“The death of your husband came at a bad time,” he said, watching her move about the room; she reminded him of a caged animal.
“There would have been no good time for it,” she declared, stopping abruptly and rounding on him. “I was fond of him, and I respected him. He was a good man; my father chose well for me when he married me to Eleutherios Panayiotos. He cared for me and for our children with kindness and affection, which is more than many wives and children receive.” Thetis crossed her arms and gripped her elbows. “I thought there would be no reason for me to have to worry about what would become of us. My husband had money and position. But I haven’t the authority to use the money: my brother will have to do that, and he is in Constantinople. Only the smallest allowance is granted me. So I am wholly at the mercy of those willing to help me. You have been willing.” She came up to him again.
He did not speak for a while. “You owe me nothing, Thetis.”
“On the contrary, I owe you everything. Now that I fear death is coming, I long for—” She blushed. “I did not understand how rare a thing benevolence is until I had need of it.”
“You owe me nothing,” he repeated.
“I am grateful to you, Ragoczy Franciscus: whether the Patriarch approves or not, I am grateful.” She was half a head shorter than he, so she rose on tiptoe as she leaned forward to kiss him, lightly, on the mouth. “I would like to show you how grateful, to touch some measure of hope, or—”
“Gratitude can be burdensome,” he said.
“You have given us so much, the least I can do is offer as much as I have in return.” She looked at him. “And I don’t want to die completely alone. If only for comfort, would you?”
“I do not ask that of you,” he said gently, all the while feeling her desire fueling his own.
“I know.” She kissed him again, this time longer and with more intensity.
Slowly he embraced her, his esurience surging in response to her long-denied ardor. When they broke apart, he whispered, “You do not know what you are playing with.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, wrapping her arms around him as if he were a floating log and she a drowning sailor. “I want you, and I want you to take me.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Thetis, I have no wish to impose on you,” he said, his fervor now completely banked; he had not visited her in her dreams, and now he realized it might have been better if he had. “It would serve neither of us if I tried.”
“I am not a clumsy woman in such arts. My husband taught me skills that should please you,” she said, on her mettle.
He regarded her steadily. “I do not seek … entertainment.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you wanted me to please you in strange ways—foreigners often have such desires, or so my husband told me.” She tried to kiss his lips again and got his cheek. “You would not trouble me if you—”
He shook his head once more. “No, Thetis. As desirable as you are—and you are very desirable—my bed is not a marketplace, where you may barter your security with your flesh and blood.” His face revealed very little of his emotions.
She considered him as if trying to decide if she had been insulted. “That wasn’t why I came to you.”
“Very well: why did you come?”
She remained clinging to him. “You must know why. I know you understand what I’m enduring. Do not tell me you aren’t lonely. I can see it in your eyes. I know what it is because I am lonely, too.”
“Ah, Thetis,” he said, kissing her forehead.
“Why not assuage your loneliness, and mine, before we die?” she persisted, her hold on him unbroken. “What is the harm in that?”
“What of your husband’s memory?” he asked when he could. “You revere him. I would become an interloper.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” she insisted, holding him as tightly as she could. “You would be anodyne to my grieving if you would but—” She attempted another kiss but without success.
“Are you so sure of that?” He touched her cheek, his fingers soft as the brush of a feather.
“I know I don’t want to remain alone, on the eve of dying,” she said, continuing in a strained way. “If you don’t lie with me, I will tell Patriarch Stavros you’ve made advances to me.”
“That would be a mistake,” said Ragoczy Franciscus, taking a step back from her and moving out of her arms without any apparent difficulty.
“Would being your lover be as much a mistake?” she asked, trying not to be dismayed.
“If you fear more than you love, very possibly,” he said.
“But—” She began to weep. “I am so afraid. Can’t you let me have some respite from it?”
“If I thought I could.” He took her hand. “I wish I could banish your fear, but that is beyond my skills.”
With a little cry of dismay, she shied away from him. “If you do not want me, then say so and spare me any more embarrassment.”
“It is not a question of wanting you,” he said. “Never think that.”
“What else am I to assume, since I am willing?” She had begun to weep and now made an exasperated swipe at her eyes. “Am I repugnant to your, or do you think I would demand more than you are able to give?”
“Neither of those things,” he said. “I am afraid that what I want you would not want to part with.”
She laughed suddenly. “What could that be? What would I refuse you?”
“Your blood,” he said deliberately peremptorily.
She stood still, her eyes fixed upon him. “Blood?” she echoed at last. “Why?”
“Because it is the essence of you.” He managed a lopsided smile and his voice had become deeper and more mellifluous.
“What do you do with the blood?” she asked.
“Drink it,” he said, offering no softening, no disguising of his especial requirement. “Not very much; enough to convey the knowledge of you to me.”
Staring at him with eyes huge, Thetis stammered, “I … What … what knowledge?”
“The knowledge of what you are, all of you,” he said.
“You taste my … soul?” It was impossible to determine if this prospect fascinated or repelled her.
“It is the culmination of touching, of intimacy, taking some of your blood.” He waited while a log in the fireplace spat sparks, crackling. “So you see, it is not something I would ask of you.”
She blinked twice as if waking from sleep. “Does it hurt when you take it?”
“A little, I suspect,” he answered.
“Then have what you want,” she said, thrusting her arms toward him, wrists exposed. “If it will bring you joy, then have what you need.”
“It is I who must bring you joy, or the blood is nothing more than metallic water.” He stared down at the sheet of parchment on the table. “I trust you will keep what I have said in confidence.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” She took a step closer to him. “What do you mean, that you would bring me joy?”
His enigmatic gaze rested on her face as if he were discerning hidden treasure. “The virtue of the blood is in what it carries. If you have no fulfillment, I have none.”
“I hoped you meant that,” she said, and clasped her arms around his neck. “Do what you will,” she exclaimed as she tightened her hold. “I have had so little joy of late I hardly remember what it is like. All I can think about is dying. You would do me a service if you helped me to rediscover my joy. A little blood is a good bargain.” She kissed his mouth eagerly.
“Thetis, this is not a bargain,” he warned her when she released him.
“I know; your bed is not a marketplace. You told me,” she said, and drew him down to her lips again.
Text of a letter from the trader Choijun-Sonal on the Silk Road near Tashkent to his sales agent, Kai Wo-Heh in Chang’an, written in Chinese, carried by courier, and lost in a flood on the Nor River.
To my most worthy sales agent, Kai Wo-Heh, this report, written by the cler
ic Pajret the Christian of the local church, Holiest Incarnation, where we have spent the last three fortnights while the worst of the rains continue.
It is my sad duty to inform you that your nephew, Kai Tung-Ba, has died of Marsh Fever; I had not realized how ill he had become, for it took him suddenly, while we were traveling, filling him with heat and all signs of an invasion of dryness. He lingered for four days, then lapsed into the stupor that comes when death is near. The Christians here have given him burial and offered prayers for his soul. I can only thank the Gods of the Air that I have remained untouched by this scourge, and I have made gifts of baby camels and incense to them so that I might remain strong and fit, as I intend to resume my journey as soon as the rain lets up.
For it is raining steadily here. Never have I seen such a downpour in this region, nor have I encountered such dangerously swollen rivers. Even the streams are over their banks. Many bridges and other crossings have been washed out, and so I cannot tell you with any certainty which route I will have to travel in order to reach you. I have been speaking with the few merchants I have encountered coming from the East, and they all say it is not safe to venture beyond Kashgar.
The mountains are also unsafe because of the heavy rains. Portions of the roads have been washed away, or avalanches have covered them, making travel difficult. I have decided to take on a scout so that we may not be trapped on the road, as I have heard has happened to others. The reports of stranded merchants are heard everywhere, and in all instances, what is said of them does not encourage great confidence. There has been a sharp increase in banditry, and many merchants who were fortunate enough to cross the desert and the mountains without harm have ultimately lost all to raiders.
The asses have not held up as well as I had hoped, and even the camels are having difficulties in this weather, and with poor rations. Most men traveling with horses have lost stock. Cattle have fared badly as well, and I have seen many head reduced to near-skeletons by the poor quality of their feed. Goats have managed better, but they, as you know, will eat anything. If the rain brings grass in the spring, the remaining herds and flocks may be saved, but if there is another year of parched grass, I doubt many of the animals will survive. One of the northern hunters has said he has seen tigers starve in the last year, and bears fight wolves for the carcass of a bony pig.
It has been a difficult time in all manner of ways, what with trade being down, and so many places still feeling the lack that the darkened sun has brought. Food has been hard come-by, and costly. I have spent more to keep the camels fed than I have for the amber I have got from the men from the north who have traveled the Amber Trail down from their forests to trade amber and furs for our spices and jade. One of these amber traders said he had lost all his family but one sister. He has sacrificed a bear to his gods, but he is still in great distress. A few nights ago he became so drunk that he could barely walk, and he attacked one of my drovers, who had to use a club on the man to keep from being badly hurt. The companions of this trader demanded that my drover’s hand be struck off for clubbing the man. But as it is, everyone is becoming strict and vengeful, so it may still be that the drover will lose a hand, and then I will have to decide if he is any use to me.
Assuming there are no more problems to deal with foisted upon me, I have decided to travel from church and apostlary to other Christian outposts, for they will always take in strangers, offer them shelter and such food as they have, and they keep scribes in every location, so that I may continue to inform you of my progress, for that may be less certain now than it has been in the past. I intend to make as much haste as we may, but I will not press on at the cost of my men and our merchandise. I have had to endure too much already to let this journey end in nothing. You have markets waiting for what we carry, and it is fundamental to our endeavor that we do not fail to deliver these goods to the markets you have found. You may rest assured that I will make every effort to preserve our goods and our men and our animals, for loss of more of any of them would be a terrible toll to pay for our success.
I will send another letter within two fortnights, and I will prepare an accounting for you when we have reached An-Hsi, for then I will be close enough to Chang’an to be able to make a reasonable estimate of what the last leg of our journey will cost. I am planning to make at least one more journey to Ecbatana before I retire to raise hemp in Wu-Tu, and to do that, I must have goods to trade. I will leave those arrangements to you, and thank you for your diligence now, while so many others have abandoned their work. May the Immortals bring you long years, many honors, and many sons.
Choijun-Sonal
By the hand of the scribe Pajret the Christian
6
Thetis rolled back on the pile of pillows and announced to the ceiling, “I am replete.” She lifted her arms, shoving aside the muffling blankets stuffed with goat-hair as she reached for Ragoczy Franciscus. “Thoroughly, deliciously replete.” She cocked her head. “If I am replete, you must be, too.” She had not wanted to come to this place at first, not knowing what she would find in this withdrawing room. The bed—which also served as a couch—with its heaps of silk-covered pillows and heavy, soft blankets, had surprised her as much as the two oil-lamps that smelled of roses and jasmine.
“What you have, I share; I thank you for what you have given me,” he said from the alcove near the window where he had gone to look out at the night sky; satisfied, he turned back toward her. “There could be more, if you wanted.”
“More?” she said speculatively, eyeing him with roguish satisfaction. “You say we can only do this twice more before I am at risk to become like you?”
He leaned over and kissed her lightly, the heavy black silk of his kandys whispering luxuriously as he moved. “Yes.”
“But if I should change my mind? What if I should want to be like you after all? To rise after death?” She caught his wrist, holding him purposefully.
“It is not something I would advise you to do, not without careful reflection. This life is not for everyone, especially for a woman like you: you have more than yourself to think about.” He brushed her dark-blond hair back from her face, watching the firelight play on her features. “It is not a life that would please you, Thetis, and I would not like to lose you to the True Death.” Again he felt a pang of grief for Nicoris.
“Such a dramatic warning,” she chided him teasingly.
“Not dramatic, simply accurate. It has happened before,” he said softly.
She offered a tentative smile. “Will you tell me? When I’m not so satisfied?” She lay back, her arms flung up to hug the pillow behind her.
“When the life of those of my blood seems less enticing than it does at this moment,” he said, regarding her with abiding thoughtfulness.
“You’ve told me what to avoid, and how to deal with the most pressing difficulties,” she reminded him. “Most of them are not so difficult—no worse than being a widow alone.”
“Those lessons were hard-won, and nothing to be made light of,” he said, a slight frown between his fine brows.
“You manage your life well enough,” she pointed out.
“But I have had centuries to learn, and I have no children, which—”
She tugged him toward her. “You have those of your blood; aren’t they like children?”
“They are very few, and at great distances from here. We do not often come together once we enter this life. It increases our risks and offers little compensation.” As he spoke, he found himself missing Olivia, and wondering how she was faring in her distant Roman estate. Had this harsh weather touched her at all, or had she remained unscathed?
“Those who come to your life cannot make love with another of your kind; you must seek the living,” she said as if reciting a foolish lesson. “I did listen.”
He took her face in his hands, gazing into her face as he said, “You have nothing to fear from me. Nothing.”
“But what you are,” she said, and sank one hand
into the short waves of his dark hair so she could pull his head to her mouth.
“How does that frighten you now, when you have seen what it is to be a vampire?” He showed no distress at her remark, and his manner remained attentive.
“It is dying that frightens me, not you,” she said with conviction. “You are so much that is truly wonderful that I wonder if you are also terrible.” She sought his lips with her own, as if to set her seal upon him. When she released him, her eyes were serious. “I am grateful to you for so much.”
“I have told you repeatedly you have no reason to be.” He kissed her again, his lips persuasive, unhurried, and evocative.
“Can you … will you pleasure me again?” she asked in a rush.
“If it is what you want. Dawn is still a long way off, and the night is clear and calm.” He ran his finger along her brow, his touch light and passionate at once. “If you wish to have pleasure once more, you will have it.”
She reached out for him. “Oh, yes. I do want to have pleasure. I wish I could have it every night from now until the end of time.”
“That is not possible,” he reminded her when he had kissed her once more.
“Then I want to spend the night in full ardor,” she said at once, and drew him nearer, pulling the blanket off her so that he could see most of her body. “All this is yours, to do with as you like.”
He touched her shoulder with delicate care, as if she were made of the most fragile porcelain. “Tell me what delights you most.” He continued along her clavicle, then down to the swell of her breast. “Where are your sensations the sweetest?”
She wriggled with anticipation. “Everything you do is sweet to me.” She stretched, making more of her flesh accessible. “I would like you to … to use your lips as well as your hands.”
Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain Page 35
