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“What?”
“The Order of the Dragon,” he translated, moving closer to his servant. The old man was doing something near the fireplace that faced the large bed. It took me a moment to figure out what, because the paper spill he was holding was pressed to a soot-covered brick several feet to the left of the grate instead of to one of the dusty logs. “It was a society set up in Hungary by King Sigismund. My father became a member and…Let me do that,” Mircea offered, his eyes on the rapidly burning paper.
Horatiu smacked him on the shoulder. “Didn’t I teach you anything about respecting your station?” he demanded. “Always running about, playing with the servants’ children, thinking that cheeky grin of yours was going to let you get away with all sorts of irresponsible behavior.”
“So nothing’s changed,” I murmured.
Mircea sent me a wounded look while wrestling the old man for the spill. “What a nice blaze,” he said loudly, managing to get the paper away from Horatiu just before it set his hand on fire.
Horatiu regarded the cold interior of the fireplace proudly. “Yes it is, isn’t it?”
After a few moments, Mircea managed to coax the logs to life. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to eat?” he asked. He didn’t look hopeful, but my stomach grumbled expectantly anyway.
“Eat?” Horatiu peered at me blankly. Apparently he’d assumed that Mircea had brought takeout.
“She is my guest!” Mircea said emphatically.
Horatiu muttered something that sounded disappointed. “Well, I suppose I could go out and try to find someone,” he said doubtfully. “But with all the troubles nowadays, the streets are often deserted after dark.”
“I meant for her.”
“Eh?”
“Is there any food suitable for a human?” Mircea asked patiently.
“Well, if you’d sent word,” Horatiu said huffily. “I can’t be expected to know you’ll be bringing home one of them, can I? Not to mention that the shops are mostly empty in any case, what with everything going to the army!”
“A ‘no’ would have sufficed,” Mircea said. His glance at me was rueful. “My apologies. My hospitality is usually somewhat more…hospitable.”
“Not a problem.” I sat on the plush rug in front of the hearth and stretched my hands out to the fire. For the first time that night, I was almost warm and I didn’t have to worry about someone sneaking up on me.
“The cellars are intact, I believe?” Mircea inquired.
“Yes, yes. Plenty of wine.” Horatiu just stood there. So did Mircea. “Do you want me to go get some?” the old man finally asked.
“That would be nice,” Mircea said politely. Horatiu tottered off, still muttering to himself, just loudly enough to be understood. Mircea sighed and started searching a squat cabinet in a corner.
“It is an ouroboros, though, right? The order’s symbol?” My eyes had wandered back to the tapestry. The dragon’s scales were green, and its eyes, picked out in gold thread, seemed to move in the low light of the fire.
“Yes, I suppose,” Mircea said absently. “It is an ancient protection symbol, of a girdle of power encasing something precious. And that’s what they were trying to do—guard Europe from Turkish invasion. Why?”
“I keep seeing it lately, everywhere I go. It’s starting to weird me out.”
Mircea laughed. “The ouroboros is the mages’ emblem. It is ubiquitous in our world.”
“But they just use a plain silver circle,” I protested. I’d always thought it showed a real lack of imagination. The oldest magical organization on earth, and that was the best they could do?
“The older version of their symbol was an ouroboros. It was stylized over time into something easier to reproduce. They say they chose it because it is the alchemical symbol for purity, and silver stands for wisdom.” Mircea’s tone left no doubt as to what he thought of that claim.
“Protection, purity and wisdom.” A lot of things came to mind when I thought of the Circle. Those three weren’t on the list.
Mircea held out a dusty bottle. “Burgundy,” he said triumphantly.
“But you just sent Horatiu for wine.”
“Yes, a fact he’ll remember for perhaps five minutes.” He filled a couple of glasses that looked reasonably clean and passed me one.
“Thanks.” I took a sip. It was good. “What happened to him?”
