The Rift Walker (5 page)

“Gareth, can't you even pretend to care about your people?”

“I care, Cesare. More than you know.” It took all of Gareth's reserve to maintain an air of disinterest when speaking to his despised brother. He was seething over their father's terrible condition, which Cesare supervised. He wondered how difficult it would be to assume the care for Dmitri, or even to remove him to Edinburgh. That would certainly be impossible. “I must say, I admire the new version of the events surrounding your capture of Princess Adele where you've somehow come out the victor.”

“I am the victor.” Cesare laughed loudly and slapped Gareth on the back. It was an act that surprised Gareth at first; his brother was never one for cheerful bonhomie. But this was, in fact, an act of superiority. The younger prince was so secure in his hold over the clan now, he could flaunt it with displays of filial affection that neither brother felt. As with all things between them, it was nothing but pretense. “I'm so powerful now, I even control history.”

The two princes strode the musty corridors of Buckingham Palace, and Cesare moved through his domain with complete confidence. He was fine-boned but powerful, with close-cropped hair. He was prone to smug expressions and icy glares, and he enjoyed making dramatic gestures with his hands because he liked to watch them move. He tugged the cuffs of his formal coat and checked the cravat that had been carefully tied by a human slave. Cesare took pride in his appearance. Most vampires were festooned in garish combinations of colors and styles, even mixing clothes typical of male and female. They wore human clothes not because they needed to, since the cold didn't affect them, but because they liked to mock humans. Living as parasites scuttling in the dark for millennia had made vampires particularly showy conquerors.

“This is what you want anyway, Gareth.” Cesare continued his bubbling chatter. “You don't want to be king after father dies. You want to play brooding benefactor to your herds in Scotland. I still don't know why you felt compelled to meddle when I captured the princess, but I forgive you. You've stayed quiet the last few months, and you sulked around London without bothering me.” The younger prince attempted a sincere, “Thank you, Gareth.”

The Scottish lord's sharply chiseled face remained down without apparent reaction, and Gareth wished again he had killed Cesare when he had the chance. His jaw was clenched tight against the urge. Unlike the blatantly sartorial Cesare, the elder prince was in his trademark simple black trousers and frock coat, highlighted by a bright white shirt. His arms were clasped behind his back. His dark hair was a little longer and wilder than normal.

Cesare continued, “It's best you steer clear of politics anyway, Gareth. Thanks to your ill-timed interference in the spring, the Equatorian princess escaped me. That loss means that the Equatorian-American alliance continues. For now. I hear reports of airships massing at bases in Gibraltar and across the sea in Cuba. Had you just stayed away, the princess would be dead now, as would the butcher Clark. The war would be over and I would have won. As it is, I have work to do. Fortunately, I have plans in place that will strike at the heart of Equatoria, and this time I will tear it out.”

Gareth's stride almost broke, but he caught himself and continued walking beside his conniving brother. “What do you mean? What are you planning?” He looked up, staring hard at Cesare with dark intensity from inside his icy blue eyes. His brother's words frightened him. Cesare did not boast, at least not idly. The elder prince feared new schemes targeting Adele. Whether or not she was Equatoria's heart, she was certainly Gareth's.

The brothers reached a door where Cesare's bailiff, Stryon, waited patiently. As Cesare checked his suit, he said to Gareth, “Here we are. Listen to me, on the other side of this door are the keys to my new grand alliance to counter the humans. Three clan leaders from Europe and North America. King Ashkenazy of Budapest. King Draken of Munich. And the amazingly still-living Queen Fen of New York.” Cesare paused to eye his companion with enormous self-satisfaction.

Gareth felt his breath quicken with surprise, but he struggled to maintain a steady stare. Three clan rulers here at Cesare's beck and call. It was an amazing feat given the increasingly fractious politics of the clans since the Great Killing. And it was startling proof of Cesare's political skill and growing power.

Cesare said in a confidential tone, “Now, King Ashkenazy and King Draken are completely with me on the war. Queen Fen has concerns, the vile hag. We can't wait, of course. If we wait, we die.” He took his brother by the arm and whispered, “Gareth, if I need you to seduce that old crone, I'll give you a sign. Females seem to fancy you. Even my Flay would've turned against me for you, I think.”

Gareth started with true surprise. It was shocking enough that Cesare was including him in his plans, even in a half-joking way. But Cesare's former war chief Flay had indeed offered to betray her master for Gareth before her death in Scotland. He couldn't tell if Cesare knew or suspected or was just making a jest.

Cesare shook his head in annoyance at the conference to come and said, “Follow my lead,” by which he meant
don't cross me
, but it sounded more pleasant.

The chamberlain swung back the door, and the two princes entered the spacious chamber, once grand but now mildewed and faded, to find the three rulers waiting. Two males were finely attired in dress uniforms of old central European style, and an aged female wore a gown of shimmering silk.

“Your Majesties!” Cesare boomed. “Thank you for meeting with me. These matters shouldn't detain you long. Once we finish here, you can enjoy the prodigious hospitality of our clan.”

The aged queen of New York shifted with a rustle of plentiful fabric. She turned her sallow, bloated face to Cesare. “We may not be so close as you imagine, young prince. I am not satisfied. Not at all.”

Cesare reared back with pretended concern. “Indeed? I am saddened by that. Then we shall address all your issues, Queen Fen.” He smiled. “Oh forgive me. I have the honor to present my brother, Gareth of Edinburgh.”

Gareth bowed, noting the absence of the title
prince
in his introduction and the fact that his realm had been reduced from a nation to a city.

King Ashkenazy of Budapest was young, younger even than Cesare, and had recently displaced his father. With newfound power he had launched a series of stunning raids in the southern Balkans. Once thought a rival of Cesare's for leadership of any clan alliances, the two upstarts seemed to have formed a bond. Ashkenazy was tall and willowy thin, pale even for his species. His blond hair hung straight to the small of his back. He wore a relatively restrained uniform of navy blue, with highly polished shoes and a half cape thrown off one shoulder. He fidgeted nervously with the unpleasantness of a writhing eel.

Draken of Munich was heavier and more stable; in fact, he was virtually immobile. He had a florid, pleasant face with eyes full of perpetual distrust. He said little and meant less. Draken loved garish uniforms—today he wore scarlet trousers and a violet tunic festooned with gold braid on the shoulders and collar. His round chest and belly jangled with old decorations of valor nestled alongside strings of finger bones and human teeth. On his head he wore a helmet with a silvery peaked crest on which one of his human slaves had painted the image of a skull.

Queen Fen croaked again. “And where is my old friend, Dmitri? I should not like to come across the sea to treat with a boy.”

Cesare nodded gravely and calmly, but Gareth noted with satisfaction that his brother was growing irritated.

“The king is unwell,” Cesare replied with appropriate sadness. “His age is great, as you surely know. He is the oldest of the clan kings. Fortunately, I have been his right hand for years, so there is no distance from my ear to his. I am, for all intents and purposes, the king of Britain.”

The three rulers turned their heads as one to Gareth for his reaction to a virtual coup d'etat by his younger brother. There was none. Gareth stood complacent and complicit.

The queen was in a fractious mood. “Nothing from you, Prince Gareth? You are the heir, are you not?”

“Indeed I am, Your Majesty.”

“Do you leave all these matters to your brother?”

“Indeed I do, Your Majesty,” Gareth said, with a grim visage. He thought of Adele, and any thought of distancing himself from his brother's counsel faded.

“Excellent,” Cesare crowed and puffed with satisfaction. He clasped his hands behind his back and strolled across the room. “Now that we've settled that, shall we get down to it?”

“Very well.” Fen tapped her cane on the marble floor with vigor. “It's none of my concern how you Brits run your affairs. Here it is, then. While you European clans have sufficient combined power to meet the Equatorians, I am left against the Americans. Am I to face them alone, only to watch the rival clans in Chicago, Boston, and Montreal pick my weakened bones once the fighting is done? Those wretches itch to usurp my kingdom.”

King Ashkenazy of Budapest shivered, and his head convulsed with a strange palsy. “Have you no friends at home?”

“I have my allies,” Fen responded icily. “But perhaps you are unaware, boy, of the situation in North America. Our southward range is more limited. Our frontier is longer and more unsettled.”

“Half your continent is unpopulated,” the willowy Ashkenazy hissed.

The old crone scowled at the king. “We have organized human resistance as far north as Washington. I have had to slaughter Philadelphia twice! The heat is great far into the north. It is difficult for us to maintain complete control year round. Even in New York, the summers drive us north or nocturnal, far more than any of your kingdoms. If I have to fight the American army plus the rebels, as well as the other clans who hate me, I could lose all my territory. What are my guarantees? Will you send packs to serve me?”

A tense silence dragged until Gareth said, “If I may?”

Cesare froze in place with a question that was a warning. “You wish to speak?”

“I do.” Gareth took a moment's pleasure at the consternation in Cesare's face. “Queen Fen's concerns are well taken. The situation in North America is different than in Europe. Or even in Asia. I would offer her this guarantee. She can, no doubt, defeat the invading American forces that are primarily aimed at retaking the major cities of the east coast of the old United States, which is largely her domain. Those Americans will be extended from their bases in Cuba and Mexico. But we have no doubt her packs can contain them until winter sets in when the Americans can be driven back to the tropics. Once we settle here with the Equatorians, we'll guarantee to provide Her Majesty packs to help secure her territories. And more, we will assist her to destroy the Boston clan and assume their properties.”

The two European kings froze as Cesare slowly lowered his head, glaring at Gareth. Before any of them could speak, the aged queen snorted with laughter and stamped her cane on the floor with a crack and pointed it at Gareth.

“Done! Thank you, Prince Gareth. Finally some wisdom from the British clan.” Fen gave Gareth a peculiar crinkle of her eyes. “Under those conditions, my clan and allies will go to war. Cesare, send a war chief to New York to consult. I will leave my son here for the same reason.”

Ashkenazy and Draken deferred to Cesare for reaction. The young British prince took a breath and smiled warmly at his brother.

“The alliance is agreed, then. And no doubt once word reaches the provinces that you dread lords have combined forces, other clans will rush to join us. Perhaps, Queen Fen, the Boston clan will even join hands with you for the coming war.”

“That would be fine,” the queen snarled. “But I still want to destroy them afterwards.”

“Quite. And so you shall.” Cesare rubbed his clawed fingers together. “A new day has begun. We will see the most magnificent vampire force since the Great Killing and we will drive the humans back into their dark ages again.”

T
HE
R
IVER
W
YE
in Wales cut through an enchanted land of stone circles, many broken and tumbled to the ground. Once it was believed that dragons and wee folk lived beneath the ground. Those were myths. Vampires were not.

The Great Killing of 1870 had struck deep in Wales, as it had across all of the British Isles. Much of the population had been slaughtered. Humans across Europe fled to the tropics when they learned that the equatorial regions were free of vampires, and many Welsh joined the southward trek to escape the horror.

Those people left behind found life difficult, but not impossible. The vampires spent little time in Wales. They would raid for food and to shatter human attempts at consolidation of power, but the creatures didn't seem to care for the lovely green hillsides. Clan lordlings who did settle there frequently deserted their territories for other areas, which was why some of the villages of the Welsh heartland thrived in ways few others across Britain could.

The geomancer Selkirk knew why vampires preferred to avoid Wales. Skilled in knowledge of the Earth, its minerals and strata and, more importantly, its energies, he knew that the very earth of Wales gave off a taint that vampires abhorred. Vampires were visceral things, tied by their senses to the natural world. The interaction between vampires and the earth was not well understood, yet. It was the job of a geomancer, at least of Selkirk, to use his knowledge to study the earth's impact on vampires. That was why he had spent the last few years in Britain, which is what had allowed him to encounter the people of Trellech.

Selkirk smelled the cooking fires of the village and his stomach rumbled with anticipation. He took one last reading with his geolabe, a small brass instrument that resembled a marriage of a sextant with an astrolabe. Equipped with the proper stones, the geolabe was an essential tool for tracking the ley lines of the earth. The geomantic energies of those lines could repel vampires, and certain people could harness those energies to hide themselves from the creatures' extraordinary senses, although it required great knowledge and concentration. Selkirk had such knowledge.

The geomancer had almost lost the guilt he felt first coming to Trellech. Years ago in Alexandria, his teacher had told him, repeatedly and forcefully, to maintain his isolation while traveling in Britain. He was to stay hidden from both vampires and humans. Observe. Record. Report. Be dispassionate and scientific. The humans of the north were nothing more than the vampire's cattle. Engaging them only increased the chances of discovery by vampires, and death.

Selkirk had kept that stern counsel for more than a year after he arrived on the British shore near Plymouth. He traveled, recorded and mapped the lines. He compiled an admirable notebook of geographic and geomantic coordinates. Southern England. The Eastlands. Up toward York. Into Scotland. Down through the Lake District. It was slow, painstaking, achingly lonely work. He saw humans often, of course, but they rarely saw him. Sometimes they were nothing more than naked or ragged herds subsisting on roots and berries, just as he'd been told.

Other times, however, they were different. More often than not, they lived in villages and towns. They farmed, sometimes quite rudely, but still eking a living from the soil. They smiled and laughed. Fought. Played with children.

Selkirk also watched humans being killed by vampires. Twice, without warning, he saw the skies darken with floating shapes and peaceful villages were culled while he disappeared into the embrace of the lines. The creatures departed, leaving the dead behind along with the sure message that life was not certain nor peaceful. These humans in Britain subsisted every day under the threat of extinction.

Selkirk had assumed he would be unmoved by the violence. After all, it was no more than a farmer slaughtering a goat for a feast. The more he saw of these humans, however, the more he ached when witnessing their deaths. They were not animals; they were individuals.

Now, as Selkirk entered the bustling Welsh village of Trellech, he saw familiar faces. And he smiled, as if returning home. There were friendly waves and comfortable nods. He heard reedy music and beautiful voices singing. Festival time.

Selkirk had grown up alone on the streets of Alexandria. His mother worked various jobs to buy hashish. He had been sullen and withdrawn, a poor student with no friends, and destined for a short life in the alleys, or perhaps the army, if they'd have him.

Then one day, when he was about twelve years old, a kindly old man had stopped to speak. It was only years later he learned the old man's name was Sir Godfrey Randolph. Selkirk had seen the man before, wandering the alleys of Karmouz, not a proper neighborhood for such a man. But men of grace and position often came to Karmouz. Sometimes they came home with Selkirk's mother, stinking of wine or hash.

However, this man didn't want anything from the blond-haired boy except his name and the answers to a few odd questions, in exchange for several pennies. The old man held out his two closed hands. “Which hand holds a stone, my lad?”

Selkirk knew. He didn't guess. He knew. As if he could smell the stone through the man's fingers.

The old man shifted the stone behind his back and held out his hands once more. Selkirk knew again. He knew twenty times in a row. Then the old man handed the stone to Selkirk and asked the boy what he felt. He felt green and wet, and he could smell strange spice in the air.

The old man produced a folded map of the world and asked the boy where the stone came from. Selkirk laughed. How could he know that? But he pointed to an island labeled
Java.
The old man smiled. Keep the stone, he had said, and if Selkirk was kind enough to meet him tomorrow, there would be more pennies.

Selkirk waited there all day and through the night, afraid that other boys would come and take his spot and get his pennies. There were so many other boys who were stronger and smarter and more handsome. The old man might like them better if he saw them.

The next day, the old man came again, but accompanied by an Asian man in a linen suit whom he would later learn was named Mamoru. The friendly old man replicated the trick with the stone in his hand many times, and Selkirk was always right, including one time when the Asian man was actually holding the stone instead of it being held by the old man. Then came the map, and it was hardly unfolded before Selkirk pointed to Java again and said, “Green and wet.”

The Asian man seemed disappointed, but the old man laughed and said, “This stone today, lad. Not yesterday. Today.”

Selkirk's heart pounded. He had thought they just wanted him to repeat yesterday's tricks. He looked at the men hoping they would tell him. He just wanted to please these grand men and get their pennies and hope for the promise of more pennies.

The Asian man shook his head and tapped his stick on the ground. “No. He was impressive, but no. Keep an eye on him, but I don't want to take him.”

“Brown,” Selkirk blurted out. “Dry grass waving.”

The old man smiled and held up the map. The boy had to stop himself from pointing at Java again. His hand moved slowly down and left. His dirty nail touched the word
Ulundi
in southern Africa.

The Asian man nodded and turned. “Bring him.”

Selkirk never saw his mother again. That day, he left Alexandria for a school in Siwa, and then, after a year, he went off to Mamoru's school on Java in the South Seas, where he joined a wonderful new family of burgeoning geomancers and scholars of the occult. But then, just as he began to feel comfortable and needed, he was sent on an extended mission to far-off Britain, where the cold and the silence of his own head enveloped him.

Today, Trellech was crowded. People gathered and smiled and laughed. Quite a few were drunk. In one of the grassy squares, Selkirk clapped along with a group of men doing an intricate dance, hopping and clicking long sticks together almost in martial style. They were accompanied by fiddle and flute. He smelled meat grilling and noticed several lambs sizzling on spits.

A voice shouted his name. A man waved and came over. Richard Goronwy wore a long black waistcoat with a white collar that denoted his rank as religious leader. He greeted Selkirk with a broad grin and slapped a leathery hand on the geomancer's shoulder. “Welcome back, my boy! Welcome back!”

“Thank you, Reverend Goronwy. I'm glad I didn't miss the festival.”

“You made it, Mr. Selkirk. It's still Whitsuntide. In fact, tomorrow I lead the service of prayer and thanksgiving at Tintern. You'll come, of course?” The Welshman's English was good, but his accent was thick with regional syrup.

“Yes, of course. I want to see it.”

Reverend Goronwy was tall, with a neatly trimmed grey beard, and long white hair that spilled out from beneath a round black hat. He was a man of position in Trellech, a figure of religious and social authority. The locals called him “Vicar.” He conducted religious services for the people of the area, but also took great interest in the occult knowledge of the earth, as Selkirk understood it. Their shared fascination had brought them together and made each man look forward to their next meeting, when they could share more information. Selkirk had learned a great deal of the provincial ideas about faith and spiritual power, and how those things could fight vampires. He hoped these ideas would surprise and delight Mamoru, Sir Godfrey, and the others in Alexandria.

Goronwy said, “You've grown thin on the road. Will you step into my home and eat?”

Selkirk pushed back his greying blond hair and scrubbed his beard. “Thank you. I must look frightful.”

They reached a fine white house near the center of town, and Goronwy let them inside. With the sounds of Whitsuntide shut out by the door, the vicar instantly tossed his hat aside and pulled off his ecclesiastical collar.

Within moments, there was soup, bread, and beer on the table in front of Selkirk. The smell of it gave him a wonderful feeling of belonging. He relished it as he dove into the meal.

The vicar drummed his fingers impatiently on the geomancer's rucksack, watching his young friend eat. “Is it good?”

“Yes. Very.” It had been weeks since he had eaten a decent meal in good company, or even spoken to anyone, and he was enormously comforted by his surroundings.

“Good.” The older man pretended to notice the pack. “Where have you been these last months? Any new information?”

Selkirk said around a mouthful of bread, “I found a settlement called Hawkshaw that hasn't seen a vampire in living memory. I mapped a stone circle nearby. Not visible, but I found it easily enough. The energy from it was immense. Not far from the village's old church.”

“So they're like us here in Trellech?”

“Yes. Not nearly so large, nor organized. But they have religious services, as you do. They claim it protects them from vampires. Plus they are sending pilgrims out, trying to spread that information to other communities. Very interesting.”

“Yes. I should say so.” The vicar tapped the traveler's rucksack. “Oh, I've arranged a supply of bluestone for our experiments.”

Selkirk stopped eating and looked down at the table a trifle embarrassed. “I don't know if I'll have time, Reverend.”

“Why? Well, no matter. We can do it when you come back next time, if you wish.”

The geomancer took a deep breath of regret. “I have to leave Britain.”

“What?”

“My commission is for two years. I hate to leave, but I must return to Equatoria to report my findings in detail. For the war.”

Dejected, Goronwy shook his head slightly. “Don't leave. There's so much more we need to discuss.”

“I'm sorry. I must. I may be back. But I don't know where I'll be sent next time.”

“I wasn't expecting this.” The old man sat back dolefully. “Well, you won't depart for a few days at least, will you? You need to rest.”

“I'll stay a while. Perhaps we'll get in a few experiments before I go.” Selkirk hated to disappoint his friend of these many months, but there was no way he could postpone his return home for long.

The Welshman smiled gratefully. “That would be grand.” Selkirk yawned and Goronwy said, “Sleep now, lad. My son's old room upstairs is ready for you, as always.”

The geomancer downed the last of the warm, foamy ale. “Thank you. I am tired. It's been a difficult trip. I'm grateful for all your kindness. You've made my time in Britain bearable.”

Goronwy replied, “You're welcome. I daresay I've gained just as much from our time together.” He laid his hand on Selkirk's rucksack.