“Did I not tell you, Jürgen? Love God, and that is all.”
“I know, and I have tried, but I cannot deny—”
“You can, you have and you will again.” Gotzon’s voice dropped even lower than usual and Jürgen felt the sound echo through every shadow in the room, in the monastery, in the world. “I will deny you if I have to kill her. I have made such sacrifices for you, Jürgen. My time, my blood, my honor.”
Jürgen stood. A horrible realization had struck him. “Your… honor?”
“One wax seal is not worth your soul.” He set the letter to Rosamund down next to Jürgen, the seal broken, the ink inside smeared.
“You betrayed me. That was the oath I heard breaking.” Under other circumstances, that fact would have made Jürgen furious. But his fury was the Beast, and the Beast was as placid as a well-fed dog.
“I am true to God.”
“But not to me, who trusted you?” The scent of a broken oath lured the Beast, and Jürgen felt his fangs extend. “Not to me, who hunted demons and sinners beside you, shielded you, put my very mind and soul at risk for you?”
“Did you stop to consider who helped you in the duel with Geidas, Jürgen?”
“I don’t believe it. You were paralyzed.” Jürgen knew it was true, knew that Gotzon had somehow sent a part of himself away to aid him, and then to push Jovirdas towards killing Geidas. He did not wish to believe it, not now. “How could you possibly have helped?”
“I do not care what you believe. I did what I had to do for God. Now you must. If you wish to fall from your road, do so with an eye towards your soul. Come with me, onto the true path, and perhaps there is hope for you. I lost one childe, one would-be Prince of Magdeburg, to ego and false faith, and I will not lose another.”
Jürgen thought, confused, and the realization dawned. “Norbert von Xanten,” he said. “You took him into your Embrace? Him, the Archbishop of Magdeburg?”
“I was mistaken in my assessment of the man. His faith was powerful, but he did not have your strength.” He took a step towards Jürgen, and the Sword-Bearer reached for his blade and realized he’d left it outside the room where Varka was chained. “Come with me,” he repeated, “or fall, and love like a mortal.”
Jürgen backed up until he felt the door behind him. Gotzon was taller than he was, and although Jürgen had never feared him before, (the darkness in his eyes, perhaps, but never Gotzon himself), his Beast now asked that he run away from the specter before him.
He will not harm me, thought Jürgen. I will continue to do God’s work, but I must do so… differently.
As a man.
As a man who loves.
He looked at Gotzon’s eyes again, but this time felt no fear. “Go,” he said.
“What?”
Jürgen nodded to himself. “Leave. You are no longer welcome in any of the lands I claim as my own. If you are captured in my lands, you will be treated as an enemy. You have violated a sworn oath to me, and thus I banish you, as Lord Jürgen Sword-Bearer, Prince of Magdeburg, Lord of Saxony and Brandenburg, Protector of the Burzenland, Kunigaikstis of Livonia and Prussia, and Overlord of Acre, I banish you from these lands, and charge you never to set foot in them again upon pain of Final Death.”
Gotzon stared at him for a moment, and Jürgen fixed his gaze on the older Cainite’s eyes. If Gotzon decided to force his will on him now, Jürgen knew, he wouldn’t be able to resist. But he couldn’t look away now. He called up all of the will he had, all of the power as a leader, a Cainite and even a soldier, and forced it into his gaze.
Gotzon’s eyes, which could drive a man to madness with a glance, fell. The shadows in the room darkened again, then thinned in the torchlight.
Then he walked past Jürgen without so much as a word, out into the Livonian night.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Rosamund found Jürgen later in the monastery’s chapel, staring at the simple cross there. “God alone knows what defilements this place has seen,” he whispered as she sat beside him.
“And so only God should worry over them,” she said. “You can do nothing for the past, only be sure that it does not happen anew.”
Jürgen turned to face her. “You are right, of course. The past is gone.” He held the letter in his hand. “I wish to read you something.”
“Lord Jürgen, have you become a poet?” Rosamund smiled, but stopped when she looked more closely at his face. Bloody tears still stained his cheeks. “My lord, what—”
“Oh, please use my name,” he whispered. He lowered his eyes to the paper. “I wrote this for you before leaving for Ezerelis. I sealed it with my blood, such that anyone except you who broke the seal would break an oath to me, and I would hear it. I heard an oath break, but could not identify it—” He stopped, trying to compose himself. “I just want you to hear what I wrote to you.”
“Then, please, Jürgen, tell me.” Jürgen began to read, shakily, softly, never looking up from the paper:
“My dearest Rosamund,
“If your eyes ever read these words, it means that I have fallen. It means that Magdeburg has lost its prince, and all of my other vassals are freed of their vows. It means that many Cainites across the world will rejoice and, dare I hope, a few will even mourn.
“But it also means I will never see you again.
“That thought is terrifying—but terror isn’t quite the right sensation. I suppose ‘dread’ might be closer to the truth, for the feeling isn’t sharp and vicious as when the Beast drives me from fire or the sun. The feeling is insidious, it sticks in my mind like a tick. Never see my Rose again? Never again to see my native lands, never again to take my tribute of enemies, never again to battle, to ride, to claim territory?
“All of those things, I think I could accept. But never to see you again… the notion makes me ask myself why I am doing this? Why leave for battles, why claim more at all? I have more lands to my name than I could ever see.
“I am leaving, my lady, because I have to. I swore that I would, and I cannot break my word, not even for you. Especially for you, my Rose, because in you is the purest honor of the Road of Kings. In you is the reason I became a Scion, the beauty of an untainted oath. You were, you once said, a maid upon your Embrace, and so locked in that innocence forever. But that is what an oath is—it is a virgin’s promise, and only by breaking it can a Scion know what a Scion truly is.
“I have broken oaths in my time, both deliberately and inadvertently. I have broken oaths to myself and others and I have confessed those sins. But I am leaving again, and only God knows what I might find at the end of this road. If you are reading it, I have found my final reward, or punishment, whatever God sees fit.
“And so consider this a last confession of sorts, my Rose—”
Jürgen stopped reading. “I can’t. The paper is smudged, I can’t read what I wrote.”
Rosamund had been sitting, staring at him, face unmoving. “Do you remember what it was you said?”
“Not in the words I used then, I’m afraid.”
Rosamund took the letter and set it aside. “Then tell me in the words that matter now.”
Jürgen shut his eyes. “I love you,” he said. “That is what matters. Mortals speak of eternity, but we truly have eternity. Can we love each other so long?”
Rosamund leaned in close and kissed him. “We can try,” she said. “We can but try.”
Epilogue
Jürgen slipped the ring on her finger, and kissed her.
He was amazed at how long a kiss could last, and what he saw in those few seconds. He saw his return to Magdeburg, saw his last battles in Livonia, saw the installment of his vassals… but mostly he saw her.
He saw her holding him close after Gotzon had left. He heard her accepting his proposal… heard himself finally tell her that he loved her.
Jürgen kissed Rosamund, and he felt the Beast melt away, and felt the man return.
He understood the Prodigals now, even if he could ne
ver join them. Scions can feel this, too, he thought. Even a prince may feel this purity.
The guests at the celebration included Cainite nobility from all over Europe. Hardestadt attended, breaking his schedule for once and taking his traveling court to Magdeburg. Queen Isouda de Blaise, Rosamund’s sire, attended on behalf of the Courts of Love, but other French Cainites had come to see “the marriage of the Rose and the Scepter.” Mithras of London had not, of course, made the journey himself, but sent a representative. Rudolphus had been waiting for Jürgen when he’d returned from Livonia, but had graciously allowed him to keep the Letters of Acindynus (with notes, as promised, from a Tzimisce Scion; Jovirdas’s penmanship had improved considerably) until the festivities were over.
Jürgen, when asked about it later, was seldom able to recount a list of who had attended without consulting a written record. He had engaged in no politicking, no discussion of borders or wars. The soldier once would have been horrified at letting such opportunities slip away, but the soldier was tempered more and more by the man.
They kissed, and then the ceremony ended and he took her away to his chambers—their chambers. Jürgen carried her across the threshold and laid her down on the bed, shut the door, and bolted it.
The room was cold, and though neither of them mentioned it, they both thought back to the night in Livonia when they had shared a cold wagon underneath a mound of snow, and also shared their precious blood for the second time.
And this is to be my third, thought Jürgen as he undid her clothing. After this, she truly is my lady, for I will no longer have the heart to deny her anything.
His Beast, in other times, might have complained. It didn’t bother now, for it knew that he couldn’t deny her anything as it was.
Her hands came up and undid his clothes, sharpened senses compensating for the darkness. He was naked in a few seconds, and climbed into bed next to her, pressing his body to hers.
They were cold, both of them. His Beast took the opportunity to remind him that they were dead, that all desire for them was thought, because bodily desire was long gone.
Jürgen could not know Rosamund’s mind at the moment, of course, but for his part, thought was enough.
He kissed her shoulder, kissed down to her fingertips. She did not sigh as a mortal girl would have, but responded by stroking the back of his neck, playing her fingers down his back, and then leaning over to kiss his cheek and the side of his face.
Who will drink first? They had not partaken of each other’s blood during the ceremony, although such was the usual practice in Cainite marriages. They had agreed that the final drink, the third drink, the one that would bind them together for always, should be done in private. That was their wedding night, and no one should see that.
Jürgen rolled over onto his back and pulled her on top of him. Cold skin slid against cold skin, scars and textures unchanged in decades met in the dark, and underneath it all, they both could feel warmth.
The blood was there, but buried deeply. Love, Jürgen decided, was not too dissimilar.
Rosamund leaned down and nipped at his neck, gently, not nearly enough to draw blood. Jürgen slid a hand behind her neck and pulled her towards him, letting his fangs draw across her neck and her shoulder.
He let his fangs pierce her skin, but waited to drink until she, too, had bitten down upon his neck.
The sensation was nothing like what he could have imagined.
He saw her, knew her, felt her from inside her own mind and soul. He wondered for a second if she was feeling him the same way… and then knew that she was. He felt her blood flow from her into him only to be taken out again, felt the two of them merge, felt the whole of God’s Creation in the two of them, there together on the bed.
The blood is the life, he thought.
Oh, yes, she thought in response.
The moment lasted centuries, but when it ended and they broke away from their Kiss, Jürgen saddened to think it would never come again. He lay there next to his lady, savoring the blood in his mouth and the sweet pain in his shoulder, waiting to rise and light a candle and behold her beauty for the first time after the third drink.
Finally, he did. He found his way to the table and struck a stone for a spark, and lit one of the candles sitting there. He turned to see her, and nearly fell.
“An artist,” he whispered.
“What?” she asked, and at the sound of her voice, he shut his eyes and shuddered.
“A poet,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He opened his eyes again, and crossed the room towards her. He sat on the bed and looked over her, naked in the cold candlelight, flesh pale and luminous. “If I were either artist or poet, I would be worthy to see you and hear your voice. I am neither.”
Rosamund smiled. “I name you worthy,” she said. “You may look, and hear. You must. You cannot hide from me now, behind your mind. You must share with me your thoughts, and I will weep at their beauty and brilliance just as you do now over my rude form.”
Jürgen hadn’t even realized he was crying, but at her remark reached up and wiped the blood from his eyes. “Yes,” was all he managed to say in response.
And then, “I love you, my lady Rosamund.” He said it in French, and then again in English, and then in Latin, and finally in German. He told her she could pick the one she liked best.
She chose English. Jürgen wasn’t surprised—it was his favorite, as well.
They stayed up and talked until the candle burned down, and Jürgen asked to make a few final notes in the Letters of Acindynus before morning. He lit another candle, opened the Letters and skimmed through the notes he’d made.
He’d outlined a chronicle of the war in Livonia—his strategies, his thoughts, his victories and defeats. He had not, of course, related enough information to give any future enemies an advantage, but had hinted at (if not stated directly) the humiliation he’d suffered at Varka’s hands. He had also spent several nights adding Armin Brenner’s thoughts to the book. Several pages of the Letters were now devoted to “The Last Wisdom of a Condemned Scion,” with Jürgen and Rosamund’s mark both inscribed prominently at the top. Now he merely added a few notes to other parts of the Letters, reread some favorite sections, and reminisced. These Letters had been with him for a year now; he was going to miss them after handing them over to Rudolphus tomorrow night.
He stopped over a few paragraphs by a Genoese Lasombra called Fioré. He had skipped many of the Lasombra’s passages. He told himself that it was because the Italian’s writing was difficult to read, but the real reason was that Fioré followed the Road of Heaven, and the memory of Gotzon’s betrayal was too fresh. And yet, I pity more than despise him, thought Jürgen, because he hates what I feel. What must he have seen in his life and since to make him hate love so?
Knowing that he would not have another chance, Jürgen read Fioré’s words carefully. The section in question was a quote from another source, a Cainite holy scripture called The Book of Nod:
And then, through dread Uriel, God Almighty cursed me, saying:
Then, for as long as you walk this earth, you and your children will cling to Darkness.
You will drink only blood
You will eat only ashes
You will always be as you were at death,
Never dying, living on.
You will walk forever in Darkness,
All you touch will crumble into nothing,
Until the last days.
Fioré’s notes continued. This section of Caine’s Gospel, he wrote, is a reminder to all Cainites, but especially to all Scions. Know this: No matter what you build, no matter what you take or destroy, no matter what lands you claim to control or what titles you add to your name, your place is foreordained. All you touch will crumble, and this means you cannot improve the world. You can only leave it poorer than you found, and this is true for all Cainites. We can only wait for the last days, and try though we might, we shall all have mu
ch to answer for then.
Jürgen picked up a quill, but set it down. He had nothing to add to that. He shut the Letters and stood up from his table, and turned to his rooms. An ornate map showing his territories, vividly colored and painstakingly lettered, hung on the wall across from him, a gift from someone in the Courts of Love. He walked across the room, slowly, haltingly, and ran a finger down the map, stopping in Magdeburg.
All you touch will crumble into nothing.
“Jürgen?”
He turned to face his new bride, stood helplessly staring at her, loving her, worshipping her, yet not able to say a word. He couldn’t identify the feeling he had, but pulled on his shirt, held up a hand (he hoped) to comfort her, and left the chamber.
He didn’t see a soul as he left the building and walked into the darkened streets of Magdeburg, the Prince, the Sword-Bearer, naked but for a bloodied shirt and a dazed expression. He looked helplessly at the city around him, wanting to cry out to it, to ask the city if it was even now crumbling into nothing at his touch.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, and found Rosamund standing there. He collapsed into her arms, there in the shadow of his city, blood streaming from his eyes. She whispered to him, asking what was wrong, but he could not answer.
He could not find words to tell her he was afraid. He could not find the courage to admit that he feared his love for her would doom them both. He could not quell the nagging feeling that somewhere in his travels, he had made a horrible mistake.
But when?
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 28