Two nights later, they crossed the border into Ioan Brancoveanu’s domain. No physical barrier that Myca could perceive marked the transition, but the change was palpable nonetheless. Lukina and her wolves, all of whom had prevailed snap- pish and temperamental, perceptibly relaxed a fraction, tension lessening as they re-entered their home range. The forest itself almost seemed less unwelcoming, better suited to the passage of trav- elers. Darkness still lurked beneath the pines, but it was a natural darkness, cool spring night rather than the twisted remnants of baneful magics. Ilias brightened up, as well, his discomfort lessening so dramatically that Myca remarked on it.
“Something protects this place, more power- fully than the route we took to make it here,” Ilias replied, thoughtfully, as they bedded down for the day.
“Lady Danika’s work?” Ilias’ pain had mani- fested in such a way that, for the first time since Myca met him, he was completely disinclined to be touched. Now, he was entirely content to be held as they curled together on silken mats filled with grave-earth.
“Possibly. She is very strong. I remember her as being very strong.” He rested his head beneath Myca’s chin. “But, even so, she is only one and she must spend her strength wisely.”
Myca nodded wordlessly and drew his lover closer, feeling, for the first time, the fragility that lurked beneath his strength, and wondering if the consequences were worth the power the koldun called their own. He himself had felt not a trace of
discomfort traveling through the mountains, but rather had felt strangely exhilarated, as though he were coming home for the first time in ages, al- most as powerfully as he had felt it when he first set foot on the soil of his homeland after fleeing Constantinople. Beyond the mountains to the south lay Ceoris, where he had spent his mortal youth. A small part of him still regarded it with an emotion similar to affection, though he had few good memories of the place itself, or the people who dwelt there. It was, nonetheless, still a part of him, an admission he made without difficulty or guilt—Ceoris and the Tremere had in part made him what he was, but they were not the whole of him, a truth that he had struggled with in silence for many years. One night, he would possess in full the power they claimed, and he would do so on his own terms. For now, he was content with their place in his past, and what he had become since he left them, however involuntarily.
Holding that contentment close, he closed his eyes, and let sleep claim him.
***
Myca woke to a chorus of howls, Lukina’s pack singing with full-throated gusto, and he wondered blearily if the moon was full tonight.
“Moon-rise will not be for hours yet.” Ilias re- plied aloud to the silent question. “The sun is only just down.”
“So I feel.” It took a moment for Myca to work up the energy to push himself to his elbows, par- ticularly with Ilias draped across his chest yet. “What do you suppose it is?”
“I have no idea.” Ilias reached up and lifted the tarpaulin covering their resting place a few inches. “Alin?”
A pair of hands slid under the edge of the tarp and lifted it, allowing the light from a candle-lamp to fall over them, the younger of the two atten- dants Ilias had brought with him peering in. Myca noticed that the boy was unusually pale and seemed more nervous than usual; Ilias generally chose his servants for their steady temperaments as much as for their aesthetic appeal. “Master?”
“What is going on? The wolves...”
Alin licked his lips and replied, as steadily as he could, “We were joined during the day by a pa- trol from the voivode’s manse. They say their captain will be joining us shortly, to guide us the rest of the way in.”
Myca and Ilias exchanged a glance as Alin, aided by the older, taller Isak rolled back the tarp and assisted them in rising, then rapidly began breaking down and packing away the tent that stood over them, as well. The rest of the camp was already broken down, the men clearly prepared to move at a moment’s notice, tending to their res- tive horses and making certain that all the baggage was lashed down properly. Scattered among them were a number of men (and some few women) not originally of their company, clad in light leather armor and what appeared to be reinforcements of pale bone, armed with short, powerful bows, short wasp-waisted swords, and, in several cases, single- edged hatchets. Lukina stood in the center of the clearing in which they’d camped, next to a low- burning fire, deep in conversation with a hulking figure that could only be loosely described as hu- man-seeming. It was at least seven feet tall—the top of its spike-tipped helmet brushed the lowest branches above their heads—armored and armed, its face covered in a mask of shaped bone, its eyes
dark pools within the sockets of the mask. Myca glided forward across the soft bed of pine needles to join the group. Lukina nodded shortly to him in greeting and the giant bowed low, dark hair braided together with bone ornaments spilling over its shoulders.
“Stapân Vykos, this is Vlastimir Vlaszy, lieu- tenant to my lord voivode Ioan Brancoveanu cel Macelar,” Lukina introduced them, with a passable attempt at formality.
Very properly, the voivode’s giant lieutenant waited until Vykos acknowledged his obeisance be- fore rising. “Stapân Vykos.” The voice that emerged from behind the twisted beast-face of the mask was deep and rich, cultured. “I give you greetings in the name of my lord voivode, Ioan Brancoveanu cel Macelar, and welcome you to his domain. He will be joining us presently.”
“The voivode is gracious. I did not expect him to greet us personally. I and my house are honored.” Myca bowed himself, shallowly, in response to this, and rose to find Ilias at his shoulder. “My advisor, Ilias cel Frumos, koldun-priest of Jarilo.”
All about them, the lupine chorus swelled, and abruptly ceased. Lukina raised her head and lis- tened tensely then announced, “He comes.”
A stir began at the edge of the camp, many of the new arrivals coming forth to give obeisance to their commander as he joined them. Ioan was pre- ceded by two enormous warriors in their zulo shapes, mottled ghost gray and night black, almost invisible in the near-total darkness but for the bright yellow sparks of their eyes. He was other- wise unattended and wore no other form. Myca was startled to realize that Ioan was actually shorter than himself, standing only a finger or two taller
than Ilias. The force of presence he exuded gave him the illusion of much greater size as he joined them, quietly and without ceremony, at the fire- side, his giant lieutenant bowing to the ground and being waved up with barely a pause.
Myca was not entirely certain what he had ex- pected, but Ioan did not seem to fit the general image of the ravening Tzimisce warlord he had constructed over the years. Certainly, he was clad in armor, the same dark leathers and pale worked bone reinforcements, and certainly he was armed, the pommel of the weapon at his hip a snarling dragon’s head of shaped bone. A bone mask that fit so closely it seemed crafted in place gave his face a vaguely reptilian image. The eyes behind that mask were a shade of brown pale enough to seem amber-golden in the firelight and his pale blonde hair fell to his waist in a multitude of slen- der braids wound with bone beads and ornaments. A necklace hung to mid-chest, also strung with carved and polished bone charms. He looked ap- propriately feral, but force of personality that rolled from him did not bespeak a creature of mindless destruction. Myca received the impression of great calm, a questing mind, curiosity tinged with inter- est.
Ilias and Myca bowed simultaneously and their host waved them up as quickly as he had his ser- vant. “No ceremony now, my lord stapân Vykos, my lord koldun Ilias cel Frumos. There will be time enough for it later, and we must make speed to- night. I wish to reach the bastion before dawn. I trust you are prepared to travel?”
Myca absorbed this lack of formality with barely a blink. “Of course, my lord voivode.”
Ioan nodded sharply. “Then let us make haste.”
Ioan set a brisk pace for the last leg of the jour- ney, most of which they undertook on foot, leading their horses single file up narrow trails. The bulk of the party he broke up into groups of twos and threes, accompanied by one or two of his warriors, staggering their passage through some of the nar- rower areas and sending some by other routes entirely. Even so, they made excellent time up the last steep series of switchbacks, reaching the edge of the valley Ioan called his own with the sky only beginning to show signs of paling.
Looking down into the valley from the high ridge above it, Myca was quietly impressed. The “bastion,” which his imagination had insisted would be a fortress, actually resembled more of a town, smaller than Alba Iulia, and contained en- tirely within the bounds of what appeared to be a low earth-and-stone wall. Roughly semicircular, it surrounded a terraced rise at the opposite edge of the valley, on which was constructed another se- ries of walls—a series of palisades, more accurately, of rammed earth and stone topped in sharpened logs. Myca concentrated briefly, drawing on all the light available to him—starlight, moonlight, the lamps their party carried and the torches lit on the walls in the town below—and tried to see more detail as they descended the packed-earth road, leading their horses and following Ioan, who led the way.
“The rim of the valley is warded… by earth and fire, I think,” Ilias murmured as they walked, looking about curiously. They were passing through an area of cultivation, vegetable plots for the most part. No large fields appeared immediately appar- ent, but Myca supposed they might always trade for sufficient grain.
Myca cast a glance about and, here and there, he caught sight of wooden plinths, carved and hung with charms of carved bone, wood, and metal. “The plinths are the wards? Or the anchors for the magic?”
“Yes. I saw some carved in the rocks along the road, as well, and there were two small ones hid- den just off the road at the top of the rise.” Myca watched his lover out of the corner of his eyes, and caught him, more than once, gazing fixedly at something Myca himself could not perceive. “I think the defenses around the rim are supposed to
protect against fire. I did not see any signs of forest
fire, but that does not mean that they were never nearly burned out of this place.”
“The spirit-arts can accomplish that sort of de- fense?”
“If you entreat them properly, yes. Stone-spir- its are a bastion against even skyfire, correctly instructed. I am certain that’s a fire-break up there. And the plinths in the fields? Protection against foul weather and curses to blight the land, unless I miss my guess.” Ilias rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well constructed, as well. But, then, I would ex- pect at least that much from Lady Danika. She did not strike me as the sort to do things in half-mea- sures.”
They crossed the first of the walls, which was, as Myca had thought, constructed of a rammed- earth embankment four feet in height, topped in a mortared stone wall that stood another three feet above that. Beyond it, the town was silent and darkened, sleeping, and they passed through it qui- etly. Occasionally, Ilias gestured silently at something that caught his eye—the beaten-metal charms set into the rear of the wall, bits of carving
on the lintels of doors—most of which seemed to have some kind of sorcerous significance. At the base of the terraces leading up to the far edge of the valley and the larger palisade, they were met by a collection of servants, who took the horses and baggage in hand, and they proceeded the rest of the way unencumbered.
Myca was beginning to suspect that Ioan had arranged this entire event for his benefit, and so he took copious mental notes, refusing to be in- timidated but admitting to himself that the Hammer of the Tremere might not simply be all reputation. Skill was evident in the design and construction of this place and discipline was even more apparent among the men and women who occupied it. The palisade was guarded and pa- trolled, mostly by mortals, szlachta and revenants of martial disposition, Myca didn’t doubt, but here and there he perceived the pale aura of a vampire, many of whom appeared to be prepared for imme- diate action, not simply command. The road wound up the side of the hill and, on each terrace, he caught glimpses of motion that suggested focused, organized activity. He did not see any dwelling places, per se, and that surprised him somewhat, until they reached the uppermost tier of the for- tress.
Ioan’s manse was built into the mountain it- self, burrowed into the rise of the valley. From on high, Myca realized that the entire upper fortress was likely underground, and possibly accommo- dated far more people, and far more vampires, than he originally suspected. The visible portion of the manse itself was a series of low, domelike struc- tures constructed of what appeared to be pressed earth and stone, rising out of the hill as though
they had grown there instead of being built, with a small courtyard between them and the uppermost palisade. Torches flickered in the courtyard, and a pair of oil lamps lit the main door to the manse. Here, Ioan paused, removed his mask, and turned to face them. Myca was surprised: but for their dif- ferences in coloring, Ioan and Nikita of Sredetz could have been kin, graced as they were with the same sharpness of features, the same high cheek- bones and angular shape to their eyes.
The Hammer of the Tremere bowed low, in for- mal greeting, and rose with a flourish of his pale hair. “I give you greetings, Myca Vykos syn Draconov, childe of Symeon, childe of Gesu, childe of the Dracon, most beloved of the Eldest. I give you greetings, Ilias cel Frumos, koldun-priest of Jarilo, childe of Dorinta, daughter of the gods. I welcome you in the name of my sire, Lukasz Brancoveanu, and the name of my house,”—the faintest possible trace of irony colored his tone— “and in my own name. Be named friend and welcome in my house, where no harm shall come to you and all of your wants shall be met, to seek your rest. This I swear by the holy names of Earth and Sky, and by the Waters of Life and Death.”
“I am Myca Vykos syn Draconov, and I come to your house in the name of peace and friendship.” Myca bowed deeply and rose after a respectful in- terval. “Your hospitality, my lord voivode, is as of the gods.”
“I am Ilias cel Frumos, and I come to your house in the name of peace and friendship, and by the will of the gods of Earth and Sky.” Ilias bowed as well, and rose. “May their blessings never depart your house.”
“I thank you, koldun, ambassador.” Beyond Ioan’s shoulder, the door to the manse opened, spilling a shaft of golden light across the courtyard. “Let us retire before the sun finds us here.”
Myca could not help but notice as he passed that the door was more than a foot thick, and opened and locked by what appeared to be a fiend- ish mechanism of gears operated by some means beyond his perception. Ilias, however, was simul- taneously startled and impressed, murmuring, “You know, there are some nights when all I can do is get them to do as I ask. Here? Shaped to will. I should probably be jealous.”
“Lady Danika,” Myca murmured in reply, “is indeed highly skilled, then.”
“Not just Lady Danika,” Ilias flicked a glance at their host’s back, as he led them down the short hall, which rapidly turned into a staircase descend- ing in a tight corkscrew. “Those charms he wears are spirit-bindings. The long one in the middle, the one that looks like a tiny flute? It is the mark of a master of the ways of air, and it has to be his own work, or no spirit would accept the binding of his will. So are the wind-flutes on the palisade walls.” Thoughtfully, “I did not know that he was a koldun. He hides it well.”
“A tactical advantage, no doubt.” “No doubt.”
It struck Myca, as they descended, that Ioan’s haven was as strange inside as it was on the out. It did, indeed, appear as though it had grown out of and under the mountain without any human in- terference whatsoever. The walls and stairs were entirely of smooth, polished stone unmarked by chisel. There were no sharp angles, no angles at all, in truth—only domed ceilings and supports that
looked as though they had grown from the ceiling to the floor, and vice versa. The hall at the end of the stair was wide, and branched off into numer- ous side corridors, their floors flattened and scattered with finely ground sand to keep them dry, their ceilings arched, lit at intervals by recessed lamps. Myca glanced a question at Ilias and found him looking around, rapt with wonder, and re- ceived all the answer he needed. This place had been constructed with the aid of the spirits and it was likely they that gave it its unique and vaguely disturbing appearance. A female servant, dressed plainly in a long tunic and a hair-cloth, met them at the bottom of the stairs and bowed deeply, si- lently, in greeting.
Ioan nodded to her. “Please escort my lord
stapân Vykos and my lord koldun Ilias to their cham-