Qarakh knew better than to accept a stranger’s word without question, but in this case he had no doubt whatsoever that the man was speaking truth, though he didn’t know how he knew this. He just did.
“I have one other thing to tell you,” the man continued. “Should you wish to hear it.”
The stranger made this statement in an offhand manner, but there was something in his voice that told Qarakh he was being given a choice—one that would shape the course of his future for better or for worse. Qarakh had never backed away from a challenge and did not intend to start.
“I do.”
A faint hint of a smile—perhaps of approval, or amusement—moved across the man’s lips then was gone.
“Victory is in the blood, my son. Thus it has ever been, and thus shall it ever be.” The man then gave Qarakh a look that was a mixture of affection and sadness. “Now go.”
Sudden terror welled up inside Qarakh—unreasoning, overwhelming terror. His Beast sprang out of hiding and shrieked for Qarakh to flee, flee, flee! Without thinking, without even being truly aware of it, Qarakh turned, shed one form and donned another, and bounded away on padded paws. He ran with no other thought than to put as much distance as he could between himself and the dark-robed man whose eyes held the whole of the night sky. Qarakh was still running hours later, when the first rays of dawn came stabbing out of the east, and he dove into the sheltering embrace of the frozen winter earth only seconds before the sun would have taken him.
Nestled safe within earth and ice, he closed his eyes and prayed he would not be afflicted by dreams. This time, at least, his prayers were answered.
“I might know of a place for you to search,” Qarakh said to Malachite. “A monastery. And perhaps I shall tell you of it… in time.”
The Nosferatu opened his mouth as if he intended to protest, but then he closed it and merely nodded.
The three Cainites continued riding toward the camp in silence, each alone with his or her own dark thoughts.
“Your name is Rikard.”
Rikard wasn’t sure whether Alexander expected an answer or not, so he merely nodded. The Ventrue sat a table in his tent, a map spread out before him. He didn’t look up from it as he spoke. Rikard found this annoying, but he knew better than to say anything about it.
“And you have come here because you wish to betray your master.”
Rikard had no doubt that he should respond to this statement, but he also knew that he had to do so carefully. He sensed that Alexander, for all his seeming indifference, was listening quite closely.
“I have come to betray no one. I wish to enter into your service—if you will have me, that is.” Rikard congratulated himself; a little touch of humility never hurt.
Alexander continued examining the map, now tracing his fingers over blue lines indicating rivers. He still didn’t look at him, but Rikard could sense the prince’s increased interest.
The Ventrue was nothing like he had expected. He looked to have been Embraced while barely out of boyhood. He was slight of build, his features delicate, almost feminine. Instead of wearing the mail armor and tabard of the military orders, he was dressed in a purple robe a bit too large for his body. Rikard thought it made Alexander look ridiculous, like a child playing dress-up in his father’s clothes.
The prince’s brow wrinkled in contemplation, and for an instant Rikard feared Alexander had read his thoughts. But then the Ventrue’s brow smoothed. Rikard tried to relax, but not fully. Doing so in the presence of a Cainite of such age and power as Alexander of Paris would be tantamount to committing suicide.
“Why would you wish to do such a thing?” Alexander asked. He now ran his fingertips over the letters of place names on the map. Rikard noted that he avoided touching Paris. “If serving Qarakh was not to your liking, what makes you think you shall be any more satisfied in my service?”
Rikard had anticipated this question and had a ready answer. “Qarakh is a cunning warrior, I’ll give him that, but he’s not much of a leader. Besides, his whole notion of creating a tribe comprised entirely of feral pagans is ludicrous.”
“Indeed?” Alexander looked up from his beloved map at last and fixed his penetrating gaze upon Rikard. “What makes you say that?”
The intensity of the prince’s gaze was such that Rikard felt an urge to take a step backward, but the power of those eyes kept his feet fastened firmly where they were. “Most of the tribe are wanderers who come and go as they please. Livonia is a place they visit upon occasion rather than their home.”
“Really.” There was something in Alexander’s tone that urged Rikard to continue, so he did.
“Yes, and the new members that Qarakh manages to recruit”—Rikard had to resist the urge to add like me—”are mostly outcasts and troublemakers. And even after all the training they’ve been given, they still barely know which end of a sword goes in their hand and which goes in their opponent.” Rikard knew he was exaggerating, but he wanted to make certain that Alexander believed that his sole motivation for coming here was to join his forces instead of using the Ventrue to take revenge upon Qarakh. He doubted Alexander would take kindly to being used.
“Go on.” Alexander’s tone had hardened, and Rikard began to worry that he had said something to make the prince angry. Nevertheless, he did as Alexander commanded. On a subconscious level, he knew he didn’t have any choice.
“I suppose it’s not all Qarakh’s fault. The witch Deverra has him under some kind of spell, and
