Chapter 55: THE FOOTSTEPS AT THE DOOR

The footsteps did not hesitate.

They came with the certainty of a man who knew the chapel’s stones by heart, who had walked them in darkness a hundred times before. Konrad did not move. The priest’s hand had withdrawn, and the silence between them was the silence of the confessional—hollow, waiting, alive with the weight of unspoken sins.

The door opened.

A figure stood against the grey light of the corridor, tall and cloaked, the face hidden beneath a hood of rough wool. For a moment, Konrad thought of the grey-cloaked woman, Hedwig, come to him again with another warning. But the shoulders were too broad, the stance too deliberate.

“You keep strange hours for a guest of the King of Bohemia,” the figure said.

The voice was familiar—low, rough as millstone grit. Konrad felt the cold seep through his tunic, settling against the ring on his chest.

“Tobias,” he said.

The scarred man stepped into the chapel, letting the hood fall back. The candlelight caught the seam that ran from his brow to his jaw, the flesh puckered and pale where some blade had marked him years ago. He carried no ledger now, no book of bones. But his hands hung loose at his sides, and his eyes moved over Konrad with the patient attention of a man who had learned to read danger in the stillness of another’s breath.

“You were not meant to come here,” Tobias said.

“I was invited.”

“To the feast, yes. Not to the chapel.” Tobias glanced at Brother Anselm, who had retreated to the shadow of the altar, his face unreadable. “The priest knows better than to bring strangers into the dark.”

“The priest brought me nowhere,” Konrad said. “I found my own way.”

Tobias smiled, though it did not reach his eyes. “You have a talent for finding what others hide. That will kill you eventually.”

“So I am told.”

The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Konrad could hear the distant murmur of the feast above, muffled by stone and timber, a world away from this cold and holy place. He thought of the sword in the library, the tapestry in his chamber, the boy in the nursery. And the brother in Vienna, who carried his father’s eyes.

“You came to warn me,” Konrad said.

“I came to see if you were still alive.” Tobias stepped closer, his boots scraping against the flagstones. “The King of Bohemia has a taste for games. You have been playing them well, but the board is shifting.”

“Ottokar knows about the confessor’s writings.”

“He knows everything.” Tobias’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “He has ears in every wall, eyes in every shadow. The question is not what he knows, but what he intends to do with it.”

“And what does he intend?”

Tobias was silent for a long moment. Then he reached into his cloak and drew out a folded parchment, creased and worn, sealed with a blob of dark wax that bore no insignia. He held it out to Konrad, who took it reluctantly.

“The river remembers,” Tobias said. “But it also reveals. This came to me three days ago, from a man who trades in secrets along the Danube. He did not know what he carried—only that he was paid to deliver it to the butcher’s shop.”

Konrad broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. The writing was cramped, hurried, the ink smudged in places as if the writer had been afraid. He read it once, then again, the words sinking into him like stones into deep water.

*The child in Vienna is not the only one. There is a third, hidden in the convent at Sankt Pölten. The mother was one of the Přemyslid household, sent away before the snows. She knows nothing of the father’s name. But the girl carries a birthmark shaped like a wolf’s paw on her left shoulder. If you seek proof, seek the midwife who attended her. Her name is Marta, and she lives still.*

Konrad looked up. The candle flame wavered between them, casting strange shadows across Tobias’s scarred face.

“A sister,” Konrad said. The word felt foreign in his mouth, heavy with implications he could not yet grasp.

“Or a lie,” Tobias said. “A trap baited with hope. The King of Bohemia is not the only one who knows how to set snares.”

“You believe it is false?”

“I believe nothing that comes out of the dark without a price.” Tobias met his eyes. “But I also believe that the truth is rarely simple. Your father walked between worlds, Konrad. He left debts and children and enemies in equal measure. You must decide which of them you will inherit.”

Konrad folded the parchment and tucked it into his tunic, beside the ring and the note from Margarethe. His father’s sword waited in the library, his brother in Vienna, his sister perhaps in Sankt Pölten. And somewhere above, Ottokar of Bohemia sat at his feast, watching the ice grow thin beneath a Habsburg’s feet.

“You said the board is shifting,” Konrad said. “What do you know?”

Tobias glanced toward the altar, where Brother Anselm had not moved, his face a pale oval in the darkness. Then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper barely audible above the wind that moaned against the chapel walls.

“Ottokar has sent riders to the Rhine,” he said. “He seeks alliances against Rudolf—electors who fear the Habsburg rise, princes who still dream of a Bohemian crown. He means to challenge your uncle’s election, to strip him of the throne before the spring.”

“Rudolf will not yield.”

“No. But he may be forced to fight before he is ready. And when kings fight, men like us become the first casualties.” Tobias straightened, pulling his hood back over his head. “The feast ends in three days. Ottokar will either release you or take you as a hostage. You must decide where your loyalty lies before he decides for you.”

He turned toward the door, then paused, his scarred face half-lit by the guttering candle. “Your father chose the lion over the serpent. It cost him his life. Do not make the same mistake.”

The door closed behind him, and the chapel fell into silence. Konrad stood alone with the priest and the weight of his father’s sins, the parchment cold against his chest, the ring burning against his skin.

Brother Anselm stepped forward, his voice quiet. “You must choose soon, my son.”

Konrad looked at the altar, at the carved figure of Christ hanging in the shadows. The serpent and the lion writhed in his blood, and the river pulled him faster toward the dark.

“I know,” he said. “But the current has already chosen for me.”