The Complete Vampire Chronicles 12-Book Bundle (The Vampire Chronicles) (502 page)

“It was she who spoke to him of Marius. And so the name came to be known to us. Marius, the tall one with the blue eyes, Marius whose mother came from Gaul and whose father was a Roman.”

He stopped, plainly afraid of me.

“Oh, go on, please, I beg you,” I said.

“This young vampire is gone now, destroyed by his own will without our compliance. He went out into the morning sun.”

“Where did he come upon her?” I asked. “Where did she listen to his ravings? When did this take place?”

“Within my lifetime,” he said. “Though I myself did not see this blood drinker. Please, do not press me too hard. I am trying to tell you all I know. The young vampire said that she was ever on the move, through the northern countries as I told you, but in the disguise of a rich woman, and with an Asian companion, a blood drinker of very great beauty and abrupt cruelty who seemed to oppress her nightly and force her into what she did not want to do.”

“I can’t bear it!” I declared. “Go on, tell me—what northern countries? I can’t read from your mind any faster than I can hear your words. Tell me all that the young one said.”

“I don’t know the countries in which she traveled,” he answered.

My passion was unnerving him.

“This young one, he loved her. He imagined that she would repel the Asian. But she would not. It drove him mad, this failure. And so, feeding upon the populace of a small German town, the young one soon blundered into our arms.”

He paused, to gather his courage and to make his voice steady as he went on.

“Within our Motherhouse he talked incessantly of her, but it was all the same theme—her sweetness, her kindness and the cruelty of the Asian from whom she would not break away.”

“Tell me the names under which they traveled,” I said. “There must have been names, names they used as mortals, for how else could they have lived as rich mortals? Give me the names.”

“I don’t know them,” he said. He gathered all his reserve now. “Give me time and perhaps I can obtain them. But I do not in truth think the Order will give me such information to give to you.”

Again I turned away from him. I put my right hand up to shield my eyes. What gestures does a mortal man make at such a moment? I made of my right hand a fist, and held my right arm firmly with my left hand.

She lived. Was I not content with that? She lived! The centuries had not destroyed her. Was that not enough?

I turned around. I saw him standing there, so very bravely, though his hands trembled at his sides.

“Why are you not terrified of me?” I whispered, “terrified that I may come to your Motherhouse and find this information for myself?”

“Perhaps no such action is necessary,” he responded quickly. “Perhaps I can obtain it for you, if you must have it, for it breaks no vows we’ve taken. It was not Pandora herself who sought shelter with us.”

“Ah, yes, you make a lawyer’s point on this score,” I answered. “What more can you tell me? What more did Pandora tell this young one of me?”

“No more,” he answered.

“Of Marius, this young one spoke, having heard the name from Pandora—.” I repeated.

“Yes, and then here we discovered you in Venice. I have told you all!”

I drew back once more. He was exhausted with me and so frightened of me that his mentality was almost to the point where it might break.

“I have told you all,” he said again gravely.

“I know you have,” I said. “I see that you are capable of secrecy but quite incapable of a lie.”

He said nothing.

I took the gold coin from my pocket, the one which he had given me. I read the word:

Talamasca

I turned it over.

There imprinted on it was the picture of a high and well-fortified castle, and beneath it the name: Lorwich, East Anglia.

I looked up.

“Raymond Gallant,” I said. “I thank you.”

He nodded.

“Marius,” he said suddenly, as though screwing up his courage, “can you not send out some message to her over the miles?”

I shook my head.

“I made her a blood drinker, and her mind has been closed to me from the beginning. So it is with the beautiful child you saw dancing this very night. Maker and offspring cannot read each other’s thoughts.”

He mulled this over as though we were speaking of human things, just that calmly, and then he said:

“But surely you can send the message with your powerful mind to others who may see her and tell her that you search for her, and where you are.”

A strange moment passed between us.

How could I confess to him that I could not beg her to come to me? How could I confess to myself that I had to come upon her and take her in my arms and force her to look at me, that some old anger separated me from her? I could not confess these things to myself.

I looked at him. He stood watching me, growing ever more calm, but certainly enrapt.

“Leave Venice, please,” I said, “as I have asked you to do.” I untied my purse and I put a good many gold florins on his desk, just as I had done twice with Botticelli. “Take this from me,” I said, “for all your trouble. Leave here, and write to me when you can.”

Again he nodded, his pale eyes very clear and determined, his young face rather willfully calm.

“It will be an ordinary letter,” I said, “come to Venice by ordinary means, but it will contain the most marvelous information, for I may find in it intelligence of a creature whom I have not embraced in over a thousand years.”

This shocked him, though why I did not understand. Surely he knew the age of the stones in Antioch. But I saw the shock penetrate him and course through his limbs.

“What have I done?” I said aloud, though I wasn’t speaking to him. “I shall leave Venice soon, on account of you and on account of many things. Because I do not change and therefore cannot play the mortal for very long. I will leave soon on account of the young woman you saw dancing tonight with my young apprentice, for I have vowed that she shall not be transformed. But oh, I have played my role most splendidly here. Write it in your histories. Describe my house as you saw it, full of paintings and lamps, full of music and laughter, full of gaiety and warmth.”

His expression changed. He grew sad, agitated, without moving so much as a muscle and the tears came up in his eyes. How wise he seemed for his years. How strangely compassionate.

“What is it, Raymond Gallant?” I asked. “How can you weep for me? Explain it to me.”

“Marius,” he said. “I was taught in the Talamasca that you would be beautiful and you would speak with the tongue of an angel and a demon.”

“Where is the demon, Raymond Gallant?”

“Ah, you have me. I have not heard the demon. I have struggled to believe in it. But I have not heard it. You are right.”

“Did you see the demon in my paintings, Raymond Gallant?”

“No, I did not, Marius.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“Fearful skill and marvelous color,” he answered, not even hesitating a moment, as though he had thought it through. “Wondrous figures and great invention, which gave everyone utter delight.”

“Ah, but am I better than the Florentine Botticelli?” I asked him.

His face darkened. There came a small frown to him.

“Let me answer for you,” I said, “I am not.”

He nodded.

“Think on it,” I said. “I am an immortal, and Botticelli is a mere man. Yet what are the wonders which Botticelli has done?”

It was too painful for me to be here any longer.

I reached out with both hands and gently took hold of his head before he could stop me. His hands rose and they gripped mine but they could do nothing of course to soften my own grip.

I came close to him, and I spoke in a whisper.

“Let me give you a gift, Raymond. Now pay attention to me. I will not kill you. I will not harm you. I want only to show you the teeth and the Blood, and if you will allow—and mark, I ask for your permission—I shall give you a drop of the Blood on your tongue.”

I opened my mouth so that the fang teeth were visible to him and I felt his body stiffen. He uttered a desperate prayer in Latin.

Then I cut my tongue with my teeth as I had done a hundred times with Amadeo.

“Do you want this blood?” I asked.

He closed his eyes.

“I will not make this decision for you, scholar. Will you take this lesson?”

“Yes!” he whispered when in fact his mind said No.

I clamped his mouth in an ardent kiss. The blood passed into him, and violently, he convulsed.

As I let him go, he could scarcely stand. But he was no coward, this man. And he bowed his head for only an instant and then he looked at me with clouded eyes.

He was enchanted for these small moments, and patiently, I let them pass.

“My thanks to you, Raymond,” I said. I prepared to take my leave through the window. “Write to me with all you know of Pandora, and if you cannot I will understand.”

“Don’t ever see an enemy in us, Marius,” he said quickly.

“Don’t fear it,” I said. “I never really forget anything that happens. I will always remember that you spoke to me of her.”

And then I was gone.

I came back to my bedroom study, where Amadeo still slept as though wine had drugged him when it had only been mortal blood.

For a little while I wrote in my diary. I tried to describe sensibly the conversation which had just taken place. I tried to describe the Talamasca from all that Raymond Gallant had revealed to me.

But at last I gave in to writing the name Pandora over and over, foolishly, Pandora, and then I put my head down on my folded arms and dreamt of her, and whispered to her in my dreams.

Pandora in the northern countries, what countries, what could this mean?

Oh, if I were to find her Asian companion, how I would deal with him, how quickly and brutally would I free her from such oppression. Pandora! How could you let such a thing happen? And no sooner had I asked such a question than I realized I was quarreling with her as I had done so often of old.

When it came time to leave the house that night to find our resting place, I discovered Bianca asleep in my studio on a long silken couch.

“Oh, but you’re too lovely,” I said to her, kissing her hair tenderly and squeezing her beautifully curved arm.

“I adore you,” she whispered, then went on with her dreaming—my fine and wonderful girl.

On we went to the golden room in which our coffins awaited us. I helped Amadeo lift the lid of his coffin before I lifted my own.

Amadeo was tired. The dancing had wearied him. But he whispered something sleepily to me.

“What is it?” I said.

“When the time comes, you will do it, you will give Bianca the Blood.”

“No,” I said, “stop speaking of that, you’re infuriating me.”

He laughed his cold uncompassionate little laugh. “I know you will. You love her too much to see her begin to wither.”

I told him No.

And then I went to my rest, never dreaming that it was the last night of our life together, the last night of my supreme power, the last night of Marius de Romanus, citizen of Venice, painter and magician, the last night of my Perfect Time.

24

On the following night I rose as was my custom and waited the hour or so for Amadeo to open his eyes.

Being young he did not follow the sunset so quickly as I did, and the time of rising differs among blood drinkers even when age is not a question at all.

I sat in the gold-lined chamber, deep in my thoughts about the scholar named Raymond Gallant, and wondered if he had left Venice as I had advised him to do. What danger could he bring to me, I thought, even if he meant to do it, for whom would he incite against me and on what charge?

I was far too strong to be overcome or imprisoned. Such a thing was preposterous. The very worst that could happen was that if this man marked me as some sort of dangerous alchemist, or even a demon, I should have to take Amadeo and go.

But I did not like these thoughts, and so I chose during these quiet moments to believe in Raymond Gallant, to be fond of him and to trust in him, and to let my mind search the city around me to see if I might find a trace of his presence, which would displease me in the extreme.

I had only started this search when something utterly ghastly blotted out my reason.

I heard screams coming from my own house. And I heard the cry of blood drinkers! I heard the cry of Satan worshipers—the chant of condemnations—and in my mind’s eye I saw my rooms filled with spreading fire.

I beheld Bianca’s face in the minds of others. I heard the cries of my boys.

Quickly I threw off the cover of Amadeo’s coffin.

“Come, Amadeo, I need you,” I cried in this frantic, foolish moment. “They’re burning the house. Bianca is in danger. Come.”

“Who is it, Master,” he said, flying up the steps beside me. “Is it Those Who Must Be Kept?”

“No, Amadeo,” I said, taking him under my arm and flying to the roof of the palazzo, “It’s a band of demon-worshiping blood drinkers. They’re weak. They will burn by their own torches! We must save Bianca. We must save the boys.”

As soon as I reached the house, I realized that they were attacking it in unimaginable numbers. Santino had realized his crazed dreams. In every room there was a zealous assailant putting to the torch whatever he could.

The entire house was filled with fire.

As I rushed to the top of the main stairs I saw Bianca far below me, surrounded by the black-cloaked demons, who tormented her with torches as she screamed. Vincenzo lay dead before the open front doors.

I could hear the shouts of the gondoliers pleading with those inside to come out.

I dropped to the bottom of the stairway, and with the Fire Gift burnt Bianca’s young and blundering attackers, who all but tripped on their black robes as they went up in flames. Some I could only force away with physical blows because I had no time to direct my powerful gifts.

Quickly I carried Bianca through the thick smoke and out onto the quais. I heaved her into the arms of a boatman who at once moved to take her away.

As soon as I turned back to save the screaming boys, a host of black-clad monsters surrounded me and again I burnt them with the Fire Gift, battering at their torches clumsily as I did.

The house was everywhere in chaos. Statues fell over the railings. Tapestries were set ablaze and paintings smoldered, but the boys, what could I do to protect the boys?

As soon as I burnt one ring of monsters there came another, and from all sides the condemnations:

“Heretic, blasphemer, Marius, the idolater, Marius, the pagan. Santino condemns you to burn.”

Again and again I knocked the torches aside. Again and again I burnt the intruders. Again and again I heard their dying cries.

The smoke blinded me as it might have a mortal. The boys were roaring in panic as they were carried out of the house and over the rooftops.

“Amadeo!” I called out.

From above, I heard him desperately call to me.

I ascended, yet at every landing they accosted me and I found myself whipping around and playing the same game of force and Fire Gift as rapidly as I could.

“Amadeo, use your strength,” I called out to him. I could not see him. “Use the gifts I’ve given you.” I could only hear his cries.

I set ablaze those who crowded close to me. I could see nothing but the creatures burning, and then more torches thrust towards me as I hurled them back.

“Do you want to burn!” I declared, seeking to threaten them but no lesson of power stopped them.

In their fervor they came on.

“Santino sends you his holy fire. Santino sends you his justice. Santino claims your pupils. Santino claims your fledglings. Now it is time for you to burn.”

All of a sudden and indeed, it was all of sudden—there did come the fatal circle of some seven or eight of them swift enough to plunge the fire at me so that it caught all of my garments and my hair.

Against my body itself this fire burnt, swallowing my head and all of my limbs.

For one slight moment I thought I shall survive this, this is nothing, I am Marius, the Immortal One, and then there came to me in a fury the horrid memory of the blood of the Elder in Egypt set afire by a lamp, burning with lurid smoke on the floor of my room.

There came a memory of the blood of Euxodia in Constantinople, bursting into flame on the floor of the shrine.

There came the memory of the Druid god in the grove with his black burnt skin.

And I knew in the next instant, without memory or thought, that my blood had been fatally ignited—that no matter how strong my skin or my bone, or my will, I was now burning, burning with such pain and such speed that nothing could keep me from being destroyed.

“Marius,” Amadeo cried out in terror. “Marius.” I heard his voice like a bell.

I cannot say reason drove me in any direction.

I did know I had reached the rooftop, and the cries of Amadeo and the boys were moving far off.

“Marius,” cried Amadeo one more time.

I was blind to all who still tormented me. I was blind to the sky. In my ears, I heard the old God of the Grove on the night of my making telling me that I was immortal, that I could only be destroyed by the sun or by fire.

For life, I reached with all my remaining power. And in this state, I willed myself to reach the proper railing of the roof garden and to plummet down into the canal.

“Yes, down, down, into the water, under the water,” I said aloud, forcing myself to hear the words, and then through the fetid waters I swam as fast as I could, clinging to the bottom, cooled and soothed and saved by the filthy water, leaving behind the burning palazzo from which my children had been stolen, in which my paintings had been destroyed.

An hour, perhaps longer, I remained in the canal.

The fire in my veins had been quenched almost immediately, but the raw pain was almost unendurable, and when at last I rose it was to seek that gold-lined chamber where my coffin lay.

I was unable to walk to this room.

Fearfully, on hands and knees, I sought the back entrance of the house, and managed by means of both the Mind Gift and my fingers to unlatch the door.

Then moving slowly through the many chambers I came at last to the heavy barrier which I had made to my tomb. For how long I struggled with it I do not know, only that it was the Mind Gift which finally unfastened it, not the strength of my burnt hands.

At last I crept down the stairs to the dark quiet of the golden room.

It seemed a miracle when at last I lay beside my coffin. I was too exhausted to move further, and with every breath I felt pain.

The sight of my burnt arms and legs was stultifying. And when I reached to feel my hair, I realized that most of it was gone. I felt my ribs beneath the thickened black flesh of my chest. I needed no mirror to tell me that I had become a horror, that my face was gone.

But what grieved me far worse was that when I leant against my coffin and listened, I could hear the boys wailing, wailing as a ship took them to some distant port, and I could hear Amadeo pleading with his captors for some kind of reason. But no reason came. Only the chants of the Satan worshipers were sung to my poor children. And I knew these Satan worshipers were taking my children South to Rome, South to Santino, whom I had foolishly condemned and dismissed.

Amadeo was once more a prisoner, once more a captive of those who would use him for their evil ends. Amadeo had once more been stolen from a way of life to be taken to another inexplicable place.

Oh, how I hated myself that I had not destroyed Santino! Why had I ever suffered him to live!

And even now, as I tell you this story, I despise him! Oh, how heartily and eternally I despise him because he destroyed, in the name of Satan, all that I held precious, because he took my Amadeo away from me, because he took those whom I protected, because he burnt the palazzo which contained the fruits of my dreams.

Yes, I repeat myself, don’t I? You must forgive me. Surely you must understand the pure arrogance and utter cruelty of what Santino did to me. Surely you must understand the pure destructive force with which he changed the course of Amadeo’s journey.…

And I knew that this journey would be changed.

I knew it as I lay against the side of my coffin. I knew it because I was too weak to recover my pupil, too weak to save the wretched mortal boys who would suffer some unspeakable cruelties, too weak even to hunt for myself.

And if I could not hunt, how would I gain the blood to heal?

I lay back on the floor of the room and I tried to quell the pain in my burnt flesh. I tried only to think and to breathe.

I could hear Bianca. Bianca had survived. Bianca was alive.

Indeed, Bianca had brought others to save our house, but it was far beyond saving. And once again, as in war and pillage, I had lost the beautiful things I cherished; I had lost my books; I had lost my writings, such as they were.

How many hours I lay there I don’t know, but when I rose to take the lid from my coffin I found that I still could not stand. Indeed, I could not remove the lid with my burnt arms. Only with the Mind Gift could I push it and then not very far.

I settled back down on the floor.

I was too full of pain to move again for a long time.

Could I hope to travel over the miles to reach the Divine Parents? I didn’t know. And I couldn’t risk leaving this chamber to find out.

Nevertheless I pictured Those Who Must Be Kept. I prayed to them. Deeply, vividly I envisioned Akasha.

“Help me, my Queen,” I whispered aloud. “Help me. Guide me. Remember when you spoke to me in Egypt. Remember. Speak to me now. I have never suffered before as I am suffering now.”

And then an old taunt came back to me, a taunt as old as prayers themselves.

“Who will tend your shrine if I am not restored?” I demanded. I trembled in my misery. “Beloved Akasha,” I whispered. “Who will worship you if I am destroyed? Help me, guide me, for some night in these passing centuries you may have need of me! Who has cared for you for so long!”

But what good is it ever to taunt the gods and the goddesses?

I sent out the Mind Gift with all its strength to the snowy Alps in which I had built and concealed the chapel.

“My Queen, tell me how I may come to you? Could something as dreadful as this draw you from your solitude, or do I ask too much? I dream of miracles but I cannot imagine them. I pray for mercy, yet I cannot envision how it would come about.”

I knew it was vain, if not blasphemy, to beg her to rise from her throne for me. But was she so powerful that she could give some miraculous strength over the miles?

“How will I return to you?” I prayed. “How will I ever fulfill again my duties if I am not healed?”

The silence of the golden room answered. It was as cold as the shrine in the mountains. I imagined I could feel the snow of the Alps on my burnt flesh.

But slowly the horror sunk in.

I think I gave a soft, sad little laugh.

“I can’t reach you,” I said, “not without assistance, and how can I obtain that assistance unless I forsake the secret of what I am? Unless I forsake the secret of the Chapel of Those Who Must Be Kept?”

At last I climbed to my knees and struggled up the stone stairs very slowly; and painfully, I managed to stand, and with the Mind Gift, fasten the bronze door.

Safety, that was important, very important. I must survive this, I thought. I must not despair.

Then collapsing again and crawling down the stairs to the golden chamber, in the manner of something loathsome and lurid, I pushed doggedly against the lid of my coffin until it was open sufficiently for me to go to my rest.

Never had I known such injury, never had I known such pain.

A monstrous humiliation was mingled with the torture. Oh, there was so much I had not known about existence, so much I had not understood about life.

Soon the cries of the boys were gone from my ears, no matter how keenly I listened. The boat had carried them over the waters.

But I could still hear Bianca.

Bianca wept.

In misery and pain, my mind searched Venice.

“Raymond Gallant, member of the Talamasca,” I whispered, “I need you now. Raymond Gallant, pray you haven’t left Venice. Raymond Gallant of the Talamasca, please hear my prayers.”

I could find no trace of him, but who knew what had happened to my powers? Perhaps all had dwindled. I could not even remember clearly his room or where it had been.

But why did I hope to find him? Had I not told him to leave the Veneto? Had I not impressed upon him that he must leave? Of course he had done as I had told him to do. No doubt he was miles beyond the point where he might hear my call.

Nevertheless I continued to say his name over and over as if it were a prayer.

“Raymond Gallant of the Talamasca, I need you. I need you now.”

Finally, the approaching dawn brought a frigid relief to me. The roaring pain subsided slowly and my dreams began as they will do if I sleep before the rise of the sun.

In my dreams, I saw Bianca. She had her servants about her, and they comforted her, and she said:

“They are dead, both of them, I know it. They have died in the fire.”