The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) (10 page)

“I had it burned!” he exclaimed. “A hideous creation, my mother insisted. But I remember seeing you, too. Mind you, I was fifteen then, so I felt a girl of thirteen somewhat beneath my notice.”

“And yet you still asked me jum2memto dance.”

“Against my better judgment, I suppose. How we must have danced! Very stiffly, like this…” he said, holding her in an awkward dance pose. “Somehow, we hobbled along.”

“No, we glided…I was weightless. We soared over the room. Everyone was jealous.”

“Of two children?” he laughed.

“All the girls envied my happiness,” she said, her eyes shining. “Whenever we danced and I could hold you as I’m holding you now…I never thought we would get any closer. It would be my only memory of you. If I could have seen myself now, I would have felt amply repaid for all those miserable days and nights.”

“I wish I had known…all that wasted time,” he said.

“Yes, it was very stupid of you,” she said. “But I didn’t fall in love with you for your insight. So remind me why I did...”

Their final kiss lingered, spilling into hazy memories of what was and might be. They could faintly see a life together in another land, the shadows of children and friends around them. It was so sweet, so unbearable to leave…and yet like the happiest of dreams it dissolved in an instant. Their lips and hands parted. A look of terror and longing pooled in her eyes as she stepped back.

“Come soon…” she whispered.

Blackbeard gently took her by the shoulder and led her away, sobbing quietly. Yes, Leopold had done the right thing. He knew it because the breath seemed crushed out of his body. A profound sense of darkness enveloped him, as cold and spiritless as the grave.

There was no spell to kill death. It had simply never been written nor perhaps even thought of until today. Only a handful of theories existed, though Blackbeard felt them wholly inadequate to the task. True, Leopold’s Death was a living, breathing creature, but still not of this earth. A simple sword thrust or arrow shot would be insufficient. It required something more, something that could slip through this world and sever the invisible thread between life and death. But such weapons didn’t exist on earth; to find them one had to gaze deep in the mirrors of infinity itself.

“What mirrors? Where are they?” Leopold asked, as if expecting to find them in the room.

“Above us…the stars. All the secrets are buried there, though few can read them.”

“But what could they possibly say about death?” the Count scoffed. “They’re just a bunch of twinkling lights.”

“By that logic the whole of civilization is a series of anthills waiting to be swept out of existence,” he countered.

“If the shoe fits,” Ivan muttered.

“Pah! If we could see all the wisdom of the universe it would blind us,” Blackbeard said, collapsing in a nearby ottoman. “We need to be led in small, cautious steps to the light. Magic allows our eyes time to adjust, until what seems lijum2 sake ‘twinkling lights’ becomes a readable script, the very language of the universe itself.”

“That all sounds very well, but how do we read it?” Leopold insisted.

“Nothing simpler: we measure the stars in the house of your birth, correlating their positions to the house of your Death. For your Death began living the day I enslaved it. The calculations will provide an answer.”

The Count traded glances with Ivan, who shrugged. In an earlier time—namely, yesterday—they would have scoffed at calculating houses and births in the cosmos. Yet much had changed since then: both had locked eyes with death, whose presence was no longer an abstract reality. It lived and breathed among them, stirring hungrily within the box. In silent assent they followed Blackbeard to the ramparts, where the stars rippled like glistening waves overhead. By torchlight he removed an instrument he called a ‘modified astrolabe’ from his cloak. It looked like a small pocket watch, except that instead of a clock face it had a series of overlapping dials, each one inscribed with unusual markings. Blackbeard claimed this particular model was over five hundred years old and came directly from the hands of Turold the Magnificent (they shrugged). Screwing up his face, he examined the stars and methodically turned the dials, calculating distances, positions, and something he called “asymmetric conjunctions.” The Count watched impatiently, but nothing emerged. The stars still looked like dancing lights to him, each one blinking from some distant outpost. Did someone tend these ancient fires…or were they left to slowly burn out and fade into oblivion?

“What does it say?” Ivan whispered, after some minutes in silence.

“Patience…I’m juggling a dozen figures in my head,” the sorcerer muttered.

The dials continued to turn, going back two degrees, forward five, until the sorcerer flipped the entire mechanism over and started anew. He bit his lip and hummed tunelessly, avoiding the question that hovered around them, writing and rewriting his answer. The Count shared a nervous glance with Ivan before the latter responded, “so? What do you see?”

“Yes, it’s very interesting…the answer is clear,” he nodded, distractedly.

“And?” the Count prompted.

“Your Death’s
life
is bound up in your life—and your father’s,” he explained, rubbing the astrolabe. “All the stars are in alignment. Therefore, we can only proceed with your father’s involvement.”

The brothers shared a nervous laugh. Their
father’s involvement
? Surely the sorcerer remembered that their father had ceased being ‘involved’ in anything? Or was that precisely the point: their father’s death had sealed his children’s fate?

“So are you saying…we have no chance?” the Count ventured.

“Not at all,” Blackbeard responded, uncomfortably. “However, what I am about to propose may not meet with your general approval. I mean no disrespect…”

“Do we have any choice? What is it?” Leopold insisted.

“As I said, we need your father’s help. It cannot die by your hands by/span>

“Yes, we’ve covered that. He’s dead, so now what?”

“Dead or living, we need his hands to slay the creature. And I mean this quite literally, I’m afraid: we need
his hands
.”

Count Leopold felt the world spinning around him. Only the calm, fixed stare of Blackbeard brought him back to earth. Surely he didn’t mean…not to actually go and dig up…to desecrate his corpse?

“This is magic of the highest order, and even more than that, it’s the will of the fates,” the sorcerer said, solemnly. “Your father helped me enslave the creature; his hands fastened the three locks in place. They must assist us in destroying our creation.”

“What about my hands? Who needs his when you have mine?” Ivan insisted. “After all, he’s my father; surely fate has something to say about that?”

“Your stars are in a different house, following different orbits,” the sorcerer said, with a tinge of regret. “You can’t stand in his place.”

“I don't understand...don't we share the same blood? Aren't his hands my hands?"

“Everything I know tells me so,” he said, with a shrug. “Only the stars contradict me.”

“Please, just so I understand,” the Count interrupted, pacing in frantic circles. “What you’re suggesting is…that we dig up my father and remove his hands? Or what remains of them? You want us to use them as some sort of weapon?”

The sorcerer nodded, fully realizing the hideous nature of his request.

“This very hour,” he emphasized. “It’s the only way.”

Mary sat facing her father, whose dark, unforgiving gaze tempted her to make a desperate leap from the coach. If only they weren’t going so fast over the bumpiest road imaginable! Was this even a road? Half a century ago it might have passed for a road, but now…no sensible person would travel ten miles on it in any direction. But her father was far from sensible at the moment. The moment she appeared he grabbed her arm and threatened to confine her in a nunnery in the most God-forsaken desert on earth. How could she do this to him, to her late mother, to the reputation of their family (which had so far escaped scandal for nine generations)? How did she expect him to explain to her fiancé why she had run away? And more importantly, how did she expect to make amends for her disgraceful conduct?

Mary’s answer was simple: she crossed her arms and scowled, “do what you will.” Leopold would come for her. She had implicit faith in him and the magician; her father severely underestimated her resolve. They couldn’t make her marry
him
, that simpering, pretentious oaf. by/se hadNever mind that he was a Duke and had three estates of various sizes and an impeccable bloodline. Estates crumbled into worthless stones, and blood, once spilled, retained little of its original value. Love, alone, was beyond price. And she had an endless store to spend with Leopold.

“I see, you’re thinking of him, are you?” her father barked. “That no-account
Count
. His father was a notorious eccentric. Consorted with wizards.”

“You don’t know anything about wizards,” she muttered.

“I know they stir up scandal wherever they go! The dark arts are like a malicious worm that tunnels into the heart of family and bleeds it dry. There’s a reason your Count hasn’t made a match yet. And he’s certainly barking up the wrong tree if he intends to court my daughter!”

“Let’s not speak of it,” she said, with a pained sigh. “I’ll marry whomever you wish, whenever you wish. It makes no difference to me.”

“Of course not; you mean to escape or have him rescue you,” he said, leaning forward. “But I warn you: there will be neither rescue nor escape. I’m putting you on a ship first thing in the morning bound for Cytheria, where the duke has his oldest estate. If we can bring him to accept damaged goods—for damaged you certainly are to his family—you will be married within the week. If not…well, let’s hope it won’t come to that.”

“Cytheria?” she said, with a slight shudder.

Cytheria had long been famous for the plague of 343 (or 1291, using the old reckoning), where half the population died within a single month. Few had ever returned, as the land was said to breed plagues and ailments; even now, to say one was going to Cytheria was synonymous with “suicide.” So this was her fate, unless he could he find her in time. Or would she be already stricken—and worse still, infect him with her pestilence? The tears came quickly now, as she clutched her head and felt herself sink through the coach, the road and straight into the depths of Hades.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he father said, lighting his pipe. “The duke needs this match as much as we do. And Cytheria doesn’t kill everyone off. Some do survive…and you’ve always had a robust constitution.”

“I can’t believe this,” she rasped. “Is my life so meaningless to you?”

“On the contrary, I care a great deal for your life; it’s certainly cost me enough,” he snapped. “When you have children you’ll understand. A family is an investment, Mary. It must be spent wisely, guarded carefully, and loaned only to those who know the value of money. Count Leopold would spend you in a spree of indifference and bankrupt the family’s position. As a father I have to think of these things.”

“So that’s what I am to you: pennies and krouck? Someone to sell for a profit?” she asked, venomously.

“That’s my right of seniority,” he said, nodding complacently. “Trust me…I know it sounds cynical and unromantic, but it’s the way of the world. I, too, was spent in my time. And I’ve come to value my price. As a woman you have tremendous value, and in time, you will come to own it. But not yet.”

“I don’t want money—I want life!” she shouted, kicking the door.

“The life you seek is imaginary. Love is like the clouds…very pretty to look at, but you’ll never reach them. Far better to buy castles and climb up towers to view them.”

“Standing on towers makes me want to jump.”

“Not without some return on my investment,” he said, exhaling smoke. “Mary, I never disguised my intentions. As the wife of the Duke Vladimir your value will increase twofold. One day you will be able to buy whatever you like: love, happiness, my head on a plate. But first you will be spent by the men who control your fate.”

The conversation was over. Mary turned away from him, looking out the dark window into a hidden world. Only the clattering coach wheels and a few branches scraping against the windows consoled her.
I’ll name my own price and spend myself accordingly, she told herself. Just you wait
.

Blackbeard and Ivan followed the Count down the ancient staircase to the catacombs. The catacombs were originally part of an old temple from a forgotten civilization, which the castle neatly incorporated and rubbed out. Yet on the walls strange symbols danced out, beguiling in their exoticism and in some cases, familiarity. A young couple, obviously flushed from the summer sun, reached out to embrace one another. Elsewhere figures played instruments, hunted, and seemed to mourn their departed companions. Leopold was deeply moved, his fingers tracing their soft outlines.
These people once lived here, once laughed and dreamed as I do. In the end we’re all the same; in the end we all disappear
.