Chapter 26: The Lion’s Table (IV)

The snow fell in silence over Prague, muffling the city’s breath beneath a shroud of white. Konrad walked the frozen streets with the scroll pressed against his ribs, the wax seal cold against his skin. The words Hedwig had spoken still rang in his ears—murdered, not slain in battle—and with each step, the weight of them grew heavier, like stones sewn into his cloak.

He did not go to his lodgings. He went instead to the chapel of St. Vitus, where the canons kept their candles burning through the night, and where Brother Anselm would be waiting for him, as he always was, with his ink-stained fingers and his patient, sorrowful eyes.

The Franciscan sat in the sacristy, a half-finished letter before him, and looked up when Konrad entered. The old man’s face was a mask of weariness, but his gaze was sharp.

“You have been to see her,” Anselm said. It was not a question.

Konrad closed the door behind him. “You knew.”

“I knew that the woman in grey was not a nun. I knew that she had the look of the Eppenstein line—the same jaw, the same stubbornness.” Anselm set down his quill. “I did not know what she would tell you.”

“She told me that my father was murdered. That Rudolf ordered it.” Konrad’s voice was flat, but the anger beneath it was a living thing, coiling in his chest. “She told me that a letter exists, naming me the true heir.”

Anselm was silent for a long moment. Then he said, quietly, “And what will you do with such knowledge?”

“I do not yet know.” Konrad sat across from him, the scroll still pressed to his heart. “But I know that I cannot sit at Ottokar’s table and smile while the man who killed my father watches me from Vienna.”

“You will have to,” Anselm said. “Or you will be dead before the Yule log burns out.”

The words hung between them, heavy as the winter sky. Konrad closed his eyes. He had played this game for a year—poison, parchment, and promises—but the rules had changed. The board had tilted, and he was no longer certain which pieces were his.

“The dark-haired lady,” he said at last. “She watched me from the gallery. Who is she?”

Anselm’s brow furrowed. “You speak of the Lady Agnes of Sternberg. She is cousin to the Burgrave of Prague, and she has the ear of Ottokar’s queen. But she is more than that.” He paused. “She was betrothed to a Přemyslid prince, many years ago. He died in the wars against the Hungarians. She has not remarried.”

“And her gaze?”

“Her gaze is her own,” Anselm said. “But I would be careful. In this court, even the candles have ears.”

Konrad rose, the scroll burning against his chest. “I must prepare for the feast.”

“Konrad.” Anselm’s voice stopped him at the door. “Whatever you intend to do tonight—do not do it in haste. The king’s men are watching you. Ottokar’s men are watching you. And the woman in grey is not the only shadow in Prague.”

Konrad met his eyes. “Then we are all watching one another. A fine dance for the Christmas feast.”

He left the chapel and walked back into the snow.

The great hall of Prague Castle was a blaze of light and noise when Konrad entered that evening. Torches guttered along the stone walls, casting long shadows that writhed like serpents across the tapestries. The tables groaned under the weight of roasted boar and swan, and the air was thick with the smell of mulled wine and burning pine.

Ottokar sat at the high table, the golden lion of Bohemia, his beard shot with grey but his eyes still bright with pride. He wore a mantle of ermine and a crown that seemed too heavy for any mortal head, and when he saw Konrad enter, his smile was a blade.

“Sir Konrad von Eppenstein,” Ottokar called, his voice carrying over the din. “The serpent’s nephew. Come, sit at my table. Let us see if the Habsburg fangs are as sharp as the king’s letters claim.”

The hall fell silent. Konrad felt the weight of a hundred eyes upon him, and he smiled—the easy, careless smile of a man who had nothing to hide.

“Your Grace is too kind,” he said, bowing low. “I am but a poor knight, sent to carry words from my uncle. I would not presume to match wits with the golden lion of Bohemia.”

Ottokar laughed, but the sound was cold. “Presume all you wish, Sir Konrad. It is the season of miracles.”

Konrad took his seat at the lower table, among the knights and lesser lords, where he could watch the room without being watched in turn. The dark-haired lady—Agnes of Sternberg—sat at the women’s table, her gaze flickering to him once, then away. There was something in that glance that was not hostility, and not warmth, but recognition. As if she knew him, though they had never met.

The feast wore on. Wine flowed, and the hall grew louder with laughter and song. Konrad ate little and drank less, watching the doors, watching the gallery, watching the lion who smiled and smiled and did not blink.

It was near midnight when the messenger came.

A boy in Bohemian livery, pale as milk, threaded through the tables to the high seat and whispered something in Ottokar’s ear. The king’s face did not change, but his fingers tightened around his goblet, and his eyes found Konrad across the hall.

Konrad felt the cold certainty settle in his gut. The messenger had come from Vienna.

Ottokar rose, and the hall fell silent again. He raised his goblet, and his voice carried to every corner of the room.

“A toast,” he said, “to the King of the Romans, Rudolf of Habsburg, who sends his nephew to my table with words of peace. And to the river, which remembers all things.”

The hall murmured. Konrad’s blood went cold.

He looked up at Ottokar, and the lion smiled—a slow, knowing smile that spoke of traps already sprung.

“Your uncle,” Ottokar said, “has asked me to return you to Vienna. He says you are needed at court. But I have told him that you are my guest, and I do not release my guests so easily.” He paused. “You will stay in Prague until the spring. I insist.”

Konrad felt the walls close in around him. The feast was no longer a cage—it was a prison.

He bowed his head, the smile fixed on his face, and drank from his goblet as the hall erupted in cheers. But beneath the table, his hand found the scroll in his pocket, and he felt the weight of his father’s death pressing against his fingers.

The hook was still set. But the line had snapped, and the water was closing over his head.