Chapter 95
HIGH TATRA MOUNTAINS
SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 28, 2010
Night had snuffed out the pink glow on the horizon. In the beam of the taxi’s headlights, the curtain of falling snow mesmerized the Polish driver.
“You have friends or family here in Tatras?” he asked. He had not spoken to his strange passenger since they crossed the border of Slovakia.
Morgan hesitated. “Yes.”
He waited for more, but there was only silence.
The driver shrugged, resolving not to try to communicate further. He had a sour taste in his mouth. He almost wished he hadn’t taken the fare.
He thought of his family and warm grog and smoked kielbasa at home. A smile crept across his face.
He felt the green eyes staring at him from the blackness of the backseat. His smile vanished. His hands tightened around the steering wheel as he drove through the storm.
Suddenly, after what seemed like an endless silence, Morgan gave a barrage of directions.
“Turn left and go uphill three kilometers. Turn right at the church with two steeples.… Look for a private entrance, a gate. Maybe a guardhouse.”
The driver did as he was told, squinting against the gusts of snow, swirling across the narrow roads.
“This is it?” he said at last. He pointed to a black spiked gate, ten feet high, with a guardhouse beside it. A guard emerged from the dark, a flashlight in hand.
The taxi driver noticed a black holster on his hip, even from a distance.
“Let me out here,” said Morgan. “Don’t go any further.”
“But, Slecna,” he protested. “Let me drive you to the door. The storm—”
“Let me out here! Stop!”
The driver jammed on his brakes, skidding. Morgan dug through her purse and stuffed his hand with euros.
The driver snapped on the cab light, counting the cash.
“It’s all there,” she muttered. “And then some. To help you forget you ever saw me.”
She slammed the car door and heaved her backpack on her shoulder, walking away from the taxi.
The driver watched her red hair speckle with snow as she trudged toward the guardhouse.
Chapter 96
ČACHTICE CASTLE
DECEMBER 28, 1610
Downstairs, the kitchen was in an uproar. Brona stood in the midst of the chaos, her face beaded with sweat from the blazing hearth. She and her scullery maids were readying plum-wine cakes, roasted chickens, stuffed goose, and clove-studded hams—enough to last the long, cold journey to Transylvania.
“What doings are these to depart in the middle of the night?” the cook growled to Hedvika. “How can I roast the fowl in such haste without scorching? The fire is newborn and the hot flames char the skin.”
“It is the Countess’s wish to depart at once,” said Hedvika. “It is not your position to question her decision. Make haste!”
Brona muttered, giving the big maiden the evil eye.
“Do not forget to pack cheeses and butter,” added Hedvika, turning her back on the cook. “And the jars of goose fat. We will keep it warm by the heat of the coach brazier.”
While Brona and Hedvika sparred, Janos and Vida crept down the hall into the Countess’s bedchamber.
The room was in disarray, the bed covers awry from the rush of packing. Heavy chests still gaped open.
“Her writing desk,” whispered Vida. “Hurry!”
“Stand watch,” said Janos.
He rifled through her drawers: blotting papers, sharpened quills, pen knives. He pushed aside sticks of red sealing wax and bronze stamps embossed with the Bathory wolves’ teeth, encircled by a dragon eating his own tail.
Stacks of letters were tied up in scarlet ribbons. He saw the Bathory seal broken open on a parchment, folded into perfect quarters. He unfolded it quickly and read: “My Beloved: I have found her. Your Cousin and Servant, Gabor.”
“Hurry!” whispered Vida.
He jiggled the last drawer. It was locked.
He pulled out the short, sturdy knife he used to trim reins and hooves.
Vida looked at him, terrified.
“You will scar the wood!” she said.
He shook his head, sliding the blade carefully into the gap at the top of the drawer. He wedged the blade down gently, springing the lock.
As the velvet-lined drawer yielded to his hand, he gasped in horror.
Inside, he saw locks of hair, tied in ribbons. Dozens of bundles in an array of colors, some strands dull with age, others still glossy.
He snatched his hand away as if he had touched a viper.
“Someone is coming!”
The shadows in the corridors obscured the approaching figure. Vida, knowing that Janos had not found the ledger, emerged and stood blocking the chamber door.
“What are you doing here?” demanded a voice.