Dark Ages Clan Novel Tremere: Book 11 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Sarah Roark

  “They don’t seem to understand my Polish any better than your Saxon, master,” Zabor pointed out.

  “Well, find out what it is they do understand, or I’m going to take all the dead ones and one of the live ones just for instructional purposes, and crack the stream ice open with their thick heads.”

  “That sounds like it might work, master.”

  “Do you wish instruction from me as well tonight, whelp?” Jervais rounded on him, snarling.

  “Master Jervais, if you will permit me…” Master Antal interrupted, holding up a hand. “I must borrow Zabor instead. There are words that should be had about the importance of remaining in position in ritual until instructed to take leave of it.”

  “Ah, true.” Jervais was gratified to see an authentic look of fear pass across Zabor’s face. “Feel free, Master Antal.”

  Jervais then made his way out of the campsite, to the tree where Torgeir was bound in a length of stout chain Miklos had packed in his trunk “just in case.” The young magus’s head was drooping now. Jervais thought he must have passed out, so he began to steal away again.

  “Leave me be.” The Dane’s accent was far stronger than usual.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” Jervais said soothingly.

  He sniffed at the air. “Are you still bleeding, lad?”

  “No.”

  “It smells like you are. If you need more…”

  “No.”

  Ah, so that was it. But of course. How could it be otherwise? He studied the albino’s soul-colors carefully. It was hard to say which predominated, the dank gray-brown of shame or the licking scarlet of hatred. He looked slack and barely conscious, but it might be far too soon to consider unbinding him. It wasn’t even the chain itself Jervais placed his trust in so much as the spell laid on it.

  “If you need more,” he said firmly, “then you need more.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Jervais walked up to the tree, put his fingers into the hair at the Dane’s brow, and lifted his head up until his face came into view. Here was the source of the blood he’d smelt, tracking out of the odd eyes and down the white cheeks. There was an old dried set of tracks as well as a fresh one dripping sweet red. Torgeir wrested his head out of Jervais’s grasp and shook it until his long fine white hair had fallen down over his countenance again, shrouding it.

  “Yes. I see how fine you are.” The scarlet in Torgeir’s halo flared. Jervais pretended not to notice. “I know it’s hard in that position, but you must try to rest and calm yourself. I can’t unbind you until you do. Besides, there’s no reason to be anything but calm. You’ve done very well.”

  He didn’t answer, and that was answer enough.

  “You don’t believe me, but think about it. Whatever you suffered, Qarakh himself must have suffered threefold. Not all we hoped for, perhaps—still, at the very least, we surely sowed a great deal of fear and chaos in very close quarters.”

  “He…killed some of his own,” Torgeir said quietly, not looking up. “I saw it.”

  Jervais brightened at that. “Did he? Excellent!”

  The praise fell into dead air. Jervais studied the young magus again. He all but radiated sullen defiance. His slump on the tree had become rather irritatingly and stoically Christ-like. There were many things Jervais might have been inclined to say here. This is war, what did you expect? perhaps, or Qarakh killed his own kin, you killed a few flea-ridden slaves. As far as I can see that leaves us ahead. But no, he would have to be more subtle than that. He sat down at the foot of the tree but made no effort to peer up into Torgeir’s face.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured, “because I know what your master has taught you. I know how he thinks. You have sinned, and now you intend to torture yourself for it. Perhaps you’ve already planned how.” He paused. “Let me ask you this. All this suffering you make yourself endure, has it ever lessened the thirst one iota? Or restored the dead to life? Do you honestly feel, in this moment, chained to a tree, unbreathing, belly full of blood, the slightest bit more human than I?”

  Torgeir shuddered and said nothing.

  “Let me tell you a clan story,” he went on. “The Council of Seven, of course, were the first Tremere to become vampires. As logic would suggest, at a certain point they were also the only vampires in the House, and had to decide whether or not they would remain so.”

  “I’ve heard this story.”

  “I daresay you have. No doubt Etrius further told you that he argued against the crime of dragging fellow magi into undeath without their consent, while Goratrix argued for the necessity of it. In the end, Great Tremere decreed in Goratrix’s favor. Being obedient students, both Etrius and Goratrix brought magi across the threshold, and in roughly equal numbers. Finally, one night, there were no mortal Tremere left. No mortal House. Your master had as great a hand in that as anyone. Now that it’s all finished, he repents of what he did. And he would have you believe that because he repents, he can now enjoy the benefit of his sin without having to pay for it. Doesn’t that strike you as a bit…convenient?”

  He paused for a moment. “After all, do you suppose it made the first difference to those who were transformed against their will whether Etrius or Goratrix did it, and whether either of them repents? Do you think those who are dead tonight care how you feel? And if it is God whom you think will see your agony and take pity…how much pity has He had on you to date? You didn’t want to kill those mortals. Well, did you? Would you not have stopped yourself if you’d had the slightest power to do so? Tell the truth, Torgeir. We all know what a sin it is to lie.”

  “Leave me alone, devil,” the Dane moaned, struggling for the first time against his bonds. “Go away. I tried to stop it. Oh Jesu…I tried, but I was so far away, I couldn’t, I couldn’t.”

  “Exactly. Now you’re thinking more clearly. It was not you. Your conscience, such as it is, is clear. It was the Beast, to whom we all lose now and again. Or one could just as easily say it was Alexander. He was a poisonous old monster, and his rage against his conqueror burned out of all control. There you are. Hate Alexander. Or…” He shrugged. “Perhaps it was my fault. I selected you for the task. I knew you might not be able to hold on. Possibly none of us would have been able. Still, I chose you to take the risk. Hate me, then. Or hate the Telyavs, for rebelling against your master and making this all necessary. Hate your sire for making you what you are. There are so many choices available. Just pick one. Or hate us all.”

  “You…invite me to hate you?” A slight, disbelieving chuckle.

  “It’s a service I excel at providing,” said Jervais. “I’m under no illusions in that regard. Between your hating me and your hating yourself, I’d far rather the former. It sharpens you, makes you keen—that I know from experience—and we must be keen here. You don’t have the luxury of despair, lad. We’ve only begun the bloody tasks that fulfilling our mission will require.”

  He got up. Torgeir chuckled again. Disturbed, Jervais turned back. The albino’s eyes rested squarely on him now, the red lines streaking down from them making them look somehow heraldic, like war-banners.

  “No, master. I meant…what makes you think I need an invitation?”

  Jervais considered this, then nodded and put a hand on Torgeir’s shoulder. “Point taken, lad.”

  He went back to his tent, calling for one of the slaves as he went. All this smell of vampire blood in the air was making him thirsty again, damn it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Zabor stood, wan and plainly underfed, in a guard’s attitude of vigilance exactly four feet south of the cold fire pit. As Jervais watched, Olena and Miklos walked up to him. Miklos kicked Zabor hard in the belly. The Pole bent and had to cough his way back up to standing, but he didn’t move his feet. Olena reached out with her hands and took hold of Zabor’s arm. He cried out in pain and wavered as whatever enchantment she held passed into him. She quirked a satisfied smile and walked away. Torgeir came out of a tent
and started to pass by. Then he seemed to change his mind, picked up a clod of mud and hurled it at Zabor’s face. It pelted him, splattering, and dropped down onto his shoe.

  “He’s made quick improvement indeed,” Jervais remarked. “With so many avid teachers, it’s to be expected. Still, you must have done something impressive to him to begin with. Perhaps he’s had enough punishment for now? Wouldn’t want to wear him down to uselessness.”

  Antal shrugged. “If they don’t fear us more than they fear the enemy, then what hope is there of obedience?”

  “Admirable sentiment,” Hermann said over their shoulders, “but it’s time to stop admiring your handiwork now and come into council.”

  “Now the whole premise of this little adventure is that you shall succeed where Alexander failed because you have wizards. Is it not?” Wigand stood. “That being the case, I think it meet to ask just what the wizards plan to do, and why it’s going to make a difference.”

  “Well, let’s start with what we’ve already done and what we know from it,” Jervais said amiably. He unrolled a large parchment. The soldiers bent over it.

  “It’s not a letter, it’s not a map…” Hermann scowled. “What the devil is it?”

  “Oh, it’s a map all right. Just not such as any of you gentlemen have ever seen.”

  “It’s accurate, for one thing,” Antal snorted. Jervais gave him a quick warning glance.

  “It’s to true scale, that is,” Jervais smoothed over, “and these blots of color show rivers and lakes, bogs, stretches of forest, hills. These are alkai, holy groves like the one back in Prussia where the friar was burnt. And these are areas we couldn’t get to, because of either local natural disturbances or occult protections. All these sites are of potential significance to magical workings. If the Telyavs think to call up powerful spirits of air or earth or water, these are the places they’ll have to go. This is their main camp, and here are the paths of the two patrols we witnessed. Now we’ve ranged out as far as we can. Up to this boundary, the ley lines are recorded from direct scrying. Beyond, I’ve charted out their likely courses according to the best calculations I can make. Now unfortunately, while we’re here we’ll be drawing on the same vis-flows as our enemy.”

  “I’m not sure I understand the first thing you’re talking about,” Wigand said, “but if you and the other Tremere must draw on the same…flows as the Telyavs, does that mean that you could draw more heavily and deprive them of what they need to work their witchery?”

  “Not that simply, I’m afraid. Samogitia seems to be unusually bounteous. I don’t know if we and the Telyavs put together could drain it.”

  “What if you simply cut down an alkas?” Hermann muttered, fingering one of the spots drawn in red. “I admit I’m tempted to do it in any case, but would it hurt the Telyavs?”

  “It might,” Jervais conceded. “But it would anger the local folk as well, and we have our hands full enough as it is.” And why destroy the treasure when we might yet seize it for our own?

  “Well,” Wigand said. “So you have been doing something all this time we’ve been sitting like birds in the bush—you’ve made a map. You’ve also tried to remove Qarakh, and you have very little idea of what that accomplished besides killing a few raiders. And of course alerting them to an enemy presence.”

  “Rubbish. Deverra certainly knows about the ill effects of diablerie. Most likely she’ll put it down to that,” Antal argued.

  “Oh? And you’re that familiar with what Deverra does and doesn’t know?” Hermann challenged him.

  “Well, she has to know about it. Who besides a rank neonate doesn’t?” the Hungarian retorted quickly. Too quickly. Damn.

  “That won’t suffice.” Hermann now stood to roll up the chart. He stared at Jervais. “Both of you seem to know a lot more about this woman than you’ve let on so far. Let’s have it out.”

  “Don’t…don’t damage that,” Jervais said a bit faintly. “It’s very important. To all of us.” It was also three weeks’ starvation work, but he wouldn’t demean himself by complaining of that to Hermann.

  “Is it now? That would depend on what you mean to use it for, wouldn’t it?”

  A flush of outrage mounted Jervais’s pale cheeks. “What else would we use it for besides what we all came out here to do?”

  “That’s just what I’m asking. No more evasions, warlocks. What are you omitting?” He held up the chart now, letting it unfurl, poised to rip it down the middle.

  “You don’t dare do that,” Jervais growled.

  “You don’t dare stop me,” Hermann said loftily. “Oh?” Jervais raised his arms. Antal hurriedly put a hand on his wrist.

  “Brother, brother…easy, it’s not worth it. He’s bluffing.”

  Hermann smiled and very deliberately tore the chart in half.

  “He’s not bluffing!” Jervais lunged forward, teeth elongated and bared. Hermann was surprised, but not unprepared. His sword flashed out and nearly caught Jervais’s chin. Antal restrained his fellow magus—barely.

  “Quite a temper on our soft courtier after all,” the knight remarked. “If you really want to try me, Meister Tremere, go ahead. You’d better not imagine that the thought of his Highness will stay my hand. He’s already suffered a great betrayal from one ally who kept one secret too many, and he never trusted you to begin with. I assure you, he’s not of a mind to become your tool, and neither am I.”

  “You prate to me about making Jürgen a tool?” Jervais shouted. “Let me tell you what I’ve no more mind to be, you cross-waving—”

  “Please! We’re all being very hasty here.” Diplomacy was not a garment Antal wore well, but desperation seemed to impel him. “Please. Brother Hermann, I implore you, set the parchment down. You have no idea how Master Jervais and the rest of us have sweated over it, and all for the sake of our mutual mission.”

  “There’s more to this mission for you than simply doing milord a service.” Hermann did not budge.

  “Yes, there is,” Antal hastily agreed. “Please, Master Jervais. No, no, it is time. We cannot afford such distrust between ourselves and the knights. If the captain has guessed, then he must be told. I will take responsibility for it to Ceoris.”

  Jervais allowed himself to be guided back down to his seat. He was still furious at having this morsel that he’d been carefully saving up for the moment of best advantage so rudely swept off his plate. But Antal was taking blame, at least—the great war-mage willingly coming down a peg. That was worth a little something.

  “The Telyavs,” Antal explained, “are renegades of the House and Clan. Deverra was born a daughter of these lands, so we sent her here to found new chantries in our name. But she has turned her back on us. Thus she and her followers have been condemned to die.”

  The two knights held a moment’s silent conference.

  “I see,” Hermann said at last. “Well, that would explain it.”

  “Are the Telyavs aware of this interdict from Ceoris?” Wigand asked.

  “May we have our chart back?” Jervais returned. Hermann handed each half across the table to him with a twitch of the lip. “They’re about to be made aware,” he said once the pieces were safe in his hand once more.

  “Ah, but why be in such a rush?” Wigand looked thoughtful now. “This changes things significantly. Since relations haven’t been formally severed yet, you could visit as an official of Ceoris, and she would have to receive you or else admit her treachery, wouldn’t she?”

  “She could also,” Jervais said, quite evenly he thought, “get suspicious, draw the natural conclusion that I was responsible for the business with Qarakh, kill me, deprive you of your chief wizard and doom the entire effort to failure.”

  “You mean the business with Qarakh that she surely attributed to the ill effects of diablerie?” Wigand quipped. “Come, Meister Tremere. You were eager enough to risk yourselves with what you freely claimed to be a most perilous spell. Have you no courage in any other area of
endeavor? Brother Hermann had given me to understand that you were a skilled negotiator. Think of what you might learn under a flag of false truce. Qarakh’s fate, the camp layout, the warriors’ readiness.”

  “That is true.” Antal rubbed his beard. Jervais glared at him. “Master Jervais, I’m not sure how much more scrying the children have left in them. They are tired, their concentration wanes, and the vessels are fatigued as well. Until we can get some fresh ones…perhaps we should make a more direct move. One that could gain us much knowledge without beginning the fight too soon.”

  “So you wish me to walk straight into the lion’s mouth, with no guarantee of even an attempt at rescue should I be captured.” Jervais cogitated on this. “Very well. I’ll do it, on one condition. There’s been an awful lot of talk of trust and the lack thereof tonight, and I do agree that we should do what we can to foster trust among us all. To that end, I will grant this as a personal boon to Herr Hermann.”

  “A boon?” Hermann cooled immediately. Jervais was invoking a tradition that far predated the entry of the Tremere into the Cainite race—one the Ventrue in particular held sacred.

  “I’ll gladly specify if that will assist you in making your half of the leap of trust, mein Herr. At some future point, I shall request your assistance in a spell. I promise that it will not deprive you of your existence or bring you to any permanent harm of any sort. You will give me that assistance freely when I ask it.”

  “It’s not enough you ensorcelled my horse, now you want me to befoul myself with nigromancy,” the knight protested.

  “Do you want to remove this obstacle to your master’s ambitions or not? We’ve now told you the truth about the Telyavs, and I’m further offering to take immense personal danger upon myself for all your sakes. I don’t think his Highness will be nearly as forgiving of your reticence to accept one simple boon in these changed circumstances. Let us again revisit the key words of the discussion: Trust? Courage? May I add a third: Honor? Not a coin, of course, that dastardly sorcerers must usually trade in, but what about knights? I put it to you, mein Herr, that your honor and the honor of the faith you carry forward are worth a small promise to a wizard. You are, of course, free to disagree.”