Come Twilight: A Novel of Count Saint-Germain (St. Germain, 13) - Softcover

Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0312873719 ISBN 13: 9780312873714

Publisher: Tor Books, 2001

Synopsis

Beginning in the 600s, Spain's old blood rituals of animal sacrifice were replaced by the new gods of Christianity and Islam, who demanded no less obedience and allegiance. Saint-Germain becomes trapped in this cauldron of blood, fear, and faith when, he makes a vampire of the beautiful, haughty, tempestuous Csimenae.

Csimenae kills without mercy. She makes vampires without a second thought; and they,

For five hundred years, as waves of war and religion sweep over Spain, Csimenae hunts until her marauding, willful ways expose her vampiric nature. Saint-Germain's centuries of life have taught him that to fall out of step with history is to risk the True Death, a fate Saint-Germain wishes for none of his kind. He must try to save Csimenae-and her clan-but at what price?

About this title

About the Author:

Chelsea Quinn Yarbro's interests range from music--she composes and has studied seven different instruments as well as voice--to history, from horseback riding to needlepoint. Her writing is similarly wide-ranging; under her own name and pseudonyms, she has written everything from westerns to mysteries, from science fiction to nonfiction history.

Yarbro's critically-acclaimed historical horror novels featuring the Count Saint-Germain, including Hotel Transylvania, A Feast in Exile, Communion Blood, and Night Blooming, have a loyal readership. Chelsea Quinn Yarbro has always lived in California and currently makes her home in the Berkeley area.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

1
 
 
Darkness, like a malign shepherd, came striding out of the east, storm clouds dogging its heels. All of Toletum huddled down against the sides of the hills as if hiding from the approaching winter night; as the wind picked up a freezing mizzle settled over the city, promising snow before the night was much older. Drafts sniffled and moaned at the door and windows, while a leaching chill prowled the streets with a persistence that made many pray to Heaven to protect them from the insidious cold.
"When do you think this will let up?" asked Rogerian as he laid his hand on the shutters in the library. He looked more concerned than his master did; he was visibly fretting, which was unusual in a man of habitual composure.
"In a day or so, I hope," Sanct' Germain answered absently: he was standing over his athanor, waiting for the hive-shaped oven to cool enough to allow him to open its door. He was dressed in Byzantine fashion in a long-sleeved black silk paragaudion picked out with silver thread over narrow Persian leggings of knitted black wool. A thick-linked silver collar held his eclipse device, the workmanship his own.
"Then our departure will be delayed again," Rogerian said. "I am sorry, my master." He spoke in the Latin of his youth, a tongue that was now six hundred years out of date.
"No matter," Sanct' Germain said in the same archaic language. "The storm is a timely warning. I would just as soon winter here, safely indoors, than out on the road."
"Not that we have not endured worse than storms," said Rogerian with an attempt at humor.
"All the more reason to remain here for a while longer," said Sanct' Germain. "Our earlier experiences have shown us the folly of undertaking unnecessary hardships. And fortunately," he added with a half-smile, "there is no pressing reason for us to leave, at least not yet. We have a few months before claims are made against us, or so the Episcus assures me."
"I am sorry that I insisted we abide here for so long," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "You tried to warn me, but..."
"I hoped you would not be disappointed," Sanct' Germain said, his dark eyes compassionate. "I know that I was when I made a similar attempt, long ago. You must not be surprised that you can find no trace of your descendants."
"Yes." Rogerian nodded his agreement, tugging at the sleeve of his old-fashioned dalmatica; he had augmented its warmth by adding a long tunica of boiled wool; both garments were mulberry-color, appropriate to a man of Rogerian's position. "But winter is here, and that is a danger in itself. Those on the road may have the more obvious hazards, but a town has its own risks. But you seem worried about staying on here."
"So I am." Sanct' Germain said calmly. "And I worry about the traveling, too. For many others than for us." He glanced at the window. "Since it is necessary, I can arrange a delay."
Rogerian looked startled. "With Episcus Luitegild's safe conduct, shouldn't we travel while--"
Sanct' Germain chuckled. "We have no reason to think that he will withdraw his endorsement simply because we do not leave the moment it is handed to us. He is abrupt but not unreasonable. Who knows: waiting awhile before going might surprise the Praetorius enough to delay his claims; he could not declare me a fugitive if we do not leave at once. Episcus Luitegild may not have much power, but he could stop the Praetorius from seizing my property." He studied the athanor a short while. "The Exarch might see it differently, of course."
"You mean he might not accept an introduction delivered so long after it was issued? Do you think he would deny the Episcus the hospitality requested?" Rogerian was apprehensive. "Is there a good reason to suppose--"
"I have no notion," said Sanct' Germain. "But these Exarchs--and there are so many of them these days--tend to claim all manner of rights for themselves by virtue of having a Byzantine title, just as the town leader calls himself a Praetorius, to make it seem he holds his position from the time of the Romans." He paused, his brows flicking together. "You were right, old friend. The longer the Byzantines have been gone from the region, the more of the nobles have claimed that title for themselves, and squabble over territories that overlap, and the townspeople have adhered to the Roman honors."
"But they could return," said Rogerian, his eyes very bright. "The Byzantines, not the Romans, could they not?"
"They might, if it were to their advantage," Sanct' Germain allowed. "But I doubt they have any interest in these barbaric places; they have barbarians enough of their own to contend with, and so long as the ports are safe, they can use their soldiers to better purpose." He considered the possibilities in silence.
Rogerian looked at Sanct' Germain, perplexed. "You have told the Episcus that Constantinople will surely reinforce Hispania if it becomes necessary."
"And I meant it," said Sanct' Germain. "But I did not mean the necessity would be the Episcus'. If Constantinople sees its own influence being compromised, they will tend to instill the respect they demand; at least they have done so in the past. The Episcus might find the aid he desires comes at a ruinous price. It would not be the first time that the rescuers proved to be more unwanted than a foe." He brushed his palms together and walked a short distance away from the athanor. "The Episcus is in an awkward position, having so little official authority in the world. If he has reservations about our remaining here a little longer, I will send him a pair of these new rubies I am making: that should smooth over any difficulties that might arise."
"Can you spare them?" Rogerian was startled at this suggestion. "I supposed you intended them for our travels."
"And so I do. But I will have time to make more, if the weather continues to worsen," Sanct' Germain pointed out. "If we wait until spring, I can amass a tankard of jewels; doubtless they can be put to good use, at least among those men who value jewels over weapons. There are many who would be glad of jewels, and would not mind waiting awhile for them." He managed a slight, ironic smile. "The Episcus would not begrudge us a few weeks for such an exchange."
"True enough," Rogerian said, and went to the fireplace to add another log to the rest. Once the new fuel had lit, he turned back to Sanct' Germain, saying, "I had not thought it would matter so much to me."
"Finding your descendents?" Sanct' Germain inquired. "Why should this surprise you, old friend?"
"I thought I had put that part of my life behind me. When I was made a bondsman and sent to Rome, my family was lost to me, in any case." He shrugged. "After so many years. Why should it trouble me that our name has been forgotten? Since my grandchildren left Gades, it was likely that our family would disperse."
"But you hoped they would not," said Sanct' Germain. "There was certainly no harm in looking."
"It still troubles me," Rogerian said quietly.
"That you have not found them, or that you wanted to look for them?" Sanct' Germain asked, his dark eyes compassionate.
"Some of both," Rogerian answered after a short, thoughtful silence. "I thought I had accepted that they were lost to me; I came back to that again and again, and it troubles me anew each time I grasp it." He shrugged. "Repetition will not change anything." He folded his arms. "I cannot keep from believing that I should not have undertaken this search."
"Because it turned out in ways you did not anticipate?" Sanct' Germain went back to the athanor, a slight frown between his fine brows.
"I suppose so," Rogerian said ruefully. "More foolishness."
"Hardly foolishness," said Sanct' Germain. "Loneliness, more likely." He saw the shock in Rogerian's eyes and knew he was right. "The peril of long life is loneliness."
"So you have said," Rogerian allowed. "And I thought I understood. I did not, not until now." He took a long deep breath. "When did you go searching for your family? You have said little about that." Over the centuries, he had found Sanct' Germain's reluctance to speak of that time of his life puzzling. At first he had not minded, but over time he had become both curious and wary about Sanct' Germain's taciturnity.
Sanct' Germain's single laugh was immeasurably sad. "I had not that luxury for many, many hundreds of years. I was enslaved, and then, when I took vengeance for what was done to us, I had no thought to find my family's descendants, for the few there were had also been made slaves and their names lost, and I was consumed by bitterness and despair. Once I was captured, I was taken far away. By the time I returned to my homeland, thirteen centuries had gone by, and all traces of my people had been lost except as figures of myths. It is nothing like your desire to find your family." He stared into the middle distance.
"Do you regret any of it?" Rogerian knew the answer from Sanct' Germain's demeanor, but needed to hear it spoken.
"Of course. There are many things I would rather now I had not done. No one lives long without having something to regret." Sanct' Germain lifted his hands in a philosophical gesture. "But that is what I believe now, and had I not done those things that I now deplore, would I have the understanding to regret the actions?" He shook his head. "It is the storm, I think, and the delay, that fill our minds with such fruitless reflection."
"Fruitless, no doubt," said Rogerian darkly.
"Thought is always of value, and memory, no matter how painful, can illuminate life. It took me centuries to realize these things, and centuries more to be convinced they were so, but I am persuaded now." He touched the athanor gingerly. "Not quite."
Wind screeched in the chimney, blowing smoke back into the house. Rogerian batted at the air with his arms, coughing; he glowered at the fireplace as if accusing it of deliberately failing. "Again!" he muttered. He made a gesture of exasperation. "This will not do." Turning to Sanct' Germain, he said, "I am going to climb onto the roof. I think the chimney-cap has blown off."
"See you go carefully," said Sanct' Germain, who agreed with this assessment; that was one Roman invention he was pleased had not been forgotten. "The roof will be slippery."
"I will take no chances: I have no wish to fall into the grain emporium next to us," said Rogerian, and hurried into the corridor to the narrow wooden stairs that led to the loft in the rafters and the roof beyond.
Sanct' Germain stood beside the athanor listening to Rogerian work. He realized he had not offered Rogerian the consolation he sought; he stared at his athanor, his thoughts ranging far into his past, to the centuries alone, and the immensity of loss he had experienced over the thirty-five hundred years he had walked the earth. Rogerian deserved better from him, he knew; there was so little he could do to lessen the self-condemnation his old friend embraced. He was keenly aware of Rogerian's grief, and knew beyond all doubt that time alone would mute its fury.
A clatter and scramble overhead announced Rogerian had completed his task; the smoke in the room began to dissipate as the chimney recommenced to draw properly once more. Clambering footsteps traced Rogerian's progress back across the roof to the trapdoor, and the sound of him coming down the stairs to the attic. He came directly to Sanct' Germain's library, his clothes wet and spangled with melting snow. "It was the cap," he said. "It's taken care of."
"So I perceive." Sanct' Germain rubbed his chin with his thumb. "How is the storm?"
"It is growing worse. The wind is as cold as if we were once again in the Celestial Mountains." Although they were far away in the fastness of north-western China, the memory of the autumn a century ago when they had crossed that branch of the Old Silk Road brought back sharp recollections of marrow-chilling bitterness. "Not a good sign, such weather."
"No," said Sanct' Germain slowly, continuing. "If there were no snow in the mountains, I would still try to leave now, but as it is, we must winter over somewhere until the passes are clear, and this is a better place than the villa of a Gardingio we do not know, and who may not be pleased to have strangers under his roof." He sighed once. "So it is probably just as well that we wait here a few months."
"You are not angry?" Rogerian asked, suspicion in every aspect of his demeanor.
"Not at all. In fact, given the severity of the storm, I am grateful; this would have been an unpleasant surprise were we traveling," Sanct' Germain replied with a trace of amusement in his attractive, irregular features. "I have no wish to be abroad in such weather."
Rogerian did not say anything for a long moment, then remarked. "I do not like storms, either." As if this concession was as much as he could offer, he turned, prepared to leave Sanct' Germain to his alchemy. "I shall send a note to the Episcus, to inform him of your postponed departure."
"Thank you," said Sanct' Germain tranquilly. "Inform him also that I will call upon him in a few days, to review my plans."
"Of course, my master," said Rogerian as he withdrew.
By the time Sanct' Germain emerged from his library, the first, feeble glow of sunrise was struggling to disperse the clouds; the library hearth was cold, and the athanor had been emptied of its treasure; the house was cold enough to make him glad of his heavy tunica beneath his dalmatica. Despite his satisfaction with the accomplishments of the night, Sanct' Germain could not rid himself of a vague, persistent unease that had taken hold of him as the storm came on; he had not been able to rid himself of it; he had stayed in Toletum longer than was wise, and might yet regret his delay. As he went along the corridor to his private apartment, Sanct' Germain weighed the pouch he carried in his hand, trying to calculate the value of the stones he had made; five rubies, two opals, two sapphires, and an amethyst, more than enough to pay for the journey into Frankish lands. He had just stepped from his sitting room into his bedchamber when he heard a rap at his door. Slipping the pouch under the clothespress near the foot of his bed, Sanct' Germain went to open the door.
"My master," said Rogerian. "I do not mean to disturb you--" He stopped himself, unable to go on.
"What is it, old friend?" Sanct' Germain asked after Rogerian fell silent. "Is something the matter."
"I need a word with you," he said. "I would rather not wait until you arise in the afternoon."
"All right," said Sanct' Germain, no sign of dismay in his manner. He stepped aside to allow Rogerian to enter. "Tell me what is troubling you."
"I had a most...disturbing caller," said Rogerian, and then took a deep breath, delivering his news in a single rush. "Ithidroel came a short while ago, immediately after his morning prayers, to warn me that there was going to be an attempt to seize your house and goods after Mass on Sunday, because you do not attend the holy services. The Praetorius' scribe told him the whole of it. Your apostasy is the excuse they intend to use." He held up his hands before Sanct' Germain could speak. "Ithidroel said that it is not enough that you come to the synagogue to discuss the writings of the Prophe...

About this edition

• Publisher: Tor Books
• Publication date: 2001
• ISBN 10: 0312873719
• ISBN 13: 9780312873714
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 400