by Sarah Roark
Desperate now, he turns off the road and seeks out the Jewish quarter, but he can’t find it anywhere. Where are the rabbis and scholars in their neat robes, the merchants in their striped cloth? Where are the synagogues?
Ah, yes. Burned. He’d carried one of the torches himself. He recalls this and with that recollection, he realizes in the odd way of dreams that there is one—and only one—infidel left in the whole world. He turns on his heel and begins limping in the other direction, his shriveled abdomen protesting with every step. He lifts his sword as best he can and summons a parched war cry as he struggles up the church steps. Tumbling into the heavy wooden doors, he busts them open.
There is the man he seeks, a nut-brown, bearded Saracen in a robe of gleaming white, kneeling humbly before a fat priest and receiving the waters of baptism.
“No!” he cries hoarsely. The priest turns. It is Jervais, who smiles in greeting.
“Brother Hermann. Our savior!” Then he clucks and waggles a reproving finger. “Ah, but you don’t look well, dear pilgrim. It’s not healthy even for the pious to fast too much.”
Hermann ignores him. He addresses himself to the last infidel in the world, falling down upon knees so bony that the skin splits open immediately as it knocks upon the hard floor. “Please,” he begs the man. “Don’t. You are the only one left. I need you. Without you, I starve.”
The man simply stares back at him, dark eyes lambent with the Holy Spirit. “But I must, brother,” he answers. “You are right…you have always been right, all along. I see it now. We all see it now.”
“Yes, everyone agrees,” Jervais-priest puts in with another oily smile. “Even I. You have labored hard, brother. Now your work is done. It’s time to rest…”
Hermann sees to his horror that his outstretched hand is decaying further with every word, fingers collapsing into ash. His wrist follows, then his forearm.
“My God, my God!” he calls, but he is unable to finish the sentiment. His teeth and jaw crumble from the mere act of making contact. He falls forward onto the cold flagstones. He can hear no reply. There will be no reward.
“Let us practice our mathematics,” Leduc says. Antal hates when the man takes that smooth tone. He also hates mathematics. Every sunrise when he snuggles into his apprentice cot, he says his prayers and his curses. Pythagoras often figures prominently in the latter category.
The Frenchman smiles cruelly and flicks his finger in a silent command for Antal to bring out his stylus and begin making notes.
“Now in your battle at Szeged, you killed six Tzimisce, did you not? Take it down. Item: six Tzimisce. And you lost…let me see, nine Tremere. Four magi, five apprentices. Difference?”
“Three, their favor,” Antal says numbly.
“Ah. But if you were to accord to Stilbon’s strategic formulae, and consider that one Tzimisce is worth three apprentices, and one magus is worth five apprentices, now what is the difference?”
“Seven, their favor still.”
“Seven. But you did hold the chantry, and Bonisagus knows that’s what counts. Then at Osijek, it was ten Tzimisce, wasn’t it? Good score. They were probably planning to break the truce anyway. A pity about the farmers and their families, but only five Tremere lost: one magus, four apprentices. Old Emerik didn’t want to release his childer to you. You had to appeal to the Lord to get them, and a week later they were dead.”
This is really unfair. He knows they are talking about battles that took place long after he’d finished his Circles and gotten out from under Leduc’s fierce blue all-seeing eyes, and yet he distinctly feels himself as his younger self—his apprentice self. Everything he has since learned of stoicism, of control has deserted him. His hands begin to tremble as he digs the numbers into the wax of the tablet.
“Guti Forest. Eight Tzimisce, four Gangrel and one you never did figure out. Five magi; and twelve apprentices. Twelve! That was the one where the only question was which magi were going to die, because someone had to stay and close off the spell. They insisted on a lottery, but you fixed it, because it was quite clear whose loss would least hurt the House and Clan. Quick thinking. Truth be told, I think you liked Cornelius much better than Tiborc. Still, you didn’t allow that to cloud your judgment. And the apprentices slowed down the war-ghouls’ advance just long enough. Good thing you didn’t warn them, because they would have deserted for certain. On the whole, a success. On the banks of the Medvestak: four Tzimisce and an entire brood of their infernal Bratovitches. For only two magi, quite a trade. You didn’t think you could ever lose Rebeka, she’d come through so many scrapes all right, but eventually her lot was bound to be cast. How’s it totting up, Antal?”
“I’m… I’m running out of room, master…”
“Well, that’s no good, we’ve hardly begun. You’ll just have to write smaller. You wouldn’t want to forget any of this. How else are you going to know whether you’ve won or lost in the end?”
The stylus scrapes through to the wood, skidding across the tablet and out of his hand. He sets it down and rises on unsteady feet.
“I’m going,” he says thickly. “I don’t know who you are.”
Leduc—or whatever it is—is beside him in an instant, seizing his wrist. “What a dull-witted pupil you always were, Antal,” he hisses gleefully. “No head for figures. I remember you could use the abacus well enough, though. Perhaps you need to be able to see it and feel it. Perhaps that would be of help to you.”
“No. No, I don’t need to see.” He protests and pulls away, but it’s no good. His master drags him over to a great archway with tombstones for doors, and throws them open. Within the next chamber is a wall of skulls strung like beads on hanging ropes. Hundreds of them, some gaping with jagged fangs, some monstrous altogether, others showing only the blunt teeth of humankind. Some are large, some small, and some still pierced through with arrow or blade. They strike against each other as though alive, or stirred by an unseen breeze, clacking musically.
“Now,” said Leduc, whose hand has begun to burn in a most un-vampirelike way, “we’re going to do this again, my lad. By hand, one at a time, name by name. Until you can decide who wins.”
Jervais shouts at his laggard apprentice. “Fidus! More onions! More cloves, and mind they be ground fine! We’ve a pottage to get in the oven. You keep chopping, I’ll serve forth the broth and rolls.”
He hurries out with the platters and lays them out with a bow before the three diners. Etrius casually snatches a roll and rips it open. Malgorzata waits daintily as he ladles her out some broth. Goratrix smiles at him and spears a bit of cheese. He wipes his sweating hands on his apron and retreats behind the screen to fetch more wine.
“I thought he was yours,” Etrius says conversationally.
“Oh no, I rather think he’s yours. I think I lost him some time ago,” Goratrix replies just as amiably. Jervais is amazed; he’s never heard either of them sound so friendly. He also hadn’t thought Goratrix the sort to talk with his mouth full.
“I certainly haven’t got much use out of him of late,” Malgorzata comments. “Either of you have him if you want.”
“I don’t know,” Etrius says, “I’ve never been much for leftovers.”
Jervais scurries out and pours the wine for them.
“How’s that pottage coming?” Etrius asks him.
“It’s coming, but I still haven’t found the pork.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. You always think of something,” the Swede assures him.
He ducks behind the screen again and starts to head back into the kitchen, but then Goratrix speaks, and something in the way he says it leads Jervais to linger, eavesdropping.
“Well, she went down stringy, didn’t she? Told you she would.”
“You’re the one always complaining about told-you-so’s,” Etrius returns. “I’m sure it’d please you to see her disagree with me. I notice you didn’t ask for a change of menu.”
“Oh no. She was getting a bit past ripe anyway. Be
sides, I’m used to it now. One for you, one for me, that’s the way it’ll be for the next age I expect.”
“And none for me, as usual,” Malgorzata puts in.
“True enough,” Etrius says through a mouthful, “but think of the alternative.”
“True,” she agrees reluctantly. “What about tonight?”
“Well, I don’t know what’s keeping that boy, I thought I’d made myself clear. NEXT COURSE!” comes the shout, and Jervais leaps as if struck and hastens into the kitchen.
“Fidus! What’s taking so long? Why isn’t that pottage in the oven yet?”
The apprentice gives him his usual rabbit-like stare. “But master—there’s still no meat in it.”
“Well, that hardly matters now, we’ve got to get something out there!” Jervais bellows.
“No, master, I’m afraid that won’t do. It’s been made clear to me.” Fidus is clearing off the counter, sharpening a large blade.
“What are you doing?”
“What you taught me. I’m making ready to carve.”
“Who’s made what clear, Fidus?”
“Everyone, master.” The boy turns to him, looking a bit forlorn. “Even you. I’m sorry, but you must admit you would do the same. You have done the same. Alexia à la broche. Raban au jus. Lucien émincé. To think I believed for a while you’d never serve up someone so much after your own heart, but then Alexander got hungry.”
“I see. And you think you’ll make a better chef than I did? No one, no one will ever be better than I was. If my turn has come, Fidus, then so will yours.”
“I know,” he returns with those same sad eyes, “but not tonight, and that’s what’s important. You taught me that, too. Now please don’t be difficult.”
“Difficult? I’ve never been difficult in all my days, why would I start now?” He lays himself down on the cutting board, slick with the juices of garlic and onion. “I will make a rich dish indeed, Fidus. You’ll see.”
“I know, master,” the lad agrees as he studies Jervais for a starting place. “And you already know the sauce will be excellent.”
Chapter Nineteen
Jervais awoke to utter darkness. That was nothing new; he always awoke to utter darkness. He hadn’t been frightened of it since his first night after dying. True, that complete void held many things. There were terrible rituals that required absolute dark. Some of them required nakedness as well. He had been made, once, to—
No. What was this? One little bad dream—did a magus succumb to such things? He wriggled. They’d packed the dirt in very loosely. He should be able to make just a little bit of room and get leverage. Something felt odd, though. The texture was no longer the texture of soil—too lumpy. There hadn’t been so many rocks, he was sure of it. He stretched out one finger of his hand. Something cold, wet, smooth and fibrous brushed against it.
Tree-root. He probed into it. It extended as far as he could reach.
It was all around him.
He struggled. The mass surrounding him seemed almost to squeeze back. Perhaps he was imagining it. He was seized with a sudden, awful terror that he had no idea what time it was or how deep he lay. These roots might have dragged him yards and yards lower in the soil as he slept.
He began to scream and thrash.
“Master! Master!” He was in such a state he didn’t even notice the spot of moonlight that now shone into his living prison. But when he heard the voice he stared out through the gap in the roots. He could see part of Fidus’s face and part of Antal’s.
“The tree! Get me out!” he shouted at them.
“Patience,” said Antal. “It seems both you and Hermann are swallowed.”
“Don’t say swallowed.”
“Master Jervais, are you entirely sure the Telyavs got away with nothing of yours?”
“Nothing. I swear it.” For once, it was true. Many of his things were wet or broken, but none missing.
“Some other means of reaching us, then.” Antal frowned. “Perhaps the earth itself. No more underground sleeping in these thrice-cursed lands. We must dig you out. The mortals, alas, have our only ax.”
“Well, use your fingernails, I don’t care!”
“Master Jervais, you must calm yourself. You are safe. We have plenty of time.”
Jervais felt something very large wrap tighter around his leg. “We haven’t got any fucking time, Antal! The whoreson tree is trying to eat me! Oh Jesu—” Fidus’s face went absolutely aghast at hearing his master utter that word. “I mean Tremere, Great Tremere—”
“No, no,” Antal interrupted. “Master Jervais, shh. Look at me.”
But the choler that he’d only partly quenched in the blood of his enemy last night was taking hold of Jervais again. He applied every ounce of strength blood could summon against his bonds. They seemed to slither and weave around him with a papery, chuckling sound. He would never get out. Never, and these bastards would give up and leave him, they’d go away laughing…he screamed again, this time in fury. He felt his consciousness taking leave of his body, removing itself to a safer distance. Heat flushed his face, his neck. Heaven and earth reversed themselves, wheeling round.
“Jervais of Ceoris! Listen to me, I’m using your name.” Was that a hint of fear in the stoic voice? “Listen. Shh, shh. You are Jervais bani Tremere. You are a magus. You are a creature of Reason. Will. Wisdom. Will you look at me?”
Something cool touched against the small exposed spot on his forehead. He barely recognized the dark eyes that hovered very close to him now.
“Master Antal, Baghatur says he can take a sample of the wood and transmute it into its antithesis, whatever that means, with his alchemy…” A pearlescent face with palest-blue eyes took the place of Fidus’s. It was Torgeir, who stared curiously down at Jervais. The Dane would surely enjoy seeing his erstwhile tormentor lost in terror and rage. He couldn’t allow the sanctimonious little rat that pleasure.
“Yes, all right,” Antal shushed him. “Tell him to do it, quickly. Master Jervais, don’t mind them. Look at me.” The Hungarian’s gaze captured his own now. He realized that Antal was forcing his mind with blood-art, and some part of him was enraged even further by it. But a different corner of his soul heard his brother magus’ plea and understood the necessity. “Look at me. Help me help you. Reason, will, wisdom… Yes, that’s it. Please, Master Jervais.”
He didn’t know how long he let Antal talk soothing nonsense to him. Every so often he gave in to the ill-advised urge to flex his muscles uselessly against the entwining roots, which inspired a fresh bolt of panic. But eventually he heard another flurry of activity behind Antal.
“Hold still, Master Jervais,” Baghatur’s voice called.
“I can’t very well do otherwise,” he called back.
“I mean don’t startle. This should hurt only the tree, not you.”
At first nothing seemed to have changed. Then there was sort of a convulsion in the root-mass, and a shiver, and over the next several minutes it softened and crumbled. A mighty stench arose, but at last the tendrils loosened their grip and, with the other Tremere’s help, he worked his way out of the decaying pod.
“‘Antithesis of wood,’ you say?” he asked as he emerged. He examined the rest of the tree. It was not only dead but foully dead. “Well done, boy. A most practical application. Your master will be so relieved.”
“Honored to be of service, milord.” The young Khazar bowed and presented him with a half-full flagon of alchemical muck. A little ways off, a very irritated-looking Hermann shook stinking mulch from his hair, and the other Tremere and knights milled about untying horses. Wigand went over to the Kur slave (who sat, drowsy from the day’s guard duty, inside a circle he’d drawn on the ground with his knife—an “iron fence to keep out ghosts and velniai,” or so the heathen insisted) and pulled him to his feet.
“Are you quite all right, Master Jervais?” Antal asked cautiously.
“Don’t fuss, Master Antal, I’m fine. We’ve g
ot to decide where to go now. My thinking, currently, is what is the matter with Zabor.”
That hadn’t been at all how he’d meant to finish the sentence. But now he frowned over Master Antal’s shoulder at the Pole, who stood slightly separate from the group and trembling. Miklos, too, had wandered off. He sat on a fragment of rotten log, huddled with his head in his knees.
“I don’t know.” Antal shook Zabor’s shoulder, then slapped his cheek. “Zabor. Speak, lad. Bonisagus, he’s searing to the touch.”
Zabor suddenly cried out and bent over, twisting. His skin began to look oddly lit from within, glowing with a pink-orange light. Jervais dashed over and seized hold of the apprentice’s wrist, already painfully hot. He chanted the names of principles of ice and winter, tracing signs in the air with stabbing motions of his finger. “Ill working, I charge you begone from this flesh of my brother! I think I know a certain little Tremere who should have confessed to missing something.” He bodily sat the now-shivering Zabor down on the ground, then went to see to Miklos. Hermann stood helpless beside the brawny lad. Evidently he now had tender feelings for one of the eight Tremere, at least, since last night’s battle.
“He’s like stone,” the Ventrue said hoarsely.
“Must be a stone-spell, then. Stand aside.”
With a second exertion of will and sorcery, the curse was repelled from Miklos as well. But, as Jervais pointed out, “Only temporarily, I assure you. These devils will keep flinging their maledictions, and our nights of hiding from them are over now. We need to make camp at a nice well of vis, so our sodalicium can cast a good strong ward to protect us all. Fidus! My chart! Hand it to me and I’ll plot out a likely spot.”
“Yes, let us see the chart,” Antal chimed in.
Bonisagus, save us from the journeymen, Jervais thought, shaking his head, but he said nothing.
“The mortals are here at last,” Fidus said, trying to rouse Torgeir. The Dane only mumbled in reply. He and the rest of the sodalicium sat stupefied in the same exact spots where they’d stood to enact the large, complex ward that now ringed the hill-top.