Page 16 of Besieger
Dulior did not catch what the other man replied, if he ever did. Silvio paused under a window and blinked up at a torch burning there. Moths circled the flame, desperate to close in, their wings singing in the heat. The light illuminated his face and Dulior had to restrain herself from leaving her hiding place and grabbing him. Her heart was beating so loud, even a mortal might hear it.
All the exhaustion on Silvio’s face was washed away by the bright light of the torch. The only shadows that danced around his features were those of the moths above him. He lifted his hand, as if beckoning the insects to crawl on him for safety, their little grey wings flapping frantically.
His eyes were green, their colour paling in the light but green nonetheless. She liked his eyes; they reminded her of a garden. She imagined herself in his arms lying in a bed of flowers, a nest overflowing with sweet nectar and fragrant blossoms, the sun shining through the tree branches and making his eyes glow. How would his mouth feel against hers, kissing down her neck, her breasts, her thighs. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her closer. The Blood would look wonderful on him, it would keep him young and strong, and hers. She would make quick work of ridding him of bothersome thoughts and chores. He was going to serve no one, least of all that man he followed like a shadow, day and night, in and out of inns, making excuses for all the devilry left in their wake.
She wanted him. Wanted the taste of him. To draw him towards her like the flame drew these wretched moths whose charred corpses now crunched under his shoes.
She wanted to watch him burn in her embrace.
Dulior knew she would not find Silvio in the dance halls or great houses her husband frequented. He did not appear to be the type to eat and drink with noble men discussing the king and his knights. Neither would he be at every church yard, as she had hoped. All she knew began and ended with the knowledge that he frequented churches. She did not know which ones though. Saint-Germain-des-Prés continued to be her safest bet; walking past it whenever she could, casting a glance through the doors and windows of the nearby taverns. She hearkened for his voice, and for the voices of humans around her, gazing through their eyes, in a desperate search. A thirst was building up inside her. She was burning up, the craving so strong it set her on the edge.
Her evening walks turned into a barren pursuit. Silvio had vanished from the streets of Paris as though he had never existed. It vexed her, spoiling her mood and appetite. It turned the blood to ash in her mouth, yet still she drank, and still she went for more.
While Paris was bereft of her newfound passion, the city was abuzz with excitement. A wave of hysteria was sweeping through its citizens, men and women alike. Even her husband talked about it at dinner. The Pope had called Christendom to arms, rallying the masses to reclaim Jerusalem[5]. A council hadtaken place and letters were dispatched, an echo of the battlecryDeus Volt[6] reverberated through the continent.
Dulior did not like the sound of it. Gustave had assured her he would not ride out and leave her a widow for the glory of God. Even if he wanted to, he was far too old for such adventures.
“Home is where I belong. With you,” he kissed her as the sun set, lifting her curls to trace her neck.
Deus Volt, the voices called and the days rolled out without news of Silvio. She watched men gather in front of churches, falling to their knees for a priest’s blessing before riding out. Muck and dirty rain water splashed under the hooves of the horses as they were leaving the city. Wave after wave of them rode out, an army heading East.
The winter winds scraped at Dulior’s cloak as she made her way, just about to finish with her evening route. The blood she drank earlier kept her warm and pleasantly distracted from another fruitless search. She felt the sun already starting its ascent, warning her to hasten home. The memory of how the light had burned her at Rorgon’s makeshift pyre still haunted her, despite how her skin had quickly mended after. She did not wish to know how long her daemonic body could withstand the sun, if even, and besides, it was not light she yearned for.
Ahead of her on the street, a stableboy was fastening sacks and rolled up bundles to the saddle of a horse. Its rider had still not mounted and it kept tugging at the reins; the stableboy ran a hand over the horse's mane, his head pressed against that of the animal, talking softly to it. Two other horses stood nearby at the ready, loaded with gear. Dulior saw sword hilts peeking out. Their riders were dressed for the winter cold with hooded cloaks and scarves drawn high obscuring their faces.
“What do I tell your father, Rico?” a man asked, his voice hoarse from age and drinking. He was handing more sacks to the stableboy to buckle onto the horse.
“Whatever pleases you, uncle. Anything that would please my father,” one of the cloaked riders answered and Dulior’s step faltered. That voice and its ring of mirth sounded familiar.
The older man laughed, loud and raw, his laughter startling the animals.
“We would not be standing here if we knew what pleased my brother.”
The rider shrugged.
“Take care of your cousin, Rico. Keep him safe. I am entrusting him to you.”
“If God wills it, uncle.”
The man frowned and opened his mouth to reply but stopped. His head turned to look at the house. A young man—a child, really—stepped out and awkwardly made his way to the group. He nodded at the mounted riders and stood expectantly next to his father. Dulior was tempted to look into his mind but decided that warriors were the least of her concerns.Let them all go into the desert and perish, she cared not.
Disgruntled, she continued on her way, mindful of the horses as she passed them. The sky above had started to crack. A rooster crowed in the distance, soon joined by the toll of bells. The men paid no attention to her, oblivious to her presence, far too occupied with saying their goodbyes and the older man’s barrage of instructions and threats. The horses tossed their heads impatiently; their hooves scraping against the cobblestones.
“I will watch over both of them, Lord Damiano. Rest assured.”
At the sound of this voice Dulior froze.
“Of course you will,” the man, Lord Damiano scoffed. “That is why I am entertaining this madness. You are the only one with a good head on your shoulders. These two will be lucky if they get out of France, let alone reach Constantinople.”
“We will find the way, father. We will ride with the rest of the knights and—”
“No,youwill follow your cousin and Silvio,” his father interjected. His words were followed by groans and complaints in an accent that Dulior recognized as the melodious banter from so many nights ago.
She wanted to turn and look at these men, pierce into their minds and confirm if it was reallyhim. If one of the riders had eyes as green as spring leaves, skin kissed by the sun. The horses began to move, the men yelled out their farewells. They galloped past her in a cloud of dust.
The sun was rising. The man she had been seeking after had plunged himself into a crusade for the Holy Land, his silhouette grew smaller and smaller.
DULIOR, 1098
