The Complete Vampire Chronicles 12-Book Bundle (The Vampire Chronicles)

by Rice, Anne

  Our last sighting of the pair was in Poland. However these beings travel very fast and remain in no one place for any given length of time, and indeed seem more than content to move back and forth across the length and breadth of Europe ceaselessly.

  They have been known to go back and forth in Spain and to travel throughout France, but never to linger in Paris. As regards this last city, I wonder if you know why they do not stay there long, or if I must be the one to enlighten you.

  I shall tell you what I know. In Paris, now, there exists a great dedicated group of the species which we both understand, indeed, so large a group that one must doubt that even Paris can content them. And having received into our arms one desperate infidel from this group we have learnt much of how these unusual Parisian creatures characterize themselves.

  I cannot commit to parchment what I know of them. Let me only say that they are possessed of a surprising zeal, believing themselves to serve God Himself with their strenuous appetite. And should others of the same ilk venture into their domain they do not hesitate to destroy them, declaring them to be blasphemers.

  This infidel of which I speak has averred more than once that his brothers and sisters were among those who participated in your great loss and injury. Only you can confirm this for me, as I do not know what is madness here or boasting, or perhaps a blending of the two, and you can well imagine how confounded we are to have one so loquacious and hostile beneath our roof, so eager to answer questions and so frightened to be left unguarded.

  Let me also add that piece of intelligence which may matter to you as much now as any which I have pertaining to your lost Pandora.

  He who guides this voracious and mysterious band of Paris creatures is none other than your young companion from Venice.

  Won over by discipline, fasting, penance and the loss of his former Master—so says this young infidel—your old companion has proved to be a leader of immeasurable strength and well capable of driving out any of his kind who seek to gain a foothold in Paris.

  Would that I could tell you more of these creatures. Allow me to repeat what I have suggested above. They believe themselves to be in the service of Almighty God. And from this principle, a considerable number of rules follow.

  Marius, I cannot imagine how this information will affect you. I write here only that of which I am most certain.

  Now, allow me to play an unusual role, given our respective ages.

  Whatever your response to my revelations here, under no circumstances travel overland North to see me. Under no circumstances travel overland North to find Pandora. Under no circumstances travel overland North to find your young companion.

  I caution you on all these accounts for two reasons. There are at this time, as you must surely know, wars all over Europe. Martin Luther has fomented much unrest. And in England, our sovereign Henry VIII has declared himself independent of Rome, in spite of much resistance.

  Of course we at Lorwich are loyal to our King and his decisions earn only our respect and honor.

  But it is no time to be traveling in Europe.

  And allow me to warn you on another account which may surprise you. Throughout Europe now there are those who are willing to persecute others for witchcraft on slender reasons; that is, a superstition regarding witches reigns in villages and towns, which even one hundred years ago would have been dismissed as ridiculous.

  You cannot allow yourself to travel overland through such places. Writings as to wizards, Sabbats and Devil worship cloud human philosophy.

  And yes, I do fear for Pandora that she and her companion take no seeming notice of these dangers, but it has been communicated to us many times that though she travels overland, she travels very swiftly. Her servants have been known to purchase fresh horses twice or three times within a day, demanding only that the animals be of the finest quality.

  Marius, I send you my deepest good wishes. Please write to me again as soon as possible. There are so many questions I wish to ask you. I dare not do so in this letter. I do not know if I dare at all. Let me only express the wish and hope for your invitation.

  I must confess to you that I am the envy of my brothers and sisters that I have received your communication. I shall not let my head be turned by this. I am in awe of you and with justification.

  Yours in the Talamasca,

  Raymond Gallant.

  At last I sat back on the bench, the many sheaves of parchment trembling in my left hand, and I shook my head, hardly knowing what I might say to myself, for my thoughts were all a brew.

  Indeed, since the night of the disaster in Venice, I had frequently been at a loss for private words, and never did I know it as keenly as now.

  I looked down at the pages. My right fingers touched various words, and then I drew back, shaking my head again.

  Pandora, circling Europe, within my grasp but perhaps eternally beyond it.

  And Amadeo, won over to the creed of Santino and sent to establish it in Paris! Oh, yes, I could envision it.

  There came back to me once more the vivid image of Santino that night in Rome, in his black robes, his hair so vainly clean as he approached me and pressed me to come with him to his wretched catacomb.

  And here lay the proof now that he had not destroyed my beautiful child, rather he had made of him a victim. He had won him over; he had taken Amadeo to himself! He had more utterly defeated me than ever I had dreamt.

  And Amadeo, my blessed and beautiful pupil, had gone from my uncertain tutelage to that perpetual gloom. And yes, oh, yes, I could imagine it. Ashes. I tasted ashes.

  A cold shudder ran through me.

  I crushed the pages to myself.

  Then quite suddenly I became aware that, beside me sat the gray-haired priest, looking at me, very calm as he leaned on his left elbow.

  Again I shook my head. I folded the pages of the letter to make of them a packet that I might carry with me.

  I looked into his gray eyes.

  “Why don’t you run from me?” I asked. I was bitter and wanted to weep but this was no place for it.

  “You’re in my debt,” he said softly. “Tell me what you are, if only so that I may know if I’ve lost my soul by serving you.”

  “You haven’t lost your soul,” I said quickly, my wretchedness too plain in my voice. “Your soul has nothing to do with me.” I took a deep breath. “What did you make of what you read in my letter?”

  “You’re suffering,” he said, “rather like a mortal man, but you aren’t mortal. And this one in England, he is mortal, but he isn’t afraid of you.”

  “This is true,” I said. “I suffer, and I suffer for one has done me wrong and I have no vengeance nor justice. But let’s not speak of such things. I would be alone now.”

  A silence fell between us. It was time for me to go but I had not the strength quite yet to do it.

  Had I given him the usual purse? I must do it now. I reached inside my tunic and brought it out. I laid it down, and spilled the golden coins so that I might see them in the light of the candle.

  Some vague and heated thoughts formed in my mind to do with Amadeo and the brilliance of this gold and of how angry I was, and of how I seethed for vengeance against Santino. I saw ikons with their halos of gold; I saw the coin of the Talamasca made of gold. I saw the golden florins of Florence.

  I saw the golden bracelets once worn by Pandora on her beautiful naked arms. I saw the golden bracelets which I had put upon the arms of Akasha.

  Gold and gold and gold.

  And Amadeo had chosen ashes!

  Well, I shall find Pandora once more, I thought. I shall find her! And only if she swears against me will I let her go, will I let her remain with this mysterious companion. Oh, I trembled as I thought of it, as I vowed, as I whispered these wordless thoughts.

  Pandora, yes! And some night, for Amadeo, there would be the reckoning with Santino!

  A long silence ensued.

  The priest beside me was not frightened. I wonde
red if he could possibly guess how grateful I was that he allowed me to remain there in such precious stillness.

  At last, I ran my left fingers over the golden coins.

  “Is there enough there for flowers?” I asked, “flowers and trees and beautiful plants in your garden?”

  “There is enough there to endow our gardens forever,” he answered.

  “Ah forever!” I said. “I have such a love of that word, forever.”

  “Yes, it is a timeless word,” he said, raising his mossy eyebrows as he looked at me. “Time is ours, but forever belongs to God, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. I turned to face him. I smiled at him, and I saw the warm impression of this on him just as if I’d spoken kind words to him. He couldn’t conceal it.

  “You’ve been good to me,” I said.

  “Will you write to your friend again?” he asked.

  “Not from here,” I answered. “It’s too dangerous for me. From some other place. And I beg you, forget these things.”

  He laughed in the most honest and simple way. “Forget!” he said.

  I rose to go.

  “You shouldn’t have read the letter,” I said. “It can only cause you worry.”

  “I had to do it,” he answered. “Before I gave it to you.”

  “I cannot imagine why,” I answered. I walked quietly towards the door of the scriptorium.

  He came beside me.

  “And so you go then, Marius?” he asked.

  I turned around. I lifted my hand in farewell.

  “Yes, neither angel nor devil, I go,” I said, “neither good nor bad. And I thank you.”

  As I had before, I went from him so swiftly he couldn’t see it, and very soon I was alone with the stars, and staring down on that valley all too near to the chapel where a city was forming at the foot of my high cliff which had been neglected by all mankind for over a millennium.

  29

  I waited a long time before showing the letter to Bianca.

  I never really concealed it from her, for I thought such a thing was dishonest. But as she did not ask me the meaning of the pages which I kept with my few personal belongings, I did not explain them to her.

  It was too painful for me to share my sorrow with regard to Amadeo. And as for the existence of the Talamasca, it was too bizarre a tale, and too fully interwoven with my love for Pandora.

  But I did leave Bianca alone in the shrine more and more often. Never of course did I abandon her there in the early part of the evening when she depended upon me totally to reach those places where we might hunt. On the contrary, I always took her with me.

  It was later in the night—after we had fed—that I would return her to safety and go off alone, testing the limits of my powers.

  All the while a strange thing was happening to me. As I drank from the Mother my vigor increased. But I also learned what all injured blood drinkers learn—that in healing I was becoming stronger than I had been before my injury.

  Of course I gave Bianca my own blood, but as I grew ever stronger the gap between us became very great and I saw it widening.

  There were times, of course, when I put the question in my prayers as to whether Akasha would receive Bianca. But it seemed that the answer was no, and so in fear I didn’t dare to test it.

  I remembered only too well the death of Eudoxia, and I also remembered the moment when Enkil had lifted his arm against Mael. I could not subject Bianca to possible injury.

  Within a short time, I was easily able to take Bianca with me through the night to the nearby cities of Prague and Geneva, and there we indulged ourselves with some vision of the civilization we had once known in Venice.

  As for that beautiful capital, I would not return to it, no matter how much Bianca implored me. Of course she possessed nothing of the Cloud Gift herself, and was dependent upon me in a manner which neither Amadeo nor Pandora had ever been.

  “It is too painful to me,” I declared. “I will not go there. You’ve lived here so long as my beautiful nun. What is it you want?”

  “I want Italy,” she said in a soft crestfallen voice. And I knew only too well what she meant, but I didn’t answer her.

  “If I cannot have Italy, Marius,” she said at last, “I must have somewhere.”

  She was in the front corner of the shrine when she spoke these all too significant words, and they were in a hushed voice, as if she sensed a danger.

  We were always reverent in the shrine. But we did not whisper behind the Divine Parents. We considered it ill-mannered if not downright disrespectful.

  It’s a strange thing when I think of it. But we could not presume that Akasha and Enkil did not hear us. And therefore we often spoke in the front corner, especially the one to the left, which Bianca favored, often sitting there with her warmest cloak about her.

  When she said these words to me, she looked up at the Queen as though acknowledging the interpretation.

  “Let it be her wish,” she said, “that we not pollute her shrine with our idleness.”

  I nodded. What else could I do? Yet so many years had passed in this fashion that I had grown accustomed to this place over any other. And Bianca’s quiet loyalty to me was something I took for granted.

  I sat down beside her now.

  I took her hand in mine, and noticed perhaps for the first time in some while that my skin was now darkly bronzed rather than black, and most of the wrinkles had faded.

  “Let me make a confession to you,” I said. “We cannot live in some simple house as we did in Venice.”

  She listened to me with quiet eyes.

  I went on.

  “I fear those creatures, Santino and his demon spawn. Decades have passed since the fire, but they still threaten from their hiding places.”

  “How do you know this?” she said. It seemed she had a great deal more to say to me. But I asked for her patience.

  I went to my belongings and took from them the letter from Raymond Gallant.

  “Read this,” I said. “It will tell you, among other things, that they have spread their abominable ways as far as the city of Paris.”

  For a long time I remained silent as she read, and then her immediate sobs startled me. How many times had I seen Bianca cry? Why was I so unprepared for it? She whispered Amadeo’s name. She couldn’t quite bring herself to speak of it.

  “What does this mean?” she said. “How do they live? Explain these words. What did they do to him?”

  I sat beside her, begging her to be calm, and then I told her how they lived, these Satan worshiping fiends, as monks or hermits, tasting the earth and death, and how they imagined that the Christian God had made some place for them in his Kingdom.

  “They starved our Amadeo,” I said, “they tortured him. This is plain here. And when he had given up all hope, believing me to be dead, and believing their piety to be just, he became one of them.”

  She looked at me solemnly, the tears standing in her eyes.

  “Oh, how often I’ve seen you cry,” I said. “But not of late, and not so bitterly as you cry for him. Be assured I have not forgotten him either.”

  She shook her head as if her thoughts were not in accord with mine but she was not able to reveal them.

  “We must be clever, my precious one,” I said. “Whatever abode we choose for ourselves, we must be safe from them, always.”

  Almost dismissively she spoke now.

  “We can find a safe place,” she said. “You know we can. We must. We cannot remain as we are forever. It is not our nature. If I have learnt nothing from your stories I have learnt that much, that you have wandered the Earth in search of beauty as well as in your search for blood.”

  I did not like her seriousness.

  “We are only two,” she went on, “and should these devils come again with their fiery brands, it will be a simple thing for you to remove me to some lofty height where they can’t harm me.”

  “If I am there, my love, if I am th
ere,” I said, “and what if I am not? All these years, since we have left our lovely Venice behind, you have lived within these walls where they can’t harm you. Now, should we go to some other place, and lodge there, I shall have to be on guard always. Is that natural?”

  This felt dreadful to me, this talk. I had never known anything so difficult with her. I didn’t like the inscrutable expression on her face, nor the way her hand trembled.

  “Perhaps it is too soon,” she said. “But I must tell you a most important thing, and I cannot keep it from you.”

  I hesitated before I answered.

  “What is it, Bianca?” I asked. I was fast becoming miserable. Utterly miserable.

  “I think you have made a grievous error,” she said.

  I was quietly stunned. She said nothing more. I waited. Still there came this silence commingled with her sitting back against the wall, her eyes fixed upwards on the Divine Parents.

  “Will you tell me what this error is?” I asked. “By all means, you must tell me! I love you. I must hear this.”

  She said nothing. She looked at the King and Queen. She did not appear to be praying.

  I picked up the parchment pages of the letter. I moved through them and then looked at her again.

  Her tears had dried, and her mouth was soft, but her eyes were filled with some strange look that I could not explain to myself.

  “Is it the Talamasca that causes you fear?” I asked. “I shall explain all this to you. But see here that I wrote to them from a distant monastery. I left few footprints there, my beauty. I traveled the winds while you were sleeping here.”

  There followed nothing but her silence. It seemed not dark or cold but merely reserved and thoughtful. But when she moved her eyes to me, the change in her face was slow and ominous.

  With quiet words I hastened to explain to her my strange meeting with Raymond Gallant on my last night of true happiness in Venice. I explained in the simplest manner how he had sought knowledge of us, and how I had learnt from him that Pandora had been seen in northern Europe.