A Forest of Wolves (17 page)

I
couldn't catch my breath.

“Mila! You're all right.” Marc's face filled my vision.

“You're alive,” I whispered.

I placed my palms on his stubbled cheeks. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to feel his healthy, living flesh. I needed to know he was real. He was alive. I kissed him swiftly on the lips.

“It was only a dream.” Marc pushed the damp hair away from my forehead. I was covered in sweat. “How do you feel?”

“You're alive.” I breathed in deeply with my nose and pressed my forehead against him. “Thank God. Wait. Where's Henrik?”

“I sent him home. He'd been here for the past twenty-four hours.”

“I've been sleeping for a whole day?” I rubbed my face. My shoulder hurt, but not nearly as badly as it had before.

“You passed out from the pain while Ruzena sewed your wound. You've been feverish and in and out of consciousness for the past day.” He frowned. “Ruzena didn't think you'd survive.”

I smiled. “I owe her my life. How ironic.”

“Extremely ironic. Let me get you something to drink.” He went to the table and poured a glass of water from a pitcher.

The room was dark; only the embers from the fire remained. My cheeks and forehead were clammy, but no longer hot. I gulped down the water and Marc brought me another glass.

“You had a bad dream? I was dead?” Marc sat on the edge of the bed.

“Everyone was dead. Every single person I know. I was the only one left. Me and the wolves.”

“The wolves?”

I waved my hand. “It doesn't matter now. It was only a dream. Is there any way we can avoid going to war with the Crown? Can we seek a peaceful resolution?”

“I doubt it.”

“Everyone is going to die,” I whispered. “Thousands of people on both sides are going to die. Do you understand that? There will be massive casualties for the Catholics
and
the Protestants. We have to try to seek a peaceful resolution.”

“The Crown won't stop because we ask them to. We can attempt a negotiation, but it won't work. They don't want to change. The Crown wants everything to remain the same. They want to stay in power and they want to rid the country of Protestants.”

“I have to show you something,” I said. “I should've told you sooner, but I... I don't know why I didn't.”

Marc tilted his head. “Show me what?”

I pointed to the end of the bed. “It's in the bottom of my trunk. In the pocket of my black cloak. Can you get it for me?”

Marc frowned and went to the trunk. He dug through my clothes until he found the thick parchment. “Ah, I'd forgotten about this. When we escaped from the castle, I waited for you to tell me what it was. I must've forgotten about it in the chaos since.” He flipped over the parchment and fingered the broken seal. “I'm assuming the
I
is for Isabella?”

I nodded. “Read it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”

Marc unfolded the letter. He paced the room in front of the fireplace. His eyebrows rose. He rubbed his scruffy chin. He exhaled and ran his hand through his hair. When he finished, he stared at the fire's dying embers for a long time.

I carefully lay back on my side and watched him. I didn't want to say anything. I wanted to hear what he had to stay.

His shadow loomed against the wall.

Was he angry? Scared? Did he hate me? Would Marc consider me the enemy now?

When he turned around, his face was soft. The hard lines I'd grown accustomed to these past few weeks were gone. “I figured.”

“What?”

“When I heard Radek tell you that night...”

“You said Radek was lying.”

“I
hoped
Radek was lying,” Marc said.

“You don't want me to be the heir.”

“No,” Marc said. “I don't.”

My body stiffened. I swallowed. “Because you want a Protestant ruler on the throne.”

“What? No.” He sat beside me. “I don't care about that. I want the present regime gone. I want the Protestant people to be safe. And fed. And protected. That's all I want.”

“Then why don't you want me to be the heir?” A single tear slipped from my eye. “My mother was proud of me. She believed I could change this country. She had faith that I could solve the kingdom's problems.”

“Mila, I have faith in you, too. But being the heir puts your life in danger. Don't you see? Once everyone knows who you are, both sides will want you dead.”

“You want me to keep my identity a secret?” I asked. “To pretend this letter and the one hidden in the Treasury keep don't exist?”

“For now. Just for a while longer. First we have to rescue the Protestants from the Inquisition camp. Then we can see if, as you said earlier, we can come to a peaceful resolution with the Crown. Your true identity could change everything. We need to be smart about how we deliver this news to the kingdom. Timing is going to be crucial. Does anyone else know about this letter?”

“Branka, but she may not be alive. And Henrik.”

“You showed this letter to Henrik?” Marc's smooth forehead wrinkled.

I nodded.

“When?”

“That first night we stayed at the tavern.”

“You told Henrik when we arrived in Kladno and you're only telling me now? Why? My brother has known about this for a week and a half?” He stood. “What's going on between you two?”

“There's nothing between us. He's your brother.”

“Yet you tell him your deep, dark secret? And not me?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Look at the way you're reacting,” I said. “I finally show you the letter and you're angry.”

“I'm not angry about the letter. I'm angry that you couldn't tell me about it but you had no problem telling my brother.”

I didn't say anything.

Marc shook his head. He sighed and his entire frame shuddered. “Forget about it. All right? You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be angry.”

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you until now.”

“Let's get some sleep,” Marc said. “You need to rest. Zora and the others should be here tomorrow night.” He slid to the floor.

Blankets and pillows claimed the area next to the bed. He'd been sleeping on the ground next to me since we'd returned to Kladno. I lay down on my stomach and reached down to stroke his arm. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

* * *

Standing was an effort.

I needed to eat. Marc was cooking something in the pot across the room, but I wanted to get up on my own. I needed to do this by myself. I swung my legs off the bed and stood. My shoulder felt better, but I was still fatigued.

“Careful there,” Marc said.

“I can't stay in bed forever.”

I used the bed as leverage and stood on wobbly feet. I was no longer sweaty or clammy, but I had no strength. I hobbled to the table in the center of the room.

Marc brought a bowl of some unknown substance and placed it in front of me. It was steaming and dark brown. I lowered my face to the bowl and had to physically restrain myself from wrinkling my nose; it smelled awful.

“Eat up,” Marc said. “I made it for you. You need your strength.”

“Thanks.”

“I have to meet with a host of people today. We have to get things in order so we can rescue the prisoners at the Inquisition camp.”

“Go. I'll be fine,” I said. “I feel much better than I did yesterday.”

“I asked Igor to come sit with you while I'm out.”

“Igor?” I balked.

“I thought he'd be better than Ruzena.” Marc shrugged. “Stephan and Ivan are not back from their reconnaissance mission. I can find someone else if you don't want Igor here.”

“What about Henrik?”

“I haven't seen him today. I assume when I do see him I'll tell him that he should be helping me ready the men. Don't you agree?”

I stuck the spoon in the soup. It was so gelatinous that the utensil stood upright. “Yes, of course.”

Marc kissed me on the forehead, grabbed the sack sitting near the fireplace, and left. Not more than five minutes later, Igor shoved through the door. He didn't say a word. He grabbed a bowl of soup and sat down at the table.

Igor chewed with his mouth open and devoured the bowl in five bites. This was a feat in itself because he was missing most of his teeth. The left side of his face, from the corner of his eye to his chin, drooped, but he chewed and chewed until he finished the bowl. Then he poured himself seconds.

I rose from the table and went to the back of the house. Marc had readied a bath for me outside, behind the screen.

“Where are you going?” Igor mumbled.

“To bathe.”

“Hmph,” Igor said. “Can you wash the Catholic off you?”

I ignored the old man and went out back. The small tub held barely-warm water, but it was the best bath I'd had in a long time. I scrubbed every inch of my body. I convinced myself it was dirt and not blood caked under my fingernails; it reminded me too much of my dream.

It reminded me too much of all the death.

Would that happen if war broke out? Would everyone die? Was it an omen that we shouldn't lead this rebellion? And why was I queen in the dream?

I carefully washed the knife wound on my shoulder. I ran my fingertip over Ruzena's stitches. She'd done a good job. I was in her debt.

After I scrubbed the filth from my body, I washed my hair with lavender oils. The sky above was bright blue, a deep contrast to the smoky skies from my nightmare. I couldn't stop thinking about the implications of the dream. I sighed. I was the heir to the throne. I'd abide by Marc's wishes for now. He was right; it was best to keep my identity hidden. For now.

We were in enough danger. There were already ample people who wanted to kill us. If the world knew I was King Rudolf's closest heir, the number of people who wanted to kill us would increase tenfold. However, one thing was for sure: there was a difference in keeping my identity hidden for my safety and keeping it hidden because I was embarrassed by who I was. I wouldn't be ashamed.

I was heir to the throne.

I hadn't realized it until this moment, but I wanted it. I'd right all these wrongs. I'd fight for the people. I'd do the right thing. I'd be my mother's daughter and reign in her honor.

After my bath I went inside. The simple acts of walking, eating, and bathing had exhausted me. The wound and subsequent fever had taken its toll on my body.

Igor didn't look up when I entered. He was sharpening a pile of weapons and humming to himself.

I crawled back into bed, lay on my side, and went to sleep.

When I woke, Henrik was dicing carrots at the table. “Hey there!”

“Henrik! Where's Igor?” I slowly sat up. The straps of my dress slipped off my shoulder, exposing my collarbone. I hastily pushed it back.

Henrik lowered his eyes. “I sent him home. He was sleeping in the chair when I arrived. Did he make that awful pot of soup?”

“No, Marc did.”

Henrik smiled. “Of course he did. Did you eat any of it?”

“No.”

“Then you're starving, I take it? I'm going to make a real soup.”

“Thank goodness.” I sat forward, instinctively flinching, but the pain in my shoulder wasn't as bad as I'd expected it would be.

“How do you feel?”

“Better than before.” I placed my feet on the floor and inched to the table.

“You look better.”

“I bathed earlier. I still feel sore, but I don't feel as if I'm standing at death's door anymore.”

“You almost didn't make it. I was worried you wouldn't wake up after you passed out on Ruzena.”

“I had a nightmare when I fell asleep. The whole kingdom was dead except for me.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone,” I said.

“How'd I die?”

I hesitated.

“Tell me.” Henrik chopped the carrots into small pieces. White bandages covered his two injured fingers, but by the way he was maneuvering, they didn't seem to be bothering him.

“You really want to know?”

“Yes,” Henrik said. “I don't believe in premonitions, by the way. I'm only curious.”

“You were hanging from the parapet of the bridge in front of Prague Castle.”

Henrik frowned. “That's not how I want to go.”

“You know how you want to die?”

“Sure.” Henrik scooped up the sliced carrots and dropped them in an iron pot. He grabbed two potatoes and roughly chopped them, leaving on the skin. “I want to die either of two ways. Scenario one, in a memorable battle against a worthy opponent where I die honorably.”

I sighed. “I understand that. And scenario two?”

“As on old man in bed beside my wife.”

I wasn't expecting that. “That's a nice way to go.”

Henrik threw the potatoes in the pot with a splash. “It is. Way better than hanging from a bridge.”

“Let's not talk about my dream anymore.”

He placed the pot over the stove and poked at the embers. “What shall we talk about, then?”

“How are your fingers?”

He wiggled them. The two fingers were bandaged in heavy gauze. “They don't bother me too much, but hopefully some nail-growing action is happening below the bandage. New topic.”