Page 30 of The Vampire King's War

LORD OF THE DEAD

Earlier…

Caemorn’s right eye twitched. It could have been an involuntary movement. But it wasn’t. He was the cause of the twitch. And though small, it was a victory. He had made his own eye twitch when his Master hadn’t wanted him to.

The greatest horror for any Kaly Vampire was to be at the mercy of another Vampire of their kind. For Caemorn, there were few other Kaly Vampires who could ever match him in strength. Even though he might be younger than many of them, he stood supreme. And it wasn’t because of his addiction to study, his obsession with perfecting every spell or pushing the boundaries of what was known about controlling the dead and fueling his strength with spirits that gave him that edge. These things had helped him for sure. But he understood the real reason now why none could touch him. Why ruling the dead had always come so easily to him.

His Master was Kaly themself.

You are wondering how much difference is there between you and I, aren’t you, Caemorn? Kaly’s sexless voice was threaded through with laughter.

You made me. Your blood flows through my veins.It is not watered down by others, Caemorn said.

Ah, but you also have your own blood in those veins, Caemorn. Weak blood.

If I was so weak you wouldn’t have chosen me,Caemorn reminded him stiffly.

Kaly knew his past. Knew his story. Knew the hardship that had been his life. Despite him claiming the air of an aristocrat--like Balthazar actually had been--he’d come from less than nothing. This was the truth of him.

His mother had been an intelligent, if simple peasant who had the misfortune to fall in love with a monk who traveled to her village. He’d been conceived in a moment of passion--back then others would have and had called it unholy lust--under a full moon. They’d made love, ironically enough, in a graveyard.

The fact that Caemorn had been born with flaxen hair and delicate, almost preternaturally beautiful features had set him apart even more than the circumstances of his birth had. He was ostracized, of course. He was like an alien in the village of pug-nosed, hatchet-faced, dirty peasants where the light of intellect, curiosity or kindness did not shine. And so he turned away from their dark faces and even darker minds to the wider world around him to find his light.

He was glad to be on his own. Nature fascinated him. He always wanted to know why things were the way they were. When a beloved cat had died of old age, he’d mourned it, but recognized that whatever had made the cat, the cat he loved was gone. So he’d dissected it, trying to figure out what was missing, except of course, he didn’t know what should be there in the first place.

Killing animals--killing anything really--had never appealed to him. He loved life. He imagined the animals did too. He understood that he required their flesh and skin and bones to survive. But he took no pleasure in it and wished there was another way.

While some of the other children reveled in seeing a chicken, cow or pig dispatched or would eagerly go hunting--illegally, in most cases--for hare or squirrel or even a buck, he had never expressed any interest. But he realized after the cat, that he needed to see the process of death. Maybe by watching things die, he would see this missing part leave. And maybe that missing part could be caught and put back in place or put in another of its kind.

Of course, when the small-minded townsfolk had discovered his interest, they had been appalled and called him unnatural. The irony of it all was that they were the ones that caused the deaths. He just watched and he was watching to stop the process. When he’d explained that to them though, they’d been angrier and almost afraid of him. The first child that had reached down for a stone had caught his mother’s eye. She’d grabbed Caemorn by the shoulders and harshly whispered in his ear, “Go! Run! Find your father!”

Then she’d shoved him behind her, blocking him from the first volley of stones, as he’d run. He had only been 10-years-old and a fool in his own estimation. A coward, too. He’d run and left her there even when he heard the thunk of stone against flesh and her screams.

He did not know what had happened to her. Had they stoned her to death? Had they stopped throwing stones when they realized he’d gotten away? He could have tried to draw her spirit to him and find out. She might be one that remained glued to the Earth like so many who died violent or early deaths. But he had not.

He’d told himself for years it was because it didn’t matter. She’d been a fool to have not run away with him, even though that wouldn’t have given him the real full chance to get away. He told himself that his only family was Artemis Alucius. And maybe he had felt guilt because when Artemis tortured him, destroyed him with words or looks or spirits, he’d accepted it and never fought back. Just like he’d never looked back when his mother had screamed.

His mother had told him the name of the priory where his father had, at least, called home when he’d strayed with his mother. It was nearly a month’s walk away. But Caemorn had done it. He’d arrived there, at the priory’s gates, more skeleton than boy.

He’d eaten only what he could steal or had begged and that hadn’t been much. And he hadn’t stopped but to sleep a few hours and run on. He still felt pursuers on his heels. Or maybe he thought he needed to honor the gift of her life that his mother had given him by making it to the priory without delay. Whatever it had been, he had made it, half dead, starving, in tattered clothing, and on trembling limbs.

If either his mother or he had any sense, sending him to the priory would have been the last place either of them would have sent him. After all, with his distinctive looks--looks he shared with his father, according to his mother--showing up there would show that his father had broken his vow of celibacy, among other things. But a monk in long robes with a rope tied around his waist had come to the wrought iron gates and stared down at him in silence. The monk’s face was hidden in shadow. He wore gloves that covered his hands. All of him was hidden from the winter sun’s weak rays.

Caemorn hadn’t had the strength to speak for himself. His teeth chattered with cold and want. He looked up at the monk’s hooded face and waited for what he wasn’t quite sure. Recognition? Pity? Disgust? Probably the latter if nothing else as that had been what he’d always gotten.

The monk silently opened the door and gestured for him to enter. Caemorn hobbled past the gate and onto the crushed stone path. His right ankle had twisted on his trek. The monk said nothing as he took Caemorn up to the stone structure that looked like a cross between a castle and a prison. He was ushered inside of this intimidating building still without a word.

It was still cold inside, but warmer than the wintery outside. The darkness was pushed back only by firelight and candlelight. But it appeared as if that golden glow was in a losing fight with the almost physical blackness within the priory. Caemorn didn’t know where he expected the monk to take him. Perhaps to his father. He imagined the monk presenting him to the man who had made him with a sneering statement, “He’s yours. You are both damned.” But that didn’t happen.

The monk led him to a set of stairs going down. A cold, wet wind blew up towards them. Caemorn made the first sound he had since the monk had found him at the gate and retreated from the moaning breeze. The monk put his hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him forward. Caemorn tried to dig his heels into the stone floor, but his shoes were rotted scraps and he could gain no purchase. The monk pushed again and Caemorn took that first step. Then another. Then another. He had no choice, but to go forward. The monk was not going to allow him to stay up above. And he had nowhere else to go.

There were torches that lined the walls of the steps. The whole of the priory felt old to Caemorn as if it had stood for hundreds of years, but these steps felt older as if the priory had been built on top of them. He would later find out that it had been done just like that for what was below the priory was precious and sacred and rare. A gate to Lasting.

The stairs curved like a snake slithering into the earth and leaving a trail for prey to foolishly follow. The torches crackled and flickered as the constant breeze rattled them. Caemorn imagined that the fire was trying to flee this place, but was chained to the wood and the wood was chained to the wall by iron.

It seemed that they descended for hours, but later he would know that could not be the case. It was a long descent but could be done in minutes. Yet time during that first descent stretched and flowed like honey. Finally, they reached the bottom. It was a room made of bones. Caemorn’s eyes widened and adrenaline spiked in his veins. He gasped and backed up into the figure of the monk.

“Are you afraid, Caemorn?” the monk asked.

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