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is face was the only face that Derek had seen for nine years.
"Show him no pity, Rhosh," said Roland looking directly at Derek. "I have tried everything with him. Nothing works. He will not tell me anything."
Rhosh drew back, as if he'd bent to kiss and thought the better of it, and that probing right hand of his clasped Derek's head and smoothed Derek's hair.
In spite of himself Derek felt chills, the sweet high-pitched chills of being touched by another with seeming affection, even one as cold and inhuman as this being.
He closed his eyes and swallowed. The tears poured down his cheeks.
"Such a beautiful creature," whispered Rhosh. "And such a youthful voice. Such a pleasing voice."
"This Prince, does he believe in right and wrong?" asked Derek. "Take me to him, use me as your bargaining chip, as you call it. Maybe he's better than you and that one who keeps me here as if I were a bird in a cage, or a fish in a bowl of water! I have a heart, don't you understand it! I have a..."
"A soul?" asked Rhoshamandes.
"Everything that is conscious, aware of itself, has a soul," said Derek.
"Everything?" asked Roland. "How do you know?"
"I know," said Derek. But he didn't know. He really had no idea. He knew exactly how he'd been made, and by whom, and he had no idea whether or not a soul was included in the package. He couldn't bear to think that he didn't have a soul. He refused to even entertain the idea. But you can't really behave that way towards ideas, can you? With his whole being, he knew that he had a soul. He was a soul! And his soul was Derek, and Derek suffered and Derek wanted to live! And Derek wanted to be freed from this prison.
Rhoshamandes embraced him gently and brought Derek closer to him, and once again he bent to drink.
Derek closed his eyes, and felt the fang teeth touching his neck. He sought to empty his mind, to banish all words, all images, and to feel only the sharp prick of the teeth, the soft kiss of the creature's breath.
"Hmmm, warm, salty, warm as a human being," whispered Rhoshamandes, his voice now drunken even though he hadn't drunk. That was the way with them. Even before they feasted on him, the hunger made them drunken. Their eyes glazed over. Their hearts tripped. They became their thirst. That's how and why they could suck the life out of humans, and out of Derek. They turned into beasts. They looked like angels, but they were actually beasts.
"Drink, and find my soul," said Derek, "and know what you do is wrong. But then it's always wrong when you drink, isn't it? Everyone you kill has a soul."
"Open to me, tender one," said the stranger. "I mean you no harm."
Derek closed his eyes and turned away. Then came the sharp fine stinging pain and immediately behind it the rush of sweetness, of more of those rippling chills on his neck, his back, down his arms and legs. The world dissolved, and with it the fetid dust and soot of the dungeon cell. And he was floating as this thing drew the blood out of him in deep slow draughts.
In a mighty unexpected flash Derek saw a long table, blood drinkers on either side of it, and a blond-haired figure with an ax in his hand. The Prince! What a comely being, and with such a beguiling smile. Down came the ax and the Prince held up the severed left hand. They stared at each other in rage, Rhoshamandes and the Prince, and the blond Prince hacked off Rhoshamandes's arm! Derek saw the hand and the limb on the table. He felt the pain that Rhosh had felt, splintering, burning into his shoulder and then gone.
Tell me where my son is. Or you will die.
So that was it, was it? Derek was growing weaker. "You held his son captive, that's what you did, and you wonder that he hurt you? I would hurt you, if I could. I would hack you limb from limb and I've never hurt anyone. I am sworn never to hurt human beings on this planet, never, but your humanity long ago went dry inside you, and I would cheerfully torture you...."
It was gone. He was gone. No more Derek the fighter who could look for anything in the blood drinker's mind. He was drifting without a body, without a place.
Dream.
Atalantaya, the splendid city of Atalantaya...no words, don't give them words. Look. But don't name. But then he was just there.
They were gone, the monsters of the present moment in Budapest.
Derek was in great Atalantaya with the others, his kindred, his own--Kapetria and Garekyn and Welf, all of them together, holding hands, his sister and his brothers--and they were watching as the Great One appeared. Amel. The Great One was unmistakable, a fine figure of a human male with a skin of unearthly paleness, and green eyes, and full reddish-golden hair. They'd made Amel to look like a god. But they'd made Derek and Kapetria and their brothers to look only human. Well, he did look like a god, if gods are pale and shining.
"Amel," said Kapetria.
Derek didn't want words, no, but he couldn't stop them, couldn't stop the words they were speaking. He was in the dream but not in control of it.
And for one moment the world was frozen. Nothing moved; nothing lived; the world was lifeless and meaningless and the voice of Rhoshamandes said: "Amel?"
Gone. No more Rhosh. No more voice. No more defenses. Just now...the warm sunlight pouring through the great clear luracastric dome of Atalantaya, beautiful Atalantaya...
Voice of the Parents. You must get inside the dome. Remember, you must strike against him inside the dome.
