To Qarakh, it sounded a fool’s dream at best and a lunatic’s delusion at worst. The Nosferatu sought a supremely powerful Cainite called the Dracon—whose existence Qarakh was skeptical of—so that he might restore the city of Constantinople which, to Malachite’s mind at least, somehow signified a kind of paradise on earth. It didn’t make any sense to the Mongol. Only a creature of civilization could equate a city—a conglomeration of stone and wood—with a state of spiritual enlightenment.
Deverra, however, took the Nosferatu seriously. “While you parleyed with Alexander, Malachite told me of his search for Nikita. In turn, I told him that if anyone might know where this man hid, it would be you, for you have roamed wide across Livonia and neighboring lands.”
Qarakh glanced up at the stars, then sniffed the air. He scented rain coming; not tonight, but soon. He judged they would reach the camp before the next sunrise, but not long before. They’d caught up to and passed the mortal family in their wagon a bit ago, and Qarakh had been pleased to see that they were still headed in the right direction. He was now confident that they would complete the remainder of the journey without trying to escape. Not that a few mortals more or less would make that much difference to his tribe, but a wise shepherd knew that he could always use a few more sheep in the herd.
Qarakh turned to Deverra. “Do the Telyavs know of this preacher?”
Deverra shook her head. “No. This Nikita may be a powerful Cainite able to mask his presence from us. Sorcerous sight is not always better than the traveler’s own eyes.”
Malachite rode on Qarakh’s right, Deverra on his left as their mounts proceeded at a trot across the grassy plain. The Nosferatu leaned over in his saddle to speak with Qarakh—so far, in fact, that the Mongol wouldn’t have been surprised if Malachite fell off his horse.
“Have you encountered such a place, or at least heard tell of it?” There was an eagerness in the Nosferatu’s voice, and a gleam in his eyes that spoke of barely restrained fanaticism.
Qarakh wasn’t sure how to answer—or for that matter, if he wanted to answer. After all, what did they truly know about Malachite? Deverra seemed to trust him, but even if he proved trustworthy, Qarakh wasn’t certain helping the Nosferatu would be a good thing.
“You are Christian, and we are what you would call pagans. Deverra reveres Telyavel—”
“Among other gods,” the priestess put in.
“—while I honor Father Tengri, Lord of the Sky. It is the way of the Mongols to tolerate the beliefs of others, but you Christians extend no such courtesy. The Sword-Brothers look to subjugate all Livonia to their faith. And Alexander, though he may not truly believe in your savior, nonetheless uses His name to further his own ambitions. Why should we help you in your quest?”
Qarakh expected Malachite to come back with an angry defense of his religion, but instead the Nosferatu grew thoughtful for a time, and the three Cainites continued riding in silence, save for the sound of their mounts’ hoofs. Eventually, Malachite spoke once more.
“I could say that both mortals and Cainites are imperfect creatures, and that one shouldn’t judge an entire religion by the actions of its worst adherents—or of those who adhere to it in name only. And I could say that a central part of the Dream is to create a place where Cainites and mortals can live in peace together and follow God’s will, and not man’s confused and sometimes self-serving interpretation of it. I could say that it was crusaders like the Sword-Brothers who sacked Constantinople and restoring the Dream would be a defeat for them. I could even say that the will of God Himself is against you, and you can no more hold back the spread of Christianity than you can postpone the changing of seasons. And while I believe those are all valid points, I also believe that none of them will sway you. In the end, you will help me because you choose to, or you will not help me at all.”
Malachite fell silent then, and it was Qarakh’s turn to think. The Nosferatu had shown no signs of deception or intolerance so far, and moreover, there was much information about Alexander and his forces that he could share. But Qarakh doubted Malachite was generous enough—or foolish enough—to provide such information without cost.
He glanced at Deverra, and she gave him a slight nod.
“It was several years ago, during the winter….”
Qarakh glided like the shadow of a passing cloud over frost-covered grass. The night wind was cold and biting as sharpened steel, but the frigid air had little effect on his undead flesh. He had left his horse tethered to a small tree a few miles back. He could move more swiftly and silently on foot. This night called for stealth.
He had been roaming throughout Livonia for the better part of a month now. Since arriving here with Aajav the previous year, and meeting Deverra, he had made this land his new home. The Telyav still worked diligently to revive Aajav and in return he was determined to help her resist the encroaching Christian knights and missionaries who threatened her faith. But her role as priestess among mortals had given him larger ideas. If she could establish such a relationship here, he wondered if he might build something more: a tribe, or even a tribal nation in the Mongolian sense. Livonia was a lush, unspoiled land of plains and forests, yet with enough mortal inhabitants to provide good feeding stock. In addition, the Livs were a pagan people who had resisted the encroachment of Christianity for centuries. A nation of night-walkers could be established here, a place where vampires might be able to live freely and openly, without being forced to hide in the shadows like ghostly wraiths.
To this end, he had been scouting the length and breadth of the land
