line running along the mortar at the bottom of the slab.
The vampire shrugged his shoulders, but before he could ask Druzil how that crack might help, a strange sensation, a lightness, came over him, as though he was something less than substantial. Rufo looked to Druzil, who was smiling widely, then back to the crack, which suddenly loomed much larger. The vampire, black robes and all, melted away into a cloud of green vapor and swirled through the crack in the slab.
He came back to his corporeal form inside the tight confines of the stone crypt, hemmed in by unbroken walls. For an instant, a wave of panic, a feeling of being trapped, swept over the man. How long would his air last? he wondered. He shut his mouth, fearful that he was gulping in too much of the precious commodity.
A moment later, his mouth opened once more and from it issued a howl of laughter. “Air?” Rufo asked aloud. Rufo needed no air, and he was certainly not trapped. He would slip out through that crack as easily as he had come in, or else he could simply slide down and kick the slab free of its perch. He was strong enough to do that he knew he was.
Suddenly the limitations of a weak and living body seemed clear to the vampire. He thought of all the times when he had been persecuted-unfairly, by his reckoning-and he thought of the two Oghman priests he had so easily dispatched.
Oghman priests! Wrestlers, warriors, yet he had tossed them about without effort!
Rufo felt as though he had been freed of those living limitations, free to fly and grab at the power that was rightfully his. He would teach his persecutors. He would…
The vampire stopped fantasizing and reached up to feel the brand on his forehead. An image of Cadderly, of his greatest oppressor, came clear to him.
Yes, Rufo would teach them all.
But now, here in the cool, dark confines of his chosen bed, the vampire would rest. The sun, an ally of the living-an ally of the weak-was bright outside.
Rufo would wait for the dark.
The highest-ranking priests of the Deneirian order gathered that afternoon at Dean Thobicus’s bidding.
They met in a little-used room on the library’s fourth and highest floor, an obscure setting that would guarantee them their privacy.
Seclusion seemed important to the withered dean, the others realized, a point made quite clear when Thobicus shut tight the room’s single door and closed the shutters over the two tiny windows.
Thobicus solemnly turned about and surveyed this most important gathering. The room was not formally set up for an audience. Some of the priests sat in chairs of various sizes; others simply stood leaning against a bare wall, or sat on the weathered carpet covering the floor. Thobicus moved near the middle of the group, near the center of the floor, and turned slowly, eyeing each of the thirty gathered priests to let them fully appreciate the gravity of this meeting. The various conversations dissipated under that scrutiny, replaced by intrigue and trepidation.
“Castle Trinity is eradicated,” Thobicus said to them after more than a minute of silence.
The priests looked around at each other, stunned by the suddenness of the announcement. Then a cheer went up, quietly at first, but gaining momentum until all the gathered priests, except the dean himself, were clapping each other on the back and shaking their fists in victory.
More than one called out Cadderly’s name, and Thobicus winced each time he heard it, and knew that he must proceed with caution.
As the cheering lost its momentum, Thobicus held up his hand, calling for quiet. Again the dean’s intense stare fell over the priests, silencing them, filling them with curiosity.
“The word is good,” remarked Fester Rumpol, the second-ranking priest of the Deneirian order. “Yet I read no cheer in your features, my dean.”
“Do you know how I learned of our enemy’s fall?” Thobicus asked him.
“Cadderty?” answered one voice.
“You have spoken with a
The vampire shrugged his shoulders, but before he could ask Druzil how that crack might help, a strange sensation, a lightness, came over him, as though he was something less than substantial. Rufo looked to Druzil, who was smiling widely, then back to the crack, which suddenly loomed much larger. The vampire, black robes and all, melted away into a cloud of green vapor and swirled through the crack in the slab.
He came back to his corporeal form inside the tight confines of the stone crypt, hemmed in by unbroken walls. For an instant, a wave of panic, a feeling of being trapped, swept over the man. How long would his air last? he wondered. He shut his mouth, fearful that he was gulping in too much of the precious commodity.
A moment later, his mouth opened once more and from it issued a howl of laughter. “Air?” Rufo asked aloud. Rufo needed no air, and he was certainly not trapped. He would slip out through that crack as easily as he had come in, or else he could simply slide down and kick the slab free of its perch. He was strong enough to do that he knew he was.
Suddenly the limitations of a weak and living body seemed clear to the vampire. He thought of all the times when he had been persecuted-unfairly, by his reckoning-and he thought of the two Oghman priests he had so easily dispatched.
Oghman priests! Wrestlers, warriors, yet he had tossed them about without effort!
Rufo felt as though he had been freed of those living limitations, free to fly and grab at the power that was rightfully his. He would teach his persecutors. He would…
The vampire stopped fantasizing and reached up to feel the brand on his forehead. An image of Cadderly, of his greatest oppressor, came clear to him.
Yes, Rufo would teach them all.
But now, here in the cool, dark confines of his chosen bed, the vampire would rest. The sun, an ally of the living-an ally of the weak-was bright outside.
Rufo would wait for the dark.
The highest-ranking priests of the Deneirian order gathered that afternoon at Dean Thobicus’s bidding.
They met in a little-used room on the library’s fourth and highest floor, an obscure setting that would guarantee them their privacy.
Seclusion seemed important to the withered dean, the others realized, a point made quite clear when Thobicus shut tight the room’s single door and closed the shutters over the two tiny windows.
Thobicus solemnly turned about and surveyed this most important gathering. The room was not formally set up for an audience. Some of the priests sat in chairs of various sizes; others simply stood leaning against a bare wall, or sat on the weathered carpet covering the floor. Thobicus moved near the middle of the group, near the center of the floor, and turned slowly, eyeing each of the thirty gathered priests to let them fully appreciate the gravity of this meeting. The various conversations dissipated under that scrutiny, replaced by intrigue and trepidation.
“Castle Trinity is eradicated,” Thobicus said to them after more than a minute of silence.
The priests looked around at each other, stunned by the suddenness of the announcement. Then a cheer went up, quietly at first, but gaining momentum until all the gathered priests, except the dean himself, were clapping each other on the back and shaking their fists in victory.
More than one called out Cadderly’s name, and Thobicus winced each time he heard it, and knew that he must proceed with caution.
As the cheering lost its momentum, Thobicus held up his hand, calling for quiet. Again the dean’s intense stare fell over the priests, silencing them, filling them with curiosity.
“The word is good,” remarked Fester Rumpol, the second-ranking priest of the Deneirian order. “Yet I read no cheer in your features, my dean.”
“Do you know how I learned of our enemy’s fall?” Thobicus asked him.
“Cadderty?” answered one voice.
“You have spoken with a
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