Alexander’s delicate lips formed a small smile, and Malachite sensed he had just failed some sort of test.
“As you say, it has been two weeks since we made camp here, but I fail to see the significance of the fact. Don’t tell me that you’ve grown restless, Malachite. For our kind, two weeks pass as swiftly as two hours do for mortals. Perhaps it’s the… simplicity of our accommodations? The wilds of the Livonian countryside hardly provide the same comforts that you once knew in Constantinople, do they?”
Malachite knew Alexander was baiting him, but he still felt a surge of anger at the gibe. He felt the need to take a breath—not because his undead lungs craved air, but out of reflex remembered from a time when his body breathed deeply to calm itself. He managed to keep from inhaling, though. He’d already failed one of Alexander’s tests. He didn’t relish failing another.
“When you asked me to accompany you to Livonia, it was my understanding that I was to serve as your advisor.” Malachite allowed himself a smile. “It is somewhat difficult to perform that duty when the one I am to advise does not share his thinking.”
Alexander looked at him, not moving, not blinking. When he finally spoke, his tone was amused, though there was a coldness in his eyes. “As I recall, it was you who asked to accompany me.” He held up a hand before Malachite could respond. “Your point is well taken. But there is a simple reason why I haven’t told you more than I have: There is as yet nothing to tell.”
Malachite frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Alexander’s chuckle sounded almost human. “I’m being disingenuous. I should say rather that I am still in the process of gathering information. When I have acquired enough, I shall it mull it over, and then when I am ready, decide what my next move shall be.”
“While I understand the need to perform a certain amount of reconnaissance, how much is truly necessary in this situation? We have come here at the behest of Lord Jürgen to subdue pagan Livonia which, from what little I have seen, is nothing more than an expanse of trees and grasslands broken only by the occasional human settlement.” At least, that’s why Alexander had come to this land. Malachite had a far different reason—one that he had no intention of sharing with the fallen prince.
At the mention of Jürgen’s name, Alexander grimaced as if he’d just tasted disease-ridden blood. “I’ve come here for my own reasons, not to serve a petty German prince.” He spoke the word serve as if it were an obscenity. “And subduing this land won’t be as easy as you imply. We are here to deal with this Tartar chieftain Qarakh who seems to have established a Cainite tribe of sorts here. He defeated a band of Black Cross knights and Sword-Brothers last year. I must know more about the size and strength of the Tartar’s tribe before I can effectively plan my strategy.”
Malachite was unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “I don’t see the need for any elaborate plan of attack. It is my understanding that Tartars are like the Turks we Greeks faced in Anatolia: savage raiders, yes, but little more than wild men and nomads. They can’t possibly match the skill and experience of your men. I would think—”
“But you are not thinking. That is the problem.”
Malachite had survived a very long time as a Cainite, and he knew better than to judge his kind by their apparent age. Nevertheless, given Alexander’s youthful appearance, Malachite couldn’t escape the feeling that he was being reprimanded by a child. The anger and frustration that had been roiling within him now threatened to fuse into a blazing fury, and he knew his Beast was close to breaking the mental chains with which he kept it bound.
Evidently Alexander sensed it too, because Malachite felt waves of calm emanating from the former Prince of Paris. Cainites were always wary of the Beast rising in others, for it could provoke theirs to come to the fore as well. Alexander’s personality and will were so strong that he could inspire emotions in others with relative ease, be it submission, courage or calm. It was one of the things that made him an effective leader.
Malachite felt his Beast recede into the back of his mind, where it would lair and wait, ever vigilant for the next opportunity to escape.
Alexander continued as if nothing had happened. “As you pointed out earlier, you understand the value of information. Why then should it seem strange to you that I am biding my time?”
“Because it is unlike a lord at the head of a force of knights,” Malachite admitted, though he feared Alexander would be insulted. “I would expect you to march your forces straight into the enemy’s territory and demand that he fight or surrender.”
Alexander shook his head, the motion so slight that it was almost undetectable. “Ah, chivalry. God and the Devil save me from that foolishness.”
Malachite winced at the blasphemy. Though he was one of the Damned, he nevertheless considered himself a Christian. Many Cainites believed their condition was a test—or punishment—delivered by God, while others thought their kind was created by Jehovah to shepherd humanity. Malachite believed both were true, and that the divine will had seen its culmination in a wondrous city where Cainites and mortals both could thrive, a lost dream called Constantinople. Malachite was determined to see that dream reborn—no matter the cost.
“In all honesty, I suppose I might very well do as you suggest once I’ve established the location of this Tartar’s haven,” Alexander said. “That is, if my ultimate goal were
