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him a hundred years before your Christ. And my father: the last word I had of
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him was that he was lost at sea, somewhere off the mouths of the Danube in the
Black Sea, in the Year 547. He was a mercenary for the Ostrogoths against
Justinian, but of course he was on the wrong side. Ah, we Wamphyri were a
fierce lot in our day! There was a living to be made, if you'd the stomach for
it.
Then how can you help me?' Harry was perplexed. 'It seems to me that something
like a thousand years separates your grandfather's era and yours. Whatever he
knew about his origins - about this source world - must have died with him.'
But there are legends, Harry! There are memories, stories Old Belos told his
son Waldemar, which he in turn passed down to me. They are as fresh now in my
mind as they were the day I heard them. I kept them fresh, for they were the
only Wamphyri history I was ever likely to know. I was still in thrall to my
father at that time. If Thibor, that ingrate, had ever spent his
apprenticeship with me, then I would have passed the legends down to him. But
of course he never did. Now, if you in your turn would learn these things -
which might well provide the clues you need to complete your quest - then come
to me in my place and talk to me, as we talked once before.
Faethor's voice was faint now. Killed in a bombing raid in World War II and
burned to ashes, what was left of him had seeped into the earth where once
stood his house on
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the outskirts of Ploiesti toward Bucharest. It must be an effort for one such
as he to speak across all these miles, after all this time. On the other hand,
Harry was well aware of the devious nature of the vampire - of all vampires.
To his knowledge they rarely did anything which was not of benefit to
themselves. But there again, in the past Faethor had not been orthodox. Harry
could never 'like' or ever really 'trust' him, but he did in a way respect
him.
'No strings?' he said.
Strings? I'm a dead thing, Harry. Nothing remains of me but my voice. And only
you can hear it - and the dead, of course, when they choose to listen. Even my
voice is fading with the years. But. . .
(Harry sensed his shrug)
do as you will. I am merely respecting the wishes of the dead.
Harry would have to be satisfied with that. 'I'll come,' he told the other.
'But as well as hungry for knowledge, I'm plain hungry too! Give me an hour
and I'll be there.'
Take your time, Faethor answered.
I've plenty of it. But do you remember the way?
His voice was dwindling now, shrinking into deep distances of mind.
'Oh, I remember it well enough!'
Then I'll wait for you. And then, perhaps, the Great Majority will see fit to
leave me in peace . . .
Harry washed and shaved, had a change of clothes, 'breakfasted' and contacted
E-Branch. He quickly told Darcy Clarke what he'd done, and what he was about
to do.
Clarke offered a cautionary 'take care' and Harry was ready.
He used the Mobius Continuum and went to Ploiesti.
The scene was much the same as it had been eight years earlier: Faethor's
house on the outskirts of the town was one of several burned-out shells lying
half-buried in heaps of overgrown rubble, stony corpses in what was otherwise
open countryside. It was dark here, around 6:50 p.m. Middle European Time, but
there was still enough light for
Harry to find himself a tumbled wall and take a seat. And he had remembered
the way: he could feel Faethor's presence lying like a shroud on the place,
albeit one which was slowly returning to dust. A very faint nimbus of light
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glowed on the western horizon, beyond the Carpathians in the direction of
home.
All around Harry was desolation, made worse by the feel of winter in the air.
He shivered, but entirely because of the chill he could feel slowly working
its way into his bones. In summer this place would have a certain wild beauty,
when the old bomb craters would be masked by flowers and unchecked brambles,
and the skeletal walls covered with lush ivy. In the winter, however, the snow
would bring the perspective back to gaunt, monochrome reality. The devastation
would be obvious, incapable of disguise. It would always be a reminder, and
that was probably why the Romanians would never rebuild here.
One of the reasons, anyway, Faethor agreed.
But I have always liked to believe that I was the main reason. I don't want
people building here. Since Thibor destroyed my old place I've had several
homes, but this was the last of them. This is where I am, so to speak. So now,
when people come nosing around and I feel their footfalls -
' - You sort of gloom over the place. You exert an influence, your aura.'
You've noticed.
Harry shivered again, but still only from the cold. 'How about your legends,
Faethor?' he said. 'I don't like to rush you, but I've never yet spoken to one
of your sort who told me anything in plain, simple language! And time is
precious. It could be that lives are at stake.' [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]