"S . . . Simone," the child mumbled.
"Simone," the Voivode repeated softly. "That is a lovely name. Have you a last name, child, a family name?" The little girl shook her head. "Well, tell me, Simone," he went on, "would you like to live in a big house and have lots of food and dogs to play with and servants to wait on you?" The child, terrified and confused, did not answer. The Voivode stood up and gathered his collar tight around his neck against the damp, cool wind of the Hungarian autumn. "Where is she from?" he asked the Gypsy.
What is happening here? Malcolm wondered. I am in my bed, but it is cold, it is cold . . .
"She is from France, My Lord," the Gypsy replied. "From the city of Aachen."
"But that is Germany, surely!" the Voivode said.
The Gypsy shrugged. "As you wish, My Lord. Borders mean but little to us."
"A little Frank," the Voivode mused, gazing down at the little blond-haired girl. "A little Teuton. How much do you want for her?"
The Gypsy pretended to do some mental calculation before stating the price he had long ago decided upon. "I think that five pieces of silver would be a fair price."
The Voivode laughed. "Yes, it would indeed be a fair price, if you were selling ten mature women! For this child I shall give you one silver piece, and you can account yourself lucky with that." He cast a nod at the servant who stood in obsequious silence behind him, then turned and walked back into the villa. He would not bargain with the Gypsy, and the Gypsy would not refuse the one piece of silver. This was known and understood by all. The servant handed the Gypsy the coin and then took the little girl by the hand. He led her toward the servants' quarters.
The Voivode walked through the opened doors to his villa, paying not the slightest attention to the servants who closed the doors behind him. He returned to the large dining room and sat down at the end of the table opposite his guest. "I'm sorry for the delay, Your Majesty. Local business, private business."
"I was watching you out the window, Little Dragon," Matthias Corvinus, the king of Hungary, replied, laughing. "Your confidence astounds me! That child will not be grown for ten years! How can you be so certain that ten years from now your head will still be sitting upon your shoulders?"
The Voivode shrugged. "Nothing is certain, Your Majesty, not life and not even death."
Corvinus drank from a wine goblet. "Death is the only certainty, Voivode."
"Perhaps," he agreed. "But the day of its coming is not. Perhaps I shall die tomorrow. Perhaps I shall still live twenty years from now. Who is to say?"
"I am to say," Corvinus reminded him. "Make no mistake, Little Dragon. The sultan still wants your head, and if it ever serves my purposes to do so, I shall give it to him."
"Of course, My Lord." The Voivode smiled sweetly, hating the man who sat before him, hating him with every fiber of his hate-filled being. "But you know as well as I that your purposes will be better served if I can present you with the sultan's head."
Corvinus laughed. "Indeed it would, Little Dragon! But your recent attempt to do so was not, shall we say, designed to inspire my confidence in your abilities,"
Son of a maggot, the Voivode thought as he smiled again and replied, "I made an error, Your Majesty. I should have seen to my defenses before invading the territory of the Turk. And it was not so recent, if I may be so bold as to remind you. I have been your guest for over four years now."
King Matthias Corvinus laughed and nodded at the shared bit of humor. When the Voivode had fled into Hungarian territory after his disastrous defeat by the forces of the sultan under Torghuz Beg in 1462, he had expected to be protected, rearmed, and sent back to do battle. Instead he had been imprisoned by the Magyar king, kept in chains for over a year. True, the past three years had not been unplesant. He had been provided with a large villa on the outskirts of Buda-Pesth, he had servants, he had a stipend, he had his two wives—and now this little girl, who would be serviceable in a few years—but he was still a prisoner, still under guard. And he was still far from Wallachia, his rightful domain, still far from Transylvania, his birthplace, still far from Constantinople and the Byzantine crown, which he regarded as his destiny.
"And you shall remain my guest indefinitely, Voivode, until such time as it shall please me either to unleash you against the sultan or buy the sultan's friendship with your death."
The Voivode nodded slightly. "I am in all things Your Majesty's humble servant."
"Indeed you are." Corvinus laughed, knowing full well how much the Voivode hated him. "But servants such as you can ruin the reputation of a prince. Not a month goes by without someone telling me of some action of yours while you were Voivode of Wallachia—"
"I am still Voivode of Wallachia," he pointed out, trying to repress his anger.
"Your younger brother, Radu, might disagree with you. It is he who now does the sultan's bidding in Bucharest."
"Radu is a weakling, a sycophant," the Voivode muttered.
"Oh, I am sure he is," Corvinus said, nodding. "But still, he is there, and you are here. But no matter. As I was saying, reports keep reaching me of things you did while you were ruling. I find it difficult to believe some of them, I must admit." He drank again from his wine. "Tell me, Little Dragon, is it true that you attempted to rid your principality of beggars and cripples by killing them all?"
"Yes, and orphans and useless old men and women also," the Voivode agreed, "but it sounds inhumane as you phrase it, if I may be so bold."
"Ha!" Corvinus chuckled. "Then, please tell me how it can be more humanely phrased!"
"You have read of the Spartans, have you not, Your Majesty? The great warriors of ancient Greece?"
"Of course I have, and I have read of their systematic elimination of the unfit. But that was two thousand years ago, Little Dragon!"
"Two thousand years ago or last month, it makes no difference. A prince must make his nation strong, and to do that he must make his people strong. You and I have both sent men off to fight and die in battle, have we not, My Lord? It is the same thing. Some lives must be sacrificed so that the nation may grow stronger and more secure. It was necessary"
"And then you fed their bodies to the bears and the wolves that you kept as pets, did you not?"
The Voivode sighed. "Mine is a poor country, Your Majesty. Should I have wasted so much meat?"
"Certainly not, certainly not." Corvinus laughed. "The point is that you are a terror to your own people, Little Dragon! A prince must be loved, not hated."
"A prince must be feared and respected!" the Voivode said heatedly. "Do not forget that while I ruled in Wallachia, there was very little crime. My people feared my justice! Why, in the town square in Bucharest, I placed a golden goblet upon the public well so that passersby could refresh themselves with it. The goblet was pure gold, unchained, unguarded, and yet it remained there for four years! No one dared to steal it for fear of my justice."
"For fear of your wooden stakes, more likely." Corvinus grinned.
"Punishments must be strict so that law will be respected."
"Strict? Strict!" Corvinus shook his head, suddenly serious. "I pride myself on maintaining an orderly realm, Little Dragon, but I have never impaled pregnant women through their birth canals or held feasts in the midst of hundreds of impaled prisoners! I have torture chambers for the use of my judges, as all rulers must, but I have none for my own use, my own amusement."
"My Lord," the Voivode said, seething beneath the surface, "pray allow me to remind you of a few things. When we were about to begin our campaign against the sultan, Torghuz Beg invited me to a parley at Giurgiu, on the Danube. A weaker man might have taken him at his word, a less intelligent man might have walked into his trap. But I am not weak, and I am not foolish, and so I sent my cavalry through the forests to fall upon the Turks by surprise before they even reached Giurgiu."
"Yes, I remember," Corvinus said. "You captured many of them."
"Twenty thousand of them!" the Voivode shouted. "Tw
enty thousand prisoners."
"Whom you then impaled upon twenty thousand stakes."
"Their fate was well deserved," he muttered, sitting back in his chair. "Torghuz Beg escaped, of course, as always."
"As always," Corvinus agreed, amused by the Voivode's passion.
"And remember, My Lord, that when the sultan arrived at Giurgiu and found the twenty thousand bodies, or what the crows had left of them, he stopped his invasion of Wallachia and returned to Constantinople. And then, when I invaded Bulgaria and freed the Bulgars from the Turkish yoke, the people sang hymns of praise to me, and the bells of the churches rang in celebration!"
"Ah, yes, but the Bulgars did not know you, Vlad the Impaler. They knew only the sultan. They had no reason to suppose that they had traded one whip for another."
The Voivode poured himself some wine from the pewter pitcher. "What matter what the peasants know or do not know? The point is this, My Lord: The Turk points his sword at all Europe. Yesterday he took Constantinople. Tomorrow, he may take Buda-Pesth." He sipped from his goblet. "You need my sword arm more than you need give my head to the sultan."
"Maybe, maybe," Corvinus said, nodding. "But if and I say if, my dear Vlad, not when—if I choose to unleash you against the sultan, I must be assured that your violence is, shall we say, surgical, not general."
The Voivode laughed disparagingly. "Does the blood of peasants and prisoners trouble My Lord?"
"No," Corvinus answered. "Blood and I are old companions. But a dead peasant is one who cannot harvest wheat, and a dead prisoner is one who cannot be ransomed." He leaned forward. "That is the difference between you and me, Vlad. I kill when I must, as often as I must, but no more than I must. I kill without regret, but without passion. You, Voivode, you are in love with violence. You are in love with pain. You are in love with blood."
Vlad the Impaler smiled.
Malcolm sat up in bed.
He was shaking, frightened. I just slipped into the memories, he thought, no transition, no awareness of its happening, not the slightest feeling that anything was wrong.
It's getting stronger! The blood is getting stronger!
He leaped from the bed and began to pace about his bedroom. There must be an explanation for this, he thought desperately. I've taken the sacrament, I've purged myself, I've beaten the blood back down, and yet the memories still rise to the surface. How can this be happening?
He sat back down upon the bed, feeling his chest contracting painfully from his labored, panicky breathing. "Lord Jesus, help me," he whispered as he folded his hands and pressed them against his forehead. "Help me, Lord, help me, help me, help me!"
"Do you renounce your adherence to the excommunicate in Constantinople?" the archbishop asked.
"Yes, yes," Malcolm replied. "Help me, Lord, help me."
"Do you make obeisance to the Vicar of Christ in Rome?" the archbishop asked. "Do you bind yourself to the one holy Catholic Church and to the successor of Saint Peter, who is its lawful master upon this world?"
"Yes," the Voivode replied.
"Will you live as a faithful son of the holy Mother Church, defending her against her enemies, and putting your sword at her disposal?"
"Yes," the Voivode said.
The archbishop turned toward Matthias Corvinus and nodded as he said, "Rise, then, Vlad of Wallachia, Voivode, vassal of His Majesty the King of Hungary."
Vlad the Impaler rose slowly from his knees and then leaned forward to kiss the proffered ring of the archbishop of Buda-Pesth. He bowed slightly as the prelate said, "The Lord be with you, Prince," then turned to leave.
King Matthias smiled at the Voivode and said, "And so now you are Catholic, Little Dragon, and thus an acceptable tool in my war upon the sultan."
"Yes, Catholic indeed." The Voivode laughed. "A true and devout son of the Church." The king shared his laughter. Each knew the depth of the Voivode's devotion. "And now to my army," the Voivode said, "and back to my principality."
Corvinus began to walk toward the exit from the chapel, and the Voivode followed him slowly. "Your army, I am afraid, will consist only of whatever mercenaries you can recruit," Corvinus said.
"It is no matter," the Voivode replied. "My brother, Radu, has the military skill of a little girl, and his army is commanded by inexperienced fools. I shall topple him in a day, and after I have reorganized his army—my army, I should say—then I shall meet the Turk."
Corvinus paused before speaking. "We have received word that the sultan has sent Torghuz Beg to occupy Wallachia in anticipation of my sending you against your brother. I am afraid, Little Dragon, that you will have to deal with Torghuz Beg before you deal with Radu, not after."
The Voivode was not pleased with this news. He thought for a few moments and then nodded grimly. "It will be difficult, but I shall choose my own ground. Torghuz Beg wants my head, and he will pursue me in order to get it."
"What will you do?" the king asked, pausing at the door of the chapel.
The Voivode placed his hands upon his hips and arched his back, which was a bit stiff from the lengthy genuflection he had just been obliged to undertake. "As you know, my cousin Bassarab is the Voivode of Transylvania."
"Yes, my faithful vassal," Corvinus said, nodding, "unlike your other cousins, the Voivodes of Moldavia and Bukovina."
The Voivode shrugged. "Mircea and Nicholae live hemmed in by the Turks, the Poles, and the Muscovites. They have little choice in the matter of alignment. But as I was saying, Bassarab and I long ago extended to each other the courtesy of a private residence in each other's principality. I have maintained a fortress near Oradea for many years. Even during my stay as your honored guest"—he smiled mirthlessly at the king—"Bassarab has not confiscated it."
"And so you shall tempt Torghuz Beg into Transylvania?"
"Yes, by returning to my castle near Oradea. Strategic necessity will impel him to invade, for the longer he waits, the stronger I shall grow. His army is at peak strength, it cannot become stronger, not with so many of the sultan's troops tied down on the Polish border."
Corvinus nodded. "Clever. You realize, do you not, that you are attempting to draw the Turks into an invasion of Hungarian territory?"
The Voivode smiled. "Of course I do."
"And you must also be aware that I have no intention of meeting such an invasion myself under these circumstances?"
The Voivode's smile did not fade, but anger shone in his eyes. "I did not expect you to."
"Good," Corvinus replied. "Remember, Little Dragon, that I am using you for my own purposes. I will not be used by you. If you fall before Torghuz Beg, I shall assert that you acted without my knowledge or support, and he will evacuate Transylvania so as to avoid a war with me."
"He will know that you are lying."
"Of course he will, but that is an irrelevant point. Diplomatic niceties and the complexities of negotiation rarely have anything to do with truth and honesty."
The Volvode nodded. "I agree, Your Majesty. And I understand full well my position."
"My prayers go with you into battle, of course, but if you are defeated—"
"Then at least I will be buried in the castle crypt near Oradea, with my father, my older brother, and my ancestors. Your illustrious predecessor Hunyadi allowed my father and brother to be buried there after he killed them."
Corvinus ignored the subtle rebuke, replying merely, "Vlad II and Mircea were executed because they lied to everyone, betrayed everyone, Turk and Magyar alike. Do not follow in their footsteps, Little Dragon."
"I shall strive to avoid them," he muttered.
"Yes. Well." The king stepped out of the chapel into the warm air of the Hungarian summer. "I must meet with the Venetian ambassador. You may join us, if you wish."
"Not quite yet," the Voivode said. "I wish to remain here and pray for a while."
"Pray!" The king laughed. "By God, I think you mean it!" Still laughing, Matthias Corvinus left the chapel, allowing the heavy oaken
door to close behind him.
The Voivode stood motionless for a moment and then whispered, "Ordogh! Ordogh! The time has come, has it not?"
There was only silence for a short while, and then the voice from the Pit said softly, "The time has come, Little Dragon. My time has come, and your time has come."
"I shall triumph, shall I not? I shall sit again upon the throne of Wallachia, shall I not?"
"Are you not the Voivode?" the voice asked ambiguously. "And I shall triumph over the Turk, shall I not?"
The voice did not reply.
"I shall triumph, shall I not?" the Voivode repeated.
"Must I tell you again that I am no Gypsy fortune-teller, Little Dragon?" Ordogh asked. "You shall triumph in ways you do not know, over men not yet born. Your name shall be heralded far and wide for reasons you cannot as yet comprehend. But as for the Turk, the outcome of that battle is not yet for you to know."
The Voivode stood in contemplative silence, his graying mustache drooping with the frown of his face. There was a scream that rent the silence, but the Voivode did not hear it.
The woman screamed again, and Malcolm jumped up. "Rachel!" he shouted, "Rachel! What is it?" He ran from his bedroom and threw open the door to his sister's room. Malcolm shook his head to clear it as the words of the dark spirit echoed in his ears.
Rachel was sitting upon the edge of her bed, pallid and trembling, her eyes darting insanely back and forth. "Malcolm!" she screamed when she saw him. She pushed herself up onto her feet and seemed almost to collapse forward into his arms.
"What happened?" he asked. "Why are you screaming? What the hell happened?"
"I was dreaming . . . I was . . . I was someone else . . . I was him! I was him! I was dreaming, but my dreams were his memories!"
"Wh . . . ? Rachel, that can't be." Malcolm led her back to the bed and seated her upon it, sitting down beside her. "I have these . . . I don't know, these visions because I was in close proximity to the remains. But you . . ." His face went white. A terrible idea had occurred to him.
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