Chapter 15: The River Remembers

The laughter faded into the rafters like smoke, and Konrad found his voice before the silence could betray him. He lifted the goblet—still untouched—and drank deep, the wine bitter on his tongue.

“Your court is generous, Majesty,” he said, and Ottokar’s eyes narrowed with pleasure or suspicion, it was impossible to tell. “I have not felt so welcomed since I left the Rhine.”

Ottokar leaned back in his carved chair, the golden lion of Bohemia at ease among his courtiers. He was still handsome, still powerful, still certain that God had made him for greater things than this petty Swabian count who now wore the German crown. “You are a man of words, Sir Konrad. I have heard you can charm a widow from her grief and a king from his caution.” He smiled, showing teeth. “I wonder which of us you are charming now.”

Konrad inclined his head. “I charm no one, Majesty. I merely speak what is true, and let the truth do its work.”

“And what truth brings you to my Christmas feast?” Ottokar’s hand rested on the arm of his throne, fingers drumming once, twice. “Your uncle sends you as his shadow, but shadows do not eat at my table unless they bring something of substance.”

The hall held its breath. Konrad felt the weight of a hundred eyes, and above them, the weight of the woman in grey. He did not look up.

“I bring a proposal, Majesty,” he said. “One that could spare your kingdom a war you do not want and cannot win.”

Ottokar laughed—a full, booming sound that echoed off the stone walls. “Cannot win? Boy, I have marched from the Baltic to the Alps. I hold Austria, Styria, Carinthia, and Carniola. I am the true heir of the Babenbergs, and your uncle is a count who was elected because the electors feared me more than they loved him.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Tell me, what can Rudolf offer that I cannot take?”

Konrad met his gaze. “Peace.”

The word hung between them like a blade. The courtiers shifted, uneasy. Somewhere a servant dropped a platter, and the clatter was swallowed by the sudden quiet.

Ottokar’s smile did not waver, but his eyes went cold. “Peace is for men who have something to lose. I have everything to gain.” He gestured to a steward. “Bring the lady.”

Konrad’s heart quickened, but he kept his face still. The steward disappeared into the crowd and returned a moment later with a woman on his arm—the dark-haired lady from the gallery, the one whose gaze had lingered on him with neither warmth nor hostility. She was younger than he had first thought, perhaps twenty, with sharp cheekbones and eyes the colour of winter rivers. She wore a gown of deep blue, and at her throat hung a silver cross.

“This is Lady Eliška of the house of Hrabišic,” Ottokar said, his tone almost casual. “Her family holds lands along the Elbe, and they have been loyal to the Přemyslid crown for three generations.” He paused. “She is to be married, come spring, to a son of the Duke of Bavaria.”

Konrad understood immediately. The alliance would seal Bohemia’s western flank, a dagger pointed at Habsburg territory. He looked at Eliška, and she looked back at him, and in that look he saw something—not fear, not defiance, but a kind of weary calculation, as if she had been traded so many times she no longer remembered her own price.

“A fortunate match,” Konrad said carefully. “I congratulate the lady.”

Ottokar’s smile widened. “You do not ask why I tell you this.”

“I assume you will tell me, Majesty.”

“I tell you because I want your uncle to know that I am not idle. I have spent this year building alliances, Sir Konrad. Every border of the Habsburg lands is now ringed with my friends.” He picked up his own goblet and swirled the wine. “Rudolf thinks he has outmanoeuvred me by taking Vienna. But Vienna is a prize, not a fortress. And prizes can be reclaimed.”

Konrad felt the trap closing, but he had walked into it willingly. He had come to Prague to test Ottokar’s resolve, and now he had his answer: the lion would not be cowed, and he would not be bought. The war was coming, perhaps as early as the spring thaw.

“Then there is little more to say,” Konrad said, rising. “I thank you for your hospitality, Majesty, and I will carry your words to my uncle faithfully.”

“Sit down.” Ottokar’s voice was not loud, but it cut through the hall like a whip. “I have not dismissed you.”

Konrad remained standing. The courtiers stared. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring.

“You are bold,” Ottokar said at last, and there was something like respect in his voice. “I dislike bold men, but I find I dislike cowards more.” He waved a hand. “Go. But know this: when we meet again, it will not be across a feast table.”

Konrad bowed—shallow, formal, no more than courtesy required—and turned. He did not look at Eliška as he passed, but he felt her eyes on him, and he heard the soft rustle of her gown as she was led away.

The great doors closed behind him, and the winter cold hit him like a blow. The courtyard was empty, snow falling in thick, silent flakes. He pulled his cloak tighter and began to walk toward the stable, his breath pluming in the dark.

“Sir Konrad.”

The voice came from the shadows to his left, soft and familiar. He turned, and the woman in grey stepped out of the darkness. Up close, she was older than he had imagined—perhaps fifty, with a lined face and eyes that had seen too much. She wore a simple grey cloak, unadorned, and her hands were folded before her like a nun’s.

“You have been following me since I arrived,” he said. “I would know why.”

She smiled, and it was not a kind smile. “Because you carry something that belongs to me.”

Konrad’s hand moved instinctively to his belt, but she shook her head. “Not a thing of steel, boy. A thing of blood.” She stepped closer, and he caught the faint scent of incense and old parchment. “Your mother was not a von Eppenstein.”

The words hit him like a stone in the chest. “My mother died when I was seven.”

“Your mother died when you were seven,” she agreed. “But she was not who you think she was. Her name was Hedwig, and she was my sister.” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “And before she married your father, she was the mistress of a king.”

Konrad felt the world tilt. The snow seemed to fall more slowly, the cold sharper. “What king?”

The woman smiled again, and this time there was sorrow in it. “Ottokar’s father. King Wenceslaus the One-Eyed. And the child she bore him—the child she gave away—was you.”

The stable cat yowled somewhere in the dark, and Konrad heard it as if from a great distance. The woman in grey—his aunt—stood waiting, patient as the river.

“You are a Přemyslid,” she said. “You are the serpent and the lion both. And soon, you will have to choose which one you truly are.”

Konrad opened his mouth, but no words came. Somewhere above, in the castle, he heard the faint strains of Christmas music begin again.

He did not know how long he stood there. But when he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse.

“Sister Hedwig,” he said. “The river remembers.”