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9. The Steward

The road to Cachtice Castle wound upward. Where it curled around the base of the great hill, the forest on either side was dense and scrubby. Spindly trees, still naked from winter, leaned in around them. Occasionally, a branch would smack or scrape the top of the carriage, making its inhabitants jump with unease. They spoke quietly to each other, now and then; words with little weight that only seemed to underline the discomfort they both felt with the journey and their growing dread as they neared their destination.

In some places, the road cut through the rocky hill. Craggy, grey cliff faces would rise around them, dimming the grey light of the afternoon sun to an unsettling twilight in their compartment. In these moments, the hill seemed to swallow them up. Edda could not help but feel that they were in the jaws of some magnificent and terrible beast, bumping and swaying their way deeper and deeper into its belly. Moving inexorably and irreversibly toward a place neither she nor Marta would ever return from.

As the hours passed, Edda sunk into her thoughts, vacillating between hope and hopelessness. Her newfound suspicions about Marta’s looming death only overwhelmed her further. She almost wished to be the person she had been on her first trip here; simple, oblivious, and stupid, with nary a thought beyond the tip of her nose. She closed her eyes, resting her head back against the wall of the cabin. The more she remembered of herself from that time, the more she came to loathe herself.

She could not be the Edda from ten years ago again. The very thought of it caused bile to bubble up in the back of her throat. No, she would not—could not—allow herself to fall into the same haughty fantasies of everything working itself out in her favor. That was not the world she had been burned in, and it certainly did not seem to be the world she was in right now. Despite her terror, even despite her ignorance, she would need to act if she wanted to survive.

Her eyes slid open, covertly glancing at Marta. She would need to act if she wanted to save Marta, too. She could see traces of anxiety in the woman’s expression—a slight furrowing of the brow, a tension about the mouth—things she would have simply overlooked before. But not this time.

The muffled clip clop of the horses’ hooves sharpened suddenly, and the carriage jumped, jostling the two women into alertness. The creaking of the wheels as they turned became immediately more pronounced, a sure sign that they had moved from the soft, packed dirt of the forest road onto hard cobblestone. Outside the window, a tall stone wall came into view, cutting through the wild forest in both directions and stretching further than Edda’s eye could see. She swallowed thickly, a trill of fear running through her.

They had arrived.

With a shout or two from the guardsmen, returned with muted gusto by their driver, they passed through the gates and into the castle grounds. The road continued for some ways yet; to one side of it, a stony cliff rose several times taller than the guard wall they had passed through, melding with the base of the castle above and curving with the road as it snaked upward. At the peak of the hill, carved and nestled into the terrain, would be the massive, old fortress—still a steep climb away.

To the other side, their carriage passed a considerable plateau that had been flattened and cleared atop the side of the hill. On its borders were the gatehouse, now behind them, and the long, single-story barracks across the way. From her chambers in the castle, Edda had sometimes watched, with not a little disinterest, as the guards trained or ran drills on these grounds. But she had rarely been down to this part of the compound herself, and she studied it with a slowly creeping familiarity. Certainly, it had been designed with security in mind—it would be difficult to reach the castle after breaching the gates, with the guards housed so close by. She gulped. It would also be hard to reach the gates, if one wished to escape the castle.

She shook her head slightly, as though to dislodge the trickle of fear that had inspired the thought.

But she was shortsighted in doing so. In the next moment, the trickle gave way to a torrent that drained with it all color from her face. Her breath caught in her throat with a gasp, and Marta reached for her instantly, clasping her hand with concern.

“Miss Edda?”

Edda did not respond. They were approaching the bend that would take them up the final leg to the castle and, just before the turn, the road forked toward a pair of giant iron and stone doors, set directly into the cliffside. She had been barely lucid at the time, but she could recall the sound of those doors creaking open, the panting of the men who had pushed it ajar. The cut of the wind on her face—her first experience of it after so many months in that stale cell—returned to her. She brought a shaking hand up to her cheek, closing her eyelid with a gentle touch—it had been swollen shut when she had gotten her first glimpse of the cold winter’s sky under which she would burn.

“Miss Edda!” Marta repeated shrilly, and Edda returned to the present with a jerk. “Are you well?” The older woman’s face was creased with worry.

Edda took a deep, quivering breath before nodding affirmatively. She squeezed Marta’s hand back, hoping to reassure the woman, but could not suppress her trembling. And Marta did not release her.

As they passed before the enormous doors, the thought that they might open up and suck her back into that dreadful prison gripped her, just as surely as Marta’s hand. She was so close, so horribly close to that place where she had suffered so long and so terribly that she had come to fantasize about death as a release. Her whole body seemed to remember, to ache with the memory, and she waited, frozen with wide eyes, until it was behind them.

It hadn’t occurred to her that she would face those doors again so soon. At least, she told herself, she was on the other side of them. For now.

The carriage began its ascent, and Edda finally tore her gaze from the cliff face. Out the opposite window, the ground dropped away just beyond the road, and, beyond the tops of the few trees that clung onto the sharp side of the hill, there was a view of Hungarian countryside. It was a view she had enjoyed for years from the castle towers above—but one she had taken for granted until that very moment. It did not erase her fear—no, for that was now a part of her, like a second skin she carried over top her own. But it did give her pause, enough to calm her breath and still her shaking. This place had killed her, yes, but it had been her home for ten years, too.

Like a dramatic painting, the bright grey of early spring cast the land alternately with deep shadows and luminescent relief. Massive, rocky hills of green and brown and grey, not unlike the one they were on now, rolled across the landscape, providing shallow valleys in which villages clustered tightly. Roads snaked between them, undulating like ribbons through the forested landscape, and neat rectangular plots of farmland added an unexpected order to the natural chaos of it all. And there, off in the distance, so far away that the clouds seemed to kiss its surface, was the blue and grey Vah River.

She closed her eyes for a moment as the road turned and the first of the castle’s inner walls came into view. Cachtice Castle and its lands had once been her home. And perhaps, that made the way she had been betrayed even more potent and horrific. She did not understand the details of what had happened here but—and she knew this as sure as the Vah River ran strong—she did not arrive here on this day the same ignorant girl of seventeen years that she had been before. However farcical and limited her reign had been, she had presided over this place as Countess for a decade. Beyond even that, she had spent a year in its bowels, feeling her body and senses disintegrate about her. She could not be the Edda from ten years ago because she was not the Edda from ten years ago.

Of course, that did not mean she would be able to survive what the castle had in store for her. It did not mean Marta would live this time, nor did it guarantee that she would uncover what had happened to the village girls or be able to prevent it happening again. But already, her near mindless flailing had given rise to change—perhaps, even in the absence of a proper plan, if she could use her knowledge of the future to direct her floundering in the right direction…perhaps they might all have a chance.

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At last, they were permitted through a second set of gates and into a tunnel beneath the guard tower. The sudden darkness in the cabin had Marta squeezing Edda’s hand, which she still held tightly. Edda did not know if the woman was conscious of it, but she found that she was grateful for the touch; it reminded her that, at least for now, she was not alone. She was scared and nervous, but still, she whispered aloud, “We’ll be alright,” offering Marta a small, strained smile. She hoped that at least one of them would be convinced.

Then, they broke out of the tunnel and the afternoon light was once more upon them, and there was no time left to be convinced. They were in a bustling, triangular courtyard, overlooked on all sides by the castle itself. Their imminent arrival had no doubt been announced when they passed the first gate and, as the carriage came to a stop, servants in dark green livery rushed to meet them. Immediately, the stablehands relieved the coachman, running with refreshments for him and water for the horses. Sturdy manservants assisted them out of the cabin; already, their luggage was being unloaded and toted away. From there, white-aproned maids met them with polite but restrained commentary—“You’ve travelled far to grace us…We hope it was not too long or unpleasant…”—before guiding them promptly to an ornate set of latticed doors which had been thrown open already in anticipation.

For just a moment as they approached the threshold, Edda hesitated. This was it. There was no turning back now. She had made her choice. She was here, in the same place she had been ten years ago—a few days late, but nonetheless, at the beginning of it all. It was all about to start again—except this time, she knew how treacherously, how insidiously it would unfold.

She followed Marta within. And there, waiting in the opulent antechamber alongside a handful of somber-faced maidservants, was the steward of Cachtice Castle.

Tibor Lukacs was as she remembered him. And she remembered him well, for she had known him for many years—though she supposed he did not know her yet. A slim man of middling height, he appeared now not far from his fiftieth year, but he carried himself with the ease of a much younger man. Silver streaked his dark hair at the temples, and the welcoming smile on his face belied the intensity in his dark eyes.

As those eyes settled on her, his smile slid the slightest amount. But his expression righted so quickly that, had Edda not been familiar with him, she might have doubted she’d seen it slip at all. Her jaw felt tight, because already, something was wrong. Yet he continued, inclining his head in greeting. “Well met, fair travelers,” he boomed, his voice warm, “On behalf of my lady, the Countess Bathory, you are welcomed to Cachtice. Steward Lukacs, at your service.”

With none of her previous discomfort evident, Marta stepped forward, tilting her head in return. “Well met, Steward. I bring regards from Master Simon Belten of Hesse and present his daughter, Miss Edda Belten.”

Edda stepped forward on cue, ducking her head respectfully. Despite her unrest, she kept her expression neutral and, even though her hands were clenched in her skirts, she surprised herself with the steadiness of her voice, “It is an honor to have received your lady’s invitation, Steward Lukacs. I am indebted by her favor.”

There was just a touch of tightness about his smile. She knew she did not imagine it. “The Countess has always had an eye for promising young women, Miss Belten,” he responded, “But come now. I am certain you’ve had a long journey and wish for some repose before supper.” He turned on his heel, ushering them into the entrance hall, with the maidservants following silently on their tail. “I will show you to your chambers.”

Despite her preoccupation with the steward’s strange manner, Edda could not help the wave of familiarity that washed over her upon entering the hall. The large doors they had passed through allowed a generous amount of daylight to spill in, making the hall, with its high, vaulted ceilings, seem even more spacious. Carved pillars lined the chamber, their stoicism contrasting with the lushness of the seasonal tapestries that decorated the walls. She knew this place well. How many guests had she entertained in this hall? How many balls and feasts hosted? It felt uncanny to be in this space again, in a time before any of that had come to pass.

They turned now toward the grand staircase at the far end, and Edda returned to the problem of Lukacs. She did not recall much of her first encounter with the steward; it had been so long ago and had been overwritten by their many other meetings. Ivar had been with them, then, and had done most of the talking while she gawked and marveled over the castle—paying little heed to the conversation or its tone. But now, the steward worried her. Had he been this curt with them the first time? Had his back been so tense? She could not remember.

As they began to make their way to the South Tower, where Edda knew her chambers would be for the next year, the steward turned to them, smiling in his usual way. “We had been expecting you some days past,” he stated, a question in his tone, “I hope you did not encounter trouble on your way from Hesse.”

“But a minor mishap, sir,” Marta answered, “We stayed some nights in the village not far from here.”

It was just barely, but Edda thought she saw Lukacs’ step falter half a pace. “That would be Ecsed?”

“Indeed,” Marta affirmed.

As Edda’s nerves continued to fray, unable to shake the feeling that something had gone off about the exchange with the steward, he began to lead them up the gently spiralling staircase that circled the South Tower. Her chambers, and the chambers of the other girls, would be on the second landing. Their way was brightened by small, rectangular windows carved out of the stone of the structure, and their footsteps echoed slightly in the vast column. A sound just eerie enough, despite the light, to compound her discomfort.

“It’s been some time since I’ve visited the village. I trust it was hospitable?” They turned now onto the landing, passing under an archway into a long hallway lined with doors.

Edda was glad that the steward could not see her expression, and she answered hurriedly before Marta could venture a response. “It was. But I was so poorly from the journey that we did not get a chance to experience much of it, I’m afraid. Marta, Mistress Jozsef, had to remain at my side the entire stay.”

“Did you not send for the healer?” Lukacs asked, his tone sympathetic as he continued walking. But despite his attempt at concern, Edda knew how she must answer.

“No, no,” she said quickly and emphatically, once more staying Marta’s response, “The physicians in Hesse say that healers do more harm than good. Marta herself tended me.” Edda chanced a glance over at Marta; the woman studied her feet as she walked, with lips pressed shut in confused disapproval. She would have to explain herself later.

At that, Lukacs came to a stop before one of the doors, turning to face her and Marta. Did he seem relieved? Suspicious? She could not tell from his expression alone. “I’m sorry to hear that travel misbecomes you, Miss Belten. But you have arrived safely, and for that we are glad.” He swung the door open and beckoned them enter. “Your chambers, Miss Belten. Please do let the servants know if anything can be done for your comfort. When you are settled, one of the servants will show Mistress Jozsef to her room.”

It had been one of the things she had been most excited about, originally. Up until her first night at Cachtice Castle, she had not slept apart from Marta or Franka for as long as she could remember, and the prospect of an entire, lavish bedchamber all her own had been irresistible. But she would not have it again—not for her sake, and not for Marta’s sake either.

“Oh!” Edda exclaimed, reaching for Marta’s shoulder, “But I could not bear to be separated from Marta when I have been so recently unwell.” She had used similar theatrics before in her decade as Countess, and though her heart beat a nervous staccato in her chest, she was confident in her believability.

Marta reached for her as well, now, a concerned frown on her face. “Perhaps she is right, Steward Lukacs. I would be lapse in my care of her if I left her in such a delicate state.”

And there, she saw it for certain—Tibor Lukacs’ dark eyes narrowed with displeasure as they looked upon her. Those dark eyes could bore a hole into you, she knew; they had at only a few times in the last decade been directed at her, and she remembered their intensity well. And she felt it, if briefly, in that very moment, as he paused, considering her request.

Finally, he addressed them with hands and arms outstretched. “Well, it is not customary. But given your constitution, I suppose I will overlook it until you are well again.” He gave a small smile that did not reach his eyes, “I’ll have the servants know to send up Mistress Joszef’s things and have a pallet arranged for her.”

“My thanks, Steward Lukacs,” Edda said as Marta echoed the sentiment. Her eyes were wide with gratitude, but despite her outward display, her earlier discomfort with him had shifted into something more. Lukacs had never been unkind to her, though he had often been insistent. Rather than a friend or a confidante, he had become an advisor of sorts. A guide. And had she not been guided to her death?

“I take my leave, then, Miss Belten. Mistress Joszef.” Once more, he inclined his head to them both in turn, and then he was gone.

Yes, Steward Tibor Lukacs was exactly as she remembered him. And that, for some reason, frightened her immensely.