It did not begin immediately. The spirits of water were more mercurial than those of earth, cool and changeable, and even when one invoked them properly and gave offerings to their taste, they often desired more than one would be willing to pay. He felt the spirits contained within the bowl swirling about the earth and the blood, considering—and then felt them accept.
The water churned, and shot upwards in a steaming, swirling column, coiling around itself and forming a perfect, shimmering sphere. Ilias raised his arms, weighted with the dragging, swirling hunger of the water, and thrust his hands into the sphere, letting the visions it would impart flow over him and draw him down.
He sensed a vast distance, far greater than anything he had every felt before, a gulf of space and age that beggared his imagination. For an instant, he saw nothing but a great rushing darkness, the passage of many miles, and then it came to him—
Mountains… high, snow-capped mountains, higher even than the mountains of the east, standing sentinel against the deep blue sky—
Wind, cold—the air was dry against his skin—
Home. He felt it in his blood, in his flesh, in his soul. This place, this high and stark and beautiful place, was Nikita’s home. There was no sea. There was not even much forest, the heights given over to scrub and stone and snow. There was nothing put mountains as far as he could see, mountains and a great starry arch of sky, the ancient bones of the earth exposed beneath the eyes of heaven. He felt the age and the strength of the spirits of this land, their beauty and their cruelty, and their strangely absolute mutability. Fire was fire but intermingled with earth and air in a way that defied his ability to fully perceive it. The spirit of this land itself seemed to have been shaped somehow, worked, blended together in a manner suited to a will not its own. It was like nothing he had felt anywhere in the east, and he had, in his time, traveled many of those lands and spoken with their spirits. He knelt, and ran his hand over the earth, cool and dark and frozen, and tried to bespeak the spirits—
Chaos exploded before his eyes, within his mind, a howling maelstrom of pain and rage and grief that clawed at the core of his own essence. He screamed and tried to pull himself back, hurl himself away—
And came back to himself, flat on his back, his skull swimming with pain and exhaustion, his throat raw from screaming. There was no light but starlight. The water had fallen, and doused the candles. For a long moment, Ilias could do nothing but lay there in shock, watching explosions of painful color pass before his eyes as the aftermath of the vision faded slowly. He rose to his hands and knees, wearily, acknowledging to himself that the spirits were getting a bit too avaricious in their demands on his person, and perhaps he should be less tolerant in the future. He crawled to the edge of the circle and pulled himself to his feet with the aid of a plinth, his knees weak and the muscles of his legs ropy from the drain on his blood and spirit. It took far longer than he liked to reach the sanctum, leaning on trees and crawling when he had to, the sky growing gradually grayer as the dawn approached.
Miklos and Teodor were waiting for him when he reached the door and helped him inside, removing the crown from his tangled hair and the muddied tunic from his body. As they bundled him into his nest of sleeping furs, the last thought that came to him before exhaustion claimed his mind was that Nikita did not come from Sredetz.
Chapter Twelve
Ilias’ party returned to the monastery two weeks later, after he had officiated over the rites of returning spring, accepting the offerings of those who knelt to the priests of the Christ by day, but acknowledged that earth and night were full of gods, as well. There, he found a letter waiting for him from Myca, requesting that he join him in Alba Iulia as soon as could be arranged. Before that week was out, Ilias was on the road again with his mortal entourage and the six members of Symeon’s personal guard who delivered the message in the first place. The guards were all szlachta, warrior-ghouls who concealed the modifications to their flesh beneath armor and clothing, a fact for which Ilias was grateful. Symeon of Constantinople did not waste any tender aesthetic sensibilities on the men he expected to die in his service.
The Obertus house in Alba Iulia was not a religious establishment, but one like many others clustered around the town’s market square, two modest stories high with a cluster of storage buildings behind it. The first floor was given over to a genuine business, owned and operated by a family long in Myca’s service, who dealt in luxury goods, furs and spices and the fine amber and pigeon’s blood rubies of the east. The second was the Obertus “embassy,” Myca’s offices and windowless sleeping chamber, perpetually scented with the fine spices residing in the first floor storage rooms. Ilias, who normally disliked most towns on general principles, found little to detest about Alba Iulia, small and picturesque along the banks of the Mures.
They arrived close to midnight, detained only briefly by the men of the town watch. They were permitted passage after the captain of Symeon’s guardsmen showed the captain of the watch a letter affixed with an enormous waxen seal. It was clear that not a one of them had the letters to read it, but the seal itself seemed to contain all the information they needed. Ilias was, not for the first time, grateful for the efficiency with which Symeon of Constantinople bought or intimidated his lessers. Some few people were still about the market square, scattered with puddles from a recent rainfall, most of them the patrons of a tavern on the corner, its doors and lower shutters thrown open to let in the pleasant evening air. A light burned in the ground floor study of the Obertus house, and a sleepy servant answered their summons at the door. Ilias, his attendants, and their baggage were ushered inside, while the guardsmen went in search of a place to stable the mounts.
The servants slept in a small room off the kitchen, and pallets were already prepared for Ilias’ servants, as were soup and cheese to repair their hunger, and Ilias sent them off to dine and rest. The master of the house himself rose, wrapped in a rich brocade sleeping robe, to see Ilias upstairs, where Myca waited. A smile touched the koldun’s mouth as he beheld his lover for the first time in many weeks, completely oblivious to his arrival, hunched over a slanted desk on which was spread his leather-bound journal and a handful of loose parchment sheets, writing in the light of two low-burning candle lamps. Ilias bowed shallowly in thanks to the sleepy merchant, and crossed the room on cat’s feet, resting his hands on Myca’s shoulders and murmuring, “I suppose if I must share you with any other lover, at least that lover is a book.”
Myca did not start or otherwise show the slightest trace of surprise. Instead, he straightened in his low-backed chair and leaned his head against Ilias’ breast, inviting a caress, which Ilias was quite pleased to give. A low sound, almost a purr, escaped Myca’s throat as Ilias stroked his hair, worked his thumbs into the tense muscles of his lover’s neck, the taut, slender shoulders clad in silk. They kissed in greeting, lingering over each other’s lips. When they broke apart, Myca murmured, with a soft smile, “You are entirely superior to a book, my heart.”
“I should hope so, if for no other reason than the fact that books lack hands.” Ilias found a second stool, backless and shorter in legs, and pulled it close. “I trust your business with your sire went well?”
“Very well, indeed.” The smile did not fade; in fact, it grew a shade more satisfied, and Ilias inclined a questioning brow in response. “My lord sire wishes me to ride south to the domain of Ioan Brancoveanu, to summon the Hammer of the Tremere to council in Oradea, and entreat him to add his voice to the accord of peace and brotherhood being built between his sire and his uncle-in-blood.”
“Well,” Ilias replied phlegmatically, not certain how to respond. “That sounds like an exercise in futility, and a disaster waiting to happen.”
“Possibly both. In the time I was in Oradea, I did not receive the impression that Lukasz and Rachlav’s followers waste much brotherly amity on each other, and I am not convinced that we can trust even self-interest to keep them from reopening hostilit
ies at the first available opportunity.” None of this seemed to be bothering Myca in the slightest, which Ilias found faintly amusing. “However, the intrinsic untrustworthiness of Lukasz and Rachlav is not really my problem, nor will it be in the future. I need only to inform Ioan that his sire desires him to give his approval to the alliance and convince him that doing so is in his best interest, which, given that the man is not a fool, should not require too much effort.”
“You have noticed that Ioan is not a fool,” Ilias pointed out, delicately.
“Yes. I have also noticed that he is bogged down in his current position and has been for almost a decade, and that any potential change in that status quo can, for him, only be a good thing. Even if the alliance between Lukasz and Rachlav proves to be fleeting, Ioan may be able to reap some benefit from it. After all, their forces could defect to his service, without damaging their own honor in the eyes of the clan.”
“Are you thinking out loud,” Ilias asked, “or practicing your arguments on me?”
“Both.” Myca reached out and caught his hand, running a thumb along Ilias’ knuckles. “You made good time. I was not expecting you for another week, at least.”
“The rites were somewhat sparsely attended this year.” Ilias admitted. “I suspect that I’ll come back to a number of offerings in the sanctuary. The roads were disgusting after you left. Do not change the subject.”
Myca pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I am not changing the subject. I do not intend to fail with Ioan—for when I am finished with him, Symeon his given me permission to investigate Nikita to my own satisfaction.”
Ilias’ eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. “Now, that is a surprise.”
“I agree, but Symeon seems genuinely concerned, and wishes to know how Nikita managed to suborn an Obertus monastery to his service. I have already written to the prince of Sredetz, requesting permission to travel there as part of my investigation and begging whatever assistance he may wish to provide.” Myca leaned forward in his chair, placing a stopper in his bottle of ink and closing his journal. “By the time we are finished with Ioan, we may have even received a reply. I wish you to accompany me, if you desire.”
“Of course. You could not, I will tell you now, successfully make me stay behind.” Ilias smiled, somewhat crookedly. “I did as you asked, and interrogated the spirits of Nikita’s earth. Or, to be more precise, I attempted to interrogate them. I did not receive much concrete information, but I feel quite strongly that Nikita does not come from Sredetz. When we go there, I will know for certain if that intuition is true or not.”
“I felt within myself, some time ago, that you were very weary and… possibly injured?” Myca’s tone was coolly neutral, a request for information rather than an expression of concern. Ilias felt the anxiety underlying it, anyway, but answered the question instead.
“I was not injured. The pain was not my own, but Nikita’s—it invaded my being when I attempted to bespeak the spirits of his earth. It was, however, a rather tiring effort.” A pause. “Nikita is much stronger than he should be, Myca, and perhaps much older, for a man so little renowned within the clan.”
Myca nodded fractionally. “I have thought as much myself. In any case, we will soon be free to pursue the mystery of him, and, until then, your magics hold him well. Malachite will also be accompanying us, at my sire’s request, though he remains in Oradea until my mission here is complete.”
“You trust him to do so?” Ilias asked.
“I trust my sire to keep him in check.” Myca replied, grimly. “And I trust Malachite to abide by the will of the last surviving ruler of the Trinity families of Byzantium.”
Ilias nodded. “You wish, I take it, for me to accompany you to see Ioan, as well?”
“Yes. It is my understanding that he holds the koldun lineages in high esteem and that he himself hosts a koldun in his court, such as it is…” Myca trailed off, his tone faintly questioning.
“I have heard that, as well. In fact, I have heard that he harbors no less a koldun than the Shaper priestess of the Mother herself, Danika Ruthven, childe of the eldest of the bogatyri kin-lines.” Ilias smoothed his tunic over his knees, somewhat nervously. “She attended at my Embrace, and neither her power nor her wisdom can be overstated. She is certainly one to cultivate as an advocate, and was a friend of my sire for many centuries.”
“Then I will leave the fearsome Lady Danika to your charms, my heart.” Myca rose, and doused the lower of the two candles. “Come. I will have a bath drawn. You have traveled far, and I am very pleased to see you again.”
Ilias rose, and smiled, teasingly, at the eagerness that underlay his lover’s brisk tone. “Oh, good. I was beginning to wonder if I would have to wait all night.”
Once Ilias arrived, the preparations for departure were rapidly completed: There were a sufficient number of horses , and a heavy cart in which the two Cainites would travel by day, protected if not wholly comfortable. Myca had already been in contact with Ioan, requesting permission to travel into his domain, and Ioan’s stipulations in agreement to that request were several. They were not given permission to travel directly into his territory. They were to meet his envoy at the edge of the lands he claimed, and travel on from there under that envoy’s guidance. They would also depart from his domain under guard, and they would not travel anywhere within his domain without an escort. He could not, he emphasized pointedly, entirely guarantee their safety while on the road, as his domain consisted almost entirely of territory contested with varying degrees of pugnacity by the Tremere. They were to come prepared to defend themselves as necessary, but should limit their numbers sensibly, the better to make speed. Myca ultimately decided to bring the entire complement of guards lent to him by his sire, and Ilias’ half-dozen attendants, as well, reasoning that some would no doubt be sent back, anyway. They rode almost due south from Alba Iulia, and as they went the terrain grew steadily rougher and higher in elevation. Despite the fact that spring was well advanced, the nights continued cool enough that the warmth of fires and mortal attendants was a necessity, not a luxury—at least insofar as Ilias was concerned. By day, the party traveled, Ilias and Myca together in their single light-proofed conveyance, knowing that soon the road would run out and they would be traveling rough across country.
The party arrived at the meeting place Ioan had stipulated at midday, setting up camp beside the crossroads and waiting patiently for night to come. The forest had not been cleared back far from the edge of the road, though several small clearings were clearly used by travelers forced to camp rather than continue to their destinations. Ilias and Myca, cramped in their accommodations, rose as soon as the last sliver of sun passed behind the mountains, found the majority of their servants in a pleasing state of watchful preparedness, and settled in to wait, as well. They did not have to wait long.
Ioan Brancoveanu’s envoy heralded her own arrival with a lupine chorus. Pale-furred shapes emerged from the foliage at the edge of the wood, their eyes catching the light of cook-fires and low-burning lamps, their voices filling the night with a sound both fearsome and oddly mournful. A nervous young guardsman reached for his bow, only to be restrained by an older, more experienced colleague. Myca, seated on a low bench next to the cart in which he and Ilias had traveled, rose and closed the book he had been reading with the aid of a candle. Ilias came instantly to his side, standing back a pace, profoundly calm and watchful. Deep inside himself, Myca felt the essence of Ilias’ thought—that the envoy was among the pack of wolves slowly ringing their camp, and was watching to see how they would react. Myca nodded fractionally in agreement with that assessment, and laid aside his book, letting his hands fall to his sides and striding to the edge of the encampment where the guards now stood, watching tensely. He could hardly blame them, with this impressive number of wolves playing hide and seek with the camp’s fires.
He stopped just outside the perimeter of the camp itself, beyond the ring of tents and the cart, but not inside
the wood itself, and spoke clearly into the darkness beneath the trees. “I am Myca Vykos, childe of Symeon, childe of Gesu, childe of the Dracon, childe of the Eldest. I come in the name of my sire and my house to seek speech with Ioan Brancoveanu, childe of Lukasz, childe of Noriz, childe of Djavakhi, childe of the Eldest. I come in the name of peace, so I swear by Earth and Sky, and the Waters of Life and Death.”
“Do you?” The voice was soft, husky, wholly feminine, and came from his left. “It was my understanding that we were merely seeking a new way to make war.”
Myca turned and bowed smoothly to the woman who stood before him, rising after an appropriately respectful moment. “Perhaps we are, my lady, and perhaps we are not. I bring word to your lord of peace among his own kin, at least, and if that leads to another sort of war,” Myca shrugged gracefully, “it is not my place to pass judgment.”
“Diplomats.” Her appearance indicated the woman was a Gangrel, one of the feral Cainites who made their homes in the wild places of the world. She was by no means hideous, Myca thought, but she showed her acquaintance with her own Beast quite clearly. Her eyes caught the light and reflected it in points of gold, much like her lupine pets, and her tawny hair had more in common with an animal’s pelt than anything else. She did not, however, appear to cherish any particular bias against clothing, and wore a long pale tunic, belted at the waist, and sturdy leather boots. “I am Lukina of the Veela, and my lord has sent me to be your guide.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Tzimisce: Book 13 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 10
