The Vampire Chronicles

Volume 7
BLOOD and GOLD
Anne Rice

Chapter One

His name was Thorne. In the ancient language of the runes, it had been longer - Thornevald. But when he became a blood drinker, his name had been changed to Thorne. And Thorne he remained now, centuries later, as he lay in his cave in the ice, dreaming. When he had first come to the frozen land, he had hoped he would sleep eternally. But now and then the thirst for blood awakened him and using the Cloud Gift, he rose into the air, and went in search of the Snow Hunters. He fed off them, careful never to take too much blood from any one so that none died on account of him. And when he needed furs and boots he took them as well, and returned to his hiding place. These Snow Hunters were not his people. They were dark of skin and had slanted eyes, and they spoke a different tongue, but he had known them in the olden times when he had traveled with his uncle into the land to the East for trading. He had not liked trading. He had preferred war. But he'd learnt many things on those adventures. In his sleep in the North, he dreamed. He could not help it. The Mind Gift let him hear the voices of other blood drinkers. Unwillingly he saw through their eyes, and beheld the work as they beheld it. Sometimes he didn't mind. He liked it. Modern things amused him. He listened to far-away electric songs. With the Mind Gift he understood such things as steam engines and railroads he even understood computers and automobiles. He felt he knew the cities he had left behind though it had been centuries since he'd forsaken them. An awareness had come over him that he wasn't going to die. Loneliness in itself could not destroy him. Neglect was insufficient. And so he slept. Then a strange thing happened. A catastrophe befell the world of the blood drinkers. A young singer of sagas had come. His name was Lestat, and in his electric songs, Lestat broadcast old secrets, secrets which Thorne had never known. Then a Queen had risen, an evil and ambitious being. She had claimed to have within her the Sacred Core of all blood drinkers, so that, should she die, all the race would perish with her. Thorne had been amazed. He had never heard these myths of his own kind. He did not know that he believed this thing. But as he slept, as he dreamt, as he watched, this Queen began, with the Fire Gift, to destroy blood drinkers everywhere throughout the world. Thorne heard their cries as they tried to escape; he saw their deaths in so far as others saw such things. As she roamed the earth, this Queen came close to Thorne but she passed over him. He was secretive and quiet in his cave. Perhaps she didn't sense his presence. But he had sensed hers and never had he encountered such age or strength except from the blood drinker who had given him the Blood. And he found himself thinking of that one, the Maker, the red-haired witch with the bleeding eyes. The catastrophe among his kind grew worse. More were slain; and out of hiding there came blood drinkers as old as the Queen herself, and Thorne saw these beings. At last there came the red-haired one who had made him. He saw her as others saw her. And at first he could not believe that she still lived; it had been so long since he'd left her in the Far South that he hadn't dared to hope she was still alive. The eyes and ears of other blood drinkers gave him the infallible proof. And when he looked on her in his dreams, he was overwhelmed with a tender feeling and a rage. She thrived, this creature who had given him the Blood, and she despised the Evil Queen and she wanted to stop her. Theirs was a hatred for each other which went back thousands of years. At last there was a coming together of these beings - old ones from the First Brood of blood drinkers, and others whom the blood drinker Lestat loved and whom the Evil Queen did not choose to destroy. Dimly, as he lay still in the ice, Thorne heard their strange talk, as round a table they sat, like so many powerful Knights, except that in this council, the women were equal to the men. With the Queen they sought to reason, struggling to persuade her to end her reign of violence, to forsake her evil designs. He listened, but he could not really understand all that was said among these blood drinkers. He knew only that the Queen must be stopped. The Queen loved the blood drinker Lestat. But even he could not turn her from disasters, so reckless was her vision, so depraved her mind. Did the Queen truly have the Sacred Core of all blood drinkers within herself? If so, how could she be destroyed? Thorne wished the Mind Gift were stronger in him, or that he had used it more often. During his long centuries of sleep, his strength had grown, but now he felt his distance and that he was weak. But as he watched, his eyes open, as though that might help him to see, there came into his vision another red-haired one, the twin sister of the woman who had loved him so long ago. It astonished him, as only a twin can do. And Thorne came to understand that the Maker he had loved so much had lost this twin thousands of years ago. The Evil Queen was the mistress of this disaster. She despised the red-haired twins. She had divided them. And the lost twin came now to fulfill an ancient curse she had laid on the Evil Queen. As she drew closer and closer to the Queen, the lost twin thought only of destruction. She did not sit at the council table. She did not know reason or restraint. "We shall all die," Thorne whispered in his sleep, drowsy in the snow and ice, the eternal arctic night coldly enclosing him. He did not move to join his immortal companions. But he watched. He listened. He would do so until the last moment. He could do no less. Finally, the lost twin reached her destination. She rose against the Queen. The other blood drinkers around her looked on in horror. As the two female beings struggled, as they fought as two warriors upon a battlefield, a strange vision suddenly filled Thorne's mind utterly, as though he lay in the snow and he were looking at the heavens. What he saw was a great intricate web stretching out in all directions, and caught within it many pulsing points of light. At the very center of this web was a single vibrant flame. He knew the flame was the Queen; and he knew that the other points of light were all the other blood drinkers. He himself was one of those tiny points of light. The tale of the Sacred Core was true. He could see it with his own eyes. And now came the moment for all to surrender to darkness and silence. Now came the end. The far-flung complex web grew glistening and bright; the core appeared to explode; and then all went dim for a long moment, during which he felt a sweet vibration in his limbs as he often felt in simple sleep, and he thought to himself, Ah, so, now we are dying. And there is no pain. Yet it was like Ragnarok for his old gods, when the great god, Heimdall, the World Brightener, would blow his horn summoning the gods of Aesir to their final battle. "And we end with a war as well," Thorne whispered in his cave. But his thoughts did not end. It seemed the best thing that he live no more, until he thought of her, his red-haired one, his Maker. He had wanted so badly to see her again. Why had she never told him of her lost twin? Why had she never entrusted to him the myths of which the blood drinker Lestat sang? Surely she had known the secret of the Evil Queen with her Sacred Core. He shifted; he stirred in his sleep. The great sprawling web had faded from his vision. But with uncommon clarity he could see the red-haired twins, spectacular women. They stood side by side, these comely creatures, the one in rags, the other in splendor. And through the eyes of other blood drinkers he came to know that the stranger twin had slain the Queen, and had taken the Sacred Core within herself. "Behold, the Queen of the Damned," said his Maker twin as she presented to the others her long lost sister. Thorne understood her. Thorne saw the suffering in her face. But the face of the stranger twin, the Queen of the Damned, was blank. In the nights that followed the survivors of the catastrophe remained together. They told their tales to one another. And their stories filled the air like so many songs from the bards of old, sung in the mead hall. And Lestat, leaving his electric instruments for music, became once more the chronicler, making a story of the battle that he would pass effortlessly into the mortal world. Soon the red-haired sisters had moved away, seeking a hiding place where Thorne's distant eye could not find them. Be still, he had told himself. Forget the things that you have seen. There is no reason for you to rise from the ice, any more than there ever was. Sleep is your friend. Dreams are your unwelcome guests. Lie quiet and you will lapse back into peace again. Be like the god Heimdall before the battle call, so still that you can hear the wool grow on the backs of sheep, and the grass grow far away in the lands where the snow melts. But more visions came to him. The blood drinker Lestat brought about some new and confusing tumult in the mortal world. It was a marvelous secret from the Christian past that he bore, which he had entrusted to a mortal girl. There would never be any peace for this one called Lestat. He was like one of Thorne's people, like one of the warriors of Thorne's time. Thorne watched as once again, his red-haired one appeared, his lovely Maker, her eyes red with mortal blood as always, and finely glad and full of authority and power, and this time come to bind the unhappy blood drinker Lestat in chains. Chains that could bind such a powerful one? Thorne pondered it. What chains could accomplish this, he wondered. It seemed that he had to know the answer to this question. And he saw his red-haired one sitting patiently by while the blood drinker Lestat, bound and helpless, fought and raved but could not get free. What were they made of, these seemingly soft shaped links that held such a being? The question left Thorne no peace. And why did his red-haired Maker love Lestat and allow him to live? Why was she so quiet as the young one raved? What was it like to be bound in her chains, and close to her? Memories came back to Thorne; troubling visions of his Maker when he, a mortal warrior, had first come upon her in a cave in the North land that had been his home. It

had been night and he had seen her with her distaff and her spindle and her bleeding eyes.
From her long red locks she had taken one hair after another and spun it into thread,
working with silent speed as he approached her.
It had been bitter winter, and the fire behind her seemed magical in its brightness as he
had stood in the snow watching her as she spun the thread as he had seen a hundred
mortal women do.
"A witch," he had said aloud.
From his mind he banished this memory.
He saw her now as she guarded Lestat who had become strong like her. He saw the
strange chains that bound Lestat who no longer struggled.
At last Lestat had been released.
Gathering up the magical chains, his red-haired Maker had abandoned him and his
companions.
The others were visible but she had slipped out of their vision, and slipping from their
vision, she slipped from the visions of Thorne.
Once again, he vowed to continue his slumber. He opened his mind to sleep. But the
nights passed one by one in his icy cave. The noise of the world was deafening and
formless.
And as time passed he could not forget the sight of his long-lost one; he could not forget
that she was as vital and beautiful as she had ever been, and old thoughts came back to
him with bitter sharpness.
Why had they quarreled? Had she really ever turned her back on him? Why had he hated
so much her other companions? Why had he begrudged her the wanderer blood drinkers
who, discovering her and her company, adored her as all talked together of their journeys
in the Blood.
And the myths -of the Queen and the Sacred Core - would they have mattered to him?
He didn't know. He had had no hunger for myths. It confused him. And he could not
banish from his mind the picture of Lestat bound in those mysterious chains.
Memory wouldn't leave him alone.
It was the middle of winter when the sun doesn't shine at all over the ice, when he
realized that sleep had left him. And he would have no further peace.
And so he rose from the cave, and began his long walk South through the snow, taking
his time as he listened to the electric voices of the world below, not certain of where he
would enter it again.
The wind blew his long thick red hair; he pulled up his fur-lined collar over his mouth,
and he wiped the ice from his eyebrows. His boots were soon wet, and so he stretched out
his arms, summoning the Cloud Gift without words, and began his ascent so that he
might travel low over the land, listening for others of his kind, hoping to find an old one
like himself, someone who might welcome him.
Weary of the Mind Gift and its random messages, he wanted to hear spoken words.

Chapter Two

Several sunless days and nights of midwinter he traveled. But it didn't take him long to hear the cry of another. It was a blood drinker older than he, and in a city that Thorne had known centuries before. In his nocturnal sleep he had never really forgotten this city. It had been a great market town with a fine cathedral. But on his long journey North so many years ago, he had found it suffering with the dreaded plague, and he had not believed it would endure. Indeed, it had seemed to Thorne that all the peoples of the world would die in that awful plague, so terrible had it been, so merciless. Once again, sharp memories tormented him. He saw and smelled the time of the pestilence when children wandered aimlessly without parents, and bodies had lain in heaps. The smell of rotting flesh had been everywhere. How could he explain to anyone the sorrow he had felt for humankind that such a disaster had befallen them? He didn't want to see the cities and the towns die, though he him self was not of them. When he fed upon the infected he knew no infection himself. But he could not cure anyone. He had gone on North, thinking perhaps that all the wondrous things that humankind had done would be covered in snow or vine or the soft earth itself in final oblivion. But all had not died as he had then feared; indeed people of the town itself had survived, and their descendants lived still in the narrow cobbled medieval streets through which he walked, more soothed by the cleanliness here than he had ever dreamt he would be. Yes, it was good to be in this vital and orderly place. How solid and fine the old timber houses, yet the modern machines ticked and hummed within. He could feel and see the miracles that he had only glimpsed through the Mind Gift. The televisions were filled with colorful dreams. And people knew a safety from the snow and ice which his time had never given anyone. He wanted to know more of these wonders for himself, and that surprised him. He wanted to see railroad trains and ships. He wanted to see airplanes and cars. He wanted to see computers and wireless telephones. Maybe he could do it. Maybe he could take the time. He had not come to life again with any such goal, but then who said that he must hurry upon his errand? No one knew of his existence except perhaps this blood drinker who called to him, this blood drinker who so easily opened his own mind. Where was the blood drinker - the one he had heard only hours ago? He gave a long silent call, not revealing his name, but pledging only that he offered friendship. Quickly an answer came to him. With the Mind Gift he saw a blond-haired stranger. The creature sat in the back room of a special tavern, a place where blood drinkers often gathered. Come join me here. The direction was plain and Thorne hastened to go there. Over the last century he had heard the blood drinker voices speak of such havens. Vampire taverns, blood drinker bars, blood drinker clubs. They made up the Vampire Connection. Such a thing! It made him smile. In his mind's eye, he saw the bright disturbing hallucination again of the great web with so many tiny pulsing lights caught within it. That vision had been of all the blood drinkers themselves connected to the Sacred Core of the Evil Queen. But this Vampire

Connection was an echo of such a web, and it fascinated him.
Would they call to each other on computers, these modern blood drinkers, forsaking the
Mind Gift altogether? He vowed that nothing must dangerously surprise him.
Yet he felt shivers through all his flesh remembering his vague dreams of the disaster.
He hoped and prayed that his newfound friend would confirm the things he'd seen. He
hoped and prayed that the blood drinker would be truly old, not young and tender and
bungling.
He prayed that this blood drinker would have the gift of words. For he wanted to hear
words more than anything. He himself could seldom find the right words. And now, more
than anything, he wanted to listen.
He was almost to the bottom of the steep street, the snow coming down lightly around
him, when he saw the sign of the tavern: The Werewolf.
It made him laugh.
So these blood drinkers play their reckless games, he mused. In his time it had been
wholly different. Who of his own people had not believed that a man could change into a
wolf? Who of his own people would not have done anything to prevent this very evil
from coming upon him?
But here it was, a plaything, the concept, with this painted sign swinging on its hinges in
the cold wind, and the barred windows brightly lighted beneath it.
He pulled the handle of the heavy door and at once found himself in a crowded room,
warm, and full of the smell of wine and beer and human blood.
The warmth alone was overwhelming. In truth, he had never felt anything quite like it.
The warmth was everywhere. It was even and wondrous. And it crossed his mind that not
a single mortal here realized how truly marvelous this warmth was.
For in olden times such warmth had been impossible, and bitter winter had been the
common curse of all.
There was no time however for such thinking. He reminded himself, do not be surprised.
But the inundating chatter of mortals paralyzed him. The blood around him paralyzed
him. For one moment his thirst was crippling. In this noisy indifferent crowd he felt he
would run rampant, taking hold of this one and that one, only to be discovered, the
monster among the throng who would then be hounded to destruction.
He found a place against the wall and leant against it, his eyes closed.
He remembered those of his clan running up the mountain, searching for the red-haired
witch whom they would never find. Thorne alone had seen her. Thorne had seen her take
the eyes from the dead warrior and put them into her own sockets. Thorne had seen her
return through the light snow to the cave where she lifted her distaff. Thorne had seen her
winding the golden red thread on the spindle.
And the clan had wanted to destroy her, and wielding his ax he had been among them.
How foolish it all seemed now, because she had wanted Thorne to see her. She had come
North for a warrior such as Thorne. She had chosen Thorne, and she had loved his youth
and his strength and his pure courage.
He opened his eyes.
The mortals in this place took no notice of him, even though his clothes were badly worn.
How long could he go unseen? He had no coins in his pockets to purchase a place at a
table or a cup of wine.
But the voice of the blood drinker came again, coaxing him, reassuring him.
You must ignore the crowd. They know nothing of us, or why we keep this place. They
are pawns. Come to the rear door. Push it with all your strength and it will give for you.
It seemed impossible that he could cross this room, that these mortals wouldn't know him

for what he was.
But he must overcome this fear. He must reach the blood drinker who was summoning
him.
Bowing his head, bringing his collar up over his mouth, he pushed through the soft
bodies, trying not to meet the gaze of those who glanced at him. And when he saw the
door without a handle, at once he pushed it as he'd been told to do.
It gave upon a large dimly lighted chamber with thick candles set upon each of its
scattered wooden tables. The warmth was as solid and good as that of the outer room.
And the blood drinker was alone.
He was a tall fair creature whose yellow hair was almost white. He had hard blue eyes,
and a delicate face, covered with a thin layer of blood and ash to make him look more
human to the mortal eye. He wore a bright-red cloak with a hood, thrown back from his
head, and his hair was finely combed and long.
He looked most handsome to Thorne, and well mannered, and rather like a creature of
books than a man of the sword. He had large hands but they were slender and his fingers
were fine.
It occurred to Thorne that he had seen this being with the Mind Gift, seated at the council
table with the other blood drinkers before the Evil Queen had been brought down.
Yes, he had seen this very one. This one had tried so hard to reason with the Queen,
though inside him there lurked a dreadful anger and an unreasonable hate.
Yes, Thorne had seen this very one struggling with words, finely chosen words, to save
everyone.
The blood drinker gestured for him to take a seat to the right, against the wall.
He accepted this invitation, and found himself on a long leather cushion, the candle flame
dancing wickedly before him, sending its playful light into the other blood drinker's eyes.
He could smell blood now in the other blood drinker. He realized that the blood drinker's
face was warm with it, and so were his long tapering hands.
Yes, I have hunted tonight, but I will hunt with you again. You need this.
"Yes," said Thorne. "It's been so long you can't imagine it. To suffer in the snow and ice
was simple. But they're all around me now, these tender creatures."
"I understand," said the other blood drinker. "I know."
These were the first words Thorne had spoken aloud to anyone in years and years, and he
closed his eyes so that he might treasure this moment. Memory was a curse, yes, he
thought, but it was also the greatest gift. Because if you lost memory you lost everything.
A bit of his old religion came back to him - that for memory, the god Odin had given his
eye, and hung upon the sacred tree for nine days. But it was more complex than that. It
was not only memory which Odin gained, it was the mead which enabled him to sing
poetry.
Once years ago Thorne had drunk that poet's mead, given him by the priests of the sacred
grove, and he had stood in the middle of his father's house singing the poems about her,
the red-haired one, the blood drinker, whom he had seen with his own eyes.
And those around him had laughed and mocked him. But when she began to slay the
members of the clan they mocked him no more. Once they had seen the pale bodies with
their eyes plucked out, they had made him their hero.
He shook himself all over. The snow fell from his hair and from his shoulders. With a
careless hand he wiped the bits of ice from his eyebrows. He saw the ice melt on his
fingers. He rubbed hard at the frost on his face.
Was there no fire in this room? He looked about. The heat came magically through small
windows. But how good it was, how consuming.

He wanted to strip off his clothes suddenly and bathe in this heat.
I have a fire in my house. I'll take you there.
As if from a trance, he woke to look at the blood drinker stranger. He cursed himself that
he had been sitting here clumsy and mute.
The blood drinker spoke aloud: "It's only to be expected. Do you understand the tongue I
speak?"
"It's the tongue of the Mind Gift," said Thorne. "Men all over the world speak it." He
stared at the blood drinker again. "My name is Thorne," he said. "Thor was my god."
Hastily he reached inside his worn leather coat and pulled out from the fur the amulet of
gold which he wore on a chain.
"Time can't rust such a thing," he said. "It's Thor's hammer."
The blood drinker nodded.
"And your gods?" Thorne asked. "Who were they? I don't speak of belief, you
understand, I speak of what we lost, you and I. Do you catch my meaning?"
"The gods of old Rome, those are the gods I lost," said the stranger. "My name is
Marius."
Thorne nodded. It was too marvelous to speak aloud and to hear the voice of another. For
the moment, he forgot the blood he craved and wanted only a flood of words.
"Speak to me, Marius," he said. "Tell me wondrous things. Tell me all that you would
have me know." He tried to stop himself but he couldn't do it.
"Once I stood speaking to the wind, telling the wind all things that were in my mind and
in my heart. Yet when I went North into the ice, I had no language." He broke off, staring
into Marius's eyes. "My soul is too hurt. I have no true thoughts."
"I understand you," said Marius. "Come with me to my house. You're welcome to the
bath, and to the clothes you need. Then we'll hunt and you'll be restored, and then comes
talk. I can tell you stories without end. I can tell you all the stories of my life that I want
to share with another."
A long sigh escaped Thorne's lips. He couldn't prevent himself from smiling in gratitude,
his eyes moist and his hands trembling. He searched the stranger's face. He could find no
evidence of dishonesty or cunning. The stranger seemed wise, and simple.
"My friend," Thorne said and then he bent forward and offered the kiss of greeting.
Biting deep into his tongue, he filled his mouth with blood, and opened his lips over those
of Marius.
The kiss did not take Marius by surprise. It was his own custom. He received the blood
and obviously savored it.
"Now we can't quarrel over any small thing," said Thorne. He settled back against the
wall greatly confused suddenly. He wasn't alone. He feared that he might give way to
tears. He feared that he hadn't the strength to go back out into the dreadful cold and
accompany this one to his house, yet it was what he needed to do so terribly.
"Come," said Marius, "I'll help you."
They rose from the table together.
This time the agony of passing through the crowd of mortals was even greater. So many
bright glistening eyes fastened on him, though it was only for a moment.
Then they were in the narrow street again, in the gentle swirling snow, and Marius had
his arm tight around him.
Thorne was gasping for breath, because his heart had been so quickened. He found
himself biting at the snow as it came in gusts into his face. He had to stop for a moment
and gesture for his new friend to have patience.
"So many things I saw with the Mind Gift," he said. "I didn't understand them."

"I can explain, perhaps," said Marius. "I can explain all I know and you can do with it
what you will. Knowledge has not been my salvation of late. I am lonesome."
"I'll stay with you," Thorne said. This sweet camaraderie was breaking his heart.
A long time they walked, Thorne becoming stronger again, forgetting the warmth of the
tavern as if it had been a delusion.
At last they came to a handsome house, with a high peaked roof, and many windows.
Marius put his key into the door, and they left the blowing snow behind, stepping into a
broad hallway.
A soft light came from the rooms beyond. The walls and ceiling were of finely oiled
wood, the same as the floor, with all corners neatly fitted.
"A genius of the modern world made this house for me," Marius explained. "I've lived in
many houses, in many styles. This is but one way. Come inside with me."
The great room of the house had a rectangular stone fireplace built into its wooden wall.
And there the fire was stacked waiting to be lighted. Through glass walls of remarkable
size, Thorne saw the lights of the city. He realized that they were on the edge of the hill,
and that a valley lay below them.
"Come," said Marius, "I must introduce you to the other who lives here with me."
This startled Thorne, because he had not detected the presence of anyone else, but he
followed Marius through a doorway out of the great room into another chamber on the
left, and there he saw a strange sight which mystified him.
Many tables filled the room, or perhaps it was one great broad table. But it was covered
all over with a small landscape of hills and valleys, towns and cities. It was covered with
little trees, and even little shrubbery, and here and there was snow, as if one town lay
under winter and another lay under spring or summer.
Countless houses crowded the landscape, many with twinkling lights, and there were
sparkling lakes made of some hard substance to imitate the gleam of water. There were
tunnels through the mountains.
And on curving iron tracks through this little wilderness there ran little railroad trains,
seemingly made out of iron, like those of the great modern world.
Over this tiny world, there presided a blood drinker who didn't bother to look up at
Thorne as he entered. The blood drinker had been a young male when he was made. He
was tall, but very slight of build, with very delicate fingers. His hair was the faded blond
more common among Englishmen than Norsemen.
He sat near the table, where before him was a cleared space devoted to his paintbrushes,
and to several bottles of paint, while with his hands he painted the bark of a small tree, as
if in readiness to put it into the world that stretched out all over the room, surrounding
and almost enclosing him.
A rush of pleasure passed through Thorne as he looked over this little world. It struck
him suddenly that he could have spent an hour inspecting all of the tiny buildings. It was
not the harsh great world outside, but something precious and protected, and even slightly
enchanting.
There was more than one small black train which ran along upon the wandering tracks,
and a small droning noise came from these trains as if from bees in a hive. The trains had
lights inside their tiny windows.
All the myriad details of this small wonderland seemed to be correct.
"I feel I'm the frost giant in this room," Thorne whispered reverently.
It was an offering of friendship to the youngish male who continued to apply the brown
paint to the bark of the tiny tree which he held so delicately between his left fingers. But
the youngish male blood drinker did not respond.

"These tiny cities and towns are full of pretty magic," Thorne said, his voice a little more timid. The youngish male seemed to have no ears. "Daniel?" said Marius gently to his friend, "do you want to greet Thorne who is our guest tonight?" "Welcome, Thorne," said Daniel without looking up. And then as if neither Thorne nor Marius were there, Daniel stopped the painting of his tree, and dipping another brush into another bottle, he made a dampened spot for the tree in the great world before him. He set the tree down hard upon that spot and the tree stood firm as though rooted. "This house is full of many rooms like this," said Marius in an even voice, his eyes looking at Thorne gently. "Look below. One can purchase thousands of little trees, and thousands of little houses." He pointed to stacks upon stacks of small containers on the floor beneath the table. "Daniel is very good at putting together the houses. See how intricate they are? This is all that Daniel does now." Thorne sensed a judgment in Marius's voice but it was soft, and the youngish blood drinker paid no attention. He had taken up another small tree, and was examining the thick green portion which made up its leafy upper limbs. To this he soon applied his little paintbrush. "Have you ever seen one of our kind under such a spell?" Marius asked. Thorne shook his head, No, he had not. But he understood how such a thing could happen. "It occurs sometimes," said Marius. "The blood drinker becomes enthralled. I remember centuries ago I heard the story of a blood drinker in a Southern land whose sole passion was for finding beautiful shells along the shore, and this she did all night long until near morning. She did hunt and she did drink, but it was only to return to the shells, and once she looked at each, she threw it aside and went on searching. No one could distract her from it. Daniel is enthralled in the same way. He makes these small cities. He doesn't want to do anything else. It's as if the small cities have caught him. You might say I look after him." Thorne was speechless, out of respect. He couldn't tell whether Marius's words affected the blood drinker who continued to work upon his world. Thorne felt a moment of confusion. Then a low genial laugh came from the youngish blood drinker. "Daniel will be this way for a while," said Marius, "and then his old faculties will come back to him." "The ideas you have, Marius," Daniel said with another little easy laugh. It was hardly more than a murmur. Daniel dipped the brush again into the paste that would make his little tree stick to the green grass, and he pressed the tree down with appropriate force. Then out of a box beside him, he drew another. All the while the small railroad trains moved on, winding their way noisily through hill and valley, past snow-covered church and house. Why, this tiny world even contained small detailed people! "Might I kneel to look at this?" asked Thorne respectfully. "Yes, please do," said Marius. "It would give him pleasure." Thorne went down on both knees and drew himself up to the small village with its cluster of little buildings. He saw delicate signs on them but he didn't know the meaning of them. He was struck dumb by the wonder of it—that rising and confronting the great world, he was to come here and stumble upon this little universe.

A finely made little train, its engine roaring, its cars loosely connected, came rattling past him on the track. He thought he glimpsed small figures inside it. For a second, he forgot all else. He imagined this handmade world to be real, and understood the spell, though it frightened him. "Beautiful," he said in thanks. He stood up. The young blood drinker neither moved nor spoke in acknowledgment. "Have you hunted, Daniel?" asked Marius. "Not tonight, Marius," said the youngish one without looking up, but then suddenly his eyes flashed on Thorne, and Thorne was surprised by their violet color. "Norseman," Daniel said with a little note of pleasant surprise. "Red hair like the hair of the twins." He laughed, a light laugh as if he were a little mad. "Made by Maharet. Strong one." The words caught Thorne completely off guard. He reeled, scarcely able to keep his balance. He wanted to strike the careless young one. He almost lifted his fist. But Marius held his arm firmly. Images crowded into Thorne's mind. The twins - his beloved Maker and her lost sister. He saw them vividly. The Queen of the Damned. Once more he saw the helpless blood drinker Lestat with the chains around him. Chains of metal could never have held him. From what had his red-haired Maker created those chains? He tried to banish these thoughts, and anchor himself within the moment. Marius held tight to his arm, and went on speaking to the blood drinker Daniel: "Let me guide you, if you want to hunt." "I have no need," said Daniel. He had gone back to his work. He drew a large bundle from beneath the table, and he held it up for Marius to see. On the cover was painted, or printed, Thorne could not tell, the picture of a house with three stories and many windows. "I want to assemble this house," Daniel said. "It's more difficult than anything you see here, but with my vampiric blood it will be simple." "We'll leave you now," said Marius, "but don't try to leave here without me." "I would never do that," said Daniel. He was already tearing at the sheer wrapping of the bundle. Bits and pieces of wood were inside. "I'll hunt with you tomorrow night and you can treat me as though I am a child as you love to do." Marius kept his friendly grip on Thorne's arm. He led him out of the room and closed the door. "When he wanders by himself," said Marius, "he gets into trouble. He gets lost, or thirsty beyond the point where he can hunt on his own. I have to search for him. He was that way as a man before he was ever made a blood drinker. The blood didn't change him except for a little while. And now he's enslaved to these tiny worlds he creates. All he requires is space for them, and the packages of buildings and trees and such which he purchases through the computer." Ah, you have those strange engines of the mind," said Thorne. Yes, under this roof there are very fine computers. I have all I need," said Marius. "But you're tired. Your clothes are old. You need refreshment. We'll talk of all this later." He led Thorne up a short echoing wooden staircase and into a large bedchamber. All the wood of the walls and the doors was painted here in colors of green and yellow, and the bed itself was fitted into a great carved cabinet with only one side open. It struck him as a safe and curious place without a surface untouched by human hands. Even the wooden floor was polished.

Through a broad door they entered an immense bath which was paneled in roughened wood with a floor of stone, and many candles for its illumination. The color of the wood was beautiful in the subtle light and Thorne felt himself becoming dizzy. But it was the bath itself which amazed him. There before another glass wall stood a huge wooden tub of steaming hot water. Made like a great cask, the tub was easily big enough for several to bathe together. On a small stool beside the tub there stood a stack of what appeared to be towels. On other stools there stood bowls of dried flowers and herbs which Thorne could smell with his acute blood drinker senses. There were also bottles of oil and jars of what might have been ointments. That Thorne might wash himself in this seemed to him a miracle. "Take off the soiled clothes," said Marius. "Let me discard them. What else do you have that you would save other than your necklace?" "Nothing," said Thorne. "How can I ever repay you for this?" "But you already have," said Marius. He himself removed his leather coat, and then pulled off his wool tunic. His naked chest was without hair. He was pale as all old blood drinkers are pale. And his body was strong and naturally beautiful. He'd been taken in the prime of his life, that was plain. But his true age, either in mortal life long ago, or in blood drinker time now? Thorne could not guess it. Marius took off his leather boots and his long wool pants, and not waiting for Thorne - only making a gesture that Thorne should follow - he stepped into the huge tub of hot water. Thorne ripped at his fur-lined jacket. He tore it in his haste. His fingers trembled as he stripped away the pants that were almost ragged. In a moment he was as naked as the other, and in awkward haste he gathered the ruin of his clothes in a small bundle. He looked about. "Don't worry about such things," said Marius. The steam was rising all around him. "Come into the tub with me. Be warm for now." Thorne followed, first stepping into the tub and then sinking down in the hot water on his knees. He finally seated himself so that the water came to his neck. The shock of the heat was overwhelming and utterly blessed. He uttered a little prayer of thanks, something old and small which he had learnt as a child to say when something purely good happens. Marius put his hand into the bowl of dried flowers and herbs, and gathering up quite a bit of this mixture he let it loose into the hot water. It was a deep good perfume of the outdoors in summer. Thorne closed his eyes. That he had risen, that he had come this far, that he had found this pure and luxurious bath seemed almost impossible to him. He would wake soon, a victim of the Mind Gift, back in his hopeless cave, prisoner of his own exile, only dreaming of others. Slowly he bowed his head and lifted a double handful of the cleansing hot water to his face. He lifted more and more of the water, and then finally as if it required courage, he dipped his head into the tub completely. When he rose again he was warm as if he'd never been cold, and the sight of the lights beyond the glass amazed him. Even through the steam, he could see the snow falling beyond, and he was deliciously conscious that he was so near and yet so far from it. Suddenly he wished that he had not risen for such a dark purpose. Why could he not serve only what was good? Why could he not live for what was pleasurable? But that had never been his way.

No matter, it was important to keep that secret to himself for now. Why trouble his friend
with dark thoughts? Why trouble himself with guilty confessions?
He looked at his companion.
Marius sat back against the side of the wooden tub with his arms out resting upon the
edge. His hair was wet and clinging to his neck and shoulders. He didn't stare at Thorne,
but he was obviously conscious of him.
Thorne dipped his head again; he moved forward and lay down in the water, rising
suddenly and turning over, letting the water run off him. He gave a little laugh of delight.
He ran his fingers through the hair on his own chest. He dipped his head back until, the
water lapped at his face. He rolled over again and again to wash his full head of hair
before he rose and sat back contented.
He took the same posture as Marius and the two looked at each other.
"And you live this way," said Thorne, "in the very midst of mortals, and you are safe
from them?"
"They don't believe in us now," said Marius. "No matter what they see they don't believe.
And wealth buys anything." His blue eyes seemed earnest and his face was calm as if he
had no evil secrets inside, as though he had no hatred for anyone. But he did.
"Mortals clean this house," said Marius. "Mortals take the money I give them for all that's
needed here. Do you understand enough of the modern world to grasp how such a place
is heated and cooled and kept safe from intruders?"
"I understand," said Thorne. "But we're never safe as we dream, are we?"
A bitter smile came over Marius's face. "I have never been harmed by mortals," he said.
"You speak of the Evil Queen and all those she's slain, don't you?"
"Yes, I speak of that and other horrors," Marius answered.
Slowly without words Marius used the Mind Gift to let Thorne know that he himself
hunted only the Evil Doer.
"That is my peace with the world," he said. "That is how I manage to go on. I use the
Mind Gift to hunt those mortals who kill. In the big cities I can always find them."
"And mine is the Little Drink," said Thorne. "Be assured. I need no greedy feast. I take
from many so that no one dies. For centuries I've lived this way among the Snow People.
When I was first made I hadn't the skill. I would drink too fast and too recklessly. But
then I learned. No one soul belongs to me. And I could go like the bee goes from flower
to flower. It was my habit to enter into taverns where many are close together, and to take
from one after another."
Marius nodded. "That's a good style," he said with a little smile. "For a child of Thor,
you're merciful." His smile broadened. "That's merciful indeed."
"Do you despise my god?" asked Thorne politely.
"I don't think that I do," said Marius. "I told you that I lost the gods of Rome, but in truth
I never had them. I was too cold of temperament to have gods. And not having had any
true gods of my own, I speak of all gods as if they were poetry. The poetry of Thor was a
poetry of war, was it not, a poetry of battles without cease, and of noise in Heaven?"
This delighted Thorne. He couldn't conceal his pleasure. The Mind Gift never brought
this kind of keen communication with another, and the words that Marius spoke were not
only impressing him, they were confusing him slightly, which was wonderful.
"Yes, that was Thor's poetry," he said, "but nothing was as clear and certain as the sound
of the thunder in the mountains when he wielded his hammer. And alone at night when I
went out of my father's house into the rain and wind, when I climbed the wet mountain
fearlessly to hear that thunder, I knew the god was there, and I was far from poetry." He
stopped. He saw his homeland in his mind. He saw his youth. "There were other gods I

heard," he said quietly. He didn't look at Marius. "It was Odin leading the Wild Hunt through the skies that made the loudest noise; and I saw and heard those spirits pass. I never forgot them." "Can you see them now?" asked Marius. It was not a challenge. He spoke only with curiosity. Indeed it had a bit of respect in it. "I hope you can," he hastened to add as if there might be some doubt as to the interpretation. "I don't know," said Thorne. "It was so long ago. I never thought that I might recover those things." But they were keen in his mind now. Though he sat in this warm bath, his blood soothed, all the cruel cold driven from his limbs, he could see the wintry valley. He could hear the storm, and see the phantoms flying high above, all those lost dead following the god Odin through the sky. Come," Thorne had said to his companions, the young ones, who'd crept out of the hall with him, "let's go to the grove, let's stand in the very grove as the thunder rolls on." They'd been frightened of the holy ground, but they couldn't show it. "You were a Viking child," said Marius quietly. "Oh, so the Britons called us," said Thorne. "I don't think we used that name for ourselves. We learnt it from our enemies. I remember their screams when we climbed their walls, when we stole the gold from the altars of the churches." He paused. He let his eyes rest calmly on Marius for a moment. "What a tolerant one you are. You truly want to listen." Marius nodded. "I listen with my whole soul." He gave a little sigh and he looked out through the immense glass. "I'm weary of being alone, my friend," he said. "I cannot bear the company of those whom I know most intimately. And they cannot bear mine on account of things I've done." Thorne was surprised by this sudden confession. Thorne thought of the blood drinker Lestat and his songs. He thought of all those gathered at the council when the Evil Queen had come. He knew all had survived. And he knew that this blond one, Marius, had talked with reason more potently than any other. "Go on with your story," Marius said. "I didn't mean to interrupt you. You meant to make a point." "It was only that I slew many men before I ever became a blood drinker," said Thorne. "I swung Thor's hammer as well as my sword and my ax. I fought as a boy at my father's side. I fought after I buried him. And he died no straw death, I can assure you, but with his sword in his hand as he wanted it." Thorne paused. "And you, my friend?" he asked. "Were you a soldier?" Marius shook his head. "A Senator," he said, "a maker of laws, something of a philosopher. I went to war, yes, for some time because my family wished it, and I had a high place in one of the legions, but my time wasn't very long and I was home and back in my library. I loved books. I still do. There are rooms of this house which are full of them, and I have houses elsewhere that are full of them. I never really knew battle." Marius stopped. He leant forward and brought the water up to his face as Thorne had done before, and he let the water run down over his eyelids. "Come," he said, "let's be done with this pleasure and go for another. Let's hunt. I can feel your hunger. I have new clothes for you here. I have all you need. Or would you stay longer in this warm water?" "No, I'm ready," said Thorne. It had been so long since he had fed that he was ashamed to admit it. Once again he rinsed his face and hair. He ducked down into the water, and came up, pushing his wet hair back from his forehead. Marius had already climbed out of the tub, and held out for Thorne a large white towel. It was thick and roughened and perfect for mopping the water off his blood drinker skin which never absorbs anything. The air of the room seemed chilled for one moment as he stood on the stone floor, but very soon he was warm again, rubbing fiercely at his hair to press the last droplets out of it. Marius had finished with the task and now took a fresh towel from the stack and began to rub Thorne's back and shoulders. This familiarity sent the chills through Thorne's limbs. Marius rubbed hard at Thorne's head, and then he began to comb the wet hair free of tangles. "Why is there no red beard, my friend?" asked Marius, as the two faced each other. "I remember the Norsemen with their beards. I remember them when they came to Byzantium. Does that name mean anything to you?" "Oh, yes," said Thorne. "I was taken to see that wondrous city." He turned around and accepted the towel from Marius's hands. "My beard was thick and long, even when I was very young, let me assure you, but it was shaved the night that I became a blood drinker. I was groomed for the magical blood. It was the will of the creature who made me." Marius nodded. But he was far too polite to say her name, though the other young one had brashly spoken it. "You know it was Maharet," said Thorne. "You didn't need to hear it from your young friend. You caught it from my thoughts, didn't you?" Thorne paused, then went on. "You know it was the vision of her that brought me out of the ice and snow. She stood against the Evil Queen. She bound the vampire, Lestat, in chains. But to speak of her just now takes the breath out of me. When will I ever be able to speak of her? I can't know now. Let's hunt, and then we can really talk to one another." He was solemn, holding the towel against his chest. In his secret heart, he tried to feel love for the one who made him. He tried to draw from the centuries a wisdom that would quench anger. But he couldn't do it. All he could do was be silent, and hunt with Marius now.

Chapter Three

In a large painted wooden room full of many painted cabinets and chests, Marius offered the clothes—fine leather jackets with small buttons of bone, many lined with silvery fur, and close-fitting pants of wool so soft Thorne couldn't see the weave of it. Only the boots were a little too small, but Thorne felt he could endure this. How could such a thing matter? Not satisfied, Marius continued to search until he found a large pair, and these proved more than serviceable. As for the costume of the times it wasn't so different from Thorne's old habit of dresslinen for the fine shirt next to the skin, wool and leather for the outer garments. The tiny buttons on the shirt intrigued Thorne, and though he knew that the stitching had been done by machines and was a common thing, nevertheless it delighted him. He had a dawning sense of how much delight awaited him. Never mind his dark mission. As Marius dressed, he chose red once more for his jacket and for his hooded cloak. It intrigued Thorne, though he had seen garments such as these on Marius in the vampire tavern. Nevertheless the colors seemed bright for hunting. "It's my common way to wear red," Marius said to Thorne's unspoken interest. "You do as you like. Lestat, my sometime pupil, also loves it which annoys me mightily but I endure it. I think we appear to be Master and Apprentice when his shade of clear red comes so close to mine." "And so you love him as well?" Thorne said. Marius said nothing. He gestured to the clothes. For Thorne, it was dark brown leather, more concealing, yet silken to the touch, and his feet went naked into the fur-lined boots on account of the size of them. He needed no cloak. He felt it would encumber him. From a silver dish on a cabinet, Marius took ashes on his fingertips, and mingling these with blood from his mouth, he made the thin paste to cover his face entirely. It darkened him; it made the old lines of his face appear. It gave a graven character to his eyes. In fact, it rendered him entirely more visible to Thorne while no doubt disguising him for mortals. Marius made a gesture that Thorne might do as well, but something prevented Thorne from accepting. Perhaps it was merely that he had never done this. Marius offered him gloves, but these he refused as well. He did not like the feel of things through gloves. After so long in the ice, he wanted to touch everything. "I like gloves," said Marius. "I'm never without them. Our hands frighten mortals when they take the time to look. And gloves feel warm which we never do." Marius filled his pockets with paper money. He offered handfuls of this to Thorne, but Thorne refused, thinking it greedy to take this from his host. Marius said, "It's all right. I'll take care of you. But if we become separated somehow, simply return here. Come round to the back of the house, and you'll find the door there open." Separated? How might that happen? Thorne was dazed by all that was taking place. The smallest aspect of things gave him pleasure. They were all but ready to take their leave when the young Daniel came in and stared at both of them. "Do you want to join us?" Marius asked. He was pulling his gloves very tight so that they showed his very knuckles. Daniel didn't answer. He appeared to be listening, but he said nothing. His youthful face was deceiving, but his violet eyes were truly wonderful.

" You know that you can come," said Marius. Within minutes they were on their way in the falling snow, Marius 's arm around Thorne as though Thorne needed the reassurance. And I shall drink soon. The younger one turned and went back, presumably to his small kingdom. When they came at last to a large inn, it was into a cellar that they went where there were hundreds of mortals. Indeed the size of the room overwhelmed Thorne. Not only did glittering noisy mortals eat and drink in this place, in dozens of little groups, they danced to the music of several diligent players. At big green tables with wheels they played at games of chance with loud raucous cries and easy laughter. The music was electric and loud; the flashing lights were horrid, the smell of food and blood was overpowering. The two blood drinkers went utterly unnoticed, except for the tavern girl who accompanied them unquestioningly to a small table in the very midst of things. Here they could see the twisting dancers, who seemed one and all to be dancing alone rather than with anyone else, each moving to the music in a primitive way as though drunk on it. The music hurt Thorne. He didn't think it beautiful. It was like so much confusion. And the flashing lights were ugly. Marius leant over to whisper in Thorne's ear: "Those lights are our friend, Thorne. They make it difficult to see what we are. Try to bear with them." Marius gave an order for hot drinks. The little tavern girl turned her bright flirtatious eyes on Thorne. She made some quick remark as to his red hair and he smiled at her. He wouldn't drink from her, not if all the other mortals of the world were dried up and taken away from him. He cast his eyes around the room, trying to ignore the din that pounded at his ears, and the overwhelming smells that almost sickened him. "The women, see, near the far wall," said Marius. "They want to dance. That's why they're here. They're waiting to be asked. Can you do it as you dance?" "I can," said Thorne almost solemnly, as if to say, Why do you ask me? "But how do I dance?" he asked, watching the couples who crowded the designated floor. He laughed for the first time since he'd ever gone North. He laughed, and in the din he could barely hear his own laughter. "I can drink, yes, without any mortal ever knowing it, even my victim, but how can I dance in this strange way?" He saw Marius smile broadly. Marius had thrown his cloak back over the chair. He appeared so calm amid this awful unendurable combination of illumination and music. "What do they do but move about clumsily together?" Thorne asked. "Do the same," said Marius. "Move slowly as you drink. Let the music and the blood talk to you." Thorne laughed again. Suddenly with a wild bit of nerve he rose and made his way around the edges of the crowded dance floor to the women who were already looking eagerly towards him. He chose the dark-haired of the three, because women with dark eyes and dark hair had always fascinated him. Also she was the eldest and least likely to be chosen by a man, and he did not mean to leave her harmed by his interest. At once she rose, and he held her small limp hands in his and guided her out onto the polished floor, the relentless music suggesting nothing but an easy senseless rhythm, which she took up immediately and awkwardly, her fine delicate shoes clicking on the wood. "Oh, but your hands are cold!" she said. "I'm so sorry!" he declared. "You must forgive me. I've been in the snow too long." Yea gods, he must be careful not to hurt her. What a simple trusting being she was, with her eyes and mouth sloppily painted, and her cheeks rouged, her breasts thrust forward and held in place by tight straps beneath her black silk dress. Boldly she pressed against him. And he, enfolding her as gently as he could, bent down to sink his tiny fangs most secretively into her neck. Dream, my precious one. dream of beautiful things. I forbid you to be afraid or to remember. Ah, the blood. After so long, it came, the blood pumped by her urgent little heart, her defenseless little heart! He lost the thread of her swoon and entered his own. He saw his red-haired Maker. And in a hushed moan he actually spoke aloud to the woman in his grip. Give me all. But this was wrong and he knew it. Quickly he pulled away, only to find that Marius stood beside him with a hand on his shoulder. As he let the woman go, she looked at him with glossy drowsy eyes, and he turned her in a rapid circle, laughing again, ignoring the course of blood through his veins, ignoring the weakness for more blood that overtook him. On and on they danced, as clumsy as the other couples. But he was so thirsty for more. At last she wanted to return to her little table. She was sleepy. She Wouldn't think why. He must forgive her. He bowed and nodded, and he kissed her hand innocently. Only one woman of the trio remained. Marius was now dancing with the other. Thorne offered his hand to that last of the three women, and vowed that this time he would need no guardian. She was stronger than her friend. Her eyes were lined in black like an Egyptian, and she wore a deeper red on her lips, and her blond hair was full of silver. "Are you the man of my dreams?" she asked him, raising her voice boldly over the music. She would have taken him with her upstairs in the inn at this moment. "Perhaps so," he said, "if you let me kiss you," and caressing her tightly, he sank his teeth quickly into her neck, drinking hard and fast, and then letting her go, watching her drift and smile, cunning, yet sweet, unaware of what had happened to her. There was no getting much blood from these three. They were too gentle. Round and round he turned her in the dance, wanting desperately to steal another drink but not daring to do it. He felt the blood pounding inside him, but it wanted more blood. His hands and feet were now painfully cold. He saw that Marius was seated again at their table and talking to a hulking heavily dressed mortal who sat beside him. Marius had his arm over the creature's shoulder. Finally Thorne took the pretty woman back to her place. How tenderly she looked at him. "Don't go," she said. "Can't you stay with me?" "No, my dearest," he said. He felt the monster in him as he gazed down at her. And backing away, he turned and made his way to Marius. The music made him wobbly on his feet. How dreary it was, how persistent. Marius was drinking from the man as the man bent over near him as if listening to whispered secrets. At last Marius released him and righted him in his chair. "It will take too many here," said Thorne. His words were inaudible in the din of the electric music but he knew that Marius could hear him. Marius nodded. "Then we seek the Evil Doer, friend, and we feast," said Marius. He sat still as he scanned the room, as if listening to each and every mind. Thorne did the same, probing steadily with the Mind Gift, but all he could hear was the electric confusion of the music makers, and the desperate need of the pretty woman who still looked at him.

How much he wanted her. But he could not take such an innocent creature, and his friend would forsake him if he did, and that was more important perhaps than his own conscience. "Come," said Marius. "Another place." Out into the night they went again. It was only a few short paces to a large gambling den, this one filled with the green tables on which men play the game of craps, and on which the wheels spun for the all-important winning numbers. "There, you see," said Marius, pointing with his gloved finger at a tall gaunt black-haired young man who had withdrawn from the game, holding his cold glass of ale in his hand, only watching. "Take him into the corner. There are so many places along the wall." Immediately Thorne went to it. With a hand on the young man's shoulder he looked into his eyes. He must be able now to use the old Spell Gift which so many blood drinkers were lacking. "You come with me," he said. "You've been waiting for me." It reminded him of old hunts and old battles. He saw the mist in the young man's eyes, he saw the memory vanish. The young man went with him to the bench along the wall, and there they sat together. Thorne massaged the neck with thumb and fingers before he drank, thinking quietly within himself, Now your life will be mine, and then he sank his teeth deep and he drew easily and slowly with all his power. The flood poured into his soul. He saw the dingy images of rampant crime, of other lives snuffed out by his victim with no thought of judgment or punishment. Give me only your blood. He felt the heart inside the man burst. And then he released the body, and let it lie back against the wall. He kissed the wound, letting a bit of his own blood heal it. Waking from the dream of the feast, he gazed about the dim smoky room, so full of strangers. How alien all humans seemed, and how hopeless their plight. Cursed as he was, he could not die, but death was breathing on all of them. Where was his Marius? He couldn't find him! He rose from the bench, eager to get away from the victim's soiled and ugly body, and he moved into the press again, stumbling full on a hard-faced, cruel man who took the nudge as an opportunity for a quarrel. "You pushing me, man?" said the mortal with narrow hateful eyes as he gazed at Thorne. "Come now," said Thorne, probing the mind, "have you killed men just for pushing you?" "I have," said the other, his mouth in a cruel sneer. "I'll kill you too, if you don't get out of here." "But let me give you my kiss," said Thorne, and clutching this one by the shoulders he bent to sink his teeth as the others around him, totally unaware of the secret fangs, laughed at this intimate and puzzling gesture. He drew a rich draught. Then licked the place artfully bite. The hateful stranger was baffled and weakened, and tottered on his feet. His friends continued to laugh. Quickly Thorne made his way out of the place and into the snow and there he found Marius waiting for him. The wind was stronger than before, but the snow itself had stopped falling. "The thirst is so strong now," said Thorne. "When I slept in the ice, I kept it like a beast chained up, but now it rules me. Once begun, I can't stop. I want more even now." "Then more you'll have. But kill you can't. Not even in such a city as large as this. Come, follow me."

Thorne nodded. He had already killed. He looked at Marius, confessing this crime
silently. Marius shrugged his shoulders. Then he put his arm around Thorne as they
walked on.
"We've many places to visit."
It was almost dawn when they returned to the house down into the wood-lined cellar the
went, and there Marius showed Thorne to a chamber cut into the stone. The walls of it
were cold, but a large sumptuous bed had been made inside the chamber, hung with
brightly colored linen draperies, and heaped with intricately sewn covers. The mattress
looked thick and so did the many pillows.
It was startling to Thorne that there was no crypt, no true hiding place. Anyone could find
him here. It seemed as simple as his cave in the North, but far more inviting, far more
luxurious. He was so tired in all his limbs that he could scarce speak. Yet he was anxious.
"Who is to disturb us here?" asked Marius. "Other blood drinkers go to their rest in this
strange darkness just as we do. And there is no mortal who can enter here. But if you are
afraid, I understand if we must seek some other shelter for you."
"Do you sleep in this way, unguarded?" Thorne asked.
"Even more so, in the bedroom above, like a mortal man, sprawled on my mattress in the
cabinet bed among my comforts. The only enemy who has ever harmed me was a swarm
of blood drinkers.
They came when I was fully awake and aware as must needs be. If you like, I shall tell
you that awful story."
Marius's face had gone dark, as though the mere mention of this disaster was evocative of
terrible pain.
And Thorne understood something suddenly. It was that Marius wanted to tell this story.
Marius needed to speak in a long flow of words as much as Thorne needed to hear words.
Marius and Thorne had come upon each other in the proper moment.
But that would be tomorrow night. This night was ended.
Marius drew himself up and went on with his reassurance.
"The light won't come as you know, and no one will trouble you here. Sleep and dream as
you must. And we'll talk on the morrow. Now let me take my leave. Daniel, my friend, is
young. He falls on the floor by his little empire. I have to make him retire to a
comfortable place, though I wonder sometimes if it matters."
"Will you tell me one thing before you go? " asked Thorne.
"If I can," said Marius gently, though suddenly he looked overwhelmingly hesitant. He
looked as though he contained heavy secrets which he must tell and yet he feared to do it.
"The blood drinker who walked on the seashore," said Thorne, "looking at the pretty
shells one by one, what became of her?"
Marius was relieved. He gave Thorne a long look and then in careful words he answered.
"They said that she gave herself up to the sun. She was not so old. They found her one
evening in the moonlight. She'd drawn a great circle around herself of shells so they
knew that her death was deliberate.
There were only ashes there, and in fact, some had already been scattered by the wind.
Those who loved her stood nearby and they watched as the wind took the rest. It was all
finished by morning."
"Ah, what a dreadful thing," said Thorne. "Had she no pleasure in being one of us?"
Marius seemed struck by Thorne's words. Gently he asked:
Do you take any pleasure in being one of us?"
"I think ... I think I do again," said Thorne hesitantly.

Chapter Four

He was awakened by the good smell of an oak fire. He turned over in the soft bed, not
knowing where he was for the moment, but completely unafraid. He expected the ice and
the loneliness. But he was someplace good, and someone was waiting for him. He had
only to climb to his feet, to go up the steps.
Quite suddenly it all came clear. He was with Marius, his strange and hospitable friend.
They were in a new city of promise and beauty built upon the ruins of the old. And good
talk awaited him.
He stood up, stretching his limbs in the easy warmth of the room, and looked about
himself, realizing that the illumination came from two old oil lamps, made of glass. How
safe it seemed here. How pretty the painted wood of the walls.
There was a clean linen shirt for him on the chair. He put it on, having much difficulty
with the tiny buttons. His pants were fine as they were. He wore woolen stockings but no
shoes. The floors were smooth and polished and warm.
He let his tread announce him as he went up the stairs. It seemed very much the proper
thing to do in this house, to let Marius know that he was coming, and not to be accused of
boldness or stealth.
As he came to the door to the chamber where Daniel made his wondrous cities and
towns, he paused, and very reticently glanced inside to see the boyish blond-haired
Daniel at his work as though he had never retired for the day at all. Daniel looked up, and
quite unexpectedly, gave Thorne an open smile as he greeted him.
"Thorne, our guest," he said. It had a faint tone of mockery, but Thorne sensed it was a
weaker emotion.
"Daniel, my friend," said Thorne, glancing again over the tiny mountains and valleys,
over the fast running little trains with their lighted windows, over the thick forest of trees
which seemed Daniel's present obsession.
Daniel turned his eyes back to his work as though they hadn't spoken.
It was green paint now that he dabbed onto the small tree.
Quietly, Thorne moved to go but as he did so, Daniel spoke:
"Marius says it's a craft, not an art that I do." He held up the tiny tree.
Thorne didn't know what to say.
"I make the mountains with my own hands," said Daniel. "Marius says I should make the
houses as well."
Again Thorne found himself unable to answer.
Daniel went on talking.
"I like the houses that come in the packages. It's difficult to assemble them, even for me.
Besides, I would never think of so many different types of houses. I don't know why
Marius has to say such disparaging things."
Thorne was perplexed. Finally he said simply, "I have no answer."
Daniel went quiet. Thorne waited for a respectful interval and then he went into the great
room.
The fire was going on a blackened hearth within a rectangle of heavy stones, and Marius
was seated beside it, slumped in his large leather chair, rather in the posture of a boy than
a man, beckoning for Thorne to take his place on a big leather couch opposite.
"Sit there if you will, or here if you prefer," said Marius kindly. "If you mind the fire, I'll
damp it down."
"And why would I mind it, friend?" asked Thorne, as he seated himself. The cushions
were thick and soft.

As his eyes moved over the room, he saw that almost all the wood paneling was painted in gold or blue, and there were carvings on the ceiling beams above, and on the beams over the doorways. These carvings reminded him of his own times. But it was all new - as Marius had said, it was made by a modern man, this place, but it was made well and with much thought and care to it. Sometimes blood drinkers fear the fire," said Marius, looking at the flames, his serene white face full of light and shadow. "One never knows. I've always liked it, though once I suffered dreadfully on account of it, but then you know that story." "I don't think I do know it," said Thorne. "No, I've never heard it. If you want to tell it, I want to hear." "But first there are some questions you want answered," said Marius. "You want to know if the things you saw with the Mind Gift were entirely real." "Yes," said Thorne. He remembered the net, the points of light, the Sacred Core. He thought of the Evil Queen. What had shaped his vision of her? It had been the thoughts of the blood drinkers who had gathered around her council table. He realized he was looking directly into Marius's eyes, and that Marius knew his thoughts completely. Marius looked away, and into the fire, and then he said offhandedly: "Put your feet up on the table. All that matters here is comfort." Marius did this with his own feet, and Thorne stretched his legs out, crossing his feet at his ankles. "Talk as you please," said Marius. "Tell me what you know, if you wish; tell me what you would know." There seemed a touch of anger in his voice but it wasn't anger for Thorne. "I have no secrets," Marius said. He studied Thorne's face thoughtfully, and then he continued: "There are the others -the ones you saw at that council table, and even more, scattered to the ends of the world." He gave a little sigh and then a shake of his head, then he went on speaking. "But I'm too alone now. I want to be with those I love but I cannot." He looked at the fire. "I come together with them for a short while and then I go away . . "... I took Daniel with me because he needed me. I took Daniel because it's unendurable to me to be utterly alone. I sought the North countries because I was tired of the beautiful South lands, even tired of Italy where I was born. I used to think no mortal nor blood drinker could ever grow tired of bountiful Italy, but now I'm tired, and want to look on the pure whiteness of snow." "I understand," said Thorne. The silence invited him to continue. "After I was made a blood drinker," he said, "I was taken South and it seemed Valhalla. In Rome I lived in a palace and looked out on the seven hills each night. It was a dream of soft breezes and fruit trees. I sat in a window high above the sea and watched it strike the rocks. I went down to the sea, and the sea was warm." Marius smiled a truly kind and trusting smile. He nodded. "Italy, my Italy," he said softly. Thorne thought the expression on his face was truly wondrous, and he wanted Marius to keep the smile but very quickly it was gone. Marius had become sober and was looking into the flames again as though lost in his own sadness. In the light of the fire, his hair was almost entirely white. "Talk to me, Marius," said Thorne. "My questions can wait. I want the sound of your voice. I want your words." He hesitated. "I know you have much to tell." Marius looked at him as if startled, and warmed somewhat by this. Then he spoke. "I'm old, my friend," he said. "I'm a true Child of the Millennia. It was in the years of Caesar Augustus that I became a blood drinker. It was a Druid priest who brought me to this peculiar death, a creature named Mael, mortal when he wronged me, but a blood drinker soon after, and one who still lives though he tried not long ago to sacrifice his life in a new religious fervor. What a fool. "Time has made us companions more than once. How perfectly odd. It's a lie that I hold him high in my affections. My life is full of such lies. I don't know that I've ever forgiven him for what he did - taking me prisoner, dragging me out of my mortal life to a distant grove in Gaul, where an ancient blood drinker, badly burnt, yet still imagining himself to be a god of the Sacred Grove, gave me the Dark Blood." Marius stopped. "Do you follow my meaning?" "Yes," said Thorne. "I remember those groves and the whispers among us of gods who had lived in them. You are saying that a blood drinker lived within the Sacred Oak." Marius nodded. He went on. 'Go to Egypt,' he charged me, this badly burnt god, this wounded god, 'and find the Mother. Find the reason for the terrible fire that has come from her, burning us far and wide.' " And this Mother," said Thorne. "She was the Evil Queen who carried within her the Sacred Core." Yes," said Marius, his steady blue eyes passing over Thorne gently. "She was the Evil Queen, friend, no doubt of it... "…But in that time, two thousand years ago, she was silent and still and seemed the most desperate of victims. Four thousand years old they were, the pair of them—she and her consort Enkil. And she did possess the Sacred Core, there was no doubt of it, for the terrible fire had come to all blood drinkers on the morning when an exhausted elder blood drinker had abandoned the King and Queen to the bright desert sun. "Blood drinkers all over the world - gods, creatures of the night, lamias, whatever they called themselves -had suffered agony, some obliterated by terrible flames, others merely darkened and left with a meager pain. The very oldest suffered little, the youngest were ashes. "As for the Sacred Parents - that is the kind thing to call them, I suppose - what had they done when the sun rose? Nothing. The Elder, severely burnt for all his efforts to make them wake or speak or run for shelter, found them as he had left them, unmovable, heedless, and so, fearing more suffering for himself he had returned them to a darkened chamber, which was no more than a miserable underground prison cell." Marius stopped. He paused so completely it seemed that the memories were too hurtful to him. He was watching the flames as men do, and the flames did their reliable and eternal dance. "Please tell me," said Thorne. "You found her, this Queen, you looked upon her with your own eyes that long ago?" "Yes, I found her," Marius said softly. His voice was serious but not bitter. "I became her keeper. 'Take us out of Egypt, Marius,' that is what she said to me with the silent voice - what you call the Mind Gift, Thorne - never moving her lips. "And I took her and her lover Enkil, and sheltered them for two thousand years as they remained still and silent as statues. "I kept them hidden in a sacramental shrine. It was my life; it was my solemn commission. "Flowers and incense I put before them. I tended to their clothes. I wiped the dust from their motionless faces. It was my sacred obligation to do these things, and all the while to keep the secret from vagrant blood drinkers who might seek to drink their powerful blood, or even take them captive." His eyes remained on the fire, but the muscles in his throat tightened, and Thorne could see the veins for a moment against the smoothness of his temples. "All the while," Marius went on, "I loved her, this seeming divinity whom you so rightly call our Evil Queen; that's perhaps the greatest lie I've ever lived. I loved her." "How could you not love such a being?" Thorne asked. "Even in my sleep I saw her face. I felt her mystery. The Evil Queen. I felt her hell And she had her silence to precede her. When she came to life it must have seemed as if a curse were broken, and she was at last released." These words seemed to have a rather strong effect on Marius. His eves moved over Thorne a bit coldly and then he looked back at the fire. "If I said something wrong I am sorry for it," Thorne said. "I was only trying to understand." "Yes, she was like a goddess," Marius resumed. "So I thought and so I dreamt, though I told myself and everyone else otherwise. It was part of my elaborate lie." "Do we have to confess our loves to everyone?" asked Thorne softly. "Can we not keep some secrets?" With overwhelming pain he thought of his Maker. He did nothing to disguise these thoughts. He saw her again seated in the cave with the blazing fire behind her. He saw her taking the hairs from her own head and weaving them into thread with her distaff and her spindle. He saw her eyes rimmed in blood, and then he broke from these memories. He pushed them deep down inside his heart. He looked at Marius. Marius had not answered Thorne's question. The silence made Thorne anxious. He felt he should fall silent and let Marius go on. Yet the question came to his lips. "How did the disaster come to pass?" Thorne asked. "Why did the Evil Queen rise from her throne? Was it the Vampire Lestat with his electric songs who waked her? I saw him in human guise, dancing for humans, as if he were one of them. I smiled in my sleep, as I saw the modern world enfold him, unbelieving, amused, and dancing to his rhythms." "That's what happened, my friend," said Marius, "at least with the modern world. As for her? Her rising from her throne? His songs had much to do with it. For we have to remind ourselves that for thousands of years she had existed in silence. Flowers and incense, yes, these things I gave her in abundance, but music? Never. Not until the modern world made such a thing possible, and then Lestat's music came into the very room where she sat shimmering in her raiment. And it did wake her, not once, but twice. "The first time was as shocking to me as the later disaster, though it was mended soon enough. It was two hundred years ago -on an island in the Aegean Sea - this little surprise, and I should have taken a hard lesson from it, but this in my pride I failed to do." "What took place?" "Lestat was a new blood drinker and having heard of me, he sought me out, and with an honest heart. He wanted to know what I had to reveal. All over the world he'd sought me, and then there came a time when he was weak and broken by the very gift of immortality, a time of his going into the earth as you went into the ice of the Far North. "I brought him to me; I talked with him as I'm talking to you now. But something curious happened with him which caught me quite off guard. I felt a sudden surge of pure devotion to him and this combined with an extraordinary trust. "He was young but he wasn't innocent. And when I talked, he listened perfectly. When I played the teacher, there came no argument. I wanted to tell him my earliest secrets. I wanted to reveal the secret of our King and Queen. "It had been a long, long time since I'd revealed that secret. I'd been alone for a century among mortals. And Lestat, so absolute in his devotion to me, seemed completely worthy of my trust. "I took him down to the underground shrine. I opened the door upon the two seated figures. "For the first few moments, he believed the Sacred Parents were statues, but quite suddenly he became aware that both were alive. He realized in fact that they were blood drinkers, and that they were greatly advanced in age, and that in them, he could see his destiny were he to endure for so many thousands of years. "This is a terrifying realization. Even to the young who look on me, it is a difficult realization that they might become as pale and hard as I am. With the Mother and Father, it was horrifying, and Lestat was overcome with fear. "Nevertheless, he managed to bridle his fear and approach the Queen, and even to kiss her on the lips. It was a bold thing to do, but as I watched him I realized it was quite natural to him, and as he withdrew from her, he confessed to me that he knew her name. "Akasha. It was as if she'd spoken it. And I could not deny that she had given it to him through his mind. Out of her centuries of silence had come her voice once more with this seductive confession. "Understand how young he was. Given the blood at twenty, he had been a blood drinker for perhaps ten years, no more than that. "What was I to make of this kiss and this secret revelation? "I denied my love and my jealousy completely. I denied my crushing disappointment. I told myself, 'You are too wise for such. Learn from what's happened. Maybe this young one will bring something magnificent from her. Is she not a goddess?' "I took Lestat to my salon, a room as comfortable as this, though in another style, and there we talked until early morn. I told him the tale of my making, of my journey to Egypt. I played the teacher with great earnestness and generosity, and something of pure self-indulgence. Was it for Lestat or for me that I wanted him to know everything? I don't know. But those were splendid hours for me, I know that much. "The following night, however, while I was about tending to the mortals who lived on my island and believed me to be their lord, Lestat did a dreadful thing. "Taking from his own luggage a violin which was most precious to him - a musical instrument of uncanny power—he went down into the shrine. "Now it is plain to me, as it was then, that he could not have done this without the aid of the Queen, who with the Mind Gift opened the many doors for him that lay between him and her. "Indeed as Lestat tells it, she may have even put the very idea of playing the instrument into his mind. I don't think so. I think she opened the doors and summoned him, but it was he who brought the violin. "Calculating that it would make a sound totally unfamiliar and quite wonderful to her, he set out to mimic those he'd seen playing the instrument, because in fact he didn't know how to play it. "Within moments, my beautiful Queen had risen from the throne and was moving towards him. And he in his terror had dropped the violin which she crushed with her foot. No matter. She took him in her arms. She offered her blood to him, and then there happened something so remarkable that it's painful for me to reveal it. Not only did she allow him to drink from her, she also drank from him. "It seems a simple thing, but it is not. For in all my centuries of coming to her, of taking blood from her, I had never felt the press of her teeth against me. "Indeed, I know of no supplicant whose blood she ever drank. Once there was a sacrifice, and yes, she drank from that victim, and that victim was destroyed. But from her supplicants? Never. She was the fount, the giver, the healer of blood gods, and burnt children, but she did not drink from them. "Yet she drank from Lestat. "What did she see in those moments? I cannot imagine, yet it must have been a glimpse into the years of that time. It must have been a glimpse into Lestat's soul. Whatever it was, it was momentary, for her consort Enkil soon rose and moved to stop it, and by this time, I had arrived, and was trying desperately and successfully to prevent Lestat from being destroyed by Enkil who seemed to have no other purpose. "The King and Queen returned to their throne, besmirched and bloody and finally silent. But for the rest of the night Enkil was restless, destroying the vases and braziers of the shrine. "It was a terrifying display of power. And I realized that for his safety, indeed, even for my own, I must say farewell at once to Lestat, which caused me excruciating pain, and so we parted the following night." Marius fell silent again, and Thorne waited patiently. Then Marius began to speak once more. "I don't know what caused me the worst pain - the loss of Lestat, or my jealousy that she had given and taken with him. I'm unable to know my own mind. You understand I felt I possessed her. I felt she was my Queen." His voice dropped to a whisper. "When I revealed her to him, I was displaying a possession! You see what a liar I was?" he asked. "And then to lose him, to lose this young one with whom I felt such utter communion. Ah, that was such rich pain. Rather like the music of the violin, I think, just as deeply colored, such terrible pain." "What can I do to ease your sorrow now?" asked Thorne. "For you carry it, as if she were here still." Marius looked up, and suddenly an expression of pure surprise brightened his face. "You're right," he said. "I carry the obligation, as if she were still with me, as if even now I had to go and spend my hours in her shrine." "Can't you be glad that it's over?" asked Thorne. "It seemed when I lay in my cave of ice, when I saw these things in dreams that there were others who were at peace when it was finished. Even the red-haired twins whom I saw standing before everyone seemed to have a sense that it was done." Marius nodded. "They do all share this," said Marius, "except perhaps for Lestat." He looked wondering at Thorne. "Tell me now how she was wakened finally," said Thorne, "how she became the slayer of her children. I felt her pass me, close and with a searching eye, yet somehow I was not found." "Others as well escaped her," said Marius, "though how many no one knows. She tired of her slaughter and she came to us. I think she thought that she had time to finish. But her end came swiftly enough. "As for the second resurrection, it was Lestat again, but I am as much to blame myself. "This is what I believe happened. I brought the inventions of the modern world to her as offerings. At first it was the machines that played music, and then came those which would show moving pictures. At last, I brought the most powerful of all, the television that would play constantly. I set it in her shrine as though it were a sacrifice." "And she fed upon this thing," said Thorne, "as gods are wont to do when they come down to their altars." "Yes, she fed upon it. She fed upon its terrible electric violence. Lurid colors flashed over her face, and images accosted her. It might have wakened her with the sheer clamor. And I wonder sometimes if the endless public talk of the great world could not have in itself inspired an imitation of a mind in her." "An imitation of a mind?" "She awoke with a simple ugly sense of purpose. She would rule this world." Marius shook his head. His attitude was one of profound sadness. "She would outwit its finest human minds," he said sorrowfully. "She would destroy the vast majority of this world's male children. In a female paradise, she could create and enforce peace. It was nonsense - a concept drenched in violence and blood. And those of us who tried to reason with her had to take great care with our words not to insult her. Where could she have gotten these notions, except from the bits and pieces of electric dreams that she watched on the giant screen I'd provided for her? Fictions of all kinds, and what the world calls News, all this had inundated her. I had loosed the flood." Marius's gaze flashed on Thorne as he continued: "Of course she saw the vivid video songs of The Vampire Lestat." Marius smiled again, but it was a sad smile, and it brightened his face as sad songs brighten a face. "And Lestat presented in his video films the very image of her on her throne as he had seen her centuries ago. Breaking faith with me, he told the secrets I had confided to him." "Why didn't you destroy him for this!" said Thorne, before he could stop himself. "I would have done so." Marius only shook his head. "I think I've chosen to destroy myself instead," he said. "I've chosen to let my heart break inside me." "Why, explain this thing to me." "I can't, I can't explain it to myself," said Marius. "Perhaps I understand Lestat only too well. He couldn't endure the vow of silence he'd given me. Not in this world you see around you with all its wonders. He felt driven to reveal our history." The heat danced in Marius's face. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair with only a little restlessness. "He tore loose from all bonds that connected us," he said, "friend and friend, teacher and student, old and young, watcher and searching one." "Outrage," said Thorne, "what else could you feel but fury?" "Yes, in my heart I did. But you see, I lied to them, the other blood drinkers, our brothers, our sisters. Because once the Queen had risen, they needed me...." "Yes," said Thorne, "I saw it." "They needed the wise one to reason with her, and deflect her from her course. There was no time for quarreling. Lestat's songs had brought her forth a monster. I told the others there was no wound. I took Lestat in my arms. And as for my Queen, ah, my Queen, how I denied that I had ever loved her. And all this for the company of a small band of immortals. And I tell the truth to you." "Does it feel good to you to say it?" "Oh, yes, it feels good," Marius answered. "How was she destroyed? " "Thousands of years ago a curse had been put on her by one whom she had treated with cruelty and that one came to settle the score. A single blow decapitated our beautiful Queen, and then from her body the Sacred Core of the blood drinkers was promptly taken into the avenger, either from brain or heart, I know not which, for during those fatal moments I was as blind as all the others. "I know only the one who slew the Queen now carries the Sacred Core within her and where she's gone or how I can't tell you." "I saw the red-haired twins," said Thorne. "They stood beside her body. 'The Queen of the Damned,' said my Maharet. I heard those words. I saw Maharet with her arm around her sister." Marius said nothing. Again Thorne felt himself become agitated. He felt the beginnings of pain inside. In memory, he saw his Maker coming towards him in the snow. What fear did he have then, a mortal warrior facing a lone witch whom he could destroy with sword or ax? How frail and beautiful she had seemed, a tall being in a dress of dark-purple wool, her arms out as if welcoming him. But I have come here for you. It is for you that I linger. He wouldn't fall under her spell. They wouldn't find his body in the snow, the eyes torn out of his face, as they had found so many others. He wanted the memory to go away. He spoke. "She is my Maker, the red-haired one," he said, "Maharet, the sister of the one who took within herself the Sacred Core." He paused. He could scarcely breathe he felt such pain. Marius stared at him intently. "She had come North to find a lover among our people," Thorne said. He paused, his conviction wavering. But then he continued. "She hunted our clan and the others who lived in our valley. She stole the eyes from those whom she slew." "The eyes and the blood," said Marius to him softly. "And when she made you a blood drinker, you learnt why she needed the eyes." "Yes, but not the true story—not the tale of the one who had taken her mortal eyes. And of her twin, I knew not an inkling. I loved her completely. I asked few questions. I could not share her company with others. It made me mad." "It was the Evil Queen who took her eyes," said Marius, "when she was still human; and from her twin sister, the tongue. That was a cruel injustice, that. And one who also possessed the Blood could not endure it, and so he made them both blood drinkers before the Evil Queen divided them and sent each twin to a different side of the world." Thorne gasped as he though of it. He tried to feel love inside himself he saw his Maker again in the brightly lighted cave with her thread and her spindle. He saw her long red hair. "And so it was finished," said Thorne, "the catastrophe I beheld as I slept in the ice. The Evil Queen is gone, punished forever, and the twins took the Sacred Core, yes, but when I search the world for the visions or the voices of our kind I can't find the twins. I hear nothing of them, though I want to know where they are." "They have retreated," said Marius. "They know they must hide, They know that someone may try to take the Sacred Core from them. They know that someone, bitter and finished with this world, may seek to destroy us all." "Ah, yes," said Thorne. He felt a chill come over his limbs. He wished suddenly that he had more blood in his veins. That he could go out and hunt - but then he didn't want to leave this warm place and these flowing words, not just now. It was too soon.

He felt guilty that he had not told the whole truth of his suffering and his purpose to Marius. He didn't know if he could, and it seemed a terrible thing now to be under this roof, yet he remained there. "I know your truth," said Marius gently. "You've come forth with one vow and that is to find Maharet and do harm to her." Thorne winced as though he'd been struck hard in the chest. He made no answer. "Such a thing," said Marius, "is impossible. You knew it when you left her centuries ago for your sleep in the ice. She is powerful beyond our imagining. And I can tell you, without doubt, that her sister never leaves her." Thorne could find no words. At last he spoke in a tense whisper. "Why do I hate her for the form of life she gave me, when I never hated my mortal mother and father?" Marius nodded and gave a bitter smile. "It's a wise question," Marius said. "Abandon your hope of harming her. Stop dreaming of those chains in which she once bound Lestat unless you truly wish for her to bind you in them." It was Thorne's turn to nod. "But what were those chains?" he asked, his voice tense and bitter as before, "and why do I want to be her hateful prisoner? So that she can know my wrath every night as she keeps me close to her?" "Chains made of her red hair?" Marius suggested, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, "bound with steel and with her blood?" he mused. "Bound with steel and with her blood and gold, perhaps. I never saw them. I only knew of them, and that they kept Lestat helpless in all his anger." "I want to know what they were," said Thorne. "I want to find her." "Forswear that purpose, Thorne," said Marius. "I can't take you to her. And what if she beckoned for you as she did so long ago, and then she destroyed you when she discovered your hatred?" "She knew of it when I left her," said Thorne. "And why did you go?" Marius asked. "Was it the simple jealousy of others which your thoughts reveal to me?" "She took them in favor one at a time. I couldn't endure it. You speak of a Druid priest who became a blood drinker. I know of such a one Mael was his name, the very name you've spoken. She brought him into her small circle, a welcome lover. He was old in the Blood and had tales to tell, and she longed for this more than anything. I turned away from her then. I scarce think she saw me retreat. I scarce think she felt my hatred." Marius was listening intently. Then he spoke. "Mael" he said, his words gentle and patient. "Tall and gaunt always, with a high bridged nose and deep-set blue eyes and long blond hair from his servitude in the Sacred Grove. That's the Mael who lured your sweet Maharet from you?" "Yes," said Thorne. He felt the pain in his chest slacken. "And she was sweet, that I can't deny, and she never spurned me. It was I who wandered away, towards the North land. It was I who hated him for his flattery of her and his clever stories." "Don't seek a quarrel with her," Marius said. "Stay here with me, and by and by, she may come to know that you're here, and she may send you her welcome. Be wise then, I beg you." Thorne nodded again. It was as if the terrible battle was over. He had confessed his wrath and it was gone, and he sat still and simple near the fire, the warrior no longer. Such was the magic of words, he thought.

Then memory came again. Six centuries ago. He was in the cave, and could see the flicker of the firelight. He was bound and couldn't move. She lay beside him, peering down into his eyes and whispering to him. He couldn't remember those words, because they were part of something larger and more terrible, something as strong as the threads that bound him. He could break those threads now. He could cut loose of the memories and lodge himself firmly in this room. He could look at Marius. He gave a long slow sigh. "But return to your tale, if you will," he asked. "Why after the Queen was destroyed, and after the twins were gone, why then didn't you reveal your rage to the blood drinker Lestat, why didn't you take your vengeance? You'd been betrayed! And disaster had followed upon it." "Because I wanted to love him still," said Marius, as though he had long known the answer, "and I wanted to be loved, and I could not forfeit my place as the wise and patient one, as I've said. Anger is too painful for me. Anger is too pathetic. I cannot bear it. I cannot act upon it." "Wait for one moment," said Thorne. "Say this again?" "Anger is too pathetic," Marius repeated. "It's too much at a disadvantage always. I can't act upon it. I can't make it mine." Thorne gestured for quiet. He sat back considering, and it seemed a cold air settled on him in spite of the fire. "Anger is weak," Thorne whispered. It was a new idea to him. In his mind anger and rage had always been akin. And rage had seemed something akin to Wodin's fury. One summoned rage before going into battle. One welcomed rage into one's heart. And in the ice cave, he had let an old rage awaken him. "Anger is as weak as fear," said Marius. "Can either of us endure fear?" "No," said Thorne. "But you're speaking of something inside you that's heated and strong." "Yes, there is something brutal and hurt inside of me, and I wander alone, refusing the cup of anger, choosing silence rather than angry words. And I come upon you in the North land, and you're a stranger to me, and I can bare my soul to you." "Yes, that you can do," said Thorne. "For the hospitality you have given me, you can tell me anything. I will never break your trust, that I promise. No common words or songs will ever come from me. Nothing can make such a thing happen." He felt his voice grow strong as he spoke. It was because he was honest in what he said. "What has become of Lestat? Why is he silent now? I hear no more songs or sagas from him." "Sagas, ah yes, that's what he wrote, sagas of our kind," said Marius and again he smiled, almost brightly. "He suffers his own terrible wounds," said Marius. "He's been with angels, or with those beings who claim to be such and they have taken him to Hell and to Heaven." "You believe these things?" "I don't know. I can tell you only he wasn't on this Earth while these creatures claim to have had him. And he brought back with him a bloody Veil with the Face of Christ quite beautifully blazoned upon it." "Ah, and this you saw?" "I did," said Marius, "as I have seen other relics. It was to see this Veil and to go into the sun and die that our Druid priest Mael was nearly taken from us." "Why didn't Mael die," asked Thorne. He couldn't conceal his own emotion when he said this name. "He was too old for such a thing," said Marius. "He was badly burnt and brought low, as can happen with those of us who are very old, and after one day in the sun, he hadn't the courage for more suffering. Back to his companions he went and there he remains." "And you? Will you tell me now with your full heart; do you truly despise him for what he did to you? Or is it your distaste for anger which makes you turn away from this thing?" "I don't know. There are times when I can't look on Mael's face. There are times when I want to be in his company. There are times when I can't seek out any of them. I've come here with Daniel alone. Daniel always needs someone to look after him. It suits me to be near Daniel. Daniel doesn't have to speak. That he is here is sufficient." "I understand you," said Thorne. "Understand this as well," said Marius. "I want to continue. I am not one who wishes to go into the sun or seek some other form of obliteration. If you have truly come out of the ice to destroy Maharet, to anger her twin." Thorne lifted his right hand, gesturing for patience and silence. Then he spoke: "I have not," he said. "Those were dreams. They've died in this very place. It will take longer for memory to die." "Then remember her beauty and her power," Marius said. "I asked her once why she had never taken a blood drinker's eyes for her own. Why always the weak and bleeding eyes of a mortal victim? She told me she had never come upon a blood drinker whom she would destroy or even hurt, save for the Evil Queen herself and the Queen's eyes she couldn't take. Pure hatred prevented it." Thorne thought on this for a long time without replying. "Always mortal eyes," he whispered. And with each pair, as they endure, she sees more than you and I can see," said Marius. "Yes," said Thorne, "I understand you." “I want the strength to grow older," Marius said. "I want to find wonders around me as I always have. If I don't, I'll lose the strength to continue and that is what bites into me now. Death has put its hand on my shoulder. Death has come in the form of disappointment and fear of scorn" "Ah, these things I understand, almost perfectly," said Thorne. "When I went up into the snow, I wanted to flee from these things. I wanted to die and not die, as so many mortals do. I don't think I thought I would endure in the ice or snow. I thought it would devour me, freeze me solid as it would a mortal man. But no such thing ever happened. And as for the pain of the cold I grew used to it, as if it were my daily portion, as if I had no right to anything else. But it was pain that drove me there, and so I understand you. You would fight pain now rather than retreat." "Yes, I would," said Marius. "When the Queen rose from her underground shrine, she left me buried in ice and indifference. Others came to rescue me and bring me to the council table where we sought to reason with her. Before this happened, I could not have imagined such contempt from the Queen or such injury. I could not have imagined my own patience and seeming forgiveness. "But at that council table, Akasha met her destruction. The insult to me was avenged with utter finality. This creature whom I had guarded for two thousand years was gone from me. My Queen, gone from me . . . "And so I can see now the larger story of my own life, of which my beautiful Queen was only a part, even in her cruelty to me. I can see all the stories of my life. I can pick and choose from among them." "Let me hear these stories," said Thorne. "Your words flow over me like warm water.

They bring me comfort. I hunger for your images. I hunger for all you might say."
Marius pondered this.
"Let me try to tell my stories," Marius said. "Let my stories do what stories always do.
Let them keep you from your darker dreams and from your darker journey. Let them keep
you here."
Thorne smiled.
"Yes," he said, "I trust in you. Go on."

Chapter Five

As I have told you, I was born in the Roman times, in the age of Augustus when the Roman Empire was immense and powerful, though the Northern tribes of barbarians who would eventually overrun it had long been fighting on its Northern frontiers. Europe was a world of big and powerful cities just as it is now. As for me, as I've said I was a bookish individual, and it had been my bad luck to be stolen from my world, taken into Druid precincts and there delivered to a blood drinker who believed himself to be a sacred God of the Grove and gave me nothing but superstition along with the Dark Blood. My journey to Egypt to find the Mother was for myself. What if this fire described by the blackened and suffering god should come again? Well, I found the Divine Pair and I stole them from those who had long been their guardians. I did it not only to possess the Sacred Core of the Divine Queen but because of my love of Akasha, my belief that she had spoken to me and commanded me to rescue her, and because she had given me her Precious Blood. Understand there was nothing as strong as that primal fount. The blood rendered me a formidable blood drinker who could fight off any of the old burnt gods who came after me in the years to come. But you must also understand: no religious impulse guided me. I had thought the "god" of the Druid woods to be a monster. And I understood that in her own way Akasha was a monster. I was a monster as well. I had no intention of creating a devotion for her. She was a secret. And from the moment she came into my hands she and her consort were most truly Those Who Must Be Kept. This did not stop me from adoring her in my heart, and creating the most lavish shrine for her, and dreaming that, having spoken to me once with the Mind Gift, she would speak to me again. The first city to which I took the mysterious pair was Antioch, a most marvelous and interesting place. It was in the East as we said in those days, yet it was a Roman city and had been shaped by the tremendous influence of Hellenism - that is, the philosophy and ideas of the Greeks. It was a city of new and splendid Roman buildings, and it was a city of great libraries and schools of philosophy, and though I haunted it by night, the ghost of my former self, there were brilliant men to be spied upon and wondrous things to be heard. Nevertheless my first years as the keeper of the Mother and the Father were bitter in my loneliness, and the silence of the Divine Parents struck me often as particularly cruel. I was pitifully ignorant as to my own nature, and perpetually brooding on my eternal fate. Akasha's silence struck me as terrifying and confusing. After all, why was I asked by Akasha to take her out of Egypt if she meant only to sit upon her throne in eternal stillness? It seemed sometimes that self-destruction was preferable to the existence I endured. Then came the exquisite Pandora into my midst, a woman I'd known since her girlhood in Rome. Indeed, I'd once gone to her father to seek her hand in marriage when she'd been only a precocious child. And here she was in Antioch, as lovely in the prime of life as she'd been in her youth, flooding my thoughts with impossible desire. Our lives became fatally intertwined. Indeed the speed and violence with which Pandora was made a blood drinker left me weak with guilt and confusion. But Pandora believed that Akasha had willed our union; Akasha had hearkened to my loneliness; Akasha had drawn Pandora to me. If you saw our council table, round which we sat when Akasha rose, then you have seen Pandora, the tall white-skinned beauty with the distinct rippling brown hair, one who is now a powerful Child of the Millennia just as you are and just as I am. Why am I not with her now, you may ask? What is it in me that will not acknowledge my admiration for her mind, her beauty, her exquisite understanding of all things? Why can't I go to her! I don't know. I know only that a terrible anger and pain divides us just as it did so many years ago. I cannot admit how much I have wronged her. I cannot admit how much I have lied about my love of her and my need of her. And this need, perhaps this need is the thing which keeps me at a distance, where I am safe from the scrutiny of her soft and wise brown eyes. It's also true that she judges me harshly for things I have lately done. But this is too difficult to explain. In those ancient times, when it was scarce two centuries that we lived together, it was I who destroyed our union in a foolish and dreadful way. We had spent almost every night of our lives quarreling, and I could not admit her advantages, and her victories, and it was as the result of my weakness that I foolishly and impetuously left her when I did. This was the single worst mistake of all my long years. But let me tell quickly the little tale of how we came to be divided by my bitterness and pride. Now as we kept the Mother and the Father, the old gods of the dark groves of the North woods died out. Nevertheless an occasional blood drinker would discover us and come to press his suit for the blood of Those Who Must Be Kept. Most often such a monster was violent and easily dispatched in the heat of anger, and we would return to our civilized life. One evening, however, there appeared in our villa outside Antioch a band of newly made blood drinkers, some five in number, all dressed in simple robes. I was soon amazed to discover that they perceived themselves as serving Satan within a Divine Plan that held the Devil to be equal in power to the Christian God. They did not know of the Mother and the Father, and understand, the shrine was in that very house, down, beneath the floor. Yet they could hear no inkling of the Divine Parents. They were far too young and too innocent. Indeed, their zeal and sincerity was enough to break one's heart. But though deeply touched by their mishmash of Christian and Persian ideas, of their wild notions, and by their curious appearance of innocence, I was also horrified by the fact that this was a new religion among the blood drinkers, and they spoke of other adherents. They spoke of a cult. The human in me was revolted; and the rational Roman was more confused and alarmed than I can express. It was Pandora who quickly brought me to my senses and gave me to know that we must slaughter the whole band. Were we to let them go, others would come to us, and soon the Mother and Father might fall into their hands. I, who had slain old pagan blood drinkers with ease, seemed somehow unable to obey her, perhaps because I realized for the first time that if we remained in Antioch, if we maintained our household and our lives, more and more blood drinkers would come and there would be no end to killing them in order to protect our fine secret. And my soul suddenly could not endure this possibility. Indeed I thought once more of death for myself and even for Those Who Must Be Kept.

We slaughtered the zealots. It was a simple thing to do for they were so young. It took only moments with torches and with our swords. We burnt them to ashes and then scattered those ashes as, I'm sure you know, must be done. But after it was over, I lapsed into a terrible silence and for months would not leave the shrine. I abandoned Pandora for my own suffering. I couldn't explain to her that I had foreseen a grim future, and when she had gone out to hunt the city or to do whatever amused her, I went to Akasha. I went to my Queen. I knelt before her and I asked her what she meant for me to do. "After all," I said, "these are your children, are they not? They come in new battalions and they don't know your name. They likened their fangs to those of serpents. They spoke of the Hebrew prophet Moses, holding up the serpent staff in the desert. They spoke of others who might come." No answer came from Akasha. No real answer was to come from Akasha for two thousand years. But I was only beginning my awful journey then. And all I knew in those anxious moments was that I had to conceal my prayers from Pandora, that I couldn't let her see me - Marius, the philosopher - on bended knee. I went on with my praying, I went on with my feverish worship. And as always happens when one prays to an immobile thing, the light played upon the face of Akasha; the light gave some semblance of life. Meantime, Pandora, as embittered by my silence as I was by Akasha's silence, became utterly distraught. And one night she hurled at me a simple household insult, "Would that I were rid of them and rid of you." She left the house and she did not return the next night or the night after that. As you can see, she was merely playing the same game with me that I had played with her. She refused to be a witness to my hardness. But she could not understand how desperately I needed her presence, and even her vain pleas. Oh, it was so shamefully selfish of me. It was such a needless disaster but powerfully angry with her, I took the irrevocable step of arranging for my departure from Antioch by day. Indeed, by the light of the dim lamp, so as not to arouse my mortal agents, I gave orders for myself and Those Who Must Be Kept to be transported in three immense sarcophagi to Rome by sea. I abandoned my Pandora. I took with me all that was mine and left her only the empty villa, with her own possessions strewn rather carelessly and insultingly around it. I left the only creature in the world who could have patience with me, who could give me understanding, and who had done so, no matter how often or how hard we had fought. I left the only being who knew what I was! Of course I didn't know the consequences. I didn't realize that I would not find Pandora for hundreds of years. I didn't know that she would become a goddess in my mind, a being as powerful in my memory as Akasha was to me night after night. You see, it was another lie, like unto the lie I've told about Akasha. I loved Pandora and I needed her. But in our verbal combat, I had always, no matter how emotional, played the role of the superior mind who was in no need of her seemingly irrational discourse and always evident affection. I remember the very night that I gave her the Dark Blood how she had argued with me. She said, "Don't make a religion of reason and logic. Because in the passage of time reason may fail you and when it does, you may find yourself taking refuge in madness." I was so offended by these words coming from the mouth of this beautiful woman whose eyes so entranced me that I could scarce follow her thoughts. Yet in those months of silence, after we had slain the New Believers, this was precisely what had happened. I had lapsed into a form of badness and refused to speak a word. And only now can I admit the full folly of it, that my own weakness was unsupportable to me, and that I could not endure having her as the witness of the melancholy which shrouded my soul. Even now, I cannot have her as a witness to my suffering. I live here alone, with Daniel. I speak to you because you are a new friend and can take from me fresh impressions and fresh suggestions. You don't look at me with old knowledge and old fear. But let me go on with my tale. Our ship arrived at the port of Ostia in good order, and once we had been transported in three sarcophagi to the city of Rome, I rose from my "grave," made arrangements for an expensive villa just outside the city walls, and arranged an underground shrine for Those Who Must Be Kept in the hills well away from the house. A great guilt weighed me down that I had placed them at such a distance from the place in which I lived, read my books, and took to my crypt at night. After all, they had been within my very house in Antioch, though safely beneath it, and now they were some miles away. But I wanted to live close to the great city, and indeed within a few short years, the walls of Rome were built out and around my house so that Rome enclosed it. I had a country villa in town. It was no safe place for Those Who Must Be Kept. So it proved most wise that I had created their shrine well away from the burgeoning city, and settling into my villa, I played "a Roman gentleman" to those around me, the loving master of several simpleminded and gullible slaves. Now understand that I had been away from Rome for over two hundred years. Glorying in the cultural riches of Antioch, a Roman city, yes, but an Eastern city, listening to her poets and teachers in the Forum, roaming her libraries by torchlight, I had been horrified by descriptions of the latest Roman Emperors who had disgraced the title altogether by their antics and inevitably been murdered by their bodyguards or their troops. But I was far wrong that the Eternal City had fallen into degradation. Great Emperors of the past hundred years there had been such as Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius, and Septimius Severus, and there had been an enormous number of monumental buildings added to the capital as well as a great increase of population. Not even a blood drinker such as myself could have inspected all of Rome's temples, amphitheaters and baths. Indeed Rome was more than likely the largest and most impressive city in the world. Some two million people made up the populace, many of the plebs, as the poor were called, receiving a daily ration of corn and wine. I yielded to the spell of the city immediately. And shutting out the horrors of the Imperial quarrels and continuous war along the frontiers I diverted myself by studying the intellectual and aesthetic handiwork of mankind as I've always done. Of course I went immediately to play the hovering ghost about the town houses of my descendants, for I had kept some track of them, though never admitting it to Pandora, and I found them to be good members of the old Senatorial class, striving desperately to maintain some order in government, while the army elevated Emperor after Emperor in a desperate attempt to secure power for this or that faction in this or that far-flung place. It broke my heart actually to see these young men and women whom I knew to have come down from my uncles and aunts, from my nieces and nephews, and it was during this period that I broke my record of them forever, though why precisely I cannot say. It was a time for me of breaking all ties. I had abandoned Pandora. I had put Those Who Must Be Kept at some remove from me, and now I came home one night, from spying upon a supper party at the house of one of my many descendants, and I took out of a wooden chest all the scrolls in which I had written the names of these young people, gleaned from letters to various agents, and I burnt them, feeling rather wise in my monstrosity, as though this would prevent me from further vanity and pain. After that, I haunted the precincts of strangers to gain knowledge. With vampiric dexterity I slipped into shadowy gardens and listened at the open doorways of the dimly lighted villas as those inside talked softly over dinner or listened to the delicate music of a young boy accompanying himself with a lyre. I found the old conservative Romans very touching, and though the libraries were not as good here as they had become in Antioch, I found much to read. There were of course schools of philosophy in Rome, and though they too were not as impressive as those in Antioch, I was interested in listening to what I could. But understand, I did not really enter into the mortal world. I made no friendships with mortals. I did not converse with them. I only watched them, as I had always done in Antioch. I did not believe then could penetrate with any true success into their natural realm. As for my blood thirst, I hunted furiously in Rome. I kept to the Evil Doer always, which was a simple matter, I can assure you, but I fed my hunger far more than I needed to feed it. I bared my fangs cruelly to those I killed. The huge population never left me hungry. I was more the blood drinker than ever in my existence up to that time. It was a challenge to me to do it properly, to sink my teeth but once and cleanly, and to spill not a drop as I took the death along with the blood. There was no need in such a place as Rome of those times to hide the bodies for fear of discovery. Sometimes I threw them in the Tiber. Sometimes I did nothing but leave them in the street. I loved particularly to kill in taverns which is something I like even now, as you know. There is nothing like the long passage through the damp dark night, and then the sudden opening of the door of the tavern upon an entire little universe of light and warmth and singing and laughing humans. I found taverns very enticing indeed. Of course, all this ravening, this endless killing - it was on account of my grief for Pandora, and it was because I was alone. Who was there to restrain me? Who was there to out do me? No one at all. And understand, during the first few months, I might have written to her! There was surely a chance that she had remained in Antioch, in our house, waiting for me to come to my senses, but I did no such thing. A fierce anger, the very anger I fight now, welled up in me, and it made me weak, as I've already told you. I couldn't do what I had to do - bring her back to me. And sometimes my loneliness pushed me to take three and four victims in a night, until I was spilling blood I couldn't drink. Sometimes in the early hours of the morning my rage was quieted, and I went back to my historical writing, something which I had begun in Antioch and never revealed to a single soul. I described what I saw in Rome of progress or failure. I described the buildings in ponderous detail.

But then there came nights when I thought that everything I'd written was useless. After all, what was the purpose? I could not enter these descriptions, these observations, these poems, these essays, into the mortal world! They were contaminated in that they came from a blood drinker, a monster who slew humans for his own survival. There was no place for the poetry or history which had come from a greedy mind and heart. And so I began to destroy not only my fresh writings, but even the old essays which I had written in Antioch in the past. I took the scrolls out of the chests one by one and burnt them as I had burnt the records of my family. Or I merely kept them, locked up tight, and away from my eyes, so that nothing I'd written could spark in me anything new. It was a great crisis of the soul. Then something happened which was totally unforeseen. I came upon another blood drinker - indeed I came upon two of them in dark streets of the late night city as I was coming down a hill. The moon had gone behind the clouds at that moment, but naturally I could see quite perfectly with my preternatural eyes. The two creatures were approaching me rapidly with no knowledge that I stood against the wall, trying not to block their path. At last the first of the pair lifted his head and I recognized the face at once. I knew the hawk nose and deep-set eyes. I knew the gaunt cheeks. In fact I recognized everything about him, the slope of his shoulders, his long blond hair, and even the hand that held the cloak at his throat. This was Mael, the Druid priest who had long ago captured me and taken me prisoner, and fed me alive to the burnt and dying God of the Grove. This was Mael who had kept me in captivity for months as he prepared me for the Dark Magic. This was Mael, the pure of heart, and the fearless one, whom I had come to know so very well. Who had made Mael a blood drinker? In what grove had Mael been consecrated to his old religion? Why was he not shut up in some oak tree in Gaul, there to preside over the feasts of his fellow Druids? Our eyes met, but I experienced no alarm. In fact, I had assessed his strength and found it wanting. He was as old as I was, yes, that was plain, but he had not drunk as I had from Akasha. I was by far the stronger. There was nothing he could do to me. And so at this moment, I looked away and to the other blood drinker who was much taller, and infinitely stronger, and whose skin was a dark-brown color, surely from having been burnt in the Terrible Fire. This one had a large face of rather agreeable and open features, with large questioning black eyes, a thick and well-proportioned mouth, and a head of wavy black hair. I looked back to this blond headed one who had taken my mortal life with such religious conviction. It occurred to me that I could destroy him by ripping his head from his body, and by keeping possession of his head and then placing it somewhere in my garden where the sun would inevitably find it and burn it black. It occurred to me that I ought to do this, that this creature deserved no better. Yet there were other thoughts working in my mind. I wanted to talk to this being. I wanted to know him. I wanted to know the other being with him, this brown-skinned blood drinker who stared at me with such a mixture of innocence and warmth. This blood drinker was much older. This blood drinker was like no being who had ever come at me in Antioch, crying for the Mother and Father. This being was an entirely new thing. It was in this moment that I understood perhaps for the first time that anger was weak. Anger had robbed me of Pandora over a sentence of less than twenty words. Anger would rob me of Mael if I destroyed him. Also, I thought, I can always delay the murder. I can talk with Mael now. I can let my mind have this company it craves and I can always kill him later on. But I'm sure you know such reasoning is false, because once we grow to love a person we are not likely to want that person's death. As these thoughts raced through my mind, words suddenly spilled from my lips. "I'm Marius, don't you remember me?" I said. "You took me to the Grove of the Old God, you gave me to him, and I escaped." I was appalled at the hostility with which I'd spoken. He cloaked his thoughts completely, and I couldn't tell whether he had known me by my appearance or not. He spoke quickly in Latin. "Yes, you abandoned the grove. You abandoned all those who worshiped you. You took the power given you, and what did you leave for the Faithful of the Forest? What did you give back?" "And you, my precious Druid priest," I said, "do you serve your old gods? Is that what has brought you to Rome?" My voice was quaking with anger, and I felt the weakness of it. I struggled to regain clarity and strength. "When I knew you, you were pure of heart. Seldom have I ever known any creature more deluded, more given over to comforts and illusions of religion as you were." I stopped. I had to check myself, and I did. "The old religion is gone," he said furiously. "The Romans have taken even our most secret places. Their cities are everywhere. And thieving barbarians swoop down upon us from across the Danube. And the Christians, the Christians come into places where the Romans are not. There is no stopping the Christians." His voice grew louder, even though it had taken on the tone of a whisper. "But it was you, Marius," he said, "you, who corrupted me. It was you, Marius, who poisoned me, it was you who divided me from the Faithful of the Forest, you who gave me dreams of greater things!" He was as angry as I was. He was trembling. And as often happens with two people who are quarreling, this anger produced a good calm in me. I was able to sink my enmity down into myself with that little resolve, You can always kill him later, and so I went on. The other creature looked quite surprised by all this and fascinated with an almost childlike expression on his face. "What you're saying is nonsense," I answered. "I ought to destroy you. It would be an easy thing for me to do." "Very well then, try," he answered. The other one reached from behind and put his hand on that of Mael. "No, listen to me, both of you," he said in a kindly rather deep voice. "Don't go on with this quarrel. However we came to the Dark Blood, either through lies or violence, it has made us immortal. Are we to be so ungrateful?" "I'm not ungrateful," I said, "but I owe my debt to fate, not to Mael. Nevertheless, I'm lonely for your company. That's the truth of it. Come to my house. I'll never harm anyone who comes as a guest under my roof." I had quite surprised myself by this little speech but it was the truth. "You have a house in this city?" asked Mael. "What do you mean by a house?" "I have a house, a comfortable house. I bid you to come and talk to me. I have a pleasant garden with beautiful fountains. I have slaves. They are simple-minded. The light is pleasant. The garden is full of night-blooming flowers. Come." The one with the black hair was openly surprised as he had been before.

"I want to come," he said, glancing at Mael, though he still stood behind him. His voice had an authority to it, a pure strength, though it was soft. Mael was rigid and helpless in his anger. With his hawk nose and frightful eyes, he reminded me of a wild bird. Men with such noses always do. But in truth, he possessed a rather unusual beauty. His forehead was high and clear, and his mouth was strong. But to go on with my tale, it was only now that I noticed that both men wore rags like beggars. They were barefoot, and though blood drinkers are never truly soiled, for no soil clings to them, they were unkempt. Well, I could soon remedy that if they would allow. I had trunks of garments as always. Whether I went out to hunt or to study some fresco in a deserted house, I was a welldressed Roman, and often carried dagger and sword. At last they agreed to come, and with a great act of will, I went ahead, turning my back on them to lead them, using the Mind Gift to maximum effect to watch over them that neither tried to strike out at me. Of course I was profoundly grateful that Those Who Must Be Kept were not in the house where either of these two might have detected their powerful heartbeats, but I could not allow myself to visualize these beings. On we walked. Finally, they came into my house, looking about themselves as though they were among miracles when all that I possessed were the simple furnishings of a rich man. They gazed hungrily at the bronze oil lamps that filled the marble floored rooms with brilliant light, and the couches and chairs they hesitated to touch. I cannot tell you how often this has happened me over the centuries, that some wandering blood drinker, bereft of all human attachments, has come into my house to marvel at simple things. This is why I had a bed for you when you came here. That is why I had clothes. "Sit down," I said to them, "there's nothing here that can't be cleaned or thrown away. I insist that you be comfortable. I wish we had some gesture that I might give, equal to that which mortals make when they offer guests a cup of wine." The larger taller man was the first to be seated in a chair, rather than a couch. Then I followed taking a chair as well, and bidding Mael please to be seated to my right. I could see now quite clearly that the bigger blood drinker possessed infinitely more power than Mael. Indeed he was much older. He was older than me. That was why he had healed after the Terrible Fire, though that had been two hundred years ago, I had to admit. But I sensed no menace from this creature, and then quite unexpectedly, indeed, silently, he gave me his name. "Avicus." Mael gazed at me with the most venomous expression. He did not sit back as he might have done, but kept himself bitterly erect and ready as if for a brawl. I sought to read his mind but this was useless. As for me, I considered myself the consummate master of my hatred and my rage, but when I saw the anxious look on the face of Avicus I thought perhaps I was wrong. Suddenly, this blood drinker spoke. "Lay down your hatred, each for the other," he said in Latin, though he spoke with an accent," and perhaps a battle of words will put all to right." Mael didn't wait for my agreement to this plan. "We brought you to the grove," he told me, "because our god told us we must do this. He was burnt and dying, but he would not tell us why. He wanted you to go to Egypt, but he wouldn't tell us why. There must be a new god, he said, but he didn't tell us why." "Calm yourself," said Avicus softly, "so that your words truly speak for your heart." Even in his rags he looked rather dignified and curious as to what would be said. Mael gripped the arms of the chair and glared at me, his long blond hair hanging over his face. "Bring a perfect human for the old god's magic, we were told. And that our legends told us was true. When an old god is weak there must be a new one. And only a perfect man can be given over to the dying god for his magic in the oak." "And so you found a Roman," I said, "in the prime of life, happy and rich, and dragged him off against his will. Were there no men among you who were fit and right for your own religion? Why come to me with your wretched beliefs? " Mael wasn't slowed in the slightest. At once he continued. "Bring me one who is fit,' said the god, 'one who knows the languages of all kingdoms!' That was his admonition. Do you know now long we had to search for such a man as you? " "Am I to feel sorry for you?" I said sharply and foolishly. He went on. We brought you to the oak as we were told to do. Then when you came out of the oak, to preside over our great sacrifice, we saw that you a been made into a gleaming god of shimmering hair and eyes that frightened us. "And without a word of protest, you raised your arms so that the Great Feast of Sanhaim could begin. You drank the blood of the victims given you. We saw you do it! The magic was restored in you. We felt we would prosper, and it was time to burn the old god as our legends told us we must do. "It was then that you fled." He sat back in his chair as though this long speech had taken the strength out of him. "You didn't return," he said disgustedly. "You knew our secrets. But you didn't return." A silence fell. They didn't know of the Mother and the Father. They knew nothing of the old Egyptian lore. I was too relieved for a long moment to say anything. I felt more calm and controlled than ever. Indeed, it seemed rather absurd that we were having this argument, for as Avicus had said, we were immortal. But we were human still, each in his own way. Finally I realized that Mael was looking at me, and his eyes were as charged with rage as before. He looked pale, hungry, wild as I've said. But both of these creatures were waiting upon me to speak or do something, and it did seem the burden lay with me. At last, I made a decision which seemed to me to be its own form of reckoning, and its own form of triumph. "No, I didn't come back," I said to Mael squarely. "I didn't want to be the God of the Grove. I cared nothing for the Faithful of the Forest. I made my choice to wander through time. I have no belief in your gods or your sacrifices. What did you expect of me?" "You took the magic of our god with you." "I had no choice," I said. "If I had left the old burnt god without taking his magic, you would have destroyed me, and I didn't want to die. Why should I have died? Yes, I took the magic that he gave me and yes, I presided over your sacrifices and then I fled as anyone of my nature would do." He looked at me for a long time, as if trying to decide whether or not I wanted to quarrel further. "And what do I see now in you?" I demanded. "Haven't you fled your Faithful of the Forest? Why do I come upon you in Rome?" He waited a long moment. "Our god," he said, "our old burnt god. He spoke of Egypt. He spoke of our bringing him one who could go down into Egypt. Did you go to Egypt? Did you seek there the Good Mother?" I cloaked my mind as best I could. I made my face severe, and I tried to figure how much I should confess and why.

"Yes I went to Egypt," I said. "I went to find the cause of the fire that had burnt the gods all through the North lands." "And what did you find?" he demanded. I glanced from him to Avicus and I saw that he too waited upon my answer. "I found nothing," I responded. "Nothing but burnt ones who pondered the same mystery. The old legend of the Good Mother. Nothing further. It is finished. There is no more to tell." Did they believe me? I couldn't tell. Both seemed to harbor their own secrets, their own choices made long ago. Avicus looked ever so slightly alarmed for his companion. Mael looked up slowly and said with anger, "Oh, that I had never laid eyes upon you. You wicked Roman, you rich Roman with all your splendor and fine words." He looked about the house, at its wall paintings, at its couches and tables, at the marble floors. "Why do you say this?" I asked. I tried not to despise him but to see him, and understand him, but my hatred was too great. "When I took you prisoner," he said, "when I sought to teach you our poetry and our songs, do you remember how you tried to bribe me? You spoke of your beautiful villa on the Bay of Naples. You said that you would take me there if only I would help you escape. Do you remember these awful things?" "Yes, I remember," I said coldly. "I was your prisoner! You had taken me deep into the forest against my will. What did you expect of me? And had you let me escape, I would have taken you to my house on the Bay of Naples. I would have paid my own ransom. My family would have paid it. Oh, it's too foolish to speak of these things." I shook my head. I grew too agitated. My old loneliness beckoned to me. I wanted silence in these rooms again. What need had I of these two? But the one called Avicus appealed to me silently with his expression. And I wondered who he might be. "Please, keep your temper," said Avicus. "I'm the cause of his suffering." "No," said Mael quickly. I glanced at his companion. "That can't be." "Oh, but it is," declared Avicus, "and always has been, ever since I gave you the Dark Blood. Gain the strength either to remain with me or to leave me. Things cannot remain as they are." He reached out and put his hand on his companion's arm. "You've found this strange being, Marius," he said, "and you've told Marius of the last years of your strong belief. You've relived that awful misery. But don't be so foolish as to hate him for what happened. He was right to seek his freedom. As for us, the old faith died. The Terrible Fire destroyed it, and nothing more could be done." Mael looked as dejected as any creature I've ever seen. Meantime my heart was fast catching up with my mind. I was thinking: Here are two immortals but we cannot solace one another; we cannot have friendship. We can only part after bitter words. And then I'll be alone again. I'll be proud Marius who left Pandora. I shall have my beautiful house and all my fine possessions to myself. I realized Avicus was staring at me, trying to probe my mind, but failing though his Mind Gift was quite terrifically strong. "Why do you live as vagabonds?" I asked. "We don't know how to live as anything else," said Avicus. "We've never tried. We shy away from mortals, except when we hunt. We fear discovery. We fear fire." I nodded. "What do you seek other than blood?" A miserable expression passed over his face. He was in pain. He tried to hide it. Or perhaps he tried to make the pain go away.

"I'm not sure that we seek anything," he said. "We don't know how."
"Do you want to stay with me," I asked, "and learn?" I felt the boldness, the
presumptuousness of this question, but the words had already been said.
"I can show you the Temples of Rome; I can show you the big palaces, the houses that
make this villa appear quite humble indeed. I can show you how to play the shadows so
that mortals never see you; how to climb walls swiftly and silently; how to walk the roofs
at night all over the city, never touching the ground." Avicus was amazed. He looked to
Mael. Mael sat slumped, saying nothing.
Then he pulled himself up. In a weak voice he continued his condemnation. "I would
have been stronger if you hadn't told me all those marvelous things," he said, "and now
you ask if we want to enjoy the same pleasures, the pleasures of a Roman."
"It's what I have to offer," I said. "Do what you wish."
Mael shook his head. He began to speak again, for the benefit of whom I don't know.
"When it was plain that you wouldn't return," he said, "they chose me. I was to become
the god.
But for this to happen we had to find a God of the Grove who had not been burnt to death
by the Terrible Fire. After all, we had destroyed our own gentle god foolishly! A creature
who had had the magic to make you."
I gestured as if to say, It was indeed a shame.
"We sent word far and wide," he said. "At last an answer came from Britain. A god
survived there, a god who was most ancient and most strong."
I looked to Avicus, but there was no change in his expression.
"However we were warned not to go to him. We were told that it was perhaps not
something we should do. We were confused by these messages, and at last we set out for
we felt that we must try."
"And how did you feel," I asked cruelly, "now that you had been chosen, and you knew
that you would be shut up in the oak, never to see the sun again, and only to drink blood
during the great feasts and during the full moon?"
He looked straight ahead as if he couldn't give me a decent answer to this, and then he
replied.
"You had corrupted me as I told you."
"Ah," I said, "so you were afraid. The Faithful of the Forest couldn't comfort you. And I
was to blame."
"Not afraid," he said furiously, clenching his teeth. "Corrupted as I said." He flashed his
small deep-set eyes on me. "Do you know what it means to believe absolutely nothing, to
have no god, no truth!"
"Yes, of course I know," I answered. "I believe nothing. I consider it wise. I believed
nothing when I was mortal. I believe nothing now."
I think I saw Avicus flinch.
I might have said more brutal things, but I saw that Mael meant to go on.
Staring forward in the same manner he told his tale: "We made our journey," he said.
"We crossed the narrow sea to Britain and went North to a land of green woods and there
we came upon a band of priests who sang our hymns and knew our poetry and our law.
They were Druids as we were Druids, they were the Faithful of the Forest as were we.
We fell into each other's arms."
Avicus was watching Mael keenly. My eyes were more patient and cold, I was sure.
Nevertheless the simple narrative drew me, I have to confess.
"I went into the grove," said Mael. "How huge the trees were. How ancient. Any one of
them might have been the Great Tree. At last I was led to it. And I saw the door with its