The Uninvited Guest

With the gifts of a witch and her position as the Queen Mother's personal maid, Mali was able to grasp many secrets others could never know. Interestingly, this intelligence was desperately needed by her father and uncle, perhaps also by people like Bishop Retz, as well as certain ministers. Now, this power had instead become the King's weapon. Though he could do nothing for the moment, he firmly committed every relevant name to memory—from René, Councillor of State, down to Gourville, one of the Duke of La Rochefoucauld's followers. They each played their part in this grand drama. Cardinal Mazarin and Queen Mother Anne clearly considered themselves the protagonists, when in truth they did not know they were merely clowns. The King could see their ending at a glance, yet could only serve as a watching spectator.

If it had to be described, Bishop Mazarin's scheme was in fact very simple. He first slipped an arrest warrant for members of the Fronde into Prince of Condé's official documents. Since the earlier assassination attempt against the Prince had already been confirmed as the Fronde's doing, intended to drive a wedge between the Prince and the royal family, Prince of Condé signed his name without hesitation. But the prisoner's name on that document had been written by the Bishop in a special ink. So long as it was heated over a flame, the writing vanished, leaving a blank space for a new name. The Bishop used this warrant to arrest the two captains of the gendarmes most loyal to the Prince, then used the same method to obtain a transfer order, replacing the guards at Louvre Palace with the Bishop's own troops. Thus, Prince of Condé had effectively placed heavy shackles upon himself. When he emerged from the Louvre's offices with Conti and Longueville, exhausted to the bone, the Bishop's soldiers swarmed forward, seized them, hooded them, and sent them away in carriages.

Of course, as Queen Mother Anne had said, even Bishop Mazarin, who bore a deep grudge against Prince of Condé, did not have the nerve to execute him outright. The same was true of Conti and Longueville. The three were sent overnight to Vincennes Castle, which stood in Vincennes Forest to the southeast of Paris. The fastest route there was by the Seine River. This royal military castle had been built some three hundred years ago and possessed the tallest castle keep yet seen—about one hundred and fifty-six French feet high. "Only birds can possibly speak to the prisoners inside," the officers there said. Prince of Condé and the other two were imprisoned there, and both Bishop Mazarin and Queen Mother Anne were greatly reassured.

Perhaps the only person in the entire palace unable to rest easy was Louis. If he possessed even a little true power belonging to a king, he might have directly ordered Prince of Condé hanged. But he did not. He could only wait for the inevitable outcome to arrive. He watched the deep night. By dawn tomorrow, news of Prince of Condé's arrest would spread through every street and alley in Paris. Perhaps Prince of Condé was merely an insolent brute to the royal family, but to the people of Paris, he was a hero. So long as those who had always harbored sinister intentions gave matters a push in secret—Gaston, Duke of Orléans, for instance—the royal family and Bishop Mazarin would face their second crisis.

The King's First Valet and Master of the Bedchamber, Bontemps, stepped forward and removed the King's shoulder straps, ornaments, and coat, then took off his boots. Afterward, he sensed the King pause slightly. "Pour me a glass of wine," the King said. Bontemps went outside and ordered a manservant to bring the King wine. By the time he returned, the King was seated barefoot in a chair, with a heavy, gold-edged Bible beside his hand.

"The room is not warm, Your Majesty," Bontemps said. He knelt before the King, intending to put a pair of soft, flat slippers on his feet. The slippers were made of sheepskin and favored by ministers for their softness and comfort. The King wore them only in his bedchamber, occasionally even stepping on their heels like the heathens of Monaco.

Louis looked at that familiar head and slowly, gently drew a delicate short sword from the Bible.

The candle flame in the room suddenly flickered and went out.

Moonlight streamed into the room through the curtains, which had not yet been lowered. Bontemps' hand gripped the short sword tightly. Black blood seeped from between his fingers and flowed onto the silver blade. Like red-hot charcoal striking ice, it hissed; murky mist rose in an instant and vanished in an instant. Bontemps raised his head and bared his teeth in a smile. This was not a smile that would ever appear on the face of the Bontemps the King knew.

"How did you discover me, Your Majesty?" "Bontemps" asked curiously. He was wounded, yet seemed to feel no pain at all. A tremendous force came through the short sword, and the King released his grip. Bontemps clenched his fist. Amid a terrible screeching sound, the black blood corroded the short sword into two pieces, which fell onto the carpet.

Louis lowered his eyes and glanced at them. That silver sword, said to have been forged from a cross once worn by a saint, was apparently not as reliable as the priest had described. Where the black blood had touched it, it was pitted and scarred, as though eaten away by potent chemicals—no, that was not quite right, because Louis had tested it. Neither sulfuric acid nor hydrochloric acid could inflict such damage. It could only be said that this person—no, this monster—was extraordinarily dangerous.

"I have always changed my underclothes myself," the King said. These days, nobles would have their personal servants attend them to the very last step, just as there was always someone wanting to hold his chamber pot for him. But Louis, who valued his privacy, simply could not endure it. It had been acceptable when he was an infant, but once he could express himself freely, the first thing he did was refuse the excessive attentions of the maidservants, though things had not gone smoothly at first. Bontemps had come to his side only after his Breeching Ceremony. Perhaps Bontemps was not the best among the attendants, but Louis valued him because he was willing to obey his orders rather than restrain him with so-called tradition or Queen Mother Anne's commands.

Therefore, Bontemps would never suddenly do something so rash. Though Louis did not know how anyone in the seventeenth century, without cosmetic surgery, could possess the exact same face as Bontemps, since this world was one of magic, those with intent surely had their own methods. The young King had no wish to inquire into the other man's purpose. What else could it be? Whoever he was, such utterly malicious conduct had already provided the best answer.

"I bear you no ill will," the visitor said kindly. As if to prove it, he gently blew at the candle beside him. With a whoosh, the candle burst into flame—a dark crimson flame like congealed blood. Fortunately, its color quickly brightened, illuminating the faces of the King and "Bontemps."

The man saw his own reflection in the King's eyes and clicked his tongue softly. The face belonging to Bontemps began to tremble faintly, like ripples on water. When it settled, the King saw an entirely unfamiliar face. He had met the Duke of La Rochefoucauld not long before; the Duke's face could make many women swoon, but compared with this face, it was immediately eclipsed. When those scarlet eyes fixed upon a human being, few people could likely break free—but Louis was one of those few.

"Then," the young King asked, "what may I do for you, uninvited guest?"

The visitor smiled, and his smile was utterly wanton and wicked. "No, Your Majesty," he said. "You should say: what may I do for you?"

"What are you?" the King asked softly.

Had anyone else asked that question, Amon would certainly have flown into a rage. But facing Louis, he was not angry in the slightest. "I am the head of the Tzimisce Family, Your Majesty." He bent forward in a bow, his posture exceptionally elegant. "I am a... of course, you call us vampires, though we prefer the term bloodkin. Still, I do not think there is much difference."

Louis did not know whether the other man was implying something. "As I understand it, you have thirteen clans. You are..."

"Sabbat," the head of the Tzimisce said. "You may call me Amon."

He took a light step forward. "I know that some small troubles are deeply troubling you," the vampire said. "I can resolve them for you. It will be very simple, and you need only pay a small price."

"What payment do you want?"

"Your blood, Your Majesty." Amon could barely restrain his desire. Two sharp fangs extended slightly past his lips. "Only three ounces, Your Majesty, only three ounces."