The life of a mortal servant to the tribe wasn’t always an easy one, and on some level he was happy that Pavla had found release. He supposed he had loved her, though it was difficult to say. It was true that they had lain together and had both found pleasure in it, but the act was nothing compared to simply being in the presence of their master, let alone taking in his holy blood. So though he felt sadness at Pavla’s passing and anger at their master for taking her life, the emotions were muted and distant, almost as if they belonged to someone else who had only told Sasha about them. He wondered if he’d still feel them tomorrow night, or if he would remember feeling them at all.
Sasha was used to serving his lord at night, and though his senses were nowhere near as keen as those of the khan, he was suddenly aware of a presence in the clearing. At first he thought it might be the priestess Deverra, come to offer a benediction for Pavla. But when he turned, he saw that the newcomer was a male Cainite, one of the recent additions to the tribe.
He smiled at Sasha, though he eyed the burning pyre nervously and kept his distance from it. “It appears that your master has decided that one ghoul is sufficient for his needs.”
Sasha didn’t respond. Though he was subordinate to any Cainite tribesman, his master was the khan, and that gave him a certain amount of status. He didn’t feel bound to answer.
The Cainite’s smile turned sly and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Shall we see if he can make do without any at all?”
Before Sasha could react, the Cainite was upon him.
Qarakh stood before the smoldering remains of a crude funeral pyre upon which rested two burnt and blackened bodies. After leaving Arnulf, he had returned to the camp where he had picked up Sasha’s scent and followed it here. True to his word, the ghoul had taken care of disposing Pavla’s body, but it seemed he had also decided to dispose of his own in the bargain. Qarakh should have been pleased. If nothing else, Sasha had done his work for him, as a faithful servant should, but he felt ambivalent. These two had been his only human ghouls, and he had no childer. The bonds of such relationships were difficult for one with a nomad’s heart, and they always seemed like cheap imitations of the true love-bond he had with Aajav, one that had started in life as blood brothers and carried over through the half life of drinking Aajav’s blood and then into his Embrace. He should have been relieved to be free of such ties, but for some reason he wasn’t. Could Sasha have truly cared for Pavla so much that he refused to live without her? Could those servants have shared something as strong as his bond with Aajav?
It was all too confusing. He needed to clear his mind and regain his focus before setting out to parley with Alexander, and there was only one person who could help him do that.
He took wolf form and bounded away, leaving the clearing and the earthly remains of two mortals who had meant more to him than they should have.
As soon as Qarakh was gone, Rikard stepped out from behind the tree where he had been hiding. He had been afraid the Mongol would smell him, but it seemed the stink of burnt flesh had concealed his scent.
Before slaying Qarakh’s ghoul, Rikard had persuaded the mortal to tell what he’d learned during the Mongol’s war council. Servants often overheard more than their masters thought, and the ghoul had been no exception. And thus Rikard had learned a most interesting tidbit of information: Alexander of Paris had come to Livonia.
When he had finished questioning the ghoul—who had little more to add—Rikard drained the mortal dry, then tossed him onto the pyre and remained to watch him burn (from a safe distance, of course). He had still been watching when Qarakh drew near wearing the body of a wolf. While Rikard possessed no such shape-shifting abilities himself, his Cainite hearing was more than sharp enough to detect Qarakh’s approach (when he paid attention, that is), and he’d manage to vacate the clearing and make it to the trees in time to hide himself before the khan’s arrival. He had watched Qarakh standing before the pyre, face impassive, expression unreadable as always, before the chieftain returned to his animal form and departed.
Rikard was disappointed, though he couldn’t say exactly why. He’d known better than to expect any great show of grief from Qarakh over the loss of his ghoul. Killing the kine had been a small act of petty revenge, and Rikard had known it. Still, now that he’d seen how little impact the mortal’s death had had on Qarakh, Rikard was filled with a desire to strike back against the Tartar in a way that would, if not destroy him, at least harm him significantly.
He touched his throat before following after Qarakh.
Chapter Six
Across fields of grass stirred by restless night winds, through stands of trees where shadows danced with darkness, Qarakh ran until he reached a small hill encircled by oak saplings. Deverra had planted the trees herself—as she and her fellow Telyavs had at many sites across Livonia—with the intention that they would one day become a holy grove. But that day was decades in the future, and Qarakh hadn’t come here with worship on his mind. He’d come to visit an old friend.
He slowed as he neared the hill and once again took human form. As he walked toward the ring of trees, two wolves that had been lying at the bottom of the hill rose to their feet and trotted to intercept him, warning growls rumbling in their throats. Qarakh was downwind of the
