Chapter 30: The Winter Garden

The cold hit him like a blade between the ribs. Konrad stepped through the open door into the winter garden, and the noise of the feast died behind him as if a shroud had been drawn across the hall. The air smelled of frost and rotting leaves, of earth that had begun to turn against itself. The moon hung low and fat over the frozen river, and the bare branches of the linden trees threw black lace across the snow.

Eliska von Kuenring stood at the far end of the path, her back to him, her breath pluming in silver ghosts. She wore a gown of deep blue wool, the color of a winter night, and her dark hair was braided tight against her skull. She did not turn when he approached, but he saw her shoulders shift, the slight tilt of her head that told him she had heard his boots on the gravel.

“You took your time,” she said.

“I am a careful man.”

“Careful men do not come to Prague at Christmas.” She turned then, and her eyes caught the moonlight, grey as river ice. “Careful men stay in Vienna and count their coins.”

Konrad stopped three paces from her. Close enough to speak low, far enough to run if he had to. He had learned that lesson in the border marches, where women with soft voices had husbands with sharp knives.

“You left the door open,” he said. “I assumed you wanted company.”

“I wanted to see if you would follow.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “The lion’s cub, sniffing at the edges of the den. You have the look of a man who is not sure whether he is hunter or prey.”

“And you have the look of a woman who enjoys the uncertainty.”

Eliska laughed, a low sound that did not carry. She walked past him, circling, and he turned to keep her in view. She stopped at a stone bench and sat, arranging her skirts with the ease of a woman who had grown up in palaces and knew exactly how much space she deserved.

“You have been asking questions,” she said. “About the woman in grey. About your father. About the letter.”

Konrad felt the cold settle deeper into his bones. “You are well informed.”

“I am a Kuenring. We are paid to be well informed.” She tilted her head. “Your aunt is a dangerous woman, Sir Konrad. She has been dangerous for a long time. And she has chosen this moment, of all moments, to surface from the shadows.”

“She is my father’s sister.”

“She is a ghost,” Eliska said. “And ghosts do not rise without a reason.”

The wind moved through the garden, rattling the dry leaves that clung to the branches. Konrad watched her face, looking for the crack in the mask. “You knew her. In Vienna.”

Eliska’s smile flickered. “I knew of her. There is a difference.”

“You were there last autumn.” He said it flatly, a statement, not a question. “In Vienna. Something happened.”

For a long moment, she said nothing. The river murmured beyond the garden wall, half-frozen, its voice thick and slow. Then Eliska reached into her sleeve and drew out a small object, wrapped in linen. She held it out to him.

“Take it.”

Konrad did not move. “What is it?”

“Proof.” Her grey eyes held his. “That you are not the only one who has been lied to.”

He took the bundle. It was light, no heavier than a folded parchment, and warm from her body. He unwrapped it carefully, his fingers stiff with cold, and found a ring. A signet ring, heavy gold, worn smooth by generations of use. The seal was a lion rampant, its mane curling like fire.

The Přemyslid lion.

“Where did you get this?” His voice came out rougher than he intended.

“Your father gave it to my mother,” Eliska said. “Before he died. Before your uncle had him killed.”

Konrad’s hand closed around the ring. The metal bit into his palm. “My father was a Habsburg.”

“Your father was many things.” Eliska rose from the bench and came toward him, stopping close enough that he could smell the winter herbs on her breath. “He was a Přemyslid on his mother’s side, as you are. He was a friend to my house. And he was a man who knew that Rudolf would never let him live once the crown was within reach.”

“You speak as if you were there.”

“I was not. But my mother was.” She reached out and touched the ring in his hand, her fingers brushing his. “She was with your father when he died. It was not a border skirmish, Sir Konrad. It was a knife in the dark, and the man who held it was paid in Habsburg silver.”

The garden seemed to tilt around him. Konrad stared at the ring, at the lion that had been carved into the gold, and felt the old certainties crumbling like riverbanks in flood. He had known the truth from Hedwig’s lips, but knowing and feeling were different things. The ring made it real. The ring made it flesh.

“Why are you giving this to me?” he asked.

“Because Ottokar will lose,” Eliska said simply. “He is proud, and pride blinds. He sees Rudolf as a peasant, and he will not see the dagger until it is between his ribs. When he falls, my house will fall with him unless we choose the winning side.” She met his eyes. “I am choosing you.”

“I am not a side. I am a knight with no lands and a name that my uncle wants buried.”

“You are a Habsburg,” she said. “And you are a Přemyslid. You are the bridge between the river and the lion. That is not a curse, Sir Konrad. That is a claim.”

She stepped back, and the cold rushed in between them. “The feast will end soon. Ottokar will make his move before the new year. If you want to survive it, you will need allies.” She nodded at the ring. “That is mine.”

Konrad looked down at the golden lion in his palm. The metal was warm, as if it had absorbed her heat, or his own. He closed his fingers around it.

“Why me?” he asked again.

Eliska smiled, and this time the smile reached her eyes. “Because you are the only man in Prague who does not know what he is yet. And I would rather ride with a man who has something to become than a man who has already become everything he will ever be.”

She turned and walked back toward the door, her skirts whispering against the frozen gravel. At the threshold she paused.

“The river remembers, Sir Konrad. But it also moves. Do not let it sweep you away.”

Then she was gone, and the winter garden was empty save for the wind and the moon and the weight of a dead man’s ring in his hand.

Konrad stood alone in the cold for a long time. Somewhere beyond the garden wall, the feast was still roaring, the golden lion of Bohemia still laughing. But the ice was breaking beneath him, and he could feel the current pulling at his heels.

He tucked the ring into his tunic, beside Margarethe’s note and Hedwig’s warnings. Then he walked back toward the door, toward the noise and the heat and the smiling faces of men who would kill him if they knew what he carried.

The serpent’s fang, he thought. Or its death.

He would find out which before the year was out.