Darren Shan – The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4 (страница 20)

“There is one thing I demand of my assistants,” Seba said. “Truth. Hold my gaze and tell me honestly — do you want to become a vampire so that you can track down and gain revenge on the vampaneze who killed your family?”

“That’s part of it,” Wester replied quietly. “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t. But it’s not the whole reason. I want to be part of a community again. Part of a family. I could make a life for myself here at the Cirque Du Freak, but it doesn’t feel right. When Larten was telling me of your people, your ways, how you embrace the night and honour it… My soul stirred.”

“That is a poetic way of putting it,” Seba smiled. “He has a fairer tongue than you, Master Crepsley.” His smile faded and he refocused on Wester. “What if I told you to put all thoughts of revenge aside, if I said you could never seek vengeance, even if you ran into Murlough by accident one night?”

“I couldn’t agree to such terms,” Wester said. “He butchered my entire family. I can never forgive or forget that. I will seek revenge, either as a vampire or a human.”

Seba approved of the boy’s honesty. Wester had been open with him, and his thirst for revenge was justifiable. Even a General, bound by tighter rules than most of the clan, had the right to kill a vampaneze who had slaughtered members of his human family.

“I have to test your blood,” Seba said. “If it is pure, I will accept you.”

Wester sat calmly as Seba cut his arm and sucked blood from the wound. Both youths watched silently as the vampire swirled it around his mouth. When he pulled a face and spat out the blood, Larten’s heart sank. Wester’s eagerness to become a vampire had taken him aback, but as he’d thought about it more, he’d warmed to the idea. Now it looked as if his master was going to reject Wester, and that hurt Larten more than he’d imagined it could.

Seba glowered at Wester for several long, threatening seconds…

…then winked. “Your blood is fine,” he said. “In fact it is purer than Larten’s or mine. I accept you without hesitation. You are my assistant now. Pack anything you wish to bring with you from this life. We leave in five minutes.”

Wester and Larten shared a beaming glance. As they hurried off to fetch their belongings, Larten found himself thinking of Wester as he had once thought of a boy called Vur Horston — not just as a friend, but a brother.

PART THREE

“How many losses must I endure?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Larten sat in the Hall of Khledon Lurt, sipping from a mug of ale, studying the red drapes hanging from the walls and ceiling, the statue of Khledon Lurt at the centre of the room, and of course the vampires. He had been here almost a week, but still felt out of place among the hardened creatures of the night. This was his first time at Council and it was hard to shake the feeling that he didn’t belong.

He put his mug down and rubbed the scars on his fingertips, remembering the night when Seba drove his nails into the soft flesh. Larten had welcomed the pain because it meant he was leaving behind the human world, taking a step into the night from which there could be no return. He was proud of his ten scars, still shiny after all this time, but they didn’t mean much here. There was a lot more to becoming a vampire of good standing than being able to show that you had been blooded, and Larten was afraid he might not have what it required.

He was nearly thirty, so as a human he would have been in his prime. If he had battled his way up in the world of man, respect and security would probably have been his by now.

But he had been blooded as a half-vampire when he was eighteen, and as a full-vampire five years ago, so he looked like someone in his late teens. And all of his travel and experience paled into insignificance when compared with the adventures of vampires who had circled the globe countless times. Among these centuries-old beings, he felt like a child.

“There you are,” Wester said, flopping down beside him and half draining a mug of ale. “Charna’s guts! I needed that.” The ancient curse sounded amusing coming from Wester, but Larten hid his smile, not wanting to hurt his friend’s feelings.

“This place is amazing,” Wester beamed. “So many tunnels and Halls. Have you been to the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl yet? No, wait, never mind.” He sniffed the air. “I can tell that you haven’t.”

“By implying that I stink, I assume you mean that the Hall of Perta Vin-Grahl is a bathing room,” Larten said drily.

“Of a kind,” Wester chuckled. “Make sure you bring heavy clothes to wrap up in once you’re done. They don’t believe in pampering themselves here with towels or robes.”

Wester drank more of his ale and looked around the cave, eyes sparkling. Wester and Larten had been blooded at the same time, but Wester hadn’t become a full-vampire until two years ago. Larten had always been a faster learner, a few steps ahead at every stage of their training, but in spite of that Wester had adapted more swiftly to the world of Vampire Mountain. He had been mixing freely with other vampires since he arrived, learning about their history, exploring the maze within the mountain, making himself at home.

Larten had stayed close to Seba most of the time, saying little, not sure how to behave. Their master hadn’t wanted to bring them to Council. They were young and he thought it would be better if they waited another twelve years. But they had argued fiercely with him and in the end he’d relented. At the time Larten thought Seba was worried about Wester, afraid that his slightly younger assistant wasn’t up to the physical strain of the bare-footed trek through lands cold and hard. But now Larten had started to think that his master had actually seen a weakness in him.

Larten listened quietly as Wester told him of his recent meetings, his new friends, what he’d learnt about life in the clan. After a while he lowered his voice and said, “I found out more about the vampaneze.”

Both were intrigued by the mysterious, purple-skinned renegades – Seba had told them precious little of the other night clan – but Wester had more of a vested interest than Larten.

“A group of seventy broke away about five hundred years ago. There was a war. It lasted decades, vampires against vampaneze — they hated each other. In the end a peace treaty was agreed and there’s been an uneasy truce ever since.”

“I wonder why they sought peace?” Larten mused. “Why didn’t they see the war through to its end and kill all of the traitors?”

“I haven’t found out yet,” Wester said. “But you know what this means?” Larten stared at him uncertainly. “Seba was alive then. He probably fought in the war.”

“Perhaps that is why he never speaks of the vampaneze,” Larten muttered.

“Aye. And maybe that has something to do with him not wanting to be a Prince.” Larten had let that slip several years ago. He’d regretted it immediately and made Wester promise never to mention it to their master, but the pair had often discussed it in private, trying to figure out the secrets of Seba’s past.

“Have you ever heard of Desmond Tiny?” Wester asked.

“No. Why?”

“A General mentioned him in passing when he was telling me about the war and its conclusion. I asked a couple of others about him. They got an edgy look when I mentioned his name, but they wouldn’t tell me why.”

“You think he was a traitor?” Wester had learnt that the names of traitors were never uttered by those of the clan.

“Maybe,” Wester said, but he sounded unsure.

Further debate was ended when Seba entered the Hall and hailed them. Their master was with another vampire, a scruffy man clad in purple hides and no shoes. He was about Wester’s height, but much broader than either of Seba’s assistants. He had green hair, huge eyes and a small mouth. There were belts strapped around his torso and strange metal stars were attached to them.

“Larten, Wester, this is Vancha March,” Seba introduced them, sitting down at the table.

Vancha nodded at the youthful vampires and called for a mug of milk. As one of the servants of the Hall handed it to him, he downed it with a deep gulp, then belched loudly and ordered another. Wiping his mouth with the back of a dirty hand, he smiled at Larten and Wester. “Seba’s been telling me about you two. New-bloods, aye?”

“It has been more than five years since I was blooded,” Larten corrected him.

Vancha laughed. “That’s as good as new the way we measure time. Welcome to the clan.” He pressed the middle finger of his right hand to his forehead, placed the fingers next to that over his eyes, and spread his thumb and little finger wide. It was the death’s touch sign, something Larten had seen several times since coming to the mountain. As Vancha made the sign, he said solemnly, “Even in death may you be triumphant.” Then he burped, called for a slab of raw meat and bit into it with relish. Larten frowned. He didn’t approve of the older vampire’s crude manner.

“Vancha is something of a traditionalist,” Seba murmured as blood oozed down Vancha’s chin.

“How old are you?” Wester asked, then raised a hand quickly. “No, let me guess, I’m trying to get used to this.”