Blood And Gold (The Vampire Chronicles #8)

Blood And Gold (The Vampire Chronicles #8) Page 2

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SEVERAL SUNLESS DAYS and nights of midwinter he traveled. But it didn't take him long to hear the cry of another. It was a blood drinker older than he, and in a city that Thorne had known centuries before.

In his nocturnal sleep he had never really forgotten this city. It had been a great market town with a fine cathedral. But on his long journey North so many years ago, he had found it suffering with the dreaded plague, and he had not believed it would endure.

Indeed, it had seemed to Thorne that all the peoples of the world would die in that awful plague, so terrible had it been, so merciless.

Once again, sharp memories tormented him.

He saw and smelled the time of the pestilence when children wandered aimlessly without parents, and bodies had lain in heaps. The smell of rotting flesh had been everywhere. How could he explain to anyone the sorrow he had felt for humankind that such a disaster had befallen them?

He didn't want to see the cities and the towns die, though he him self was not of them. When he fed upon the infected he knew no infection himself. But he could not cure anyone. He had gone on North, thinking perhaps that all the wondrous things that humankind had done would be covered in snow or vine or the soft earth itself in final oblivion.

But all had not died as he had then feared; indeed people of the town itself had survived, and their descendants lived still in the narrow cobbled medieval streets through which he walked, more soothed by the cleanliness here than he had ever dreamt he would be.

Yes, it was good to be in this vital and orderly place.

How solid and fine the old timber houses, yet the modern machines ticked and hummed within. He could feel and see the miracles that he had only glimpsed through the Mind Gift. The televisions were filled with colorful dreams. And people knew a safety from the snow and ice which his time had never given anyone.

He wanted to know more of these wonders for himself, and that surprised him. He wanted to see railroad trains and ships. He wanted to see airplanes and cars. He wanted to see computers and wireless telephones.

Maybe he could do it. Maybe he could take the time. He had not come to life again with any such goal, but then who said that he must hurry upon his errand? No one knew of his existence except perhaps this blood drinker who called to him, this blood drinker who so easily opened his own mind.

Where was the blood drinker¡ªthe one he had heard only hours ago? He gave a long silent call, not revealing his name, but pledging only that he offered friendship.

Quickly an answer came to him. With the Mind Gift he saw a blond-haired stranger. The creature sat in the back room of a special tavern, a place where blood drinkers often gathered.

Come join me here.

The direction was plain and Thorne hastened to go there. Over the last century he had heard the blood drinker voices speak of such havens. Vampire taverns, blood drinker bars, blood drinker clubs. They made up the Vampire Connection. Such a thing! It made him smile.

In his mind's eye, he saw the bright disturbing hallucination again of the great web with so many tiny pulsing lights caught within it. That vision had been of all the blood drinkers themselves connected to the Sacred Core of the Evil Queen. But this Vampire Connection was an echo of such a web, and it fascinated him.

Would they call to each other on computers, these modern blood drinkers, forsaking the Mind Gift altogether? He vowed that nothing must dangerously surprise him.

Yet he felt shivers through all his flesh remembering his vague dreams of the disaster.

He hoped and prayed that his newfound friend would confirm the things he'd seen. He hoped and prayed that the blood drinker would be truly old, not young and tender and bungling.

He prayed that this blood drinker would have the gift of words. For he wanted to hear words more than anything. He himself could seldom find the right words. And now, more than anything, he wanted to listen.

He was almost to the bottom of the steep street, the snow coming down lightly around him, when he saw the sign of the tavern: The Werewolf.

It made him laugh.

So these blood drinkers play their reckless games, he mused. In his time it had been wholly different. Who of his own people had not believed that a man could change into a wolf? Who of his own people would not have done anything to prevent this very evil from coming upon him?

But here it was, a plaything, the concept, with this painted sign swinging on its hinges in the cold wind, and the barred windows brightly lighted beneath it.

He pulled the handle of the heavy door and at once found himself in a crowded room, warm, and full of the smell of wine and beer and human blood.

The warmth alone was overwhelming. In truth, he had never felt anything quite like it. The warmth was everywhere. It was even and wondrous. And it crossed his mind that not a single mortal here realized how truly marvelous this warmth was.

For in olden times such warmth had been impossible, and bitter winter had been the common curse of all.

There was no time however for such thinking. He reminded himself,

Do not be surprised.

But the inundating chatter of mortals paralyzed him. The blood around him paralyzed him. For one moment his thirst was crippling. In this noisy indifferent crowd he felt he would run rampant, taking hold of this one and that one, only to be discovered, the monster among the throng who would then be hounded to destruction.

He found a place against the wall and leant against it, his eyes closed.

He remembered those of his clan running up the mountain, searching for the red-haired witch whom they would never find. Thorne alone had seen her. Thorne had seen her take the eyes from the dead warrior and put them into her own sockets. Thorne had seen her return through the light snow to the cave where she lifted her distaff. Thorne had seen her winding the golden red thread on the spindle.

And the clan had wanted to destroy her, and wielding his ax he had been among them.

How foolish it all seemed now, because she had wanted Thorne to see her. She had come North for a warrior such as Thorne. She had chosen Thorne, and she had loved his youth and his strength and his pure courage.

He opened his eyes.

The mortals in this place took no notice of him, even though his clothes were badly worn. How long could he go unseen? He had no coins in his pockets to purchase a place at a table or a cup of wine.

But the voice of the blood drinker came again, coaxing him, reassuring him.

You must ignore the crowd. They know nothing of us, or why we keep this place. They are pawns. Come to the rear door. Push it with all your strength and it will give for you.

It seemed impossible that he could cross this room, that these mortals wouldn't know him for what he was.

But he must overcome this fear. He must reach the blood drinker who was summoning him.

Bowing his head, bringing his collar up over his mouth, he pushed through the soft bodies, trying not to meet the gaze of those who glanced at him. And when he saw the door without a handle, at once he pushed it as he'd been told to do.

It gave upon a large dimly lighted chamber with thick candles set upon each of its scattered wooden tables. The warmth was as solid and good as that of the outer room.

And the blood drinker was alone.

He was a tall fair creature whose yellow hair was almost white. He had hard blue eyes, and a delicate face, covered with a thin layer of blood and ash to make him look more human to the mortal eye. He wore a bright-red cloak with a hood, thrown back from his head, and his hair was finely combed and long.

He looked most handsome to Thorne, and well mannered, and rather like a creature of books than a man of the sword. He had large hands but they were slender and his fingers were fine.

It occurred to Thorne that he had seen this being with the Mind Gift, seated at the council table with the other blood drinkers before the Evil Queen had been brought down.

Yes, he had seen this very one. This one had tried so hard to reason with the Queen, though inside him there lurked a dreadful anger and an unreasonable hate.

Yes, Thorne had seen this very one struggling with words, finely chosen words, to save everyone.

The blood drinker gestured for him to take a seat to the right, against the wall.

He accepted this invitation, and found himself on a long leather cushion, the candle flame dancing wickedly before him, sending its playful light into the other blood drinker's eyes. He could smell blood now in the other blood drinker. He realized that the blood drinker's face was warm with it, and so were his long tapering hands.

Yes, I have hunted tonight, but I will hunt with you again. You need this.

"Yes," said Thorne. "It's been so long you can't imagine it. To suffer in the snow and ice was simple. But they're all around me now, these tender creatures."

"I understand," said the other blood drinker. "I know."

These were the first words Thorne had spoken aloud to anyone in years and years, and he closed his eyes so that he might treasure this moment. Memory was a curse, yes, he thought, but it was also the greatest gift. Because if you lost memory you lost everything.

A bit of his old religion came back to him¡ªthat for memory, the god Odin had given his eye, and hung upon the sacred tree for nine days. But it was more complex than that. It was not only memory which Odin gained, it was the mead which enabled him to sing poetry.

Once years ago Thorne had drunk that poet's mead, given him by the priests of the sacred grove, and he had stood in the middle of his father's house singing the poems about her, the red-haired one, the blood drinker, whom he had seen with his own eyes.

And those around him had laughed and mocked him. But when she began to slay the members of the clan they mocked him no more. Once they had seen the pale bodies with their eyes plucked out, they had made him their hero.

He shook himself all over. The snow fell from his hair and from his shoulders. With a careless hand he wiped the bits of ice from his eyebrows. He saw the ice melt on his fingers. He rubbed hard at the frost on his face.

Was there no fire in this room? He looked about. The heat came magically through small windows. But how good it was, how consuming.

He wanted to strip off his clothes suddenly and bathe in this heat. I have a fire in my house. I'll take you there.

As if from a trance, he woke to look at the blood drinker stranger. He cursed himself that he had been sitting here clumsy and mute.

The blood drinker spoke aloud: "It's only to be expected. Do you understand the tongue I speak?"

"It's the tongue of the Mind Gift," said Thorne. "Men all over the world speak it." He stared at the blood drinker again. "My name is Thorne," he said. "Thor was my god." Hastily he reached inside his worn leather coat and pulled out from the fur the amulet of gold which he wore on a chain. "Time can't rust such a thing," he said. "It's Thor's hammer."

The blood drinker nodded.

"And your gods?" Thorne asked. "Who were they? I don't speak of belief, you understand, I speak of what we lost, you and I. Do you catch my meaning?"

"The gods of old Rome, those are the gods I lost," said the stranger. "My name is Marius."

Thorne nodded. It was too marvelous to speak aloud and to hear the voice of another. For the moment, he forgot the blood he craved and wanted only a flood of words.

"Speak to me, Marius," he said. "Tell me wondrous things. Tell me all that you would have me know." He tried to stop himself but he couldn't do it.

"Once I stood speaking to the wind, telling the wind all things that were in my mind and in my heart. Yet when I went North into the ice, I had no language." He broke off, staring into Marius's eyes. "My soul is too hurt. I have no true thoughts."

"I understand you," said Marius. "Come with me to my house. You're welcome to the bath, and to the clothes you need. Then we'll hunt and you'll be restored, and then comes talk. I can tell you stories without end. I can tell you all the stories of my life that I want to share with another."

A long sigh escaped Thorne's lips. He couldn't prevent himself from smiling in gratitude, his eyes moist and his hands trembling. He searched the stranger's face. He could find no evidence of dishonesty or cunning. The stranger seemed wise, and simple.

"My friend," Thorne said and then he bent forward and offered the kiss of greeting. Biting deep into his tongue, he filled his mouth with blood, and opened his lips over those of Marius.

The kiss did not take Marius by surprise. It was his own custom. He received the blood and obviously savored it.

"Now we can't quarrel over any small thing," said Thorne. He settled back against the wall greatly confused suddenly. He wasn't alone. He feared that he might give way to tears. He feared that he hadn't the strength to go back out into the dreadful cold and accompany this one to his house, yet it was what he needed to do so terribly.

"Come," said Marius, "I'll help you."

They rose from the table together.

This time the agony of passing through the crowd of mortals was even greater. So many bright glistening eyes fastened on him, though it was only for a moment.

Then they were in the narrow street again, in the gentle swirling snow, and Marius had his arm tight around him.

Thorne was gasping for breath, because his heart had been so quickened. He found himself biting at the snow as it came in gusts into his face. He had to stop for a moment and gesture for his new friend to have patience.

"So many things I saw with the Mind Gift," he said. "I didn't understand them."

"I can explain, perhaps," said Marius. "I can explain all I know and you can do with it what you will. Knowledge has not been my salvation of late. I am lonesome."

"I'll stay with you," Thorne said. This sweet camaraderie was breaking his heart.

A long time they walked, Thorne becoming stronger again, forgetting the warmth of the tavern as if it had been a delusion.

At last they came to a handsome house, with a high peaked roof, and many windows. Marius put his key into the door, and they left the blowing snow behind, stepping into a broad hallway.

A soft light came from the rooms beyond. The walls and ceiling were of finely oiled wood, the same as the floor, with all corners neatly fitted.

"A genius of the modern world made this house for me," Marius explained. "I've lived in many houses, in many styles. This is but one way. Come inside with me."

The great room of the house had a rectangular stone fireplace built into its wooden wall. And there the fire was stacked waiting to be lighted. Through glass walls of remarkable size, Thorne saw the lights of the city. He realized that they were on the edge of the hill, and that a valley lay below them.

"Come," said Marius, "I must introduce you to the other who lives here with me."

This startled Thorne, because he had not detected the presence of anyone else, but he followed Marius through a doorway out of the great room into another chamber on the left, and there he saw a strange sight which mystified him.

Many tables filled the room, or perhaps it was one great broad table. But it was covered all over with a small landscape of hills and valleys, towns and cities. It was covered with little trees, and even little shrubbery, and here and there was snow, as if one town lay under winter and another lay under spring or summer.

Countless houses crowded the landscape, many with twinkling lights, and there were sparkling lakes made of some hard substance to imitate the gleam of water. There were tunnels through the mountains.

And on curving iron tracks through this little wilderness there ran little railroad trains, seemingly made out of iron, like those of the great modern world.

Over this tiny world, there presided a blood drinker who didn't bother to look up at Thorne as he entered. The blood drinker had been a young male when he was made. He was tall, but very slight of build, with very delicate fingers. His hair was the faded blond more common among Englishmen than Norsemen.

He sat near the table, where before him was a cleared space devoted to his paintbrushes, and to several bottles of paint, while with his hands he painted the bark of a small tree, as if in readiness to put it into the world that stretched out all over the room, surrounding and almost enclosing him.

A rush of pleasure passed through Thorne as he looked over this little world. It struck him suddenly that he could have spent an hour inspecting all of the tiny buildings. It was not the harsh great world outside, but something precious and protected, and even slightly enchanting.

There was more than one small black train which ran along upon the wandering tracks, and a small droning noise came from these trains as if from bees in a hive. The trains had lights inside their tiny windows.

All the myriad details of this small wonderland seemed to be correct.

"I feel I'm the frost giant in this room," Thorne whispered reverently.

It was an offering of friendship to the youngish male who continued to apply the brown paint to the bark of the tiny tree which he held so delicately between his left fingers. But the youngish male blood drinker did not respond.

"These tiny cities and towns are foil of pretty magic," Thorne said, his voice a little more timid.

The youngish male seemed to have no ears.

"Daniel?" said Marius gently to his friend, "do you want to greet Thorne who is our guest tonight?"

"Welcome, Thorne," said Daniel without looking up. And then as if neither Thorne nor Marius were there, Daniel stopped the painting of his tree, and dipping another brush into another bottle, he made a dampened spot for the tree in the great world before him. He set the tree down hard upon that spot and the tree stood firm as though rooted.

"This house is full of many rooms like this," said Marius in an even voice, his eyes looking at Thorne gently. "Look below. One can purchase thousands of little trees, and thousands of little houses." He pointed to stacks upon stacks of small containers on the floor beneath the table. "Daniel is very good at putting together the houses. See how intricate they are? This is all that Daniel does now."

Thorne sensed a judgment in Marius's voice but it was soft, and the youngish blood drinker paid no attention. He had taken up another small tree, and was examining the thick green portion which made up its leafy upper limbs. To this he soon applied his little paintbrush.

"Have you ever seen one of our kind under such a spell?" Marius asked.

Thorne shook his head. No, he had not. But he understood how such a thing could happen.

"It occurs sometimes," said Marius. "The blood drinker becomes enthralled. I remember centuries ago I heard the story of a blood drinker in a Southern land whose sole passion was for finding beautiful shells along the shore, and this she did all night long until near morning.

She did hunt and she did drink, but it was only to return to the shells, and once she looked at each, she threw it aside and went on searching. No one could distract her from it.

Daniel is enthralled in the same way. He makes these small cities.

He doesn't want to do anything else. It's as if the small cities have caught him. You might say I look after him."

Thorne was speechless, out of respect. He couldn't tell whether Marius's words affected the blood drinker who continued to work upon his world. Thorne felt a moment of confusion.

Then a low genial laugh came from the youngish blood drinker. "Daniel will be this way for a while," said Marius, "and then his old faculties will come back to him."

"The ideas you have, Marius," Daniel said with another little easy laugh. It was hardly more than a murmur. Daniel dipped the brush again into the paste that would make his little tree stick to the green grass, and he pressed the tree down with appropriate force. Then out of a box beside him, he drew another.

All the while the small railroad trains moved on, winding their way noisily through hill and valley, past snow-covered church and house. Why, this tiny world even contained small detailed people! "Might I kneel to look at this?" asked Thorne respectfully. "Yes, please do," said Marius. "It would give him pleasure." Thorne went down on both knees and drew himself up to the small village with its cluster of little buildings. He saw delicate signs on them but he didn't know the meaning of them.

He was struck dumb by the wonder of it¡ªthat rising and confronting the great world, he was to come here and stumble upon this little universe.

A finely made little train, its engine roaring, its cars loosely connected, came rattling past him on the track. He thought he glimpsed small figures inside it.

For a second, he forgot all else. He imagined this handmade world to be real, and understood the spell, though it frightened him.

"Beautiful," he said in thanks. He stood up.

The young blood drinker neither moved nor spoke in acknowledgment.

"Have you hunted, Daniel?" asked Marius.

"Not tonight, Marius," said the youngish one without looking up, but then suddenly his eyes flashed on Thorne, and Thorne was surprised by their violet color.

"Norseman," Daniel said with a little note of pleasant surprise. "Red hair like the hair of the twins." He laughed, a light laugh as if he were a little mad. "Made by Maharet. Strong one."

The words caught Thorne completely off guard. He reeled, scarcely able to keep his balance.

He wanted to strike the careless young one. He almost lifted his fist. But Marius held his arm firmly.

Images crowded into Thorne's mind. The twins¡ªhis beloved Maker and her lost sister. He saw them vividly. The Queen of the Damned. Once more he saw the helpless blood drinker Lestat with the chains around him. Chains of metal could never have held him. From what had his red-haired Maker created those chains?

He tried to banish these thoughts, and anchor himself within the moment.

Marius held tight to his arm, and went on speaking to the blood drinker Daniel:

"Let me guide you, if you want to hunt."

"I have no need," said Daniel. He had gone back to his work. He drew a large bundle from beneath the table, and he held it up for Marius to see. On the cover was painted, or printed, Thorne could not tell, the picture of a house with three stories and many windows. "I want to assemble this house," Daniel said. "It's more difficult than anything you see here, but with my vampiric blood it will be simple."

"We'll leave you now," said Marius, "but don't try to leave here without me."

"I would never do that," said Daniel. He was already tearing at the sheer wrapping of the bundle. Bits and pieces of wood were inside. "I'll hunt with you tomorrow night and you can treat me as though I am a child as you love to do."

Marius kept his friendly grip on Thorne's arm. He led him out of the room and closed the door.

"When he wanders by himself," said Marius, "he gets into trouble. He gets lost, or thirsty beyond the point where he can hunt on his own. I have to search for him. He was that way as a man before he was ever made a blood drinker. The blood didn't change him except for a little while. And now he's enslaved to these tiny worlds he creates. All he requires is space for them, and the packages of buildings and trees and such which he purchases through the computer."

Ah, you have those strange engines of the mind," said Thorne. Yes, under this roof there are very fine computers. I have all I need," said Marius. "But you're tired. Your clothes are old. You need refreshment. We'll talk of all this later."

He led Thorne up a short echoing wooden staircase and into a large bedchamber. All the wood of the walls and the doors was painted here in colors of green and yellow, and the bed itself was fitted into a great carved cabinet with only one side open. It struck him as a safe and curious place without a surface untouched by human hands. Even the wooden floor was polished.

Through a broad door they entered an immense bath which was paneled in roughened wood with a floor of stone, and many candles for its illumination. The color of the wood was beautiful in the subtle light and Thorne felt himself becoming dizzy.

But it was the bath itself which amazed him. There before another glass wall stood a huge wooden tub of steaming hot water. Made like a great cask, the tub was easily big enough for several to bathe together. On a small stool beside the tub there stood a stack of what appeared to be towels. On other stools there stood bowls of dried flowers and herbs which Thorne could smell with his acute blood drinker senses. There were also bottles of oil and jars of what might have been ointments.

That Thorne might wash himself in this seemed to him a miracle.

"Take off the soiled clothes," said Marius. "Let me discard them. What else do you have that you would save other than your necklace?"

"Nothing," said Thorne. "How can I ever repay you for this?"

"But you already have," said Marius. He himself removed his leather coat, and then pulled off his wool tunic. His naked chest was without hair. He was pale as all old blood drinkers are pale. And his body was strong and naturally beautiful. He'd been taken in the prime of his life, that was plain. But his true age, either in mortal life long ago, or in blood drinker time now? Thorne could not guess it.

Marius took off his leather boots and his long wool pants, and not waiting for Thorne¡ªonly making a gesture that Thorne should follow¡ªhe stepped into the huge tub of hot water.

Thorne ripped at his fur-lined jacket. He tore it in his haste. His fingers trembled as he stripped away the pants that were almost ragged. In a moment he was as naked as the other, and in awkward haste he gathered the ruin of his clothes in a small bundle. He looked about.

"Don't worry about such things," said Marius. The steam was rising all around him. "Come into the tub with me. Be warm for now." Thorne followed, first stepping into the tub and then sinking down in the hot water on his knees. He finally seated himself so that the water came to his neck. The shock of the heat was overwhelming and utterly blessed. He uttered a little prayer of thanks, something old and small which he had learnt as a child to say when something purely good happens.

Marius put his hand into the bowl of dried flowers and herbs, and gathering up quite a bit of this mixture he let it loose into the hot water.

It was a deep good perfume of the outdoors in summer.

Thorne closed his eyes. That he had risen, that he had come this far, that he had found this pure and luxurious bath seemed almost impossible to him. He would wake soon, a victim of the Mind Gift, back in his hopeless cave, prisoner of his own exile, only dreaming of others.

Slowly he bowed his head and lifted a double handful of the cleansing hot water to his face. He lifted more and more of the water, and then finally as if it required courage, he dipped his head into the tub completely.

When he rose again he was warm as if he'd never been cold, and the sight of the lights beyond the glass amazed him. Even through the steam, he could see the snow falling beyond, and he was deliciously conscious that he was so near and yet so far from it.

Suddenly he wished that he had not risen for such a dark purpose. Why could he not serve only what was good? Why could he not live for what was pleasurable? But that had never been his way.

No matter, it was important to keep that secret to himself for now. Why trouble his friend with dark thoughts? Why trouble himself with guilty confessions?

He looked at his companion.

Marius sat back against the side of the wooden tub with his arms out resting upon the edge. His hair was wet and clinging to his neck and shoulders. He didn't stare at Thorne, but he was obviously conscious of him.

Thorne dipped his head again; he moved forward and lay down in the water, rising suddenly and turning over, letting the water run off him. He gave a little laugh of delight. He ran his fingers through the hair on his own chest. He dipped his head back until, the water lapped at his face. He rolled over again and again to wash his full head of hair before he rose and sat back contented.

He took the same posture as Marius and the two looked at each other.

"And you live this way," said Thorne, "in the very midst of mortals, and you are safe from them? "

"They don't believe in us now," said Marius. "No matter what they see they don't believe. And wealth buys anything." His blue eyes seemed earnest and his face was calm as if he had no evil secrets inside, as though he had no hatred for anyone. But he did.

"Mortals clean this house," said Marius. "Mortals take the money I give them for all that's needed here. Do you understand enough of the modern world to grasp how such a place is heated and cooled and kept safe from intruders?"

"I understand," said Thorne. "But we're never safe as we dream, are we? "

A bitter smile came over Marius's face. "I have never been harmed by mortals," he said.

"You speak of the Evil Queen and all those she's slain, don't you?"

"Yes, I speak of that and other horrors," Marius answered.

Slowly without words Marius used the Mind Gift to let Thorne know that he himself hunted only the Evil Doer.

"That is my peace with the world," he said. "That is how I manage to go on. I use the Mind Gift to hunt those mortals who kill. In the big cities I can always find them."

"And mine is the Little Drink," said Thorne. "Be assured. I need no greedy feast. I take from many so that no one dies. For centuries I've lived this way among the Snow People. When I was first made I hadn't the skill. I would drink too fast and too recklessly. But then I learned. No one soul belongs to me. And I could go like the bee goes from flower to flower. It was my habit to enter into taverns where many are close together, and to take from one after another."

Marius nodded. "That's a good style," he said with a little smile. "For a child of Thor, you're merciful." His smile broadened. "That's merciful indeed."

"Do you despise my god?" asked Thorne politely.

"I don't think that I do," said Marius. "I told you that I lost the gods of Rome, but in truth I never had them. I was too cold of temperament to have gods. And not having had any true gods of my own, I speak of all gods as if they were poetry. The poetry of Thor was a poetry of war, was it not, a poetry of battles without cease, and of noise in Heaven?"

This delighted Thorne. He couldn't conceal his pleasure. The Mind Gift never brought this kind of keen communication with another, and the words that Marius spoke were not only impressing him, they were confusing him slightly, which was wonderful.

"Yes, that was Thor's poetry," he said, "but nothing was as clear and certain as the sound of the thunder in the mountains when he wielded his hammer. And alone at night when I went out of my father's house into the rain and wind, when I climbed the wet mountain fearlessly to hear that thunder, I knew the god was there, and I was far from poetry." He stopped. He saw his homeland in his mind. He saw his youth. "There were other gods I heard," he said quietly. He didn't look at Marius. "It was Odin leading the Wild Hunt through the skies that made the loudest noise; and I saw and heard those spirits pass. I never forgot them."

"Can you see them now?" asked Marius. It was not a challenge. He spoke only with curiosity. Indeed it had a bit of respect in it. "I hope you can," he hastened to add as if there might be some doubt as to the interpretation.

"I don't know," said Thorne. "It was so long ago. I never thought that I might recover those things."

But they were keen in his mind now. Though he sat in this warm bath, his blood soothed, all the cruel cold driven from his limbs, he could see the wintry valley. He could hear the storm, and see the phantoms flying high above, all those lost dead following the god Odin through the sky.

Come," Thorne had said to his companions, the young ones, who'd crept out of the hall with him, "let's go to the grove, let's stand in the very grove as the thunder rolls on." They'd been frightened of the holy ground, but they couldn't show it.

"You were a Viking child," said Marius quietly.

"Oh, so the Britons called us," said Thorne. "I don't think we used that name for ourselves. We learnt it from our enemies. I remember their screams when we climbed their walls, when we stole the gold from the altars of the churches." He paused. He let his eyes rest calmly on Marius for a moment. "What a tolerant one you are. You truly want to listen."

Marius nodded. "I listen with my whole soul." He gave a little sigh and he looked out through the immense glass. "I'm weary of being alone, my friend," he said. "I cannot bear the company of those whom I know most intimately. And they cannot bear mine on account of things I've done."

Thorne was surprised by this sudden confession. Thorne thought of the blood drinker Lestat and his songs. He thought of all those gathered at the council when the Evil Queen had come. He knew all had survived. And he knew that this blond one, Marius, had talked with reason more potently than any other.

"Go on with your story," Marius said. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. You meant to make a point."

"It was only that I slew many men before I ever became a blood drinker," said Thorne. "I swung Thor's hammer as well as my sword and my ax. I fought as a boy at my father's side. I fought after I buried him. And he died no straw death, I can assure you, but with his sword in his hand as he wanted it." Thorne paused. "And you, my friend?" he asked. "Were you a soldier?"

Marius shook his head. "A Senator," he said, "a maker of laws, something of a philosopher. I went to war, yes, for some time because my family wished it, and I had a high place in one of the legions, but my time wasn't very long and I was home and back in my library. I loved books. I still do. There are rooms of this house which are full of them, and I have houses elsewhere that are full of them. I never really knew battle."

Marius stopped. He leant forward and brought the water up to his face as Thorne had done before, and he let the water run down over his eyelids.

"Come," he said, "let's be done with this pleasure and go for another. Let's hunt. I can feel your hunger. I have new clothes for you here. I have all you need. Or would you stay longer in this warm water?"

"No, I'm ready," said Thorne. It had been so long since he had fed that he was ashamed to admit it. Once again he rinsed his face and hair. He ducked down into the water, and came up, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead.

Marius had already climbed out of the tub, and held out for Thorne a large white towel.

It was thick and roughened and perfect for mopping the water off his blood drinker skin which never absorbs anything. The air of the room seemed chilled for one moment as he stood on the stone floor, but very soon he was warm again, rubbing fiercely at his hair to press the last droplets out of it.

Marius had finished with the task and now took a fresh towel from the stack and began to rub Thorne's back and shoulders. This familiarity sent the chills through Thorne's limbs. Marius rubbed hard at Thorne's head, and then he began to comb the wet hair free of tangles.

"Why is there no red beard, my friend?" asked Marius, as the two faced each other. "I remember the Norsemen with their beards. I remember them when they came to Byzantium. Does that name mean anything to you?"

"Oh, yes," said Thorne. "I was taken to see that wondrous city." He turned around and accepted the towel from Marius's hands. "My beard was thick and long, even when I was very young, let me assure you, but it was shaved the night that I became a blood drinker. I was groomed for the magical blood. It was the will of the creature who made me."

Marius nodded. But he was far too polite to say her name, though the other young one had brashly spoken it.

"You know it was Maharet," said Thorne. "You didn't need to hear it from your young friend. You caught it from my thoughts, didn't you?" Thorne paused, then went on. "You know it was the vision of her that brought me out of the ice and snow. She stood against the Evil Queen. She bound the vampire, Lestat, in chains. But to speak of her just now takes the breath out of me. When will I ever be able to speak of her? I can't know now. Let's hunt, and then we can really talk to one another."

He was solemn, holding the towel against his chest. In his secret heart, he tried to feel love for the one who made him. He tried to draw from the centuries a wisdom that would quench anger. But he couldn't do it. All he could do was be silent, and hunt with Marius now.