by Sarah Roark
“I thank you for your apology, milady hostess,” Master Jervais said.
She rose. “Bernalt. Come. You must crave Master Jervais’s pardon.”
Bernalt certainly looked as though the only thing he might possibly crave from Jervais was his heart’s blood spilling out onto the ground, but he forced himself forward and down onto one knee.
“Forgive me, milord,” he said.
The other Tremere paused and let a long silent moment go by. Again, the etiquette required it. If he gave in too quickly, he undermined his own position, and Osobei knew quite well that would never do.
“For the sake of the brotherhood of blood and the peace of House and Clan Tremere,” he said at last, “I will bear you no ill will.”
“Thank you, milord Jervais. You are most generous.” Deverra turned and spoke to one of her Telyav women, who scurried off. “Please allow me also to offer you a token of my regrets and apologies.”
“Ah, no tokens are necessary, madam, I assure you,” he answered richly. “Your contrition and Bernalt’s are more than sufficient.” Osobei shifted, deliberately making a slight noise, and grimaced in mock-concern.
“Botheration. What is it now, boyar?” Jervais turned on him.
“Alas, master sorcerer, the same sacred traditions that forbid Deverra’s kin to threaten her guest likewise forbid you to refuse any gift she may offer you—particularly one offered so humbly in apology.” Osobei glanced at the Telyav who returned now with something hidden under a rich cloth. No doubt Deverra had planned to present whatever it was anyway, as a going-away present, but making it part of the process of amends certainly made sense. “Perhaps your brothers and sisters would be willing for family’s sake to overlook such matters, but I wouldn’t promise anything similar of all these kine. They know the ancient laws just as well as I do. If you were to break hospitality, Mistress Deverra would no longer be in a position to protect you from them. Or from me. I really think a man in your numerically unfortunate position should make it clear that you’ve reconciled with her ladyship before you leave, don’t you?”
Master Jervais scowled for half an instant, then remembered himself and schooled his face into something more suitable. Deverra, however, cheered considerably. Idiot Tremere. Was it possible the sorcerers were so wrapped up in their own squabble that they had forgotten their true enemies?
The Telyav woman uncovered the gift and bowed. It was a lovely if rustic little box of some sort, painted in bright vegetal colors.
“A trifle, of course,” said Deverra. “But I hope it will remind your lordship and all at Ceoris of the deep bond which we all share, and the esteem in which we poor wanderers hold our mighty brethren.”
Jervais nodded. “Beautiful, your ladyship. I accept your gift with my deepest thanks.” He hesitated. “In fact, it appears so finely crafted that I fear it could get damaged in the trip. Could I persuade your sister to wrap it up again?”
Deverra smiled. Of course her fellow sorcerer didn’t want to handle her gift without a protective layer of cloth in between. “Of course, Master Jervais. Jurate, wrap it securely.”
The woman bowed again and obeyed, then presented the lump to Jervais, who motioned for Torgeir to take it. Torgeir turned as though to hand it in turn to the slave but then seemed to realize what a grave faux pas that would be.
“And now we must unfortunately part,” Jervais said to Deverra, offering his hand. She took it. “But I will bring the joyous news of your survival to our brethren.”
“And I will see you to our perimeter fires,” she returned easily. “Then our horsemen will escort you to our border.”
“Most kind of you.”
“Not at all, Master Jervais. It is you who have been too kind and indulgent.”
“Oh, not at all, not at all,” he answered quickly, with a chuckle. Osobei fell into place near the head of the crowd that followed behind them as they walked hand in hand toward the ordu perimeter fires.
Truer words were never spoken, the old Tzimisce thought gleefully to himself.
“I would rather have died than apologized to him,” Bernalt said quietly later. He knelt before her. The funny thing was that he was actually slightly older than Deverra, but he’d never been the master of his passions that she was. When he and his compatriots had come from the Curonian Spit and the lake country to replenish her forces (which had been devastated in the battle with Alexander), he’d made a far better impression on Qarakh than most Telyavs before or since. Kindred spirits. “But you, old friend, I would rather die than offend. Forgive me, if you can.”
“It’s just as well,” she said restively. “We didn’t tell them we’d all but broken with them long ago. They didn’t tell us they’d decided to destroy us. Evidently we’ve been at war with them for months. Somebody was going to have to mention it eventually.”
“Are we going to mention it?” His eyes fastened on hers, and she took his meaning at once.
“No,” she said. “Not to him. If he wanted to help us, he would have warned us by now.”
“Do you think he knew?”
“His dearest childe dwells at Ceoris itself, and unless my memory fails me, this Jervais you’re such friends with is that childe’s childe. Besides, the omens say nothing of rescue, I’m afraid.”
“I know.” He sighed. “Well?”
“Well,” she murmured, “there’s my present to Master Jervais.”
“Yes. The first of many, I hope.”
“Indeed. Did you order the faithful to gather in my grove, Bernalt?”
“Yes, they’re waiting for you at the place of sacrifice.”
“Good. Our priests and priestesses must be well sated before the work begins. We have a long night ahead of us, Bernalt…no doubt, also the first of many.”
Chapter Seventeen
They had ridden a couple of hours in complete silence. Literally complete, for with Master Antal’s horseshoes in place once more, not even hoof beats sounded as they slipped through the trees. But at last Torgeir spoke. “How far out of the way are you taking us, master?”
“Not much. We should still make it back to camp by sunup, if that’s what worries you.”
“I’m not worried. I’m just assuming there’s some good reason…”
“Yes.” Jervais reined up and looked around. “You haven’t seen any funny birds?”
“Birds?”
“Master Antal and his avian suspicions, he’s got me going now,” the older Tremere grumbled. He dismounted, then took out the bundle of cloth containing the Telyavs’ “gift.”
“Ah. I wondered if you were really going to keep that.”
“Certainly not. The only question is how to get rid of it.”
“She probably expects you to try to destroy it. Burn it. Break it. Disenchant it.”
“Probably. Or to try to charm it to reveal its purpose, or to put it under ward and save it for later study. If we have a flaw, it’s over-curiosity…” He examined the box, letting his vision shift. It was very definitely enchanted, though not through any method immediately familiar. The enchantment looked a good deal smaller than it felt, which generally indicated a spell held in abeyance awaiting some appointed time or event. But what event, exactly? The box itself seemed unremarkable, painted over with figures of trees and flowers and some sort of bird—a hawk, he thought. He had to admit the temptation was indeed strong to put some sort of hasty binding upon it and bring it back to camp. If they all put their heads together, they could learn quite a bit about Deverra’s craft from it. But no.
“Well, what wouldn’t they expect?” Torgeir mused.
“For us to just walk away from it.”
“Ah, true. That would be odd behavior for wizards.”
“Worth a try, you think?”
The young albino considered. “Yes, master. Well—there’s really no way to logic it "out, is there? It all depends on what she thinks that we would think that she expects.”
“Right. It’s one of those
nasty second-guessing exercises. But it seems the best of the several choices. At least this way, whatever it does, it’ll do it far away from us.”
“Better leave it in the cloth, just in case.”
“Yes indeed.” Jervais set it down with great care, nestling it between the roots of a tree so that passing deer or whatnot would be less likely to overturn it. They both watched it for a few moments.
“Well, then. Shall we?” Jervais said cheerfully.
“Yes, the quicker home the better.”
“Yes. Wait.” The sudden deadening of his tone warned Torgeir at once, and they both stopped in mid-turn. The cloth wrapping the box had begun to wrinkle and go brown, like a turning leaf. Then it deepened to an earthier shade and crumbled away completely. The box beneath trembled on its stubby little legs and expanded.
“Tremere’s pizzle,” he muttered. It had only been waiting to be set down, nothing more—perhaps on ground, perhaps on wood, perhaps on anything at all. Jervais set his hands in shape for a charm, but before he could finish even deciding what principle to invoke, the box shot straight up into the air and burst into pieces, belching smoke on him and spraying something sticky across his chest as well. From within the smoke a blurry shape took form, which looked momentarily like a raptor bird but then contorted into something more man-like. Skeleton-like, really, or at least the head very quickly came to resemble a skull with wide, empty pockets for eyes. Its teeth were like a vampire’s, two slender fangs that descended as it grinned.
Jervais tried his countercharm on it—words of life to oppose death and words of water to damp down smoke—but was unsurprised when nothing happened. If this was a real bound spirit and not some figment of dweomer, it would take more than that to destroy it. It opened its sooty jaws and descended, grasping at him with talons that passed through his flesh, causing wracking pains. He drew out his ritual dagger, the only thing of his that might make a dent in such a thing, and plunged it into the shade’s billowing middle with a whispered curse. It howled and turned away from him, then yawned toward Torgeir instead.
Torgeir had brought out from somewhere within his robes a brass cross with a Seal of Solomon set into its middle, and clutched it in his pale fingers as the smoke-creature enveloped him like a burial shroud. Jervais despaired: one instant to react, and the boy did nothing but reach for one of his pharisaic master’s pious trinkets. He had chosen very ill to bring him—
And then the thing roared and broke away from its embrace of Torgeir’s frame. It tried to compose itself again, reforming its ghostly claws.
“Torgeir, hold it up!” Jervais shouted. “Hold it up! What is it, in nomine Patris…”
“I—in nomine Patris, et Filii…” Torgeir stammered.
“Et Filii…”
“Et Spiritus Sancti. O mi Jesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, libera nos ab igne inferni, conduc in cælum omnes animas, præsertim illas, quæ maxime indigent misericordia tua.” Torgeir’s voice had quickly gained confidence, and now he thrust his cross almost into the creature’s face. It gave a terrible shriek that quickly choked off into a sort of death-rattle. The smoke would not hold shape any longer, and it dispersed on the breeze.
They stood there, amazed, for several long silent moments.
“Well,” Jervais said at last, “Hermann will be proud.”
“The Prus say that the soul takes bird-form upon death and flies out of the mouth of the deceased,” Zabor said. He squirmed through the huddle of gathered Tremere and reached out to tap the spot on the wood where the head of a hawk was still visible. “I’ll bet it was a ghost. Isn’t their god a sort of death-god?”
“Perhaps it was the ghost of one of her own Telyavs,” Antal observed gloomily. “I have known necromancers among the Fiends who did not shame to call up the souls of their own childer slain the previous night, and make them run errands from beyond the grave.”
“Well, let’s try to remember that Telyavs and Fiends are not precisely the same thing, but…” Jervais frowned. “Even if it was a vampire ghost, I don’t know why it would have feared Torgeir’s cross so. Not that all wicked things shouldn’t fear the cross,” he added hastily, seeing the unfriendly look that Hermann and Torgeir simultaneously threw him.
Antal went over the pieces that remained of the box, running his keen fingers across them. “She bespelled it, yes. I can feel her touch on it. I can see her chanting and raising the shade. We could use these pieces for a ritual link to her—not a strong one, with the magic all dispersed, but better than nothing. Not much more could be told about it now.”
“Actually, there may be one or two things more.” Baghatur, the young Khazar, stepped forward with a slight bow. “May I see it?”
“I suppose so.” Jervais nodded to Antal, who handed a piece to Baghatur, who took a ground-glass lens out of his pouch and examined it.
“Yes, you see? This was fashioned from living wood. Usually joiners dry out the wood first, so that it won’t shrink, but this was put together with the sap still running.”
“Oh, the sap, it blew sap all over my damned bliaut. It may never come out.” Jervais brushed at it irritably.
“Then that must have been the idea, for the sap to run freely,” Baghatur went on excitedly. “The blood of the wood. The blood of the wood…” He frowned and turned it over, then broke the piece in half again and sniffed at the fresh edge. “Yes, this tree was watered with it! With blood, that is. You can still smell it in the sap.”
“Is it her blood, I wonder?”
“I don’t know, it’s hard to—no, it smells more like mortal blood.”
Antal looked positively alarmed. “Either way, Master Jervais, we’ve got to get it under ward at once! And you’d better change clothes too…”
Jervais gave a guilty start. Antal was right; if Deverra held a portion of blood from the same mortal who had (willingly or no) fed the tree, then that was a connection that she could use like Ariadne’s thread, following it to her creation wherever it rested.
“Right! I’ve got a chest with a good ward.” He snatched the fragments back and ran into his tent. Licking the key to let it taste just a hint of his blood, he unlocked and opened the chest and shoved the bits of wood inside. Gracelessly he squirmed out of the soiled bliaut, wadded it up and stuffed it in as well, slammed and locked the chest, then threw on one of his Magyar coats instead. He stood back, squinting to see whether any aura or glint of Deverra’s magic bled through the cracks or the keyhole, but it seemed his ward held firm.
“We should post watch, just in case,” he announced as he reemerged. “Cainite watch, through the night.”
“We do post Cainite watch through the night, every night,” Hermann said dryly. “You’ve all just been too busy with your conjuring to notice. But if you’re worried you were followed, perhaps some of you sorcerers should lend us your impressive senses. Why don’t you take first watch yourself, Master Jervais? You seem to have the best eyes of anyone in the camp.”
“Best and worst, I daresay,” Jervais muttered, then added, at the knight’s puzzled glance, “Never mind. Very well, I’ll stand watch. Where do I go?”
“I’ll show you. Come.”
They rode up along the little rise that bordered the camp’s southern edge. The ground climbed steadily for several hundred feet and then leveled off into a nice little observation platform, as perfect as if it had been built to purpose. The knights or their men had chopped down a few stout birches that otherwise would have obscured the view. A low wind rustled through the leaves, making it sound as though the trees were whispering to each other. That thought started out as private poetry, but a moment later caused Jervais to shiver. It had been so long since he’d actually dwelt in Tzimisce country, but he could remember what it was like, fearing every bird noise, not trusting even the ground under one’s feet to keep silence before the listening ears of the koldun-priests.
He stared down into the forest depths.
“What?” whispered Hermann.
“Something moving. There.”
Hermann frowned. “Shadows…moonlight.”
“No.”
“I still see nothing. Is it an apparition, a spirit? Something invisible to all but wizards?” Hermann’s horse whinnied. “Easy, Magog. Wait…there’s…”
“Shh!”
They were silent for a moment.
“Well?” Hermann said at last. “Do you see what it is?”
“Yes, I see it.”
“And?”
“Everyone needs to get out of the camp. Now.”
Jervais didn’t wait for further stupid questions. He galloped pell-mell back down the rise and into the camp, yelling. Hermann followed along, adding his far more authoritative voice.
“Evacuate! Evacuate!”
Jervais hurriedly dismounted outside his tent, ran in for his little casket of very small, very expensive and hard-to-repair ritual items, stuffed it into his saddlebags, then swung back up into the saddle.
“Evacuate! Move, for the love of Tremere! No, don’t strike the tents! Just get your horses!”
The pounding grew steadily louder, until even Ventrue ears could not fail to hear it, and was soon joined by the tearing and thrashing of trampled underbrush; but because of the thickness of the trees and the darkness of their hides the herd still seemed to come out of nowhere. They poured forth between the trunks, great bulls and cows with massive black withers and long horns wickedly curved at the point, their nostrils wide and snorting. In all his years, Jervais had never seen such beasts—the word “cattle” would have been an insult as much as an inaccuracy. They fell in a furious stampede on the tents and also on the wagons, splintering wood and tearing cloth. Some actually jumped and bucked madly atop the piles of debris. Knights, Tremere and slaves alike scattered before them, screaming. He saw a couple of the mortals gored and tossed in the air like arrows.
“Move! Move!” he shouted. “Just run! Let them through!” Then he heard a burst of noise over his shoulder. Antal’s hands were enveloped in a white glow, his sleeves pushed back and whipping wildly in the wind as he rose in his stirrups. Jervais got out of his path just in time. The white light waxed for a moment and then discharged with a thunderclap, crooking out like a beckoning finger and catching one enormous rearing bull right in the chest. It fell on its side, convulsing, amid the reek of burning hide. Auburn-haired Miklos, too, had ridden toward the animals instead of away. He held a long spear in his powerful hands and drove it down into the haunches of any beast that strayed out of the main mass. Jervais saw him take down two of them in this way, each time with a wild thirsty yell of triumph, but with the third, his spear became stuck and he had to break off, circling round. The knights and men-at-arms were also mounted now and bearing whatever weapons they’d had time to seize—a few lances and spears, but swords mostly. The three gargoyles swooped in from wherever they’d been napping. Between them, Falco and Cabo seized one of the cows and carried her off. Rixatrix landed on the back of one of the bulls, snapped its neck and split the flesh of it open with one great wrench of her talons. Then she lifted it, sinking her enormous teeth into the bloody wound.