If I am truthful, I must also admit that I am growing lonely. No one but Csimenae knows my true nature, and there is no one here who seeks me as a lover, or I would want to seek me thus. So I have sustained myself with hunting animals in the forest, and I long for the intimacy that is the heart of our life. To know a living being in totality, there is no greater gift, is there? As I cannot achieve that cognizance here—nor can I safely visit any of the villagers in sleep—I will seek it elsewhere.
Have you fared better than I in these matters? I hope you have, for that would remind me that fulfillment is not beyond reach, which now I begin to wonder if it is. Tell me what your life has been these last twenty years, and I will be grateful beyond anything I can express.
May all you long for be yours to your benefit. May you seek nothing to your disadvantage. And until I send you word from Tolosa, may you be content with this missive, brief though it is. Be sure that it comes with my utter appreciation and the unfaltering bond that is the blood we share, as well as my
Love,
Ragoczy Sanct’ Germain Franciscus
(his sigil, the eclipse)
on the September Equinox in Sanct’ Iago’s year 622
Csimenae stared in astonishment. “No,” she said as she ran her hands over Sanct’ Germain’s shoulder. “There are no scars remaining.”
“It will be the same with you,” Sanct’ Germain told her, not expecting her to heed him.
“It was less than three months. Such furrows should leave deep scars,” she said, looking toward Rogerian with increasing respect. “You are the one who did this.”
Rogerian ducked his head. “No; it was not I,” he said, his formality indicating his purpose. “Those who are undead keep no record of injury on their flesh. All hurts are borne on their souls.”
“Very good,” Csimenae chuckled, applauding sarcastically. “You both are trying to bend me to your will.”
“Not my will,” said Sanct’ Germain as he pulled on his heavy black woollen tunica with the long sleeves. “You have much to learn, and I would like to spare you the most painful lessons. If you will only let me.” In the center of his house the fire shimmied in an errant draft.
“Again!” she protested, holding her hands up. “I am thankful you will not be here much longer. You do nothing but talk and instruct, instruct and talk. I have been taught until my head is sore, and nothing has changed.” With that, she went to where Aulutis was playing, scooping him up in her arms and holding him close against her. “When you tell me all the things I must do, you forget that I am here to guard and serve my son. When he is a year old, I will sacrifice a horse, as I should have done at his birth, and I will drink its blood so everyone will see and know the horse is within me, to protect Aulutis. Then I will have the power I need. I will hang the skull over the door of my house, and no one will stop me doing it.”
Sanct’ Germain paused in buckling his belt—he was thinner than he had been when he came to Mont Calcius—and considered her. “You do well to take care of your boy.”
“How gracious you are to tell me so,” she exclaimed, making no apology for her insulting tone.
Rogerian frowned. “He is not gracious,” he said to Csimenae. “He is not flattering you.”
“Is he not?” Csimenae achieved an expression of mock horror. “You cannot mean to slight my child, surely?” She put Aulutis down and began to pace the floor, her steps heavy with ill-concealed frustration. “The rain is endless. I have not ventured beyond the walls for three days.” She rounded on Sanct’ Germain, “And do not tell me that I will learn how to cope with running water. That will come. It is this night that troubles me.”
Sanct’ Germain said nothing for a long moment, then sighed. “I will go out and bring in game.”
“But I
want
to hunt!” she protested. “You may despise hunting, but I do not. If you have no appetite, let me, at least, tend to mine. There are those in the village who are hungry, and they will share my feast. I know there are deer in the forest, and I want—” She stopped abruptly as Aulutis began to scream; she rushed to gather him up in her arms, soothing and chiding him as she looked over his head and arms. “What is on your floor? His hand is cut!”
Both Rogerian and Sanct’ Germain hurried to respond to her cry. “Let me see,” Sanct’ Germain said, reaching out for the boy’s hand.
“He’s cut!” Csimenae repeated in dismay, shocked at Aulutis’ determined shrieks. “He’s bleeding!”
“Then the sooner he is treated, the better,” Sanct’ Germain said calmly. “He is more angry than hurt, which is a good sign.”
Rogerian picked up a shard of pottery that was lodged in the earthen floor of the house. “This is the instrument, I think.” He let the light shine on it, revealing a faint red stain on the edge of it.
“He is cut!” she said again, her voice rising with her son’s.
“Then permit my master to care for the cut,” said Rogerian, putting his hand on Csimenae’s shoulder as he held out the broken bit of pottery to Sanct’ Germain.
“Why? What will he do?” She stroked Aulutis’ head. “Look at all the blood. If you would let me sacrifice one of your horses, he would grow strong from this.”
“This is hardly enough to warrant killing a horse. There is not so much blood as that,” said Sanct’ Germain, unperturbed by all he saw but worried at her intentions for his two horses. “The cut is not deep. If I put a salve on it, the healing will be faster.”
“Because he will be one of yours then, too?” Csimenae suggested, leery of him.
Sanct’ Germain stepped back, appalled at her suspicion. “No. No.”
“You would not share your blood with a child, is that what you mean, or that you would not share blood with
my
child?” This was an accusation. “You do not want him protected as you protected me, or is it that you plan to be rid of him, so you may rule in his place?” She waited defensively for his response.
“I mean I would not force myself on anyone, or bring to my life someone unable to comprehend it.” He turned away doing his best to conceal his distaste. He put the pottery fragment on the small table where his boots were set out, their soles newly filled with his native earth. “Rogerian, old friend, if you will fetch my salve of pansy-and-willow?”
“It is in the lacquer chest?” Rogerian asked, although he was fairly certain it was. “What vessel?”
“Yes—the lacquer chest. In the chalcedony jar.” He pressed his lips together as he went toward Csimenae and her son once again.
“You are angry with me,” Csimenae said, her voice sharp and her eyes hot. “You think I am—”
“Not angry,” said Sanct’ Germain. “I am revolted by what you imply.”
“And in time, no doubt I will understand and share your revulsion?” Her words were sweetly vitriolic. “When I comprehend what your life is?”
This time Sanct’ Germain did not bother to take up the dispute. “I will treat your son’s hand, and then I will find deer, two stags; I will bring them here alive. You will not touch my horses.”
“You can find stags in spite of the rain.” She made no effort to disguise her pouting; in her arms Aulutis was no longer howling, but now made furious coughing sounds, his face red and screwed up with passion.
“I will take precautions against it,” he said, and remembered how little of his native earth was left in his chests; by summer he would have to get more or avoid sunlight and running water.
“Which I will also learn to do,” she said in a scornful tone. “Even though this village is my native earth.”
“When you go beyond its confines, or seek to cross running water, yes.” He studied the child. “He is over the worst. Look for yourself, Csimenae. I do not think his hand is bleeding any longer.”
“So you say,” Csimenae scoffed, hitching her shoulder up as if to shield Aulutis from Sanct’ Germain.
“If you doubt me, examine the cut as much as you want,” Sanct’ Germain recommended just as Rogerian came from the pantry with the chalcedony jar of salve.
Csimenae managed to contain Aulutis’ little fist and coax it open; there was blood on his palm and the faint line of a cut angling across his palm. “He is no longer bleeding,” she admitted after close inspection.
“Let me salve it,” Sanct’ Germain said as he removed the stopper from the jar. “It will not hurt him.” He waited while Csimenae made up her mind, then quickly applied a thin film of the ointment to the cut.
“Is that what you used on the bear’s cuts?” she asked as she watched him narrowly.
“No,” Sanct’ Germain replied as he finished his work.
“Then what is it?” She pulled Aulutis’ hand away, prepared to wipe the ointment off.
“It is what I use for hurts suffered by living human beings; it is a very good medicine for cuts and burns and scrapes,” he said carefully. “My flesh will mend without such treatment, his will not.” He studied her for a long moment. “If you want to lessen his pain, leave the ointment in place; if not—” He shrugged.
Csimenae frowned deeply, her face set into hard lines. “I will do what I must.”
Rogerian stepped back tactfully, going toward the pantry once more.
“Of course,” Sanct’ Germain said, and moved across the room. “I will bring you deer tonight.”
“Good,” she muttered. “You had better, or I will select another goat or sheep to feed on.” Her determination was plain, and her stance revealed more than her words did about her increasing hunger.
“The villagers would not like that,” Sanct’ Germain reminded her as he returned the chalcedony jar to its place in his red-lacquer cabinet; he noticed that Rogerian had opened the small window and was putting out a jar to measure the rain.
“You worry too much about the people of this village,” Csimenae complained. “What have they to say about how I live? You are a stranger, and you will leave here one day.” Before he could answer, she went on, “I know your views on this, Sanct’ Germain, never fear. And I know you are wrong.”
“Am I.” He set the latch on the cabinet.
“Yes. This is my village, and these are my son’s people, and I know them for what they are. They serve my son, and I serve him. He will be their leader, and I will stand beside him,” she insisted, clutching her son in her arms. “Get the deer and there will be no reason for us to argue.”
“All right,” he said to her, and looked toward the door. “I will bring the deer to your house some time after midnight.”
“I will be waiting,” said Csimenae, imbuing this promise with great meaning. She picked up her long paenula, pulling it around her and raising the hood so as to protect Aulutis as well as herself. “After midnight.”
“Yes,” he said, and watched her leave.
“She is troubled,” said Rogerian from behind Sanct’ Germain.
He nodded. “That she is.” He gave a single shake of his head.
“And that, in turn, troubles you, does it not?” Rogerian coughed delicately. “How are we to help her?”
“Until she is willing to be helped, we can do nothing,” Sanct’ Germain said in a remote voice. Then he shook off his apprehension. “I will need my birrus, I think, the one with the leather shoulders.”
Rogerian accepted this change without comment. “How soon do you go out?”
“As soon as the doors are all bolted for the night,” said Sanct’ Germain. “It will not be long, given the rain.”
“I will get it for you, and your boots.” He nodded toward the table. “You will need them.”
“That I will.” Sanct’ Germain managed a one-sided smile. “You think Csimenae will bring us distress.”
“And so do you,” said Rogerian. “At the least, she will want to sacrifice one of your horses.”
Sanct’ Germain did not respond, preferring to ready himself for hunting than to contemplate the problems that lay ahead of them. By the time he slipped out of the village to hunt, he had put his apprehension aside. There was no reason to expect the worst—Csimenae was unused to her new life and was still coming to terms with the demands it made of her. Her trouble was that she had much to learn and time was short. He told himself that Csimenae would come to appreciate his instruction, and would do herself no harm; convinced that he would prevail, he went into the forest.
His anxiety returned with greater force a month later, as the first snows fell higher up the mountains and three lost travelers stumbled into the village, half-frozen and exhausted.
“They are a gift, a
gift
!” Csimenae enthused as she came alone to Sanct’ Germain’s house after the strangers had been put up in one of the vacant houses. “It is plain that they have been sent here—the spirits of the horses that guard the village have sent them—so that I can learn how to take blood from the living without preying upon the people of this village.” This last was sharp, directed at Sanct’ Germain without apology. “Even you must agree they are a gift.”
Sanct’ Germain considered the situation. “What do you know of them, other than they are travelers who lost their way?”
She folded her arms. “Why does it matter? What else is there
to
know?”
His answer held a suggestion of exasperation. “Who they are, as a beginning. If they are expected anywhere, and by whom. What is their reason for traveling. You do not want others looking for them. One of them was speaking Greek when he arrived, the other two Frankish. You cannot be certain why they are traveling together, or where they are bound. It may be they are messengers, or factors. They could be in the service of an Exarch or Episcus or Gardingio.” He saw her disbelief. “Do not think that travelers are without relatives and obligations.”
“What does this mean to me? They have lost their way. Should a search be made. I need only deny they have been here; who is to contradict me,” she said with studied unconcern. “There are still raiders in the forest. Who is to say that these travelers did not meet with the raiders?”
“The raiders could say the same of this village,” Sanct’ Germain told her.
“If any come looking for these travelers, then they, too, will serve my need.” She raised her chin. “It will keep the villagers safe, and we will not have to kill our herds and flocks.”
Sanct’ Germain shook his head. “You do not understand. If you attack travelers, you must kill them all or eventually the world will learn of it, and you will find you are as hunted as the game in the forest. Travelers are wary, and if they know a place holds danger, they will not go there. If you are too blatant in your predation, you yourself will be hunted.”