“What a delightful suggestion,” Rosamund felt diplomatic honey coating her tongue again, and her feet on decidedly more solid ground. “Sir Gilbrecht and Sir Landric are—”
“Entirely welcome to join us, I assure you.” Lord Vykos bowed from the neck. “The needs of your men are being tended to above. I doubt the matter requires the oversight of these illustrious gentlemen. Though if you prefer…?”
Rosamund half-turned; Sir Gilbrecht and Sir Landric exchanged a speaking glance. Neither knight, she knew, was particularly comfortable entrusting the welfare of their men to Tzimisce hospitality, and with good reason. In another season, the truce might be a thing of smoke and history, with fire and bloodshed taking the place of relative peace. Rosamund privately hoped it would not be so, for entirely selfish reasons. She and Jürgen had already been separated for quite long enough, and a lengthy campaign against an entrenched, intractable Tzimisce enemy would simply add to the distance between them. She also knew that her escorts harbored no such hesitancy, and in all likelihood regarded their presence here as the perfect opportunity to engage in a bit of espionage by way of diplomacy—in such ways were wars won and lost. By such ways were Tzimisce lords offering hospitality also insulted beneath their own roofs and Rosamund hoped that her escorts were adroit enough to realize that without an actual lecture from her.
Sir Gilbrecht, the senior of the two knights, bowed stiffly after a long moment and spoke. “My lord, my brother and I are pleased to accept your gracious hospitality.”
Rosamund was pleased. He managed to get the entire sentence out as though he weren’t holding a dead fish in his mouth, and the somewhat pained grimace that followed Lord Vykos politely chose to ignore.
Chapter Two
“We are entertaining no other Cainite guests this season, my lady, or else I would have had a larger dining chamber opened and aired.” Lord Vykos informed her, as he guided them down a gently curving side corridor that, unless her senses were entirely deceiving her, actually slanted deeper beneath the hill. “It is my hope that you will not consider this setting untoward in its intimacy. The halls can be cold and damp in the winter, and I ordered this chamber specially warmed. My advisor warned me last evening that the weather was likely to turn, and it might even snow. I see that he was correct.”
“Indeed,” Rosamund agreed, allowing a certain amount of rue to color her words. “While there are many natural things of beauty here in the East, my Lord, I find that one can rapidly grow weary of the sight of snow falling, particularly when it begins falling in October and does not cease falling until April.”
They spoke, of course, Latin, the one language that Rosamund was certain they had in common. Her many months assisting Jovirdas, her lord’s renegade Tzimisce vassal, improving his literacy and penmanship had taught her some small amount of his native tongue, though she in no way felt herself conversationally fluent. Likewise, she was uncertain if Lord Vykos spoke French and she rather doubted that he spoke English. She knew that he spoke German well enough to not insult Jürgen with his efforts, but if the choice came down between Latin and German, well, Latin won, each and every time.
“The winters have been unusually harsh of late.” The statement was bland, but something in it caught Rosamund’s ear, and she gave her host a covert look out of the corner of her eyes. “Such things come and go, of course, but that does not prevent one from wishing for the warm breath of spring—or from wishing that the spring might never end.”
There was some subtle double entendre couched in that statement, Rosamund was certain of it. She would have to interrogate Jovirdas about Tzimisce customs regarding the seasons when she returned to Kybartai. For now, however, she simply temporized. “Or even for the crisp autumn nights by the fire, with the floor scattered in colorful leaves…”
“Even so.” They came to the end of the corridor, a tall square door draped in a long woolen hanging, which he graciously lifted to allow them entry. A warm breath of air rushed out to meet them. “Come, my lady, my lords. Your rest awaits.”
Rosamund stepped inside, and understood immediately Lord Vykos’ remark about untoward intimacy. The room was small and roughly semicircular, and its shape focused attention into its center, where sat a low wooden table, a profusion of colorful cushions, and a young god. Rosamund recognized him immediately—the companion that Lord Vykos had brought with him years before when negotiating the cessation of hostilities between Jürgen and Rustovitch—and struggled to recall his name in an effort to avoid falling into his beauty. He did not make it easy, rising from his nest of cushions and furs, unashamedly naked but for the heavy length of his red-golden hair and a few tasteful pieces of jewelry, beaten gold set with red amber from the north. The firelight gilt his flawless skin and revealed the depth of color in his hair as he bowed politely and greeted her by name. “Lady Rosamund.”
Rosamund could feel her aura flushing. “My Lord Ilias,” she managed, after a moment of awkward silence, and offered a courtesy of her own. “It is… quite excellent to see you again.”
He laughed, the sound holding a genuine mirth untainted by any trace of mockery, and he crossed the room to claim his kiss, ignoring her hand completely in favor of kissing her once on each cheek. Rosamund closed her eyes and sent a brief but heartfelt prayer to the Virgin to lend her strength. “You cannot fool me, cousin. You entirely forgot about me, and I can hardly fault you for it. Much… excitement surrounded our last meeting, after all. Come, those robes you wear might as well be ice, and we’ve guest-robes for you warming in the next room. By the Mother, your hands are half-frozen!”
He caught her thoroughly chilled hand in his warmed one and led her into the room, a small voice of caution in the back of her mind—which sounded suspiciously like Jürgen—reminding her urgently that a Tzimisce’s most terrible weapon was often his hands. It was not, however, a very loud voice and easily ignored against the chatter of her guide and the opulence of her surroundings. The floor, what little she could see of it, appeared to be cut stone beneath its covering of cushions and furs. The walls were likewise stone hung with panels of fabric, alternating between deep, rich jewel tones and the patterned fabrics that reminded her of Lord Vykos’ Byzantine origins. Only where a large fireplace, burning a merry blaze, pierced it was the dark stone of the walls clearly visible, and there the flue was carved into a kind of relief, what seemed to be two figures twining in a decidedly erotic fashion. Rosamund couldn’t decide if she was amused or appalled by that, or entirely what to make of either her host or his companion. Jürgen was almost entirely indifferent to such things as cold or relative comfort, and rarely bothered with the time or the expense of warming himself unnecessarily, usually only choosing to do so when interacting with the mortal brethren of the Black Cross who were ignorant of their lord’s true nature. The preservation of ignorance did not appear to be a motive here. Comfort? It crossed her mind that the Tzimisce adhered often to pagan faiths that enshrined sensuality and self-indulgence as virtues.
“My Lady Rosamund!” Sir Gilbrecht’s voice was quite strangled, cutting across Ilias’ cheerful banter and ringing off the walls like the lingering sound of a slap. “Are you certain this is… appropriate?”
In fact, Rosamund was not at all certain of the proprieties involved, but had no idea how to communicate that information to Sir Gilbrecht without looking an absolute fool. Lord Vykos’ companion saved her both the effort and the embarrassment. He turned and swept a single glance over the knight, replying, coolly, “My lord, you are a guest in the house of stapân Myca Vykos, childe of Symeon of Byzantium, childe of Gesu, childe of the Dracon, first prince of the blood, most-beloved of the Eldest. You, your brother, and my Lady Rosamund have traveled far in a harsh season to visit us. Do you suggest that we show you honor less than we would our own kin, who had undertaken such a journey and sheltered within our walls?”
Sir Gilbrecht’s mouth tightened and, for a moment, Rosamund actively feared that he was about to say something aby
smally foolish. He was saved from that fate himself by the timely intervention of Sir Landric, who stepped firmly on his foot and hissed something at him in a colloquial Germanic dialect, so quickly and so slurred with accent that even she couldn’t catch it completely. Sir Gilbrecht glanced over his shoulder at their host, who had entered quietly at his back, and sketched a stiff, ungraceful bow. “My… apologies. I meant no offense.”
“And no offense is taken,” Lord Vykos accepted the apology, smoothly, for what it was and, Rosamund guessed, what it was not. “Your ways are not ours, and some confusion is, regrettably, inevitable. My advisor, Ilias cel Frumos, merely wishes to do Lady Rosamund the honor she deserves. I trust this is acceptable?”
“It is,” Rosamund replied firmly, before either of the two knights could respond, “completely acceptable. Lead on, my lord.”
“Of course.” They crossed the room to the left of the enormous fireplace, and Lord Ilias lifted one of the profusion of hangings to reveal a small antechamber, lit by an oil lamp bracketed to the wall. Its furnishings were simple, a wooden bench, a wooden chest, and a small table on which stood an earthenware basin and a steaming earthenware pitcher, along with a selection of cloths. Against the wall closest to the fireplace a number of wooden pegs held what appeared to be several lengths of cloth. A young woman clad in a simple tunic rose and offered a shallow bow by way of greeting; Rosamund guessed her to be a body-servant. She recalled Jovirdas’ commentary on and instructions for dealing with such creatures, the sum of which indicated they should be regarded and treated almost as furniture. Most of them were, in Jovirdas’ estimation, likely to be young revenants—the hereditary ghouls bred by some Tzimisce families—being taught some lesson concerning the nature of humility and service. Rarely were they merely human.
“Guest-garments. Refresh yourself as you will, my lady, and place your clothing in the chest. It will be cleaned and returned to you before you depart.”
Lord Ilias let the hanging fall at her back and, beyond it, she heard him addressing her knightly escorts in a German so flawless it could hardly fail to provoke them. Rosamund could not help but smile, somewhat wryly, as she shed her cold-starched kirtle with the aid of the servant and waited as she poured a basin of warmed water. She wished, not for the first time on this journey, that it was her brother Josselin traveling with her and not two knights of the Black Cross for, while they were reliable in a fight, they lacked polish otherwise, and were far too naked in their distrust of Tzimisce notions regarding hospitality, despite everything they knew about how seriously such things were regarded by their hosts. Josselin she could have trusted to take this entire situation in stride and, in all likelihood, enjoy himself enormously. Josselin, unfortunately, remained in France at the command of their sire, Queen Isouda, and Rosamund was forced to make do with what she had.
The girl silently sponged Rosamund’s neck, breasts, arms, and back, then patted her dry carefully. The water was lightly perfumed, and the ambassador thought she caught the scent of a sweet spring flower clinging to her skin. Linden blossom, she realized after a moment, and recalled a rhyme she had heard the girls singing even in Magdeburg, about linden blossoms and their power to summon the love of one’s heart. She rather doubted she would step through the curtain to find Jürgen waiting for her, but the romantic fancy of it made her smile anyway. The girl took the first of the “guest-garments” down from its peg and dropped it over Rosamund’s head, aiding her in finding the arms and draping it correctly. She nearly purred in pleasure as the cream-white silk—or linen so fine it felt like silk—ankle-length tunic settled against her body with its tightly fitted sleeves and a woven-in decoration of leaves and vines at neck, hem, and wrists. A second, looser garment went over top, also silk but in a deep, flattering shade of green, heavily decorated at the throat and its trailing sleeves, thick gold thread stiffening the fabric and holding a small fortune in amber and pearls. A girdle of carved plaques, solid gold and bound together with lengths of fine golden chain, went around her waist and slippers of silk embroidered in more gold and tiny seed pearls went onto her feet.
I believe there are some Tzimisce customs that I will suggest my Lord Jürgen adopt at once, Rosamund thought, running a finger over the embroidery gracing her breast, stepping out into the dining room at the servant’s motion, holding aside the hanging. To her amusement, she emerged to find Sir Gilbrecht and Sir Landric similarly clad, having been separated from their cross-marked surcotes, if not their weapons, sitting uncomfortably cross-legged in a nest of cushions and black bear-furs on one side of the small table. Lord Vykos sat at the head of the table, entirely at his ease, his legs tucked neatly beneath him on one large, flat cushion, apparently unconcerned, conversing quietly with the knights and receiving minimal responses to his gambits. Lord Ilias reclined at the opposite end of the table, still adorned in his many fine pieces of jewelry but covering the finest of them in a long, loose, sleeveless tunic, dark red in color and nearly as heavily decorated as Rosamund’s own. The maidservant guided Rosamund to the table, where she was seated in a nest of silk-covered cushions and her lap covered in a warmed fur of brindled ermine; the servant then bowed to her lord, received a quiet word of instruction from him, and excused herself, leaving through the same door by which they’d entered.
“The refreshments will be with us presently,” Lord Vykos informed them. “I trust that all is to my Lady’s satisfaction thus far?”
“Entirely, my Lord. You are almost too gracious.” Rosamund assured him, arranging her legs in such a way that the layers of her clothing concealed all but the tips of her slippers from view. “We were, I admit, expecting a much cooler reception given the…nature of the events that caused us to travel here.”
Lord Vykos held up a hand in a dismissive gesture. “A guest is to be treated with all honor, and welcomed freely whether he is a much-loved kinsman or a dire foe. It is one of the oldest customs of the clan, which we, at least, hold dear even to this night.”
“At least?” Rosamund inquired delicately, running her hands through the furs to warm the joints of her fingers.
“What stapân Vykos means, my lady, is that you chose your route well.” Ilias’ tone was tinged, again, with a certain amusement. “You managed to skirt quite nicely through the territories of those who continue to honor the old ways of the clan. Ioan Brancoveanu may have no love of your Lord Jürgen, but he holds his own honor too dear to defile it by mistreating a traveler who walks his borders bearing a flag of truce. Had you been brought before him, he would have hosted you the three days and three nights hospitality required of him, and escorted you unmolested to his border. You did, however, come rather close to crossing into territories that might have greeted you in a somewhat less than civilized fashion. You are fortunate to have avoided that fate.”
“And it is equally fortunate that we do not have to explain to Lord Jürgen what became of you in such an eventuality.” Lord Vykos added, in a tone so neutral as to be expressionless. “I suggest, my lady, that you not leave your return route to the sort of fortune you enjoyed traveling to us. If it is not offensive to you, I will have a detachment of my own guide you back to friendly territories when you depart.”
Rosamund realized that she had her hands clenched in the furs draped across her lap, and forced her fingers to relax. “It was my understanding, Lord Vykos, that you are a vassal to the voivode of voivodes, Vladimir Rustovitch, and that it was by his authority that you secured the peace between my Lord Jürgen and the Voivodate. Is that not so? Would that agreement not protect an emissary, no matter whose territory she might travel through?”
Lord Vykos gazed at her for so long, his face so carefully empty of response, that for a moment she was certain she had mortally offended him. When he spoke, his voice was likewise flawlessly expressionless, the mask of diplomacy fitting even over his words. “That perception, my Lady Rosamund, is entirely incorrect. I am in no way a vassal to Vladimir Rustovitch. He does not command me, nor do I bend
knee to him. I serve my sire, Symeon, the head of the Obertus Order, and I serve the interests of my line. I acknowledge no other master.” A smile so faint as to be little more than imagination touched the corners of his mouth. “Vladimir Rustovitch has enough lickspittles among his own lineage to salve his wounded pride. And as to the Voivodate? Lord Jürgen made his agreement with Rustovitch and myself—I did not, at any point, claim to speak for any of the other elders who hold territory in this region. Even Rustovitch does not claim to speak for more than himself and his closest blood-kin, no matter what titles he chooses to gild himself with.”
“I see.” In truth, Rosamund was beginning to see, and what she perceived she did not like at all. “Do you mean to say that—“
A soft chime sounded from outside the room, and the door-hanging lifted, admitting a double handful of comely youths, male and female, none apparently older than sixteen and all clad in the most minimal of coverings. They arranged themselves in a loose semi-circle around the table and waited silently. Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamund caught a glint of color as Ilias shifted, and sat up. “Oh, good. Conversation is always so much better with dinner. Do you not agree, Lady Rosamund?”
“At court occasions in the west, that is, indeed, how we prefer to dine.” Rosamund replied, with as much serenity as she could muster, her mind racing as she considered, and reconsidered, the situation.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 2
