Alexander sat at the desk, a map spread out before him. He didn’t lift his gaze from it as Malachite walked in. As always, the aura of power that emanated from the slim and youthful-looking prince struck Malachite. The atmosphere around Alexander was charged with barely contained energy, like the air before a violent thunderstorm. Though he had been Embraced as a young man and appeared no more than fifteen or sixteen, in truth he was two millennia old. The steely set of his eyes hinted at his age, but in Alexander’s case it was the way he moved—or rather didn’t move—that revealed how truly ancient he was. There was no wasted motion, no idle tapping of fingers on the desktop, no head movements as he examined the map, no shifting about in his seat to find a more comfortable position. He might have been a highly detailed piece of statuary for all the animation he displayed, and Malachite wondered how long he could remain sitting like that if it weren’t for the necessities of feeding and sleeping. Nights? Weeks? Perhaps longer?
Though they had remained in this location for two weeks without incident, and a number of ghouls guarded the camp while the Cainites rested during the day, Alexander was still dressed for battle in mail armor and surcoat with his heraldry emblazoned on the front: a vair, on a pale purpure, with a representation of a golden laurel wreath. The background color was white with repeating patterns of black spots that, if Malachite remembered correctly, were intended to simulate ermine tails. Running down the center of the shield was a broad vertical purple stripe (the color of royalty, of course) and on the stripe was a gold laurel wreath. Malachite, who had spent most of his centuries of unlife in Constantinople, recognized the symbols of imperial power and admitted, despite everything, that they fit this boyish prince perfectly.
“What do you want, Malachite?” There was no irritation in his voice, no feeling of any sort for that matter. Alexander displayed emotion only when he wished to. He continued to stare at the map before him.
“May I ask what you are doing, milord?” Malachite asked.
Alexander’s head swiveled on his neck as he turned to look at Malachite, but the rest of his body remained statue still. “Surely you haven’t come here merely to satisfy idle curiosity.”
“I have come for another reason, but my curiosity is never idle, milord. We Nosferatu are archivists of a sort. To us, all knowledge—no matter how seemingly insignificant—is power.” It hadn’t been such in Constantinople. No, there Malachite had status and respect and no need to hide in shadows and trade scraps of rumor like his cousins in the West. But then, Constantinople was now a relic of its past glory.
Alexander smiled. The effect, as always, was mesmerizing. He was a handsome “youth” with curly black hair and deep brown eyes: a dark Greek god cast in unliving flesh. Malachite experienced an urge to avert his gaze, as if looking into Alexander’s eyes was like staring at the sun itself. But he didn’t look away, for he knew the prince would take that as a sign of weakness, and there was nothing Alexander of Paris despised as much as weakness.
“If I have learned one lesson in my long existence, my dear Malachite, it’s that power is power.” He looked at the Nosferatu for a moment longer, his expression unreadable, before finally turning back to his map. “If you must know, I’m looking at a map of Christendom and pondering the different ways it might be reshaped.”
“In your image?” Malachite asked.
Alexander grinned. “Who else’s?” He looked at the map for another moment before rolling it up and placing it in the trunk with his other documents. He closed the lid and turned to Malachite. “If you have something to say, Nosferatu, you’d best get to it. Dawn draws nigh.”
Though Alexander had referred to Malachite by the name of his clan, there was no derision in his voice as there often was in the voices of other Cainites. The tainted vitae that ran through the veins of all Nosferatu twisted and distorted their forms, making them into hideous monsters and unliving lepers. Malachite knew that the disgust others displayed toward his clan was primarily because their physical appearance was the Mark of Caine made manifest, reminding them that, no matter what any individual Cainite looked like, all were damned. When around others—Cainites and mortals alike—Malachite usually kept the hood of his black robe up to conceal his features, or he used the gifts of his blood to take on a more pleasing seeming, but he didn’t bother to do so in Alexander’s presence. The ancient didn’t care about Malachite’s appearance one way or another. Malachite supposed the prince had seen worse sights in the last two thousand years.
“We have lingered here for the better part of a fortnight now,” Malachite said.
Alexander didn’t respond right away. He sat on the edge of his bed and gestured for Malachite to take the desk chair. The Nosferatu hesitated as he considered the proper etiquette for this situation. Should he take the seat that was offered or should he remain standing? Technically, he wasn’t one of Alexander’s sworn followers, though he certainly was not the prince’s equal either. Malachite doubted that Alexander considered any creature, mortal or immortal, his equal. To him they were all either pawns to manipulate or obstacles to surmount.
The merest hint of
