“I suppose on a certain level I wasn’t surprised, for the revelation that the Tremere were in truth vampires explained a great many things about them, but I was horrified and furious that I had been transformed without my consent. And I soon discovered that I was not the only one among the Tremere who felt this way. Ordinary mortals would’ve had little choice but to accept their new state of existence, but we were magi, and we believed that what had been done to us could be undone, so we secretly began searching for a way to reverse the Embrace.
“Ultimately, the undead Tremere weren’t so very different from many mortals. They considered blood sorcery and even the Curse of Caine itself to be nothing more than avenues to greater power. They valued knowledge only as a means to an end and knew nothing of true wisdom.
“Those of us seeking a remedy for our condition met with little success but plenty of suspicion from our fellows. We therefore decided to break off from the clan and search for a cure on our own. I knew my homeland was a place of great power, so I led our little splinter group to Livonia. We didn’t find a way to reverse the Embrace, of course—I’m no longer sure that such a thing is possible—but we found something else: a new home and new purpose.
“Telyavel was Protector of the Dead and so we sought a new bond with the god. He accepted our worship and guided us to act as priests and serve the land and people. The blood rites became part of the people’s worship, and the Telyavs were born.”
“You said that the Tremere knew nothing of true wisdom,” Malachite said. “What do you think true wisdom is?” There was no mockery in his voice. He seemed genuinely interested in Deverra’s answer.
She thought for a moment, then looked at Qarakh and gave him a smile. “To live in yostoi.” Before Malachite could ask, she explained. “It’s a Mongolian word that means ‘balance.’”
“A balance of what?” the Nosferatu asked.
“Of life and death, the Self and the Beast, killing out of necessity instead of mere bloodlust,” Deverra said. “Yostoi is the path of true harmony between the desires of the flesh and the needs of the spirit.”
Malachite smiled. “Our beliefs are not that dissimilar after all.”
Qarakh sniffed. “Yours is a religion of civilization—of buildings that close you off from the world, of laws that force you to act against your own nature, and of priests who tell you the greatest glory is to force your god on others at sword point.”
“Merely because one proclaims himself Christian doesn’t make it so,” Malachite said, “any more than I can become a falcon by simply stating that I am.”
Qarakh was about to argue the point, but then he remembered what Alexander had told him, how the prince used Christianity as a tool and nothing more. The Mongol wondered how many other “soldiers of Christ” held the same view—not that it mattered overmuch. In the end, an enemy was an enemy regardless of how sincerely he practiced his professed religion.
“We should be far enough away from Alexander’s encampment by now for you to speak freely,” Qarakh said to Malachite. “Why don’t you tell me the true reason you wish to accompany us?”
Malachite hesitated before responding. “It is, as Deverra said a while ago, a lengthy story.”
“You said that a story can make time pass more swiftly,” Qarakh said.
Malachite smiled. “I did say that, didn’t I? My tale begins with a dream—the Dream—a dream called Constantinople.”
“Your Highness?”
Alexander sat sideways on his bed, head bent over the body of a young woman in a plain brown peasant dress lying next to him. He looked up from the wet crimson ruin that had been the laundress’s neck and glared at István. Alexander didn’t liked to be disturbed when he was feeding. He was a civilized man—after all, was he not a child of Greece, the greatest civilization the world had ever seen?—and civilized men didn’t speak to their servants while in the process of fulfilling their most basic needs. Alexander no more wished to be interrupted while feeding than a mortal man would wish to be disturbed while using a chamber pot.
“What is it?”
For an instant, it appeared as if István might withdraw from his lord’s tent rather than risk the full force of Alexander’s wrath, but then he cleared his throat—a sign of nervousness rather than any physical need—and continued. “A Cainite has entered the camp and wishes to see you. His name is Rikard. He claims he is a deserter from the Tartar’s tribe. He says he has information for you.”
“Does he now? How interesting.” Alexander looked down at the laundress’ savaged neck. Had he meant to kill her? Oh well, she was tasting flat anyway. With one hand he lifted the girl’s corpse and tossed it at István’s feet. “Dispose of this trash.” He licked his bloody lips. “Give me some time to make myself presentable. Tell this Rikard I shall see him.”
István picked up the girl’s body and tucked it under his left arm. “Yes, your highness,” he said, relief evident in his tone. He bowed his head, then turned and left.
“Well, well, well.” Alexander smiled, displaying blood-flecked fangs. “My new friend has himself a Judas.”
Chapter Thirteen
“And so you came to Livonia with Alexander in hope of finding this bishop?” Qarakh asked.
Malachite nodded. “It is my belief that Archbishop Nikita might have information on how I can locate the
