Myca did so, telling him the entire story from Nikita’s unexpected delivery to the largely unrewarding trip to Sredetz to investigate the Archbishop of Nod’s background. “The only substantive evidence we found was an absence of any connection between Nikita and Vladimir Rustovitch. There was no correspondence between them and, as far as I could determine, Nikita had no interest in converting Rustovitch to his cause…. And we found these journals.” Myca worked the locks on the correspondence chest and opened it, removing the first of the journals and handing it across to Velya, whose brows inclined in obvious interest. “The journals, like the letters, have no impressions clinging to them. Before I encountered it here, I did not think such a thing was possible, but you hold the evidence in your hands. They are written in a tongue that none of us can read. Even the alphabet is not familiar, though Ilias says it reminds him of the koldunic spirit-speech.”
Velya opened the leather cover of the journal with care and examined the first several pages in meditative silence. Finally, he murmured, “Ilias is correct. The form is very similar, but… different somehow. If you wish, I will examine these more closely…. I may have some resource in my own library that will allow me to translate them.”
Myca fought down an urge—a wordless, powerful urge, too strong for any rational, thoughtful impulse—to automatically deny that request, not wishing to let those journals leave his hands. He swallowed it with difficulty, and nodded shallowly. “I have little to offer you in recompense for this generosity, Velya, but I nonetheless am grateful for your largesse in this matter. I feel strongly that these books may hold the key to Nikita’s mystery. If you help me unravel that, I would be forever in your debt.”
“Let there be no talk of debt between us, Myca. You came to me once craving knowledge and advice, and it pleased me then to teach you what little I could. It pleases me still to know that you were as apt as any pupil I have ever instructed, and to see what you have made of yourself since you came among your true people.” Velya closed the book and set it back in the correspondence box. “The love and friendship I bear you has survived the years, and if you wish to speak of compensation, repay me by writing me and visiting me more often. There are few enough among our kind whom I chose to tolerate, and even fewer whom I find more than tolerable. You are one of those. Let us be again as close as we were when it took months for our letters to reach each other.”
Myca lowered his eyes and bowed from the shoulders. “You honor me.”
A chuckle. “And still so serious. I had hoped that young Ilias would cure you of that. Come, I am certain the good priest of Jarilo has risen and seeks after you even now. Best not to keep him waiting.”
Chapter Twenty
Myca was not of a humor that made him accept the second-guessing of his decisions gracefully. When Malachite and Ilias both questioned the wisdom of leaving the journals in Velya’s care, each with his own argument against that course of action, Myca snarled at them and ordered the servants to immediately prepare for their departure. Malachite, predictably enough, withdrew into a stiff and disapproving silence as he prepared his own baggage. Ilias, who had become accustomed to occasionally being snarled at over the years, merely observed mildly that it would be pleasant to sleep in their own bed again, and then wisely let the matter lie. They departed Velya’s house on the first truly cold night of the autumn thus far, and made good time in the cold, dry weather that followed. The forests and mountains, Myca noted when he bothered to pay attention to the landscape, were sere with drought, the rills and streams running low, the hard-packed roads clearly little touched by rain. Ilias noted it as well and spent much of his time bespeaking the spirits from the saddle, murmuring to himself in the lilting tongue used only by the koldun. Malachite kept to himself and Myca wasted little thought or energy worrying about what the Rock of Constantinople might be planning within his tenacious silence.
By day, Myca dreamed strange and disturbing dreams, which he recalled in increasingly vivid fragments. The supply of his grave-earth, he could not help but notice, was dwindling rapidly now, crumbling away to gray powder as its spiritual strength fled it. Ilias was in similar straights, but Ilias was also not dreaming terrible dreams. Instead, he was besought by agitated spirits, in a state of almost constant distraction. Myca dearly wished to speak to his lover about his own agitation of spirit, but held himself back, partly out of fear, partly out of self-disgust, and mostly out of pride. A part of him refused to admit even the possibility that there was something within himself that he might not be strong enough to face on his own, despite the abundant examples he knew of to the contrary and Ilias’ own teaching on that topic. It was a folly, he knew, but at least it was a folly of his own choosing, and he kept his peace—and his lack of peace—very much to himself.
They arrived at the monastery late in the autumn, with Christ-Mass approaching and still no snow to speak of on the ground, except at the highest elevations. Returning home, for all of them, even Malachite, was like slipping into a hot bath after a raw day, stepping into comfortably well-worn shoes and clothing, walking into an embrace of pure consolation. Their rooms were prepared, cleaned and aired, smelling gently of lemon oil and the freshly turned earth filling their bed. Malachite’s guest room, having no such need, was instead decorated with pine branches that filled the air with their resinous scent. The servants nearly mobbed Ilias, so glad were they to see him again, and in the confusion of hauling everything they’d carted along with them and acquired since their departure, Myca managed to creep off and take a quiet report from Father Aron who, his frailty notwithstanding, had managed to weather the passage of time quite well. More than a year’s worth of backed-up correspondence—from his sire, from several other Obertus monasteries, from half a hundred spies and partisans scattered from one end of the East to the other—waited for him in his office, and he was privately glad that he had something to concentrate on beyond his own woes again. It took him two weeks to find the bottom of his desk again, and during that time he completely ignored anything else in favor of that activity. He sent letters en masse since the weather seemed to be perversely intent on cooperating with his desires. One of the first to go out was the letter that Velya had handed to him before their departure, sealed in the Flayer’s arms and intended for the hand of Damek Ruthven. Myca wrote to that worthy, as well, and sent two letters for every one he had received from his sire, reporting in detail on his current investigative progress and the information pouring into him from his other sources regarding the activities of the Black Cross, at least some of which he was certain Symeon already possessed. It was pleasant, he decided, to immerse himself in a completely intellectual activity after the sensual excesses of the previous year.
Ilias gracefully took up the task of playing host to Malachite again, in addition to the long-delayed resumption of his duties as resident ghoul-master and priest of Jarilo to the surrounding community. Myca, distracted and still dreaming dark dreams, completely failed to notice when their relationship passed the point of cautious tolerance into something approaching genuine amity.
The spirits were agitated. Ilias did not find this to be wholly unusual. Spirits, like people, could become irritable, sullen, and withdrawn for no discernibly good reason. Ilias knew precisely why Myca had turned irritable and sullenly withdrawn without having to ask. He was dreaming again, and more frequently, as well. The painful echoes of those dreams disturbed the bond between them and lingered in Ilias’ mind long after he woke, a shadow that he could neither banish nor wholly understand by himself. Myca was not approachable on the issue, at least not yet, and Ilias hesitated to force it before his lover was mentally prepared to confront it. He turned his attention instead to the spirits, whose distress was at least a distracting mystery he could investigate with the tools at his own command.
If nothing else, dwelling in the house of Ioan Brancoveanu and Danika Ruthven for a season had taught him how to make the simplest of the windflutes, and it was to that task he at
tended during the two weeks Myca spent buried in the duties of his office. Often, Ilias sat in the oriel room next to a brazier, working the long slender bone he was transforming into his flute with tools of copper as Nicolaus and Sergiusz played for his pleasure, their instruments and each other. With increasing frequency, Malachite would join him with a lamp and a book of his own, borrowed from the monastery or from Myca’s own collection, Ilias could not tell. Malachite, wisely, did not ask questions he did not really want the answers to when he saw Ilias working the first time they met in that fashion. Ilias, for his part, made no effort to discomfit the Rock of Constantinople, or disturb him in his reading. The conversations that passed between them were short and punctuated by long, thoughtful silences. A certain camaraderie began to grow between them, as they waited for a letter to arrive from Damek Ruthven, or for Myca to rejoin their society.
“Where did the bone come from?” Malachite finally asked one night, as the crafting of the flute neared its end, the length of pale bone elegantly shaped in the way that Danika had shown, inscribed with tiny, nearly invisible sigils scripted in the tongue of spirits.
The Rock of Constantinople had a book open across his knees. He sat, comfortably enough, in a nest of pillows he had built up over the nights to adequately support his back and brittle joints. He had not even pretended to read that night, Ilias noticed, but refrained from commenting on the matter.
“It is my own.” Ilias replied, bending silver wire carefully into ivory grooves carved for holding it. “I removed it from my own flesh. When all is done, I will wash it in my own blood, as well, to seal the enchantments on it and make it my own.”
Malachite was silent for a long moment. If that revelation horrified or repulsed him, it never showed on his face, which remained calmly impassive. Of course, it was a mask, for he rarely showed his true, leprous face to Ilias, but the koldun suspected the expression was his own. The look in his great, dark Byzantine eyes was grave, but not censorious. “Is all your magic so painful?”
“Not all of it, no.” Ilias smiled slightly. “All of it demands a price, though, for something cannot be accomplished for nothing. If one wishes to command the spirits, or beg favors of them, one must be prepared to provide what they ask in return.”
Malachite nodded, and was silent again, turning back to his book. Again, no pages turned.
Ilias bent the last of the silver wire into place, sealing the ends beneath a thin layer of bone to help hold it in place. “Do you truly believe that Nikita is a childe of the first prince of the Blood?”
Malachite replied without even glancing up, no doubt at all in his voice. “Yes, I do.”
“Why?” Ilias wrapped the flute in a silken cloth and replaced it in its wooden box.
“For this is where my search for the Dracon has led me. To Nikita. There must be some connection there, even if we cannot see what it is as yet.” Slowly, Malachite raised his head and fixed his unblinking dark gaze on Ilias again. “Why do you ask me this?”
“Because I wished to know the truth of the matter from your own lips.” Ilias met his gaze squarely. “You are much different from Myca in this, you realize. For Myca, there is no simply believing something to be true. He is not much inclined to accept a thing on faith alone. He must always have proof—irrefutable, ironclad proof—before he will judge a thing to be true. He will not, I think, accept that Nikita is of his own line without such a proof. Nor will his sire.” Malachite glanced away. “Lord Symeon has already said as much.”
Ilias nodded slightly. “It is frustrating, I know. For what it is worth, you have my sympathy—I have been pounding my head against that particular wall of Draconian stubbornness since Myca and I first met. He is very…”
“Headstrong,” Malachite muttered, or something like it.
Ilias felt the corners of his mouth twitch, and permitted the expression to emerge. “Strong in his own convictions. It is a fine trait to have, of course, so long as you share those convictions. I am mildly fortunate in that regard.” He tucked the box in the crook of his arm and rose carefully—he had taken most of the bone mass from one of his legs, and the healing went slowly. “Would you accompany me, my Lord Malachite?”
The Rock of Constantinople tilted his head quizzically. “Accompany you?”
“I think it is past time that I checked the integrity of the wards binding Nikita, and that you were given the chance to look upon him with your own eyes.” And, so saying, he offered Malachite a hand up.
For a long moment, Malachite did nothing but gaze up at him, his expression wholly opaque. Then, he accepted Ilias’ hand and levered himself to his feet. Together, Ilias leaning slightly on the taller man’s arm, they made their way down into the lowest level of the haven. The door to the storage room that had become Nikita’s prison was, naturally, bolted from the outside and, within, all was dark. Fortunately, they had thought to bring their own lamp, and they lit the candles scattered closest to the door.
“Be careful not to cross the wards,” Ilias cautioned his companion, pointing to the delicate tracery of blood and salt burnt into the floor, still faintly visible even to untrained eyes. “Because I cannot guarantee that I could drag you back up the stairs without someone noticing.”
“I will keep that in mind,” Malachite assured him, dryly, and kept a respectful distance as Ilias stepped closer to the edges of the circle, extending his hands to touch it.
The mere brush of his spirit-senses was sufficient to show Ilias what he needed to know—the wards stood firm, a bastion of stone containing the quiescent force of Nikita’s substantial personality. To his eyes, they showed no signs of degradation, despite that he had not been present to monitor them constantly and maintain their upkeep. It occurred to him that, just perhaps, Nikita had made no attempt to wear at them in his absence. He sang a query to the spirits bound in the circle and, after a moment, stone grumbled a quiet reply. Nikita slept deeply, very deeply, divorced from his own grave-earth, sunken deep inside himself. That made sense, and Ilias murmured his thanks, coming back to himself, stepping away from the circle.
Malachite stood watching him an arm’s length away, his face inscrutable yet again. Ilias rubbed the last of the after-images from his eyes and asked, “Is it him?”
“Yes.” Malachite replied, without hesitation. “This is the same man that I met in Paris or, at least, it is a man wearing the same face. I would know him by his voice, as well.”
Ilias nodded. “Perhaps, once we speak to Damek Ruthven, we will have the chance to hear his voice.
Perhaps.” Malachite murmured quietly, and there was something in his tone that Ilias could not entirely place. It was only hours later, as he lay in the bed he shared with his fitfully dreaming lover, still awake despite the pull of daylight, that he realized what it was.
Fear.
Chapter Twenty-One
…My lord Damek Ruthven, to honor the old and long acquaintance between himself and Velya, and the honor that he owes to the scions of the Eldest’s favored childe, offers the hospitality of his house to stapân Myca Vykos syn Draconov and his companions. The customs of his court are many and complex, and so herein you will find a brief discussion of those customs. An interpreter and guide will also be provided….
The journey to Sarmizegetusa was a journey of several weeks, most of which managed to pass in the vague semblance of comfort. The winter weather remained uncharacteristically dry and, while the roads froze solid, no snow actually fell. Ilias, after several nights of communion with the spirits and contemplation of their answers, suggested it was the result of the renewed intensity in the struggle against the Tremere. Both sides, it appeared, we working the weather in their own ways, with consequences wider-ranging than perhaps they had all intended. He could not predict when the weather-bind might finally break. Myca, balancing the honor of being invited to peruse Damek Ruthven’s genealogical library against the potential discomfort of being trapped away from home all winter, decided that the risk was worth
taking. They departed Brasov on a cold, clear day, all three packed in lightproof conveyances, accompanied by a double-handful of guards and a smaller handful of servants.
Sarmizegetusa lay high in the mountains further south even than the domain of Ioan Brancoveanu, further south even than Ceoris, on the side that sloped eventually down into the vast Danube delta and, from there, to the sea. No road led directly to its ruins, though several simple trade roads snaked through the hills below it. Once the capital of the Dacians before the coming of the Roman Empire and, afterwards, the provincial capital of the Roman conquerors, the high fortress of Sarmizegetusa had long been abandoned, the hills and valleys around it occupied only by simple villages and the folk that made their living from the mountains and the forests. The important functions of trade and government had long since moved north of the great mountain wall, to face and deal with the Magyars and the Saxons, or south to contend with the Byzantines. Sarmizegetusa itself was little more than a picturesque ruin in the forest, the remnants of greatness clinging to the heights, the old walls of fortresses, the old wooden and stone columns of a dead faith, a vanished people.
Sarmizegetusa, for the Tzimisce, was far more than that. Its master, the eldest surviving descendant of the bogatyr lineages whose founders had guarded—and, some said, still guarded—the resting place of the Eldest, had dwelt and ruled there since before the coming of the Romans. Among the clan, he was famed in his own right, as scholar and koldun, as war-leader and wise counselor, and his many childer had showered honor and renown on his name and that of his house. He had, of his own merit, won favor in the eyes of the Eldest, it was often said, and the tales of how he had done so were many. Myca and Malachite both went to pains to learn the most common, and the most flattering, of them on the trip south to Sarmizegetusa, and Ilias was happy to provide what he knew. His own sire, dead for many years, was a descendant of a Ruthven distaff line, the several times removed grandchilde of Damek Ruthven, whose daughters had, over the years, been many. The petty lords whose domains they passed through en route told them tales, as well, and suggested in whispers that the Eldest had returned, after many years, to the bosom of the mountains that cradled Sarmizegetusa, the place he had once resided for centuries.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 18