Strigoi

by Tony-Paul de Vissage

  He glanced at the little group huddled under the eave of the carriage-port, barely out of the rain. Thieves and cutthroats, no doubt, and having no business with his master.

  Tilting his head so it appeared he looked down at his visitor, though the young man was at least a dozen inches taller, he replied, “The Markgraf doesn’t allow beggars at his front door. Go to the servants’ entrance if you wish charity.”

  “Beggars?” The young man underwent a startling transformation. He seemed to grow taller, eyes glittering with such anger the servant took an involuntary step backward. “You’ll tell the Graf that Marek, Ghidaj Strigoi, awaits him.”

  He spoke through clenched teeth. Raising his left hand so the major-domo could see the malachite stones set into his knuckles, Marek took a step forward, the movement filled with such menace the servant retreated into the safety of the foyer.

  “…and you’ll do it now.”

  “J-Jawohl, mein Herr.” Frightened by the stranger’s response, he slammed the door shut.

  “Marek?” Dan called. “What did he say?”

  He held Ruxanda cuddled in his arms. She was asleep, clutching Feodor to her chest, Dan’s cape pulled over her, protecting her from the rain.

  “He’s fetching the Graf,” Marek replied.

  He wouldn’t tell Dan how the man insulted them. They’d endured too much in the past year and a half. No need to add to the burdens they already carried by letting them know the servant of the man from whom they were going to request Haven thought them vagrants or worse.

  In a few moments, the door re-opened.

  “Please, hereingekommen.” The major-domo swung the door wide and stepped back, allowing Marek to enter. He’d regained his composure, and apparently was also informed of the visitor’s identity, for he added, “My lord.”

  Marek stalked across the threshold, muddy bootprints soiling the foyer’s polished tile. After traveling through rain for so many days, the change from damp to dry was both welcome and startling, and he was unable to suppress a shiver.

  “If you'll come this way, sir?”

  “The others?” Marek put up a hand and stopped the door’s slow swing shut.

  “I’ll see to them as soon as you’re settled, sir.” The servant spoke earnestly.

  Nodding, he released the door and followed the man, who took him to a room on the right. He opened it and bowed Marek inside.

  “Herr Graf will be here momentarily, my lord.”

  Without so much as a glance at the room’s furnishings, Marek waited until the door shut before running to the hearth.

  Gods, I didn’t realize how cold I am until I got inside. He felt chilled to the bone. Holding out his hands to the blaze, he felt his fingers tingling. Probably get a case of the rheumaticks out of this, or the ague or something equally painful.

  The door burst open, and Karl-Josef, Markgraf von Blitzensturm strode, in, wearing a brocaded robe, his night-shirt billowing over well-formed calves and feet thrust into house slippers. He was tall and blond and even in his present state of undress, looked every bit the sectiuna of the Austrian aventurieri that he was.

  “Marek? It is you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m afraid so.”

  “My boy, this is a surprise.” He held out his arms. On his left hand, his garnet clan-gems gleamed.

  “Uncle Karl, don’t.” Backing away to escape the Graf’s embrace, Marek protested, “I’m filthy.”

  “Nonsense.” He was enveloped in a tight hug as Karl-Josef’s arms closed around him. “Gods, boy, you’re as cold as stone. Werner, quickly, some boiled wine.”

  Obediently, the servant backed out, closing the door again.

  As he was released, Marek took a step away from the Graf, making a jerky bow. “I know you can’t give us Sanctuary, sir, but if you’ll allow us Haven for even two days so we may rest unmolested, we’ll be gone and never bother you again.”

  “Not give you Sanctuary?” Karl-Josef looked aghast. “What’s this?” He gave Marek a stern stare as if he already knew the answer. “I’m aware of what happened, son. Where else have you been?”

  “We went first to Serbia.” Marek turned away to stare into the fire, holding up his hands so Karl-Josef would think he was merely warming himself. In truth, he couldn’t look at his father’s friend and tell him how miserably they’d been treated. “The sectiuna of Belgrade turned us away, said he wouldn’t dare the Domnitor’s wrath by harboring one who’d been banished.”

  Leaning one arm against the mantel, Karl-Josef remained silent as Marek continued avoiding his gaze.

  “From there, we went to Italy. The sectiuna in Rome said the same thing, as did the one in Venice. Because they’re brothers, I suppose. The one in Spain, also.” He sighed heavily, a world of weariness in the sound, and forced himself to meet the Graf’s eyes. “So…”

  “Those cowards.” Karl-Josef looked chagrined. “…so in desperation, you came to your old uncle, eh?”

  “The twins’ foster father is deceased, so…”

  The Graf placed a hand on Marek’s shoulder. “I stood with your father when he presented you to Prince Ciprian. I swore to look out for his first-born if something happened to him. I’m sorry we had to meet each other again under these circumstances, but if now’s the time I’m to keep that promise, so be it. You may stay here as long as you like, my boy. As my guest.”

  “Are you certain, sir? I mean, His Majesty said anyone who helps us will be included in my punishment. I understand why the others refused, though it’s caused us more hardship.”

  “Don’t worry. I put myself in no danger by placing you under my protection. It’d take an order from the Consfatuire itself to execute a sectiuna. I admit I’m astounded by this. What possessed the prince?”

  “Some think his mental processes may be…” Marek attempted to select the proper word, “…less than they were.”

  “Ah.” Karl-Josef considered that. “What does his Council think?”

  “They haven’t protested. Yet.”

  “They may not. Ciprian has held people in fear for centuries. They’re probably afraid to speak up even if he shows signs of deterioration.” The Graf smiled ironically. “Perhaps I’d better increase my prayers to the Oracle to speed the Intamplare to us.”

  Remembering the prophecy the Oracle had given the aventurieri, Marek allowed himself a hesitant smile. “You actually believe in that old story? A one-eyed king?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. “How much can a warrior see with only one eye?”

  “Sometimes a one-eyed man may see more than a man with two,” Karl-Josef replied.

  “It’s said the Intamplare won’t only dethrone the prince, but will betray us all to the deomi. I certainly don’t want that. Not even to save myself. I want no one else endangered because of me.”

  Haven’t I begged the gods for that? Look how they answer me.

  “How do you suppose a man would react,” the Graf mused, “if he learned he’d been chosen by the gods?”

  “Disbelieving...fearful.” Marek considered the question. “Angry, I think.”

  “Why angry?”

  “Would anyone want to know he was to be the instrument destroying his people?” Marek tranferred that idea to his own situation. “That’s why I don’t wish to involve you in my problem, sir.”

  “Believe me, we’re far enough away from the Motherland that we’re almost separate kingdoms,” Karl-Josef assured him. “The sectiuni of Europe and the other continents only look to Carpathius for matters of the most urgency.”

  The door opened, and Werner came in carrying a small silver tray holding two pewter steins filled with steaming wine. Setting it upon a small table next to a nearby chair, he bowed and started out.

  “Uh…Werner.”

  Brows raised, the man looked at Marek.

  “My kinsmen?”

  “Your kinsman? Ach, Gott!” In other circumstances, the look on his face would’ve been comical. “I thought the
y were your servants. I put them in the butler’s pantry.”

  “Werner!” Karl-Josef turned on his major-domo. “Such a slight to my foster son. Get them to guest rooms immediately.”

  “Wait, Uncle Karl.” Marek placed a hand on his uncle’s arm, looking at Werner. “What are they doing at this moment?”

  “They’re dining with Herr Graf’s staff,” the butler replied. “The little girl was hungry and I thought to give them a meal before finding them beds in the servants’ quarters.” He smiled faintly. “When I left them, those two lads who look so much alike were flirting with one of the ’tweenies, and the cook was cooing over the child. Shall I get a nursemaid for the little girl, sir?”

  “How old is your sister now?” Karl-Josef asked.

  “She’s sixteen.”

  “Ja, Werner, put the child in the nursery and have one of the maids sleep there also.”

  With another bow, Werner went to carry out his orders.

  “We have bags. I wouldn’t dare call it luggage,” Marek said. “They hold everything we were allowed to bring with us.”

  “I’m certain Werner’s taking care of them,” Karl-Josef promised. “Here.”

  He picked up one of the steins, offering it to Marek.

  “Drink this. It’ll warm you.”

  As Marek took a careful sip, his uncle looked the younger man up and down, quick eyes taking in the worn and wet clothing.

  “It must’ve been a difficult trip from Spain to here. Why didn’t you go to France instead?”

  “My French isn’t all that good.” With more than a little shame, Marek lowered the mug.

  Most aventurieri were expert linguists, but he’d always had trouble with languages. János called it merely another facet of his ghidajship.

  “So, I’ve become your host because of a deficiency of language, eh?” The Graf’s laugh said it was a joke, and he didn’t consider the reason he was Marek’s last resort an insult.

  Marek didn’t seem to hear. He studied the liquid in the stein.

  “We were allowed a caravan and one horse. We sold the ’van in Spain, let Ruxanda ride the horse while we walked beside it. During the day, we hid in caves or in groves where the trees were thick.”

  He kept his eyes down, reluctant to look at Karl-Josef.

  “We caught small animals, ate them raw, stole fruit from orchards, begged for food. We met a gypsy caravan and for a while rode with them until they were set upon by some villagers. At last, we sold the horse and got enough coins for some fruit, a couple of loaves of bread, and a wineskin.”

  He raised his head and gave the Graf a wavering smile.

  “For a few days, we felt as if we had a banchet. Of course, with the horse gone we had to take turns carrying Ruxanda. She could never have kept up the pace otherwise.”

  Voice trailing away, Marek paused for several seconds before taking a deep breath and attempting to rally.

  “It was raining when we got to the outskirts of Vienna. I had no idea where your town house was located, but I didn’t think we’d last long if we wandered around trying to find it. I stopped at a tavern and took a chance, asked the barkeep if he might have knowledge of a Markgraf von Blitzensturm.” He gave a shaky laugh. “He did. Gods, I had no idea you were so well-known, sir. I thought aventurieri tried to be invisible.”

  “One can attract attention by being too invisible,” Karl-Josef replied, gravely. “I comport myself as merely a resident of Viennese nobility, one who has many duties keeping him busy during the day so he can only be seen in social events at eventide. I neither intrude nor hide myself away. It’s worked for several centuries now.”

  Marek took a second swallow of wine. It was very hot, and he could feel a lengthy burn of both temperature and ingredients as it went down, forming a warm glow in the pit of his stomach.

  Careful, mustn’t drink too quickly. With my belly so empty I might get drunk and pass out on my host.

  He forced himself to lower the stein, noting it was already half-empty. His stomach reacted by giving an audible growl.

  “You’ve not eaten recently?” Karl-Josef kept his voice soft. All he could think was how tired Marek looked, and to his centuries-old eyes, so very young.

  “Three days ago. We begged some bread from a farmer’s wife.” Marek smiled slightly as he remembered how frightened the woman had been, finding a stranger standing at her kitchen door. “She gave it to me to get us to leave, I think.”

  They’d wolfed it down like starving animals giving Ruxanda the largest portion. Out of the two loaves the eight of them had probably no more than two mouthfuls each.

  He finished the wine and walked over to the table where the tray sat, but as he bent to place the mug upon it, a sudden wave of dizziness struck him.

  Putting one hand to his eyes, he asked, “May I sit, sir? I feel a trifle unsteady.”

  “Of course.”

  Waving a hand at the chair near the table, Karl-Josef seated himself in the one opposite. He almost reached for Marek’s arm to assist him, then stopped himself, realizing it’d shame his foster son to be helped as if he were an invalid. Nevertheless, he could see Marek was getting very close to collapsing from exhaustion. Instead, he sat on the edge of his chair, alert, and ready to leap to his feet when the young man reached the end of his endurance and let fatigue take over.

  Already, he was nodding.

  “When was the last time you fed?”

  “I…uh, a week ago...no, i-it was…” Marek considered, as if his answer were terribly important. “Ten. Yes, ten days ago.”

  “Gods, lad, you must indeed be starving. Was it from your servants? How many do you have with you, anyway?”

  “Only three. They refused to leave us. Two are thralls, the other aventuriera.”

  “You didn’t touch them?”

  “They’re not our vita, sir.” Marek avoided Karl-Josef’s gaze, looking into the fire.

  It would’ve been an easy thing to do, take blood from Sabine, Sandor, or Zoltan. They wouldn’t have protested, but their specific status in his household made them exempt from that and he felt it’d be a betrayal to touch them, even if he were starving.

  “We waylaid two travelers in a forest near here. Didn’t kill them, but...drank...and left them. I’m not proud of that.”

  “Whyever not? All of you needed to feed.”

  “It was wrong.” Marek looked at Karl-Josef and away again. Briefly there was a flaming patch in each pallid cheek. “It’s wrong to take someone’s blood by force.” His next words were a whisper. “Th-they were male. I-I’ve never…”

  “It means nothing,” the Graf assured him. “You had to feed. You had to take whomever was available. You didn’t interfere with them, did you? Or give yourself any physical satisfaction during their helplessness?”

  “Of course not.” Marek was insulted the Graf would even ask. “Neither did any of the others.”

  “Is there any way they can identify you?”

  “No, but—”

  “There’s no problem, then. Don’t think on it longer.” Karl-Josef spread his hands in a dismissing gesture. “You did what you had to do and there’s an end to it. However,” he got to his feet. “I do feel you need to feed again. The others, too. Soon. I’ll have Werner show you to your room and I’ll send one of my cattle to you.”

  Marek stood also. “I’d more prefer a hot bath and a soft bed.”

  “You’ll have both, and then feed. I’ll give you one of my prettiest women.” He allowed himself a quiet leer and a wink. “She’ll get the warmth back into your bones.”

  “My iubita was killed in the attack on my castel, uncle.” Marek’s answer was quiet, holding no wish to offend his host. “I’m in mourning. I don’t want any woman for…that.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” The Graf allowed sympathy into his voice, then swept it away, not wanting Marek to dwell on what had happened.

  He was certain János had instilled in his son an assumption of guilt
for how his actions affected those over whom he was responsible. Doubtless he’d been berating himself from the moment they left the castel. Probably mentally flailed himself for bringing his family with him and causing such loyalty that his servants would follow him also.

  “In that vase, merely take your sustenance from her, and get a good day’s sleep.”

  He stepped to the hearth and tugged on the gold-incised leather bellpull hanging near the mantel.

  Within minutes Werner appeared. “Sir?”

  “Show Lord Marek to his suite, and have a bath brought up.”

  Bowing, Werner gestured for Marek to precede him through the door. As they went out, Karl-Josef called, “Werner, send Lisl to me, also.”

  “Ja, mein Graf.” Pulling the door shut, Werner indicated the spiral staircase set against the far wall. “Your suite is upstairs, my lord. If you’ll follow me?”

  Inclining his head slightly, Marek allowed the servant to lead him up the stairs. When he was certain the major-domo’s back was turned, he caught the heavy mahogany banister and steadied himself against it before following the man.

  * * *

  The bedchamber was twice as large as those at Castel Strigoi and three times as sumptuous. Even this late at night, it blazed with brilliance from the fire in the hearth, as well as from lamps set about the room and the chandelier hanging from a chain in the center of the ceiling. The walls, their wainscoting overlaid with gilded stenciling, reflected the light, giving the room a warm glow.

  “Well.” As he looked around, Marek tried to affect what he hoped was considered the proper tone for a worldly noble. “I believe this’ll be adequate.”

  “It’s our best guest suite, sir,” Werner replied, stiffly. “The master keeps it reserved for visiting nobility and relatives.”

  “I suppose I fit into the latter,” Marek mused. “Even if only being a relative by courtesy.”

  He looked at the major-domo, reflecting he and the servant had gotten off to a very bad start. Though the butler’s original words still rankled, it probably wouldn’t be advisable to stay on the wrong side of a loyal servant.

  Perhapas a bit of idle conversation was in order.

  “How long have you been with the Graf?”