and went back out again, having thought of another proviso for the mercenary squad. They were mages, half of them, and strong enough that their magic peppered the air, even from this far away. The other half were vampires, powerful day walkers who had been hired to protect their precious cargo at night, but who could be active in daytime as well, if needed.
I watched father through a window, haranguing the men in tones few would have dared to use with them. Yet they did not flinch, much less object. Perhaps it was because they were being paid a king’s ransom for this, but I thought there might have been another reason, at least for some.
They were men who had seen almost everything, yet still there were glimpses, here and there, of compassion of those hardened features. Or maybe that was merely me, projecting what I felt onto them. I looked at Mircea’s agitated gestures, his dead white face, and the wildness in his eyes, and I both loved and hated him.
But mostly, I hurt for him.
This was killing him.
He came back in and slammed the door, in another uncharacteristic gesture. And then just stood there for a moment, breathing hard. He didn’t need the air, but there were times when emotion took over, making demands that the body didn’t require, but that the mind did. His power was also flinging about all over the place, a tendril knocking a vase off a mantle, another sending papers scattering in the office across the hall, like doves taking flight.
Finally, he looked at me.
“You are going to take care of her.”
“Yes.”
“It is your life, too. If she dies—”
“She won’t. All will be well.”
“Nothing will be well after today! But she will live. Swear it to me!”
He was suddenly in front of me, gripping my upper arms hard enough that Dory would have bruises the next day. I would need to come up with a story for those, I thought. Something for the men to tell her—
Mircea shook me.
I looked up at him solemnly. “I swear it.”
He let me go.
The men outside were beginning to shift slightly around the fleet of gondolas bobbing at the quay, there to take us out to the large galley in the harbor. I was already dressed in the plain blue dress and brown cloak I was to use for traveling. By the door, a crossbody bag in sturdy woolen cloth, waxed to keep out the weather, waited with a change of clothing and some money.
Upstairs, the great trunks packed with the finest of linens, with silks and velvets and costly brocades, were closed, unneeded, unused. They would only serve to mark us for attention in our new life. They and the jewel casks and the artists supplies, a whole room full of the latter, with scattered easels and half-finished works, would remain behind.
Horatiu told me, much later, that Mircea burnt it all. That he couldn’t bear to look at it. That he had retreated into his chamber afterwards and had not come out for weeks, not feeding, not speaking to anyone. Not even Radu, who Mircea had sent away on an errand yesterday, not wanting anyone around who might interfere, who might talk him out of this.
I had not known that, then, but it is what I would have expected, looking into his face as his hands settled on either side of my temples.
It was time.
I stayed very still; this was a difficult task he had set for himself. Not only to erase a lifetime’s worth of memories, but to rebuild new ones in their place. There would be gaps, even large ones. There was no way to avoid that. But dhampirs were said to be mad, and it was hoped that she would blame it on that.
But it would be hard and she would be alone, which was probably why Mircea’s hands shook at first against my skin. But then his eyes flashed gold, and the Basarab strength boiled to the surface. It had allowed him to claw his way out of his own grave one; had spurred him to flee his homeland, his wife, and everyone he knew, lest he hurt them; had let him start over in a dangerous new world that he had already started to conquer.
Yet I saw the thought in his mind before he could hide it: what did it matter anymore, when he had done it all for her?
And then there was silence, and a blinding whiteness, and the sensation