The Count of the Living Death (The Chronicles of Hildigrim Blackbeard) Read online

  “We all have a great Enemy nipping at our heels,” he answered, anticipating his surprise. “Sometimes you can see Him, just a flicker in the shadows—sometimes the merest brush of wind at your throat. But he’s there, all right. I can sense him even now.”

  “A great enemy?” Leopold repeated. “Do you mean King Ivan the Fourth—the one they call Lord Hooknose? But I heard he was captured months ago. He awaits trial on an island off the coast of—”

  “You fool, I’m not talking about men!” he snapped. “Men come and go. I speak of the true Enemy behind them, the one that counts out your years as so many raindrops. For they vanish just as quickly.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Which is precisely why you had no business going anywherey?ing any near that box!” he said, shaking him. “Don’t you know what you’ve done? But ah, you want to know, don’t you? That’s what kept you awake at night. That truth—the one thing you couldn’t demand as your right.”

  Leopold hesitated. Of course he wanted to know, but the look in the sorcerer’s eyes…no, he didn’t want to know the meaning behind it.

  “I’ll tell you what we locked away in that box, never again to be disturbed,” he said, pushing him aside. “The great Enemy himself—we locked away your Death!”

  Chapter Five

  Leopold had no response to this statement. Terror, confusion, disbelief, and finally amusement came in turn. What ultimately came out was a slight chuckle—a polite one, of course, but a chuckle nonetheless. The sorcerer glowered in rage, as if his eyes could snatch the chuckle out of mid air and strangle it cold. The Count coughed the rest away, averting his eyes.

  “I beg your pardon, but I don’t quite see…how could you lock away death? After all, people still die. My own father…is dead.”

  “There are many Deaths in this world, no box can contain them all,” Blackbeard said. “But the Death I speak of is yours alone, the one that has accompanied you since birth…your most faithful, if hated, companion.”

  Leopold fell into a stunned silence. Surely he didn’t mean…

  “Ask yourself, when was the last time you felt sick? Even a passing illness? A cough—what about that? Hmm?

  “Well, I’m sure I’ve had…I can’t tell you exactly when, or how long,” he said, growing desperate.

  “It all dates from the locking of that box,” the sorcerer said, grimly. “Your father had me lock it away, with great effort, some fifteen years ago. It’s in there—the very specter of Death—powerless to spread mischief. Until you came along and opened the locks.”

  “Not the third! I didn’t turn that one!”

  “But you might as well have! Thoughtless fool; you’ve set his release in motion now, and nothing I can do—no, not even all the powers of magic can stop it. Your Death must come out.”

  The Count began spouting out excuses, empty words, until even these failed him and he began to weep. So this was it. He would die. And all because of a moment’s foolishness, a selfish desire to best his father. Look at me, papa, I can open the box! And nothing happened!

  “Is there nothing we can do?”

  “Everyone dies,” the sorcerer shrugged. “Even the box couldn’t hold it forever.”

  “I don’t want to live forever. Just today,” he whimpered.

  Blackbeard made a clicking noise with his tongue, deep in thought. This would be tricky. Death lived off its host like a parasite. Some Deaths were small; they only nibbled and pecked away at one’s life over sixty, maybe seventy years. Others were large and voracious; they gobbled it up in a few years, and in extremely rare cases, a matter of months. In general it was a relatively harmonious relationship, and Death, in order to protect its nourishment, would work hard to protect its host—blocking dangerous influences and whispering propitious thoughts in one’s sleep. His own Death (a relative wisp of a Death, he was told) had seen him throthe"ugh the most dire predicaments, when anyone else would have perished on the spot. Naturally his time would come…but he sensed he would live longer than this poor fellow, who might not see the morning.

  “When it’s released, it will be hungry—ravenous,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Imagine a fast of over fifteen years! I’m afraid it will devour you on the spot.”

  “Merciful fates!” he gasped.

  “You can’t reason or bargain with Death,” he nodded. “It has a cunning, animal intelligence with only one purpose. It will find any way, endure any hardships, lay any traps to appease its thirst. It almost had you last night…”

  Leopold wasn’t ready to accept this. No, there had to be another way. Of course: he could burn the box! Set both it and his Death aflame, if Death could burn, that is…but if it could eat, certainly it had some kind of substance. Or adopt an elaborate variety of disguises, so clever that even Death couldn’t ferret him out. Perhaps he just needed to hire an assassin, one that could intimidate even the most dreadful spirits of the supernatural world? Could Death be killed? Could even Death, in some manner, die?

  “I know what you’re thinking, and no, it can’t be fooled, duped, or killed in any way you imagine,” the sorcerer replied. “Unless…”

  “Unless? Unless what? Is there a way?”

  Hildigrim Blackbeard paced in a circle while solving invisible equations in his mind. Mmm, yes, that could work, though it was an equally terrible proposition. But desperate times…

  “Please! What is it?”

  “Someone has to die…but it doesn’t have to be you.”

  Chapter Six

  Lady Mary Bianca Domenica de Grassini Algarotti was told to stand like a goddess. Having never seen one in person, she did her best impression: she stood like her mother. With her right arm bent, she planted a balled fist on her hip (her mother always did this, especially when insulted). The other hung elegantly at her side, setting off a bright turquoise gown and an ermine sleeve, which, in this weather, threatened to give her heatstroke. Nevertheless she slightly inclined her head and smiled without smiling; a smile is all in the eyes, not the mouth, her governess informed her. So her eyes shone with what happiness she could conjure up after two hours of posing for a wedding portrait, to a man she had no interest in marrying, on an eighty-five degree day, without wind, in the hottest room in the palace. The painter, a man who spoke in three languages at once, would occasionally mutter: “si, si, you look very charmante, but maybe to move just like this…oh, questa è bella!”

  “Are we done very soon?” she finally asked.

  “Momentito,” he nodded, making the tiniest brushstroke.

  Her thoughts wandered to happier subjects, such as the day she last saw him, and what he had said to her…or rather, what he had meant to say instead of what he did. Leopold brought her a glass of champagne (some of which he spilled on his shoe), and after apologizing, asked her what she thought of history.

  “History?” she asked him, with a laugh. “All of itsid? From beginning to end? Or just the moment we’re in right now?”

  “Ah—no, not all of it, that would be dreadful,” he grinned. “No, I mean our history, tradition and all that. What we’re supposed to uphold.”

  “I always wondered how one held up history; it seems like you would need ten arms,” she said, laughing. “Perhaps our ancestors were built much sturdier than we are?”

  “I think it just sat on their heads,” he muttered. “Didn’t leave room for anything else.”

  She laughed, but realized this was no idle question. He had something quite specific to ask her and history was only the start of it. Taking a nervous sip from her glass, she tried out several responses in her head. Most were shockingly forward for a woman of her age and position. So again, she thought of her mother: how would she respond? Serious, but not honest, of course; tell him what I should say rather than what I would. Just in case.

  “Joking aside, I think history and tradition are all very well. It tells us who we are, doesn’t it?”

  “When you look at these walls, all these portra
its staring down at you…do you really see yourself?” he asked, studying her.

  “Well…I see…our way of life. Not me, necessarily, but those who shaped the world. Don’t you?”

  He crossed his arms and turned away from her, facing the crowd of dancers and chattering couples. She realized that this was the wrong track; she would have to be more honest, even at the risk of spilling an accidental truth on occasion. Fortunately, her mother was no longer around to object.

  “Of course, we used to throw darts at them as children.”

  He spun around, startled. She nodded, laughing slightly to encourage him. He followed at once.

  “And what happened?”

  “They never discovered us. We crept into the hallways at night. Especially at this one nasty old woman…said to be some ancient relative of my father’s. We aimed for the eyes and nose. The poor woman, within a month she was headless!”

  They both laughed as the music struck up behind them. A bouncy, courtly minuet. Several couples made elegant bows and pirouetted across the floor.

  “That’s what I mean,” he said, fingering a sleeve button. “This isn’t us. It’s just where we washed up, like a piece of drift wood. I never set course for ta- coursethis place. And even if we do come from the same tree, well, I can be made into something else. A frigate, perhaps, to sail off to the Colonies.”

  “Would you accept passengers? Or is this to be a solo voyage?”

  “I’m sure I have room for at least one stowaway,” he said.

  She blushed, probably less from the champagne than the way he said it. They had met, flirted, and almost spoken of things ever since she had first come out as a girl of thirteen. But now she was engaged, her life auctioned off to another title in another land. Anything they said now was child’s play, a way of pretending the future didn’t exist (much less the past), with the present an innocent playground.

  “When do you leave?” he asked.

  “In two week’s time. It’s so soon!” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic—but failing on purpose.

  “Two weeks,” he nodded. “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  “To do what, may I ask? Are you planning a wedding of your own?” she smiled—tinged with bitterness.

  “I can’t say,” he said.

  As he said this he touched her arm. Very lightly, yet with tremendous force—enough to shatter her equilibrium. Her eyes swam, her heart shook, and her knees…well, it would be impolite to mention a noblewoman’s knees in public. Pleading important business, he made a bow and wandered off, disappearing into a crush of dancers. Her eyes ran after him, plucked out every last bit of his hair, his dress, his sword. It would have to last through the long, unhappy years of her marriage (and they would be unhappy, she assured herself).

  “Please, signorina, straighten—elegante,” the painter chided.

  Mary nodded and straightened herself. Her eyes shone even brighter now, smiling with the sudden, startling recognition that he loved her. They could never be together, not in this world…but in another? In the Colonies, like he said? Who would know them, their families, their history? Yes, she thought to herself, I know exactly what I feel about history. That it’s best left in the past.

  Chapter Seven

  “And that’s the only way?” Leopold gasped. “That’s your great plan, my one way out of this?”

  “It may not even be that,” the sorcerer said, waving his arms. “It may be gloriously ineffective; this is Death we’re talking about! But yes, your one way out of this mess—which is all your doing, I don’t need to remind you—is exactly this: find a blood relation to die in your place. The family resemblance may be enough to temporarily mislead it. Then, when it has appeased its thirst, it can reattach itself and go on at the normal rate…depending, of course, on itsd. appetite and constitution. It may shave off a year or two of your lifespan, but as long as…”

  Hildigrim Blackbeard paused to shoo a moth off his beard. Then, having apparently forgotten his point, simply nodded.

  “A blood relation?” the prince said, almost laughing. “Who do you suggest, my mother? My aunt—her children? Ask them to die in my place? Are you mad?”

  “Are you?” the sorcerer spat. “You’re the one who unlocked the wretched box! Or perhaps you’ve forgotten?”

  “Why why why why why?” he wailed, holding his head as he paced in desperate circles. “Why on earth did he do it? Why didn’t he just leave my death in peace?”

  “Only a father could understand,” Blackbeard said, gravely. “You were his life, his one and only son. In your early years, death nearly claimed you twice; once with a terrible fever, and the second—”

  “I know, I fell from a ledge,” the Count interrupted. “I was six. I remember it very clearly. He never left my side.”

  “Such is love,” he nodded. “When he sent for me, he said, I can’t lose him again. I can’t be one of those men burying his own son. I’ve seen too much of that in my time. I want him to live on, into a better age, far beyond the golden gleams of the horizon, longer than any man on earth. Poetry, perhaps. But when he said it I believed him. And I foolishly agreed to do it.”

  As the full realization of his father’s words struck him, Leopold gazed into the heavens; a faint star still twinkled in the morning light. Had he really said those things? Leopold had trouble marrying the words to the man or even hearing his voice. Had he spoken it confidently, in a single breath? Or hesitantly, in fits and starts? He still remembered one evening, when, after several glasses of wine, he said he admired—not loved, but admired—his father’s work. The old man scampered out of his seat and muttered something about “needing to ring the servant.” He never returned. But now this…it said more than a library of love tokens. His father had loved him. So much so that he inadvertently cursed him for the rest of his life. Perhaps that was the reason for secrecy; saying too much can become fatal, especially when couched in the ambiguous tones of magic.

  “Peruse your family tree: is there a crotchety great-grandmother or distant relation hiding away somewhere? Someone who won’t survive the week?” Blackbeard suggested. “Not that I advocate murder, of course…but as I said, someone will die, be it you or someone else.”

  “There’s no one, I couldn’t imagine—no, it’s ridiculous!” he spat. “I would never have someone killed in my place, not even a convicted—”

  An image flashed through his head and cut off the final word. A convicted criminal. Someone already sentenced to death, merely waiting the accursed day in the despair of a decrepit dungeon. Someone for whom death would be a blessed deliverance, especia, fnce, eslly given the manner of the execution (typically, beheading, but given the nature of his crimes, he might even expect a more prolonged demise). And there was such a person: his father’s bastard son…his half-brother, Ivan.

  “Half-brother?” Blackbeard repeated. “I wasn’t aware that your father had two sons.”

  “No, he wasn’t…that is, Ivan lived quite apart from us. I never knew him. I scarcely even knew he existed.”

  Ivan was the result of his father’s brief affair with a Russian dancer before his birth. His father never mentioned him, and indeed, Leopold only learned he had a ‘brother’ by accident. One evening, when he had accidentally fallen asleep under a table, his father and an advisor came in, arguing volubly about someone they referred to as “Ivan the Terrible.” Toward the end of the conversation, his father threw a saucer against the wall—which shattered—and shouted, “damn him, he’s no son of mine, may he drown in the seven seas! His mother bewitched me with her gypsy arts and rotted his brains with witchcraft! He’ll never be allowed in my presence.”

  Apparently, Ivan took this rejection personally. He became a notorious criminal and declared war on the entire kingdom. By the time of his capture, he was charged as an assassin, a spy, a cutpurse, a highwayman, and most unforgivably, an actor. When rumors of the trial reached Leopold’s ears the sentence had already been passed: death, withou
t possibility of pardon, in two month’s time. It haunted him to think that this fellow—in blood, at least—was his brother. A brother he could never know. What was he like? And what might he have been like if his father had found some way to accept him?

  “I don’t understand…won’t his Death stop my Death? We all have a Death, don’t we?”

  “Of course, a wise question,” Blackbeard nodded. “I will attempt a spell to temporarily sever the two—he will be in a kind of limbo, between life and death. His Death will be unable to defend him.”

  “I see,” the Count nodded. “And when we open the box…will it be painful?”

  “Instantaneous,” he said, with a wave of his hand. “Won’t feel a thing. He’ll snuff out like a candle.”

  “In that case…would he do?”

  “Estranged or not, he is your brother. But do you know where he is?”

  “The Royal Dungeons, in the condemned quarters,” Leopold replied. “Can we get to him?”

  The sorcerer gave a slight groan, but nodded. Yes, it could be done. It probably shouldn’t be done, they would probably become wanted men themselves if they weren’t careful, but yes, he could arrange it.

  “I’ll get dressed,” Leopold nodded.

  Chapter Eight

  Mary’s coach was stopped at the palace gates. Something about a quarantine, no one was allowed to leave or enter. Disguised, and unable to give her full name (which might have opened all doors and gates), she merely said she had urgent business with the Count and demanded entrance. The guards refused. The orders came from high up; she would simply hh stave to wait. In truth, they were terrified. Defying a direct order of Hildigrim Blackbeard would bring swift and terrible repercussions. Death, most likely. But there were many ways to go. They most feared a curse-transformation, which would change them into hideous, loathsome insects, leaving them to flail about helplessly until some greater beast ensnared them in its claws—