CERTIFICACION OPERADORES AERONAVES AGRICOLAS

Jürgen stood in the snow, staring at the monastery. He had come to Ezerelis with the intention of laying siege to the place, but had the strange suspicion someone had beat him to it.

The place was silent as a grave. Jürgen guessed the time at two hours to daybreak; the monks should be up and mov- ing, even if there weren’t any active Cainites in the monastery (which Jürgen rather doubted, given Dieter’s testimony). They should be saying their Nocturns, preparing for the day, sing- ing hymns. Of course, it was possible that these monks did not observe the same practices as those of Jürgen’s home- land, but even so, he should be able to hear something.

Jürgen stood completely still. His hair began to crys- tallize on the back of his neck. He blinked once and discovered that his eyes had begun to freeze. He could hear nothing from the monastery, feel no warmth, see no light. And yet, he did not think this place was empty, or even bereft of life, only that “life” was a relative term.

With a series of muted cracking sounds as the ice on his armor broke, Jürgen turned and walked back to the horses and his knights. He spoke in a whisper to Václav. “Some- thing is wrong. The place looks dead—empty. I saw no lights.” Václav shook his head. “Impossible.” He nodded back to the ghoul knights, who were huddled together around the small fire Jürgen had allowed them to build. “Our men are nearly frozen. The building would provide some re- spite from the wind, but without heat—”

“Yes.” Jürgen glanced back. “I saw no tracks. Perhaps the place is abandoned.”

“In that case, we should use it. We’ll need shelter for the day and the men need rest. Even if the hearths are cold now, we could warm them.”

Jürgen tapped his fingers against his side thoughtfully. “If this place is abandoned, what killed Klaus? And why would it be abandoned, anyway? There’s no evidence of a fire or some other catastrophe.”

“Attack? Lupines, perhaps? Or maybe the thing that killed Klaus also killed the monks?”

Jürgen nodded. “Where are the bodies, then? Why is the structure undamaged?”

“Plague?”

“Maybe, but why didn’t we hear of it sooner? The snow hasn’t been harsh enough to preclude all travel; surely one of the brothers would have made it to Ezerelis. It isn’t that far away.”

“Then what?”

Jürgen shook his head, and drew his sword. The sound was unnoticeable, ordinarily. This night, when a breath seemed to carry for miles, it was loud enough to gain the knights’ attention. Even the fire seemed to die down as Jürgen approached.

“Ready yourselves. We attack immediately.” The knights looked at one another; perhaps they still had mis- givings about attacking a monastery, or maybe their nerves were simply wilted by the cold and the quiet. Jürgen frowned; that wouldn’t do. He took a step towards the fire. The Beast whined loudly. “You have all seen the Black Cross, brothers. You know what lurks behind shadows, away from daylight. Surely you don’t think that all Cainites are as benevolent as I?”

The knights murmured to themselves—they knew very well that most Cainites were true monsters, and de- mons besides.

“Yes, the place seems empty, but I believe that some- thing else is afoot. Perhaps those monks are dead and the monastery deserted; if so, then so be it. But if they are dead and whatever killed them, and perhaps your brother, too, waits for us there—or if they are dead and they still walk,” his men shuddered a bit more visibly, and one crossed himself, “then we have a duty to cleanse the place.” He bade them stand, and pointed towards the monastery. “We shall enter through the front. The place looks de- serted, so we shall proceed as if it is. If we are attacked, then we shall respond in kind. If any living thing does inhabit that monastery, we shall meet it like men and sol- diers of God.”

“What of the horses, my lord?” one of the knights asked.

“Bring them a bit closer to the monastery and then tie them. We can see what shelter the place might give them once we determine if it is safe.” He pointed at two of the knights. “You carry torches. We’ll need light, and we’ll need to be able to light the hearths if it’s safe.”

He left the men to their preparation and walked back towards the monastery. Václav was already standing in almost exactly the same spot that Jürgen had been only a few moments before. “Anything?”

Václav did not turn. “My lord, look at the ground.” Jürgen looked. Even his acute vision took a moment to register what his knight meant, but once he saw it, his eyes widened. There were no tracks in the snow, and none behind him. “My God.”

“There’s something else. Listen.” Václav reached up and grasped a small branch on the tree above him. He broke it—but the branch made no sound at all. “This is sorcery like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Not for the first time, Jürgen wished he had asked Jervais to accompany him on this trip. He thought back to the conversations he’d had with the Tremere about his talents and those of the Telyavs he’d encountered, but Jervais was often maddeningly vague when speaking of magic. He did recall, however, the Jervais’s skills didn’t include controlling the weather. But Gotzon had spoken of this sort of blasphemy.

“Koldun.”

Václav turned to look at Jürgen. “Who?”

Jürgen shook his head, trying to remember what he’d seen while inside Geidas’s memories. The skies, the earth, the water—all had risen up to defend the Tzimisce. Were Gotzon’s fears justified? Could the fiends reshape the world along with the flesh? Jürgen’s Beast cried out that they should run, flee into the night and leave the knights to their fate, for surely whatever was blanketing this place in secrecy was powerful enough to kill them all.

“No,” said Jürgen, more to his Beast than to Václav. He raised his head and peered at the monastery. Not one stone had changed. “Consider, Václav, that secrecy and illusion are the tools of the base and low-blooded, those who have to hide rather than stand proudly against their foes. We attack. I think that this is a bluff, meant to ward off the cowardly.”

The two vampires walked towards the monastery, the rest of the knights not far behind. Jürgen noticed that he could hear the torches crackling until the two knights car- rying them reached the spot where he and Václav had been standing, and then the noise ended. The horses, like- wise, made no sound as the knights tied them.

Cowardice, thought Jürgen, or a trap? A Cainite old enough to produce such terrifying effects might use such an area as a battleground, or a place to capture prey. After all, a scout or traveler could scream all they liked, but never be heard outside the silent zone.

And yet, Klaus had apparently died in a place where sound carried, because Dieter had seen and heard it hap- pen. He wished he had been able to save his ghoul’s mind and life; a guide would have been quite useful here. But Dieter had died of a fever days after his return to Kybartai, ranting all the while about the man with robes of blood.

Why did the man not kill Dieter, then?

They left the trees and entered a large clearing be- fore the monastery’s door. Halfway across the clearing, Jürgen stopped. Václav held up a hand to halt the knights, and then looked to his sire. “What is it?”

Jürgen didn’t answer, but held up a finger to shush Václav. He was hearing chants.

The monastery was still inhabited. As he concen- trated, Jürgen saw lights in the monastery, faint, but certainly present. The feeling of unnatural stillness faded away, and Jürgen could hear incidental noises in addition to the chants—footsteps, whispers, rustling, noises of life. He started walking again, this time more briskly.

When they reached the door, Jürgen whispered to Václav to prepare the men for battle, and then touched the door and commanded it to give up its secrets.

While it wasn’t as uncomfortable as peering into a living or unliving mind, Jürgen didn’t enjoy looking at the memories of objects, either. He feared that the same memories might betray him some night, and hoped that by avoiding the use of this particular gift, it would not be used against him. Tonight, however, he wanted to know who else had entered this place. He looked into the past and saw shadows, saw men opening and closing the door by daylight and by night, but saw only gray reflections of those men. The more passionate the man who touched the door, the more colorful his wraith became, but Jürgen could see little passion in these monks.

Where is their passion for God? he thought. He felt his heart lift. While he would have taken the monastery in any case, he would not have wished to slaughter monks who were truly doing the Lord’s work. Gotzon, apparently, had been right—the Obertus were servants of the Clan of Dragons, not the Lord Almighty. Now he could continue without guilt. The memory of a man opened the door, and Jürgen noted that his colors were vibrant and full, but much subtler than a living man’s would have been. A Cainite, then. Jürgen peered at him, but looking through the shadows of memory attached to this paltry piece of wood was like trying to find his reflec- tion in seawater. The Cainite walked outside and left the door open, and looked around the clearing at the trees. He raised a hand, and an owl fluttered down to him.

The Cainite whispered to the owl, but Jürgen could not understand his words. The owl took flight, and the Cainite watched it go without expression.

The murk cleared somewhat, and Jürgen looked care- fully at the Cainite’s face. He was clean, tall and slender. Dark hair fell to his shoulders, and his face was almost an- gelically beautiful. The man’s hand was still extended, as though feeling the air the way a chef might test the tem- perature of soup. A small gold ring glistened on that finger. Jürgen looked as closely as his limited perspective would allow. Something was familiar about the man’s face, and yet he didn’t think he’d actually seen it before. He concentrated hard, coaxing the wood of the door and the very ground to paint him a clearer picture.

When they did, Jürgen saw the man’s face, and then suddenly realized where he’d seen it before. He had never seen it in person, but had seen a drawing—a very good one, too. What he didn’t understand was how that man could be here, among Obertus monks.

The man was Nikita of Sredetz, the Archbishop of Nod, leader of the Cainite Heresy.

Jürgen released his grip on the door and allowed the scene to fade. He almost staggered, but managed to retain his footing. His mind reeled, and he tried to remember what he knew of the Heresy and of its leader. He knew that Narses, the Lasombra who had preceded Nikita as archbishop, had been slain and his soul and blood con- sumed by his own childe, Guilelmo Aliprando, now Prince of Venice. He had heard that Nikita had traveled recently to Paris. But as far as Jürgen knew, the Obertus order and its annoying patron Vykos had no love for the Heresy— he expected they might even be at odds enough to consider each other blasphemers.

So what in God’s name was Nikita doing here, the obvious master of an Obertus monastery?

Václav noted his expression and whispered, “My lord?” Jürgen raised a hand and signaled the men to be ready. He stood back and looked at the door—it was solid and well maintained. The Sword-Bearer looked at his childe and shook his head. “We must attack, now. The lord of this domain already knows we are here, and I seriously doubt he would accept any attempt to parley.”

“Why, my lord? Did you recognize him?”

Jürgen shook his head. “Explanations later, Václav. We must take this place before daybreak.”

Václav’s expression was still confused, but he obeyed. Jürgen stood back and waited as the knights moved into position.

From inside, he heard movement stop, and then the sounds of running feet.

Jürgen raised his sword and shouted a battle cry. As the knights surged forward to smash in the door, the Sword- Bearer dearly wished that Rosamund could see him now, in battle and glory, and feel what he felt.