Speak to the Devil (22 page)

She nodded.

She loved him! He didn’t know if he should turn cartwheels or jump off the battlements. “Truly? You love me also? Say it, please, just once.”

“I love you. I wish it were you I am to marry, not your brother. But it is madness! We must not even dream of it. The king has decreed that I will marry Anton.”

Who cared nothing for her, who would cheerfully marry Medusa herself if she brought him an earldom. Wulf had not asked his Voices to make Madlenka love him. He would not ask them to interfere at all. He
must
not! Anton was his brother. Anton was a wealthy noble, outranking Otto and probably much wealthier, while Wulf was a penniless younger son, a mere esquire.

Marek had warned him: the girls will follow. “It is love,” you will tell yourself, and you will ask your Voices to bring her to you, or even to make her willing. Had any prophecy ever been fulfilled faster?

No, he must not think about it. No more Speaking!

But were she promised to any other man than Anton …

“Squire!” Giedre shouted, running closer. “My lady! Look! Coming down the north road. Only four of them? Isn’t that your brother on the white horse, squire?”

Yes it was, and two of the others were riding close on either side, as if they had to hold him in the saddle.

“He’s been hurt!” Madlenka said. “Run! Ring the bell.”

Giedre hoisted her skirts and took off at a very unladylike sprint toward the north barbican, but the watchers there had seen the newcomers and the alarm bell began to toll.

“Go to him,” Wulf said. “I’ll follow as fast as I can.”

Following would be a mistake. He did not go down to the city gate, nor even to the bailey. Anton would not slump on a horse that way unless he was seriously hurt, and he would never let them take him to that pesthole infirmary. So Wulf made his painful way back to the keep and started looking for whatever bedroom Anton was using until he could evict the ailing dowager countess from the master suite.

The keep, which from the outside seemed like a simple hollow box, had been built in many stages at many times, and was a labyrinth on the inside. Stairs led to passages and more stairs; levels changed; corridors ended without warning. Fortunately he had no trouble obtaining help. The new count was the talk of the town and everyone must have heard of his mysterious brother, who had been injured. All he had to do was find a page, explain who he was, and demand to be led to the destination
he wanted. It was, not unexpectedly, the room formerly used by Sir Petr.

There Wulf made himself as comfortable as possible on the stool by the dressing board. He clasped his hands and bowed his head. Whispering did not work, but speaking softly did. “Most holy Saints Helena and Victorinus, hear my prayer.”

For a nerve-racking moment there was no reply. Then came the Light and Victorinus spoke at his shoulder.

—
Say what it is you need, Wulfgang
.

“How badly is my brother injured?”

—
He took a quarrel through the arm and lost much blood
.

“Will he recover?”

—
No. He is too weak now to amputate the arm. Even if you can stop the bleeding the flesh will rot in a few days
.

For a few minutes Wulf prayed in silence to greater authorities than his Voices. Then he spoke aloud again. “If I ask you, will you heal my brother’s wound?”

St. Helena said,—
Of course. But you are still very weak from the last miracle. The pain would kill you
.

There always had to be a catch. God did not dispense miracles without a price—why should Wulfgang Magnus be favored beyond all mortals? He was not a great sinner, but he was a sinner. All men were sinners. His lust for Madlenka was a sin.

“You are telling me that to save Anton I must die?”

Silence. The Light was still shining through his eyelids, so the Voices had not gone away. He had asked a forbidden question, or asked it the wrong way.

“Why do you answer some questions and not others? Why do I have to suffer pain at all? How am I special that you perform miracles for me when other people are not so blessed? Are they holy miracles or the diabolical false miracles that Marek said?”

Still no answer. Yet the Light remained, as if the Voices were waiting for him to issue them orders or ask a sensible question. Saints could be extraordinarily annoying at times. Thinking back to Father Czcibor’s hagiology lessons, he decided that this was probably their dominant characteristic.

“Do I have some great destiny, for good or evil? Am I fated to write my name in history? A prophet? A teacher? A conqueror?”

Again silence. They would never prophesy.

“Would you restore me to health if I asked?”

Helena said,
—You
chose
that price.

“Oh? Had I refused the pain, what other price could I have paid? Should I have asked what the alternative was?” Eternal hellfire?

One of the voices sighed, probably Helena, but it was Victorinus who said,—
Danger. All pain is a warning of danger. Pain teaches you not to touch hot dishes or break the law. The alternative to pain is danger and possibly worse pain later
.

Worse pain than what Wulf had endured recently was almost beyond imagining, but perhaps not beyond experience in the afterlife. “What sort of danger?”

Silence.

Wulf had told Anton that he would never again call upon his Voices’ help, but now that help was needed to save his brother’s life. Marek had warned him that asking became easier and easier. Marek had also warned that the trial for Speaking was “most arduous” and he had talked of tongues being burnt out. But Anton was about to die, and if Wulf let that happen he would always wonder if he had done so because he wanted Madlenka for himself.

He could. He could let Anton die and then declare himself count, as his brother’s heir, marry Madlenka, explain to the king later. He could have everything he could ever want:
the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory.

But in this case the devil was tempting him
not
to ask his Voices for help. How did that work?

He could hear voices, mortal voices, approaching along the corridor.

“I chose pain as the price for bringing my brother here. Can I change my mind now?”

—
Yes.

“Then, most holy Saints Victorinus and Helena, I beg you to cure my bruises. I will risk whatever danger this brings. But please leave the marks on my face to heal normally.”

—
Oh, Wulfgang, Wulfgang!
Helena said sorrowfully.
—You are going too fast, far too fast! You are blundering into a wilderness, alone, untrained, and unprepared. You do not know the perils that await you
.

“Then teach me.”

—
We cannot.

“Then do as I say and I accept the price, whatever it is.”

—
If that be your wish, then be it so
.

“Thank you.”

The pain had gone. He had forgotten how pleasant life could be without it. The Light faded. He opened his eyes and folded his arms. A glance in the mirror made him chuckle. His eyes were so ringed with dark bruises that he looked like a badger.

Suddenly the room was crowded—four troopers bearing Anton on a stretcher, Madlenka and Giedre, the odious doctor from the infirmary, plus several more that Wulf did not know. Anton was laid on the bed and everyone else packed around. Deciding that it was time to intervene, Wulf muscled his way in until he reached the bedside. Anton was ready for laying-out already: face bone white, lips blue, eyes closed. His right arm was bare, with a bloody bandage around the upper part; his armor was bloody.

Wulf bellowed.
“Quiet!
That’s better. You! Yes you, Doctor! Go away.” He bent close. “Anton! Brother, it’s Wulf. Who else do you want here?”

Without opening his eyes, Anton mumbled. “You … Radim, Kaspar … Constable Notivova.”

Wulf straightened and repeated those names. “Everyone else leave. Now.” He waited, interested to see who stayed.

Madlenka, on the far side of the bed, was giving him puzzled looks, surprised by his sudden return to health. Nobody else should notice that, except possibly the drunken old leech of a doctor, but he likely wasn’t capable of counting to three, let alone putting two and two together.

Madlenka was the last one out, leaving a rakish-looking young man in mail—who must be the constable—plus an elderly man and a youth leaning on a cane.

“Who first, Brother?”

“Kaspar …”

The old man stepped forward. “My lord?”

“Hot water. Towels. And wine.”

Wulf added, “And good water to drink.”

Kaspar hurried out, moving as if his feet hurt. He must be the count’s body servant, and old enough to have been Barbarossa’s.

“You look as if you came off worst,” Wulf said cheerfully, stepping closer. Any more worse and he would be dead already.

Anton ignored him. “Constable?” He licked his lips.

“My lord?” said the man in armor.

“Send out funeral party tomorrow. No troopers.”

“No guards?” Notivova looked puzzled.

Anton mumbled something incoherent, but it was obvious enough.

Wulf explained. “We can’t afford to lose more men, and the Wends can. They probably won’t harm civilians, but you’d better pay them danger money. Get Bishop Ugne to assign a priest or two. How many men did you lose, by the way?”

Cold eyes stared at him out of the steel coif. “You are His Lordship’s brother?”

“I am. Squire Wulfgang. You must be Constable Notivova. I’m not giving you orders; I just know how the count’s mind works. He’ll overrule me if I’m wrong. How many men did you lose?”

“Fourteen, squire.”

Hellfire!
“Bad! Surprise attack, I suppose?”

“So the only survivor told us.”

“Butchers! Any more orders for him, Brother?” Wulf had to bend right down to hear the reply.

“Double guards. Full war footing. ’Ware surprise attack.”

Kaspar scurried in, bringing a bottle of wine and an armful of towels. Knowing that Anton must be parched by his loss of blood, Wulf raised his brother’s head and put the bottle to his lips. The constable left. A servant brought a steaming pitcher of water. Another brought a flagon of cold, and Wulf sweetened it with wine before letting Anton drink any.

He realized that the youth with the cane was still there, clutching a waxed wooden tablet and looking half dead with worry.

“You are Radim?”

“Yes, squire.”

“You want to dictate a letter, Brother?”

Anton murmured something about the king, but he was barely conscious now. He might be about to die.

“I think you’d better rest for a while first. Radim, why don’t you find out exactly what happened and draft a report from the count to His Majesty? I’m sure you can put it in proper form better than he can. Bring it back here when you’re ready.”

Having disposed of everyone except himself, Wulf got down to the horrible job of removing his brother’s blood-caked bandage.

He would have known that Anton was dying even without the Voices’ prophecy. The bolt seemed to have missed the bone, but internal bleeding had made his arm swell up like a sack of melons below the bandage, all the way to his fingers. Using great care, Wulf managed to cut the knot with his dagger and unwind the sodden cloth. Both the entry and exit wounds had been very clumsily sewn shut, but they still oozed and the flesh was so puffed up around them that he could barely see the stitches, let alone remove them.

“Am I going to lose my arm?” Anton whispered, eyes closed.

“Not if my Voices will help. Try a few prayers of your own.”

Wulf washed his bloody hands as well as he could in the scarlet water. He then went over to the fireplace and knelt to pray, ignoring the slurred and incoherent mumble in the bed.

“Most holy Saints Helena and Victorinus, I humbly beg that you will restore my brother Anton to health.”

Light shone through his eyelids.

—
You are too far away, Wulfgang
, Helena said.
—Go closer. Lay your hands on him.

Surprised, he obeyed, and took the wounded arm in both hands. Anton did not react to his touch. He had stopped praying. Without a miracle he would slide quietly into death.

Then Wulf would have it all: earldom, wealth, and—best of all—Madlenka. He need only send for that ancient doctor and leave the patient in his murderous hands. In an hour the cathedral bell would toll.
The count is dead, long live the count!
Wulfgang, second Count Magnus of Cardice.

“Holy Saints Helena and Victorinus, I pray you to restore this man, my brother, to perfect health.”

—
Do you accept the price?

“If you mean pain, then no. But I accept any risk.
Omnia audere
.”

Helena:—
Oh, Wulfgang, child, you will regret this
.

Victorinus:—
Courage becomes you. Look for the fire, my son, the flame
.

Wulf peered around … Where? “I don’t see any fire!”

—
Do not be too hasty. Search within
.

He searched: the arm; Anton’s corpse-pale face; the rest of him, stretched out on the bed like a ribbon of steel … Ah! Now he made out a faint and ghostly glow—behind those lifeless eyes, inside his brother’s head or superimposed on it—as if Wulf were seeing Anton with one eye and this vision with the other. It was like the worms of heat that crawled on embers and gave birth to butterflies of flame when you blew on them.

“I see, I think. What must I do?” Blow?”

—
Stamp it out!
Victorinus said. —
It is his soul, seeking to escape. If it bursts into flame and departs, he will be gone. Do not let him go! Picture it on your mind. Will it! Use your hands, for the heat cannot hurt you.

Wulf tried to imagine his hands tearing a fire apart, scattering the coals; then switched the image to his feet stamping, grinding. That worked better, and in his fancy the illusional lumination crumbled to sparks, died, and was extinguished.

—
It is done
, Helena said. —
He will live, for a little span
.