Here Andreas paused, aware of the weight of their situation, of the tenuous balance of it. The edge of the blade. “It is also our best chance at restarting the Circus,” he said. “We must pull the Khan’s eyes toward some affair more entertaining than whatever it is he’s doing in his tent, sealed away from the rest of this place.”
He felt his own smile turn mirthless, reminded once more of the fate that awaited them all. “If we entertain this Khan, then we acquire precious time—not only for our brothers on their dangerous mission but for our own lives as well. We may not yet be sure what we’re going to do with that time, but every moment that we put off the end of this game is a moment we can use to plan and prepare. I would rather face the dark prepared than stand ignorant, caught off guard like some novice stableboy. Ours is the righteous fight, Rutger, the burden of defending the weak and the innocent. We don’t hide ourselves from the night; we drive it back. It is our duty to stand tall and herald the rising dawn.”
Rutger was silent, but his eyes were bright, moving jerkily back and forth as if he had just been shaken from a long sleep. “You’re prodding a dragon to keep the lions at bay,” he sighed. His sword hand flexed, motions that were doubtless painful, but so ingrained they could not be stopped. Once taken up, and even after it was released, the sword never truly left a knight’s hand; even in his dotage, he would remember its weight, and the vows and obligations that came with it.
“In the end, either will devour us,” Andreas said. “Wouldn’t you rather choose the manner of your death?”
Rutger laughed. “God and the Virgin must love you, boy, to give you such words to stir this old heart.”
Watching Rutger’s hand open and close and seeing the flicker of pain in the back of his eyes that no training or will could completely hide, Andreas knew that the quartermaster spoke the truth. The Virgin did love him, and he, in turn, wanted to share that love with Rutger. Let us all die as we were meant to, he prayed, on a battlefield of our choosing, with a sword in our hands.
15
Tündér Magic
FERENC BURROWED INTO the hay, pulling the old blanket over his body. First the sun and then the moon had faded, and the temperature in the squalid barn was cool. He had fallen into a stupor at once, indifferent to the heat and drifting dust; ironically, it was the quiet and the comfort of early morning that finally woke him.
When he’d first come to consciousness, he’d been terrified, disoriented; then in a dizzying flash, he remembered where he was and how he’d gotten here. Or he almost remembered it. Had he abandoned Father Rodrigo? After that horrible, endless journey, after the holy man’s feverish dreams and gibberish, had he stood by him through all of it, just to desert him in the end?
He had not deserted the priest. He could not have. He, Ferenc of Buda, son of Mareska, would not do such a thing. Someone on his father’s side might, perhaps, but even then, it took many years of constant moral degradation before one was capable of treachery. They were so strict, his people, so diligent in teaching their youth how things must be; it took years to outgrow the fear of disobedience. Only men of his grandfather’s age had achieved such indifference to conformity and duty that they could ever abandon someone they were honor bound to assist.
He hadn’t deserted Father Rodrigo, and having reminded himself of this fact, he allowed himself to relax. He had only listened to that bizarre girl. During that moment of utter chaos in the crowded, roiling marketplace, she had appeared on the back of his horse—awkwardly attaching herself to him like a leech. She had never ridden a horse before—that much was clear by the way she clung to him. And she had shouted in his ear, directing him after the running soldier.
His hands crept to the satchel still attached to his belt, exploring the rough outlines of objects within until he found the ring. After the girl had wrested it from the clamped fingers of the downed soldier, she’d given it to him.
Who was she? Did she understand the meaning of the ring? It had caused quite an uproar, and Ferenc still did not know why.
He lay listening to the horses in the stalls below: the steady crunch of the hay between strong teeth, the noisy exhalations, the tails whisking against the warped wood of the stalls, the occasional nickering to one another. The sounds made him feel safe; they were the closest things he had to memories of home.
Ferenc rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Sunlight bled through a narrow window set high in the wall of the loft. He slid his hand through the dry hay until the tips of his fingers were lit by golden light. Despite the long sleep, he was worn out—the aches in his back and legs reminding him just how tired he was—and it was fine to lie here for a little while. Just a little while.
Especially since he had no idea what to do next. Just thinking about it was almost more exhausting than the actual chase had been yesterday.
His eyelids fluttered, and his breathing eased as he sank deeper into the hay. In a few hours, the light would fall directly on his face from the hatch used to let down hay. He’d wake then. He was sure of it. A few more hours, he thought drowsily. His hand jerked up, waving at an imaginary bug, and then his arm relaxed again, flopping against the hay. His head slid to the side, his breathing slow and regular.
Then he heard a sound that was not the horses, and he sat up abruptly, hand reaching for his knife. Someone was in the hayloft.
Right beside him.
“Hey!” he shouted and tried to get to his feet, the knife held out defensively before him. How could he, a hunter, allow someone to get that close to him?
“Shshshsh!” The whisper was distinctly feminine in tone. He huffed in relief and lowered the knife a little. It was the girl. In the morning light, he recognized her pale skin and narrow, bony shoulders.
“Ferenc,” she said, pointing to him, as if it were a code word.