Come Twilight by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

pigs could be turned loose in the forest to be recaptured later, but not chickens and ducks. They would have to be taken away, or eaten.” Sanct’ Germain looked down one of the two cart-wide streets running through the town from the front gate; a number of smaller alleys radiated in all directions, but Sanct’ Germain gave his first attention to what were obviously the most important corridors in the village. “There is probably a market square at the center of this town,” he said, starting along the nearer of the two streets.
    “Do you intend to go there? to the market square?” asked Rogerian; Sanct’ Germain’s gray and his own red-roan were nudging at him for water.
    “It might give us a better notion about where everyone has gone,” Sanct’ Germain said.
    “Do you think sickness has chased them out?” Rogerian went back to the well to get a second bucket of water.
    “It is the most likely explanation,” said Sanct’ Germain as he glanced down an alley. “If the sickness had remained here, we would know.” His expression combined distress and compassion. “The odor would be undeniable.”
    “Truly,” Rogerian agreed as he lowered the bucket. “Where do you suppose they have gone?”
    “I have no notion,” said Sanct’ Germain. “No one is here to tell us. We saw few travelers as we came up from Gardingio Witteric’s holdings; certainly nothing like a whole village on the move.”
    The mention of Gardingio Witteric brought a frown to Rogerian’s face. “His gratitude left much to be desired.”
    “He had no reason to be grateful,” said Sanct’ Germain. “The juggler died of fever. Not I, not anyone could have prevented it. The bone was too badly splintered. The sickness had gone too deep. The sovereign remedy was not enough to preserve his life.” He swung around to look directly at Rogerian. “And do not tell me my blood would have spared him: I had no time to prepare him for my life even had he sought it.” He thought briefly of Nicoris, who had ultimately refused the gift he gave her; she had died the True Death not quite two hundred years ago but the memory of her loss was still a stern rebuke within him.
    “He need not have died,” said Rogerian stubbornly.
    Sanct’ Germain came back toward his bondsman. “Many others have died before now and you did not resent it; there is little place in the world for those of my blood: we are tigers, not wolves, and our nature makes us solitary by necessity. Those who are prepared to live as vampires must are few in number and far apart, for their own protection as well as the protection of those around us. You have understood this from the time you first learned what I am. What was it about Alboin that was different?”
    Rogerian pulled up the bucket before he answered. “I do not know. Perhaps it was his youth. He seemed so . . . so cheated by life.”
    “Ah,” Sanct’ Germain said, nodding his understanding. “He had that about him, did he not.” He went toward the other street in swift, long strides. “I will find a place we can shelter for the night, and then I will go into the forest and find a meal we can share: blood for me, flesh for you.”
    “That would be welcome,” said Rogerian, giving water to Sanct’ Germain’s gray.
    Sanct’ Germain stood still for a short while, then said, “I am sorry I could not save him; the sovereign remedy is usually sufficient to stop fever, but this time it could not.”
    “That does not mean he had to die,” said Rogerian at his most blunt.
    “No, it does not,” Sanct’ Germain conceded. “If I had more time, and an athanor to make more of the remedy, he might have lived.” He looked about the village. “You cannot doubt that I have done all that I could to preserve the lad.”
    “Oh, I know that,” said Rogerian with uncertainty. “But the fact of the matter is that I expected your skills to save him, and if you did not, that your blood would bring him to life