“The Ventrue have already taken land and domain east of the Danube, Geidas. There is no stopping the inevitable, but I have no quarrel with you personally. You are wise enough to rule, so surely you are wise enough to—”
“Bow down before you? Swear fealty?” Geidas laughed bitterly, and Jovirdas clenched a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I think, Lord Jürgen, that before I become a vassal to the Ventrue,” his tone made it quite clear to Jürgen in what regard the prince held his clan, “I shall wait and see how you fare against the Cainites of this land.” He smiled. “Your predecessor did not fare so well.”
Jürgen smiled back. “Which predecessor? Jervais returned with some very encouraging reports.”
The change on Geidas’s face was immediate and, even to Jürgen, frightening. The prince’s fangs extended and twisted until they resembled hideous blackened barbs jutting from his lip. His nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed until he looked more like a demon than an adolescent boy. Jovirdas took a step back, and Jürgen tensed himself—if the prince attacked him, he would arguably be within his rights to destroy the fiend.
The attack never came, however, for just then the door flew open and two of Geidas’s guards rushed in. They babbled for a moment in their native tongue, and Geidas listened, his face returning to normal. He stepped down from his throne and approached Jürgen; Jovirdas followed close behind him.
“How many Cainites did you bring with you, Jürgen? Of what clans?”
Jürgen had no intention of enumerating his forces to the enemy, but saw no harm in the second question. “Most are of my line or my lady Rosamund’s. My fool is a lunatic, but he’s quite harmless.”
Geidas nodded. “No others?”
Jürgen glanced at Jovirdas, and then sideways at Václav. “No, Prince Geidas. Why?”
The prince whispered something to his sheriff in their language, and then motioned for Jürgen and the others to follow him. “A Cainite was captured on my lands. He killed my vozhd. I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t one of your company before I have him put to the torch.” Jovirdas opened the door, and the Cainites filed outside. Rosamund caught Jürgen’s sleeve and started to whisper something, but Jürgen shushed her. The fiends could probably hear them, and besides, he knew what she was going to say.
Gotzon was here, and the Tzimisce had captured him.
Chapter Fourteen
Gotzon stood in chains, surrounded by guards. He had healed himself from the wounds the Tzimisce guards and the vozhd had inflicted, but his clothes were in shreds and soaked in blood. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved silently as he recited the Lord’s Prayer.
Jürgen’s Beast howled in pain. He fought it down. He could not help his confessor by flying into a frenzy; the guards would simply incapacitate him and then he would have to make restitution for the loss of control.
“So this man did not come to Kybartai in your company, Lord Jürgen?”
“No, Geidas, he did not.” That much was true.
“Very well, then.” Geidas nodded, and Jovirdas plunged a sharpened stake into Gotzon’s heart. Jürgen winced. Gotzon could, of course, have freed himself at any time before that, but his vow prevented him from calling upon the shadows to aid him. With the stake in his heart, however, he was immobilized just as any Cainite would be. “We shall leave him for the sun tomorrow morning.” Geidas smiled viciously. “I understand that Lasombra burn especially slowly in the sun. I shall endeavor to remain awake to see it.” He turned back towards Jürgen. “Where were we?”
Jürgen stared at him numbly for a moment. “We were discussing—”
“Your predecessor, I remember. I was referring, of course, to the other one. The Ventrue elder.”
“Alexander.” Behind him, Jürgen felt Rosamund shudder. It took some control for him not to do so as well.
“Yes, Alexander. He fell in battle to… well, it’s not so important. Suffice it to say that you would have far greater threats than me to face, Lord Jürgen, if you wished to claim domain in these lands.”
“To be sure.” Jürgen nodded, and looked to Gotzon’s torpid body. My confessor, what would God have me do? Save you? Carry on your work and slay these pagans? The fact that Gotzon was here at all was strange; possibly he had followed Jürgen, but just as likely his own crusades against heathen religion had simply crossed his path with the Sword-Bearer’s. The fight against the vozhd had clearly weakened him; since he eschewed his command over shadows, he had only his strength and skill to aid him in battle. These were, of course, considerable, but costly, especially for a Cainite who fed sparingly. Jürgen wondered if Gotzon had chosen to stay his hand against the mortal guards or if they had merely worn him down. The condition of his clothing suggested the latter.
He turned slightly and looked helplessly at Rosamund. He was at a loss; he did not have enough information to make threats or entreaties, as he wasn’t sure which was more appropriate.
Rosamund responded, her thoughts filtering through his like the scent of burning sweet grass across a battlefield—Test. Find his weakness. Show him why you are so feared.
He smiled his thanks to her, and then faced the Tzimisce ruler. “Consider this, Prince Geidas. Suppose I leave your domain and face whatever manner of creature felled Alexander, or members of your clan farther east, and fall. You can be sure that I will take many of them with me, and you can be sure that if I fall, others of my line will attempt to exact revenge. You will then not only be in the way of Ventrue coming from my homelands, but I am sure that the sires and overlords of the Tzimisce I destroy before dying—for rest assured, Lord Jürgen Sword-Bearer will not fall easily—will wonder why you did nothing to warn them or prevent me from intruding.”
“You assume I will not.” Geidas was faltering a bit; Jürgen realized that Gotzon’s attack had shaken him quite a bit more than he was letting on. So Geidas did not create that beast, Jürgen realized, else he would be bemoaning the loss of his own handiwork. Instead, he acts like a young lord who loses a favorite horse—he laments the thing itself, not the time it took to rear and train it.
“I think, Geidas, that I could prevent you.” The Tzimisce began to speak again, but Jürgen raised his hand. “Let me finish. Now, consider what happens if I leave here and go on to face whatever killed Alexander… and win.” A look of fear crossed Geidas’s eyes, for only a second, but both Jürgen and Jovirdas saw it. “You are then stuck between my forces to the west and my new-claimed territories. Von Salza’s knights would find this fort before too long. And then…” Jürgen didn’t bother finishing the thought. He simply waited for Geidas to realize the truth of it all.
“Of course,” the prince said slowly, “I could simply destroy you all before you leave here.”
Jürgen smiled. “Possibly. But you are now missing your war-beast and several of your guards. Most of your servants are near-mindless, so without you to lead them, I seriously doubt they would pose much threat to my knights. And at the moment, you and your sheriff are outnumbered.” Rosamund was no combatant, of course, but Jürgen reasoned that neither the prince nor the tysiatskii would risk that. “You have until sunset to decide on a course of action, Geidas.”
“And then?” Geidas had a sickened, gray look upon his face. Jovirdas shifted uncomfortably; Jürgen looked over the sheriff and decided that if it came to combat, the tysiatskii would have to be the first to fall.
“We shall leave.” With that, Jürgen turned and walked towards his wagons. Václav and Rosamund followed.
“What stops them from attacking us by day?” hissed Václav.
“Nothing,” answered Jürgen, “save that they are subject to the same restrictions we are. I expect they know how many of our knights are Cainites and how many are ghouls—if they have spies worth the title, they’ll have noted which of our company visit the privies and which do not. I am hoping that the prince realizes that my knights and his guards are not equals by any means—he’d have a better hope defeating us if he attacked now.”<
br />
“Why doesn’t he?”
“I believe I have turned the tables, thanks in large part to good counsel.” Rosamund said nothing, but her eyes told Jürgen the compliment did not go unnoticed. “Where before I was concerned about Geidas’s true strength, I believe that he is now equally worried about mine.” Jürgen turned to stare back towards the building where Gotzon was being held. “That does not entirely quell my concerns, however. I have merely made him uncertain; it could well be that Geidas is older and more powerful than any of us. But in any case, I have given him a choice—we must come to accord or to blows.” They reached Jürgen’s wagon, and he nodded to Václav. “Post extra guards here. There’s no point in trying to conceal where we sleep, so we’ll just move the wagon there,” he nodded towards an immense, snow-covered tree, “and make it clear that we expect treachery.” Václav ran off towards the waiting knights. “As for you my lady, I recommend that you stay here with me today.” Rosamund nodded. The suggestion wouldn’t be proper in Magdeburg, but out here in the wilderness, the rules of court changed.
Jürgen’s men began moving the wagon towards the tree. Geidas’s numb-minded servants occasionally blocked their way, but the knights brushed them aside like flies. “Rosamund, you spoke with Geidas?”
“Yes, briefly.”
“What… happened here? Who is Jovirdas, do you think? Certainly not Geidas’s childe.”
“I don’t think so either. I think that Jovirdas is the elder of the two, but not by too many years.” She paused, and took Jürgen’s hand. Something else was troubling her, he could see, but she didn’t put voice to it. “Geidas reminds me of István, somewhat.”
Jürgen tried to place the name. “The emissary from the Arpads, yes? The one who pledged himself to Alexander?”
Rosamund nodded. “He always seemed… trapped. So many of us are, I suppose.”
“Cainites?”
“Scions. We’re trapped by orders and oaths just as a fish is trapped by the mud of the pond. Make too few oaths, and you are seen as untrustworthy and having something to hide. Too many, and your own words bind you tight and cut you to the bone.” A light snow began to fall, and Jürgen cursed under his breath; another delay. Rosamund pretended not to notice. “Oaths are blades, my lord. They are of benefit only when you wield them deliberately, and they care not whom they cut.”
Jürgen squeezed her hand gently. “We have hours before sunrise, my lady. Perhaps we could read from Acindynus’s letters?” Rosamund turned to look at him, and then spoke so quietly that even Jürgen’s heightened senses could barely hear.
“Let me go and speak with Jovirdas.” Jürgen glanced up and saw that the tysiatskii had left the prince’s side and was giving orders to some of the more competent servants. “Let me determine what is truly happening here. At the least it would give us more information.”
“It is a risk, my lady. I have already made my move to Geidas; sending you to speak with Jovirdas might only worsen matters.”
“Then do not send me. I shall go on my own, should anyone ask.”
Jürgen glanced at her. The suggestion was a departure from courtly practice in many ways, but then, they were hardly in court. “My lady—”
“Maybe we can free Gotzon,” she said. Jürgen paused, unsure of what to say.
“Such a risk for a man you so feared, Rosamund?”
Rosamund smiled. “He heard my confession, as you asked, Lord Jürgen. What he thinks of me, I do not know, but I saw more of him than I wished. Whatever else he may be, Gotzon is a godly man, and I think it would be a sin to let him perish here.”
“Possibly so,” he said. “But I still think it too much a risk. I cannot give my consent.” He looked at Rosamund’s eyes, and saw the realization she knew he’d make—she had not asked for consent. She had informed him of her course of action, not asked for permission to take it.
Rosamund walked off into the falling snow, and Jürgen stood there, wondering what had passed between her and Gotzon in Magdeburg. What had she to confess?, he wondered. And did Gotzon follow us here? Too many questions, he thought, and only one way I know to answer them.
Chapter Fifteen
Jürgen stood before his confessor. Three guards stood between them, swords drawn, all looking nervous. At least three more men were hiding nearby. Jürgen imagined they had orders to summoned Geidas and Jovirdas and probably set Gotzon on fire—one of them held a torch a little too close to the paralyzed Lasombra for comfort—if Jürgen tried to free him.
Jürgen had considered it, of course. But snatching the stake from Gotzon’s heart wouldn’t be the end of it—he’d have to open the chains, too. Despite his clan’s reputation for fearsome strength and powers of the mind, it was the unholy command of shadows that Gotzon had chosen to master…
The same mastery that he had forsaken in a vow to God. Jürgen didn’t feel that he could successfully free his confessor without causing the entire fort to erupt in chaos and burn any chances he had at leaving behind an ally rather than a troublesome enemy, and that gnawed at Jürgen’s heart like a jackal.
But perhaps, he had thought while waiting for Rosamund, Gotzon can help me to help him.
Jürgen had never attempted to read his confessor’s mind. His usual distaste for the process aside, the prospect terrified him beyond words. Gotzon was something more than a Cainite; the shadows that he had dedicated untold centuries to commanding had made a hornet’s nest of his undead body. The man actually bled blackness, as Jürgen had once been unfortunate enough to see. Gotzon was always reticent, saying only what he needed to say, and to Jürgen it had always seemed that Gotzon was careful because the blackness inside him was merely waiting for the right word, the right gesture, to facilitate its escape.
Indeed, Jürgen had strong suspicions about the eclipse some two years past, but had never asked Gotzon about it.
Jürgen hadn’t bothered to ask Geidas’s permission to approach the prisoner. He didn’t expect that anyone here could recognize Gotzon or make any connection between him and Jürgen (the enmity between Ventrue and Lasombra was famous, in any case, and it would be a surprise to most Cainites to learn of Jürgen’s relationship with Gotzon) but he didn’t wish to bring suspicion upon himself, either. He stared past the guards at Gotzon, trying to look past the shadows on his face, past his paralyzed flesh, past the frost growing over his eyes.
Blackness. Staring into the night sky wasn’t truly black—there was always light from somewhere. Being underground, in dungeons or caves was closer to this, but…
Jürgen pulled back. He couldn’t face it. He was afraid.
Jürgen’s Beast laughed and demanded that he scream in terror. Jürgen refused, and forced his consciousness into the murk once more.
Gotzon’s body was immobile, but his mind still functioned. Jürgen wanted to know why his confessor was here.
Jürgen saw the blackness once more, and mentally cast about in the dark as a drowning man might hope desperately to find something to cling to. The blackness chilled him, infested him, clawed at his mind. His Beast shrank back in fear, and Jürgen mentally grinned—the Lasombra’s reputations for ironclad control made perfect sense, if the blackness within so cowed their Beasts.
Of course, the blackness had its own plans for their souls, or so Jürgen surmised.
Gotzon? Most Cainites were easy enough to communicate with this way, even while paralyzed so. Gotzon’s mind was apparently spacious enough to become lost in.
—Jürgen? What in Heaven’s name do you want?
Gotzon, I…
The blackness roiled, and Jürgen felt Gotzon next to him.
—Jürgen, are you going to try to save me? Consider, my son, I am already saved.
To be sure, but Rosamund insists upon trying.
The blackness changed. Jürgen was still lost at sea, still foundering in pure nothingness, but now that nothingness grew colder.
—Rosamund? Why? What does she care of me?
I was hopi
ng you could answer that. She gave you confession—
—You know I can’t speak of confession to any except God, Jürgen.
Of course not. Jürgen had expected this response. Can you tell me why you followed me?
—No. Perhaps later.
You do realize you will be burnt in the sun come the dawn?
The darkness began to recede, and Jürgen realized with sick fascination that he was drifting away into the depths, away from Gotzon’s mind. The last thing he heard—felt—from Gotzon’s mind was…
—No, I won’t.
The voice echoed, but Jürgen was stuck, trapped floundering in the black mire of Gotzon’s memory. He heard chanting in a language he did not understand, and moved towards the sound. He saw something—not light, just a place in the murk where the darkness was simply less complete, and saw Gotzon.
Cainites did not age physically, and so Jürgen had no idea how long ago the scene he beheld had taken place. Gotzon’s eyes still had the same intensity, his form the same control, but it was different here. He was somewhat, just somewhat, less sure of himself, a tiny fraction less rigid than when Jürgen had met him.
He wore black robes, and was surrounded by Cainites—all Lasombra, Jürgen guessed—dressed just the same. The shadows in the room pooled about their feet like stagnant water, and periodically a tendril would reach up to caress one of them. One of the vampires spoke, and although Jürgen did not understand his words, in Gotzon’s memory he saw their meaning.
“We will learn the word. With one word, we can bring darkness to the world and walk during the day.”
As Jürgen watched, Gotzon’s face grew hungry. “The cry that slays the light? But who among us—”
“Need you even ask?” The man ended the sentence with a name, and Jürgen understood it to be Gotzon’s true name, the one he had been born with. But he could not repeat it, not even mentally. Gotzon had worked very hard to obliterate that memory. “Of course it shall be you. None of us is so favored by the Shadowed One and by the Abyss that we are worthy to learn the word.”
Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga Page 11
