“Yes, I understand. So who was it that fostered you and taught you? For that matter, Jovirdas, who is your sire?”
The tysiatskii turned and replaced the torch on the wall, and gave the only response that could have truly shocked Jürgen. “I do not know.” Seeing the Sword-Bearer’s expression, he continued. “I came across this fort shortly after Geidas had taken over. I don’t believe Visya ever knew of me.”
Jürgen shook his head. “He must have. If he kept such loose control over Geidas—”
“And yet, I don’t think he does. The communications between them were brief; I always assumed that Visya was busy and perhaps in danger.”
“Possibly so. You were saying—your sire?”
“I was a guard, once. Under the command of a true tysiatskii, serving a true kunigaikstis, not these unliving mockeries.” He sat in Geidas throne, trailing a foot through the dust that had once been his master. “One night my company was attacked. I know now it was by a Cainite, probably my sire. But I have no idea why he left me alive.”
“He did not,” Jürgen muttered. Jovirdas nodded wearily.
“I left and made my own way. When the Beast raged, I remembered my training and the discipline that my commanders had taught. I arrived here and… you know the rest.”
“Amazing,” said Jürgen softly. “The letters mentioned Cainites such as you, but I never believed it.”
“What letters?”
Jürgen smiled. “I carry with me the Letters of Acindynus. Have you heard of him?” Jovirdas shook his head. “He is a Ventrue scholar of the Via Regalis. His letters are a collection of his thoughts on my road—our road—with annotations from other Cainites.” Jürgen paused to gauge Jovirdas’s interest; he looked rapt. “Some mention is made of Cainites who have found the Road of Kings—or something much like it—independent of any mentor, but I confess I always thought the road too complex, the teachings too difficult, to be mastered without a guide.” A tiny worm of jealousy crept into Jürgen’s heart; he crushed it with the thought that Jovirdas’s precociousness could well be the means to elicit an oath from him.
Jovirdas shifted uncomfortably. Jürgen decided to spare him the embarrassment of asking to see the letters. “I’d be happy to share these documents with you, but I must, of course, ask for something in return.”
The Tzimisce’s face fell. “I will not submit to you—”
“You have much to learn, Jovirdas, about the difference between vassalage and submission. Becoming a vassal to a noble Cainite, a true Scion, does not involve losing yourself or submitting your free will because the oath of vassalage must be undertaken freely. Likewise, I must swear an oath to you as well, and both oaths are binding.”
“Why?”
“Did you swear to serve Geidas?”
Jovirdas looked at the floor, fingers clenching into fists. “I promised him I would aid him in exchange for the right to feed here. He violated that agreement.”
Jürgen shook his head. “Not if all he promised was that you could feed, though I must admit that subjugating the will of a vassal is disgraceful behavior for a Cainite.”
Jovirdas looked at Jürgen with a sardonic smile. “You have never dominated the mind of an underling, then? Your vassals do as they please?”
“I do not take steps that are unnecessary, Jovirdas. I do not destroy the wills and souls of even my lowliest servants, because I value the ability in those servants to choose to serve. The choice to eat from the Tree of Knowledge was a bad one, yet God let Eve do it, because she so chose.” Jovirdas nodded hesitantly; theology was apparently not his strong suit. “My vassals may do as they please so long as what they please does not violate what they have sworn, or their station. This restricts some of them more than others, but I have found that binding Cainites too tightly in service simply spells,” he gestured to the dust on the floor, “disaster.”
Jovirdas stood and spat in the dust. “You mentioned a price for reading those letters.”
Jürgen nodded. “Several, really, and all in the form of oaths.” Jovirdas glowered, but not with nearly the same intensity as before. “First, I would ask that you swear that no harm will befall the letters themselves—they do not belong to me and I am honor-bound to return them in the same condition they were given to me.”
“Done,” said Jovirdas.
“Second, I would ask for your word that some of my retinue, including Lady Rosamund, may remain here for the time being. I have urgent business farther north, and I can take only my knights with me. You must swear to me that no harm shall befall her or any of my other companions while in your care.”
“Done, but I should like to know where you are going.”
“Of course. That actually ties into the third oath somewhat.” Jürgen drew himself up to his full height and stepped over Geidas’s remains to stand in front of Jovirdas. The two men were nearly the same height and Jovirdas showed no sign of backing down. Jürgen did not look him in the eye, not yet—Jovirdas would still equate that with mental domination, and Jürgen did not wish to frighten him. Instead, Jürgen focused on himself, willing himself to become regal, inspiring, the very picture of the warlord and noble leader. Jovirdas did not meet his gaze, but stared at his face. The Tzimisce’s stony countenance softened somewhat; Jürgen laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly, as though to a trusted lieutenant, or even a friend. “I would like you to swear fealty to me, and I in turn would take you as my vassal.”
“Which, of course, requires tasting of your blood.”
“It does.”
Jovirdas did not respond, and Jürgen did not press the issue for the moment. “If you swear this oath, you are therefore under my protection, ruling this domain in my name. When I take Livonia for my own, the rewards will be great.” Jovirdas met Jürgen’s eyes for an instant, but then looked down at his chin. “And what of the Voivodate? Rustovitch and his ilk? Geidas feared them; I think even Visya did.”
Jürgen smiled. “I fought Rustovitch once before, and I failed. I have no intention of failing this time. I do not ask you to come into battle beside me—I’m best served by you remaining here so that I have a base to return to.”
“What makes you think I will not swear an oath and then break it when you leave, slaying your lady and her guards and calling for help from the Voivodate?”
Jürgen recognized the true purpose behind the question. “Because, Jovirdas, while I may not trust you any more than I trust any Cainite, I do trust that your adherence to loyalty has served you well. You are in no hurry to begin fouling the well that has sustained you on the nights—and I know you have had them—when the Beast threatens to make a true monster of you.” Jovirdas nodded. “And in any case, should you break the oath, I shall know. Just as your former master could see into minds, I can hear a breaking oath from miles off.” Jovirdas looked skeptical. “How else am I able to hold territory in Acre, in Magdeburg, and elsewhere?” Jovirdas nodded. Jürgen still wasn’t sure the other believed his boast, but he also didn’t believe Jovirdas would test his luck in any case. “If I should fall in battle,” Jürgen continued, “Rustovitch won’t know your loyalties and you may do as you please without dishonor.”
“But you don’t intend to fall.”
“Of course not.” Jürgen smiled, but did not relinquish his grip on Jovirdas’s shoulder and did not allow his bearing to fade. “I intend to win, and become lord of this land as I am Prince of Magdeburg. It is no less than God intends, as both you and Rustovitch will see.” He leaned in closer, and spoke directly into Jovirdas’s ear. Jovirdas’s hand reached up, unconsciously, as if to clutch at Jürgen’s side, and then fell. “Will you swear fealty to me, Jovirdas of Kybartai? Will you taste of my blood, and bend knee to a leader who sees your worth, who prizes your strength, as a warrior and a true Scion?”
Jovirdas took a step back, nearly tripping over the throne. He regained his footing—and his dignity—and looked Jürgen squarely in the eye.
“I will, Jürgen
of Magdeburg, but I have one other requirement.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I am unsurprised.”
Gotzon stood outside Jürgen’s wagon, staring out at the snow with his ebony eyes. The moonlight cast a long shadow from Jürgen, from the tree sheltering the wagon and from the wagon itself, but Gotzon’s shadow remained pooled at his feet as though the light were directly above his head. Every so often, the shadow would begin to creep away, but Gotzon tapped his foot and it returned to its place like a whipped dog.
“I was surprised. If Geidas were still in power, banishing you would make some sense, but why Jovirdas chose to ask for such a boon is beyond me.” Jürgen looked around, wondering where Rosamund was. In the distance, he saw Wiftet sitting on a drift, gathering snow around his body until only his head remained visible. His dog sat patiently at the bottom of the drift, waiting for its master.
“Like you did when we first met, he recognizes Hell.”
“Has he seen your eyes so clearly?”
Jürgen glanced back at his confessor, but Gotzon made no move to reply. Jürgen continued. “I should like to leave by tomorrow night.” Still no response. Gotzon’s shadow reached out towards Jürgen’s hungrily; Gotzon glanced downward and it receded. Jürgen cast about for something to say. “I should also like to have your blessing on this battle.” He looked off into the distance. “Given the targets.”
“I have told you before that I have no special regard for monks, Jürgen. Especially not those fouled by Cainite blood. And after what I told you before Geidas fell, you should have no doubt that I have no love for the Obertus.” Gotzon did not turn to face the Sword-Bearer, but continued staring down at his shadow, as though trying to make up his mind about whether to sever it entirely. Jürgen didn’t doubt that this was possible for the Lasombra.
Jürgen walked around Gotzon to the door of the wagon. “I also have a favor to ask you, Gotzon.” He reached inside and pulled out a folded piece of paper, sealed with his signet and his blood. “I would like you to give this to Rosamund if I should fall.”
Gotzon glanced upwards sharply; his shadow took its chance and sprang from his feet, slithering across the snow like a gigantic black eel, making a beeline for Wiftet. Gotzon raised a hand and it stopped, but did not recede. It simply thrashed like a dog on a leash. If this caused Gotzon any strain, his face did not show it. “I do not deliver love letters, Jürgen.”
“You assume you know the contents of the letter?”
“I know you, Jürgen.” He clenched his fist and the shadow pulled back somewhat. “I know you, and I know her. You asked me if Cainites could love, and I answered. And yet you ask me to deliver this letter—”
“If I should perish, yes. I have no intention of doing so, therefore this letter never need be delivered. If you cannot or will not undertake this for me, I shall find someone else, Gotzon. But if the letter is with you, the chances of someone else breaking the seal are much reduced.” Jürgen hadn’t expected this kind of answer to his request. Gotzon was by no means a servant, of course, but even so, he had always been willing to shoulder such burdens for Jürgen before.
“In the event of your death—your final death?” Gotzon considered. “Very well.” He reached forward and took the letter, slipping it into his shirt. “And since I am banished from this domain, I had best be on my way.”
Jürgen didn’t bother to ask where he would go. He knew that he wouldn’t receive an answer. He simply watched Gotzon walk off into the trees, his shadow now giving up on escaping and huddled around his feet as if trying to escape the cold. Jürgen turned, and went to find Rosamund.
Wiftet, now only a head on top of a huge snow drift, called out to him. “My lord! Look! I am interred, frozen for the winter! In spring, I shall blossom, I shall burst forth in glory!” Albion let out a yip as Jürgen approached; he ignored the dog. Wiftet continued. “I am planted for the winter, my lord. Such bliss!”
Jürgen nodded. “Indeed. Where is Lady Rosamund, Wiftet?”
Wiftet’s face became dour and pinched, and he dropped his voice to a mocking tone of Jürgen’s. “Why, I don’t know. When last I saw her, she was with her man Peter.”
“Thank you.” Jürgen continued on. He was in no mood for Wiftet tonight, but the lunatic called after him.
“My lord! Shall I remain here, planted, until the snow thaws?”
Jürgen turned. “You shall remain here, Wiftet, and keep my lady and the new lord of this place entertained.” He walked on, mentally reminding himself to instruct Jovirdas to simply tell Wiftet to shush if he became too annoying.
He heard Peter’s voice from around a corner, but almost immediately heard Rosamund shush him. He found them waiting for him, obviously nervous, their conversation cut short. Jürgen resisted the temptation to pry what he needed to know from Peter’s mind, and dismissed the ghoul with a glance. Peter bowed and retreated, but Jürgen saw the look he gave Rosamund.
“My lady, what troubles you?” he asked when Peter had gone.
To her credit, Rosamund didn’t bother trying to skirt the issue. “I am concerned, my lord. Can Jovirdas be trusted?”
Jürgen nodded slowly. “I think so. He realizes that he has a much better liege in me than in Geidas, and that he isn’t safe in these lands without allies. Plus, I think that he is genuinely interested in learning more of our road.” Jürgen smiled. “I have told him that the Letters of Acindynus shall be left in your keeping when he is not reading them. You, of course, are welcome to continue where we left off; I shall regret missing the opportunity to read them with you but I have no idea how long I shall be gone.”
“My lord,” Rosamund’s voice dropped slightly, “what about the duel? You won, clearly, but… I felt something.”
Jürgen’s brow furrowed. “What, my lady?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. A chill in the room. A sudden weakening—as though the heat left the fire and every bit of life and warmth suddenly vanished. The room didn’t change, not visibly, but I swear that it grew larger, as though we were all miles away from each other. And then, an instant later, he reached forward and drank of your cup.”
Jürgen stared at her warily. Was she telling the truth? The chill that he had felt before he’d won, the detached feeling of power and inevitability—how could she have known about it? Had she read his mind? He doubted it; that would be a breach of etiquette for her. Her own powerful senses might have detected something that he, while engaged in the duel, could not, and therefore she might be able to shed some light on what had happened.
But the sensation she’d described—it was so similar to what Jovirdas had mentioned when he had killed Geidas. Something, then, was aiding them, helping Jürgen to establish his power.
With inaction, thought Jürgen, Gotzon does not violate his vows. Could his confessor have aided him during the duel? But how, while in torpor with a stake in his heart?
While in torpor, did his soul—or his shadow—roam free?
Jürgen shuddered, thinking of the creatures that had emerged from the blackness after only a few moments’ lapse in Gotzon’s concentration. He considered running after the Lasombra, asking him more, asking him if and how he had managed both to aid Jürgen in the duel and aid Jovirdas in slaying his master.
But he was about to leave, to go into battle, and Rosamund stood before him, confused. He considered telling her his suspicions, but he had no desire to leave her behind with that knowledge.
Jürgen only took her in his arms. “Strange, my lady, very strange.” He held her close, feeling her forehead against his chin, cold, smooth, perfect. “I must go. I have preparations to make and very little time.” She did not release him, but merely tightened her grip, and Jürgen did not discourage her. “I will send for you as soon as I may, and if anything should happen—”
He meant to tell her about the letter, but she kissed him instead. When the kiss was over, she walked off towards her own wagon, leaving Jürgen in the snow. In other c
ircumstances, he might have felt hurt or slighted that she hadn’t bid him farewell, but he merely stood there, the kiss lingering on his lips, watching her disappear into the distance.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Jürgen stood in the snow, staring at the monastery. He had come to Ezerelis with the intention of laying siege to the place, but had the strange suspicion someone had beat him to it.
The place was silent as a grave. Jürgen guessed the time at two hours to daybreak; the monks should be up and moving, even if there weren’t any active Cainites in the monastery (which Jürgen rather doubted, given Dieter’s testimony). They should be saying their Nocturns, preparing for the day, singing hymns. Of course, it was possible that these monks did not observe the same practices as those of Jürgen’s homeland, but even so, he should be able to hear something.
Jürgen stood completely still. His hair began to crystallize on the back of his neck. He blinked once and discovered that his eyes had begun to freeze. He could hear nothing from the monastery, feel no warmth, see no light.
And yet, he did not think this place was empty, or even bereft of life, only that “life” was a relative term.
With a series of muted cracking sounds as the ice on his armor broke, Jürgen turned and walked back to the horses and his knights. He spoke in a whisper to Václav. “Something is wrong. The place looks dead—empty. I saw no lights.”
Václav shook his head. “Impossible.” He nodded back to the ghoul knights, who were huddled together around the small fire Jürgen had allowed them to build. “Our men are nearly frozen. The building would provide some respite from the wind, but without heat—”
“Yes.” Jürgen glanced back. “I saw no tracks. Perhaps the place is abandoned.”
“In that case, we should use it. We’ll need shelter for the day and the men need rest. Even if the hearths are cold now, we could warm them.”
Jürgen tapped his fingers against his side thoughtfully. “If this place is abandoned, what killed Klaus? And why would it be abandoned, anyway? There’s no evidence of a fire or some other catastrophe.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 17