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.I peered thoughtfully at the names and dates upon the golden plaques.Ancient crypts these were, some almost four hundred years old.And as I gazed upon them, I became aware that we did not stand alone: in front of us materialised the ghostly images of men, each dressed in the costume of a different era—one wearing the short waistcoat popular during the time of Napoleon, another in mediaeval tunic and woolen leggings.Some were still in the prime of youth, but most were older, with greying hair and bowed, beaten faces; and all of them with eyes so full of anguish, I could not bear to directly meet their gazes.I knew then I looked at an historical spectrum spanning the last four centuries.These are your ancestors, Arkady said.Seventeen generations.These are the men who suffer in Hell so that their families would be protected and spared from knowing the truth: that Vlad corrupted them by pressing them into his service— a service that required them to provide him with the blood of innocent, unwitting victims.These are the men whose souls have purchased continued life for the Impaler.I am the eighteenth generation; my soul has now purchased him a fresh span of life.And you, Bram, are the nineteenth.Suddenly I no longer stood inside the chapel but in that terrible chamber where my father and brother had died.There sat the Impaler upon his throne, magnificent in scarlet robes and golden diadem; as brilliant as the sun, as fiercely proud and beautiful as a lion.I watched as the first generation of those bound to his service cringed before him: the father weeping as he pierced his squawling infant son's finger with the dagger, then milked that young blood into the chalice.And Vlad upending that chalice, as he had poor Stefan's, and drinking.Generation after generation after generation I watched the sad pageant repeated; seventeen stricken fathers, seventeen wailing sons.Let it end with me, Arkady's voice said, though I looked about me and saw I stood alone.Dear Bram, let the curse end with me.And I watched, from the lofty perspective of a god staring down from heaven, as generation after generation Vlad savoured the slow descent of each individual soul into terror and corruption when the chosen son came to realise who his "great-uncle" Vlad truly was and what was expected of him.I saw, too, the covenant at work: the castle as a thriving estate filled with servants, with peasants toiling in the fertile fields.Like a great feudal lord, Vlad provided sustenance and protection for an entire village.And they in turn colluded with the eldest son to provide sustenance for him—agreeing never to warn the unwary travellers seeking lodging, or those lured to the castle by the son's invitation.So this unholy alliance continued, until the day Vlad's arrogance overcame him, and he dared to prey upon one of his own: Zsuzsanna.Terrified that the vampire might now attack any of them, the villagers fled, and the castle fell into disrepair, abandoned by all except Vlad and his two consorts, the immortal Zsu-7sanna and the mortal Dunya.And I saw again the family estate, and myself as an infant, being carried away in the hands of the gentle blond giant I had come to know as Papa.And my parents fleeing in the opposite direction in a carriage, desperate to cross the river before sunset—my mother pale and exhausted after a difficult labour, covered with blankets to ward off the spring chill, my father's face grim, taut with desperation as he drove the horses hard towards sanctuary.I saw them fail.Saw the sun slip lower in the sky until the last fading rays had vanished, saw the carriage suddenly beset by a pack of snarling grey wolves.One leapt into the carriage, at my mother's throat; and my father turned and killed it with a single shot from the shining steel revolver in his hand.From out of the darkness Vlad appeared and moved close to threaten Mama—leaping like the wolf onto the carriage, between my parents, spreading his cloak, like a great evil bird descending on his prey.My poor brave mother—her face wan, her hair tousled, her eyes narrowed with terror and determination—grasped the gun from my father's hand and with a look of infinite love and grief, fired it.Not at Vlad, but Arkady—who with his dying gaze, beheld her with such gratitude, such devotion, as I have never seen.The horses shrieked, bolted, carrying my mother with them; my father, dying, tumbled from the carriage onto cold ground, while Vlad knelt beside him, lifted him, embraced him evilly.This was their suffering and their sacrifice, freely given for me.Had my father been permitted to die innocently at that moment, the pact would have been ended; Vlad would have been destroyed.I would be in Amsterdam today alive, happy, my little boy still at my side—and both of us blissfully ignorant of the great price that had bought our freedom.But the Impaler befouled that noble act by sinking his teeth into my father's neck.Arkady's death should have purchased Vlad's destruction; but his second death had now purchased Vlad's survival.Was I to let such a bitter loving sacrifice be negated?Let it end with me, Bram! Let the curse end with me.I looked to see Arkady once more at my side.But as I watched, he was transformed before my curious gaze—grew shorter, thinner, white-haired—until at last I realised I stared not at my father but at the mysterious idiot, Arminius.And Arminius smiled his wise-simpleton's grin and said, The covenant is a two-edged sword, Abraham.A two-edged sword.I said, "I do not understand."It cuts both ways.Vlad has corrupted many of his family's souls.But should you destroy him, Abraham, you will set them free: your father's soul, and those of your ancestors.Accept the burden, and you can redeem them.* * *When I woke I was warm, lying beneath blankets not of snow but of coarse handloomed wool, upon a hard narrow mattress stuffed with straw.I did not recognise my surroundings, which looked as though they belonged to a much earlier century: the walls were rounded, earthen, bearing the prints of the builder's hands; the floors nothing more than packed sod strewn with straw.An oil lamp at my bedside table illumined the room, as did the fire burning in a nearby stone hearth, which emitted a cheering warmth.But beyond the window and the crude handmade wooden shutters covering it, the wind howled fiercely as the storm continued.I pushed myself to a sitting position to discover my shirt and waistcoat and cloak had been removed, replaced with a coarse woolen undershirt that itched against my skin.My bandage had been replaced as well, with a fresh one of loose-woven, handloomed fabric.I remembered the snowstorm and marvelled that my feet and legs seemed quite free of any sign of frostbite, and that I felt generally well and rested.Even my wounded arm had ceased aching.I almost swung my legs over the side of the bed, intending to rise and examine the room, when I chanced to glance to my right and saw lying on the floor beside me a wolf.A large silver-white wolf in its thick winter coat, quite soundly asleep (or so I thought), curled in a.comfortable half-moon.As I sat gaping, it lifted its head and stared at me with quizzical colourless eyes.Had the cloak with the gun and ammunition been nearby, I would have seized a weapon at once.But the beast merely yawned, to display pink tongue and gums and a fearsomely sharp set of fangs, then set its great head down upon its front paws and gazed up at me with an air of canine boredom
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