Come Twilight (71 page)

“And of course I am grateful,” she said, making him a reverence of such submission that it was insulting.

“You had some other plan for escape?” Germanno suggested, not surprised by her response.

“I would have made them release me,” she muttered, looking down toward the river. “The fire will reach them by dawn, in any case. And they have their village to look after before they pursue us.”

“You would have been ashes by then, yourself. Vampires are swift runners but even we cannot outdistance flames.” He dismounted and went toward her.

“They will burn, and I will be glad of it. I will rejoice.” She folded her arms and dared him with her stance to contradict her. “Or will I have erred?”

“You may be right,” he said in a tone that ended their dispute. “And you need to recoup your strength before dawn comes, as do I.”

“So we can run from the fire, too,” she said. “We might as well be one of the living, trying to flee every misfortune.”

“You may stay and die the True Death if you would rather,” Germanno said with an ironic smile. “You are not safe here, Ximene. The villagers may soon be looking for you.”

“They will soon be trying to save their houses and their rigs,” she said, tossing her head to show she put little stock in his warning.

“Possibly, but they will hunt you, as well. The fire will not deter them unless the wind picks up.” He touched her arm in the hope she would look at him. “You cannot wait for the fire to reach them, in the hope that it will save you. We must go, and quickly.”

“Go where? I will not leave my region.” She glanced at him, her eyes flicking away from his. “If they are hunting me, as you say they are, then I would be numb-witted to go back to my fortress. If the fire gets into that defile, the fortress would be a death-trap in any case.” She put her hands on her hips, trying to show her usual authority. “I will have to find another place.”

Germanno saw her desperation. “Have you any place in mind?”

“Not just at present,” she replied, glaring across the river. “All the usual places are no longer safe.”

“Then pack some of your native earth and come with me; you may not want to leave this place, but what is left for you in it—your fortress is lost and your clan is gone. What more keeps you here?” Germanno said, doing his best not to sound impatient. “It may not be the same for you in the wider world, but you will not be hunted.”

“As you are not?” She gave him a speculative look. “You wander the world because you are welcome everywhere?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I am not often despised.” Because, he added to himself, I am not often known for my true nature.

She came up to him. “You are tolerated by men because you hide your power, you make yourself less than you are to reassure them.” She spat to show her opinion of such compromise. “Think what you could do if you had a clan like mine everywhere you have gone.”

“I have thought of it, and I know we would be destroyed by the living.” He saw the doubt in her face and went on, “No clan of vampires is large enough to stand against the living. There are far more of them than there are of us, and they are not as hindered as we are. There was a time, when I was far younger than I am now, when the living called me a demon and I was blind enough to take pride in that name. But over time, I saw the vainglory of it, and I learned to value the brevity of life, and to honor the living. Then I found that power is nothing if it has no use beyond its own perpetuation.” He knew she did not believe him; he fell silent.

“You are ridiculous, Sanct’ Germain, do you know that?” She took a dozen steps away from him. “What use is sympathy for the living, when most of them would kill you if they could? Has your compassion brought you anything but loneliness? We are enemies, the living and the undead. Nothing will change that. I did what I could to preserve my clan, and you know what has happened to them, but I do not deceive myself with pity for those who killed them. By sunrise most of them will be gone, slain by the living whom you say you honor.” Her voice shook with contempt. “You are worse than any of the living.”

He knew it was useless to take issue with her condemnation; he cocked his head in the direction of the river. “Should we not at least get back from the bank and into the trees?”

“Where the fire can catch us more quickly?” She kicked at the sodden hem of her cote. “I will go into the highest peaks where they cannot find me.”

“And start another clan?” he asked, feeling a sudden hopelessness as he watched her.

“No. Not until I can command the region again. It would insult my son’s memory to do less than that.” She squared her shoulder, determination once again taking hold of her. “I will keep myself away from the living for a time; I will live in the highest peaks, where few men venture. I will not leave the crags; they—the living—will forget me in a century or two, and the Viexa Armoza will become nothing more than a tale, a story to frighten naughty children. In time they will bury their knowledge of vampires as they will bury their dead, and none of them will remember how to kill us, or what identifies us. When they are no longer able to fight me and mine, I will come again, restore my clan, and reclaim the region of Holy Blood.”

Germanno considered what she said, and decided not to question her resolve. “How will you live?”

“There will be occasional travelers, or outlaws, or shepherds, or hermits, or knights who will wander into my realm. Not lavish fare but enough to meet my needs. I will be careful. They will all die the True Death from their first time with me.” Her smile was self-satisfied. “It will not be as it has been, but I will not starve. Vampires cannot starve to death, can we?”

“No,” Germanno said, recalling the times in his life when hunger had driven him mad; he shuddered inwardly at the memories.

“Then I have nothing to fear. But you.” She swung around and pointed directly at him. “I told you I would kill you if you ever came to this region again. You disobeyed me, but you brought my son to me, so I pardon you this one lapse. However, you have no more means to bargain with me.”

“Nor do I want one,” Germanno said.

“Therefore in future if you seek me out you had better be prepared to give me the True Death, for I will be ready to give it to you.” She stared at him for a long moment. “If you still think anything binds us, put it behind you; it has no substance with me.” With that she put her back to him and began to walk away from the river.

“Ximene,” he called after her. “Csimenae.”

She did not turn around. “Go away, Sanct’ Germain. The fire is coming. You are not wanted here.”

He watched her until she was lost to sight; there was an emptiness within him, the ache of failure as well as the first pain of loss. Only a shout from the far bank jolted him from his morose reflections; then he looked up and saw half-a-dozen peasants rushing toward the river. “Time to leave,” he said to his roan, and vaulted into the saddle, heading downstream, away from the fording and the path of the wind. Behind him he heard the curses of the peasants and the sound of rocks thrown after him. Would the men be reckless enough to follow him? He doubted it, as he doubted they would track Ximene in the morning. There would be too much to do then, and so long as the Viexa Armoza did not return, the peasants would have more than enough to occupy them. Perhaps, he thought, Ximene was right: in time she would be forgotten if she remained in isolation.

The river grew deeper and faster, and the canyon narrower. Germanno dismounted and led his horse along treacherous trails. He could see the first billows of fire to the north, and knew that by afternoon it would reach him. Overhead the sun hung like molten brass. There were animals at the river already, swimming across the current, attempting to find safety; marten and bear and deer swam with badgers and foxes and ferrets. Some were carried away by the current but many of them straggled ashore near a wide plateau that held the remains of a Moorish watchtower.

Making up his mind almost before he grasped the thought behind it, Germanno swung down from the saddle, untied his two satchels from the cantel, and reached up to pat the smooth dark-blue neck of his horse. “Someone will find you,” he told the animal. “And you can graze on your own for a night or two.” He reached up and unbuckled the throat-latch and pulled off the bridle, flinging it away down the slope. “There. Nothing to catch your head on now.”

The roan nuzzled his arm, knowing something was wrong.

Germanno patted the smooth neck again, then stepped back and slapped the horse on the rump. “Off you go,” he said, waving his arm to signal the horse to move away; the roan obeyed reluctantly, then began to trot in answer to Germanno’s sharp command.

Taking up the satchels. Germanno rigged a kind of harness that tied them to his body. He hoped that they would retain enough of his native earth to keep him from being completely paralyzed by the running water. Then, before he could change his mind, he went to the bank and threw himself into the river; the current caught him and carried him away.

Text of a letter from Lailie, daughter of Rachmael ben Abbas to Teodoziuz Gratziaz, knight of Toledom: written in Greek.

To the most excellent Christian knight, Teodoziuz Gratziaz, the respectful greetings of Lailie, natural daughter of Rachmael ben Abbas.

Esteemed knight, I have in hand your generous proposal of marriage, and I am filled with gratitude that so highly reputed a knight as you would stoop to offer for one so unworthy as I am. I will ask God to show you special favor and to guard you in battle for the goodness you have shown to me.

Because I am fully aware of the splendid tribute you have shown me, I am doubly chagrined that I must regretfully inform you that I have recently accepted the proposal of Bildad ben Uzziah, mercer of Toledom, who has been recommended to me by the elders of the synagogue. He is a widower, with three children, and he has need of someone skilled in languages to advance his business. As great an honor as it would be to become the wife of a belted knight, it is a more sensible decision to marry one of my station in life and who shares my religion.

Were Germanno, Comide Ragoczy, who has been my guardian, here to advise me, I might have made a different choice, but he has been gone for many months, and with only the elders to guide me, I have chosen that which is familiar. With other council, I might have been swayed by your fame and your title, but as it is, I beg you not to despise me for my decision; you may put it to my woman’s frailty, that I cannot convince myself to accept so fine an advancement as you offer.

I cannot help but think your Confessor will be relieved to know you will not take a Jewess as your bride. The Church has not encouraged men of your rank to marry women of my religion, no matter how much of a fortune we might bring with us as dowry. I know my portion is a generous one for a woman of my rank and position, but it cannot be so attractive that you and your Confessor would set aside concerns about marriage outside of your faith.

If you cannot forgive me, then at least I pray you will not take revenge upon me, or upon my affianced husband, or upon my religion. It is I who offends you, no one and nothing else. If anyone deserves your odium, I do. Spare the others your hard feelings, I beseech you, and know you will always have the heartfelt thanks of

Lailie, daughter of Rachmael ben Abbas

at Toledom, by my own hand, on the 9
^th
day of November in the Christian calendar, in the Christian year 1117

Winter had taken hold of Toledom, setting its icy seal on the streets and blotting the sun from the sky for days on end. The odor of smoke hung heavily over the city, some of it from wood, some from tallow. Few travelers ventured out of the gates and fewer still came in. Even the steady flow of soldiers into the city had slowed to a trickle as snow claimed the roads beyond the walls. From the Court to the meanest hovel, the residents wrapped themselves in muffling layers of cloth to keep the cold from numbing their bones and spent as much time before their hearths as they could, drinking hot wine or ginger tea to ward off the worst of the cold.

In the house of Germanno, Comide Ragoczy the fires blazed and lamps shone their little, bright eyes in the encroaching darkness that came early and stayed long. The place seemed empty now that Lailie was married; the Comide himself had not been heard from since the King received a report from him in August; that had come from near Usxa and his silence was considered ominous. Those who feared the worst took care not to mention it to Ruthor, who ran the house for its absent master. Under his order the place was maintained as if its master would return shortly, and be received with appropriate ceremony.

Three days after the Mass of the Nativity, the Comide of Meior Pandexa came to the house; he arrived late in the afternoon on a showy blood-bay. He condescended to speak with Ruthor, although men of high rank did not usually converse with servants, there being no one of a more superior position to receive him. The Comide was very grand in a cote of heavy, leaf-patterned deep-green wool beneath a surcote of damask bronze silk lined in fox-fur; his chaperon framed his face in marten-fur, and he wrapped the hood’s long tail around his neck for extra warmth. He went down the gallery with nods of approval until they reached the main hall, where he stopped. “You are in your master’s confidence, I am told.”

“I have that privilege,” said Ruthor, trying to maintain the subservient manner the Comide expected.

“Privilege it is,” the Comide approved. “Yes. If that is the case, the King himself has asked me to put a most . . . delicate question to you: do you know if your master has prepared his Will.” He coughed once to show the question embarrassed him.

“Yes,” said Ruthor. “He has.”

The Comide was encouraged by this response. “Was it witnessed?”

“It was,” said Ruthor.

“By whom?” This could be awkward, for if Germanno had not used a Christian witness, the Will could be excluded by the Church.