Michael the Patriarch, the first founder of the Dream, had possessed an absolute detestation of the Cainite Heresy and all that it stood for. Myca could not imagine much sympathy for it lying hidden in Michael’s last surviving lover. He was, however, at an impasse in his own investigations, and as Lady Rosamund had indicated, the papers in Nikita’s possession at the time of his capture consisted entirely of mundane correspondence. If there was a hint contained within it of Nikita’s plans or intentions, he was deeply loath to admit it was too well hidden for him to puzzle out. Not even a lingering sense of the man’s mood as he wrote remained clinging to the paper. The correspondence, the chest it traveled in, and the cleverly locked box containing Nikita’s grave-earth had all been cleansed, somehow, of any personal impressions belonging to the man himself. A patina of other emotions clung to it—Jürgen’s, Rosamund’s—but Nikita’s own were sponged away so completely not even the faintest echoes remained. Ilias had suggested interrogating the spirits of Nikita’s earth, but Myca was not wholly comfortable taking that approach. The witch-priest remained somewhat weakened from the effort it took to bind Nikita and ward his place of rest and admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that there was some risk involved in the course he proposed. Myca did not outright reject the possibility, but neither did he give Ilias his consent, preferring to reserve that option should more mundane researches fail.
Unfortunately, they had. And then came Malachite.
Myca rose, put his clothing in order, and went forth to meet the Rock of Constantinople, to see what might be learned from his sudden, unannounced arrival.
Malachite’s travels had clearly not treated him kindly. His body, already twisted by the curse of his blood, seemed to stoop far more than Myca remembered. Newly arrived in Constantinople, he had found Malachite intimidating, the vastly competent and unswervingly loyal supporter of Michael the Patriarch, in his own way as much an incarnation of the Dream and its principles as any of its founders. Now, almost in spite of himself, he felt a profound sympathy, an upwelling of mingled compassion and repulsion as the Rock of Constantinople bowed to him, the edges of his road-worn clothing swirling with the motion. Here was the man who clung to the remnants of the Dream, who refused to admit that the Dream was dead, who struggled still to breathe life back into it, no matter the effort.
Admirable. Cleanly, utterly admirable. And still so very pathetic. Myca gestured a servant forward, to bring his guest a chair. “Malachite, please sit. You have no doubt traveled far.”
“I have. And I thank you for your hospitality.” Malachite, his gravelly voice tinged in gratitude, sat in the chair, leaning back against the cushions with a muffled crackling of bones and sinews. He was masked by the illusions his clan often used to disguise their ugliness, and the face he chose to wear was that of a man in his middle years, craggy and worn around the edges, but still strong for all of the hardships written on his flesh. Myca made no attempt to see beyond that face.
Myca settled himself, as well, and motioned the servants outside the door. For a moment, he and Malachite merely regarded one another steadily, with no words passing between them. Finally, pure hospitality brought words to Myca’s lips. “Dare I ask what induced you to make the journey here to Brasov?”
“Nikita.” Malachite replied, so bluntly that, for an instant, Myca was at a complete loss for how to respond. “I know that he is here. I learned that much in Magdeburg, when I returned there from the north. I wish to speak with him.”
“I fear, my lord, that I cannot, at this time, answer your request.” Myca managed, after a moment of silent consideration.
Malachite fixed him with an unblinking dark-eyed stare, the sort of look that Myca had seen provoke hysterical confessions of wrongdoing from half the shiftless younger childer in Constantinople. “Are you saying that you do not have him, Lord Vykos?”
“No. I am saying that he is in no condition to speak with anyone, and that is how I prefer him to remain for the time being.” Myca replied, evenly. “Jürgen of Magdeburg did not treat the Archbishop very gently.”
“Ah. But you could wake him, if you wished.” There was no question in the Rock’s tone.
“Perhaps.” In a tone that clearly stated, But I will not.
“I see.”
“Myca, I see we have another guest.” Ilias’ clear, quiet voice drew their attention; he stood framed in the doorway, clad in his long wine-red tunic and a shapelessly loose pair of trousers in the same hue, offering a serenely pleasant smile of greeting. “Father Aron just informed me.”
Myca made a mental note to have a word with Father Aron and rose, gesturing for Ilias to join them. “For tonight and the morrow, at least. My lord Malachite has traveled a considerable distance already, and has many more roads yet to walk before his journey is done.”
Ilias caught the hint, almost visibly toyed with it, and decided not to take it. “Ah, the famous Rock of Constantinople, of whom Myca has told me so much. Surely you will be staying for longer than a night and a day? What tales you must have to tell!”
Myca made a mental note to have a word with Ilias, as well, and turned to face Malachite, who was regarding the colorful apparition that had appeared before him with clear bemusement. “My lord Malachite, I have the honor of introducing you to Ilias cel Frumos, koldun and priest, and the first of my advisors.”
“Ilias the Fair. Your name suits you, koldun.” Malachite rose, with some effort, and offered a short, but polite, bow of greeting. “I would, of course, accept whatever hospitality this house offers, with gratitude. I am, as my Lord Vykos has mentioned, long on the road and weary from my toils.”
“Excellent. I shall have a guest apartment prepared at once.” Ilias smiled his lazy cat smile and Myca felt, quite distinctly, his lover’s amusement through the bond they shared. “A houseful of guests for the first time all winter, my stapân Vykos. We are, indeed, fortunate.”
“Indeed,” Myca echoed, though he failed to appreciate how Ilias could consider this development a good one. “My lord Malachite, we will, of course, extend to you three nights and three days, and all safety and welcome within our walls.”
Malachite bowed low and rose with the ghost of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “My lord is too gracious.”
Malachite’s arrival put edges on the tension that had begun building in the monastery over the four nights of Ilias’ seclusion and the subsequent, fruitless investigation of Nikita’s correspondence. Sir Gilbrecht was positively champing at the bit. Now that it was obvious that the roads were clear enough to travel, and their duty as he felt it was done, he saw no reason to linger. Lady Rosamund was better bred and more thoroughly diplomatic in every respect, but even she was beginning to show signs of restiveness and a desire to be gone back to the arms of her lord. Only Sir Landric, of the original trio of visitors, seemed at all inclined to delay leaving and his opinion was solicited by no one but Ilias, who suggested quietly that the boy might be worth cultivating as a friendly, or at least not entirely hostile, ear in Jürgen’s court. Myca accepted that possibility while keeping in mind he had Jürgen’s ambassador—and, if rumor were true, his would-be consort—in hand, and that he ought to deliver her to his sire to answer personally for the actions of her lord.
Myca wrote his sire, Symeon, nightly and, each night, put the letter away unfinished, uncertain of how much he wished to say. It was urgent that Symeon be informed of Jürgen’s incursion into Obertus territory, that it might be dealt with swiftly, but Myca was deeply, almost instinctively, unwilling to commit words concerning Nikita of Sredetz to parchment. He told himself he did not yet know enough about Nikita’s mysterious presence or how he suborned an Obertus monastery to his service to comment intelligently on it, and did not wish to lead his sire astray with poor advice, or erroneous suppositions. He had no evidence. He had nothing he could yet tell Symeon of a conclusive nature. Malachite’s assertions were equally unsupported, and quite possibly the ravings of a crumbling and deluded mind. M
yca wished, more than anything, to have the opportunity to fully and completely investigate the mystery of Nikita, in his own time, and make a decision only when his curiosity was satisfied, all his questions answered. He felt also this would almost certainly cease to be an option once he informed his sire of Nikita’s activities and continued existence.
Symeon also detested the Cainite Heresy, and would likely seize any opportunity to damage it further. Myca did not spare two thoughts for the Cainite Heresy, in general, but found Nikita to be an intriguing, frustrating puzzle.
On the second night after Malachite’s arrival, Myca sat in his study attempting, yet again, to write the sort of letter that would inform Symeon adequately without telling him too much, too soon. It was slow going, especially with the periodic traffic of servants delivering fresh supplies of parchment and ink, replenishing the supply of charcoal for the braziers, engaging in the sort of homely tasks that he otherwise found completely ignorable but which tonight grated on his last nerve. After two hours’ effort, he realized, with disgust, that he had more crossed-out lines than he did coherent thoughts, and threw down his quill in annoyance, splattering the page with ink. He rose and walked the lower halls of the monastery, receiving gestures of homage from servants and Obertus brothers whose existence he barely acknowledged, restless and severely out of sorts. His path took him, eventually, to the oriel, where he found Ilias and, to his irritation, Malachite passing what appeared to be quite a friendly evening together. As he entered, they were engaged in a game of draughts, or rather, Malachite was engaged in utterly massacring Ilias at draughts, while Ilias wheedled stories of his travels out of the Rock of Constantinople. Neither Lady Rosamund nor her valiant knight defenders were anywhere in evidence.
“No, do not let me interrupt you.” Myca waved Ilias and Malachite back down, as they made ready to rise in greeting. “I fear that I have done all the thinking I care to do tonight. If you do not object, I will watch.”
One of Ilias’ brows flicked towards his hairline at that statement, but he offered no counterargument, gesturing instead for Myca to join them at the table. He selected a chair and sank into it, observing the havoc that Malachite had wrought on Ilias’ game pieces, smiling wryly.
“Not a word,” Ilias remarked, in an undertone, and made his next move.
“None whatsoever,” Myca agreed, feeling just bad-tempered enough to offer no reassurance.
“And you play next.” Ilias continued, in a slightly exasperated tone as Malachite took an opening, and removed yet another of his pieces from the board.
“If you insist,” Myca replied, his temper beginning to migrate in the direction of mildly amused.
Malachite actually chuckled. For an instant, Myca was struck by the complete unreality of the moment. An elder Byzantine Nosferatu of solidly Christian temperament, a former exile returned home at last, and a pagan Tzimisce witch-priest, sitting comfortably around the table, playing a game that did not involve the manipulation of human pawns. It brought a faint smile to his lips to contemplate it, and for a moment he felt almost warm towards Malachite, despite their differences in opinion, and obsession. Much that was worthy of respect still dwelt in the old Nosferatu. Myca admitted, very much to himself, that he did respect Malachite for all that he had been, and could yet be, and silently hoped he would free himself from the chains of his past and find a new way to continue on. Beneath the surface of the table, Ilias’ free hand found his own, and clasped it gently, his lover eternally sensitive to the flow and texture of his moods.
The relative peace of the moment was broken by a soft clap on the door, followed by the entrance of Father Aron, who looked as though he’d been rousted from his bed rather peremptorily. “My stapân Vykos… I crave forgiveness for my interruption, but a matter of some urgency has come to my attention.”
Myca exchanged a glance with Ilias. “Do not apologize for matters of importance, Father. What has passed?”
“A messenger arrived from the north, some few minutes ago, my stapân Vykos. He is in the refectory now, being refreshed, for he was weary from the road and unfit to be seen.” Father Aron hobbled forward, a heavy leather document case beaded with moisture in one gnarled hand. “He says that he has come from the court of Oradea.”
Myca rose, and Father Aron placed the case in his outstretched hand. Within was a single parchment, folded and sealed with the arms of his sire, Symeon of Constantinople. Myca broke the seal without ceremony and scanned the brief message. After a moment of silent contemplation, he refolded it, and replaced it in the case. “Father Aron, have this placed in my study, at once.”
The old man accepted the case and retreated. Myca turned to sweep a glance over his companions. Ilias, as usual, was not troubling to conceal his curiosity. Malachite’s illusory face was completely, professionally devoid of expression.
“My sire,” Myca said softly, “My lord sire, Symeon of Constantinople, summons me to court in Oradea. It seems he has a task which he wishes me to perform.”
Chapter Seven
It was at times like this that Myca Vykos truly appreciated the existence of well-trained servants and silently obedient Obertus brothers. The preparations for a journey involving five vampires, a dozen knights of the Black Cross, and suitable transportation for all was the sort of logistical nightmare that he was entirely glad to leave in someone else’s hands. He privately wondered how Andreas Aegyptus, the most famous transporter of Cainite passengers he knew of, managed it year in and year out, as it was consuming the attention of most of the senior servants and monks just to handle it once. Fortunately, they were also rising to the challenge, providing fodder for the horses and food for the mortal attendants who would accompany their masters, acquiring sufficient light-proofed vehicles, and assembling all the other oddments that a party on the road for some length of time might require. Even the knights of the Black Cross willingly offered their aid and expertise, grateful to be finally escaping the severely oppressive atmosphere of the not-entirely-Christian east.
Myca invited Lady Rosamund to accompany him to Oradea, on the very edge of the Great Plain, over which she could travel with ease through friendly territories back to her lord. Lady Rosamund, after taking counsel with Sir Gilbrecht, accepted that offer, and the course was laid out accordingly. Their route crossed the Olt River below Sibiu, skirting the territories of both Ioan Brancoveanu and the Prince of Sibiu. They planned to cross the Mures River at Alba Iulia, where they could replenish their supplies in relative safety, as the local stapân was an ally of the Obertus, very much to the annoyance of Nova Arpad, the Ventrue prince of neighboring Medias. The final leg to Oradea was a long one but, thankfully, descended out of the high country into the rolling hills and lowland forests that bordered the Great Plain.
Myca kept to himself the opinion that, once Lady Rosamund was actually in Oradea, Symeon was unlikely to permit her to depart again until some restitution was extracted from the hide of Jürgen of Magdeburg. The results of his silence would no doubt be educational for all concerned and perhaps succeed in teaching Jürgen, once and for all, that some things were outside his grasp and always would be. Unsurprisingly, Malachite also invited himself along on the journey and, after a day and night of severe inner struggle, Myca acquiesced to the Rock of Constantinople’s desire. There was not, after all, anything he could effectively do to forbid or prevent it, short of staking the man and shoving him in a neglected storage room somewhere for a year or ten, and that was the sort of breach in hospitality that Ilias would never condone. Malachite could follow their route or make his own with minimal effort. It was much better to have the man where an eye could be kept on him at all times, and they would arrive in Oradea together. Myca was still not certain how much he wished to tell Symeon concerning Nikita of Sredetz, but he was entirely certain he didn’t want Malachite giving his sire that news in his place.
In public, and to his guests, Myca presented his most pleasant face, approving travel plans and the choices of the
men responsible for organizing the expedition, telling Lady Rosamund and the knights of the sights they could expect to see along their intended route. Malachite added his own remarks, having traveled the region extensively himself, and between them they managed to paint a coherent portrait of the terrain they would travel through, and the people they were likely to meet. Their route included stopovers at three Obertus monasteries and passed through the territories of a half-dozen Cainite lords of consequence. Myca wrote to them all, announcing his intent to travel through their domains without lingering unnecessarily, requesting what hospitality they might choose to offer and the unfettered use of the roads passing through their lands. It was a formal nicety rarely observed any longer, Ilias had told him once, but it would likely make a good impression on those lords who kept faith with such gestures and would hardly damage his reputation with those who did not.
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 6
