Saint-Germain 18: Dark of the Sun: A Novel of the Count Saint-Germain

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Ragoczy Franciscus held up his hand in the sign for Wait. Then he reached for the rotted length of rope that held the boat in place, tugged at it, struggling to pull the boat free of the icy sand so it could float again; a slow trickle of water began to fill it, crystals forming along the inner curve of the hull as the water rose. Taking Dukkai in his arms, he laid her in the boat as gently as he could; since he was unable to bend her limbs, he did what he could to place her as if she had fallen asleep and, stepping back, shoved the old, leaky craft away from the shore and into the stream, watching as the boat and its frozen cargo drifted away.

  “Why did you do that?” Rojeh asked as Ragoczy Franciscus came back to his horse.

  After releasing the blue roan’s lead, Ragoczy Franciscus got into the saddle and gestured, Later, before he started his horse moving, going back through the Jou’an-Jou’an encampment and turning westward in the direction of the Sea of Azov and the Byzantine Empire.

  By the time the leaden clouds lightened with the coming of the feeble day, Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh were at the edge of a small defile in which stood a small fortress that had clearly been abandoned for some time; some of the battlements had fallen away without any indication of repairs, and an empty eagle’s nest crowned the watchtower. The gate was little more than a few lengths of wood hanging on ancient iron hinges, and the building itself showed signs of extreme neglect; Ragoczy Franciscus and Rojeh dismounted as they went through the stone maw into the marshaling yard, leading their horses and mules into the shelter the squat stone walls offered. There were a few thorny, snow-shrouded bushes growing through the old flagging in the main court, and when they found the stable, the stalls smelled more of mice than horses.

  Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, We stay.

  “For how long?” Rojeh asked.

  One day and one night, Ragoczy Franciscus signed.

  “The horses and mules could use the rest, and the storm is beginning to die down,” said Rojeh, and seeing Ragoczy Franciscus nod endorsement, he went on, “If you rest on your native earth for a day and a night, you will be strong enough to travel by day: is that your purpose?”

  Yes, Ragoczy Franciscus confirmed, and began to look for a rake or some other implement to clean out the debris from the stalls along the inner wall.

  “Do you want to sleep in a stall?” Rojeh found a shovel and went to work.

  No was Ragoczy Franciscus’ response; he mouthed Mice for explanation. Rats.

  Somewhat later, Rojeh remarked, “This looks like a Byzantine fort, doesn’t it? The watchtower is Byzantine design, not Roman, and the peoples in this region weren’t making fortresses of stone.” He was working on a second stall, and the advancing light revealed more about the place than had been apparent at first; the stable accommodated as many as twenty horses, but three of the stalls were so dilapidated as to be entirely useless. The water trough near the door was empty, and almost all the hinges on the stall gates had rusted.

  Ragoczy Franciscus nodded and motioned to the much-faded icons painted on the stable beams, images that were clearly of Eastern Rite origin.

  “It doesn’t seem that there was a hard fight, and it hasn’t the look of a siege. Why would the defenders leave?” Rojeh asked, and was about to apologize, when he saw Ragoczy Franiscus mouth Huns and stared at the lance shaft Ragoczy Franciscus pulled from the manger. He took this and turned it over in his hands. “It is Hunnic, isn’t it?” Shaking his head, Rojeh said, “Then I pity the men who were here.”

  Taking back the lance shaft, Ragoczy Franciscus dropped it into one of the unused stalls, then sagged against the wall between it and the one he was cleaning.

  “It must have been more than a century ago; the Huns were advancing on Byzantine territory then,” said Rojeh, recalling the unremitting assault the Huns had made on the little castle in Greece, and the long ordeal he and Ragoczy Franciscus had faced, repelling them only with the help of Niklos Aulirios and an old Roman ballista loaded frequently with hives of angry bees.

  There was a long silence broken only by the stamping of one of the mules; it was enough to remind the two that they had not quite finished cleaning the stalls.

  As he resumed working, Rojeh said, “There isn’t any bedding, and probably nothing we can give as food, not with so many mice about.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus pointed to the chest that contained grain and some chopped hay.

  “Of course. But it isn’t enough to last more than a week,” Rojeh reminded him.

  The nod that answered Rojeh’s observation was slow and accompanied by a covert wince.

  “The wound is paining you, isn’t it? You are having trouble moving your head?” Rojeh asked, putting down his shovel and starting toward Ragoczy Franciscus, who held up his hand authoritatively to stop him.

  This time Ragoczy Franciscus made the sign for negation, mouthing, It does not matter, as he did.

  “But it does,” said Rojeh, taking up his shovel once more. “Let’s finish up in here and get you onto your native earth. I won’t ask you not to work,” he went on, working more determinedly than he had done.

  Ragoczy Franciscus plied his rake energetically, cleaning out the rest of the stall quickly. When he was done, he put the rake on a hook near what must have been the tack-room, then he went to unsaddle his mare; he left the blanket in place when he turned her into the stall and did much the same with the mule after he unloaded the well-laden pack saddle. Taking a measure of grain from the case that contained it, he fed the horse, then the mule, and handed the scoop to Rojeh, who had just finished stalling his two animals.

  “I’ll have this taken care of quickly,” said Rojeh, looking for something to secure the stall doors.

  I will look, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured. A quick check of the other stalls revealed nothing useful, so Ragoczy Franciscus sought out the tack-room. The light was provided by a single window set high in the wall in a double-thickness of stones, hardly big enough to contain a saddle rack. Making the most of the poor illumination, he commenced his search where the light was strongest and progressed through the room toward the more shadowed parts, going carefully in case there should be some danger, for his dark-seeing eyes could not pick out what lay beneath the scattered bits of leather and tangled wisps of ancient straw. He found a length of old rope coiled in one of the corners, so obscured that it was all but invisible. As Ragoczy Franciscus approached, he saw that in it lay a skull, part of a spine and ribs, and one set of arm bones. He dropped to one knee and had a closer look, noticing the deep gouges axes had made in the lower ribs and the spine; he hoped the man had been dead before those ruthless hacks had fallen. Skull in hand, he rose, absentmindedly taking the rope in the other hand. It never ends, he said silently. Carefully he set the skull down in the stone window embrasure, then left the tack-room.

  “This can be tied across the doors at two levels,” Rojeh said as Ragoczy Franciscus used his dagger to saw the thick hemp length in half. “It should do well enough.”

  Agreeing with a nod, Ragoczy Franciscus leaned back against one of the four stone pillars in the stable while Rojeh strung the ropes across the gates of the stalls. Rojeh was right: his neck did ache, the kind of hurt that gnawed at him, sapping his strength and wearing down his endurance far more than the difficult ride or the harsh weather did. Glancing toward one of the three small windows lighting the stable, he saw that the clouds were not as thick as they had been and that the storm was breaking up.

  “My master?” Rojeh asked, seeing the shadow of fatigue on Ragoczy Francisus’ face.

  He straightened up, waving aside Rojeh’s question. He signaled, I will look and Sleep. Slowly he started toward the entrance to the stable.

  “As soon as you decide where you want to rest, I’ll hunt.” Rojeh tied his last knot. “We should take this rope with us when we go.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus nodded as he went back into the marshaling yard. He stood, undecided, for a short while, then went toward the watchtower that stood nex
t to the gate. The sagging door was wedged closed, and it took two powerful kicks to open it. Carefully, he stepped inside the marshaling room at the base of the tower, making note of everything he saw: two small stools, a bucket, a pail, some spears with their points rusted away, a cooking tripod—without a cauldron—to fit into the long-cold fireplace that stood on the east wall, and on the west a large rack of various weapons, most of them crumbled or rusted. He paced off the size of the room—eight strides east-west, almost eleven north-south—and decided it was as good a place as any. He went back across the marshaling yard, taking the time to study the sky before he ducked into the dark of the stable; the clouds were starting to tatter, and the snowfall had diminished to an occasional random flake. Already a glary brightness marked the place of the sun as it climbed the morning sky, and Ragoczy Franciscus could feel a little of its pull, not as he had done two years ago, but enough to tell him that it was gradually regaining its power.

  Rojeh was stacking their chests and crates and boxes; he had set aside the chest of Ragoczy Franciscus’ native earth and was inspecting the thick leather straps on the box containing their spare clothing; he recognized the purpose in Ragoczy Franciscus’ stance and said, “You have found a place that will do.”

  Yes, Ragoczy Franciscus signaled. We carry.

  “Of course,” said Rojeh, going to the chest of native earth. “If I take the wood from those wrecked stalls, we could build a fire.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus considered his answer, finally gesturing, No. Attention.

  “You mean you think this place could be under surveillance?” Rojeh said as he and Ragoczy Franciscus hefted the chest between them; the tablet and stylus rested on top of it.

  Since he could not shrug or signal, Ragoczy Franciscus was unable to respond. He kept walking steadily toward the marshaling room, trying to find some way to express himself.

  “You are concerned that this place could serve as a trap. Whose? Look at it. Cobwebs everywhere. No doubt the chimneys are full of rats’ nests and mice, possibly birds’ as well.” They were almost to the marshaling room, and Rojeh faltered as the shadow of a large bird crossed over him. Peering upward into the shattering morning light, he could just make out a raptor soaring against the brilliance; then the darkness of the tower blocked bird and sun from sight, and a few steps later they put the chest down in front of the unused fireplace. “Oh. I found a cistern behind the stable. It has water.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus signaled, Good, as he sat down on the chest and picked up the tablet and stylus, but did nothing with them as he stared at the opposite wall with extreme blankness, his thoughts more distant than the Yang-Tse River.

  Rojeh studied him, saying at last, “You’re losing flesh again.” He turned his attention to the fireplace. “I suppose it would smoke if I tried to lay a fire.”

  Putting both hands to his throat, Ragoczy Franciscus mimed coughing.

  “Well, neither you nor I are much troubled by cold—that’s useful,” said Rojeh, searching for something to sit on; he found an old stool and tested it by putting his foot on it and transferring half his weight onto it; the stool held.

  Good, Ragoczy Franciscus signed, and stretched his arms above his head, arching his back.

  “You’re tired. So am I,” said Rojeh. “You rest first, and I will rest after you wake. While you sleep, I’ll see if I can find something to eat.” His expression clouded. “How much longer before your throat is healed enough to take sustenance? If hunger is enervating to me, it is debilitating to you, for more than your body is compromised.” He sank down onto the stool. “I’ll go hunting shortly, when the sky is finally clear.”

  Ragoczy Franciscus moved the tablet and stylus to the end of the chest near where he intended to rest his head. As he stretched out on the leather-strapped wood, he signaled Rojeh, We will talk.

  “Later,” said Rojeh. “When we’re both more rested.”

  Lying on his back, Ragoczy Franciscus almost seemed laid out for burial, so completely still was he. His light olive skin was lunar-pale and his eyes were sunk in dark sockets. Had Rojeh not seen this state before, he would have been troubled by it, but being familiar with Ragoczy Franciscus, he saw this stillness with relief, for it meant that Ragoczy Franciscus would be imbued with the power of his native earth when he woke, which would sustain him until he was able to seek more living nourishment. “No wonder he wants to go back to the Carpathians,” Rojeh whispered as he went out to hunt, returning shortly before sunset with a brace of pigeons hanging from a thong over his shoulder. He went to the marshaling room to see how Ragoczy Franciscus fared, and to improvise a table where he could eat. During his hunt, he had decided he needed to make a small fire to boil water so he could scald the pigeons to make plucking easier. He searched out an old tin pail in the far recesses of the stable, which he went to fill with rainwater from the cistern at the rear of the stable. Gathering up bits of old planking, and other scraps of wood, he found a sheltered place in the marshaling yard and began the tedious business of lighting the fire. As soon as the first tiny plume of smoke rose, he added more kindling to the pile and soon had a small but serviceable blaze going. This he framed with stones and set the pail on top of them, then shoved a few more lengths of wood in through the gaps in the stones. Satisfied that this would bring the water to a boil, he went to lead the horses and mules to the cistern to drink, then returned them to their stalls. He took grain from the case of it and measured out enough for the mash, and returned to the fire in time to add another broken plank to the fuel.

  The scrape of the door being thrust open caught Rojeh’s attention; he turned to see Ragoczy Franciscus standing just outside the marshaling room, his demeanor much restored. “You’re awake.”

  Yes, he signed.

  “You look rested.”

  Yes, again.

  “Good. If you sleep once more before we go on, you should be able to—”

  Ride long. Ragoczy Franciscus pointed to the scalding pigeons. Help you?

  “No, I can manage,” said Rojeh, surprised at the offer. “But if you will bring my heavy knife from my personal case in the stable?”

  Ragoczy Franciscus nodded and went off with easy, crisp strides to the stable, only to return shortly with the long, slender skinning knife Rojeh used to prepare his food. He handed this to Rojeh, who was busy plucking feathers from the pigeons; he sat in a flurry of gray and white as if he had been caught in a miniature snowstorm.

  “Thanks,” said Rojeh as he took the knife in his befeathered hand. “When I’ve finished my meal, perhaps then we can talk—or you can write and I will talk,” he added. “Are there any oil-lamps in this place?”

  Not find, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured. We have.

  “In the blue chest, yes, we do. Lamps and oil to power them.” Rojeh sluiced slightly bloody water over one of the pigeons, showing it had been completely fletched; he went to work finishing the other while Ragoczy Franciscus went to the stable to bring the oil-lamps and the oil-jar from the blue chest, along with flint-and-steel.

  While Rojeh cut up and ate his two pigeons, Ragoczy Franciscus set about filling and lighting the oil-lamps in the marshaling room, finally providing enough illumination to make reading what he wrote on the wax tablet possible.

  “I’m finished,” Rojeh announced from the door. “The guts and bones are buried, and the fire has been drowned.”

  Good, Ragoczy Franciscus gestured, and pointed to the stool that Rojeh had found earlier. We talk. Before Ragoczy Franciscus could begin to use his stylus, Rojeh suddenly got up and went out into the marshaling yard to where he had made his fire. Bending down, he selected three sticks of blackened wood, then carried these back to Ragoczy Franciscus, pausing as he went to stare at the vivid and glorious sunset that ornamented the western sky with a range of colors from crimson to persimmon, purple to lilac; the sun itself was a disk of brilliant red, splendid as anything Justinian, Emperor of Byzantium, ever adorned himself with or used to aggrandize his E
mpress or his court. Breaking away from the impressive celestial display as from a transfixing spell, Rojeh shook himself and went into the marshaling room and the soft glow of the oil-lamps. “Here. You can write on the floor with this,” he said, handing the charcoal to Ragoczy Franciscus.

  Very good, signaled Ragoczy Franciscus, setting aside his tablet and stylus and getting down on one knee to wipe a section of the floor free of dust and the small detritus of the vanished occupants. When he had a stretch of pale-gray stone exposed, he looked at Rojeh. Ready, he gestured.

  “You said you would explain why you set Dukkai adrift.” There was a faint hint of accusation in this reminder, as if Rojeh wanted the complete answer, and not some simple abstraction. When Ragoczy Franciscus hesitated, Rojeh prodded, “Well? Why did you do it?”

  Ragoczy Franciscus held up his hand, a request for patience; after a long moment, he began to write with the longest of the three charcoal sticks. I hoped that by setting her adrift as I did that she would vanish by the time the rest of her clan awoke.

  “The boat probably sank,” said Rojeh.

  I would assume it did. If the clan did not see it, they would not know what had become of her. As a shaman, vanishing would restore her reputation, and it would permit the rest of her family to remain with the Desert Cats. Dukkai is dead, and nothing can change that. But her death need not be a defeat. Ragoczy Franciscus wiped another swath of stone and prepared to go on. The Desert Cats are at less than half their strength and numbers than when we first encountered them, and they are still losing people. Fever, hunger, cold, age, all have depleted their ranks and will continue to do so for as long as the sun remains weak. To lose their shaman shamefully adds a burden that many of them cannot endure. If they have no one to speak to the Lords of the Earth, they will be in danger of fragmenting, and if that happens, most of them will die.