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  “So,” he is asking, “in addition to peace, what other legacy did Duke Pavol leave to your family.”

  I know, immediately, what he means.

  “His, ah . . . and the, ah . . .”

  Uncle Jozef nods. “Ano. ”

  It seems that I must add Uncle Jozef to the short list of those who know about . . .

  “Our little secret?”

  “Ano.” Uncle Jozef raises both eyebrows.

  I think I now understand. The baron has been attracted by the rumors that my family has some sort of hidden wealth. That is what has brought this weasel of a man and his despicable daughter to our door. Kuzlo a bohats. Magic and wealth. That is what this is about.

  A man such as the baron needs material wealth, and not just to purchase the appurtenances of a life of great comfort. Wealth is needed to raise and sustain an army, to bribe officials, to gain and maintain political control. Then, with the land in his grasp, he can do the dark deeds that help ensure unaging life. Of course, in the hands of a dark sorcerer, all wealth, material and magical alike, is quickly used up.

  That is how it was long ago in the time of the Dark Lord, according to the stories that Baba Anya told us. Just as a vampire draws the lifeblood from a single human victim, that evil one who longed to live forever sucked the wealth and the life from our unlucky land during the years of his rule. The soil became poorer, the lives of the people shorter and shorter. So, had it not been for Pavol, it would have continued until—like a spider leaving the empty husk of a fly caught in its web—all life would have been sucked away and the Dark Lord would have moved on.

  Always seeking out new hunting grounds. That is what those such as Baron Temny must do. Our peaceful realm must have looked like easy prey, especially after he lured my parents away so that he could begin a reign like that of the evil one of long ago. Begin a reign? Or regain it?

  I don’t have to speak my question to Uncle Jozef. He’s already nodding.

  “That is also why he has come,” Uncle Jozef says. “Here, at Hladka Hvorka, Prince Pavol stripped him of his power. Though it took him centuries to grow enough in strength, he has returned to regain what he lost.”

  I wish I were older, I wish I were wiser and stronger. I wish I knew what to do.

  I wish . . .

  “Rashko.”

  Uncle Jozef’s rumbling voice brings me out of my self-pitying trance. He leans down toward me. There’s another scroll in his hands. He unrolls the top and holds it out in front of me, I read the first words aloud.

  “The True Tale of Pavol.”

  The air seems to quiver around me as I speak those words.

  “Uncle Jozef,” I say. My voice is a bit unsteady. “I’ve wanted to know more of Pavol’s story since I was a small child. But I was always told I was not yet ready to hear it. Am I ready now?”

  “Ano,” Uncle Jozef says. “You have never been more ready. Citaj. Read.”

  I take the scroll in my hands and unroll it. I start to read, as I have done with other documents countless times before. But this is unlike any other reading I’ve ever done. The scroll vanishes.

  And so, in a way, do I!

  I’m no longer sitting on the floor of Uncle Jozef’s dom. I don’t just see the tale in my mind. I’m not just reading the tale of Pavol. I’m with him in his thoughts and deeds.

  PAVOL’S LEGEND

  Jedenast

  ALONE IN THE forest, Pavol tossed and turned. He could not sleep. He thought of many things, but most of all about the six objects that now rested in his pouch, each with its own story of how it had come to him. And there was one more thing, one more story yet to be found before he would begin the hardest part of his quest. Not that it would be easy here . . . another reason why sleep would not come.

  Pavol had chosen his shelter in Stary Les carefully. It was so deep in the woods and so well concealed that even an experienced tracker would be unlikely to find it. From the outside it looked like nothing more than a pile of brush.

  Of course, even an experienced tracker would have avoided and been terrified of the place. Here, close to the lights of the Silver Lands things were . . . unusual. The trees themselves were reputed to be both aware and intolerant of intruders. Ancient oaks, it was said, might creep close and then crush sleeping travelers with their heavy roots.

  Pavol, though, who had ventured there at the bidding of his guardians, had no such fears. He felt the magic in the air and found that he rather liked it. However, he did make sure that his camp for the night was well uphill and some distance from the river below, for it was a stream that flowed into or from (some said both at the same time) the Faerie realm.

  The waters of that stream, as a result, were quite lively. If one dared to take and eat a fish from its flow, one should not toss its bones back in. Otherwise those bones would come again to life—without their former sheathing of flesh.

  Then he heard it. Faintly at first. A cry in the night. He sat up. It was a call for help.

  Without a second thought or a torch to guide him he ventured out into the night. The half-moon was bright enough to light his way. He went downhill following the cry that grew louder now.

  He soon began to run, drawn by the increasing urgency in that plea for aid. It was surely a stranger’s voice but it came, Pavol felt certain, from the throat of someone he might like or even admire. Though insistent in its need for assistance—help me or I will not survive—it held neither fear nor panic.

  He pushed through a curtain of willows. A sparkle like that of a thousand diamonds suddenly was there before him. The moon’s light reflecting from the surface of the wide stream that rose in the Silver Lands and continued on along the edge of Stary Les, was broken by the dark-haired, slender figure struggling to reach the shore. Hands held high, that person was being held, pulled by something unseen beneath the surface.

  Not mud, thought Pavol. Far worse than that.

  Yet that thought did not keep him from taking a deep, deep breath and diving in headfirst. He kicked forward underwater until his outstretched hands grasped the slimy arms that had wrapped around the stranger’s ankles. Those arms were powerful, but Pavol was stronger. Dead flesh tore as he pulled them free. Then, as slithery hands reached for him, he switched his grip to the neck. He squeezed hard, digging his fingers in deep enough to feel the bone beneath.

  NIE, a voice that knew no breath gasped.

  Ano, Pavol thought back. You go, I let go.

  ANO! ANO! I GO, I GO.

  Pavol released his grasp and felt the creature slip away, back into the mud. His lungs close to bursting, he rose to the surface.

  The slender stranger was nowhere to be seen. Pavol shook the stinking mud from his fingers, wiped ooze from his cheek. Had the one he rescued departed without a word?

  Not even a simple Dakujem, pan?

  Was that the way of the Fair Folk, for such he was sure the slender stranger must be, to not show gratitude as mortals do?

  The sound of a surprisingly human voice cursing drew his eyes farther downstream. The thin, ravenhaired rescuee was there, pulling up onto the shore the small shell of his boat. It must have been the stranger’s craft before being tipped over by the eager hands of the creature whose death had not ended its hunger for living flesh.

  The stranger turned toward him. The moonlight illuminated a fine, fair face.

  Ah, not his boat. Her boat.

  “Dakujem, Pavol,” she said. “I fear that my arrival was less dignified than I planned.” She smiled. Quite a nice smile. “It has made it more clear to me why the Folk have observed you with interest. Indeed, the time has arrived for you to have this gift from my cousins.”

  Cousins, Pavol thought.

  He looked at her. Though he had not, to his knowledge, seen any like her before, he guessed who she was, a being right out of Baba Marta’s tales. It explained why, though her features were Faerie perfect, her hair was dark and not fair.

  She was an in-betweener, one whose mother or fa
ther was not of the Fair Folk but human. Such half-bloods might remain within the Silver Realm or choose to live as a human.

  For some reason, that thought sent a shiver of excitement down his back. And when she smiled at him, his heart quite came up into his throat.

  She nodded. “You will need this. And if you complete your quest, we shall meet again. My name,” she said, “is Karoline.”

  Then she placed the bronze bracelet in his hand.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Er-ah

  I SHAKE MY head as I look up from the scroll at Uncle Jozef.

  I’m disoriented. How long have I been here? I feel as if hours have passed. For a moment I panic at the thought of what may have transpired back at our castle while I’ve been gone.

  Then I notice that the sunlight coming in through the door is still slanting at the same angle. I can see Ucta and Odvaha keeping guard on either side. It’s the same day, the same hour. It was only a few breaths ago that Uncle Jozef handed me that scroll. In the space of a heartbeat I saw, no, shared an event in Pavol’s life that took far longer.

  It was not just my imagination. I’m certain of that. I was there, generations ago, watching it happen. And just when it was really getting interesting, I’ve found myself back again. I’m a bit resentful about that. I’m also feeling a little ill.

  “Rashko, ako ti je? How are you?” Uncle Jozef asks.

  “I just need to sit down,” I say. “I feel dizzy.”

  “You are sitting,” Uncle Jozef replies. “On the floor.”

  I start to stand, but his heavy hand on my shoulder holds me back as effectively as the weight of a fallen tree.

  “Pockaj. Wait.” He studies my face and then nods. “Where were you?”

  I feel reticent to share the vision—or experience—I’ve just been through. Where I really want to be is back watching more of my ancestor’s story unfold. I take a deep breath and then let it out through my teeth.

  “I was there,” I say. “I saw Pavol save someone who gave him a bronze bracelet.”

  Uncle Jozef touches his thumb to his lips.

  “Ano,” he says, nodding slowly.

  Part of me wants to ask what all that has transpired means. How does this all relate to our problem with the baron? I keep my lips pressed together. Better to let Uncle Jozef talk.

  “Dobre. Good,” he says. “The dragon bracelet.”

  Uncle Jozef takes a few steps back toward the fire and then folds down into the cross-legged position he was in before we went over to his books and his desk. It’s amazing how one with the weight of so many seasons and so large a frame can be so nimble. I’m no longer dizzy, but when I stand up to go and join him, it is with considerably less grace.

  “So,” he says. “Let us go slowly now. One who runs too fast may dash past opportunity. Think now about your family’s little secret, the first time it was disclosed to you.”

  I smile as the memory comes to me. It was all so typical of my mother.

  THE YEAR PAULEK was eight and I was seven our birthday celebration was memorable. I have not mentioned it before, but we were born exactly a year apart. Our ages differ, but our birth date is the same.

  As usual, I had to open my present first so that Paulek could lay claim to it. Then, after opening his gift box, he could, with a show of great magnanimity, announce that he would gladly share both his presents with his beloved brother.

  The present partially mine was a small carved horse with a knight bearing a sword and shield on his back. Paulek’s was a miniature castle with a dragon perched atop its tower. Both had been expertly crafted, painted with great detail. It seems as if they were alive and about to start breathing—including the little castle!

  The birthday feast included all of our favorite foods. Pierogies were the appetizer (Paulek and I each ate only seven or so), followed by zapekane rezne, huge loaves of bread, a small mountain of pork chops without the bones seasoned with salt and pepper and covered with cheese and a bit of table cream before baking. We consumed no more than a dozen dumplings filled with jelly so that we would not spoil our appetite for the babovka, a large, light fluffy cake topped with sugar, raisins, and nuts that waited at the end of our repast.

  While we were wiping our plates with heels of bread and searching the serving platters for scraps like two hungry little bears, my father cast a knowing glance at my mother. It was less than subtle, accompanied as it was by a loud “Ah, ahem, eh? Shall we? Now?”

  That was Father’s way of passing Mother messages he meant to bypass our ears. Shouldn’t they be put to bed now? or Can’t you save a bit of that cake for me before they eat it all?

  As always, Paulek paid no attention. I pretended I didn’t notice, even though my parents had become an open book to me by the time I was four.

  “What’s that, my dear?” Mother said brightly back to Father. She was seldom quick to comprehend his attempts at surreptitiousness.

  “I mean, er-ah, you know . . . that we should now show the . . . you know?”

  “No, dear.”

  Father drew Mother aside and whispered in her ear. It was, however, loud enough for my keen ears to hear it clearly.

  “Isn’t it time, y’ know, now that they are old enough, that you showed the boys, that which we do not talk about?”

  My father looked around behind him to see if anyone was eavesdropping. Of course Georgi was there, his hands steepled, his eyes looking innocently up at the ceiling—that little smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

  Father continued. “Y’ know what I mean, in the cellar, the . . . er-ah?”

  “Oh,” Mother said, understanding coming to her face that was always as lovely as a cloudless sky, “you want me to show them the dra—”

  My father’s index finger pressed gently to her lips cut off the word she’d begun to speak.

  “Exactly,” he said. “I’ll stay here and guard the door. Make sure no one follows.”

  “Come along, dears,” Mother said, taking us by our arms. “Put down your knives and spoons. Time for you to see the . . .” My mother paused, noting that my father was making frantic gestures urging her to silence. “Well, you’ll soon see.”

  With that she led us to a hidden passage carefully concealed behind the painted tapestry hung on the castle’s west wall whose shifting patterns I always found myself studying.

  That day, I recall, I took note of the way the shape of the dragon itself seemed brighter and more prominent than usual. But the overall message of the tapestry was still impossible for me to decipher, unlike the secrets my less-than-clever parents tried to keep from me. Among them was that door my mother revealed by pulling back the tapestry. It was so well hidden that I had not discovered it myself until the day I learned to crawl.

  “Look, boys,” she said.

  Paulek wanted to get back to his new toys.

  “Can’t you just take Rashko?” he said.

  “No, dear,” my mother said in a firm voice. “You must do this together.”

  By now Georgi had produced a ring of keys and handed it to Father.

  “Turn your back, Georgi,” my father said.

  Then, as Georgi stifled the chuckle shaking his shoulders, my father chose the correct key. Not hard to do. It was the only one that had a large wooden tag labeled “Tajny Prechod,” Secret Passage, attached to it. Father turned the key in the lock and pulled the metal-bound door open with a loud creak.

  Still with his back turned, Georgi handed my mother a torch. Had he not done so, my mother would likely have led us into total darkness and then stood there in confusion wondering why we weren’t able to see anything.

  “Watch your step on the corners,” Father cautioned.

  “Yes, dear,” Mother replied. “Hold your brother’s hand,” she said to me.

  And we were off to the deep, secret cellars of Hladka Hvorka.

  In all the old stories, whenever someone—usually a knight errant—finds his way into a hidden passage that leads myst
eriously down into the earth, there are certain things one expects. Among them are the cobwebs, eerie noises, the eldritch markings of twisted magical runes upon slimy walls, and strange cold drafts—to say nothing of the innumerable traps where one steps on a loose trigger stone and is then impaled by sharp spikes or crushed by walls that grind inexorably closer. Then there are the yawning pits that open unexpectedly to send the unwary screaming down into dread depths.

  Having heard several such grisly tales from Baba Anya by the time I was seven I was hopeful of adventure after we passed through the hidden doorway. However, none of the aforementioned perils were present in the well-kept passageway that led down below Hladka Hvorka. The walls were dry and freshly whitewashed, the ceiling absent of spiders or webs. All rather a disappointment to me. The prosaic stairs were so neat and free of dust that it looked suspiciously as if they had been quite recently swept in preparation for our little excursion. That impression was strengthened when I noticed the broom closet off to the side on the first landing.

  That well-kept “Secret Passage” was further evidence of what I had come to realize, even by the age of seven. Our loyally competent servants were the ones who truly ran Castle Hladka Hvorka. There were no secrets they did not know. At times it made me wonder why they’d never taken advantage of my parents’ innocent lack of awareness. Once or twice, I even pondered the possibility that my parents were not quite as unworldly as they seemed, that they actually knew more than they appeared to know.

  My final conclusion, though, was that my parents’ constant intentions to do good and to treat everyone who worked for them as valued helpers, inspired both loyalty and patience in all our retainers. I also think they all respect my father’s great physical strength and my mother’s, shall we say, special abilities that I first saw displayed that day when we descended.

  On down we went, one neat stairway after another, every step so clean you could have eaten your breakfast on it. How boring, I was thinking. The only strange thing was that, for some inexplicable reason, I felt as if we were climbing rather than descending. It was as if we were ascending a mountainside rather than going down one steep set of stairs after another. But then we rounded the final corner. And there was another door, quite a door!