” he explained, stroking his salt-and-pepper beard. “Not a circle closed in on itself, but one that leads out through the gate onto the Royal Road through the Old Town, yes? We should also release the energy of the first tarot card here by lighting it in the circle after it is drawn. Then we can trace the route of the Royal Road, pouring a single line of salt out of the chalice and lighting the next few tarot cards as we go. At turns or intersections of the Royal Road would probably be best.” He paused and looked around the group. More murmurs of assent and nodding heads met him.
“What chalice?” Theo reminded them. “Magdalena has the chalice again. I threw it at the Dearg-due, remember? Magdalena took it, with the rabbi’s staff.”
“Then we shall simply have to pour the salt directly on the road,” Fr. Dmitri’s wife, Sophia, answered, running her fingers through her hair.
Victoria pulled the tarot deck and box of matches from between the canisters of salt and handed them to Fr. Dmitri, asking, “Which one do you think we should use first?”
He thumbed through the deck and set several cards nearly at right angles to the others. “These will be good to start with,” he announced, extracting the cards he had selected and returning the others to Victoria, who wedged them back into the bag.
“We should use them in numerical order,” he went on. “The ‘royal road’ of the cards begins with the Magician, so he should come at the beginning of the Royal Road of Prague as well.” He sorted the cards in his hand according to the Roman numerals printed on them and then put them into his pocket, keeping out only the card bearing the image and title of Magician.
“Theo, open a canister of salt, please,” he instructed as he creased the card and wedged it into the paving stones at his feet. “Victoria, shake the salt out and draw a circle around us. And draw the beginning of a line that leads from the circle out onto the street, along the Royal Road.”
Theo wedged his thumb into the small metallic spout of the first canister and gave it to Victoria. She began to walk around the five people at the base of the Powder Tower. She tipped the cardboard canister slightly, so that the salt fell in shimmering cascades to the ground. As she made the circle, the others held their breaths. The salt sparkled against the paving stones. Victoria approached her starting point and hesitated, looking back to the priest.
Fr. Dmitri, however, was busy with the card and matches. He had squatted down and pulled out a match, striking it against the side of the box. The tip flared as the flame burst into life. As he brought the match close to the card, the flame wavered and stretched toward the card, as if yearning to leap across to the image. Sophia held her breath, afraid the card would not burn. The fire hovered at the priest’s fingertips, and then it did seem to jump to the card. The flames flickered along the creased ridge of the card and then flowed out along the image, illuminating the anxious faces of the five watching it.
The face of the Magician on the card smiled at those watching, the four magical tools on the table before him—staff, chalice, sword, pentacle—seeming to grow larger as the flames spread and the card’s edges blackened and curled. For an instant, the card burned, shining like a star fallen to earth, and then the fire blinked out. A delicate, twisted snowflake of ash fluttered away.
Dmitri squatted a moment longer before attempting to rise to his feet. Sean reached out to help him when Sophia gasped and pointed to the air just above them, where the last wisps of smoke from the burning card still hovered. They all looked to where she pointed.
Incandescent colors slid through the air. “Just like the Northern Lights,” Theo muttered. “I gave a guest lecture once in Alaska,” he explained sheepishly. Colors danced and sprang around them, gradually coming together to make a three-dimensional translucent replica of the image on the card they had just burned. The figure of the Magician stood there, his hand raised in command or blessing. The four tools hovered there as well, faint but present. The flowers that had been depicted on the card bloomed in the air. The robes of the Magician stirred in the slight breeze and he seemed to be speaking, his lips moving slightly but no sound reaching the ears of those witnessing the vision. Then the colors brightened. The intensity of the lights flickered and the image slid back into a chaotic, undulating rainbow, which then dispersed into the night.
They took a collective breath again, awkwardly looking at each other even as a reverent silence descended on them. Sean finally pulled Dmitri to his feet. The priest shook himself and cleared his throat.
“We should take turns, yes?—pouring the salt,” he said gruffly, trying to hide the emotion in his voice. His wife gave him a sympathetic look.
Sean took a canister from the bag. “In Celtic practice, the chalice—or whatever is used to hold the salt—should be wielded by a woman.” He scratched his chin beneath his auburn beard, apparently debating which woman he should offer the canister of salt. He held it out and Victoria grasped it.
“You take it,” Victoria said, offering the canister to Sophia. Sophia took the cardboard container and held it as her husband would hold the Eucharistic chalice on Sunday. Theo and Sean took up the bags of additional salt canisters. Dmitri pulled the next tarot card from his pocket and the little procession set out down the Royal Road toward the heart of Prague.
Sophia tipped the container in her hands, scattering a thin but steady stream of salt onto the cobblestones. Some of the salt drifted to one side or the other, and none if it fell thickly enough to make a clear and discernable line down the road, but Dmitri knew they all felt the thrum, the gentle vibration of power and life that gently reverberated beneath their feet. They made their way slowly, so as not to scatter the salt in too dispersed a pattern. Sophia gave the salt container back to Victoria to carry as they passed the large windows of the crystal shops displaying delicate wineglasses and other sparkling Bohemian crystal. Sean and Theo took turns as well, alternating who carried the bags as the procession continued its quiet march.
They approached the first intersection of the Royal Road with a side street and paused. Fr. Dmitri found a crack in the mortar between the cobblestones and inserted the card, the High Priestess, so that it stood upright. He bent low and struck a match, holding it near the card. The scent of the striking match hung especially pungent in the air. Again the flame flickered and stretched from the match towards the card until it leapt onto the edge of the image. It glowed and then swept across the face of the card. Shadows shifted and danced on the walls around them. They looked up in expectation, caught between hoping for and fearing another vision.
The card withered in the flames. They held their breaths. No vision appeared. The fire of the burning card spurted up into an instant of intense life and then extinguished itself, the ash of the card falling down between the cobblestones.
Magdalena had come straight to George’s room, breathlessly knocking on the door and struggling to stop herself from pounding it down and causing a scene. She stood in the hallway clutching the staff and chalice, panting, knowing her brown hair was in disarray, until finally she heard the lock click and the door opened slightly. George peered into the hallway and then stood aside to admit her. He was wearing pajamas and holding a glass of wine.
“I met Elizabeth, just as you told me,” she told him, still clutching the staff and chalice as she sat on a formal chair next to the desk and he headed for an easy chair.
George nodded. “She showed you how to interrupt the magic of the Astronomical Clock and disrupt its balance, correct?” he asked.
“Yes, she did,” Magdalena hastened to agree. Unable to stop herself, the whole story of the events on the Old Town Square tumbled out of her mouth as George sat and calmly sipped his wine. She hardly paused in her urgent recounting until she reached the point at which Elizabeth had ordered her to bring the staff and chalice back to safety, sending her back to the bridge and her decision to come directly to George and tell him what had happened.
“What do you thin
k happened next, George?” Magdalena asked at last. “Was Elizabeth safe there? Or did the professors from the conference find a way to send her back to Ireland? Is that why she insisted I leave her there? Because she knew she would not be coming back with me?”
He closed his eyes and tapped his glass against the arm of the chair, thinking as she sat, catching her breath after finishing her report. “I think I must agree with you,” he concluded at last, opening his eyes and sipping his wine again. “Elizabeth has been forcibly returned to Ireland, kidnapped by magic as it were, even if you did not witness her departure. Everything points to that. Fen’ka’s enemies have driven Elizabeth back into her grave and won this round of the struggle.” He looked intently at Magdalena. “Do you see how these men and their unwitting accomplices will stop at nothing to prevent us from clearing Fen’ka’s name? It is all the more important, therefore, that we redouble our efforts to clear her even as we take appropriate measures to protect and defend ourselves. Do you understand?”
Magdalena hastened to agree. “Yes, of course I do. We must. That much is obvious. It’s just…” She looked at George, pleading, feeling her eyes fill with tears. “You said we each had a role to play. Can we manage without… without Elizabeth to fulfill her role?” She let go of the chalice and it fell into her lap as she fumbled for a tissue from a pocket. “I miss her already, George. I miss Elizabeth.” She wiped her eyes and looked at him, biting her lower lip.
“Yes, I shall miss her as well,” the Jesuit master of black magic conceded. “As for her role, however… If you and she did as instructed tonight and the disruption of the clockworks was successful, her role will have been completed and her mission accomplished. That achieved, we are that much closer to the accomplishment of our final goal and Elizabeth would want—more than anything else, don’t you think?—that we hasten to complete the vindication of Fen’ka.”
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 94
