Coldheart Canyon Read Free Page A

let me ask you: what pleases her ?”
    “Things that nobody else would be likely to—no, could possibly —possess, please her,” Zeffer replied. “She likes to show off her collection, and she wants everything in it to be unique.”
    Sandru spread his arms and his smile. “ Everything here is unique.”
    “Father, you sound as though you’re ready to sell the foundations if the price is right.”
    Sandru waxed metaphysical. “All these things are just objects in the end. Yes? Just stone and wood and thread and paint. Other things will be made in time, to replace them.”
    “But surely there’s some sacred value in the objects here?”
    The Father gave a little shrug. “In the Chapel, upstairs, yes. I would not want to sell you, let us say, the altar.” He made a smile, as though to say that under the right circumstances even that would have its price. “But everything else in the Fortress was made for a secular purpose. For the pleasure of dukes and their ladies. And as nobody sees it now . . . except a few travelers such as yourselves, passing through . . . I don’t see why the Order shouldn’t be rid of it all. If there’s sufficient profit to be made it can be distributed among the poor.”
    “There are certainly plenty of people in need of help,” Zeffer said.
    He had been appalled at the primitive conditions in which many of the people in the locality lived. The villages were little more than gatherings of shacks, the rocky earth the farmers tilled all but fruitless. And on all sides, the mountains—the Bucegi range to the east, to the west the Fa˘ga˘ras Mountains—their bare lower slopes as gray as the earth, their heights dusted with snow. God knew what the winters were like in this CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 15
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    place: when even the dirt turned hard as stone, and the little river froze, and the walls of the shacks could not keep out the wind whistling down from the mountain heights.
    The day they’d arrived, Katya had taken Willem to the cemetery, so that she could show him where her grandparents were buried. There he’d had proof aplenty of the conditions in which her relatives lived and died.
    It was not the resting places of the old that had moved Willem; it was the endless rows of tiny crosses that marked the graves of infants: babies lost to pneumonia, malnutrition and simple frailty. The grief that was represented by these hundreds of graves had moved him deeply: the pain of mothers, the unshed tears of fathers and grandfathers. It was nothing he had remotely expected, and it had made him sick with sorrow.
    For her part, Katya had seemed untouched by the sight, talking only of her memories of her grandparents and their eccentricities. But then this was the world in which she’d been raised; it wasn’t so surprising, perhaps, that she took all this suffering for granted. Hadn’t she once told him she’d had fourteen brothers and sisters, and only six of them were left living?
    Perhaps the other eight had been laid to rest in the very cemetery where they’d walked together. And certainly it would not be uncommon for Katya to look coldly on the business of the heart. It was what made her so strong; and it was her strength—visible in her eyes and in her every movement—that endeared her to her audiences, particularly the women.
    Zeffer understood that coldness better now that he’d spent time here with her. Seeing the house where she’d been born and brought up, the streets she’d trudged as a child; meeting the mother who must have viewed her appearance in their midst as something close to a miracle: this perfect rose-bud child whose dark eyes and bright smile set her utterly apart from any other child in the village. In fact, Katya’s mother had put such beauty to profitful work at the age of twelve, when the girl had been taken from town to town to dance in the streets, and—at least according to Katya—offer her favors to men who’d pay to have