His ability to jump from topic to topic with zero input from me was kind of amazing and, to be honest, a relief. I was too tired and stressed to have complicated conversations right now. He babbled on in an endless stream-of-consciousness. His dissertation on the daily lives of the Elders and I tuned him out, concerned about the giant growing pile of books in his arms. Eventually he led me back to the tables.
"These should get you started," he said, setting them down on an open table. "And Elder Smythe and I will be here working on inventory if you require any assistance."
“Oh thank you. I could have gotten these if you’d just have told me where to get them.”
"Hmph." Elder Smythe didn't even look up from his book. "If you ask me, a girl like you could be put to much better use elsewhere."
"Excuse me," I ask, raising an eyebrow.
Elder Farrow sighs heavily. "Don't listen to him," he says, holding up a hand to stop Elder Smythe's reply. "He hasn't had his coffee yet."
Elder Farrow fetches a big pot of strong dark coffee and Elder Smythe's grumbling decreases somewhat. He pours a cup for me as well and I settle down at the heavy wooden table to start reading.
It's not exactly thrilling stuff. You would think dramatic duals with love on the line would make for exciting reading. But vampire scholars and historians appeared to be a particularly dry kind of person, less interested in the human drama than cataloguing tedious material details, like exhaustive lists of attendants, dense genealogies on the competitors, and infuriatingly specific accounts of the costs expended and supplies acquired for the ceremony and following celebrations. They were apparently very gaudy affairs at one point.
"Ah, I remember that one," Elder Farrow says, reading the page I'm on over my shoulder as he refills my coffee. "What a party! Smythe was there too. Elder Smythe, remember when Redmond and Hawthorne fought over Jocasta the Red? Ah, she was glorious. Both her suitors had already fought off a dozen others before they even reached the arena."
"What happened?" I ask, closing the book. A firsthand account is bound to be better than reading it.
"Oh it was phenomenal," Farrow says with a sigh. "Three were six whole roast geese at the banquet. The entire court was in attendance, and the prince of Hawthorne's clan, plus his court- we could hardly pack them all in!"
I try to hide my frustration and quietly wonder if Farrow was responsible for writing this book. Probably was considering the long-winded descriptions matched his jabbering.
"What about the actual challenge?" I ask, interrupting his rapturous description of the silverware. "What happened during the fight?"
"Well, there are three parts to such challenges," Elder Farrow says, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "The first contest is chosen by whoever accepted the challenge. Redmond, I believe, chose archery, at which he was renowned. It's rare for the challenged to not win the first contest, but Hawthorne was determined to sweep the entire challenge. He won it by a hair and with extreme effort, which put him at something of a disadvantage for the second challenge. Traditionally, the second contest is determined by the lady in dispute, who will naturally choose a contest which favors the man she prefers. So, you see, she does get some say!"
"Barely," I mutter. "So it's best two out of three?"
"Not always," Elder Farrow says with an ambiguous gesture. "Jocasta favored Hawthorne and so the second contest was fencing- his preferred form. But he'd overextended himself in the first contest and Redmond had been practicing fencing in secret, anticipating Jocasta's choice. Hawthorne still took the victory, but only just."
"So then he won?" I ask, becoming confused. But Elder Farrow shakes his head. I tap my fingers against the table to keep from shouting at him to get to the damn point.
"Regardless of who wins the first two contests, the challenges always proceed to the third. A traditional duel. Teeth and claws only is standard, though it's not unheard of to use weapons if the duelists agree on one. Now, generally, the duel is not to the death. A man could win the duel by knock out and, if he lost the previous two contests, still lose the challenge. But, while the goal is not to kill your competitor, it is acceptable to do so. And if you have lost the previous two challenges, it is your only chance at victory.”
“Wait, so even if you win the first two challenges and you lose the third, you lose no matter what? What is the point of the first two challenges then?” Why is this so freaking complicated? They had it right in the old west. Stand back to back with your adversary, walk ten paces, turn and first one to pull the trigger wins. Simple. Done.
“Ah, wait for it. As it was with Redmond and Hawthorne. Foolish Hawthorne thought the battle was won because he'd taken the previous two contests. He did not believe his rival would go for the kill, and so carelessly exhausted himself before the duel. He was in no shape to defend his life when the time came, and Redmond tore his throat out."
I grimace imagining it, and the results for poor Jocasta. Eternity with the man who murdered the guy you were in love with. Who the hell thought that was a good idea? I shake my head to clear it.
"Have there been any other women challengers?" I ask.
"A few," Elder Farrow confirms. "I was present when Genevieve of Whitehall fought Good woman Sarah for Thomas D'arte. I wasn't allowed to actually observe, of course. To preserve the lady's modesty attendance was restricted to women. But I did attend the banquet when Sarah emerged victorious. It was quite a scandal for the Whitehalls and lauded as a wonderful love story. Although I am told Thomas's ardor for Sarah was somewhat dampened by all the new scars... Ah, that is to say, there have been female challengers, but none competing for their own honor."
Well shit. I guess someone has to be first. I was just hoping that I’d have something as a point of reference for what’s to come.
"What about the contests?" I ask. "What kind of things do people choose for the first two?"
"Usually a classical sport of some kind," Elder Farrow says with a smile. "They go in and out of style. For a while it was jousting, then discus throwing, then curling... Ah, but it can be anything the competitors choose, really. Genevieve chose ballroom dancing for her first contest. Sarah lost that one rather badly. But in the second contest Thomas chose weaving. Genevieve had done nothing but needlepoint in her life. She didn't even know how to operate a loom. Sarah humiliated her." Farrow shrugs carelessly.
"Are there any limitations?" I ask, my mind already running away with several ideas.
"Only common-sense ones," Farrow replies. "It must be something that can be practically achieved by two contestants in a reasonable amount of time and produce a result that can be measured to determine a clear winner. Other than that, the sky’s the limit. I saw one memorable Provokar where the man challenged chose sword swallowing as the first contest! Professional circus performer, you know. One of the only times I know of that never went to a duel."
"Why?" I ask, curious. "Did the challenger back out?"
"Oh no," Farrow says with a chuckle. "That would have been humiliating. He tried to swallow the sword, which went predictably, disastrously wrong. Unfortunately for him, he was not aware that his rival used blades coated in silver nitrate, for added drama. He died quite spectacularly. There was some dispute about whether this made his rival the winner, considering the unusual circumstances. Some even accused him of cheating by coating his blades that way, which would have of course rendered his victory void. But he had swallowed the same sword as the challenger and could prove he used those very blades in all his shows, so the judges could not find fault."
I sat back, sipping my coffee as I consider what I'd learned. From what I'd read and Elder Farrow's accounts, death was possible in any round but usually only occurred during the final duel. Killing your opponent was discouraged, but still seemed to happen about a third of the time, which worried me deeply.
Arsen and Niko did not like each other. And I didn't really want to see either of them killed, even if Niko was an inflamed asshole most of the time. But pre
sumably I'll be there during the final duel as well and I'll be able to keep things from getting lethal.
What matters more is winning the first two challenges. I'll have to figure out what Arsen is choosing for the first contest and prepare for that. But hopefully I’ll be choosing the second. I need to choose something I'll definitely win, and which neither of them will have a chance at. Which isn't going to be easy. I'm probably not going to get anyone to agree to a contest of searching for protein matches with a microscope.
I grab another book and settle deeper into my chair to continue studying. I'll figure something out. No matter what Arsen says, even if I end up staying with him in the end anyway, this is going to be my choice. I'm going to win this thing even if it kills me. Literally or figuratively.
“You know,” Elder Farrow says quietly, catching my eye. “It still may be wiser for you to withdraw from this.”
I give him a harsh look and he holds up his hands in surrender.
“I’m not suggesting you aren’t right to want a say in the result,” he says quickly. “Just that I worry about the result if you win. If you’re victorious, if you refuse both of them and their clans, will you remain unaligned?”
I shrug, not quite certain how to put my answer in a way that he’d understand.
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Choosing who to be with for the rest of my eternal life is a big decision. Would it be so awful to just stay a free agent for a while until I’m sure?”
“Not at all,” Elder Farrow says, expression solemn. “But it is a choice. And if you choose to remain unaligned, that will have consequences. Being part of the clans, it isn’t just about tradition. It’s about shared history, shared knowledge and resources. It’s about proving that just because we’re no longer human doesn’t mean we’re no longer part of a society. It’s about safety in numbers. Being all on your own… Really and truly isolated in the way you only can be when humanity has abandoned you and you’ve turned your back on your own kind… Being that alone is dangerous.”
He turns away, going back to his inventory, but I continue to turn his words over in my mind for a long time afterwards. I still don’t really know what’s out there in this new world where vampires are real and anything is possible.
But, do I really want to explore the possibilities alone?
Chapter 14
I decide to dedicate the day to research. I haven't had a good pure-study day since finals had wrapped up and I missed really losing myself in the work little bit. Chasing after knowledge was not something I ever really expected to miss, but here I am, surrounded by books, a pad of paper full of notes balanced on my lap. I suppose finding out everything you knew about the world is wrong can make you crave the simple things.
The hours pass quickly, the sun through the library windows creeping across the floor and up the far wall. One upside to vampirism: With liberal application of Elder Farrow's plasma-spiked coffee, I don't need breaks. The sun is setting before I even look up, and only then because more people are coming into the library.
Seeking more solitude, I gather up the books and one last cup of coffee and retreat to the lab with a wave good bye to Elder Farrow.
The lab is one of the only places I feel really comfortable in the Draugur compound. Labs, whether in a university or a secret vampire enclave, all have a similar feeling. A calm, clean sensation which some people might mistake for sterile, but to me always feels like the universe patiently waiting to be discovered.
I have a couple of experiments running and I check on them before I settle in again with my books. I just started a new one from the stack Elder Farrow handed me and this one appears to be a more personal account, and thus a little more exciting. It's even, for once, written by 'the lady in dispute,' the formal term for the woman being fought over.
"It has oft been said that beauty is a curse," wrote the lady Bersa Helgedotter, aristocrat of the Draugur court. "Though the precise source of the quotation remains wisely anonymous, as to avoid the millions of plain and porridge-faced girls that would no doubt bash the witty twit's precious nose in."
I laugh out loud. I like her already.
"But if beauty is such a curse as to make Yeats pen anxious prayers that his daughter be pretty but not too pretty, then wealth must also be a bane from hell. For while my looks are nothing to speak of and have so far allowed me to elude the unwanted advances of the men of the court, my affluence has known no such subtlety.”
Ugh. No matter what century it is, unwanted advances are the norm.
“Alas, I've grown my bank account instead of my bosoms, how foolish of me. My economic successes have attracted an unfortunate amount of attention lately, which has drawn all manner of loathsome creatures to my door, like flies to horse shit, to beg for my favor and thus their cut of what is rightfully mine. In addition, the Elders and the higher court have begun to express their disapproval that a lady of such means should remain unmated. Whatever would I do without a man of authority to tell me where to spend my enormous wealth, manage my various incredibly successful enterprises, or otherwise live my own life as I have for the past several hundred years?”
I make a note to find out if Bersa is still alive so I can send her some flowers or something. I sympathize whole-heartedly with her dilemma.
“I swear they will soon assign a man to stand guard in the water closets lest a woman attempt to wipe her own ass. They think us capable of so little. And it is a more modern notion than they will ever admit. Half the women in the court, including myself, were alive not so long ago when the burden of any work done fell on the women. The planting, the weaving, the brewing, the hunting and care of the animals, the planning, the building and the digging. In the north we packed the young men off in boats to go trouble someone else for two seasons out of the year, we had so little use for them. But they would try to convince us that we have always been 'the fairer sex,' delicate and useless and surviving only through their benevolence. It is pig vomit, of the highest degree, and I am ashamed to see so many of my sisters falling for it."
"Preach," I mutter under my breath, turning the page.
"But so has the trouble of all women fallen on me. Three men have declared for me and called for the traditional contest to see which will win me. They have each of them approached me beforehand and been soundly rejected. But they either believe winning this ridiculous challenge will change my mind, or else they do not care. Tristan of Whitecliff I think genuinely believes I will come to care for him. He's a sad fool. A genuine romantic who might be half a true gentleman, were he not inescapably hampered by his all-consuming greed. He longs for true love, oh yes, but not until his material needs are seen to.”
Her blunt words make me smile. She was clearly a woman ahead of her time.
“Philippe De’ Ortiz has all Tristan's greed and none of his charm. He's a sycophantic weasel who would waste my fortune on opium and harlots the moment I took my eyes off him. And then there is Sir Rodger of the Copper Isles. He is the one I truly worry about. He did not so much attempt to woo me as inform me that I would soon belong to him. He intends to acquire me, as he would a new contract for his mines. He is ruthless, single-minded, and his ambition is a black hole from which nothing escapes. While Tristan and Philippe would take my money and spend their days in lazy comfort, Rodger would calmly turn it to greater and more disastrous ends, expanding his empire and crushing all who dare inconvenience him. Which will include me the moment I raise any objection. No, I intend to build my own empire, not become a brick in the foundation of someone else's. Tristan and Philippe are parasites, but better a parasite than a usurper. Yet I fear neither of them stands a chance against Rodger. I will have to ensure the result of this contest myself if I hope to survive."
Bersa was my kind of girl, that's for sure. I wonder if she's still around here somewhere close by. Close enough that I could talk to her about this ridiculous challenge? I'd gamble on probably. She doesn't seem like she’d die easy.
I rea
d on, fascinated, as Bersa documented her careful machinations leading up to the challenge and during it. She first made it known through a discreet suggestion to someone she knew would spread it like wildfire, that Philippe stood no chance and that the real contest would be between Tristan and Rodger, and that she intended to favor Tristan. At the same time, with a few well-placed bribes, she made certain that a well-known rival of Philippe’s was in town and informed him that Philippe had been talking all manner of shite while the rival was away.
Rodger, predictably, took the first challenge, but Philippe caused a stir when he took the second challenge, which Bersa had carefully chosen to favor him. In the duel Tristan, believing Rodger was his only real competition, went for the kill and beheaded Rodger spectacularly, but exhausted himself and thus lost to Philippe, who Bersa had been training in secret. Then Philippe’s rival, incensed to see Philippe successful, murdered Philippe on the wedding day. Bersa, now happily widowed, retired single and content to enjoy her hard-earned wealth. Talk about making her own happily ever after.
Though Bersa is undoubtedly my new hero, I don't have the resources or political savvy to tackle this the way she did. I'm not ruthless enough either. I don't want Arsen or Niko ending up dead. And in the end, Bersa did still have to marry one of them, tying herself to their clan, which I don't want either. But this is the closest thing I've found to any woman managing to make it out of The Provokar somewhat independent.
Is there just no chance for me? Should I accept my fate and try to make the best of it?
A tap on the door distracts me from my reading and I look up. A vampire I don't recognize clears his throat and holds up a large box.
"Delivery," he says. "From Prince Nikolai."
Girl, Bitten Page 10
