Chapter 43: THE CINDER AND THE CROWN (IV)

The great hall had grown quiet in the way of a battlefield after the last charge—bodies still standing, but breath held, waiting for the next command. Ottokar sat at the high table, his golden beard catching the candlelight, his fingers wrapped around a silver goblet he had not drunk from in an hour. His eyes found Konrad the moment he stepped through the doors, and Konrad felt the weight of that gaze like a stone pressed against his chest.

He had told the truth about the forged charters in Vienna. He had admitted that Rudolf’s chancery had been busy with lies. But he had done it in a way that made Ottokar wonder whether the lies had been Rudolf’s alone, or whether Konrad had been the one to write them. The king’s suspicion was a blade that could cut either way, and Konrad had placed it in Ottokar’s hand with the careful precision of a surgeon.

Now he walked the length of the hall, past the long tables where Bohemian lords watched him with the flat, patient stares of wolves, past the servants who pressed themselves against the walls as if he carried plague in his tunic. He did not look at the gallery above, though he knew Kunigunde was there, her dark eyes tracking his every step. He did not look toward the winter garden door, though he could feel Eliska’s absence like a missing tooth.

He reached the high table and bowed, shallow and correct, the bow of a man who owed nothing and asked nothing.

“Your Grace,” Konrad said. “I trust the wine was to your liking.”

Ottokar’s smile was thin. “The wine is excellent. It is the company that grows tedious.”

“Then I shall endeavor to be more entertaining.” Konrad straightened, meeting the king’s gaze. “I have heard that your huntsmen speak of a boar in the forests south of Prague—one that has evaded the chase for three winters. They say it is clever, that it doubles back on its own trail, that it has learned the sound of the horns.”

Ottokar’s eyes narrowed. “You have been listening to idle talk.”

“I have been listening to everything,” Konrad said, and let the words hang between them. “It is what I do.”

The king set down his goblet. The hall had gone silent now, the murmur of conversation dying like embers losing air. Ottokar rose, and the lords nearest the high table leaned away as if from a fire that had suddenly grown too hot.

“Walk with me,” Ottokar said.

It was not a request.

They moved through the side door that led to the private gallery, a narrow passage lined with tapestries depicting the triumphs of the Přemyslid line—the founding of Prague, the coronation of kings, the defeat of the Hungarians. Konrad noted the faces in the woven threads, the same proud jaw, the same heavy brow, the same certainty of divine favor. The Bohemians did not doubt themselves. That was their strength. That was also, Konrad thought, their weakness.

Ottokar stopped before a tapestry showing his own coronation, the gold threads of his crown catching the light from the windows. He did not turn to face Konrad.

“You told me the truth tonight,” Ottokar said. “About the charters. About Rudolf’s plans in Vienna. About the betrothals he means to force upon my neighbors.”

“I did,” Konrad said.

“Why?”

“Because the truth serves me better than a lie.”

Ottokar turned. His face was unreadable, carved from the same stone as the walls of his castle. “Serve you how?”

Konrad met his gaze and did not flinch. “Rudolf believes I am his instrument. He believes I will do whatever he asks, bear whatever burden he places upon me, because I am a landless cadet with no name of my own and no hope but his favor.” Konrad paused, letting the silence stretch. “He is wrong.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I believe that dynasties are built by men who understand that loyalty is a currency, not a vow.” Konrad’s voice was low, steady. “Rudolf spent my father’s life like a coin. He will spend mine the same way, if I let him. I do not intend to let him.”

Ottokar studied him for a long moment. The wind outside had picked up, rattling the windows in their lead frames. Somewhere in the castle, a dog barked, and was silenced.

“You speak of your father,” Ottokar said. “You speak as if you know what happened to him.”

Konrad felt the words land like a blow. He kept his face still, but he could feel the blood draining from his cheeks, could feel the ring in his tunic pressing against his ribs like a brand.

“I know what I was told,” Konrad said carefully. “That he died in the wars against the Bohemians. That he fell in battle, fighting for the empire.”

Ottokar shook his head slowly. “Your father was not killed by Bohemians, Sir Konrad. Your father was killed by a Habsburg.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I know this because the man who held the knife was one of mine. He came to Prague afterward, seeking sanctuary. He told me everything.”

The world tilted. Konrad felt the floor shift beneath his feet, felt the walls of the gallery press in around him. He had known. He had known since Hedwig had told him in the frozen garden, since she had given him the scroll and the ring. But hearing it from Ottokar’s lips was different. Ottokar had no reason to lie. Ottokar wanted him to know.

“The man’s name,” Ottokar continued, “was Ulrich von Passau. He was a knight in Rudolf’s service—a man of no particular distinction, but with a talent for quiet work. Rudolf sent him to your father with a letter of safe conduct. Ulrich delivered the letter, and then he delivered the blade.” Ottokar paused. “Your father never saw it coming.”

Konrad’s hands were shaking. He pressed them against his thighs, willing them to still. “Why?”

“Because your father was a threat. He had the blood, the name, the support of the Swabian lords. Rudolf was the younger brother, the lesser son, the one who had been given nothing. But he wanted everything.” Ottokar’s voice was soft, almost kind. “And he knew that as long as your father lived, he would never wear the crown.”

The words fell into the silence like stones into a deep well. Konrad stood motionless, the truth settling into his bones. He had known. He had known, and yet hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way it had not been before.

“Why are you telling me this?” Konrad asked, and his voice was raw, stripped of its polish.

“Because I want you to understand what you serve,” Ottokar said. “I want you to understand that the man who sent you to Prague is the same man who murdered your father. And I want you to decide, here and now, whose fang you truly are.”

Ottokar reached into his tunic and drew out a small leather pouch. He held it out to Konrad, and Konrad took it, his fingers numb.

“Proof,” Ottokar said. “Ulrich von Passau’s confession, written in his own hand. He dictated it to my scribes before he died. He wanted to unburden his soul before he met his maker.”

Konrad weighed the pouch in his palm. It was light, barely a weight at all. And yet it carried the mass of a life, of a death, of a truth that had been buried for years.

“Take it,” Ottokar said. “Read it. And then come back to me, and we will speak of what comes next.”

Konrad tucked the pouch into his tunic, beside the ring and the letter and the note about Margarethe. He bowed, shallow and correct, and turned to leave.

“Konrad,” Ottokar said, and the use of his name stopped him cold.

He looked back. Ottokar was standing before the tapestry of his own coronation, the gold threads gleaming in the candlelight.

“The child in the nursery,” Ottokar said. “The boy you visited tonight. He is my heir. And I will do whatever is necessary to protect him.” The king’s voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute certainty. “Whatever is necessary.”

Konrad met his gaze and saw the truth there. Ottokar knew about the boy. Ottokar knew about the other child in Vienna. And Ottokar was telling Konrad, in the only way he could, that the game had changed.

He walked out of the gallery, the pouch warm against his chest, and the river in his blood surged colder than ever.