Then he looked again at the cameras and news crews. “A very great man, a teacher I once had named Darius,” he said, “told me that even in the greatest darkness there is light to be found. This is Cynthia VanDervane, and in spite of all the darkness I have seen in the last months, having her by my side turned it to a time of light. Now she has consented to be that light always.”
The questions came once more in rapid fire: “How did you meet?” “Will you be joining him in his travels, Ms. VanDervane?” “Has the date for the wedding been set?”
Again Victor Paulus held up his hand. “Please,” he said, “no more questions. Our only plans are to rest for a few days, then continue our work. No date for our wedding has been set, but I promise I shall keep you all informed.”
He gave the news crews his disarming smile again, then turned and led Cynthia out of the throng. No one tried to follow them; they all knew that he was as good as his word and they would be told of any newsworthy activities to come.
Behind him, Victor could hear the television people summing up their reports into the cameras. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said to Cynthia. “I didn’t know they would be waiting for us.”
“It’s all right, Victor,” she assured him, leaning her head onto his shoulder. “I didn’t realize I was going to marry quite so famous a man. I thought prophets were supposed to be without honor in their own homes.”
“I hardly qualify for that accolade.”
“They seem to think you do.”
“Maybe—or maybe, like the rest of the world, they’re just hungry for some good news for a change. The work I do—we do—is something in which they can all take part, in one way or another. That gives them hope, and hope is a commodity that is sometimes in very short supply in this world. Now, let’s get our luggage and go home. I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel that a couple of naps on the plane were nearly enough rest. I feel like I could sleep for a week.”
Cynthia laughed. “Well, maybe not quite that long,” she said.
There was no car waiting; Cynthia knew Victor had hoped to arrive without the notice a car and driver would necessarily bring. He hailed a cab, and after they were both inside he turned to her.
“Now, my love, have you decided which hotel you’d like? There’s no need to worry about the cost. The foundation has a fund to cover such things.”
“I thought we settled this weeks ago, Victor. I’m staying with you.” She leaned close and whispered in his ear. “Or don’t you remember the night I told you I was done with sleeping alone.”
Sitting back, Cynthia thought how delightful it was to see a grown man blush, actually blush.
“Of course I remember,” he said softly, reaching out to take her hand. “But now that we’re back in the States, I thought you might have changed your mind. The house the foundation offered is nice enough, but after all you’ve been through lately I thought you might like to be pampered for a while—maids, room service, restaurants. And that you might like, well, some—space—for a while.”
Now Cynthia did laugh, softly, gently. One of the things she truly liked about this man was his adherence to such outmoded ideas—and the way he almost stammered when he talked about them. For all his world renown, in many ways there was a childlike innocence that surrounded Victor Paulus.
And there was a part of Cynthia that would almost be sorry to see him die. Almost.
She leaned against him once again and softly brushed her lips across his ear. “In many times and places, being engaged was as good as being married, with all the same—privileges. I think my reputation is safe.”
The cab driver cleared his throat, delicately reminding them that he still needed a destination. Once more Paulus looked embarrassed as he gave the driver the address of the house the foundation kept in Seacouver.
After the driver pulled his cab out into traffic, Cynthia looked up to see him smiling at them in his rear view mirror. Resting her head on Victor’s shoulder, she returned the driver’s smile. All was going well, just as she had planned.
Better than she had planned, really. Victor Paulus’s death would be payment on a debt long owed. But she wanted more than his death. She wanted his pain. She wanted him to hurt in the same way she had been hurt. Toward that end, she had joined his organization and worked her way first to his side and then into his heart. He would know the little death of betrayal, as she had known, and the pain that turned the cessation of life into relief—which she had been denied.
Oh yes, she had planned carefully. She had won his love and his trust, and she had begun the steps to discredit him and topple his empire before she killed him. Once they reached Sudan, it had been so easy; a few words leaked here and there, so that the location of their safe houses became known, pushing the operation farther and farther south, building to the big moment when their entire network would be destroyed.
She, of course, would have survived, and she would have made certain Victor did as well. There would have been scandal, rumors and innuendoes followed by carefully fabricated “facts,” all pointing to Paulus’s complicity in the deaths of his associates in return for his personal safety. Once that was accomplished and Victor felt the full burden of it, then she would have his life—carefully making it look like the suicide of a guilty man.
Then Duncan MacLeod had arrived in Sudan and changed everything. Well, she would have his head, too—soon. She owed him that for spoiling her plans, but she wanted it for another, more personal, reason. He had robbed her of the one man in all the centuries who had truly understood her. For that, he would die.
She would still have Paulus’s death—the last, the final act against Darius in a debt that spanned the ages. Duncan MacLeod would die as payment for Grayson’s life. It had taken her a long time to find out who had killed Grayson, and where. But once she had found out, she had vowed to be that Immortal’s death.
And yes, revenge would be sweet.
Joe Dawson stared at the screen of his laptop computer. His eyes were red-rimmed and weary from the long hours of work he had just put in, but now he sat back with a sigh and picked up his cup of coffee.
It was just as he had thought; he had read through all of the Watcher reports over the last few months and the only ones coming in from Sudan were his own, supplied by Duncan MacLeod. Whoever this Cynthia VanDervane really was, she did not currently have a Watcher assigned to her case.
Joe grimaced as he took a swig from his coffee. It had gone cold again, and he hated cold coffee. It reminded him of the army—long marches, torrential rains, always being too hot or too cold, bad food, cold coffee, bugs, snakes… and those were the good memories.
Oh well, he could use a stretch while he made a fresh pot and got the afternoon paper. Then he would start going through the files of female Immortals whose names began with the letter “C.” That was something he had noticed; when Immortals changed identities, most of them tended to stick to names similar to their original ones.
Whether that was for vanity or convenience, it certainly had made his job a lot easier over the years, he thought as he headed toward the kitchen and the coffeepot. Once it was on, he went to the front door to get the paper.
News of Paulus’s engagement had made the front page. Joe Dawson smiled as he looked at the article and its accompanying photograph. He had MacLeod’s description of what Cynthia VanDervane looked like, but this was better. Much better.
Dawson tucked the paper under his arm and headed for the kitchen once again. He decided he would make himself a sandwich to go with his coffee and then get back to work. With luck, he would know Cynthia’s past identity before the day was out.
Cynthia stretched lazily upon her bed, enjoying the movement of her long, supple muscles, the sensual feel of the sheets sliding across her soft skin. When she looked at mortal women she wanted to laugh; they were so worried about whether they were twenty-eight or twenty-nine this year, lying about whether they were forty or forty-two. She was over sixteen hundred y
ears old. Her poor mortal sisters aged and died—and she remained in her prime, with a face and body forever in their early twenties.
God, she loved it!
Beside her, Victor Paulus slept on. He did not toss or snore; he was, in fact, as fastidious in slumber as in everything else. Cynthia lay there quietly, being careful not to disturb him. He had, after all, earned his rest—she’d made certain of that.
Yes, he was a thorough lover, careful of her pleasure. But sometimes she missed the passion, the abandon, she had known with others. Over the centuries there had been only two of any importance and she thought about them now with a familiarity that was never far from her mind. To them she owed everything she was now—everything.
One had taught her the ways of love, the other the way of the sword….
Chapter Twelve
Central Europe—A.D. 409
They came out of the north and swept across central Europe like great packs of ravening wolves, hungry for all they could conquer. Wave upon wave, army after army they came, intent upon a kingdom that stretched from the Caspian Sea to the Mediterranean and, perhaps, beyond.
The Visigoths—great and terrible; dressed in skins and furs against the harsh northern weather, with long braided hair and unshaved faces, their enemies called them barbarians, a plague of death. But they knew themselves ordained to rule. Though they were strong and swift, they were not without mercy or honor. Those who surrendered were treated well; those who resisted felt the power of their swords.
With the armies came wives and children to occupy the conquered lands. Many of the warriors, finding towns and farmlands that pleased them, were content to settle. But two of the greatest leaders continued their relentless march south toward the heart of the empire that had ruled the world for too long and now lay crumbling under the weight of its own corruption.
They marched toward Rome.
Nothing less than Rome itself would satisfy Alaric, called The Great. He marched not just at the head of an army; he led a nation thirty thousand strong. He had tried twice to deal peacefully with the Roman leaders—Stilcho, the general, and Honorius, the Emperor. Alaric wanted lands in Italy for his people to settle, Roman citizenship for himself and his family. And he did not come empty-handed: He offered Rome the wealth his people brought, and his protection.
Alaric had petitioned the Roman Senate, yet the olive branch of peace they had seemed to offer had only hidden the blade of betrayal and deceit. Now Alaric wanted vengeance. He would take the lands he meant to occupy, and destroy Rome itself in the process. Alaric and his people made their winter camp along the Danube north” of the Loibl Pass. In the spring, the way through the Julian Alps would open again and his army would begin their southern march of Death. They would not march alone.
Darius was coming.
Some called him Darius the Mad, and Alaric, who had fought by his side, knew the name to be well justified. Never had Alaric seen a man go so wild in battle. Darius fought like a berserker, heedless of wounds or danger. He was unstoppable—and Alaric wanted such a man by his side when he attacked Rome.
The camp along the Danube had spread out like a city of tents and carts and roughly marked corrals. During the day, the surrounding forests rang with the sound of ax and hammer. Soon semipermanent stables would be erected for the livestock. At night, the campfires were so numerous it looked as if a piece of the heavens had fallen and the stars had settled down amongst the trees.
It was a good camp and a good place to dwell for the winter. There were fish in the river and plenty of game in the forest. There was wood for heat and water to drink. The children would be able to run and play; it was as permanent a home as many of them had ever known.
Yes, it was a good place—but Alaric wanted more for his people. He wanted the sunshine of Italy. He wanted warmth and fertile Mediterranean soil. He wanted houses of wood and stone, not tents of animal skins. And, though he spoke these words aloud to no one, he wanted peace.
For his children, yet unborn…
For his children’s children…
For himself.
But first there would be war. First he would crush all those who had denied him peaceful recourse to his dream.
Each morning while his people went about the chores of the camp, Alaric mounted his big black stallion and traveled down on the road he knew Darius’s army must follow. They had fought together many times before, spent many winters in each other’s camps, and Alaric knew that Darius would come—if not for Rome, then for the brotherhood of arms they shared.
Darius would come because Alaric had asked. Darius would come for the call of friendship; Darius would come for the call of battle.
Darius, the warrior, the general, The Mad, lived for battle.
Today, as every day, Alaric rode to the crest of the hill three miles from camp and waited. The wind that whipped his dark hair around his face whispered of snow that would soon fall. Alaric pulled his thick bearskin cloak more tightly around him as his eyes scanned the horizon and his ears strained for the sounds of an army on the move.
For two hours he sat unmoving, a black-clad silhouette against a sky darkening to the pewter gray of storm. The third hour came and still he did not move; something in his bones had told him today would be the day. It was a warrior’s instinct he had learned to trust.
The wind grew colder, reddening his checks and puckering the scar that ran from his left temple down to his chin, disappearing into his thick beard. Darius had saved his life the day he received that scar. Darius had not failed him that day. He would not fail him today.
As the snow began to fall, he heard it—the sound of horses on a road, the thin creak of cartwheels, the faint call of a voice. Alaric smiled briefly, grinning around the gaps of the teeth he had lost in battle. Then he turned his horse and put his heels to its flanks. Darius was coming; tonight they would feast in celebration.
At the camp, one other had been awaiting Darius’s arrival with an eagerness she could barely contain. Alaric’s sister, Callestina, saw her brother galloping toward the camp, and she felt her heart soar. Alaric’s haste could mean only one thing.
Darius was coming.
For years Callestina had loved him, and now, at twenty-two, she was eager to show him how a young girl’s infatuation had changed into a woman’s passion. Alaric wanted Darius the Mad by his side, but Callestina wanted Darius the Man—and she meant to have him.
She waited until Alaric reached her and jumped from his sweating horse. ‘Two hours, maybe three with this weather,” he said, knowing she would understand. “Have the hunting parties returned?”
“Two of them,” Callestina replied. “They’ve brought in three stags and a boar. It’s not enough.”
“Do not worry, sister,” Alaric said, once more showing his gap-toothed grin. “God is with us—I feel it. Tonight there will be meat at every fire.”
Alaric turned away and began to stride through the camp, calling to the men he passed. As ever, they came running at the sound of his voice. Soon more hunting parties would leave the camp. For once, Callestina would be glad to see them go. She had her own preparations for Darius’s arrival and she did not want her brother around while she made them.
Like most nomadic tribes, the Visigoths were a communal people, with families sharing their tents and possessions by will or whim. But Callestina had long ago demanded a place of her own and it was there she headed now. While the men were hunting, living their rituals of death and life, Callestina had her own rituals to perform.
This was Woman’s Magic, old before the coming of the one male God in whom her brother believed, powerful with the force of life that had governed her people long before the pantheon of male deities had obscured the place of the Mother-force. It was a divining of blood and fire, and Callestina wanted no man’s presence to taint its outcome.
Her tent had been erected next to her brother’s. Between them, on the great fire pit that was kept perpetually lit, a large cauldron of water h
ad been set to boil. Callestina did not bother to ask its purpose; more water could easily be brought from the river to replace what she would take. She quickly drew out the bucketful she could use for washing, then entered her tent, taking care to close and tie the flap behind her.
A smaller fire burned within, most of its smoke drawn up by the hole in the top of the skins. Beneath her feet, the ground was covered with furs for added warmth. Going to stand near the fire, Callestina quickly stripped. She unbraided her hair so that it fell in a golden cascade past the small of her back. Then she began to wash. She must be cleaned, purified, before she petitioned the Norns, the Goddesses of Destiny.
Callestina washed herself carefully, scrubbing until her skin turned pink. From her scalp to the soles of her feet, there must be no dirt to defile her or her request. As she washed, she slowly formed the words she would present before the goddesses, for such a petition must be performed correctly. One wrong word could mis-seal a fate and bring disaster.
After she had washed, Callestina wrapped herself in a robe of silver fox and ermine, for these colors were pleasing to the goddesses. Then she pulled away the furs from one corner of her tent and slowly poured out the water she had washed in, chanting her gratitude to the Mother Earth goddess as she watched it be absorbed back into the ground.
Next, Callestina found the small silver bowl her mother had given her before she died. It was her mother who had taught Callestina the ritual she was performing, as it had been taught her by her mother, who had been taught by her mother before that—back through the generations.
Callestina filled the bowl with honeyed wine, symbolizing the sweetness of life. Rummaging through her clothes, she found her red woolen shawl and from that she cut three lengths of yarn. Red was the color of blood, of both birth and death, over which the Goddesses of Destiny ruled—and it must be yarn, not fur or leather, to honor the craft of the goddesses, the weaving of time. Callestina cut a lock of her own hair, which would symbolize the offering of herself into the goddesses’ care. Finally, she pricked the tip of her finger with a silver pin and let the blood drip into the bowl to mingle with the wine—life and death, sweetness and pain. It was not her woman’s blood, which was the most powerful, but it was blood of her body and she would trust that it would be acceptable to the goddesses.
Highlander: Shadow of Obsession Page 8
