“What did you say?”
Rikard blinked. One instant Alexander had been sitting at his desk, and the next he was standing toe to toe with Rikard, looking up at him with eyes full of death. Rikard turned pale—even for a Cainite—and he desperately wished he could flee the tent, the camp, the whole damn country, but he remained standing where he was, unable to so much as lift a foot, let alone turn and run.
In his terror, Rikard couldn’t recall what he had said to so upset Alexander. “I… I don’t…”
“Are you telling me that the priestess that counsels Qarakh is a member of Clan Tremere?”
“That was one of the rumors around camp. Not only Deverra, but all the Telyavic priests. Supposedly they broke off from the Tremere some time ago and came to Livonia. Why, I don’t know.”
“And do these Telyavs still possess the mystical knowledge and abilities of their former patrons?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t know a great deal about the Tremere, but Deverra definitely wields magic, and I believe the other Telyavs do as well, to greater or lesser degrees.”
Alexander swore in a language Rikard didn’t recognize, and then his serpentine gaze bore into the traitor’s eyes, and Rikard had the feeling that the prince was digging into his mind, sifting through his memories with unimaginable speed to determine whether or not he was telling the truth. Rikard felt pressure building within his head, growing more intense and painful with each passing second, until it felt as if his Final Death were at hand.
But then, just when Rikard thought he could take no more, the pressure let up.
Alexander stepped back and Rikard saw that he was smiling. “You’ve been an immense help to me, Rikard, and I especially appreciate the tidbit of information that you were holding in reserve. You tried so hard to keep it from me, but I’m afraid your mind proved too weak. One of the weakest I’ve encountered in two thousand years, actually. Do you have anything else to offer me before I dismiss you?”
Rikard did not. He felt like a hollow vessel that had been well and truly emptied. With some effort, he managed to shake his head.
“I thought not. Very well, then. Despite the fact that I personally appreciate and am grateful for your treacherous nature, long and too often bitter experience has taught me that men like you are best disposed of once you’ve fulfilled your purpose.”
Rikard’s thoughts were sluggish, fragmented and confused, as if Alexander’s less than gentle probing had damaged his mind. He wasn’t sure if he fully understood what the prince had said, but he decided to smile anyway.
“In a moment, I want you to leave my tent and seek out the Cainite who brought you here. His name is Lord István. I want you to give him a message. Are you listening carefully?”
Rikard nodded, eager to please his new master.
“Tell him that you are his to do with as he pleases. Cainite pain will surely taste even sweeter to him than the mortal suffering he must subside on. Repeat the message, please.”
Rikard did so, and he must have gotten the words right because Alexander said, “Very good, now do as I told you.”
Rikard was saddened at the thought of leaving his beloved master, but he wouldn’t be a very good servant if he disobeyed, so he turned, grinning like an idiot, and left in search of István, repeating Alexander’s message to himself in a whisper over and over and over and over and…
Damn them all to hell! How could he have been foolish enough to believe rabble such as Qarakh and his tribe would make suitable allies? They were animals and nothing more—chaotic, savage and equally likely to turn on him or desert him. Qarakh might fancy himself a man of honor, but in the end he was just another beast in Cainite’s clothing.
But Alexander was far more disturbed by the discovery that the Telyavs were an offshoot of the damnable Tremere. He had known about the Tartar’s tribe—after all, that was the reason he had marched on Livonia in the first place—and while there had been some rumors swirling around Jürgen’s court that the pagans possessed a certain degree of mystic powers, Alexander had dismissed them as inconsequential. After all, every Cainite had blood gifts of one sort of another. But the Tremere were power-hungry sorcerers of the worst type, diablerists and schemers who routinely violated the traditions of high blood. Sorcerers were interested in one thing only: increasing their own power. It was a motivation that Alexander well understood, and he might have been tempted to explore the possibility of an alliance with the Telyavs anyway… if they hadn’t been members of the thrice-damned Tremere. Goratrix and his clan had supported Geoffrey in his theft of the Parisian throne, and it was quite possible that these “Telyavs” were in Livonia for the sole purpose of drawing him here and luring him into a trap. Such scheming would be just like his traitorous childe.
And like Rosamund?
Two thoughts followed this one: simultaneous, intertwined.
Rosamund wouldn’t do this. Rosamund would do this to me.
Without being aware of it, Alexander bared his teeth, looking as much like an animal as any Gangrel. Plots within plots, wheels within wheels, motives within motives… Two thousand years of unlife, and what did he have to show for it? His entire existence was one mirror facing another reflecting a reflection reflecting a reflection reflecting a reflection, on and on forever, until it was impossible to determine what the real image, what the truth, really was.
In that situation, there was only one way to determine what was real and what wasn’t: smash the mirrors to pieces.
There was no point in waiting for Qarakh to make
