One of the vampires turned and stared at Jürgen. Jürgen started, and pushed himself backward as though trying to swim through the blackness to safety. As he left the memory, he heard a voice remark, “Shadows ripple through time as well as space. Pay it no heed.”
Jürgen cast about, first for Gotzon, then wildly for Rosamund, and then finally began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. And as he did so, he saw light—true light, not just a wrinkle in impenetrable blackness. He pushed towards it, and found himself in another memory.
This one had to be more recent than the last. Jürgen recognized the surroundings—they were in Swabia, his homeland, but probably centuries before his birth. Gotzon lay on the ground, his undead body torn and savaged. His assailants were nowhere to be seen, but he held a broken sword in one hand.
“Good Lord,” whispered Gotzon, “what is it you would have me do?”
Jürgen reached to his confessor, but of course he could not touch a memory.
“Shall I wait here for the sun?”
Jürgen looked up and saw that the clouds covered the moon. The night was almost completely dark, and Gotzon carried no light.
“Or shall I wait for the shadows to consume me?”
Jürgen looked around, and saw the shadows gathering, growing stronger. He debated pushing away again; he knew that Gotzon must escape this event, as it was only a memory, and he was therefore in no danger.
And then, a miracle occurred.
The clouds parted and the full moonlight streamed down on Gotzon. The shadows around him wailed in pain and backed away, and Gotzon pulled himself to his feet, glaring at the creatures in the darkness. Finally, after the last of the shadows had retreated behind trees and stones, Gotzon knelt.
“Then I shall not wait,” he said. “I shall spread Your Word and I shall hunt those like myself.”
Jürgen pushed away. This moment was between Gotzon and God, and he had no right to it.
“And I shall not use the tools of Satan to do Your Work, my Lord,” was the last thing he heard Gotzon say. He flew upwards towards the moonlight, and found himself standing there in front of Gotzon’s chained body. The guards standing in between them looked nervously at the Sword-Bearer, then back to their captive. One of them stepped forward protectively, as if Jürgen might lurch forward to grab at the stake in Gotzon’s heart. Another waved the torch closer to Gotzon.
Jürgen glared at him. “If that man so desired,” he said, “everyone here would already be dead.” He shook his head in annoyance. “But he keeps his word, and trusts God for the rest.” With that, Jürgen turned and stormed back towards his wagon to wait for Rosamund and the coming dawn.
Václav intercepted him before he reached it. “Your wagon is beneath the tree, but by morning it will be buried in snow, if this continues.” The snow had been lightly falling for hours now, and the fort was slowly becoming amorphous and white.
Jürgen shrugged. “No matter. We’ll dig it out if necessary. Thanks be to God that it is winter; if the days were longer I think Geidas might be more tempted to have his men take advantage.”
Václav leaned in closer to his sire. “Did you speak with him?”
“In a sense,” murmured Jürgen.
“What is he doing here?”
“He wouldn’t say, but I imagine he was pursuing demons. Exacting God’s justice, as usual.”
Václav looked back towards the main structure. “Do you think we can save him?”
Jürgen did not answer his childe, but clasped him on the shoulder and nodded towards the wagons. Then he continued on his way towards his own makeshift haven, safe beneath the massive tree. If he had to wake up during the day, Jürgen reasoned, the shade might provide enough cover to fight, and the snow would keep the wagon from burning easily.
He glanced back over his shoulder again, and then walked on through the snow. Nothing to do now but wait. His Beast spoke up petulantly, asking for blood, but Jürgen had no answer. He agreed with his Beast, however—this was not the kind of warfare he desired, either.
Chapter Sixteen
He reached the wagon and climbed inside. Lighting a candle, he pulled the letters of Acindynus from the box and began to page through them. He came across a passage that caught his eye:
“Cainites do not change; the Creator freezes us in time when our mortal lives end. Our sires, of course, make the initial choice as to when exactly this occurs, but I believe that the fact that we do not change is indicative of the role that God wills us to play. Our unchanging nature enables us to be forces of stability, for even as men reshape the world, we remember it as it was, and can guide the mortals towards the best of their past.”
Jürgen scoffed. He shook a bottle of ink and dipped his quill into it, then added his own notation:
“Cainites do not change in the way that mortals change; we do not age, mature or die. We cannot bear or sire children, nor can we alter such superficial things as our hair or skin (barring, of course, the hellish arts of the Tzimisce). But we can change; surely you have met or heard of Cainites who stepped off their former roads and adopted others? We must fight to change, this is true—our natural inclination is towards stability, and that is why Cainites such as myself, who strive to gain as much domain as God will allow—are rare creatures indeed. But of more significance than a Cainite who wills himself to chance is an event that, in and of itself, becomes the impetus of change in a Cainite. A mortal who witnesses a possible miracle can more easily rededicate his brief life to God’s service, but a Cainite with only eternity ahead of him? That Cainite must be very moved indeed to make such a change in his unlife.
“Respect, then, the Cainite who can change, for he has retained one of the best gifts of humanity—the best of the past, as Acindynus says. And also respect the force that can change him, for that is true power.”
Jürgen signed the notation with a quick sketch of his arms, and scattered sand across the page to dry the ink. He sat back to consider his own words.
Wasn’t that why he had asked Rosamund to give confession to Gotzon? To change him? Gotzon had already changed. All Cainites followed codes of ethics, but honest and pragmatic vampires admitted that these roads existed more to hold the Beast in check, to avoid the decline into madness and bloodlust, than any true feeling of moral obligation. And yet, the feeling of obligation had to remain, else the Beast would see through the sham and seize control. Thus Jürgen walked the Via Regalis, the Road of Kings, and spent every night of his unlife, every moment he was awake, being the leader and warrior he was born to be. He had never seen any other option.
But Gotzon obviously had. Gotzon had told him cryptic stories, but now Jürgen had seen more in the darkness of his confessor’s mind. He had hoped that Rosamund would do as Acindynus suggested and help Gotzon to remember humanity, to help Gotzon understand that passion for forces other than God was still possible. But it was Rosamund who had changed—now, instead of feeling terror at the Lasombra, she was working to free him.
Had she found beauty in those shadows? Was she trying to indebt Gotzon to her? Jürgen winced at the thought—Gotzon would not feel the slightest bit indebted to anyone who risked himself to save him. He considered his soul resigned to God and his unlife ever a second away from being forfeit. Jürgen wondered if she would merely consider it a breach of some ethic not to save Gotzon, but he felt that was unlikely. After all, Jürgen followed the same rules of decorum as she, or nearly so; why did he not feel the same compulsion? True, he would save Gotzon if given the chance, but he didn’t feel he was violating any trust by letting him die in retribution for invading another Cainite’s domain. Jürgen himself knew full well that he could expect a similar fate if he was ever captured by an enemy—he often hoped that, if his time on Earth should ever end, it would end either on the battlefield or at the hands of a stronger Cainite.
A sound of footsteps outside snapped Jürgen to attention, but the light rap at the door told him it was Rosamund. He opened the wagon’s door and
helped her in, shutting the door against the snow. He then took a moment to look her over, to make sure that she was intact.
Her skin seemed to shimmer softly in the candlelight, and both her eyes and her halo told Jürgen that she had something to report, something that she considered good news. She leaned forward and embraced him, and then pulled back and whispered in French.
“We can save him. He’s to be taken out of his chains and imprisoned until sunset, and then you can, if you so choose, challenge Geidas for his unlife.”
“Challenge him?”
“Yes. To a duel of minds.”
Jürgen’s eyes widened. “A duel of minds?”
Rosamund nodded enthusiastically. “It’s his greatest source of pride, his control over minds. He doesn’t have the command of flesh that most of his clan does; that’s why he’s out here. He was Embraced only—”
“His greatest source of pride, Rosamund?” Jürgen was fuming. “If it’s his greatest source of pride, there’s a reason for that. Do you know what is involved in such duels?”
Rosamund’s smile faded. “I have seen similar duels, my lord, and—”
“At court, yes? In France?”
“Yes, I—”
“This is rather different, my lady. This is war.” Jürgen ground his teeth. “Most such duels are fought within the mind of a mortal, one unconditioned by either party and unbiased by inclinations. We are in a very small settlement; every mortal here has probably been bent to his whim to some degree. But that is not even the worst of it. I have no idea how close to Caine Geidas is. If, by some strange quirk of God’s will, he is closer to his clan’s accursed founder than I am to Veddartha, I stand to lose much more than Gotzon in this duel.”
“But I have seen Cainites of differing lineage duel before.” Rosamund looked crushed. Jürgen tried to calm down.
“Plucking at heartstrings is one thing, Rosamund. Caine decreed that the minds of his children are sacrosanct, at least from those further removed from his blood. While your powers over the heart function well on mortal and Cainite,” he stopped and took her hand, “mine are not so… versatile.”
“My lord, I am sorry.” She pulled her hand away and cast her eyes downwards. Jürgen smiled.
“Don’t be. The plan is sound, and provided that Geidas’s blood isn’t any thicker than mine, he doesn’t stand a chance of harming me.”
“If the duel is fought with a mortal, how could he?”
Jürgen sat and drummed his fingers on his knee. “Mortals’ minds are like unformed clay. They can be shaped into a number of different forms, even a funnel to allow his mind into mine. This is a risk to both of us; while it’s impossible for him take command of my mind while filtered through that of a mortal, he might learn much. Again, the closer to Caine, the more danger I am in.” He paused, trying to remember what he had learned of Tzimisce lineages, but the languages were unfamiliar, the names long and arcane. “I think it’s unlikely, frankly,” he said finally. “You said something about his Embrace—perhaps you heard his sire’s name?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m afraid not. I learned that he was Embraced recently, not even a century before I was.”
“Meaning he isn’t even two hundred years from his breathing days,” Jürgen mused. “Still, age is no indicator of lineage. Pity we don’t have Jervais with us; perhaps his sorcery could help.”
“How are such duels won, my lord? What is the object?”
“It varies.” Jürgen stretched out his legs. “Sometimes it’s something as simple as picking up a cup—if the mortal picks up a cup marked with a contestant’s blazon, that contestant wins. And remember that these duels are not always fought with mortal go-betweens. Once I saw a duel where the loser had to plunge his hand into a fire. That duel lasted almost until sunrise.” He chuckled at the memory. “A Lasombra lost that duel, and he very nearly lost his hand as well.” He looked over at Rosamund, and debated telling her the unpleasant truth, but decided it was better that she hear it now. “The problem is, if I issue the challenge—and I must, since this is Geidas’s domain—he decides the terms.”
“What is the worst he could ask?”
Jürgen considered. “Not the fire, of course—that I could withstand, probably better than he could.”
“Could he stipulate that you will engage each other’s mind directly?”
“If he does, the risk is as great to him as to me. Probably the worst he could do is stipulate that the loser must drink of the winner.”
Rosamund gasped. “Oh, my lord, what have I done?”
Jürgen grinned. “Do you think I shall lose? Moreover, even with one drink, do you think I would be bound to him more strongly than to my sire?” Rosamund calmed, and smiled slightly. “Or more strongly than to you, my lady?” He sat up and took her hands. “I shall win this challenge, and I shall do so in your name, if you will let me. When he sees into my mind, he’ll see you, and a creature of such a hideous nature must fall before your beauty.”
A strange look crossed Rosamund’s face. “He’ll see your thoughts?”
“Part of the duel, I’m afraid.” Jürgen shrugged. “When two Cainites attempt to command one another, one usually yields right away, or averts his gaze, thus breaking the contact. But in such duels, both must search for any handhold in the other’s mind that they can find, especially if we must duel in the unfamiliar territory of a mortal’s mind. No matter who wins the duel, we’ll come away knowing a great deal more about each other than we do now. In fact, I’ve heard of very cocksure Cainites engaging in such duels with the express purpose of gaining information rather than actually winning.”
“That seems a dangerous game,” Rosamund whispered. She seemed distracted now.
“To be sure.” He lifted her chin up. “What is it, my lady?”
She said nothing, but kissed him. Jürgen, surprised, remained still for a second, and allowed his own lips to soften and accept the kiss. He felt her tongue probing at his fangs, and wondered if she intended him to drink from her again. They had tasted of each other’s blood once before, but it had been an act of passion, of mourning, possibly—he had dared to think at the time—of love.
But then there was the matter of Alexander and the sorcerers she had neglected to mention to him. Rosamund could use love, when she needed to.
Jürgen kissed her back, and ran his hands through her hair. Eyes closed, he reached over and snuffed the candle, and pushed Rosamund to the makeshift bed on his floor. Outside, the wind howled and pushed snow against the wagon—mortal lovers would have found the wagon intolerably chilly. Jürgen barely noticed, except to note how cold his lady’s mouth felt.
He kissed her neck, and she stretched her head back as thought inviting him to bite. He felt his fangs extending and his Beast silently urging him to drink, to keep drinking until she rotted in his grasp. He quieted the voice, but refrained from biting her—was she inviting him to bind him closer? Absurd; if he drank, then so would she. Was she trying to distract him from something, from some vital part of the duel with Geidas?
Rosamund can use love. She has before.
Love God, and that is all, came Gotzon’s voice in Jürgen’s memory.
Rosamund reached up and ran her tongue along his throat, and then closed her mouth against it. He knew she wouldn’t bite without his permission, but the feel of her fangs against his throat scattered his thoughts. He pressed his hand against the back of her head, and whispered, “Yes.”
Her fangs worked to pierce his skin, tearing jagged holes in his throat. A mortal would have died in seconds from the outpouring of blood; from Jürgen’s dead throat, the vitae oozed almost sluggishly, and Rosamund sucked it from the wound, daintily at first, and then with growing urgency. Jürgen felt the pleasure of the Kiss wash over him, and shut his eyes. He didn’t want to look at his lady again until after he had drunk of her also; he knew that the next time she looked at him the full force of the second drink would hit her.
If she is no
t already under oath to another.
Jürgen felt her lick the wound, and the itching pain on his neck abated. She stretched our her neck before him, and he heard the rustling of garments in the dark. If she is under oath to another, he thought, drinking from her again will almost enslave me. Am I willing to risk that?
He lunged forward so quickly that Rosamund gasped, but Jürgen had no thought of violence. He was merely moving quickly to escape the argument in his head, his own voice clashing with his Beast’s, Gotzon’s, Christof’s….
His fangs met her throat, and he was lost. Her body, soft and cold under his hands, seemed to yield like water as he drank. He knew that the next time he saw her, he would love her.
If he drank of her blood again, he would love her without question, without thought, and without hope of recourse.
He drank deeper, and blood washed these thoughts away.
Chapter Seventeen
Jürgen woke the following night expecting to hear servants at his wagon door, or perhaps his childer rousing him. He heard nothing. He raised his head and listened, sharpening his senses in hopes of catching some hint of events outside his wagon. He heard movement, but muffled, and Jürgen guessed it to be men and horses at the far side of the camp. Von Salza? Impossible. We’re well to the northwest of his route. Even with the influence Jürgen and Christof wielded in the Sword-Brothers, he had no desire to see them here.
Why so quiet, then? Rosamund, not sleeping (as no vampire slept past sundown) but not stirring, either, lay next to him, pale, cold, a sculpture of flesh and time. He couldn’t see her; the wagon was, of course, designed to admit no light from outside, and he didn’t bother lighting a candle just yet. He stood and donned his shirt and his mail, and then pulled his sword from the wall. Silence could mean an ambush, but if that were so, why not just burn the wagon?
He pushed against the door, and found it blocked. His Beast leapt in fear and Jürgen drew back a fist to break the door, but stopped himself.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 12