Dark Ages Clan Novel Ventrue: Book 12 of the Dark Ages Clan Novel Saga

by Matthew McFarland

  “My lord?” At her voice, he felt the urge to kneel. He heard her reaching for the candle, and realized that to see her would be…

  “Stop, my lady.” He wondered if his voice, so coarse and boorish next to the music of hers, engendered any of the same feelings. “Please. The door is stuck, and I hear nothing from outside.”

  He heard her stand and approach him. She touched his chest, and even through the steel of his mail, at her touch he felt the urge to weep. He stepped forward to embrace her, and felt something shift on top of the wagon.

  “Moving snow,” suggested Rosamund. Jürgen smiled; that was most likely the case. A snowfall during the day, or wind strong enough to cause drifts, might easily have sealed him in the wagon. He could have escaped through a panel in the wagon’s floor, if necessary, but now there was no need. He listened again, and heard the scraping sounds of spades on snow above him and outside the door.

  “I have been too long at war,” he said, but both Cainites knew he didn’t mean it. “I have no place of respite, no place that isn’t a battle.”

  “No place, my lord?” The voice in the dark was a siren’s, the touch on his chest was God’s own succor.

  “Perhaps…” he frowned. He knew that last night he had been leery of Rosamund for some reason, something about using love for her own benefit. Surely, now that she had drunk from him a second time, surely she wouldn’t deceive him. “Perhaps there is a place for me, my love, where I can rest, and leave my sword far from my reach without fear.”

  His Beast reminded him that he was not in that place, in any event. Jürgen agreed, but did not release her from his arms. “We must be ready; they’ll dig us out soon.” He kissed her, and found her lips to be somehow warmer, somehow fuller, than the night before. He lit a candle, but kept his eyes shut until the light filled the small room. Then, and only then, did he turn his gaze on her.

  She wasn’t watching him, concentrating on dressing herself. The statue was moving now, but still so lovely, so perfect that no living woman could ever dream of what she embodied. She was woman, all of woman-kind, and Jürgen stared at her and knew again what a young man feels. His Beast hated the sensation, and let him know by screaming every foul epithet it could at Rosamund, but Jürgen batted it down with no effort at all.

  Love God, and that is all, Gotzon? Impossible, he thought. How could anyone look upon her and not love her? A streak of jealousy shot through him and he opened his mouth to say that she must never give confession to Gotzon again, but then stopped. That was the madness that had doomed Alexander, the desire to own everything that he loved. Jürgen of Magdeburg decided he would not make that error—he would love her as she deserved to be loved, as a Scion and a lady.

  She finished dressing, and turned to him. Her eyes met his, and he realized dimly that she was seeing him for the first time since they had shared blood the night before. The look in her eyes told him everything, and yet there were no words he could think to say, no move he could think to make, that would prove him worthy of the love in her eyes. And yet the look wasn’t the slavish adoration of a ghoul knight; Jürgen had, in his time, put many such mortals under the blood and never seen emotion such as this behind their eyes. They had all been men, of course, but even so, in Rosamund’s eyes he saw trust that he did not even have in himself.

  The spades’ scraping grew louder, and Jürgen heard Václav’s voice calling to him, but did not respond. He took a step forward, his eyes locked on hers, and knelt. He caressed her hand, kissed her palm, and brushed his fangs over her wrist. He savored the scent of vitae through her skin, prolonging the moment when he would drink of her again, and know salvation.

  She pulled her hand away, and Jürgen’s Beast howled in triumph.

  He stood, his eyes burning into hers, intending to seize her mind and command her to drink. She spoke one word: “Wait.”

  Possibly it was the fact that her eyes hadn’t changed; instead of showing fear when he’d surged towards her, they had remained loving, trusting and genuine. Perhaps it was simply her voice that the Beast feared. In any case, Jürgen stopped, and angrily sent the Beast back into the recesses of his mind. “My lady—” he began.

  “No need,” she said, and kissed him lightly. “I know. I understand.” The spades stopped, and both Cainites glanced up as Václav stepped up to the door of the wagon and knocked. Jürgen slid past Rosamund to open it. Václav stood at the threshold glancing nervously about, and Jürgen noted that the people digging out the wagon were all knights, and all armed. Wiftet stood a small distance off, his dog clutched to his chest, staring at the fort.

  “My lord, we must hurry,” said the knight. “We have only a few hours now.”

  “What’s happened, Václav?”

  “Geidas sent a messenger during the day. He eluded our spies and escaped into the forests, and the watchman was afraid to send knights after him for fear of an ambush.”

  Jürgen nodded. “Wise.”

  “But we don’t know what message he carried, only that he traveled east. Our scouts found evidence, though, that some regular travel occurs between this fort and some destination east of here, but not by mortals.”

  “This trail wasn’t erased by the snowfall?”

  Václav leaned in to his sire and whispered. “It didn’t snow today, my lord, except on this fort. One of the knights walked outside of it, and said that he was staring at a wall of snowflakes, but not a one touched him.”

  “I see,” said Jürgen. Could the Tzimisce control the very weather? He’d heard that some of Jervais’s compatriots could do so, but had never heard any such ability ascribed to the Clan of Dragons. But there were Tremere here, Jürgen knew, so perhaps they had…? That is ridiculous, he thought. Tremere allying with the Tzimisce? That’s as preposterous as…

  …as a Ventrue prince giving confession to a Lasombra priest, he realized.

  “My lord? What shall we do?”

  Jürgen surveyed the camp. A fresh layer of snow covered everything, but if the snow indeed had only fallen on the camp, and Tzimisce reinforcements were on the way, they would be trapped. “Did anyone else leave the fort, or anyone arrive from outside?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Good. Then we’ll proceed as if nothing has changed. I shall issue my challenge to Geidas, and attempt to free Gotzon. In the meantime, keep your men alert and note any movement beyond the fort.” He looked to the other side of the wagon, where Peter, Thomas and Raoul were leaning on their spades, red-faced from exertion. “And make sure they guard their lady well, Václav.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Geidas and Jovirdas stood behind a small wooden table. The only objects it held were two iron cups. Jürgen grimaced as he walked into the room—as he’d feared, the loser of the duel would become partially bound to the winner. While one drink wasn’t enough to stop one Cainite from murdering another, it could provide critical lapses in judgment and timing. He could ill afford such mistakes.

  Jürgen’s gaze left the table and the cups and circled the room. It was a different place from the one he’d been in the night before—obviously Geidas wanted Jürgen to be in as unfamiliar a situation as possible. He had not even been present when Jürgen had issued the challenge; Jovirdas had heard it and issued the terms. “A duel of minds, to be lost by the first Cainite to drink from an iron goblet containing the other’s blood.” But Jürgen had not heard any talk of a second, so why was the tysiatskii in the room at all?

  And worse, why was no mortal present?

  “Am I dueling you both, Geidas?” he asked.

  Geidas sneered at him, his reedy voice especially grating tonight. “You are unfamiliar with our ways, of course. You may have an observer present, Lord Jürgen. Under no circumstances may the observer speak or interfere with the duel in any way.”

  Jürgen nodded, thinking. If they intended to attack him, Václav would be the best choice. Wiftet, although nearly useless in a fight, would not be missed outside, and he might well be a
ble to help keep Jürgen’s mind away from secret topics. But as Jürgen walked to the door and called out for a servant, he already knew whose presence he’d request.

  “She’s quite a diplomat, Sword-Bearer,” remarked Geidas as they waited for Rosamund. “She obviously has great faith in your abilities, as well. Suggesting a duel of minds with me… When I’ve beaten you in this duel, would you like some time to discipline your servants?”

  Jürgen glanced upwards at the prince. “So sure you’ll beat me? Have you so much control over every mortal you see?”

  Geidas looked honestly surprised. “What have mortals to do with it?” Jovirdas said something in their native tongue, and Geidas nodded expansively. Jürgen had the distinct feeling that this exchange had been well rehearsed. “My tysiatskii informs me that among your people, duels of the mind are often fought with mortals as the battlefield. We find that unnecessary here.”

  “Would you enter a sword-duel without knowing until the last moment if your sword was made of clay or iron?” Jürgen glanced about the room, sizing up possible escape routes or weapons. Jovirdas’s hand crept towards his sword. Jürgen decided to stall. “You can’t possibly be less than nine times removed from Caine. I expect this duel to be over in seconds.”

  Geidas smirked like a child about to tattle on his brother. “Nine times? I assure you, Lord Jürgen, that the blood of the Eldest runs more thickly in my veins than that.” He glanced to Jovirdas, who nodded grimly. “Much more thickly.”

  Perfect, though Jürgen. He cocked and ear and listened carefully to the specter of Geidas’s words, still hanging in the air. The lingering memory of the sound held still the truth of what he had said—or the lack thereof, to a Cainite skilled enough to hear lies.

  Jürgen of Magdeburg was indeed skilled enough to do so. He listened, and heard the words again, but in a tinny, echoing timbre. Geidas, however close to Caine he might actually be, did not fully believe what he had just said.

  It was still a gamble to duel directly. But if Jürgen wished to avoid it, he would have to renegotiate the terms of the duel or back down. Neither was acceptable. Trying to decide on a course of action, he turned his attention to the sounds outside the room. A moment later, footsteps in the snow announced her retinue’s approach, and she knocked lightly on the door.

  When she entered, hope entered with her. Doubt and fear slunk quietly away into the snow. Jürgen turned to Geidas and looked at him carefully, studying his bearing, his manner, his clothes and his face, and found nothing but a child-prince, a boy pretending to greater power than he could understand.

  A true duel of minds, then, he thought. Jürgen admitted Rosamund into the room and quietly explained the rules. He looked into her eyes and saw confusion there—she wondered why she had been chosen to accompany him. I shall explain later, my love, he thought, and turned to face Geidas.

  Geidas stood across the table from him and cut his wrist with a dagger from his belt. Jürgen did the same, and both Cainites dripped a small amount of their blood into the iron cups. Jürgen glanced down at the cup before the first drop of Geidas’s blood reached it; it was clean and smelled of nothing but iron. Geidas apparently intended to win this duel on skill alone, and that worried Jürgen more than any possible treachery. He glanced behind the prince at the tysiatskii. Jovirdas stood impassive, staring at Jürgen as though he expected the Sword-Bearer to speak to him. Jürgen heard Rosamund shift her weight behind him, and behind that, heard her guardians waiting in the snow. If there was to be treachery, Jürgen was not without protection.

  But the snowfall during the day nettled him. Either Geidas had allies among Jervais’s so-called “Telyavs” or the Tzimisce held much deeper secrets than Jürgen had suspected. Or, he considered, it was possible that the knight had exaggerated and that the snowfall had fallen on a larger area, perhaps simply more heavily upon the fort.

  Jürgen lowered his hand, the wound already sealing. He drummed his fingers against his side, letting his thoughts clear. He glanced about the room, and realized that if violence broke out, he would be limited to the tiny knife in his belt or breaking a leg from the table. Geidas wasn’t obviously armed, but Jovirdas’s hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword. Jürgen’s Beast suggested, insistently, that he simply attack the two fiends, now, before this absurd duel began, before Geidas had the chance to invade his mind, to see what he felt for Rosamund, before he saw…

  Jürgen silenced the voice, but knew that he could not allow Geidas to see Rosamund in his mind. Geidas seemed to have changed his opinion of Rosamund; where once he had assumed her to be Jürgen’s consort, he now regarded her as a servant, perhaps a specialized mediator. For Geidas to learn what Rosamund truly was to Jürgen would give him an advantage Jürgen could not allow.

  Jürgen’s Beast snickered, and slunk off into the dark of his mind. Jürgen knew that his Beast would become inaccessible during the duel, as focusing on controlling it would provide his mind the distraction it needed to avoid giving information to Geidas. But he couldn’t focus on anything trivial; if Geidas felt so confident in his powers as to allow this challenge, especially with no mortal go-between, he would sweep aside any flimsy memory that Jürgen could call up.

  Jürgen’s hand stole to the cross around his neck. There was a memory, he knew, that he could call up if necessary.

  “Ready, then?” Geidas’s voice was even, but his eyes were unsteady. Jürgen simply nodded, and the two Cainite princes locked eyes. Geidas’s were the color of dead leaves, and he locked his hands behind his back. Jürgen didn’t bother; if he allowed Geidas enough control to force him to move his hands, it wouldn’t matter where they were.

  “Drink,” they chorused, and their minds went to war.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jürgen had never participated in such a duel before. He had been both the victim and (more often) the user of this form of mental control, but never both at once. He felt Geidas’s power like a leaden weight upon his eyes, working its way back into his skull at the same time that his own gaze forced its way past the Tzimisce’s eyes. His eyes seemed to offer no resistance to Jürgen’s mind, but then he found his will caught in a net, trapped in many layers of commands and counter-commands. And Jürgen understood why Geidas had been both confident and unsteady about this duel.

  Geidas was a pawn. Another Tzimisce, an elder whose name Jürgen could not find amidst the morass, had sired this boy and installed him as the kunigaikstis of this tiny domain, and then lent him the vozhd as both protection and a way to make him seem more powerful than he was.

  But who is your sire, Geidas? No sooner had Jürgen mentally asked the question than Geidas’s assault on his mind tripled in strength. Jürgen withdrew his own will, nearly shutting his eyes, to stop himself from succumbing. Obviously that particular line of memories was too well protected to plunder, at least for now. Jürgen had no such protection for his own memories. He would have to rely on misdirection.

  Geidas’s fierce barrage had abated in force, but not in intensity. He was trying to wear Jürgen’s resistance down. Jürgen allowed him deep enough into his mind to see the destruction of the Silent Fury, and suddenly he was there, listening to Brenner thrashing against his fellows in frenzy and battling the Tzimisce woman. He drank her blood and threw her down, as he had before, and knew that next he would destroy her….

  But this time something changed. The sensation he felt when he saw her on the ground wasn’t the slight, easily ignored respect of the first drink, but the all-encompassing adoration of the third. He knelt down beside the Tzimisce woman, and suddenly knew her name—Masha—and she tilted her head back, black curls falling lightly over her neck, and beckoned him to drink.

  Jürgen glanced down in the memory and saw his hand reaching forward. He stopped the motion and locked eyes with the woman, his gaze bearing down upon her like a hawk to a mouse. He drew back a mailed fist and smashed it into her face, fighting through the false blood oath. He heard bones crack, but undernea
th he felt something else give, something more ephemeral than bone or flesh, and the scene faded. He was standing in the snow, now, looking out into a storm, and cold, angry….

  This wasn’t his memory, he realized. He foundered for control, but was stuck in the vision. The snow covered him; he could find no handhold, no way to regain himself.

  He was Geidas, the man, the youngest son of a mortal kunigaikstis, a boy who lived in fear of the night-monsters his mother told him about. He had seen his older brother carried off into the night by a man on a horse, and now he waited in the snow, waited for the man to return his brother to him, waiting for sunrise, waiting to find his way home.

  The man on the horse returned. Jürgen peered up in hopes of seeing and perhaps recognizing this man, but the snow and wind obscured his face.

  Geidas. The man’s voice barely carried over the wind, and yet Jürgen shivered anyway. Your brother is dead. He chose to fight me, and the Beast claimed him.

  Jürgen’s eyes burned with tears. He still could find no way to fight this; he was Geidas, and Geidas was inside his mind.

  Geidas, the man continued, you are young and weak, and so I despise that I must take you into the night. But I have need of one such as you.

  “Such as me?” Jürgen found his mouth forming the words.

  The man didn’t answer, but spurred his horse on and grabbed Jürgen by the scruff of his neck. He hoisted Jürgen up to his horse and closed his fangs around the boy’s neck.

  Jürgen grabbed for the knife in his belt and found it was missing.

  The Kiss began to overwhelm him. It began with searing pain and then became a smooth coolness that covered his entire body, numbing him to the stinging wind, the ache of the saddle beneath him, the pain of the fangs in his neck.

  He felt himself dying. He tried to raise his arm and found he could not.