The thought made him dizzy, and he struggled to contain it, control it. His brain was chattering again, running too fast and in too many wild directions. Perhaps he’d overindulged in the blood. He felt hot with it. “I think,” he said finally, “that you are too kind, and I am too mad, for that to end well, my lady. As much as I . . . desire comfort, I am not ready for it. Let me learn myself again before I am asked to learn someone else.”
He expected her to be insulted; what woman would not have been, to have such a thing thrown in her face? But she only sat back, still holding his hand, and regarded him for a long moment before she said, “I think you are a very wise man, Myrnin of Conwy. I think one day we will find ourselves together again, and perhaps things will be different. But for now, you are right. You should be yourself, wholly, before you can begin to think beyond your skin again. I remember my first days of waking after death. I know how fragile and frightening it was, to be so strong and yet so weak.”
She understood. Truly understood. He felt a surge of affection for her, and tender connection, and raised her hand to his lips to kiss the soft skin of her knuckles. He said nothing else, and neither did she. Then he bowed, rose, and walked to his own chambers.
He bolted the door from within, and crawled still clothed between the soft linen sheets, drowning in feathers and fears, and slept as if the devil himself chased the world away.
As he rode away that night in Amelie’s train of followers, he looked back to see Lady Grey standing like a beacon on the roof of the stone keep. He raised a hand to her as the trees closed around their party.
He never saw her return the salute . . . but he felt it.
Someday, he heard her say. Someday.
? ? ?
He didn’t see her for another three hundred years. Wars had raged; he’d seen kingdoms rise and fall, and tens of thousands bleed to death in needless pain over politics and faith. He’d followed Amelie from one haven to the next, until they’d quarreled over something foolish, and he’d run away from her at last to strike out on his own. It was a mistake.
He was never as good when left to his own devices.
In Canterbury, in England, at a time when the young Victoria was only just learning the weight of her crown, he made mistakes. Terrible ones. The worst of these was trusting an alchemist named Cyprien Tiffereau. Cyprien was a brilliant man, a learned man, and Myrnin had forgotten that the learned and brilliant could be just as treacherous as the ignorant and stupid. The trap had caught him entirely by surprise. Cyprien had learned too much of vampires, and had developed an interest in what use might be made of them—medical for a start, and as weapons for the future.
Confessing his own vampire nature to Cyprien, and all his weaknesses, had been a serious error.
I should have known, he thought as he sat in the dark hole of his cell, fettered at ankles, wrists, and neck with thick, reinforced silver. The burning had started as torture, but he had adjusted over time, and now it was a pain that was as natural to him as the growing fog in his mind. Starvation made his confusion worse, and over the days, then weeks, the little blood that Cyprien had allowed him hadn’t sustained him well at all.
And now the door to his cell was creaking open, and Cyprien’s lean, ascetic body eased in. Myrnin could smell the blood in the cup in Cyprien’s hand, and his whole body shook and cramped with the craving. The scent was almost as strong as that of the hot-metal blood in the man’s veins.
“Hello, spider,” Cyprien said. “You should be hungry by now.”
“Unchain me and find out, friend,” Myrnin said. His voice was a low growl, like an animal’s, and it made him uneasy to hear it. He did not want to be . . . this. It frightened him.
“Your value is too great, I’m afraid. I can’t allow such a prize to escape now. You must think of all there is to learn, Myrnin. You are a man with a curious mind. You should be grateful for this chance to be of service.”
“If it’s knowledge you seek, I’ll help you learn your own anatomy. Come closer. Let me teach you.”
Cyprien was no fool. He placed the cup on the floor and took a long-handled pole to push it within reach of Myrnin’s chained hands.
The red, rich smell of the blood overwhelmed him, and he grabbed for the wooden mug, raised it, and gulped it down in three searing, desperate mouthfuls.
The pain hit only seconds later. It ripped through him like pure lightning, crushed him to the ground, and began to pull his mind to pieces. Pain flayed him. It scraped his bones to the marrow. It ripped him apart, from skin to soul.
When he survived it, weeping and broken, he became slowly aware of Cyprien’s presence. The man sat at a portable desk, scratching in a small book with a feather pen.
“I am keeping a record,” Cyprien told him. “Can you hear me, Myrnin? I am not a monster. This is research that will advance our knowledge of the natural world, a cause we both hold dear. Your suffering brings enlightenment.”
Myrnin whispered his response, too softly. It hardly mattered. He’d forgotten how to speak English now. The only words that came to his tongue were Welsh, the language of his childhood, of his mother.