Hearing the key rattle in the lock of his door, Don Julius rose quickly from his position beneath the window, satisfied that he had aroused the priest with his shouts. The sudden movement brought on a wave of faintness, and he leaned forward, hands on knees, cursing. His first bloodletting session had left him in a weakened state from which he had only just begun to recover, and these near-fainting spells had been all too common.

Flanked by two guards, Carlos Felipe entered with trepidation, saw his charge bent over, and inquired, "What ails, Don Julius?" Casting a discerning eye about the king's son's chambers, he noted the half-lit chandelier and arched an eyebrow. "Why have you not permitted your attendants to complete their nightly duties? One you have so frightened that he requests release from your servitude."

"To the devil with the servants," Don Julius growled, straightening. "They disturb what little tranquility I attain with their bustlings and mutterings." The prince's eyes flickered, his upper lip curled in a sneer. "Whoever among them is too cowardly to carry out the simplest chores in my presence would be considered well disposed of." Don Julius advanced on the priest with purpose, and the guards readied themselves to restrain the king's son. He circled the trio slowly, as if to make a sudden break for the door behind them, and the guards adjusted their positions, tensed for action.

Holding his ground, Carlos Felipe did not miss the feverish countenance of the prince - the flushed cheeks, the blazing eyes that always heralded a violent episode - and inwardly scorned the ridiculous bloodletting tactics directed by the king's physician. Clearly the benefits of the dubious medicinal procedure were only temporary, if indeed they were effective whatsoever. "Why have you summoned me, Don Julius? Unless you wish to offer confession...?" He let this suggestion linger in the air, though his own cynicism and experience with the prince prevented any true hope that the offer would be accepted by Don Julius. Especially now, with the young man exhibiting such obvious signs of ill humor.

"Confession?" Don Julius spat upon the floor, close to the priest's feet. "There is my confession, priest. Scrape it from the floor and present it to your God in my name: Don Julius D'Austria, son of King Rudolf, and Lord of Krumlov."

Crossing himself, his lips in a hard line, the priest turned for the door, but Don Julius moved with him, desperate to retain his audience. His voice roughened in his plead, "I seek liberty from this prison of a castle, old man! I require immediate release!"

The priest halted in his departure, breathed a weary sigh. "Don Julius, you request pardon each day. Yet you know as well as I that your father has placed certain conditions upon your freedom, and that your behavior as yet has not risen to his standard. Perhaps when your condition has cleared..." he looked Don Julius up and down, taking in the young man's disheveled hair, wild eyes and trembling, tense limbs.

Don Julius ground his teeth in frustrated fury. "I perfectly well understand my father's covenants, you miserable old husk. What I desire is a brief reprieve. I must have a day in which I am not within sight of this wretched castle! One single day, priest - one day to ride to the hills and forest, to hunt, as I did prior to the barbaric treatment I have endured!"

Carlos Felipe sucked a tooth, considering. Acutely aware of the young man's recent obsession with the bathmaid Marketa, he knew that the request for a hunt in the hills could be a ruse to gain access to the town, where he might well cause havoc. As if aware of the priest's thoughts, Don Julius pressed further.

"I have no wish to slog through the shitpiled streets of Krumlov, if that is your concern, priest. I see more than enough of the blighted town and its mouth-breathing inhabitants from my window each day," the king's son sneered, gesturing toward the black square of the nearest window. "My sole desire is to ride, to gain peace and privacy." Don Julius licked his lips, willing himself to control the emotions that rattled him to his core; he must present his request as a reasonable one, if he were to sway the priest. He drew a deep breath, looked at the floor. "A man can lie rotting into his bed cushions for only so many days," he muttered, twisting his hands together in what he hoped was a contrite display. "It would greatly improve my... condition..." he looked at the priest from beneath his brows, "if I were able to take the air, to exercise my discipline in the hunt. Failing such a reprieve, I can only anticipate that my humors will worsen."

One of the guards snorted, then glanced away when Don Julius turned a baleful eye toward him.

The priest concealed his disgust at the young man's manipulations. Don Julius was never more devilishly poised than when he wanted something and required access to it through another person. And yet... the clergyman studied the king's son again, allowing himself a small spark of optimism... perhaps there is some truth in what he speaks, madman though he is. Such a lengthy confinement surely has not helped his illness. And if he can be contained by guard to the forest for this short expedition, what harm can come of it? "I would require conference with the king's physician, Don Julius, in order to grant such a request. If Mingonius agrees that a day on the hunt would be beneficial to your health, then I shall send a letter to your father and..."

"No, you shall not!" Don Julius interrupted, his voice echoing from the walls. "No! I will not have my respite delayed by your pathetic, cowering missives to my father! I must ride tomorrow - tomorrow, and no later! To hell with Mingonius! You, priest, will allow my release in the morn or I shall cease all treatment from this night forward, and apprise my father of your woeful ineptitude!" Don Julius roared, dispensing entirely with his transient attempt at civility. His head ached, his pulse pounded in his temples, panic was rising in his chest at the notion of not being permitted release the following day. What if Marketa were to wait at her magical creek, and he did not appear? Spurned, she would never again offer him such a tryst, he would never know the secrets of the Coded Book or her luscious body. Why was the priest standing before him so calmly, so impassively, when Don Julius had presented him with a matter of royal import? Why did he not make haste to prepare for tomorrow's hunt for the prince? "I shall jump from these very windows, I swear it, if I am not given reprieve!" he cried. Only then did he become aware of the tears coursing down his cheeks. "I shall be driven mad by confinement!"

Responding to his words, the guards moved between Don Julius and the windows, prepared to intercept the prince should he make a leap of desperation.

The priest shook his head at the guards, waved them back to his side. "You are already mad, Don Julius," he pronounced coldly. "But a day in the forest you shall have." Carlos Felipe turned for the door, unable to dispel a sense of defeat in his gut but mitigating it with faith that vigorous exercise would do the young prince some good. Providing, of course, the whore's son is able to remain upright in the saddle. He has has been very weak since the bloodletting. Over his shoulder, he added, "You shall be under heavy guard of no less than eight. For your own protection, Don Julius. I expect you shall behave in a manner befitting the king's son, and that you will return to the castle before sunset." With this, he swept from the room, musing that if Don Julius were to suffer a lethal fall from his horse or some other sort of dire hunting mishap, he would feel nothing more than relief at the death of his depraved charge.

Don Julius watched the two guards file out behind the priest, mentally marking the one who had mocked him - the bearded, dark eyed jailor who always tied him with the most vicious knots. Don Julius reserved a special hatred for the man. Once the guards had pulled the door shut behind them, the young prince kicked it with enough force to make the heavy wood shudder in its frame, bellowing vulgar insults at their departure.

But a ravenous flame had ignited in him; he had gained his freedom for the following day - he would be loosed for a time to move, to breathe. To view sights other than the four walls of his opulent prison chamber. And most of all - his pulse quickened once more at the thought - he would have liberty to race to his angel Marketa's side and become one with her. Whirling from the door, Don Julius seized the carafe of wine from the table and drained it in greedy, giddy gulps, spilling a portion of the dark fluid over his chin and chest. He laughed uproariously at this, flung the crystal vessel into the air and watched it plumet to shatter into glimmering shards across the floor. "Marketa!" the prince bellowed, throwing his head back in triumph, "I have heard your message, my angel! You will be mine, I swear it!"