Prince Lestat
Page 60
“And what realm is that?” asked Everard. “Since you’re a ghost, my friend, and I’m flesh and blood, no matter how loathsome I am?”
“I was a human being once,” said the younger ghost. “I was a blood drinker for centuries after that. And I am a ghost now. And my soul has been my soul in all three forms.”
“Blood drinker,” murmured Everard. He was marveling, studying the face of this ghost again and that generous, kindly mouth and the expressive eyes. “Magnus!” he said with a start. “Not Magnus the Alchemist.”
“Yes, that’s who I was,” replied the ghost. “And I knew you in those old times, Everard. You were made by Rhoshamandes and I was made, so to speak, by Benedict.”
Everard laughed out loud. “Methinks it was you who made Benedict all right,” he said. “Stealing the blood from him and making him the laughingstock of blood drinkers everywhere. And so you’ve become a ghost, a ghost of a blood drinker.”
“I don’t think I’m the only one in this world,” said Magnus, “but I’ve had help from my closest friends here, help in becoming what you see before you.”
“Well, it bears no resemblance to the wicked old hunchback I knew,” Everard said, but he was immediately sorry. He looked down and then up. “I regret those words,” he whispered. “I beg your pardon.”
But Magnus was smiling. “No need to be sorry. I was a frightening creature. One of the great advantages of being a ghost is that you can perfect the etheric body much more profoundly than ever you could the physical body even with the Blood. And so you see me as I had always wanted to look.”
It was shaking Everard to his bones that this was Magnus, the Magnus he’d known, yes, and the Magnus who’d made the Vampire Lestat, the fledgling who’d changed vampiric history. And yes, he could somehow see through this dazzle and gloss the Magnus that he had known, that wise and brilliant alchemist who’d begged Rhoshamandes so eloquently for the Blood, that healer who’d worked miracles amongst the poor, and studied the stars with a bronze telescope before ever Copernicus had become famous for it.
This was Magnus, beloved of Notker of Prüm, later brought into the Blood by Benedict quite deliberately and lovingly. Notker was alive now somewhere, of that Everard was certain. Rhoshamandes had said that Notker’s music would be heard in the snowy Alps when a thousand older blood drinkers had gone to their fiery graves.
Magnus a ghost now.
And the other? This Raymond Gallant, who had he been?
“Are you hearing the Voice now?” asked the ghost named Raymond Gallant.
“No,” Everard answered. “He went silent right before I saw you. He’s gone. I don’t know how I know, but he’s gone. I can sort of feel it when he’s aiming his magic beam at me, as if it were some kind of laser.”
He tried not to stare so much at these two. He glanced uneasily at Teskhamen.
“Has he never said anything to you about his ultimate purpose?” asked Teskhamen. “Has he offered you secrets?”
“Mostly threats,” replied Everard. “He’s so childish, so stupid. He tries to prey on my fears, my … my being so very alone of late. But I can see through his tricks. He speaks of unendurable pain, and near blindness, and that he is powerless to so much as lift a finger.”
“He said those things? Used those words?” asked Raymond Gallant.
“Yes, he says he’s helpless on his own, that he requires my loving assistance, my devotion, my trust in him. As if I should trust him! He says I have powers in me of which I don’t dream, and he talks of blood drinkers hiding in Italy and wants me to burn them out. He’s merciless.”
“But you don’t listen to him.”
“Why should I?” asked Everard. “And what can I do if this is one of the ancient ones and if he wants to destroy me? What can I do!”
“You do know how to hide from the Fire Gift, don’t you?” asked Teskhamen. “Your best way is to simply escape. Travel away from the spot as fast as you can, using the Cloud Gift if at all possible to simply get beyond the attacker’s range. If you can go swiftly down into the earth, that’s even better, because it cannot penetrate the earth. Whoever sends the Fire Gift has to see the victim, see the building, see the target. That’s the only way it can work.”
Everard was no expert on any of this. He was more grateful for this clarifying advice, frankly, than he could say. He had to admit Benji Mahmoud had been saying something similar, but he’d never trusted him any more than humans trusted televangelists.
And Everard had never been formally taught a thing about the higher gifts. He was not going to confess that all he knew of them he’d learned from the Vampire Chronicles, and that he’d been practicing his skills, if that’s what they were, based on descriptions written by disreputable vampire authors like Lestat de Lioncourt and Marius de Romanus and so forth and so on. He let these thoughts roll where they might. Curse the Children of Satan and their rules and injunctions. They hadn’t cared anything for vampiric gifts!
Now the great Rhoshamandes, his maker, that was another matter. What tales he’d told of riding the winds, and, oh, the spells he could cast, the visions he could arouse for Everard and others. Rhoshamandes in his burgundy-colored robes, fingers laden with rings, playing chess at his great inlaid-marble chessboard with those kings and queens and knights and bishops and pawns carved especially for him, to whom he’d given various names. Chess was his favorite game, he declared, because it pitted Mind Gift against Mind Gift.
“Yes,” Magnus whispered. “I remember him so very well. And I often sat at that chessboard with him.”
Everard would have blushed had he been human, to have had his thoughts read that easily, those images examined. But he didn’t mind. He was too fascinated with this ghost of Magnus. So many questions came to his mind: “Can you eat, can you drink, can you make love, can you taste?”
“No,” said Magnus, “but I can see very well, and I can feel hot and cold in a pleasurable way, and I have a sense of being here, being alive, occupying this space, being tangible, and having a tempo in time.…”
Ah, this was Magnus all right, this was Magnus talking, who could talk the night away with Rhoshamandes. How Rhoshamandes had loved him and respected him, throwing a veil of protection about him and forbidding all blood drinkers to harm him. Even after he’d stolen the Blood, Rhoshamandes had not hunted him down and sought to kill him.
“I was a human being once,” said the younger ghost. “I was a blood drinker for centuries after that. And I am a ghost now. And my soul has been my soul in all three forms.”
“Blood drinker,” murmured Everard. He was marveling, studying the face of this ghost again and that generous, kindly mouth and the expressive eyes. “Magnus!” he said with a start. “Not Magnus the Alchemist.”
“Yes, that’s who I was,” replied the ghost. “And I knew you in those old times, Everard. You were made by Rhoshamandes and I was made, so to speak, by Benedict.”
Everard laughed out loud. “Methinks it was you who made Benedict all right,” he said. “Stealing the blood from him and making him the laughingstock of blood drinkers everywhere. And so you’ve become a ghost, a ghost of a blood drinker.”
“I don’t think I’m the only one in this world,” said Magnus, “but I’ve had help from my closest friends here, help in becoming what you see before you.”
“Well, it bears no resemblance to the wicked old hunchback I knew,” Everard said, but he was immediately sorry. He looked down and then up. “I regret those words,” he whispered. “I beg your pardon.”
But Magnus was smiling. “No need to be sorry. I was a frightening creature. One of the great advantages of being a ghost is that you can perfect the etheric body much more profoundly than ever you could the physical body even with the Blood. And so you see me as I had always wanted to look.”
It was shaking Everard to his bones that this was Magnus, the Magnus he’d known, yes, and the Magnus who’d made the Vampire Lestat, the fledgling who’d changed vampiric history. And yes, he could somehow see through this dazzle and gloss the Magnus that he had known, that wise and brilliant alchemist who’d begged Rhoshamandes so eloquently for the Blood, that healer who’d worked miracles amongst the poor, and studied the stars with a bronze telescope before ever Copernicus had become famous for it.
This was Magnus, beloved of Notker of Prüm, later brought into the Blood by Benedict quite deliberately and lovingly. Notker was alive now somewhere, of that Everard was certain. Rhoshamandes had said that Notker’s music would be heard in the snowy Alps when a thousand older blood drinkers had gone to their fiery graves.
Magnus a ghost now.
And the other? This Raymond Gallant, who had he been?
“Are you hearing the Voice now?” asked the ghost named Raymond Gallant.
“No,” Everard answered. “He went silent right before I saw you. He’s gone. I don’t know how I know, but he’s gone. I can sort of feel it when he’s aiming his magic beam at me, as if it were some kind of laser.”
He tried not to stare so much at these two. He glanced uneasily at Teskhamen.
“Has he never said anything to you about his ultimate purpose?” asked Teskhamen. “Has he offered you secrets?”
“Mostly threats,” replied Everard. “He’s so childish, so stupid. He tries to prey on my fears, my … my being so very alone of late. But I can see through his tricks. He speaks of unendurable pain, and near blindness, and that he is powerless to so much as lift a finger.”
“He said those things? Used those words?” asked Raymond Gallant.
“Yes, he says he’s helpless on his own, that he requires my loving assistance, my devotion, my trust in him. As if I should trust him! He says I have powers in me of which I don’t dream, and he talks of blood drinkers hiding in Italy and wants me to burn them out. He’s merciless.”
“But you don’t listen to him.”
“Why should I?” asked Everard. “And what can I do if this is one of the ancient ones and if he wants to destroy me? What can I do!”
“You do know how to hide from the Fire Gift, don’t you?” asked Teskhamen. “Your best way is to simply escape. Travel away from the spot as fast as you can, using the Cloud Gift if at all possible to simply get beyond the attacker’s range. If you can go swiftly down into the earth, that’s even better, because it cannot penetrate the earth. Whoever sends the Fire Gift has to see the victim, see the building, see the target. That’s the only way it can work.”
Everard was no expert on any of this. He was more grateful for this clarifying advice, frankly, than he could say. He had to admit Benji Mahmoud had been saying something similar, but he’d never trusted him any more than humans trusted televangelists.
And Everard had never been formally taught a thing about the higher gifts. He was not going to confess that all he knew of them he’d learned from the Vampire Chronicles, and that he’d been practicing his skills, if that’s what they were, based on descriptions written by disreputable vampire authors like Lestat de Lioncourt and Marius de Romanus and so forth and so on. He let these thoughts roll where they might. Curse the Children of Satan and their rules and injunctions. They hadn’t cared anything for vampiric gifts!
Now the great Rhoshamandes, his maker, that was another matter. What tales he’d told of riding the winds, and, oh, the spells he could cast, the visions he could arouse for Everard and others. Rhoshamandes in his burgundy-colored robes, fingers laden with rings, playing chess at his great inlaid-marble chessboard with those kings and queens and knights and bishops and pawns carved especially for him, to whom he’d given various names. Chess was his favorite game, he declared, because it pitted Mind Gift against Mind Gift.
“Yes,” Magnus whispered. “I remember him so very well. And I often sat at that chessboard with him.”
Everard would have blushed had he been human, to have had his thoughts read that easily, those images examined. But he didn’t mind. He was too fascinated with this ghost of Magnus. So many questions came to his mind: “Can you eat, can you drink, can you make love, can you taste?”
“No,” said Magnus, “but I can see very well, and I can feel hot and cold in a pleasurable way, and I have a sense of being here, being alive, occupying this space, being tangible, and having a tempo in time.…”
Ah, this was Magnus all right, this was Magnus talking, who could talk the night away with Rhoshamandes. How Rhoshamandes had loved him and respected him, throwing a veil of protection about him and forbidding all blood drinkers to harm him. Even after he’d stolen the Blood, Rhoshamandes had not hunted him down and sought to kill him.
