recollection of her offering to him.
He lay upon the bed in breeches and shirt. His mind drifted to the girl who had lured him from his purpose tonight. Curious. She was so delicate. Yet she had pushed past him to tend to the dying girl. That showed a certain amount of courage. Judging from their accusations, she must be the one the villagers in the tavern had talked about. Were her looks the only reason they called her a witch? True, her eyes looked right through one. He felt she knew things about him that no one should know. Frightening, and yet . . . attractive. His was a life of secrets, burdens almost too horrible to bear. What would it be like to connect to someone again? A woman?
His body responded to that thought, as it did so easily these days. But he could never indulge that arousal. The loss of physical satisfaction was part of his atonement. And what was this girl to him, after all? She wasn’t Beatrix. He had his purpose. That energy must be saved. Look what had happened the time he lost control! He wrenched himself onto his side, refusing to remember that time, and set his mind tocontemplate the exercises he had learned at Mirso. But his mind was not obedient tonight . . .
MIRSO MONASTERY, DECEMBER 1819
The wind tore off the snowy peaks behind him as he guided his sturdy mountain horse up toward the luminescent towers growing out of the mountain. He felt the cold, but his soul welcomed it. Outside should reflect inside, should it not? Warmth was denied him. Love was denied. And rightly so. Had he not challenged the Rules laid down by his kind? And was not the fruit of his labor evil, an evil that those he had known forever had been forced to fight, down to the bloody last? Even now there was no guarantee that the balance between humankind and vampires was preserved. He had caused measureless suffering .
His soul was dead. He had no more will to go on living in the world, shouldering the burden of his crimes. Any life left to him was at the place where he began so many years ago .
Stephan raised his gaze again to his goal rising out of the mountain ahead and touched his horse with his heels. The moon came out from behind the clouds and lit the stone spires. They seemed to glow from within. The translucent onyx that formed the battlements and towers of the monastery was dotted with occasional squares of light. Mirso came alive at night. Others would call the sight otherworldly, evil, frightening. To Stephan it was home .
He had grown up at Mirso Monastery, abandoned by his mother, taken in by Rubius and the Elders as a treasure, since children even then were rare. He was not a treasure. A spectacular failure of judgment, unworthy of the love of the only one he had ever cared for . . . that was what he was .
Rubius should never have sent him out into the world. He might never have caused all the suffering. The Eldest said he must experience the world before he could renounce it. The world was not for him. It never had been. He wanted to forget in ritual chanting and abstention what his mistakes had cost the world .
Would Rubius take him back after his transgression? Stephan felt a chill but not from the wind . Pray to whatever gods will have you that you’re allowed to stay, he thought. It was the only refuge left him .
It was nearly an hour before he came to the great doors, heavy beams studded with iron straps in a defensive plaid. He dismounted as the snow swirled around him. The huge round iron ball held by iron strapping waited for him to knock. It would take more than human strength to lift it, but that was the point, was it not? Inside the gates the rasp of the huge bar he remembered sounded. The gates swung open. A monk stood there in black robe and rough rope belt, his hands tucked in the opposite wide sleeve, face hidden in the shadow of his cowl .
Stephan set his lips. “Stephan Sincai to see Rubius,” he bit out in the old language. The words were taken by the wind .
“I know who you
He lay upon the bed in breeches and shirt. His mind drifted to the girl who had lured him from his purpose tonight. Curious. She was so delicate. Yet she had pushed past him to tend to the dying girl. That showed a certain amount of courage. Judging from their accusations, she must be the one the villagers in the tavern had talked about. Were her looks the only reason they called her a witch? True, her eyes looked right through one. He felt she knew things about him that no one should know. Frightening, and yet . . . attractive. His was a life of secrets, burdens almost too horrible to bear. What would it be like to connect to someone again? A woman?
His body responded to that thought, as it did so easily these days. But he could never indulge that arousal. The loss of physical satisfaction was part of his atonement. And what was this girl to him, after all? She wasn’t Beatrix. He had his purpose. That energy must be saved. Look what had happened the time he lost control! He wrenched himself onto his side, refusing to remember that time, and set his mind tocontemplate the exercises he had learned at Mirso. But his mind was not obedient tonight . . .
MIRSO MONASTERY, DECEMBER 1819
The wind tore off the snowy peaks behind him as he guided his sturdy mountain horse up toward the luminescent towers growing out of the mountain. He felt the cold, but his soul welcomed it. Outside should reflect inside, should it not? Warmth was denied him. Love was denied. And rightly so. Had he not challenged the Rules laid down by his kind? And was not the fruit of his labor evil, an evil that those he had known forever had been forced to fight, down to the bloody last? Even now there was no guarantee that the balance between humankind and vampires was preserved. He had caused measureless suffering .
His soul was dead. He had no more will to go on living in the world, shouldering the burden of his crimes. Any life left to him was at the place where he began so many years ago .
Stephan raised his gaze again to his goal rising out of the mountain ahead and touched his horse with his heels. The moon came out from behind the clouds and lit the stone spires. They seemed to glow from within. The translucent onyx that formed the battlements and towers of the monastery was dotted with occasional squares of light. Mirso came alive at night. Others would call the sight otherworldly, evil, frightening. To Stephan it was home .
He had grown up at Mirso Monastery, abandoned by his mother, taken in by Rubius and the Elders as a treasure, since children even then were rare. He was not a treasure. A spectacular failure of judgment, unworthy of the love of the only one he had ever cared for . . . that was what he was .
Rubius should never have sent him out into the world. He might never have caused all the suffering. The Eldest said he must experience the world before he could renounce it. The world was not for him. It never had been. He wanted to forget in ritual chanting and abstention what his mistakes had cost the world .
Would Rubius take him back after his transgression? Stephan felt a chill but not from the wind . Pray to whatever gods will have you that you’re allowed to stay, he thought. It was the only refuge left him .
It was nearly an hour before he came to the great doors, heavy beams studded with iron straps in a defensive plaid. He dismounted as the snow swirled around him. The huge round iron ball held by iron strapping waited for him to knock. It would take more than human strength to lift it, but that was the point, was it not? Inside the gates the rasp of the huge bar he remembered sounded. The gates swung open. A monk stood there in black robe and rough rope belt, his hands tucked in the opposite wide sleeve, face hidden in the shadow of his cowl .
Stephan set his lips. “Stephan Sincai to see Rubius,” he bit out in the old language. The words were taken by the wind .
“I know who you
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