His Beast had never spoken of such things before. Ordinarily it confined itself to urging Qarakh to give free reign to his fury and to kill without restraint. Qarakh had no idea whether any other Cainites experienced their Beasts as voices in their heads. Grandfather and Alessandro were both scholars of a sort in such things, but as khan, Qarakh felt he could not confide in them. The details of his own struggles were for him alone to know. But why had the Beast chosen to intrude on that particular memory?
Perhaps it hadn’t been the Beast that had selected the memory but rather Aajav—and the Beast had insinuated itself in his message. But what could Aajav have been trying to tell him? Why had he chosen that memory above all others?
Perhaps because it had been Qarakh’s first time going into battle as a Cainite, and not merely any battle, but one against a foe far more powerful than he. Was Aajav trying to encourage him, to tell him that he had no need to fear Alexander, for he had fought powerful foes before and not only survived but prevailed? True, Qarakh hadn’t killed the demon—if such a thing was even possible—but he had kept it from claiming Aajav’s life, which surely counted as a victory.
Yes, he decided. That must be it. Aajav had sent him a message to bolster his confidence before he parleyed with the former Prince of Paris, and his Beast had taken advantage of the opportunity to taunt Qarakh in a way it had never done before. There was no more to it than that.
Feeling certain he had interpreted the vision correctly, Qarakh patted the earth in gratitude. “Sleep well, old friend. I shall return to visit you soon and tell you of my meeting with Alexander.”
There was no reply, of course. There never was.
Nearly a quarter of a mile distant from the mound, behind a large oak tree that he had used as concealment, Rikard watched Qarakh bound off in wolf form toward the tribe’s campsite. He then turned his attention to the two true wolves—ghouls, he guessed—that stood watch over the mound. Once their master had gone, they circled three times and settled down again, heads resting on paws, eyes closed.
Rickard didn’t know which dark deity to thank for helping him spy on Qarakh without being detected, but he was most definitely grateful. He had no special Cainite disciplines to draw on to conceal himself, merely stealth and slyness, but they had been sufficient this night.
After the Mongol had left the burnt-out funeral pyre (and the equally burnt bodies of his two human ghouls), Rikard had followed as best he could, but it had been difficult to keep up with Qarakh’s wolfish form, to say the least. He’d almost lost the chieftain several times, but he persisted and eventually caught up to him. By the time Rikard had arrived, Qarakh had already reached the mound and was sitting on it cross-legged, eyes closed, as if in the grip of some sort of trance, one hand buried within the earth. Rikard had taken up a position behind the oak where he could see and hear well enough thanks to his heightened senses, which were sharp even by Cainite standards. He’d watched and waited. Not that there had been much to see: Qarakh had sat motionless for some time before finally opening his eyes and withdrawing his hand from the soil with a violent motion, as if he’d been startled by something, though by what, Rikard couldn’t say.
He’d listened closely then, hoping Qarakh might give voice to his thoughts, but he said nothing, which had come as no great surprise. The Mongol was not exactly the talkative sort. But then, just before leaving, he said something—two simple sentences that told Rikard everything he needed to know:
“Sleep well, old friend. I shall return to visit you soon and tell you of my meeting with Alexander.”
Rikard nearly laughed with delight upon hearing those words, but he managed to restrain himself. Good thing, too—he doubted he’d survive being discovered here.
There were rumors among the lower-ranking Cainites in Qarakh’s tribe, rumors that Rikard felt certain were exaggerations at best and outright fabrications at worst. But there was one tale, a story of how Qarakh had first come to Livonia with his sire, another Mongol vampire named Aajav who had fallen into torpor for unknown reasons (at least, unknown to those who passed the tale back and forth) and could not be roused. No one knew for certain what had become of Aajav. Some said that Qarakh had taken him back to the steppe and buried him there, while others insisted that he lay sealed in some hidden monastery or castle deep in the Livonian wilds. But Rikard now knew the truth: Qarakh’s sire was interred inside a mound surrounded by a ring of small trees and guarded by two wolves bound by their master’s blood. The question remained, however, how he could use this knowledge to repay the bastard Mongol for cutting his throat and leaving him to roast in the sunlight.
He ran his fingers over his neck as he thought, and then it came to him. He had originally intended to leave the tribe tonight. Perhaps he would do so and go in search of a new master, one who might reward him most handsomely for the knowledge he possessed.
A master like Alexander of Paris.
Chapter Seven
Malachite approached Alexander’s tent, but instead of announcing himself and asking permission to enter, he hesitated. It would be dawn soon. Perhaps it would be better if he waited to speak with Alexander until after nightfall. Malachite was just about to turn and depart, when a voice called from inside the tent.
“Unless you intend to stand there long enough to greet the morning sun, I suggest you come in.”
Malachite hesitated a moment longer, but he
