by Tim Waggoner
“Perhaps it was my father’s outlook that sparked my own interest in the secret functioning of the world. I studied the flows of the elements and learned to draw secrets from them. When the village livestock got sick, I was able to find the secret of curing them. Some called me a witch then, but most of the village agreed that as a smith’s daughter I had been blessed by Telyavel.
“And so time went on, my father working at his forge, and I using my paltry knowledge to make life a little better for our people. I was not long into my young womanhood when a solitary stranger came to our village, a wise man garbed in robes of amber and brown. He spoke to the villagers, telling them that he heard rumors of a girl who demonstrated impressive skill at the mystic arts, and they of course directed him to my father’s forge. The man introduced himself to my father as Alferic and they spoke for some time. Later that night, my father told me a great scholar was going to take me on as his apprentice, and I would leave with him in the morning.
“I was saddened at the thought of leaving my family, but I was also excited by the prospect at learning more. So excited that I didn’t notice the glassy-eyed stare in my father’s eyes or the listless monotone of his voice. Years later, I realized that Alferic had ensorcelled my father to make him agree to give me up. The Tremere can be quite aggressive when it comes to finding and taking on apprentices. And the more potential a child has, the more aggressive they can be. My father was fortunate that he was weak-minded enough to succumb to Alferic’s spell, otherwise my soon-to-be teacher would likely have slain him in order to obtain me.
“I went away with Alferic. Over the next several years, he introduced me to the world of the mystic scholars of House Tremere. We traveled from chantry to chantry, through Hungary, Bavaria, Saxony, Bulgaria… and if I found it odd that the magi preferred to sleep during the day and be active at night, I put it down to simple practicality. After all, so many spells and enchantments must be cast in the dead of night—or so Alferic taught me.
“Slowly, step by step, Alferic led me deeper into the realms of dark sorcery until I considered it commonplace to offer up my body as part of a mystic rite or plunge an obsidian dagger into the breast of a willing—or often not-so-willing—participant. I learned my lessons well, and by the time I entered my full womanhood, my apprenticeship was at an end. And during the ceremony wherein I was officially to become a full-fledged magus, I learned the final secret of the Tremere when Alferic Embraced me. The exchange of vitae was presented as merely another mystic rite, and I had no idea what its true purpose was—not until I changed.
“I suppose on a certain level I wasn’t surprised, for the revelation that the Tremere were in truth vampires explained a great many things about them, but I was horrified and furious that I had been transformed without my consent. And I soon discovered that I was not the only one among the Tremere who felt this way. Ordinary mortals would’ve had little choice but to accept their new state of existence, but we were magi, and we believed that what had been done to us could be undone, so we secretly began searching for a way to reverse the Embrace.
“Ultimately, the undead Tremere weren’t so very different from many mortals. They considered blood sorcery and even the Curse of Caine itself to be nothing more than avenues to greater power. They valued knowledge only as a means to an end and knew nothing of true wisdom.
“Those of us seeking a remedy for our condition met with little success but plenty of suspicion from our fellows. We therefore decided to break off from the clan and search for a cure on our own. I knew my homeland was a place of great power, so I led our little splinter group to Livonia. We didn’t find a way to reverse the Embrace, of course—I’m no longer sure that such a thing is possible—but we found something else: a new home and new purpose.
“Telyavel was Protector of the Dead and so we sought a new bond with the god. He accepted our worship and guided us to act as priests and serve the land and people. The blood rites became part of the people’s worship, and the Telyavs were born.”
“You said that the Tremere knew nothing of true wisdom,” Malachite said. “What do you think true wisdom is?” There was no mockery in his voice. He seemed genuinely interested in Deverra’s answer.
She thought for a moment, then looked at Qarakh and gave him a smile. “To live in yostoi.” Before Malachite could ask, she explained. “It’s a Mongolian word that means ‘balance.’”
“A balance of what?” the Nosferatu asked.
“Of life and death, the Self and the Beast, killing out of necessity instead of mere bloodlust,” Deverra said. “Yostoi is the path of true harmony between the desires of the flesh and the needs of the spirit.”
Malachite smiled. “Our beliefs are not that dissimilar after all.”
Qarakh sniffed. “Yours is a religion of civilization—of buildings that close you off from the world, of laws that force you to act against your own nature, and of priests who tell you the greatest glory is to force your god on others at sword point.”
“Merely because one proclaims himself Christian doesn’t make it so,” Malachite said, “any more than I can become a falcon by simply stating that I am.”
Qarakh was about to argue the point, but then he remembered what Alexander had told him, how the prince used Christianity as a tool and nothing more. The Mongol wondered how many other “soldiers of Christ” held the same view—not that it mattered overmuch. In the end, an enemy was an enemy regardless of how sincerely he practiced his professed religion.
“We should be far enough away from Alexander’s encampment by now for you to speak freely,” Qarakh said to Malachite. “Why don’t you tell me the true reason you wish to accompany us?”
Malachite hesitated before responding. “It is, as Deverra said a while ago, a lengthy story.”
“You said that a story can make time pass more swiftly,” Qarakh said.
Malachite smiled. “I did say that, didn’t I? My tale begins with a dream—the Dream—a dream called Constantinople.”
“Your Highness?”
Alexander sat sideways on his bed, head bent over the body of a young woman in a plain brown peasant dress lying next to him. He looked up from the wet crimson ruin that had been the laundress’s neck and glared at István. Alexander didn’t liked to be disturbed when he was feeding. He was a civilized man—after all, was he not a child of Greece, the greatest civilization the world had ever seen?—and civilized men didn’t speak to their servants while in the process of fulfilling their most basic needs. Alexander no more wished to be interrupted while feeding than a mortal man would wish to be disturbed while using a chamber pot.
“What is it?”
For an instant, it appeared as if István might withdraw from his lord’s tent rather than risk the full force of Alexander’s wrath, but then he cleared his throat—a sign of nervousness rather than any physical need—and continued. “A Cainite has entered the camp and wishes to see you. His name is Rikard. He claims he is a deserter from the Tartar’s tribe. He says he has information for you.”
“Does he now? How interesting.” Alexander looked down at the laundress’ savaged neck. Had he meant to kill her? Oh well, she was tasting flat anyway. With one hand he lifted the girl’s corpse and tossed it at István’s feet. “Dispose of this trash.” He licked his bloody lips. “Give me some time to make myself presentable. Tell this Rikard I shall see him.”
István picked up the girl’s body and tucked it under his left arm. “Yes, your highness,” he said, relief evident in his tone. He bowed his head, then turned and left.
“Well, well, well.” Alexander smiled, displaying blood-flecked fangs. “My new friend has himself a Judas.”
Chapter Thirteen
“And so you came to Livonia with Alexander in hope of finding this bishop?” Qarakh asked.
Malachite nodded. “It is my belief that Archbishop Nikita might have information on how I can locate the Dracon.”
To Qarakh, it sounded a fool’s dream at best and
a lunatic’s delusion at worst. The Nosferatu sought a supremely powerful Cainite called the Dracon—whose existence Qarakh was skeptical of—so that he might restore the city of Constantinople which, to Malachite’s mind at least, somehow signified a kind of paradise on earth. It didn’t make any sense to the Mongol. Only a creature of civilization could equate a city—a conglomeration of stone and wood—with a state of spiritual enlightenment.
Deverra, however, took the Nosferatu seriously. “While you parleyed with Alexander, Malachite told me of his search for Nikita. In turn, I told him that if anyone might know where this man hid, it would be you, for you have roamed wide across Livonia and neighboring lands.”
Qarakh glanced up at the stars, then sniffed the air. He scented rain coming; not tonight, but soon. He judged they would reach the camp before the next sunrise, but not long before. They’d caught up to and passed the mortal family in their wagon a bit ago, and Qarakh had been pleased to see that they were still headed in the right direction. He was now confident that they would complete the remainder of the journey without trying to escape. Not that a few mortals more or less would make that much difference to his tribe, but a wise shepherd knew that he could always use a few more sheep in the herd.
Qarakh turned to Deverra. “Do the Telyavs know of this preacher?”
Deverra shook her head. “No. This Nikita may be a powerful Cainite able to mask his presence from us. Sorcerous sight is not always better than the traveler’s own eyes.”
Malachite rode on Qarakh’s right, Deverra on his left as their mounts proceeded at a trot across the grassy plain. The Nosferatu leaned over in his saddle to speak with Qarakh—so far, in fact, that the Mongol wouldn’t have been surprised if Malachite fell off his horse.
“Have you encountered such a place, or at least heard tell of it?” There was an eagerness in the Nosferatu’s voice, and a gleam in his eyes that spoke of barely restrained fanaticism.
Qarakh wasn’t sure how to answer—or for that matter, if he wanted to answer. After all, what did they truly know about Malachite? Deverra seemed to trust him, but even if he proved trustworthy, Qarakh wasn’t certain helping the Nosferatu would be a good thing.
“You are Christian, and we are what you would call pagans. Deverra reveres Telyavel—”
“Among other gods,” the priestess put in.
“—while I honor Father Tengri, Lord of the Sky. It is the way of the Mongols to tolerate the beliefs of others, but you Christians extend no such courtesy. The Sword-Brothers look to subjugate all Livonia to their faith. And Alexander, though he may not truly believe in your savior, nonetheless uses His name to further his own ambitions. Why should we help you in your quest?”
Qarakh expected Malachite to come back with an angry defense of his religion, but instead the Nosferatu grew thoughtful for a time, and the three Cainites continued riding in silence, save for the sound of their mounts’ hoofs. Eventually, Malachite spoke once more.
“I could say that both mortals and Cainites are imperfect creatures, and that one shouldn’t judge an entire religion by the actions of its worst adherents—or of those who adhere to it in name only. And I could say that a central part of the Dream is to create a place where Cainites and mortals can live in peace together and follow God’s will, and not man’s confused and sometimes self-serving interpretation of it. I could say that it was crusaders like the Sword-Brothers who sacked Constantinople and restoring the Dream would be a defeat for them. I could even say that the will of God Himself is against you, and you can no more hold back the spread of Christianity than you can postpone the changing of seasons. And while I believe those are all valid points, I also believe that none of them will sway you. In the end, you will help me because you choose to, or you will not help me at all.”
Malachite fell silent then, and it was Qarakh’s turn to think. The Nosferatu had shown no signs of deception or intolerance so far, and moreover, there was much information about Alexander and his forces that he could share. But Qarakh doubted Malachite was generous enough—or foolish enough—to provide such information without cost.
He glanced at Deverra, and she gave him a slight nod.
“It was several years ago, during the winter….”
Qarakh glided like the shadow of a passing cloud over frost-covered grass. The night wind was cold and biting as sharpened steel, but the frigid air had little effect on his undead flesh. He had left his horse tethered to a small tree a few miles back. He could move more swiftly and silently on foot. This night called for stealth.
He had been roaming throughout Livonia for the better part of a month now. Since arriving here with Aajav the previous year, and meeting Deverra, he had made this land his new home. The Telyav still worked diligently to revive Aajav and in return he was determined to help her resist the encroaching Christian knights and missionaries who threatened her faith. But her role as priestess among mortals had given him larger ideas. If she could establish such a relationship here, he wondered if he might build something more: a tribe, or even a tribal nation in the Mongolian sense. Livonia was a lush, unspoiled land of plains and forests, yet with enough mortal inhabitants to provide good feeding stock. In addition, the Livs were a pagan people who had resisted the encroachment of Christianity for centuries. A nation of night-walkers could be established here, a place where vampires might be able to live freely and openly, without being forced to hide in the shadows like ghostly wraiths.
To this end, he had been scouting the length and breadth of the land to determine if there were any hidden powers—Cainite or otherwise—that might oppose him. The Telyavs had no objection, according to Deverra. In fact, they welcomed the thought of an alliance with such a tribe as Qarakh might create, for while the Telyavs were skilled at witchcraft, they were not proficient in the arts of war. There were others to consider, however.
On his long trek from the far eastern steppe, Qarakh had faced the man-wolves on several occasions. These Lupines—men cursed to assume the shape of wolves under the right conditions—were ferocious warriors who held their own territories in the deep woods. They could hunt by day or night and had little love for Cainites, even Gangrel who could take wolf shapes as well as they. There were packs of these werewolves in Livonia, and Qarakh had sought them out, primarily to determine where the man-wolves drew the boundaries of their territory, and to learn if they might be amenable to an alliance with his tribe—once it was established. The most restrained response he’d received to his inquiries was a set of fangs buried in his shoulder, while the most violent response had come close to delivering him unto the Final Death.
No potential alliances among the Lupines then, to put it mildly, but he discovered that if he remained out of their territory deep within the thickest part of the forests, they took no notice of him. The Lupines would never be friends to his tribe, but at least it appeared they wouldn’t be enemies. There were other powers in Livonia, however. The land practically reeked of magic, but these other creatures—fey folk and spirits that neither man nor Cainite had names for—all took the Lupines’ attitude of separation from night-walkers.
But Qarakh wasn’t so sure of the beings that inhabited the stone structure he now approached at a loping run.
Several nights ago when he had first passed by this place—high wall, courtyard, a main building of simple construction and design, no ornamentation to the stonework, plain wooden shutters covering the windows—he’d experienced a strange sensation. A feeling that someone was watching him, but not from any specific vantage. It was as if whoever (or whatever) was observing him from every direction at once. But as disturbing as that had been, there was more.
It was subtle at first, an almost unnoticeable itching or tingling on his skin, thousands of phantom insects crawling all over his body on tiny invisible legs. The feeling became more intense the closer he rode to the stone building until it felt as if the ghostly insects were now digging their pincers into his flesh and tearing off small hunks by the hund
reds… no, by the thousands. Before long, the pain had become so unbearable that Qarakh, no stranger to pain, hadn’t been able to stand it any longer. He’d turned the horse—which hadn’t noticed anything wrong save for her master’s sudden and atypical clumsiness with the reins—away from the building and kicked her into a gallop. The pain had instantly begun to lessen, and it continued to abate with every yard they put between themselves and the cursed place.
But now Qarakh had returned, coming swiftly and silently on foot, hoping this time to approach unnoticed. Whatever the nature of the power that was associated with the building, Qarakh needed to know precisely what it was—and whether it would prove friend or (more likely) foe.
He was within a dozen yards of the outer wall now, and it appeared his attempt at stealth had been successful. He didn’t feel he was being watched, and he experienced no sensation of pain. Perhaps the attention of whatever lay behind the wall was elsewhere this night.
“Or perhaps you have been allowed to approach.”
Qarakh stopped running and whirled to face the owner of the voice. The stranger was male and garbed in a black robe. His aspect was that of a man in his middle years—brown hair gray at the temples, cheeks verging on being jowls, eyes beginning to recede into the sockets, the flesh beneath them puffy and dark—but his eyes glittered as if made of ice, their glassy surfaces catching the light from the stars above them and casting it back as tiny pinpricks of cold fire. For an instant, Qarakh had the impression that the light wasn’t a reflection but instead emanated from somewhere behind those eyes. But he dismissed it as nothing more than a trick of the nocturnal light.