“Then that is what we shall do. There will be time enough for politics tomorrow night.”
Golden light. Golden light was all that he could see. Radiance filled his world, blinded him to all other perceptions. It was magnificent, glorious—he felt himself bathed in a wonder that was truly divine.
From out of that divine light, the voice of an angel spoke to him, ringing with the clarity of a silver bell, sweeter than the finest music. “Beautiful. I had… almost forgotten how beautiful you are.”
He heard the words and knew that they were true. He was divine himself, or touched by divinity, beautiful enough to make angels weep. He felt it, deep within himself—perfection, soul and flesh in flawless union, finding its expression in the smoothly muscled symmetry of his limbs, the elegance of his features, the silken expanse of pale skin and night-dark hair. Luminous hands, glowing with the pure soul-light of their owner, touched him gently, running fingers through the extravagant length of his hair, caressing his thigh with a knowing touch. He shuddered with a joy that penetrated to the core of his being and he ached to be one with the glorious being gracing his flesh with its hands.
A whisper, in that clear and sweet voice. “I knew, my love, that you would return to me in the end…”
Myca woke in the cool blue twilight, curled around himself and shaking with a terror he could give no name to. He knew that he had dreamt again, and something in that dream filled him with a fear, with a horror, so deep his mind refused to hold the memory of it, and even his Beast cowered away from the knowledge. For a long, miserable moment as the weight of sleep faded from his limbs, he longed silently for Ilias and for Symeon, for someone whose presence would lend him even an instant’s comfort. Then, almost miraculously, it came to him, faint with distance but strong and warm despite that limitation, the gentle brush of his lover’s presence over his soul. He closed his eyes against the rush of grateful, relieved tears, and simply drew strength from the sensation, the feeling that, no matter how much distance lay between them, Ilias was and would always be at his side.
Chapter Nine
“Myca,” Symeon’s tone was regally distant, the voice of a prince speaking to one of his courtiers, “tell me of Nikita of Sredetz.”
Myca restrained the urge to swear. He stood with his sire in the antechamber behind the villa’s main receiving hall where, if the sounds making their way beneath the door were any indication, a number of guests awaited their attention. Symeon was clad in the deepest hue of imperial purple, so dark it verged on black, bordered in white and cloth of gold and all of the most impressive accouterments of his station, the heavily decorated ritual garments of Byzantium. The weight of the gold alone would have bowed the shoulders of a lesser man, but his sire stood perfectly straight, radiating calm strength and ineffable patience, waiting for his answer.
Malachite, Myca realized with a silent, cool fury. Malachite must have taken the opportunity, the night before or earlier this evening, to tell Symeon of Nikita’s presence in Obertus territory, and how he came to be in Myca’s own hands. The urge to twist the miserable leprous dog’s head off was sudden and fierce. It took all of Myca’s concentration to force his fangs back and to speak calmly in response. “My lord sire, Nikita of Sredetz was the matter I did not wish to commit to parchment, which I mentioned last night.”
“Ah. I should have listened to you, then, for this is a matter of some significance. Forgive the selfishness of an old Cainite, my childe.” Symeon shifted the drape of his garment into a more comfortable position over his left arm, and gestured for Myca to continue.
Myca thought rapidly and condensed his thoughts in a quick sketch of the situation. “Jürgen of Magdeburg captured Nikita of Sredetz at the Obertus monastery he assaulted. He appears quite willing to use Nikita’s presence there as his justification after the fact for the attack. The Swordbearer was not hunting heretics when he violated our territory, but was operating under the assumption that the monastery was somehow in league with, or suborned by, Vladimir Rustovitch or his agents. How he came to this conclusion is not entirely clear—comments that the Lady Rosamund has made to me suggest that some provocation Jürgen encountered while in the territory of the late kunigaikstis Geidas may have led him to that belief. He produced no proof of that allegation, nor was Lady Rosamund able to provide an adequate justification of it, nor any connection between Nikita of Sredetz and Rustovitch.”
Symeon nodded fractionally. “And the illustrious Archbishop of Nod himself?”
“Restrained, my lord sire. I thought it unwise to wake him.” Myca hesitated fractionally. “There is something very odd about him, even sleeping.”
Symeon looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”
“It is not something I can describe logically, my lord.” Myca admitted, with some difficulty. “He—I believe that he is more than he seems.”
His sire regarded him steadily for a moment, then nodded again. “Malachite believed that much, as well.”
“Malachite told me, when we met in Magdeburg, that he believed there was some connection between Nikita of Sredetz and our ancestor, the Dracon. I am not certain that I am prepared to credit that, my lord sire. It seems unlikely on its face.” Myca was privately grateful he managed to speak Malachite’s name politely. “But I believe the matter requires more investigation before it may be disposed.”
“We shall discuss this in more detail, later.”
The door of the antechamber swung open without even the most peremptory of knocks and a woman whom Myca had not seen before entered. She was extraordinarily tall for a woman, within a hair or two of Symeon’s height, and Myca was immediately struck by her severe plainness, her perfect posture, and the icy hue of her eyes. She bowed, deeply, first to Symeon and then to himself, holding the gestures at the perfect depth and for the perfect length of time, and when she rose, she kept her brilliant eyes on the floor at Symeon’s feet. “My lord stapânitor, court is assembled, and the westerners await your judgment.”
“Thank you, Eudokhia.” Symeon smiled grimly, and strode past her, Myca trailing a respectful three paces behind.
Most of the central portion of the villa was given over to rooms of a public nature—receiving chambers, Symeon’s office in which he received petitioners, the long second-floor solar overlooking the inner courtyard and garden, a number of smaller rooms used for meetings and conversations of a more intimate kind. The room they entered was the largest and most lavish of the public receiving chambers, a fine example of Byzantine architectural beauty and excess, all green marble floors and gilt mosaic walls, sculptured friezes and columns whose capitals were clearly the product of a demented sculptor’s wildest imaginings. Myca felt a momentary, minor twinge of pity for Lady Rosamund, who was standing in the middle of the room flanked by her knightly companions, her eyes fixed on the most innocuous feature in the room, the mirror-polished floor at her feet. There was virtually nothing else safe for her to look at for any length of time. Sir Gilbrecht, his Toreador nature almost wholly suppressed by the general unpleasantness of his personality, was dealing with the problem by glaring around the room at the assembled Tzimisce courtiers and their not inconsiderable entourages, clearly wishing for his sword. Sir Landric, on the other hand, was making no effort to hide his appreciation of his surroundings, or much of his curiosity.
On each side of the room, clustered in front of the green marble support columns for the high, frescoed roof, the Tzimisce court had assembled, nearly ringing the three westerners. The envoys of Lukasz and Rachlav, Myca realized without surprise, surveyed them with a critical eye. Both were male, or at least male seeming. One was almost inhumanly tall and slender, bone white in the coloration of skin, hair, and, most disturbingly, eyes, clad in what appeared to be hundreds of yards of translucent white silk that pooled on the floor around him and which his entourage was very careful to avoid treading on. Nothing about the way his clothing hung on him suggested femininity, nor the way he carried himself, as though he w
ere a statue carved of ivory, easier to break than cause to bend. His entourage showed their allegiance through ornaments carved of bone, tunics or belts of the same pale fabric as their lord’s extraordinary robe. By contrast, the other side of the hall was a riot of color, rich garments and ornaments chosen with only the most minimal guidance of taste or restraint. It was difficult to pick out the envoy from among the bright flock of his entourage, but Myca eventually decided it had to be the stocky one clad in a confection of wine red silk and cloth of gold, embellished with a long coat of heavy black fur and square hands bearing more rings than he’d ever seen on one person before. His hair and beard were a deep shade of auburn and well tended, and beneath his thick brows, Myca caught a glimpse of eyes glittering red and hungry. Both entourages were equally bloated in size, a round dozen each, only a few of whom seemed to be other vampires, the majority being revenant lickspittles of one house or the other.
As they emerged into the room, the herald waiting on the opposite side of the door announced them in his deep voice, carrying the length of the room without effort. “Attend the presence of lord stapânitor Symeon Gesudin syn Draconov! Attend the presence of stapân Myca Vykos syn Draconov! Attend the voice of the first prince of the blood!”
Eudokhia, Myca noticed, was not announced, but joined them on the green marble dais to which they repaired, Symeon taking his seat with the regal grace of a true prince, and Myca taking a position standing at his right hand. Eudokhia crossed to the left, and stood behind both Symeon and Myca, her eyes modestly downcast though the iron in her spine did not ease a fraction.
“I give you greetings this night, my honored guests, the kin of my own blood and travelers who have come from afar.” Symeon’s voice reached every corner of the room, and provoked a polite murmur in response. Myca attended closely, watching reactions. “My Lady Rosamund of Islington, Sir Gilbrecht and Sir Landric of the Black Cross, approach.”
By western standards of presentation, Myca knew, this was somewhat irregular. By Tzimisce standards of presentation, it was extremely irregular, and set the entourages of both ambassadors buzzing quietly among themselves. Normally there would be a good half-hour of letting any western visitors adequately abase themselves before a Tzimisce ruler would even start speaking of important matters. Neither envoy deigned to comment, though Myca sensed a sharpening in their attention as Lady Rosamund and her armored shadows approached the dais to a respectful distance and offered their courtesies. Symeon accepted the gestures with a stately inclination of his head, and waved them up. Lady Rosamund was far too practiced a courtier herself to display confusion and so her face was a lovely mask when she rose from her curtsey. Both Sir Gilbrecht and Sir Landric hung back two paces and closed ranks behind her, as though guarding her back.
“My Lady Rosamund of Islington, I have read both the letters of your own hand and taken counsel with my ambassador on the matter of Lord Jürgen of Magdeburg’s unlawful intrusions into the lands of the Obertus Order.” That statement, blandly delivered, silenced the entire hall. “And I have found Lord Jürgen’s explanation of the matter… most severely wanting. I confess myself disappointed, Lady Rosamund, by your lord’s obvious and unsupportable cupidity in this matter, the seizure of my lands and the murder of my chattels, resting upon no basis of fact for which you have chosen to offer evidence.”
Sir Gilbrecht bristled, and nearly opened his mouth, only to be literally stepped on by Sir Landric, who put his foot on his superior’s instep and pressed sharply. He fell silent, but his hands remained balled at his sides, clearly longing to hurl himself at anyone who dared defame the man he had chosen to follow. Lady Rosamund composed herself more quickly in the wake of this blunt statement, and spoke gently. “My lord Symeon—“
“My lord prince,” Lady Eudokhia coolly corrected her, to Rosamund’s very visible consternation.
“My lord prince,” Lady Rosamund began again, a little strain showing in her voice, “my Lord Jürgen feels that he has proceeded in good faith with the Obertus Order—“
“No, my Lady Rosamund,” Symeon interrupted her bluntly, “Your Lord Jürgen has proceeded with the rapaciousness of a jackal to seize my territory, alleging a breach of treaty for which he cares to offer no proof. Good faith, my Lady Rosamund? When Lord Jürgen and Vladimir Rustovitch were on the verge of transforming this entire region into an abattoir with their ambitions, I took the risk of coming between them, to warn them of the danger they both faced should they continue with their reckless folly, and gave them both a means of withdrawing with their domains and their precious honor intact. I guarantee the treaty that Lord Jürgen has so casually broken in the name of his own unquenchable lust for dominion, and it is to me that he will answer for his actions. Lord Jürgen may call himself an honorable warrior and a walker on the road of all true rulers, my Lady Rosamund, but has a great deal to learn concerning the conduct of kings.”
Symeon’s words rang off the walls; he hadn’t even raised his voice. One slender hand rose from the arm of his throne, the purple gems in his rings catching the light as he gestured Eudokhia forward, holding an elaborately ribboned and sealed document, which she presented to Lady Rosamund without comment. Lady Rosamund was, herself, pale and speechless, almost visibly fighting the urge to kneel as the force of Symeon’s personality swirled around her, bright and fierce in his own anger as an offended prince among princes.
“I demand restitution.” Symeon’s tone was cool and hard, and no one in the room failed to notice the steel in it. “Lord Jürgen will remove himself from my territory immediately. He will make recompense for the murder of my chattels and the property he has seized and abused for his own sustenance and that of his minions, preferably in kind as no amount of blood-money would be sufficient to replace the minds and hands your lord’s brutality stole from me. To ensure that the ever so honorable Lord Jürgen executes these demands with appropriate haste, one of you will remain here in Oradea as the guarantor of your lord’s good faith. You will have the remainder of this evening to determine which of you will stay, and which of you will go. If you cannot decide, I will choose for you.” His gaze lingered pointedly on Lady Rosamund. “You are dismissed.”
“My lord prince,” Lady Rosamund recovered herself enough to protest, “my Lord Jürgen will not accept demands. There must be some degree of negotiation—
I do not negotiate with oath breakers, Lady Rosamund.” Symeon replied, flatly. “You are dismissed.”
The next evening, Lady Rosamund informed Symeon that Sir Landric had honorably volunteered to remain hostage in Oradea. The night after that, she, Sir Gilbrecht, and the full complement of their knights departed, escorted to the border of Obertus territory by a detachment of Symeon’s personal guard. No one was particularly sorry to see them go.
Chapter Ten
“It seems that we have two difficulties—two unrelated difficulties—before us just now, my childe.” Symeon, like Myca, paced when he thought. They were in his study, and the door was barred and guarded against interruptions, though they were not alone. Lady Eudokhia sat silent in one corner, hands folded on her lap, listening to their discourse. After several nights of association, Myca still did not know how to take her, how to read her, or what to make of her. She appeared to be Symeon’s advisor on matters of clan etiquette and culture, but he kept her near to hand even when such matters were not a topic of conversation. Quiet inquiries among the resident courtiers indicated that she was a war-prize, the victim of Tzimisce dynastic struggles in the dominions to the north and east, the last survivor of her line given to Symeon as gift and slave by her family’s conqueror. Her demeanor appeared to bear out that truth.
Myca nodded slightly in response. “The diplomatic matter you summoned me to attended and… Nikita of Sredetz.”
“Even so.” Symeon irritably tugged open the heavy wooden shutters blocking the view of the garden, admitting a breath of cool, rain-scented air and the sound of yet another shower. “The diplomatic matter will, I fe
ar, not wait another season for resolution.”
“Lukasz and Rachlav have agreed to a truce?” Myca asked, trying not to sound too clever and schooling his expression to perfect neutrality as his sire turned to face him.
Symeon surveyed that lack of expression and nodded. “More than simply a truce. They have all but agreed to cooperate on a mutual goal beyond the lofty aim of not randomly slaughtering each other’s chattel and childer any longer. I admit, when they came to me, I thought the truce alone would be an uphill battle against the impossible. It seems that I, too, can be pleasantly surprised.” He reclaimed his chair behind the wide expanse of his writing table, heavy dark wood polished to a high sheen with beeswax and lemon oil. From one of its many drawers he drew out a thick sheaf of parchment, as of yet unsigned and unsealed, which he handed across to Myca, who reviewed it silently.
“The wording is very precise.” Myca glanced a question at his sire.
“Precision was insisted upon.” Symeon tossed a faintly amused glance at Lady Eudokhia, who ignored it. “They are, after all, agreeing to let bygones be bygones. It seemed only sensible to innumerate precisely what they were letting fall by the wayside and why, in exhaustive detail. The matter lacks but one thing to bring the issue to successful resolution.”
Myca glanced up from an eye-wateringly unpleasant paragraph detailing Lukasz’s specific intent to forgive his brother for a colorful series of ravishments and beheadings stretching across approximately two centuries. “And that one thing would be…?”
“Ioan Brancoveanu, childe of Lukasz, childe of Noriz. Ioan had just cause, a century ago, to declare his own intent to separate Rachlav from his head and made a very dedicated attempt at collecting on that vendetta. Rachlav escaped by the skin of his teeth, and by virtue of hiding behind his sire’s skirts. Ioan never declared his honor satisfied, and has not rescinded his intent to murder his uncle. He has simply moved on to matters of greater importance.” Symeon laced his fingers together. “Rachlav has indicated to me, through his envoy, that he requires a declaration on the part of Ioan Brancoveanu that his honor is satisfied by the blood that has already been shed between the families and will pursue the matter no further, in order for the provisions of the truce to be wholly satisfactory. Lukasz has indicated that this demand is acceptable to him. Ioan himself has not yet been consulted.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 8