“And what would you expect in return for your… patronage?” Qarakh asked.
“When the night comes for me to retake Paris, you and your tribe will fight alongside the rest of my forces. And when I have retaken my throne, I shall do everything in my power to see to it that Livonia remains free from outside interference of any kind.”
“Including yours?”
Alexander smiled. “I am a creature of the city and look to the Ile de France above all. I do not desire to rule over distant grasslands and forests.”
Qarakh considered the Ventrue’s words, trying to gauge the depth of their sincerity—if any—and wondering what treachery might lie beneath them. “I see that you still do not believe me. What can I do to convince you?” Alexander glanced at the fire. It had burned down some since they had begun talking, but the flames were still full and strong. “I guess that Tartars take matters of honor and pride very seriously, and that they do not give their word lightly.”
“This is true.”
“I will not suggest a blood oath, for we both know the insidious powers of that humor upon us. So we must find other ways of proving our commitments and pledging our loyalties.” Without warning, Alexander plunged his right hand into the fire. Immediately the skin began to sizzle and blacken, and the stink of burning flesh filled the air.
Behind them, Deverra gasped and Malachite called out Alexander’s name. But Qarakh didn’t turn to look at either of them; he kept his gaze fastened on the Ventrue’s face. His brow was furrowed, his jaw muscles bunched tight, but despite the agony he surely was experiencing his eyes were clear and calm. “I pledge to you, Qarakh who is called the Untamed, that should you enter into an alliance with me, I shall never attack your tribe, and I shall use all my power and influence to protect it.” Alexander’s voice was strained, and blood-sweat had broken out on his brow, but still he did not cry out in pain.
Qarakh considered for another moment before putting his own hand into the flames. White hot agony blazed along his undead nerves, and the Beast inside him screamed.
“I accept your pledge, Alexander of Paris, and in turn I vow to consider your offer and give you an answer within a fortnight. May the flames of this sacred fire bind us both—for as long as each remains true to his word.”
The two Cainites stared into each other’s eyes as their burning flesh hissed and popped. For an instant it seemed as if Alexander might say more, but then he nodded and pulled his ruined, blackened hand from the fire. Qarakh waited one more moment and then withdrew his.
Deverra and Malachite were at their sides then, as if they both wished to give aid but were unsure exactly what to do.
Alexander grinned and then called out, “István!” A Cainite that had been standing in the background came forward and bowed. “Yes, my prince?” The man’s Livonian was accented, but passable. Apparently, he didn’t share Rudiger’s stubbornness on the matter of language.
“Bring us bowls of blood in which to soak our hands. Bleed only the strongest and healthiest mortal you can find for Qarakh. As for myself… you know my needs. Bring two flagons full as well so that we might slake our thirst and drink to our new friendship. Bring flagons for Malachite and the priestess as well.”
István bowed even lower this time, and Qarakh had the impression he was striving to be more attentive than normal, as if he were trying to make up for some transgression. “At once, my prince.”
István straightened and started off to do his master’s bidding, but before he could get far, Alexander said, “One more thing.”
István stopped and turned back around. “Yes, my prince?”
“Bring a bucket of water and put out this damn fire.”
Chapter Eleven
“Must you be going?” Alexander said, though he didn’t sound all that unhappy at the prospect. On the Ventrue’s right stood Malachite, to his left was István and Brother Rudiger.
“I should return to the camp and hold council to discuss the matter of our alliance,” Qarakh said.
They stood at the edge of Alexander’s camp. Qarakh and Deverra’s horses had been prepared for them, and they held the reins in their hands, ready to mount and ride. Both horses pawed the ground restlessly, as if anxious to start the return journey. Qarakh had already sent ahead the human family that had been Alexander’s gift to him, with directions to drive their wagon east. The Cainites would be able to catch up with them easily on horseback—a fact that would prevent the mortals from taking advantage of their lead to try and escape.
Qarakh extended the burned fingers of his hand and then curled them into a fist. Thanks to a good soaking in blood—both internal and external—his hand was mostly healed, though the flesh was still shiny and pale pink, like that of a mortal infant. Alexander’s hand, however, was completely restored—a testament to his age and power.
Alexander glanced toward the east. “Dawn is not far off. Perhaps you should spend the day here and get a fresh start tomorrow evening.”
“I appreciate your hospitality, but unlike you, Deverra
