A Loom of Years

Tenth Weaving
@Anne E. Fraser 2006

 
Blaine and Olivia returned home after a surprisingly amicable
Council meeting, nearly a quarter of a century after the Vampire
Ball in France.  Diccon, Blaine's oldest fledgling and probable
successor, came out to meet their carriage.

"My Prince," Diccon bowed as Blaine assisted Olivia out of the
carriage.  "M'lady.  There is bad news."

"If we hadn't just come back from a good meeting, I'd ask if there
was ever any other kind," Blaine sighed.  "Very well, Diccon, but
let us at least get inside. I assume this news is not for the entire
county."

"Of course, my Prince, my apologies."  Diccon bowed them into the
house.

Various werewolves, vampires and Nameless Ones bowed or curtseyed as
their Prince and Consort passed.  But there was one face Blaine did
not see among the familiar courtiers. When Diccon finally reached a
private room and they got as comfortable as possible, Blaine asked
the question nagging at him.

"Where's Nigel?"

The mage, the wizard Nigel, had been with Blaine since the
beginning. He had been, theoretically, an old man but had never
displayed any signs of great age.  He'd been an enormous help during
that spat in Scotland.  He was a friend.  He should have been here.

"Sir," Diccon bowed his head and Blaine knew what the answer was.

So did Olivia.  "No," she said softly. "Oh, Diccon, no, not Nigel."

Diccon bowed his head even further.  "I am sorry, m'lady."

"How did he die?" Blaine asked.

Diccon's head couldn't have gone any further down without severing
his neck.  "He was murdered, my Prince."

Blaine stood up abruptly.  As always, in times of trouble, his usual
mannerisms vanished and he became a true Prince, hard and
decisive.  "I assume that the murderer is dead?" he asked crisply.

"No, my Prince.  We have been unable to bring him to justice."

"Why not?  You are my successor, Diccon. You command in my absence. 
The entire court is at your disposal."

Diccon showed no sign of pleasure at the fact his succession had
just been formally declared.  He didn't even seem to realize what
Blaine had said.  "The murderer was another magician, my Prince,"
Diccon said. "A very powerful one.  With Nigel dead, noone else in
the court was strong enough to fight this killer."

"His name?" Blaine demanded coldly.

"George Denby, sir.  Though he calls himself Lord Avery."

"Send some of the oldest and strongest after him.  Weres and
Nameless as well as vampires. Bring him back alive, if possible."

Diccon bowed.  "Yes, my Prince."

When the younger vampire had exited, Olivia looked at Blaine.  "I
can't believe it," she said.  "Nigel is gone."

"Ah, God," Blaine sat down, the cold demeanour vanishing as he
mourned for his friend.  "He's been with me forever, Liv.  I loved
him as a brother.  I wonder where they've buried him?"

She took his hand gently.  "Let's go find out."

It was a lonely little graveyard, under some yews.  The Prince and
his consort, plus a smattering of the more senior court members
who'd known Nigel, stood vigil at the newly-turned grave.

"Unlike us, he will not rise again," Blaine said, laying a
wreath.  "Lucky bastard."

"You don't mean that," Olivia's voice was stern.  "Tell me you don't
mean that."

Blaine looked at her, then back down at the grave.  "No.  I do not
regret being what I am.  What we are."

"Death shall have no dominion," said Olivia, more softly.

"It shall over George Denby." 

They returned to the house and awaited Diccon's return with the
captive.

They waited for two nights, without word.

Finally, just as Blaine was beginning to fear the worst, Diccon
returned.  He had lost five followers.  Denby had lost seven mages. 
There had been a terrible fight, but Diccon had been unable to send
home for help because Denby's magic had sealed the area against
anyone either leaving or joining in.  One of the Nameless Ones had
finally been able to stun Denby, ending the magical seal, but the
magician's followers had whisked their leader away before he could
be captured.

Reprisals followed quickly.  Any vampire out on his or her own
became a target; so that Blaine was forced to order all vampires in
Britain to travel in pairs or greater numbers.  Blaine warned them
not to kill mages in return.  He would need to replace Nigel, after
all, and did not wish all-out war with magic-users.

"Again, witches cause us trouble," he complained to Olivia.

"Remember that old crone in Scotland?" she asked.

"Vividly.  Poor Nigel was very upset about that."

"Our people are dying, Blaine. You have to do something."

"Denby seems as slippery as that rat Corbeau, though, darling.  What
can I do? I shall have to ask for help."

"From whom?"

"I'll talk to Claude. He handled Corbeau fairly well, perhaps he
will have a suggestion."

And Blaine sat down right that moment to compose a letter asking his
French counterpart for help.

Claude agreed to come to England and see what he could do.  Only
great love for Blaine and Olivia could have torn him from
Genevieve's side, and Blaine appreciated it.

He arrived in good time, considering the travel conditions of the
day, and greeted the British couple with hugs and kisses on the
cheek.

"I am not going to kiss you back," Blaine warned him, and Claude
laughed.

They talked long into the night, about Denby, about Corbeau, about
Genevieve. Claude's suggestion was to attempt to parlay with Denby;
just talk to the man, face-to-face (while well-guarded of course) on
neutral territory, and see what it would take to end the
hostilities.  Blaine wanted revenge for Nigel's death, but, as
Claude pointed out, what purpose would that serve?  As Prince,
Blaine's first imperative was peace.  A never-ending feud between
vampire and magician was no more desirable than never-ending feuds
between vampire bloodlines.

Word came back from George Denby, who'd been approached by an envoy,
that he was willing to meet the British Prince under the flag of
truce in a neutral park.  Rules of safe conduct would hold for the
meeting, his word of honour.

"Does this man have any honour?" Olivia asked, reading the message.

"Oddly enough, I think he does," Blaine replied.  "A rather crabbed
sort of honour, but it is there. I think he will abide by the terms."

Claude had come with two of his most trusted Gardiens.  Blaine took
two courtiers as well.  Others were scattered throughout the park. 
Olivia decided not to go; it would be too tempting a target for ill-
wishers to have both the British Prince and his consort present. 
Blaine was secretly relieved; he wouldn't have dreamt of telling or
asking her not to come.

Denby was sitting alone, or apparently so, on a bench in the park. 
Blaine and Claude approached him, very much on guard,  and
conversation ensued.  It was all very civilized and very, very
British.  Blaine could almost feel Claude fighting a grin.  No doubt
the Frenchman would have challenged Denby to a duel and ended the
matter then and there.  But diplomacy was Blaine's sword.

Blaine himself didn't feel like grinning. He was tense and unhappy. 
This man had killed his oldest friend, and it looked as if, in the
name of peace, that death would go unpunished and unavenged. 

His first words were a warning not to break the safe conduct.  Denby
raised an eyebrow, and conversation began.

What transpired was that Denby had apparently thought Blaine would
prevent him from organizing British mages into something like a
vampire court.  Apparently, that was what Nigel had told him when
approached for membership.

"I never authorized Nigel to say any such thing," Blaine almost-
growled, starting forward.

"Hold, mon ami," Claude snatched at Blaine's doublet.  "Perhaps
Nigel misunderstood?"

The British Prince stared at the French one, then at the handsome
man on the park bench.  Denby had said that he didn't like vampires
because they interfered with mage business.  His own court had
attacked mages for interfering with vampire business.

Denby went stiff; obviously not liking the sudden tension.  Claude's
hand strayed to his dagger.  Blaine stood like a statue, thinking
over things, remembering Nigel.  Throughout the park, vampires,
werewolves, mages and Nameless Ones felt for weapons, fangs sliding
out, eyes going red or amber, magic crackling from fingertips.

Then:

"This is all a misunderstanding?" Blaine asked the night air. Slowly.

Time ticked past and still nobody moved, waiting.

"Perhaps I have been mistaken, Prince Blaine, in thinking of you as
the enemy," Denby said after a moment. "Perhaps we could come to
some accord."

The gradual easing of tension was almost audible.  People
straightened up, adjusted clothes, sheathed knives and fangs. Magic
was carefully grounded.

"Let's not talk about it in the park, then, like refugees," said
Blaine, visibly relaxing. "There's a perfectly good inn just the
other side of the gates."

The negotiating parties retired to the inn and worked out an
agreement to stop killing each other and end the feud.  Denby
apologized for killing Nigel.  Blaine agreed that the magician could
organize this Order of the Crimson Rose and Ansate Cross as long as
it did not interfere with vampire court business and no other
vampires died.

At the end of the talking (and the drinking), all concerned parties
shook hands.

Blaine was not terribly happy with the terms, but he also wanted
peace, so he agreed.  He and Claude left Denby at the inn, and
returned to Olivia to tell her of the truce.

"Ah, well," she said, wrapping an arm around Blaine's
shoulders.  "It is done."

"Peace at any cost?" Blaine asked, staring at his hands.  "Is that
what a Prince must purchase?"

"You purchased it at a high cost when you married me," Olivia
reminded him.

"Ah, yes," Blaine's eyes lit up.  "You _have_ cost me a pretty penny
over the years, darling."

"I'd wager not nearly as much as Genevieve has cost Claude," Olivia
replied.  "Her gowns are much more expensive than mine."

"Ah, well," Claude said, grinning.  "She is French, and therefore
must have the best.  Unlike you English, who will settle for merely
well enough."

"Too true," said Olivia mournfully.  "Look what I married."
 

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