Chapter 7

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Vador stood hesitantly in front of the sewer entrance. His family had recently moved to the country, to his family, but he had spent his childhood in the city. The first thing the Taleyan boys were taught by their mothers was not to go underground. Threats, floggings, deprivation of supper, hours of standing in the corner, prohibition of walks, and other punishments invented by a stern parental mind to keep naughty children from dangerous excursions were used. But kids are kids, and almost every kid has explored the old tunnels that permeate the city at least once a year.

If someone went missing, the Night Mistress was traditionally blamed, though there were plenty of other dangers. There were gangs of smugglers storing goods downstairs, small street bandits setting up hiding places down there, gatherings of cultists who were happy to sacrifice the occasional lost soul to Morvan. No matter how hard the guards fought the fanatics, they could not eradicate the infestation, so the secret altars of the Overlord of Hell continued to be regularly stained with freshly smoldering blood. In the sewers, you could run into little demons left from the Plague, or meet temple troops hunting them. And there was no telling which encounter was more frightening.

And yet the real masters of the Taleyan catacombs were thought to be the risen. Vampires. God forbid you to say "ghouls," they'd bite your head off in a heartbeat. They slid silently through the darkness to do their mysterious business, appearing from nowhere and disappearing without a trace, dictating terms to the tunnels' other inhabitants. The rest were guests here, and the few fools who dared oppose the order given by the red-eyed man disappeared quickly and forever. Only the undead walked everywhere, possessed a complete map of the tunnels, and did what they pleased, disregarding the displeasure of the other inhabitants of the darkness.

"Come in," his guide or escort nudged him lightly in the back. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Now."

Vador mentally agreed with the last statement. He couldn't imagine anything worse than a vampire's fate. The worst had indeed happened to him. "Cheering up" himself in that way, he went down the steps and followed the stranger with confidence, especially since it was easy to walk. Or was it just that the darkness from the previous night was not a hindrance to him?

They walked the stairs twice more, each time farther and farther away from the people's dwellings. The darkness grew thicker, becoming impenetrable even to the sensitive eyes of the risen, and the tunnel vaults dipped lower, forcing them to cautiously press their heads against their shoulders. Nevertheless, there were occasional traces of repair, and fresh marks of intelligent activity were visible in some places along the way. Cleared drains, chips in the stone, too new compared to the general appearance of the walls, and in one place the passage looked newly hollowed out. The longer they walked, the more inhabited and frequented the place looked.

Four times they came across other risen, but no one tried to talk to Vador or his escort. They simply stared at the young man, as if trying to figure out what to expect from him. Such scrutiny was both frightening and irritating, encouraging him to either try to escape or do something stupid. At last, the guide stopped in front of the sturdy oak door and looked carefully at his ward, expressing no opinion about his disheveled appearance.

The instructions were simple and succinct: "The mistress is addressed as "Mistress Celesta," and in no other way. Answer questions quickly, clearly, and briefly. I advise against lying."

Then the risen knocked on wood and, although Vador heard no answer, opened the door. The guide was the first to enter, followed by the young man, timidly stepping across the threshold. To his surprise, the room was empty. Well, not entirely empty - in the middle was a large massive table, around which seven chairs were arranged in a circle, at the side was a cabinet with some papers and books, but there was no one else here. But the man who had brought him was already near the passage in the far wall, leading somewhere, and was beckoning impatiently with his hand.

The young undead hurriedly followed his escort, only to find himself in a more comfortable room. At least, it was comfortable. It wasn't exactly a luxury, either, but it was clear at once that people often worked here, perhaps even lived. Though there was not much furniture and nowhere was it possible to see the usual knickknacks which give coziness and allow to judge about the nature of the owner. The Mistress. A small, young-looking girl in men's clothes, now sitting at the table with a pen in her hand and looking at the uninvited guest with detached interest.

The lad was somehow confused and distraught at the sight of her. In the whispered legends, the dark mistress of the city seemed a frightening figure, surrounded by a halo of fear and awe. But here... The girl looked him straight in the eye, and the urge to argue or doubt vanished instantly. The feeling of strength and will contained in the small, fragile body made her want to kneel, to bang her head against the floor, just to avert her gaze.

The escort was the first to speak: "A newcomer, a Messena. His name is Vador. Risen today, killed a horse, came to town, met me by chance."

"Commoner?" The undead put the documents aside. "It's good that he's a commoner, they're easier to deal with. How did you die, boy?"

"The bandits attacked, Mistress Celesta. I was on my way home to the village, Mistress Celesta."

"It happens," the girl nodded slightly. "It's lucky the body wasn't chopped up."

Only the nobility, able to perform elaborate funeral rituals or hire a priest-magician, buried their dead in their entirety. In sarcophagi, in family crypts, as required by the old memorial rites. Ordinary people got rid of the danger of a risen relative by simple means. Fire followed by ashes burial was considered the most popular, followed by beheading. When circumstances did not allow one to act according to tradition, one tried to mutilate the body as cruelly as possible: it was believed that the dead with serious wounds would not rise. Rightly so.

"Lucky yeah," Celesta smiled faintly, seeing the shadow of disagreement on the boy's face. "You have a new life now. You can correct the mistakes you've made, learn to understand people, their virtues and flaws, their weaknesses and strengths. You can lead or remain in the shadows, understand the secrets of the universe or fight what you see as evil. A thousand paths have opened before you, previously impossible for a peasant boy. Think about it, Vador. Morvan has given you another chance, so don't waste it."

Obeying the releasing gesture, the young risen left the room. The mistress's short speech caused confusion in his head. Until this moment, he had had no opportunity to think about his future, which he had vaguely imagined in dark colors. There was no time for reflection. Having just risen, he attacked a peasant who was sleeping in the field - he managed to swing a pitchfork - then caught up and drank the blood of the horse that had torn the harness, thereby restoring his clarity of thought. He had no intention of going to his native village. Vador understood that he would probably not make it home, and even if he did, he would not be welcomed with open arms. But there were vampires in the nearby Taleya. Hoping that he would be accepted and at least teach him something, the boy returned to town, where he met his silent escort at the nearest cemetery. And that was it.

It seemed to him that if the dead rise at the will of the Master of Hell, then they were serving evil and were evil themselves. That's what he thought in those rare moments when he was distracted from his work or thinking about the charms of his young neighbor. So did the priests, and so did his parents. True, from the words of his relatives it came out that vampires, of course, are evil, but evil is familiar, understandable, and it is possible to agree with them. But all the same, Vador was not expecting anything good from a meeting with his new tribesmen. And here... He was not even beaten, as he had prepared for, not even insulted in any way. Such friendliness was a little frightening.

"This way," the escort turned down a side corridor and opened a heavy door.

The young-looking, dark-haired vampire stood up at their arrival and bowed politely, with dignity. His bow, of course, was not addressed to Vador at all.

"Vador, Master Egard is before you," the still nameless warrior introduced the cell master. "He will help you enter our world. He will explain the rules, show you how to hunt, teach you how to cope with Thirst. Ask him all your questions."

"Is it my turn to tutor the novice, Messen Latham?" Egard asked in surprise.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Mistress has ordered it specifically to you, master."

The vampire seemed satisfied with the short answer. He politely said goodbye to the departing guide, then sat down in a comfortable chair, put a foot on his leg, and nodded to his newfound ward's chair:

"Sit down, boy. It's almost dawn, but we have time to get acquainted. Tell me a little about yourself, and then I'll explain where you're going and what to expect from fate."

Hustin's underground, sewer-hidden abode could not boast the same rich tools, ingredient storage, or library as his personal laboratory in the lower tiers of the Academy, but it had an incomparably more valuable virtue. Confidentiality. There were enough skilled and interested ears in the mages' den to eavesdrop on other people's conversations. So Celesta, wishing to keep some details of the Lascaris incident secret, chose to meet here. It would have been wise to talk to the mage sooner, but she had been busy, clearing her backlog of cases, studying urgent reports of spies and analysts, and as a result, she could only find time for a serious conversation now.

"It's cozy here," the risen remarked, settling comfortably into a deep armchair. "It's much cleaner, especially compared to the last time I was here. A dead servant?"

"I raised one," Hustin agreed with a chuckle. "I'm sick of rags and mops. After all, I don't think the inspectors are likely to come here."

Magic of Death was closely monitored even before the Plague, but in those days it had little practical use and was considered rather a lot of philosophers. The only people who made cadavers from human or animal bodies were the few originals because such servants were inferior to artificial golems, and summoning souls from the realm of the dead was dangerous, costly, and pointless. The dead proved to be remarkably deceitful, inventive, and malicious creatures, especially if they were no strangers to magic while alive. Nevertheless, they disturbed the peace of the deceased often enough for the priests of Morvan the Judge to be concerned about the matter and to bring order in this sphere.

After the world catastrophe, the situation changed. The art of invoking death was one of the few areas where wizards' efforts yielded results (the other elements stubbornly ignored invocations and refused to share their power), and as a result, a previously unpromising section began to be studied with particular zeal. Wizards, however, were watched more closely. Although the Servants of the Judge The latter were interested in all manifestations of the mystical, trying to put them at their service.

"It makes sense," Celesta agreed. "I have to settle for people with erased memories, and they tend to rethink orders creatively. On the other hand, the source of blood is always at hand."

The undead shrugged philosophically. As long as there was enough scum like guilty sectarians, city gang criminals who tried to steal from the city, or just plain low-life homeless people, she wasn't going to change a thing.

"I'd like to share with you a few... observations," she went on to the subject of her visit. "It's about the events in Lascaris. Do you know what happened there?"

"In general terms. I know that three foreign risen invaded the city, and you killed them."

"Yes, but they managed to finish off Zar and seriously hurt Sattar," Celesta said grimly. "He had to hide until I arrived. The strangers were skilled mages, skilled in the ways of fire. Yes, with fire, you heard right! The bastard tried to burn me, too, but it didn't work. I'd have brought him back to Talia where I could investigate his powers, but I couldn't do it then. I had to give it to Count, and it was a good thing it wasn't to the spiders. The strangers came from the Free Cities, and I can't help but wonder if I should expect more visitors. Not just stupid ghouls with a thirst for blood, but vampires who consciously, thoughtfully explore their capabilities."

Hustin thought a little.

"All serious wizards research the undead - it's a very interesting topic. I'm referring to those in the civil service. But the resources of the independent mages, as far as I know, are limited... A self-taught talent?"

"Based on the results of the interrogation, it seems so," the girl agreed with the assumption. "But there are a few things that confuse me. The vampires there have customs, unwritten laws, a certain structure, and the young undead are often apprenticed to the older ones. The fool I caught in Lascaris suffered not so much because he was fascinated with magic, but because of his tainted relations with almost every influential person. If he had been a little more diplomatic, no one knows who would have escaped, him or his enemies."

"Rumor has it that there are Masters of the Night in those lands," the mage recalled. "Perhaps we should find out more about them?"

Celesta knew much more about the Masters of the Night than her interlocutor did. She gathered information about her kin wherever she could, and it was only natural that the gossip that merchants brought in about the strong undead communities in the west should have interested her. True, nothing concrete could be learned. There were one or more factions that acted harshly, decisively, and bloodily, but it was impossible to get more detailed information - too far away. Celesta had few personal agents on or off the steppe, and she didn't trust those people.

"Could you through Tairan, find out what the situation is with the undead in those parts?" either asked or commanded the undead. "I don't want to keep distracting Latham and Zerwan from Taleya, I need them here."

"Of course, I'll talk to the teacher," Hustin nodded.

"That's fine. Then the second question..." The girl shook her glass thoughtfully, trying to find the exact wording. "After that fight, I got a lot stronger. Much stronger. I don't need blood as much, I don't need daytime sleep as badly, I don't need as much energy to use my powers anymore. And the energy has increased dramatically, in a leap. Do you have any idea what caused it?"

The magician leaned forward: "Have you stepped up to the next stage?"

"I don't know," Celesta said hesitantly. "I thought the transition was supposed to be gradual."

"Not absolutely," Hustin's eyes lit up with fanatical fire. "With me, Medea, or Zerwan the process is gradual, but in special circumstances, the body can speed up the second initiation. Have you been using your abilities to the limit a lot lately?"

"I've been there a lot, actually," the Mistress estimated. "First I caught a bone digger near Suwalki, then in Bardi, there were several confrontations with the locals, in Lascaris I had to do my best, too... Do you think it's related?"

"I think so."

The theory of the "stages of development" was formulated by mages about ten years after they began to study the phenomenon of rising. They experimented on Hastin. He voluntarily offered himself as an object for testing the ideas, which was regarded by most of his acquaintances at the time as something between madness and a feat. As a result of his research on the undead apprentice, the great Tairan hypothesized that vampires - at the time, the word served as a sort of term for those risen who retained the mind - might, like the rest of the undead, evolve to be more survivable and environmentally tolerant organisms.

The practice seemed to confirm the theory. Older risen who remembered the time before the Plague surpassed their younger counterparts in speed, physical strength, needed less blood and tolerated sunlight better. In addition, as time passed, they gradually began to master a specific form of direct influence on reality, which, for lack of suitable terminology, was simply called vampiric abilities. They wanted to call it "blood magic", but came to the conclusion that it was not magic, i.e. the inherent gift of working with energy, but a kind of generic feature of the species. A chameleon changes color, a cobra stings with venom, and vampires use some of the energy they take away for more than just survival. For example, Celesta could suppress another will, Zervan became more powerful for minutes, and Medea was able to mesmerize by the play of her voice and her body movements.

What would happen next was a matter of divergent opinion. Tairan assumed that the development of each particular risen was gradual, changes accumulating little by little. Hustin thought otherwise. In his version, a vampire did evolve slowly, but only up to a certain point. At some point, quantitative mutations turn into qualitative ones, and the organism acquires entirely new properties. No one of Hustin's supporters could predict in advance which ones exactly, but the magicians derived a number of regularities and compiled several techniques that, in theory, allowed them to reach the " higher " state as soon as possible. Theory or theory, but it really became easier for the youngsters to develop their existing abilities.

"Couldn't you come more often?" The bloodsucker and wizard's face took on the features of a kitty begging for a bowl of milk. "I'd take a few measurements..."

For centuries in charge of a rather peculiar contingent, Celesta had learned certain wisdom: If you can't prevent it, lead it! If Hustin were to hear a refusal now, he would do things that would make the inconvenience and the time lost seem like petty hooliganism in comparison. So it is necessary to agree, and there is an opportunity to set your conditions.

"All right, but do your rain-dance here I will not attend the Academy."

Hustin nodded, though the mention of the failed attempt to summon the spirits of the elements made him wince a little.

"And don't say anything to Tairan just yet. When there are obvious results, then we can make a report."

And until then, no one knows where we'll all be or what state we'll be in.

"The Rector should not be approached at all right now." Hastin was already rummaging through the closet, retrieving suspicious-looking objects in the darkness. "He's in serious trouble at the palace. Rumor has it that the Son of the Sea is angry, has called the Academy a stronghold of Darkness, and has even expressed a desire to close it."

"I hope he was talked out of this foolishness?"

"Yes, but the position of the blessed Tairan has been shaken. All right, I'm ready."

While the dark mage made complicated manipulations with devices, measuring and recording aura readings, the leader pondered the information she received. So the wizards are in trouble. Not good. The Academy had always acted as a protector and ally of the risen, not out of friendship, but believing it foolish to get rid of valuable servants for religious motives alone. However, a certain commonality of interests cannot be discounted - they have the same enemies. The temples, the fanatics of light, the petty feudal lords who want to get rid of any manifestations of witchcraft.

Celesta looked skeptically at the wooden wand that Hastin waved around her head, but did not comment on his methods. But she did specify: "And who persuaded our wise king not to destroy the heritage of his ancestors?"

"Chancellor," the mage answered aloofly. All his attention was on the experiment. "Great Chancellor Rakawa."

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