A Forest of Wolves Read Free Page A

you,” I said.
    Mr. Sýkora bowed. “I assume all of what I have heard is true?”
    â€œThat depends on what you’ve heard,” Henrik said. “People tend to gossip in Bohemia.”
    â€œYou are the high chancellor’s daughter?”
    â€œIn the flesh.”
    â€œShe’s the Duchess of Prucha now?”
    Henrik whistled. “Word travels fast. However, that fact is debatable.” He nudged Marc in the ribs. “If anyone asks, we’re saying no, she is not the Duchess of Prucha—she is plain old Mila. We are officially taking the stance that she was forced to marry the duke, but the marriage was never consummated.”
    Petr glanced at Marc.
    â€œIt’s true,” he said.
    Petr regarded me carefully with kind eyes, but he seemed slightly apprehensive. He turned to Marc. “What about Jiri? Where is he?”
    Marc exhaled. “Jiri is dead. I’m sorry, Father.”
    A full minute passed before Petr released a frame-shuddering sigh. “I always knew my baby boy would meet a violent end. How did it happen?”
    â€œUrek.”
    Petr exhaled again. “Urek killed him?”
    Marc’s lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded. “I’ll kill him,” Marc said. “I swear to you, Father, I’ll avenge my brother.”
    â€œWe and our,” Henrik corrected. “ We will kill Urek and avenge our brother’s murder.”
    Henrik’s tone was light—Marc’s was not. Rage claimed Marc’s face. He blamed himself for Jiri’s death. I reached for his hand and squeezed. I hated seeing him so upset.
    â€œLet’s not talk of vengeance,” Petr said. “My boys and a beautiful lady are here with me. We can have breakfast together. Igor is cooking.”
    Henrik’s nostrils flared. “Uncle Igor is cooking? Why would you let him cook?”
    We followed Henrik and Petr inside the cozy one-room home. The house had a circular space with swept dirt floors and an extended wooden table in the middle of the room. It smelled of dirty laundry and sweaty men.
    Weapons, of all shapes and sizes, were stacked high along the perimeter of the walls. I remembered Henrik saying he’d moved the stash from the blacksmith shop in Prague to his father’s house in Kladno.
    Despite the abundance of weapons, it was not enough to fight the Crown. Even I knew that—I’d seen the armory at the castle. Did Henrik and Marc have more weapons stored someplace else? Did they know what they were going up against?
    â€œHenrik! Marc! You made it! Finally!” A raspy voice boomed from the rear of the room.
    I stepped around Marc to see the speaker.
    Our eyes met and the man’s wrinkled face morphed from pleasant to angry. One side of his face, from the corner of his eye to his chin, drooped. He was missing most of his teeth and his greasy hair was slicked back from his high forehead. He snapped a wooden spoon in the air as if he was striking someone.
    I flinched.
    â€œHarlot! Get that Catholic wench out of my house!” He launched himself at me—if he weren’t so old, I would’ve been more concerned, but he moved slowly. He hobbled on one knee with the spoon raised as a weapon. “I know it’s her! She looks just like Isabella!”
    My stomach twisted at the mentioning of my dead mother.
    â€œStop!” Marc moved in front of me. “I said stop it, Uncle!”
    Their lunatic uncle showed no signs of stopping. He was on a quest to beat me to death with a spoon. Why was he so angry with me? And why had he called me a harlot?
    Henrik sprang to the side and slipped his arm around his uncle. When he was finished, Henrik had his bicep securely around his uncle’s wrinkly neck. “Settle down, old man.”
    â€œGet . . .” The uncle gasped for air. “Harlot . . . house.”
    â€œIf you call Mila a harlot one more time, Uncle Igor,” Marc warned, “I’m