“The second shepherd hadn’t lost any more sheep, except for the one he sacrificed to feed the wolf. And since the wolf was content with the meat as the shepherd doled it out, the shepherd was able to keep the animal placated for a fortnight before he was forced to kill another of his sheep, thus saving all the others the wolf would’ve taken otherwise.
“The hunter continued his search, but before long his friends and relatives grew weary and departed one by one until only the hunter was left to carry on his quest for vengeance. And then, one night, the hunter’s prayers were answered when he found himself face to face with the wolf that had been preying on his flock for so long. So long, in fact, that there wasn’t much of a flock left. The hunter, whose only weapon was a spear he had carved himself from a cedar branch, prepared to strike at his most hated enemy. But before he could even raise his spear, let alone cast it, the wolf attacked him and tore out his throat. That night, the wolf did not go in search of sheep, nor did he eat the meat offered to him by the shepherd, for he had far more than enough to fill his belly.”
Alessandro waited for Grandfather to continue, but when the lore-keeper said nothing more, he realized that the tale was finished.
“Forgive me, Grandfather, but I do not understand.”
“It is a simple story with an equally simple message. One man died because he thought he could dominate the beast, with another man lived and managed to protect his flock because he came to understand the beast and learned how to live with it.”
“I must be thickheaded tonight, for I do not see how this story applies to Qarakh and Alexander.”
“As I said before, victory will go to the tribe with the strongest leader. Which of the two men in my story would you say was the strongest? The hunter who had many friends to help him—at least at first—and a weapon to slay the wolf, or the shepherd who had only himself, his understanding and the willingness to sacrifice?”
Alessandro didn’t have to think about it for long. “The shepherd, I suppose. Though at first he seems weaker, at the end of the story he is still alive, as is most of his flock. More to the point, he knows how to continue to protect them.”
Grandfather nodded, as if he were a teacher pleased with the progress of a student. “Now which of those two men would you say is Alexander and which is Qarakh?”
Alessandro suddenly understood. “Alexander is the first shepherd, and Qarakh is the second.”
“Alexander may be stronger than Qarakh in the ways that most Cainites measure power, but the khan of our tribe understands the ways of the Beast like few others I have encountered—and I speak of myself as well. Despite what some of the Damned would like to believe about our kind’s destiny and our ultimate purpose, a Cainite’s existence can be boiled down to one undeniable truth: Will he succumb to the Beast or will he learn to live with it? And if one can fully learn to do the latter, he possesses a strength that no other Cainite, no matter how ancient, can ever hope to match.”
Alessandro considered Grandfather’s words for some time as they walked. “I believe that I understand your lesson, and I find it reassuring. But there is one thing that troubles me. In your tale, the shepherd had to select and sacrifice one of his sheep in order to protect the rest of his flock.”
“Yes.”
“Then if your story should prove prophetic, which of us will Qarakh sacrifice in order to defeat Alexander?”
The Iberian hoped that Grandfather would tell him not to be so foolish as to mistake a simple parable for prophecy, but he didn’t. Instead, the ancient Gangrel remained silent, a look of worry on his face.
Holleb coughed—a deep, barking sound—and his tiny body shuddered as he struggled to draw in breath.
“Hush, sweetness. It’s not far to Lechsinska’s.” Tears rolled down Rahel’s cheeks. She knew she shouldn’t cry, that tears would only blur her vision and make it harder to see in the darkness, but she couldn’t help herself. She wrapped the blanket tighter around her baby brother and quickened her pace.
Rahel also knew she shouldn’t be out at night. Hadn’t her father told her often enough? You might fall and break a leg—or your neck. You might become lost in the forest and never find your way out again. There are wolves abroad at night, and worse things.
No matter how many times Rahel asked, her father would never say what those “worse things” were, only that she wouldn’t want to meet one alone on a dark trail. So where was she now? Alone on a dark trail, of course.
Holleb wheezed, coughed, struggled for breath. No, she wasn’t alone, and she was here for a good reason. Her baby brother was ill, and she was taking him to see Lechsinska, the healer woman who lived in the forest. Many people believed Lechsinska was a witch and claimed that she cast spells to spread illness so that the afflicted would then come to her for “healing.” Rahel knew better, though. Her father was a woodcutter, and they lived in a small cottage on the edge of the forest. Rahel had visited the old woman many times as she was growing up—much to her parents’ displeasure—and she knew that Lechsinska’s abilities didn’t stem from black magic, but rather her knowledge of herbs and their healing properties. She’d spent many an afternoon helping the old woman gather mushrooms
