Praise for Sarah Roark’s first novel, Dark Ages: Ravnos 
“[Dark Ages: Ravnos] was a seductive horror novel that I 
could not help but find attractive. The author, Sarah Roark, 
managed to make the main character, Zoë, innocent and 
lethal at the same time. It is a feat not easily accomplished. 
…Excellent!” 
—Detra Fitch, Huntress Book Reviews 
“strong, controlled and forceful” 
—Jacqueline Lichtenberg, author of Sime-Gen: The Unity 
Trilogy 
“The atmosphere is thick and tense as the story begins, 
coiled like a caged animal ready to spring. […] In Ravnos, 
Sarah Roark blends passion, faith and intrigue into an 
intoxicating brew any reader would greedily drink down. 
This book caught my interest from the first page and never 
let go. The level of detail given even minor characters was 
truly impressive, the more so for being accomplished in just 
a few lines.” 
—Johann Lionheart, Dimensions 
And for the Dark Ages Clan Novel Series 
“Here is a grand idea—warring vampire clans during the 
period of the Dark Ages—that has been brought to life (or 
should I say ‘undeath’) by a group of exceptionally talented 
writers. Bravo, White Wolf! [My] highest recommendation.” 
—J. L. Comeau, Creature Feature 
“The cold, undead world of Dark Ages: Vampire has never 
seemed so warm and alive, thanks to the storytelling of 
Kathleen Ryan. [Dark Ages: Setite is] masterfully written 
[and]… leaves us craving more.” 
—Johann Lionheart, Dimensions 
“There are quite a few twists and turns and a level of 
thoughtfulness that take this above the average vampire 
adventure. Dark Ages: Assamite is an imaginative and 
gripping winner.” 
—Jim Brock, Baryon Magazine

2 
Dark Ages and Vampire Fiction from White Wolf 
The Dark Ages Clan Novel Series 
Dark Ages: Nosferatu by Gherbod Fleming 
Dark Ages: Assamite by Stefan Petrucha 
Dark Ages: Cappadocian by Andrew Bates 
Dark Ages: Setite by Kathleen Ryan 
Dark Ages: Lasombra by David Niall Wilson 
Dark Ages: Ravnos by Sarah Roark 
Dark Ages: Malkavian by Ellen Porter Kiley 
Dark Ages: Brujah by Myranda Kalis 
Dark Ages: Toreador by Janet Trautvetter 
Dark Ages: Gangrel by Tim Waggoner 
Dark Ages: Tremere by Sarah Roark 
Dark Ages: Ventrue by Matthew McFarland (forthcoming) 
Dark Ages: Tzimisce by Myranda Kalis (forthcoming) 
Other Dark Ages Fiction 
Dark Tyrants by Justin Achilli & Robert Hatch (editors) 
The Erciyes Fragments by C. S. Friedman 
To Sift Through Bitter Ashes by David Niall Wilson 
To Speak in Lifeless Tongues by David Niall Wilson 
To Dream of Dreamers Lost by David Niall Wilson 
The Clan Novel Saga 
A comprehensive, chronological collection of the fourteen-volume best-selling 
Clan Novel Series. Includes all-new material. 
Volume 1: The Fall of Atlanta — foreword by Stewart Wieck; new 
material by Philippe Boulle 
Volume 2: The Eye of Gehenna — foreword by Eric Griffin; new 
material by Stefan Petrucha 
Volume 3: Bloody September — foreword by Anna Branscome; new 
material by Lucien Soulban 
Volume 4: End Games — foreword by Gherbod Fleming; new material by 
Janet Trautvetter (forthcoming) 
The Victorian Age Vampire Trilogy 
A Morbid Initiation by Philippe Boulle 
The Madness of Priests by Philippe Boulle 
The Wounded King by Philippe Boulle 
For all these titles and more, visit www.white-wolf.com/fiction

Sarah Roark 
AD 1231-1232 
Eleventh of the Dark Ages Clan Novels

4
Cover art by John Bolton. Graphic design by Mike Chaney. 
Art direction by Richard Thomas. Copyediting by Carl 
Bowen. 
©2004 White Wolf, Inc. All rights reserved. 
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any 
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical—including 
photocopy, recording, Internet posting, electronic bulletin 
board—or any other information storage and retrieval system, 
except for the purpose of reviews, without permission from 
the publisher. 
White Wolf is committed to reducing waste in publishing. 
For this reason, we do not permit our covers to be “stripped” 
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All persons, places, and organizations in this book—except 
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The mention of or reference to any companies or 
products in these pages is not a challenge to the trademarks 
or copyrights concerned. 
White Wolf, Vampire The Masquerade and Vampire are 
registered trademarks of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. Dark 
Ages Vampire, Dark Ages Nosferatu, Dark Ages Assamite, 
Dark Ages Cappadocian, Dark Ages Setite, Dark Ages 
Lasombra, Dark Ages Ravnos, Dark Ages Malkavian, Dark 
Ages Brujah, Dark Ages Toreador, Dark Ages Gangrel, Dark 
Ages Tremere, Dark Ages Ventrue, Dark Ages Tzimisce, To 
Sift Through Bitter Ashes, To Speak in Lifeless Tongues, To 
Dream of Dreamers Lost, Dark Tyrants, The Erciyes Fragments, 
Clan Novel Saga, The Fall of Atlanta, The Eye of 
Gehenna, Bloody September, End Game, Victorian Age 
Vampire, A Morbid Initiation, The Madness of Priests, The 
Wounded King, Dark Ages Inquisitor, Mummy the Resurrection, 
Penance by Firelight and Demon Lucifer’s Shadow are 
trademarks of White Wolf Publishing, Inc. All rights 
reserved. 
ISBN 1-58846-848-8 
First Edition: April 2004 
Printed in Canada 
White Wolf Publishing 
1554 Litton Drive 
Stone Mountain, GA 30083 
www.white-wolf.com/fiction

For Brett, for too many 
reasons to name.

6 
What Has Come Before 
It is the year 1232, and decades of warfare and intrigue 
continue among the living and the dead. The Teutonic 
Knights and Sword-Brothers have embarked on 
campaigns to conquer and convert pagan Prussia and 
Livonia, spreading the crusading zeal into new lands. 
Bloodshed has, as always, followed in its wake. 
Away from the eyes of the living, in the shadowy world 
of the undead, these crusades have dark echoes. The 
powerful Saxon vampire Jürgen of Magdeburg shares 
the Teutons’ zeal and leads the so-called Brotherhood 
of the Black Cross, a secret order within both the 
Teutonic Knights and Livonian Sword-Brothers. He is 
determined to expand his domain into Livonia, using 
the banner of Christianity to increase his holdings. Last 
year he sent his guest-cum-rival Alexander to lead the 
conquest on his behalf, but that mighty vampire fell 
before the vampiric chieftain Qarakh, who leads a band 
of pagan blood-drinkers in alliance with Deverra, a 
blood sorceress and unliving priestess of the pagan god 
Telyavel. Qarakh’s might in battle and Deverra’s 
witchery together brought ancient Alexander low. 
Jürgen is rid of a rival, but his plans of conquest seem in 
a shambles. 
Existing in the midst of this chaos is Jervais bani 
Tremere, a vampire and wizard who wishes to establish 
good relations between Jürgen and his superiors in the 
Tremere order. Unfortunately, Jürgen is not inclined to 
trust Jervais (who once schemed to deceive him) or any 
Tremere (whom he considers interlopers among the 
undead). Jervais attempted to make himself useful by 
conveying the warning that Qarakh had sorcerous aid. 
Now he must deal with the evident fact that his 
warning was either insufficient or went undelivered. 
And hope that it doesn’t cost him his head…

Sarah Roark 7 
Prologue 
He knew he was dreaming, but that did not help. 
It was a room he could remember being in a long time 
ago, a library in which he and his master had once spent a few 
months. Bookshelves covered each wall from floor to ceiling, 
some holding codices, some with ancient moldering scrolls that 
threatened to spill out onto the floor. They towered over him, 
silently judging him a child and a fool. He moved through the 
cavernous chamber, filled with dread. He listened but heard 
only the sound of his own footfalls. Perhaps it was watching 
him, matching his pace. He could not hear it breathe. But it 
didn’t always breathe. 
Across the room, a pile of books and maps suddenly 
tumbled to the floor. He stared at it in a panic, and for one 
searing moment tried to will himself to believe that it had simply 
been overbalanced. Then he saw the blood spattered across 
the pages. He ran. 
Now he could hear it quite clearly, footsteps ringing like 
marble on marble and furniture flying in all directions behind 
him. Eight doors led out of the library, but most of them lay 
back toward the Thing. He chose a door from those before 
him, yanked on the handle several times before it gave way at 
last, then dashed through. 
And so it began. The next room he also recognized, but it 
didn’t belong to the same building. That hardly mattered. It 
had six doors leading out. He tried to remember which one 
he’d chosen last time. The one on the left, he thought. This 
time he went right. Still the Thing came hot on his heels. 
The chase seemed to last for hours. Every door he opened 
led only to a room with more doors, and though he tried at first 
to keep his bearings, he soon lost all concept of direction and 
distance past a vague horror that somehow his path was being 
bent in upon itself—that he was being herded. 
He also found that while the first rooms he’d wound 
through had had six, eight, twelve, four-and-twenty doors, the 
later ones had only two or three. His choices were narrowing. 
And though he still couldn’t hear the Thing behind him breathe,

8 Tremere 
he could hear the devastation it wrought in its wake. Whatever 
it was, it was enormous. He had no idea how it was fitting 
through the doors. Yet somehow or other it gradually gained on 
him. He ran faster, chose his doors with diminishing care. He 
was sure he was making mistakes. Mistakes he might have 
avoided if he’d only been able to pause, think, consider. But he 
also knew with the absolute certainty of dreaming that if he 
stopped or even slowed down for an instant, he would die in its 
teeth.
In another part of his mind, in a parallel reverie to this 
frantic scrambling, he was aware of his body tossing in its daytime 
slumber. He longed to wake himself up, but that would 
take his attention away from the maze for that one fatal instant. 
During other instances of this nightmare he’d imagined 
that she came to him, as she had come to him once (and only 
once) in reality, and laid her soft cool hand across his sweating 
forehead. Just now he could not conjure even the imagination 
of her. He was all alone, immured in stone. Sometimes the 
master heard echoes of the torment, but even he could do nothing. 
And then there were the others that also heard—some 
locked within their own torpid bodies, some with no bodies at 
all. They heard and laughed, taunting him with the truth they 
all knew: that even immortals could only run so far and so fast 
for so long before that final slip, that brief hesitation that was 
all the Thing would need…

Sarah Roark 9 
Chapter One 
Lady Rosamund moved the last of her pieces off 
the board. “I didn’t think the magi of Tremere were 
taught always to let a lady win,” she remarked. 
Jervais bani Tremere tilted his head to the side 
in a slight gesture of acknowledgment and began to 
reset the board again. It bought him time to consider 
his response. “I can’t speak for the rest of my 
brethren, milady,” he answered, “but for my part, I 
was taught always to give a lady precisely the sport 
she requires, neither more nor less. Why do you mention 
it?” 
“Well,” she said lightly, “wizards are supposed 
to be clever, are they not? I hardly expected to defeat 
one so handily twice in a row. I’m forced to 
wonder if you’re playing to win at all.” 
“I always play to win, milady.” 
“I detect a note of irony.” 
“Milady has a fine ear for music.” 
“Ah, we must be embarking on the obligatory 
chain of political metaphors now.” 
“Good God, I hope not,” he exclaimed—and was 
rewarded with her first genuine, though small, smile 
of the evening. “Surely we haven’t run out of actual 
conversation just yet.” 
The smile vanished quickly at that. He immediately 
regretted his words. He’d thrown her off 
rhythm, and while that was often a worthwhile goal 
in diplomacy, tonight he needed just the opposite. 
No doubt this was already difficult enough for her, 
even if one would never know it. But she quickly 
recovered herself and gave him another smile. It was 
pretty, warm, invitational and not half so captivating 
as the real thing now that he’d seen the 
difference. 
“Do they not play tables in the sorcerers’ towers, 
Master Tremere?”

10 Tremere 
“There’s little time for such pursuits, I fear.” 
“Such frivolous pursuits, is that what you were 
going to say?” 
“I would certainly never say that, milady.” 
Her head remained bent over the board, but her 
hazel-green eyes flashed upward. “But someone else 
would?” 
It was necessary, he reminded himself. It was the 
price of admission, or rather of re-admission. She 
would be satisfied when she believed she’d obtained 
more than he’d meant to give. Things could always 
be worse. It could be Prince Jürgen the Sword-Bearer 
himself putting him through the paces, rather than 
Jürgen’s beauteous mistress. Still, Jervais did not have 
to force much reluctance into his voice. 
“That is what is taught to our apprentices, yes. 
If they have time to play, then they must have time 
to study more, work harder. No doubt there are floors 
that could use a scrubbing, at the very least.” 
“They don’t even play chess, then?” She shook 
her head. “That has, as you know, a special significance 
to certain bloods. It is also widely extolled as 
a thing that sharpens the mind, teaches the art of 
the stratagem. The game of princes.” 
“I know of but one Tremere prince, milady,” he 
returned mildly. 
“There is something to be said for standing behind 
the throne, I suppose.” 
“Or at the side of it. That isn’t the argument, 
however. Why waste one’s time toying with men and 
Cainites and governments when the levers that move 
the very world are waiting there to be discovered and 
mastered? Conquer them, and you conquer everything.” 
She knocked a blot of his onto the bar. “Ah. You 
don’t seem to agree, however. You play. You must 
have been a very stubborn apprentice.” 
“I have been accused of it, milady. But is it stubbornness 
to realize that not everyone cares about the 
virtues of onyx or the exact shape of the wards on

Sarah Roark 11 
Solomon’s key, and that while one is shut up in one’s 
little room learning Creation’s secrets, Creation itself 
rolls by outside?” 
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to hear such 
a widely traveled man utter such sentiments,” she 
said wryly. “I must have assumed it was a matter of 
duty and not pleasure. The others of your clan I’ve 
spoken to—who, I admit, are few enough—all seemed 
to hate the world as much as any anchorite.” 
“Many do. I’ve never understood it myself. 
There’s far too much to see.” 
“Even in Magdeburg?” 
“Especially in Magdeburg,” he chuckled. “Far 
more to see here than in the very clearest crystal.” 
“And at Ceoris?” she prompted. 
That drew him up short. “At Ceoris—at Ceoris 
what?” 
Her eyebrow flickered a bit, noting his reaction. 
He inwardly cursed himself once again. “Is there 
much to see?” 
“Ah.” 
“Ceoris is in Hungary, is it not?” 
“Yes, of course, milady.” 
“Of all that country I only know what I’ve read 
in soldiers’ letters from the battle front, which, as 
you can imagine, are short on detail.” She sighed. 
“I’m not one of those ladies who needs to be entertained 
with long soliloquies on pine and lake and 
mist and moonlight in foreign lands, Master Tremere, 
but for those of us who must wait at home with the 
distaff, there’s always that desire to know more of 
what those dear to us saw and suffered.” 
“What they suffer even now,” he said. He 
couched it as a polite murmur, obligatory courtesy, 
but he did want to see what she made of it. 
She nodded solemnly and cast her gaze downward 
for a moment. “Yes. But alas, unlike Hungary, 
you have not seen Livonia with your own eyes. Or 
so you said the last time we met.”

12 Tremere 
A quick parry, then. Interesting. “No, milady.” 
Since they were treading so closely to the real content 
of their meeting already, he dared continue a 
little further along the path. “I do trust the information 
I gathered on the subject of Livonia has proved 
useful to his Highness, however.” 
“That would be something you’d have to ask his 
Highness, of course.” 
“Then I hope to have opportunity to do so.” 
“We all have our hopes, Master Tremere.” Her 
slim hand reached out, fast as a striking adder, to 
catch a die that tumbled off the table from her overly 
enthusiastic roll. “I am sure that for its part, Ceoris 
hopes for a better issue from your endeavors this time 
around.” 
He accepted his punishment without complaint. 
It was his own fault. She had tried to approach the 
subject gracefully, from the perspective of the worried 
grass widow, and he’d insisted on turning it into 
a foray into what was clearly uncomfortable territory. 
It was so hard to shut down that instinct, but 
he had to remember his real purpose here. Stop sparring, 
he told himself. Perhaps you should even let 
yourself be a bit bewitched in earnest. 
“Ceoris is more convinced than ever, milady, 
that Prince Jürgen’s interests and those of House and 
Clan Tremere coincide so closely that they simply 
must ally for both their sakes…as soon as possible.” 
“If you mean that should the Black Cross fall, 
Ceoris will have that much less standing between it 
and the wrath of the voivode,” she said archly, “I would 
tend to agree. Are you telling me that the war goes 
badly for your brethren there?” 
“No, not badly, milady. Petty harassment and 
scattered raids.” 
“Then why this urgency?” 
“Milady, clearly we’ve all been rather hoping 
Rustovitch’s forces would simply fall apart in the 
wake of the truce, and just as clearly, that hasn’t 
happened. Perhaps it’ll help if I explain that petty

Sarah Roark 13 
harassment and scattered raids are precisely the 
voivode’s favorite tactic for keeping his enemies occupied 
while he rebuilds his strength and whips any 
faltering allies back into compliance. When he has 
truly given up, we will know it.” 
“Oh? How?” 
“Because it won’t look like anything we’ve ever 
seen before,” he answered in the most serious tone he 
could command. “Milady, we have weathered him and 
the rest of the Tzimisce storm for nigh on two centuries 
now. I can assure you from personal experience 
that giving up is not in his nature. He’ll take time, 
when it’s given him, to rest and replenish. Then, just 
as that eye of calm begins to pass…” 
She stared at him, game piece in her fingers, momentarily 
forgotten. “You think Rustovitch is waiting 
to see the issue of the fighting in Livonia, then.” 
“I think the treaty between Rustovitch and 
Prince Jürgen might as well have been signed in 
Qarakh’s blood, because he’s its only guarantor. The 
truce is a handy excuse for Rustovitch to recover 
himself while he watches to see how badly his Highness 
can be damaged by the campaign against the 
Balts. Nothing more.” 
“You seem to be assuming his Highness will in 
fact be damaged.” She made her move and regarded 
him with a defiance that she no longer tried to disguise 
under flirtation. “What if he triumphs instead?” 
“He must triumph, milady,” he exclaimed. “My 
masters’ only desire is to ensure that.” 
“And your own desire, Master Tremere? Is it the 
same as your masters’?” 
An expected line of questioning, but unwelcome 
nonetheless. “Mademoiselle Rosamund…I was, as 
I’ve told you, quite firmly corrected by my superiors 
for my earlier mistake. However, that doesn’t change 
the fact that I was pursuing their goal to the best of 
my ability, which was and is friendship between our 
clan and Prince Jürgen’s court.”

14 Tremere 
“They don’t appear to have appreciated your efforts 
on their behalf any more than his Highness did,” 
she noted dryly. 
He did his best to submerge his growing irritation. 
“No, milady.” He let the pause afterward speak 
for him. 
She gave him a consoling look. “It simply makes 
me wonder why it’s you that’s here once again, Master 
Tremere—instead of some other representative. 
Surely that would have been more comfortable for 
all concerned?” 
Jervais seized an opportunity to knock her onto 
the bar just as she was about to begin bearing off. He 
sat back, trying to school the look of relief on his 
face into something less earnest. The two concurrent 
games had nothing to do with each other really, 
yet it was odd how even the smallest victory in one 
helped his resolve in the other. Now he could marshal 
his thoughts. He had to give her something. The 
more the reasoning part of his mind repeated this, 
the more badly the rest of him wanted to give her 
nothing, nothing at all, not even the courtesy of a 
refusal. Under the table, one hand clenched in his 
lap, bearing the burden for all the rest of his body. 
“Comfort is not a priority for my masters, milady,” 
he said at last. “Particularly not my comfort. 
They have generously proffered me one—and only 
one—opportunity to clean up the mess I made of 
things. This is how I’ve chosen to make that 
attempt…bearing in mind the rules as they have now 
been explained to me.” 
“I see.” She leaned forward. Her voice lowered. 
Could it be actual sympathy? The damned bitch. 
“And if you should fail?” 
The laugh that bubbled up from his throat was a 
good deal more bitter than anything he’d meant to 
give voice to. “Failure is not among the choices before 
me, milady.” 
There. Will you be satisfied at last? May I pass on 
to my next torment now, hellcat?

Sarah Roark 15 
“I see,” she said again. She began bearing off her 
pieces. “You are hardly the only one in Magdeburg 
laboring under that constraint, Master Tremere.” 
He frowned. It was a hint, certainly. The question 
was whether it was meant to help him or mislead 
him. Then again, if she really wanted to frustrate his 
plans, all she had to do was go on ignoring his existence 
just as she had for the last several months. 
Hopefully, the fact that he was here tonight at all 
meant she felt a need to test the waters, which meant 
that Jürgen felt a need to test the waters…which 
must mean that he was worried. 
“Your turn,” she informed him. 
“Actually, since your ladyship has clearly won 
already, I’m happy to concede the game.” 
She laughed, a perfect bell-like laugh. He relaxed. 
They were back on their original footing. 
Perhaps he’d passed the test. Or perhaps they were 
only on to a new one now, since she followed up the 
laugh with: “Very well. I’ll let you concede, if you’ll 
show me a bit of magic instead.” 
“A bit of magic?” he repeated. 
“Unless you’ve suddenly become like those other 
wizards you were speaking of earlier, who say they’re 
students of the great secrets and not street-conjurors 
performing for coin,” she teased him. 
“Not at all, not at all,” he said, feeling absurd. 
“It should be my honor to amuse such a beautiful 
and noble lady. Let me see, let me think. Ah. May I 
use a scrap from that sewing basket?” 
“Certainly.” 
He retrieved one and selected a short length of 
silk cord from within. “And may I impose again and 
borrow the ring on milady’s left hand?” 
She smiled, slipped it off and passed it over. He 
knotted the ring onto the string, then closed his hand 
over it. 
“Phorba phorba askei kataski!” he cried out, gesturing 
with his free hand. A spark of blue radiance 
flashed out from between his closed fingers. He

16 Tremere 
opened his fist to show the cord, now unknotted and 
missing the ring. Then he rubbed his hands together, 
to emphasize their emptiness, and extracted the ring 
from the dice-cup. 
She laughed again and clapped. “Lovely.” 
“But…” he supplied. 
“But…” She hesitated, then shrugged. “Well, the 
truth is I once saw a juggler do almost exactly the 
same trick, only without that flash of light.” 
He chuckled. “I’m sure it was the same trick, except 
for the flash of light which, I admit, I added for 
pure show.” 
“Then—I see, you’ve been having me on.” 
“Never having you on, milady. After all, I confessed 
the truth to you right away. But once I did it 
for a fellow-wizard, and do you know, he pestered 
me about it for the rest of my visit. Was it this spell, 
was it that spell, was it a variation on Celorb’s dispersal 
perhaps?” 
“And yet it wasn’t a spell at all…” 
He polished her ring on the shoulder of his bliaut 
and handed it back. “If you can’t tell the difference, 
what difference does it make?” 
“If you can’t tell the difference.” She looked the 
ring over. He felt a jolt of embarrassment as he realized 
she was trying to ascertain that he’d indeed 
returned the genuine article. 
“Milady, surely you don’t think—” 
“No, Master Tremere, I can see that it’s mine. 
Even you could hardly know to copy the inscription 
on the inside of a band that hasn’t left my hand since 
it was first put on, could you? And as you said…at 
least you confessed the truth to me right away this 
time,” she went on in a more serious tone. “It’s better 
for the future, I think, that we clearly understand 
each other. You are a wizard, yes, but you also believe 
in practicality.” 
He recovered himself as quickly as he could. 
“Yes, milady. It is in itself a kind of wizardry to know

Sarah Roark 17 
when to use magic, and when some other method 
will serve just as well or better—” 
She held up a warning hand. He stopped, irritation 
melting into apprehension as it became clear 
that she was genuinely listening for something. One 
of her handmaidens appeared in the doorway. 
“Mademoiselle, forgive me,” the woman said. 
“But your brother—” 
“Yes, yes, of course,” Rosamund interrupted. “See 
him in.” 
The woman dropped a hurried but graceful curtsey 
and backed out again. Jervais heard the soft chink 
of spurs and the slap of leather on wood, which was 
shortly followed by the entrance of Sir Josselin de 
Poitiers, Rosamund’s brother-in-Blood. 
“Petite,” he began, “you must—ah.” He stopped 
short, looking down his slim handsome nose at 
Jervais. His glare rippled violently through the warlock. 
Those of Josselin’s blood often had that ability, 
to send the passions of their humors through the very 
air. Though Jervais had grown more used to it over 
time, it still caught him unprepared now and again. 
His teeth gritted under the onslaught. 
It seemed to catch the knight himself unprepared 
too, after a fashion. At least he hastily reined himself 
in, the aura of demigod’s pique disappearing as 
though it had never been, and turned instead to 
Rosamund. “Blanche might have told me you were 
still with…your company.” 
She waved this off. “Josselin, not now.” 
“No, not now,” he agreed at once. 
“Is there news?” 
“Yes. You must come at once. You’ve been asked 
for. Forgive us, Master Tremere,” he added. 
Why is it I’m never granted my own name? “Not at 
all, messire,” Jervais replied in his best tone of 
empathetic concern. “I certainly would not wish to 
keep her ladyship from anything important. Indeed, 
if it’s that serious, perhaps I should go myself.”

18 Tremere 
“I don’t recall your being appointed one of his 
Highness’s advisers,” Sir Josselin returned. Then he 
seemed to realize that he was giving away too much 
in his eagerness to insult, and he fell silent. 
“Of course, and I should hardly presume, 
messire,” Jervais said. “But if his Highness is indeed 
summoning his advisers, then he may soon require 
the assistance of his humbler servants as well. And I 
would far rather arrive to find my services unwelcome 
than hear later that I was asked for and 
nowhere to be found.” 
The two nobles exchanged glances. 
“In that case, I suppose we should all ride together,” 
Josselin said. “We wouldn’t want anything 
to happen to you on the road.” 
“You do me too much honor, messire.” Jervais stood 
and made a low, unctuous bow.

Sarah Roark 19 
Chapter Two 
The ride to St. Paul’s was short and silent but 
filthy. The streets and roads were plagued with muck 
that three days’ worth of drizzle had dampened but 
not washed away. At first Jervais tried vainly to hitch 
up his fine long bliaut so that it wouldn’t be spattered, 
then he decided it might be to his advantage 
to give the appearance of having hurried pell-mell 
to his host’s aid. It was important to remember what 
sort of Cainite Jürgen was, and his monk-knight lieutenants 
in the Black Cross order as well. The 
preciosities that other courts thrived on they considered 
despicable, indulgent. A little mud no doubt 
conveyed sincerity. 
A pair of groomsmen took the bridles of their 
steaming horses almost before they’d stopped, and a 
young squire was waiting nearby to usher them inside.
“Lady Rosamund,” he blurted. “Sir Josselin.” He 
stopped and stared at Jervais. 
“And Jervais bani Tremere of Ceoris,” Jervais 
supplied richly. “Your august lord knows the name, I 
assure you.” 
The lad opened his mouth to speak, glanced at 
Rosamund and Sir Josselin (who offered no help or 
hindrance whatever), then shut it again and nodded. 
“Very well. Come, please.” 
He conducted them across the grounds into the 
guesthouse of the fortified priory. A fire leapt on high 
in a hearth at one end of the room—a huge hearth, 
meant to warm a room filled with dozens of human 
folk, perhaps cook them some soup at the same time. 
With a bare handful of wax-pale Cainites there now, 
the enormous blaze looked more menacing than 
cheering. Indeed, as Jervais used his blood-strength 
to sharpen the weak eyesight a mocking God had 
given him, he could see that they all stood a safe

20 Tremere 
distance away from it. Rosamund and Josselin were 
let inside without a murmur, but the door-guard’s 
spear came down at an angle before Jervais, stopping 
him at the threshold. The squire leaned up on tiptoe 
to whisper into the guard’s ear. Jervais could have 
sharpened his hearing as well and heard the precise 
words, but there was hardly a need. The guard leaned 
his head slightly inside the door to hiss at someone 
just within. Further words were exchanged. A few 
moments later Jervais heard a murmur arise at the 
far side of the room. The voice of Prince Jürgen 
soared over it. 
“I don’t care. Let the man in. Let him in!” he 
repeated for the benefit of the mortal man at the 
door. Jervais smiled as the spear moved aside again. 
But he hastily composed himself into what he hoped 
was the right purposeful, slightly worried manner before 
he went in. 
“Meister Tremere. Hurry along there,” Prince 
Jürgen called out. “Don’t bother making all the legs, 
just come.” 
Jervais halted in mid-bow and did as he was told, 
bustling up to the front. “Your Highness,” he said, 
touching knee to stone as quickly as could be done. 
Jürgen immediately motioned him up. 
Next to Jürgen stood a thin Cainite in a priest’s 
cassock—Father Erasmus, Jürgen’s confessor—and 
another one Jervais didn’t recognize, dressed as most 
of the Black Cross knights dressed, in the garb of 
the mortal Teutonic Order. Brother Christof, Jürgen’s 
second in command, stood brooding off to one side, 
hand straying reflexively to sword hilt. It took Jervais 
a little longer to find the last person in the room 
because he was the only one sitting down. He was a 
Cainite with hair tonsured in the knights’ usual style 
and wearing an emblazoned habit, huddled in a chair 
in Jürgen’s substantial shadow. A blanket covered his 
legs. One leg seemed to be little wider than a broomstick, 
and Jervais could just imagine the sight that 
lay beneath. A vampire could recover even lost

Sarah Roark 21 
limbs, given time and blood enough to heal, but the 
process of re-growing bone and muscle and re-stringing 
sinew, was slow and arduous. The firelight threw 
the lines of pain in his face into harsh relief. 
“Very well. Now that we’re all here…” Jürgen 
nodded at a human squire, who ran off. “Lady Ambassador, 
Herr Josselin, Meister Tremere. I think Herr 
Josselin is the only one of you to have met Brother 
Eckard before.” 
“Of course, on campaign in Hungary,” Josselin 
nodded, bowing. “I am sorry to see you injured, 
brother.” 
The wounded man bowed in turn from the waist. 
“Herr Josselin. I remember you with great respect.” 
“Brother Eckard rode all the way from the 
Livonian front despite his wound to carry us the 
news,” Jürgen said brusquely, glancing at Josselin and 
then at Rosamund, who stood frozen. “I’m afraid it’s 
very bad. I thought that you should be the first to 
know, meine Dame.” 
He turned to the squire, who’d returned with a 
bit of folded cloth that he transferred into Jürgen’s 
hands. The prince let it fall open. Framed in his powerful 
arms it seemed very small indeed, sized more 
for a slip of a boy than a man—which wasn’t far from 
the truth. It was a surcoat of fine white cloth, now 
bloodied and streaked with dirt. Still visible through 
the blotches of red were the black embroidered “tails” 
of the ermine pattern and the purple stripe that ran 
vertically down the middle with a circlet of leaves 
embroidered atop that in gold thread. 
A choking sound echoed in the room. Jervais 
glanced up, startled. It was the only graceless noise 
he’d ever heard emerge from the Lady Rosamund’s 
swanlike throat. With utmost gravity Jürgen brought 
the cloth over to her, offering it. She hesitated but 
then took it. A moment later her skirt wobbled and 
she began to sink toward the floor. Sir Josselin caught 
her elbow and bore her up until she recovered her 
usual proud posture.

22 Tremere 
“Vair, on a pale purpure, a laurel wreath or,” he 
murmured, gazing at it in shock. Rosamund tried to 
blink back the film of red in her eyes. 
The arms of Alexander, sometime Prince of 
Paris, now liege-lord to Lady Rosamund and general 
in service to his far younger clansman Jürgen the 
Sword-Bearer; recently sent to Livonia to subdue the 
upstart pagans. As every other heart in the room either 
sank or quailed, Jervais felt his rise and expand, 
unshackled at last. 
“How…how is it possible?” Josselin managed at 
last. “One of such age, such power…” 
“But no faith, I fear,” Brother Eckard finished. 
The prince frowned but said nothing. “Forgive me, 
milord. Milord Alexander showed great courage and 
gallantry in the face of the enemy, and I pray nightly 
for his soul. But he would not humble himself before 
the Lord, even though it was the Lord’s work we 
sought to do. I fear our enterprise suffered for it in 
the end. Perhaps…perhaps the rest of us failed in 
spirit somehow as well. I must do penance.” 
Father Erasmus laid a hand on his shoulder. 
“There must have been treachery of some kind,” 
Christof broke in. “Heathen sorcery.” His quick dark 
eyes darted over to Jervais. 
Jürgen looked at Jervais as well. “Yes, 
sorcery…I’m afraid there likely was that.” 
Jervais simply nodded, not knowing if a response 
was expected. 
“The Tartar was like one possessed—whether by 
sorcery or some other foulness I don’t know,” Eckard 
mused. “He went bareheaded and barefoot, and 
moved more like a beast than a man. It was so swift, 
the fighting, that the eye could barely follow it except 
when they locked each other immobile for a 
brief moment. Yet for all the swiftness, it seemed to 
take hours… and then I was drowned and saw no 
more.” 
“Could no one intervene?” Rosamund asked desperately.

Sarah Roark 23 
“Meine Dame, it seems a mire quite suddenly 
opened up under the battlefield, trapping everyone, 
or nearly everyone, except for Qarakh himself and 
your lord,” Jürgen answered. 
“Who is this Qarakh?” Josselin wanted to know. 
“Are we any closer to finding that out?” 
“We have a little information… Thanks, in part, 
to the Tremere of Ceoris,” the prince said. 
A public acknowledgment of my assistance? What 
next?
“And now,” he went on, “Brother Eckard and the 
two other brothers who’ve made it back so far have 
a little more that they’ve told us.” 
“We must call a council,” Christof urged. 
“We will call a council, but not tonight,” Jürgen 
assured him. “Herr Josselin, your lady sister needs to 
be seen home.” 
“Of course, your Highness.” 
“After that, we must request that you do us the 
great kindness of conveying the news of Lord 
Alexander’s death back to his childe in Paris.” 
Jervais valiantly suppressed a smirk. That would 
be Geoffrey, current Prince of Paris—at his lord sire 
the former prince’s expense. He wondered whether 
there would be the pretense of grief, or not. 
Josselin absorbed this with obvious difficulty. 
“Your Highness.” He bowed again. “It is my honor 
to serve, so long as milady gives her permission of 
course.” 
Rosamund nodded faintly. 
“Good. Then go at once with my earnest thanks, 
mein Herr. You may go as well, Meister Tremere, but 
I think we must have a talk sometime soon. I will 
call for you.” 
“Of course, your Highness.” Jervais made a deep 
obeisance but decided not to append any courtly 
words to it. No doubt they’d only be taken as a jab 
or an expression of unseemly pleasure. He followed 
Josselin and Rosamund out and all but ran for his 
horse. Thank Great Tremere, the house that Jürgen’s

24 Tremere 
seneschal had chosen for him in town was quite close 
to Lady Rosamund’s abode. He didn’t have much 
time. Jürgen had said, “Go at once,” and Sir Josselin 
was, if nothing else, a man to follow orders. 
*** 
“Stop looking at me like that,” Jürgen muttered. 
Christof turned his grim face away, but the reproach 
in the air remained. 
“There’s no choice anymore,” he went on. 
“Clearly we went in missing vital facts. Either this 
squat-legged savage is a lot older than we gave him 
credit for, or he does indeed have the aid of some 
demonic power. Alexander is dead, my friends.” 
“With all due respect, Hochmeister,” Brother 
Meinhard put in, “better him than you. If the Lady 
Rosamund had not, so to speak, volunteered him…” 
“And if he hadn’t agreed to go, for her sake no 
doubt.” 
“And for his own,” Meinhard reminded him 
hastily. “In any case, not for the right reasons. I must 
agree with Brother Eckard fully on that.” 
“Yes, but even if he went in with the worst reasons 
in the world, he should still have been able to 
defeat such ragamuffins handily.” Jürgen paced over 
to a chair, whirled it around and sat. “Clearly we need 
help. They’ve offered it. I intend to take them up on 
it.” 
“The Tremere have shown their treachery to you 
once before, milord,” Christof said, in a voice close 
to a growl. “And the stories you yourself brought back 
from Hungary, about the ambitions the Usurpers 
cherish that have not yet been exposed to the princes 
of the West.” 
“Stories from Rustovitch’s lickspittles and attendants,” 
Jürgen returned. “Hardly an unbiased source. 
I’m sure they were ordered to sound me out about 
the possibility of colluding with their master against 
the Tremere. I think Rustovitch would gladly take 
the hand even of my sire, if it meant the wizards’ 
destruction. And just as gladly the wizards seek to

Sarah Roark 25 
take my hand in a mutual pledge to destroy 
Rustovitch—or if I won’t accede to that right away, 
to a pledge to destroy Qarakh in Livonia so that 
Rustovitch may be next. And neither Rustovitch nor 
the Tremere are truly my friends, whatever agreements 
we make to the contrary. We all wish each 
other gone from Hungary—indeed from all the East. 
It’s only a question of what temporary alliances will 
form on the way to utter annihilation. Be sure I’m 
well aware of all of this, Brother Christof, but unfortunately 
it changes nothing.” 
“If I may, milord.” Father Erasmus spoke up hesitantly. 
“Surely the answer to nigromancy is not more 
nigromancy.” 
The prince brushed wearily at his mustache with 
a thumb and forefinger. “Father, do you realize that 
the bulk of the troops the Sword-Brothers are using 
in Livonia are in fact Letts and Livs? Natives, whose 
devotion to Christianity consists almost solely of the 
yearly tithe they pay. The only hymns they sing are 
songs of delight in the plunder they capture from 
their ancestral enemies. Let’s be honest in this room. 
An entire nation doesn’t convert overnight, not in 
its heart. But the outward observances come little 
by little to be matched by inward belief. That’s the 
hope we all cherish. Until the time comes when they 
serve the Lord in truth, however, the Sword-Brothers 
are happy to let them serve the order instead. A 
spear doesn’t care what sort of hand let it fly. If it’s 
worthy of the Sword-Brothers to let pagans kill pagans 
in the name of killing paganism, then what is 
there to object to in letting sorcerers kill sorcerers?” 
“I don’t pretend to understand the methods of 
the Sword-Brothers, Highness.” 
“Very well, then, milord—write to Ceoris,” 
Christof interrupted, wisely heading off any debate 
on the virtues, or lack thereof, of the Teutonic 
Order’s Livonian counterpart. “But not this Tremere. 
That they have the unmitigated gall to even send 
him back here insults us and speaks ill of them. You

26 Tremere 
could at least demand, as a token of their sincerity, 
that they dispatch some other messenger.” 
“Not gall but guile, I’d wager,” Jürgen mused. 
“Exactly. Hochmeister, we’re speaking here of a 
man—of a Cainite—who was willing to steal a Toreador 
bauble and replace it with an elaborately 
crafted forgery, then pretend to discover the deception 
in open court, and all for what? A moment of 
political embarrassment for some far-off queen who 
never was among your stauncher or stronger allies 
anyway? Do you honestly believe that such a man 
even says ‘Good evening’ without meaning something 
else by it?” 
“At least it’s a well-balanced bauble.” He patted 
the gilded pommel of the sword at his side. “Well, 
perhaps I’ll ask him that. I’m sure I’ll get an interesting 
answer. I’m curious, in any case, to see what 
he has to say about it all now that the years have 
intervened. The Lady Rosamund assures me that he’s 
apologized most satisfactorily to her…” 
“It’s you he should apologize to,” Christof 
grumbled. 
“Yes, he should. And we shall see how satisfactory 
that apology is,” he said with a keen smile. 
“What do you think, Akuji? Akuji? Surely she’s 
here.” 
“Yes, your Highness.” The voice was, as always, 
a marvel: smooth, faintly husky, yet despite its huskiness 
unmistakably, alluringly female, tinged with 
a hint of foreign spice. 
The other Cainites in the room edged minutely 
away, except for Christof, who grimaced in private 
amusement. Akuji—whose form, draped and veiled 
in dilapidated linen, was no match for her voice— 
stepped forward. 
“What do you think, old friend?” Jürgen asked 
her. “Ignore the Tremere completely, write to Ceoris 
or treat with Meister Jervais?” 
“A difficult choice indeed, your Highness.” She 
paused. She had an exquisite sense of when and how

Sarah Roark 27 
long to pause, to make her audience bend to hear 
the next word. “Perhaps, however, it is worth pointing 
out that of the three possibilities, two are not 
mutually exclusive.” 
*** 
“Here, Josselin, please.” 
“What do you want me to do with it, petite?” 
“I don’t know.” She drew her raw lower lip into 
her mouth again. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t 
know what I should do.” 
He gazed at the length of bloody, sliced cloth 
with only slightly less than complete revulsion. “Myself, 
I’d fling it into the fire. I know you don’t like to 
hear things like that, but I can’t help it.” 
“I know, I know.” She gazed at it as well. Part of 
her, too, wanted it gone completely, destroyed, like 
some heathen idol—as though doing that could banish 
Alexander and all thought of him from past, 
present and future forever. Just as much of her was 
terrified to do it for that exact reason. Perhaps some 
idols still had the power to revenge themselves on 
their desecrators. The reach of the ancient boyprince, 
junior in blood only to the Eldest himself, 
had been long. 
“What is it?” He knelt by her side. “Rosamund, 
don’t. Please don’t cry. Don’t dignify it. I beg you.” 
“Forgive me,” she said in a small, weak voice. 
She wiped away the tears, but new ones took their 
place. 
“He doesn’t deserve your mourning. He doesn’t 
deserve a single one of your tears, unless it’s a tear of 
joy. After what he did…” 
“And what do I deserve, Josselin?” she blurted. 
A sob escaped on the heels of this question. She 
stood up. 
“You deserve to be free. And you are free, now.” 
His passion heated his words, made them fairly glow. 
She shook her head. “You heard what Jürgen 
said. Sorcery. Heathen sorcery! Josselin, it is my 
fault.”

28 Tremere 
“Petite, it’s not.” 
“My doing, then. That much is true. Don’t argue 
with me, my brother. I am not the little girl you 
once knew in Chartres. I know what I’ve done when 
I’ve done it. I simply—I simply have to make peace 
with it, that’s all.” 
“Rosamund.” He followed her as she paced away. 
“Make confession, then, if you feel you must. We can 
get you a priest! But don’t keep it, no matter what. 
It’ll only eat away at you, and I can’t bear watching 
any more of that. He’s had long enough to make you 
suffer. It must finish now.” 
“I can’t. I can’t burn it. Don’t ask me to, 
Josselin.” 
“I’ll burn it for you.” 
“No!” She cried out and reached toward him, 
even though he made no move toward the fire as yet. 
He stepped forward and put his arm around her. 
“Will you at least let me take it with me and 
offer it to Geoffrey?” he murmured into the flamecolored 
cloud of her hair. “He has the strongest claim 
on it, anyway, and it would be well within the bounds 
of custom to bring it to him as proof. Then it would 
be out of our sight at least. Will that suffice?” 
She hesitated for a long moment, then nodded. 
As she nodded he could feel some of the tension 
drain out of her frame. 
“Good. Then that’s what I’ll do.” 
Just as he thought to pull away, she began sobbing. 
He tossed the surcoat to the floor as though it 
were so much rubbish and comforted her. 
“Sh, shh. You only did what you had to, petite. 
To save yourself—to save all of us. It’s over now.” 
It has to be, he thought. Dear God and Our Lady, 
let it be. 
But on a night when God’s favor rested inexplicably 
with a wild-eyed blasphemer in the dark 
swamps of Livonia, it might be wise to retain a certain 
prudent caution in one’s heart regardless. 
***

Sarah Roark 29 
“Don’t be such a whiner, Fidus,” Jervais hissed. 
“It’s quite simple. They’ve never seen you before, so 
there’s no danger at all.” 
Fidus stood without shivering, despite the raindrops 
running down the length of his white nose and 
tumbling off. “But, master, I…look at me. I can’t pass 
for ali—for a mortal anymore.” 
“Ridiculous.” The older Tremere waved this off. 
“It’s easy. All you need to do is bring the color up 
into your cheeks and remember to breathe. Trust me, 
they’re all far too distracted right now to go worrying 
about you. You tell them you have some message 
from me.” 
“What message?” 
“I don’t know—surely you can think of something! 
A request for another meeting, perhaps. That 
way you’ll be sent out of their presence to wait for an 
answer, and if you do a little wandering about the 
house while you wait and aren’t too clumsy about it, 
no one will much mind. Look, I’m not even asking 
you to actually lay hands on the thing—although for 
Tremere’s sake, if the chance falls to you, take it— 
but if you can even find out where it’s being kept or 
what they’re planning to do with it, that alone may 
be enough. Now do you think you can manage it or 
not?”
“I’ll do my best, master.” Fidus brushed his hair 
out of his eyes and made for the gate behind the 
house, trying to remember what it felt like to blush. 
He thought of the time several years ago when Jervais 
had sent him out to dig up toadstools and neglected 
to mention that he’d be entertaining women in the 
house that night—all so that when Fidus came back 
road-beaten and covered with soil Jervais could send 
the little trollops into gales of laughter with a mocking 
remark. Yes, that did well enough. 
A few bursts of hammering on the gate brought a 
harried-looking, middle-aged man to open it. He had 
something wadded up under his woolen cloak to keep 
it out of the wet.

30 Tremere 
“Yes?” 
“A message for your lady from my master 
Jervais,” Fidus said, and coughed for verisimilitude. 
He let his cloak fall open to show he was unarmed. 
The man looked even less patient at that, but 
he stepped aside. “All right, come in. You may just 
have to give it to Peter to give to them. I don’t know 
if they’re receiving any more messengers tonight.” 
“Thank you.” He dutifully followed the man, who 
stopped at the stables en route to the house itself. Evidently 
Fidus had caught him halfway through the process 
of loading saddlebags. Fidus turned his body away as the 
man stuffed the wadded-up bundle inside the bag, feigning 
disinterest, but glanced over sidewise at the last 
moment. There, a flash of bloodied and ripped cloth. 
Good—it was packed away in the saddlebags already then, 
doubtless in preparation for a hasty departure the next 
evening. Far easier to get at than if it had remained in the 
house. 
Surely one more small rip in a garment so woebegone 
would never be noticed. Jervais had taken 
pains to teach Fidus that the minutest loss to one 
person could represent the most bountiful gain to 
another. And to a wizard of Tremere, for whom blood 
fueled unprecedented wonders, even a tiny dried 
stain of ancient’s essence could prove useful in ways 
few other Cainites would ever suspect.

Sarah Roark 31 
Chapter Three 
“You do as you like, Meister Tremere, but I hope 
you won’t mind if I speak very plainly to you.” This 
first volley was out of the sling before Jervais had 
even finished his bow. 
“Not at all, Highness,” he replied smoothly. “I 
am simply grateful to have a personal audience with 
your Highness at long last.” 
And that was no exaggeration. Evidently Jürgen 
was not a man to be hurried by even the most terrible 
news. Despite his warning that he’d call for 
Jervais “sometime soon,” a solid two months had gone 
by before the summons finally came. 
“Even though the last words we exchanged at 
any length were hardly friendly?” 
“Especially for that reason, your Highness. I fear 
I’ve never had opportunity to convey fully my regrets, 
my humblest apologies for the conduct of my 
childe Alexia in the matter of your sword all those 
years ago.” 
“You could have said so at the time.” 
Plain speaking, eh. Well, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt 
to try some. “I did make some poor effort in that direction, 
Highness, but as I recall, your Highness was 
understandably too angry with me to entertain that 
effort at the moment, and dismissed me instead.” 
“Did I? I suppose I did.” Jürgen, Prince of 
Cainites for Magdeburg, Overlord of Saxony, 
Thuringia and Brandenburg, and Lord Protector of 
Acre, sat in the room’s single chair. That there should 
be only one chair in Jürgen’s antechamber was a bit 
odd—no doubt orchestrated, so that Jervais could be 
forced to stand without making it seem like a deliberate 
rudeness on the prince’s part. 
Jürgen studied him minutely, un-apologetically 
for a little while. Jervais wondered what the matter 
was: whether he looked too much the wizard, or not

32 Tremere 
enough. Usually it didn’t do to make too open a display. 
That was something a lot of other magi, who 
came to court wearing whatever musty, antimonysmelling 
old robe they’d been working in that night, 
didn’t quite understand. When folk were already hard 
at work conjuring scenes of child sacrifice or demons 
leering out of smoke pillars every time they so much 
as looked at a Tremere, there was little enough need 
to remind them. There were certainly other times, 
however, when sorcery was the one asset of interest, 
and on such occasions Jervais troubled himself to 
look the part. Tonight he’d been unsure of himself 
on the whole matter, so he’d chosen a long, plain, 
dark-blue velvet scholar’s robe with some discreet but 
distinctly occult-looking jewelry. Even that much 
had drawn chilly looks from the mortal and Cainite 
brethren who’d shown him through the successive 
portals. 
“So, you return to my court after all this time 
to, what, tender those long-neglected regrets?” 
“Not that only, Highness. I’ve made no secret, 
or I don’t think I have, of the fact that the House 
and Clan still earnestly hopes to win your goodwill. 
I believe that an alliance between your forces and 
ours could alter the entire mappa mundi of Cainite 
relations—alter it to your Highness’s very great benefit.”
“And to the House and Clan’s.” 
“Naturally, your Highness. But our ambitions 
aren’t the same as princely interests, so there need 
be no strife in that regard.” 
“Yes, I’ve heard that this is the usual Tremere 
homily. ‘We’re not rulers, but scholars. We seek inward 
not outward power, and wish only the liberty 
to do so.’ But that’s not entirely true, is it, Meister? 
For if it were, then why do you stay in Hungary, defying 
those who’ve tried to exterminate you for 
centuries? Wouldn’t it be just as easy to conjure 
in…oh, England, say, or Paris?”

Sarah Roark 33 
He was naming the places deliberately, demonstrating 
his knowledge. Jervais shifted his not 
insubstantial weight from one foot to the other. 
“Milord, it’s true that the land that cradled us, no 
less than it did the Tzimisce, remains dear to us. 
There is power in place, but it’s not the sort of power 
immortals of your Highness’s rank concern themselves 
with. It’s not found in crops or taxes or 
pilgrim’s coins or even in the throngs of mortal denizens. 
It is something more elemental, if you will.” 
Jürgen only grunted. “I daresay Hungary’s hardly 
the only place with such power.” 
“Not the only place, no.” 
“And where stands Livonia on the list?” As 
Jervais struggled to formulate an answer that would 
sound neither ominous nor patently untrue, the 
prince continued. “I couldn’t help noticing that the 
information you so kindly provided us a few years 
ago was rather specific. Specific enough to show some 
study had been made of the subject. Am I wrong in 
thinking your kind rarely studies anything in vain?” 
“No, Highness. Not wrong in the slightest,” 
Jervais agreed, relieved not to have to answer after 
all. 
“Then why?” 
“Your Highness, I was ordered…” He paused, reconsidered 
the wording, but decided in the end not 
to change it. “Ordered to do whatever was necessary 
to regain your trust. And you’ve made it perfectly 
plain just what sort of man you are. Words will not 
suffice, only deeds. Am I wrong in thinking that?” 
“No,” Jürgen said, acknowledging the echo of his 
words with a wry look. 
“No. Good. And I knew that Livonia might 
prove a, a troubling spot to your Highness, and so it 
seemed to me prudent to gather as much as I could 
on Qarakh and his compatriots. Indeed with your 
Highness’s permission, I’m prepared to go further yet. 
That is, if your Highness is not quite done in Livonia.”

34 Tremere 
He faded to a halt. The room seemed to tighten 
inexplicably around them, an oppressive squeezing. 
Even Jürgen bent his back under its force, leaning 
his elbows on his knees. 
“No,” Jürgen said at last. “No, I am not quite 
done in Livonia.” 
Jervais smiled. “I’m glad to hear it, Highness.” 
Jürgen sat up again. “I must assume, then,” he 
said, “that this offer of alliance which you’ve spoken 
of to Lady Rosamund, and now to me, is officially 
on the table.” 
“Yes, Highness,” he said eagerly. “Indeed it is. 
You need but say the word…” 
The prince held up a hand at that. “I’m quite 
convinced of your enthusiasm, Meister Tremere. But 
if enthusiasm alone were enough for conquest, we 
should have had it by now. What makes you think 
that the Tremere can stand against this Qarakh? After 
all, he’s now slain an ancient, one of the eldest 
forebears of my clan.” 
“Yes, but he could not have done so without aid, 
milord, as your own lieutenant pointed out.” 
“So you agree that there was sorcerous aid.” 
Jervais blinked, surprised. What was afoot now? 
“Of course, Highness,” he replied cautiously. “Remove 
that aid, and you can break the very back of 
his little kingdom.” 
“And that’s what you are proposing—to remove 
the aid.” 
“Of course.” 
“One is forced to wonder what gives you such 
confidence in your ability to do so.” A sour note of 
suspicion had crept back into Jürgen’s voice—the last 
thing Jervais wanted. 
Perhaps, then, it was time to name a name of 
his own. “Your Highness, Deverra is a sorceress of 
some power, and may have truck with spirits of even 
greater power, but—” 
“Deverra?”

Sarah Roark 35 
“Yes, milord. We’ve learned her name, and several 
other noteworthy things about her, since I spoke 
with the Lady Rosamund during your Hungarian campaign.” 
A lie, of course. He’d known Deverra’s name 
himself for over a century now, and others in the 
House and Clan had known it for even longer, but 
he’d decided to hold the fact in reserve until it might 
be needed. Now seemed a good moment. 
“Oh, really. And yet you didn’t think it necessary 
to mention at that time that there was a sorceress 
in the first place?” Jürgen turned a sudden glare on 
him.
Oh. 
Jervais felt as though he’d been splashed with 
ice-water. His mouth of its own accord sought to form 
itself into a startled little o, which he tried to smooth 
out before Jürgen saw. Damnation—if he’d only 
caught it a moment earlier, he could have not said 
anything, could have gone to her afterward and— 
“Meister Tremere.” Jürgen’s voice had gone rockhard 
now. “Answer me. What the devil has taken 
your famous tongue?” 
“I…” Was there some way to salvage the blackmail 
potential of the thing? No time to calculate it 
through. He attempted to sense the instinct of his 
soul. It seemed to say no. All he could do now was 
use the truth to play upon the man’s emotions. Still, 
he had to thank the Lady Rosamund for providing 
even that much. “I… I’m sorry, milord, I’m feeling a 
bit—confused. I…” He hesitated, judiciously. 
“Speak!” the Ventrue demanded, and then underscored 
it with the coercive power of his august 
blood. “Speak!” 
“Yes, your Highness. I don’t know what exactly 
to say. I—I did mention there was a sorcerer, or sorcerers, 
aiding Qarakh. I told her what little I could 
at the time about it. I assumed that meant you’d been 
told as well. Forgive me.” 
There was an uncomfortable pause. Jürgen 
moved his feet, as though to stand, then didn’t.

36 Tremere 
“Perhaps she didn’t quite catch that part,” he 
said at last. “She’s a lady of court, not a general…” 
But it didn’t sound as though he were even convincing 
himself. 
“Quite possibly, quite possibly I didn’t impress 
upon her enough how significant it was.” He let that 
hang. “After all, her grief at Alexander’s death 
was…quite apparent for all to see.” 
Enough. Yes, that was good. Jürgen was in that 
terrible half-state between outright confidence and 
outright suspicion. Leave him there. It could only 
make the Tremere look better by comparison. 
“You were saying about this Deverra.” 
“Yes, your Highness. She leads a cabal of sorcerers. 
A large one by now, I’d fancy, for they’ve been 
bringing natives of the region into the blood. They 
have a magic that’s not unlike that of the Tzimisce.” 
“But I take it they aren’t Tzimisce.” 
“It’s possible they may be…a sort of offshoot of 
that blood,” Jervais replied. There, one of the finest 
shadings of truth he’d managed for years. 
“But you’re not sure.” 
“One would have to get closer to examine them 
better. But that’s all right. It’ll certainly be necessary 
to get closer to destroy them, in any case.” 
The corner of Jürgen’s mouth twitched. “You are 
a cheerful man when it comes to the business at hand, 
Meister. I’m sure the Tremere would rather there were 
no other sorcerers in the world, Tzimisce or otherwise.” 
“These sorcerers are a threat, your Highness. Not only 
to the Black Cross and the mortal knightly orders, but also 
to the entire cause of Christianity in the region.” 
“Come. What do the Tremere care for the cause of 
Christianity?” 
Now there was a question, with only one simple answer 
among the many possible ones. “For better or for worse, 
milord, we’ve cast our lot with those who care quite passionately. 
Their welfare is our welfare. Your welfare, to be 
frank, is our welfare.”

Sarah Roark 37 
“And Ceoris, it would seem, agrees with your assessment.” 
“Yes, Highness, it does.” Jervais nodded. Then 
something struck him about the way Jürgen had said 
that. “I beg your Highness’s pardon?” 
“I hope you’ll excuse an old man’s wariness,” 
Jürgen began, suspiciously amiable. “You see, it’s not 
as if we don’t have a history, you and I. Or rather, 
your childe Alexia and I, as I suppose you’d have it.” 
Jervais frowned, trying not to let show his annoyance 
at having that particular diplomatic evasion 
thrown back in his face so casually. “I take full sire’s 
responsibility for my childe’s mistakes, Highness.” 
“Of course. In any case, since Alexander’s death 
I’ve begun seriously reconsidering the question of my 
relations with the House and Clan. And so I thought 
it meet to write Ceoris and confirm with them that 
you were indeed their designated envoy, and did in 
fact have license to make and seal such bargains on 
their behalf. You’ll be pleased, I’m sure, to know that 
they fully endorse you.” Jürgen got up, strode over 
to a side table, picked up a parchment letter and 
brought it over. “They were impressed with your initiative. 
In fact, your master Etrius expresses such 
confidence in your good faith and ability in this instance 
that he agrees completely with my idea of the 
best disposal of the matter—and at my urging has 
appointed you chief, leader and director of the entire 
expedition.” 
He handed the parchment to Jervais, who examined 
it bewilderedly. The secretarial hand looked 
familiar, and the seal was indeed Etrius’s seal. Jervais 
would not insult the prince by testing it here and 
now, but the likelihood of anyone in Magdeburg successfully 
faking the careful angles and intricate 
filigrees, even given a genuine model to work from, 
was rather low. 
“Expedition, Highness?” The letter had made ridiculously 
good time, then. Perhaps Ceoris had sent 
the reply by gargoyle. Damnation.

38 Tremere 
“Yes. To Livonia, to take care of this Deverra 
and whatever other magicians Qarakh may have attracted 
to his banner. The advance wizard’s guard, if 
you will. That is more or less what you had in mind, 
isn’t it?” 
Jervais had grown quite used to the taste of bile 
over the years. He knew when it was time to swallow 
another dose and smile. “More or less, your 
Highness. Yes.” 
“Good. Then I shall look forward to the tale of 
your success. If you wish, I can offer you the services 
of Brother Hermann, one of my lieutenants, good 
man to the core, along with a reasonable portion of 
my order’s forces. They may be of some use to you— 
not only in Livonia but also on the journey there, 
which you doubtless already know to be a hard one.” 
He picked up another folded parchment from the 
same table. “Oh. And this letter came along as well. 
It’s for you.” 
Jervais took it without making a move to open 
it. He fancied he already knew the contents anyway. 
“And allow me to be the first to offer my congratulations.” 
Jürgen no longer bothered to hide the 
pleasure this was giving him, though he tried to 
soften it by clapping a manly hand to Jervais’s shoulder 
on the way out. 
“Thank you, Highness.” 
*** 
“The hairy, flaxen, petit-noble, thundering son 
of a Bratovitch brood-bitch flanked me!” 
Fidus silently handed Jervais a bronze goblet, and 
Jervais flung it across the room. It bounced off the 
wall plaster, knocking a chip out. He peered at it as 
it spun to a stop on the floor. 
“There was nothing in that,” he accused his apprentice. 
Fidus shook his scrawny head. Sometimes it 
wasn’t at all flattering to be known too well. 
“Well, how about putting something in it?”

Sarah Roark 39 
The younger Tremere collected it obediently, 
then went over to a little ewer with a silver band of 
hieratic engravings and a jade stopper. He poured 
out its contents into the goblet, which he carried 
back to Jervais. He sloshed the remainder around 
within the ewer. “Not much left, master. Shall I fetch 
more?” 
“No, don’t. I’ll make a visit downstairs later. 
There are some nights…some nights when you need 
to bring down the stag and not just have it served to 
you on a spit.” 
Fidus nodded and went back to scrubbing down 
the ritual sickle with salt. 
Jervais took a swallow of the blood, lukewarm 
and kept almost tolerably fresh by the spell on the 
ewer, and continued disgustedly, “Don’t nod as 
though you had an inkling. My idea. My work! Two 
years of spy-mongering; three years of crawling 
through the diplomatic mud. I knew that Livonia 
would be next. The very moment I heard the Teutons 
were going into Prussia, I knew it would come to this 
and I started preparing for it. Did Etrius direct me? 
No. In fact, how much would you like to bet that if 
I’d mentioned it he would have told me not to be a 
fool? And now that the idea turns out to be worthwhile, 
suddenly the great toad wants it for himself 
and connives with the blasted Saxons to steal it out 
from under my very nose!” 
“Master… No, never mind.” 
“What is it? Bonisagus’s beard, Fidus, either finish 
a thought or don’t start it in the first place.” 
“Well, if you’ll forgive me, master, not exactly 
stolen. You are in charge of the thing, aren’t you?” 
“Oh, I’m in charge of the thing all right,” Jervais 
grumbled. “Right up in the general’s saddle, where 
everyone can get the clearest shot. You do not seem 
to grasp the magnitude of the reversal here, Fidus. I 
was brokering the most sage and immortal 
Councilor’s services. Now the Councilor is brokering

40 Tremere 
my services, and by the way, bear in mind that that 
means you’re going to Livonia too.” 
“I know, master.” 
“With a prior stop at Ceoris itself.” 
That stopped the fledgling vampire cold. He 
looked up at his master. “Ceoris?” he repeated, in 
what Jervais was gratified to note as precisely the 
right tone of apprehension. 
“Yes,” Jervais returned grimly. 
“But, but Ceoris, that’s not on the way to Livonia, 
is it?” 
“No, it’s not even close to on the way.” Jervais 
picked up the letter Jürgen had handed him and 
waved it. “But evidently it’s necessary to further remind 
me of my place before I embark on this little 
venture. I am to report to the High Chantry immediately 
to discuss plans and collect my 
informers—forgive me, I mean my assistants—for the 
mission.” 
Fidus returned to his chore, his face carefully 
neutral, but the older Tremere could easily let his 
slightly blurred eyesight unfocus just a bit further, 
revealing the array of soul-colors skittering uneasily 
in a tight halo around his apprentice’s body. Fidus 
hadn’t yet been to the High Chantry, had never 
delved the chambers of the clan’s cold stone heart. 
He was afraid. He frightened easily sometimes. 
But Jervais, for his part, was glad no one was 
there to see his own colors.

Sarah Roark 41 
Chapter Four 
“All right, all right,” Brother Hermann shouted, 
“that’s what this training is for. Quickly, rope!” 
The rider who’d just plunged mount and all into 
the ice looked like a slight lad of perhaps twenty, 
although to be fair he was armored. Jervais, who was 
a bit barrel-shaped himself—he would have placed 
the middle of that barrel in his chest, though some 
observers wouldn’t have been nearly so charitable— 
drew his horse up sharply even though he was well 
removed from the crack. Around him, squires and 
knights, mortals and Cainites alike rushed forward. 
“Remember, biggest of you to the back. If any 
more get pulled in, it’ll be up to you. And—heave! 
Heave!” 
The Cainite himself soon scrambled out with 
minimal help, though his skin had gone even whiter 
from the water’s intense cold. The beast’s struggles, 
however, almost took a few of the men into the hole 
with it. Its horrible noises echoed from the walls of 
the streambed for what would have been more than 
sufficient time to chant many charms. 
“And that’s why you don’t want to ride too near 
the edge, as I said before,” Hermann called out once 
the horse was out, the rest were calmed, and relative 
order had prevailed again. “Or…you see over there, 
at that inlet, where the water is moving more swiftly 
underneath? That’s where the ice is thinnest. Wipe 
those looks off your faces. If the Sword-Brothers can 
march across a frozen sea to kill the Osilian pirates, 
you can manage this. We’re about to journey to a 
land of mire and muck, gentlemen, death to horses 
and horsemen, especially in battle! And so the icedover 
rivers must be our highways and the snow our 
paving. And God Almighty above, as always, will be 
our conductor.” He raised a hand halfway, toward the 
moonlit sky.

42 Tremere 
“This time,” came a sour mutter from among the 
knights. Plainly the tale of Alexander’s disaster had 
spread within the order. 
“I was rather hoping for more earthly help along 
the route,” Jervais said dryly. 
“Don’t worry. We’ll provide the earthly help and 
leave the unearthly to you.” Hermann frowned and 
ran a gloved hand through his dark hair, cut in a 
short, rather bristly tonsure. “Are you sure you didn’t 
make the ice a bit thin?” 
“I hadn’t thought so, but no doubt it’s gotten at 
least a bit thinner over the past few hours. Not nearly 
cold enough out.” 
“Hm. Well, I suppose there’s only so much even 
a wizard can do with a few magic words.” 
Jervais said nothing and concentrated on not wavering 
in his saddle. Fidus had better have the larder 
restocked when he got back in. A few magic words, 
indeed. 
“That ash-wand, must you always use it for your 
enchantments?” 
“No, only for some.” 
“Good.” At the Tremere’s questioning look, 
Hermann went on. “I’d hate to have you turn out to 
be like one of those sorcerers in the old tales, where 
all one need do is steal his staff or his talisman or 
the box that holds his heart, in order to render him 
useless.” 
Jervais changed the subject. “Are there any of 
your brotherhood left in Hungary? If so, I assume 
that’ll affect the route.” 
“There are a few there that still serve the 
Hochmeister.” He looked away a moment after that 
and called out, “All right, men, that’s enough! Back 
onto the banks, we’re going home.” Then he said to 
Jervais, “Why, don’t the Tremere have some sure path 
of their own through that country?” 
“East of Buda?” Jervais snorted. “Nothing’s sure 
after that.”

Sarah Roark 43 
“I’m not sure I see the wisdom of this diversion 
in the first place. But since your masters demand it.” 
“And they do demand it. It’ll just be us and your 
little mortal squadron through Hungary then—is that 
right—while the rest of the company proceeds east 
from Saxony along the coast?” 
“Yes.” 
“And then we meet them—where? Thorn?” 
“No. I don’t want to wait ’til Thorn to be sure I 
have an army, thank you,” Hermann returned. Even 
though he clearly didn’t mean it at all humorously, 
Jervais could not help an appreciative quirk of the 
lips. “No, we’ll meet them in Stettin.” 
“Oh! Then we could sail out of the gulf up to 
Riga, try to recruit a little support there, and then 
come southward to meet the enemy.” 
“No, it’ll be too late in the year by then, too 
stormy. You’ll never get the mortals on board…” 
He trailed off. The image came to Jervais very 
powerfully then, almost as though it had journeyed 
directly from Hermann’s mind to his: a crash, a creaking 
splinter of wood, and while the mortals 
buoyed—at least for a little while—to the surface, 
the vampires would spiral down and down into the 
inky murk. Frozen from the water’s chill and soon 
empty of blood, wasted down to the bone, perhaps 
unable even to move, drifting aimlessly with the leviathans… 
“Yes, no doubt you’re right about that. No help 
from Riga, then?” 
“Oh, we’ll have help from Riga if there’s any 
there to be had. Once we’ve made Stettin I’ll try to 
send a scout up north to see. Perhaps we could even 
squeeze the pagans from both directions, but right 
now even his Highness isn’t sure what remains of 
Cainite Christianity out there.” 
They urged their horses up onto the road, eager 
to get back now that they were on less treacherous 
ground. Jervais glanced wistfully at his creation, a 
sheet of ice winding through a trough of green grasses

44 Tremere 
and wildflowers, pleased with its very unnaturalness. 
A short-lived but eloquent testament to his skill. 
Though no one besides Hermann had mentioned it 
so far (much less thanked him), he felt it wise to 
make little demonstrations here and there so that 
the knights would feel able to rely on him by the 
time they engaged the enemy. Costly, though. His 
eyes ached to droop closed, yet he could also feel 
the dry thirst convulsing in the core of his body, 
throat to belly. The smell of his horse suddenly 
seemed overpowering. 
“As for the Hungary leg, we should go through 
Prague,” Hermann continued. “And Brno, and then 
south to Bratislava.” 
“No,” Jervais managed. “Vienna.” 
“Vienna? Oh yes, I suppose it does make sense 
to stop in Vienna instead. That way, should anything 
happen to us, your brothers will at least know we 
got that far. Dare I hope—” 
At that moment a loud toneless fluttering started 
up in Jervais’s ear, as though an insect had flown into 
it. His hand involuntarily rose to cover it over, but 
he restrained it. “I’m sorry, mein Herr. What was 
that?” 
Hermann looked at him oddly. “Where did I lose 
you? I was asking whether your brothers would come 
looking for you right away if you went missing.” 
The scrabbling sensation in his ear canal grew 
from a tickle to a wide, frantic wobble. “Yes, yes,” 
Jervais assured him hastily. “Pardon me, mein Herr— 
you won’t mind if I ride on ahead? I just—just 
remembered something.” 
The knight nodded tersely. “If you must, certainly. 
Be careful. You may be under his Highness’s 
official protection, but the rogue Cainites and wolfdemons 
lurking hereabouts won’t likely ask.” 
“Thank you. Gute Nacht,” Jervais called as he 
spurred his horse into a brisk canter. The jogging 
motion made the sensation even worse. He hunched 
over the saddle and tried to blink his watering eyes

Sarah Roark 45 
clear. Luckily neither enemy vampires nor 
werewolves appeared, and his mount knew its own 
way back home once they were back inside the town. 
Fidus hurriedly rose from his book and inkpot as 
Jervais pushed aside the invisible curtain of the ward 
on the house and stumbled in. 
“Master?” 
“Chalk bounding circle,” Jervais said hoarsely. 
“Hurry.” He fairly ran over to the brazier and set it 
on the floor, then got its coals going with a bit of 
kindling from the hearth. He set the lumps of 
dragon’s-blood incense in it and dribbled several 
drops of blood from the pad of his thumb onto it. 
“Where in hell did you put the moucheron?” 
“It’s on the second shelf, master.” 
Reaching the second shelf required straightening 
up, but he managed to fish the little silver device 
down without knocking anything off or injuring himself. 
“Fidus, the Saxons have already bled me half 
dry tonight. I’ll need…” 
“Yes, master.” 
“I tell you, whatever it is, it’d better be bloody 
important. That Hermann must think I’m mad.” 
They quickly drew and fortified the circle and 
Jervais censed the quarters. He settled himself inside 
the circle and did his best to descend quickly 
into trance. In this his fatigue actually aided him. 
Soon the insect that seemed to have taken up residence 
in his head grew smaller but louder, becoming 
a low humming that vibrated his entire skull. When 
the humming had steadied somewhat, he took the 
moucheron—the “stinging gnat”—in his left hand, 
gourd-end in his fist and shunt-end pointed into the 
white flesh of his inner arm. Its true name wasn’t 
moucheron. That was simply what Jervais called it 
because the blood it stole was irretrievably devoured, 
boiled away by the wine-red carbuncle hidden inside 
the crucible of the gourd. With a deep breath 
he squeezed his fist and bent his wrist so that the 
shunt entered deep into his skin. Then he arranged

46 Tremere 
his arm by his side so that the blood’s own weight 
would conduct it into the gourd. Once the gem got 
going it would need no further help. Like a vampire 
itself, it would draw on him hungrily and swiftly. 
In his hand the silver gourd began to grow warm. 
A nauseating heat invaded first his body and then 
the space within the circle. Even the ground itself 
gave up a faint steam that drowned out all sight of 
the room without. 
“Cruor cruorem evocat redditque vocem cruor. 
Loquere et intra, si amicus es genusve,” he intoned. 
“Aliter abi damnatus a quoque ex Septem Nominibus.” 
Blood calls to blood, and blood returns the call. Speak 
and enter in, if you be friend and kin; otherwise begone 
and be damned by each of the Seven Names. 
Kin, at the very least, was the dry response. And 
I hope I am still friend, but like many an old man with 
a grandson who wanders far from home, I find myself 
waiting rather long between messages. 
Ah. Well, that explained the forcefulness of the 
summons. He should have known better than to expect 
some Ceoris lackey. Jervais quickly girded his 
mind as best he could, drawing in all extraneous reaction 
like a man drawing a cloak close about 
himself. In the inexorable intimacy of spirit-contact, 
the lesser wizard often found far too much of himself 
laid bare before the greater—a chief reason why this 
method of making report had never become as popular 
as certain ranking Tremere would have liked. 
“Grandsire. It has indeed been a long time. My apologies. 
I hope you’re well in Paris?” 
I am well, if that is the way to put it. And the clime 
in Saxony? Am I to understand you find it milder in these 
nights than formerly? 
“There’s little mildness in Jürgen Sword-Bearer, 
I fear, but he’s now found someone to hate far more 
fiercely than myself. That must suffice.” 
The impression Goratrix made in person benefited 
considerably from his handsome face: slim, 
eternally set in clean patrician lines, eyes amber

Sarah Roark 47 
brown and keenly lit from within. But the rite of the 
Thousand-League Whisper stripped away those softening 
ornaments and left only the starkness of the 
archmagus’s soul, the insistent, hammering drumbeat 
of his thought, which pressed around Jervais, ensnaring 
him. 
Indeed, it usually must for our kind. But the Sword- 
Bearer has so many enemies. Who could it be this time? 
A ridiculous charade. The old schemer would 
never go to this kind of effort if he didn’t already 
have some idea. “The warlord in Livonia, milord.” 
Ah, the beast-blooded one. Jürgen means to avenge 
himself, then, for the death of our late Alexander. 
“I see Sir Josselin did reach the Grand Court, 
then. How was the news received?” 
With relief, I think, overdyed in various shades from 
shame to satisfaction. The specter of Alexander’s possible 
return never really did leave anyone’s mind, 
particularly not Geoffrey’s. Myself, I think the Sword- 
Bearer owes that barbarian chief a debt of gratitude for 
eliminating his most dangerous houseguest. But I suppose 
he can’t be blamed for not seeing it that way. Tell 
me, what part do you play in all this? 
“I’m not sure why your lordship assumes that I 
must have a part to play.” 
Come, Jervais. It wouldn’t be like you to just sit by 
while someone’s starting a war. Besides, what else would 
you be doing in Magdeburg? There must be a dozen other 
courts where you could have started fresh and had a more 
pleasant time of it. In any case, that Sir Josselin is quite 
a talkative sort. Even I didn’t find it at all difficult to 
get him started on the subject of you. He doesn’t seem to 
remember you too fondly. 
“Well, naturally I’ve pledged the House and 
Clan’s assistance to the endeavor.” 
My understanding is that you were already pledging 
the House and Clan’s assistance to Jürgen before word 
even came back about Alexander. But perhaps his Highness 
is taking that offer more seriously, now that the 
Telyavs have demonstrated their power.

48 Tremere 
“Yes.” 
I must assume that you haven’t gotten around to 
mentioning anything to his Highness about our particular 
relationship to the Telyavs. 
“No, not yet.” 
Not yet? The tone was cool, reserved—too cool 
and reserved. 
“It may at some point become unavoidable.” 
Hm. Would that not be as unfortunate for us as for 
them? After all, everyone knows the Tremere stand absolutely 
united. Our allies depend on that fact, and our 
enemies also tread more carefully because of it. 
“Which is exactly why the Telyavs must be made 
an example of, grandsire. Indeed, presuming we succeed, 
having the truth about them come out would 
only gain us more awe, since it would demonstrate 
once and for all just how we deal with traitors. As 
far as I can tell, I have little to fear from 
exposure…this time.” 
Now we come to it. Jervais, you surely must understand 
the delicacies of my position. If you had 
succeeded in your little plot— 
“I see. Now it’s my little plot.” 
—Again, if you had succeeded, then things would 
have been very different all around. As it was, how do 
you think it would have looked if I’d petitioned to have 
you transferred to France and to my jurisdiction, so soon 
after such a debacle? Would it not have incriminated you 
beyond the shame you’d already suffered? 
“I must thank my grandsire for his concern. 
Since you express such interest in my welfare, I 
should report that I too am in a rather delicate position 
these nights.” 
Yes, I know. He’ll never stop trying to make you 
suffer, and it’s all on my account, I fear. He pours upon 
you the contempt that distance and terror prevent him 
from pouring upon me. 
“Well, whoever’s account it’s on, I’m the one 
that must deal with the consequences.” 
Perhaps not forever, though, my son.

Sarah Roark 49 
Aha, Jervais thought grimly. “What do you mean, 
grandsire?” 
Perhaps enough time has passed, I mean, that I could 
send for you without it being taken the wrong way. 
“That’s very kind of you, but it’s a bit too late 
now, isn’t it? I’m going to Livonia.” 
Ah, so you are going to Livonia yourself then. Palpable 
satisfaction. 
“Yes.” 
But I’m thinking of after you come back. After all, 
should you satisfy Etrius that the Telyavs are destroyed, 
then you’ll be in a far better position, will you not, to 
ask for a different placement? 
“If I satisfy Etrius that they’re destroyed?” 
He will require some sort of proof, naturally. He is 
not that great a fool. 
So that was the game. The rumors must be true, 
then: that Goratrix had a running correspondence 
with the Telyavs despite—or because of—their shaky 
standing with Ceoris. Certainly it would please 
Goratrix to keep such a thorn pressed into Etrius’s 
side for as long as possible. Anything that distracted 
or inconvenienced his old archrival pleased him. 
“I see. You’re saying, then, that if I do satisfy 
Etrius on this matter…” 
You remember when we spoke just before your first 
journey to Magdeburg? “A Frenchman always longs for 
his France,” you said. You talked of gentle rolling hills, 
of fragrant vineyards and primroses, of fair maids…I 
thought it all needlessly sentimental at the time, but lately 
I’ve come to appreciate the truth of what you said. Ceoris 
will always contain some part of my soul, as all one’s 
creations must, but this land is indeed home. To be honest, 
I had forgotten what it felt like. 
Sickening, to hear his own words returned to him so polluted 
with insincerity. Jervais silently vowed never again to 
speak from the heart with Goratrix, not even in the cause of 
persuading him. 
“You are saying, grandsire,” he began again patiently, “that 
if I satisfy Etrius, you will definitely secure my transfer?”

50 Tremere 
I don’t see what could possibly prevent it. 
And yet something would no doubt come up after 
the fact. How many times did Goratrix really 
think he could be made to dance to this same tune? 
He forced a smile through his exhaustion and 
anger. The archmagus wouldn’t see the smile, but it 
would color Jervais’s thought-words in the right way. 
“I am glad indeed to hear you say so, grandsire. Shall 
I contact you, then, when I’ve reached Livonia?” 
Yes, do that. Tell me what you find, and I shall be 
able to better instruct you. 
“As you wish.” 
Good. Then I won’t keep you longer. A safe journey 
to you, my son. 
“Farewell, grandsire.” And not a moment too 
soon. The moucheron slipped out of Jervais’s weakening 
fingers and fell to the floor; at once the feeling 
of Goratrix’ presence evaporated and the room reappeared. 
Jervais started to rise, dismissing the circle 
with a gesture of his ritual knife, then fell forward 
onto his hands. 
Fidus, who stood guard over a haggard young 
mortal lying on the floor bound in irons, rushed forward 
immediately. 
“Master.” With a grunt of effort Fidus lifted 
Jervais up onto his knees, supporting him as he half 
crawled across the room. The terrified lad bucked 
and tried to squirm away. 
“Hold him, Fidus. Hold him…” 
Fidus straddled the mortal’s legs and held his 
upper body still enough for Jervais to find purchase 
in the hollow of the neck. Jervais latched on greedily. 
His arms encircled the lad and squeezed, as 
though to speed the blood even more quickly on its 
way. Sometimes he thought he could discern flavors 
in it, traces of whatever the mortal had eaten or 
drunk, echoes of humors and feelings. Right now, 
however, taste was entirely secondary to need. This 
lad was sick from lack of sunlight, from close confinement, 
but he’d been fed well at least. Jervais

Sarah Roark 51 
insisted on that. The blood was thick and potent. 
Very quickly he went from feeling complete emptiness—
worse than emptiness, an aching void that 
would never be sated—to the absolute contentment 
of an infant at mother’s breast. It honestly did not 
occur to him that the stream of nourishment could 
stop until it did stop, slowing to a trickle and then 
finally running dry. A little moan of disappointment 
escaped him as he let the body slip free of his teeth. 
But the sight of it, of the boy’s lightless eyes, brought 
him out of his inner realms of pleasure and back into 
the practical world. 
“Get off,” he ordered his apprentice. He looked 
over his robe. There was one spatter on the end of 
the sleeve. Damnation. “I’m all right now. Hands off 
of me. You said there was more where this one came 
from, didn’t you?” 
“The man said he was quite accustomed to acquiring 
youths of both sexes for noblemen and 
merchants with peculiar tastes, master.” 
“I should speak with this person. The pickings 
are so lean hereabouts. Hand me the sickle.” 
“Yes, master.” 
Jervais took it. “Now let’s see. Pay attention, 
Fidus. The uses of the harlot. Tongue, if I recall, is 
good for enchantments to reveal a falsehood. Eyes 
and heart for love-charms, the liver for curses…”

52 Tremere 
Chapter Five 
“Pleasant,” was Hermann’s laconic comment. 
Jervais surveyed the hills before them. Not in 
order to take in the scenery but to search for evidence 
of raiding parties—still, in the process, he 
couldn’t help agreeing with Hermann. After all, unlike 
either of his companions, he remembered what 
the place had looked like upon his last visit. They 
were in the Carpathians now, and even the relative 
lowlands were less clement than the fields of the Ilede-
France or even Saxony. This ground had once 
been green and wooded with fir, stretching all the 
way up to the tree line. And here, at their feet, had 
run a beautiful if ice-cold little stream that emptied 
into a mountain lake not far away. Every so often 
one could look down from a chantry parapet and spy 
a shepherd leading his flock along the streambed— 
during the day, at any rate. When he’d left for the 
final time, Jervais’s eyes hadn’t gazed on a sunlit sky 
for many years, but he knew the herds still passed 
through occasionally because he found the cropped 
grass in their wake. 
“It looks as though there’s been a forest fire.” 
Hermann picked up a handful of soil, smelled it and 
wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Foul…” 
Jervais did likewise, sniffing carefully at the little 
clod of earth. 
“Salted,” he said at last. “Scorched and then 
salted.” 
The stream still flowed, but weakly. It had silted 
up, choked with islands of ash and blocked with 
charred fallen trees. It also bore a thin rime of ice 
around the edges, a warning of winter’s swift approach. 
“Tzimisce?” Hermann asked grimly. 
“Perhaps,” Jervais temporized. But even as he 
said it, he knew it was a lie. Much of the reason the

Sarah Roark 53 
Tzimisce tried again and again to take this region 
was because they held it sacred. The ancient blooddrinkers 
didn’t graze herds or grow crops, but their 
magic, their very blood-strength was rooted in the 
earth’s power. These mountains, where ground and 
sky touched, were especially holy to their pagan 
creed, and their fertility made them holier yet. He 
supposed it was always possible that the Fiends’ warlust 
had blazed so high that they’d decided to lay 
waste to the area rather than let the Tremere enjoy 
it unspoiled…but it wouldn’t be like them. 
It would, however, be perfectly in Tremere character 
to do such a purely practical thing: denying the 
enemy all cover from spell or sun, clearing the land 
of any spirits of wood, soil or water that the Tzimisce 
koldun-priests might summon for aid. As long as the 
ley line still flowed between the hills to soak Ceoris’s 
stone foundations—and by letting his vision slip offcenter 
from the waking world just a bit, he could see 
that it did, a blue-white river of radiance that dulled 
and changed color as it passed through the barrens 
but remained as thick and swift as ever—the House 
and Clan had all it truly needed from the earth. 
Sheep, and grass for them to gorge on, were pleasant 
but ultimately unnecessary. 
“Well, which way now? Toward the highest and 
most forbidding peak, I fancy.” 
“Which one is it, Fidus?” Jervais prompted his 
apprentice, who, to his credit, was already fishing 
out a little lead plumb on a string. He held it loosely 
in his thumb and forefinger, letting it swing until it 
found the correct axis. Those who could not directly 
see the ley line could still dowse it fairly quickly, it 
ran so strong here. 
“The middle one,” he reported glumly. 
“Good lad. Exactly right.” 
“As I said,” Hermann grumbled. “Can you even 
get a horse up there?” 
“Yes. That is, a Cainite can usually get his horse 
up,” Jervais answered. “But you see now why I

54 Tremere 
thought it best to leave the men in the village and 
do the last leg alone. It’s only a few miles, but it’s a 
few nearly vertical miles. Besides, they can cover our 
backs. This is the only known way in. Or at least I 
hope it still is.” 
*** 
Fidus laid a hand on his horse’s flank, trying to 
coax her on. The beast could find no sure footing, 
and she tossed her head back fearfully. 
“Come, Sirene. You’re all right, I promise. 
Come! Look…this is what you want, isn’t it?” He bit 
into his wrist, tearing it open, and showed her the 
gleaming bead of vitae that welled up. Her large, 
floppy lips closed around the wound, nipping at it. 
“Yes. Trust me now? That’s a good girl.” He wiped 
the saliva off on the side of his gown with a grimace. 
She went far more willingly now. At first it wasn’t 
clear whether she’d really regained her courage or 
was just hoping to get at his arm again, but soon she 
began to nudge up behind the monk-warrior’s big 
gelding, who refused to move one whit faster. 
“They’re spooked,” Hermann muttered. 
“Something’s not right up ahead.” 
“That may be what their noses tell them, but 
I’m telling you we’re no safer below than above,” 
Jervais called back. “I’ve been nearly murdered two 
or three times down in the foothills. Keep moving.” 
“Magog knows his own footing. Fidus! Restrain 
that animal of yours.” 
“I’m—I’m trying.” But the mare, newly braced 
with unnatural nourishment, was determined to push 
ahead. She bumped up against Magog and then tried 
to edge up alongside him. The gelding, who had also 
fed on blood earlier that evening, jostled her away, 
perilously close to the edge. Hermann pulled hard 
on the halter. 
“Magog! No, lad.” 
“Sirene! Back! Come away! Leave him alone.” 
“Easy, lad. Let it be. Fidus, boy, for the love of 
God!”

Sarah Roark 55 
“What in hell’s name is going on?” Jervais 
stopped and leaned around his own mount’s substantial 
bulk, looking back. “No room up here for playing 
king of beasts—” 
Even as he said it the two horses turned and 
reared against each other. Sirene snapped at Magog, 
who responded by falling heavily against her neck. 
She staggered and put her hoof down awkwardly upon 
the snow, which slid away to reveal a patch of loose 
rocks. A moment later she was straddled across the 
steep edge of the trail. Fidus seized hold of her, his 
ropy muscles straining taut enough to pop. Hermann 
forced Magog away from the edge and forward. 
“Fidus!” shouted Jervais. “Let her go, you stupid 
boy, you’ll fall.” 
“Master, help! The equipment!” 
“I said let her go. Hermann!” Jervais fairly yelped 
as the mare’s left rear leg slid over the edge, taking 
most of the rest of her with it, dragging Fidus—who 
still clutched her front leg—right up to the brink. 
But the knight made no move other than to keep 
restraining his horse. Jervais pushed past him and 
squatted down to lock his arms around Fidus’s torso. 
“Fidus,” he spoke calmly into the young 
Tremere’s ear. “I can get a new horse and new equipment 
far more easily than a new apprentice. Now let 
her go before she takes us both over. I promise I won’t 
be angry.” 
He braced his feet against the slick rock as best 
he could, just in case his worst-case scenario began 
coming true. But then the horse’s leg slipped through 
Fidus’s fingers, as though by accident rather than 
design. With a piercing cry the animal disappeared 
into the chasm. 
They both sat there for the space of several deep 
mortal breaths, absorbing what had happened and 
what could have happened. Jervais flung an unfriendly 
look up at Hermann, who regarded them 
both impassively.

56 Tremere 
“Well? Are you all right?” the knight asked after 
a moment. “Can you continue?” 
“Of course, Brother.” Jervais hauled Fidus to his 
feet. Despite the promise otherwise, the apprentice 
cringed in clear expectation of a blow that didn’t 
come. In truth, Jervais could feel his anger rising now 
that the danger was over. No alchemist’s apparatus! 
He’d have to acquire a new one from the chantry 
before they left. That meant he would have to ask, 
no, beg for it from someone. But he said nothing as 
they got back into single file and continued upward. 
A thin fog seemed to descend as they went, though 
perhaps they were simply passing through a layer of 
it from beneath. 
“How much further?” Hermann wanted to know. 
“I’m not sure. We should be almost there.” 
“This mist, is it natural?” 
“How should I know? What difference does it 
make?” 
Jervais sighed as they came up to what he’d 
thought for certain was the final bend and saw a 
massive gray ridge rise up on their left. 
“And what is that smell?” 
Jervais ground his teeth together, willing them 
not to lengthen any further. 
Behind them, Fidus’s disheartened steps slowed 
to a stop. He’d been running his hand along the ridge, 
more out of habit and for something to do with his 
empty fingers than for support. 
“This isn’t…” he murmured. He felt at the edge 
of a rocky projection. His fingertips slipped off the 
pebbly surface and plunged into sudden, fragile softness. 
He snatched them away, viscerally repulsed. 
“Master, this isn’t stone.” 
Jervais and Hermann, too, had turned toward the 
ridge, identifying the direction of the smell at last if 
not its nature. Hermann took out his dagger and 
picked at it. “No,” he said, lip wrinkling in disgust. 
“It’s flesh.”

Sarah Roark 57 
They stood back as far as the mountain edge 
would allow. The thing was enormous, easily the size 
of a respectable fishing boat’s hull laid along its side. 
The hide was leathery, stretched tight over the 
armoring bone-spurs of what looked like the spine, 
but it had decayed in places or been eaten away, leaving 
half-hollowed tunnels of rotting meat. 
Jervais walked around the hulk, getting a view 
in the round. The two others followed uneasily. 
“What is it?” Fidus quavered. On this side, by 
what had once been the softer underbelly of the 
thing, the stench was far more noticeable, although 
the fact that it could be borne at all testified to its 
age and state of decay. Most of the actual innards 
had already rotted away, and the rest was frozen 
through. 
“A trebuchet,” his master answered. 
“A what?” Hermann gave him an incredulous 
look.
Jervais gestured at the long arm that straggled 
outward from the wreck of the ribcage. It was about 
as thick as a pine tree’s trunk and ended in a threepointed—
hand? foot?—with the tattered remnants 
of pouchy webbing between the points. “Here’s the 
sling, you see. I’ll bet this arm could rotate freely in 
a near-perfect circle; it would have simply reached 
back and thrown forward, and sent boulders each a 
good yard across flying at whatever you liked. It was 
a living, breathing siege engine.” 
“But how could it see what it was aiming at? 
Where the devil is the head?” 
“There doesn’t appear to have been a separate 
head, which makes sense enough, as there wouldn’t 
have been much need for it. I’d guess the eyes were 
set somewhere in this region, atop the torso. I’ve seen 
others built that way.” 
“If you’re saying this is the work of the Tzimisce 
flesh-twisters, then I too have seen such beasts. But 
even they were not quite this…bizarre.” Hermann 
bent over the place where the head should have been,

58 Tremere 
as if unable to believe that it could possibly have 
been omitted. 
“Bizarre is the Fiends’ stock in trade, I fear,” 
Jervais said dryly. “We can only hope they never figure 
out how to make the infamous things reproduce.” 
“God above forbid!” Fidus interrupted in an uncharacteristically 
devout tone, and raised his hand 
as though to cross himself. Jervais made a silent note 
to correct the boy later. 
“Anyway, this is what they charmingly call a 
vozhd, their king of monstrosities,” Jervais went on. 
“The voivodes sometimes capture whole villages of 
men, women and children to provide the raw material 
for such creations.” 
His horse (whose only name so far was “my 
horse”) shied and strained at the halter. He turned 
away to calm it and suddenly noticed that they were 
not alone. 
“Well, hallo there,” he said. The other two vampires 
turned to glance at him, wondering why his 
voice had richened and sweetened all at once. Standing 
at a respectful, or wary, distance was a boy of 
about eight years. 
“Are you going upstairs?” the little boy asked 
with startling gravitas. 
“Yes. In fact, we were just going to do that now.” 
“Upstairs?” The knight finally tore himself away 
from the massive, incomprehensible corpse for long 
enough to take in what lay beyond it. Less than an 
arrow-shot’s distance from the vozhd, upon the small 
plateau-shelf on which they now found themselves, 
stood a long half-collapsed stone wall about five yards 
high, through the gaps of which they could spy the 
thatched roofs of a cluster of dispirited little stone 
houses. A narrow wedge that looked as though it had 
been carved directly out of a spur of mountain-rock 
sprung out from behind the wall like some fairy-tale 
beanstalk. It was terraced into what must have been 
several hundred stairs, thrusting up into the peak’s 
continuing heights.

Sarah Roark 59 
“That’s where they put the keep.” As they passed 
between the houses, many of which bore holes and 
gouges in their walls, or black scorch-marks licking 
along their sides, the residents came out to gaze at 
them. 
“And what are these people? Your…stair guard?” 
“No, they raise the food for the mortal staff that 
live up in the chantry.” 
“They do, eh?” Hermann pointedly swept his 
gaze from left to right, surveying the war-pocked 
ground of the plateau, upon which precious little 
visibly grew or grazed at the moment. 
“Well, they did.” Jervais laid an easy hand on 
the little boy’s shoulder. One of the women in the 
crowd that was slowly gathering broke away from it 
and ran up to him, jabbering in a rapid pidgin of 
Magyar and Latin. 
“What’s she saying?” 
“Nothing important.” 
“Don’t give me that, warlock.” Hermann turned 
to the woman and repeated in slow Magyar. “What 
are you saying?” 
The woman stared at him. “Please…you must 
talk to the lords above. The evil magic, it doesn’t go 
away.” 
She seized the boy away from Jervais and bodily 
turned him around, peeling back his shirt to reveal 
an ugly, purplish boil partially scabbed over. “Look. 
He went to play in the stream and came back 
stricken.” 
“Then I wouldn’t let him play there again, if I 
were you,” Jervais said. “Those Tzimisce curses hang 
on.”
“My niece is the same. And another boy…” 
“How long since the battle?” Hermann asked her. 
“The battle? When?” 
She took a moment to digest his accent, then 
nodded her head sharply. “Yes…summer.” 
“That stinking leviathan has been lying there 
since summer? Hellfire, that must have been a treat

60 Tremere 
for their lungs. Surprised these people haven’t all 
keeled over with plague,” Hermann muttered. “Come 
to that, some of them don’t look far off from it.” 
“They don’t look so deathly ill that they couldn’t 
have at least started rebuilding the damned wall,” 
Jervais answered. “I think I will have to speak to the 
‘lords’ at that.” 
“These are your clan’s own villeins, Meister 
Tremere,” the knight began with a frown. “You’re 
their protectors.” 
This from the man who’s meant to fight Fiends and 
Lupines for us if need be, but couldn’t be bothered to 
stop poor Fidus from plummeting off a mountainside. 
Well, I suppose Magog is more useful to the Black Cross 
than my apprentice. 
“I’ll mention it when we get in, Brother.” 
Two men-at-arms stood nominal guard at the 
foot of the stair. Jervais took the hand of one of the 
men and made a certain signal into his palm. The 
guard nodded and waved them up. Tied to his belt 
were two little bells, one with a red handle and one 
with a white handle. He unhooked the white one 
and gave it a ring. It was a gentle, barely audible 
shimmer of sound, but to Jervais’s wizardly senses the 
very air seemed to ripple around it in response. The 
other guard took their horses. Hermann released 
Magog only with the greatest reluctance—clearly 
whatever stabling once existed in this village was 
going to be much the worse for wear. They slung their 
saddlebags over their shoulders and began the long 
climb. 
Jervais had discovered long ago that it was best 
to stare straight ahead at the next steps and move 
quickly, because something in the pattern of the 
mountain rock tended to give one the sudden impossible 
conviction that the stair was listing to one 
side. (The sensation could make even a vampire 
woozy.) As they neared the halfway point, he spied 
a large shale-colored lump that blended in perfectly 
with the stair stone. It uncurled and stretched like a

Sarah Roark 61 
cat waking from an afternoon nap, then separated 
from the rock, spreading bat-wings a good six yards 
wide. If it had chosen to, it could easily have swooped 
down and knocked them off balance one by one—a 
prime reason why enemies found this invasion route 
so difficult. Instead it only circled them, keening, 
several times then flew up toward the top. Hermann 
drew his sword but, seeing Jervais march on unconcerned, 
made no further complaints. The fog grew 
denser again, rolling past them in visible billows. It 
got under the clothes and turned the little hairs on 
Jervais’s arm damp. 
“Stop it,” he murmured. It didn’t do any good— 
the tendrils continued to reach, probe, register. 
By the time they reached the top, the mist had 
so thickened that they didn’t see the keep until they 
were practically on the threshold. The enormous 
portcullis of what Jervais still thought of as the “new” 
gatehouse rose up out of obscurity. A figure robed in 
dark green satin stood holding a lantern and gazing 
out at them from behind the grating, one white hand 
resting lightly on a horizontal rail. As Jervais reached 
it, the figure doffed its hood. The face was young 
and unfamiliar, the hair and beard white-blond. 
“You must be our wandering vis-master,” the 
strange Cainite said. “I’m told things are not the 
same here since you left. I don’t know if that’s meant 
precisely as a compliment, but I thought you might 
take it as one regardless. My name is Torgeir. Welcome 
to the eyrie, my friends.”

62 Tremere 
Chapter Six 
“His Lordship the Councilor is expecting you,” 
Torgeir said as he pattered through the Great Hall. 
His pace was just slightly quicker than plausible, and 
whisper-quiet on the flagstones, causing Jervais to 
privately imagine him ever after as a species of rodent.
Jervais’s strongest memory of this chamber was 
of his initiation into the Second Circle of Mystery. 
A world ago, easily. He’d still honestly believed 
House Tremere to be the axis of all power and grandeur 
in the world, and the Great Hall had 
strengthened that impression, lined as it was with 
rows of tall stone stalls like a massive choir. Statues 
of history’s great sages and wizards stared down from 
the pillar capitals. A knife-thin, glittering floor tracery 
of inlaid silver outlined a ritual circle of such 
exquisite construction that one could work in it all 
night without headache or fatigue. Harmonized with 
the very fundamentals of the vis energy that wound 
through the Southern Carpathians, all one had to 
do to ignite it into liquid fire was to strike the bell 
at hall’s end and chant a perfect fifth above it. The 
circle’s adornments still drew their reverently calculated 
geometry of vesicae, gnomonic spirals and 
Golden progressions across the floor, but the stalls 
had been allowed to fall into terrible disrepair. And 
despite the standing candelabras and chandeliers, the 
hall overall seemed dingier, gloomier than Jervais 
could remember it being even in the longest mortal 
nights. 
Looking up, he stopped and gave a little involuntary 
noise of dismay. The others stopped too, 
quizzically following his gaze. 
“What happened?” he exclaimed. 
Torgeir peered up into the black reaches of the 
upper arches. “Ah…yes. There was stained glass in 
the windows once, wasn’t there?”

Sarah Roark 63 
“Stained glass! There were depictions of the 
founders of the twelve Houses along with the signs 
of the zodiac, starting with Bonisagus and ending 
with Tremere. As day or night passed, the light would 
cast the different portraits upon the wall…” He stuttered 
to a halt, remembering his audience, who stared 
at him as if he had suddenly sprouted horns. 
“Yes, well, we had an especially nasty siege a few 
years back, and it was decided that it just wasn’t 
worth the risk. Besides, it isn’t as though there are 
any mortal magi to complain of the dark anymore, is 
it?” 
“No.” He didn’t expect Fidus to understand, and 
certainly not Hermann, but the casual tone of the 
other magus galled him. He gazed up forlornly at the 
stone window frames, hastily bricked up with blobs 
of stray cement drooping down from the joints, and 
streaked from end to end with rough incantations 
in…hard to tell from this distance even with senses 
honed, but doubtless dried blood. 
“Well,” he said at last. “We mustn’t keep his 
worship in suspense. Lead on, Torgeir. Let’s find some 
pleasant corner for Brother Hermann to wait in.” 
If there is a pleasant corner left in this basilisk’s den. 
The thought itself seemed to wing naked up into 
the darkness, meeting with a sour reception. Jervais 
would not have retracted it, however, even if he 
could. Anything that might hear him no doubt knew 
the truth of the sentiment at least as well as he did. 
*** 
“If milord is busy with his magic, I can certainly 
come back later tonight,” Jervais murmured, not 
straightening from his bow. 
“Don’t be dense, Jervais. What do you think this 
is all for?” 
Jervais rose and surveyed the room, noting the 
rather malodorous assortment of things scattered 
across the counter. He knew some of their uses individually 
but had no inkling of their effect in 
combination.

64 Tremere 
“I have no idea, milord,” he replied, wishing he 
didn’t still have it in him to feel foolish when Etrius 
disparaged him. 
“For you, of course. Or perhaps you thought I 
had you come all the way out east just to have the 
pleasure of your insincere abasement once again?” 
There was a great crunching noise as the Councilor 
crushed something in a little handheld press. Thin 
brown legs stuck out at crazy angles from the edges. 
Spiders or scorpions, probably. 
“Of course not, milord. But…what exactly…” 
Jervais eyed the contents of one particular jar with 
special distaste, but there could be no argument. As 
Etrius’s direct subordinate, not only his labor and his 
talents but his very body were at the archmagus’s 
complete disposal. No sacrifice was supposed to be 
too great for the sake of the Art, and to quail at participating 
in a necessary spell, however ominous, was 
one of the greatest dishonors a Tremere could suffer. 
“I’m not about to let you wander into the midst 
of the Telyav cult without some protections. And 
certainly not without helpers.” 
Jervais nodded hopefully. “Yes, I was assuming 
it would take several of us to have even a chance 
against Deverra.” 
“Indeed, I’d strive for a full sodalicium, if I were 
you,” the Councilor agreed. 
Strive? “I see. Then there aren’t six already waiting 
for me here?” 
“I’m afraid I don’t have six spare Tremere, Jervais. 
They don’t exactly grow on trees, and as you must 
have noticed, Rustovitch hasn’t forgotten us on this 
lonely rock even with all his other pressing engagements. 
I did call Master Antal back from the Bistritz 
front for you—he should be arriving any night now. 
He’s quite the war-wizard. I don’t doubt his talents 
will prove invaluable. Surely you can also convince 
your sire to let at least one of her juniors go with 
you?” Something dankly amused in his tone suggested 
he knew quite well how unlikely that was. “As for

Sarah Roark 65 
the rest: I will write you a letter of credit to take 
with you to the chantries along the way, directly 
authorizing you to recruit as you see fit for the enterprise. 
It’s, what, three hundred leagues to Livonia? 
You should be able to fill out your sodalicium by 
then.” 
“Doubtless, milord.” 
“Oh, and you may wish to take a gargoyle or two. 
They don’t scout as well as they fight, but there’s 
nothing quite like a bird’s-eye view.” The Councilor 
studied Jervais for a moment—his tired, jowly face 
and the dark smudges under his eyes contrasted 
sharply, as always, with the alertness of his keen blue 
gaze. Then his long-nailed fingers reached for the 
pestle and picked it up, and he turned his blackrobed, 
bulky back on the younger magus. “You didn’t 
ever meet Deverra, did you?” 
“No, milord.” 
Etrius was silent for several moments. “Dea de 
verra…’goddess of strife.’ That was what her old 
master called her when he was cross with her, and 
the other apprentices nicknamed her Deverra for 
sport. When she became full maga she took the name 
he’d saddled her with, but with a different meaning, 
de vera, ‘of truth.’ She had a way of doing that, of 
taking what was meant as an insult and turning it 
into a mark of pride.” 
Jervais said nothing. When elders cast their 
minds back into the past like that, they had a way of 
dredging up the most interesting details, and he 
didn’t want to break the reverie. 
“But I’m afraid even she couldn’t manage what 
comes so easily to you: to be proud of what your 
grandsire’s ‘experiment’ turned us into. She asked to 
be sent away from Ceoris, to study the witchery of 
the Tzimisce and see whether we could adapt it. 
That’s what she told me. Evidently she thought I 
wouldn’t approve of her true purpose.” Was that a 
note of injury? “She told those she tried to entice 
along, however, that her homeland held formidable

66 Tremere 
powers, vital spirits of nature that might be able to 
restore the walking dead to true life again.” He shook 
his head. “You find that droll, I’m sure.” 
“No, milord. Certainly I believe that ‘true life’ 
is often overrated by those who never got much of 
it, or those who prefer nostalgia to accurate recollection. 
But there are some gifts only true life 
provides, that can’t be denied.” 
“I wonder which gifts you’re thinking of,” Etrius 
said dryly. “At any rate, she and her cohorts sent 
regular word of their discoveries for a time. She mentioned 
in one letter that they’d set themselves up as 
a sort of priesthood for a god named Telyavel, and 
were accepting blood libations from the people in 
that guise. I should have taken warning at that right 
away. That sort of thing is fit only for hedge-wizards 
and idolaters—not for those who study the wonders 
of the one transcendent Logos. I thought she’d left 
the petty gods of her pagan childhood far behind, 
just as I abandoned mine long ago, but it seems they 
have reclaimed her.” 
He turned. His eyes were downcast, almost 
closed. “Which means she is lost to us.” 
“Master.” Jervais rarely used the term of address 
with Etrius. It felt familiar, and they both despised 
anything that smacked of closeness between them. 
But the turn in the conversation was alarming him 
now. “Are you sure you…want me to destroy her? 
Them?” 
Etrius’s eyes snapped back open at that. 
“You insolent little maggot,” he said in a 
strangled tone. “You dare worm into my thoughts? 
You think to unlock my heart, the hearts of all your 
betters and learn our secrets like spells you’ll invoke 
at your later pleasure?” 
“Not at all, milord—” 
“You haven’t even been back an hour! Doesn’t 
common decency prescribe some kind of grace period?” 
The archmagus’s teeth gnashed, but it wasn’t 
his teeth Jervais watched with dread: it was his deft

Sarah Roark 67 
hands, to see if they were shaping themselves for 
some terrible curse. “Look at me! Do you believe this 
is the first time I have had to order the death of someone 
I once counted a magus of quality. Do you 
honestly believe that?” 
“No, milord! I, I beg your lordship’s pardon.” He 
hated himself even as he said it, but he knew that 
the word beg was the fastest way to signal complete 
submission. Unlike Goratrix, who’d always seemed 
to think a great warlock never showed anything past 
polite contempt or contemptuous amusement to inferiors 
(and he plainly counted nearly everyone in 
the world, with the possible exception of Great 
Tremere himself, his inferior), Etrius didn’t trouble 
to hide his hurts. In fact, he wore them almost as 
badges of honor. But that didn’t make him an idiot 
or unsubtle. He knew quite well that Jervais wouldn’t 
forget this outburst. Jervais never forgot an unguarded 
word anyone spoke. There was nothing 
Jervais could do about that now. All he could do was 
try to present as insignificant and meek a target as 
possible. 
“I’ve had almost a century to think about the 
Telyavs, Jervais, and they’ve had just as long. In fact 
they have had multiple warnings, which they’ve chosen 
to ignore. Rest assured, the requisite agonizing 
has been done. Nor do I seek your moral guidance 
on who is and isn’t a loyal scion of the House and 
Clan. I am telling you what you need to know to 
perform your duty. That is all.” 
“I understand, milord.” Jervais bowed low, hoping 
this would be the end of the tirade, but it wasn’t. 
His superior’s sluggish movements had taken on a 
decided spark of animation now, as though his own 
anger warmed and limbered him. 
“I’d think a man in your position would deem it 
wiser to keep his mouth shut. The question of your 
own loyalty isn’t on the firmest ground as far as I’m 
concerned. There must be some reason you haven’t 
found time to come home and do your job in over a

68 Tremere 
decade. They left you to hang, didn’t they—your sire 
and grandsire? A fine reward for your long years of 
conniving on their behalf. I cannot believe you still 
don’t grasp how much they despise you. How much 
they’ve always despised you.” 
The elder Tremere smiled unpleasantly. He took 
a hissing snake out of the round blown-glass globe 
that held it, expertly hooked its fangs over the lip of 
a small vial, squeezed its head to milk out the venom, 
then broke its body open and poured the blood in as 
well. He took the mortar full of pungent crushed 
herbs and dumped both it and the vial into a pan of 
sludge sitting in the coals of a little brazier. He picked 
up the pan carefully with a pair of tongs and tilted it 
around to let the contents mix. 
“You never were the cloth out of which Tremere 
are cut. You’re not one of their kind, or mine. You 
barely had the skill to be a myopic grog scribe in the 
Paris chantry basement. And don’t think they don’t 
know it. They’re happy to lead you on, of course, 
because they know your envy makes you a fine tool. 
It makes of you a well-balanced dagger to twist into 
others’ backs. But you will never be a true wizard, 
Jervais. Despite whatever lies they told you, the 
blood can’t give you that. I know you don’t believe 
me now, but the centuries will teach you the bitter 
truth.” He dusted off his hands. “Assuming you survive.” 
It was still so easy for the old ruin. He must have 
been keeping in practice all this time, at some other 
luckless soul’s expense. The shame was awful, sickening, 
pestilential. It was also the only thing that 
kept Jervais from dashing forward to try to tear that 
scornful throat open, or lay hold of that pale, blubbery 
arm and set the cold blood in it boiling—which 
would have given Etrius great delight, no doubt, in 
addition to a fine excuse for a sorcerous drubbing. 
Still, he hoped the hate and not the pain was what 
showed on his face. He’d heard these charitable sentiments 
before, of course, but never all in a string…

Sarah Roark 69 
All at once he realized that the Councilor’s gaze 
was not just figuratively but literally going through 
him. He turned. Fidus (whose presence in the chamber 
he’d completely forgotten about) stood there 
frozen with eyes open wide to catch every nuance of 
the scene before him. 
Little pitchers have big ears. 
“Fidus, why don’t you go see if our quarters are 
in shape for the day’s sleep?” 
The lad scampered off immediately, still goggling. 
“Laying groundwork for the future, milord?” he 
said bitterly. 
“Rubbish, Jervais.” Etrius took the pan out of the 
brazier, holding it by the tongs, and stuck a mopended 
brush into the potion. “I’m sure the boy has 
long since formed his opinion of you. After all, he 
has the joy of your nightly company. A few candid 
words of mine won’t cancel that out, will they?” 
No, they’ll just let him know to whom he can run 
crying if he ever feels especially ill used. 
The Councilor smiled again as though he’d heard 
this thought (quite conceivably he had), and, still 
holding the pan, he proceeded to chant softly. He 
snapped his fingers in the air just inches short of 
Jervais’s skin to prick his halo, the protruding edge 
of his soul-body, awake. He smoothed it in some 
places and drew it out in others, shaping it easily 
with gestures of his free hand. Jervais had always 
loathed the touch of Etrius’s spell-craft. Not that it 
was painful or cruel, as his words had just been. In 
fact, just the opposite. It was effortless, light as a 
butterfly’s wing, artful as its flight, pleasant and even 
inspiring to experience, a masterpiece of efficiency… 
A true wizard’s touch. 
Even the Swede’s derelict face seemed alight 
with something like a soul when he was at his work. 
He’d likely never known a day without the magic. 
Possibly a night, though. Possibly those first nights 
lashed awake each sunset by the hunger of the Blood,

70 Tremere 
before the Tremere learned to adapt the old sorcery 
to their new, unbreathing bodies. How he must have 
suffered, how they all must have, at the thought that 
they might never practice the Art again. And even 
now, perhaps, at the nagging knowledge that what 
they had now was not, could never again be, what 
they’d once possessed. Their flight toward Heaven 
had ended like Icarus’s had, in drowned prayers and 
wings scorched beyond healing. 
Let him suffer. Let them all suffer. And let them 
sneer, too, at their brothers who never knew the oh-sotranscendent 
joys of the “natural” gift. At those who 
have only this life, this half-life, in which to taste whatever 
measure of infinity they can. At me. 
Etrius took his brush then and slopped it across 
Jervais’s face. The foul, stinging stuff stuck reasonably 
well but did drip onto his robe. Jervais didn’t 
flinch. He would not give Etrius the gratification of 
a flinch. As the old vampire continued to work the 
dweomer whose purpose he had not, would not and 
saw no obligation to explain, he paused once in his 
chanting to snort ironically. “I see your colors, 
Jervais, not a pretty sight. Keep at it. This is exactly 
what the charm needs. I knew the chief serpent of 
my snake den would not disappoint me.” 
I am not your serpent to milk or crush, Jervais 
promised himself while he endured stroke after stroke 
of decorative filth. I’m not a true wizard either, but I 
will show you in time just what it is that I am. And long 
after you’re gone and your precious mortal magic is the 
stuff of nursemaids’ tales, I will have taken what is truly 
there to be taken and known what there truly is to know. 
It was a vague enough oath, but it carried him 
through that moment on its sheer vehemence, and 
that was all he required of it for now. 
*** 
He carried a candle that glowed with a little 
spark of cool, flameless light. It was necessary to see 
at all in the cave-black rooms, but even with benefit 
of starlight he would have wanted something to

Sarah Roark 71 
sweep the gloom from the corners. The Ceoris keep 
held something like two dozen blood-wizards and 
even more servants and vessels, but one would never 
have known it just now, in the gritty violet predawn. 
A constant, distant dripping was the only noise, and 
it seemed to follow him around, always just off to 
his left. In his old quarters, cobwebbed and neglected 
like the tomb of an especially disliked uncle, trunks 
and reasonably fresh bed linens awaited him, but no 
apprentice. (He also noticed that someone had long 
since broken the enchanted lock on the wardrobe 
where he’d once kept his stores of vis.) He frowned, 
continued through the corridor and hurried down the 
stairs. 
“Fidus?” 
No answer. His spell-light sputtered and crackled, 
dancing on the wick. He felt a surge of rage and 
struck the cold wall with the flat of his hand. 
“None of this nonsense…” 
He ran through the second and ground floors, 
the abandoned dining room and the near-abandoned 
chantry kitchen, calling. When that proved fruitless, 
he started to spiral down into the first basement, but 
a sudden suspicious instinct came to him and he ran 
back to the ground floor, into a little chamber that 
had once been the robing room for the Great Hall. 
It had been a necessary precaution, of course, back 
when the occasional mortal guest magus had still 
walked Ceoris’s halls. No doubt Etrius still preferred 
that not every magus of the Blood know the location… 
Yes, there—a sharp, damp, moldy smell and a 
hunk of wall that had missed coming back into its 
original position by a fraction of an inch. Jervais 
touched his tongue to the correct block of stone then 
felt his way down the cramped tunnel that the block 
and its neighbors swung aside to reveal. 
Even the candle couldn’t penetrate this wormhole. 
Extending his senses, he heard the croupy, 
labored breathing of the larder inmates in the hollow 
on the other side of the tunnel wall, and that

72 Tremere 
maddening ghostly drip again, and a low muttering. 
How far had the idiot gotten? Jervais stumbled forward 
in a near panic. 
“Fidus!” he shouted, then even more frantically, 
“Fidus!” 
The boy stood before a very old ward, carved 
directly into the tunnel rock and then re-articulated 
with powdered emerald in a binding agent: emerald, 
enemy of black magic, here in the very Olympus of 
black magic. Embedded in the rock above the ward 
was a skull with its mouth fixed open and a small 
vial set within—no doubt containing the tongue of 
whatever poor devil’s head had been evicted from 
its grave to serve as guard and alarm here. Fidus was 
tracing the contours of the ward with a finger now 
smeared in blue-green. At the sound of Jervais’s voice 
he paused in his tracing, but the muttering went on. 
Jervais came up beside him. 
“Mars in the eighth house and in opposition with 
Mercury…and when Jupiter is in Capricorn again, 
how shall I come back then? Ah, I see…” 
“Jorge.” To his relief, the young Tremere’s birth 
name was shock enough to startle him out of his daze. 
Fidus jolted. “What—just what do you think you’re 
doing?” Jervais demanded. 
“I thought I was in bed,” Fidus whispered. 
“You ought to be in bed.” 
“I was in the library of Alexandria…there was a 
book I had to find. It was hidden in a secret room, 
and if I could only unlock it, I would have the answer 
to everything. There was a voice explaining 
how.” His eyes strayed yearningly to the ward again. 
Jervais shook him so hard his teeth clacked shut. 
“The chantry library is upstairs,” Jervais growled. 
“I will show you tomorrow. There’s nothing down 
here for apprentices, do you hear? Nothing.” 
“I’ve never heard such a voice, master.” 
“I have. Was it just slightly lower pitched than 
most men’s, in an accent impossible to define, calm 
and unyielding as marble?”

Sarah Roark 73 
The lad frowned. “Yes—yes, it was. It was so 
wise, so assuring…but master, how, I mean when—” 
“Hush. Never you mind.” 
“Master, you’re shaking.” 
“I said hush. You mustn’t listen to anything that 
may speak to you in this place, Fidus. Listen to me— 
listen only to me. Believe me when I tell you I am 
your only path out of here.” When his words alone 
didn’t produce immediate movement, Jervais seized 
Fidus’s arm and dragged him up out of the tunnel 
and back to their bedchamber, where he set Fidus to 
reciting the first chapter of Marbode’s lapidary just 
to chase all dangerous thought out of the boy’s head. 
Nothing is mine here, he thought fiercely as Fidus 
droned on, simultaneously helping his master undress 
for bed. Even my own student whom I’ve poured all my 
labor and wisdom into. Etrius sees there only one more 
heart to turn against me, and the other…well, the other 
sees fresh blood, and innocence… 
He made himself quiet his own mind. “That’s 
enough, Fidus. To bed.” 
Now clad only in his nightshirt, he slid into bed. 
At least someone on staff had remembered his tastes, 
and supplied him with good sheets and a rich winered 
coverlet stuffed with goose down—precious little 
good to him when he lacked breathing company in 
bed, as his own torpid body gave off no warmth for 
the goose down to catch. Still, it was comfortable 
and soft. He snuggled down and waited for sweet 
oblivion. 
Then he began to hear the voices from elsewhere 
on the floor. They started out as disturbing murmurs, 
which he had to prick his ears to decipher, but 
quickly grew too loud to ignore. 
“You can’t do anything wrong, can you, 
Curaferrum, as long as you have His Porcine Majesty’s 
robes to run underneath? And now no one else who licks 
his arse on a regular basis can do any wrong either—”

74 Tremere 
“The robes you could always quite literally be found 
under aren’t here anymore, milady. That is the only reason 
you complain of my position now.” 
“Your position! You see, you still dare not say 
milord’s name even as you cast vile aspersions on him, 
you lap-dog!” 
“And you, you will not pronounce the name of 
mine, lest he hear—” 
“Oh, won’t I? Etrius! Etrius Worm-spine!” 
Jervais turned onto his other side, as though that 
would help. Not a peep from Fidus, but Jervais could 
fairly taste the lad’s avid attention. Wasn’t the sun 
up yet? Surely it was up already. It had been a long 
trip, a long torture session with the 
Councilor…surely he would fall asleep quickly 
now…
“I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head 
when you speak of this chantry’s master, milady!” 
“A master indeed! Can he not even control the brats 
sucking at his teat? Or is this Torgeir doing his dirty work 
for him? Once upon a time, your precious master at least 
had the courage to do his own whining and plotting and 
sneaking. That was, of course, before he deliberately 
started drinking from only the most wine-besotted 
wretches in the larder.” 
“Too many of us are reduced to that too often, milady, 
since we can depend on you to drain the best vessels 
dry right away!” 
“Ah, ah, look, you see! You are trying to change 
the subject yet again, which is the outright breach of the 
Code committed by your little spy—” 
You mustn’t listen to anything that may speak 
to you in this place… Why couldn’t he follow his 
own damned advice? He wondered if Etrius heard as 
well. Of course Etrius heard. If he, Jervais, could not 
block it out, then certainly the great archmagus was 
perfectly aware. He pictured mighty Etrius also lying 
on his side in a chilly room, perhaps also futilely 
curled away from the source of the sound, pretend

Sarah Roark 75 
ing to be asleep. That image did not comfort as much 
as it might have. 
“Well, now your own little spy is back, whom I 
doubt could even recite the Code in proper Latin much 
less follow it, so I suppose fair will be fair from now on, 
won’t it?” 
He needed to sleep. He could feel it grinding in 
his very bones, the exhaustion. Every moment he lay 
here as though bewitched to stay awake was another 
drop of recovery lost to perdition. He didn’t want 
any part of this; didn’t want to hear anyone’s honest 
opinion of himself or Etrius or anyone else right now. 
He didn’t want to know what the people who dictated 
his existence were screaming at each other 
lately in the dead, tired hours of the dawn. 
He stared out into the dark, imagining grain after 
grain slipping through the desk hourglass. 
Somewhere out in the true world the sun roused itself 
for one more bright roll across the dome, and 
still the arguing went on for what might only have 
been an hour but seemed like four, and Jervais did 
not sleep. 
*** 
The next evening he turned from unpacking to 
find Malgorzata breaking upon him like a wave. Her 
chestnut hair was piled on her head in regal undulations, 
plaited and coiled together with gold thread; 
her eyebrows elegantly tilted and plucked; her lips 
dark red and just slightly blubbed, almost raw, especially 
compared to the ghostly pallor of her sculpted 
cheek. She reached out to him. He reached back 
without even thinking. She kissed him on the cheek 
and then stepped back to glance over him. 
“You look well.” This was always her little joke 
whenever they reunited, ever since they’d both become 
vampires. It embarrassed and pleased him at 
the same time. He couldn’t help thinking of his bald 
pate, his eyes puckered and prematurely crow’s-footed 
from peering, his body rather too mountainous to 
qualify as handsome, but she never seemed to mind.

76 Tremere 
She touched his face, ran her hand along the bottom 
of his beard from jaw to chin, then let it come 
to rest on his shoulder. It smelled of sandalwood and 
jasmine, the oriental scent that had turned his head 
like wine as a young man. On her fingers sat a minor 
constellation of rings, the most prominent of which 
was topped with a cabochon caged in gold. Within 
the ring, unless she’d been neglecting to refill it, was 
her emergency store of a poison that would kill a 
mortal within a day and send the Cainite who fed 
off such a mortal into several hours’ unconsciousness.
“And you, milady sire, look far better than 
merely well. As always.” Damn. What was the matter 
with him? Could he conjure no finer flattery than 
that? Her face fell very slightly, but then she smiled. 
“Ah, I can always count on you, Jervais. I’ve 
missed you. You have no idea what I’ve suffered since 
you left.” 
Oh, I have some idea, he thought. In fact I think 
half the chantry must, unless they’re deaf. 
“You were always my pillar. These…children, 
they’re no help at all.” She shrugged ruefully. “And 
His Porcine Majesty has taken advantage of the situation 
to fill out his stable of toadies, of course.” 
“Yes, so I’ve seen.” 
“Yes. Can you believe it? He’s gotten even less 
subtle with age. He sends his lackeys to spy on me, 
and they don’t even have the decency to pretend 
they’re doing something else anymore! Jervais, I 
caught one of them, that little albino rat, in my very 
laboratory just last night.” 
He was supposed to be astounded and infuriated, 
he knew. Plainly she had no idea how their voices 
had carried, or else she was deliberately oblivious. 
And to intrude on a magician’s sacred privacy, there 
were few graver (or more common) violations of custom 
or Code. He nodded as fervently as he could 
make himself. 
“That one! Yes, I wouldn’t put it past him at all.”

Sarah Roark 77 
She looked even more distraught. A hint of menace 
entered her smooth voice. “No, Jervais—my 
heart, you don’t understand. There is no way the little 
pestilence could possibly manage to get past my ward 
without direct help from Etrius himself, or 
Curaferrum at the very least. Curaferrum most 
likely.” She pronounced his name in the same tones 
most Tremere reserved for Rustovitch. “After all, he’s 
the one protecting the brat now. I caught him redhanded, 
mind you. Red-handed, and 
that…functionary has the gall to say he has only my 
word to go on. Only my word! I sit in the High 
Chantry council chamber on our lord Goratrix’s behalf! 
And yet do you think I will see a moment’s 
justice for any of it in this tower of iniquity?” 
She was rigid with outrage, staring at him. He 
remembered—or thought he remembered—towering 
rages, fits worthy of the maenads, which left him 
gasping. At the moment all he could think of was 
how much shorter she was than himself, and how had 
he failed to notice something that obvious for that 
long? He turned back toward his trunk: a mistake, 
he knew, but not as great a mistake as continuing to 
stand there staring back at her blankly. 
“I don’t seem to recall your ladyship ever waiting 
for anyone to serve justice on your behalf,” he 
said.
“How right you are, my heart.” Her voice grew 
silky again at that. “Yes…thank you for bringing me 
back to myself.” 
Yourself? he thought whirlingly. Where is it? 
Where are you? 
The next moment, arms delicate as herb-roots 
were twining around his chest. Once again he knew 
what was supposed to happen. He was to fold himself 
around her now and wait in agony for the 
slightest taste of her blood, so enticingly forbidden 
by the Code they’d both sworn to. He was to promise 
to do any tomfool thing to ease her burdens and 
earn her smile. He, who hated nothing more than to

78 Tremere 
subject his will to another, ached to want that now. 
He couldn’t recall ever not wanting it with 
Malgorzata. It had been his temptation and his guilty 
pleasure. Now he just felt at a loss. However she 
might play the part now, she was not the helpless 
female, she had spells he didn’t even know about, 
and if she determined that she was reaching out toward 
something that was simply, inexplicably no 
longer there it could be very dangerous for him indeed. 
“Don’t—don’t risk your position, madame. Don’t 
lower yourself, please,” he said, and at least he didn’t 
have to struggle to make his voice husky. 
“You would have me endure such insults?” 
“No! No, of course not. I’ll take care of it for 
you, madame, that is what I meant.” 
“Ah, my heart. I can’t have you risk yourself so 
soon after your return. Etrius will be looking for the 
first excuse to hurt you, hurt us both, and you know 
it.” 
He could not believe in her feint at concern. It 
was excruciating not to, but he couldn’t force himself. 
“Besides, what would you do?” she asked quietly. 
I don’t know yet, madame. But it’s bound to be better 
than whatever overcomplicated scheme you were 
cooking up to involve me in. 
“You’ll see,” he answered, kissing her hand reverently. 
“Ah. I do enjoy it when you surprise me. I always 
believe in you, Jervais, even when others are 
too foolish to see. I knew the Paris master was wrong 
the very moment I met you. And time proved me 
right, did it not? No, you. You proved me right.” She 
laid her head on his shoulder. He could hear that 
she was smiling. He used to feel so proud when she 
said such things. He implored her in his mind to 
leave. 
“Well, I won’t keep you from your settling in,” 
she said after a moment. “But come and see me af

Sarah Roark 79 
terward. I have some very interesting research to 
show you—research which, thankfully, the rat did 
not manage to ferret out.” 
“Of course, madame.” And her light footsteps 
padded out, leaving him alone once again with only 
her perfume lingering. 
He tried to concentrate on re-assembling his 
orrery. He found himself blinking rather more than 
usual.

80 Tremere 
Chapter Seven 
“You have to be gentle with her. She’s very sensitive.” 
Lady Virstania hitched up her diaphanous robe 
and frowned thunderously at Fidus, who’d just tendered 
the knobby gargoyle looming over him a peace 
offering of fresh rabbit and nearly gotten his fingers 
bitten off along with it. 
“Just back up slowly and don’t look away,” Jervais 
advised him with a half-smothered smile. “Oh, and 
raise your shoulders with arms akimbo, you’ll look 
bigger.” 
“Maître Jervais thinks he’s a gargoyle expert. 
Rixatrix is a female, Fidus.” 
“It is?” Fidus stammered, transfixed by the handsized 
yellow eyes blinking at him from scant inches 
away. They were level with his only because their 
owner had bent nearly double to put them there; nor 
did he seem to appreciate the courtesy of that gesture.
“She is.” Virstania dimpled her plump cheeks at 
the creature, patted its haunch and began to carefully 
clean its talons out with an iron pick. It 
submitted to her with a lamb’s patience. “And that 
means the last thing you want to do is look bigger 
than her mate.” 
“No danger of that, I’m sure,” Jervais scoffed, 
but then he stared at the creature that swooped in 
from the heights in back of the cave. It wasn’t quite 
Jervais’s size in the body, and its wings looked barely 
wide enough to carry it. It landed with room to spare 
on Rixatrix’ craggy shoulder and hunched its back 
into a hump. 
“What is this, a bantam rooster?” 
Virstania left off her polyglot cooing over the 
big female. In an instant, her voice changed from 
beatifically maternal to cool as the surrounding cav

Sarah Roark 81 
ern air. “I was told, maître, that you required two of 
my adult flock for scouting and fighting. Dear Falco 
is an excellent spy, and I’ve never seen my sweetheart 
lose a battle yet. They’re a mated pair. They 
all but dream in concert. They will gladly die for each 
other and even more gladly die for you.” Clearly she 
had her doubts as to whether Jervais, or anyone else, 
was worthy of such an honor. “I trust that will be 
satisfactory.” 
Jervais nodded gamely. 
“They mustn’t be made to fly for more than three 
hours in a row,” she went on. “Falco has a quirky 
gut, and shouldn’t hunt game alone. Rixatrix will see 
to his proper diet if she is with him. If she’s not, then 
you must make sure he stays clear of horses and deer, 
or indeed any large herbivores. Why is your boy not 
taking this down?” 
Fidus jumped as if struck and immediately picked 
up the little wax tablet that hung from his belt. 
“Quirky gut, no game alone, no big herbivores…” 
Virstania glared at him. Rixatrix, the perfect 
weathervane for her mistress’s mood, growled. It 
sounded like an avalanche in progress. 
“Sh, sweetheart. You’re scaring your love. He’ll 
think he’s done something wrong again.” 
Falco chittered and nibbled at his mate’s stony 
ear. Rixatrix gave an angry moan and swatted idly at 
him.
“It’s also very important to clean their claws after 
any real fighting, because they’re prone to split 
if kept wet…” 
“What, can’t the miraculous creatures clean 
their own claws?” Jervais prodded her. 
“They’re gargoyles, maître,” she said heavily. 
“Not cats.” 
“Rix want cat. Little rabbit gone in one drink.” 
“Not just now, dearest. Mother hasn’t got any 
cats to hand. We can get you both a nice juicy man

82 Tremere 
though. I seem to recall one of Epistatia’s raiders offended 
her recently. Wouldn’t that be yummy?” 
“What about our Ventrue friend?” Jervais asked. 
“How do we keep them from eating him, and the 
other Ventrue and their mortals?” 
“You’ll have to introduce them, of course,” 
Virstania answered. “Let them get a scent of everyone 
in the company, one by one. A few times if you 
can manage it.” 
“Well, that’ll be entertaining to watch at least.” 
A mortal apprentice scuttled into the room. He 
fairly staggered back, eyes wide, as three white vampire 
faces turned to stare at him and a cave full of 
gargoyles stirred. 
“Your pardon, masters, but I was told Master 
Jervais would be here.” 
“Yes? What is it? Hurry up.” 
“Master Jervais, you’re wanted upstairs. Master 
Antal has arrived from Bistritz.” 
“Very well. That means we’ll be leaving, Lady 
Virstania. Are these beasts ready to travel?” 
“I’m sure they’re in at least as good a shape for 
that as you are, maître,” Virstania assured him. 
“Excellent. Thank you, milady.” Jervais was not 
about to let to a cutting remark keep him from making 
the fastest possible exit. 
“You, boy.” Halfway up the tunnel Jervais put a 
hand on the shoulder of the mortal apprentice and 
stopped him. Without further ado he gouged his fangs 
into the lad’s wrist. The apprentice leaned against 
the tunnel wall for support until it was over. 
“That’s better,” said Jervais. “So much easier to 
face the vultures on a full stomach. Well, lead on.” 
“Yes, master.” 
The boy conducted them to the great main library, 
where Etrius usually received magi who were 
neither as disfavored as Jervais nor of especially exalted 
rank. Over centuries of acquisition and only 
the most occasional reorganizing, the room—originally 
designed in a spacious Roman aesthetic—had

Sarah Roark 83 
become a rat’s warren of rough-hewn bookcases and 
stacks of multicolored books nearly as tall as a man. 
Every so often a reading desk or chair would randomly 
and maliciously appear in one’s path, 
necessitating a winding detour. Jervais, who generally 
preferred cleanliness and luxury and had long 
since come to hate nearly every cubic inch of Ceoris, 
had nevertheless fallen in love with the library the 
moment he’d set foot in it. Especially the scent of 
the musty old leather and parchment. He felt like 
the richest man in the world when he smelled it, 
never mind that none of the books truly belonged to 
him.
But the sound, unlike the scent, was troubling. There 
were too many voices in here…not shouting, but still overlapping 
one another in a way that suggested argument. 
“I demand that something be done, milord Councilor.” 
Malgorzata’s voice. So much for not lowering herself and 
waiting for him to think of a plan. 
“Ah, Jervais,” Etrius said as Jervais rounded the corner. 
For once, he seemed less than utterly disgusted to see 
him—glad more of the interruption than of Jervais himself, 
doubtless. “There you are. This was to have been the 
occasion of presenting you and Master Antal to each other. 
Master Jervais, Master Antal Garaboncias of Bistritz; Master 
Antal, our vis-master, Master Jervais fils de Malgorzata…” 
Etrius laid his hand on the shoulder of a dour, darkbearded, 
rather monkish magus who wore robes of mulberry 
broadcloth with singe marks on the sleeves. Something in 
his look suggested that if Etrius were to let go of him for 
one instant he would shake himself out like a wet cat and 
then bolt for the door. 
“Master Antal.” Jervais bowed in response to Antal’s 
grudging courtesy. “I’ve heard stories of your heroic struggle 
against the Fiends.” 
“Yes,” Antal replied. His Latin was heavily inflected 
by the Magyar accent. “The most august Councilor has informed 
me that we in Bistritz have many long-distance 
admirers. It is most heartening, of course.”

84 Tremere 
“And now Master Jervais can admire your work 
up close,” Etrius said amiably. “I have promised him 
he shall find your assistance invaluable. I know that 
you won’t disappoint him, or me.” 
So Antal needed reminding of who was in 
charge. Well, at least Etrius himself was undertaking 
to perform that duty. Jervais couldn’t quite find 
it in himself to feel grateful, but he did make note. 
It was a hopeful sign that perhaps he truly was intended 
to succeed and not to die—though he was 
quite sure Etrius would make the best of either outcome. 
“Milord Councilor.” Jervais turned, instinctively, 
toward Malgorzata’s voice as it cut in. Only then did 
he notice what stood behind her—Torgeir, the “albino 
rat.” (Now that Jervais got his first good look 
at the Dane’s eyes, he realized that Malgorzata hadn’t 
been exaggerating at all. The irises appeared somewhat 
pinkish in the library light, and they jumped 
oddly about.) Torgeir attempted to edge toward the 
friendlier clime of his master’s shadow. Malgorzata 
prevented him with a swift, venomous glance. “All 
these pleasantries aside, you still have not said—” 
“But milady, these pleasantries are of great and 
pressing importance to the clan,” Etrius interrupted. 
“Surely you don’t begrudge our champions against 
the Telyavs a chance to seal their alliance with a 
courteous introduction before they leave us with 
tomorrow’s first darkening?” 
“You still have not said, milord,” she persisted, 
“when you will even agree to hear the case. What 
good does it do us to campaign against the Telyavs 
for whatever wrongs you suppose them to have done 
you, if justice within Ceoris’s own walls is no longer 
in order?” 
“Bonisagus, milady!” No one in Ceoris had the 
otherwise common Tremere habit of swearing by 
Great Tremere or even his Seven Names. The longvanished 
Bonisagus, founder of the Hermetic Order, 
was far safer. “The case will be heard when such cases

Sarah Roark 85 
are usually heard, especially since you’ve written half 
of the magi in this part of Europe requesting their 
attendance, and not all of them can fly.” 
“By which time he’ll have gotten up to who 
knows what other mischief, and we still have no idea 
who’s helping him, milord. I should think you should 
wish to discover the intrigue in your own wing.” 
“I’ll submit him to an oath in the meantime, 
then,” Etrius said wearily. “With a suitable hex if he 
disobeys.” 
“Was he not submitted to the great Oath of 
Tremere, the same as all our initiates? If he dares 
those eternal consequences without fear, milord, how 
shall he fear a simple hex even from his own powerful 
teacher?” 
“I presume your ladyship already has some other 
suggestion in mind for keeping him out of trouble.” 
“Well, there is always the dungeon, of course,” 
she said, putting a finger to her jaw and making a 
thoroughly transparent pretense of deliberating. 
“And the manacles my sire devised for its prisoners 
of the Blood. It’s only for a month after all.” 
“Hmm. As you pointed out, much can happen 
in such a span. And those manacles were designed 
to hold Fiends.” 
Keeping him out of trouble… 
“If I may, my most august, sage and immortal 
Councilor, my revered lady sire,” Jervais spoke up. 
Etrius scowled. “Yes?” 
“Is it not tradition that the accused in such a 
case may offer to undergo an ordeal to prove his loyalty 
to the House and Clan, in lieu of a trial, on the 
occasion of the first offense?” 
Torgeir gave him a look of thorough alarm. 
“Yes, it certainly is,” the Councilor answered 
slowly, “but as young Master Torgeir has expressed 
no such interest, why would you mention it?” 
“Because it occurs to me, milord, that joining 
me in my expedition against the traitors would serve 
as an excellent test of his loyalty. Put him under my

86 Tremere 
command, and I will very quickly determine out of 
what stuff he’s made.” 
Etrius’s eyebrows rose so high they seemed in 
grave danger of disappearing into his hairline. “Yes. 
Yes, I’m sure you would, Jervais…and you would be 
one step closer to your full sodalicium as well.” 
To Jervais’s relief, Malgorzata’s face lit with pleasure. 
Torgeir under Jervais’s authority—where he 
could be declared a traitor on Jervais’s say-so, sent 
to his death at leisure, rendered desperately beholden 
to their faction or at the very least humbled to within 
an inch of his existence—was clearly an even more 
delightful thought than Torgeir subjected to 
Goratrix’s Iron Torment. Just as clearly, she took 
Etrius to be flummoxed and embarrassed at this turn 
of events, and not merely astounded at what Jervais 
knew was the gift he had just tossed into the old 
archmagus’s lap. 
He was, after all, volunteering to take along a confirmed 
spy, and thus spare Etrius the labor of a trial 
which Malgorzata had obviously meant to make as 
big an embarrassment as possible. 
“Well, Torgeir. It is your right to request such 
an ordeal…if you wish.” Etrius grimaced. “Ordeal it’ll 
certainly be, if Master Jervais has aught to do with 
it. But it may still be preferable to letting milady have 
her way.” 
Torgeir stared. His lips flopped minutely open 
and shut a couple of times as though to protest, but 
it didn’t take much spy-craft to tell where his master’s 
will lay. He brushed nervous hands down the front 
of his robe. “Yes, master—most august lord Councilor. 
It would please me greatly to be given this 
chance to clear my name.” 
“Then so be it. Go pack. As of this moment, your 
obedience is to Master Jervais, and I’d better not hear 
otherwise. Master Antal, let me see you to your quarters. 
We must talk before you depart.” 
“My heart,” Malgorzata whispered, excitedly 
slipping her arm into Jervais’s as they walked out,

Sarah Roark 87 
“why on earth didn’t you mention you’d come up with 
such a marvelous plan? I would never have written 
all those silly letters.” 
“I wanted it to seem spontaneous, milady,” he 
smiled. 
“But you could have told me, my heart.” 
“You said you enjoyed my surprises. You did look 
quite convincingly surprised.” 
“Did I?” She laughed. “Well, good. Better the 
old bat doesn’t suspect so much. Perhaps he’ll even 
start to think you’ve gone over to his side. But listen, 
I already know how we can make the best of 
this Torgeir while you’ve got him. Now this may seem 
a little complicated, but you’ll see the sense of it in 
a moment.” 
He didn’t want to listen at all, but he had to 
know what he was supposed to do if he was going to 
figure out later how to prove tragically incapable of 
it.

88 Tremere 
Chapter Eight 
One… 
Himself, of course. For his own strand he selected 
a bit of green silk, requisitioned from Ceoris’s stores 
just before their departure. It was deceptively soft 
and luxurious, but of great tensile strength, capable 
even of catching arrowheads. He knotted it onto a 
wire framework of his wizard’s sigil and set it out to 
catch the light of Scorpio, his birth sign, for three 
nights in a row. Then he unknotted it again and ran 
it through a lodestone with a hole in the middle 
while chanting the proper formulae. 
*** 
Two… 
Antal. Jervais didn’t know much about Master 
Antal, and certainly there wasn’t sufficient trust between 
them for Jervais to ask for his blood or his sigil. 
But Jervais could fairly see and smell the bloodsoaked 
battlefield spreading just behind Antal’s grim 
flat eyes, so he selected a length of sackcloth thread 
for the Hungarian’s strand. First he dragged it 
through the ashes of a dead child which he dug up 
in a churchyard as they headed north through the 
Saxon country, then he passed it through a cloud of 
burning sulfur while performing the spoken enchantments. 
*** 
Three… 
Torgeir. At least since he had clear seniority over 
Torgeir—not to mention sole discretion in the matter 
of Torgeir’s ordeal—he could reasonably demand 
a few drops of blood with which to anoint Torgeir’s 
strand. He had Fidus rouse a dyer’s family in Culus in 
the middle of the night for a length of undyed wool 
yarn and some good lye to bleach it with. (Fidus reported 
the dyer’s comment afterward: “If one must 
choose between accepting the devil’s silver or the

Sarah Roark 89 
devil’s curse, the former is preferable by far.”) Seized 
with a whim inspired by his sire’s words and his own 
first impressions, he then bound the pale cord around 
a rat he’d caught and waited until it had starved. Then 
he unwrapped it from the desiccated little body and 
proceeded to make the same incantations as he had 
with the other threads. 
*** 
Four… 
“Of course, I would leap to assist his most august 
lordship in any way I possibly could,” Regent 
Karolus said, setting the parchment down rather dangerously 
near a brazier, “but I’m afraid I simply can’t 
spare anyone right now.” 
“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” Jervais made a little 
moue of concern. “Are the Fiends’ depredations 
heavy of late?” 
“No, no, it’s not so much that, Master Jervais,” 
the regent replied uneasily. “It’s that I’m in the crucial 
stage of a project of great importance to House 
and Clan.” 
“So I’d heard.” 
“You’d heard?” Immediately the man’s voice 
sharpened. “Heard from whom?” 
“Why, from your brother regent in Szatmar- 
Nemeti.” 
“He’s not my brother,” Karolus snapped. He 
picked the parchment back up. 
“He isn’t?” Jervais returned with an expression 
of surprise. “He gave me to understand that you’d 
served apprenticeship together. In any case, we’re all 
brothers in the Blood…” 
“Yes, yes. I mean that he has never behaved as a 
brother should to me. I’m sure he had a lot of pretty 
tales for you, though.” 
“Oh, no, not really.” 
“Ah, you see, he never changes. What did he 
say?”
“Just petty little things. Nothing worth your concern.”

90 Tremere 
The more he demurred, the more agitated 
Karolus became. “Tell me what he said about the 
project. Come, Master Jervais, you’re absolutely 
transparent. He said something, didn’t he?” 
“Well.” Jervais rubbed at his beard. “Well, to be 
honest, he did try to convince me to bring some of 
his ‘concerns’ about it to Ceoris. His most serious 
charge was that in forty years, your research hasn’t 
produced a single innovation of clear, immediate and 
practical use to either the blood war or the clan at 
large.” Granted, the regent in Szatmar-Nemeti had 
only gone so far because Jervais had gently encouraged 
his first tentative slanders, but Karolus hardly 
needed to know that. 
“No immediate use!” Karolus spluttered. His lips, 
the last trace of color left in his vampire face, went 
livid. He picked up a silver bell from a little rack of 
bells and rang it vigorously. “No practical application! 
Why, if it weren’t for my research both we and 
Szatmar would have been overrun decades ago, and 
he knows it!” 
A Cainite of rather Turkish-looking features, tall 
and well built but carrying himself with the slight 
stoop of a devoted scribe, entered the room and made 
a hasty bow. 
“Yes, master?” 
“Master Jervais, this is Baghatur Kazharin. He is 
at your service for the scourging of the traitors in 
Livonia.” 
Baghatur ducked his head, probably more to 
cover his astonishment than to signal submission. 
“Oh, no, this won’t do, Master Karolus,” Jervais 
protested. “I certainly don’t wish to discomfit you at 
such an important juncture. There surely must be 
other chantries with Tremere to spare…” 
“What good does it do me to have all my juniors 
here, if you return to Ceoris with nothing to contradict 
my treacherous brother’s accounting of me?” 
Karolus cried. “No, I insist. I promise you, you will 
see with your own eyes the ‘immediate’ and ‘practi

Sarah Roark 91 
cal’ use of my work. Baghatur has been a most attentive 
apprentice, and he has recently attained the 
Fourth Circle, which I hope will suffice for your purposes. 
He won’t disappoint. There, perhaps that will 
put an end to this nonsense once and for all! If so, 
I’ll consider it well worth the hardship.” 
“Well, since you do insist. I thank you, Master 
Regent.” Jervais smiled slightly. As he turned, he 
noticed a large, wide parchment pasted flat upon the 
wall and secured with tiny nails along the edges, and 
moved closer to it. “Is this a ley-line survey?” 
Karolus nodded and came to join him. “Yes, for 
a hundred leagues in either direction. Within the 
circle is the area surveyed in person, the rest done 
by scrying.” 
Jervais touched a little blue figure of a house, 
labeled in neat letters. “And these are the chantries?” 
“Of course.” 
Jervais plucked his letter out of Karolus’s hand 
and peered at it. Six names were listed on it for this 
portion of the route. He looked again at the map. 
Seven little blue houses. 
Six names. Seven houses. Etrius had left one out. 
Etrius was not a forgetful sort. 
Jervais chose a fine linen for Baghatur’s thread. 
Over a few different conversations with the apprentice, 
he was able to glean a little about him: chiefly 
that he was a Khazar Jew (no doubt Hermann would 
be overjoyed), the chantry’s resident copyist, a worshiper 
at the shrine of Avicenna and a fanatic for 
his teacher’s theory of alchemy. The last, at least, 
seemed sufficiently heartfelt to serve as an anchor. 
And so after anointing the thread with a few drops 
of Baghatur’s blood, he passed the thread through 
dirt, smoke, water and—very quickly afterward—fire. 
Then for good measure he recited the first verse of 
the Shma, the only Hebrew he knew aside from the 
few terms necessary to get through Ceoris’s Latin 
translation of the Sepher Yetzirah. 
***

92 Tremere 
Five… 
“Yes, yes, plainly this is very important to the 
most reverend Councilor.” Regent Laszlo glanced 
aimlessly at the letter. “And I won’t dispute Ceoris’s 
wise judgment in the matter of the Telyavs. But surely 
you’ve already noticed that it’s we here in Hungary 
who must draw regular reinforcements from west and 
north…not vice versa. You’ll have more luck with 
the chantries in Silesia and Poland.” 
“Do you really think so?” Jervais asked mildly. 
“Well.” Laszlo’s lips gave an ironic twitch. “Perhaps 
not.” 
“You didn’t finish reading.” 
“Did I need to? I think I’ve made myself clear.” 
Laszlo must be very old, very entrenched or both. Of 
their whole band he seemed to think only Antal 
worthy of respect, though since Jervais was nominal 
head, he granted him the polite minimums at least. 
“Look at the list,” Jervais urged. 
Laszlo did so. He frowned. “I’m not on the list.” 
“Precisely, Master Regent.” 
“Then why are you here?” 
“Because you’re not on it.” 
It took a moment, but the light dawned. “Ah.” 
“Perhaps if I explained that I am Malgorzata’s 
eldest childe, that would dispel some of the mystery.” 
“Yes. Yes, it would. And he is sending you to take 
care of the Telyavs, is he?” 
“He is indeed, but you see with what support.” 
“True. So, are you meant to fail outright, I wonder, 
or are you meant to die after having first battered 
the Telyavs to the point where a second assault will 
succeed?” 
The latter possibility hadn’t occurred to Jervais. 
It was certainly perfectly likely. 
“I don’t know.” 
“I must assume that your gaining any sort of personal 
glory out of the affair would, in any case, annoy 
his lordship greatly.”

Sarah Roark 93 
“That is the safest of all assumptions, Master 
Laszlo.” 
Laszlo smiled a knife-thin smile. “In that case, 
you may have my youngest apprentice, Miklos. He’s 
only Fifth Circle, alas, and I confess was brought in 
more for his skill at arms and tactics than his aptitude 
in the Art…” 
“Fifth Circle will do quite well, Master Regent, 
and we’ll need good tacticians.” Jervais bowed low. 
It didn’t take much observation of Miklos—who 
despite his robes had about him the look of a squire 
just one advantageous ancestor short of knighthood—
to determine that a thick sturdy hemp thread 
would suit him best. Jervais had Hermann cut the 
length of it with his sword. If the Saxon thought it 
an odd request that he should hack at a defenseless 
bit of fiber while shouting a lusty battle-cry, he didn’t 
bother to say so. Jervais also noticed that Miklos 
proudly wore a necklace strung with several yellowed 
fangs, and that led him to dig out from a trunk one 
of two Tzimisce skulls he always carried about. He 
then temporarily dubbed the skull “Rustovitch,” and 
used the hemp thread to jerk its fangs viciously from 
their sockets. 
*** 
Six… 
“Well, I’m always honored at his lordship’s demonstrations 
of trust, and would normally hasten to 
do as he asks,” Regent Albizellus said. “But this is 
the fourth time in a decade he’s asked us to hand 
over one of our own. Surely it’s someone else’s turn. 
Apprentices don’t just pop up in the chantry garden 
each spring.” 
“Believe me,” Jervais assured him, “I have some 
idea what goes into the training of magi-to-be, Master 
Albizellus, and I do sympathize.” 
Albizellus looked rather surprised at this quick 
acquiescence, and indeed dismayed. So that was it— 
he was perfectly prepared to give up a student 
(perhaps he kept an unusually large crop of them

94 Tremere 
about just for such occasions), but wanted it to be 
understood as a real favor. Jervais did not allow himself 
to smile. 
“Is…is it really that dire?” The regent fumbled 
his way back onto the conversational path. 
Jervais knew he’d already landed his fish, but he 
had no objection to providing the necessary diplomacies. 
He grimaced. “Master Albizellus, his lordship 
fears the very worst of these Telyavs. Not only have 
they almost completely cut themselves off from the 
clan’s obedience, they may have thrown in their lot 
with our enemies. They may even be allied with the 
Fiends, or on the verge of doing so. We must act now, 
before all is lost.” 
“Ah, I see. Well, I suppose if our assistance is 
needed that badly, I can answer the call one more 
time.” 
“Ceoris thanks you, Master Albizellus, for your 
constancy.” 
“Not at all, Master Jervais. Zabor!” 
To Jervais’s astonishment, a head popped up from 
behind one of the library tables. It had a thatch of 
disheveled brown hair, and was attached to a youthful 
body whose left hand held a woebegone scrub 
cloth. 
“Zabor.” Albizellus didn’t await a response or a 
bow. “You’re going to Livonia.” 
“Of course,” the apprentice said flatly. 
“Forgive me, Master Regent,” Jervais broke in. 
“But I must not have made myself fully clear. My recruits 
must be of at least the Fourth Circle in order 
to participate in the rituals I’ll require.” 
“Zabor is Fourth Circle,” Albizellus smiled. 
And yet he’s made to wash the floors still…not a 
good sign. 
“You won’t mind a bit of a trip, will you?” he 
asked the apprentice. 
“No, master. It should be my honor to take part 
in something so important.” He glanced ironically 
at the rag in his hand.

Sarah Roark 95 
“Zabor isn’t the most docile student I’ve ever 
had,” Albizellus put in pleasantly, “but I don’t doubt 
one of your experience can keep him in line easily 
enough. And perhaps this is just the sort of schooling 
the lad needs.” 
Albizellus also informed Jervais before he left 
that Zabor excelled in tearing apart the enchantments 
of others. And so Jervais selected for Zabor a 
length of nettle-yarn—stinging nettle, shirts of 
which the Slavs trusted to repel demons, dragons and 
lightning—and flicked it with drops of Zabor’s blood 
and also a bit of solution of green vitriol. He then 
shielded the yarn by winding a thin wool yarn around 
it (the last thing he wanted was for Zabor’s destructiveness 
to make naked contact with the threads of 
his fellows) and finished with the usual incantations. 
*** 
Seven. 
“Not to dispute his lordship’s decisions, because 
that’s the very furthest thing from my mind…” Regent 
Walenty frowned. “But were you really 
dispatched from Ceoris one Tremere short of a 
sodalicium? That hardly makes sense.” 
Jervais let his throat close over the gruel-thin 
draught of mortal blood he’d taken from the goblet 
Walenty handed him, then forced it down before replying. 
“Not one short, I’m afraid. My cohort was 
mostly assembled from the chantries along my route, 
from the regents whose names you see there.” 
“Ah. I see. But forgive me, I’m still confused. 
My understanding was that the Telyavs have done 
exactly as they pleased for well over a century now, 
and I hadn’t thought the situation substantially 
changed. Why the sudden urgency? And if it is so 
urgent, then why must you go from chantry to 
chantry with cap in hand in order to fill out your 
ranks?” 
“The ways of the Council are mysterious.” Jervais 
was not, by now, feeling inclined to share the details

96 Tremere 
of how precisely the situation with the Telyavs had 
changed. 
There was a faint knock on the warded study 
door. Walenty looked irritated, but called, “Yes? 
What is it?” 
A dark-eyed woman, modestly veiled, entered 
and curtsied low. Jervais’s spirits rose slightly. Perhaps 
the goblet had been a stopgap while more 
appropriate refreshment was located. But then the 
regent gestured for her to rise. “Yes, Olena?” 
“I’m afraid Pawel’s just made a rather large mess 
of his exercise this evening, master.” 
His eyes widened. “How large a mess?” 
“I…well, I think you’d better see, master…” 
“Weren’t you supposed to be supervising him?” 
he snapped. “Oh, very—forgive me, Master Jervais. 
I’ll be back shortly, I hope.” He stalked out, robes 
flapping behind. 
Olena hurried up to Jervais. “Unorthodox, I 
know,” she half whispered, “but there was no other 
way I could speak to you. He was determined to keep 
me busy all night.” 
“To speak to me?” Jervais returned, mystified. 
“I’ve finished my Circles,” she interrupted him. 
“I finished them more quickly than any other apprentice 
he’s ever had. I finished them over twenty years 
ago, but he keeps saying no new regencies have 
opened up. That isn’t true, is it?” 
“I—” He stammered. “That is, I suppose it’s unlikely 
that no new regencies have opened up in either 
Silesia or Poland, but I can’t help you against your 
own regent.” 
“But you can. You’re Master Jervais of Ceoris, 
and you’re on a mission for the clan, aren’t you? I 
need a chance to demonstrate my ability—to someone 
besides him. Otherwise I’ll be teaching his 
apprentices until the Fiends finally turn him to ash…” 
From the way she gritted her teeth, he imagined that 
arranging for exactly that would soon be no more 
out of the question than arranging an accident for

Sarah Roark 97 
Pawel. “Just one chance, that’s all I ask. Please.” She 
threw a look over her shoulder, and then hurried over 
to the door. “Please.” 
When Walenty returned a little while later, 
Jervais said casually, “I see that you don’t have the 
aversion most of our colleagues profess for sharing 
the Art with the fair sex.” 
“I begin to wish I had,” the regent sniffed. “I 
tell you, Master Jervais, the virtues of the Blood simply 
move too sluggishly through the female vessel. 
Nor are the powers of discipline and concentration 
what one should hope for, as you’ve just seen—our 
most sage and immortal Lady Councilor in England 
excepted, of course.” 
“And, of course, my own sire.” 
Walenty’s jaw dropped, but he recovered fairly 
quickly. “Yes, yes, of course. An eminent exception.” 
“Well, in that case, perhaps it would be mutually 
beneficial if I were to take her off your hands? 
You would have the room to introduce another male 
apprentice, and all I really need now is one more 
Cainite body to fill out the last place in the 
sodalicium. She is Fourth Circle, at least?” 
“Oh. Yes…” Jervais could fairly see the man’s 
thoughts turning like a water wheel, as he tried and 
failed to think of some way he could contradict himself 
and not look like an utter fool. Jervais did not 
intend to permit him that luxury. 
“Excellent! Then I shall be able to enter the 
pagan lands with everything in place. His august 
lordship will be so pleased.” 
For Olena, Jervais chose a worsted yarn, smooth 
and hard-twisted. Then he steeped it in a hot tincture 
of ivy—patient, tenacious, ambitious—and left 
it wrapped, seven times for each Circle she was so 
proud to have achieved, around a silver vial of mercury 
for a night and day before finishing the 
incantations. 
***

98 Tremere 
He could remember being a very young boy, too young to 
recognize the difference between women’s and men’s work. 
Old Nurse—whose name he didn’t know even though he still 
sometimes drank from her pillowy breast—was trying to braid 
his sister’s hair and like any small child, he wanted to take part 
in whatever was being done. When her efforts to shove and 
slap him while holding onto the fraying strands only produced 
a screaming fit, she finally agreed to show him how if he would 
stand quiet and obedient. And so it was Nurse’s hands that he 
thought of now, guiding him in spirit even though he doubted 
the woman had ever plaited more than three strands together, 
and he had to contend with seven. 
Once he’d finished the broad band and gotten it loose 
from the stick the other end had been tied to, he began to 
knot it upon itself. 
“With knot of one, I begin my charm in the name of Tremere. 
With knot of two, I bind us in the blood of Tremere. 
With knot of three, I bind us in the will of Tremere. 
With knot of four, I bind us in the power of Tremere. 
With knot of five, I bind us in the brotherhood of 
Tremere. 
With knot of six, I bind us in the fate of Tremere. 
With knot of seven, I seal my charm in the name of 
Tremere. 
Though born to different natures and spun on different 
spindles, we weave our arts as one. 
Our circle will be strong where theirs will be weak. 
Our circle will labor where theirs will sit idle. 
Our circle will know harmony while theirs will learn strife. 
Our circle will prevail where theirs will fall. 
Yes, amen, let it be so. 
One House, One Clan, One Blood.”

Sarah Roark 99 
My blood. 
As he finished this recitation, he took the 
braid—now looped into a circle secured by the seventh 
and final knot—and laid it in the little iron 
cauldron to steep in the dark red ichor. 
It was a very simple, very old sort of magic, but 
things simple and old often had a power all their own, 
and he wouldn’t shame to make use of it if it helped 
his newborn sodalicium hold together for even one 
night longer than it would have otherwise. 
Or, to be more accurate: one night longer than 
the enemy did. That, after all, was the crucial thing, 
and despite his spell’s hopeful demands, it was by no 
means a sure one.

100 Tremere 
Chapter Nine 
Deverra did not generally stand for long on the hill 
where the sacred fire burned and the sacred zaltys-snake 
made its lair. As important as it was, the task was better 
suited to mortal priestesses, who saw warmth, home and 
food within the flame’s red depths—not an end to immortality. 
But the smell from the wood and the sacred herbs 
that the priestesses threw upon it in handfuls drove away 
all other scents, good and bad. She wanted distraction from 
both sorts. Her eyes read the sky left to right, top to bottom, 
like a parchment page, and then restlessly began 
again. 
“If you are really so desperate,” Qarakh murmured 
beside her, “you could call to it—make it fly the other way. 
My people also believe in the messages of birds, but we are 
not above making our own fortune either.” 
She turned to look at him. Her lips wanted to smile 
at the welcome sight of him: the strange wind-weathered 
face still showing the ochre-brown of many years’ sun even 
through the Cainite pallor, the little stub of rounded nosetip 
emerging from a flattened bridge, dark narrow eyes that 
could be cruel as a winter storm or softly questioning, as 
they were now. She felt the smile but couldn’t quite make 
it. 
“No, Qarakh.” 
“No.” He squinted, staring off into the sky. “But you 
will stand here night after night and watch for it to do as 
you hope.” 
“I won’t succumb to self-delusion, but for hope I’ll 
wait as long as necessary. It flew east, toward the flames of 
sunrise, three nights ago, shrieking all the way. It still has 
three more to fly west into the cool night and cancel out 
the omen. If it’s there to be seen, I will see it.” 
“Will the omen not be the same whether you witness 
it or not?” 
“What need would there be for a shaman, if it didn’t 
matter what she saw or didn’t see?”

Sarah Roark 101 
“My shaman,” he said, taking her arm. “I appreciate 
your devotion on behalf of the tribe, and I will not dissuade 
you from watching. But you have been up here for 
three nights and you have not drunk. You must drink.” 
“Purification,” she said shortly. 
“You must drink,” he said just as shortly. “Three nights’ 
purification is enough.” 
“Then have it brought to me, so I can continue to 
watch.” 
He didn’t look pleased, but he nodded. “As you wish.” 
The wind sent her hair aloft, drifting on the currents 
of air. Since it had gone white, it had also become thin 
and light as flax-filaments. It was very responsive to 
weather and the passage of spirits. 
“This has not been the only such omen in recent 
nights,” he frowned. 
“No, only the worst.” 
“Are they truly so bad? You had ill omens before 
Alexander came as well. Are these like they, or weaker? 
Stronger?” He added the last in a tone of great reluctance. 
“They are very bad…and also strange. I haven’t seen 
such strange signs in a long while.” 
“Since when?” he pressed. She wondered whether now 
might be a good time to play the mysterious oracle and 
refuse to answer, but then she shook her head fondly. 
“Since just before we met. That was a strange-fated 
evening indeed, you cannot deny.” 
“Yes, I remember. I thought at first you must be a 
chotgor…” 
“A disease-spirit?” 
“Yes. White, thin, fragile. Altogether ugly.” Fortunately, 
she knew Qarakh well enough to let him finish 
before taking offense. “But you changed my mind quickly 
enough.” 
She answered his meaning, not his words. “I had a lot 
more to change your mind with, back then. But now…” 
“Now we rule this people. Together.” He caught her 
hand and wouldn’t let it go. She felt her blasted flesh protest, 
bits of it splitting and sloughing off. “Only together. 
That is our strength. Don’t think I have forgotten it.”

102 Tremere 
“Qarakh,” she said, “you’re hurting me.” 
He loosened his grip, but kept on pursuing his thought. 
“I also have not forgotten a certain sorcery you practiced 
a few times. When I slept at the foot of your tree, and you 
brought our spirits both out of their bodies. And we would 
seem to be mortal man and woman for a few hours…” 
Again, she heard what he didn’t say. Not just alive, 
but alive and young. The fact that he didn’t look at her 
now made it all the more obvious. His pain moved her, 
and she wanted to comfort him by allowing him to try to 
comfort her. But the pain in her own soul when she even 
thought about it—escaping into false serenity for a few 
hours, and then having to return again to play the unbowed 
priestess, queen and avatar—decided her. 
“My khan honors me. But I fear I find myself too weary 
lately to cast enchantments that are of no…direct benefit 
to anyone.” 
He nodded. “I will have the vessel brought up. But 
you must rest. I cannot have my witch weary.” 
“No, don’t trouble yourself, my khan. I will go down 
and feed. It is long past the hour when such birds fly anyway.”
He started to speak, but she gave him an abbreviated 
courtesy and brushed past. He watched her go down into 
the encampment. As she hobbled by one ger a furtive, 
shaggy figure stole out of it, going mostly on its legs but 
assisting itself with pushes of its taloned hands along the 
ground. Through the blur of hair and rags, Qarakh could 
still see the outlines of what had once been a woman, a 
proud warrior of his own Blood. The bestial figure mewled 
and brushed up against Deverra, who put out a gnarled 
hand to stroke the figure’s head. His beautiful shaman and 
his northern Valkyrie. They at least still walked the night, 
unlike others. 
“The gods…” He spoke in the vague plural, thus including 
all the many divinities held dear by his raiders, 
Deverra’s priesthood and the Baltic peoples themselves. 
He had one god in particular in mind, but didn’t wish to 
stir it with a particular mention. “The gods demand much 
of us in exchange for their gifts. We pay not only our own

Sarah Roark 103 
private prices, but each others’ as well. Will there ever 
come a night when the price is finally paid in full? What 
will be left of us then?” 
Feh. This sort of melancholic fit was not like him. 
But it had been happening a lot of late, and it unnerved 
him at least as much as anything Deverra had seen or said. 
He was finding that not even the blood of mortals drunk 
on mead or qumis could always shake him out of it. He 
heard the cry of a raven, and leapt, as though struck, back 
up the hill to see. It was flying east.

104 Tremere 
Chapter Ten 
Tobiasz idly tapped the back of the neck of one captive, 
a youth, who glared up at Jervais with eyes hot with 
hatred. The lad flinched and put his head back down. 
“These Balts haven’t figured it out yet,” he chuckled. 
“They’ll sell each other to anybody. Pskovians, Hungarians—
they don’t understand they’re already too few for 
their own good. I’m not about to tell them, of course. Well? 
What do you think?” 
“What languages do they speak?” Jervais asked. 
“Let’s see. Not the Silesian speech. I have a couple of 
Esths, some Livs, some Letts, a Kur, a Semgall…” 
“I don’t need Silesian. One should speak the 
Samogitian tongue, or something like it. As for the rest, 
I’d prefer they not speak to anyone at all.” 
“Ah, you’re continuing northeast. In that case, you’re 
probably best off with the Esths. Their tongue is more like 
the Finns’. Or if you like, I could take some of the other 
Balts and cut out their tongues. But there’s little need to 
worry. They all hate each other, as I already said.” 
“And the Samogitians?” 
“They’re wild, strong warriors. I don’t have one right 
now. The Semgall might have some acquaintance with 
their language. Actually, now that I think of it, I seem to 
remember the Kur trying to talk to the Semgall in what 
was either Samogitian or the highland speech.” 
Jervais nodded. “The Kur, then. And I’ll need a dozen 
others. Their nationality doesn’t concern me so long as 
they’re healthy.” 
“A dozen! A pleasure to do business with you, mein 
Herr. With or without tongues?” Tobiasz grinned. 
“With. Mustn’t run out of things to threaten them 
with too quickly.” 
“Indeed!” Tobiasz hesitated for a moment, then went 
on. “You’re not familiar with these parts, are you, mein 
Herr?” 
“Not at all, as I’m sure you can tell.”

Sarah Roark 105 
“Then if you will permit me, I wish to show you a 
spot of the local color.” The slaver extended his hand. “I 
have a feeling you’re the sort to appreciate it.” 
*** 
Jervais dipped his bare foot into the water of the 
spring. Even though a mist lay over it, he wasn’t prepared 
for the warmth that enveloped his toes. He lowered himself 
the rest of the way in. It smelled a bit funny, and the 
water felt oddly slippery, but the sensation was quite pleasant. 
“And mortals come here for leisure?” he whispered to 
Tobiasz. 
“Not leisure,” Tobiasz corrected him delightedly. 
“Witchcraft.” 
“I see.” 
“The people—the dissatisfied young peasants especially, 
but sometimes even the soldiers of Chojnik 
keep—they come here on nights of the new moon to ask 
the vodyanoi for aid. If they doubt you, just ask them to 
listen to your chest so they can hear that you have no 
heartbeat and are, in fact, a spirit.” 
For his part, Jervais thought it almost enough just to 
be warm and naked under the stars—after a little while, 
he could even pretend Tobiasz was not there—but presently 
there were signs of movement in the surrounding 
brush, and the dim outlines of a threesome of young maids, 
huddled fearfully together. They carried a loaf of bread for 
propitiation. 
He understood precious little of what they said, but 
he nodded and answered yes, yes of course to everything 
that sounded like a question. Names were mentioned, of 
lovers, lovers-to-be, rivals, parents perhaps. Tobiasz spoke 
to the girls several times. Jervais didn’t know whether he 
actually instructed them to disrobe or whether they already 
understood that to be the price, but in any case they 
too stripped bare of everything but their head-kerchiefs. 
Jervais took one girl into his lap. She wrapped her arms 
around herself but didn’t resist him. He caressed her a 
while, pleased with the slickness of her wet goose-pimpled 
skin—but there was something that bothered him as well.

106 Tremere 
Not her fear so much (he’d long since become used to 
chantry prey being either terrified or abjectly obsessed with 
the Kiss), but the solemn pall that hung over the proceedings. 
Her submission had a ceremonial quality which 
should have been stimulating yet wasn’t. 
Quite suddenly he began to tickle her. She chuckled 
unwillingly, then cried out. An instant later, under his 
redoubled assault, she was shrieking peal after peal of laughter 
to the sky. Her friends gaped, doubtless convinced he 
was murdering her, but she turned and jabbed her fingers 
under his armpits, causing him to splash and mock-protest. 
Soon even Tobiasz had to chortle at them. 
“This is meant to be a dire sorcerous rite,” the slaver 
chided Jervais as the latter took advantage of the improved 
mood to bite into his vessel’s wrist. She cried out again, 
this time in pain followed closely by lust. Tobiasz followed 
suit with one of the others. 
Jervais finished his sip and sealed the wound shut with 
a touch of his tongue. Then he snapped his fingers at 
Tobiasz. “That for dire sorcerous rites!” 
He examined the girl. He’d drunk very shallowly. She 
seemed little the worse for it, and indeed much the better. 
Her heart still beat strongly. Her buttocks, which had lain 
taut on his thighs before, had now softened and flattened 
against him. He put his hand into the triangle of hair at 
her belly’s base. Extending his senses in the way Malgorzata 
had taught him so long ago, he could feel the pulse of her 
blood just underneath the skin—feel it and mystically draw 
it toward his fingertips, toward the surface of the tender 
flesh, engorging it. She drew in a shuddery breath. The 
scent of her sweat increased. He kissed the top of her neck, 
exulting in the knowledge that just beneath his lips, sharp 
and eager, waited her death if he so chose. The sheer dizzying 
joy of that power tempted him to hover there, 
between the resolution to either kill her or let her live. 
He held himself back, merely kissing her again. 
There was a thrashing sound in the brush. Jervais 
started and looked up, expecting a deer to come blundering 
through. But it was an armored figure, sword drawn, 
black cross starkly visible on his white tunic.

Sarah Roark 107 
“So!” Hermann bellowed. “This is where you wandered 
off to!” 
“What do you think you’re doing, Hermann?” Jervais 
snarled back. The girls crowded away in a huddle. 
“What do you think you’re doing? We are taking the 
cross against the pagans, and here you are—” 
“You are taking the cross, Brother! Not I! Look upon 
your chest, then look upon my chest. I don’t recall ever 
swearing a pilgrim’s vow.” 
“Go,” Hermann shouted at the girls. “Go and save 
your skins, if not your virtue!” He shouted it in Saxon, but 
they took his meaning quite well enough. They splashed 
out, stepped into their shoes, slid their shifts down over 
their freezing bodies, wadded up the rest of their clothes 
and fled in terror. 
“Believe me, it wasn’t my intent to surprise you at 
your lewdness,” the knight went on. “You disappeared and 
so did this…flesh-peddler, so against my better judgment, 
I decided to go out and make sure no ill had befallen you. 
Then I heard a woman’s screams.” 
“Of course you heard woman’s screams. This is vampire 
country,” Tobiasz said lazily. 
“And you…” Hermann’s sword pointed in Tobiasz’ 
direction. “Unless you so greatly enjoy sharing a warlock’s 
water that you would dare my ire, you had better cover 
yourself and get out of my sight.” 
“A warlock’s water?” the slaver exclaimed, his face 
falling. Then he turned to stare in dismay at Jervais. “You 
mean…” 
“Yes. Now go.” 
“I’m going. You niemczi—always biting the hand that 
feeds.” Tobiasz threw on his clothes. 
“You cannot order me out,” Jervais blurted, even 
though he no longer had the slightest wish to remain for 
any reason besides defying the Ventrue. 
“No, I cannot order you out,” Hermann agreed, irritated. 
“Perhaps you should see to your own needs, mein Herr. 
Did you find any of the slaves suitable?”

108 Tremere 
“They’ll do,” the knight nodded. Jervais resolved once 
again to determine the secret of the Ventrue knight’s finicky 
tastes. All through Hungary he’d refused to share the 
Tremere’s vessels or allow any of them to procure for him, 
instead sending one of his mortal soldiers out to do it. Quite 
a few nights he’d simply done without, restraining his appetite 
with prayer-vigils. “I’ll say this for your fellows, here 
and at Ceoris—they’re a pasty, loathsome lot, but at least 
they don’t luxuriate in it like brothellers at a stew-house. 
They don’t trick the mortals or toy with them, trying to 
turn it into a pleasure.” 
“Ah, you noticed that,” Jervais said calmly. 
Hermann stared at him a moment, saying nothing, 
then sheathed his sword and walked away. Jervais sat alone 
in the water for a long time. All contentment and ease 
had evaporated like the steam from the water’s surface. 
He willed himself to let it go. They were in Tzimisce lands 
now. He couldn’t afford to hate Hermann, or anyone else. 
A new silhouette appeared quietly at the spring’s edge. 
Jervais stared at it. An old bearded man stood there, 
stooped but unashamed, completely naked in the brisk 
winter air. 
The man spoke. Jervais shook his head, then said, “I 
don’t understand,” in Saxon just to make himself perfectly 
clear. He was tired of playing spring-god for the night. 
“So the devil speaks Saxon these days?” the man said. 
“Well, I should not be surprised. You look surprised. I have 
not come here for years. I asked you for many things in my 
youth. You took the salt of my blood, and I made many 
wishes, and none of them came true. Not one.” 
He came closer. His gaze was fixed and intense. Jervais 
could read it very clearly, could see the span of decades in 
it. He’d endured much bitterness, many disappointments, 
for which he was now deliberately choosing to hold Jervais 
solely responsible. At the moment, Jervais could find no 
fault in that. 
“Now even to the one son I have left, I am like a dog 
at the door. There is no part of my body that does not pain 
me.”

Sarah Roark 109 
The man bent down to the ground, kissed it and whispered 
into it for a moment. 
“I know that God will not forgive, because He will 
not forgive me even the crime of living, so I beg matka 
ziemia, Moist Mother Earth, for forgiveness,” he explained, 
sitting up. “Perhaps she will be kind. Perhaps not. Of you, 
whatever you are, I make no more wishes. I ask only what 
I know you can give me. Spiteful spirit, I ask you to spite 
me unto my death.” 
Jervais sat there, awestruck, for several moments. 
Then he stood. 
“That,” he said hoarsely, “I can do. Come.” 
He held out his hand to help the old man into the 
pool.

110 Tremere 
Chapter Eleven 
It wasn’t so very different from the Christian country 
they had now left behind. Or at least Jervais didn’t think 
so. Though he knew intellectually that Poland and Silesia 
were considered “settled” and Prussia was not, it had all 
felt more or less like forest primeval to him. At no point 
in the journey had he encountered a juncture where he 
could have said, “Here ends civilization; here begins savagery.” 
Nations, churches and landscapes shaded into each 
other. None of it was Saxony, and certainly none of it was 
his France, where man and nature had long ago reached 
their eternal détente. Here, even in the places where fields 
and pastures stubbornly interspersed themselves between 
dense, looming tracts of forest or heath or marsh, they always 
seemed somehow tentative. It was as though they 
knew they would be swallowed up again at once should 
the slightest misfortune strike. 
They came to a fork in the dirt road. Hermann pulled 
up short. The company of Black Cross knights, both 
Cainite and mortal, who had joined them at Stettin halted 
behind him in perfect formation. Even together with their 
squires and men-at-arms they weren’t many, but their discipline 
at least was cheering to see. 
“Which way now, Meister Tremere? It looks like we 
must choose between woodland and marsh. Are we still 
following the whim of your rock?” 
Jervais snorted, but just to be sure his fatigued eyes 
weren’t beginning to deceive him, he fished out his lodestone 
pendulum and let it swing until it found the ley line. 
“We make for the trees.” 
They rode uphill toward the stately line of pine and 
fir. Just at the wood’s edge Zabor, the lone Pole among the 
Tremere, shivered and held up his hand. 
“Wait! We shouldn’t be here.” 
Jervais turned quizzically. “What do you mean, 
‘shouldn’t’?” 
“It’s an alkas.”

Sarah Roark 111 
“It’s a grove,” frowned Jervais. 
“That’s just what I mean, master,” the apprentice said 
irritably. Jervais’s brow wrinkled and he opened his mouth 
to reprove the lad for his rudeness, but Master Antal interrupted 
with one of his rare, typically blunt contributions. 
“The Prus worship in certain groves, like the Tzimisce 
slaves in Hungary.” He didn’t look up from shaving his bit 
of hawthorn branch, carefully letting each strip fall into 
the open pouch at his waist. 
Jervais dismounted, then bent down and touched the 
earth. His hand was greeted with warmth, pleasant and 
tingling now, but then it grew suddenly sharper, and he 
snatched his fingers away. 
“Yes. Perhaps we’d best go around…” He brushed the 
dirt off. “But we must keep following the flow of the vis. 
It’s our best chance of finding the Telyavs.” 
“You mean we don’t know where they are?” Torgeir 
spoke up. 
“They’re like their Gangrel allies,” Jervais snapped, 
“nomadic. We have a vague notion of their territory; within 
those bounds they might go anywhere. But I doubt they 
stray far from the wells of power. What magic-worker does?” 
Torgeir’s face seemed to wobble alarmingly in midair 
for a moment. Jervais started, then realized that something 
was rippling the ley line, plucking it like a lute-string. 
“Someone’s doing a working,” he hissed at his murmuring 
brethren. They all immediately fell quiet and 
looked to him. 
“We’re not ready for witch-war, Master Jervais,” Antal 
said definitively. “We haven’t even trained properly yet. 
And we don’t know this terrain.” 
Deciding that now was not the time to establish who 
would and wouldn’t pronounce their troops battle-ready, 
Jervais nodded. “Right. I want everyone but Captain 
Hermann, Master Antal, Zabor and myself to withdraw 
behind the hill. We’ll scout it out and see whether this is 
koldun conjuring or the Telyavs already or something else 
entirely.” 
“In there? But why me, master?” Zabor interrupted.

112 Tremere 
“Because you were the first to claim to know something 
about it,” Jervais returned. 
“Well, that will teach me, I suppose.” 
“Yes, I trust so.” Jervais spurred his horse into the 
forest’s cool dim depths. 
*** 
Ah, I was mistaken, Jervais thought a little later. The 
edge of this alkas, that was the line. Here ends civilization. 
The motley crowd seemed exclusively mortal, if their 
rosy soul-colors were any guide. Some rode at a stately 
pace through the trees, some walked, some were old, and 
some were children. All clustered together into a tight 
mass. Jervais poked his head a little further out from behind 
the massive tree that hid him and sharpened his 
eyesight to get a better look. In the midst of the crowd 
rode a thin man in a bloodied white robe covered over 
with a black scapular, his hands bound behind his back. 
“A Dominican. One of the Teutons’ missionaries?” 
he whispered to Hermann—then he turned and saw it was 
quite unnecessary. The knight had already caught that 
much, and he nodded grimly. 
As they watched, the people gathered around the fire 
that burned in a stone-and-wood pillar set in the forest’s 
clearing. The maid tending the fire had already been there 
when Jervais and his companions first arrived, a good while 
before the rest of the crowd made it in. It might even be 
that she or one just like her was always there, keeping it 
perpetually lit, though he saw no sign of a temple or even 
a shrine anywhere about. An old man in rather more fanciful 
garb than the rest—the priest, Jervais 
assumed—separated himself from the mob. He said something 
to their prisoner, who shook his head wearily in 
response. The priest drew out from among the people a 
pretty young girl of perhaps fifteen, her head crowned in a 
wreath of rue and dressed in a fine clean dress of new-spun 
linen. The priest gestured expressively at her. The friar 
shook his head again. The people murmured. 
“Zabor, what are we looking at?” Jervais prodded.

Sarah Roark 113 
The apprentice squinted toward the scene, but it was 
plain he couldn’t make out the level of detail that Jervais 
could. “I—I don’t know. She’s dressed as a bride, but…” 
Antal gave a contemptuous, gusting little noise. “They 
are offering him a wife.” 
“Why on earth would they do that?” Jervais murmured, 
fascinated. 
“Because they’re stupid superstitious savages, and they 
fear his ghost,” the Hungarian answered. “They think if a 
man or woman dies unwed, and thus incomplete, then the 
vengeful spirit will haunt the earth forever.” 
“He must not have explained the Dominican vow to 
them properly,” Jervais said with a wry glance at the fuming 
Saxon. 
“Oh, I’m sure he explained it, they just couldn’t believe 
it.” 
“If he said yes, would they kill the girl too?” 
“Not sure. They might, or they might simply make 
her go through mourning.” 
“It doesn’t matter,” Hermann put in, aggravated. “He 
won’t say yes.” 
“Now what, Zabor? Is he to be sacrificed in the fire?” 
“He must be,” Hermann rumbled, his hand already 
gripping his sword-hilt. Jervais plucked at his gauntlet to 
warn him to quiet. 
“Well…he’s mounted,” Zabor frowned. “When their 
warriors die, they’re cremated in the saddle along with their 
horses…so if he’s a sacrifice, he’s an honored one. That, 
or they’re just afraid to murder him without the proper 
funeral rites. Superstition, like Master Antal said.” 
“If this were just murder, they’d kill him and then 
perform the rites, not burn him alive,” Hermann protested. 
“This is demonolatry. They mean to feed their loathsome 
gods on his ashes.” 
“What is this business with the horse?” interrupted 
Jervais. “Looks like they’re trying to spook it.” 
“No, they’re trying to get it to lift a hoof,” Zabor corrected. 
“Either hoof.” 
“Yes, the horse chooses. It’s a lottery.”

114 Tremere 
All at once a great cheer rose up from the people in 
the glade. “Death,” Jervais translated. 
“I’d imagine so.” 
“This ends now.” The knight glared at them all, as 
though they’d contradicted him already. “I won’t stand 
here in the dark and permit this sacrilege. You hang back 
if you like—” 
“No, mein Herr,” Jervais implored him. “For all you 
know, one foot on that holy earth might destroy you.” 
“Unholy earth. I do not fear the demons of the savages!” 
Hermann hissed. 
“Just look at the man. He’s half dead already. Even if 
you did rescue him, what would you do then? Give him 
the blood and hope he doesn’t wind up as one of us?” 
The knight’s face was a mask of unadulterated hatred. 
Jervais stared back blankly. 
“Well? If you really must, then risk it. But why cheat 
any mortal’s short life of a martyr’s crown—to say nothing 
of one of the holy brothers of Dominic?” 
“You have…the reason of it, warlock.” Hermann cast 
his half-drawn sword fully back into the sheath and settled 
back down again. “It is a poor night when reason rules.” 
Not long thereafter, the thick stench of burning hair 
and flesh filled the glade. The vampires recoiled from it as 
from the sight of a sunbeam, leaving the magpie friar to 
his saint’s end, melting back into the shadows that led out 
of the alkas. 
*** 
Jervais contemplated the man as he sat unmoving on 
a little ledge of weathered rock. A noble mien, when it 
wasn’t wreathed in choler as it was now. 
In the short term, I need him. In the long term, we need 
his master. 
He approached Hermann, allowing his quiet footsteps 
to make just enough noise for warning. 
“I don’t pretend to be a knight or a monk,” Jervais 
said softly. “And God knows you would never make a wizard.”
Hermann snorted, not looking at him. “You’ll forgive 
me if I take that as a compliment.”

Sarah Roark 115 
“Of course. I forgive all our differences. I must, because 
our purposes are one. Be patient, mein Herr. 
Heathenism will fall here, just as it fell in Sweden and 
Denmark.” 
“Why do you say that?” he returned. “It makes no 
difference to you.” 
“But it does.” He sat down on a fallen log. “You see, 
as the old ways crumble, the Tzimisce and their allies 
crumble also. The night will arrive when they can no 
longer play gods to their people, and then they will become 
our prey. Indeed, all vampires will have to grow more 
careful as the Church’s power waxes, and that’ll do us all, 
Tremere included, a great deal of good. It’ll be a milieu 
where only the cleverest and subtlest survive.” 
Falco’s ungainly gray body loped out from the shadows, 
toward them and up to Jervais. The gargoyle had a 
fox in his jaws, which he shyly dropped at Jervais’s feet. 
Jervais lifted his toes away from the bloody carcass. 
“Which of course suits you admirably.” Hermann 
shook his head wearily. “Pious talk, master wizard. Sometimes 
I think the pagans we fight are more steadfast in 
their bastard faith than most so-called Christians are in 
theirs.” 
“Take heart,” Jervais urged him. Then, to the gargoyle 
he said, “No, no, Falco. I mean, thank you, you have it.” 
He put his hand briefly and gingerly on the monster’s head. 
Falco removed his prize to a few yards’ distance and began 
tearing into it with a good will. 
“Take heart, Captain,” he repeated. “That faith will 
be the Telyavs’ downfall, and the Gangrel’s, and the 
Tzimisce’s.” 
“Will it?” 
“Such complete trust won’t bend,” the Tremere explained. 
“It can only break. The Telyavs have made their 
fatal mistake in teaching their kine to regard them as holy. 
It will be only too easy to expose them, and then they’ll 
lose everything in one great blow. The mortals will acknowledge 
the power of almighty God, and all will be just 
as you wish it.”

116 Tremere 
“You seem to regard faith as a simple matter of bowing 
to the stronger of two parties.” 
“I think for most people, that’s exactly what faith is,” 
he allowed. “But since the one true God cannot be anything 
but victorious, isn’t that enough?” 
The silence yawned between them, and Jervais had 
to resist the urge to smile. Hermann was wrestling with 
the unavoidable limitations of both sword and sermon to 
truly change the hearts of men. Jervais would not be the 
one to tell him his entire purpose in existence was a futile 
lie, but if he reached that conclusion on his own, so be it. 
There was little danger of it, however. The Saxon was 
nothing if not stubborn. 
“I suppose it is…a first step, as his Highness would 
say,” Hermann murmured at last. “And what about you, 
Tremere? Is that your creed as well, always to bow to the 
stronger?” 
“A true wizard…” There was a relish in saying these 
words, taking them out of Etrius’s mouth and appropriating 
the right to change their meaning. “A true wizard’s 
body may bow before the victor of the moment. His heart 
doesn’t bow to anything or anyone, ever.” 
“Not even to God Himself?” Hermann replied, 
shocked. 
“God chose to give me free will. That was His choice, 
His mistake perhaps. As for myself, I will honor the gift in 
the only way it deserves. I will exercise it. If there is a hell, 
here or in any other realm of being, I am sure it need consist 
of nothing more than that—the taking-away of 
choice.” 
“By those lights, servitude is hell, in and of itself.” 
“Yes,” Jervais agreed. “Servitude is hell.” 
“And your masters at Ceoris,” Hermann went on 
thoughtfully, “would they agree with that?” 
“My teachers at Ceoris,” Jervais answered. “Their 
wisdom justifies their position, not the reverse.” 
“I see.” Hermann rose. “Well, it sounds like a very 
comfortable philosophy, Meister Tremere, up to a point.” 
“And which point would that be?”

Sarah Roark 117 
“The point where death is with all certainty upon 
you, and all your power and free will can no longer help 
you.” He smiled thinly, sketched a military bow and left. 
And that is probably the very moment you pray hastens 
itself to you, Jervais thought. 
*** 
“Servitude…is hell,” Falco informed his mate Rixatrix 
and Master Antal’s gargoyle, Cabo. He enunciated the words 
as carefully as he could through his crooked fence of teeth. 
His darling’s answer was straightforward and to the 
point. She swatted him down off his branch to land faceflat 
in the dirt. “No,” she said. He shook his head free of 
the filth and flapped up into another, slightly more distant 
tree. 
“Master said it,” he huffed, pushing out his chest. 
“Mother says we must serve,” Cabo pointed out reasonably. 
“Is honor.” 
“Master said is hell.” 
“Mother must be right.” 
“Master must be right.” 
They all pondered this for some time. 
“Master has a Master,” Falco went on. “If Master must 
serve his Master, but Master says servitude is hell…” 
“Stop talking,” Rixatrix rumbled. “You think like rock. 
Mother is right and Master is right. They are both right.” 
“How?” 
For a moment she seemed stumped by this, but she 
soon recovered. “They are both right—in different ways,” 
she pronounced. 
“How?” 
“I do not know,” she said serenely. 
“Perhaps,” Falco said at last, “is hell for Masters, and 
honor for us.” 
“Perhaps,” Cabo acknowledged. He scratched himself 
behind one of his curling ram-horns, shaking the 
branches and sending a drift of leaves falling to the ground. 
“Then…we are luckier than Masters,” Falco concluded, 
uncertainly. 
“Of course,” Rixatrix scolded him. 
And that ended the argument.

118 Tremere 
Chapter Twelve 
“This is ill country to stop in,” Antal argued. “Too 
open. Too many birds overhead for so late in the year. The 
Telyavs might well speak with birds if their sorcery is as 
much like the Fiends’ as you say.” 
“I understand that, but we can’t get a really good survey 
on the move like this. At some point we’re going to 
have to sit down and scry.” Jervais shifted in his saddle. 
One thing he’d never thought quite just was that the horse 
should get a saddle blanket to prevent chafing, but no such 
comfort was extended to the rider. He threw an unfriendly 
glance in Hermann’s direction. The knight looked as comfortable 
in the saddle as though he were under some 
enchantment to that effect. Now there was a thought. 
“You can do some things on the move,” the Hungarian 
said, an unusual (and worrisome) note of enthusiasm 
entering his voice. “Once a detachment of Brancoveanu’s 
forces chased us for a solid week. I had a spell to drive 
them off, but only if we could find a well of vis. I soon 
discovered that one can briefly attune a gargoyle to the 
ley line, such that they instinctively fly along it…because 
they’re very earth-heavy, you see.” 
Jervais restrained the urge to roll his eyes. Everyone 
thought he was a vis expert if he knew one trick. “Ah, 
clever. Still, I think we’ll want to be able to make a chart. 
How familiar are you with that process?” 
“Somewhat,” Antal lied. 
“Well, ideally we need at least two stable locations to 
scry from. That way there’s something to compare against, 
and you also have a triangle of points, you see, from which 
you can use geometry to more accurately compute the distances.” 
“What makes you think we’ll have the luxury of one 
stable location, much less two?” the other magus acidly 
interrupted. “It’s certainly not a privilege I have often enjoyed.”

Sarah Roark 119 
“We may not,” Jervais conceded, “which is part of 
why the most sage Councilor thought your services would 
be needed. Your ability to think on your feet.” 
“Not an ability I would have wished to have to acquire,” 
Antal sighed. 
“Come. I’m sure it’s been an adventure, at least…and 
your name is famous among young Tremere from Ceoris 
to Aachen.” Jervais was hoping yet to knock this conversation 
off track before it went where he feared, but no 
luck.
“And what good does that do me?” Antal lowered his 
voice. “Besides perhaps a slightly greater ease in luring the 
young out to the front to get themselves killed. Hardly 
rewarding. There’s peril in being too good at something, 
Master Jervais.” 
“Yes, that’s certainly true.” 
“Particularly, never being given the chance to prove 
one’s skill at anything else. Anything less hazardous. Then 
again, I’m sure magi with more ‘comfortable’ posts also 
grow discontented with the sameness of things after many 
decades.” 
“Perhaps they do, sometimes. If you’re referring to a 
specific rumor, Master Antal, you’ll have to do me the 
favor of letting me know exactly which one—ahh!” 
Jervais instinctively clutched at his horse’s neck as 
the creature tripped and stumbled down onto one knee— 
nearly causing him to tilt off its back—and then rose 
limping. Jervais reined it in and dismounted at once. 
“Halt! What’s this?” Hermann wove through the apprentices 
up to the front. “Threw a shoe?” 
“Probably, knowing my luck.” 
“Let me see.” Hermann examined the bared hoof. 
“Easy, easy now, old fellow. Master wizard, how the hell 
have you been sitting this poor beast? Have you been leaning 
sinister all night or something? A man your size has to 
sit with some balance.” 
“Leaning sinister!” Jervais exclaimed indignantly, 
though he thought with a slight wince of pain that perhaps 
he had been a bit, given that his worst sores were on 
the right flank. A slight chuckle came from the knot of

120 Tremere 
apprentices. Jervais looked murder at them, and whoever 
it was fell silent. 
“See here, it looks like the tip of his back hoof caught 
the edge of the shoe and flung it off. Someone find it…ah, 
good, Fidus. Hm. We’ve got spare nails, but I don’t know 
if our man can reset this. It’s quite bent. We should find a 
smith.” 
“Out in this wilderness?” 
“These Samogitians are supposed to be great riders. 
Surely they shoe their horses. There must be smiths. Have 
your Kur ask at the next mortal dwelling we pass.” 
Jervais privately doubted the slave was capable of such 
translations yet. He seemed to understand the natives in 
these parts far better than he had the Prus, but he was 
learning Saxon slowly. Still, he nodded. “Very well.” 
*** 
“So the farmer said this…what was the name…” 
“Aukstakojis,” Jervais said. The Kur timidly echoed 
the word, evidently correcting something in Jervais’s pronunciation. 
“Bonisagus, it’s worse than Georgian. Anyway. He 
lives along this path?” Antal peered into the gloomy depths 
of the wide stand of trees. “In the opposite direction from 
the village? Looks like a bandit hideout to me.” 
“Well, smithies are rather noisy for most neighbors’ 
tastes…” Jervais said noncommittally. “In fact, I think I’m 
hearing the ringing now. And look, there’s a glow.” 
“Working awfully late,” Hermann frowned. 
“A commission for some impatient local potentate, 
perhaps. Mein Herr, you’re the one insisting that my horse 
be seen to as soon as possible.” 
Leading their mounts single file along the narrow trail, 
they soon came up on a little lone shack from whose cracks 
orange furnace fire bled. They studied it a moment. An 
unmistakable clanging came from within. 
“I’ll go in,” Master Antal said, “since I’m accustomed 
to being in close quarters with fire.” 
“No, I’ll go,” Jervais argued, “our Kur understands me 
best.”

Sarah Roark 121 
“We’ll all three go in,” Hermann said, determined not 
to be out-couraged. “And that way we’ll be prepared whatever 
happens.” 
Jervais knocked heavily on the open door’s frame before 
walking in, for all the good it likely did. The two other 
Cainites and the Kur, whom he’d collected with an imperious 
glance, followed. Inside, Jervais’s eyes tried 
unsuccessfully to adjust to the light, and his skin felt rimed 
in frost compared to the heat of the forge. Before the 
flames, a thin crooked silhouette undulated in the rhythmic 
motion of hammering. 
“Smith,” he called. “Smith!” Then he looked at the 
Kur, who translated. The smith looked up, gave his 
project—it looked like a knife-tang—one more whack and 
set it aside. He came forward. He was a small man (small 
everywhere except for his great shoulders, anyway) but 
wore a huge bristling beard and mustache. 
He spoke. The Kur translated: “He say welcome fine 
sirs.”
Jervais said, “Tell him we have a thrown shoe and 
will pay him well to fix it right now.” 
“Saxon merchants?” the smith spoke up, in that 
tongue. “Saxon merchants always pay well, sir. Always 
hurrying.” He gave a funny little bow and smiled. “I fix 
shoe for you. Please give…” 
Jervais handed it over. The little man examined it, 
running his fingers over it. 
“You do quite a trade,” Hermann remarked. “Look at 
all these stirrups. And they’re not all built the same way. 
You have two different kinds.” 
“Every rider does not wish the same,” the smith replied.
“True. But these are perfectly ordinary, and then these 
here are the sturdiest and heaviest I’ve ever seen. Look at 
the great flat plate on the bottom. You could stand all night 
in these.” 
“Save us from such a fate,” Jervais exclaimed. 
“I highly doubt they’re for Saxon merchants…but I 
trust their purchasers pay well nonetheless?” Hermann

122 Tremere 
stood and moved closer to the smith, who didn’t seem to 
realize he was supposed to feel menaced. 
“Those riders? They not pay at all,” he answered cheerily. 
“They come at night on the backs of tarpanas, wild 
forest horse, and their eyes bright like moonlight, and they 
say if I give thin no-good wares then they will tear down 
my forge. So I think I should work.” 
Jervais and Hermann exchanged a look. 
“Sounds frightful. These riders, what do they call 
themselves?” Jervais asked conversationally. 
“The men call their leaders darkhan. I know no other 
word. But they are very strange. I know they are not of my 
people, because Samogitians only ride zemaitukai…” He 
gestured toward the assortment of more ordinary-looking 
stirrups. “And also some of them look very strange to me.” 
“Are they bandits? If we wanted to avoid them, how 
should we steer clear?” 
“If they want you, they find you I think.” The little 
man shrugged. “Twelve leagues north of here, they enslave 
whole village. Last week, that was. But Samogitians kill 
you too, if they see black cross of White Christ on you.” 
He smirked at Hermann. 
“Let them try,” Hermann said imperturbably. 
The smith put the horseshoe in to start heating and 
went back to working the bellows. 
“Time to start looking for our first spot, I suppose,” 
Jervais said quietly to Antal in Magyar. 
“Yes,” Antal murmured back. “Except now we’ve got 
to find a spot where they aren’t.” 
“Well, these are real horsemen apparently. They’re 
not going to go taking any long walks. We stay away from 
the churned-up ground, we should be able to stay away 
from them.” 
“Yes, but if they’re that skilled, they’ll see our tracks, 
and know right away that Herr Pious there has got a great 
hulking Friesian shod with the nail heads sticking out so 
as to kill people all the deader, and so on and so forth.” 
The Hungarian chewed a bit on the end of his beard and 
then a thought seemed to seize him. “Tell the man he’s 
got some more shoes to fix. My old master had a spell to

Sarah Roark 123 
lighten a man’s tread. I think I can adapt it. One mark on 
each, and a bit of blood while the iron is hot.” 
“Re-shoe twenty horses? But that’ll take a couple of 
nights, at least. Be practical—” Jervais protested. 
“Yes, re-shoe them all,” Antal interrupted. “Practical? 
Think about it. Do you really want them finding us 
first, or the reverse? Let’s at least try it on Hermann’s and 
see if it works.” 
“And what about the carts?” 
“If the horseshoes work, I can figure out something 
with the carts.” 
“We’ve got more work for you,” Jervais shouted to 
Aukstakojis, “and more coin.” 
“Work with coin much better than work without,” 
the smith shouted back with a huge grin.

124 Tremere 
Chapter Thirteen 
Hermann pushed into the tent. “Our scout’s back from 
Riga,” he announced. 
Jervais and Antal looked up from the map they were 
making. “Ah? And did he bring word?” 
“He did better than that.” The knight stepped aside 
to let another Cainite in the Black Cross habit pass by. 
“This is Brother Wigand. He and a handful of survivors 
have been holding out up north.” 
“Qarakh and his tribe are no longer in Livonia,” 
Wigand said. “They’re much closer than you think. 
They’ve been driven south—not, alas, by our efforts but 
by sheer press of mortal conversion. But now they’re among 
even wilder pagans than before. If they get a chance to 
recruit many Samogitians and Lithuanians, it will go very 
badly for you.” 
“A pleasure to meet you as well!” Jervais exclaimed. 
“You seem like exactly the sort of source we’ve been looking 
for. Come in, come in, my dear sir.” Antal refused to 
give up his seat; Jervais scoffed at him and offered up his 
own chair instead. “Actually, we already know Qarakh’s 
riders are here, but there’s something else you might be 
able to tell us. Now I understand from the reports that 
made it back that Alexander and Qarakh faced each other 
alone.” 
The knight arranged himself in the chair. “Yes,” he 
said. “That is true. But not by choice—not by our choice, 
that is. We were all trapped by a bog that suddenly opened 
up under our feet. All of us except for Qarakh and 
Alexander. Perhaps Qarakh did it using some beastly art, 
such as others of his kind use to sink themselves into the 
earth during the day. Myself, I think it was his witches. I 
was lucky. Only my legs were swallowed, and I managed 
to dig myself out with my sword, but…not in time to save 
anyone else.” 
“Yes, yes,” Jervais said excitedly. “That is—it’s very 
good to know that. It corroborates what our talebearers in

Sarah Roark 125 
Saxony said. But they escaped in the opposite manner— 
sank into the mire completely and so, alas, ended up 
missing the last of the single combat. Qarakh slew 
Alexander all alone, then?” 
“Yes.” 
“And how was it done? The killing strike? Was it a 
sword blow?” 
“No indeed,” Wigand snorted as if the very notion 
were ridiculous. “That creature? He assumed the wolf’s skin 
and devoured first our general’s leg and then his throat, 
letting the gore stream from his maw like the animal he 
is.” 
“He drained him to the dregs, then.” 
Wigand looked him directly in the eye. “If you are 
asking me, sorcerer, whether Qarakh stole the ancient’s 
soul, whether Qarakh committed that vileness known 
among our kind as diablerie, then the answer is yes.” 
Jervais’s eyes lit so fiercely at that that everyone in 
the room drew back alarmed. “Then we have him!” he 
blurted, slamming the palm of his hand on the trestle table. 
Several moments of stunned silence followed. 
“What in our Savior’s sweet name is the blackguard 
talking about?” Hermann directed this to Antal, who 
shrugged. 
“Not sure,” the Hungarian said. “Certainly, to commit 
the diablerie on one so powerful can have terrible 
consequences for the defiler. But we have no control over 
Qarakh’s pains. That is, lacking something of the ancient 
himself…and surely Alexander must long since be scattered 
to the four winds.” 
“Not all of him, Master Antal,” Jervais said grandly. 
“Look…” 
He reached into his purse and set a coin out on the 
table, ringing it like a banker upon a banker’s counter. It 
sang like metal but appeared black as a lump of coal. Antal 
left off his drawing, set his pen in its well and came over 
to examine it. 
“Malgorzata’s coin.” 
“Malgorzata’s spell,” Jervais corrected for the benefit 
of their bemused audience. “And certainly one of her

126 Tremere 
handier ones. This particular coin I fashioned. It holds a 
small portion of the ancient’s blood, locked up in the prison 
of the metal, but I should be able to extract it again.” 
“We could mix it with molten wax and form a figure. 
Inscribe it with his name in Greek.” 
“Yes, and dress it with this.” Jervais went over to one 
of his chests, touched his tongue to the lock and whispered 
into the keyhole, then unlocked it. He brought forth 
a tiny strip of white bloodstained cloth and laid it next to 
the coin. 
“Fashion it into a tabard, yes.” 
“With his arms embroidered on. Vair, on a pale purpure, 
a laurel wreath or.” Jervais mocked a herald’s pompous tone. 
“I daresay Olena can embroider, can’t she?” 
“Pardon me, scholars,” Hermann interrupted. “I hate 
to break up your plotting since you seem so eager to get 
about it. But I’m not sure I understand just what you mean 
to do. Alexander is dead—his soul devoured.” 
“Exactly,” Jervais said triumphantly. “And where did 
that soul go? Into the belly of the beast.” 
“Into Qarakh.” 
“Who,” the warlock finished, “is due for a terrible bout 
of indigestion.” 
*** 
“Here, Fidus,” Olena said, tossing him the scrap. “Master 
Jervais said to embroider it like a tabard. Vair, on a pale 
purpure, a laurel wreath or.” 
“But…but I don’t embroider,” he stammered. 
“Neither do I,” she said curtly. “But don’t worry. I’ll 
let you know if you’ve made a mistake.” 
*** 
Master Antal went about calling the quarters as 
though it were a life-or-death business, which, to be fair, 
it could be often enough. He started in the North and 
invoked the power of Uriel, archangel of death and the 
realm of Earth, drawing the proper sigil in the bowl of dirt 
with the tip of his wand and then bringing its power up to 
form its portion of the warding circle. He then moved 
Miklos into position there and again traced the same sigil 
on Miklos’s chest, naming him the watchman of the North.

Sarah Roark 127 
Then he moved to the West, where Gabriel ruled, again 
“drawing” in the bowl of water that lay in that quarter and 
raising its power. He placed Baghatur in the West. In the 
South lay Michael, archangel of Fire, and a cone of incense 
in whose smoke Antal traced the necessary sign; 
Zabor assumed his appointed place there. Then Antal finished 
by consecrating himself to Air, to the East and to 
Raphael, and took up that position. Olena, Torgeir and 
Jervais stood in the circle’s center. 
“The creature of wax,” Jervais murmured. 
Miklos brought it forth from a fold of his ritual robe. 
“Molded by my hands,” he said. He passed the poppet to 
Torgeir, who took it to Baghatur. 
Baghatur took a little silver implement and carefully 
pricked tiny dots for eyes and gouged out a gaping mouth, 
then articulated a suggestion of fingers and toes. “Carved 
by my hands,” he said. 
Torgeir now handed the poppet to Zabor, who just as 
carefully inscribed ALEXANDROS into the poppet’s 
chest. “Marked by name by my hands,” he said. 
Torgeir gave the poppet to Antal, who took two tiny 
snake-fangs and inserted them into the poppet’s open 
mouth. “Marked by Caine by my hands,” he said. 
Torgeir then passed the poppet to Olena, who slid 
the little white tabard over its head and belted a tiny 
leather cinch around its waist. “Clad by my hands,” she 
said.
Now Jervais took the poppet. “Creature of wax,” he 
intoned, “I anoint thee and name thee Alexander, sometime 
of Paris, childe of the Ventrue patriarch and 
great-grandchilde of Caine who was cast out.” He dabbed 
blots of dark blood onto its forehead, hands, feet, heart 
and groin. 
“Alexander thou art.” 
“Alexander thou art,” the other six repeated. 
“Alexander thou shalt remain.” 
“Alexander thou shalt remain.” 
In his hands, the poppet seemed to grow ice-cold, 
leaching the vital force from his skin wherever it touched. 
To his mystical sight, it grew a thin, guttering halo of col

128 Tremere 
ors, shifting randomly for want of a guiding intelligence. 
There was no mind there, only essence, and even that was 
fragmentary. 
“Not much of him left,” he said softly to Torgeir. “But 
you’ll make him stronger. Take him now and feed him. 
Three drops to make him yours.” 
Torgeir shuddered a little as the thing touched him, 
but he did as instructed. Biting into the pad of his thumb, 
he dropped one drop after another into the poppet’s wide, 
hungry mouth. 
“I bind thee once, Alexander, in my blood and will. I 
bind thee twice, Alexander, in my blood and will. Thrice 
I bind thee now, Alexander, in my blood and will, and 
thou art mine to command.” 
Let’s hope so, a distant and unwizardly corner of Jervais’s 
mind whispered, but he pushed the thought aside. It could 
only hurt the working. He guided Torgeir (whose awareness 
was already gone elsewhere) to a seat cross-legged on the floor. 
Olena took up the ritual sword that marked her as guardian 
of his body and anchor of his soul for the duration of the 
spell, holding it before her in an attitude of utmost vigilance. 
“Can you see him?” he whispered to Torgeir. “Where 
are you?” 
“I…I’m following the thread. Things are blurry…I’m 
flying over the ground.” 
“Which way is the moon?” 
“That…that way.” 
“North-northwest,” Jervais muttered, committing the 
direction to memory. 
“And now I see odd little tents. No, they aren’t little. 
They grow as I approach.” Suddenly he hissed and flung 
one hand up over his face. The other hand nearly let go of 
the poppet it clutched. Jervais stiffened and moved in. 
“What is it?” 
“The twin fires…I may not pass through. I am not of 
the ordu.” 
A sorcerous warding, placed by the Telyavs? Or just a 
native superstition fueled only by the power of collective 
will? “You can pass through,” he encouraged the Dane. “They 
cannot stop you. You carry a piece of the chief himself.”

Sarah Roark 129 
“No,” he moaned. 
“You shall pass through.” 
“He shall pass through,” the other Tremere chanted 
as one. It was more than merely verbal support. As they 
said it, they were also focusing every ounce of their souls 
upon making the words reality. They needed no prompting 
as to when to add their strength. That was good Eastern 
training for you. Excellent. 
“Do you hear that, Torgeir? We’re with you.” He bent 
down. “It’s fine. Our wills are joined. You wield the might 
of Seven. Now hold Alexander’s echo close to you, and 
walk through.” 
Torgeir nodded and gathered the poppet to his chest. 
“I hold a portion of your chief,” he intoned to his invisible 
enemy. “You must let me pass.” 
There was a long, tense moment. Suddenly Torgeir 
began to gasp like a landed fish, and Jervais feared the 
ward had attacked him after all. But then he managed to 
say through his gasps, “I’m through,” and a tingle of relief 
passed through the circle. Jervais took the Dane’s shoulders 
and steadied him until the whistling breaths calmed 
and died. 
“Good, Torgeir. Come. We may not have much time 
now, hurry. Find Qarakh.” 
“I see him. He shines. By God, I’ve never seen a man 
so strangely made…” 
“Yes.” Jervais gritted his teeth and silently cursed 
Etrius for not doing as other Tremere masters did and drubbing 
the use of God out of his pupils, particularly when in 
circle. “Go to him. You must enter in and find that sliver 
that was Alexander’s. That is your link and your rudder. 
You must take hold of his heart.” 
“Take hold of his heart,” the other Tremere echoed. 
“Show me, my prince.” Torgeir addressed this to the 
deceased, in student’s Greek. “You must be here. One so 
ancient never disappears completely into his conqueror. 
Hiding, perhaps? Mourning?” He licked his lips, cracked 
and withered from three nights’ fast to ease his spirit’s release. 
“Or waiting… Waiting for revenge?”

130 Tremere 
The built-up head of power within the circle changed 
tenor in less than the space of a mortal heartbeat. Before, 
it had felt like an unseen mist, drifting easily between them 
except when driven forward by the workings. Now it crystallized, 
condensed, sharpened. Olena gripped the sword 
more tightly. The guardians of the quarters steeled themselves 
against the onslaught, containing it. 
Jervais struggled not to let himself be paralyzed by 
the unexpected strength of the response. “I… You’ve got 
it all right, Torgeir. Easy, now. Direct it.” 
“Yes.” Torgeir held the poppet forth. Beads of blood 
appeared on his forehead. “Let me guide you, my prince. 
Let me lend you the power of my mind, so that I may show 
you…how much easier it is to destroy from within…” 
*** 
Qarakh set down his bowl, which a moment before 
had been full of the blood of mortals drunk on qumis, and 
wobbled up from his seat in the square of logs and stumps 
that stood in the middle of his cluster of personal gers. 
Deverra waited until he had blundered wordlessly away, 
then picked up the bowl and took it to be washed. Hopefully 
if he had to call for it again to get more, he wouldn’t 
bother. 
As she handed it to one of the scullions in the kitchentents, 
she felt a stirring at her back. She knew what it was, 
but said nothing until she was at the threshold of her own 
ger, where she turned. 
“Boyar Osobei. Why do you follow me?” 
The slim, elfin-faced Cainite bowed. “I pray that I 
have not given offense with my clumsiness, madam. But I 
was hoping to have a word with the great khan tonight.” 
“Then you should have followed the great khan,” she 
said dully. 
“The khan, alas, does not seem to be, ah, in the mood 
to conduct official business.” 
“The khan is in the only state he will consent to conduct 
official business in.” 
“Indeed?” Osobei was a diplomat, and as a diplomat 
disguised both his surprise and his disgust well—but not 
well enough.

Sarah Roark 131 
“It’s his way. He says the heart more truly sees the hearts 
of others when the mind is lulled out of interfering.” 
“I see. Then I have erred. Forgive me.” One thing she 
had to say for Osobei, and indeed all the Tzimisce she’d 
met—they submitted to the demands of courtly etiquette 
with uncommon grace. Though she looked old enough to 
be his grandmother, he might well be her elder in actuality, 
yet he readily lowered his eyes to her in formalized 
shame. 
“You haven’t erred,” she corrected him. “You can 
speak to me. The Telyavs and Qarakh’s riders are as one.” 
He kept his eyes downward. “Yes, so the khan himself 
has said, madam.” 
“Then why do you hesitate? I’m not ignorant of what 
your Rustovitch feels toward us. We’re thieves of the Blood, 
are we not? Has he not sworn to take back what he believes 
to have been stolen from his clan?” 
“In his eyes,” Osobei answered, now raising his glance 
once more, “you are still Tremere. Yes.” 
If he was hoping for some guilty reaction, she wasn’t 
about to oblige him. “You’ve seen enough of us now to 
know how we fashion our existence, boyar. We’ve not been 
Tremere for over a century.” 
He shrugged elegantly. “A century is but a day’s sleep 
to the voivode, madam.” 
“Then perhaps the voivode should sleep now, and hope 
things will be more to his liking when he wakes,” the old 
woman said archly. “If that is all, boyar, I must tend to the 
needs of my people.” 
“Madam, it is my hope that the voivode will soon be 
prevailed upon to make the alliance that serves our best 
interests.” His smooth words stopped her retreat. 
“And you believe that this alliance is in his best interests?” 
she asked him. 
“With whom else should he join?” Osobei replied. 
“With one of Jürgen’s Germanic rivals? They hunger for 
our land no less than Jürgen himself. With the Arpad? 
They are constitutionally unreliable. They betrayed Jürgen 
when he most needed them and would gladly do the same 
to my voivode. As for the other voivodes, they’re already

132 Tremere 
theoretically our allies, and we’ve seen how well they hold 
up to their obligations.” 
“And what about the Obertus? They are Tzimisce, 
are they not?” 
“We are not yet precisely sure of that, madam,” he 
said dryly. “What I do know is that their goals are not our 
goals. But your people and ours do share a common agenda. 
To keep the White Christ out of those few remaining lands 
where he does not yet rule, and to crush the Saxon Ventrue 
before they have time to think of formally banding with 
Ceoris.” 
“Ah, but if you truly believed that, boyar, then you 
wouldn’t begrudge speaking with me. If you really want to 
know what I think…” 
“I am indeed most eager for your opinions, madam.” 
“I think you’re hoping that we are only allies of convenience 
for the khan, and that if you offer him the services 
of the Tzimisce koldun-priests, he’ll decide that one magicworker 
is as good as another and break faith with us. Then 
Rustovitch would be spared the embarrassment of finding 
himself sharing ranks with those he considers Usurpers, 
and the Telyavs could more easily be crushed alongside 
the spawn of Ceoris.” 
Evidently he was not at all used to being so accused 
to his face. It took him a moment to recover enough to 
speak. 
“You talk,” he said at last, “like a woman who believes 
she does not need any allies at all.” 
“No, I talk like a woman who knows better than to 
believe I can have any.” She smiled bitterly. Tiny crystals 
of snow landed on her face and did not melt. “Many will 
parley with us, cajole us, but no one will truly stand with 
us in the end, because what we have become is an abomination 
in the eyes of the whole world. Do you pretend 
that my khan will be received joyously as a brother-king 
in the halls of the voivodes? To you he’s fit only to be a 
loyal war-hound. Many of his own blood reject him simply 
for being Mongol, or for aspiring to create something 
larger and more enduring than anything they’ve made. 
Ceoris hates me, yet your master regards me as one of its

Sarah Roark 133 
talons nevertheless. The Christians would wipe us out 
because we are pagan, and many mortals would exterminate 
us because we are vampyri. I am under no illusions.” 
“And if the great khan should feel differently, and 
wish to ally with us?” 
“Then I will not fight him. I may permit you to use 
us, boyar, but never to divide us…” 
She trailed off to a halt. 
“Do you smell that?” 
He glanced around. “What?” 
“Fire—” 
A vast dread lodged itself in her, shook her frail bones. 
Somewhere a boundary had been trespassed. The sense of 
alien intrusion was no less immediate and absolute than it 
would have been if Osobei had put his hand between her 
legs. But which boundary? She began making her way 
through the encampment, rising slightly on her toes as 
though that would really help her see better. Osobei fell 
into step beside her, his expression more curious than concerned. 
Then they heard the first scream. 
She broke into a stumbling run. The scream was immediately 
joined by others. They came from near the 
warriors’ gers. She smelled plenty of roasting meat, horsesweat 
and qumis, but the rising scent of vampire blood 
quickly threatened to overwhelm them all. 
From the campfire protruded the lower half of someone 
Deverra was sure she should recognize. Qarakh stood 
in the center of a knot of his Cainite soldiers. Long earthcolored 
claws extended from the tips of his hands and also 
from his feet, shredding through his soft leather boots. As 
she watched, he bodily picked one Cainite up and threw 
him a good ten yards. Another he seized by the throat, 
then he snapped the man’s spine over his knee and began 
to drink lustily from the outstretched neck. 
*** 
In the intimacy of the circle, it was impossible not to 
know the moment something had gone wrong. Jervais felt 
it before he saw the change in Torgeir’s faraway gaze. The 
others did too.

134 Tremere 
“We have to get him out,” he said quickly. “Olena, 
help me bring him out.” 
Olena laid a long-nailed hand on the Dane’s shoulder 
and began to chant in Latin, calling Torgeir’s name 
and bidding him return to her, his anchor, and also to his 
flesh. Jervais added his own words to hers. At once the 
young magus’s inert body leaped into animation. He was 
on his feet, white teeth flashing, curling his lips in a wild 
snarl.
“Ho!” cried Master Antal. A military note came into 
his voice at once. “Dismiss the circle now! East, South, 
West, North!” Rapidly he began speaking his quarter’s 
words of revocation. 
Jervais fumbled for the wooden dagger at his belt. 
Olena crouched as Torgeir bore down upon her, thrusting 
up the ritual sword so that its length was buried deep in 
his belly. He howled but couldn’t pull himself off the blade. 
Jervais, trying to measure Torgeir’s back for his blow, found 
himself splattered with a shower of Cainite blood, which 
woke his senses like a trumpet blast. The blade protruding 
from Torgeir’s back waved hazardously as he and Olena 
struggled. Then Torgeir pushed past Olena, the sword still 
in him, and charged toward Zabor—who chose the better 
part of valor and dodged aside, breaking his quarter prematurely 
and scattering the circle’s energy into a hundred 
wounded, wasted fragments. Antal shouted at him, too 
late. The beast was on the loose. 
They all stood there for several moments, dazed from 
the wrenching blow of the spell’s sudden end, then Antal 
lurched away to follow Torgeir, and the others fell in behind 
him. There was no need to ask where he would go. 
*** 
“Qarakh!” Deverra shouted, but the Mongol didn’t 
hear. One of the soldiers, no doubt shocked beyond reason, 
grasped his lolling comrade and tried vainly to pull 
him out of Qarakh’s raptor grip. 
“No!” she shouted again. “Don’t touch him, you’re 
only provoking him! Back away slowly!” 
They understood her tone, if not her logic, and 
obeyed. Qarakh clutched his prey and would not lift his

Sarah Roark 135 
lips from the streaming throat, but he lifted his eyes at 
least. In his stare she could see no recognition, no human 
thought at all, only the awareness of a threat nearby. 
“Qarakh.” Many times, as witch-priestess, she’d had 
to bury her fear so that a sullen spirit would not taste it. 
This was no different. “Qarakh, you must put him down 
now. You are tired, you are sad—you need to rest, my khan.” 
He gazed blankly at her. His mouth opened and 
dribbled gibberish. She could make nothing of it at first. 
Then one word went by that she understood. The phrases 
themselves were disjointed nonsense—as though he realized 
he was being addressed and should respond, yet had 
forgotten how. But the language was one her old master 
had long ago made her study. 
Greek. Holy gods… 
What was the word? “Softly,” she whispered to him 
in the best Greek she possessed. “Softly. It will be all right.” 
She moved closer to him. He watched her warily, suckling 
the wound once more, as she took one step, two, three. 
Four was evidently one too many. He lunged for her, throwing 
the crumbling body of his clansman aside. She 
screamed. The other soldiers catapulted themselves onto 
him, weighing him down. He gave a roar and began flinging 
them off. 
She muttered and drew herself into herself, calling 
for spirits of the air. She didn’t have time to sweet-talk. 
She simply promised to summon them a storm, a storm of 
great violence in which they could dance for hours, if they 
would come to her now and do as she bid. Eagerly they 
brushed past her and seized hold of Qarakh, then lifted 
him from the ground until he was hovering in midair like 
a bee. Some of the fight went out of him as his feet left the 
ground, but he continued to writhe and spit and struggle 
against those who were still latched onto him. His face 
had begun to stretch, change shape. If he moved to wolfshape 
now, in the grip of such rage, there was no telling 
when he would come back. She hurriedly fetched an arrow 
out of one of the soldiers’ quivers. 
“Hold him still if you can!” She opened up his coat 
and, with a prayer to Dievas, struck with every ounce of

136 Tremere 
strength blood could give her. Her prayer was heard. The 
shaft slid through, splintering in her hand as it went, but 
at least one shard must have pierced his heart since he 
shuddered once and then went completely stiff. 
Imploring the spirits to bear him down gently, she 
and the soldiers laid him on the ground. His face was frozen 
in a rictus of hatred that she could hardly bear to look 
at. 
“What happened?” she asked quietly, glancing toward 
the half-corpse at the fire. 
“He came at us with an evil gleam in his eyes, and 
didn’t seem to understand a word we said to him. Kasim 
tried to fend him off with a burning brand, but that only 
made him angry.” 
“Yes…” It was worthless to point out the folly of such 
a course to them—they’d now seen it with their own eyes. 
Fire was a fine tool for driving off Cainites who were still 
in their right minds, but once the Beast had already 
emerged, there was no telling how it might respond to a 
flame thrust in its face. 
I don’t understand it. He was drunk, yes, but not to any 
extraordinary degree. And now the Greek… 
There was one way she might gain some understanding, 
if there was still anything of Qarakh to be reached 
right now. She gazed deep into his eyes—he had no choice, 
couldn’t turn his head or even shut his eyelids. 
Qarakh? Her thoughts reached out tentatively for his. 
My khan? 
There. An echo, heartbreakingly weak. My shaman, 
his eyes answered. Who is dead? Are there dead? 
Yes, there are dead. She felt tears threatening to start, 
and ordered them angrily back. His own riders whom he 
loved as kin. I don’t yet know who. I will find out, but do you 
truly wish to be told now? 
Perhaps not. 
I will release you in a moment, I promise. 
No! He couldn’t move, but she thought she felt the 
barest shiver through his clothes. No, you must not—it’s 
not safe, my witch. I don’t have the mastery of it. 
What is happening? Is he—

Sarah Roark 137 
Shh. I do not know. There is…something, that is sure. 
And it draws not only on my own strength, but on the power 
of the god. It wakes the wolf in my soul and bids it raven. 
Do you think you can master it, my khan? 
I must. I will try. I do not think I can kill it, but perhaps 
I make it…understand, given time. 
Time? 
You must give me time. The voice had grown paperthin. 
You must be father as well as mother to the tribe. 
No, no. Don’t do this to me. The last two words of this 
desperate thought were out before she could stop them. 
Something’s coming still. There’s danger. We’ll need you. 
You do not need one more thing to worry about. And 
now, sharing company mind to mind, she could feel the 
accumulated pain that she’d guessed at, but not seen, in 
these recent months. Let us face facts, my shaman. Neither 
of us has been the same since Alexander, and since the god’s 
burning touch. My change has simply been less obvious. I will 
return when I can be a help to you, and not a burden. 
She wanted to plead with him, but he was the wrong 
one to importune. She wanted to plead with Telyavel, but 
if the god hadn’t stretched out his hand to help Qarakh 
yet, he must have decided by whatever mysterious reasoning 
gods employed that it wasn’t right to do so. In that 
moment she would even have pleaded with their dead 
enemy Alexander, if there’d been anything there to plead 
with besides a mad, mindless fragment. 
She held him close. I will guard you, she thought 
fiercely, as faithfully as you guarded your blood-brother those 
many years. You will rise again, my khan. 
But he had descended too completely to respond, 
perhaps even to hear. 
*** 
“No,” Jervais said brusquely to the babbling, gesticulating 
slave. “Yes, I know what you want. You want to burn 
your friend’s body. I’m telling you no. No fire. What you 
may do is dig. Dig, you know, dig?” Something caught at 
the hem of his robe. He looked down. The Esth woman 
who held the corpse and keened over it had reached out 
to wrap her free hand around his leg, leaving a red streak

138 Tremere 
on his ritual robe. He stepped back. “Zabor! See if you can 
make these people understand that I realize perfectly well 
what they’re asking, I just haven’t the first intention of 
giving it to them.” 
“They don’t seem to understand my Polish any better 
than your Saxon, master,” Zabor pointed out. 
“Well, find out what it is they do understand, or I’m 
going to take all the dead ones and one of the live ones 
just for instructional purposes, and crack the stream ice 
open with their thick heads.” 
“That sounds like it might work, master.” 
“Do you wish instruction from me as well tonight, 
whelp?” Jervais rounded on him, snarling. 
“Master Jervais, if you will permit me…” Master Antal 
interrupted, holding up a hand. “I must borrow Zabor instead. 
There are words that should be had about the 
importance of remaining in position in ritual until instructed 
to take leave of it.” 
“Ah, true.” Jervais was gratified to see an authentic 
look of fear pass across Zabor’s face. “Feel free, Master 
Antal.” 
Jervais then made his way out of the campsite, to the 
tree where Torgeir was bound in a length of stout chain 
Miklos had packed in his trunk “just in case.” The young 
magus’s head was drooping now. Jervais thought he must 
have passed out, so he began to steal away again. 
“Leave me be.” The Dane’s accent was far stronger 
than usual. 
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Jervais said soothingly. 
He sniffed at the air. “Are you still bleeding, lad?” 
“No.” 
“It smells like you are. If you need more…” 
“No.” 
Ah, so that was it. But of course. How could it be 
otherwise? He studied the albino’s soul-colors carefully. It 
was hard to say which predominated, the dank gray-brown 
of shame or the licking scarlet of hatred. He looked slack 
and barely conscious, but it might be far too soon to consider 
unbinding him. It wasn’t even the chain itself Jervais 
placed his trust in so much as the spell laid on it.

Sarah Roark 139 
“If you need more,” he said firmly, “then you need 
more.” 
“I’m fine.” 
Jervais walked up to the tree, put his fingers into the 
hair at the Dane’s brow, and lifted his head up until his 
face came into view. Here was the source of the blood he’d 
smelt, tracking out of the odd eyes and down the white 
cheeks. There was an old dried set of tracks as well as a 
fresh one dripping sweet red. Torgeir wrested his head out 
of Jervais’s grasp and shook it until his long fine white 
hair had fallen down over his countenance again, shrouding 
it. 
“Yes. I see how fine you are.” The scarlet in Torgeir’s 
halo flared. Jervais pretended not to notice. “I know it’s 
hard in that position, but you must try to rest and calm 
yourself. I can’t unbind you until you do. Besides, there’s 
no reason to be anything but calm. You’ve done very well.” 
He didn’t answer, and that was answer enough. 
“You don’t believe me, but think about it. Whatever 
you suffered, Qarakh himself must have suffered threefold. 
Not all we hoped for, perhaps—still, at the very least, we 
surely sowed a great deal of fear and chaos in very close 
quarters.” 
“He…killed some of his own,” Torgeir said quietly, 
not looking up. “I saw it.” 
Jervais brightened at that. “Did he? Excellent!” 
The praise fell into dead air. Jervais studied the young 
magus again. He all but radiated sullen defiance. His slump 
on the tree had become rather irritatingly and stoically 
Christ-like. There were many things Jervais might have 
been inclined to say here. This is war, what did you expect? 
perhaps, or Qarakh killed his own kin, you killed a few flearidden 
slaves. As far as I can see that leaves us ahead. But no, 
he would have to be more subtle than that. He sat down 
at the foot of the tree but made no effort to peer up into 
Torgeir’s face. 
“I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured, “because 
I know what your master has taught you. I know 
how he thinks. You have sinned, and now you intend to 
torture yourself for it. Perhaps you’ve already planned how.”

140 Tremere 
He paused. “Let me ask you this. All this suffering you 
make yourself endure, has it ever lessened the thirst one 
iota? Or restored the dead to life? Do you honestly feel, in 
this moment, chained to a tree, unbreathing, belly full of 
blood, the slightest bit more human than I?” 
Torgeir shuddered and said nothing. 
“Let me tell you a clan story,” he went on. “The Council 
of Seven, of course, were the first Tremere to become 
vampires. As logic would suggest, at a certain point they 
were also the only vampires in the House, and had to decide 
whether or not they would remain so.” 
“I’ve heard this story.” 
“I daresay you have. No doubt Etrius further told you 
that he argued against the crime of dragging fellow magi 
into undeath without their consent, while Goratrix argued 
for the necessity of it. In the end, Great Tremere 
decreed in Goratrix’s favor. Being obedient students, both 
Etrius and Goratrix brought magi across the threshold, and 
in roughly equal numbers. Finally, one night, there were 
no mortal Tremere left. No mortal House. Your master had 
as great a hand in that as anyone. Now that it’s all finished, 
he repents of what he did. And he would have you 
believe that because he repents, he can now enjoy the 
benefit of his sin without having to pay for it. Doesn’t 
that strike you as a bit…convenient?” 
He paused for a moment. “After all, do you suppose it 
made the first difference to those who were transformed 
against their will whether Etrius or Goratrix did it, and 
whether either of them repents? Do you think those who 
are dead tonight care how you feel? And if it is God whom 
you think will see your agony and take pity…how much 
pity has He had on you to date? You didn’t want to kill 
those mortals. Well, did you? Would you not have stopped 
yourself if you’d had the slightest power to do so? Tell the 
truth, Torgeir. We all know what a sin it is to lie.” 
“Leave me alone, devil,” the Dane moaned, struggling 
for the first time against his bonds. “Go away. I tried to 
stop it. Oh Jesu…I tried, but I was so far away, I couldn’t, 
I couldn’t.”

Sarah Roark 141 
“Exactly. Now you’re thinking more clearly. It was 
not you. Your conscience, such as it is, is clear. It was the 
Beast, to whom we all lose now and again. Or one could 
just as easily say it was Alexander. He was a poisonous old 
monster, and his rage against his conqueror burned out of 
all control. There you are. Hate Alexander. Or…” He 
shrugged. “Perhaps it was my fault. I selected you for the 
task. I knew you might not be able to hold on. Possibly 
none of us would have been able. Still, I chose you to take 
the risk. Hate me, then. Or hate the Telyavs, for rebelling 
against your master and making this all necessary. Hate 
your sire for making you what you are. There are so many 
choices available. Just pick one. Or hate us all.” 
“You…invite me to hate you?” A slight, disbelieving 
chuckle. 
“It’s a service I excel at providing,” said Jervais. “I’m 
under no illusions in that regard. Between your hating me 
and your hating yourself, I’d far rather the former. It sharpens 
you, makes you keen—that I know from 
experience—and we must be keen here. You don’t have 
the luxury of despair, lad. We’ve only begun the bloody 
tasks that fulfilling our mission will require.” 
He got up. Torgeir chuckled again. Disturbed, Jervais 
turned back. The albino’s eyes rested squarely on him now, 
the red lines streaking down from them making them look 
somehow heraldic, like war-banners. 
“No, master. I meant…what makes you think I need 
an invitation?” 
Jervais considered this, then nodded and put a hand 
on Torgeir’s shoulder. “Point taken, lad.” 
He went back to his tent, calling for one of the slaves 
as he went. All this smell of vampire blood in the air was 
making him thirsty again, damn it.

142 Tremere 
Chapter Fourteen 
Zabor stood, wan and plainly underfed, in a guard’s 
attitude of vigilance exactly four feet south of the cold fire 
pit. As Jervais watched, Olena and Miklos walked up to 
him. Miklos kicked Zabor hard in the belly. The Pole bent 
and had to cough his way back up to standing, but he didn’t 
move his feet. Olena reached out with her hands and took 
hold of Zabor’s arm. He cried out in pain and wavered as 
whatever enchantment she held passed into him. She 
quirked a satisfied smile and walked away. Torgeir came 
out of a tent and started to pass by. Then he seemed to 
change his mind, picked up a clod of mud and hurled it at 
Zabor’s face. It pelted him, splattering, and dropped down 
onto his shoe. 
“He’s made quick improvement indeed,” Jervais remarked. 
“With so many avid teachers, it’s to be expected. 
Still, you must have done something impressive to him to 
begin with. Perhaps he’s had enough punishment for now? 
Wouldn’t want to wear him down to uselessness.” 
Antal shrugged. “If they don’t fear us more than they 
fear the enemy, then what hope is there of obedience?” 
“Admirable sentiment,” Hermann said over their 
shoulders, “but it’s time to stop admiring your handiwork 
now and come into council.”
*** 
“Now the whole premise of this little adventure is 
that you shall succeed where Alexander failed because you 
have wizards. Is it not?” Wigand stood. “That being the 
case, I think it meet to ask just what the wizards plan to 
do, and why it’s going to make a difference.” 
“Well, let’s start with what we’ve already done and 
what we know from it,” Jervais said amiably. He unrolled 
a large parchment. The soldiers bent over it. 
“It’s not a letter, it’s not a map…” Hermann scowled. 
“What the devil is it?” 
“Oh, it’s a map all right. Just not such as any of you 
gentlemen have ever seen.”

Sarah Roark 143 
“It’s accurate, for one thing,” Antal snorted. Jervais 
gave him a quick warning glance. 
“It’s to true scale, that is,” Jervais smoothed over, “and 
these blots of color show rivers and lakes, bogs, stretches 
of forest, hills. These are alkai, holy groves like the one 
back in Prussia where the friar was burnt. And these are 
areas we couldn’t get to, because of either local natural 
disturbances or occult protections. All these sites are of 
potential significance to magical workings. If the Telyavs 
think to call up powerful spirits of air or earth or water, 
these are the places they’ll have to go. This is their main 
camp, and here are the paths of the two patrols we witnessed. 
Now we’ve ranged out as far as we can. Up to this 
boundary, the ley lines are recorded from direct scrying. 
Beyond, I’ve charted out their likely courses according to 
the best calculations I can make. Now unfortunately, while 
we’re here we’ll be drawing on the same vis-flows as our 
enemy.” 
“I’m not sure I understand the first thing you’re talking 
about,” Wigand said, “but if you and the other Tremere 
must draw on the same…flows as the Telyavs, does that 
mean that you could draw more heavily and deprive them 
of what they need to work their witchery?” 
“Not that simply, I’m afraid. Samogitia seems to be 
unusually bounteous. I don’t know if we and the Telyavs 
put together could drain it.” 
“What if you simply cut down an alkas?” Hermann 
muttered, fingering one of the spots drawn in red. “I admit 
I’m tempted to do it in any case, but would it hurt the 
Telyavs?” 
“It might,” Jervais conceded. “But it would anger the 
local folk as well, and we have our hands full enough as it 
is.” And why destroy the treasure when we might yet seize it 
for our own? 
“Well,” Wigand said. “So you have been doing something 
all this time we’ve been sitting like birds in the 
bush—you’ve made a map. You’ve also tried to remove 
Qarakh, and you have very little idea of what that accomplished 
besides killing a few raiders. And of course alerting 
them to an enemy presence.”

144 Tremere 
“Rubbish. Deverra certainly knows about the ill effects 
of diablerie. Most likely she’ll put it down to that,” 
Antal argued. 
“Oh? And you’re that familiar with what Deverra does 
and doesn’t know?” Hermann challenged him. 
“Well, she has to know about it. Who besides a rank 
neonate doesn’t?” the Hungarian retorted quickly. Too 
quickly. Damn. 
“That won’t suffice.” Hermann now stood to roll up 
the chart. He stared at Jervais. “Both of you seem to know 
a lot more about this woman than you’ve let on so far. 
Let’s have it out.” 
“Don’t…don’t damage that,” Jervais said a bit faintly. 
“It’s very important. To all of us.” It was also three weeks’ 
starvation work, but he wouldn’t demean himself by complaining 
of that to Hermann. 
“Is it now? That would depend on what you mean to 
use it for, wouldn’t it?” 
A flush of outrage mounted Jervais’s pale cheeks. 
“What else would we use it for besides what we all came 
out here to do?” 
“That’s just what I’m asking. No more evasions, warlocks. 
What are you omitting?” He held up the chart now, 
letting it unfurl, poised to rip it down the middle. 
“You don’t dare do that,” Jervais growled. 
“You don’t dare stop me,” Hermann said loftily. 
“Oh?” Jervais raised his arms. Antal hurriedly put a 
hand on his wrist. 
“Brother, brother…easy, it’s not worth it. He’s bluffing.”
Hermann smiled and very deliberately tore the chart 
in half. 
“He’s not bluffing!” Jervais lunged forward, teeth elongated 
and bared. Hermann was surprised, but not 
unprepared. His sword flashed out and nearly caught 
Jervais’s chin. Antal restrained his fellow magus—barely. 
“Quite a temper on our soft courtier after all,” the 
knight remarked. “If you really want to try me, Meister 
Tremere, go ahead. You’d better not imagine that the 
thought of his Highness will stay my hand. He’s already

Sarah Roark 145 
suffered a great betrayal from one ally who kept one secret 
too many, and he never trusted you to begin with. I assure 
you, he’s not of a mind to become your tool, and neither 
am I.” 
“You prate to me about making Jürgen a tool?” Jervais 
shouted. “Let me tell you what I’ve no more mind to be, 
you cross-waving—” 
“Please! We’re all being very hasty here.” Diplomacy 
was not a garment Antal wore well, but desperation seemed 
to impel him. “Please. Brother Hermann, I implore you, 
set the parchment down. You have no idea how Master 
Jervais and the rest of us have sweated over it, and all for 
the sake of our mutual mission.” 
“There’s more to this mission for you than simply 
doing milord a service.” Hermann did not budge. 
“Yes, there is,” Antal hastily agreed. “Please, Master 
Jervais. No, no, it is time. We cannot afford such distrust 
between ourselves and the knights. If the captain has 
guessed, then he must be told. I will take responsibility for 
it to Ceoris.” 
Jervais allowed himself to be guided back down to his 
seat. He was still furious at having this morsel that he’d 
been carefully saving up for the moment of best advantage 
so rudely swept off his plate. But Antal was taking 
blame, at least—the great war-mage willingly coming down 
a peg. That was worth a little something. 
“The Telyavs,” Antal explained, “are renegades of the 
House and Clan. Deverra was born a daughter of these 
lands, so we sent her here to found new chantries in our 
name. But she has turned her back on us. Thus she and 
her followers have been condemned to die.” 
The two knights held a moment’s silent conference. 
“I see,” Hermann said at last. “Well, that would explain 
it.” 
“Are the Telyavs aware of this interdict from Ceoris?” 
Wigand asked. 
“May we have our chart back?” Jervais returned. 
Hermann handed each half across the table to him with a 
twitch of the lip. “They’re about to be made aware,” he 
said once the pieces were safe in his hand once more.

146 Tremere 
“Ah, but why be in such a rush?” Wigand looked 
thoughtful now. “This changes things significantly. Since 
relations haven’t been formally severed yet, you could visit 
as an official of Ceoris, and she would have to receive you 
or else admit her treachery, wouldn’t she?” 
“She could also,” Jervais said, quite evenly he thought, 
“get suspicious, draw the natural conclusion that I was responsible 
for the business with Qarakh, kill me, deprive 
you of your chief wizard and doom the entire effort to failure.”
“You mean the business with Qarakh that she surely 
attributed to the ill effects of diablerie?” Wigand quipped. 
“Come, Meister Tremere. You were eager enough to risk 
yourselves with what you freely claimed to be a most perilous 
spell. Have you no courage in any other area of 
endeavor? Brother Hermann had given me to understand 
that you were a skilled negotiator. Think of what you might 
learn under a flag of false truce. Qarakh’s fate, the camp 
layout, the warriors’ readiness.” 
“That is true.” Antal rubbed his beard. Jervais glared 
at him. “Master Jervais, I’m not sure how much more 
scrying the children have left in them. They are tired, their 
concentration wanes, and the vessels are fatigued as well. 
Until we can get some fresh ones…perhaps we should make 
a more direct move. One that could gain us much knowledge 
without beginning the fight too soon.” 
“So you wish me to walk straight into the lion’s mouth, 
with no guarantee of even an attempt at rescue should I 
be captured.” Jervais cogitated on this. “Very well. I’ll do 
it, on one condition. There’s been an awful lot of talk of 
trust and the lack thereof tonight, and I do agree that we 
should do what we can to foster trust among us all. To that 
end, I will grant this as a personal boon to Herr Hermann.” 
“A boon?” Hermann cooled immediately. Jervais was 
invoking a tradition that far predated the entry of the 
Tremere into the Cainite race—one the Ventrue in particular 
held sacred. 
“I’ll gladly specify if that will assist you in making 
your half of the leap of trust, mein Herr. At some future 
point, I shall request your assistance in a spell. I promise

Sarah Roark 147 
that it will not deprive you of your existence or bring you 
to any permanent harm of any sort. You will give me that 
assistance freely when I ask it.” 
“It’s not enough you ensorcelled my horse, now you 
want me to befoul myself with nigromancy,” the knight 
protested. 
“Do you want to remove this obstacle to your master’s 
ambitions or not? We’ve now told you the truth about the 
Telyavs, and I’m further offering to take immense personal 
danger upon myself for all your sakes. I don’t think his 
Highness will be nearly as forgiving of your reticence to 
accept one simple boon in these changed circumstances. 
Let us again revisit the key words of the discussion: Trust? 
Courage? May I add a third: Honor? Not a coin, of course, 
that dastardly sorcerers must usually trade in, but what 
about knights? I put it to you, mein Herr, that your honor 
and the honor of the faith you carry forward are worth a 
small promise to a wizard. You are, of course, free to disagree.” 
Hermann seemed literally unable to speak for a moment. 
Then, stiffly, he nodded. “Very well, warlock. I 
acknowledge the boon in the terms you have stated.” 
“Then I should start preparing for my journey. Excuse 
me, meine Herren.” Jervais bowed his way out of 
Hermann’s tent. As he made for his own tent, he saw Zabor 
once again, miserable but vigilant still at his “post.” Some 
of the slaves had crowded up near him to stare. Jervais 
went up to Zabor and gave him a pitying smile. 
Then he ripped the young Pole’s robe open down the 
front and continued on his way.

148 Tremere 
Chapter Fifteen 
If this was, indeed, the village the smith had meant, 
then he’d spoken true—it was well and thoroughly plundered. 
Not a soul stirred in the silent half ring of houses. 
Even whatever had once sat on top of the wooden post at 
the mouth of the semicircle (a horse’s skull, the Kur 
guessed) was ripped away. 
Jervais noted, however, that although the huts’ deep 
thatched roofs nearly reached the ground, not a single 
bundle of straw had been burned. Unusual behavior for 
pillagers. And many of the bodies littered about—mostly 
of elderly folk and children who would have been too small 
to keep up—bore twin teeth marks eerily clean of blood 
as well as the more familiar gnawings of scavenger animals. 
Each body was also missing an ear. In the West no 
one dared leave such obvious unnatural traces anymore. 
The dead must disappear, as must the killer, unless he liked 
the idea of being thrown to the vigilants of the Church as 
a propitiating sacrifice. Vampiric power must be invisible, 
the vampires themselves never more than rumors and 
ghosts. The voivodes of the East were traditionally more 
blatant, but Qarakh’s raiders had to be making even them 
uneasy. 
“They’ll come,” he said benevolently to Torgeir. 
“Maybe.” The Dane rubbed fitfully at his forearms. If 
Jervais had been in a computational mood, he might have 
easily calculated where Torgeir would end up halting his 
mount as some function of maximum distance from maximum 
number of corpses. 
“Their patrol should run right across our tracks,” 
Jervais continued, gesturing. Since they’d certainly had 
no wish to inform the Telyavs that they were camped less 
than a night’s ride away, they’d gone out quite some distance 
before removing Master Antal’s enchanted 
horseshoes and doubling back northward. Finding this village 
had been an accident, not at all a happy one for

Sarah Roark 149 
Torgeir. Still, it seemed an appropriate place to wait. “But 
if they take too long about it, I’ll send up a witch-light.” 
“Perhaps they’ve moved on. You said they were nomads.” 
“Even nomads don’t move constantly.” 
“Unless they’re suspicious. Perhaps we waited too 
long.” 
“I highly doubt any such luck will be ours. Besides, 
we needed a few nights to bleach out your robes.” 
“Of course.” 
“Well, you can hardly fault me. Look at you. You’re 
bound to make an impression. They’ll more likely forbear 
killing me to please you than the other way ’round.” 
“Or they might decide to regard me as my fellow 
Christians always have,” the young magus said icily. 
“So long as it’s fear of one sort or another, boy, I’m 
satisfied.” 
A new scent on the breeze caught at Jervais’s sensitive 
nostrils. A little later, it was followed by a distant 
thundering and spots of movement on the horizon. The 
riders came with uncanny speed. As though of one mind, 
they ranged out across the plain and circled the village, 
then drew in toward the Tremere. There were eight of 
them. Jervais’s horse tried to shy; he calmed it as best he 
could, letting it smell of his wrist in an unspoken promise 
to feed it later if it would behave now. 
That these were Qarakh’s raiders there could be no 
question. He saw the whites of their vampire eyes glistening 
under the moonlight, and he heard that their short, 
slender-legged, bristle-maned and brush-tailed horses went 
unshod. Their faces weren’t Tartar, or didn’t match the 
description he’d been given in any case, but their armor 
was curious. Instead of mail rings, it consisted of many 
overlapping plates of what looked like hard leather, giving 
them, to Jervais’s eyes, a certain reptilian cast. 
The Kur, who stood with the Tremere, trembled and 
crowded unwisely close to Jervais’s mount. Jervais toed the 
slave with his boot. “Tell them we come in peace. Shout 
it.”

150 Tremere 
The man shouted out something. The riders might or 
might not have understood it, but at any rate they paid 
attention. One of them, who wore a fine metal-fitted belt 
and a bright-colored hat, shouted back. 
“Well?” Jervais prodded the Kur. 
“He say if you come in peace you can leave in peace. 
You go or you die.” 
“Tell them this. ‘I am unarmed, so you can kill me if 
you like, though that would be very foolish. I am kin to 
wise Deverra, and I wish only to bring her word from afar.’” 
“No Tremere is ever unarmed,” called a voice in good 
Latin. A second head appeared behind that of the chief 
rider; then the rest of the body, which slid down off the 
horse and came forward. It was a slim, pale, young-looking 
man. He didn’t wear the strange leather armor borne 
by the rest, only a simple cloak of weathered green. “But 
at least I only see two of you. Why have you come really?” 
“As I said.” Jervais deliberately loosened his grip on 
the reins to show himself unafraid. “It’s been a long time 
since we’ve had word of Mistress Deverra, and I daresay 
the reverse is true as well.” 
“Indeed,” the other replied with a smile. “Nor has 
Ceoris ever sent us an emissary to visit in person. I must 
wonder what prompted them to extend us this honor at 
last.”
“Perhaps it is simply long overdue. But come, your 
mistress, is she well? May I see her?” 
The young Cainite grinned. “I assure you, master, at 
this point you will see her whether you wish to or not.” 
*** 
After a long winter night’s ride north and a day’s rest 
in an abandoned wooden fort, Jervais awoke to find to his 
very great relief that he and Torgeir hadn’t been murdered 
in their sleep after all. Indeed, their Telyav guide greeted 
them with a smile and a cold swig from a silver flask. A 
second small company of mortal horsemen had joined them 
during the day, however, two of whom were leading along 
light gray beasts a hand or two taller than the tarpanas. 
“You must change horses now,” the Telyav directed 
them.

Sarah Roark 151 
“We must?” 
“In this country, master, wizards ride only pale 
mounts.” 
“I see. Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to be one to 
erode wizardly dignities,” Jervais said amiably, although 
he gave the horses a good hard sorcerer’s gaze before slinging 
himself up. The cloaked vampire helped Torgeir up, 
casting a curious eye upon him in the process but saying 
nothing. 
Some hours later they rode into the pagan camp, preceded 
by flute and drum. Their guide passed through the 
twin fires marking the border of the settlement and formally 
welcomed them in with a bow and a recitation. 
Jervais felt the ward part uneasily as he rode through, but 
his attention was immediately drawn away to the odd tents. 
They were cylindrical up to a certain height and then 
peaked in a pointed roof, many with spiraling smoke-columns 
rising from the center. Every tent was oriented 
exactly the same, the felt-bracketed door always facing due 
south. They proceeded along an open south-north lane 
running down the camp’s middle, the one clear area in 
what otherwise seemed a confusion of clutter. 
As they moved inward, the tents also grew wider and 
grander, until at last they reached such a size that Jervais 
had no idea at all how they might be moved. From every 
tent poured mortals, old and young. They crowded 
around—a sea of heads upon which Jervais felt buoyed 
forward. He noted with satisfaction that Torgeir (who’d 
evidently resigned himself to playing the part) elicited 
many awed gasps as he rode impassively through their 
midst. True, he also saw several fists raised with thumb 
between index and middle finger in what had to be some 
sort of evil-eye gesture, but those were furtive, covert 
movements. 
At the very center of the camp stood the grandest 
tent of all, festooned with trophies from years of plunder. 
A large cluster of figures had gathered there. Foremost 
among them was a wizened little woman with bent shoulders, 
dressed like the other women in the camp, but more 
elaborately so: a white shift and a red-orange linen over

152 Tremere 
dress, caught with horseshoe-shaped brooches at the shoulders 
and sides. From her waist hung a multitude of draped 
beaded strings and woven bands. Her headdress was somewhat 
like a wimple, but decorated with medallions pinned 
on it to the left and right of her seamed white face. She 
carried a long branch-staff that was either freshly cut or 
else enchanted to remain perpetually green with leaves. 
Jervais dismounted and came forward to meet her. Torgeir 
followed suit. 
“Master Jervais. Ceoris honors us beyond all expectation,” 
the crone said, bowing low. She extended her hand. 
He took it and allowed her to lead him inside, holding 
open the tent flap for him. Two of the armored riders took 
up guard posts at the door. Low felt-covered cushions, arranged 
in a long rectangle, awaited them within the tent. 
The woman seated herself and her guests on the north 
side. 
Jervais studied those around him. But for their cloaks, 
dyed in various woodsman’s shades from green to rust, the 
Telyavs looked much like the mortals of the region. Jervais 
saw one face, but only one, that looked foreign to him, a 
dark-haired Cainite man of indeterminate age. He read 
among them colors of uncertainty, fear, resentment perhaps. 
Nothing he wasn’t perfectly used to seeing during 
any visit of an official nature. 
“May we offer you refreshment, Master Jervais?” the 
old woman asked. 
“Of course. We’d be delighted.” 
She stood again and waved over one of the mortal 
servants who stood waiting around the tent’s perimeter. 
The man engaged in a moment’s anxious consultation with 
her, then hurried off. She smiled at Torgeir. “He asks me if 
you are the beloved of Giltine, Mother Death; or a slogutis, 
a nightmare; or perhaps the love-child of Ausrine and 
Menulis—Evening Star and Moon. I thought Giltine the 
most appropriate answer, but please don’t take it as an aspersion 
on your character, my friend.” 
He simply bowed in reply. Jervais frowned but did not 
reprove him.

Sarah Roark 153 
“I regret that this may take a little longer than expected. 
He won’t wish to choose wrongly.” She turned back 
to Jervais with a coolly arched eyebrow. “But of course we 
won’t make his lordship wait for that…” 
“No, no,” Jervais said hastily. “We should all dine together 
as brothers and sisters, it’s only right.” 
“Indeed.” 
“Forgive my rudeness, milady, but—will Mistress 
Deverra be joining us this evening?” 
“Mistress Deverra has already joined you, milord,” she 
answered with another dignified if labored courtesy. “But 
perhaps she has disappointed expectations. If so, I fear I 
can offer little remedy.” 
Jervais took a moment to realize what she was saying, 
then another moment to absorb it. “Not a single disappointment 
thus far, milady. However, if you’re saying that 
you are she, then the description I was given was…not 
quite correct.” 
“Correct it might well have been, but alas, likely outdated.” 
She arranged herself once more on the cushion. 
“Sometimes our Art is not only demanding, but cruel.” 
“It seems so,” Jervais murmured. “I would certainly 
call any Art cruel that demanded of a woman her youthful 
beauty. My apologies if I’ve unwittingly pained you, 
mistress.” 
“There’s no need, milord. For my part, I call it a bargain 
to pay heavily for that which is priceless. And now 
the age of my face more closely matches the age of my 
heart, at least. A lesson in truth.” 
“Ah, one of those. I’ve never liked those.” 
She chuckled. “Nor have I. But this land would teach 
me wisdom in spite of myself. And the land of Hungary, 
how does it treat our brethren?” 
“I actually haven’t been spending much time in Hungary 
of late, but from what I can tell, the usual climate 
prevails.” 
“Ah, then you’re not here to recruit for the front.” 
“Recruit?” Jervais surveyed the assemblage with 
amusement. Most of them were staring at him now. He 
could just imagine what they’d been told to expect, and

154 Tremere 
here was this round, jovial character trading dry witticisms 
with their matriarch. “Bonisagus’s beard, no. It seems 
Ceoris feels it’s become rather out of touch with your efforts 
here, that’s all. I understand a few letters were sent 
which never received an answer…but perhaps they went 
astray.” 
“Yes, they must have. I should certainly never wish 
to worry Ceoris. We’re probably not as easy to reach as 
other branches of the House and Clan.” 
“Quite true. An interesting mode of existence,” Jervais 
nodded. “I can’t help feeling a bit surprised by it, however. 
I hadn’t thought the tribes of the Baltic were nomads.” 
“They aren’t,” she said simply. 
“Indeed, the style of the tents, and the armor of your 
riders,” he went on, feigning knowledge he didn’t begin to 
possess, “actually reminds me more of reports of the Tartars.”
Her face fell into more severe lines. “Well, there’s good 
enough reason for that, Master Jervais. Much of this region 
is traditionally claimed by the voivodes, as you know, 
and any who would resist them find it necessary to make 
common cause. Some time ago we did exactly that with a 
group of Gangrel who wandered here from the Orient. It’s 
not easy, but I do find that being migratory has its advantages. 
It’s safer to stay on the move, and there are so few 
towns of any size in these parts. In this way, we avoid taxing 
any one area for too long.” 
But you do seem to make the most of the time you’ve got, 
Jervais thought, recalling the depopulated village. “Fascinating, 
milady. And these Eastern Gangrel, do they have 
a leader of their own, or do they call you mistress as the 
mortals do?” 
“They have a leader, but I regret you’ve missed him 
for this visit. Nor am I precisely sure when he will return. 
He’s close about his comings and goings, like most of his 
blood.” 
“Ah. A pity my timing proves so ill,” Jervais said, 
scouring his voice clean of every trace of delight. He hoped 
she wasn’t watching his halo, although he was doing his 
best to keep it suppressed in any case. “But perhaps there’s

Sarah Roark 155 
a second-in-command to whom your ladyship would be 
kind enough to introduce me?” 
“I am the second-in-command, so to speak. Just as 
my magi and apprentices are instructed to obey Qarakh in 
my absence, so the riders look to me when he is gone.” 
“Then the alliance must be a very close one.” 
“It pleases the mortals to have both a high priestess 
and a war-chief. Orb and scepter. It encourages their trust.” 
“Their trust or their worship?” 
“I see the most august Lord Councilor has been 
preaching to you,” she said imperturbably. “He doesn’t distinguish 
between Cainites demanding worship as gods, and 
Cainites leading the worship of the gods. But he is a Christian, 
and he distrusts all other faiths. I have always 
understood that. Still, I hope you can explain to him that 
we haven’t forced upon the mortals a cult of ourselves. 
They believe as they always have.” 
“That may be the part that the august Councilor has 
the most trouble with,” Jervais pointed out. He was very 
glad the knights weren’t with him. He glanced quickly at 
Torgeir; the boy didn’t look offended, at least. Good. He 
would likely uncover more information if they could avoid 
insulting her bizarre religion for at least a little while. 
“Well, as an official of Ceoris, you must surely know 
his mind on the subject,” she said with a tiny, keen smile. 
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare pretend to that particular expertise. 
But you’re saying, then, that this god of yours…” 
“Telyavel.” 
“Yes, Telyavel. That he was always a god of these 
parts.” 
“He has always been exactly as he is, milord, which is 
to say, he’s many things. He is a god of cunning, who 
brought the secret of metalcraft from the Underworld and 
used it to forge the sun-crown. He thus straddles the worlds 
of man, god and devil, death, darkness and secrets, hope 
and light.” 
“A most excellent deity for Tremere, then.” 
“Indeed. If you credit such superstitions,” she said. 
He decided to change the subject.

156 Tremere 
“Since you move around so much, how can you be 
establishing chantries, which is, I’m given to understand, 
the task you were originally charged with?” 
“If I may be forgiven the audacity of correcting 
milord…” He had to envy her. Even buckled under the 
weight of sudden unnatural age, she sat like a queen. Her 
dignity seemed completely unstudied, and she’d mastered 
the art of asking pardon without seeming timid. “It was 
primarily to research certain unplumbed aspects of the new 
Art that we were sent to Livonia. We were also asked to 
establish chantries as seemed fit. But what is a chantry, 
milord? Is it wood and stone? Or is it the souls that dwell 
within those walls, and the common purpose they share?” 
“Then you’re saying there are other groups of 
your…branch, elsewhere in these lands.” 
“Yes, there are. However, where precisely they are at 
any time, even I cannot say.” 
“Then how do you reach each other in times of need?” 
“With difficulty, sometimes. This is strange country, 
Master Jervais. You’ll find that what would be considered 
wisdom elsewhere is foolishness here, and the reverse.” 
A likely story. Well, she was suspicious, clearly. She 
was shading truths in a way that contradicted what he’d 
learned elsewhere. His informants, for instance, had been 
quite sure that Qarakh was the only Tartar (Gangrel or 
otherwise) to be found anywhere in Livonia, but here was 
Deverra, implying that there’d been a whole band of them. 
She was trying to minimize the idea that Qarakh and 
Qarakh alone had had such a profound effect on the culture 
of his tribe—that so much depended on him. And 
now she claimed that any number of Telyavs was lurking 
out there but she had no way of knowing exactly where, 
which was quite simply nonsense. No maga her age would 
lack such means. 
“But now that you’ve found us, Master Jervais…what 
are Ceoris’s instructions?” 
“Instructions, milady?” he repeated. 
“Come, milord.” Perhaps he was imagining it, but her 
voice seemed to have steeled suddenly. “Ceoris always has 
instructions.”

Sarah Roark 157 
“Ah. Well, there were instructions for me, naturally— 
I was charged to find you if I could, to see how you fared 
and report back.” 
“But there is nothing in particular that Ceoris wants 
us to do? That seems highly…unusual.” 
This was going very bad very quickly. Jervais wished 
with all his might that he had the power some elders had, 
to speak mind to mind. He would have reached out to 
Torgeir and shaken the look of half-panic off the boy’s 
face. Nor was the young magus’s consternation escaping 
Deverra, though she pretended not to heed. 
“Now that we know you’re all right, I’m sure instructions 
will be forthcoming soon. It seemed folly to issue 
orders to a branch of the House and Clan that might have 
fallen into some calamity and been unable to obey in any 
case,” Jervais answered. 
“We could always fall into calamity after you leave,” 
she pointed out. 
“Oh! Heaven forfend,” he exclaimed. 
“It is not Heaven we look to in these tenuous nights, 
milord. The servants of Heaven who come here have 
shown themselves to be anything but friends. And they 
don’t stop coming. The Sword-Brothers, the German 
knights with the black crosses, the Danes, the friars…” 
He frowned, his thoughts racing to try to get ahead 
of hers. “The cross extends its reach across the face of the 
earth, milady, as it’s always done. I understand that your 
lands have seen more than their share of bloodshed and 
tragedy lately, and that must surely interfere with your research—
but it can’t be helped. The Church does as it likes. 
Even Ceoris can’t defy it. You simply must find some way 
to work around it. The paganism hereabouts is doomed, 
in the long term, anyway; perhaps even in the short. Surely 
you see that.” 
She actually closed her eyes for a moment, and he 
wondered whether she was nursing a great sadness or a 
great hatred. He dared not let his sight shift to look at her 
soul. But when she opened them again, she seemed still to 
have full command of herself.

158 Tremere 
“There must…there must be Cainites of the ruling 
bloods who support the knights and the friars.” Deverra 
shook her head. “When I left Ceoris, already our Council 
was laboring to acquire the ears and favor of the mighty 
among the dead. Has there been no success in that, milord? 
Have they not proved useful to anyone important? Are 
we still utterly friendless in the world?” 
She meant it as a diplomatic needling, but the question 
caught him in the throat. He found he had to recover 
himself to answer. 
“We have proved our usefulness to dozens of princes 
hundreds of times over, milady. And there are now many 
princes who take our counsel, and grant us chantry rights, 
but…” 
“But no friends.” 
He waved a defeated hand. “I had been going to say 
that I’m not sure how much influence they even have over 
these mortals, to say nothing of how much of it they’d 
exert on our behalf.” 
“Ah, you see. Nothing ever changes really.” She 
smiled bitterly and smoothed her overdress. “You said, 
Master Jervais, that you’ve not dwelled at Ceoris recently. 
Where then have you been?” 
“I go on many errands for the House and Clan, milady.”
“You must be one of those whose business it is to make 
himself useful, then.” 
“I suppose that’s a fair enough description.” 
“It sounds like frustrating work to me. I’m afraid I 
make a much better master than servant. One thing I can 
say for my situation is that at least there are none here to 
command me.” 
“Except for the Lord Councilor Etrius, of course,” 
Jervais demurred. 
“Of course. But he is not here. He has interfered very 
little to date, and I conduct myself and my endeavors as I 
see fit. There, looked at that way, I can’t really complain, 
can I?” She stood and came forward, her watery hazel eyes 
now alight with that mirror-shine that Cainite eyes often 
showed in moments of hunger. “Perhaps you’re right, Mas

Sarah Roark 159 
ter Jervais, and soon we’ll all be coming to German castles 
to pay tax and tribute, and kneeling to take penitential 
ash on our brows, and every sacred grove will be nothing 
more than some Saxon count’s deer run. And men like 
you won’t weep. You’ll say, ‘This is the world,’ and you’ll 
kiss the ring no matter whose hand it’s on and hope that 
the boot treads on someone else’s head. Or perhaps someone 
will order you to put on the boot.” 
He rose as she came up to him. It was quite clear now 
that they were no longer speaking of Saxon princes or 
Teutonic Knights. “Madame, we friendless wizards, as 
you’ve so rightly pointed out, must do without a lot of 
luxuries others take for granted. Pride, ambition, discontent, 
must all be hidden from those who would crush us as 
the threat we truly are. But above all, what we can’t afford 
is to break apart within. To be divided against ourselves.” 
“How right you are, Master Jervais. Shall we make 
that the toast, then? It is the guest’s duty to think one up, 
after all.” 
She beckoned with one gnarled, braceleted hand. A 
group of mortals filed in, dressed in fresh garments and 
neatly coifed, carrying bowls. A fair, plump, light-haired 
girl of betrothal age walked proudly at their head, garbed 
in white and adorned with what was probably a chieftain’s 
ransom in these parts. She came directly up to Torgeir 
without a word and got down on both knees before him. 
He gazed upon her—astounded, appreciative, or most 
likely both—for a long moment before seeming to realize 
that a response was required of him. He looked up at 
Jervais. 
“Well, go on,” Jervais encouraged him, not without a 
tinge of jealousy. “Not your standard chantry fare, eh? 
Obviously you didn’t realize there was a bright side to 
this…” 
He nodded, then laid a hand on her shoulder and 
gave her a self-conscious smile. The mortals were so well 
behaved that Jervais hadn’t noticed any tension in their 
frames, but they all seemed to soften in relief. The girl 
smiled in return and stood, taking his hand. He began to 
rise as well, uncertainly.

160 Tremere 
“Master, I think…should I…” 
“Yes, Torgeir, go with her, off, off. Mustn’t insult our hosts.” 
He could just imagine what Etrius would have said. At 
least the boy could claim later that diplomacy forced him. 
“Now I trust you see that our land is not without its beauties,” 
Deverra said dryly as the other mortals assembled 
themselves in a group and began bleeding each other in turn. 
Bowls were passed to all the company, the largest two to Jervais 
and Deverra. 
“Not at all without,” he agreed. He took the bowl, a fine 
bronze implement cast in curious patterns. At least the blood 
within was quite fresh, but it would not remain warm or perfectly 
liquefied for long. Divorced from its source, it was already 
beginning to die. He turned to his hostess and raised the bowl 
to her in salute. 
She took hers, but before raising it to him, she went to 
the north side of the tent where a bench holding a collection 
of little felt and wooden figures stood. She daubed the mouth 
of each with a bit of blood and then further poured a splash of 
it onto the ground before them. Then she returned to the center 
of the tent and flicked a few drops into the cold fire pit. 
“Gabija, be satisfied,” she murmured. 
“You serve your gods before yourself,” Jervais commented. 
“Of course. They are greater than myself.” 
But nothing is supposed to be greater than the House and Clan, 
Jervais thought grimly. It’s for that you die, not for being pagan. If 
only you had realized that… 
This thought needed chasing out. “The toast.” 
“Of course, Master Jervais.” 
“To the eternal unity of House and Clan. May it never 
falter in a thousand centuries.” 
She nodded, “Indeed,” and drank readily. Jervais noticed, 
however, that she cast a quick look around to be sure her followers 
did likewise. “And may none of us here find ourselves 
divided against ourselves. Especially you, Master Jervais. For 
such a fate is not to be wished even on one’s enemy, to say 
nothing of our ranking Tremere upon whom the fate of us all 
depends.” 
He raised the bowl again, accepting her toast both as it 
was said and as it was meant.

Sarah Roark 161 
Chapter Sixteen 
“How very interesting,” Osobei said the next evening, 
swinging elegantly down from the saddle. “I’d assumed that 
it was me she wanted to keep out of trouble with this little 
trip away. But it seems she has other company…important 
company, if the music is any guide. Perhaps I’m not actually 
the one she’s worried about?” 
He turned to smile at the raider, who shrugged stonily. 
He didn’t even stop to take the packs off his mount, 
although he did study himself in a little mirror he kept in 
his sleeve before walking into the center of the camp. 
A mortal woman was dancing before the communal 
fire in front of the great ger, robed in a gown with sleeves 
that fell down well past her hands. She moved them like 
streamers, in circles and sinuous waves. A man played on 
a knee-fiddle with a carved horse’s head for a pegbox—an 
instrument that, if Osobei recalled correctly, had been reconstructed 
from the great khan’s memory at his special 
request. Bells and gongs struck at intervals. Sitting before 
the woman, bemused, were a pair of nemci in long heavy 
Western robes. He had to squint through the heat haze to 
get a better look at them. 
Deverra, who sat beside them, turned and glared at 
Osobei as he came closer, but she said nothing. The stouter 
of the two nemci clapped his hands as the woman finished. 
“Pulchra, pulchra,” he said. 
“The speech of the Western church, in this camp?” 
Osobei commented, also in Latin. “I am shocked.” 
“As am I,” Deverra returned. “That is, to see you back 
again so soon. Alas, I must assume our countryside did not 
beguile you.” 
“On the contrary,” he said easily. “I found it most 
charming. And I paid my respects to the lake, but I’m not 
koldun, milady. My devotions are simple. Rude, I am sure 
some of them would say.” 
He had the satisfaction of seeing the nemci stiffen at 
that.

162 Tremere 
“I am sure they would,” Deverra agreed. 
“But I see, alas, that I should have remained beguiled 
a little longer regardless. Evidently my presence is an embarrassment.” 
“Not an embarrassment, boyar,” she said wearily. “I 
simply thought it would be best for all concerned.” 
“So your ladyship entertains emissaries of the 
voivodes,” the stout one exclaimed. 
“Yes. I entertain any emissary who approaches in 
peace,” Deverra said. 
“Not just any voivode, sir,” Osobei corrected. “The 
voivode of voivodes, Vladimir Rustovitch himself. As for 
me, I am Osobei Vasilevitch vnuk Vladimirov pravnuk 
Kosczecsykev prapravnuk Triglavlev praprapravnuk 
Tzimiscev. And you? Do you intend to remain nameless 
all night?” 
“Jervais bani Tremere,” the nemci said. He did not get 
up. “However, as Mistress Deverra says, we’ve both come 
in peace, so I don’t see why we shouldn’t be able to overlook 
it for now.” 
“Don’t you?” Osobei returned with a smirk. “For one 
thing, it wouldn’t be consistent with any of our mutual 
history that I’m aware of.” 
“No, his difficulty is with me now,” Deverra put in. 
“Is that not so, Master Jervais?” 
“Well,” said Master Jervais. “I’m sure you can understand 
my surprise, milady.” 
“So I could, if I thought there were any. But you seem 
remarkably unsurprised to me.” 
“Now I don’t know quite what you’re getting at. I 
wouldn’t think that the Telyavs would see any need to 
receive envoys from Rustovitch—who has, after all, spent 
the last several decades making a brutal effort to wipe 
Ceoris off the face of the earth. Not an insult, boyar, but a 
fact.”
“None taken, master sorcerer,” the Tzimisce assured 
him.
“But perhaps you have your reasons. If so, then it is 
for you to justify them to Ceoris. It’s not a matter for my

Sarah Roark 163 
judgment. I am but a messenger. I will merely convey what 
I have seen.” 
“Ah, but you’re not going back to Ceoris, are you?” A 
new voice. One of the Telyavs, a dark-haired warlock 
whom Osobei had often seen in Deverra’s company, rose 
to his feet. “For if you were, surely you’d rest here for longer 
than a single day. It’s a long way to Hungary, and hospitality 
is rare and dear for Tremere in the east. That being the 
case, why do you shun us?” 
“Bernalt, please.” Deverra cut him off, and added 
something else in one of the Baltic tongues. 
“I can’t sit here and listen to these lies. What’s the 
use?”
“Bernalt?” Master Jervais said. “Now I know I’ve heard 
that name. Doesn’t sound Livonian. And your face…” 
“Yes. We’ve met,” the Telyav said. He came forward. 
There was something in his manner that pleased Osobei, 
an air of violence barely suppressed. “Long ago, before I 
came out here. Before there was any reason for me to come 
out here.” 
That seemed to take Master Jervais aback a bit, but 
then he recovered. “Ah. When you were mortal.” 
“Yes. I was going to stay at Ceoris for a month or so, 
do some research on optics, then return home to my own 
chantry. I remember you were very kind to me while I was 
there. Most helpful in the library. Very generous with the 
vis.” 
“Ah, yes. Well, that was my job.” 
“And I did indeed leave Ceoris the following month, 
but I never got to go home again.” The man’s lip trembled. 
“And you knew. You knew the entire time. And you said 
nothing. Never once did the smile leave your face!” 
“Bernalt!” Deverra blurted again. Her voice cracked, 
a dry old woman’s voice. 
“You shall never deceive us again, Jervais,” he barreled 
on. “We know you now. We know you’ll smile right 
up until the ax comes down, and even if the Devil himself 
was holding your soul in the palm of his hand, you could 
not tell the truth to save it!”

164 Tremere 
“Bernalt, this helps nothing.” Deverra’s voice quickly 
regained its strength, but it went unheeded. 
“And just what in hell would you have wanted me to 
say?” Master Jervais exclaimed, bewildered. 
“I was happy in Castile! I had work, good companions 
and the magic—the magic. Your masters destroyed 
all that, and you helped them do it to each and every one 
of us, and now even that’s not enough. What’s the use? 
Why do we sit here pretending that what’s happening is 
not happening? Aren’t we too old for this? Don’t we know 
each other too well? I won’t let you finish off what little 
we’ve salvaged of ourselves.” Bernalt stopped then, as if 
astounded at himself. There was dead silence. He seemed 
to realize he had gone too far to recall things then, and 
took a deep breath. “I call certámen. To the death.” 
“No,” said Master Jervais. Osobei felt a sting of mixed 
disgust and envy, that this warlock could dismiss a challenge 
to honor so easily. 
“Naturally!” Bernalt shot back. “You shrink from justice 
in any form.” 
“This has nothing to do with justice,” the other 
Tremere returned irritably. “You have a quarrel with me. 
Perhaps unfortunately from your point of view, I have none 
with you. You’ve done me no harm. Why should I want a 
duel?” 
“Coward.” 
Jervais’s square face creased in a smile. “Come, there 
must be better words to fling at me than that—” 
Bernalt’s fist cut him short with a cracking blow to 
the jaw. 
Half the assembled company, mortal and immortal, 
shot to their feet with noises of dismay, including Deverra. 
Osobei could barely contain his delight. 
“There. Now I have done you harm!” 
Jervais stared at him silently, wiping away with a fingertip 
the trickle of blood that appeared on his lip. 
“It is…legitimate grounds for a certámen challenge, 
on both sides,” Deverra said at last. She picked her way 
carefully through the sentence, already weighing benefits 
and detriments. “Even Ceoris would agree.”

Sarah Roark 165 
“Ah,” said Osobei, “but I’m afraid that if Master Jervais 
does not wish to fight—” 
Telyavs and Tremere alike turned to glare at him. He 
gave Master Jervais the special light of his most gracious 
smile. “If Master Jervais does not accept the challenge, 
then Master Bernalt has broken hospitality.” 
“Hospitality!” Bernalt retorted. “For this serpent, this 
poisonous slug…” 
“Who is nevertheless Mistress Deverra’s guest,” 
Osobei pointed out coolly. “And to whom you owe the 
customary forbearance. Perhaps you forget where you are, 
Master Bernalt, or perhaps the youth and…innocence of 
your bloodline serves you ill. But east of the Danube, we 
still take Tradition seriously—not only in the voivodate 
but in all the Cainite courts and dwellings of these lands. 
If it gets out that the Telyavs no longer honor this most 
ancient and sacred bond, then their word will be worth 
even less than that of Ceoris.” 
At once the look of loathing on Jervais’s face became 
one of calculation. Yes, stupid Usurper, think. 
Osobei then gestured toward the young albino who 
sat aghast in the place beside Master Jervais, and lowered 
his voice—even though he still spoke Latin. “Besides, I 
daresay your kine won’t want to see one so clearly godtouched 
made angry. Will they?” 
Deverra raised a hand to her throat, as though to keep 
the rage that showed in her eyes from getting past her voice 
box. 
“Then I suppose the question is whether Master 
Jervais accepts or not,” she managed. 
“I do not accept,” Jervais said. “As you can surely see, 
I asked for none of this.” 
“Then… Then we have wronged you.” She faltered, 
then resolved herself. She held up her hands like a queen 
about to make a proclamation and spoke in one of the 
Baltic tongues. There was murmuring, but people sat down 
again. She then spoke again in Latin. 
“Let it be known here tonight that my sodalis Bernalt 
has trespassed against the hospitality I offered Master 
Jervais of Ceoris, and that I as hostess most deeply lament

166 Tremere 
this trespass.” She got down onto one arthritic knee. 
Osobei felt an odd little twinge of mortal regret at that, 
something to do with the respect for the aged that had 
been drummed into him practically from infancy, but the 
etiquette demanded this gesture of her. 
“I thank you for your apology, milady hostess,” Master 
Jervais said. 
She rose. “Bernalt. Come. You must crave Master 
Jervais’s pardon.” 
Bernalt certainly looked as though the only thing he 
might possibly crave from Jervais was his heart’s blood spilling 
out onto the ground, but he forced himself forward 
and down onto one knee. 
“Forgive me, milord,” he said. 
The other Tremere paused and let a long silent moment 
go by. Again, the etiquette required it. If he gave in 
too quickly, he undermined his own position, and Osobei 
knew quite well that would never do. 
“For the sake of the brotherhood of blood and the 
peace of House and Clan Tremere,” he said at last, “I will 
bear you no ill will.” 
“Thank you, milord Jervais. You are most generous.” 
Deverra turned and spoke to one of her Telyav women, 
who scurried off. “Please allow me also to offer you a token 
of my regrets and apologies.” 
“Ah, no tokens are necessary, madam, I assure you,” 
he answered richly. “Your contrition and Bernalt’s are more 
than sufficient.” Osobei shifted, deliberately making a 
slight noise, and grimaced in mock-concern. 
“Botheration. What is it now, boyar?” Jervais turned 
on him. 
“Alas, master sorcerer, the same sacred traditions that 
forbid Deverra’s kin to threaten her guest likewise forbid 
you to refuse any gift she may offer you—particularly one 
offered so humbly in apology.” Osobei glanced at the Telyav 
who returned now with something hidden under a rich 
cloth. No doubt Deverra had planned to present whatever 
it was anyway, as a going-away present, but making it 
part of the process of amends certainly made sense. “Perhaps 
your brothers and sisters would be willing for family’s

Sarah Roark 167 
sake to overlook such matters, but I wouldn’t promise anything 
similar of all these kine. They know the ancient laws 
just as well as I do. If you were to break hospitality, Mistress 
Deverra would no longer be in a position to protect 
you from them. Or from me. I really think a man in your 
numerically unfortunate position should make it clear that 
you’ve reconciled with her ladyship before you leave, don’t 
you?”
Master Jervais scowled for half an instant, then remembered 
himself and schooled his face into something 
more suitable. Deverra, however, cheered considerably. 
Idiot Tremere. Was it possible the sorcerers were so 
wrapped up in their own squabble that they had forgotten 
their true enemies? 
The Telyav woman uncovered the gift and bowed. It 
was a lovely if rustic little box of some sort, painted in 
bright vegetal colors. 
“A trifle, of course,” said Deverra. “But I hope it will 
remind your lordship and all at Ceoris of the deep bond 
which we all share, and the esteem in which we poor wanderers 
hold our mighty brethren.” 
Jervais nodded. “Beautiful, your ladyship. I accept your 
gift with my deepest thanks.” He hesitated. “In fact, it 
appears so finely crafted that I fear it could get damaged in 
the trip. Could I persuade your sister to wrap it up again?” 
Deverra smiled. Of course her fellow sorcerer didn’t 
want to handle her gift without a protective layer of cloth 
in between. “Of course, Master Jervais. Jurate, wrap it securely.” 
The woman bowed again and obeyed, then presented 
the lump to Jervais, who motioned for Torgeir to take it. 
Torgeir turned as though to hand it in turn to the slave 
but then seemed to realize what a grave faux pas that would 
be. 
“And now we must unfortunately part,” Jervais said 
to Deverra, offering his hand. She took it. “But I will bring 
the joyous news of your survival to our brethren.” 
“And I will see you to our perimeter fires,” she returned 
easily. “Then our horsemen will escort you to our 
border.”

168 Tremere 
“Most kind of you.” 
“Not at all, Master Jervais. It is you who have been 
too kind and indulgent.” 
“Oh, not at all, not at all,” he answered quickly, with 
a chuckle. Osobei fell into place near the head of the crowd 
that followed behind them as they walked hand in hand 
toward the ordu perimeter fires. 
Truer words were never spoken, the old Tzimisce 
thought gleefully to himself. 
*** 
“I would rather have died than apologized to him,” 
Bernalt said quietly later. He knelt before her. The funny 
thing was that he was actually slightly older than Deverra, 
but he’d never been the master of his passions that she 
was. When he and his compatriots had come from the 
Curonian Spit and the lake country to replenish her forces 
(which had been devastated in the battle with Alexander), 
he’d made a far better impression on Qarakh than most 
Telyavs before or since. Kindred spirits. “But you, old 
friend, I would rather die than offend. Forgive me, if you 
can.”
“It’s just as well,” she said restively. “We didn’t tell 
them we’d all but broken with them long ago. They didn’t 
tell us they’d decided to destroy us. Evidently we’ve been 
at war with them for months. Somebody was going to have 
to mention it eventually.” 
“Are we going to mention it?” His eyes fastened on 
hers, and she took his meaning at once. 
“No,” she said. “Not to him. If he wanted to help us, 
he would have warned us by now.” 
“Do you think he knew?” 
“His dearest childe dwells at Ceoris itself, and unless 
my memory fails me, this Jervais you’re such friends with 
is that childe’s childe. Besides, the omens say nothing of 
rescue, I’m afraid.” 
“I know.” He sighed. “Well?” 
“Well,” she murmured, “there’s my present to Master 
Jervais.” 
“Yes. The first of many, I hope.”

Sarah Roark 169 
“Indeed. Did you order the faithful to gather in my 
grove, Bernalt?” 
“Yes, they’re waiting for you at the place of sacrifice.” 
“Good. Our priests and priestesses must be well sated 
before the work begins. We have a long night ahead of us, 
Bernalt…no doubt, also the first of many.”

170 Tremere 
Chapter Seventeen 
They had ridden a couple of hours in complete silence. 
Literally complete, for with Master Antal’s 
horseshoes in place once more, not even hoof beats 
sounded as they slipped through the trees. But at last 
Torgeir spoke. “How far out of the way are you taking us, 
master?” 
“Not much. We should still make it back to camp by 
sunup, if that’s what worries you.” 
“I’m not worried. I’m just assuming there’s some good 
reason…” 
“Yes.” Jervais reined up and looked around. “You 
haven’t seen any funny birds?” 
“Birds?” 
“Master Antal and his avian suspicions, he’s got me 
going now,” the older Tremere grumbled. He dismounted, 
then took out the bundle of cloth containing the Telyavs’ 
“gift.”
“Ah. I wondered if you were really going to keep that.” 
“Certainly not. The only question is how to get rid of 
it.” 
“She probably expects you to try to destroy it. Burn 
it. Break it. Disenchant it.” 
“Probably. Or to try to charm it to reveal its purpose, 
or to put it under ward and save it for later study. If we 
have a flaw, it’s over-curiosity…” He examined the box, 
letting his vision shift. It was very definitely enchanted, 
though not through any method immediately familiar. The 
enchantment looked a good deal smaller than it felt, which 
generally indicated a spell held in abeyance awaiting some 
appointed time or event. But what event, exactly? The 
box itself seemed unremarkable, painted over with figures 
of trees and flowers and some sort of bird—a hawk, he 
thought. He had to admit the temptation was indeed strong 
to put some sort of hasty binding upon it and bring it back 
to camp. If they all put their heads together, they could 
learn quite a bit about Deverra’s craft from it. But no.

Sarah Roark 171 
“Well, what wouldn’t they expect?” Torgeir mused. 
“For us to just walk away from it.” 
“Ah, true. That would be odd behavior for wizards.” 
“Worth a try, you think?” 
The young albino considered. “Yes, master. Well— 
there’s really no way to logic it out, is there? It all depends 
on what she thinks that we would think that she expects.” 
“Right. It’s one of those nasty second-guessing exercises. 
But it seems the best of the several choices. At least 
this way, whatever it does, it’ll do it far away from us.” 
“Better leave it in the cloth, just in case.” 
“Yes indeed.” Jervais set it down with great care, nestling 
it between the roots of a tree so that passing deer or 
whatnot would be less likely to overturn it. They both 
watched it for a few moments. 
“Well, then. Shall we?” Jervais said cheerfully. 
“Yes, the quicker home the better.” 
“Yes. Wait.” The sudden deadening of his tone warned 
Torgeir at once, and they both stopped in mid-turn. The 
cloth wrapping the box had begun to wrinkle and go brown, 
like a turning leaf. Then it deepened to an earthier shade 
and crumbled away completely. The box beneath trembled 
on its stubby little legs and expanded. 
“Tremere’s pizzle,” he muttered. It had only been waiting 
to be set down, nothing more—perhaps on ground, 
perhaps on wood, perhaps on anything at all. Jervais set 
his hands in shape for a charm, but before he could finish 
even deciding what principle to invoke, the box shot 
straight up into the air and burst into pieces, belching 
smoke on him and spraying something sticky across his 
chest as well. From within the smoke a blurry shape took 
form, which looked momentarily like a raptor bird but then 
contorted into something more man-like. Skeleton-like, 
really, or at least the head very quickly came to resemble a 
skull with wide, empty pockets for eyes. Its teeth were like 
a vampire’s, two slender fangs that descended as it grinned. 
Jervais tried his countercharm on it—words of life to 
oppose death and words of water to damp down smoke— 
but was unsurprised when nothing happened. If this was a 
real bound spirit and not some figment of dweomer, it

172 Tremere 
would take more than that to destroy it. It opened its sooty 
jaws and descended, grasping at him with talons that passed 
through his flesh, causing wracking pains. He drew out his 
ritual dagger, the only thing of his that might make a dent 
in such a thing, and plunged it into the shade’s billowing 
middle with a whispered curse. It howled and turned away 
from him, then yawned toward Torgeir instead. 
Torgeir had brought out from somewhere within his 
robes a brass cross with a Seal of Solomon set into its 
middle, and clutched it in his pale fingers as the smokecreature 
enveloped him like a burial shroud. Jervais 
despaired: one instant to react, and the boy did nothing 
but reach for one of his pharisaic master’s pious trinkets. 
He had chosen very ill to bring him— 
And then the thing roared and broke away from its 
embrace of Torgeir’s frame. It tried to compose itself again, 
reforming its ghostly claws. 
“Torgeir, hold it up!” Jervais shouted. “Hold it up! 
What is it, in nomine Patris…” 
“I—in nomine Patris, et Filii…” Torgeir stammered. 
“Et Filii…” 
“Et Spiritus Sancti. O mi Jesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, 
libera nos ab igne inferni, conduc in calum omnes animas, 
prasertim illas, qua maxime indigent misericordia tua.” 
Torgeir’s voice had quickly gained confidence, and now 
he thrust his cross almost into the creature’s face. It gave a 
terrible shriek that quickly choked off into a sort of deathrattle. 
The smoke would not hold shape any longer, and it 
dispersed on the breeze. 
They stood there, amazed, for several long silent moments. 
“Well,” Jervais said at last, “Hermann will be proud.” 
*** 
“The Prus say that the soul takes bird-form upon death 
and flies out of the mouth of the deceased,” Zabor said. 
He squirmed through the huddle of gathered Tremere and 
reached out to tap the spot on the wood where the head 
of a hawk was still visible. “I’ll bet it was a ghost. Isn’t 
their god a sort of death-god?”

Sarah Roark 173 
“Perhaps it was the ghost of one of her own Telyavs,” 
Antal observed gloomily. “I have known necromancers 
among the Fiends who did not shame to call up the souls 
of their own childer slain the previous night, and make 
them run errands from beyond the grave.” 
“Well, let’s try to remember that Telyavs and Fiends 
are not precisely the same thing, but…” Jervais frowned. 
“Even if it was a vampire ghost, I don’t know why it would 
have feared Torgeir’s cross so. Not that all wicked things 
shouldn’t fear the cross,” he added hastily, seeing the unfriendly 
look that Hermann and Torgeir simultaneously 
threw him. 
Antal went over the pieces that remained of the box, 
running his keen fingers across them. “She bespelled it, 
yes. I can feel her touch on it. I can see her chanting and 
raising the shade. We could use these pieces for a ritual 
link to her—not a strong one, with the magic all dispersed, 
but better than nothing. Not much more could be told 
about it now.” 
“Actually, there may be one or two things more.” 
Baghatur, the young Khazar, stepped forward with a slight 
bow. “May I see it?” 
“I suppose so.” Jervais nodded to Antal, who handed 
a piece to Baghatur, who took a ground-glass lens out of 
his pouch and examined it. 
“Yes, you see? This was fashioned from living wood. 
Usually joiners dry out the wood first, so that it won’t 
shrink, but this was put together with the sap still running.” 
“Oh, the sap, it blew sap all over my damned bliaut. It 
may never come out.” Jervais brushed at it irritably. 
“Then that must have been the idea, for the sap to 
run freely,” Baghatur went on excitedly. “The blood of the 
wood. The blood of the wood…” He frowned and turned 
it over, then broke the piece in half again and sniffed at 
the fresh edge. “Yes, this tree was watered with it! With 
blood, that is. You can still smell it in the sap.” 
“Is it her blood, I wonder?” 
“I don’t know, it’s hard to—no, it smells more like 
mortal blood.”

174 Tremere 
Antal looked positively alarmed. “Either way, Master 
Jervais, we’ve got to get it under ward at once! And you’d 
better change clothes too…” 
Jervais gave a guilty start. Antal was right; if Deverra 
held a portion of blood from the same mortal who had 
(willingly or no) fed the tree, then that was a connection 
that she could use like Ariadne’s thread, following it to 
her creation wherever it rested. 
“Right! I’ve got a chest with a good ward.” He 
snatched the fragments back and ran into his tent. Licking 
the key to let it taste just a hint of his blood, he 
unlocked and opened the chest and shoved the bits of wood 
inside. Gracelessly he squirmed out of the soiled bliaut, 
wadded it up and stuffed it in as well, slammed and locked 
the chest, then threw on one of his Magyar coats instead. 
He stood back, squinting to see whether any aura or glint 
of Deverra’s magic bled through the cracks or the keyhole, 
but it seemed his ward held firm. 
“We should post watch, just in case,” he announced 
as he reemerged. “Cainite watch, through the night.” 
“We do post Cainite watch through the night, every 
night,” Hermann said dryly. “You’ve all just been too busy 
with your conjuring to notice. But if you’re worried you 
were followed, perhaps some of you sorcerers should lend 
us your impressive senses. Why don’t you take first watch 
yourself, Master Jervais? You seem to have the best eyes of 
anyone in the camp.” 
“Best and worst, I daresay,” Jervais muttered, then 
added, at the knight’s puzzled glance, “Never mind. Very 
well, I’ll stand watch. Where do I go?” 
“I’ll show you. Come.” 
They rode up along the little rise that bordered the 
camp’s southern edge. The ground climbed steadily for 
several hundred feet and then leveled off into a nice little 
observation platform, as perfect as if it had been built to 
purpose. The knights or their men had chopped down a 
few stout birches that otherwise would have obscured the 
view. A low wind rustled through the leaves, making it 
sound as though the trees were whispering to each other. 
That thought started out as private poetry, but a moment

Sarah Roark 175 
later caused Jervais to shiver. It had been so long since 
he’d actually dwelt in Tzimisce country, but he could remember 
what it was like, fearing every bird noise, not 
trusting even the ground under one’s feet to keep silence 
before the listening ears of the koldun-priests. 
He stared down into the forest depths. 
“What?” whispered Hermann. 
“Something moving. There.” 
Hermann frowned. “Shadows…moonlight.” 
“No.” 
“I still see nothing. Is it an apparition, a spirit? Something 
invisible to all but wizards?” Hermann’s horse 
whinnied. “Easy, Magog. Wait…there’s…” 
“Shh!” 
They were silent for a moment. 
“Well?” Hermann said at last. “Do you see what it 
is?” 
“Yes, I see it.” 
“And?” 
“Everyone needs to get out of the camp. Now.” 
Jervais didn’t wait for further stupid questions. He 
galloped pell-mell back down the rise and into the camp, 
yelling. Hermann followed along, adding his far more authoritative 
voice. 
“Evacuate! Evacuate!” 
Jervais hurriedly dismounted outside his tent, ran in 
for his little casket of very small, very expensive and hardto-
repair ritual items, stuffed it into his saddlebags, then 
swung back up into the saddle. 
“Evacuate! Move, for the love of Tremere! No, don’t 
strike the tents! Just get your horses!” 
The pounding grew steadily louder, until even Ventrue 
ears could not fail to hear it, and was soon joined by the 
tearing and thrashing of trampled underbrush; but because 
of the thickness of the trees and the darkness of their hides 
the herd still seemed to come out of nowhere. They poured 
forth between the trunks, great bulls and cows with massive 
black withers and long horns wickedly curved at the 
point, their nostrils wide and snorting. In all his years, 
Jervais had never seen such beasts—the word “cattle”

176 Tremere 
would have been an insult as much as an inaccuracy. They 
fell in a furious stampede on the tents and also on the 
wagons, splintering wood and tearing cloth. Some actually 
jumped and bucked madly atop the piles of debris. 
Knights, Tremere and slaves alike scattered before them, 
screaming. He saw a couple of the mortals gored and tossed 
in the air like arrows. 
“Move! Move!” he shouted. “Just run! Let them 
through!” Then he heard a burst of noise over his shoulder. 
Antal’s hands were enveloped in a white glow, his 
sleeves pushed back and whipping wildly in the wind as 
he rose in his stirrups. Jervais got out of his path just in 
time. The white light waxed for a moment and then discharged 
with a thunderclap, crooking out like a beckoning 
finger and catching one enormous rearing bull right in 
the chest. It fell on its side, convulsing, amid the reek of 
burning hide. Auburn-haired Miklos, too, had ridden toward 
the animals instead of away. He held a long spear in 
his powerful hands and drove it down into the haunches 
of any beast that strayed out of the main mass. Jervais saw 
him take down two of them in this way, each time with a 
wild thirsty yell of triumph, but with the third, his spear 
became stuck and he had to break off, circling round. The 
knights and men-at-arms were also mounted now and bearing 
whatever weapons they’d had time to seize—a few 
lances and spears, but swords mostly. The three gargoyles 
swooped in from wherever they’d been napping. Between 
them, Falco and Cabo seized one of the cows and carried 
her off. Rixatrix landed on the back of one of the bulls, 
snapped its neck and split the flesh of it open with one 
great wrench of her talons. Then she lifted it, sinking her 
enormous teeth into the bloody wound. 
“Get on either side!” Hermann shouted. “Let’s herd 
them off west!” 
“No, these beasts won’t be driven!” Antal shouted 
back at the top of his lungs. “They’re bewitched! Kill 
them!” 
Jervais repaired to enough distance to get a good view 
of the scene. It looked as though Antal were right. Surely 
it wasn’t in the nature even of these fearsome creatures to

Sarah Roark 177 
destroy with such determination. And while the mass of 
gleaming black bodies did flow and change shape under 
the assaults of the camp’s fighting men, the beasts didn’t 
seem at all inclined to take fright, which went against 
Jervais’s admittedly vague ideas about bovine behavior. As 
he watched, Miklos was borne down to the ground and 
trampled. 
“Bonisagus,” he muttered. “I’m not going to see my 
sodalicium broken by a bunch of cows…” Spurring his horse 
over the little rise, he rode down to the stream and leapt 
down onto the ice, which was thin and cracked at once 
under his falling weight. He plunged thigh-deep into frigid, 
fast-flowing water. A moment later a rush of warmth spread 
through his veins as he drew out his ash-wand and called 
upon the Blood to steep his incantation with the authority 
of the element that ruled all others. 
“Ourior amen im tar chob klamphob phrephror ptar ousiri 
saiob telo kabe manatathor asiorikor beeinor amoun om 
menichtha machtha chthara amachtha aou alakambot besinor 
aphesior phreph amei our lamasir cheriob pitrem pheoph nirin 
allannathath cherioch one bousiri ninouno amanal gagosarier 
meniam tler O A etne ousiri ousiri ousiri ousiri menemb mnem 
brabel tnekaiob. Hear me, Thou who drowned and thus 
mastered the Nile and all the waters of chaos, for I conjure 
Thee by Thy secret names, and if Thou do not my 
Will, then I shall no longer guard Thy names from profanation 
or defilement. As I raise my arms, so raise these 
waters, and follow me! Nun, nun! Ede, ede!” 
The response was immediate. With a roar, the water 
of the stream reared up in a great sheet, bursting through 
its crust, bearing him like a chariot back to the shore and 
then taking up its battle-position behind him as he remounted 
his horse. He led it back over the rise, rousing it 
to greater speed with shouts and imprecations in two or 
three different tongues. It seemed quite willing enough, at 
least—perhaps even eager. 
“Move!” he shouted down into the camp. “Out of the 
way!” He was pleased to see that the other apprentices 
seemed to have recovered their wits a little and now stood 
just yards removed from the battle with hands joined, pre

178 Tremere 
sumably readying some spell or other. Even Fidus stood 
chanting along with them. But Antal, the knights and 
soldiers, and the gargoyles were still interspersed among 
the thronging herd, slaughtering them one and two at a 
time with lightning, iron and claw. Miklos was nowhere 
to be seen. 
“Antal, hold your fire! Stop, damn you!” The Hungarian 
at once looked up and his eyes widened in 
comprehension. The unnatural radiance in his palms guttered 
and died. Jervais lost no more time. “Exede 
armentum,” he muttered. The water-wall rushed down past 
him. As it did, it rolled into several huge beads, like mercury 
skating along metal, which each swallowed up a 
portion of the herd and held them suspended, floating like 
motes of dust in air, feebly kicking as their lungs filled up. 
Jervais then rode down to meet the bewildered knights 
and Antal, who reined up beside him. 
“Good!” Antal puffed. 
“Yes, good,” he repeated. “But where the hell’s 
Miklos?” 
“He must be caught up in one of the globes.” With 
that, they scattered to peer into the gloomy depths of each 
one. Jervais saw the shadow of a human form, reached in, 
pulled it out and was irritated to see it was only one of the 
Esths, who had already died anyway. 
“No, here, this is him! Jervais, tell it to let me in.” 
“Antalo licet.” 
Antal tugged Miklos’s muscular frame free of the 
water’s grasp. The Czech vomited out the contents of his 
sodden lungs and struggled up to his feet, leaning on Antal’s 
elbow. The plentiful gashes on his face and arms began to 
close up, and he put his dangling leg down to try his weight 
on it.
“That’s it, use the blood,” Antal urged him. “That’s a 
lad.”
“How long can you hold them in there?” Brother 
Wigand asked, rather awed despite himself. He dismounted 
and examined one of the water-globes but didn’t dare touch 
its curious surface.

Sarah Roark 179 
“Long enough,” Jervais answered. He looked for further 
signs of movement within the water and found none. 
Then he made a gesture. At once the globes lost their form 
and dropped to the ground, leaving the vampires up to 
their calves in water that slowly began to drain downhill. 
The bodies of the cattle, too, collapsed limply. 
“Abi! Abi!” he snapped, and the water began to flow 
away more quickly. “Let’s see what we can salvage out of 
this mess.” 
“No!” Hermann called. He rode over toward them, 
sword still out. “Back on your horses. Master Antal, back 
at it! They’re coming.” 
“Who’s coming?” Jervais asked in annoyance, but 
Antal was already leaping to obey, and Miklos was waving 
off Jervais’s reaching hands. The apprentice took hold of 
his own upper arm and, with a wet crack and a grimace, 
reset a bone that had come out of joint. Then he limped 
away, stopping to pick up a lance that someone had 
dropped. 
Jervais grabbed the reins of his horse—which seemed 
distinctly annoyed to find its hooves suddenly wet—and 
got back up in the saddle just in time. Some ten or twelve 
of Qarakh’s raiders splashed into the camp, shrieking warcries, 
standing in the stirrups with bows raised high. 
Hermann called a charge and his warriors rushed to obey. 
The other apprentices had already run up beside 
Jervais and Antal, with Olena at their head. “Command 
us, masters!” she exclaimed. “What should we do?” 
“Stay out of the way,” Jervais returned. An arrow flew 
past his cheek. 
She scowled at him and turned her hands palms-up. 
As she did, she floated up several feet into the air. 
“Ah,” said Antal. “Don’t do that. Stay on the ground 
or in a tree, and knock their arrows out of the air instead. 
That’ll help.” 
“Yes, master.” She turned and shot up into the dark 
canopy of leaves. 
“All right, the rest of you out of the way,” Jervais 
snarled. A rider charged directly at them then, but Miklos 
thrust his lance between the horse’s forelegs and tripped

180 Tremere 
it, sending the rider crashing to the ground. A tang of vampire 
blood began to scent the air. Hermann and Wigand 
were doing well. Antal knocked a rider off his mount and 
then jumped down himself. An instant later they were 
fighting hand-to-hand, their movements so unnaturally 
rapid that they were nigh impossible to follow. Suddenly 
his opponent screamed in pain and began to shiver. Antal 
thrust one of the hawthorn stakes he’d spent the past weeks 
carving into the rider’s chest. The vampire’s entire body 
decayed into dirt in the span of a mortal breath. Antal 
stowed the stake, now blood red and glistening all over, 
somewhere in his robe, then rose heavily to his feet. 
While Jervais sat desperately trying to think what else 
he could do that might be helpful (he didn’t think he had 
any more water-witching in him tonight), a pair of the 
riders converged on him with swords drawn. He spurred 
away from them, but they easily changed direction and 
closed. He drew out the dagger at his belt and caught one 
of their sword-strokes. The other dealt him a glancing slice 
to the back. He roared and turned, catching his assailant 
by the wrist. Years of training were channeled into the 
instinct of the moment: he felt the other Cainite’s blood 
lying fallow in the veins just beneath the white skin and 
willed a portion of it to rouse, to diffuse through the tissue. 
The rider gave a shout, his rage stoked by the sudden 
unnatural engorgement of blood. He bared his fangs and 
sprang out of his saddle to land on Jervais. Jervais thrust 
his blade up through the rider’s belly toward the heart, 
then pushed him away with the strength of panic, letting 
him fall. He heard the other rider shout and turned again 
to see a blade whistling toward his neck, but then it suddenly 
flew up into the air, tumbling end over end, and 
returned to cut its owner’s flabbergasted head off. Olena, 
no doubt, but there was scarcely time to thank her. Jervais 
hastily got down. These Cainites were so much better 
horsemen than he was that he might as well stay on foot 
and have one less thing to think about. 
“Master!” Zabor caught him by the arm. 
“Get away!” 
“But master, look!” The Pole pointed frantically.

Sarah Roark 181 
“What, Hermann?” 
“No, right beside him! Look. See it coming up out of 
the water?” 
He’d let his vision slip back to its usual, slightly blurred 
state at some prior point in the chaos. Now he focused it 
once again. If it hadn’t been shiny he still might have 
missed it, but there it was: what looked like a silver ritual 
mirror. It rose from the water, surrounded by a slight shimmering 
in the air rather like a heat haze. A moment later 
it, too, shimmered and disappeared. 
“Whore’s bastards—” Jervais gasped. He stretched out 
his hand, but the apprentice beat him to it. With a short, 
sharp invocation to the forces of Light and Truth and a 
precise hand gesture, Zabor sent a gust of wind into the 
center of the haze, which blew away to reveal a slight, 
green-robed Cainite girl who hissed at them. Hermann 
wheeled around. 
“Witch,” the Saxon cried out in his battle-passion, 
“to hell with all sorcerers…” He raised his sword high and 
turned his cross-emblazoned shield toward her. She cursed 
and flung her arm before her face, then fled in a blur. 
“There must be more of them,” Jervais said to Zabor. 
“Find them! Stop them!” 
“Right!” For once, not a word of argument. He and 
the apprentice fanned out, all but ignoring the deadly fights 
going on around and above them. Jervais caught another 
Telyav almost at once and barreled headlong into him to 
prevent his escape. The next moment he had nothing in 
his hands but a slim green snake that wriggled out of his 
grasp and swam away from him, its body whipping sinuously 
in the water. 
“Verdammt!” 
“I did not think that was a word Christians uttered 
lightly,” came an accented sneer from above his head. He 
looked up. It was a fierce-looking rider with a beard that 
actually grew up over his cheekbones and cat-yellow eyes. 
The rider’s bow thrummed. An arrow plunged into Jervais’s 
chest, piercing his ribcage through. 
Jervais had taken sword blows before, but never 
an arrow. He was unprepared for the scope and depth

182 Tremere 
of the pain. The entire left side of his chest throbbed 
and his veins seemed to have caught fire, the flames 
of which licked hungrily at the edges of his heart. 
The look of triumph on the rider’s face (perhaps he 
thought at first he’d struck his target) soured as he 
saw Jervais’s own expression change. He snapped his 
reins and his horse sprang away with a swiftness only 
blood could impart. 
Jervais twisted his arms in a strangling gesture, 
and an eel-like column of water rose and snagged the 
rider around the neck, dashing him to the ground. 
The rider came up again, trying to pull free of the 
tendril’s grasp. Jervais was already bearing down on 
him with fangs stretched taut. He literally sat on the 
man as he drank down the sweet, thick ichor in his 
throat. 
All at once hands were on his shoulders. “Easy.” 
Antal recoiled as Jervais turned toward him bloodymouthed. 
“No, no, take him, keep him. But I think 
you have plumbed that well, brother.” 
Jervais looked at the body in his hands. It had 
begun wasting already, caving in on itself. In moments 
it would be ash. He dropped it in sudden 
disgust, then wobbled to his feet and looked around. 
“Where…where are…” 
“They turned tail,” Antal answered. “Gone, just 
like that. We have two—rather, three dead raiders, 
or at least their armor. No Telyav remains, alas.” 
“And it’s not even worth chasing after them, we 
know exactly where they’re going,” came Hermann’s 
disgruntled voice. “And their horses are faster.” 
“But we must…Master Antal.” Jervais shook his 
head, trying to clear it of bloodlust. “They were taking 
things. The Telyavs. She tricked us. The riders, 
just there to keep us busy. The ghost to distract from 
the sap. And the cows, the damned cows.” 
Baghatur coughed politely at that. “Not ‘cows,’ 
master. Julius Caesar spoke of beasts like these long 
ago. Great black forest oxen that only the bravest 
warriors dared face, that couldn’t be made to submit

Sarah Roark 183 
to man.” He gestured at the massed carcasses, still 
majestic even in waterlogged death. 
“Though obviously they submit to woman, or to 
one woman in particular, at least,” Jervais muttered. 
“But the Telyavs—” 
“No, Master Jervais. We cannot chase them 
now,” Master Antal decreed. “No profit in catching 
witches if we have no place to hide from the sun’s 
face afterward. Come here. I will take out your arrow.” 
*** 
“Tremere’s gory fangs!” Jervais stepped back just 
in time. Rixatrix bent over Falco, determinedly licking 
her mate’s belly with an enormous pebbled 
tongue. A brackish flood of blood and vomit spewed 
out of the little gargoyle’s maw a moment later, and 
he gave a doglike whimper. 
“Now there’s a pleasant oath—” Hermann began, 
but he immediately trailed off into something 
rather close to a retching noise. “Faugh.” 
Fidus looked distraught, twisting the front of his 
robe. “Lady Virstania said no large herbivores,” he 
lamented. “She said it, I just—didn’t think about it 
’til too late.” 
Jervais glanced at him. Truth be told, he had no 
idea how little Fidus would have stopped any gargoyle 
from doing exactly as it liked, and he’d 
forgotten too, but if the boy wished to take 
blame…“Well, that’s why you get to clean this up, 
Fidus. And make sure the other two can carry him 
all right. I’d hate to have to kill him just because 
he’s got a tummy ache and can’t keep up.” Rixatrix 
looked up at him and whimpered a little herself. 
“Is everyone fed, at least?” he asked, turning 
away. 
“Yes, that’s why we’re down to six slaves,” 
Torgeir said gloomily. “And they look faint.” 
“Well, that won’t do, we’ve got to find more 
vessels. At least there’s no lack of raiders hereabouts 
to blame it on. Captain, you’re still cut up.”

184 Tremere 
“I can manage,” Hermann said. 
“I’d rather have you better off than that,” Jervais 
demurred. “Perhaps one or two of your troops could, 
ah, fill a cup on their commander’s behalf…” 
“I can manage,” the knight repeated. 
“Right.” Jervais straightened up and raised his 
voice. “This is what we’re going to do. The Cainites 
are going to take the horses with the good shoes and 
get as far away from here as we can before dawn.” 
“Taking into account that we’re going to have 
to dig some holes once we get there,” Hermann interrupted. 
“None of these tents are going back up 
tonight, and unless I’m mistaken, that means you 
can’t work your charm to keep the sun out, doesn’t 
it?” 
“I’m afraid so. That means the Kur had better 
come with us. Meanwhile, the other mortals are going 
to take the rest of the horses, the carts and the 
gargoyles, and go in the opposite direction. Tomorrow 
night, assuming we all survived, we’ll meet back 
up and figure out what to do next.” 
“Schnell!” Hermann beat his gloved hands together, 
and his men moved even faster to get things 
loaded up. 
“Heirs of the Seven,” Jervais said in a warm tone 
as the knights busied themselves. The Tremere drew 
in uneasily about him. “It’s clear what the Telyavs 
were really after with this raid. Our things. Ritual 
links. Now. Who lost what? Master Antal?” 
“Everything I had is accounted for, Master 
Jervais,” Antal said coolly. “What about you?” 
“Well, I seem to be all right. But obviously someone 
wasn’t so lucky. Children?” 
They all blinked back at him. All their colors 
were a muddle of fear and fatigue. No help there. 
“Oh, spare me! Nothing tries my patience worse 
than a bunch of blood-wizards trying to look innocent. 
Now I distinctly saw one of them make off with 
a ritual mirror. Whose was it? Come, I’m not going 
to get angry. This is important for all of us. Well?”

Sarah Roark 185 
No one spoke. 
“Is everyone finished looking?” he asked at last. 
“Not, not quite, master,” Fidus said very quietly. 
This was followed by an immediate chorus of “not 
finished yet,” “haven’t had a chance yet” and whatnot.
“Well, get finished!” he roared, and they literally 
jumped to obey.

186 Tremere 
Chapter Eighteen 
He trudges down the Via Dolorosa. He carries no 
cross, but his body is bent all the same, wracked with 
thirst pains that have long since spread from his slack 
belly into his limbs and head. It is a cold night. He can’t 
remember Jerusalem ever being so cold when he was 
there, long ago, in mortal nights. His belt hangs loose 
around his thighs and threatens to slide down his legs. 
The tip of his scabbard scrapes on the paving stones. His 
sword, too, droops in his hand, rusted away, useless. 
Church bells ring from every direction. The streets are 
empty, lay folk and clergy alike all gathered in the safety 
of the altar’s glow for night prayers. There is no one left 
to fight. 
Desperate now, he turns off the road and seeks out 
the Jewish quarter, but he can’t find it anywhere. Where 
are the rabbis and scholars in their neat robes, the merchants 
in their striped cloth? Where are the synagogues? 
Ah, yes. Burned. He’d carried one of the torches 
himself. He recalls this and with that recollection, he 
realizes in the odd way of dreams that there is one—and 
only one—infidel left in the whole world. He turns on 
his heel and begins limping in the other direction, his 
shriveled abdomen protesting with every step. He lifts 
his sword as best he can and summons a parched war cry 
as he struggles up the church steps. Tumbling into the 
heavy wooden doors, he busts them open. 
There is the man he seeks, a nut-brown, bearded 
Saracen in a robe of gleaming white, kneeling humbly 
before a fat priest and receiving the waters of baptism. 
“No!” he cries hoarsely. The priest turns. It is 
Jervais, who smiles in greeting. 
“Brother Hermann. Our savior!” Then he clucks 
and waggles a reproving finger. “Ah, but you don’t look 
well, dear pilgrim. It’s not healthy even for the pious to 
fast too much.” 
Hermann ignores him. He addresses himself to the 
last infidel in the world, falling down upon knees so bony

Sarah Roark 187 
that the skin splits open immediately as it knocks upon 
the hard floor. “Please,” he begs the man. “Don’t. You 
are the only one left. I need you. Without you, I starve.” 
The man simply stares back at him, dark eyes lambent 
with the Holy Spirit. “But I must, brother,” he 
answers. “You are right…you have always been right, 
all along. I see it now. We all see it now.” 
“Yes, everyone agrees,” Jervais-priest puts in with 
another oily smile. “Even I. You have labored hard, 
brother. Now your work is done. It’s time to rest…” 
Hermann sees to his horror that his outstretched 
hand is decaying further with every word, fingers collapsing 
into ash. His wrist follows, then his forearm. 
“My God, my God!” he calls, but he is unable to 
finish the sentiment. His teeth and jaw crumble from 
the mere act of making contact. He falls forward onto 
the cold flagstones. He can hear no reply. There will be 
no reward. 
*** 
“Let us practice our mathematics,” Leduc says. 
Antal hates when the man takes that smooth tone. He 
also hates mathematics. Every sunrise when he snuggles 
into his apprentice cot, he says his prayers and his curses. 
Pythagoras often figures prominently in the latter category. 
The Frenchman smiles cruelly and flicks his finger 
in a silent command for Antal to bring out his stylus and 
begin making notes. 
“Now in your battle at Szeged, you killed six 
Tzimisce, did you not? Take it down. Item: six Tzimisce. 
And you lost…let me see, nine Tremere. Four magi, five 
apprentices. Difference?” 
“Three, their favor,” Antal says numbly. 
“Ah. But if you were to accord to Stilbon’s strategic 
formulae, and consider that one Tzimisce is worth 
three apprentices, and one magus is worth five apprentices, 
now what is the difference?” 
“Seven, their favor still.” 
“Seven. But you did hold the chantry, and Bonisagus 
knows that’s what counts. Then at Osijek, it was ten

188 Tremere 
Tzimisce, wasn’t it? Good score. They were probably 
planning to break the truce anyway. A pity about the 
farmers and their families, but only five Tremere lost: 
one magus, four apprentices. Old Emerik didn’t want to 
release his childer to you. You had to appeal to the Lord 
to get them, and a week later they were dead.” 
This is really unfair. He knows they are talking 
about battles that took place long after he’d finished his 
Circles and gotten out from under Leduc’s fierce blue 
all-seeing eyes, and yet he distinctly feels himself as his 
younger self—his apprentice self. Everything he has since 
learned of stoicism, of control has deserted him. His 
hands begin to tremble as he digs the numbers into the 
wax of the tablet. 
“Guti Forest. Eight Tzimisce, four Gangrel and one 
you never did figure out. Five magi; and twelve apprentices. 
Twelve! That was the one where the only question 
was which magi were going to die, because someone had 
to stay and close off the spell. They insisted on a lottery, 
but you fixed it, because it was quite clear whose loss 
would least hurt the House and Clan. Quick thinking. 
Truth be told, I think you liked Cornelius much better 
than Tiborc. Still, you didn’t allow that to cloud your 
judgment. And the apprentices slowed down the warghouls’ 
advance just long enough. Good thing you didn’t 
warn them, because they would have deserted for certain. 
On the whole, a success. On the banks of the 
Medvestak: four Tzimisce and an entire brood of their 
infernal Bratovitches. For only two magi, quite a trade. 
You didn’t think you could ever lose Rebeka, she’d come 
through so many scrapes all right, but eventually her lot 
was bound to be cast. How’s it totting up, Antal?” 
“I’m… I’m running out of room, master…” 
“Well, that’s no good, we’ve hardly begun. You’ll 
just have to write smaller. You wouldn’t want to forget 
any of this. How else are you going to know whether 
you’ve won or lost in the end?” 
The stylus scrapes through to the wood, skidding 
across the tablet and out of his hand. He sets it down 
and rises on unsteady feet.

Sarah Roark 189 
“I’m going,” he says thickly. “I don’t know who you 
are.”
Leduc—or whatever it is—is beside him in an instant, 
seizing his wrist. “What a dull-witted pupil you 
always were, Antal,” he hisses gleefully. “No head for 
figures. I remember you could use the abacus well 
enough, though. Perhaps you need to be able to see it 
and feel it. Perhaps that would be of help to you.” 
“No. No, I don’t need to see.” He protests and pulls 
away, but it’s no good. His master drags him over to a great 
archway with tombstones for doors, and throws them open. 
Within the next chamber is a wall of skulls strung like beads 
on hanging ropes. Hundreds of them, some gaping with jagged 
fangs, some monstrous altogether, others showing only the 
blunt teeth of humankind. Some are large, some small, and 
some still pierced through with arrow or blade. They strike 
against each other as though alive, or stirred by an unseen 
breeze, clacking musically. 
“Now,” said Leduc, whose hand has begun to burn in a 
most un-vampirelike way, “we’re going to do this again, my 
lad. By hand, one at a time, name by name. Until you can 
decide who wins.” 
*** 
Jervais shouts at his laggard apprentice. “Fidus! More 
onions! More cloves, and mind they be ground fine! We’ve 
a pottage to get in the oven. You keep chopping, I’ll serve 
forth the broth and rolls.” 
He hurries out with the platters and lays them out with 
a bow before the three diners. Etrius casually snatches a roll 
and rips it open. Malgorzata waits daintily as he ladles her 
out some broth. Goratrix smiles at him and spears a bit of 
cheese. He wipes his sweating hands on his apron and retreats 
behind the screen to fetch more wine. 
“I thought he was yours,” Etrius says conversationally. 
“Oh no, I rather think he’s yours. I think I lost him 
some time ago,” Goratrix replies just as amiably. Jervais is 
amazed; he’s never heard either of them sound so friendly. 
He also hadn’t thought Goratrix the sort to talk with his mouth 
full. 
“I certainly haven’t got much use out of him of late,”

190 Tremere 
Malgorzata comments. “Either of you have him if you want.” 
“I don’t know,” Etrius says, “I’ve never been much for 
leftovers.” 
Jervais scurries out and pours the wine for them. 
“How’s that pottage coming?” Etrius asks him. 
“It’s coming, but I still haven’t found the pork.” 
“I wouldn’t worry about that. You always think of something,” 
the Swede assures him. 
He ducks behind the screen again and starts to head 
back into the kitchen, but then Goratrix speaks, and something 
in the way he says it leads Jervais to linger, 
eavesdropping. 
“Well, she went down stringy, didn’t she? Told you she 
would.” 
“You’re the one always complaining about told-youso’s,” 
Etrius returns. “I’m sure it’d please you to see her 
disagree with me. I notice you didn’t ask for a change of 
menu.” 
“Oh no. She was getting a bit past ripe anyway. Besides, 
I’m used to it now. One for you, one for me, that’s the 
way it’ll be for the next age I expect.” 
“And none for me, as usual,” Malgorzata puts in. 
“True enough,” Etrius says through a mouthful, “but 
think of the alternative.” 
“True,” she agrees reluctantly. “What about tonight?” 
“Well, I don’t know what’s keeping that boy, I thought 
I’d made myself clear. NEXT COURSE!” comes the shout, 
and Jervais leaps as if struck and hastens into the kitchen. 
“Fidus! What’s taking so long? Why isn’t that pottage 
in the oven yet?” 
The apprentice gives him his usual rabbit-like stare. “But 
master—there’s still no meat in it.” 
“Well, that hardly matters now, we’ve got to get something 
out there!” Jervais bellows. 
“No, master, I’m afraid that won’t do. It’s been made 
clear to me.” Fidus is clearing off the counter, sharpening a 
large blade. 
“What are you doing?” 
“What you taught me. I’m making ready to carve.”

Sarah Roark 191 
“Who’s made what clear, Fidus?” 
“Everyone, master.” The boy turns to him, looking a 
bit forlorn. “Even you. I’m sorry, but you must admit you 
would do the same. You have done the same. Alexia a la 
broche. Raban au jus. Lucien émincé. To think I believed 
for a while you’d never serve up someone so much after your 
own heart, but then Alexander got hungry.” 
“I see. And you think you’ll make a better chef than I 
did? No one, no one will ever be better than I was. If my 
turn has come, Fidus, then so will yours.” 
“I know,” he returns with those same sad eyes, “but 
not tonight, and that’s what’s important. You taught me that, 
too. Now please don’t be difficult.” 
“Difficult? I’ve never been difficult in all my days, why 
would I start now?” He lays himself down on the cutting 
board, slick with the juices of garlic and onion. “I will make 
a rich dish indeed, Fidus. You’ll see.” 
“I know, master,” the lad agrees as he studies Jervais 
for a starting place. “And you already know the sauce will 
be excellent.”

192 Tremere 
Chapter Nineteen 
Jervais awoke to utter darkness. That was nothing 
new; he always awoke to utter darkness. He 
hadn’t been frightened of it since his first night after 
dying. True, that complete void held many things. 
There were terrible rituals that required absolute 
dark. Some of them required nakedness as well. He 
had been made, once, to— 
No. What was this? One little bad dream—did a 
magus succumb to such things? He wriggled. They’d 
packed the dirt in very loosely. He should be able to 
make just a little bit of room and get leverage. Something 
felt odd, though. The texture was no longer 
the texture of soil—too lumpy. There hadn’t been so 
many rocks, he was sure of it. He stretched out one 
finger of his hand. Something cold, wet, smooth and 
fibrous brushed against it. 
Tree-root. He probed into it. It extended as far 
as he could reach. 
It was all around him. 
He struggled. The mass surrounding him seemed 
almost to squeeze back. Perhaps he was imagining 
it. He was seized with a sudden, awful terror that he 
had no idea what time it was or how deep he lay. 
These roots might have dragged him yards and yards 
lower in the soil as he slept. 
He began to scream and thrash. 
“Master! Master!” He was in such a state he 
didn’t even notice the spot of moonlight that now 
shone into his living prison. But when he heard the 
voice he stared out through the gap in the roots. He 
could see part of Fidus’s face and part of Antal’s. 
“The tree! Get me out!” he shouted at them. 
“Patience,” said Antal. “It seems both you and 
Hermann are swallowed.” 
“Don’t say swallowed.” 
“Master Jervais, are you entirely sure the Telyavs 
got away with nothing of yours?”

Sarah Roark 193 
“Nothing. I swear it.” For once, it was true. Many 
of his things were wet or broken, but none missing. 
“Some other means of reaching us, then.” Antal 
frowned. “Perhaps the earth itself. No more underground 
sleeping in these thrice-cursed lands. We 
must dig you out. The mortals, alas, have our only 
ax.” 
“Well, use your fingernails, I don’t care!” 
“Master Jervais, you must calm yourself. You are 
safe. We have plenty of time.” 
Jervais felt something very large wrap tighter 
around his leg. “We haven’t got any fucking time, 
Antal! The whoreson tree is trying to eat me! Oh 
Jesu—” Fidus’s face went absolutely aghast at hearing 
his master utter that word. “I mean Tremere, 
Great Tremere—” 
“No, no,” Antal interrupted. “Master Jervais, 
shh. Look at me.” 
But the choler that he’d only partly quenched 
in the blood of his enemy last night was taking hold 
of Jervais again. He applied every ounce of strength 
blood could summon against his bonds. They seemed 
to slither and weave around him with a papery, 
chuckling sound. He would never get out. Never, and 
these bastards would give up and leave him, they’d 
go away laughing…he screamed again, this time in 
fury. He felt his consciousness taking leave of his 
body, removing itself to a safer distance. Heat flushed 
his face, his neck. Heaven and earth reversed themselves, 
wheeling round. 
“Jervais of Ceoris! Listen to me, I’m using your 
name.” Was that a hint of fear in the stoic voice? 
“Listen. Shh, shh. You are Jervais bani Tremere. You 
are a magus. You are a creature of Reason. Will. Wisdom. 
Will you look at me?” 
Something cool touched against the small exposed 
spot on his forehead. He barely recognized the 
dark eyes that hovered very close to him now. 
“Master Antal, Baghatur says he can take a 
sample of the wood and transmute it into its antith

194 Tremere 
esis, whatever that means, with his alchemy…” A 
pearlescent face with palest-blue eyes took the place 
of Fidus’s. It was Torgeir, who stared curiously down 
at Jervais. The Dane would surely enjoy seeing his 
erstwhile tormentor lost in terror and rage. He 
couldn’t allow the sanctimonious little rat that pleasure.
“Yes, all right,” Antal shushed him. “Tell him 
to do it, quickly. Master Jervais, don’t mind them. 
Look at me.” The Hungarian’s gaze captured his own 
now. He realized that Antal was forcing his mind 
with blood-art, and some part of him was enraged 
even further by it. But a different corner of his soul 
heard his brother magus’ plea and understood the 
necessity. “Look at me. Help me help you. Reason, 
will, wisdom… Yes, that’s it. Please, Master Jervais.” 
He didn’t know how long he let Antal talk 
soothing nonsense to him. Every so often he gave in 
to the ill-advised urge to flex his muscles uselessly 
against the entwining roots, which inspired a fresh 
bolt of panic. But eventually he heard another flurry 
of activity behind Antal. 
“Hold still, Master Jervais,” Baghatur’s voice 
called. 
“I can’t very well do otherwise,” he called back. 
“I mean don’t startle. This should hurt only the 
tree, not you.” 
At first nothing seemed to have changed. Then 
there was sort of a convulsion in the root-mass, and 
a shiver, and over the next several minutes it softened 
and crumbled. A mighty stench arose, but at 
last the tendrils loosened their grip and, with the 
other Tremere’s help, he worked his way out of the 
decaying pod. 
“‘Antithesis of wood,’ you say?” he asked as he 
emerged. He examined the rest of the tree. It was 
not only dead but foully dead. “Well done, boy. A 
most practical application. Your master will be so 
relieved.”

Sarah Roark 195 
“Honored to be of service, milord.” The young 
Khazar bowed and presented him with a half-full 
flagon of alchemical muck. A little ways off, a very 
irritated-looking Hermann shook stinking mulch 
from his hair, and the other Tremere and knights 
milled about untying horses. Wigand went over to 
the Kur slave (who sat, drowsy from the day’s guard 
duty, inside a circle he’d drawn on the ground with 
his knife—an “iron fence to keep out ghosts and 
velniai,” or so the heathen insisted) and pulled him 
to his feet. 
“Are you quite all right, Master Jervais?” Antal 
asked cautiously. 
“Don’t fuss, Master Antal, I’m fine. We’ve got 
to decide where to go now. My thinking, currently, 
is what is the matter with Zabor.” 
That hadn’t been at all how he’d meant to finish 
the sentence. But now he frowned over Master 
Antal’s shoulder at the Pole, who stood slightly separate 
from the group and trembling. Miklos, too, had 
wandered off. He sat on a fragment of rotten log, 
huddled with his head in his knees. 
“I don’t know.” Antal shook Zabor’s shoulder, 
then slapped his cheek. “Zabor. Speak, lad. 
Bonisagus, he’s searing to the touch.” 
Zabor suddenly cried out and bent over, twisting. 
His skin began to look oddly lit from within, 
glowing with a pink-orange light. Jervais dashed over 
and seized hold of the apprentice’s wrist, already 
painfully hot. He chanted the names of principles of 
ice and winter, tracing signs in the air with stabbing 
motions of his finger. “Ill working, I charge you begone 
from this flesh of my brother! I think I know a 
certain little Tremere who should have confessed to 
missing something.” He bodily sat the now-shivering 
Zabor down on the ground, then went to see to 
Miklos. Hermann stood helpless beside the brawny 
lad. Evidently he now had tender feelings for one of 
the eight Tremere, at least, since last night’s battle. 
“He’s like stone,” the Ventrue said hoarsely.

196 Tremere 
“Must be a stone-spell, then. Stand aside.” 
With a second exertion of will and sorcery, the 
curse was repelled from Miklos as well. But, as Jervais 
pointed out, “Only temporarily, I assure you. These 
devils will keep flinging their maledictions, and our 
nights of hiding from them are over now. We need 
to make camp at a nice well of vis, so our sodalicium 
can cast a good strong ward to protect us all. Fidus! 
My chart! Hand it to me and I’ll plot out a likely 
spot.” 
“Yes, let us see the chart,” Antal chimed in. 
Bonisagus, save us from the journeymen, Jervais 
thought, shaking his head, but he said nothing. 
*** 
“The mortals are here at last,” Fidus said, trying 
to rouse Torgeir. The Dane only mumbled in reply. 
He and the rest of the sodalicium sat stupefied in the 
same exact spots where they’d stood to enact the 
large, complex ward that now ringed the hill-top. 
“Come. You can feed, at least a little.” 
“No…” Torgeir stood. He stumbled, dizzy. Fidus 
held him up. “No, the slaves can’t be recovered yet. 
I’m all right. God, is everyone drowsing? That’s no 
good. Let’s wake Jervais and Antal.” 
But Hermann had already beaten them to it. In 
dribs and drabs the Cainites gathered in the middle 
of the ward-circle, while the mortals around them 
labored to cut new tent-poles to replace the broken 
ones.
“The crucial thing,” Olena was saying, one finger 
held up for emphasis, “the crucial thing is that 
what Baghatur describes—wood infused with blood 
for sap—can’t have been made overnight. Perhaps 
she built the box, or had it built, and trapped the 
ghost all in the one night between learning of Master 
Jervais’s approach and his arrival. But the tree 
itself she must have been feeding for weeks.” 
“I’d say more likely months or years,” Baghatur 
put in, nodding.

Sarah Roark 197 
“There’s a lovely thought,” Torgeir shuddered as 
he sat down. 
She snorted in reply. “My point is that she’d 
never expend that kind of effort unless it were good 
for more than just making the occasional spirit-box. 
These trees, they must be important to her magic.” 
“Yes, she seems to have a real predilection for 
trees,” Jervais said sourly. 
“And if they’re important, she must have more 
than one. Perhaps next to this one? In an alkas?” 
“Perhaps, perhaps.” Jervais felt that some part 
of his intellect was slowly getting at her meaning, 
but not the part that was on speaking terms with him 
at the moment. He busied himself with grating the 
mushrooms he’d found on the hilltop. As a mortal, 
he could have simply eaten them to ingest the vis 
they contained by virtue of having grown at the exact 
confluence of ley lines. As things were, the 
process would have to be far more roundabout. 
“The box isn’t a very good link to Deverra, as 
you’ve said, but it’s got to be a marvelous link to the 
stump it came from, doesn’t it? So we could scry that 
out instead,” Olena went on impatiently. “Find her 
sacred grove and do something to it.” 
“Ahh. Yes. You’re right. We should find it and 
hit it hard and fast. They’re certainly doing their best 
to keep us busy. It’s time we returned the favor.” 
“But master,” Zabor stammered, “we’ll have to 
leave the ward’s protection if we’re to inflict anything 
really worthwhile on some faraway alkas. And 
we’re already half starved just from setting it.” 
“The former can’t be helped, my boy,” Jervais 
said, not unsympathetically. “The latter can.” 
“But the slaves,” Torgeir protested. 
“Were purchased for a single purpose.” He 
glanced at Hermann, who stiffened. Well, perhaps 
they’d better leave at least a couple of slaves alive, 
until the Ventrue could acquire more vessels. He 
smiled. “Or we might prevail on Herr Hermann to

198 Tremere 
let a few of his men donate. They can make themselves 
handy for something besides killing cows.” 
The Saxon scowled, but then nodded. “If it’ll 
accomplish anything concrete, master wizard, then 
do what you must.” 
*** 
Once again the four quarters of the directions 
were called and the guardians standing in place. This 
time, however, it was Torgeir who stood in the East, 
while Master Antal and Jervais stood in the middle 
holding the fragments of Deverra’s box—foci and 
conduits for the combined will of the sodalicium. 
Antal was adept at raising fire, which had been the 
initial plan, but he and Jervais both could conjure 
lightning, so they’d decided in the end to cooperate 
in that and thus amplify the magic all the more. 
Olena’s role was to hold and bind in a netting of gold 
wire the ax that symbolized Perun, Slavic thundergod, 
whom Zabor had sworn and the Kur had 
confirmed was dear to Balts as well. The Tremere 
would brook no interference from any self-important 
local deities, particularly any that might be in congress 
with the Telyavs. 
“Perun, Pargnus, Perkunas,” she crooned over 
and over as she knotted the wire, “warrior and judge, 
be bound and bearded by our will, arms slackened, 
eyes drooping, go to sleep and leave the sky 
masterless…” 
*** 
“You must rouse, Grandmother,” Jurate whispered. 
Deverra looked as if she’d slumbered a century 
and could do so for another. Her recumbent face 
made Jurate think of a craggy outcropping of rock, 
not so much defiant of weather as ignorant. And 
surely she deserved her rest, for she’d been wakeful 
much of the previous two days readying and casting 
charms against the invaders. But Jurate couldn’t let 
her. 
“Grandmother, please. There’s an ill cloud.”

Sarah Roark 199 
The crone opened one eye, then summoned the 
effort for the second. “Ill cloud?” She waited for a 
moment, smelling, feeling. “Yes, something’s not 
right.” She hobbled over to the bench of votive deities 
that sat along the north of the ger. “Why is 
everyone clamoring for libation except for you, 
Perkunas? What’s this? The eye of heaven closed?” 
She raised her hand, restraining an urge to knock 
the little idol off its perch in most disrespectful fashion. 
“Telyavel, father, I beg you, don’t drowse 
alongside the ax man. Rise, take your hammer and 
come with me. Zvoruna, bitch of the woods, sniff and 
bay. Call the hunters.” She hurriedly poured out a 
bowl of mixed mead and beer before them, then 
added a sprinkle of blood from her fingertip. “Jurate, 
daughter, help me to the hilltop. Show me this 
cloud.” 
The younger Telyav did as she was bid. From 
amid the tall grasses, waving in a wind that blew the 
wrong way, they could clearly see a blackness gathering 
several miles away—directly over the alkas that 
held Deverra’s own zaltys-snake, her shrine and 
shrine-maiden, her trees and seedlings. Rumbles and 
flashes milled deep within the mass of thunderheads. 
Blue-white fingers of light streaked down into the 
leaf-canopy. 
“Grandmother!” Jurate exclaimed, afraid that 
the old woman’s eyes were closing from weariness. 
“They came here so much more ignorant of our 
ways than we were of theirs,” the high priestess murmured. 
“I was hoping they’d remain so, just a little 
longer. But perhaps they’re beginning to see.” 
“Grandmother, you mustn’t despair!” Jurate 
pleaded. 
Deverra turned to her and stroked her hair. “Despair? 
Child, I despaired over a hundred years ago. 
But I will never give up, for our god is with us. Come, 
help me back down again.” 
When they got back into the ger, Deverra said, 
“We must start a fire and consecrate the ger. And

200 Tremere 
the mirror, that little mirror you were playing with 
last night, we need it again. Jurate, don’t fear. The 
power of Seven is a terrible thing indeed when 
wielded by our old blood. But fortunately, it’s a good 
deal easier to break than to build.” 
*** 
Jervais was a little astonished that he and Antal 
could share an armful of pure lightning between them 
so easily. Clearly, what Jervais had always regarded 
as a useful but slightly discomfiting art was a source 
of outright ecstasy for the Hungarian. He fearlessly 
let the tiny sparks of illumination play among his 
teeth, allowed it to set his long dark hair on end until 
it floated about him like some sort of unholy halo. 
He must have been one of those damned born 
weather-witches in life. Jervais refused to let himself 
be cowed. 
“Once again. On my word!” Antal commanded 
with a wide grin. “Unus, duo, tres, verbum!” 
Squeezing their right hands closer to each other, 
they forced the sphere of blue-white chaos they’d 
raised together down into the fragments of wood in 
their left hands. Jervais felt the discharge leave him 
with a bracing, stinging snap. Exciting as it was to 
build up, it was always a relief to be rid of it. 
“Good!” the Hungarian boomed. “Good! Now 
another.” 
*** 
It pained Deverra’s eyes to watch the reflection, 
but the curse required it. In the polished silver of 
the ritual mirror, the flames of her hearth-fire leaped 
high. The one who’d sat out in the moonlight for 
hours on end chanting, who’d so painstakingly carved 
his name and sigil into the rim, who’d no doubt spilt 
blood only recently stolen from another over the 
metal’s limitless depths, could hardly help but feel 
those flames. Such ties could no more be denied than 
could one’s ownership of one’s own body.

Sarah Roark 201 
Jurate came back into the ger, bowing first to 
request passage from the felt gods of happiness and 
fortune that guarded the door-flap. “Fire,” she said. 
“Yes, fire,” Deverra said, not moving her gaze. 
“I mean your trees. Grandmother, the lightning 
must have struck them, the grove is afire.” 
It was hard not to let the fear in the younger 
Telyav’s voice affect her. One step at a time. No tripping 
over oneself. That was how Deverra had 
survived this long. “Only if I can take the sky back I 
can put out the fire,” she said calmly. “Only if I can 
break the circle can I take the sky back.” 
*** 
Flames in the mirror. 
Zabor felt it at once. It was as though the globe 
of lightning in the magi’s hands expanded, flattened 
and dispersed. Then he could see the flames, and 
Deverra’s eyes, watery and rheumy but full of malice. 
She knew exactly what she was doing and exactly 
how much it hurt. The worst part was that the burning 
started from within and moved outward, rather 
than the other way around. It raged in his bones, 
smoldering and blasting like the cracks of heat in a 
half-burned log. He half-expected to collapse into a 
puddle of skin and tallow right there, but somehow 
he stayed upright. 
There are words that should be had about the importance 
of remaining in position in ritual until 
instructed to take leave of it. 
“Right. That was good, but let’s send off one 
more to be sure.” Jervais’s voice seemed to float in 
from far away. Zabor thought of saying something, 
but between the effort of holding the South and the 
effort of enduring the pain, his mouth wouldn’t open. 
One more, he could hold through for one more. 
Your sire had the wrong idea, didn’t he? Scrubbing 
floors and dumping corpses, those aren’t humiliations. 
You’re a bright lad. You know when you’ve truly failed. 
There are spells, Zabor, where a broken quarter will kill 
everyone participating. Entities who can steal your soul

202 Tremere 
if you break eye contact. What did you think it would be 
like to become magus? All power, no pain? This is why 
you’re still Fourth Circle after all these years, not because 
of your smart mouth. Everyone else stood fast. 
Everyone else did their duty. And they know it. They 
know now that you’re the weak link, that you are more 
dangerous to them than the enemy. They’ll kill you themselves 
before they let you lose us this war. And I shall 
not stop them. 
He clamped his jaw shut, but a groan escaped 
nonetheless. He was melting, running like wax. 
Something dripped onto his cheeks. 
“Very good. On my word…make ready. On my 
word. Unus.” 
“Master Antal, something’s wrong with Fire— 
with the South, Zabor.” 
“I know. Hold your quarters, all of you. Zabor, 
we can’t lose Fire. Not with this spell. Hold them! 
On my word now. Unus.” 
An odd, frightening calm settled over him. He 
would hold, yes. 
“Duo. Tres.” 
The mirror-flames hissed as they devoured his 
innards, his heart. One especially bright and beautiful 
flame appeared before him. No, this was his hand, 
aflame in truth. Now they would all see he was worthy. 
“Verbum!” 
“Done!” 
“Torgeir, the quarters! Now!” 
Zabor thought he said the words for South as 
soon as Torgeir had finished East, but he wasn’t sure. 
He was thinking them, anyway. Syllables he knew as 
well as his own name. He had no idea how he came 
to be looking at the stars, no idea whether it was 
someone’s cloak or simply the end of all earthly sense 
that blotted those stars out almost immediately afterward. 
But he heard voices for a few moments more, 
most shouting or dithering, only one close by and 
intelligible.

Sarah Roark 203 
“Good lad,” it said. The voice was Antal’s, and 
it was hoarse. “Good soldier.” 
It was not the benediction he needed where he 
was going, but as it was the only one he had, he 
clutched it to his soul and rose on his own ashes into 
the new dark. 
*** 
“I can choose another alkas and make it mine. I 
could do it tomorrow, if I weren’t promised to other 
tasks.” Deverra handed Bernalt a cup of blood that 
steamed in the cold air. “It’s the Samogitians who 
must grieve. Those trees won’t grow back for many 
years. Each holy place that dies leaves behind an 
empty space for the Cross to fill.” 
Bernalt nodded, but said nothing. He had to concentrate. 
He’d offered to spare her the exhausting 
task of taking the winds back one by one, turning 
them around so that the fire that now raged through 
her alkas would not spread down to the camp or the 
rest of the plain. 
Tears streamed down Jurate’s face. She was new 
in the blood and had never met her southern cousins 
before. She was shocked at how casually they 
could blaspheme. 
“And all this time I thought they coveted our 
lands, our power,” she said. 
“No,” Deverra said ruefully. “Once, they might 
have. When they were living men with living magic, 
and pure self-interest forced them to husband the visflows. 
But now they take what they need from human 
blood, and everything else is secondary.” 
“But humankind itself cannot survive without 
the holy places…” The young Telyav blinked. “Surely 
they know that.” 
“You seek reason where there is none, daughter. 
These,” she gestured toward the horizon, “are the 
fruits of fear and desperation. It no longer matters 
to them what they do or don’t know. They forgot 
wisdom once, long ago, and may never remember it 
again.”

204 Tremere 
“We must kill them, Grandmother,” she said. 
“Kill them all, now. This cannot be allowed.” 
“Don’t lose your head, Jurate. Hate tonight, call 
down the god’s curses on them, then put it aside. 
Tomorrow we’ll need your cunning, not your passion. 
But their sodalicium is broken, at least.” Bernalt 
glanced over at that. “Yes. Seven have become six. 
Now we can go to them, and nothing they erect will 
be able to stand against our assault.” 
*** 
“At least we’ve crippled her power by ruining 
the alkas,” Jervais reminded them. He opened up a 
little leather folder, set it on the ground, took out 
the tiny brush and the vial and began carefully to 
sweep a bit of Zabor’s ash into it. 
“For the love of God, warlock, what are you doing?” 
Wigand cried out. Jervais squinted up at his 
and Hermann’s scandalized faces, then he turned to 
look at the other Tremere, who stood no less aghast. 
“What any war-commander does,” he answered, 
returning to his work. “Conserving armaments.” 
“Carrion-vulture!” 
“What is done with the sainted bodies of dead 
Christian knights in the Holy Land, meine Herren? 
That is, when they’re not just left to rot.” 
“Well,” Wigand began, frowning, “when possible, 
the remains are conveyed home—” 
“What, a hundred stinking corpses on a great 
sailing cog?” Jervais looked up again. 
“No. No, it is necessary, because of the long journey—” 
“They’re cut up and boiled, aren’t they?” he interrupted 
dourly. “To extract the skeletons?” 
Hermann snorted and turned away. Wigand 
didn’t speak again. 
“Surely you don’t need all of him,” Miklos said 
hesitantly. “We could save the rest and have…have 
a memorial when we get back.” 
“If we get back.” Jervais got up. “Do as you wish, 
lad.”

Sarah Roark 205 
The apprentices hurried to gather up the rest of 
the remains in a box, as though afraid Jervais would 
change his mind. 
“Quite a little family we’ve got going,” Jervais 
murmured to Antal. The Hungarian sat sharpening 
his ritual dagger. 
“Each of them is wondering who will mourn him 
if he falls.” Antal glanced at him. “Have you never 
considered that?” 
“No. I already know no one will mourn me.” He 
paused. Something in Antal’s eyes made him uneasy. 
“This time he held. He did as you taught. And we 
gained a victory. Brother, this is why you’re here.” 
“I know why I’m here.” 
“But do you understand what’s at stake?” 
Antal pretended to be absorbed in studying his 
edge, but he was pondering a safe reply. Jervais knew 
that look intimately. “War is war,” he said at last. 
“No. It’s not the Hungarian war. Do you understand 
why all our lives aren’t too high a price for 
Ceoris to pay for this?” 
“Am I your student now, Master Jervais—one 
you feel needs lessoning?” 
“I do not want, at this late stage, to doubt your 
devotion to our enterprise.” 
Antal literally gritted his teeth for a moment, 
then he shook his head. “Our Art is all we have to 
survive on, all we have to barter with. No one else 
must possess it. No one who doesn’t give sole allegiance 
to Ceoris. Rest assured, if I understand 
anything, I understand that.” 
Jervais reached into his robe, brought out a winedark 
band of disparate threads braided and knotted 
together, and showed it to Antal. One thread had 
been burned to a char. No trace of it remained but a 
black smudge upon its neighbors. 
Antal shrugged. “Nothing to be done about it,” 
he said. 
“Not so. Fidus! Bring your skinny arse over here! 
My dear boy,” Jervais said, putting a hand on his

206 Tremere 
student’s shoulder as he arrived. “The time’s come 
at last.” 
“The time, master?” Fidus blinked at both of 
them. 
“You’ve waited so long to make Fourth Circle. 
Well, here it is. Go purify yourself. We begin the 
ceremony first thing tomorrow night.” 
“But…but you said my geometry had to improve 
first, and my—” 
“We all have to get through this first, my lad, or 
the only geometry that shall concern you is the concentric 
circles of the Inferno. What’s the matter? I 
thought you’d be pleased. Off with you!” 
“Ah, how stupid of me,” Antal said as he 
watched the apprentice scamper away. “I forgot about 
Fidus. Of course. One thread’s as good as another.” 
“The important thing is the weave,” Jervais answered 
quietly. Antal chose his times and places 
abominably. And to think he fancied himself a potential 
vis-master. 
“I daresay the one who holds your thread thinks 
so. Perhaps I shall be there to see if you still agree 
on the night it is cut.” 
“If you’re lucky, I suppose.” Jervais felt the pique 
rising in him. He admitted it to himself, allowed it 
to smolder. Antal might despise his own role in affairs, 
but plainly he, like everyone else, despised 
Jervais’s even more: to say what must be said, to dispense 
with the unnecessary and to deal with realities 
as they presented themselves. The knights wanted 
an unstained holy cause. The apprentices wanted to 
believe in their own importance. Now Antal wanted 
permission to wallow in self-loathing. In a court setting, 
indulging such whims was Jervais’s entire modus 
operandi, but here, it was a luxury he simply couldn’t 
allow, and they would all hate him for it. 
Well, what else could be expected, really?

Sarah Roark 207 
Chapter Twenty 
Since Deverra’s grove was laid waste, the ceremony 
had to be held at a local cup-stone instead. 
In daytime, it served the mortal natives of the region, 
but doubtless they wouldn’t mind too much if 
a throng of witches and devils borrowed it in the 
small hours. If they did, they would remember 
Qarakh’s raiders and think better of interfering. The 
alkas in which the stone lay bristled with ancient 
congregations of oak and linden, betraying it as a 
resting-place for the siela-souls of men and women. 
The broad top surface of the slab was flat, and hundreds 
of indentations pockmarked it—tiny little 
mouths hungry for satiation. Some of the indentations 
were already filled with beer or mead or blood. 
Those Deverra did not disturb. Local lore also held 
that if you pressed a coin to a wound or boil and then 
deposited it in one of the cups, the stone would devour 
your disease as well. Clearly it wasn’t a fussy 
eater. 
The chosen mortal—a fine-boned Samogitian 
convert—stood before the stone, offering his final 
supplications. He prayed that Telyavel would find his 
blood nourishing, and he begged the god also to 
mediate with both Veliona and Dievas, and to guide 
him by way of the stars to the blessed abode of 
Dausos. Then he rose. Deverra nodded. Each of the 
other congregants, both mortal and Cainite, came 
forward one by one, carefully biting off the tips of 
their fingernails and placing them in baskets of oakbark 
for burning. This was a gesture of profoundest 
gratitude for his gift. Every fraction of fingernail they 
donated would help his spirit hang on during its long 
climb to heaven. Other baskets contained cheese to 
nourish him for the journey. 
At last he lay on his stomach across the stone. 
Deverra placed a sheaf of barley across his back, a

208 Tremere 
reminder that like the grain, he too would rise again 
after death. She lifted his head and kissed him 
goodbye. Then she took her bone-knife and cut open 
his throat. The blood gushed forth, drenching the 
stone and welling up in each little hole. She let him 
bleed until the god was replete. Then the vampire 
priests and priestesses gathered in a close semicircle 
and drank of the remaining blood, which she drained 
into a large bowl for them to share. At her gesture, 
his livid body was removed, carefully washed, robed 
in white and adorned with jewelry, then set aside for 
later burning. 
It was now time for the more earthly preparations. 
Razors and bowls were brought out, and paints 
and lengths of linen and nets of knotted hair. Deverra 
smiled at the young woman who came to her with a 
pot of lead white and sat down facing her. 
Tremere were notoriously difficult to impress— 
although she hoped that her herd of aurochs had been 
unexpected, at the very least—but she was sure the 
effort would be well worth it in the end. 
*** 
“And there we are.” Jervais attached the little 
pendant to the chain that lay across Fidus’s robe. 
Since there was no way to make a real Fourth Circle 
sigil-charm out here, Fidus had to content himself 
for now with the appropriate symbol drawn on a piece 
of parchment and folded into a sheet of lead. Jervais 
made a minor fuss of arranging the chain’s drapery 
nonetheless. He remembered how much these little 
honors along the way meant to one who labored so 
long and hard between rewards. To deny such ornaments 
would be like denying a bride her 
wedding-finery—improper and unwise. “And now 
you have a war story of your own to tell, Fidus.” 
Fidus tried not to glow too brightly. “Yes, master.”
“Hold out your hand.” 
The lad did so without question, nor did he seem 
surprised when Jervais brought out a shunt and ex

Sarah Roark 209 
tract a small vial’s worth of blood from his fingertip. 
Jervais hadn’t had near as many options open to him 
for choosing Fidus’s thread, but he’d at last settled 
for a bit of linden bast from one of the slaves’ bast 
shoes. Linden wood was easy to carve, another virtue 
Jervais hoped would transmit. 
“One House, One Clan, One Blood. Our 
sodalicium is restored,” he announced. “We mustn’t 
falter now.” Then he turned to Miklos. “What is it, 
my lad, that the Telyavs got of yours? No more 
games.” 
The Czech rubbed at the back of his neck. “A 
blood-stone, master. Forgive me. Honestly, I didn’t 
realize at first. The bag spilled, and I just gathered 
them all up willy-nilly and didn’t count them ’til 
later.” 
“Well, that’s damned unfortunate, isn’t it? Since 
you have matching stones, we may be able to reach 
the one they have and destroy it. That’ll be risky…” 
He shook his head, thinking better of it. “Or perhaps 
we can craft a talisman instead. Not nearly so 
risky, but far more difficult…I don’t know. We’ll have 
to see.” 
“That’s if we even get a chance to cast any more 
big spells,” Torgeir said gloomily. 
“Well, we got a chance to promote Fidus at least. 
Even they have to rest sometime.” 
“I don’t know, master.” The Dane shook his 
head. “There were something like thirty Telyavs at 
the camp. Plus Deverra. Thirty to our eight…seven.” 
“Ah, but our seven are bound in a sodalicium 
circle, whereas they’ve repudiated the House and 
Clan. Neither can they call upon the power of Seven 
nor benefit from the centuries of workings performed 
by Great Tremere himself on down to hallow that 
number to our use. They’re little more than hedgewizards 
now, Torgeir. Powerful examples of the breed, 
but hedge-wizards nonetheless. And they rely overmuch 
on their queen, who still remembers the true 
learning. If we can kill her…and that Bernalt as well,

210 Tremere 
he’s another relic of the old days…then the rest of 
them should be far easier to wipe out.” 
They looked rather skeptical; not that he blamed 
them. Certainly they’d all been lectured on the importance 
of Seven before, but the true intricacies of 
the numerology, the full scope of those centuries of 
workings, were hardly common knowledge among the 
young. 
“Just trust me,” he finished lamely. 
“They also have more raiders than we do knights 
and men-at-arms,” Olena pointed out. 
“One of the captain’s knights is worth four of 
those mangy bandits,” Miklos said with feeling. Antal 
flinched. 
Jervais raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. So we’ll manage.”
“They’ve also got a lot of vessels,” she pursued. 
“We don’t. We can’t keep up like this. We don’t want 
to go on using Hermann’s men.” 
“Well, I think the captain was planning to go 
raiding tonight for that very reason.” 
“Wizards.” Hermann came over. 
“What is it?” 
“This mist, is it natural?” 
What mist? Jervais looked out across the camp. 
There was indeed some kind of haze, a bank of it 
rising up sheer like a fortress wall in every direction. 
“Of course not,” he retorted after a moment, “or 
else it’d be coming inside the ward, wouldn’t it?” 
“I can try to drive it off,” said Antal. 
“No, don’t leave the ward.” 
“I’ll do it from within.” 
Well, that was unlikely to work if anyone on the 
other side actively opposed him, but Jervais didn’t 
argue. “Fine. What the deuce is your gargoyle’s name 
again?” he called after Antal’s retreating back. 
“Never mind. Rix! Falco! You other beast there! Get 
up there and scout! Tell me where the enemy is.” 
The gargoyles looked up quizzically from grooming 
each other, then lumbered up into the sky.

Sarah Roark 211 
Hermann went to his knights and men. “No, 
don’t mount,” he ordered the ones who were already 
getting on horses. Instead, he made all of them but 
the handful who were good archers stand at intervals 
just inside the perimeter of the circle, where he 
assigned each soldier, man and Cainite, a number 
from one to fourteen. At his command, they marched 
forward out of the circle in a spreading ring, calling 
their numbers in sequence. 
“What in hell is he doing?” Olena muttered. 
“Trying to buy us a moment’s warning,” said 
Jervais. “Be sure to use it.” 
She nodded and started fishing through the purse 
at her belt. 
“Twelve!” “Thirteen!” “Fourteen!” 
The second round of calls ended; the third began. 
They were slightly further out now. 
“One!” “Two!” “Three!” “Four!” “Five!” “Six!” 
Silence. 
“That way!” Jervais shouted. Except for Antal, 
who continued chanting, trying without much success 
to drive off the fog, the Tremere turned in the 
direction Jervais pointed. Olena had a globe of balefire 
readied in her hands, which she threw heedlessly 
outward. It hissed and dampened as it passed the 
ward’s perimeter, but continued on until the mist 
obscured its light. Lightning poured forth from 
Jervais’s fingers. He had no idea what or if it struck, 
but he thought he heard a groan. Torgeir had picked 
up a handful of dirt and molded it into something 
vaguely bat- or bird-shaped. At his whispered word, 
it flew out to do Tremere alone knew what. The archers, 
too, fired shot after shot into the unknown 
distance. Jervais could hear that some of the arrows 
were striking something, though it could be mostly 
trees. 
Meanwhile, the other Black Cross soldiers had 
retreated back within the ward’s confines and now 
pressed up against the edge where the attack seemed 
to be coming from, peering vainly to see the enemy.

212 Tremere 
“Bonisagus. They’ll probably try for the ward,” 
Jervais suddenly realized. “We should shore it up. No, 
not you, Miklos. The rest of you. And Torgeir, you 
lead them.” 
“But master,” Miklos said rapidly. 
“No arguments!” Jervais snarled. 
“Then what do I do?” 
“I’d recommend hiding,” said Jervais. “And maybe 
drawing a circle in the ground with your knife.” 
The young war-wizard looked stricken, but he 
withdrew into a tent. 
The others spread out to the perimeter of the 
ward. Torgeir called out: “Una Domus, Una Gens, 
Unus Sanguis,” and then they sat and dug their fingers 
into the earth. To Jervais’s wizard-sight, those 
streams of vis that welled up from within the heart 
of the hill at the ley lines’ intersection and then 
flowed through the geometry of his beautiful ward 
design flickered momentarily, then brightened. 
But there were other sorcerous energies out there 
as well, not belonging to the Tremere. 
“Enemy everywhere,” Falco reported proudly as 
he circled to land on one of the wagons by Jervais’s 
head. 
“Yes, I can see that now…” Jervais snapped. He 
ran over to Torgeir. 
“My God,” Torgeir said as he came up. “Look at 
them all.” 
The mist literally teemed. A hundred bizarre 
forms appeared and disappeared within it. There were 
skull-faces and beast-faces and glimpses of hood with 
no face visible at all. Here was a woman in a circlet 
of tubular gold beads and heavy neck-rings, garbed 
in white, blood tracked down the front of her gown. 
Here was a figure in wisps of torn gauze, carrying a 
scythe. Jervais sent a ball of lightning straight into 
its chest, but it only whirled unconcernedly and 
glided back into obscurity. 
“Ghosts…” Torgeir shuddered. “Unhallowed 
dead.”

Sarah Roark 213 
You should talk. Jervais put a hand on his shoulder. 
“No. Keep your cross by your heart, my young 
friend. They can’t get past the ward anyway. Hold 
on. It’s coming.” 
“The attack?” 
“Yes.” Jervais cursed under his breath. He could 
see glowing motes, traces of spell-work moving suspiciously, 
weaving. But he couldn’t see what they 
were attached to because of the mist. Where were 
the Telyavs? They had to be here. Someone had 
called up all these ghosts. 
Antal ran to join them. 
“There, there, there!” he shouted. 
“What did you see?” Jervais shouted back. He 
let his vision retract into the natural. 
“There!” Antal repeated frantically. With a grimace 
of supreme concentration he thrust his arms at 
the fog directly before them, his fingers curled in a 
clutching gesture. A small portion of the mist fled 
as though fanned away. Another eldritch figure stood 
there, decked from head to toe in medallions and 
figurines of amber and veiled in a long, trailing white 
length of linen. 
Then Jervais saw the bare, wrinkled feet. 
“Deverra!” 
The figure raised its arms. The mist at its fingertips 
seemed to solidify into streaking lines of frost, 
which reached left and right to catch two of its fellow 
apparitions. They stretched out their hands in 
turn, joining in. A great thick ice fog rolled from 
them into the boundary of the ward. Jervais was safe 
behind it, but he could still feel the chill radiating 
hungrily toward him, could sense his design crystallizing 
and threatening to shatter under the assault. 
The four Tremere buttressing the ward cried out as 
one. Torgeir stiffened, his eyebrows and hair suddenly 
bristling with ice, but then his voice rose in the 
Hermetic cant. Jervais hurried away, to the tent 
where Miklos crouched, peering through the flap, 
sword drawn. From the look on the lad’s face, he al

214 Tremere 
ready felt the attack on the ward. At least Jervais 
hoped that was all it was. 
“Miklos,” he grated in Latin, “Torgeir calls the 
power of Seven. Join the chant. Ambrath Abrasax 
sesengenbarpharanges. I am barbadônaiai barbadônai 
who conceals the stars, who preserves heaven, who establishes 
the cosmos in truth.” 
Miklos nodded. “Ambrath Abrasax 
sesengenbarpharanges…” 
Jervais went back out again. Antal had already 
sat down at the ward-border and stuck his fingers into 
the earth, and Jervais did likewise. The ward, supported 
at least vocally now by the entire sodalicium, 
waxed in strength and drove off the probing frost 
tendrils of Telyav magic that sought to penetrate and 
crumble it as ice cracked stone. 
We’re doing well. She must have been expecting to 
find the sodalicium broken…We could even push back. 
Unfortunately, he couldn’t tell Torgeir that without 
breaking the chant, but he let the notion steep in 
his consciousness, willed it to diffuse, hoping that 
in the intimacy of the circle Torgeir would pick up 
on it regardless. 
He didn’t have long to wait; or perhaps the 
Dane, who was certainly a bright boy as they went, 
thought of it on his own. Jervais’s hands and the tip 
of his nose buzzed with a sensation rather like the 
tingling of a foot that had fallen asleep. 
Deverra. Get Deverra, lad… 
Torgeir’s chant had changed slightly as well. 
Words of mere summoning and potency were now 
bolstered by harder sentiments. Jervais echoed as 
many of them as he caught. He could feel their working 
change tenor, then it flooded outward all at once, 
racing back through the conduits the Telyavs had 
created. Jervais saw two blossoms of bale-fire burst 
on either side of Deverra—her unfortunate compatriots—
and a veritable pillar of it rise up where the 
high priestess herself had stood.

Sarah Roark 215 
Keep going, keep going… They poured all their 
will and strength into the counterassault for several 
more long moments, and finally, as one, they released, 
spent. 
There was a vast silence. Even the throng of 
ghosts momentarily faded. 
Then suddenly a new apparition lunged forward 
from the mist toward Jervais. It was an iron face with 
iron fangs, to which bits of charred detritus clung, 
and its open maw glowed with red heat. The blackened 
remnants of the amber tunic clacked as it 
reached for him, but its talon stopped at the ward’s 
edge. Then it sat back on its haunches. 
“Deverra,” he choked. He meant to shout it, to 
warn the others, but the air wouldn’t come. 
“We are strong in the Lord and the power of His 
might,” the Deverra-thing said. It hefted a hammer 
that it had in its iron hand and brought it down upon 
the earth. A boom of thunder rolled through the 
ground, pealing and echoing. Jervais felt nauseated. 
The iron cheeks bent, with the scream of a rusted 
hinge opening, into a smile. Then it drew backward, 
out of sight. 
He leaped to his feet. Hermann was just behind 
him, his face lengthened into a rictus of dread. He 
grabbed the front of the knight’s tunic. “Some of the 
ghosts are Telyavs.” 
“They’re all demons!” 
“You and Torgeir,” Jervais hissed. “They’re vampires, 
that’s all. I’m telling you some of those ghosts 
are flesh, just attired to frighten and confuse us! Tell 
your men to shoot them, throw spears at them, throw 
rocks at them. All of them.” 
The Saxon nodded dazedly. “Yes…yes.” 
Jervais went for his tent and his chests. Deverra’s 
alkas was ash. The old crone should be weakened, 
lost. Yet here she was, leading the charge and apparently 
still under the aegis of some vastly powerful 
witching.

216 Tremere 
“We are strong in the Lord,” he muttered. He 
wished they’d all stop dragging religion into this. 
Only Deverra surely didn’t mean the Lord. She must 
have meant her own god, Telyavel. Flesh into 
iron…well, there were other Tremere who could do 
such things, though only the mightiest of magi, and 
then there was that glow like hell-fire from her 
maw… No wonder the Saxons were spooked. He felt 
more than a little spooked himself. 
*** 
Miklos peered out of the tent, but he couldn’t 
see whether the working had ended because his 
brethren had finished it, or because something terrible 
had happened. It felt more like the former than 
the latter, but still…at last he could stand the uncertainty 
no more, and he stepped out. The knights 
and men-at-arms were running around shooting arrows 
and hurling spears into the fog, and it looked 
as though everyone but Jervais still guarded the ward. 
Where was the old scoundrel? Surely he hadn’t gone 
out after the witches alone, while Miklos himself 
stayed hidden in the tent like womenfolk. 
“Miklos.” 
It was a woman’s voice. For a moment he was 
sure it was his mother’s, but she was long dead. He 
turned. His tent stood quite near the edge of the ward 
boundary, and the ridge of the fog was only a few 
feet away. He peered out into it. 
“Miklos, look.” The voice belonged to a young 
woman there, robed in a blue cloak embroidered and 
decorated in metal. A snake brooch clasped her garment 
shut. Twin chestnut braids, thick and glossy, 
descended almost down the length of her body. She 
was beautiful, but he didn’t allow himself to notice 
that. Instead, all his attention was on what she had 
in her hand: a tiny red pebble. 
“I brought it for you,” she said, “They told me 
that we must kill the evil sorcerers, but they lied— 
you are fair and brave.”

Sarah Roark 217 
“But not stupid. Who are you trying to fool?” he 
returned. 
“All you have to do is take it, Miklos.” She 
stepped closer, holding up the stone. It was now only 
a foot or so away from him. He stepped up to the 
edge of the ward. She bent down on one knee and 
carefully placed it on the ground before him. “Will 
you not take it?” 
“No.” 
“If you don’t, you’ll remain in Deverra’s power,” 
she said sadly. “You’ll never be able to leave this hilltop.”
He stared at the pebble. The girl couldn’t trespass 
the ward, of course, nor could any spell she 
might cast, but physical objects could move over it 
easily.Well, that’s damned unfortunate, isn’t it? Since you 
have matching stones, we may be able to reach the one 
they have and destroy it. That’ll be risky…I don’t know. 
We’ll have to see… 
He drew out his sword. “Hold still,” he said. She 
did. He laid the tip of the blade against the top of 
her throat. She swallowed but didn’t move. 
Slowly, he knelt down. With his free hand he 
took out his dagger and flicked the pebble the two 
inches necessary to move it inside the bounds of the 
ward. Nothing happened. 
He picked up the pebble and rolled it around in 
his palm, looking it over with both mundane and 
mystical sight, just in case it might have been tainted 
or booby-trapped somehow. But no, it seemed as it 
should. Inexpressible relief washed through him. He 
lowered his sword and looked up at the girl, who 
smiled shyly. 
Then the pebble melted into a pool of cold blood 
in his hand. 
“I did not say it was your blood-stone,” she murmured. 
“You have kindly brought part of me over the 
threshold, fair one, of your own free will…”

218 Tremere 
She stepped across. The force of the ward blew 
her shawl back like a strong wind but offered no more 
resistance than that. He swung his blade at her with 
every ounce of strength he could muster. She caught 
it in her bare hands. He felt the shock of the impact 
all the way up his arm, but it didn’t even seem to 
nick her. Brambles and leaves sprouted forth from 
her fingers and with unholy speed entwined both his 
sword and him, wrapping his legs together and throwing 
him off-balance so that he hung like a fruit 
suspended from her vine. 
“And now I have seen to the rest,” she finished. 
“Miklos!” came a cry from across the camp. She 
glanced up and saw the round Tremere charging at 
her full tilt, arms raised. 
With another smile—not quite so shy—she 
turned and fled on swift feet into the mist, dragging 
her hapless prize with her.
*** 
Jervais shouted. “Hermann! Wigand! They’ve 
got Miklos! Come on!” 
One good thing about these Black Cross knights 
was that, once recovered from the initial shock of 
witnessing a strange sorcery, they fell right back into 
their usual mode of quick response without a lot of 
idiot questions. Hermann picked up a spear and nodded.
“Jervais…wait.” Antal waved at them, then 
dashed into his tent. Jervais waited impatiently, using 
the free moment to get a willow branch out of 
his purse and break it in half. A white-yellow light 
bled out of the broken ends and collected into a ball 
that Jervais brought into his palm to hover. 
Antal emerged carrying a sword. He pulled it 
partway out of its sheath to show Jervais. The blade 
had an odd green glint to it. 
“Take this.” He handed it over. Jervais wanted 
to say Who do you think I am, Lancelot?, but he simply 
nodded his thanks and set off. 
***

Sarah Roark 219 
Deverra shed her iron skin as she walked back 
down the hill. It was a useful thing, no question, but 
moving and witching were both far more difficult 
under its effects. Almost immediately after, she felt 
the slight thrill of a brush against her heart. Somewhere 
something of hers was being touched, focused 
upon. This didn’t worry her too greatly. Before the 
battle she and several of her senior priests and priestesses 
had exchanged little talismans and keepsakes. 
Deverra? Deverra… 
It was Oluksna, to whom she’d given a few straws 
from her ritual broom. Oluksna was one of the few 
Telyavs who didn’t call Deverra Grandmother or 
mistress. Though not quite so old as Bernalt, she was 
close to it. 
Yes, my friend? 
I have the boy. Shall I kill him now? 
No, put a stake in his heart and take him away. We 
shan’t try the ward again tonight. 
Very well, but the fat one, that Jervais, is chasing 
me. It will be hard to lose him dragging this deadweight. 
So calm, Deverra marveled. We must distract him, 
then. Where are you? 
The north side, I think. 
Daine and Ako should be nearby. Their grove is just 
to the north of here. And Ako had certain blood-gifts 
bequeathed by an ex-lover among Qarakh’s riders. 
Yes, they would do well. I will send them. 
And you? 
I am left to do those few things I can do with the 
ward intact. We shall withdraw soon. 
A silent reverberation of understanding, and 
Oluksna’s mind slipped away. 
Jurate and Bernalt were still where she’d instructed 
them to stand, just to one side of the great 
oak that stood directly upon the main ley line axis. 
Jurate held the bag tightly. 
“Open it up,” Deverra directed her. She did as 
directed. Deverra lifted out one of the dark adders 
inside. Bernalt quickly followed suit. They spoke to

220 Tremere 
the snakes in their own crude and ancient language. 
The beasts were rather more surly than Deverra ordinarily 
liked, and sluggish in the winter cold. But 
alas, for the present purpose they couldn’t be soothed 
with any sweet draughts of vampire blood, and the 
Telyavs’ wills soon overpowered their feeble minds 
in any case. They drew serpent after serpent out of 
the sack, something like twenty in all, and set them 
slithering through the snowy grass back uphill. 
*** 
“Stay close,” Jervais whispered to Hermann and 
Wigand as they entered the mists. Unfortunately, 
there was no question of running through this haze. 
Never mind Telyavs, one could knock oneself out 
crashing headlong into a tree or trip over a rock and 
go tumbling head over heels downhill. At least he 
was doubtless more used to wandering about halfblind 
than these two. Hints and echoes of movement 
surrounded them, and the knights kept themselves 
somewhat back-to-back, swords at the ready, occasionally 
slashing out at one of the shades that 
swooped down upon them and then immediately took 
off again, shrieking something between a laugh and 
a scream. 
“O tu zalty prakeiktas…” 
A mutter, just on the edge of Jervais’s prickedup 
senses. He frowned. It seemed to be coming off a 
little way to the left. He could hear nothing of 
Miklos, but it was quite possible the lad was unable 
to call out. He felt his way slowly toward it, holding 
the globe high. Its radiance burned off some of the 
mist, but only enough to illuminate nine yards or so 
in any direction. He steered well clear of hanging 
branches. Never again would trees be innocent in 
his sight. 
Even knowing that any given vision might be a 
vampire rather than a spirit, Jervais still froze when 
the wild-haired woman with a face painted to look 
like a skull suddenly appeared. She growled, then 
half-cartwheeled onto her hands and kicked out at

Sarah Roark 221 
him like a disgruntled mare. Her shoes were iron, 
and they slammed into his jaw, sending flashes of 
light popping across his field of vision. He felt his 
knees crumple, but by some supreme exertion he 
managed to step one foot backward and set his legs 
akimbo, holding himself somewhat upright. He called 
upon the strength of blood to make the world stop 
spinning, then brought the blade Antal had given 
him up into the base of her ribcage. It slid into her 
like a hot knife into wax. She cried out. Then she 
said something in her own tongue. The ghosts 
emerged again and this time, though their touch remained 
insubstantial as ever, somehow it caught and 
plucked at him. They actually managed to raise him 
into the air a few inches before he fought out of their 
spectral grasp. 
“Hermann!” he shouted as best he could through 
his cracked jaw, but there was no reply. He snapped 
his head around. The Ventrue were nowhere to be 
found. He thought he heard scuffling behind him, 
but he wasn’t sure. 
The woman darted away. He cursed and started 
to follow her, but a glimpse of two pinpoint flashes 
out of the corner of his vision startled him. They 
came swiftly toward him, and the next moment he 
was borne down to the ground with the great weight 
of an enormous bear on top of him. Its flesh was 
Cainite-cold. Its snout, flaring spit, closed on his 
wrist and tore. He couldn’t raise his sword to use it. 
His globe, however, required only a thought to move, 
and so he sent it up into the creature’s coal-red eyes. 
It shook its head wildly and let go. He laid hold of 
its fur and sent a levin bolt through its body. The 
creature screamed—a remarkably human sound—and 
fell over. Then it limped away, still in bear-form. 
He sat up, feeling at his ribs, unable to believe 
none of them were broken. Hermann and Wigand 
gone, Miklos and that girl who’d grabbed him gone, 
his own two attackers fled… Then he smelled something 
and edged over toward it to be sure. Here were

222 Tremere 
the woman’s footprints in the damp ground, and a 
splatter of blood from her wound had dropped down 
into one of them. 
He felt about for the subsequent footprints. 
There were more drips there. Vampire wounds didn’t 
usually flow the way blood driven by human hearts 
did. If she were hunched over with pain, though, the 
blood’s own weight would conduct it down to the 
ground. Groaning, he fished out one of his vials and 
scraped some of the bloody earth into it. Then he 
sharpened his sense of smell to as fine a sensitivity 
as it could command and crawled downhill on his 
hands and knees, gathering the globe under his chest 
so that it both illuminated the grass and snow he 
searched and, hopefully, became somewhat obscured 
by his own bulk. 
*** 
“No, no more,” Antal bellowed. “You just waste 
arrows…” 
He flapped his hands wildly at the soldiers. They 
looked to one of their number, a young ice-blond 
Cainite who seemed to be the authority of resort 
when Hermann and Wigand were absent. The knight 
chopped his arm downward, and the bowmen brought 
their weapons down. 
“They’re not attacking anyway. Not attacking, 
but not leaving…” Antal added to Baghatur in 
Magyar, frowning. “The ghosts still haunt us, at 
least.” 
One appeared at the border of the ward then, its 
head growing to an enormous size, and roared deafeningly 
at them as though to prove his point. 
“Shall we keep holding the ward, master?” the 
Khazar inquired stonily. 
“No, save your strength. But be ready to go again 
at a moment’s notice.” Antal walked up to the blond 
knight. “Forgive me, what is your name?” 
“Landric.” 
“Brother Landric, I mistrust this seeming calm.” 
“As do I.”

Sarah Roark 223 
“They’re plotting something. I think perhaps I 
should leave the ward after all…truly get rid of this 
mist…” He scratched at his beard. 
“Well, I hope you’re not asking me,” the knight 
said.
One of the men-at-arms gave a lusty scream. 
Antal and Landric rushed over at once. A great dark 
snake dangled from the mortal’s leg, hanging on in 
what Antal suspected to be an entirely willful fashion 
despite the man’s frantic shaking. 
“Stop, stop,” he said. “Don’t excite yourself. Let 
me take it off…” 
“No, let me take it off, master,” Olena interrupted, 
hurrying up. 
He nodded. With a wavelike motion of her hand, 
she caused the snake to fly off his leg, then bent its 
legless body in midair until the spine snapped. 
The man’s face had drained to white, and he 
breathed shallowly. “No fear,” Antal assured him. 
“We don’t wish you to die of fright. You’ll be well, I 
promise. Will he not?” he added with a glance at 
Landric. 
“Yes, of course,” the knight nodded. “Come.” He 
got the man to lean on his shoulder. Then he clapped 
his hands and addressed the other soldiers. “Men! 
Those of you with reason to fear a serpent’s bite, I 
want you to get up on the horses and not come down 
’til I give word—” 
Just then another soldier cried out. 
“There must be more,” Antal told the other 
Tremere, who’d quickly gathered. “The ward can’t 
keep common beasts out. You must find them. Search 
the grass. Crawl.” 
Meanwhile, Landric had sat the first victim 
down by the cold fire pit, and motioned for the other 
to be brought to him as well. He tore his arm open 
with his fangs and began to drip blood into the first 
man’s waiting mouth. 
The wizards dispersed through the campsite parting 
grasses and lifting branches, and most of the

224 Tremere 
undead knights joined in as well. Antal and Torgeir 
each found a snake—the latter by suddenly having 
one attached to his hand—and the knights between 
them hacked the heads off several. 
Baghatur stood up, made some little noise of dismay 
and then ran into a tent. Antal glanced over. 
Ah yes, the tents, they had to be checked as well. 
“Master, come quickly!” came the yell from 
within. 
They all did, and Antal had to shove them aside 
to get through. It was the tent where the slaves were 
kept—
“The slaves,” Torgeir groaned. “We forgot about 
the slaves…dear God.” 
Easy to forget about the slaves, except of course 
at feeding time. But Antal cursed his slowness nonetheless 
as he knelt to examine the men and women 
who lay on the ground in their rope bindings. One 
was clearly dead already, or so close as to make no 
difference—most of his head had turned a puffy, 
bruisy purple and Antal could clearly see three sets 
of punctures on his neck. Two of the other men 
showed similar bruising on their hands, spread all 
the way down from bite marks that had actually 
pierced the shoulders and upper arms through their 
sleeves. Their fingers were swollen, and to Antal’s 
ears, their heartbeats were dangerously off-rhythm 
and weak. The woman in the group actually had her 
hands over the serpent that still nestled on her chest 
where it had poisoned her, and her eyes were closed 
as though in blissful sleep. The Kur rolled to turn 
toward Antal as he approached. He too had an ugly 
bite on his face, but he struggled to speak through 
his greatly swollen lips and tongue. 
“Master,” he said. 
“What happened?” Antal exclaimed. “Why did 
no one scream?” 
“I woke…when snake bit me,” the man managed. 
Antal hurriedly began to untie his bonds. “They just

Sarah Roark 225 
sit there…they say that mürkmadu has come to free 
them. I try to call out…” 
Antal began to roll up his sleeve to administer 
the blood, but then hesitated. For these people it 
might be too late to do anything but make vampires 
of them. The Kur seemed best off of the lot, of 
course—he was far less often bled than the others, 
owing to his function as translator. Still, even his 
was a doubtful case. Anyway, if there was the slightest 
chance that undeath might result it had better 
be a knight giving the vitae. For Antal to sire a 
childe, even to exterminate it a moment later, was 
technically a violation of the Code that any of these 
young ones might report should the malicious whim 
take them. 
“Baghatur.” Antal glanced backward. “Your alchemy.” 
The apprentice shook his head. “They’re dying, 
master. Multiple bites…and I can smell the venom 
from here. I can try.” 
“Well, try, try!” Antal snapped. The Khazar went 
off to get his things. “I want one of the brotherknights.” 
Landric shook his head. “We gladly shed Cainite 
blood to heal our fighting men, Master Antal. But 
not for these. Especially when it might not even save 
their bodies, to say nothing of their heathen souls.” 
*** 
Ah yes, bless Antal’s Transylvanian blade. It had 
struck quite true. The snow, though half-melted from 
a turn in the weather, helped Jervais to find the indentations 
of her metal shoes and the occasional 
splats of dark blood. His clothes were soaked nearly 
through. The ground leveled out for a while—he was 
definitely off the hill—and then rose again. Unfortunately, 
he had very little idea which direction he 
was going in. Vaguely north, he thought. He could 
see neither moon nor stars. He was more or less following 
a ley line, but he didn’t know which one. He 
also had very little idea of time’s passage. He was

226 Tremere 
absorbed in the trail of blood and footfall, and more 
peripherally in the growth structures of grasses and 
weeds, the traces of insectile life that remained even 
in the winter’s bitterest cold. 
The earth began to feel distinctly warmer under 
his hands, yet the slush and snow remained. At last 
the sensation reached the point where it penetrated 
his benumbed mind, and he stood, suddenly alarmed. 
Wherever he was, he wasn’t wanted. The trail 
continued determinedly on ahead of him, but he no 
longer trusted it to lead him anywhere he wished to 
go. He hadn’t been attacked again yet. That wasn’t 
right. Surely it was just a matter of time. Even if they 
were having as much trouble finding him as the reverse, 
one of them almost had to stumble across him 
at some point. 
With a curse under his breath, he took his 
leather gloves out of his belt and threw them down 
on the ground. Then he took off his cloak and boots 
as well. 
There are some advantages to being dead already, 
Lord Councilor. 
He knelt and called the snow to him. It came in 
clumps rather than fluffy drifts, but obeyed him nonetheless, 
hastily forming into a pillar whose lower half 
he directed to split in two. Two tapering cylinders 
for the arms, and a roly-poly little head. There was 
very little need for accuracy here, as long as the overall 
shape and size were right. The movement was 
more the trick—if he were Etrius, he would simply 
have called up an elemental spirit to inhabit it—well, 
never mind what Etrius would have done. Resigning 
himself now to coming back to camp thoroughly 
drenched, he dressed the manikin in his robe, boots 
and gloves and set it into something like a walk with 
the globe hovering over it. Then he sheathed his 
blade so that its own uncanny radiance wouldn’t give 
away his real position and followed along behind as 
quietly as he could. Keeping the globe aloft was nearinstinctual—
he knew the charm that well—but it did

Sarah Roark 227 
hamper his concentration on his snow-self. The going 
was rather slow, but that was all right. Every so 
often he wiggled the haft of the sword to make sure 
it hadn’t stuck in the sheath. 
Once again, he saw the red eyes just before their 
owner leaped. The “bear” seemed a bit startled to 
find that its headlong attack crumpled its opponent 
so quickly and completely, and it tumbled to the 
ground tangled up in Jervais’s cloak. Jervais rushed 
in and brought the blade down onto its neck. His 
blow released a great deal of blood but stuck in the 
spine without severing it. Panicked, he put his bare 
foot against the struggling beast’s shoulder to help 
pull it out. It reeled up to standing on its hind legs, 
head now lolling. 
There were few things more dangerous than almost 
slaying a Cainite, and Jervais knew it. He sent 
a fork of lightning toward it before it could regain 
its balance, knocking it flat. The bear-form melted 
away then, hair drawing up and muscles rearranging 
themselves in the space of a blink, leaving behind 
the naked body of a young man. Jervais brought the 
sword down again. Before it even connected, the 
young man had vanished. Jervais looked around in a 
panic. He felt a tickle and saw a beetle land on his 
hand; in the next instant, a vicious hunting hound 
was hanging from his hand. It tore off a chunk of his 
flesh and sprang away. He screamed (and berated 
himself a moment later for making the noise, but too 
late). 
“Puteresse, lichieres pautonnier,” he muttered savagely, 
clamping his good hand to the wound and 
finally recovering his ice-filled glove to put on over 
it. Then he ran after the dog. It was already invisible 
in the mist, but at least it had bled far more 
copiously than the woman.
*** 
“Yes, good…” Antal moved forward slowly, down 
from the hilltop, knights on all sides of him, the 
Tremere clustered behind and the gargoyles gliding

228 Tremere 
along above. “Clear all this rubbish out. Then we 
can see what we are dealing with, whether they’re 
even still here.” As he moved his arms in a sort of 
swimming and scooping gesture, the mists separated 
and rose. 
“Dear heaven,” Torgeir said. He looked up. “Is 
that the time? Master Antal—” 
Antal looked up too, noting the height of the 
moon. “Yes, young Master Torgeir, I see it now.” 
“Master Jervais and the Herren may not be able 
to. Hadn’t we better…” 
“Yes, we’d better. Cabo! Rixatrix! Falco!” 
The gargoyles descended, floating down like autumn 
leaves in spite of their stony bodies. 
“Now let me think. Falco is the sharp-eyed one? 
Falco, go look for your master.” 
“His mate should—” Fidus began to volunteer, 
then stopped. Antal stared at him, as did everyone. 
Evidently Fourth Circle lent one new airs. 
“Yes, Fidus?” Antal prompted. 
“His mate should go with him,” the apprentice 
gulped. “Master Antal. She’s the fighter of the 
pair…ah, as you can see…and Lady Virstania said 
they almost think in concert. If Master Jervais and 
the knights are in trouble, then…” 
Antal blinked at him. 
“Of course,” he said after a moment. “Cabo 
should be enough for us. Rixatrix, go with Falco. 
Cabo, you stay with us.” 
“Rix go,” the big female grunted. She and her 
mate took off, and Cabo returned to circling just 
overhead. 
*** 
The dog’s trail ended abruptly at a little brook 
of melt runoff. Jervais didn’t know whether that 
meant that he’d splashed into the brook, or that he’d 
turned into a bird and flown away, or something else 
equally aggravating. 
He sat down, pulled off the glove and examined 
his wound. It would take only a few nights to heal—

Sarah Roark 229 
that was if he could hope for regular meals in the 
meantime, which seemed a slim and uncertain hope 
just now. But it was a good-sized hunk of flesh, 
enough for some really malicious spell-work. He certainly 
hadn’t set out to become the next risk to the 
sodalicium. Damn Miklos for a fool. If he’d only stayed 
in the tent. Evidently the boy would follow any order 
without question except the order to lay low… 
He shook his head and took a little lodestone 
out of the purse at his belt. He dripped some of the 
blood from his wound into the finger of his glove, 
then dropped the lodestone in and settled in to wait. 
In this fog, there was no way to see an hour’s passage, 
so he quietly recited a chant he knew took 
about that long to get through. 
When it was done, he took the lodestone back 
out and suspended it on his purse-string. Naturally 
it pointed further in to what he had already determined 
was an alkas of some size. With a gusting sigh 
he got up again to follow it. Come what may, he had 
to recover his missing portion. 
Not long afterward he found the stone slowly 
turning left, then whirling. Just in time he dodged 
out of the way as they both came at him from behind. 
He spun to face them. Having now seen the 
enchantment once before, he spotted the vines beginning 
to sprout from the woman’s hands and caused 
them to wither with a gesture and a phrase invoking 
the forces of decay. The naked young man who had 
been a bear slashed at him with long clawlike fingernails. 
The woman flicked her hand and sent a rock 
flying up from the ground and dashing into Jervais’s 
injured jaw. He roared and lunged at her, seizing her 
arm and twisting it as he pulled downward. She 
gasped. 
He sent a good solid bolt into her while still 
holding onto her arm and threw her aside. Then he 
did the same to the man and straddled across him, 
pressing his blade into the Telyav’s neck. 
“What did you do with it?” he hissed.

230 Tremere 
“With what?” 
“My flesh.” 
“I ate it,” the young man grinned through a 
bleeding mouth. 
“Unwise.” Jervais lifted the blade and made to 
plunge it into his abdomen. The young man laughed 
at him. “Son of a whore…” 
Something he could only have described as a 
sensation of pure malevolence brushed across 
Jervais’s back. He stumbled to his feet. The Telyav 
was still laughing, pulling himself up unhurriedly. 
The woman had also begun to rise, but she made no 
move to attack. Jervais peered up to see what was 
diving at him now. Another ghost? 
Then it happened again—this time to his face, 
a much sharper pain. As it did, a faint patch of 
brightness showed through the roiling mist above 
him.
The first fingers of dawn, seeking to reach down 
and touch them. 
All thought of battle was abandoned. Jervais 
looked wildly around. It was still difficult to see much 
on the ground, but there was no sign of any hole or 
hollow he could jump into. For one dazed moment 
he thought of simply covering himself in a mound of 
slush, but no, that might well melt away completely 
if the day turned warm. 
The Telyavs slowly backed away from him, no 
longer laughing but eerily silent and smiling in the 
purple light. Jervais ran toward the young man with 
a cry, thinking he would take one with him, anyway, 
and drove him up against the bole of a great tree. 
A moment later he had hold of nothing. The 
young man’s maddeningly serene face grayed, softened 
and flowed backward into the very wood, soon 
followed by the rest of him. Jervais turned. The last 
of the woman’s arm was fading into the bark of a slim 
linden. 
“Trees. Double-damned trees…”

Sarah Roark 231 
This had been the plan all along, he realized. 
Or it had been the plan ever since he’d undertaken 
the supreme idiocy of charging out of the ward. He 
deserved this fate every bit as much as Miklos. More. 
Purple took on roseate hues, and the mist rose 
like bread. The pain began in earnest now, and the 
fear. He ran back and forth. There was nothing but 
snow. Surely he could do better than snow. There 
must be some charm, some incantation… It dimly 
occurred to him that these were his final moments 
and he should do something, say something. Now was 
the time to pray or curse or utter some deathless sentiment, 
if there were anyone here to hear it. He 
offered up all he had to offer to the burning face of 
Heaven: a cry of cheated hate. 
And Heaven answered. He thought at first the 
darkness that fell upon him was Judgment, wings of 
demons come to drag his soul to hell, but then he 
put out his hands and touched a familiar, pebbly texture. 
The smell, too, of niter caves and butcher’s 
stalls. 
“Falco?” 
“Shh. Master must be still…” 
“Sleep now,” came Rixatrix’s rumble. They were 
embracing him between them, arcing their wings 
until their bodies met at every seam, blotting out 
every last bit of the horrible light. 
“Master is safe.” 
He could feel their skin calcifying around him, 
entombing him immovably in the mountain-rock of 
Carpathia. Yes, he remembered now, Goratrix had 
had to invent the spell, gargoyles weren’t always 
bright enough to get themselves out of the sun in 
time—of course, given the circumstances perhaps he 
shouldn’t disparage… The danger now over, the lethargy 
of daytime took him with unaccustomed speed. 
So, then. He would owe the next night, and every 
night thereafter, to the luck of fools and gargoyles. 
It was certainly better than the alternative.

232 Tremere 
Chapter Twenty-One 
“No sign yet?” Torgeir called up to Antal, who 
had actually climbed a tree just outside the ward 
circle in order to get a better vantage. 
“No sign,” the Hungarian called back. 
“There you are,” Torgeir said, clapping a hand 
on Fidus’s shoulder. “Now next time you can just ask 
him yourself.” 
“Aren’t you at all worried?” Fidus entreated him 
as he walked away again. 
“Why, what would be the point of worrying?” 
“Well—” Fidus stopped in the middle of what 
he’d been going to say, realizing that none of the 
reasons it personally worried him mattered nearly as 
much to Torgeir. “Well, Master Jervais was the only 
one who really knew what we’re supposed to be doing, 
and why.” 
“We’re out here to kill Telyavs because the Lord 
Councilor told us to,” the young magus replied easily. 
“What else is there to know? Peace, Fidus. Either 
he’s all right or he isn’t. But knowing Master Jervais, 
I’d wager the former. If there’s one thing the man 
excels at, it’s taking care of himself.” 
*** 
Jervais doubled over in pain and fell to his knees, 
clawing at the stake in his belly to dig it out before 
the buds on it had a chance to sprout. It wouldn’t 
come loose, though, until he choked out a formula 
of revocation. Right away the broad-set one was 
charging again. Evidently all the savage had to do 
was slather himself with a bit of mud to heal his 
wounds, or at least he didn’t seem to feel them anymore. 
Rixatrix picked the man up and hurled him 
away. 
Five. He’d fully expected to awaken to two, but 
not five. Evidently he’d walked into a damned orchard 
of Telyavs. At least the naked young man was

Sarah Roark 233 
still looking worse for wear, and the iron-shod 
woman’s wound didn’t seem to have healed either. 
They hung to the rear. The new three, however, were 
considerably fitter and haler for battle than Jervais 
himself. 
Jervais stayed where he was for a few moments, 
hunched over, pretending to be grievously wounded. 
Sure enough, the little blond girl with the bonetipped 
spear decided to press her advantage and ran 
at him with a battle-yell. He knocked the spear away 
with his sword. She raised her arm to strike again. 
With his other hand he drove the stake into her foot. 
Its magic had fled, but it could still cause terrible 
pain. Falco swept down and knocked her on the head 
with a thick fallen branch—a choice of weapon 
Jervais found most gratifying. 
Jervais got up then and, with a sweeping motion, 
sent a clump of dirty snow-slush into her face. That 
bought him some time to get out of the way. All of a 
sudden the smell of Cainite blood completely suffused 
the air. Rixatrix had taken the naked young 
man’s head the rest of the way off. She shot up into 
the air, carrying the head aloft with a triumphant 
shriek. The iron-shod woman screamed and ran up 
directly underneath her. Rixatrix snuffled—it wasn’t 
a laugh exactly, but it was as close as most gargoyles 
got—and dropped her prize at the woman’s feet. 
The broad-set man was back from wherever Rix 
had thrown him. Now he stood aghast at seeing his 
comrade’s body so used. Jervais tried to run him 
through, but he overbalanced. The man easily caught 
him, wrapping his powerful arms around Jervais’s 
own, turning him toward the iron-shod woman. 
“Daine!” he called hoarsely. “Daine!” 
The woman turned to stare, but then seemed to 
understand. Once again the vines and thorns shot 
out of her fingers with deadly speed, and this time 
Jervais couldn’t make the sign necessary to stop it. 
As they enveloped his head, the man who held him

234 Tremere 
hastily stepped back. Jervais flailed at the vines with 
his sword, but it became entangled as well. 
Something yanked on the vines, and he fell facedown 
on the ground. Wriggling to raise his head, he 
saw that Falco had barreled into the woman and was 
now worrying at her flesh. Leaves and coils of green 
twined around him as well, locking him and his opponent 
together. 
And now the third one, the sharp-faced old man, 
was chanting in Jervais’s direction. 
“Rix!” Jervais shouted. The big gargoyle landed 
beside him and caught up the vines in her mouth. 
She put her front talons down on them, pulling and 
shearing with all her might until they tore just above 
his head. Then she seized hold of him and struggled 
clumsily up into the air. A burst of orange and a flash 
of heat exploded under Jervais as they rose. 
A rock flew up and battered against Rixatrix’s 
wing, laying open a gash. The spear flew at them and 
the old man sent another blossom of fire toward 
them, but she managed to dodge them and stay aloft. 
They spiraled upward. Jervais stared down at the 
battle that continued on in his absence. The Telyavs 
descended on Falco now. The poor creature tried to 
break his wings free of the strands that bound them, 
and he put great rakes of gore across any Cainite flesh 
that was unlucky enough to come within range. Then 
the bone-spear plunged into his chest, and he gave a 
piercing cry that echoed across the canopy of the 
alkas. 
Rixatrix gathered Jervais up into her vast arms 
now, so that he no longer dangled like an overripe 
fruit.
“Master is safe,” she said for the second time in 
as many nights. 
“I hope so,” he answered, “though I fear the same 
can’t be said of Falco.” Virstania would be most displeased. 
Then again, the old harridan had never quite 
managed to get it through her skull that the whole

Sarah Roark 235 
purpose of her charges’ existence was to die in their 
owners’ stead. 
“Is true,” she rumbled. 
He glanced up at the gargoyle’s grim, knobby 
face. For him, at least, it was impossible to read feeling 
in it. “Don’t you care?” he asked curiously. “He 
was your mate.” 
“He dies for Master. Is great honor. My great 
honor come another time.” 
“Ah yes. The kind and noble masters…” He 
didn’t expect her to catch his irony, but to his surprise 
she made a little demurring noise. 
“Some Master is cruel. No matter.” 
He wondered where he fell by the gargoyle 
reckoning. “No?” 
“For Mother’s children, is honor to serve 
whether Master is kind or not. Master do as he wish. 
If I serve well, then honor is mine in any case.” 
“I see.” He’d never thought to see a moment 
when he would envy one of these creatures, especially 
knowing the existences they led, but here it 
was. “Then your Mother has taught you well.” Better 
than I was ever taught, certainly. 
“Yes,” she said, and banked left to catch a favorable 
wind. 
*** 
Rixatrix delivered him to the center of the 
Tremere campsite like war booty, and he once again 
had to endure the indignity of being pried free of 
greenery. 
“Master! Thank Great Tremere!” Fidus exclaimed 
with evident relief. 
“Here, boy. Take this vial and put it away safely,” 
Jervais gasped, squirming to get his arm out. “Herr 
Hermann, Herr Wigand. You made it back in before 
dawn?” 
“Just barely. But for Miklos,” Hermann said solemnly, 
“you are the tardiest of us, master wizard. I’d 
hoped you would recover him.”

236 Tremere 
“I wish any of us had—” Jervais retorted, stung. 
Hermann bared his teeth, and only then did Jervais 
see the great wound in the knight’s chest. He hastily 
added, “Not for lack of trying, I’m sure. For that 
matter, I wish we’d managed to stick together. I could 
have used you.” 
“Forgive us. Something ran in a circle around 
us, and suddenly there were two witch-lights, and 
we didn’t know which one was you anymore. Obviously 
we guessed wrongly.” 
“Well, I got a little distracted myself, so I suppose 
fair’s fair.” 
“Open up your hand,” Hermann said. Jervais did 
so warily. The knight deposited a pair of fangs into 
his palm. 
“It isn’t just their ghosts that fear the cross,” he 
went on. “They do themselves. They recoil at the 
sight of it. I thought I saw it during that last battle, 
but I wasn’t sure. This time there was no doubt. 
Brother Wigand made the sign of the cross and invoked 
the name of Our Lord, and the witch screeched 
and fled straight into my arms.” 
“My vigor and hope are restored,” Wigand agreed 
heartily. “This time God blesses our endeavors. 
Jürgen was right—sorcerers to kill sorcerers, it’s all 
in His plan.” 
“Is that so?” Jervais pondered. “Well, it certainly 
helps my plans, anyway.” 
“Why? What are you going to do?” Hermann 
asked. 
“Learn by imitation, like any good scholar.” 
The Saxon nodded heavily, despite having not 
the slightest idea what Jervais meant, and made for 
the slaves’ tent. Antal started and ran after him. 
Seeing the look on the Hungarian’s face, Jervais 
shook off the last of the clinging vines and hurried 
along as well. 
“Captain,” the Hungarian was saying. “Captain, 
I must warn you—”

Sarah Roark 237 
Hermann stopped short in the doorway in the 
tent. The two magi crowded up behind him. 
“There is but one left. And he’s ill.” 
Hermann stared at the Kur, who sat up from his 
rags of bedding with wide eyes. 
“So he is,” the knight murmured. And came forward. 
“No. No, no,” the mortal man begged. Hermann 
paid him no heed. “No, please—I can tell you 
things.” He looked pleadingly at Jervais. “I can tell 
you useful thing!” 
Hermann stopped again then, but his mouth was 
partway open already. 
“If you can do that, why haven’t you done it 
before?” Jervais asked. 
“About Telyavel. About his shrines.” 
“Stay…stay out of this, wizards,” Hermann said 
huskily. 
“You’re right.” Jervais held up his hands in a pretense 
of apology. “It’s your decision. After all, he’s 
the only one left for you, isn’t he? The only infidel.” 
“About his shrines, please. If your enemy is high 
priestess of Telyavel, one thing she must have, one 
promise she must keep. I tell you—if you promise no 
to bite me!” 
The knight drew up his knees and sat. He raised 
his hand to push his metal coif back off of his head, 
revealing the linen arming-cap beneath. 
“So you guessed,” he muttered to Jervais. 
“Finally, yes I did. Casts a much more interesting 
light on your religious fervor, which, as you know, 
I’d been finding rather tiresome. But I won’t stop you. 
You need your strength. Whatever he thinks he 
knows, it’s quite possible someone else out here 
knows too, and we’ve got to get more of them anyway…” 
Jervais shrugged. 
“You. You must have a name, don’t you?” 
Hermann grated at the terrified slave. 
“Kalju,” the man gasped.

238 Tremere 
“How about this, Kalju? You tell me this ‘useful 
thing’…” He actually mimicked the man’s accent. 
Apparently hunger brought out the spite in 
Hermann. “If it really is useful, then I promise I won’t 
bite you. And if it isn’t, then I promise I’ll make you 
wish I had done so.” 
Kalju told them. A little later, Jervais burst out 
of the tent with Hermann and Antal following. 
“My chart!” 
“Yes, master.” Fidus fetched it out of his master’s 
tent.
“Let me see.” Jervais ran his finger over the 
tracks of the ley lines. 
Antal was at once peering over his shoulder. 
“Looking at the spots we couldn’t reach in scrying?” 
“Yes. Because if our Kur speaks truly, then we 
should have found the place already, except if it was 
in one of these spots… hm. How odd. How very, very 
odd. Look at this one, in the south here.” He tapped 
a spot. 
“What?” 
“Well, this was our travel route, wasn’t it? Something 
like this?” 
“Slightly more west, because we crossed this 
stream I think, but yes.” 
“We went right by it. Right past it.” 
Comprehension dawned on Antal’s saturnine 
features. “So we did.” 
“I know exactly what we’re going to do now. 
Exactly. And as long as we’re doing that…Fidus, get 
me that vial. And some thread.” 
“Which vial, master?” 
“The one I handed you not a moment ago!” 
Jervais snapped. Antal laid a hand on his arm. 
“Stop shouting,” the Hungarian warned. “We’re 
all hungry.” 
Jervais rounded on him as well—but then he caught 
sight of the other Tremere. Exhaustion and over-vigilance 
warred in their faces. Even Antal’s fingers gripped him a 
little too tightly. With an effort, he nodded.

Sarah Roark 239 
Fidus brought the vial out again. Jervais took it 
from him, suspended it from the thread and said an 
incantation over it, then swung it out over the chart 
until it began to spin rapidly. 
“So this is where I must have been last night, 
the northern alkas. It’s attuned to that iron-shoed 
bitch… probably not her alone, either. That one we 
destroy for certain. And this other alkas and this— 
what did Zabor call it, pannean, the sacred 
bog—they’re also within a half a night’s journey from 
the Telyav camp, so we should hit all three. Olena, 
can you carry a man while you fly?” 
Olena blinked. “Well, I haven’t tried, but I think 
so…”
“Good. Then you’re with Master Antal.” 
“What for?” Antal exclaimed. 
“Baghatur,” Jervais said over the other magus’s 
huffing. “You’re with me.” 
The Khazar looked just as baffled as everyone 
else, but he said, “Yes, master,” and gave one of his 
little bows. 
“Torgeir, Fidus, you’re together, and take one of 
Herr Hermann’s mortal soldiers with you. You two 
leave tonight, since you’ve got the furthest to go.” 
“The furthest to go where?” Torgeir broke in. 
“Back south.” Jervais tapped the blank spot that 
he and Antal had been mulling over. “Fidus, go 
saddle the horses. Sit down, Torgeir, and practice 
patience. You’ll get all the explanation you need in 
a moment.” The Dane went rigid, and for a moment 
Jervais honestly thought he might lunge forward, but 
then he obeyed. “The rest of us will set out tomorrow. 
But we must prepare. Above all, we must feed.” 
“Then that means raiding a village tonight,” 
Hermann said. 
“Yes, indeed. Order a raid. And make sure to tell your 
men to take all the axes they can find, because tomorrow 
they’re paying a visit to the northern alkas.” 
“Axes. Good.” The Saxon’s eyes glinted.

240 Tremere 
“But five knights of the Blood have to stay here, 
both tonight and tomorrow night. And you as well. 
Remember that boon you owe me, mein Herr,” he 
added when he saw Hermann’s scowl. The scowl 
turned to a momentary look of what Jervais was gratified 
to label terror, but then smoothed out again. 
“I see.” Hermann bowed from the neck. “My 
word is my bond, Master Jervais. My services are at 
your disposal. Call me when you require them.” Then 
he walked away, Wigand at his side conferring with 
him.
“Say what you want about the Cainite traditions, 
they certainly do simplify certain transactions,” 
Jervais remarked to the others. “My brethren, and 
sister, with Miklos in Telyav hands, I think you all 
understand that our ward is doomed to fall and that 
we will lose our safe haven once more. Now I don’t 
know about you, but I haven’t the first intention of 
letting that happen without a retaliation in kind.” 
*** 
Hermann knelt grudgingly in the circle of salt 
that Jervais and Antal had constructed. 
“Both knees,” Jervais instructed. 
“A man only goes on both knees before God,” 
the monk-knight said stiffly. 
“That’s exactly the idea. Pray to God. It’s your 
devotion that we require for the spell. Just don’t pray 
for protection from us, or from sorcery, mind. That’d 
be rather counterproductive.” 
Hermann looked greatly surprised, but he folded 
his hands and began intoning under his breath. 
Jervais took the six Black Cross surcoats, folded them 
so that their blazon showed uppermost, and then laid 
them out on the ground along the inner perimeter 
of the circle. Antal picked up the bowl and used the 
brush to stir up the mixture of paste, gold dust and 
ground lily petals. 
Jervais touched Hermann gently on the shoulder 
to interrupt him, then proffered him a different

Sarah Roark 241 
bowl. “Drink,” he said. “Replenish yourself. You’ll 
need it for this.” 
“But I cannot…” Hermann began. Then he 
sniffed, and cautiously took the bowl from Jervais’s 
hand. He tasted of it, then glanced up at Jervais. 
“I promised him he wouldn’t be harmed,” he said. 
A low, dangerous note entered his voice. 
“You promised him no such thing,” Jervais returned 
comfortably. “You said you wouldn’t bite him. 
You didn’t. I have saved you that labor, and your 
honor as well. Now drink.” 
There was a curse all but spoken in the Ventrue’s 
eyes, but he drank. 
*** 
Jervais gazed out over the plain, toward where 
the Telyav camp lay, but it was useless. Too far away 
to detect any but the most gargantuan working. 
Whatever they might be up to, he hadn’t the resources 
to stop it. A dark bird streaked across the 
sky from that direction. He followed its flight with 
interest. It circled once overhead, then it fluttered 
down to land before him. It was a great, graceless 
black raven. Something light-colored was wrapped 
around its leg and secured with a knotted thread. He 
stepped toward it. It croaked at him and lifted its 
leg, looking up at him with what he thought a rather 
supplicating air, as if to say I was told you’d help me 
out with this infernal thing. 
He carefully untied the knot and extracted the 
long tape of parchment, first looking it over carefully, 
even though no spell should have been able to 
pass over the ward anyway. 
The letters were learned, but cramped and a bit 
wobbly. As you know, we have Miklos. We are willing 
to parley for his safe return. Send reply by bird. Yours. 
Antal came up beside him. “What’s this? More 
beastly couriers?” 
“Rather more innocuous this time, but yes.” 
Jervais withdrew from the raven a bit, motioning for

242 Tremere 
Antal to follow. “Have the others fed from the new 
prisoners?” he asked quietly. 
“I assume so. We were all famished.” 
“Then we should gather them. I’m afraid there’s 
more work to do.” 
“The sun dawns in a few hours,” the Hungarian 
cautioned him. “Not enough time to purify for a 
major working.” 
“Then we’ll do without. Not sure this is the sort 
of working for which purifications are really appropriate, 
anyway.” 
He showed Antal the parchment. 
“They haven’t killed him, then?” Antal murmured. 
“No. And this—” Jervais held up the braid-band. 
“This shows that they’re telling the truth.” 
“You are right,” Antal said heavily. “There is no 
other choice. The boy is part of the sodalicium—as 
long as it stands, they can get at the rest of us through 
him. We must break the circle.” 
“We can’t break it in the proper manner. All of 
us would have to be present for that.” 
They were both well aware of the things they 
told each other now. The essential conversation was 
already had. Yet, to the faint amusement of some 
disconnected corner of Jervais’s mind, they kept talking, 
sharing not information but resolve. 
“This will not please the children.” 
“No, it won’t.” 
“He said he had other bloodstones. We’ll use 
those.” 
“Yes. Have Fidus bring me my pen and ink, I need 
to write a reply.” 
“You’ll say yes, we shall parley.” Antal nodded 
his head toward the bird. 
“Of course.” 
“You’ll say anything, won’t you?” 
Jervais gave Antal a churlish glance, but for once 
the Hungarian seemed more curious than disparaging.

Sarah Roark 243 
“I’ll say anything required, yes,” he answered. 
“That must be why you are sent to woo princes, 
and I am sent to feed vozhd,” Antal ruminated. 
“I would imagine so.” 
*** 
Jurate felt awkward doing chores in front of the 
big auburn-haired Christian, even though he was laid 
out flat, his heart spitted on a shaft of ash-wood, 
unable to even turn his head to watch her. But at 
last, shortly before dawn, she finished her work. Then 
a perverse curiosity seized her. Deverra had firmly 
instructed Jurate not to speak to him; she’d said nothing 
about touching. Jurate went over to his still form 
and with her fingers closed his staring eyes. Then 
she sat beside him, studying the things he wore 
around his neck—a handful of teeth strung on a 
chain, a funny little charm with Western writing on 
it. In his purse she found a quaint assortment of 
things, some of them reminding her of the odds and 
ends curious children might pick up. There was a bit 
of thread wound on a spool, several smooth stones, a 
ball of wax, some fragrant anise seed, coins from various 
mortal mints, a bit of willow twig and the skull 
of a mouse. Then there was a little pair of wooden 
boards hinged together with silk thread. She opened 
them. Here, set into one of the panels, was what 
looked like it had once been a portion of eggshell, 
brightly painted with a colorful design. It had been 
crushed flat, giving it rather the look of a mosaic, 
and then shellacked into the shallow hollow of the 
board. 
It certainly didn’t look like a tool for any fearsome 
sorcery. What was it? She turned it this way 
and that, trying to make sense of the broken design. 
Someone had labored over this, bent over it with a 
tiny brush. Part of it looked as though it had been 
rendered with a wax-resist technique or something 
similar. And he had carefully saved it, found a way 
to preserve the fragile surface and yet carry it with 
him. She glanced pensively at his slack face. He

244 Tremere 
doubtless wouldn’t tell her anyway. What was the 
mystery of these Tremere? They had two eyes, two 
ears, and their blood was the blood that ran in Telyav 
veins. How could it be that they’d wandered so far 
from the life of the world, while they still went about 
with old lovers’ tokens hidden away in their purses? 
He made a noise then. She started like a rabbit 
and shot to her feet. Vampires on stakes were not 
supposed to be able to make noise. His eyelids fluttered. 
Then he moaned again. His body began to 
shiver. It was the minutest possible movement, impossibly 
fast, visible only as a blurring at the tips of 
his fingers and nose and the edges of his clothes. 
“Grandmother,” she murmured, and then raised 
her voice, backing away, still holding the little 
wooden token. “Grandmother! Grandmother!” 
“What in the name of Moist Mother Earth is it, 
girl?” Deverra hurried in, pushing open the tent flap. 
“Look!” 
“Yes, I see…” Deverra laid a hand on Jurate’s 
arm. “Step back. Back.” 
A moment later the Christian’s head burst into 
flame, the auburn of his hair supplanted by a blazing 
corona of candlelight-yellow. Jurate felt the bloodterror 
enter her bones, urging her to flee, but Deverra 
held her fast. The rest of the body caught fire and 
began to blacken. 
“I thought they said they wanted to meet,” 
blurted Jurate. 
“This is their true answer,” Deverra returned 
with a gesture at the charring corpse. “Daughter, I 
want you to stay here with him until he is ash. Then 
you must gather every speck of him up and open the 
tent to air it out. We’ll stay in Bernalt’s ger until we 
have time to purify this one. Perhaps tomorrow.” 
“Perhaps?” she echoed. “Where are you going, 
Grandmother?” 
“I must find the darkhan.” 
Jurate sat uncertainly down, clutching the token 
now, to keep watch over the dead as requested.

Sarah Roark 245 
Deverra went and sought out the current head of the 
raider band, who stood conversing with the one person 
she had no desire to look at right now. 
“Darkhan Alessandro. Boyar Osobei.” 
They both bowed to her, the latter rather more 
floridly. “Mistress Deverra. How may I be of service?” 
the Tzimisce inquired. 
“I was seeking the darkhan, boyar, but I’m glad 
that I find you as well, because the news is the same 
either way.” 
“Oh?” 
“Yes.” She turned to Alessandro. “Tell the mortals 
they move camp tomorrow. I want everyone gone 
by sundown except for my own priests and acolytes. 
Obviously that means your riders won’t be sleeping 
in the gers tonight. I trust they can manage.” 
“Yes, milady.” He frowned. “Which way are the 
mortals to go?” 
“Any way that’s far away. I would say east.” 
“And the riders?” 
“You will join the mortals after sundown, to lead 
them.” 
“I see. It will not please the great khan that we 
left you…” 
“The great khan is not here,” she replied grimly. 
“Nor can I concern myself with what would please 
him. Instead I must do as I know he would do in my 
stead.” 
“True.” Then to her surprise, Alessandro got 
down on one knee and took her hand. 
“We will guard the tribe, and pray Father Tengri 
that you rejoin us in triumph.” He paused. “And Father 
Telyavel.” 
She laid her other hand over his. “May the wind 
bear you up, darkhan.” 
Then she looked to Osobei. “We have enjoyed 
the honor of your company, boyar,” she said, “but it 
is time for you to go now.” 
The emissary bowed again. To his credit, at least 
he didn’t smile.

246 Tremere 
“It would seem so, milady,” he agreed. 
*** 
Antal set down the platter upon which the 
blood-stones had rested. It was blasted and cracked 
now with the remnants of the heat. 
He spoke quietly. “Dismiss the quarters.” 
Torgeir was East, Olena South, Baghatur West, 
and Fidus North. The last recited his words with 
rather more care than strictly necessary. Everyone 
else waited patiently, even though the sun lay in wait 
just under the horizon. 
Jervais put out the incense. “Get some rest, everyone.” 
They stirred like dreamers just awakened. Antal 
remained where he was, standing bent over the platter. 
“Everyone comes upon death by and by,” he said. 
The others looked at him. “Not everyone has the— 
privilege of serving others by that death.” 
The futility of the sentiment hung there in the 
air of the disbanded circle. Jervais sheathed the ritual 
sword and stood. Antal, you idiot, this isn’t helping 
them. Keep your own demons out of this. 
“Or of being remembered.” Torgeir cleared his 
throat by way of preface. “I have an idea. A pact.” 
That drew their attention sharply. 
“A pact?” Jervais echoed. 
“A promise. I don’t know if anyone would be interested. 
A promise that…whoever falls and has 
fallen, those who survive will remember.” He met 
Jervais’s eyes then. “Not in prayer, necessarily. In 
whatever way each one chooses to honor them. Once 
a year. Forever.” 
He bit into his fingertip and let the blood run. 
Olena did likewise and stepped forward, touching her 
finger to his. Then Baghatur joined them, and then— 
not without a nervous, permission-seeking glance at 
his master—Fidus. 
“Why not?” Jervais came forward as well. “Master 
Antal. Come.”

Sarah Roark 247 
But Antal stood as if rooted to the spot. He had 
a rather odd look on his face, and twisted the end of 
his beard. 
“A promise so much more easily made than 
kept,” he said. 
“Bring your arse over here, Antal!” Jervais 
blared. The Hungarian obeyed. 
“Zabor and Miklos.” 
“Zabor and Miklos.” 
They held all their fingertips together in somber 
silence for a few moments, then parted. 
“Perhaps a sodalicium can endure even as six,” 
Jervais murmured to Torgeir as they made their way 
back to the tents, putting a hand on his shoulder. 
“Well done. Your master could take a lesson from 
you.”
Torgeir pulled away disgustedly. “Don’t talk to 
me now. You don’t understand anything.” 
Jervais raised his hands and let him go. He 
watched the young albino slog determinedly across 
the muddy grass. He had, at one time, drawn great 
distinctions of character between the Black Cross 
knights and his fellow Tremere, and also distinctions 
among the Tremere themselves. No more. One essential 
characteristic united them all, outweighing 
every difference. 
“I do understand some things, at least,” he told 
himself. “I understand what a promise is, and is not, 
good for.”

248 Tremere 
Chapter Twenty-Two 
“Know any good songs to sing?” Ditmar asked 
Werner with a grin. 
“No, I’m used to swinging a sword, not an ax,” 
Werner retorted, grimacing, as he laid another stroke 
into the foot of the alder beside him. All around 
them the sunlit grove echoed with the sounds of 
chopping. 
“It would pass the time, anyway. I hope they 
don’t expect us to have this whole grove down today.”
“God save us, no. I think the idea is just to— 
desecrate—” He yanked the blade out from where it 
had stuck for a moment. “Trespass the pagan law, 
render it unfit for their blasphemous use.” 
“A pity a man should have to break his back for 
hours on end just for that…” Ditmar returned to his 
task, selecting a new tree, a slightly smaller one this 
time. He sank his ax deep into its bole. An instant 
later he cried out as dark liquid gushed forth from 
the slit he’d made. 
“Werner, look!” 
Werner came over at once, crossing himself. 
“Blood!” 
“There’s godless filth for you—” Ditmar attacked 
it with fervor now, all complaints forgotten. Werner 
joined him. Between them, they soon had it crashing 
down. The blood continued to flow from it, 
brighter red now. 
“Deo gratias!” Werner exclaimed as it fell. 
Ditmar echoed him. The fallen trunk before them 
shivered, all its leaves shaking as though in a breeze. 
Then a section of it softened and shifted. A moment 
later the cloaked body of a slim youth lay before 
them, its right foot severed off. The youth half-rose 
and lifted his trembling hand toward them. As they

Sarah Roark 249 
watched, it reddened with sunburn and exploded into 
a fiery mass that soon consumed him completely. 
They crossed themselves again, breathing 
heavily. Then all at once Ditmar broke into some 
lusty song about the baron’s daughter and went to 
find another tree. 
“Brothers!” Werner shouted to his compatriots. 
“Brothers, look sharp! We must try them all, and find 
the ones that bleed!” 
As it turned out, they could find only four in 
the entire grove, but even that gave them great satisfaction. 
It was a victory they could report to the 
senior brothers (whose Devil-inflicted daytime infirmity 
regrettably kept them from joining in) and 
claim as their very own. Better yet, several hours into 
the work a band of pagan worshipers wandered unwittingly 
into their midst, seeking the cup-stone that 
had already been turned over and pissed on. The men 
among them had spears, but that would help them 
precious little. 
“Now there’s something I know bleeds, and my 
favorite sort of tree to fell moreover,” Ditmar smiled 
as he hefted the ax and went toward them. 
*** 
“Couldn’t you just give me one of those stones, 
like you gave to Torgeir?” Hermann grumbled that 
evening. Jervais restrained a smirk. One night the 
man was terrified at the prospect of even entering a 
ritual circle, the next he wanted playthings. Granted, 
the signal-stones would have been simple enough for 
even a Ventrue to use, since all one had to do was 
trace the alpha on the sending-stone with one’s finger 
to set the omega on the herald-stone alight. 
“I’m afraid that was Master Antal’s only pair, and 
Torgeir’s going to be a good deal further away from 
me than you are. Now Baghatur wrapped these up 
very nicely for you in the proper color cloths. The 
blue bags will send up blue plumes when you throw 
them on the fire, and the red bags will send up red 
plumes. The blue plumes are to make anyone that’s

250 Tremere 
watching think the Tremere are up here on the hill 
working sorcery, so just throw one on every so often. 
Then if you do get attacked, throw on a red bag.” 
“And the other red bag?” 
“Is to signal your victory, or at least your survival. 
I trust you won’t ask me for one to signal 
defeat.” 
Now it was Hermann’s turn to smirk. “No, Master 
Jervais.” He rearranged Jervais’s sigil-embroidered 
ceremonial cloak around his shoulders and glanced 
at Landric and the other four knights, who were likewise 
doing their best to make Tremere cloaks fit 
comfortably over knightly mail. “Well. It’s a good 
thing we won’t need to pass for sorcerers at close 
range…” 
Jervais chuckled and went to check on the young 
Khazar, who was working furiously in his tent. 
“Ready to go yet?” 
“Er…” Baghatur held up one flagon. “Here’s the 
remnant of the antithesis I made to get you out of 
those roots, it should still be good. And here’s another 
batch.” 
“This won’t do, my lad. It’s a good-sized bog. 
We’ll need at least one more of these.” 
“But I can’t, I’m out of ingredients.” 
“What would you need more of?” 
“Well.” Baghatur started to speak, then stopped 
and blinked. When he spoke again, it was more subdued. 
“I would need some of…Zabor, actually.” 
“Ah. For the filtration?” Jervais took out the vial 
of ash and passed it over. 
The Khazar took it uncertainly. “Yes. Thank you, 
master.” He bowed. 
“It’s not me you should thank,” Jervais said. 
“Hurry. We need to be gone.” 
*** 
“I give up,” Antal shouted over the wind. “Take 
me somewhere else.” 
Olena shook her head. When they first took off, 
her hair had been well braided in a thick rope, but

Sarah Roark 251 
that was long gone. One could take her for the wild 
vila of so many peasant tales now, with locks black 
as midnight whipping about in the chill air and her 
skin chalk white under the moon’s radiance. They’d 
quickly found that the best course was for Olena to 
hold Antal’s left hand. If she let him go entirely, he 
was too afraid to concentrate; if she carried him, he 
couldn’t conjure the bale-fire properly. 
“You’ve dried it out now,” she shouted back. 
“One more, master.” 
He spread his hands, and another ball of flame 
appeared between them, expanding into an amberbright 
bead. Then he sent it down into the forest 
canopy. This time it caught. Nothing could be seen 
of it other than a tiny trail of smoke, but if it or one 
of its siblings would only blossom a little over the 
next hour or two, then a conflagration would start 
that only weather-witching of the highest order could 
put out. And if several of them caught and endured, 
then perhaps not even weather-witching would save 
the eastern alkas. 
They flew back over to another spot where 
they’d been working before so that Antal could try 
to fan it with a friendly wind. Olena gave a cry of 
satisfaction as a glow of orange sprang up from within 
the tree crowns. 
“There, you see? It’s begun.” 
“Yes, it has.” Antal cast his gaze across the wide, 
shadowy blanket of foliage. Who knew how long it 
had stood here, how long the people had come? And 
that other billow of ash coming out of the very edge 
of the forest there, was he mistaken in thinking that 
was not one of his fires, but hearth-smoke? “Just as 
in Hungary, no one will be able to mistake where 
the Tremere have been.” 
*** 
“Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look 
down…” 
“You can open your eyes, Baghatur, we are 
down,” Jervais called out heartily as the gargoyles

252 Tremere 
rotated their wings and slowed to a stop just short of 
the ground. The Khazar’s feet fumbled a bit in the 
soft heaped peat and spongy moss of the bog-floor. 
Then he recovered himself. 
“Now you’ve a good idea of the strength of your 
concoction, don’t you?” the older Tremere asked. 
“Yes—yes, master.” 
“Good. Your job is to portion it out as evenly as 
you can. Dig little holes and bury it.” 
“Yes, master. And you…” 
“My job is to spread it. Put your hand down on 
the soil here. Push on it. Feel that? It’s more water 
than anything else.” 
“I see. That’s why it’s you and me here instead 
of the others.” He peered around. “Interesting. I’ll 
be curious to see if the moss affects the rate of absorption 
or—” 
“Exactly. Now you understand what you need to 
do?”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” He padded here and there among 
the dense stands of pine trees, pouring out a little 
from the flagon each place he stopped. Jervais chose 
a puddle to start from and knelt down before it, 
thrusting his arms elbow-deep into the acrid muck. 
This would have to begin very small and grow gradually, 
with careful attention to the rhythm of the 
miniature tides he was generating in the mass of peatsoil. 
Even so, it might not be possible to kill the 
whole mire. But if he’d chosen his spot as well as he 
hoped, then it would be enough to cripple the vis 
well, and perhaps even the flow of the ley line itself. 
“Master!” 
“What?” 
“There’s a…ugh. How, er, singular.” 
“There’s a what?” Jervais called irritably. 
“Well, look.” Baghatur reached into the weeds 
at the edge of a pond and dragged up a bloated arm. 
Its black-nailed fingers flopped back. “She’s weighed 
down with gold jewelry.” 
“Hedge-wizards,” Jervais scoffed.

Sarah Roark 253 
“I don’t suppose you—want it?” 
“No. You have it if you like. Go ahead and drag 
her out, anyway, if it’s one less ghost serving the 
Telyavs that’s all to the good.” 
He bent to his work again. 
*** 
Five ravens and a hawk touched gently down 
upon the grass at the hill’s foot. A moment later there 
were no birds at all, but a hunched old woman, a 
young woman with brambles in her hair and four men 
who immediately lifted their spears and began to 
search the brush around them. 
“What a horrible stink,” Daine whispered. 
“Yes. I know I’ve smelled it before, but…” 
Deverra frowned and stared up at the billows of bluegray 
smoke. “All the ingredients. It’s been too many 
years.” 
“Now, at least, there must be only six.” Valdur 
was one of the Curonian group. None of the old magi 
were left among them except for Bernalt, but at least 
they took this business of numbers seriously once it 
was explained to them. 
Yes, now they’re six. Alas, we here are only six as 
well, but only six could come swiftly enough. The mortal 
Saxons, at least, must die before they could chop 
down more trees and send more of her children to 
shameful, helpless deaths in the sun. And whatever 
the Tremere themselves were doing up there, all 
hunched and huddled together in a tight circle, could 
be nothing good. 
“First, the ward,” she said. “But then, be ready 
to attack swiftly. The one thing you cannot allow 
them is time to think. And remember, it’s better to 
concentrate and kill one of them than to wound them 
all, so if you see one beginning to falter, show no 
mercy.” 
They nodded. 
Suddenly Valdur fell to the ground, moaning. 
“My priestess—”

254 Tremere 
They bent over him. He coughed, and a black 
foulness splashed out of his mouth and fell upon the 
ground. Where it touched, the grass withered. 
“My priestess, they’re poisoning me… fouling 
the pannean…” 
So that was the nature of the maleficium—mortals 
by day and vampires by night, nonstop 
blasphemy. “Stay here, and hold on,” she told him. 
She took out a zaltys snakeskin from her pouch. 
“Here, eat this. It’ll help you purge the curse. I promise 
you, we won’t let them finish. Will we?” She 
looked up at the others. 
Daine nodded. “For Ako,” she whispered fiercely. 
“For all our fallen.” 
They climbed up with souls and minds girded and 
hands linked, already speaking the prayers that would 
call upon the favor of the Maker-Unmaker and enlist 
his aid in this particular unmaking. The Tremere 
rose as their attackers crested the hilltop, startled, 
but they couldn’t react quickly enough. This time 
the Telyavs’ combined will surged up against their 
weakened ward and dissolved it like aqua fortis. 
“Forward!” Deverra cried. Her voice wasn’t what 
it once had been, but passion carried it. Determined 
to remind her kin that they did not have exclusive 
purview over the flames of the Underworld, she sent 
a barrage of bale-fire directly into the head of the 
nearest. He fell flat on his back, dead almost in that 
instant. But as he fell, the cloak opened. Underneath 
was the bone-white flash of a surcoat with a great 
black cross emblazoned across it. 
And now the other “Tremere” ran forward, 
throwing their cloaks back to reveal the warrior-garb 
underneath. Worse, each cross was alight, outlined 
in a golden glow that both mocked and invoked the 
memory of the sun. As one, her Telyavs recoiled from 
the sight. They didn’t flee, but the advance that had 
been perfectly unified and resolute suddenly became 
a confusion. The knights closed in with swords upraised, 
screaming something in that barbaric tongue

Sarah Roark 255 
of theirs. It was all the Telyavs could do to raise their 
spears and their most instinctive charms as the Saxons 
fell upon them. 
*** 
Jervais got up, or tried to. He felt as though his 
legs had been bought new that evening, and only just 
now attached. 
“I wonder if anyone lives around this little stain 
of pestilence,” he said vaguely as Baghatur came to 
help him. 
“Someone must, master. Shall we find them?” 
“Master.” Rixatrix had tried once to land in the 
soft soil here, and just as rapidly abandoned the idea. 
Instead, she coasted over to the trunk of one of the 
sturdier pines and clung to it. “Tower of red rise up.” 
“Good, good…” Jervais looked in his purse and 
took out the signal-stone. Nothing yet. “Theoretically, 
that means at least some of the Telyavs are busy. 
But we’ve still got to wait for Torgeir. Yes, Baghatur, 
let’s look for a house. Some lone farmstead. Hellfire, 
a herd of cattle would suit at this point.” The gargoyle 
brightened alarmingly at that and gave an eager 
little whine. “No, no. A farmstead. That’ll do.”

256 Tremere 
Chapter Twenty-Three 
“Master wizards, please…” 
Fidus straightened his sigils—all seven of them— 
and turned to follow his new-minted brother magi out of 
the ritual chamber. He couldn’t help a quick peek at the 
spectators as he did. There was Jervais, smiling broadly, 
and his old grammar teacher from Compostela, and his 
mother, and even Aristotle. And Lucien serving as usher, 
dressed finely as ever but now bowing. He bowed to 
Fidus, all the contempt in his princely face transmuted 
to affectionate respect at last. Yes, it was true what his 
teachers had said. Knowledge could open the gates of 
the kingdom to a man regardless of his state or station. 
“Come, master wizards,” Lucien repeated politely… 
But no. Lucien was ash, and this wasn’t his voice 
anyway. It was the voice of the young mortal knight 
who’d been sent along with them. The heavy tentcloths 
they’d wrapped themselves in for day-sleep 
tugged, and the leaves on top rustled. Fidus rolled 
counterclockwise and wriggled to free himself. 
“What did you say?” he asked as he emerged. He 
just wanted to hear it again. 
The knight sat back. “I said please wake up, 
master wizards.” 
“I’m up. Torgeir…” 
“I’m—I’m getting up.” The other pile of leaves 
rustled, and the albino’s head and torso emerged. He 
blinked at the mortal. “All right, what have you 
seen?” 
“The hammering never stopped, not for more 
than the space of a Pater Noster.” 
“It was the same last night…not even to make 
water.” 
They all exchanged looks. Torgeir shook off the 
last of his cover, and the knight loosened his sword 
in its sheath.

Sarah Roark 257 
“Well, that settles it,” Torgeir said. He laid a 
hand on Fidus’s arm. “Look out. It’s going to be fiery 
in there, you know.” 
“How many corpses have I had to incinerate over 
the past decade?” Fidus retorted. Then he belatedly 
remembered he was in mixed company, and gave the 
knight a sheepish glance. 
“Nevertheless…” the Dane pondered. “I think 
we’d better see to at least a few protections first. Even 
leaving the fire aside, we have no idea what we’re in 
for.” He stood. “Keep watching, sir knight. We won’t 
be more than an hour or two. If anything changes, 
tell us immediately.” 
*** 
“Saxons!” Aukstakojis said brightly in that 
tongue when they entered the shack. “Saxon merchants 
always pay well!” 
But Torgeir answered in Latin, calling over the 
noise. “We’re not here for ironmongery this time, I’m 
afraid. And you understand everything I’m saying, 
don’t you?” 
The smith’s face fell slightly. He stopped hammering, 
set down his tools and turned to them. 
“Even the busiest of tradesmen can usually find 
time to take a piss,” the Dane went on. He collected 
his companions with a glance. “Come on—” 
They pinned the wiry little man against the wall. 
Torgeir brought out his cross and held it up where 
Aukstakojis could clearly see it. At the sight of it 
the smith’s eyes went wide with terror, and any fight 
that had been in him drained out. 
“Look!” Fidus exclaimed. “Brother, look!” 
He forced down Aukstakojis’s bushy mustache 
with his hand and pulled back on his hair to force 
his head upward. Without the thick garland of whiskers, 
they could all see that the smith’s nose had no 
nostrils. 
“Yes, I don’t suppose imps strictly need to 
breathe. Neither do we, but at least we have the souvenirs 
of humanity.” Torgeir smiled, allowing his

258 Tremere 
fangs to descend. “No more playacting, smith. I’ve 
drunk a great deal of ungodly blood here already, and 
I’m hungry for more. So if you can kill us, then try. 
If not, speak.” He forced the cross in closer. “Where 
is it?” 
“Where is what?” the smith cried in Latin. 
“The fire that must never go out. The fire dedicated 
to Telyavel the Smith, by which his covenant 
with his high priests is always sealed. She never even 
told the raiders that you were its guardian, did she? 
Now is it the forge itself, or only a single coal within? 
Probably a coal, since she had to move it when she 
came down from Livonia. Isn’t that right?” 
Aukstakojis said nothing. Torgeir nodded at 
Fidus, who rather joyously knocked his head a sharp 
blow on the wall. The knight dug his sword’s tip into 
the smith’s chest. 
“Yes, I carried it in a bucket!” 
“Fidus, get the tongs and get it out. You’re probably 
looking for something more like a glowing piece 
of jet than a true coal.” 
“All right…” Fidus’s dark-accustomed eyes watered, 
but he did as he was bid, poking and grasping 
gingerly. “Here, this one I think. It’s harder than the 
rest.”
Torgeir squinted at it too. It was hard to tell in 
the heated air, but to his sorcerer’s sight the thing 
did seem to radiate. 
“Right. Now how to destroy it?” 
“Water?” Fidus shrugged. 
“I doubt it,” said Torgeir, but he saved a corner 
of his eye for Aukstakojis’s reactions, looking for 
something telltale. 
“You can’t destroy it,” the smith insisted. “It is 
eternal.” 
“I’ll just bet. Not much of an oath for Deverra 
to take, is it, to protect something that’s eternal anyway?”

Sarah Roark 259 
But Fidus hefted the tongs, considering. Master 
Jervais had always said the funny thing about conjured 
devils—assuming that’s what this really 
was—was that they never outright lied, only by omission. 
“Well, maybe it’s not destruction she has to 
protect it from.” 
“What then?” Torgeir paused a moment. “Sacrilege?” 
“Perhaps…” 
“Sacrilege, Dane?” the smith spat. His kindly 
face had contorted beyond human limits now, twisted 
with immortal pain and fear. “You are a walking sacrilege. 
And that piece of brass you hold, to you it is 
nothing but a talisman to ward off what troubles 
you.”
“Shut up,” Torgeir snarled in return. “This talisman 
is going to send you back to whatever black 
underworld vomited you up.” 
“Well, if you’re going to do that anyway—” Fidus 
interrupted. 
Torgeir glared at him. It was a hard glare, rather 
like one of Jervais’s, and all the more frightening for 
the reddish tinge his eyes took on in the reflected 
firelight. 
“If you’re…I mean,” stammered Fidus, “why not 
just send it back with him?” 
The look on the smith’s face decided Torgeir at 
once. “Right! Hold him!” As the two of them 
struggled to keep Aukstakojis’s head still and stood 
on his feet, Fidus tried to pry his mouth open. When 
that didn’t work, he brought the handle-end of the 
tongs down onto the gritted teeth, smashing them 
in. The smith gave a gurgling scream and dark blood 
gushed from his lips as Fidus forced the pincer end 
of the hot tongs down into his throat, then pulled 
apart the handles so as to drop the coal down into 
his belly. Meanwhile, Torgeir pushed the cross 
against the smith’s taut-stretched cheek. 
“Adjuro te, serpens antique, in nomine Patris, et 
Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”

260 Tremere 
The knight quickly joined the chant, and even 
Fidus picked it up in a moment. The smith’s body 
shook and smoked, giving forth a horrible boggy odor, 
and then it began to deliquesce in their very hands, 
first blackening and bloating like an old corpse and 
then transmuting into a sludge that splashed across 
them. 
“Ugh! No sign of the coal?” 
“No.” Fidus felt hurriedly around for it in the 
muck. “No, it’s gone.” 
As he said it, an enormous groan and crack 
sounded throughout the shed. They turned to gape 
at the forge. The very earth was giving underneath 
it, tipping it in, swallowing it up. As it turned over, 
Torgeir caught sight of the marks that had been 
etched into it, ancient glyphs of concealment and 
promises of retribution on the would-be defiler… 
“Out!” he shouted. His companions needed no 
further urging. They pelted out of the shack just as 
walls began to fold in on themselves and the fault in 
the ground parted beneath their very feet. Before 
they’d even reached the edge of the clearing, the 
whole thing was already gone as though it had never 
been. Only a stinking pit remained. 
Telyavel had reclaimed his own. 
*** 
Once, as an apprentice, Deverra had been sent 
to gather the dew of the alchemilla plant and had 
ended up clinging to the side of an outcropping of 
rock whence a small growth sprang. Halfway through 
the preparatory prayer, a section of it collapsed out 
from under her and she was swung out, fingers desperately 
entwined in the herb-stems. She made the 
mistake of looking down in that moment. Her heart 
fell into the chasm, and for several hours afterward, 
she wasn’t sure it meant ever to return. 
This felt much the same, except that the chasm 
was bottomless. And in that one simple, irreversible 
moment, a battle that was unpleasantly pitched but 
winnable became a lost cause.

Sarah Roark 261 
“Retreat.” She couldn’t make it sound above a 
croak. Ako had been laid out nearby, a spear stuck 
in her shoulder, but she was getting up already. 
Deverra stumbled over to her. 
“Ako. Ako, call retreat.” 
Ako stared at her, aghast. One of the three surviving 
knights, a big blond, came charging at them. 
Deverra swiped her arm sideways almost distractedly 
and a gust of violent wind sent him flying. 
“Call retreat,” she croaked again. 
“Retreat!” The younger vampire’s voice rang out 
damnably clear. “Retreat!” 
The Saxons heard but didn’t understand the 
Livonian version of the word. They cried out in astonished 
fury as their opponents suddenly halved, 
quartered and then dwindled even further in size, 
sprouting feathers and rising up into the air. 
*** 
Jervais poured a cup of mead into the little cauldron 
that hung over the hearth fire. He also put in a 
little mistletoe that he found in a pot. Baghatur 
watched him with interest. 
“Is it a ritus aquam, master?” 
“Hm?” Jervais looked up. The blood of the 
farmer’s wife was reviving him, putting a fine warmth 
in his cheeks, but sharpness of mind hadn’t returned 
just yet. “No, I just enjoy the smell. Most of the foods 
that pleased me in life sicken me with their scent, 
but not mead.” 
“I see,” Baghatur said, though it was plain he 
didn’t really. He went to the window. “We’re not 
going back to camp tonight, I take it?” 
“No. We’re meeting the knights at the lake, just 
west of the Telyav camp.” 
“Not Herr Hermann,” the Khazar frowned, confused. 
“No, he and those with him stay at our camp. 
They could never join us in time anyway. It may be 
that they’ll have the privilege of meeting the fresh 
edge of Deverra’s wrath when she learns what we’ve

262 Tremere 
done. Or possibly poor little Fidus and Torgeir will 
actually earn that honor. But I think it more likely 
she’ll run to ground among her mortals and plot 
something we mustn’t let her finish plotting. Therefore, 
we march on them tonight with Herr Wigand 
and the rest. Never give Tremere time to think, my 
boy.”
“You’ve said they’re not Tremere, master.” 
“True. Nevertheless.” 
“Is that our hill, way over there?” 
Jervais pushed himself out of the chair and came 
to look out of the window across the broad marshy 
plain. “Yes, indeed. And a new flare of red from atop 
it. Good.” 
“Now we leave?” 
“Well, let me see.” He took out the signal-stone 
again. Much of him was hoping (even though it 
would be bad news indeed) that it wouldn’t light 
anytime soon. As he held it, however, the etched 
lines of the Greek letter upon it came to life, glittering. 
Out at the forge Torgeir was tracing alpha, which 
was quite appropriate considering that the forge-fire 
had been the start of a covenant. How much more 
appropriate, then, that Jervais should be here 
shepherding the quickening of omega. 
“Yes. Now we leave.” 
*** 
It took their demoralized little flock what 
seemed like forever to make it back to the ordu, flying 
against the wind. Deverra was glad to see that 
the very last of Qarakh’s riders was now gone at least, 
vanished into the deep, welcoming night of 
Samogitia. Perhaps it would be kind to them. 
Bernalt and Jurate were already running to her 
even as she shook off the bird shape. 
“Grandmother! Back already? What happened?” 
They pressed around her. The closeness nauseated 
her unaccountably. She waved them off. Ako began 
to keen over Valdur, whom she’d had to carry all the 
way back. He was still in his hawk body, and did not

Sarah Roark 263 
move. Deverra shushed her by placing a shaking hand 
on her head. 
“Everyone,” Deverra managed. “Mortal and vampire. 
I need everyone together. Call everyone.” 
“At the place of sacrifice? Deverra?” Bernalt took 
hold of her and lifted up her chin. At the sight of 
the blood tears tracking down the seamed channels 
of her aged face, his own face went slack with shock. 
“No. No, just here.” 
“Are they coming?” he asked her. 
“Yes, they’re coming.” 
There was a moment’s pregnant silence. 
“Very well,” he said. He helped her to the door 
of her tent, then went to obey. 
But Jurate tagged alongside her, stricken. 
“Grandmother. Something is very wrong! Tell me 
what it is!” 
Deverra said nothing. She went to one of her 
chests and opened it. 
“We’re going to fight, aren’t we?” the younger 
Telyav pursued. “We’re going to stop them at last?” 
“They’ll never stop.” She pinned on her white 
apron, then brought out her bracelets and slid them 
onto her arms. “They stop at nothing.” 
“You said that you’d never stop, not while 
Telyavel was with us.” 
“Yes,” she said, “exactly. I have endured through 
these long years of hardship only because I trusted 
in him, in the land that bore me, in the gods of this 
good earth… I knew they at least would never betray 
me, no matter what I’d become. Jurate, the last 
time I called upon Father Telyavel, he gave Qarakh 
the very power of the moist black earth, so that 
Alexander would fall to his fangs. He asked my 
beauty of me in return for the miracle, but he did it, 
and the enemy army was confounded. Nothing they 
did availed them. This time—well, there is nothing 
I haven’t offered him these past few weeks—”

264 Tremere 
“Then we’ll pray with you! All together, our 
voices as one! Let us spill the sweetest blood before 
him! He can’t ignore us then.” 
“Yes, he can. He can do as he likes. He is a god.” 
She cast the rising bitterness out of her voice as best 
she could. “And the Tremere have blasphemed 
against him in every way possible, and I could not 
stop them, and he did not. Or perhaps he cannot. 
It’s over, my daughter.” 
Jurate was fighting her own tears now. “We 
should have called the others here. From Prussia and 
Estonia.” 
“No. I’m more glad than ever that we didn’t.” 
“And what about…him?” She almost said his 
name, but wisely decided against it at the last. 
One of Deverra’s tears fell onto her apron, sullying 
it with red. She made no move to wipe it away. 
“They won’t find him, because I alone know where 
he rests.” 
Bernalt entered. He was already changed into 
his ceremonial robe. “They’re coming,” he said quietly. 
“All of them. Living and unliving.” 
Deverra picked up her ax and followed him back 
out, with Jurate on her heels. The crowd was indeed 
gathering. There in the center of what had so recently 
been a large, rowdy encampment, they looked 
few and meager indeed. “What did you tell them?” 
she murmured to Bernalt. 
“Nothing. It would only be an insult.” 
“Grandmother, you can’t do this!” Jurate turned 
to her fellow priest. “Bernalt, make her see.” 
“She does see,” the Frank said heavily. “I see too, 
Jurate. You don’t, only because you’ve never been to 
Ceoris.” 
“And she shall never go to Ceoris,” Deverra said. 
“No. As fascinating a subject for study as I’m sure 
they’d find her…” Bernalt laid a hand on Jurate’s 
shoulder. She shuddered. She’d never seen him look 
so sad before. Then he let her go again.

Sarah Roark 265 
“You’re going to wait for them, I presume?” he 
asked Deverra. She nodded. “Promise me that you’ll 
kill Jervais bani Tremere.” 
“I’ll kill as many of them as I can,” she said. “If 
no others, though, then Jervais bani Tremere for certain.” 
He nodded and got down on his knees before her. 
“Then I will be first to offer my strength.” 
She nodded again, kissed him on the forehead 
and either cheek, and then bit into his neck. 
Jurate tottered back on deadened feet, but she 
couldn’t tear her gaze away from the spectacle of 
Deverra, drinking down the salt of her oldest surviving 
compatriot. As she watched, the old woman 
dropped Bernalt’s unconscious body to the ground, 
hefted her ax and chopped his neck through. Oluksna 
came forward next. Then Ako, still cradling Valdurhawk 
in her hands, and then a sad-faced mortal 
youth… 
Jurate’s nerve snapped completely then. She 
bolted. Deverra didn’t move to stop her, didn’t even 
look up from her work. One of the priests of Bernalt’s 
group seized her arm as she ran by, though, holding 
her fast with his undead strength. Their gazes met 
and they had the entire argument with their eyes: 
life and death, honor and hope. Then, just as suddenly, 
he let her go. 
She knew she was committing a sacrilege, but 
she didn’t care. Let Telyavel strike her down if it was 
not his will that one, at least, should escape to give 
warning. Let his hammer fall.

266 Tremere 
Chapter Twenty-Four 
Wigand reined in his horse. “You said there were 
dozens of tents in the enemy camp, Master Tremere,” 
he exclaimed, frowning. 
“Hush,” Jervais said desperately. There had been 
dozens. Now he could see only a handful, and the 
perimeter fires were out, but that wasn’t the trouble. 
“What?” 
“Smell,” Antal hissed. 
“Smell what?” Then the wind changed, and even 
Ventrue noses couldn’t miss it. Wigand grimaced. 
“Almighty God…what’s going on over there?” 
Jervais whirled on him. “I don’t know. Shut up, 
idiot!” 
Wigand gripped his sword, but something in the 
warlock’s face warned him. 
“I can’t see,” Antal whispered. 
“Nor I. The tents are in the way. Herr Wigand, 
if your mortals must carry torches, can they at least 
stay back?” Jervais pondered. “Perhaps… perhaps if 
we circle ’round, quietly…” 
“We’ve got to go in sometime,” the Hungarian 
reminded him grimly. 
“I know, but…” The protest died on his lips. 
Antal was right. Whatever it was that froze the air 
and set it ringing at a shrill, nigh-inaudible pitch— 
whatever drowned them in the reek of blood, 
whatever sent the vermin running and slithering 
through the grass past their mounts’ pawing feet—it 
was his bounden duty on pain of treason to meet it. 
“Well, let’s circle round as we go.” 
“Children.” Antal gathered Olena and Baghatur 
with a glance. “Our horses will do us no further good, 
I think.” 
The four Tremere dismounted. Antal joined 
hands with the apprentices, then looked at Jervais. 
“Together, Master Jervais. Always together.”

Sarah Roark 267 
Jervais nodded and added his own hand. He and 
Antal murmured words of protection, words to 
unweave enemy curses. The others repeated them as 
best they could. If only Zabor were here to add his 
strength in this particular art—well, never mind that. 
Wigand and the other knights looked uneasy, but 
they too had little choice but to do their duty by 
God and Jürgen. They followed along, still mounted, 
as the wizards crept through the abandoned grounds 
toward the remaining tents. Jervais had positioned 
himself on the left so as to keep one hand free for 
calling lightning; Antal was on the right, a flickering 
tongue of bale-fire readied in his free hand. 
The only tiny stir of sound seemed to come from 
behind the tents rather than within them. All else 
was silent. There were no clamoring voices, no horseskulls 
on pikes, no rows upon rows of dwellings 
perfectly aligned with the four winds now. Some signs 
of habitation remained, and nature wouldn’t erase 
them for months: holes from tent-poles, worn patches 
of ground marking traffic, flat yellowed grass where 
floor-planking had lain, remnants of fire pits. A 
people’s unintentional memorial to itself, Jervais 
thought. Then he came upon the gap between the 
tents at last and saw how apt that description was. 
There were dozens of them. An almost visible 
miasma of blood-stench hung above them—a thing 
that should have roused the newcomers’ hunger in 
an instant, but for the sheer magnitude of the atrocity. 
Mortal bodies and moldering Cainite frames lay 
beside each other, sometimes on top of each other, 
equal at least in death. 
Deverra looked up. She pulled the ax, with some 
difficulty, from the head of the man it was buried in. 
“Getting dull, the blade,” she said. She staggered 
a little. The old woman and her visitors regarded 
each other. 
“They’re gone. Qarakh’s riders,” Jervais managed 
at last.

268 Tremere 
She brushed a red-matted lock of hair out of her 
eyes. “I told them to flee. Your fight is not with 
them.” 
“Not yet.” 
“Not yet is good enough for most these nights. 
As for the children of Telyavel, we have no wish to 
outlive either our faith or our covenant with our god. 
But perhaps he will grant me this one last kindness: 
that I will have the honor of ending my own existence, 
after having first sent your souls to him in 
apology…” 
“Now!” Antal shouted hoarsely. He threw his 
handful of bale-fire at her. It hissed and died yards 
short, as did the levin bolt Jervais tried to fling. And 
suddenly the miasma around Deverra was visible. It 
turned smoky, then began to bubble and seethe. Faces 
appeared within it, moaning and shouting—faces 
with tiny pinpricks of light for eyes and gnashing, 
ghostly teeth. Jervais realized a moment later that 
he’d seen some of these faces before. 
They belonged to the corpses that lay right in 
front of him. Deverra’s Telyavs were dead, but not 
departed. They surrounded her now, cloaking her in 
the very stuff of Hades. As many as they were, they 
moved in perfect unity, as though one mind had absolute 
command of them—which, given the 
circumstances, was very likely the case. She lifted 
her hands and brought them together in a gathering 
gesture. They churned around her, through her, cycling 
from ground to sky like a waterwheel. 
Jervais barely had time to gasp out the first 
phrase of the Pater Noster before the stream of unhallowed 
souls descended on him. He was no 
Hermann, nor even a Torgeir. The words in Latin 
couldn’t quite stop the languor of the grave from 
stealing through his flesh, thickening his tongue and 
numbing his limbs. Shreds of thought and passion 
that didn’t belong to him brushed against the edges 
of his awareness and would have intruded, if he

Sarah Roark 269 
weren’t a magus of experience and skilled at defending 
his mind from just such assaults. 
And then it had passed through. His drooping 
eyelids snapped back open. He realized that he no 
longer had Olena’s hand, and he reached for it, but 
too late. The younger Tremere’s eyes had gone distant. 
She turned back toward the knights, her hands 
full of eldritch flame. 
Jervais yelled and grabbed her legs, knocking her 
down. Even as she fell her bale-fire streaked out like 
an arrow. Herr Wigand, foremost among the knights 
as usual, caught it full in the chest. He screamed and 
half fell, half leaped out of the saddle. Antal was 
beside Jervais in that instant. In the next instant, 
the Hungarian had the wooden dagger off Jervais’s 
belt. He plunged it into Olena’s back. She roared 
hideously and tried to struggle up to standing. Antal 
clung to her, swearing. Almost too quickly to see, he 
jerked out the dagger and tried again. This time he 
struck true. Olena collapsed. 
“Back! Back!” Jervais gasped to Baghatur. 
Baghatur stood agape, and for a moment Jervais 
feared the ghosts had him too, but no, the lad was 
simply horrified. He came around enough after a 
moment to let Jervais drag him away from Deverra, 
Jervais gamely praying all the while just in case it 
helped. 
The throng of bodiless faces swept forward now. 
They seemed to shrink from most of the knights, but 
not from Wigand, whose cross-emblazoned surcoat 
was now burning to black. They swarmed over him. 
Still afire, he lumbered over to the brother-knight 
beside him and fell against his leg, kindling the 
Cainite flesh as easily as tinder. The knight’s horse 
cried out and reared. The knight himself fell to the 
ground. He rose up in a mindless terror and fled, 
sending the ranks about him into a panic. 
Antal ran over to Jervais, Olena in his arms. 
Jervais took out his ritual knife and stuck it into the 
ground, cutting a hasty circle around them. Who

270 Tremere 
knew—heathen customs might always ward off heathen 
ghosts. The wraiths seemed satisfied with the 
havoc they’d wreaked among the knights, at least for 
the moment, and flew toward the Tremere once 
again. They met the boundary Jervais had just drawn, 
then fell back, but they were soon straining against 
it, against the membrane of Jervais’s failing will. He 
could hear Deverra’s throaty, bitter laugh rising 
through the babble of spirit-voices. 
“We’ve got to pull out. She’s devoured her whole 
damned cult, we can’t fight her like this,” Jervais 
blurted. 
“You’re right,” Antal said calmly. “We can’t.” He 
put a steadying hand on Jervais’s shoulder. Jervais 
turned to him with a frown. He opened his mouth to 
tell Antal that if they both agreed with this assessment 
then perhaps they should consider acting on it 
in the near future. 
And then it began. 
The Hungarian’s touch sent stabbing lances of 
pain down through Jervais’s chest, threads of ill sensation 
that sought out his blood in the channel and 
inflamed it, riled it into a raging tide. Muscle and 
sinew were suddenly engorged in strength that must 
be spent, thoughts suddenly abuzz and scattered. The 
ten thousand petty injuries he’d sustained ever since 
he’d first rode back into Magdeburg rose up and cried 
out for retribution. He was in the grip of his Beast. 
He knew this charm, he’d used it countless times 
himself—on enemies… 
Antal stepped back. “Forgive me, brother. It was 
necessary. The witch’s powers so exceed our 
own…you’ve just admitted that yourself.” 
Jervais didn’t have to ask what he meant. He 
could feel it now, what Antal had wakened in him: a 
strange contagion that rose within him alongside the 
fury, first mirroring and then outstripping it. It was 
some insatiable, indescribable evil that battened on 
his blood and anger and pressed ever harder against 
the walls of his soul. It cared nothing for its con

Sarah Roark 271 
tainer. When it outgrew him, it would simply explode. 
Even Deverra’s ghost-mass seemed to sense the 
presence of something that matched its own malice. 
It left off its frantic milling and pushing and subsided 
into a sort of uneasy ground fog. Deverra herself 
watched the two Tremere with keen puzzlement now, 
her hands frozen in midair. As for Baghatur, he was 
thunderstruck, plainly completely unsure where his 
obedience now lay. 
“I hope you don’t think you’re actually going to 
be rewarded for this.” Jervais closed the distance the 
other magus tried to put between them. He could 
barely put two words together through the haze of 
boiling humors, but it was that important to say 
something devastating to the Hungarian, that important 
to tear his throat out. “That they’re ever 
actually going to let you rest. It will never happen, 
Antal.” 
An unexpected voice—but not an unfamiliar 
one—sounded in Jervais’s ears then. 
Now, now, Jervais. Not Antal. Leave him alone. 
He’s not the one I sent you to kill. 
Jervais froze. As he watched in horror, the bulky 
shadow of Etrius stepped out from behind a tent and 
passed around Deverra toward the Tremere, navigating 
the heap of fallen bodies and the sea of 
ghost-faces with suspicious ease. 
“You…” Jervais forced his voice to solidify. 
“You’re not really here. You can’t be.” 
No, of course I’m not, the Councilor replied wearily. 
I’m at Ceoris, just as always. You see me because 
of the spell. What—surely you didn’t think I was going 
to leave it all up to you? He smiled nastily, but for all 
that he looked even more saggy and jowly than usual. 
You are both my courier and my message. You’re the 
ritual link. 
“Etrius.” It was clearly something Deverra felt 
rather than actually heard. She bent her wrinkled 
head to and fro, peering about. Then she hissed. With 
astonishing speed she snatched up the branch-staff

272 Tremere 
of one of her fallen Telyavs and also drew a boneknife 
from her belt. “Kuradi munn…värdjas raisk…” 
“Snake poison and snake blood,” Jervais growled 
suddenly. “Spiders and scorpions, essences of venom.” 
I see your colors, Jervais, not a pretty sight. Keep at it. 
This is exactly what the charm needs. He’d known from 
the ingredients that it must be unpleasant, but this 
was worse than even he could have imagined—that 
the old toad could so callously steal the very things 
that were most precious to him in all the world, that 
were his alone, his private hatreds, the vengeance 
he secretly nursed, and turn them into the vehicle 
of yet another damned spell. 
That’s true, the Etrius-shadow acknowledged. It 
was all yours to begin with, Jervais. I put nothing into 
you that wasn’t there already. But you know you haven’t 
got the skill to direct this safely, and I do. Now let me in 
before it kills you. 
Never. He’d conceded so much already, playing 
jester to court ladies, groveling before contemptuous 
princes, lying, smiling, the vehicle for everyone’s 
intrigues, slogging from one corner of the earth to 
another, finally abandoning even his sire and 
grandsire; all for the sake of hanging on one more 
night, of surviving long enough to prove Tremere 
alone knew what. There had to be an end at last. 
There had to be a limit. Didn’t there? 
Pressing. Squeezing. The Councilor’s voice was 
directly in his head now. It chuckled. Sign of the scorpion. 
And scorpion in truth: hard, venomous, cringing, 
willing to lie in wait under a rock for however long it 
takes. The lore also holds that sometimes the scorpion 
will sting itself to death to spite a surrounding enemy. Is 
that how you’d have it, Jervais? Like Deverra? Or will 
you try for me? You could. Make up your mind. You’ve 
got to sting someone. Ah, how well I chose. In fact, 
you’re almost too good a subject. Master Antal tells me 
he’s had to calm you down several times for fear you’d 
accidentally set yourself off.

Sarah Roark 273 
Antal doubtless wasn’t hearing this mental converse, 
but he threw Jervais a half-anxious, half-guilty 
look. Deverra brought her staff and knife together 
with a clack, and her ghosts flocked to her once more, 
muttering, humming. Once again she seemed far 
larger than her wracked frame should have permitted, 
full to bursting with injured pride. 
No wonder Etrius found Jervais to be the perfect 
counter. 
The Councilor, or the thought of the Councilor, 
had come to stand behind him. Yes. Comfort your 
shriveled soul with that if you like. Loathsome as you 
are, I needed you. In fact, I find myself needing your ilk 
more and more all the time. 
“Perhaps I am the cloth out of which Tremere 
are now cut, then,” Jervais murmured in a kind of 
bitter triumph. 
Yes, perhaps you are. Lo, how the mighty have 
fallen. 
The old sorcerer reached out again, and this time 
Jervais opened the portals of his will and mind to 
him. Once again, that masterful touch invaded him, 
gently pushing aside the various instinctive resistances 
that rose to meet it. It found the painfully 
burgeoning gland of maleficium and began to squeeze. 
For a moment he felt more pure malevolence than 
he could ever remember feeling in over a century and 
a half of existence. Then, on their own, his arms 
lifted and glided in gestures of summoning and conduction. 
He was astonished at how effortlessly his 
muscles and joints could move, how mathematically 
perfect the dimensions of each shape. One exceedingly 
unwelcome revelation that came to him as a 
result of this was that Etrius could have done Jervais’s 
job at Ceoris at least three times as well as Jervais 
himself. 
And then it all came pouring out of him in a 
flood of black bile. It came through his mouth and 
ears and nose, from the tear-ducts of his eyes (which 
promptly swelled almost shut in protest); through his

274 Tremere 
fingertips and his toe-tips. So much of it, and so virulent. 
He felt perversely proud of his output. He’d 
been holding back for such a very long time, and so 
few had realized it. Well, Etrius had, obviously. 
Deverra chanted rapidly. Her ghosts rushed forward 
to meet the onslaught and drove it backward, 
causing a massive roiling between them like the collision 
of storm fronts. His poison-muck threw out 
spits and gobbets. Wherever they touched, a voice 
shrieked in agony and a face withered down to a skull 
and then faded. Yet some of the shades fought their 
way through. One opened its mouth and latched onto 
Jervais’s wrist with its spectral fangs. He cried out, 
but hadn’t enough mastery of his body to do anything 
further; a moment later his other hand reached 
over and squeezed the thing, sending gout after gout 
into it until it was well and truly dissolved. Then it 
forced the other interlopers back into the mass and 
began pushing the whole thing outward, moving the 
border of the contest slowly but surely back in 
Deverra’s direction. She shouted and redoubled her 
gesticulations, but the tide had turned against her 
for good now. 
She doesn’t know when she’s beaten. She never 
concedes…the bitch. The spark of loathing that this 
thought touched off in him seemed to give sudden 
amplification to his magic (Etrius’s magic). The bilious 
wave was suddenly twice as large, dwarfing 
everything, blotting out his sight. He heard and felt, 
but did not see, it surround and engulf the Telyav 
priestess, snuffing out her power like a candlewick 
and then falling upon her flesh. He heard her scream. 
He heard the final curse of her lips, as well, two 
words in Latin: “Sicut fecisti.” As you have done. 
He did not know whether she meant himself, 
Etrius, Jürgen or possibly the whole world. 
And then the blackness evaporated. He had sovereignty 
over his legs again an instant later, and they 
buckled. Deverra lay before him, sprawled across the 
bodies of her devotees. The knights stood behind

Sarah Roark 275 
him, dismounted now. Herr Wigand and the other 
wounded knight had vanished, probably for all eternity, 
but at least it seemed no others of the Black 
Cross had died while his attention was elsewhere. 
And his brother Tremere were at his side. 
“I know you’ll hate me forever,” the Hungarian 
said. He spoke quickly, seemingly knowing how unwise 
it was to speak at all. “But I will not hate you. I 
can’t. Not after—” 
“Shut up, for the love of God.” Oh, to have had 
a drop of venom left for Antal. Jervais tried to get 
up, groaned, then shook his head. “Hurry. Take this 
packet…it must be sprinkled on her, or she’ll rot 
away completely. After all this, we will have something 
to take back to Ceoris.” 
“Yes.” Antal rose and took the parchment envelope 
from Jervais’s trembling fingers, beckoning for 
Baghatur to follow. “Yes, we will, by Tremere.”

276 Tremere 
Epilogue 
The smoke was all the more acrid for the remnants 
of curing powder that clung to the wasted 
corpse’s skin. A pole and rope had been required to 
make her sit up properly on the horse’s back, and 
her face had been nearly unrecognizable even before 
the torch was lowered. Still, Jervais had taken the 
precaution of lopping off her left hand and presenting 
it to Etrius as evidence, so that the suspicious 
old Swede could analyze it to his heart’s content. And 
she was dressed well for the occasion. All her queenly 
heathen ornaments would doubtless outlast her, but 
not, alas, the fine linen. 
The three Councilors sat where he had directed 
them, at one end of the courtyard in their places of 
honor. Etrius stone-faced; Meerlinda, Lady Councilor 
of the British Isles, outwardly calm and serene; 
Goratrix had put his sleeve over his nose to block 
out the fumes. Malgorzata and Curaferrum stood attendance 
on their respective masters. 
“Novel, Master Jervais,” Meerlinda remarked 
questioningly. 
“It’s a Baltic custom, madame,” Jervais said with 
a bow. “She would have wanted it so, I’m sure.” Gazing 
at the climbing bonfire, he added silently, She’d 
have appreciated the irony, at least. She sacrificed to 
her gods, now I sacrifice to mine. 
“My grandchilde has always been a sentimental 
sort,” Goratrix said from behind his sleeve. 
“Not too sentimental to get the job done,” Etrius 
remarked grudgingly. “Or mostly done, anyway. There 
might yet be survivors lurking out in that wilderness, 
mightn’t there?” 
“I’d be surprised if there weren’t, milord,” Jervais 
replied. “But their queen is dead, their sacred pact 
with their god violated. They shan’t regain his favor 
before the crusade annihilates the last of them.”

Sarah Roark 277 
“And of course Prince Jürgen plans to renew the 
crusade fully, now that Qarakh is crippled.” 
“Of course. And your lordship willing, I and 
Brother Hermann and Brother Landric will all be 
there to ensure that it remains a priority of his.” 
“Beg pardon?” Goratrix’s eyes lit at that and 
moved from his archrival’s face back to Jervais’s. He 
lowered the sleeve. Malgorzata stirred too, but thank 
Bonisagus it wasn’t her place to add to this particular 
conversation. Jervais did not look at her. 
“Master Jervais has asked for a transfer to 
Magdeburg, to head up the new chantry there.” Etrius 
shrugged his round shoulders. “But…” 
“Magdeburg?” Goratrix gave Jervais what was 
evidently meant to be a friendly, teasing smile. “Not 
la belle France? Speaking that gravel-mouthed tongue 
all night every night, and not a decent woman in 
view?” 
“Since I’ve spent all these years working to establish 
a relationship between our clan and his 
Highness of Magdeburg, milord,” Jervais answered 
stoically, “it would seem folly not to pursue it now 
that it’s finally achieved. I truly believe it to be the 
best service I could presently render to House and 
Clan.” 
“And fairer words than that could hardly be spoken,” 
Meerlinda said kindly. 
“Well, you’ve certainly spent long enough trying, 
I suppose.” Goratrix squinted as the wind 
changed and sent flecks of Deverra’s ash winging into 
all their eyes. Jervais hadn’t yet learned how to read 
minds, but there were times he thought he nearly 
had it, such as right now. He could decipher his 
grandsire perfectly. The old rascal was furiously 
thinking it through and nearing the realization that 
he had no way to stop this. He had nothing left to 
threaten or bargain with, nothing left to fetter Jervais 
with, not even his daughter-in-Blood Malgorzata. 
The dawning look of disbelief on both their faces

278 Tremere 
was the dawn of a moment’s utter, transcendent joy 
in Jervais’s starved little heart. 
“Still,” Etrius said dourly, “I’m not sure we can 
do without our vis-master.” 
“Oh, there must be others in the clan who could 
fulfill those duties, milord,” Meerlinda pointed out. 
Out of the corner of his eye, Jervais couldn’t help 
noticing Antal’s back straighten and lengthen another 
couple of inches. “It’s clear to me that your 
vis-master possesses the soul of an adventurer. If his 
ambitions have outgrown Ceoris, then so be it. To 
keep him here when he yearns to be elsewhere would 
accomplish nothing more than to make of our illustrious 
High Chantry a cage…and we all know how 
dangerous caged beasts can become. Do we not?” 
From the way Etrius shifted, Jervais had no doubt 
that she was giving him some deadly serious advice 
despite her light, courtly tone. 
“Yes, milady, we do,” he acknowledged. “Very 
well. It’s not an unreasonable request. And in so 
doing, as Master Jervais points out, he’ll certainly 
be helping to secure the more western portions of 
my region.” He laid no particular stress on the word 
my, but Goratrix snorted regardless. 
Meerlinda nodded. “Exactly. Congratulations, 
Master Jervais.” Her Ladyship looked directly at 
Jervais then, blue English eyes locking with his for 
just one instant. 
Careful, those eyes said. You are away, but not 
free. They darted upward, toward the pillar of flame 
and soot behind him. Even she was not quite patient 
enough. And she waited a century. 
I can be patient, he answered. 
Can you? The lower lids, caught forever in the 
only barely marred smoothness of not-quite middle 
age, puckered in a hint of a smile. I shall be watching 
to see. 
Very well, milady. At least he didn’t have to ask 
her to leave his mind; her whisper-touch departed 
on its own. He glanced down now, wincing, at his

Sarah Roark 279 
wrist where Deverra’s ghost had seized it. The tracery 
of dark green that colored the vein there had still 
not faded, nor had the pain. In fact, he might not be 
imagining that it had spread. He could always ask 
her ladyship to take a look at it. Or even Etrius. 
Doubtless they could help, although it would mean 
giving up his hard-won, all-too-fleeting leverage before 
he’d even had a decent chance to enjoy it. 
No, not free, never free. The game never ended, 
did it? Very well. 
*** 
“You certainly have a way with the dramatic,” 
Torgeir remarked. One by one, the albino carefully 
took his travel-beaten books out of the chest and put 
them back onto the shelf. 
“My dear young friend,” Jervais said, “a 
thaumaturge who is not also a dramaturge is more 
than half a fool. There, one nugget of wisdom, gratis.” 
“Nothing’s gratis with you. You must want something. 
Perhaps you’re here to gloat over how after 
all this, you’re still going to declare that I didn’t perform 
my ordeal to satisfaction.” 
“Oh, nonsense,” the older Tremere exclaimed. 
“There’s no possible reason why I would do any such 
thing. Well. Only one possible reason.” 
Torgeir stopped unpacking. “Yes, and?” 
“You see, Master Antal seems determined to 
hook my old post, despite the fact that he isn’t even 
remotely qualified for it. Actually, I’d planned to 
nominate Olena.” 
“Who’s no more qualified.” The pale eyes did not 
blink. 
“Nor less qualified.” 
“I see. A personal matter.” 
Jervais shrugged. “Unfortunately, I’ve reason to 
believe his lordship is hardly going to take any criticism 
of Master Antal that I might offer seriously. You, 
however, are one of his favored students.” 
“And if I refuse to disparage Master Antal in my 
report, and he winds up vis-master, then you’ll de

280 Tremere 
clare my ordeal null. In front of Lord Councilors 
Goratrix and Meerlinda, and Malgorzata too.” 
“I’m pleased our close association has brought 
us to understand each other so well.” Jervais 
stretched out his shoulders and leaned against the 
doorframe. 
“I could try to outwait you.” 
“You could.” 
“Oh, for God’s sake,” the Dane blurted. He took 
a wad of clothes out of the trunk and fairly hurled it 
onto the bed. 
“That’s my boy,” Jervais grinned. 
*** 
“Hurry up, Fidus.” Jervais indulged in a nice satisfying 
shove of the boot upon his apprentice’s skinny 
backside. That was the trouble with war, one always 
had to be coddling the morale of even the most insignificant 
foot soldier. It was good to have the luxury 
of a little unrestrained lording it over again. Fidus 
stumbled headlong but managed from long practice 
not to drop his burden. The last saddle-pack was 
bundled on in short order and Jervais got up on his 
mount. His rear immediately complained of insufficient 
convalescence, but he ignored it. Plenty of time 
for rest in Magdeburg. 
“Why the third horse?” Jervais asked the groomsman 
who stood beside them, gesturing at it. “Ceoris 
is being unusually generous.” 
“Don’t ask the grog,” the mortal man replied. 
“I’m just told how many to saddle up.” 
“It is because I told them that even the Fiends 
haven’t bred the beast that would take my weight 
along with yours.” Master Antal stepped down into 
the courtyard, his ever-meager possessions slung 
across his shoulder. 
Jervais tamped down a bolt of pure dread. “Master 
Antal! Headed back out to the front?” 
“No,” he said, “Brandenburg. To found a chantry, 
since I am told that now that Jürgen has one, all the 
Holy Roman princes will be wanting one next. I’m

Sarah Roark 281 
also told it is not twenty leagues distant from 
Magdeburg.” 
“No, no it isn’t…” 
“And no Tzimisce. Not sure what I shall do with 
myself out there. Still, it is an improvement on 
Bistritz, and I imagine I have you to thank for it. 
Well?” He secured his pack. “Lead on, Master Jervais. 
Surely the man with the vastly superior geographical 
skills should take point. Don’t worry, I’m right 
behind you.” 
“And I’m coming too,” Fidus piped up, scurrying 
to adjust a stirrup strap. “One moment, master. 
I’ll be right there.” 
“Oh, I know you will,” Jervais said, snapping his 
reins. “I know you both will.” 
*** 
Etrius, Master of Ceoris, First among Equals, 
Guardian of the Sleeper, Councilor of Hungary, 
Silesia, Bohemia, Poland and the Holy Roman Empire 
for House and Clan Tremere, awoke gasping and 
sobbing. He sat up slowly, piercing the gloom with 
his sorcerer’s gaze as though seeking out some hidden 
enemy. Then he rose and threw on a battered 
old robe and went to his desk, where an unfinished 
manuscript sat awaiting him. His pen floated down 
from its silver inkwell and into his hand. He stared 
at the diagram he’d been making, wishing there were 
some further detail he could add, but no, it was done. 
Now he had to comment upon it, say something wise 
for the generations of blood-wizards to come. A drop 
of red enchanted ink fell onto the page as he sat there 
unmoving. With an irritated noise he touched the 
nib to the blotch and it sucked the pigment back up, 
leaving not a smear. 
Something wise. 
His ward shivered. He grimaced, but then identified 
the touch and with a silent wave turned the 
battlement wall of the spell into a curtain light as 
silk and easier to part. She came in and sat down.

282 Tremere 
“You sleep no better, do you?” she said at last. 
She sounded tired. It felt like daylight still outside. 
He was sorry to have roused her, but she’d always 
been sensitive to such things. 
“No,” he admitted. “No better.” 
“The same dream?” 
“The same. I have no other dreams, not anymore. 
It’s just this one, always expanding and expanding. 
Now it chases me through the Doissetep library too. 
I could never find my way out of Doissetep when I 
was alive.” 
“Yes, I remember.” She gave the tiniest of smiles. 
He liked her to smile, but it wasn’t her old smile. 
That he hadn’t seen in literally ages. “Still, it never 
catches you, does it?” 
“Never yet.” 
A long, almost processional silence. 
“You did what had to be done,” she said. “I know 
that doesn’t help. And she knew what path she was 
choosing. I suppose that doesn’t help either—” 
He set his pen down and put his head between 
his hands. “And next year something else will have 
to be done, and the year after that.” 
“Ingvar.” He winced to hear the pagan name of 
his birth, but he raised his head. 
“Forgive me, Molle.” 
“What do you want me to say, Ingvar? I’ll say 
anything that will help you.” 
Another silence. 
“Except for that.” 
“You don’t have to say anything. Unless 
perhaps…you’re in the mood to critique my diagram 
of the World-Soul.” 
She nodded. “Since we’re both awake, nothing 
would please me more.” 
He started to bring his work over to where she 
could see it, but then stopped midway across the 
room. His heavy eyelids drooped with sorrow and 
fatigue. The book sank in his arms, lower and lower, 
until it threatened to slip through his fingers entirely.

Sarah Roark 283 
“Keep moving,” she murmured, letting just a hint 
of maternal firmness enter her tone. 
“Keep moving,” he echoed mournfully. 
“Yes. It’s all you can do, my brother. Unless you 
wish our fates to catch up with us at last?” 
He sighed. “No. God knows we can’t have that.” 
Meerlinda smiled again, or tried to, and reached 
for the book.

About the Author 
Sarah Roark is a professional writer, violinist, teacher 
and (as should be obvious from the foregoing) masochist. 
She has worked on a number of White Wolf’s roleplaying 
products, including various supplements for Vampire: The 
Masquerade, Dark Ages: Vampire, Dark Ages: Inquisitor 
and Mummy: The Resurrection. She has also authored 
the novel Dark Ages: Ravnos and two short stories: “The 
Prodigal Son” in Penance by Firelight, companion volume 
to the Dark Ages: Vampire core book, and “What 
Shelters Them” in Demon: Lucifer’s Shadow. Some of 
her personal projects can be viewed at the World Lit Only 
by Fire website (http://www.wyrdsisters.org/), which she 
co-authors with fellow White Wolf freelancers Myranda 
Kalis and Janet Trautvetter. 
She lives in Sammamish, Washington—beautiful 
lakeside community and former hunting grounds of Ted 
Bundy—along with her husband Brett and the world’s two 
coolest cats.

Acknowledgments 
The author would like to thank her friends, Janet and 
Myranda, for enduring faithfully as the other two-thirds 
of the Wyrd Sisters trio; her husband Brett for his patience, 
love, encouragement and willingness to fetch food; her 
editor Philippe for his kind words and his criticisms, both 
equally welcome and valuable; and Guido, Vincent and 
(again) Myranda, for help with German and Latin (any 
remaining errors are, of course, the author’s fault and not 
theirs).