“Your pistol, if you please,” he said.
Varanus was momentarily surprised, but she realized that without both arms, Djata’s bow was now no longer of use to him. She quickly drew the revolver from her belt and passed it to him. The two of them kept low to the ground as the next burst of machine gun fire erupted above them, and then they quickly rose and resumed firing.
Varanus had expected the enemy to advance on them in the time that they had been hiding, but it was not so. Instead, Alexios and the riflemen were still a few dozen feet back, although the distance did nothing to diminish the threat of their weapons.
Why had they not stormed the barricade when given the chance, Varanus wondered.
Behind her, Vaclav and Joan finally smashed the door open.
“Quickly!” Vaclav shouted.
“Hold the door,” Joan told him, rushing back toward the barricade. “I’ll fetch them.”
Varanus started to rise, but another burst from the machine gun forced her down again. Pistols and rifles she might face with near impunity, but the volume of fire from the Maxim gun was something even a Living Shashavani had to respect.
There was a pause and she started to rise again. A moment later, she heard the sound of metal bouncing against stone and then two small thuds upon the wood of the table. As she helped Djata up, Varanus glanced into the passage and saw two iron balls that had come to rest beside the table. It took only a second for Varanus to see and recognize the smoke of a slow-burning match.
“Grenades!” she shouted.
Joan, still approaching them, looked puzzled.
“What is a grena—” she asked.
A moment later, the explosion threw Varanus off her feet and into bloody unconsciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Two
•
Varanus woke to the scents of cinnamon, clove, and evergreen. Startled for a reason she could no longer remember, she opened her eyes and looked about her to make sense of things. Instead, what she saw only confused her further. She lay on a comfortable sofa placed at one side of an elegantly furnished sitting room. The gas lamps were pleasantly low, but the room was not too dark, and there was a fire burning in the fireplace that made the shadows feel cozy rather than sinister. Everything was calm, and suddenly Varanus could not remember why this seemed strange to her.
It was the red parlor in Fuchsburg Castle, she realized, appropriately named for everything was in shades of red, accented in gold and brass. Across from her, Varanus saw large windows that looked out onto a snowy courtyard that held a tree of incredible size—taller even than the castle that surrounded it. The tree had been decorated with baubles and silver, and countless candles burned in its branches, illuminating the evergreen against the darkness. It was the great tree of Fuchsburg, decorated every winter in celebration of Christmas. How could Varanus have forgotten it?
Just beyond the windows, Varanus saw two figures standing together on the outside balcony, admiring the tree. One was a tall man of about thirty, lean but strong, with Varanus’s own fiery auburn hair. It took Varanus no time at all to recognize him: her son Friedrich. He had his arms around a young woman of similar age, whose face—framed with dark brown hair—seemed so familiar, yet Varanus could not quite place it.
“And that is the story of the Fuchsburger tree,” she heard a nearby voice say softly.
Varanus sat up slightly and looked around. She saw Korbinian seated in a chair a short distance away, leaning over with his arms resting on his knees as he recited some tale to a half dozen small children. The children—three redheads, two blonds, and one with Korbinian’s own black hair—were all dressed for bed in nightshirts, and none of them seemed in the least bit intent on sleeping, which was only to be expected. After all, it was Christmas Eve....
“Another!” cried one of the children—a redheaded girl of about eight, who, as the oldest, seemed to be the leader of the group. Her demand was echoed by the others, who all grinned hopefully and tried to look as cherub like as possible.
“Another story?” asked Korbinian, stroking his chin. Even at about fifty, he had lost none of the youthful playfulness that Varanus so adored. “I don’t know, Greta, I think that it is time for bed.”
“We must have another story,” insisted one of the boys. “We simply must, Grandpa!”
“Someone’s very insistent,” Korbinian replied, raising his shoulders to subtly change his stance from doting to looming. “Especially, young Theodor, as I know that you, and you Greta and Karoline and Jesse and Alexander and Ilse—” He looked at each one of the grandchildren as he named them. “—tried to steal some spiced pies this afternoon from Aunt Sophie and Uncle Josef.”
The children quickly looked down, upset at having been found out. The youngest two even hid their faces behind their hands, as if hoping such action might conceal their guilt.
“That was very naughty, you know,” Korbinian said, his voice just scolding enough to get the point across without becoming so harsh as to spoil the holiday fun. “And you wouldn’t want Father Christmas to learn that you were naughty, would you? Not after all the nice presents he brought you.”
“No...” the grandchildren admitted reluctantly.
One little boy clutched the toy he held and looked around as if afraid the Christmas spirit might swoop in and take it away as punishment.
“So in that case,” Korbinian said with a smile, again the doting grandfather, “why don’t you all run along to the kitchens with Auntie Johanna for a nip of warm cider, and then it’s off to bed with you!”
The grandchildren giggled excitedly at this and bounded to their feet, lest Korbinian suddenly change his mind. Korbinian turned to the young woman who sat in the chair beside him and asked:
“You don’t mind, do you?”
The woman—in her mid twenties and clearly Korbinian’s daughter if her raven-black hair was an indication—smiled and patted him on the hand.
“Of course, Father,” she said, before rising to her feet and shooing the children toward the door. “Come along, hurry, hurry.” She glanced at Varanus, who quickly closed her eyes so that it might appear she was still asleep. “Do give my love to Mother,” Johanna said to Korbinian. “I think I shall retire after I have put the little ones to bed.”
“Do not sleep too late,” Korbinian said to Johanna. “Christmas is a time for wine and song, not lying abed.”
Johanna chuckled softly and gave Korbinian a kiss on the cheek.
“Of course, Father,” she said. “Good night.”
Still smiling, Johanna gathered up the children and guided them out the door and in search of the promised cider.
Varanus sat up, still muddled from sleep. Korbinian turned toward her, and he smiled in delight to see that she was awake. He rushed to her side and sat beside her, cradling her in his arms.
“Oh, liebchen,” he said, kissing her hair, “I did not mean to wake you.”
“I think I have slept long enough,” Varanus replied. She rested her head against Korbinian’s shoulder. “I didn’t realize I had fallen asleep. Do forgive me.”
“Of course, of course, my love,” Korbinian said. He held her tightly and gave her a gentle squeeze. “It is late. Well after midnight. Wenzel, Erich, and Gertrude have all gone to bed.”
“Very sensible of them, no doubt,” Varanus replied. Her thoughts remained confused. Something remained amiss, though she could not discern what it was. Still, there was no reason to upset Korbinian with her muddled thoughts. She reached up with one hand and stroked Korbinian’s hair. It was flecked here and there with silver—only to be expected at their age—but it was still as beautiful as she remembered. Indeed, he was still as beautiful as she remembered, despite the passage of thirty years.
Korbinian took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips.
“I love you, my dearest Babette,” he said, “more th
an all the world. Every day we are together is a blessing, now and forever.”
Varanus smiled at him and said, “In my dreams I feared I had lost you.”
“Nonsense,” Korbinian replied. “You shall never lose me. Ours is a love that can never die. Not even God Himself can stand between us. You and I are one, from now until the end of time.”
“I know,” Varanus told him, nestling her head against his shoulder, “but dreams are dreams. One may...forget oneself in them.”
“May your dreams be as they are, liebchen,” Korbinian said, “but I promise you will never lose me in them, for I will never leave you in this world or the next.”
“I know,” Varanus replied. She looked at her son, Friedrich, where he stood on the outside balcony. Her first son, she reminded herself: she had several, didn’t she? “I do fear Friedrich will catch a cold if he remains out there for long.”
“We have both warned him,” Korbinian answered, laughing softly. “But he is a grown man, prone to foolishness as all men are. It is Yekaterina I worry about.”
“Yekaterina?” Varanus asked, before she remembered the name of Friedrich’s wife.
Korbinian shook his head, though he seemed amused rather than angry. “I have cautioned them both many times about taking care...well, Yekaterina being with child, you know. And their fifth child no less! She should know better! But she is stubborn, and I suppose I cannot imagine Friedrich married to anyone less willful than he is.”
“It is a good son who chooses a willful wife,” Varanus said, as her memories slowly returned to her alongside wakefulness. “A true man desires an equal. Only a little boy is afraid of a woman who knows her own mind.”
Korbinian grinned at this and nuzzled Varanus’s temple before kissing her upon the cheek.
“I know this to be true,” he said, brimming with delight. After a few moments, he looked toward the fire and sighed. “Ah, but poor Leopold.”
Varanus looked at where Korbinian indicated and saw a blond man in his late twenties dozing in a chair beside the fire. He had short hair and an elegant moustache, both of which suited him, but as Varanus studied him, she felt certain that dark hair would have suited him better. Dark hair...like his father.
“Poor Leopold,” she agreed. Leopold was their second son. She knew that. She had always known that. But then, why did seeing him seem at once familiar and also so alien?
“Maria was the perfect wife for him,” Korbinian continued. “Perhaps not an Yekaterina, but...well, she knew her own mind. And they were very happy for it.”
“We raised a good son,” Varanus agreed, “and he chose a good wife. But....” She thought for a few moments, trying to draw up the memory of what misfortune had robbed her second son of his wife. “But tragedy happens even to those most deserving of happiness. Theodor took her from us.”
It had been a death in childbirth, hadn’t it?
“It was hardly Theodor’s fault,” Korbinian said. “It is simply God’s will. For God causes us sorrow for reasons beyond our understanding. If we could know the mind of God—”
“We could tell him why he shouldn’t do such stupid things,” Varanus finished. “But we cannot, so we must simply accept.”
“Doctor,” said a voice, softly, but clearly.
“Quite so, liebchen,” Korbinian agreed.
“Doctor.”
Varanus sat up, suddenly confused. The voice was not Korbinian’s, nor did he seem to hear it, but still it was there.
“Doctor.”
“Has everyone else gone to bed?” Varanus asked, trying to keep her thoughts coherent despite the distraction.
“Wenzel, yes,” Korbinian said. “And Erich. Apparently our dear boys have a ‘duel’ in the morning. You know, they insist upon reenacting that time that I beat Alfonse des Louveteaux at swords every Christmas. Perhaps they will grow out of it one day.”
Varanus frowned. “With our luck, they will pass the tradition on to their children.”
“No doubt,” Korbinian answered, chuckling.
“Doctor.”
Varanus quickly stood, alarmed by the voice that echoed over and over again, but which no one else seemed to notice.
“My love...” she said, “will you pardon me a moment?”
“Of course,” Korbinian replied, also standing. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” Varanus said, “I just need a moment to myself....”
Her voice trailed off as she walked to the door, following the sound of the voice. She moved quickly but with uncertain steps. The fog had returned to her mind for some reason, though she could not understand why.
“Doctor.”
She hurried into the hallway outside, the unceasing repetition of the voice driving her almost to madness. It was so strange and yet so familiar.
Varanus picked up her skirts and ran down the hall, past doors that seemed to close as she reached them, though she thought they were already shut. She turned a corner and came to a halt. Before her stood a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in a fine frock coat and a suit that would have been fashionable twenty years ago. His hair was silver and his back was to her, but as Varanus slowly approached, one hand outstretched, the man abruptly turned toward her.
It was her grandfather, William Varanus, alive and well, hale and healthy. A nagging thought in the back of her mind told her that he was dead, that he had died six years earlier, in 1887. But that could not be, for here he stood, alive and well.
Grandfather smiled at her and took her hands in his.
“Grandfather...?” Varanus asked, her words catching in her throat. She had so much that she wanted to ask him. But all she could do was repeat, “Grandfather....”
Grandfather smiled at her. With one hand, he stroked her cheek and looked upon her like he had done when she was a little girl.
“Doctor?” he repeated.
* * * *
“Doctor? Doctor, can you hear me?”
Varanus smelled blood and gunpowder. She opened her eyes and saw Vaclav’s face hovering just above her as he patted her cheek in an effort to wake her. Varanus sat up violently, her forehead nearly colliding with Vaclav’s chin as she was seized with a momentary panic. Varanus grabbed for the knife on her belt and held it up defensively as two more faces floated behind Vaclav’s, their features blurred and indistinct.
“Calm, Doctor, calm,” Vaclav said, drawing back and showing his empty hands. “You are safe, though I feared you would not wake.”
Varanus looked from side to side, still holding up the knife until the blurriness in her eyes faded and she recognized Vaclav’s companions as Djata and Joan. They were both bloody and singed. Djata’s arm was still ragged from the machine gun fire, its healing slowed by starvation. Joan was much the same, and both of them had been struck with splinters of wood and metal fragments from the grenades.
“What happened?” Varanus asked.
She looked at herself and saw that she was little better. Her clothes had protected her from some of the damage, but a few pieces of shrapnel had cut through the leather and into her flesh. One fragment in particular jutted from her chest just below her collarbone. She reached up and yanked it free. The wound hurt, and it did not bleed as freely as it should have bled.
“Starvation, liebchen,” Korbinian said to her. He stood behind the others, young and beautiful as ever, and covered in blood. “You are hungry and your body has little blood to spare.”
Varanus sheathed her knife and accepted Vaclav’s hand as she stood. “What happened?” she repeated. “I remember...a machine gun...an explosion....”
“I learned what a grenade is,” Joan said. “I cannot say that I wish to repeat the experience.”
“Nor I,” agreed Djata. His leg seemed to have healed enough for him to carry weight upon it, but he still treated it gingerly. He ate a mouthful of bread, perh
aps in the hopes that it might grant some acceleration to an already strained healing process. “The enemy is well armed and apparently anticipating us. They knew that we would need food eventually. The more injuries we suffer, the more hunger wears us down.”
Vaclav handed Varanus her elephant gun and said, “They laid a trap, and we were caught in it. It is by God’s mercy that Joan was able to drag you to safety when you lost consciousness.” He pressed two fingertips against Varanus’s temple until Varanus became annoyed and gently pushed his hand away. “The fracture in your skull appears to have healed, which is some good fortune.”
A fractured skull would certainly explain a lot. Varanus could not clearly remember the things she had dreamed, but she was troubled by them all the same. With her eyes working properly again, she took a moment to get her bearings. They were hidden in a small closet of some sort, paneled in wood but built directly into the stone of the keep. It was likely another one of the hidden passages they had discovered throughout the course of their week’s ordeal. Like most of them, it looked to have been deserted for a century at least.
“How did we escape?” Varanus asked.
“In the smoke and confusion, we were able to flee the hall and bar the door behind us,” Joan explained.
“It held long enough for us to reach here undetected,” Vaclav added, motioning to their hiding place.
“Barely long enough,” Joan said dryly.
Varanus frowned. “There is a problem. Unless there is a traitor, they cannot have known where or when we would go to take more food.”
“Agreed,” said Joan. “And there cannot be a traitor, or else they would simply have come for us in the chapel.”
“So they must have set the ambush for us knowing that we would eventually visit one of the kitchens for food,” Djata finished, scowling. “And not knowing where we would strike, they have surely laid such traps at every kitchen and storeroom.”
The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Three: A Long-Awaited Treachery Page 23
