Erika’s husband was the commander of the Landgrave’s soldiers, both the mercenaries that made up the core of the Landgraviate’s small army, and the levy troops that filled things out when they were needed. Erika’s three sons served as officers under their father, though the youngest was merely fourteen. She had borne two other boys who had not lived.
Those two she had mourned properly, and if she remained sad about them, at least she knew where they were.
Her youngest daughter, her newest child, was a vigorous babe who was born with black hair, unlike her siblings, who were all blonde like their mother and father. Then there were her eyes, which appeared, even soon after birth, destined to be a bright green.
But though the girl’s presence was a comfort to Erika’s soul, easing the memory of her first, long-lost child, this newest one, whom they had named Ulrike, was . . . strange.
There was no other way to put it.
It was nothing Erika, even with her motherly intuition, could precisely put her finger on. And no one else seemed to notice it, or at least never remarked on it. But strange things seemed to happen in the child’s presence.
Erika, being of noble birth, did not nurse her own children. That job fell to a wet nurse. She nursed none of her older children and gave no thought whatsoever to nursing Ulrike. It simply never entered her mind.
But one afternoon a week after the girl’s birth, when Erika came into the nursery to check on Ulrike, the babe started crying. Erika knew this cry well after seven children; the babe was hungry. But instead of summoning the wet nurse, Erika looked into Ulrike’s green eyes and did something else entirely.
She sat down in a chair, opened the bodice in her dress, and presented her breast to the baby, who promptly began nursing.
Erika sat there blankly watching the child feed until the wet nurse entered the room a few minutes later. Not until she heard the woman’s shocked gasp did Erika look up.
“M’lady . . . ?”
Looking up from Ulrike’s face seemed to break some kind of spell. Erika looked back down and gasped herself. She lurched to her feet and pulled the child from her breast, shoving it toward the wet nurse. Ulrike cried briefly until the nurse got her breast out and gave it to her.
Heart pounding, Erika rapidly put her clothes back together and rushed from the nursery, not stopping until she reached her bedroom. It was several long minutes before her state of shock ebbed.
Erika could think of no reason whatsoever for what she had done. She could not even remember deciding to nurse Ulrike. She had simply sat down and done it.
It happened again a few days later, after Erika decided the first episode was some form of postpartum insanity. She had given birth enough times to know her instincts immediately afterward were not always sound.
But once again, she walked into the nursery for something else, picked up Ulrike, looked down at the girl, and began nursing her. This time, however, they were not interrupted. Erika did not come out of the fog until Ulrike released her breast, temporarily sated.
Aghast, Erika set the babe down in her cradle and wandered through the castle in a daze. She had no recollection of her thoughts after looking at Ulrike. There was nothing but the act of nursing.
It was not long before Erika realized she was powerless to stop it short of abandoning the child altogether. Whenever she was alone with Ulrike, as often as not, she would nurse her.
Gradually, Erika sensed that Ulrike wanted her, not the wet nurse. How she knew this, she could not tell, but it was there. And, somehow or another, Ulrike’s desires made Erika powerless.
Other odd things happened as well.
When Ulrike was about a month old, Erika entered the nursery to find the wet nurse sitting blankly in a chair. One of the windows was open, and perched on Ulrike’s cradle were six sparrows in a neat row. The birds were so still even after she entered the room that Erika momentarily thought they were toys.
Then, one by one, the birds hopped in a circle around the rim of the cradle as if they were performing a dance.
Erika shrieked at the top of her lungs and charged at Ulrike’s bed, waving her arms to chase the birds away. All at once, they exploded into the air and flew around, with Erika still screaming, until all of the birds had escaped out the window.
Ulrike immediately screeched in distress. Only then did the wet nurse look up from her trance.
“M’lady. I think the child is crying.”
Erika nearly dismissed the woman on the spot. Yet she knew in her bones this was not the wet nurse’s fault. It was Ulrike’s.
The next time it was not sparrows but rats. She found three of them standing on the end of the cradle, alternately bobbing up and down like puppets as Ulrike squawked in glee and waved her arms. Erika was about to attack the rats in horror when Ulrike caught her eye. The shock dissipated, and Erika sat down to watch.
The rats had a strange purple glint in their eyes that Erika had never seen before.
How long she sat there watching the rats entertain her daughter, Erika could not say. But eventually Ulrike seemed to lose interest, and the rats, freed from whatever compulsion had kept them there, scattered.
ERIKA TOLD no one of her child’s strangeness, however much it troubled her.
A more superstitious woman than Erika might have thought her daughter possessed of the devil, or perhaps the devil’s child herself. But in her calmer moments, Erika could sense no evil in the girl.
The babe wished to nurse from her mother rather than a wet nurse. She was entertained by animals. Neither was anything at all remarkable. It was simply that Ulrike seemed to possess some ability to make these things happen.
After a few more weeks of similar events, Erika finally forced herself to make peace with what she had come to think of as Ulrike’s “differences.” She had little choice in the matter, since she could think of nothing she might do to put an end to them.
Yet no one but her seemed to have noticed anything unusual. Even the wet nurse, who regularly fell under Ulrike’s spell, appeared to be too dim to appreciate what was happening.
Ulrike was different in ways beyond her ability to make Erika nurse her and animals perform for her. After bringing seven children into the world and raising three of them to near adulthood—not to mention seeing the children of her relatives and friends grow up—Erika thought she had a good sense of how they developed intellectually. But Ulrike ignored all the patterns Erika was familiar with.
Every babe under three months Erika had ever seen was all but oblivious to the world around it beyond eating, shitting, and pissing. As long as those needs were met, holding one’s attention for any length of time was nearly impossible.
Ulrike, on the other hand, seemed aware of her surroundings in ways Erika associated with much older infants. She watched things for unusually long periods. She appeared to know her name and would turn her head when Erika spoke it. Erika found herself talking to Ulrike as if she were a child of four or five, and she would have sworn from the look in Ulrike’s eyes that the babe understood her.
Then something happened that terrified Erika to her core.
However much Erika had forced herself to grow used to her child’s uniqueness, she was still far from being willing to risk exposing it to anyone else. She had not taken Ulrike out of the castle once, and resisted even showing the babe to anyone but her immediate family. But one day, Ulrike took matters into her own hands.
Erika came to the nursery intending to check on Ulrike and take her to one of the sitting rooms if the babe was awake. She was. But instead of merely picking her up and carrying her downstairs, Erika changed the child and bundled her up against the cold, since it was time to take her outside and show her the world.
Not until she reached the main square of the town and stopped at the fountain did Erika fully realize she had left the castle and come all the way down the hill with Ulrike in her arms.
She looked down at Ulrike’s bright green eyes—which were now avidl
y watching the people around them—and realized what had happened.
Erika froze. It was midday, and there were dozens of people walking through the square.
She wanted nothing more than to race back to the castle and hide. But she was quite certain Ulrike would not allow her to do it, at least not until she lost interest in the outing. Forcing herself to remain calm, Erika walked slowly out of the square down a narrow side street—
—and a few moments later found herself back in the square.
She tried again, this time seeking desperately not to look at Ulrike or even think of the child. But she got no more than a few steps away from the fountain before her mind fogged over, and she found herself back in the same spot.
What was she to do? Every moment they spent in the square was a risk Ulrike would do something Erika could not explain away. There were mages who practiced their arts openly in both the castle and Marburg proper, but the people of the town were not so sophisticated as to tolerate a baby who could make adults and beasts move to her whims. If the full truth came out, they might both be burned at the stake as witches.
Erika sat on the edge of the fountain, her nerves as taut as bowstrings. She prayed Ulrike would be content to merely watch. And for a time, it seemed she was.
Then Erika heard the clip-clop of approaching hooves, and a few moments later a carriage entered the square, drawn by a pair of horses. Ulrike stirred in Erika’s arms, jerking in excitement as she watched the horses approach. The driver turned the carriage toward them, beginning a circle around the fountain, and Erika watched in horror as a familiar purple glint grew in the horses’ eyes.
The horses abruptly stopped before them. The driver cracked the reins in confusion, but the beasts refused to move. As one, they turned toward Erika and Ulrike and bowed their heads. The driver looked up at Erika, scowling, and cracked the reins again. Still the horses ignored him.
All at once, the horses reared back in unison, standing on their hind legs, waving their front hooves in the air. They bobbed their heads and swayed their bodies exactly as Erika had seen the rats doing on Ulrike’s bed when they danced for her amusement.
In Erika’s arms, Ulrike shook and giggled aloud.
The driver cried out in fear, yelling at the beasts, and others in the square turned to watch this strange scene. The horses continued prancing and dancing for Ulrike.
Finally, the driver drew out a long crop and lashed repeatedly at the horses’ necks.
That was enough to break the spell, and the horses dropped back to all fours, looks of terror in their eyes. They lurched backward, away from Erika and Ulrike, neighing and smacking their hooves on the cobblestones in agitation.
The sudden change in the scene before them seemed to startle Ulrike, who began to cry. Seizing the moment, Erika leapt up from the fountain and rushed out of the square, leaving chaos in her wake as the driver struggled to regain control over his frightened animals.
Heart pounding, Erika went straight back toward the castle, glancing repeatedly behind her to see if they were being followed.
She saw no one, no sign that anyone had connected the incident to her and Ulrike.
But back in a corner of the square, a cloaked figure watched them go. When Erika disappeared from sight, the figure turned and left in the opposite direction, toward the south road out of town.
A gust of wind caught the hood of the figure’s cloak, and for a moment, there was a flash of green, had anyone been watching.
11.
JOHANNES VON BRAUERSDORF, his weasel familiar notwithstanding, had long thought himself a reasonable and patient man. But the cleric before him was vexing his patience in a fashion he had not been forced to deal with since his early days at the university, when most of his time and energy was leached away in teaching novices that controlling the Flow and using it responsibly were two very different things, a fact they should have known long before arriving in Köln.
“Father Hirsch, as I have endeavored to explain repeatedly, the Church has nothing to fear from this symposium we are planning. There will be no plotting against papal hegemony or reexaminations of established dogma. There will be no theological discussions at all. We are planning nothing more than a discussion of magely theories that the Church has never concerned itself with before. It is a purely academic exercise, nothing more.”
The rotund priest before him shifted in his seat and grumbled.
“Be that as it may, Chancellor von Brauersdorf, academic exercises have a tendency to turn to more practical matters. Especially in days such as these.”
“I am not aware that anyone at the university has had any contact with Friar Luther. I can assure you that were anything of the sort to take place, the administration would put a stop to it immediately.”
“Yet I have been told that copies of the One Hundred and Ten Theses have been circulating here recently.”
Johannes shook his head firmly.
“I am unaware of any such thing. And even if there were, I have difficulty understanding why the Church should be opposed to the idea of a closer relationship between mages and priests.”
Hirsch frowned.
“But you are aware, I hope, that Pope Leo has denounced Luther’s theses in their entirety and threatened anyone in possession of a copy of them with excommunication?”
“I am. Dr. von Eck has already been in contact with us about this matter, and the university has condemned Luther’s theories as he requested. But again, the university does not concern itself with matters of theology and never has.”
“Yet those attempting to post and pronounce the bull have been assaulted and defamed.”
Johannes sighed. “Not on our account. Nothing of the sort has occurred here. We mages leave those issues to the Church. That has been the understanding for more than millennium.”
“Indeed. But it is an understanding that Friar Luther has challenged fundamentally. What do you say to his suggestion that magery has its roots in Scripture, and that the Church therefore cannot condemn a mage for heresy on its own authority?”
Johannes spent a few moments pressing his hands against his forehead.
“The university does not challenge the Church’s authority in such matters. And, for the third or fourth time, none of this will be the subject of our symposium or addressed in any way whatsoever.”
Hirsh fingered the cross around his neck for a moment. “In that case, you should have no objection to allowing the Church to review the papers for heresy beforehand, nor to allowing a papal representative to monitor the proceedings.”
Johannes sat back in surprise.
“That is a request well beyond anything the Church has sought to involve itself in at the university before.”
Hirsch raised an eyebrow.
“You object?”
“I object for practical concerns. What you ask may not be possible. Much of the work may not be complete in time for such a review. And I object because the Church would be overstepping its bounds with such oversight. We leave the theology to the Church, and the Church leaves the magery to us.”
The priest’s face darkened.
“I came here because I believed the university hierarchy stood with the Church in these difficult times. If that is not the case, I will have to report your objections to my superiors. You may find that path rather uncomfortable, Chancellor.”
Johannes bent forward again and rubbed his temples.
“I will do what I can, Father. But you are chasing things that do not exist. Your enemies are in Sachsen, not Köln, and certainly not at the university.”
Grunting against his girth, Father Hirsch rose from his chair. “Pray that it remains so, Chancellor. Pray that it remains so.”
When Hirsh was gone, Johannes had to draw out the bottle of wine he kept in the bottom of his desk and pour himself a cup. He sat for several minutes trying to calm his nerves. This symposium had been an ongoing trial for months—simply convincing enough mages to present their work ha
d been an exercise in frustration—and the Church’s interest in it of late complicated matters even further.
If the mages he had convinced to take part were to hear the Church suspected him of fomenting heresy, it would be over before it had begun. The review Hirsch had demanded was impossible—even asking such a thing of his colleagues would cause most of them to withdraw from the symposium immediately.
But Johannes was not willing to give up yet. The Church’s power in Köln was circumscribed. The Archbishop of Köln in fact sat in Bonn, as he was banned from the city by the council, which jealously guarded its status as an independent city of the Empire. There were things he could do to blunt the Church’s involvement, or at least stall them long enough to let the symposium take place in peace.
Finally Johannes whistled to his weasel, which had been curled up in the corner of his office during the meeting with Father Hirsch. It sprang onto his desk, and Johannes scratched its head for a moment.
“Fetch Dieter. I can see him now.”
The weasel turned and bounced out the door. Dieter Krauss was a mostly retired war mage who had spent much of his youth as a mercenary, but since coming to the university had turned his attentions to more general and theoretical matters. Of all the mages Johannes had reached out to, except perhaps his old friend Walther, Dieter had been the easiest to convince of the merits of the symposium. Indeed, upon hearing the news he had launched himself into an entirely new research project, about which he had requested this meeting to discuss his progress with Johannes. But Father Hirsch’s unannounced and unpleasant visit had delayed things.
Dieter, who was a rangy, weathered man with a shaven head and looked at least a decade younger than his sixty-plus years, appeared a few minutes later, following Johannes’s weasel.
“Dieter, my apologies. I had an unexpected visitor I needed to see.”
“That fat priest I saw leaving the tower?”
The Witches' Covenant (Twin Magic Book 2) Page 8
