“I said stay,” the voice intoned.
Ralph went stiff as a corpse, arms before him, and his eyes bulged. A gurgle sounded low in his throat, but he made no other sound. A figure clad all in black parted from the shadows and drifted into view. It was not the ghost of Deacon Moody.
“Are you well, James?” he said, gazing down at me.
I tried to speak, but I seemed as paralyzed as the two men. I had grown since our last meeting, but the stranger still towered over me, and his voice—full of danger a moment ago—had been as resonant with kindness as I remembered. A stray shaft of light illuminated his face, and I thought it stern and wise and handsome.
“Who are you?” I finally found the breath to ask.
“That is a long tale, and there is no time to tell it now, James. I would that you come with me tonight.”
I glanced at the two motionless men. Spittle dribbled from their mouths.
“You can do with me as you would,” I said. “I can’t stop you.”
He bent down and, as he had long ago, laid a hand on my shoulder. “No, James. I’m not like them. I will not make you do something you would not. I want you to come with me because you choose it, because you want something better for yourself than what you have been given. Because you want to live.”
A moan escaped me. For so long I had believed I was dead, capable of feeling nothing. Only I had been terribly wrong, for at that moment a pain pierced my heart, and a longing came over me—though for what I could not name, except that I thought of the calling of the bells that had awakened me, and how clear the sound had been. I thought as well of Deacon Moody, and how he had wished to save me. Perhaps he had after all.
“I will come with you,” I said.
“I am glad, James.” Keeping his strong hand on my shoulder, he guided me from the close, past the two men who stood still as statues, and like ghosts ourselves we passed into the night.
While it was years before I would finally learn the secret of the Sleeping Ones, before my own eyes would become gold as his, the moment I walked from Advocate’s Close with the stranger was the moment I left death behind and first embarked upon the path to immortality.
While the days that followed are a blur to me now—events seen through a gray fog—I remember that night with perfect clarity: how he led me to a coach waiting on High Street and spoke quiet words to a man clad in a servant’s coat.
“Lay him down in the back. Be gentle with him. And after you arrive at Madstone Hall, you must send for the doctor at once.”
“What of yourself, sir?”
The servant’s voice was rich with an accent I could not name, unlike the stranger’s speech, which seemed to bear no accent at all.
“I must finish my business here in Edinburgh. I’ll take a horse to the manor later tonight.”
“We’ll keep a fire burning in the library for your arrival, sir.”
I could not see—yet I felt—his smile. “Thank you, Pietro. Even after all these years, I haven’t grown used to the chill of this land. To think, they call this springtime. Here—use this to keep him warm.”
He removed the dark cloak and wrapped it over me. It was soft, and laced with the sweet, masculine smell of tobacco. Though his hair was white, and his angled face weathered with age, the servant picked me up with little strain, for I was light as a bird. The tall buildings tilted; stars wheeled in the sky above, then vanished as the coach door opened and I was set on the leather seat inside.
“Go quickly, Pietro. A fever burns in him. I fear he is near to death.”
No
, I tried to call out.
I am well now.
But my lips could not form the words, and it didn’t matter, for the door was shut, and moments later the coach was clattering down the High Street.
I lay on the seat, wrapped in his cloak, weary in every bone of my young body, but strangely awake and alert. I had the sense that the coach was heading downward, and in my mind I could see it moving through the Canongate, past the spires of Holyrood Palace, and into the night-shrouded world beyond, like a tiny craft on a wide, dark sea.
It occurred to me that I should perhaps be afraid. Maybe the stranger had not saved me after all. Maybe he merely wanted me, and sought to use me just as all the others had before him. But no, he was not like other men; that was the one thing I was certain of.
After that my mind drifted, and soon it seemed I was floating on the dark sea. From time to time I heard voices, and I think they were what kept me from sinking into the water. The voices were difficult to make out; they blended with the murmur of the waves. One was the strangely accented voice, while another spoke in the lilting tongue of a well-to-do lowlander. Then, sometimes, there was the other voice, as deep as the ocean I drifted on.
“Come back to us, James,” I heard it say once, and I tried to call out in answer, only black water filled my mouth.
“The fever burns hotter in him than ever,” said the Scottish voice. “It must break soon, or it will burn him to death.”
“It will break,” the deep voice said.
I felt something cool touch my brow. A peace came over me, and I smiled as at last the water pulled me down.
When I woke, it was quite to my surprise.
By the light streaming in through the window, it was late morning. I propped myself up and found I was naked beneath clean white sheets in a large bed. The chamber around me was large as well, with a fireplace, a pair of chairs, and three tall windows, one of which stood open to let in a sweet breath of spring air. Beyond gauze curtains I saw green hills rolling away to a misty horizon. I stared, for I had not been beyond the walls of the city in all my fourteen years, and I had never seen a sight so beautiful.
I was still staring when the door opened and a man stepped through. I recognized him at once by his servant’s coat and his gray hair, which was pulled into a knot at the nape of his neck. His nose was hooked like a hawk’s, and his wrinkled skin was a deep olive color I had never seen before. He regarded me with black eyes and nodded.
“The doctor said you would likely wake today.” The servant, Pietro, seemed more to sing than talk, for all words were musical and trilling upon his tongue. “The master will wish to speak with you, but first we must see to your appearance.”
I felt strong and ready to talk to the master at once. I started to tell Pietro this, but as I slipped from the bed I found I was anything but strong. My limbs shook with an uncontrollable spasm, and I would have fallen but for the older man’s tight grip.
Such was my state that I felt no shame at my nakedness as Pietro bathed me before the fire in a wooden tub and dressed me as if I were an infant. He dusted my shoulders and turned me to face a mirror. The figure of a young nobleman gazed back. His coat and breeches were a soft dove gray trimmed with silver, and his shirt was as crisp as snow. A dark ribbon held back long gold hair from a face that was pale and delicately wrought. His eyes glittered like twin emeralds. The only thing that spoiled the image was the bruise that marred his left cheek.
Pietro nodded. “I believe the master will approve. You look a fine young lord, sir.”
I ran my fingers over the cool silver buttons. “Tell me, Pietro, who is he? The master.”
“A kind man,” the servant said. “Though a private one. He shall tell you in good time, I believe.”
“But what is his name?” I said, turning from the mirror. “I must know what I am to call him.”
“His name is Albrecht. He is lord of this manor, and so you may address him as Master.”
“But what does he want with me?”
“Your fingernails need paring,” Pietro said, clucking his tongue, and went to fetch a knife.
To my great disappointment, I did not see the master that day.
“He has been called to Edinburgh on sudden business,” Pietro informed me as I ate breakfast in the manor’s kitchen. It was a great, rambling stone room with fireplaces as large as the niche in the tunnels where I had slept with my mother as a child. Pietro waited on me himself, and I might have found that unnerving save I was ravenous, and my thoughts were wholly occupied by the dishes prepared by the kitchen staff that Pietro set before me.
In all my life, I had never eaten such marvelous food. There was crusty bread and butter, eggs and fat sausages fried crisp, and dried fruits drowned in the thickest cream. I ate until my belly visibly protruded from my thin body.
After that I thought no more of the master, but only of sleep. Docile as a lamb I let Pietro lead me back to my room, remove my fine new clothes, and lay the bedcovers over me.
When I woke it was evening, and the doctor was there, a corpulent, red-cheeked man with a jovial air about him. He examined me, used a silver knife to let a small amount of blood from my arm, and pronounced me firmly on the mend, much to his amazement.
“Favored by God, this lad is,” he said to Pietro as he gathered his things. “The Lord must have some purpose on this Earth for him.”
At his words I shivered, but perhaps it was only some last remnant of the chill that had afflicted me.
“Master Albrecht thanks you for your service,” Pietro said, then saw the doctor to the door. When the man was gone, Pietro brought me a cup of water.
“Does God really have a purpose for me, Pietro?” I touched my bandaged arm. It hurt where the doctor had cut me.
“Such things are beyond me, Master James.”
My gaze went to the window and the deepening twilight outside. “He has a purpose for me. Doesn’t he?”
“Go to sleep,” Pietro said, and I did.
When I woke again, the sky was still gray outside my window, but I knew that many hours had passed, and that it was no longer dusk. Rather, dawn grew near. I heard a faint ringing noise, and I thought perhaps it was the sound of bells. Then I knew it for what it was: the music of a horse’s bridle jingling.
I leaped from the bed, feeling shockingly strong for the food and rest, and ran to the window. My chamber looked over the manor’s courtyard, and below I saw a figure wrapped in a cloak—Pietro, by his stoop —shuffle forward as another, clad all in black, rode into the courtyard on a massive stallion. He swung down from the horse in an easy motion and handed the reins to Pietro. The rider started across the courtyard, then paused and looked up. Two sparks of amber flashed, their gleam directed at the window through which I peered. I stumbled back from the sill. Then I moved to the wardrobe and—fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar buttons and clasps—donned my new clothes.
By the time Pietro entered my chamber, I was ready. He led me downstairs to a room carpeted with Oriental rugs and walled with books, bound in leather and writ upon their spines in gold ink. A fire roared in the fireplace, making the room warm. Objects decorated the mantelpiece: porcelain figurines, a golden mask, and metallic devices that seemed to have scientific purposes I could not fathom. Fascinating as these items were, I gave them barely a glance.
He sat in a chair by the fire, and his hat and cloak were gone, so for the first time I truly got a look at him. Even sitting back in his chair he was tall, his long legs stretched out toward the fire, one large hand resting upon his thigh. He was still clad in riding attire—a form-fitting coat, breeches, and boots all in black— and as I drew near him I caught the rich scents of leather and horses. His dark hair was held back by a ribbon, and the firelight played across a bearded face that was too strong and sharply hewn to be handsome, but which was nonetheless striking.
As I approached, he turned his eyes—gold as old coins— upon me. I froze, and it was then I noticed there was something in one of his hands. It was a cloth of silver.
“I believe this is yours, James,” he said, holding out the cloth.
I hesitated, then stepped forward and took the cloth from him. Relief flooded through me at its cool touch. I had feared that, in my fever, I had left it behind in the crib.
“Pietro found it tucked inside your shirt when we brought you here three nights ago. I fear we had to burn your other clothes. But not this.” His amber eyes locked on me. “It was without stain or rent.”
“My mother gave it to me.”
He nodded, then turned his gaze to the fire, as if this were all he had required of me. I stood silently, until I could bear it no longer.
“Why have your brought me here, Master?” I blurted out.
“Can you read?” He did not take his gaze from the fire.
I frowned, puzzled by this question. “A little. My mother taught me some words when I was very young.”
“Good. Then you shall read, James. You shall begin on the morrow. Pietro will help you.”
There was so much more I wished to ask him, but he seemed lost in thought, staring at the fire, then Pietro was there. Gently but firmly he led me from the library. He took me to the kitchen for supper, and eating temporarily quelled my curiosity, but it flared again as soon as Pietro guided me back to my chamber.
“Why does he want me to read, Pietro?” I asked as he helped me off with my coat.
“In this modern time, all fine young lords are expected to be well-read,” the gray-haired servant said.
However, that only raised new questions—I was no young lord—and after Pietro left, as I lay in the bed, I was certain there was something more to the master’s command. There had to be.
“If he wishes me to read,” I said aloud to the darkness, “then I shall read every book in the library.”
That was easier said than done. My mother’s teachings did not carry me so far as I had thought they would. I knew my letters, and while I could read simple sentences, the books in the manor’s library were filled with long and arcane words that were beyond my ability to pronounce, let alone comprehend. What was more, I could not write at all, not even my own name.
Pietro became my teacher. In the mornings, we sat in the drawing room off the manor’s vast main hall, or on fine days outside at a stone table in the garden. We drank tea, brought to us by one of the other household servants. I had never had tea before, and I liked it so much I soon forgot my cravings for whiskey.
My reading began with an English translation of Virgil, a poet who lived in the great city of Rome a long time ago. Pietro admired him, being from Italy himself, as he informed me.