“I am Myca Vykos syn Draconov, and I come to your house in the name of peace and friendship.” Myca bowed deeply and rose after a respectful interval. “Your hospitality, my lord voivode, is as of the gods.”
“I am Ilias cel Frumos, and I come to your house in the name of peace and friendship, and by the will of the gods of Earth and Sky.” Ilias bowed as well, and rose. “May their blessings never depart your house.”
“I thank you, koldun, ambassador.” Beyond Ioan’s shoulder, the door to the manse opened, spilling a shaft of golden light across the courtyard. “Let us retire before the sun finds us here.”
Myca could not help but notice as he passed that the door was more than a foot thick, and opened and locked by what appeared to be a fiendish mechanism of gears operated by some means beyond his perception. Ilias, however, was simultaneously startled and impressed, murmuring, “You know, there are some nights when all I can do is get them to do as I ask. Here? Shaped to will. I should probably be jealous.”
“Lady Danika,” Myca murmured in reply, “is indeed highly skilled, then.”
“Not just Lady Danika,” Ilias flicked a glance at their host’s back, as he led them down the short hall, which rapidly turned into a staircase descending in a tight corkscrew. “Those charms he wears are spirit-bindings. The long one in the middle, the one that looks like a tiny flute? It is the mark of a master of the ways of air, and it has to be his own work, or no spirit would accept the binding of his will. So are the wind-flutes on the palisade walls.” Thoughtfully, “I did not know that he was a koldun. He hides it well.”
“A tactical advantage, no doubt.”
“No doubt.”
It struck Myca, as they descended, that Ioan’s haven was as strange inside as it was on the out. It did, indeed, appear as though it had grown out of and under the mountain without any human interference whatsoever. The walls and stairs were entirely of smooth, polished stone unmarked by chisel. There were no sharp angles, no angles at all, in truth—only domed ceilings and supports that looked as though they had grown from the ceiling to the floor, and vice versa. The hall at the end of the stair was wide, and branched off into numerous side corridors, their floors flattened and scattered with finely ground sand to keep them dry, their ceilings arched, lit at intervals by recessed lamps. Myca glanced a question at Ilias and found him looking around, rapt with wonder, and received all the answer he needed. This place had been constructed with the aid of the spirits and it was likely they that gave it its unique and vaguely disturbing appearance. A female servant, dressed plainly in a long tunic and a hair-cloth, met them at the bottom of the stairs and bowed deeply, silently, in greeting.
Ioan nodded to her. “Please escort my lord stapân Vykos and my lord koldun Ilias to their chambers.” He turned to face them again, and offered a shallow bow of his own. “Your needs will be met; you need only make your requests to the attendants awaiting you in your chambers. I ask that you forgive my abruptness. I have been in the field for fourteen nights and I must meet yet tonight with my lieutenants before I may address any other business. I shall call for you, ambassador, tomorrow evening. Koldun, I am certain that Lady Danika wishes to renew her acquaintance with you. For now, I bid you good evening and wish you good rest.”
And, so saying, he left them to find their chambers.
Chapter Fourteen
“So,” Ioan Brancoveanu said quietly, looking up from the stack of diplomatic correspondence he was perusing, “my beloved sire and his idiot brother are really going through the motions of making peace. I find myself not entirely surprised.”
Myca inclined a brow questioningly. “You suspected it already, my lord voivode?”
“I suspected that my grandsire’s current ambitions might drive them in that direction, whether they wished to go that way or not,” Ioan replied, and began refolding documents and replacing them in the diplomatic courier’s satchel they originally arrived in.
“Your illustrious grandsire, Noriz, is not actively involved in the negotiations, my lord voivode,” Myca pointed out, with the faintest hint of wry amusement underlying his tone.
A snort. “Of course he isn’t. Noriz has spent centuries cultivating a reputation for ravenous self-indulgence. He will not fritter that away on the off-chance he might seem effectual for a change.”
Myca forced himself not to smile. “I had been warned, my lord, that you rarely mince words. What do you think of the peace proposal itself?”
“I think it has a snowball’s chance in a bonfire of succeeding, ambassador, given the proclivity for petty treachery and personal sabotage present on both sides of the issue. I do not, however, think my opinion on that matter will be solicited by anyone but you, so I suggest you mark it well. This is going to end badly, and I predict it here and now.” He kept only one document, the personal letter that Lukasz’ ambassador to the court of Oradea had sent along. “That does not mean that I will not submit to my sire’s request in this matter.”
Myca was silent for a moment as he digested that, sorting and discarding conversational gambits as he considered. Ioan watched him, a faintly amused expression playing around the corners of his mouth.
“Surprised?” The Hammer of the Tremere finally asked.
“Yes,” Myca admitted frankly. “I honestly thought you would require a significant amount of effort to convince.”
“Diplomats.” For an instant, he sounded very like his veela shield-maiden. “I have no love for my sire’s idiot brother, ambassador, and, to be brutally frank, I have nearly as little regard for my sire. But it is beneath me to deliberately obstruct this process, no matter how little I believe it can succeed, when I might reap some benefit from it for my men and my allies. Does that satisfy you?”
“Partially. You do, of course, realize that the consequences of this matter will likely fall on your shoulders, whether it ends ill or well?” Myca watched closely; Ioan did not cultivate as expressionless a face as some in his position did, though he guarded his reactions well.
“I know it.” Resignation, more than anything else, colored his tone. Resignation, and the faintest hint of bitterness. “Ambassador, I am not a fool, nor am I ignorant of matters taking place outside my domain, and outside the war. I know that Rustovitch is falling from grace, and that his allies are turning away from him. I have already received communications from two of them. I know that my grandsire, after centuries of wallowing in his own excesses, has suddenly rediscovered ambition.” A pause, a smile so edged in anger it was difficult to look on. “As much as I would like to see Vladimir Rustovitch humbled, I find the idea of Noriz accomplishing that so completely repugnant that even I can scarcely give it words. By that same token, I cannot betray the blood that runs in my veins—Noriz is my grandsire, and Lukasz is my sire, and it was through them that I have become what I am now. I owe them honor, and service, and, in most things, obedience. I know what they want of me. They want me to take this… peace accord and turn it into the alliance that will break the Tremere, once and for all.”
He rose, and paced. The room, which Myca supposed must be this strange place’s version of a council chamber, was the largest he had seen in the underground portions of the bastion, long and roughly rectangular, though all the angles were softened into curves. The table occupied the approximate center and was surrounded by a collection of padded chairs and benches. A low fire burned behind a grate at the far end, keeping the room warm and dry despite the cool dampness below ground. Myca almost thought he could see grooves worn into the hard-packed dirt of the floor, where Ioan had walked this route before.
Myca watched, letting his vision blur and slip across the border between sight and vision, noticed the pensive cast to Ioan’s colors. “You do not think such a thing is possible.”
“No. You are not a fool either, ambassador, and I will do you the honor of not treating you like one.” Ioan returned to his chair, but did not sit in it. “The war, at least as my sire and Rachlav and Noriz, and possibly
even Rustovitch conceive it, has already been lost. It has been lost for decades. We have no chance whatsoever of exterminating the Tremere root and branch. They are too many now, and too entrenched, and if they are not beloved of our western cousins, they have at least made diplomatic inroads that we cannot easily devalue. Had we struck quickly, decisively, when they were weak and few and more vulnerable… perhaps then we could have destroyed them. But now? Now I think the best we can hope for is to make the price for remaining in our territory higher than they are willing to continue paying, and drive them out of our domains. My sources have suggested to me that they show a marked predilection for licking the boots of the Ventrue and the Toreador. Let them continue doing so if it brings them joy. We may yet be able to drive them to seek sanctuary in the west, and then we may close our ranks on one front instead of a multitude.”
“Do you think such a thing can be accomplished?” Myca asked quietly. “They have clung to Ceoris—to the mountains of the south—in the face of everything that has come at them thus far. They have weathered both Vladimir Rustovitch and your own most determined efforts, have they not?”
“Anything may be accomplished with sufficient resources and a sufficiently well-developed plan of action, ambassador. I’ve had little to do for the last decade but attempt to husband those resources and think on that plan. I believe it can be done—not in one stroke, perhaps, and certainly not overnight, but it can be done. It is all in knowing—”
He broke off and looked up sharply, his nostrils flaring and his hand lifting to the necklace of bone charms he wore at his throat. Myca half-rose, a question on his lips. Even as he did so, the cause of his host’s distraction became plain. A low, ululating wail echoed down the corridors of the subterranean bastion, beginning softly and rising to an almost agonizing pitch for sensitive Cainite ears—an alarm of some sort, Myca realized, even as he clapped his hands over his ears to block out the noise of it. Lukina brushed open the heavy woolen hanging separating the chamber from the hall and barked something at Ioan. Myca could not make out individual words but caught the gist: something was coming. Behind her, he caught glimpses of armed and armored figures hurrying through the halls. He sensed no panic but tasted a hint of fear in the air to go with a sudden jolt of nearly electric tension. Ioan caught his eye and he gingerly removed his hands from his ears, found the alarm had dropped from its earsplitting pitch to a low and continuous moan of agitation.
“Wait here, ambassador.” The Hammer of the Tremere ducked beneath Lukina’s arm, barking orders and demands for information to the men in the hall as he went.
Lukina let the hanging fall. Myca waited what he felt was an appropriate interval before peering into the hall and, upon determining the absence of any hurrying soldiers or permanently stationed door-guards, stepped out himself, looking about. Apprehensive though he was, and unsettled by the deep-throated moaning of the alarm, he was nonetheless also curious, and that curiosity was easily strong enough to overcome anything resembling fear. He retraced his route through the twisting, narrow corridors, having memorized as much of their layout and several navigation marks the previous evening, and reached the bottom of the corkscrew stair a moment later. The bottom of the staircase was unguarded, which pleased him. Unfortunately, despite the hint of fresh air that he found on the staircase itself, the door at the top was sealed and lacked anything resembling a handle or lever by which it might be opened by someone lacking command of the spirits of earth. He wondered how the ghouls and lesser Cainites managed it but found no obvious clues and, frustrated, he went back down, wondering if there was another way out.
“Myca!”
He turned, and found Ilias hurrying towards him down the corridor, visibly nervous and not troubling to hide his agitation. Following closely behind him was a tall, dark-haired woman in her middle years, her hair braided in a crown above the severe beauty of her face, clad in robes of russet wool and charms of bone and stone and twisted gold wire. From the girdle cinched about her waist hung three knives, beaten copper, iron, and what looked like stone or blackened bone. Her force of presence preceded her by the length of the corridor and Myca found himself bowing deeply to her before she had even come to a stop.
Ilias stepped into the circle of his arm, and he could feel his lover suppressing the urge to tremble, fighting the panic rising from within him, nearly overshadowing any other response. Myca rested his hand in the small of Ilias’ back and drew him close, murmuring, “Did you not teach me yourself, my heart, that it is not shameful to fear when fearful things are happening all around you?”
Ilias closed his eyes and nodded, some of the tension leaching out of the set of his shoulders. A moment longer and he was capable of speech. “Forgive me, Myca, my lady… I was, for a moment, very disturbed.”
The lady nodded fractionally and Myca, his hand still firmly in place, offered a faint smile. The corner of Ilias’ mouth twitched wryly in response. “My lady, this is, I admit, not how I pictured this meeting occurring. My Lady koldun Danika Ruthven, it pleases me to introduce you to my Lord Myca Vykos syn Draconov. Lady Danika’s greatness is such that my tongue is unworthy to tell it, and my Lord Myca’s wisdom is valued even by his judicious sire.”
Lady Danika’s striking face relaxed momentarily in a smile. For an instant, she seemed nearly human and not the instrument of the gods. Myca could not imagine her ever laughing, regardless.
“You flatter me, priest of Jarilo.” She turned her pale eyes on Myca then; he felt her assessing him, weighing him in a single glance, and when she was done he was thoroughly uncertain of whether she approved of what she saw. “Ambassador, your fame has preceded you, as well. My lord voivode has had much to say of you in the last several years.”
Myca chose to take that as a compliment, and bowed from the neck. “My lady flatters me, as well. I am naught but a servant of my sire and my house.”
“Of that I am quite certain.” Lady Danika replied, dryly. “You were with my lord voivode, were you not?”
“Yes. Lukina came and collected him several minutes ago. I assume they went above ground.” Lady Danika, Myca noticed, had the face of an experienced courtier, being almost as unreadable in her reactions as Symeon.
“I expected as much. Come with me. Quickly. We may be of some use above.” Lady Danika brushed passed them and continued down the corridor. Myca and Ilias exchanged a glance and hurried after her, not particularly eager to be lost or left behind.
Lady Danika swept through a side door that led almost directly to a short, downward-slanting staircase, terminating in a roughly circular room into which half a dozen corridors ended. She chose one and strode down it fearlessly, despite the lack of lamps to illuminate it and despite the unpleasant sounds emanating from the far end. Myca and Ilias followed a few steps behind, with a bit more trepidation, and shortly the three emerged into a broad corridor, wider than any they had thus far encountered, broad enough for a dozen men to walk abreast up it, slanting gradually upward in a sort of ramp. Laboring to climb it were two enormous vozhd—creatures taller than a man on horseback, their flesh pallid and laced with thick blue veins where it peered through overlapping plates of bony gray armor—and their tenders. Each creature had four enormous, sinewy arms and a number of smaller, vestigial limbs, which they used to propel themselves along at a man’s quick walking pace. The armor was pierced in places with heavy iron rings with thick chains attached, wrapped through the belts of the keepers, four to each vozhd, each warrior in zulo shape and carrying a long pike used to prod the vozhd along, a bundle of javelins hung across their backs. A half-dozen warriors came up the ramp behind them, all in varying states of midtransformation, limbs and skulls elongating, skins darkening and toughing into scale-like armor as they assumed their zulo war-shapes.
“Spear-throwers,” Lady Danika explained shortly at their questioning glances. “Something is approaching by air, likely gargoyles. The spirits of air disapprove of something so earthy passing through their domain. Tha
t was the message we, the priest of Jarilo and I, heard when the general alarm sounded.”
They waited until the vozhd completed their climb to the surface, the very face of the mountain rolling open with a horrendous echoing groan to allow them egress into the outer portions of the fortress, and then hurried out as well before the gap closed behind them. Outside, the sky was low, densely overcast, the moon little more than a silver blur behind the clouds, the air was thick with the scent of lightning strikes. A numinous blue-white radiance danced across the top of the palisades, illuminating the figures of men moving into position along the walkways, archers and spearmen, some of them in their bulkier, and physically stronger, zulo shapes. Lady Danika led them to one side of the palisade, where a stairway led upward to the walkways and observation platforms. On one of them stood Ioan, flanked at a respectful distance by Lukina and the small mountain that was Vlastimir Vlaszy.
Myca could easily see why his lieutenants kept their distance. Tiny blue-white arcs of lightning leapt from Ioan’s body every few moments, danced along the charms braided into his hair, the bracelets around his wrists, answered by arcs flickering around a series of slender plinths placed at intervals along the palisades. With each arc, the scent of lightning intensified, until it made Myca’s eyes water blood in response to the heaviness of the air. A savage wind was howling along the heights of the mountain, tearing new leaves from the trees, driving the clouds overhead into a tight, low-hanging circulation. In the distance, lightning arced from cloud to cloud, illuminating a cluster of dark shapes flying below the clouds, thunder echoing down the valleys and from peak to peak. Ilias clutched Myca’s hand so tightly the bones ground together, and a sound of mingled pain and fear escaped his throat. Myca stole a glance and found his lover’s face etched with a painful mixture of emotions, anger and hatred and a terrible grief. Myca closed his hand as best he could and offered all the comfort he was able through the bond they shared.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 12