Myca accepted the bundle and began paging

Myca accepted the bundle and began paging through it, scanning the closely written lines. “Lukasz and Rachlav. He was entertaining envoys from them last autumn. Do you know anything of either of them?” “Childer of Noriz, both of them.” Ilias remarked as Myca paced back past him, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Lukasz, I do not know personally. Rachlav the Unquenchable I have… met. His name suits him.” He cast a glance over his shoulder at Myca, who had come to a complete halt. “He and his sire have a startling number of similarities in temperament, including the inability to hear the word ‘no.’” Myca came back to his side and lingered silently for a moment, running a caressing hand through Ilias’ hair. “You served him?” Myranda Kalis “For a time. He desired the honor that would accrue to him, hosting a koldun in his domains. That he believed his tastes matched mine was merely an added advantage, in his mind.” Ilias’ tone was coolly impassive. “Our desires were not as complimentary as he wished.” Myca raised a handful of red-golden curls to his lips, and said nothing, not knowing what to say. After a moment, Ilias continued. “I departed his domains after a year and a night, as was my right, and he chose not to pursue me. In that, at least, he was wise.” He shook his head slightly, pulling his hair tight in his lover’s grip. “Rachlav is a favorite of his sire, inasmuch as Noriz actually has favorites, though it has not done him much good. He has been at war with his brother Lukasz since before my Embrace. There is some sordid little humiliation at the heart of it, something about a mortal favored by them both, and quite a bit of bloodshed and mutual provocation since. They detest each other thoroughly, of that I have no doubt.” “But apparently they detest the Tremere more.” Myca laid the most recent of his sire’s letters in Ilias’ hands. “And are of the mutual opinion that not enough is being done on that front.” Ilias shrugged slightly. “The impression I received while I was at Rachlav’s court was that Noriz himself found their little quarrel amusing, and had no intention of doing anything to halt it. Noriz favors bloodshed as an entertainment, so long as the blood being spilt is not his own.” A thoughtful pause. “Of course, if he wishes to regain the respect of the clan, and the honor he believes should be his, he is going to have to crack the whip on that revolting brood he has spawned over the centuries. It is all well and good Tzimisce to talk a fight against the Tremere—but that is no different from what Rustovitch has been doing for the last handful of years. Otherwise he will never reclaim what he lost.” “Reclaim…?” Myca asked, an appalling revelation stealing over him. “Wait. Are you suggesting to me that Noriz was once considered voivode of voivodes?” Ilias laughed out loud at the naked horror in Myca’s voice. “Once, a very long time ago, Noriz, Damek, the eldest childe of the bogatyr Ruthven, and Valeska, the priestess of Veles, were considered first among equals. And, for a time, the clan prospered after the fall of Rome and beneath their leadership. But Damek Ruthven turned to scholarly pursuits, Noriz fell to decadence and dissipation, and Valeska turned her back on the depravity he helped foster, passing her mantle to a veela shield maiden when the time came. Noriz was content to subsist on the honor owed him as an elder prince of the blood and tales of his past glories—and discovered the hard way that past glories availed him little in the face of a new foe.” Myca shook his head. “It is almost beyond belief, but it does make sense, if Noriz truly cherishes some ambition of humbling Vladimir Rustovitch, to let my sire make peace between his childer. That way, if the effort fails, he can wash his hands of it, and if it succeeds, he can claim some reflection of the credit.” He resumed pacing as he thought. “The gods, I hope Symeon does not expect me to travel all over the mountains, making diplomatic sounds at the behest of Noriz. It would likely kill me.” “I doubt it would kill you, my flower, but I cannot claim it would be very pleasant.” Ilias smiled wryly. “If you wish, I will accompany you, should it come to that.” Myranda Kalis “No.” Myca addressed that answer to the far wall and its case of delicate papyrus scrolls standing against it. “No… I wish you to stay here.” “Myca,” Ilias said softly, “you cannot keep your sire and me from meeting forever. The world is not large enough for it.” “I know. But I am also not in a hurry to rush the arrival of that night,” Myca admitted frankly, turning around and pacing back toward the bench. “My motives are not entirely altruistic in this matter, my heart. I do not trust Malachite, and I do not wish to leave Nikita’s body unattended, even warded as it is. It… I feel that would be the wrong thing to do. I wish you to remain, and make certain that Nikita continues to rest peacefully.” “This is not beyond my powers,” Ilias assured him, with a hint of wry humor. “Given that I doubt he will rise on his own any time soon. Do you wish me to do anything else, in the absence of our so very pious guests?” Myca hesitated. “If your strength is recovered, and you feel the risk not too great, I would not object to your plan to discover what you may from the spirits of Nikita’s grave-earth. But I do not wish you to risk yourself unnecessarily.” “My flower, I assure you, I never risk myself unnecessarily.” Ilias caught his companion’s hand, and brought it to his lips. “Some risks are necessary, after all, and worth the price one pays for them.” “Yes,” Myca agreed quietly. “Some are.” Tzimisce