When the Countess learned of the horsemaster’s illness that morning, she insisted he be moved out of the barracks and inside the castle to a proper bedchamber.
“His father is a nobleman. I shall not have it rumored at court in Vienna that he has died of negligence at Čachtice Castle. Make up a bedroom for him, one that has a window that opens to sunlight.”
Zuzana curtsied and said she would make the arrangements.
“He should not be moved away from the smell of horses,” said the cook, when he heard of the plan. “He has a connection with them that is deep and unearthly.”
Zuzana stared at him, but this time she did not berate the wiry man for his superstitions.
“Cut a lock of hair from the mane of his white stallion, Cook. I will tuck it under his pillow.”
The cook smiled, exposing his crooked teeth. He picked up a sharp knife and headed next door into the stables.
Countess Bathory instructed Brona to make rich broths of bone marrow and root vegetables to give him strength, tea of birch bark to relieve the fever. Zuzana put stones, warm from the fire, into his bed, to warm his body when he shook with cold.
Janos screamed in his nightmares, sweating heavily, rolling violently, as he fought the demons of his fever.
Zuzana gnawed at her fingernails until they bled. She thought of her own fever as a child, the fever and illness that had left its pox scars over her body. What terrors did he wrestle?
That night the fever returned with a vengeance. She was terrified that he would be lost before sunrise. She plucked the strands of the white horse’s mane from under his pillow and forced them into his clenched hands.
“Take strength from the moon horse,” she whispered. “Take it!”
But instead of quieting her patient, the coarse touch of the horsehair made him rabid with anger.
“You shall be defeated!” he croaked, his voice hoarse with phlegm. “Your evil soul shall be imprisoned in the stone of your wickedness! You shall be haunted by those you have murdered!”
“Be still, Janos. Be still,” crooned Zuzana, holding his forehead to calm its thrashing. She watched the cords of his neck, the clenched jaw. His cries pierced the night.
“What does he say?” said a voice in the shadows.
Zuzana froze. It was the Countess. Her gown rustled as she approached the bed.
“He is feverish, his words make no sense,” Zuzana said, standing at attention. Please do not speak again, Janos. Be still, I beg of you!
“Sometimes the fevers bring the truth bubbling forth as a mountain spring,” the Countess said, her amber eyes cold as jewels. “I asked, what does he say?”
“I cannot make out exactly,” said Zuzana, avoiding her mistress’s stare.
“Answer me!” Erzsebet raised her hand high to strike the obstinate maiden.
“You shall be encased in stone, the stones that have witnessed your wickedness!” shouted Janos.
“Stones?” the Countess said, lowering her hand. Her black eyebrows arched high over her white face. “How strange.”
“He battles demons, Countess.”
A flash of fear crossed Bathory’s face, as she looked down at the feverish horsemaster. “Stone? Encased in stone?”
“I fear he feels the weight of death upon his chest,” said Zuzana, wiping his brow with a wet rag. “Pray, pay no attention—”
“Sharp bones and stony residue! A mortal hell! The eternal prison!” Janos shouted, his lips flecked with foam.
The Countess’s face blanched and she pressed a linen handkerchief to her mouth. She flicked her eyes to her handmaiden.
Zuzana saw fear in her eyes like blazing flames.
“Say nothing of this, ever. I command you! He is indeed insane with fever,” the Countess said, gathering her skirts. Her quick movements stirred the air, guttering the candle at Janos’s bedside.
Chapter 73
BRATISLAVA, SLOVAKIA
DECEMBER 25–26, 2010
After a long interview with the police—supplemented with sandwiches and hot soup the clerk brought up from the restaurant next door—Daisy had fallen into a deep sleep. When she awoke it was past eleven o’clock. She looked restlessly around the four walls of the hotel room.
I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get out of this place.
The incident with the old guy had freaked her out and the last thing she wanted to do was be alone. She had to find some kindred spirits.
Finally, an hour after midnight, Daisy slipped out of the pension, locking the door behind her. She pulled her hood up against the falling snow. She brought along both phones—her own and the one her father had given her—and clicked on the GPS, marking her destination. With a Google Map printout in hand, she navigated through the edge of Stare Mesto toward the modern urban center of Bratislava.