—“I want it sharp enough to split a hair, Jean. I will see his blood on that damnable white habit, by St. John, I will.”
—“Be sure, Brother, I shall remember I have promised you a true fight to the last this time.”
“Be sure, Sir Josselin, I shall hold you to it.”
—“I heard the one they call the Khan defeated the chief of a rival tribe in single combat, and now he intends to drive the Christians totally out of Livonia.”
—“So, this is what passes for court entertainment among the Latins. I think I shall perish of boredom, Myca.”
“I think you’ll find the real swordplay goes on among the spectators, Ilias.”
—“Two Cainites met the Final Death—both merely fledglings, of course—but surely you can see what a potential danger there is, should these Knights of Acre extend their crusade into the Empire.”
—“No, the Heresy has no adherents in Magdeburg, not anymore. Lord Jürgen and his Black Cross brothers would never tolerate them. Bishop who?”
—“But that’s just the thing. If a lord determines to be feared rather than loved, how then can he ever trust his vassals, whose fear may at any time drive them to act against him? Then does not the lord himself exist constantly in fear? What does your teacher say to that, Frederich?”
—“Milady. I would promise to win this tournament in your name, but alas, I fear I would find myself foresworn, and would not be so for any price—yet I would be bold nonetheless and beg the right to wear your favor—”
Alexander’s attention sharpened suddenly, focused. There she was, speaking to a mortal knight; he could hear the man’s heartbeat increase as she smiled at him, could all but smell the sweat break out under his gambeson, just from gazing on such perfection.
—“You underestimate yourself, Herr Augustin. Is it not better to fight to the best of your ability, and with honor? Any man here has that opportunity—yet only one can win. If you fight well and honorably, then you fight for me, and I shall feel honored by such noble service.”
—“Lady, I would gladly die for one kiss from your sweet lips.”
—“That much honor, Augustin, I can do without. But wear this, and be certain if you do yourself and me good and honorable service, I shall grant you what you would die for.”
—“Lady, I am ever your most devoted servant—this I shall keep safe by my heart.”
He could see what she handed him and what he kissed so reverently, as if it were a relic from a saint: a braid of her very own hair, entwined with ribbons. Her own precious hair. A cold fury gathered in his long-atrophied belly; his eyes took in every detail of this impertinent mortal who dared ask so much of a goddess. If Augustin wanted to die for her… well, that could be arranged.
But some hours later, when he had a chance to search the mortal’s body and effects (Augustin having died when his opponent’s lance glanced off his shield and penetrated his mail and his torso—much to the dismay of his opponent, who did not understand why his arm had moved to the left just as his lance impacted Augustin’s shield), the precious relic was nowhere to be found.
After court, Malachite sent a carefully worded letter, written in Greek and requesting a meeting, to the house where the Obertus emissary was staying. The answer that his messenger brought back was, for Myca, uncharacteristically terse.
I will be at the Sign of the Dragon this evening.—MV
Still, it was an answer, and so Malachite found his way to the dockside inn and tavern whose hanging sign was painted with a chipped and fading red dragon. A mortal servant showed him to a private room where the Tzimisce awaited him.
In the nights before the Bitter Crusade had sacked Byzantium, Myca had never been one of Malachite’s allies. Still, the Tzimisce brood from which Vykos hailed had benefited from the Dream—the city’s grand undead society—as much as either of the other leading clans. A worldly scholar whose range of interests extended beyond the usual pursuit of salvation and self-discipline over the Beast his brothers in the Obertus Order were known for, Vykos had since made a name for himself among his clan as a politician and emissary. Indeed, the scattered remnants of the Obertus Order now boasted monasteries and other holdings in Hungary and Bohemia, and a growing role in the Cainite politics of the East.
“I had heard you were in Paris, seeking the new Dream,” Myca said, once formal greetings and the serving of refreshments had been dispensed with, and the provider of the refreshments had been taken away to rest and recover from his participation in the formalities. “I also heard that your messiah was more than a little reluctant to don the raiment of heaven for the sake of the survivors of Byzantium—or do you still follow him, hoping to persuade him to accept his destiny?”
Malachite snorted. “Alexander? He has no part in the Dream, he cannot restore it.”
“And who can?” Myca responded, without expression. “You? Antonius the Gaul is ash; Michael the Archangel is ash. Yes, the Dracon still walks the night… but clearly the obvious has not occurred to you: If the Dracon cared about your precious Dream, he would have returned. Why has he not, pray tell?”
“I don’t know,” Malachite admitted. “When he spoke to me, it was of God’s judgment upon Caine’s childer, and destiny—”
“How could the Dracon ever have spoken to you?” Myca interrupted, sharply. His eyes glittered, his entire frame was tense. “He left Constantinople long ago, centuries before the Latins came. Do you claim so many years or such status to be his confidant from those distant nights? Why would the Dracon speak to you and not to—” He caught himself before he finished, and Malachite wondered what he had nearly said. To me? To his own descendents?
“I do not know, Myca.” Why shouldn’t he speak to me? It did not shame Michael to do so. But Myca had always been hard to read, his thoughts and emotions masked, even the colors of his halo muted and indistinct. He could not know the Tzimisce’s mind so easily, nor judge him. Malachite reached inside his robes and brought out the tile fragment he had carried so long, laid it on the table and untied the silk of its wrappings. “It was in a cave in the barren hills of Anatolia, near Mount Erciyes, that he spoke to me, in the guise of a holy hermit. This I have carried from the ruins of Constantinople.”
Myca leaned closer to study the tile. “I have seen this image,” he murmured. He reached out a graceful, long-fingered hand as if to caress the elegant features of the Christ depicted in the ivory. Yet, before his flesh made contact with the surface of the tile, the outstretched fingers halted and then curled back, as if their owner feared contact might singe them. “And where is this Christ, this holy hermit now?”
“I do not know that, either,” Malachite admitted. “Tell me, what connection does the Dracon have with Archbishop Nikita of Sredetz?”
“Nikita?” Myca allowed his lip to curl. “The heretic pontiff? An accident of blood, and little else. He repudiated his kinship with our line long ago.”
“There is more. In Paris—” Malachite stopped.
Myca sat up perceptibly straighter in his chair. “In Paris?”
Clearly Myca was not as indifferent to the subject of his ancestor as he would like Malachite to believe. “Archbishop Nikita was in Paris when the hair star blazed in the sky. He spoke of destiny and judgment as well, in words much like those the Dracon spoke to me. He also spoke of traveling east. But that was eight years ago. The east is wide and the trail has grown cold.”
“So now you seek Nikita,” Myca mused, “in hopes that he could lead you to the Dracon?” There was a calculating tone to his voice that had not been there before.
“I am not sure,” Malachite admitted. “But I believe Nikita may have some of the answers, when all I have are the questions.”
“And one of your questions, then, is where to find Nikita. What will you do with that answer, Malachite, Rock of Constantinople?”
“To preserve the Dream?” Malachite lifted his chin. “Whatever I must.”
One dark eyebrow arched, the only exp
ression on the Tzimisce’s fine-boned face. “Then there is one answer,” he said, “with which I may be able to provide you.”
Chapter Twenty
Magdeburg, Saxony
Feast of St. Felix, March, 1229
It was a council of war, although the war was far away. Brother Klaus von Aderkas wore the red cross and sword of the Livonian Sword-Brothers, not the Teutonic black cross. But his war was of great interest to Lord Jürgen, and news of the growing power of the pagan warlord who opposed him of greater interest yet.
“So he is a Cainite, then,” Jürgen stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “How many does this Qarakh lead?”
“It seems to vary, milord, from month to month,” Klaus replied. “They don’t stay in one place for long—if they had anything like a permanent settlement, we would have found it by now. Many of his Cainite followers appear to be Gangrel, based on the reports I’ve received from survivors, and you know what that blood are like. Master Abelard believes Qarakh is likely Gangrel himself. A Tartar barbarian, from the eastern steppes.”
“What the hell are they feeding on, out there?” Brother Johann asked. A veteran of many a crusade, from Acre and Damascus to the long Hungarian campaign, he grew restless and edgy in monastic peace. He had been lobbying to go to Prussia; but now Jürgen was hoping he’d consider a different battlefield entirely.
“Slaves. They take mortal captives whenever they can. Mostly from native tribes—Livs, Letts, Estonians and others. Men, women, children, doesn’t matter to them. And livestock, horses and cattle, especially. But that’s not the problem, really. The problem is the cult.”
“The cult?” Jürgen asked. This hadn’t been in Klaus’s letter.
“The cult of Telyav. It’s some kind of pagan death-cult, from what I’ve been able to figure out. But the priests are all Cainites. The natives think they’re half-divine, of course, and attribute all kinds of powers to them. They’ve been around a long time, but now they’ve allied with Qarakh’s tribe of raiders, which gives him considerably more legitimacy even among the mortals there. I’ll tell you, Brothers, we win by taking the tribes one at a time, and helping one against another, because they hate each other worse than they hate us. But if Qarakh and the Telyavs can unite them, or even attract enough of the Cainites in the region to form a real fighting force—there might be no stopping them then.
“So Master Abelard believes we need to move against him in force, deal with these Telyavs before they get too much of a following. The trouble is, we’ve not got the force just now. We’re spread thin indeed, between Livonia and Estonia, now that the Danes have deserted the field, and this isn’t a battle mortals can fight alone. I was hoping to find Václav here, to be honest, milord—twiddling his thumbs and spoiling for a fight.”
“Václav is in Prussia, unfortunately,” Jürgen admitted, “although he’s doing good work there, from what I’ve heard.”
“I’ll go,” Johann sat up straighter in his chair, eyes alight again, as if he already smelt the blood of battle. “If the Hochmeister will allow, of course,” he added, remembering proprieties.
To his credit, Jürgen kept a straight face. “I think that can be arranged, Brother,” he said. “As it happens, Brother Klaus, I believe we can spare a few of our own troops for Christ’s cause in Livonia—”
There was a knock on the door, and Jürgen paused. “Come in.”
“Oh—I beg your pardon, milords,” Renaud bowed, respectfully. “I didn’t know you were busy—”
“No, come in, Brother.” Jürgen beckoned him in. “Brother Klaus, this is Brother Renaud, one of our more experienced novices. Renaud, this is Brother Klaus von Aderkas, of the Order of Sword-Brothers in Livonia. And you know Brother Johann, I believe.”
Bows and formal greetings were exchanged, and then Jürgen got back to business. “Brother Renaud, I sent for you for a reason. The Order of the Black Cross is sending a supplemental force on crusade to Livonia, to assist our brothers there. It’s tough country, and a dangerous enemy—you’ve heard the rumors, no doubt.”
“Yes, milord.”
“They’re true,” Klaus put in dryly.
“Brother Christof recommended you, Renaud,” Jürgen continued. “Are you interested?”
Renaud paused only a moment. “Yes, sir. I’ll go.”
It was obedience, not enthusiasm, Jürgen realized—but that was good enough. “Good. Sit down, Renaud. We’ve got a few other matters to discuss.”
When the council had disbanded, Jürgen returned to his own simple, solitary cell and prepared for his day’s rest. He knelt at the small portable altar and said his devotions to the folding triptych with his personal saints: Mary and the Holy Child, of course, but also St. Michael and St. Maurice, both in their armor.
As he stood up again, his gaze fell upon a small casket sitting in a special place on a shelf. His hands reached for it without his even willing it, and opened the lid. Within, coiled carefully in a nest of dark green velvet, was a slender coppery braid of silken hair, bound with blue ribbons. Something of her scent still clung to it; when he closed his eyes and stroked its length he could see her as she must have been that night, sitting on her bed, clad only in her white shift, while her maidservant’s deft fingers wove the braid, tied it off and then cut it free. There was something of Augustin still here as well, for the unfortunate mortal had loved both the gift and its giver, but those impressions he ignored. It was that intimate glimpse of Rosamund herself he savored, that faint scent, the sweet silky coolness of it sliding between his fingers, imagining how it must feel to run his fingers through the bright waves of that same hair as it tumbled over her shoulders….
Enough. His fangs had come down, and though he had fed earlier this very evening, the mere thought of her aroused his hunger again. Carefully he laid the braid back in its casket, closed the lid, and forced himself to return it to its place on the shelf.
The braid was not his to keep, but he kept it nonetheless. It was the distraction he allowed himself, as if, by giving it a proper reliquary, he could keep thoughts of her from haunting him when they were least convenient, intruding on his duties. It didn’t always work, of course, but to allow himself nothing was far worse.
“There was a man brought in to the hospital today, madame,” Sister Agathe said, when Lucretia saw her after the council. “A military brother of an order I’ve never heard of, the Poor Knights of the Cross of the Passion of Acre. He bore a broken red cross on his tunic.”
“They’re a new order,” Lucretia recalled. “His Holiness only granted them a charter a few years ago. They escort pilgrims to the Holy Land, or so I’ve heard. How did he come to us?”
“He had been bitten, he said, by a very large wolf. His companions managed to drive it off in time to save his life, but the wound festered and they had to take the arm off above the elbow. His commander asked our mercy to look after his convalescence.” She hesitated. “He also asked the phase of the moon, which I thought was odd, but when I told him it was waning, he seemed content.”
“He’s mending then, from the amputation?”
“Yes, madame. It was his sword arm. A grievous hurt for a knight in holy orders.”
“Yes, it is,” Lucretia said, taking the clean shift Agathe handed her. “Make sure our guest from the Poor Knights feels welcome in our house as though he were one of our own brethren. Though if he says anything more of the wolf who attacked him, I should like to hear it.”
“Yes, madame.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Magdeburg, Saxony
Soon after the Feast of the Holy Trinity, June, 1230
Jaufres de Courville had seen many a pretty girl in his travels these past three years. They usually came in one of two categories—those with brothers or other guardians of their virtue, and those whose virtue was easily won, either with coin or a smile and a few sweet words. The one he watched this evening on the tourney grounds of the Teutonic commandery of St. Mary’s was more than simply pr
etty, however. She was perfect in all her attributes save one: the tall and well-armed brother who escorted her. A pity too; she was clearly an accomplished flirt, which implied she was accomplished in other skills as well, and he liked the sound of her laugh, like a cascade of silvery bells.
“Her name is Rosamund. Lovely, isn’t she?”
Jaufres turned, startled. A young man—someone’s squire by his youth and fine dress—stood at his elbow. Perhaps of her household, for he spoke French as well.
“I meant no insult to the lady, sir,” he said. “Surely it is no offense to admire such a fair creature from afar?”
“But would you be content with admiring from afar, if perhaps the opportunity presented itself to lessen the distance? If I could… arrange… such an opportunity?”
“Ah, friend,” Jaufres grinned, “what I could do with such opportunity… assuming of course, her guardian was otherwise occupied. She looks like the receptive type—”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Toreador: Book 9 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 19
