Chapter 28: The Lion’s Table (V)

The Great Hall of Prague Castle blazed with a thousand candles, their flames reflected in silver basins and the polished steel of hanging shields. Ottokar II of Bohemia kept Christmas like a Roman emperor—gilt cups, boar’s flesh, and the heavy perfume of frankincense competing with the smell of roasting meat. Konrad stood at the threshold, brushing snow from his cloak, and felt the weight of every eye turn upon him.

He had dressed carefully: a tunic of deep green wool, the silver brooch of a Habsburg cadet pinned at his throat—a small defiance. The Bohemian nobles at the high table regarded him as they might regard a wolf that had wandered into a sheepfold—with curiosity, contempt, and a flicker of unease.

Ottokar himself sat at the center, golden-bearded, broad-shouldered, a lion in his own den. He wore a crown of Bohemian gold, and his fingers drummed against the arm of his chair as Konrad approached. A servant announced him in Latin, the words swallowed by the murmur of the hall.

“Sir Konrad von Eppenstein, envoy of Rudolf of Habsburg.”

Ottokar’s smile was slow and showed teeth. “The serpent sends its fang,” he said, loud enough for the hall to hear. “I wonder, sir knight—does the fang know it is the first to break when the serpent strikes?”

The hall laughed. Konrad let the sound wash over him, and when it faded, he spoke evenly. “I would rather be the fang than the tooth that is pulled, my lord king. And I would rather be at your table than beneath it.” He bowed, shallow and precise. “You honor me with your invitation.”

Ottokar’s eyes narrowed, but the smile stayed. He gestured to a seat at the lower end of the long table—not the high table, not among the king’s kin, but close enough to be watched. Konrad took it, and a servant poured wine into a silver cup that had been placed before him.

He did not drink.

Beside him sat a Bohemian knight with a scarred face who introduced himself as Lord Jaromir of Olomouc. He was talkative, as men often are when they think their neighbor is weak. He spoke of Ottokar’s new fortress at the confluence of the Danube and the March, of the levies being raised in Moravia, of the king’s displeasure at the upstart Swabian who had stolen the imperial crown.

“Your uncle is a count,” Jaromir said, leaning close, his breath sour with mead. “A count of a few ruined castles. And he calls himself King of the Romans. The pope has not even confirmed him.”

Konrad turned the wine cup in his fingers. “The pope confirms what the sword secures, my lord. My uncle has a long sword.”

Jaromir laughed, but it was thin. He changed the subject quickly, asking about the roads from Vienna, the weather in the Alps, the price of grain. Konrad answered in pleasantries, all the while scanning the hall.

The dark-haired lady was there.

She sat at the high table, three seats from Ottokar, dressed in a gown of deep blue velvet with a silver girdle. She did not look at him directly, but he felt her gaze like a touch. She was speaking to a priest beside her, her lips moving in quiet conversation, but her eyes—grey as winter ice—kept finding him in the crowd.

Then the wine was poured again, and Konrad noticed something he had not seen before.

A servant moved along the table, a boy of twelve or thirteen, carrying a ewer of wine. He refilled cups with practiced ease, but when he reached Konrad, his hand trembled. The wine sloshed onto the linen cloth, and the boy’s face went white.

“Forgive me, my lord,” he stammered.

Konrad looked at the boy’s eyes, and something passed between them—a flicker, a warning. The boy’s gaze dropped to the cup, then back to Konrad, and then he was gone, swallowed by the press of servants.

Konrad set down his cup and did not touch it again.

He felt a presence at his shoulder. A voice, low and feminine, spoke in his ear. “Wise of you, not to drink.”

He turned. The dark-haired lady had left the high table and now stood behind him, a goblet in her own hand. Up close, she was younger than he had thought—perhaps five and twenty—with fine bones and a sharp, assessing gaze.

“My lady,” he said, rising. “You have the advantage of me.”

“I am Lady Eliška of Žďár,” she said. “And you are the man who thinks he can outwit Ottokar of Bohemia.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “Or perhaps you are the man who thinks he can outlive him. Those are different things.”

Konrad inclined his head. “And which do you think I am, my lady?”

She turned her goblet, watching the wine catch the light. “I think you are a man who has been told a story about himself that is not true. And I think you have begun to suspect it.”

She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a murmur. “The river remembers, Sir Konrad. But it also carries things away. Bodies. Secrets. Names.” She paused. “Your father’s name, for one.”

Konrad felt his breath catch. He kept his face still, but she saw it—he knew she saw it.

“You know of my father,” he said.

“I know that he was not killed where they said he was killed,” she replied. “And I know that the man who ordered it sits on a throne in Vienna, wearing a crown he did not earn.” She took a sip of her wine, watching him over the rim. “You have a choice to make, Sir Konrad. And you have very little time to make it.”

“What choice?”

“The feast will end in three hours. Ottokar will drink to the new year, and then he will ask you a question. How you answer will decide whether you leave Prague alive.”

“What question?”

She smiled again, and this time there was something like pity in it. “He will ask you whether you serve Rudolf of Habsburg, or whether you serve yourself. And he will know if you lie.”

She turned, her gown whispering against the stone floor, and was gone before he could ask another word.

Konrad sat back down. The hall swam around him—laughter, music, the clatter of knives. He looked at the wine in his cup, untouched, and thought of the boy’s trembling hand. He thought of Hedwig’s face in the candlelight. He thought of Margarethe, far away in Saxony, and the note that had warned him to ask what she had done in Vienna.

And he thought of the letter—the letter that named him, not Rudolf, as the true heir.

Ottokar’s voice rang out across the hall, calling for a toast. The king rose, golden cup raised, and every man and woman in the room stood with him.

“To the new year,” Ottokar boomed. “To the river that flows, and the ice that breaks.”

Konrad raised his cup with the rest.

But he did not drink.