Friederich’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But I thought—”
“Wait,” said Jürgen.
The knight’s eyes fluttered open. His back arched and his arm, still mangled and useless, began to flex. His eyes deepened in color from the light brown they had been to a rich, dark mahogany and dilated as if in response to a blinding light. He began to thrash in pain, and Jürgen pulled Friederich up to standing to avoid him being injured.
“What’s happening, my lord?” whispered the chalice-bearer.
Jürgen shook his head. “The Becoming, Friederich. This knight made his choice, and now has seen the Black Cross.” The knight tried to stand, but failed. His mouth opened in a silent wail of pain, and Jürgen saw the fangs extending past his lip. “The revelation is never easy.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rosamund and Jürgen sat together in the monastery, in one of the cells, so as to afford them some privacy. Jürgen had already ordered his men to make it as comfortable as possible; he intended to let her sleep here while he continued his practice of sleeping with the men in the scriptorium.
They sat there as dawn stalked nearer the monastery. Several times, Jürgen had thought that he should leave—he should tend to his new childe, currently in prayer with the other knights. He should return to the scriptorium before sleep overcame him and he would have to stumble in like a drunkard, rather than striding in confidently.
But staring at her, he found he could not. He found he felt like a man reunited with his lover, not like a soldier on the front lines of a war.
“My lord, your thoughts?”
Jürgen smiled. “Do you know, my lady, that I cannot recall the last time I heard you say my name?”
Rosamund lowered her eyes. “Would it be proper for me to use it?”
“I promise, if it is indeed an impropriety, I shall not think less of you, nor shall I tell anyone of it.” Jürgen watched her carefully, but she showed no signs of discomfort. Instead, she leaned over to him and whispered gently into his ear.
“I missed you, Jürgen.”
Jürgen shut his eyes, and he felt the soldier slip a little further away from the man. His mouth opened, and then shut—he wasn’t sure what to say. He could tell her of wars he was planning, but that seemed distant and frankly offensive to him now. He could tell her of his battlefield Embrace earlier, for although wolves and not soldiers had killed the young man, those wolves had acted under direct orders.
Instead, he told her a truth. “And I you, Rosamund.”
He kissed her, and the soldier departed entirely. His Beast yowled in protest, reminding him of blood, war and metal, but the soldier was gone, and the man who remained didn’t care about such things. He kissed her deeply, and felt the hunger-that-was-not-hunger rise up again. Love, he thought. We can love, we can love each other, even if no Cainite can ever love a living human, we can—
But someone had betrayed him, and he did not know whom.
Jürgen broke the kiss, a little more abruptly than he’d meant to. Rosamund’s face was hurt, soft and lovely in the candlelight, but Jürgen’s was hard and critical again. He saw recognition in her eyes, and he studied that expression, trying to decide if it was simply her noticing his change of heart or if something lurked deeper. The soldier returned, quietly, without spite or malice, and Jürgen let it happen. There was still a war to win.
“My lord?” she said, and Jürgen looked away.
“Rosamund,” he said, “I wish to ask something of you.”
“Yes?” Jürgen heard hope in her voice.
“I wish to look into your thoughts. You know I am loath to do this to any Cainite, most of all you, but I have my reasons. May I do so?”
Jürgen did not look at her. He did not wish to see her face as she thought it over, but he could imagine the pain in her eyes. He knew her thoughts already—she wondered if the second drink had meant nothing, wondered if their time apart had changed him.
It has, my love.
Finally, she said, “You may.”
Jürgen stood, unsteadily—dawn was breaking. He took her hands and kissed them both. “I have no need to look, then,” he said.
“But you felt the need to ask?”
He nodded, unsure of how to broach the topic. “I have an errand for you, my lady,” he said. “A dangerous one, and one that I wish with all my heart I could entrust to someone else.” He thought of Brenner, hanging in his cell talking of sires and elders and how they sent vassals to destruction. But she is not my vassal, she is… He didn’t finish the thought. “I wish you to deliver the casket outside.”
Rosamund nodded slowly. “To whom?”
Jürgen met her gaze. “To Vykos,” he said evenly. “In Brasov.”
Rosamund didn’t respond, and Jürgen could see she was trying to decide his reasons for this request. She would realize, he knew, that he was not simply trying to protect her from the battles to come—the mission he had asked of her was just as dangerous, and required leaving the area for a long period of time as well. Would she assume it was a test of trust, then? A way to get her out of the way?
Those assumptions wouldn’t do. Jürgen needed her to know why he was sending her.
“My lady, you are the best suited for this task. No matter what Vykos truly is, no matter how much a monster, you can make him see the power that the Black Cross wields. You can convince him not to revive the archbishop, and you can escape unharmed.” He took her hand, and she smiled gently. “I know you can. I have seen what your words can do.”
“But then how long will I be gone? How long until—”
“Months. Maybe more.” He nodded sadly. “I know. But when you see me again, I promise I will not be old and gray.” She laughed quietly, he smiled. “And moreover, I promise I will hold greater lands—” he stopped. It sounded like a boast, like a braggart’s wooing. “I promise I will still…” He searched for the words. “Still be yours,” he said, wishing he was the poet that Rosamund deserved.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jürgen walked to the scriptorium, and found Friederich outside the door. He felt for the note he had written earlier, meaning to find a courier to take it to von Salza’s camp, but stopped. His new childe sat inside the scriptorium, staring at the floor, lips moving. Jürgen heard no sound, not even a whisper of breath. He looked towards the chalice bearer quizzically.
“He came in from praying a short while ago, my lord,” said Friederich. “He’s been there ever since.” Jürgen nodded. “You said the revelation was not easy, but—”
“It isn’t, Friederich. And once you have seen the Black Cross, there is no way back.” Friederich swallowed hard and Jürgen walked past him into the room. He pulled a chair next to the knight and sat down. “What is your name, my childe?”
The man looked up sharply. Good, thought Jürgen. At least he hasn’t completely lost his senses. “How am I your child, sir?”
Jürgen nodded. “A fair question, but one I do not have sufficient time to answer tonight. We must sleep soon.”
The knight shook his head. “I do not breathe or bleed, and bread makes me ill; why should I need sleep?”
“You don’t,” answered Jürgen. “Not in the same way you once did. Think of it less as sleep and more as time owed to God for your continued life on Earth.”
“I am alive, then?”
Jürgen chuckled dryly. “No, that’s true. Your ‘existence’ on Earth, then.” The knight was astute; that was good. If he had Embraced an idiot, he would have been very put out. “Your name, then?”
“Favst.”
“Favst,” Jürgen repeated, trying to pronounce the strange word. “What does it mean?”
The knight smiled and a tiny red tear came to his eye. “It means ‘lucky,’ sir.”
Jürgen shook his head. “It may well be that the name fits, Favst. You survived an attack by those wolves—do you remember me telling you that they were demons?”
“I knew that they were, sir.”
Jürgen fought the urge to correct him and instead asked, “How?”
“I have seen much worse than those wolves. I saw my brothers murdered by men who did not breathe, nor bleed, nor die when sword met flesh. I saw them call out to the forest, and I saw the wolves answer them. I saw wolves eating men.” He tried to cough into his hand, but could not. Jürgen sympathized—mortals had easy ways to express emotions. Cainites only had the Beast. “I saw women who raised their hands and called up,” and here he spoke a word that Jürgen did not understand, but just as quickly crossed himself and whispered, “Father, forgive me.”
“What did the women call up, Favst?”
“I dare not say. I only know that I succumbed to cowardice and fled, and I have been running ever since. The wolves found me only tonight, and only savaged my arm. I stabbed one but lost my sword, and then ran.” Favst clutched at a cross around his neck and quavered.
Jürgen reached down and lifted the knight’s chin. “Deus vult, Favst. God wills it. Surely you fled because He wished you to find us, to find those who could avenge your brothers. You have come under the Black Cross now, and demons have no power over us.”
“Because we are demons?”
Jürgen smiled, careful to retract his fangs first. “God moves in ways that you cannot be asked to comprehend—even I, who have done His will for centuries, am often mystified at the gifts He chooses to give us. We are not demons, we are simply changed, and I do not pretend to have all of the answers as to the extent of the change.” He grimaced. “Lord knows that there are scholars among us who play at those games.”
Favst relaxed slightly, but still wore a look of desperation. “But then no one knows—”
“How we go on for hundreds of years without aging? Why we must drink the blood of others to survive? Why we sleep at dawn, will we or no? No, no one knows. Some of us choose to wallow in self-pity, calling themselves damned while others pretend to exaltation. I know this—not once in my time after the Embrace have I ever felt that God abandoned me.” Any more than I did when I was alive, he thought, but Favst didn’t need to hear those stories tonight. “You can search, or you can act, Favst. And I have spoken with those who search, and none of them know anything more than I do, not with any certainty.”
“But I must… follow you, yes? I gave my word that I would.”
Jürgen smiled. Perfect. This boy will make a Scion yet. “Yes, that is exactly so, my childe. And you must acquit yourself well, for by coming under the Black Cross so quickly, you have shown yourself worthy above all these noble brothers. It was a sign from God that you came to us.”
“What does it mean… father?” Favst tested the word, obviously noticing that Jürgen wasn’t comfortable with “sir.”
“‘My lord’ will do, Favst, but my name is Jürgen of Magdeburg.” He looked over his knights, some rising for prayer, some bedding down for the night, and realized that now he would not need to send his message to von Salza. “And I have told you what the sign means: You can now help us to avenge your fallen brothers.”
Favst’s eyes grew wide. He stumbled back, and Jürgen saw his Beast fighting for control. “I won’t go back there—”
Jürgen stood with such force that the chair flew backward and cracked against the floor. He grabbed his new childe by the shirt and pulled his face close. “Yes, you will, Favst. God—and I—demand it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Favst found his way back to the battle site admirably. Jürgen had no idea if the knight had been a skilled hunter and tracker in life or if he was simply precocious, but they reached the area in far less time than it would have taken even with Bertolt finding the path. He had difficulty carrying a torch—not surprisingly, considering his Beast was still young and railing against all it could—but the trees had not yet grown thick enough to occlude moonlight. When they arrived, however, Jürgen’s heart sank—they were apparently too late.
The area was burnt. Not even a smell of blood remained; all Jürgen could scent was soot and burned flesh. Favst looked about in wonder for a moment, and then turned to his sire. “Where are the bodies?”
“Taken by wolves, perhaps. Maybe burned.” He looked down at the ash-covered ground. “Maybe swallowed up by the earth.”
Favst took a few steps away from the burnt clearing. “But how was this accomplished without setting fire to the entire forest?”
Jürgen nodded. “Good question.” He knew that some Tremere could summon up fire, so it followed that they would be able to control it. Explaining that to his new childe, however, would have necessitated a hasty education on the Thirteen Clans, and Jürgen was in no mood. Perhaps he would foster the boy in Germany somewhere when he returned….
“They must have left here, of course. Find a trail leading away. Wolves, horses, men, anything.” Jürgen and Favst had tethered their own mounts a short distance away. Favst had difficulty riding; his horse wasn’t a blood steed and feared the vampires. He’d managed to keep it under control, but only with constant attention, which made tracking impossible. Jürgen moved back towards the horses while his childe, gingerly holding a torch, searched for a trail.
Jürgen patted his steed on the nose; the other horse whinnied and shrank away. Jürgen shot it an annoyed look (which only panicked it more) and thought about their course. The Telyavs had obviously burned the battle site to hide what had happened; Jürgen doubted that he would be able to learn much by looking at the area’s memories. But by burning the area, they had also revealed that the skirmish hadn’t been as large as Favst had portrayed. Jürgen guessed that the poor boy might have incorporated older memories and probably legends he’d heard into his report of the battle—the burnt clearing wasn’t large enough to accommodate many combatants, and there was no sign of battle outside of it.
“Favst,” he called, “how many of your knightly brothers were with you?”
“Only three,” he called back from the other side of the clearing. “We were scouting, looking in the forest for someone.”
Jürgen walked towards his childe. “Who?”
Favst was stooped over, looking at the brush, but stood up with a puzzled look on his face. “I don’t recall. Now that I think of it, I remember more of us fought here, but I know that only four of us left the house that night.”
Jürgen nodded. Perhaps the shock of what happened had altered the boy’s memories. Or perhaps something else was responsible—high-blooded clans could often reshape memory. Best not to trouble about it now, he thought.
“Where is the house, Favst? Near here?”
“Only a short walk, but how will we explain my absence? Or that I’m now—”
“We won’t go there, not yet. I just wanted to know if it was close by.” Jürgen kicked his feet against a tree, trying to knock the soot off. “If we engage these creatures, we’ll need help, but as you say, explanations to your order might prove difficult.”
“What of your order, s… my lord? The Teutons, they are called?”
Jürgen smiled. “Yes. The Grand Master of the Teutonic Order is not a man to be trifled with, however, and he knows nothing of the Black Cross. While some of his commanders are members of my order, though not my childer, making use of that order would require more time than I believe we have, especially considering that most of them are currently in Prussia.”
“And the knights back at the monastery?”
“Already gone on an important errand, all those that I could spare.”
Favst went back to searching. Jürgen stared off into space. The “errand,” of course, was delivering Nikita to Vykos. He had sent Rosamund along with a small detachment of knights to Brasov, and had made sure that their route took them close enough to von Salza’s men to deliver a message and reconnoiter with the Teutonic Knights.
Why in God’s name did I send Rosamund? he asked himself, not for the first time. He answered himself as he had before—because she is a skilled diplomat and because I had no one else to send. He didn
’t believe Vykos would be foolish enough to attack her, and he had instructed her and the knights to be gone before he opened the casket, if possible. It was the journey more than the destination that worried Jürgen—if he could meet up with the knights before they got too far on their way to Brasov, perhaps they could find these Telyavs together?
The soldier in him considered the idea; the man found it abhorrent. It would put Rosamund in far too much danger. Even if diplomacy was called for, it was diplomacy between warriors, not courtiers. The Gangrel and Telyavs wouldn’t understand or appreciate Rosamund’s courtly manners; such behavior might even anger the low-blooded wretches. But if he did find his knights again, with Rosamund in tow, he couldn’t very well send her back to the monastery alone. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t be seeing her again for some time, and while the man lamented that so deeply that Jürgen winced when he thought of it, the soldier was unapologetically glad.
Something moved in the forest and Jürgen drew his sword. Favst reached for his, but Jürgen held up his hand. He knew he was being watched, and knew also that he needed to find a safe place for himself and his childe before dawn. The Sword-Brothers’ house, perhaps? That would require using a liberal amount of persuasion, but it certainly wasn’t beyond Jürgen’s ability. Returning to the monastery was possible, but they would have to leave immediately.
“I’ve found a trail, I think, my lord.” Favst had moved away from the clearing. “It’s faint, but I think men came this way.”
Jürgen nodded. “Very well. We shall follow it, but keep your wits about you and remember where you are. We need to stay within an hour of your house, no more. When the time comes, we shall ride there and take shelter for the day.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Is there a cellarer there?”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 23