As the echoes from those bells drained away, Sarah and her guide stood in silence in front of the doors that stretched above them. The world held no motion, no sound, only the remembrance of sound. Just when she had despaired of entering, she heard scratching sounds.
Suddenly, one of the great doors swung outward with surprising ease. Sarah leapt back to avoid its arc. A gray-robed and hooded figure, tiny against the scale of the doors, stood silently in the opening. Its face was shrouded in shadows, but Sarah could imagine piercing eyes, perhaps glowing red, if she could only make them out. Her escort stepped aside and motioned her in. She was now beyond his help, if he was ever wont to help her.
Slowly, she approached the robed figure. Lord, she felt as though she were walking through that dreadful novel by Mr. Walpole. Somehow that thought gave her courage to go on. Too bad Mr. Walpole had never had the opportunity to stand in the gateway of Mirso Monastery. It would have helped the power of his prose.
"I want to see Julien Davinoff," she said. Her words bounced back off the stone walls.
There was no answer. The figure simply turned and moved off into the darkness of a huge courtyard, silent and empty. She could not quite be sure it did not float, so quietly did it move. My God, she thought as it retreated. Is this the moment when I must choose? She stood, frozen, as the monk diminished in the darkness. She had to choose… Sarah, she thought severely, did you not choose to leave Bath? You chose in Vienna and at the tavern just moments ago. The day you stop choosing is the day you die. With a feeling of casting herself over a precipice, she entered through the great portal. The monk had stopped to see whether she would follow or not. He did not beckon. He did not speak. He just stood, a sentinel or a beacon, waiting for her.
As she hurried into the darkened courtyard, she felt she was melting into the unreality of her setting, disappearing into some timeless nightmare that took no notice of the centuries passing in the valley below. The sudden sonorous bang of the giant doors behind her made her gasp and turn, hand held to her mouth as the echoes died around her. There was no escape now. She could see no one who might have shut the doors. She had thought that teeth chattering in fear was something made up in books. Evidently not. The figure turned and moved across the immense courtyard. Sarah followed.
In the middle of the courtyard a stone pool shimmered in the starlight. There were no ornate carvings, as there were at cathedral fonts. There were no ceremonial goblets, or altars, or podiums for preaching, just a stone circle and a pile of rough-hewn onyx rocks like the monastery itself, out of which water burbled up from somewhere below in a steady stream. Yet Sarah realized with dreadful certainty that this was the Source that Khalenberg had spoken of, the fountain of water that contained the parasite that made all vampires.
There was no evidence of the Companion who gave eternal life or terrible death, just the trickle of water. What would happen if she stooped to trail her fingers in it? When you were confronted with the ultimate in taboos, you were always tempted to disobey. But there was no point to disobedience. The waters could not grant her Julien's love.
The sound of a heavy wooden door opening at the far side of the courtyard made her realize she had fallen behind her escort. She was grateful for her breeches as she hurried ahead.
The monk disappeared inside the monastery itself. Sarah tiptoed into the darkness after him. He ascended some stone steps angled up the curved face of a wall that stretched above her into the gloom. As he lighted a torch that flickered and smoked at the landing, Sarah closed the door against the cold. She could not bear the thought of it closing by itself.
The mysterious monk lit a torch at each landing. Sarah climbed after him until they reached a landing with a door. The monk opened this and led Sarah down a long hall, lined with what might be monks' cells. She thought it strange they met no one as they wended their way through the corridors. Were all the residents at prayers somewhere? And to whom did they pray?
At last, the monk turned into a small, Spartan room with no windows. It held two carved wooden chairs, medieval in design and most uncomfortable looking, along with a small square table. A single candle burned on it. Hardly a welcoming place, but it seemed less drafty than the corridors. The monk motioned for her to sit. He shut the door firmly as he left.
She waited for nearly half an hour. In spite of the fact that the room was warm, her hands were shaking. If only Julien knew she was here he would not let anyone hurt her, even if he decided he could give her nothing more than his protection. He must be here. He had started before her and probably made better time as well. God, let him be here.
When the monk finally returned, he guided Sarah to an amazing room. Its stone walls were masked with tapestries. A rich Turkish carpet covered its stone floor. A fire roared in a huge grate, spewing warmth over burnished leather chairs and a dining table set with two places. Her eyes lit on oil paintings and pieces of sculpture and shelves filled with very old books. Everything was of the first water. This sumptuous room hardly fit with the rest of the cloister. Rising to greet her was another monk, his cowl thrown back to reveal a startling countenance. His face was merry and old, with ruddy cheeks and crinkled blue eyes. His white hair spread out below a balding pate. He carried an intricately carved staff of gleaming wood. But for the fact that he was clean-shaven, he might have been a model of St. Nick. Sarah was shaken. Could this jolly-looking old man be a vampire?
"Leave us," he said in Latin to her shadowy escort, sweeping him out the door with a motion of his plump hand. When he turned she saw that his blue eyes were not merry, as his countenance promised, but so old they were distant with age. "I shock you," he said in English.
Sarah recovered her wits and closed her mouth. "I did not mean to be discourteous," she stammered. "You were not what I expected."
The old man looked down at the belly that protruded under his habit. "Alas, I am less disciplined than I should be," he said ruefully. "But you must be tired. Come sit by the fire."
Sarah had no intention of sitting by the fire with this strange creature. He might well be coveting her blood. She stood her ground. "I have come with a purpose, sir," she announced with hardly more than a faint tremor in her voice. She did not know how to address him. Was he a priest? Was he religious at all in the way she knew religion? "I want to see Julien Davinoff."
"So I have been told. Now do sit down. All your energy makes an old man tired."
Sarah had no intention of complying, yet she found herself sitting abruptly in one of the leather chairs without ever having precisely decided to do so. The old man bustled about and poured her a glass of ratafia, without asking whether she wanted any. "I find you rather shocking yourself," he called over his shoulder. "I knew you existed. But I hardly dreamed you would appear on our doorstep. In some ways that simplifies our task."
Sarah's fear rose into her throat. What did he mean? What was their task?
"This will warm your insides." He brought her ratafia and stood over her, his old eyes inscrutable. "And do take off your cap. It must be uncomfortable with all your hair tucked up."
Sarah stared at him, frozen in shock.
"Well, you can't imagine we would think a boy was at the bottom of any affair involving Davinoff," he said reasonably. "Even if you look like one at the moment."
Slowly, Sarah pulled her cap from her head. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders.
"Your coat? The fire is quite warm."
She shook her head. Giving up her coat meant giving up the gun in its pocket. It occurred to her that her gun was useless in this keep of vampires. But she shook her head again.
"As you wish." He moved about getting his own brandy with a grace surprising for his bulk. As Sarah sniffed her ratafia warily, he said, "Don't worry. We have no need of drugs."
He could will compliance, Sarah thought, and shivered. In which case, she was already lost. Resolutely she sipped. It was a way of defying her fear, however small the gesture. "Has Mr. Davinoff taken his vows, sir?"
she asked. She must know whether she was in time.
"We do not get visitors here," he observed as though he hadn't heard her. He eased his bulk into the other armchair. "I may rightly claim the indulgence of a pretty guest for dinner, since I saw you before he did. Will you join me? There is plenty of time to talk about Davinoff."
He was here! "Let me see him," she demanded. "I have come a very long way."
The old man shook his head thoughtfully. "I am curious about you, my dear. After you have satisfied my curiosity, we shall see what to do with you."
Sarah's stomach sank. Some test lurked here that she could not divine. She mustered her courage. "If those are your terms, I will join you, sir, and answer whatever questions you like."
He nodded as though he had not threatened her. "One almost forgets the social graces." He sipped his brandy in a leisurely fashion Sarah found vexing. "What is your name, my dear?"
"Sarah Ashton," she answered, wondering what she would say to convince him he should tell Julien she was here. She did not use her title. It seemed quite irrelevant.
"I am Father Rubius. Are your traveling companions in the village?"
His blue eyes were guileless, but Sarah knew he had a purpose for wanting to know if she was alone. She lifted her chin. "I traveled with a friend as far as Vienna. I came on with only two guides from there and they have gone back down the mountain."
"How very determined you are," Father Rubius marveled. "Where do you go from here?"
"I don't know," she answered in a small voice. "Perhaps just back to Vienna."
"Perhaps," he agreed. "We shall see. First you will have dinner, and you will tell me all about yourself." He rose and started toward the table. "You are the first to come here, you know."
Sarah got up slowly. This vampire, no matter how unlikely looking, stood squarely between her and her goal. She pushed her fear down. Khalenberg had stood in her way, too.
Father Rubius gestured toward her seat and rapped sharply on the floor with his stick. As she sat, the other door to the room burst open and spewed forth a stream of monks carrying dishes piled high with steaming food. Their cowls were thrown back to reveal eyes sharing a calm certainty Sarah found disconcerting. At least none of them glowed red.
The old monk sat to his meal with obvious relish. Monks or no, they laid a sumptuous table. Sarah had not eaten since breakfast. She felt positively light-headed, either from the altitude or from anxiety. But she couldn't say she was hungry. She took a bit of the cabbage soup, then toyed with a shred of venison, and concentrated upon what the old man could want of her. She resolved to be courteous, even forthcoming, if that was what it took to satisfy his curiosity.
The monk's first questions hardly seemed to the purpose. "What did your friend in Vienna think of your journeying on without her?" he began, as he piled his plate with delicacies.
"I did not test her opinion," Sarah admitted, watching him warily.
"So, no one knows your destination?" He must not care that she knew his purpose, his ploy was so obvious. Sarah found that anger battled with her fear.
"You might at least try to conceal your motive in asking such a question," she replied, and noted with satisfaction that the monk's eyes snapped up to hers. "But I believe I can relieve your mind. No one knows my destination. At least no one who is like to come looking for me." She faced his eyes for a moment and felt the power in them, subtler than Julien's, more wily. To her surprise, the monk chuckled.
"How did you find our humble cloister?" he asked, waving a fork. "We are a long way from Bath."
Had she told him she was from Bath? She refused to consider the possibilities nipping at the edges of her mind and pushed on. "At first I followed Mr. Davinoff's trail."
"I wonder he is so careless these days as to leave a trail," the monk remarked.
"Oh, he used different names. He was not careless." Sarah felt obliged to defend him. "I traced him mostly through the goods he was shipping."
"He has not received any shipments of goods here," Father Rubius noted pointedly.
"I am sure they will arrive shortly. I lost their trail. But I overheard Mr. Davinoff say he would take a woman named Magda to Mirso Monastery and I cajoled a Mr. Khalenberg into telling me where it was."
"You must tell me sometime how you did that." The pudgy lips curled wryly as he poured himself another glass of wine. "I find Herr Khalenberg difficult, myself."
Sarah nodded. "He was quite difficult."
"You must be persuasive." He made it seem a fault. Was she failing the unknown test?
"I am, as you say, determined upon my course."
"Sometimes determination outweighs good sense," the monk remarked. "What do you think of all of this?" Again he waved his fork, his gesture encompassing the entire monastery.
"I find it frightening, if that is the admission you wished to elicit," Sarah replied.
The monk nodded. "You should." His eyes glanced to the beautiful objects scattered about the room. "We, however, find it comforting. We love being surrounded by our history, something outsiders could never appreciate."
Sarah was stung. He implied she was too different to love Julien. "I can appreciate the first-century Roman glass that holds your candles," she said, gesturing to the table. "I have never seen Roman glass not spoiled by being buried. And that Greek vase is one of the finest red-figured amphoras I ever encountered." She saw the ancient, distant eyes come back from touring the room to rest upon her. "If I have not lived your history, I can still appreciate it." Silly, she thought. How small he must think her. On top of all else, she had probably offended him.
He seemed oblivious to her small barbs. "And where did you learn about Greek and Roman artifacts?" he asked her. "Such things are not in the repertoire of English governesses."
"No. But I never had a governess. My father taught me," Sarah explained. "There was a Roman villa on the land at Clershing. It belonged once to Mr. Davinoff, as it turns out. My father and I would have liked nothing better than to have restored it."
"Why did you not?"
"Money, primarily." Her growing impatience made her blunt.
"Then you require money." The monk nodded in satisfaction.
Sarah was outraged. "I do not," she stammered. "My father may have left me lands encumbered, but I have come to the right about, and I shall do very nicely now, all on my own."
"My apologies." The monk retreated. "How did you, er, come to the right about?"
"I sold what I could and managed the rest within an inch of its life. One may love history, but one must have the courage to let go one's own past."
The old monk pushed his plate away and fixed her once more with that evaluating look. "Thank you for dining with me, Miss Ashton." He tapped his strange staff upon the floor again. The serving monks came in and took all the plates.
"Thank you for your hospitality," Sarah said as they were retreating. "Have you satisfied your curiosity?"
Father Rubius looked her over with some spark in his distant eyes that had not been there before. "In one way, yes, Miss Ashton, and in another way, not at all." He rose and poured his brandy glass full again. This time he held up the ratafia bottle in inquiry and she shook her head. He darkened several of the lamps and motioned her back to the chairs by the fire.
"Now, tell me why you have come all this way to see Davinoff." He sat and waited.
What to say? This was the test. "Sometimes people can be confused about what will make them happy," she began carefully. "They close off that part of themselves which would most give them joy. I know all about that. Oh dear. This is a stupid way to explain why I am here."
"I quite follow you," he said softly. "Do continue."
"Even recently…" Here she cleared her throat uncomfortably. "I did not want to take the final risk, to reach beyond what I knew and what I was." She looked down at her lap. "I think because it always seems that there is a dark side to the light. In order to be happy, to be as much as you can be, you have
to find the darkness in yourself, as well as the light." She got up suddenly and went to stand looking into the fire, now a tentative flicker. "You have to admit that you need the darkness, that you want it, that without it you cannot be whole. And that anarchy, abandon, even chaos, are part of the rhythm of your life, too."
"Have you done that?" the monk prompted, his voice a mellifluous goad.
"Yes," she said clearly, raising her head. "So I am come to find Julien Davinoff."
"What do you want of him?"
Now she must skirt the difference between what Father Rubius was like to sanction, and what she would offer Julien.
"Whatever time he will give me," she said steadily. "I know it is forbidden to give me his blood. I don't expect you to condone that." She turned abruptly to face him. "Khalenberg thinks I want the power." She found the courage for a bitter laugh. "I would so much rather Davinoff was the squire down the road, with no power at all except as justice of the peace. But he is not. And I accept him, darkness and light together." She came and stood in front of the monk, who sipped his brandy meditatively. "I want to share whatever years I have with him."
The monk raised his eyes slowly to her face. "If Davinoff told you what he was, what we are, I am surprised you came to see us."
"He did not tell me. I am sure that is forbidden, too." She sighed and sat once more. "I discovered it for myself. I know this will sound far-fetched. But a woman I knew wanted him so much to admire her that she went mad when he did not. She gave him laudanum in large doses."
The monk leaned forward, his snow-white brows drawn together, his voice tinged with horror. "The one way to suppress the Companion."
Sarah nodded. "I hid him in my cellar while he threw off the effects of the drug. He had not had blood in a long time, though I did not know that." Her eyes grew big, remembering.
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