by H. G. Parry
It was only then that he realized the defeat at Austerlitz was not the worst news Rose had come to bear—that, in fact, he had been holding back. He recognized the slight intake of breath and the squaring of his shoulders as Rose braced himself to speak.
“It was a dragon,” Rose said. “It seems that when Bonaparte went to Egypt, all those years ago, he bound a dragon.”
Pitt was silent for only a moment this time, but it was a terrible moment.
“Thank you,” he said at last. “May I have the letter?”
Rose handed it to him at once. “It doesn’t say much more. We should have new information coming in soon.”
“Good. Could you let me know the instant it comes, please? I need to think about this.”
Rose took the hint. “Of course. I have a dinner appointment—though I doubt I’ll have much of an appetite. Let me know if I can—” He shook his head, apparently at a loss for suggestions. “Oh, if I can do anything at all.”
“Can you win back Austria?” Pitt asked, with a quick smile to draw the bitterness away.
“I wish I could,” Rose said, with a wan smile of his own. “Do take care, won’t you?”
“And you,” Pitt returned.
For a moment after the door closed behind Rose, he simply stood there. Then, without warning, his stomach heaved, and for the first time since the morning, nausea engulfed him in a cold wave.
Oh, for God’s sake flashed through his mind, and then he was catching himself against the basin just in time to be horribly, violently sick. For once, he was grateful for the brief moment in which the misery of the experience blanked out everything else.
Dimly aware that he was shaking, he made his way back to his chair and sank into it. For the second time in his life, his mind and body seemed paralyzed by grief; this time, though, a part of him stayed free to drift outside both and consider the facts with a terrible lucidity.
If this had been a usual victory, a matter of Napoléon’s forces outwitting and overpowering those of the Allies, it would have been bad enough. The coalition that he’d spent a year and a half trying to build, and on which he’d pinned all his hopes, had been demolished in hours. Not only were vast territories now in Bonaparte’s hands, but the British forces in Germany would be left exposed and vulnerable to attack, and he would have to face the prospect of recalling them altogether. This could scarcely be considered a setback; it was an absolute disaster.
But the dragon.
The dragon was more than a disaster. The dragon emerging so soon after Trafalgar, in the hands of Napoléon Bonaparte, meant only one thing. Sooner or later, it would come across the Channel. None of the carefully prepared defenses would be enough to stop it then. It could fly above the range of cannon and rifle fire; human magic couldn’t touch it. It would burn their ships and their barricades from the skies, and then the French would come to trample over the ash. And once they held Britain, so would the enemy.
They might be able to stop it. They had advance warning, for a wonder. There were ways to fight a dragon, though they had not been seen or used for hundreds of years, and ways to hold alliances together in the face of fire and magic. But it would take extraordinary political and mental efforts to bring them about, and in that moment he knew, or finally admitted to himself, that he was not capable of them. It was beginning to fatigue him to walk across a room. Meanwhile, Parliament was set to open in three weeks, with a very large opposition clawing for his blood. With a defeat like this to feed them, they would be stronger than ever. If he could be once again as brilliant and as tireless as he had been when he was twenty-four, then he had months of political struggles, further taxation, and desperate warfare to look forward to. If he could not, his government was likely to collapse within weeks. The enemy had no such hindrances.
“This is it,” Pitt said, quietly, but aloud. He thought perhaps his heart had broken.
Curiously, hearing the words in the air steadied him. No new hope kindled, but he felt what was left harden into something that was like defiance, only colder and more pure. Purpose, perhaps, or courage. He knew what needed to be done; he always had. He was only doubting his own strength to do it.
Pitt had only the family name of the enemy, and that was a guess. But he had felt the shadow of him in his sleep many times; he had seen the glimpse of him in Larrington’s eyes, and he had sensed him across the ocean as he had sat in his office at Walmer. He had stood face-to-face with him in the shared landscape of their minds on one of the worst days of his life. He closed his eyes, and he reached for him.
“Lestrange,” he said aloud.
He had expected nightwalking to take a long time if it worked at all. It didn’t. Perhaps it was because he had been fighting sleep all afternoon; perhaps his magic simply knew where to go. Either way, it seemed he had barely closed his eyes to the firelit room just off Great Pulteney Street before the warm darkness gave way to a rush of wind and a cold expanse of sea.
It was the same dark ocean on which they had met before, the same wind-strewn seascape and crashing waves. What struck him this time was less the cold and the clouded skies and more the sudden, exhilarating sense of well-being. It took him a moment to realize that what he felt wasn’t a physical sensation, but rather the absence of it. It disquieted him that somehow, without him being properly aware of it, his body had become so relentlessly exhausted and pain-ridden that leaving it behind was like coming to life again. He didn’t want Forester to be right.
He heard his name, and turned.
“I trust this is important,” the enemy said. “This isn’t a very convenient time for me to be inside my own head. You can’t nightwalk properly without my whole name, by the way.”
“It seems it worked well enough with half.”
“You’re fortunate I heard you in the dark, and I knew yours. May I ask how you did know my family name, by the way? I haven’t heard it for a very long time.”
His voice was purposefully careless, but it was difficult to pretend inside somebody’s head.
“No,” Pitt said. He had no desire to give the enemy more information than needed, and still less to mention Wilberforce to him. “You may not.”
“I see. No matter. Have you come to congratulate me for Austerlitz?”
“If I felt tempted to congratulate you for anything, it would be for surviving Trafalgar. When you weren’t found among the captured vessels, we hoped you would die.”
“I did come close, I’ll admit. My arm was shattered, a few ribs broken, a good deal of internal bleeding. I woke up on the deck, saw our ship taken, and knew the battle was lost. Nelson’s men were mere feet from taking me prisoner. I had just enough strength to roll over the side into the water and not drown.”
“You sound well for it.”
“I am now, thank you. Fortunately, there was more than one person alive and afloat in that ocean. I haven’t needed lifeblood that desperately in three hundred years. As it is, I’m not sure all the bones in my hand have knitted back quite right. Don’t worry, I don’t expect sympathy.”
“I didn’t come to offer sympathy. I came to issue you a challenge.”
“A challenge?”
“The challenge. The challenge that ends a vampire war.”
The enemy was silent for a very long time. Whatever he had expected, it clearly had not been that. “Do you understand the terms of what you’re offering?”
“I believe so. We meet, as we would in a duel. We fight a battle of magic to the death.”
“And why in the world would you believe yourself capable of surviving?”
“I’ve managed it so far.”
“So have I. And I’ve had more practice at it. I’m also a practicing blood magician.”
“Perhaps it’s time you stopped doing quite so much practicing.”
The reflexive sarcasm was comforting under the circumstances. Perhaps the enemy found it so too, because he laughed.
“Oh, very nice. But why would I accept such a challe
nge now, and risk my life for victory when my invasion of England is so assured?”
“It isn’t assured at all, and you know it well.” He made himself believe it, so the enemy would as well. And, as he might have in the House of Commoners, he found reasons to support it. “It would have been true, perhaps, if you’d flown the dragon here without warning. But you’ve revealed your hand too soon. Your invasion of England is dependent on that dragon, and you’ve given us time to prepare for it. Why did you do that, by the way?”
The answer came to him at once, with such sudden clarity that it might even have come inadvertently from the stranger himself. He almost laughed.
“You didn’t, did you? It was Bonaparte. You’ve lost control of him. And you’ve lost your invasion fleet, thanks to Fina and Nelson.”
“It’s no matter,” the stranger said, so stiffly that Pitt knew he was right. “The dragon will still be more than a match for anything you can summon.”
“It may be true. But if you were confident of that, you would have used it far earlier. Bonaparte was in Egypt in 1798. You’ve waited a long time.” He had entered this negotiation from sheer desperation, with little chance of his terms even being accepted. Now it seemed he did have a hand to play after all. “Yes, you might well still succeed. But wouldn’t it be simpler and easier to settle this here, with so little bloodshed? You’ve already said you don’t believe I could defeat you.”
“It’s hardly a question of belief.” The enemy paused. It might have been a hesitation. “Very well. I accept. But we need to set the terms of our engagement.”
Pitt wasn’t sure if what flooded him now was relief or dread. Either way, it was an effort to keep his voice light. “Do you not trust me?”
“I admit I find it difficult to believe you truly mean to challenge me, in all sincerity.”
“I mean to challenge you in all sincerity. I can assure you of that. But I want terms of my own.”
“Name them.”
“As of now, you release the citizens of this country to whose minds you have gained entry. And you swear not to harm anyone on English soil before the duel has commenced.”
“I won’t grant the former—I’m not even certain I can. Mesmeric influence isn’t a leash I can set aside and take up again. But I will promise they’ll have no part in our encounter, and I’ll refrain from any mischief with them in the interim.”
“Including anyone in British colonies.”
“Including them,” the enemy agreed, without missing a beat. “As for the latter, I’m perfectly willing to behave myself while I’m in your territory. You realize, then, that the duel is always fought on the challenger’s home territory?”
“I do.” It was one of the reasons he had to offer first. If the enemy had challenged, he couldn’t have accepted. Even if he could find a way to cross into France, which would be nearly impossible, he didn’t think he’d be very strong by the time he reached the shore.
“Well then. That is my condition. I am allowed physical access to England, free and unmolested, for the purpose of the duel. If I see any attempt to capture me or injure me, I forfeit my promise to behave myself. Do you accept those terms?”
They weren’t perfect terms. The enemy still held sway over the slaves and the anti-abolitionists, and the promise not to harm anyone on English soil extended only until the duel. But it would have to do. After the duel, in any case, the enemy would be either dead or in complete control of England, and the question would be moot.
“Yes,” he said. “I agree.”
“Then I’ll meet you at your castle, at midnight, in the New Year.”
“When?”
“I’m someway distant yet. I’ll tell you when I reach France, and we’ll arrange things. But soon, I promise.” The enemy tilted his head thoughtfully. “It’s a bold move, I must say. I didn’t think you capable of taking such a risk with your country.”
“I’ve been at war for over a decade. Everything I do takes risks with the country.”
“True enough. But those risks are usually dependent on the strength of others, not yourself.”
“Perhaps it’s time that changed.”
“That’s very noble of you, and very presumptuous, and will likely cost your country everything it has. I approve, but you probably don’t find that reassuring.”
“I’ll see you on the battlefield,” Pitt said.
The sea flared; his eyes flew open involuntarily; the room in Bath was back before him. The shock of it caught his breath; he sat very still as the heat in his blood flared, then died away.
It was now too late to go back. And he knew, without any doubt, that it was the right course of action, in some way that went beyond the practical. There was a strange comfort in the thought. Maybe it was something like the comfort Wilberforce always seemed to find.
With a burst of energy, he roused himself from his couch and got to his feet. Predictably, his limbs ached in a thousand places and his head throbbed, but he ignored both and went to his desk.
2 Johnstone Street, Bath
My dear Wilberforce,
By the time you receive this, you will have received word of the defeat at Austerlitz and will be well aware of the political, the strategic, and more importantly, the supernatural implications. I do believe Britain remains safe from invasion for now, but I fear that will be of little help to the rest of Europe. If something is not done, then within months the enemy—not Bonaparte, perhaps, but our enemy—will almost certainly hold it utterly. After that, it will be only a matter of time.
You know this already, and I know you well enough to think that you will see this as cause not for despair but for action. I mean to make the move we hoped never to make. The consequences of failure are great, but I truly believe no greater than the consequences of delay, barring that destruction will come swiftly in the first instance and by degrees in the second. I do not ask you to make this move with me; you have a good deal more to risk in such a venture. But whatever the consequences, this must come to an end.
Please excuse both the obliqueness and the handwriting of this letter; the first is a matter of necessity, in the case of this letter being read by anyone other than yourself, the second a matter of haste. I hope and trust you will understand both. Please, for once in your life, send a reply swiftly; until then, I remain, yours sincerely and affectionately,
W. Pitt
Broomfield, Clapham
My dear Pitt,
I received your letter only moments ago, and have delayed replying only to find pen, ink, and paper.
Yes. Yes, of course. Make the arrangements, and come whenever you can. I know you do not ask me to make such a move with you, but I choose to believe that is because you know you have no need to.
This is the swiftest and shortest reply I have ever written, and the most important. God be with you, and I remain, your true and affectionate friend,
W. Wilberforce
PART FOUR
THE LAST VAMPIRE WAR
Clapham
January 1806
Early in the morning, Wilberforce slipped out of bed and dressed quietly in the dark, careful not to wake his wife. His house was silent as he closed the door behind him and wandered out into the garden. He had been lying awake all night, not unusually for him, but this time his thoughts had not been of the men and women enslaved in the West Indies or of the magicians imprisoned in the Tower of London. Soon, one way or another, it would all be over.
When he had first told Barbara about the plan, making sure to choose a time when the children were all outside playing with the Thorntons, she had been angry and terrified. Now, having had time to accept, she was quietly resolved herself, or perhaps resigned. Only her pale, miserable face gave her away, and that went straight to his heart. Even more than the thought of failure, he hated the prospect of her alone if he were to die—and he knew he could die without failing.
The prospect of death itself he knew he should not hate, believing as he did in what
lay beyond it. If the two of them could only succeed, it would be a far better death than that which had seemed to be his eighteen years ago, and he had been blessed with so much full and happy life in between. He had been scared back then; he would not be scared now. But he was human, and he wanted to live.
“Please God,” he said. The quiet of the garden was like a cathedral in the early morning. “Give us the strength to do your will, and the faith to do it without fear. And if you could please also help my aim if it should come to it, I would be very grateful.”
He stood there for a few moments, breathing in the frost and the stillness and the earthy smell of wet grass. Then he went inside, so his wife should not wake today of all days and find him missing.
It began to snow lightly shortly after midday. His children were delighted, and William and Lizzy came running into his study to beg him to come outside for a snowball fight against the Thornton children. Wilberforce’s first inclination was to say no, but it occurred to him that it might be the last day he had to spend with them; instead, then, he not only agreed to join them but urged his wife to wrap up the younger children and come out to let them join too. Two hours passed in joyous, playful combat, and by the time Barbara finally ordered them all sternly to come in and get warm and dry before they caught their deaths, Wilberforce had almost forgotten why he had been feeling so solemn.
Both memory and feeling returned in full force as he stood in his warm, dry clothes once again out in the snow, shielding his eyes with one hand as he waited for the sight of a horse on the horizon. As far as most people knew, the prime minister was returning to his rented house at Putney Heath before the opening of Parliament on Monday, though nobody expected him to be well enough to attend immediately. Wilberforce assumed that he was actually better than was commonly reported, since he had made little mention of illness in any of the letters they had exchanged in the last few weeks. In any case, he was instead coming to them, and as the day had advanced Wilberforce had grown increasingly anxious to see him. By the time the horse came into view, the winter sun had set, and the Common was dark and quiet.
