The Burning (8 page)

His body responded to that thought, as it did so easily these days. But he could never indulge that arousal. The loss of physical satisfaction was part of his atonement. And what was this girl to him, after all? She wasn’t Beatrix. He had his purpose. That energy must be saved. Look what had happened the time he lost control! He wrenched himself onto his side, refusing to remember that time, and set his mind to
contemplate the exercises he had learned at Mirso. But his mind was not obedient tonight . . .

MIRSO MONASTERY, DECEMBER 1819

The wind tore off the snowy peaks behind him as he guided his sturdy mountain horse up toward the luminescent towers growing out of the mountain. He felt the cold, but his soul welcomed it. Outside should reflect inside, should it not? Warmth was denied him. Love was denied. And rightly so. Had he not challenged the Rules laid down by his kind? And was not the fruit of his labor evil, an evil that those he had known forever had been forced to fight, down to the bloody last? Even now there was no guarantee that the balance between humankind and vampires was preserved. He had caused measureless suffering
.

His soul was dead. He had no more will to go on living in the world, shouldering the burden of his crimes. Any life left to him was at the place where he began so many years ago
.

Stephan raised his gaze again to his goal rising out of the mountain ahead and touched his horse with his heels. The moon came out from behind the clouds and lit the stone spires. They seemed to glow from within. The translucent onyx that formed the battlements and towers of the monastery was dotted with occasional squares of light. Mirso came alive at night. Others would call the sight otherworldly, evil, frightening. To Stephan it was home
.

He had grown up at Mirso Monastery, abandoned by his mother, taken in by Rubius and the Elders as a treasure, since children even then were rare. He was not a treasure. A spectacular failure of judgment, unworthy of the love of the only one he had ever cared for . . . that was what he was
.

Rubius should never have sent him out into the world. He might never have caused all the suffering. The Eldest said he must experience the world before he could renounce it. The world was not for him. It never had been. He wanted to forget in ritual chanting and abstention what his mistakes had cost the world
.

Would Rubius take him back after his transgression? Stephan felt a chill but not from the wind
. Pray to whatever gods will have you that you’re allowed to stay,
he thought. It was the only refuge left him
.

It was nearly an hour before he came to the great doors, heavy beams studded with iron straps in a defensive plaid. He dismounted as the snow swirled around him. The huge round iron ball held by iron strapping waited for him to knock. It would take more than human strength to lift it, but that was the point, was it not? Inside the gates the rasp of the huge bar he remembered sounded. The gates swung open. A monk stood there in black robe and rough rope belt, his hands tucked in the opposite wide sleeve, face hidden in the shadow of his cowl
.

Stephan set his lips. “Stephan Sincai to see Rubius,” he bit out in the old language. The words were taken by the wind
.

“I know who you are,” the figure said, then turned on his heel. Stephan followed. The monk seemed to float across the great empty courtyard, covered in several inches of snow. It was all as he had remembered it, the towering stone walls, the fountain burbling in the center, a mere pile of rocks in a simple stone circle. That fountain was the beginning of it all, though. Mirso had been built around it. The Old One had contaminated it with the parasite in his blood that his kind now called the Companion. The water in turn infected humans so many eons ago that only Rubius remembered it. Only a few lived through drinking that water, but when they did, their blood provided immunity to others who were infected. From that simple source, their race had been born. Perhaps it was a curse. Sooner or later the weight of years or their own sins always got the better of them, and they needed refuge. They all ended at Mirso Monastery
.

He followed the monk in through the doors at the far end of the courtyard, up the circular stone steps that wound around the inside of the main tower, and into the small receiving room, where the monk left him. The room held only a straight chair with a carved back. Supplicants for an audience with Rubius did not deserve comfort
.

“Rubius will see you.”

Stephan jerked his head up. He had not heard the monk enter. He was slipping. He rose and ducked through the low door at the far end of the bare room
.

Rubius’s quarters were a stark contrast to the Spartan feel of the rest of the monastery. Tapestries hung on the walls, Turkish carpets covered the stone floor. A fire snapped in the grate and joined candles set about the room in casting a warm glow over padded leather chairs, a sideboard laid with brandy and sweetmeats, and Rubius’s collection of artwork. He glanced around to the familiar pieces: an Etruscan stone fertility goddess, Roman glass from the first century, Greek vases in black and red, a Chinese jade horse. His collection had grown in the centuries Stephan had been gone. He recognized a da Vinci, a fine Byzantine triptych, a Mayan calendar from the New World. That brought back painful memories. Stephan let his gaze wander over the room for a moment before it rested on the old man in the center
.

“Hello, Rubius.”

The old man nodded. He was an incongruous head of vampire society, a fact lost on Stephan in his youth. Overweight, white haired, with a full beard and a ruddy complexion, he looked more like a jolly Saint Nicholas than the chief representative of what humans thought was evil incarnate. Rubius was the last alive from those who first drank at the Source
.

“Sincai.” He motioned to the brandy and raised his brows
.

Stephan nodded, his breathing uneven. Rubius poured out a glass and handed it to him. Stephan downed it, hoping it would steady him
.

Rubius poured his own glass and motioned to a chair. “Why are you here, boy?”

“You know that,” Stephan managed to croak. He did not sit
.

“But I want to hear you say it,” Rubius said softly, studying him
.

Stephan took a breath. This was it. Push down pride. There was no pride to be had after what he had done. “I beg to be allowed to take the Vow.”

“I find that most interesting,” Rubius said, almost in a whisper. It was as if after all these years of only speaking to his own kind with their acute hearing, he had lost any desire to do more than murmur. He put down his glass and laid a finger aside his ruddy nose. “One who broke our Rules, nay, tried even to demonstrate that they were wrong, now wants to avail himself of our most precious Rule of all.”

This was it. Rubius wouldn’t let him in. The emptiness that sat in his belly threatened him with insanity. “I was wrong,” he said. No pride. “Made and born vampires are not equal.”

“Your little experiment with the Arab girl nearly destroyed our world, boy!” The whisper was outraged. “Wrong doesn’t begin to cover the situation.”

“No.” Stephan’s voice was bleak in his own ears. He acquiesced, knowing acquiescence would not be enough. Rubius was not going to let him in to Mirso
.

“What were you going to do? Challenge the Elders for authority when you proved our Rules were wrong?”

“I . . . I don’t know. I thought made vampires could be valuable citizens . . .”

Rubius waved that naïveté away with one hand. “Pride. Rebellious pride. We raised you, boy, taught you, considered you precious. And you repay us with treachery.” He had begun to pace, his bulk moving with surprising grace back and forth in front of the fire. “And even when your experiment went wrong and the bitch tried to kill Beatrix, who was born, and rule the Continent through that human general, what was his name?”

“Bonaparte, Eldest.” He kept his voice flat. It wasn’t hard
.

“Even then, you let her go.”

“I thought exile
—
”

“Don’t excuse yourself!” Rubius rounded on him. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced. “Look where it led. She found an Old One, took his blood. She was almost so strong none of us could stop her. Made vampires everywhere,” he muttered. “Khalenberg and Davinoff, Urbano and the others have had a time of it trying to find them all.”

“I volunteered
—
”

“How could we trust you to go?” Rubius almost spit the words across the carpet
.

“You couldn’t.” That was the worst pain. He hadn’t been allowed to make amends
.

There was a long silence. Rubius rocked back and forward on his heels. “Well. Now you want the refuge of the Vow.”

“You will find me a humble and eager Aspirant.” Stephan kept his gaze riveted on the carpet at Rubius’s feet
.

“Will I?” Rubius mused
.

“I swear it,” Stephan said, unable to keep the emotion from the edge of his voice
.

“There is a price,” Rubius whispered. The look in his eyes was speculative, and . . . triumphant. That look frightened Stephan. What kind of price?

It didn’t matter. “How . . . how can I serve you, Eldest?”

Abruptly Rubius turned away and eased himself into the leather wing chair that sat beside the fire. He gestured to the chair’s mate. Stephan sat stiffly. Rubius stared into the fire. The light flickered across his ruddy face. “I have a task for you, boy,” he said at last
.

“You have but to ask.” Yes! He would prove himself. The old eyes bored into him
.

“You will become an instrument of justice even as you have been a force for chaos. You will set right what has been loosed upon the world through your crimes. For that atonement, you will earn the right to work toward a quiet mind. You will be granted refuge at Mirso.”

Stephan breathed. “Yes. Let me set it right.”

“But to do that, you must be trained.”

Stephan straightened in the chair, then went down on one knee before Rubius, head bowed. “I will be a willing student, Eldest.”

Rubius put his hand on Stephan’s bent head. “You make that promise lightly, but your way will not be easy. Still, the promise is made. I shall hold you to it.”

Hope fluttered in Stephan’s breast. “You shall not have to compel my obedience.”

“Let me introduce you to your teachers, then.” A door snicked open
.

Stephan raised his head. Three beautiful women drifted through the door. One was dressed in red, one in black, one in shimmering white. They wore simple dresses in the style of Rome. But no matron of Rome would have dared wear them. Courtesans perhaps, in the privacy of a secluded villa meant for pleasure, but not matrons. Silk by the clinging look of it hung from their shoulders, leaving their arms bare, and plunged between their breasts to be clasped at their waists in gold filigree. Their hair was all long, black, and loose about their bodies, but the hair of the plumpest one curled softly rather than being straight like that of the other two. Their skin was the white of those who have never seen the sun. Their eyes were dark pools . . . of what? Stephan saw desire, purpose . . . avarice?

“My daughters, Sincai.” Rubius waved his hand
.

Stephan could not help but register his surprise
.

“You thought I was sterile? I am the father to many of you, somewhere back in time.”

Stephan wanted to shudder. What did one become after so many years of life?

“What do you call yourselves these days, my dears?” Rubius asked the women. He turned confidentially to Stephan. “Women are always changing; names as well as dresses.”

“Deirdre,” one said. She was taller than the others, and her face was long, just as her body was lean. Her breasts were small and her arms showed the muscle in them
.

“Freya,” the second said, a petite and lithe version of the first
.

“Estancia,” the shorter, third one intoned. She was plump like luscious, ripe fruit. But her eyes were that of a bird’s
—
inquisitive, callous
.

“This is Stephan Sincai. He will be your next student.” He turned to Stephan. “They can increase your power tenfold. It is the Hidden Way. Not even the monks here know it.”

“What . . . what is this power, Eldest?”

Rubius frowned. “I will tell you. Then you will ask no more until they are finished with you.”

Stephan held his breath
.

Rubius fixed him with his ancient stare. There was something sly, calculating about him. Stephan quieted his heartbeat. All depended on his acceptance of this training. “The way to power is through suppression,” Rubius said at last. “We all have the power in us. It must be drawn out. Then if you suppress that energy, it increases in strength. Think of a volcano like that one in Sumatra in 536. What was it called? Krakatoa. The magma is suppressed by the lava cap until it explodes. You will learn to control and direct that power. You will become a powerful killing machine roaming the world, cleansing it of any who are made vampire.”

Rubius must have seen his horror. The old man’s eyes narrowed. Behind him, his daughters exchanged sly looks. “Did you not say you longed to be with those who eradicated Asharti’s army?”

“Yes, Eldest.” Stephan’s mind boiled. That was a specific task, horrible but limited. This seemed . . . like purgatory, indefinite, taking a continuous toll on his soul
.