Regardless, Rothwild was charged with involuntary manslaughter and publicly shamed (someone painted “killer” on his car during the trial, and a photograph of the graffiti was in the newspapers for weeks) but got off on a technicality. With his political career in shambles, he retreated to Hungary and began using his mother’s surname to rid himself of his past.
If I had to guess, I’d say that’s about the time he decided to resurrect the Order of the Dragon.
23
IHURRIED AWAY FROM THE ZISSUS’shop, determined to disappear before they realized I’d left. And if I stopped for even one second to think about what I was doing, I was afraid I’d be tempted to tuck tail and run back to safety.
Scattered lights glowed in a few lonely windows down the long block, but no one was out walking on the street. That was good. Made it easier to spot any signs of Sarkany and his men. Nothing so far, but I half expected him to ambush me from every dark doorway. Probably should have armed myself—with what, I didn’t have a clue. If Huck were with me, he’d probably misquote some proverb about pens and swords, but thinking about that only made my heart hurt.
After I turned a couple of corners, the town square came into view, and I spotted my destination lording over the other buildings.
Black Church,Biserica Neagra.
The path is unlocked under the Black Church.
Right. So how would I find that? Under a flashing sign that spelled out “Secret Entrance”? I squinted at the front of the cathedral. Beyond a low iron gate, a single candle sputtered near the Gothic cathedral’s massive wooden doors. A signal in the dark? Or merely something left behind by the stewards of the church? I didn’t know, but there was no one in sight.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I inhaled cold night air and approached the iron gate surrounding the entrance. It was cracked open, as was one of the carved wooden doors. Just barely. Steeling myself, I slipped through the gate and entered the medieval basilica.
I quickly glanced around the vestibule to ensure no one was lying in wait. I seemed to be alone. It was dim, but another candle sat on the floor, leading me farther inside.
I cautiously made my way forward, my gaze sweeping over my surroundings. The church was Gothic outside, yet baroque inside, rebuilt after the massive fire that burned the building in the seventeenth century. It smelled of candle wax and old wood, especially in the cathedral’s nave. Electric spotlights shone down the walls, enough to see fraying tapestries hanging above dark pews.
I crept down the main aisle under grand arches that soared to the ceiling, reaching above a mezzanine balcony. The white columns were rib bones, and I was striding into the belly of the whale, one with an altar crowned by massive organ pipes. Where a single candle burned on the floor.
My heart pounded as I approached the candle at the altar. A waist-high iron gate circled a baptismal font—one that looked like a giant metal cup. Scratches marred the floor; the font had been moved to one side. Beneath it were wooden grates where baptismal water would drain below the floor. And near these grates was an open trapdoor.
I peered over the baptismal gate and into the trapdoor.
A steep set of stairs led into darkness.
Under the Black Church.
This was definitely under... and definitely terrifying. Not a sound down there. Shadows were still. Was I alone, or was this a snare? If it was, I’d have to take that chance. It was too late to go back.
Muscles tense, I crept through the baptismal gate and descended dark steps.
Candlelight from the church spilled through the slated wooden grates above my head. I steadied myself on a handrail of rope that had been strung to a wooden wall and carefully padded down the steps. Down below the altar into a small, dark space. It was cold and dank, and it smelled of mildew. Nothing but wooden supports, cobwebs, and plumbing pipes.
I spied a small flashlight. I picked it up and switched it on. A broad column of light shone onto the dirt floor.
And down a long subterranean tunnel lined with bricks.
Swallowing my fear, I carefully made my way down the tunnel. Foul-smelling water dripped onto my arm. Something scuttled across the floor. Was this once used for medieval sewage? Maybe for dragging plague victims through the city. I quickened my pace and loped deeper down the dripping tunnel.
And deeper...
Was it endless?
A claustrophobic panic tightened my chest. I stumbled through puddles, feeling like Theseus trapped in the Minotaur’s Labyrinth—unsure which was worse: the darkness ahead of or behind me. How much time had passed? Minutes? A half hour? Just when I feared I’d go mad, the tunnel canted upward. After a minute or so, my flashlight’s beam found a metal gate.
Fresh air!
Rusted metal whined as I pushed through and lurched outside. Chest heaving, I breathed in night air. Where was I? The gate was built into the side of a hill. A heavily wooded mountain rose in front of me. Mist clung to tree branches.
A narrow railway track split the trees with two sets of tracks; upon one sat a compact inclined railcar.
An old funicular railway. The hidden path up the mountain.
