“My servants and I have one last mission to carry out, and then I can devote my attention completely to you and your sister,” Schönborn said. He turned to the three soulless creatures. “Take the children down to the dungeon,” he commanded, “and then we will head off for Lützen. It’s time to turn the tables in this war.”
Silently, Schönborn turned around and stared out the window, where the mist was drifting by like shrouds. In the distance they could hear the cannon fire.
The soldiers seized Lukas and his sleeping sister and carried them like heavy baggage down to the cellar, from which mournful cries could again be heard.
Not long after that, Lukas was staring at a small, barred window, through which a tiny beam of light fell into the dungeon. Their prison was a square, low-ceilinged room whose cold stone floor was sparsely covered with stinking straw. In one corner stood a jug of water and a tin plate with some crusts of bread and hard cheese, which he hadn’t touched.
He heard crying from time to time from the adjacent cells and thought he heard the voice of the butcher’s daughter, though he couldn’t be sure. How many poor victims had Schönborn locked up down here? How many were waiting to be tortured and put to death at the stake?
Lukas stood up and rattled the door, but it was made of solid wood reinforced with iron. There was no possibility of escape, to say nothing of freeing the other prisoners.
His gaze wandered over to his little sister, who was still sleeping on some straw in the corner. She appeared to be slowly awakening from her trance, as she was moaning and writhing about. Lukas hurried over to her and dabbed her sweaty face with the corner of his dirty shirt.
“I’m here with you, Elsa,” he murmured. “Whatever happens, I’m here for you.”
Elsa sighed but did not regain consciousness. Soon Schönborn would return, and then even her big brother would no longer be able to help her. It was even possible she wouldn’t remember him.
He had failed.
Moments became minutes, and finally hours, and in order to while away the time, Lukas studied the lines and pattern on Elsa’s skull until his eyes were virtually spinning. The diagram reminded him of something, but he couldn’t say what. Just when he thought he was on the right track, the memory was swept away, like autumn leaves in the wind.
Long winter nights in the castle . . . A game . . . Laughter and the odor of wild roses . . . “Let’s play hide-and-seek, Mother . . .” Hide-and-seek . . .
Instinctively, he reached for his shorn scalp. Did it have a similar pattern? He had no mirror to check. Before Schönborn left the monastery, he’d made a sketch of Lukas’s tattoo, but Lukas had found no chance to examine the sketch more closely.
“Lu . . . Lukas? Are you there?”
Elsa’s voice woke him from his reveries; his sister had opened her eyes. She looked exhausted, but her gaze was clear. Evidently, she knew who he was.
“Elsa!” Lukas breathed a sigh of relief. At least this magic spell appeared broken. “Yes, it’s me, your brother. Do you finally recognize me again?”
Elsa nodded, at first hesitantly, then more and more vigorously. Lukas looked at his sister lovingly. She’d been only nine years old when Waldemar von Schönborn abducted her, but despite her young age, Elsa appeared strangely grown-up now, and great wisdom seemed to shine in her eyes—wisdom she must have somehow acquired just in the last year.
“I . . . I remember,” she said haltingly. “That morning in the castle the day after your birthday . . . You said we should go and hide in the keep. I didn’t want to, I was so angry at you—”
“Waldemar von Schönborn had our mother arrested as a witch,” Lukas interrupted. “I had to flee. Do you remember? I swore then that I’d come and find you.”
“What happened to our parents?” Elsa asked.
Lukas felt a stabbing pain in his chest. She doesn’t know. Schönborn never told her!
“They . . . they are both dead, Elsa,” he said after a while. “Schönborn was responsible—and he did it just because of a book.”
Elsa did not cry; she just looked at him sadly, and for a while, neither of them said a word.
“Tell me what happened,” she said finally.
Lukas began with their last morning together at the castle, then the death of their father and how Lukas had followed their mother to Heidelberg. He told of the blue cloud and the voice inside him when their mother died. And finally he told of his time with the exhibition fighters, and the Black Musketeers, and how he’d found her.
“Isn’t it so strange?” he concluded. “I went looking for Schönborn, and at the same time, he was looking for me! All because of this bizarre tattoo! Do you know what it all means?”
Elsa ran her fingers over the lines on her scalp, trying to remember. “He told me I was something special, and that the drawing would make me even more powerful than I already am.”
“Powerful?” Lukas frowned. It was hard for him to imagine that his sister could somehow be powerful.
Elsa sighed. “I can hardly believe what you have told me about Schönborn, even if I know it’s the truth, now that he’s thrown both of us into this dungeon. You must know . . .” She paused. “Schönborn was never unkind to me. He was . . . like a father. That’s even what I called him.”
“Elsa!” Lukas shook his head in despair. “This man is a monster, he killed our parents, he tortures and burns people. What else do you need in order to be able to hate him?”
“Please understand! I had no memory of all that. He said I was an orphan he’d saved from a deserted village. He took care of me and made me into what I am now.”
Lukas held his breath. There was one thing he’d hesitated to asked, but now he did. “And who, or what, are you now?”
“He tells me there is a mighty power dormant in me. He has taught me how to read the old books, and since then I know things no one would believe possible. About magic.”
Lukas remembered the blue flash that had blinded the Swedish soldier, and later even himself, and how she’d been able to change her appearance with just a wave of her hands. What else had this warlock taught her?
“Doesn’t it trouble you,” Lukas asked bitterly, “that he extorts this knowledge from poor people like the ones in the cells next to ours, waiting for their execution at the stake?”
“I swear I knew nothing about that, Lukas. I thought these people were evil witches and sorcerers, and that we, Schönborn and I, were the good ones. Now everything looks so different . . .”
Elsa broke off and began to cry. Suddenly, she was a ten-year-old child again who needed consolation. Lukas took her in his arms and caressed her.
“Tell me how you do this magic,” he said, trying to calm her down. “I’d like to understand it.”
Elsa sniffled. “Once you know how, it’s really very simple—you just need to say the right words. Certain words strike a chord in me, and then it happens.”
“But before, when you changed your face, you didn’t speak,” Lukas said, “and you didn’t when you blinded me, either.”
Elsa smiled. “Once you have mastered it, it’s enough just to imagine the word in your head. It’s the same with all the magic potions, talismans, and other things. Their only use is to help your imagination.”
Lukas paused. “You mean the amulet that seemed to protect me—”
“Did protect you, because you believed in it, and because someone first had cast a charm on it by using the ancient words to transform it into a powerful magic object. Schönborn says the ancient words are the decisive thing. The druids had no system of writing but passed down everything to their pupils by word of mouth. For this reason, most of it was lost when the Romans persecuted and killed the druids.” Elsa sounded now like an eager little schoolgirl. It was easy for Lukas to imagine how Schönborn had taught her all that knowledge. She had always been much better than he was at memorizing and studying.
“Only a few wise old men wrote down the words,” Elsa continued, “a few d
ruids as well as Roman scholars, and thus the magic words have survived. There is, however, only one book that contains them all.”
“The Book of the Night,” Lukas murmured, “written by the bard Taliesin. Schönborn mentioned his name before.”
“He was supposedly a minstrel at the English court around the time of the legendary King Arthur,” Elsa said. “Some think he was the last druid. With Taliesin’s death, the druids’ knowledge was lost forever. All that remained were fragments—and the Grimorium Nocturnum, of which only a single copy remains. Whoever possesses it will be the master of all witchcraft.”
“It is believed the book was hidden for years in a Bohemian monastery,” Lukas murmured, adding what he had learned from Schönborn. “Our mother was a young nun there and must have taken the book with her . . .”
“It seems I’ve inherited her talent,” Elsa said. “Schönborn thinks there are only a few of us left. We are the last of the white magicians, the last in a long chain of druids. He looked for years to find someone like me.”
“Now he has you, and soon he will also have the book.” Lukas clenched his fists. “Don’t you understand, Elsa? You are only a tool for him, just like these soldiers whose souls he has stolen. He intends to use you to become the greatest sorcerer of all times. Who knows what other plans he has in store.”
Suddenly, Lukas remembered Schönborn’s final words before he had both of them thrown into the dungeon.
My servants and I have one last mission.
What sort of mission could that be? What did the inquisitor have in mind that was so important he even had to put aside the search for the Grimorium?
The sun had now set, darkness had fallen, and an oppressive silence fell over the small cell in the dungeon. Lukas thought of the butcher’s pretty daughter, locked up along with her father somewhere in one of the neighboring cells. He wanted to help them, as now they were no doubt both awaiting execution here.
After a few uneventful hours, Lukas finally managed to fall asleep. In his tangled dreams, the great black wolf was pursuing him again as he ran on and on through an endless labyrinth while behind him the panting of the beast became louder and louder. He saw the faces of his parents, who seemed to be calling to him, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying.
When he opened his eyes, gasping for breath, it was already early morning. Elsa wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at him intently, running her fingers over his face as if trying to comprehend her brother again.
“I looked at your tattoo,” she said, “and it’s a pattern just like mine.”
“That’s what I’d assumed,” Lukas replied, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, “but unfortunately I can’t figure out what it means, either.”
His stomach growled loudly. Now he was glad to have the crusts of bread, the hard cheese, and the jug of water that the guards had put out for them. But when he heard the wailing and crying from the next cell, Lukas put the cheese down again. He had lost his appetite. Again, time passed slowly, interrupted only by occasional sharp cries.
“Isn’t there any magic you can use to help these poor souls?” he asked Elsa.
Elsa shrugged. “If this were a normal cell, it might be possible to escape and free the others, but Schönborn cast a powerful spell on the entire dungeon when he locked us up here. I tried earlier, when you were asleep.”
“Then it seems we are lost,” Lukas said, “we, and all the others here. We’ll never . . .”
He paused on hearing a faint sound on the other side of the door. Someone was coming down the hall.
Lukas tried not to shiver. The time had come, and Waldemar von Schönborn had returned to get them. He would torture them just as he had tortured their mother. It would probably start on the rack, or with the glowing tongs, or the thumbscrews. How long would Lukas manage not to scream and beg for mercy? Fear washed over him like a mighty wave.
A key was inserted in the lock, squeaking as it turned, and the heavy door swung open. Lukas held his breath and reached for Elsa’s hand.
“Whatever happens, Elsa,” he whispered, “I will always be your brother, and you my sister. At least they can’t take that from us, even if . . .”
His jaw dropped, and he stared at the figure in front of him.
“But . . . but,” he stammered.
“Close your mouth. That really looks stupid,” Paulus growled. “Especially when you don’t have any hair on your head.” Behind him, grinning, stood Jerome and Giovanni as well, with a fresh bandage on his leg.
“Greetings, Lukas,” Giovanni said with a wink. “Did you seriously believe we’d let you down?”
“What have they done to you two beautiful people?” Jerome asked, rubbing his nose. “You looked like freshly polished cannonballs. And who is this girl anyway?” he asked, turning to Elsa. “I’m not sure, but somehow the little brat looks familiar to me.”
Lukas was so relieved he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. For a while, he could hardly move; he just stood there staring at his friends.
“This kid is my sister,” he finally managed to say. “I’ll tell you everything else when we’re finally out of this stinking hole.”
One after the other, he embraced his friends. He’d never needed them as much as at this moment.
Minutes later, they were standing out in the hallway, where Giovanni was holding a large ring of keys and hastily opening the individual cells.
“Did you really believe we’d let you go off on this adventure alone?” said Jerome in a feigned tone of severity.
“I would have understood,” Lukas replied softly.
“Nonsense!” Paulus slapped him so hard on the shoulder that Lukas had to cough. “When we returned from the battle and Giovanni told us you’d already set out for the monastery the day before, we naturally came after you. One of the guards up on the first floor kindly offered us his keys.” He paused. “Well, when I think about it, he didn’t actually offer them.”
“But . . . how did you get past all the rest of them?” Lukas asked.
Jerome winked. “Oh, there weren’t all that many. Schönborn took most of them with him to Lützen, and the servants and maids ran off long ago because of the fighting. And the rest of the guards, well . . .” He played with the handle of his sword. “Never pick a fight with the Black Musketeers.”
The doors to the cells squeaked as they opened, and around a dozen emaciated figures came staggering out. Many of the prisoners had bloody scars or burns on their backs, and others had an arm hanging limply at their side as if their shoulder had been dislocated. All of them looked as if they could hardly believe their good fortune in escaping their tormenters. In the back of the group, Lukas recognized the butcher and his daughter, smiling at their liberators. The girl’s dress was torn, her black hair dirty and stringy, but otherwise, she appeared uninjured, like her father.
“You must be angels!” she gasped.
“Oh, we have too many earthly needs to be angels,” Jerome responded, eyeing her approvingly. “I could show you for example how—”
“We really don’t have any time for that,” Giovanni interrupted with annoyance. “I’ll assume Lukas has some things to tell us.” He pointed at Elsa. “Above all, about his sister.”
Lukas nodded. “How much time do we have until Schönborn shows up here?”
“At the moment, Schönborn is the least of our problems. The Swedes are coming.” Paulus ground his teeth. “We’ve overtaken their advance guard, and the rest should be here in a few hours.”
The butcher’s daughter waved a grateful good-bye to Lukas as the prisoners hurried toward the stairway and the exit. Lukas felt a sudden desire to follow her with Elsa and forget everything he’d experienced in the preceding hours, but then he straightened up and turned to his friends.
“I suggest we get to the library right away, where we can talk. We’ve taken care of one job,” he said, “but a much larger one awaits us.”
XXIV
Soon a
fter, the five were sitting upstairs in the dusty library. The friends had brought a few blankets for Elsa and Lukas and, most importantly, something to eat and drink from the deserted monastery kitchen so they could warm up and satisfy the worst of their hunger.
“What actually happened in Lützen?” Lukas wanted to know.
Jerome cleared his throat. “It was just as you predicted—one long slashing and beating without a clear winner. The Swedes had almost won, but at the height of the battle their king fell and they retreated.”
Lukas was stunned. “King Gustav Adolf is dead?”
“No one knows exactly what happened,” Jerome said. “He was supposedly shot at close range even though he was well protected. It seemed like witchcraft.”
A bitter suspicion welled up in Lukas. He thought of Schönborn’s last words just before he set out for Lützen.
My servants and I have one last mission.
Was it possible that one of the frozen men killed the Swedish king? Was that the last mission? But why? Schönborn had just sent his henchmen out to fight Wallenstein. What sense would there be in killing Wallenstein as well as his greatest enemy?
“But there are more important things to talk about than the battle and the sad fate of the Swedish king. What happened to the two of you?” Giovanni asked. He looked at Elsa, who was sitting in a corner, leafing through one of the many books. Then he turned to Lukas. “Why did they shave your heads, and what’s the meaning of these strange tattoos? And where is Daniel?”
Lukas pointed at Elsa. “She is Daniel.”
Paulus scowled. “What nonsense! Is this a joke? We don’t really have time for that.”
“I know . . . it’s hard to understand. I can barely understand it, either.” Lukas sighed, then he told his friends what he’d learned the day before in the monastery. When he was finished, the others stared at him incredulously.