The Trojan Icon (Ethan Gage Adventures Book 8) (15 page)

Incredibly, this seemed to intrigue Dolgoruki as much as it alarmed me. “If we stop this battle, you’ll reveal this prize?”

“I’ll tell you where it is, and how to get it.” She was cool as an estate agent striking a bargain.

“I must go with the execrable Americans?”

“They’re all quite necessary to success.”

“Princess, what is this place?” Astiza whispered anxiously.

Izabela ignored her. “Do you agree?”

I wanted to interrupt too, asking just what it was we were necessary for, but it did seem expedient to end this battle—even if it meant partnering with the annoying Russian. So I waited.

“Agreed,” he finally said.

“Agreed to what?” Izabela pressed.

He hung his head and muttered. “I agree to give up the swords in return for a better trophy. If you convince me it exists.”

“No.” Her voice was clear, carrying to the Russian soldiers and the Poles beyond. “You agree to stop this ridiculous attempt to steal back swords that have been the rightful property of Poland for four hundred years, in return for my revealing an alternative. Otherwise, all of you perish. Your men must lay down their arms and return to their army. You must proceed by yourself, alone, with the Gage family.”

He shook his head in frustration, but what choice did he have? “My men will not surrender their arms,” he stubbornly tried.

“They will or die. And if Russia dares comes again, they’ll find my servants armed with captured Russian guns.”

Dolgoruki hesitated.

“Sire, do not humiliate us!” one of his men pleaded.

“I’m offering you redemption and your men life,” Izabela insisted.

Dolgoruki fumed, but the hopelessness of his position was clear even to him. It looked like half of Poland had filled in behind him. His depleted command was surrounded by an armed mob. He turned to another officer. “Take the men back across the river. If I don’t return in four hours, return to our regiment and explain that I’m on a mission for Mother Russia.”

“But prince, I don’t trust these Poles!”

“Neither do I, but neither do I fear them. Nor will I throw away your lives for nothing. Today, do as I command. We’ll find better fortune tomorrow.”

The man reluctantly saluted, and the Russian soldiers slowly began to stand up and reveal themselves. The agreement was whispered from man to man, and conveyed to the troops in the basement. After a low debate, the cellar soldiers filed out its broken door, carrying their wounded.

“Leave your weapons,” Dolgoruki commanded. His men reluctantly stacked muskets and slowly backed through the Polish ranks, hundreds of Izabela’s fighters watching them go with ominous silence.

Soon the prince was completely alone.

“Done,” he said, as if the retreat had been his idea. “Where and what is this prize?”

“It’s not to be shouted,” Izabela said. “Step up here.” Dolgoruki mounted the steps between the lions in his high cavalry boots, spurs jangling, sheathed saber swaying like a tiger’s tail, brave and humiliated. He scowled at me.

“The icon is in another castle,” she said, “at the edge of the Ottoman Empire in the high Carpathian Mountains. All of you must work together in order to get it.”

“Why?” I asked.

“That will become clear in due time. You’ll agree to help the prince, Ethan, in return for amnesty from Tsar Alexander and reward from Poland. Success will give the prince new renown, you forgiveness, us the swords, and laurels for all involved. A title, I think you said.”

So one difficult task by my confidant Adam Czartoryski had turned my family into fugitives, and now I had a new one from Adam’s mother. Did Czartoryski let slip to the Russians that the swords were coming to Pulawy, only to turn the tables on Dolgoruki? Izabela had made sure Caleb and I came armed. What had she told my brother last night? How much of this had been planned, how much accident, and how much fate?

Once more we were in bondage to someone else’s ambition, and in partnership with a man I despised. Prince Ethan was apparently pawn Ethan, and my greed in St. Petersburg had ensnared me in webs I still didn’t fully understand. I looked at Caleb. Was my brother a part of this manipulation as well? He neutral look revealed nothing. “And why haven’t you already fetched this prize yourself?” I asked our hostess.

“Yes. If this icon is real, why don’t you already have it?” Dolgoruki seconded.

Izabela lowered her voice. “Because the Trojan palladium, prince, is possessed by Cezar Dalca.”

And at that, both Dolgoruki and Caleb sucked in their breath.

CHAPTER 18

T
he Carpathian Mountains are a thousand-mile-long crescent of rugged peaks that wrap around a land apart. All of the range is wild and cloud-cloaked, but its southeastern quarter soars eight thousand feet to cup a rugged frontier region called Transylvania, Latin for “beyond the forest.” This windy tumble of cliff and pine is the reputed refuge of a renegade duke and bandit chief named Cezar Dalca, a reclusive warlord whom our expanded fellowship pledged to find. In his stronghold we hoped to seize an icon as old as history itself, and finally redeem our ambitions.

Our goal, I was told, was the Trojan palladium—an old Greek statue with powers I’d yet to fully understand. Caleb and Dolgoruki were apparently aware of its reputation and owner but declined explanation until we neared Dalca’s stronghold.

“Best not to worry until you have to,” Dolgoruki said.

“Don’t put stock in tavern stories,” Caleb added.

Which made us worry all the more.

The Romanians call Transylvania Ardeal. The Saxon settlers who dominate the valley towns prefer Siebenburgen, or “the seven fortresses.” Here the proud Dacians made a final stand against the conquering Roman emperor Trajan, who lusted for their gold and silver mines. Later invaders included Hun and Magyar, Avar and Turk, soaking the land in blood. Today the Carpathians are a rampart of the Austrian Empire. The Ottoman provinces of Moldavia and Wallachia lie just beyond, their captive Christians oppressed and restive. Even as we traveled, Russian armies were marching to brew another war.

Transylvania seemed detached from such events, gripped in its own universe. By legend this is where the world’s darker creatures stalk, crawl, and fly. Its treasures are supernatural, guarded by gypsies, thieves, vagabonds, witches, werewolves, vampires, sorcerers, wizards, necromancers, and hermits—or so claim the mystic texts. If our sojourn in Prague last year brought us to the European capital of mystery, this is mystery’s hinterland. Magic resides like mist in Transylvania’s hollows, and wolves still prowl its forests. Two bears once rose on their hind legs to inspect us as we passed. Astiza told us that Transylvanians believe bears are trapped, enchanted men.

More ordinary inhabitants are a mongrel mix of races. The Szeklers are descendants of the Huns, paid by Vienna to guard the frontier. The valley dwellers are German immigrants and Slav peasants, sturdy and secretive. Their name for their limestone peaks is
Lumea pierduta
, or “the lost world.” There resides Cezar Dalca: A ghost, guarding a legend, in a ruin, from a fog of time.

Izabela had generously equipped us with horses and supplies. Even Harry rode proudly on his own little pony, clopping obediently behind our bigger steeds. We regretted having to leave the luxuries of Pulawy, but once we set out we traveled impatiently. Astiza, Caleb, Dolgoruki and I may have been forced into expedient alliance, but we knew we were an ill-matched group: A brother I’d once betrayed, who always seemed to know more than he revealed. A proud Russian recruited because his alternative was death or humiliation. My eccentric, rootless family. Dolgoruki sulked, Caleb brooded, and Astiza fretted. Harry was simply confused that we were on the road again.

“I liked that house, Papa.”

“Maybe we’ll find a better one.”

We were also a fellowship of greed, as all treasure hunters must be. Redemption for Dolgoruki, a possible title for me, a home for Astiza and Harry, and reward from France for Caleb. All we needed was to obtain an antique wooden statute that may or may not exist, held by a reclusive madman, fortified amid the wildest peaks of Europe. “We have a plan,” Caleb promised.

I’d debated trying to persuade Astiza to stay at Pulawy. But no one thought this a good idea, least of all my wife. She refused because too much misfortune befalls us when we’re apart. Izabela also insisted that Astiza was uniquely equipped to evaluate Dalca’s powers. “It’s women who have insight,” the princess told her. “You may be the only person who can really understand him.” And Astiza wouldn’t hear of leaving Harry. So we once more rode into adventure as a family, hoping this ‘palladium’ would finally be the end of our rainbow.

We departed in lush spring. The brooks were a torrent, the trees bursting, and birds were mad with breeding frenzy. Showers scrubbed the sky so clean that rocks sparkled as we rode south. Wildflowers erupted, and the green cheered our spirits. Saxon steeples began to supplant the bulbous church towers of the Orthodox faith as we approached the Carpathians. Sheep with new lambs surged across meadows like waves of foam. Pastures sang with the clank of cowbells as cattle were herded to higher pastures. The bucolic setting seemed reassuringly normal.

But as we mounted the foothills the season began to reverse, as if time was running backward. The land became colder and more rugged, the peaks ahead still snowcapped. Trees shrank and went back to bare winter. The ground reverted to mud, stone, and dead grass. Villages became smaller and poorer, and finally disappeared almost entirely. Lonely cabins clutched ridge-tops to overlook precipitous fields. The inhabitants became furtive, watching us from cover like wild animals. The men wore sheepskin jackets, astrakhan hats, and hide moccasins not that different from Dacian barbarians. The women wore leather corsets, heavy woolen skirts, and wide embroidered aprons faded from time and hard use. Some families had the red complexions of northern Europe, others the swarthy cast of Cossack and Mongol.

Empires collide here. Northwest was Austria, east was Russia, and southeast the vast Ottoman realm ruled by Sultan Selim III in far-off Constantinople. We came across the bones of old battlefields. Combs of ribs jutted from dry grass. Skulls had eye sockets plugged with dirt. Rusting metal and tattered cloth decorated some remains.

“Who are the dead people, Papa?”

“Soldiers from long ago.”

“Turks, Szeklers, and Cossacks,” Dolgoruki surmised. “See the scimitars? A border skirmish, boy. Now the Serbs are revolting against the Ottomans, and Russian regiments are threatening Moldavia in support.”

“The Turks once ruled this area, did they not?” asked Astiza.

“Until defeated more than a hundred years ago.”

“But the Ottomans and Russia still quarrel?”

“War never ends.”

Harry was shivering when we stopped at a hut to chew bread and sausage and interrogate a squat, ugly shepherd about Dalca. The man’s initial response was simply to make the sign of the cross. Then Caleb bribed him with a coin and we learned we were almost to a crossroads village called Szejmal where we could seek directions to Dalca’s stronghold. The reclusive duke was reputed to live in a remote fortress high above the town.

The shepherd annoyingly stared while we ate our lunch, so I turned my back on him. Then Caleb asked to speak privately with Astiza and me. “It’s time to say a little more.” Leaving Harry with the Russian prince, we walked to the brow of a ridge that looked across a labyrinth of hill and canyon. Everything had gone gray. The trees were crabbed. Grass was beaten down from the snows of last winter. Eroded gullies cut across a road that was little more than a trail. The land looked cursed.

“I’ve not been entirely honest with you, brother,” Caleb began.

“Something of an understatement, isn’t it?”

“No one confides everything,” allowed Astiza.

Caleb looked at her then with a curious expression of appreciation and guilt to which I should have paid more attention. “And because we don’t confide, all men are fundamentally alone,” he went on. “Isn’t that so, Ethan?”

“It is for some. Family helps.”

“Yes. Now I’ve reunited with yours. It’s curious how fate swings in great circles, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps time is a circle,” Astiza said. “Or perhaps time doesn’t exist at all, and we’re trapped in a life in which everything that ever happened and ever will happen is right now.”

“And death the key which frees that trap,” Caleb amended.

“I’d no idea privateers were so philosophical,” I said drily to my brother. “Or could try so hard to impress my wife.”

“There’s a lot of time to think on a quarterdeck, the ocean hissing tediously by. You remember everything, and thus remember it a hundred different ways. Sometimes the more you remember the less it stings, like massaging a wound. Sometimes you get confused about what really happened. And sometimes remembering makes wounds worse. Brooding isn’t productive, but it swallows time.” He glanced at my wife. “If time exists.”

“So what have you been dishonest about?” I asked impatiently.

“Yes. Well. I didn’t fully explain that Napoleon believes you remain in his debt. The emperor says you were sent in search of a mechanical man that served as an oracle, and that you’re rumored to have found it.”

“That was our project, not his,” I said.

“Bonaparte disagrees. He said he’s saved you many times but that you never repay his charity. So he offered a bargain. If I could deliver to him what you wouldn’t, I’d be saved and you’d be forgiven. He gave me the devil’s mission of finding you and using you.”

“The mechanical man was a fool’s errand. The automaton is wrecked forever.” I actually wasn’t sure if that were true but I’d no interest in ever going near the infernal machine again.

“He said you’d inevitably pursue some new relic. Perhaps he even recommended you to Czartoryski as a man who could retrieve the swords. Did you ever wonder why the foreign minister was so friendly to a vagabond American family?”

“I assumed it was our charm.” I considered my brother. “So Bonaparte has a hand in our manipulation as well. And you’re his tool?”

“I’ve been looking after you longer than you know. Did you ever wonder who saved you from your manservant?”

“
You
shot Gregor?”

“No, but I warned Czartoryski to be ready for betrayal. The foreign minister took the unusual step of coming to your apartment, did he not? So I suppose it was he or one of his men. We’re in a bear pit of competing Russians, Prussians, French, and Poles. But now we’re at the end of Europe, beyond reach of our masters. We can decide our own route and destiny.”

“You’ve shared this revelation with our Russian partner?”

“Of course not. We need Dolgoruki until we don’t.”

“Hard sentiment, brother.”

“Realism, little brother, from a lifetime of survival. I only mention this because I want us to see things clearly. To win your trust I’m confiding that Napoleon feels you’re in his debt. There it is.”

“Which is scarcely news. I wish you’d be as candid about this mysterious Cezar Dalca and this so-called palladium.”

“Prince Dolgoruki can help with that as we ride to Szejmal. He knows more than I do, and we need to reach the village before nightfall.”

“To the horses, then.”

Dolgoruki and Harry were already saddled, my boy wearily still beneath a broad-brimmed hat, his cloak’s hood pulled up against the cold. We swung onto our own steeds and kicked into a trot, the track winding ever higher. Streamers of cloud blew off the highest peaks. Eagles orbited like sentries.

“So, Caleb and Peter,” I prompted, “is our quest finally to be explained? When Izabela mentioned Cezar Dalca your eyes filled with dread.”

“And desire,” said Astiza.

“Some of this comes from tavern tales,” Caleb said. “Whispers. Legend. But it’s consistent enough to convince me Dalca is real, not a myth.” We could see the village of Szejmal high up ahead, its rambling lanes and huts dangling like spider legs from a razorback ridge. “A recluse, in a wreck of a castle, with a smattering of henchmen, so removed from most of civilization that no one bothers with him anymore.”

“Yet he still inspires fear?” Astiza asked.

“Yes. I was told in Paris that even the Turks avoid him. The rumor is that those who visit never return. Some claim he’s some kind of robber baron. Other that he’s mad aristocrat. Some say he’s a malevolent spirit, some contend he’s immortal, and some that he’s a sorcerer.”

“Conjuring what?” I asked.

“Collecting,” contributed Dolgoruki. “The legend in St. Petersburg is that he’s an obsessed antiquarian. Old books. Old manuscripts. Old relics, talismans, icons, potions, and spells. And where does he get his gold to do this collecting? Some claim he makes it by alchemy. That would be a pretty trick to know.”

“We tried that in Bohemia,” I said. “Or rather, Astiza did.”

“I made an explosive, not gold,” she said. “An explosion
from
gold.”

“I suspect transformation is a fraud,” I added. “It’s difficult to change anything, least of all ourselves. People claim more powers than they have. Dalca too, maybe.”

“Yet others have more power than we can explain,” Astiza added. “Cagliostro. The Comte Saint-Germaine. Alessandro Silano. Wolfgang Richter sought such powers. We’ve had glimpses of the shadow world behind the veil, husband. Mysteries have their magic.”

“I’ll admit the world is an odd place.”

“The tsar would like such magic,” Dolgoruki said. “Useful against Napoleon.”

“So would Napoleon,” said Caleb. “Useful against the tsar.”

“So would Ethan Gage,” I said, “but this relic we’re after seems unlikely to be all that magical, since I’ve never heard of it.”

“Haven’t you?” Dolgoruki replied. “I know Americans ignore the classics, Gage, but surely even you have know the
Iliad,
Odyssey,
and Virgil’s
Aeneid.”
His tone was condescending toward the ignorant colonial.

“I intend to get around to all three, once I retire.”

“The Trojan War lasted ten years,” my brother informed me.

“Yes,” I said, although in truth I hadn’t kept track. “So?”

“Something prevented a Greek victory year after year,” Dolgoruki said. “Yet in the end Troy fell rather suddenly.”

“The Trojan Horse,” I said, able to show I wasn’t completely at a loss. “The Greeks built a gigantic hollow horse, the Trojans dragged it inside their city, and Odysseus slipped out to open the gates. A rousing tale, up there with Hercules and the golden fleeces in the labyrinth.” There’s nothing like a good story, though my mind did tend to wander at Harvard. It’s possible I mixed one myth up with another.