Prince Lestat and the Realms of Atlantis Page 25

  "Uncle," Katu said. "It's not a beautiful word in English or French, but I think in Italian it is pretty."

  "Call him brother," said Kapetria. "That's how it should be. Call me Mother, yes, but we are all brothers and sisters really."

  They led Derek into the living room. There was an electric fire there, as pretty as the fire on the Benedicta, and Welftu was standing by the fireplace peering down into it as if its myriad programmed flames were fascinating to him. He came to greet Derek, to kiss him on both cheeks and to clasp hands. Then he went back to his fire, as if he were counting patterns in the flames.

  "But Kapetria," Derek said. He had settled into a comfortable chair near the couch. "Don't you see? The Prince will realize at once how we've multiplied. The vampires will know that we can increase our numbers almost as easily as they can."

  "And why does that matter, darling?" asked Kapetria, as she stood on the other side of the fireplace. "We are not at war with the Prince."

  "But what do we want of him? Why are we going there? What sort of alliance are we forming?" So many questions tortured him. You must all be inside the dome and together, with arms locked. You must all at the same time...

  "You know I will speak for us," said Kapetria. "You know I will decide what is best to tell and what is best not to tell, and for now, it seems that it's best to tell all that we know and all that we don't know."

  "Don't worry," said Welftu. He came and sat on the couch close to Derek. So sure of himself. So bright and clear eyed. He wore a smart jacket of gray worsted wool, and a white-collared shirt of yellow cotton. Welf's clothes. What had Welf been all these years on the planet? Oh, there was so much for them to share with one another. Had they had other "lives" as Derek had had?

  Derek's heart was pounding.

  Welftu was studying Derek. And Welftu did have Welf's pretty eyes, his thick black eyelashes. But there was something fierce and eager in him that hadn't been in Welf ever. Even when Welf had been asking Derek mean questions.

  "They will protect us and we will protect them," Welftu said. "That is the only course that will make sense to them. After all, think what might happen if they did try to destroy us."

  17

  Rhoshamandes

  THE SMALL HOURS, as they call them. He was on the bluff high above the Chateau, looking down on its four towers, and on the curve in the road that ran below it to the center of the village, with its carefully reconstructed inn, church, and townhouses with their shops.

  In the great ballroom of the Prince's castle, the vampires danced. Antoine conducted the orchestra, now and then playing his violin, and Sybelle's delicate white fingers sped over the harpsichord's double keyboard. Blood drinkers conversed in pairs or small groups. Some roamed alone through the many salons. Others were making their way down to the crypts.

  But the village slept. The chief architect whom Lestat loved so much slept. The team of designers who worked for him slept, their street-level offices shuttered for the night, their tables strewn with ambitious plans for better stables, better electrical systems, better underground utility lines, and new and fine manor houses to be built in the little valley. What a strange tribe they were, these quiet men and women gathered from all over the globe who had been laboring in well-paid obscurity here for over twenty years, creating masterpieces of reproductive genius and technological innovation that the world beyond the electrical fences never saw.

  Was it really enough, all that gold paid out to them, all those benefits, all those vacations on charter planes and yachts which the Prince lavished on them, enough for all they'd done and all they would do? Were they happy?

  The answer was obviously yes, though when the ale and wine had been flowing in the great room of the inn tonight, there had been the usual raucous complaints that no one would ever know the real extent of their unique achievements. But no one wanted to leave. No one was ready to give up.

  Alain Abelard, the chief architect who had grown up on this mountain as his late father oversaw the very first restoration of the old castle, was convinced that someday justice would come to them. Someday their reclusive Count de Lioncourt, called the Prince by his ever-increasing "family" of associates, would open the property to the hungering eyes of those who loved nothing more than to see great palaces sprung from hopeless ruins. Someday the tourist buses would roll through the many sets of gates that stood between them and the highway to Clermont-Ferrand, bringing eager men and women to marvel at all those painted rooms, all those vintage marble fireplaces gathered from near and far, all that exquisite fruitwood furniture so carefully chosen for the smallest rooms as well as the largest. Someday students of agriculture and hydroponics, of solar power and recycled waste, of electrical or fiber-optic systems, would come to study this little self-sustained world.

  It was all right, thought Alain Abelard. At any rate he had thought so tonight over his wine. So what if his wife had left him, and his father was dead, and his sons had gone to work in Paris or Berlin or Sao Paulo? He was happy enough, with the Prince's weekly walks through the snow in the dark, with the Prince praising him for all his work, and offering new suggestions and new challenges. Alain would stay here forever. And he had no need, it seemed, to confide his suspicions that the Prince was no ordinary person, that some devastating secret was concealed by his placid and never-changing youthful face.

  The Prince loved Alain Abelard. There was talk in the Chateau ballroom nightly as to when the Prince would bring him over. And what about some of the others, would Lestat ever make blood drinkers of the more promising craftsmen who excelled at painting and gilding and upholstering and woodwork and restoring the fine paintings which were always turning up in crates for newly developed bedchambers or stairway walls? Would the Court grow in the Blood the way the Court of Notker the Wise had grown over the centuries with new musicians chosen from the human herd?

  The human community of the Prince was certainly growing, the project ever expanding. Take the de Lenfent manor house, for instance. How the Prince wanted it perfect, though the house itself had been burnt to the ground in the Great Fear when the last Count de Lioncourt of the ancien regime had just managed to escape to Louisiana with his life and a small band of devoted servants.

  Now this manor house was to become the residence of Alain himself, the Prince had already explained to him. But it must be done according to the Prince's private research and dreams, and the little cul-de-sac leading to its front gates was already paved with the appropriate stones.

  One had to marvel at what had been achieved here through imagination, ambition, and faith.

  And Rhoshamandes did marvel at it. He marveled at all of it.

  And in his heart of hearts he did not really want to destroy it, or harm it in any way.

  Yet he had come for just that purpose. And they, the blood drinkers of the Chateau, certainly knew he was here. They had to know. As he eavesdropped on their thoughts and fears, he caught indistinct but certain indications that Marius knew he was here, and Seth knew he was here, and that his old loved ones Nebamun, now known as Gregory, and Sevraine knew he was here, though they could not hear Rhoshamandes any more than the young ones who flashed him the intelligence unconsciously and irrepressibly as they paused at the great open windows of the ballroom to look out over the snowy fields.

  Where is he? What does he want?

  Ah, that was the question. What did he want?

  He could burn that intricate and marvelous little village to the ground now, couldn't he? He could start so many fires so fast that the flames would bring down every structure within an hour, no matter what precautions against fire had been taken. And he could blast the Chateau itself with such bolts of heat that its plaster ceilings and murals would be blackened and ruined before any flood of saving waters poured forth from all the hidden pipes. Indeed, he could melt wires, cables, computer systems, and motion-picture screens, sconces, the chandeliers. He could spend all of his energy blasting every nook and cranny, every out
building and vehicle, until the horses were running wild in the snowy night and mortals were racing to find their automobiles and drive off in terror, while immortals--did what? Fled through the portals to the sky? Or rushed down into the dungeons knowing that the sunlight would eventually drive away the enemy?

  And what if he decided to die in this effort, to give it all the destructive power of his body and soul as they, the ancient ones, surrounded him and sought with their bolts to make the blood catch fire in his veins, to make his bones explode?

  How much did Rhoshamandes want to eradicate everything and everyone the Prince loved? How much was he willing to suffer to make the Prince regret ever lifting that ax to sever Rhosh's hand and Rhosh's arm? How much did he want to punish the blond blue-eyed anointed one of that fickle and infantile spirit that had sent him rampaging into Maharet's compound to complete the annihilation of herself of which she'd been dreaming? How much did he want to punish Allesandra and Arion and Everard de Landen and Eleni for leaving him? And how much did he want to hurt Benedict, sweet Benedict who'd pulled the rug out from under Rhosh's past, present, and future?

  He honestly didn't know. He only knew that the anger was eating away at him as if it were a fire, and that he was just on the verge, the verge of sending that first fatal bolt through the ballroom window before soaring above the castle to throw his powerful blasts of heat at the village roofs and those who slept beneath them.

  Just on the verge? And why? Because a miserable mutant with a brain as empty as a helium balloon had somehow eluded all his efforts to gain information that he, Rhosh, had wanted to use against the Prince? It was as if the voices of the Dark World were taunting him, jeering at him, telling him, "You are nothing and you have nothing and all your yesterdays mean nothing and never did."

  Was that enough to bring his journey to a close? Was that enough when he might not even touch the Prince himself, or the Core inside him?

  And who knew what lay beyond in that undiscovered country? What if it was the Hell of the Greeks and the Romans and the Christians where demons exulted as they burned you with unquenchable fire? Or what if it was nothing, nothing but floating in the thin atmosphere above the earth along with mindless spirits such as Gremt had once been, and Amel had once been, and Memnoch had once been? What if he found himself there, bodiless, neither thirsty nor full, neither warm nor cold, neither sleepy nor wide awake, drifting forever as he peered down on the lights of the earth as his memories slowly dimmed and finally left him completely alone with all his suffering, a thing that might witness without understanding, or haunt out of a need for which he no longer had a name?

  Was the air itself made of dead souls?

  And what if some night, floating up there beyond the reach of love or hatred, of pity or fear, he heard the music again coming from the ballroom of a mountain chateau below, heard music which he had all his life so loved, music down there, music once more organizing his thoughts and his emotions and calling him back to himself to discover that he was as dead as anything in this strange world could be?

  To die or not to die, that is the question; it is nobler to live in torment and rage than not to live at all? And to recall almost nothing of the slings and arrows that drove one over the brink?

  Someone was coming towards him. Someone was walking rapidly up an old path through boulders and trees, towards the spot where Rhosh sat, like an angel perched upon a small cliff.

  And who would that be? Well, who did it have to be--the Prince himself, of course, the one being that Rhosh could not blast into infinity unless he chose to destroy himself?

  He watched and listened. The figure was hurrying. The figure had a time of it in the deep snow, and jumped uneasily from this outcropping to that. No, that couldn't be the Prince. The Prince was too strong and likely knew the woods too well.

  Suddenly, as the figure drew closer and came up the rise directly below him, Rhoshamandes knew for certain who it was, and turned away, burying his head in the crook of his right arm.

  Oh, that this too, too certain pain would not come.

  It was Benedict standing only a few yards below him, his own beloved Benedict, who had left him six months ago in a rage of recriminations and condemnations and sought the shelter of those who'd forgiven Benedict for the slaughter of Maharet but not Rhosh.

  Benedict waited, as if for a signal. And when no signal came, he drew closer, climbing up the steep cliff until he stood beside Rhosh. Rhosh could smell the scent of the hearth on his clothes, the scent of his old regular perfume, the scent of his clothes. Rhosh could hear the regular and powerful beating of Benedict's heart.

  "Rhosh, please, I beg you, don't do it," said Benedict. The everlasting boy was sitting beside him, and wonder of wonders, he had put his arm around Rhosh.

  "Rhosh, they know you burned Garekyn Brovotkin's house in London. They know everything. And if you do what you are thinking of, if you so much as burn any part of this place, they'll take it as an act of war."

  Rhosh didn't answer. He listened to this familiar voice, this voice he hadn't heard for half a year, and he wondered that it could produce such pain in him, pain that was worse than the most searing rage.

  "Rhosh, the elders want you dead." He said the last word the way mortals sometimes say it, with mingled horror and a fear of even speaking the word aloud. "Rhosh, they haven't settled all their questions of authority. Marius and the older ones, the very oldest of the older ones, want you destroyed, and it's only Lestat who is holding them back."

  "Am I supposed to be grateful for this?" Rhosh asked. He turned and looked at his old companion.

  "Rhosh, please don't tempt them to overrule the Prince. Even the Prince has said that if you strike at the Chateau or the village, that will be an act of war."

  "And what do you care, my beloved old friend?" Rhosh asked. "You who said you'd never lodge with me again?"

  "I'll go with you now," said Benedict. "Please. Let's go, the both of us, let's go home."

  "And why would you do that?"

  Benedict didn't answer right away. Rhosh turned and studied Benedict's profile as the boy looked out over the valley below.

  "Because I don't want to be without you," Benedict said. "And if you are going to die, if you are going to bring upon yourself the judgment of those strong enough to destroy you, well, I want to die with you."

  Tears. Plaintive youthful expression. Eternally innocent. Something sweet surviving through centuries of Amel's alchemy, something trusting.

  "I hope and I pray with all my soul that you can come back to them, be rejoined with them, be part of them--."

  Rhosh put up his hand for silence.

  More tears. Tears so like the tears of that immortal child, Derek. Except that these tears were red with blood.

  Rhosh couldn't bear it. He reached out and pulled Benedict towards him and kissed the tears.

  Benedict put his arms around Rhosh.

  Yea gods, what are we, that this means so much above all?

  "Rhosh, these non-humans, they're coming tomorrow. And now let us go, let us leave here together, and let us take the time we have because of this, to think of some plan. Rhosh, if we don't think of something, sooner or later the elders will overrule the Prince. I know it. I--."

  "Stop," said Rhosh. "Don't be afraid. I understand."

  "They're bound and determined and--."

  "I know, I know. Let it be."

  He picked up the boy as he had so many times and gently ascended until the roar of wind in his ears was the only sound, and riding higher, through the banks of cloud, he turned and moved towards home.

  18

  Lestat

  THEY HAD ARRIVED in the village three hours before dark, and been given the best rooms at the inn. There were eight of them. And they were waiting in the grand ballroom when I came upstairs. The entire Court was curious, but the young ones were told to keep away from the main rooms, and that included of course not only fledglings but the many drawn to the Court who had
no interest in power. Louis had steadfastly refused to join me. He was downstairs, reading, alone in his own crypt.

  Marius, Gregory, Sevraine, and Seth were with the visitors, and had been during the forty-five minutes or more that I was confined to the shelter of my crypt.

  Fareed met me in the salon adjacent to the ballroom. He explained telepathically and in a hushed voice that the visitors had admitted some of their group had not come with them. They'd been candid. They couldn't see entrusting themselves entirely to this meeting with us.

  "We know Derek was locked up for ten years," said Fareed. "Yet there's a perfect clone of Derek in this group, except for the hair. And there's a clone of the female Kapetria with the same distinct difference, more gold in the hair. Same with Welf; same with Garekyn Brovotkin."

  "What does this tell you?" I asked.

  That they are the most dangerous threat to this planet that I have ever known. And they are certainly a huge threat to us. We must make the most of this visit in every conceivable way. They want us to know we are at a grave disadvantage.

  "Well, then. Let's go to it," I said aloud. "Amel is inside me, and has been since I woke. But he's not speaking. I expected as much."

  Fareed smiled, but his manner was grave.

  "This is it!" he whispered. "I want to record everything. The hidden cameras are on in the Council Chamber. And don't worry, I've already told them this."

  The ballroom was fully lighted such as I'd seldom if ever seen it, with the electrical chandeliers and the candelabra on every mantel burning away.

  The spectacular visitors were gathered in an area of damask couches and armchairs to the left of the harpsichord and in front of where the orchestra usually assembled, ranged comfortably about and in hushed conversation with Seth and Gregory, or so it appeared. Sevraine and Marius stood to one side, eyes following me as I entered. And from the far door, in came David Talbot with Gremt, Teskhamen, and Armand.

  Armand came up to me, and put his hand on my arm. He sent his message telepathically but decisively. I am telling you, be prepared to destroy them one and all. Then he moved away as if he'd said nothing to me, and given me no sign.