by Sarah Roark
“Oh. Yes…” Jervais could fairly see the man’s thoughts turning like a water wheel, as he tried and failed to think of some way he could contradict himself and not look like an utter fool. Jervais did not intend to permit him that luxury.
“Excellent! Then I shall be able to enter the pagan lands with everything in place. His august lordship will be so pleased.”
For Olena, Jervais chose a worsted yarn, smooth and hard-twisted. Then he steeped it in a hot tincture of ivy—patient, tenacious, ambitious—and left it wrapped, seven times for each Circle she was so proud to have achieved, around a silver vial of mercury for a night and day before finishing the incantations.
He could remember being a very young boy, too young to recognize the difference between women’s and men’s work. Old Nurse—whose name he didn’t know even though he still sometimes drank from her pillowy breast—was trying to braid his sister’s hair and like any small child, he wanted to take part in whatever was being done. When her efforts to shove and slap him while holding onto the fraying strands only produced a screaming fit, she finally agreed to show him how if he would stand quiet and obedient. And so it was Nurse’s hands that he thought of now, guiding him in spirit even though he doubted the woman had ever plaited more than three strands together, and he had to contend with seven.
Once he’d finished the broad band and gotten it loose from the stick the other end had been tied to, he began to knot it upon itself.
“With knot of one, I begin my charm in the name of Tremere.
With knot of two, I bind us in the blood of Tremere.
With knot of three, I bind us in the will of Tremere.
With knot of four, I bind us in the power of Tremere.
With knot of five, I bind us in the brotherhood of Tremere.
With knot of six, I bind us in the fate of Tremere.
With knot of seven, I seal my charm in the name of Tremere.
Though born to different natures and spun on different spindles, we weave our arts as one.
Our circle will be strong where theirs will be weak.
Our circle will labor where theirs will sit idle.
Our circle will know harmony while theirs will learn strife.
Our circle will prevail where theirs will fall.
Yes, amen, let it be so.
One House, One Clan, One Blood.”
My blood.
As he finished this recitation, he took the braid—now looped into a circle secured by the seventh and final knot—and laid it in the little iron cauldron to steep in the dark red ichor.
It was a very simple, very old sort of magic, but things simple and old often had a power all their own, and he wouldn’t shame to make use of it if it helped his newborn sodalicium hold together for even one night longer than it would have otherwise.
Or, to be more accurate: one night longer than the enemy did. That, after all, was the crucial thing, and despite his spell’s hopeful demands, it was by no means a sure one.
Chapter Nine
Deverra did not generally stand for long on the hill where the sacred fire burned and the sacred zaltys-snake made its lair. As important as it was, the task was better suited to mortal priestesses, who saw warmth, home and food within the flame’s red depths—not an end to immortality. But the smell from the wood and the sacred herbs that the priestesses threw upon it in handfuls drove away all other scents, good and bad. She wanted distraction from both sorts. Her eyes read the sky left to right, top to bottom, like a parchment page, and then restlessly began again.
“If you are really so desperate,” Qarakh murmured beside her, “you could call to it—make it fly the other way. My people also believe in the messages of birds, but we are not above making our own fortune either.”
She turned to look at him. Her lips wanted to smile at the welcome sight of him: the strange wind-weathered face still showing the ochre-brown of many years’ sun even through the Cainite pallor, the little stub of rounded nose-tip emerging from a flattened bridge, dark narrow eyes that could be cruel as a winter storm or softly questioning, as they were now. She felt the smile but couldn’t quite make it.
“No, Qarakh.”
“No.” He squinted, staring off into the sky. “But you will stand here night after night and watch for it to do as you hope.”
“I won’t succumb to self-delusion, but for hope I’ll wait as long as necessary. It flew east, toward the flames of sunrise, three nights ago, shrieking all the way. It still has three more to fly west into the cool night and cancel out the omen. If it’s there to be seen, I will see it.”
“Will the omen not be the same whether you witness it or not?”
“What need would there be for a shaman, if it didn’t matter what she saw or didn’t see?”
“My shaman,” he said, taking her arm. “I appreciate your devotion on behalf of the tribe, and I will not dissuade you from watching. But you have been up here for three nights and you have not drunk. You must drink.”
“Purification,” she said shortly.
“You must drink,” he said just as shortly. “Three nights’ purification is enough.”
“Then have it brought to me, so I can continue to watch.”
He didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “As you wish.”
The wind sent her hair aloft, drifting on the currents of air. Since it had gone white, it had also become thin and light as flax-filaments. It was very responsive to weather and the passage of spirits.
“This has not been the only such omen in recent nights,” he frowned.
“No, only the worst.”
“Are they truly so bad? You had ill omens before Alexander came as well. Are these like they, or weaker? Stronger?” He added the last in a tone of great reluctance. “They are very bad…and also strange. I haven’t seen such strange signs in a long while.”
“Since when?” he pressed. She wondered whether now might be a good time to play the mysterious oracle and refuse to answer, but then she shook her head fondly.
“Since just before we met. That was a strange-fated evening indeed, you cannot deny.”
“Yes, I remember. I thought at first you must be a chotgor…”
“A disease-spirit?”
“Yes. White, thin, fragile. Altogether ugly.” Fortunately, she knew Qarakh well enough to let him finish before taking offense. “But you changed my mind quickly enough.”
She answered his meaning, not his words. “I had a lot more to change your mind with, back then. But now…”
“Now we rule this people. Together.” He caught her hand and wouldn’t let it go. She felt her blasted flesh protest, bits of it splitting and sloughing off. “Only together. That is our strength. Don’t think I have forgotten it.”
“Qarakh,” she said, “you’re hurting me.”
He loosened his grip, but kept on pursuing his thought. “I also have not forgotten a certain sorcery you practiced a few times. When I slept at the foot of your tree, and you brought our spirits both out of their bodies. And we would seem to be mortal man and woman for a few hours…”
Again, she heard what he didn’t say. Not just alive, but alive and young. The fact that he didn’t look at her now made it all the more obvious. His pain moved her, and she wanted to comfort him by allowing him to try to comfort her. But the pain in her own soul when she even thought about it—escaping into false serenity for a few hours, and then having to return again to play the unbowed priestess, queen and avatar—decided her.
“My khan honors me. But I fear I find myself too weary lately to cast enchantments that are of no…direct benefit to anyone.”
He nodded. “I will have the vessel brought up. But you must rest. I cannot have my witch weary.”
“No, don’t trouble yourself, my khan. I will go down and feed. It is long past the hour when such birds fly anyway.”
He started to speak, but she gave him an abbreviated courtesy and brushed past. He watched her go down into the encampment. As she hobb
led by one ger a furtive, shaggy figure stole out of it, going mostly on its legs but assisting itself with pushes of its taloned hands along the ground. Through the blur of hair and rags, Qarakh could still see the outlines of what had once been a woman, a proud warrior of his own Blood. The bestial figure mewled and brushed up against Deverra, who put out a gnarled hand to stroke the figure’s head. His beautiful shaman and his northern Valkyrie. They at least still walked the night, unlike others.
“The gods…” He spoke in the vague plural, thus including all the many divinities held dear by his raiders, Deverra’s priesthood and the Baltic peoples themselves. He had one god in particular in mind, but didn’t wish to stir it with a particular mention. “The gods demand much of us in exchange for their gifts. We pay not only our own private prices, but each others’ as well. Will there ever come a night when the price is finally paid in full? What will be left of us then?”
Feh. This sort of melancholic fit was not like him. But it had been happening a lot of late, and it unnerved him at least as much as anything Deverra had seen or said. He was finding that not even the blood of mortals drunk on mead or qumis could always shake him out of it. He heard the cry of a raven, and leapt, as though struck, back up the hill to see. It was flying east.
Chapter Ten
Tobiasz idly tapped the back of the neck of one captive, a youth, who glared up at Jervais with eyes hot with hatred. The lad flinched and put his head back down.
“These Balts haven’t figured it out yet,” he chuckled. “They’ll sell each other to anybody. Pskovians, Hungarians—they don’t understand they’re already too few for their own good. I’m not about to tell them, of course. Well? What do you think?”
“What languages do they speak?” Jervais asked.
“Let’s see. Not the Silesian speech. I have a couple of Esths, some Livs, some Letts, a Kur, a Semgall…”
“I don’t need Silesian. One should speak the Samogitian tongue, or something like it. As for the rest, I’d prefer they not speak to anyone at all.”
“Ah, you’re continuing northeast. In that case, you’re probably best off with the Esths. Their tongue is more like the Finns’. Or if you like, I could take some of the other Balts and cut out their tongues. But there’s little need to worry. They all hate each other, as I already said.”
“And the Samogitians?”
“They’re wild, strong warriors. I don’t have one right now. The Semgall might have some acquaintance with their language. Actually, now that I think of it, I seem to remember the Kur trying to talk to the Semgall in what was either Samogitian or the highland speech.”
Jervais nodded. “The Kur, then. And I’ll need a dozen others. Their nationality doesn’t concern me so long as they’re healthy.”
“A dozen! A pleasure to do business with you, mein Herr. With or without tongues?” Tobiasz grinned.
“With. Mustn’t run out of things to threaten them with too quickly.”
“Indeed!” Tobiasz hesitated for a moment, then went on. “You’re not familiar with these parts, are you, mein Herr?”
“Not at all, as I’m sure you can tell.”
“Then if you will permit me, I wish to show you a spot of the local color.” The slaver extended his hand. “I have a feeling you’re the sort to appreciate it.”
Jervais dipped his bare foot into the water of the spring. Even though a mist lay over it, he wasn’t prepared for the warmth that enveloped his toes. He lowered himself the rest of the way in. It smelled a bit funny, and the water felt oddly slippery, but the sensation was quite pleasant.
“And mortals come here for leisure?” he whispered to Tobiasz.
“Not leisure,” Tobiasz corrected him delightedly. “Witchcraft.”
“I see.”
“The people—the dissatisfied young peasants especially, but sometimes even the soldiers of Chojnik keep—they come here on nights of the new moon to ask the vodyanoi for aid. If they doubt you, just ask them to listen to your chest so they can hear that you have no heartbeat and are, in fact, a spirit.”
For his part, Jervais thought it almost enough just to be warm and naked under the stars—after a little while, he could even pretend Tobiasz was not there—but presently there were signs of movement in the surrounding brush, and the dim outlines of a threesome of young maids, huddled fearfully together. They carried a loaf of bread for propitiation.
He understood precious little of what they said, but he nodded and answered yes, yes of course to everything that sounded like a question. Names were mentioned, of lovers, lovers-to-be, rivals, parents perhaps. Tobiasz spoke to the girls several times. Jervais didn’t know whether he actually instructed them to disrobe or whether they already understood that to be the price, but in any case they too stripped bare of everything but their head-kerchiefs. Jervais took one girl into his lap. She wrapped her arms around herself but didn’t resist him. He caressed her a while, pleased with the slickness of her wet goose-pimpled skin—but there was something that bothered him as well. Not her fear so much (he’d long since become used to chantry prey being either terrified or abjectly obsessed with the Kiss), but the solemn pall that hung over the proceedings. Her submission had a ceremonial quality which should have been stimulating yet wasn’t.
Quite suddenly he began to tickle her. She chuckled unwillingly, then cried out. An instant later, under his redoubled assault, she was shrieking peal after peal of laughter to the sky. Her friends gaped, doubtless convinced he was murdering her, but she turned and jabbed her fingers under his armpits, causing him to splash and mock-protest. Soon even Tobiasz had to chortle at them.
“This is meant to be a dire sorcerous rite,” the slaver chided Jervais as the latter took advantage of the improved mood to bite into his vessel’s wrist. She cried out again, this time in pain followed closely by lust. Tobiasz followed suit with one of the others.
Jervais finished his sip and sealed the wound shut with a touch of his tongue. Then he snapped his fingers at Tobiasz. “That for dire sorcerous rites!”
He examined the girl. He’d drunk very shallowly. She seemed little the worse for it, and indeed much the better. Her heart still beat strongly. Her buttocks, which had lain taut on his thighs before, had now softened and flattened against him. He put his hand into the triangle of hair at her belly’s base. Extending his senses in the way Malgorzata had taught him so long ago, he could feel the pulse of her blood just underneath the skin—feel it and mystically draw it toward his fingertips, toward the surface of the tender flesh, engorging it. She drew in a shuddery breath. The scent of her sweat increased. He kissed the top of her neck, exulting in the knowledge that just beneath his lips, sharp and eager, waited her death if he so chose. The sheer dizzying joy of that power tempted him to hover there, between the resolution to either kill her or let her live. He held himself back, merely kissing her again.
There was a thrashing sound in the brush. Jervais started and looked up, expecting a deer to come blundering through. But it was an armored figure, sword drawn, black cross starkly visible on his white tunic.
“So!” Hermann bellowed. “This is where you wandered off to!”
“What do you think you’re doing, Hermann?” Jervais snarled back. The girls crowded away in a huddle.
“What do you think you’re doing? We are taking the cross against the pagans, and here you are—”
“You are taking the cross, Brother! Not I! Look upon your chest, then look upon my chest. I don’t recall ever swearing a pilgrim’s vow.”
“Go,” Hermann shouted at the girls. “Go and save your skins, if not your virtue!” He shouted it in Saxon, but they took his meaning quite well enough. They splashed out, stepped into their shoes, slid their shifts down over their freezing bodies, wadded up the rest of their clothes and fled in terror.
“Believe me, it wasn’t my intent to surprise you at your lewdness,” the knight went on. “You disappeared and so did this…flesh-peddler, so against my better judgment, I deci
ded to go out and make sure no ill had befallen you. Then I heard a woman’s screams.”
“Of course you heard woman’s screams. This is vampire country,” Tobiasz said lazily.
“And you…” Hermann’s sword pointed in Tobiasz’ direction. “Unless you so greatly enjoy sharing a warlock’s water that you would dare my ire, you had better cover yourself and get out of my sight.”
“A warlock’s water?” the slaver exclaimed, his face falling. Then he turned to stare in dismay at Jervais. “You mean…”
“Yes. Now go.”
“I’m going. You niemczi—always biting the hand that feeds.” Tobiasz threw on his clothes.
“You cannot order me out,” Jervais blurted, even though he no longer had the slightest wish to remain for any reason besides defying the Ventrue.
“No, I cannot order you out,” Hermann agreed, irritated.
“Perhaps you should see to your own needs, mein Herr. Did you find any of the slaves suitable?”
“They’ll do,” the knight nodded. Jervais resolved once again to determine the secret of the Ventrue knight’s finicky tastes. All through Hungary he’d refused to share the Tremere’s vessels or allow any of them to procure for him, instead sending one of his mortal soldiers out to do it. Quite a few nights he’d simply done without, restraining his appetite with prayer-vigils. “I’ll say this for your fellows, here and at Ceoris—they’re a pasty, loathsome lot, but at least they don’t luxuriate in it like brothellers at a stew-house. They don’t trick the mortals or toy with them, trying to turn it into a pleasure.”
“Ah, you noticed that,” Jervais said calmly.
Hermann stared at him a moment, saying nothing, then sheathed his sword and walked away. Jervais sat alone in the water for a long time. All contentment and ease had evaporated like the steam from the water’s surface. He willed himself to let it go. They were in Tzimisce lands now. He couldn’t afford to hate Hermann, or anyone else.
A new silhouette appeared quietly at the spring’s edge. Jervais stared at it. An old bearded man stood there, stooped but unashamed, completely naked in the brisk winter air.