Strigoi

by Tony-Paul de Vissage

  “Would it be subversive for me to say it sounds as if His Majesty and Ravagiu are in league with each other?” The anger in Vlad’s voice was laden with irony. “Although why it should be so…”

  “His steward thinks he’s becoming unbalanced,” Marek lowered his voice to a whisper. “I must say there are signs.”

  “I agree,” Andrei put in, also speaking quietly. “That business about abandoning his castel and transforming his audience chamber into something resembling nothing more than a huge, black cave. It sounds more like the lair of a giant bat than the dwelling place of a prince.”

  “Nevertheless, sane or not, he is the Domnitor and his word is law…and he’s given us twenty-four hours to leave,” Marek replied in defeat. “We can stand around and debate the Prince’s mental balance all we want, but the big question is: Do we wait or do we leave tonight? There’s probably six more hours of darkness left.”

  “I’m for leaving as soon as possible,” Vlad replied.

  “Yes.” As usual, Andrei sided with his twin. “If he wants us gone, let’s go now, and put as many miles between us and the valley as we can before morning.”

  “Then our meeting with Ravagiu is postponed again. Very well, let’s make preparations to leave. We’ll need our swords, and money.” Marek spoke dully, his thoughts on Lily. It took all his will to shove his grief to the back of his mind. “Can you two get one of the chests in the counting room?”

  “What if we need more money later?” asked Vlad. “Is there some way we can get word to Radu or Dănuț?”

  Marek shook his head. “Anyone who helps us will either be banished or die. We can’t endanger them, though I imagine both Radu and Dănuț would gladly try.”

  He looked at his captain as the twins left the room.

  “Zoltan, I release you and your men from your oath to my family. Ally yourselves with Cézar’s household. I see two of the men who were in the Taietor’s guard survived. Between the three of you, you should be able to advise him until he’s more certain of himself.”

  “If you wish, master, I’ll send my men to Lord Cézar, but I’m staying with you.” As Marek started to protest, Zoltan went on, “You’re going into foreign territory, sir. You’ll need someone to protect you.”

  “Zoltan, I’m no longer your ghidaj. I’ll be of no consequence in the Outside.”

  “You’ll always be my ghidaj, my lord.” The captain’s face took on a stubborn cast as he repeated, “You’ll need protection.”

  “Very well.” Marek saw no need to argue further. “Thank you for your loyalty.”

  “I hope you’re not planning on leaving us behind.” Sabine, with Sandor beside him, stepped forward. “Ghidaj or not, you’re definitely going to need human servants, and a doctor, occasionally, I imagine.”

  “Sabine, I…” Marek was overcome by the thralls’ loyalty. He hadn’t thought either would willingly leave the valley and brave the threats of the outside world simply to stay with their master. “It’s going to be dangerous. I refuse to give up the sânge ravensa, and if the Prince finds out, I’ll be killed, as will all with me. Do you still wish to go?”

  Both nodded.

  “I…thank you.”

  “So, my lord, how shall we travel?” Sabine asked briskly.

  “We’ll fly out,” Marek told him. “One of us will carry one of you.” He turned to his cousin. “Dan can handle the money box. Your arm will allow that, won’t it?”

  Dan nodded.

  “What about me?” Until now, Ruxanda had sat silently clenching and unclenching her hands, her eyes large and lost, streaks of tears still on her face. “I don’t have my wings yet.”

  “I’ll carry you.” Marek forced himself to smile at his little sister.

  She nodded dully.

  “Marek.” Vlad was back, looking frantic. “The Ingrijitor’s here, with Cézar.”

  “Names of the gods. Why? Does the Prince think we’re going to defy him and stay?” Pushing past his brother, Marek ran down the stairs.

  * * *

  Looking as cold as ever, the Ingrijitor watched Marek approach. He held up the golden staff. A few feet from him, Marek stopped, watching the man warily.

  “It’s the decision of our Domnitor you will take nothing with you, Marek Strigoi. Neither weapons, money, nor anything of value.”

  “How are we expected to survive?” Marek forced himself to speak quietly. “If we’ve no money to buy food or pay for lodging?”

  “That is not His Majesty’s concern.”

  “Damn it, Ingrijitor, we’ve a child with us. She has to be provided for.” He wasn’t going to beg for himself, but he would for Ruxanda.

  “She’s a Strigoi. She must share your punishment.”

  There was no use arguing. The Prince’s word was absolute. If he said they were to leave the valley stark naked with chains around their necks, that was the way they’d leave.

  For some reason, he not only wants to be rid of us, he wants us humiliated. Why?

  “Very well.” Marek nodded. “May we take some clothing, and a few personal possessions?”

  “That will be permissible.”

  “Thank you.” He hated the meekness in his voice.

  “The Taietor will remain while you pack those items.” The steward nodded at Cézar as he disappeared.

  Marek’s cousin hadn’t spoken. His usually smiling face was statue-cold, a replica of the steward’s, as if it might never laugh again. Against the dark cloth of his coat the insignia blazed.

  Marek went back up the stairs.

  Everyone was gathered at the top of the staircase. Andrei held Ruxanda in his arms.

  “What did he say?” he asked. “Why is Cézar here?”

  “To make certain we leave.” Marek nodded at the moneybox sitting on the floor at Vlad’s feet. “We’ve been ordered not to take any money or weapons with us.”

  His brother’s mouth dropped. He looked as if he’d protest.

  “We can’t argue, Vlad. We’re to pack some personal items and clothing and get out as soon as we’re finished.” Marek sighed, and the sound held defeat. “I guess we’d better get busy.”

  * * *

  “They still live?”

  In his brother’s castle outside BudaPesth, Mircea’s fury launched itself at the surviving soldat, sending him cringing to his knees.

  “Mercy, master. They drank the wine, but not enough. The soldati captain became suspicious, sent someone to question the vintner—”

  “Out! Out of my sight before I kill you.”

  Scrambling to his feet, the man ran for the door and the relative safety of the corridor as fast as he could.

  Mircea stared at the gruesome relic seeping blood onto the floor of the audience room. The guards on the walls had assured him that fool soldat wasn’t followed, though he didn’t understand why Strigoi would let him go and give up a chance to find where his old enemy was hiding.

  Perhaps his mind’s too weakened with grief. His lip curled, then twisted into a smile as he thought of Marek on his knees cradling his beloved’s corpse. Too bad the others hadn’t died, too.

  So I failed again. Wasn’t the third time supposed to be the charm? In that case, why did it fail? He didn’t dare try once more.

  At least the effort wasn’t a complete disappointment. He’d killed a good many of Strigoi’s retinue as well as the woman he loved. That was a blow from which the freak would be a long time recovering. As for losing Vasili...

  Mircea walked to where the head lay, dropped by the soldat in his fear. Wrapping his fingers in the coarse, black hair, he lifted the head.

  “I do regret your death.” He looked into the now-filmed eyes. “You were a faithful minion, my dear Vasili, but you shouldn’t have failed me.”

  Hurling the head against the wall, he stalked out, not looking back as it struck with a meaty thump and rebounded to the floor, leaving a crimson splotch on the gray marble.

  Chapter 23

  In his bedchambe
r Marek placed a single change of clothing in a traveling bag.

  Lily always laughed at my dislike of decoration.

  She’d said it made him so uninteresting, and swore if he’d been wearing anything that plain when she first saw him she’d have ignored him.

  Lily, my darling, now I have to look as dull as possible, nothing to attract the wrong eyes, no gems or gold trim luring thieves or anyone else, to me.

  On one wall of Marek’s chamber, hung a portrait of János, on the other, one of Anastacza. Marek looked up at his father’s painted face.

  “Father, he said personal items…so I’ll take you…and Mother.” Though Anastacza had hated him, he’d take her portrait also, for the twins.

  Pulling a dagger from the belt at his waist, he cut János’ picture out of the frame and rolled it into a tube, then did the same to his mother’s, stuffing them into the bag also. He went into the dressing room, tossing the dagger onto a chest-top.

  No weapons. Even a knife that small had to be left behind.

  There was a small jewelry coffer holding Anike’s jewelry, a chain and locket lying next to it.

  Marek picked up the little chest. The jewels were valuable.

  Will we be allowed to take them?

  By rights the jewels should be Ruxanda’s. Perhaps they’d be allowed to keep them as personal remembrances. He forced the coffer into the bag, and reached for the locket. It was an old piece, engraved with vines and flowers, the chain heavy and ornate. One of Marek’s first memories was of playing with it as it hung around his father’s neck.

  When he was very young, he’d asked János whose picture was inside.

  He’d been told, “The woman I love.”

  Marek supposed he meant Anastacza, but she looked very angry as he said it, at him and at János. They had a terrible argument ending with János storming out of the bedchamber and going to the fourth floor, where he spent the night. Later, Marek learned the locket held the picture of his father’s dead mistress. Why that made Anastacza hate her own son, he was still at a loss to understand. All he knew was that no matter how hard he tried to make his mother love him, she never gave him the barest affection, even before he asked that queston.

  He’d never looked inside the locket, but now, even in the haste laying upon them, he allowed his curiosity to surface. Touching the little latch with his thumb, he wavered.

  Perhaps I shouldn’t pry. Perhaps I should leave Father’s memories with him wherever he is. He slid the chain over his head, dropping the locket inside his shirt.

  “M-Marek?”

  Sniffling back a sob, Ruxanda stood in the doorway. Her hair had come unbraided and hung down her back in tangled curls. One hand scrubbed against the smear of Ilona’s blood on the front of her gown.

  “You should be packing.” He tried not to make it a reprimand.

  “I don’t know what to pack. You said a few clothes. I’ve so many pretty things, I-I don’t know which to pick.” She looked up at him and her chin trembled. One hand wiped at her eyes and she sniffled. “I don’t want to leave any of them.”

  “Come.” Marek touched her cheek. “I’ll pack for you.”

  Hand on her shoulder, he led the child across the hall into her room, picking her up and setting her on the bed while he roamed the chamber, opening drawers and wardrobes.

  Silently, she watched him, hands clasped in her lap.

  He looked into the open drawer of the chest before him. Stockings, ruffled pantelets, petticoats, chemises, frilly little nightgowns…

  Gods, I never realized females had so much clothing.

  Lily never seemed to wear that much. Of course, he always got Lily out of whatever she was wearing as soon as he could.

  Don’t think of Lily. Don’t.

  “Two changes of clothing, that’s all you need.”

  He forced himself to concentrate on selecting two complete sets of garments. After placing two dresses and the required underthings in Ruxanda’s little case, he hesitated, looking down at a dozen folded cotton squares.

  “Will your courses be starting soon?” Not looking at her, he made the question as casual as possible.

  “Not for another three weeks.” If Ruxanda thought it unusual for her brother to ask such a thing, she didn’t show it. There had been an odd ease between them on that specific subject since she’d called for him that first time.

  “Good.” He relaxed a little, scooping the cloths out of the drawer and tossing them into the bag.

  As he snapped it shut, he held out his hand. Sliding off the bed Ruxanda caught it in hers, but as they started out the door she pulled away.

  “Oh, wait. Feodor. I can’t leave Feodor.”

  She ran to the bed and picked up a small, misshapen bear lying among the pillows, then came back to Marek. Hugging the stuffed animal, she managed a smile as she replaced her hand in his.

  “I’m ready to go now.”

  Below in the entryway, the others waited for them.

  Marek faced Cézar.

  “Cousin, I beg you show us mercy. Allow us to take one caravan and a horse. Please don’t make Ruxanda walk.”

  The face before him could’ve been carved from the Carpathians themselves. Cézar had always been a laughing, reckless sort, full of jokes and mischief, but in the space of a few hours, the mantle of taietor erased all joy from his expression.

  “Let me see what you’ve packed,” was all he said.

  They allowed him to look through the little bags. He paused only when he came to the jewel coffer. Pulling it from Marek’s bag, he held it up.

  “What does this contain?”

  “My stepmother’s jewelry. I thought Ruxanda would wish to have it.”

  Cézar looked down at the little box as if he could see inside. After a moment, he thrust it back inside the bag. Straightening, he looked at Marek again.

  “You may take one caravan and one draft horse. All other animals will be sent to my castel.”

  “I thank you, Taietor.” Marek was shocked by the humbleness in his voice.

  * * *

  The caravan was small but roomy, similar to the house-wagons of the Romanies who traveled the Carpathian valley through Transylvania. Between the traces, one of the castel’s strongest draft horses snorted and pawed.

  Cézar followed them into the courtyard, standing beside the great double doors to look down at them. He hadn’t spoken since giving Marek permission to take the caravan.

  Marek wondered what he was thinking. Was he tensed to draw his sword at the first movement he might call disobedience, ready to swing it and end one of his kinsmen’s lives?

  Is Cézar feeling as I did on my own first armate? He shook his head.

  It wasn’t his concern. Let his cousin puke up his guts in fear or remorse.

  The prince’s justice is his worry now. All I want is getting my family safely away from here.

  The twins had loaded their meager belongings into the ’van. Zoltan climbed onto the driver’s seat. Ruxanda, still clutching Feodor, stood by Sabine who held her hand. Sandor stood by her side.

  Dan stopped beside Marek, lowering his voice so Cézar wouldn’t hear.

  “If Ravagiu decides to attack us again, unarmed as we are, we’re as good as dead.”

  “We’ll just have to pray to the Oracle he doesn’t.” Marek spoke as quietly.

  “What if he does?”

  “Then we’ll use fangs and talons and fight until we’re all taken down.”

  Dan nodded, and started to the wagon.

  “Dan?”

  He looked back.

  “Promise me something.”

  Marek glanced at Ruxanda. She pressed her cheek against Sabine’s side and the doctor hugged her tightly.

  “If it does happen, if Ravagiu gets to us… Don’t let him take Ruxanda. Promise me.”

  The blood drained from Dan’s face. He looked at Ruxanda, then back at Marek. “He’ll never touch her. I promise.”

  Walking over to where sh
e stood, he said something to Sabine, and laid his hand on Ruxanda’s head. She looked up at him and gave him a wan smile. Dan brushed a hand across his eyes, and climbed onto the wagon seat, and from there was lifted to the roof by the twins.

  Marek looked up at Cézar. “We’re ready to leave.”

  “I’ll report back to my prince I’ve seen you on your way.” Cézar came down the steps.

  He hesitated, looking as if he wished to say more, then shook his head and touched Marek’s shoulder. There was a gentle pressure of fingers before he let his hand fall. Releasing his wings through the slits in the back of his travel-coat, he flew away.

  Climbing beside Zoltan, Marek settled Ruxanda between them. Inside, Sabine sat with Sandor in relative comfort among the clothes-cases in the tiny bedroom-parlor, while the twins and Dan perched perilously on the roof, clinging to the luggage rails.

  Lifting the reins, Zoltan snapped the whip and whistled to the horse.

  The animal raised his head, put shoulders against the harness, and the wagon rolled through the great iron gates onto the road leading from the castel into the forest.

  The seat was padded and fairly comfortable and the animal’s gait gently rocking. After a few moments, Ruxanda gave in to exhaustion and fell asleep. Putting his arm around the child, Marek looked back at the castel, watching it grow smaller and smaller until a turn through the trees hid it from his sight.

  Part 2

  The three virtues of the Stranger are to be silent, to be cunning, but above all to be invisible.

  —Laurence Yep

  Dragonwings

  Chapter 24

  Haus von Blitzensturm

  Vienna, Austria

  1810

  “I wish to see Herr Markgraf von Blitzensturm.”

  The Markgraf’s major-domo didn’t answer. Instead, he sniffed audibly and stared at the unkempt young man standing on the stoop before him. His gaze traveled from the muddy riding boots up the torn and sodden traveling coat to the long, damp hair escaping its club and hanging lankly in the dirt-smeared face.

  A ne’er-do-well if ever he saw one, as were the others.