She knew that there was no way she would be able to talk Qarakh out of confronting Alexander one more time, but she was far from helpless. First she would speak with the surviving members of her coven, and then she would make one more journey to the place where she had known all along that she would end up: the Grove of Shadows.
Alexander finished with the red-haired girl and lay her body gently upon his bed. She had been a sweet, gentle creature that had pined for a minstrel that had visited her village when she was but a child. He desired to keep her around for a bit longer so that he might look upon her beautiful face from time to time as he made his plans.
He sat in his chair. The remains of his desk had been cleared away by a ghoul servant. The trunk where Alexander kept his books and scrolls now sat several feet to the left of where it had been—right over the place where Alexander had buried Rudiger.
Breaking the news of the commander’s death to the other knights hadn’t gone quite as well as Alexander had hoped. While they had accepted his lie about how Rudiger had met his end easily enough—thanks to his superior will—they demanded his ashes be handed over to them so Rudiger might be given a proper Christian burial. Alexander had cursed himself for not anticipating this development, and it had taken quite a bit of talking—and even more application of willpower—to convince the knights to allow him to keep Rudiger’s remains “in state” until after they achieved victory over the pagans. Alexander had been ravenous by the time he’d returned to his tent and called out for István to bring him someone suitable—and then he remembered that István was gone.
He couldn’t escape the feeling that he was losing control somehow. Not just of the current situation, but of his own existence. He thought once more of facing his grinning doppelganger upon undulating waves of blood, and he couldn’t keep from shuddering. He reached out to the empty space beside him, hoping to somehow summon up those who had abandoned him despite all his love. Lorraine. Saviarre. Rosamund. All gone.
He would send the ghoul and mortal knights to make a daytime raid on the pagan camp, he decided. They would view such an attack as unchivalrous, of course, so he would need a plausible rationale for why they ought to do such a dishonorable thing. No, he decided. Mortal wills were fragile things and he would simply bend them. If some broke in the process, such was the cost of war.
Without warning, the shadows in one corner of this tent thickened and a black-robed form stepped out of the darkness.
Malachite.
Alexander surprised himself by not immediately attacking the traitorous wretch. “Good evening, Malachite. Should I welcome you as a returning prodigal?”
The Nosferatu glanced at the body of the dead girl lying on Alexander’s bed, and a look of sorrow briefly passed over his leprous features. Alexander smirked. Malachite always had been too soft-hearted. It was a fatal flaw in a Cainite, one that Alexander was grateful that he did not possess.
“I have come to bring you a message,” Malachite said.
Alexander sneered. “From your new master?”
“From Qarakh.”
“How much did you tell him?”
“About your army? All that I knew.”
Cold rage filled Alexander, and he had to fight to keep from springing to his feet and launching himself at Malachite. “From one deceiver to another. I’m impressed. I knew you accompanied me to Livonia for your own reasons, but I did not expect you to switch allegiances so quickly, or so thoroughly.”
“Qarakh has dealt with me fairly. But even beyond that, having seen your rule in Paris and your actions here, I can say without hesitation that Qarakh is the better prince.”
“But they are pagans, or do you forget? I admit that means little to me, but I should think that you would desire their destruction even more than I.”
Malachite smiled sadly. “You understand no motivations beyond the satisfaction of your own desires. Despite your great age, Alexander, in the end you are nothing more than a spoiled child that never had the chance to grow up.”
Fury so overwhelmed Alexander that he could barely see. He forced words out between gritted teeth. “You have a message to deliver. Deliver it.”
“Qarakh wishes to meet you once more in battle at midnight. He is already in the process of assembling his army near the field where you clashed before.”
Alexander frowned. “What trick is this?”
“No trick at all. Qarakh has grown weary of deception and subterfuge, and he wishes to fight directly and openly—army against army, strength against strength—to determine once and for all who shall be victorious.”
Alexander was intrigued despite himself. “I assume you gave the Tartar an opinion of what my reaction would be?”
“Of course. I told him you would be skeptical at first, believing the offer to be a deception because that’s what you would do in his place. But ultimately your curiosity and your pride would lead you to accept.”
Alexander’s fury had dissipated for the most part, to be replaced now by irritation. “I should decline the challenge just to spite you both.”
“Perhaps. But you will not because you cannot.”
Alexander hated to admit it, but Malachite was right. He was tired of thinking, planning, plotting and scheming. He wanted to act.
“Very well. Midnight, at the same place we fought last night. Now go—I have an army to prepare.”
Malachite inclined his head. “Yes, milord.” Then the Nosferatu hobbled out of the tent to go relay Alexander’s response to Qarakh.
The prince knew there was no need to order his people to give Malachite safe passage out of the camp. The Nosferatu would be able to sneak out as easily as he had sneaked in.
Alexander stood and walked over to the dead girl. He stroked her hair
