“Yes. He was asking me questions about Alexander and the army he commands.”
“And did you answer his questions?”
“I did. And before you ask, I did so truthfully.”
“I find it difficult to understand why you would provide such vital information so readily.”
Malachite’s smile was broader this time. “You mean, why would I betray the man I accompanied to Livonia?”
“You must admit it is a pertinent question.”
“Especially from one who wishes to determine whether or not I—and in turn, the information I have given your second-in-command—can be trusted.” Malachite considered the issue for a moment before continuing. “I suppose that ultimately there is no way I can fully convince you of my sincerity—not by words, at any rate. Oh, I could tell you that I hold no love for Alexander, and that I despise the way he poses as a Christian merely to further his own ends. I could also tell you that I believe the world will be a better place when he goes at last to his final reward. But these are precisely the words you would expect to hear from me if I were trying to deceive you. I could ask you to judge me by my bearing and the tone of voice as I spoke, but these can be controlled easily enough—especially after several centuries of experience.
“Therefore, if words will not serve, perhaps actions shall.” Malachite paused, as if wrestling with a difficult decision. “To prove my sincerity to you, Qarakh of Mongolia, Khan of the Livonian tribe, I shall swear a blood oath to you—if you will accept it from me.”
Qarakh was stunned by the Nosferatu’s offer. Oaths of blood were no light matter among the undead, for they involved literally drinking the blood of the lord sworn to, and Cainite blood could bend the will. Three drinks was said to create an almost permanent bond, but even a single sip was critical. There was nothing else Malachite could have said or done to convince Qarakh so quickly and completely of how serious he truly was about finding the Dracon.
“Why would you do such a thing?” Qarakh asked.
“For you. For myself. For all Cainites.” A pause. “But most of all, for the Dream.”
Qarakh nodded. “Very well. I shall consider your offer. If I accept it, I will tell you all I know about these Obertus monks.”
Malachite stiffened suddenly, but didn’t say anything. He then bowed from the waist. “I thank you, great khan.” The Nosferatu straightened, turned and silently moved off, his robed body seeming to blend into the night itself. Qarakh had a difficult time keeping his eyes focused on the scholar’s retreating form. If Malachite was this difficult to track when he was merely walking, how much harder would it be if he were trying to move without being seen or heard? With the blood gifts of his clan, Malachite might have easily chosen to slip away from Alexander’s camp and follow Qarakh and Deverra back to their tribe without being detected. Once there, he could have spied on anyone, gathering intelligence for Alexander or simply picking up hints to the location of this Archbishop Nikita.
But he hadn’t. He had openly asked to accompany Deverra and him, and he had made his request for information clearly and directly, and he had now offered to swear a binding oath. It was possible of course that all of this was part of some greater deception, but Qarakh’s instincts told him that the Nosferatu was a man of honor and could be trusted. Qarakh would have to think hard upon Malachite’s offer, but right now he wanted—no, needed—to find Deverra.
He continued walking away from the camp and within moments had reached the edge of the woods. He paused and sniffed the air. Once more he caught the scent of rain coming: a lot of it, within the next few days, perhaps sooner. But beneath that smell he picked up Deverra’s scent and—much fainter—Arnulf ‘s. Deverra had come this way, probably to engage in one of her clan’s rituals, just as he had guessed. Ultimately, he found her in one of the groves she tended. She was easy to trace by the intoxicating scent of her blood, which she was spilling on the soil.
“Why do you weaken yourself?” he asked in way of greeting.
She looked up, unsurprised. “Because I am still your shaman, and more. If the alliance with Alexander doesn’t come to pass, we will need all the help we can get to defeat him. This rite and others will help, but my hope is that he is sincere in his intention to ally with us.”
“So you trust the Ventrue, then?”
“No, but I do believe that he may well be my people’s best chance for long-term survival—if he what he told us is true.”
“If. You are willing to risk much on such a small word.”
“The Telyavs are my people. They either followed me here or have accepted my blood in their veins. I am their leader, and I would risk anything for them.”
“You are also a member of the tribe, and my shaman. Would you risk the tribe’s existence in order to ensure your clan’s?”
If she were upset by the implied accusation in his question, she gave no sign. “Of course not, but when you have two strong and equal loyalties, yostoi isn’t always easy to achieve.”
Qarakh smiled grimly. “No matter the circumstances, balance is never easy to achieve. That is what makes it worth fighting so hard for.”
Deverra took a step closer to him, and Qarakh had to resist the urge to pull away. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be physically close to her but that Deverra wanted it so much. They were Cainites, what mortals called vampires. Undead creatures that could not love in the ways of human men and women, no matter how much they might wish to. Still, he didn’t step back.
“Have you made a decision yet? About an alliance with Alexander?”
Qarakh had not, but he wondered what she would
