Gotzon stood outside Jürgen’s wagon, staring out at the snow with his ebony eyes. The moonlight cast a long shadow from Jürgen, from the tree sheltering the wagon and from the wagon itself, but Gotzon’s shadow remained pooled at his feet as though the light were directly above his head. Every so often, the shadow would begin to creep away, but Gotzon tapped his foot and it returned to its place like a whipped dog.
“I was surprised. If Geidas were still in power, banish- ing you would make some sense, but why Jovirdas chose to ask for such a boon is beyond me.” Jürgen looked around, wondering where Rosamund was. In the distance, he saw Wiftet sitting on a drift, gathering snow around his body until only his head remained visible. His dog sat patiently at the bottom of the drift, waiting for its master.
“Like you did when we first met, he recognizes Hell.” “Has he seen your eyes so clearly?”
Jürgen glanced back at his confessor, but Gotzon made no move to reply. Jürgen continued. “I should like to leave by tomorrow night.” Still no response. Gotzon’s shadow reached out towards Jürgen’s hungrily; Gotzon glanced downward and it receded. Jürgen cast about for something to say. “I should also like to have your blessing on this battle.” He looked off into the distance. “Given the tar- gets.”
“I have told you before that I have no special regard for monks, Jürgen. Especially not those fouled by Cainite blood. And after what I told you before Geidas fell, you should have no doubt that I have no love for the Obertus.” Gotzon did not turn to face the Sword-Bearer, but contin- ued staring down at his shadow, as though trying to make up his mind about whether to sever it entirely. Jürgen didn’t doubt that this was possible for the Lasombra.
Jürgen walked around Gotzon to the door of the wagon. “I also have a favor to ask you, Gotzon.” He reached
inside and pulled out a folded piece of paper, sealed with his signet and his blood. “I would like you to give this to Rosamund if I should fall.”
Gotzon glanced upwards sharply; his shadow took its chance and sprang from his feet, slithering across the snow like a gigantic black eel, making a beeline for Wiftet. Gotzon raised a hand and it stopped, but did not recede. It simply thrashed like a dog on a leash. If this caused Gotzon any strain, his face did not show it. “I do not deliver love letters, Jürgen.”
“You assume you know the contents of the letter?” “I know you, Jürgen.” He clenched his fist and the shadow pulled back somewhat. “I know you, and I know her. You asked me if Cainites could love, and I answered. And yet you ask me to deliver this letter—”
“If I should perish, yes. I have no intention of doing so, therefore this letter never need be delivered. If you cannot or will not undertake this for me, I shall find some- one else, Gotzon. But if the letter is with you, the chances of someone else breaking the seal are much reduced.” Jürgen hadn’t expected this kind of answer to his request. Gotzon was by no means a servant, of course, but even so, he had always been willing to shoulder such burdens for Jürgen before.
“In the event of your death—your final death?” Gotzon considered. “Very well.” He reached forward and took the letter, slipping it into his shirt. “And since I am banished from this domain, I had best be on my way.”
Jürgen didn’t bother to ask where he would go. He knew that he wouldn’t receive an answer. He simply watched Gotzon walk off into the trees, his shadow now giving up on escaping and huddled around his feet as if trying to escape the cold. Jürgen turned, and went to find Rosamund.
Wiftet, now only a head on top of a huge snow drift, called out to him. “My lord! Look! I am interred, frozen for the winter! In spring, I shall blossom, I shall burst forth in glory!” Albion let out a yip as Jürgen approached; he ignored the dog. Wiftet continued. “I am planted for the winter, my lord. Such bliss!”
Jürgen nodded. “Indeed. Where is Lady Rosamund, Wiftet?”
Wiftet’s face became dour and pinched, and he dropped his voice to a mocking tone of Jürgen’s. “Why, I don’t know. When last I saw her, she was with her man Peter.”
“Thank you.” Jürgen continued on. He was in no mood for Wiftet tonight, but the lunatic called after him. “My lord! Shall I remain here, planted, until the snow thaws?”
Jürgen turned. “You shall remain here, Wiftet, and keep my lady and the new lord of this place entertained.” He walked on, mentally reminding himself to instruct Jovirdas to simply tell Wiftet to shush if he became too annoying.
He heard Peter’s voice from around a corner, but al- most immediately heard Rosamund shush him. He found them waiting for him, obviously nervous, their conversa- tion cut short. Jürgen resisted the temptation to pry what he needed to know from Peter’s mind, and dismissed the ghoul with a glance. Peter bowed and retreated, but Jürgen saw the look he gave Rosamund.
“My lady, what troubles you?” he asked when Peter had gone.
To her credit, Rosamund didn’t bother trying to skirt the issue. “I am concerned, my lord. Can Jovirdas be trusted?”
Jürgen nodded slowly. “I think so. He realizes that he has a much better liege in me than in Geidas, and that he isn’t safe in these lands without allies. Plus, I think that he is genuinely interested in learning more of our road.” Jürgen smiled. “I have told him that the Letters of Acindynus shall be left in your keeping when he is not reading them. You, of course, are welcome to continue where we left off; I shall regret missing the opportunity to read them with you but I have no idea how long I shall be gone.”
“My lord,” Rosamund’s voice dropped slightly, “what about the duel? You won, clearly, but… I felt something.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. A chill in the room. A sudden weakening—as though the heat left the fire and every bit of life and warmth suddenly vanished. The room didn’t change, not visibly, but I swear that it grew larger, as though we were all miles away from each other. And then, an instant later, he reached forward and drank of your cup.”
Jürgen stared at her warily. Was she telling the truth? The chill that he had felt before he’d won, the detached feeling of power and inevitability—how could she have known about it? Had she read his mind? He doubted it; that would be a breach of etiquette for her. Her own pow- erful senses might have detected something that he, while engaged in the duel, could not, and therefore she might be able to shed some light on what had happened.
But the sensation she’d described—it was so similar to what Jovirdas had mentioned when he had killed Geidas. Something, then, was aiding them, helping Jürgen to establish his power.
With inaction, thought Jürgen, Gotzon does not violate his vows. Could his confessor have aided him during the duel? But how, while in torpor with a stake in his heart?
While in torpor, did his soul—or his shadow—roam free?
Jürgen shuddered, thinking of the creatures that had emerged from the blackness after only a few moments’ lapse in Gotzon’s concentration. He considered running after the Lasombra, asking him more, asking him if and how he had managed both to aid Jürgen in the duel and aid Jovirdas in slaying his master.
But he was about to leave, to go into battle, and Rosamund stood before him, confused. He considered tell- ing her his suspicions, but he had no desire to leave her behind with that knowledge.
Jürgen only took her in his arms. “Strange, my lady, very strange.” He held her close, feeling her forehead against his chin, cold, smooth, perfect. “I must go. I have preparations to make and very little time.” She did not release him, but merely tightened her grip, and Jürgen did
not discourage her. “I will send for you as soon as I may, and if anything should happen—”
He meant to tell her about the letter, but she kissed him instead. When the kiss was over, she walked off to- wards her own wagon, leaving Jürgen in the snow. In other circumstances, he might have felt hurt or slighted that she hadn’t bid him farewell, but he merely stood there, the kiss lingering on his lips, watching her disappear into the distance.