Chapter Seventeen
Of all the rooms they had to flee to, they had to choose this one. This collection of mirrors was once scattered throughout the many chambers of my keep, until Arcalian’s little helper stowed them away in here. The young woman had gathered a great many of the cursed things before I grew impatient and killed her. It took some careful deliberation, but I finally decided that the immediate promise of her blood outweighed the occasional inconvenience of any mirrors her death left unmoved. In retrospect, I suppose I should have been more patient and had all the mirrors destroyed. Be that as it may, I cannot trouble over actions left undone. Best to make do, and finish the job while I can.
The last row of mirrors bend and twist as I step forward. The air about them is thick with resistance, crackling and popping like a cloud before a storm. I reach out with my self, with my being—there is no other way to describe it—and I drive the force they wield backward, inward, twisting about upon itself. The mirrors shatter.
A sigh passes from my lips. My shoulders sag and my head bows low. Destroying that many mirrors is a horrendous task. Though strong, I do have limits. Weariness wraps about me like a cloak, the night grows dim, and my vision blurs. What I need is blood to spur my strength. And I have a good idea whose. The men escaped! Three puny, witless mortals and they managed to elude me. Me! The rage is burning inside me, burning and growing stronger with every passing second. Even in my present state, I am starting to shake with the mounting fury.
Snarling, I approach the window, then come abruptly to a stop. Swinging back and forth in the midnight breeze, secured by a strip of cloth to the window’s arch, the rose is hanging in quiet solemnity. I reach to touch it, but cannot. It repels me as if it were shielded by a wall. An unusual application of the cursed plant—not one I ever expected. My prior understanding entailed the necessity of a grounding agent, but apparently that is not the case. This rose is secured by nothing more imposing than a simple thread, yet its floating aura thwarts me all the same. In a mortal’s hand I could take it, but here, hanging in the window, I cannot.
The stones of the window arch are cool against my palms, but they offer little in the way of counsel. Down below, the men are fleeing, scurrying across the courtyard stones like rats inside a tomb. These rats, however, are being hunted, and Clarissa is not one to lose a race. The mortal called Coragan turns to face her, confronting her at the iron gate. I cannot help but grimace as he does so; the worthless man has brought forth a mirror, one he no doubt pilfered from my ill-fated store. Resourceful, that one. My love advances, but she cannot strike out. Snarling at an image only she can see, Clarissa is nearly helpless. Held at bay like a lion before a whip, she is forced to content herself with an angry glare. While Coragan is busy, the two others move across the drawbridge to their horses. The warrior—curses on that brute—needs assistance to mount his beast, but the one called Galladrin is all too willing.
My attention reverts to the rose. It is still there, still swaying, still blocking my passage. I could destroy it if I were not so weary. And the rat ... no, it is safe from him as well. Fortunately, I have other minions and it is to them that my mind calls out.
A minute passes in eerie quiet. The wind grows, but makes no sound. Not a single leaf rustles, not a single beast cries. Even the battle below seems carried on in silence.
Finally, a fluttering of wings breaks the peace and a dark shape descends from on high. It is a raven, one of my many pets, come to offer her aid. She grips the stone ledge tightly with her claws and squawks in question. My eyes caress her, soothe her, excite her, and my thoughts convey my purpose. She nods, then flitters to the rose. A quick jerk pulls the flower from the thread, and the rising wind carries it from my sight. Reaching out, I take the bird in my hand. Her claws pinch my pallid skin, but even though the flesh is breached there is no sting. One hand strokes with the gentle softness of a pillow, gliding through her feathers and flowing along her wings. Satisfied, she coos in contentment.
At the far edge of the drawbridge, the men are preparing to leave. They have produced another mirror and Galladrin presents it from atop his horse, again forcing Clarissa back while Coragan swings astride the final mount. As they turn to leave, Galladrin even has the audacity to wave farewell—I will kill him twice over for that. Behind him, Clarissa prepares to give chase. She is primed tonight, hungry, and ready to kill. She will run their horses to the ground or no doubt burn beneath the Sun in her efforts. Although her persistence is commendable, it is somewhat extraneous. There are often much simpler ways to trap one’s prey. If I had been present, for example, I would have simply compelled their weak-minded steeds. A single thought to confound them, and those horses would never depart. Unfortunately, weariness slows me and I will not arrive in time.
The wind welcomes the raven on its currents and the bird cries out as it rises into the night. With an effort, I begin my change. Weariness makes the process slow and the task grueling, but determination drives me on. By the time the transformation is complete, the men are speeding away, riding fast and hard. Thus it is that the burden of the chase is passed.
My thoughts fly on the wind, dancing through the night. My mind stretches out to embrace the dark, streaming through the woods, sending its message to every stone and tree. Not long after, I have my answer.
The forest comes alive with howls far and wide. They are still distant, but they are closing.
That still leaves Clarissa. Determined to pursue, she does not seem willing to pass over the honor of the chase. It is with regret that I must rein her in. My mind reaches out like lightning. Hold up, my love. Obediently, she stops. The distance is too great for her mind to respond, but I still feel the doubt inside her heart. Let the Children of the Forest have their sport. When the men are wearied, we can hunt them at our leisure. Though still ambivalent, she moves no further and awaits me at the edge of the forest. Swooping to her side, I hover briefly, then change my shape.
For a lovely woman, she looks quite forlorn. “Why did you hold me back? Do you not want them slain?”
“They shall be slain, my dear. But you must learn the subtleties of the vampire. Never over exert yourself when there is no need, or if others can accomplish the end for you. They have two mirrors yet—”
“Mirrors are not a threat to you.”
I nod. Confiding my present need of rest will do little to impress her with awe. “That is true, my love—”
“You could have stopped their horses. I tried. But I am not that strong.”
Again, I nod. “If I had been present, they would have never left. I could have spit in the Scythe-Bearer’s Hood while he gathered up their souls—”
As is her way, she seems to take offense at the oddest of things and rebukes me with startling words. “You should not blaspheme.”
She is a strange woman and an even stranger vampire. So quickly does she withdraw to her Code and her human piety. What a mockery! I did not compel her tonight. She departed in search of the men the moment I informed her of their arrival. She hunted to protect me, yes, but she did so of her own free will. She will not admit it, of course, but she is slowly turning and drawing closer to the Night. It is inevitable, perhaps it is even sad, but her humanity is slipping away. Could her remarks be attempts to deny the pull of darkness as inexorable as it is? Perhaps. They are futile if such is her aim. “We are vampires, my dear. Our very existence is blasphemy. There is nothing about us which is not perverse, which is not wicked—”
“Wicked? Perverse? The Scythe-Bearer is impartial, he cares not for good or evil.”
I am stunned. She is being argumentative tonight and though that is a welcome change from her usual whining, it is still irritating. “The Scythe-Bearer is the lord of Death, my love. He is antithetical to us more than the night is to the Sun! Above all the gods, his power is most defiled by our presence. We bring death, yes, but we do not succumb to it. We are as the gods, untouched by his curving blade! Look out upon this mortal world. It is his to comma
nd, his to rule. All of it, except us!”
“You should still show respect.”
I sneer. “Respect? I think not. I once held a man in awe, and knelt before his feet. I thought him a noble and mighty man, nothing less than an omnipotent god, but betrayal and a thousand years have taught me many truths. Trust no god but oneself. Destiny is the product of one’s own actions, not the battle-call of a lesser being trying to seem great. Our power and our power alone is the force that guides existence—”
She looks angry. Her brows are furrowed together and she has crossed her arms at her chest. Blue eyes look toward the path the men have taken and a smile rolls across her features. It is slow, deliberate, and full of insolence. “Borak mentioned something about the river. Is that important?”
Fury takes me.
She cries out as agony rips inside her body. I advance with my fists raised to strike her down. “The river! You waited this long to tell me of the river! I should feed you to the Sun at dawn!”
I am seething with rage—fury the likes no mortal could ever comprehend. One would think she would have learned by now never to taunt me! My eyes stab at the road down which the men have fled, but all there is to see is dust. The sound of the pursuing wolves echoes back, weaker and more distant with every second. Do not let them near the river. A union of howls answers my thought.
Clarissa is on the ground before me, enjoying the taste of dirt. She is convulsing in pain and kicking up dark clouds of dust. A fearful shriek erupts from her lips and she rakes her claws across her head. They tear into flesh but do not draw any blood—having not fed tonight, I suspect she is running a tad bit dry. Given her behavior, she will be lucky if she ever feeds again. I savor her torture just several moments more, then, regretfully release. “Follow. And do not hold back on me again.”
I leap into the sky, changing shape as I do so. My weariness has finally passed and the time to hunt has come once more.
Drasmyr (Prequel: From the Ashes of Ruin) Page 31