Goronwy blinked in the deep gloom relieved only by faint moonlight filtering through great windows. “This all seems quite urgent.”
“I am told,” Cesare said slowly, “that the Equatorian empress killed every vampire in Grenoble. Over ten thousand. By herself. Is that possible?”
“My, my,” Goronwy muttered in his thick Welsh accent, “that is news that would startle you, isn't it? Could we possibly find a candle or something? It's so dark I can hardly think straight.”
“Answer the question,” Cesare snarled.
“Well, the answer is I don't know. As an academic, I'm bound to lean on facts, and not opinion. If I still had my Equatorian colleague, Dr. Selkirk, with whom to consult, I might be able to formulate a better answer.”
“You had him for a month. What did you learn from him?”
“Most of it I've told you already,” Goronwy began, settling into his role as professor. “Dr. Selkirk believed that the princess has some unique skills to understand certain natural phenomena…phenomena described by the science of geomancy. The study of the Earth. It is poorly understood, but seems linked to human proclivities to establish meaningful connections to the natural world through science or meditation or prayer. In the old days, when humans would pray, at least some humans, it created effluences that repelled your kind.”
“Just answer the question!” Flay shouted.
Dr. Goronwy reared back in offense at Flay's outburst. Then he adjusted his dressing gown. “Yes. If what Dr. Selkirk believed is true. I have studied his notes, and the books you have provided to me from various Alexandrian authorities. Theoretically, it is possible. But, to me, it seems quite far-fetched that she could actually manage such energies.”
Cesare growled and began to stalk the room. Hallow slid away from him. Flay watched her prince tread through streams of moonlight, muttering angrily to himself. Then, in midstride, he broke off and walked up to Goronwy, staring directly at the man.
“Witchfinder, can you do anything to stop the empress?”
“Stop her?” Goronwy asked uncomfortably. He obviously wanted to back away from Cesare, but that would prove he was being threatened rather than simply consulted. “She's merely human. You could kill her.”
A clawed hand raked Goronwy and drew blood. “Don't toy with me.”
The wide-eyed witchfinder pressed his palm against his bleeding cheek. “Oh! You mean her geomancy. I don't know. I suppose there might be a way to counteract her abilities.”
“Find it.”
“It's a very complicated scientific matter, my lord. Pure research can't simply be converted into a practical tool just like that. If I might just explain the place of research in most modern nation-states, there may be years between fundamental discoveries and practical applications, if any.”
“If I might explain the place of research in my state—do it or I'll kill you.” Cesare stared evenly at the Welshman. “And if you say another word besides Yes, my lord, I will slice you open and leave you to bleed to death on this floor while the clan feeds off you.”
Goronwy glanced from Cesare to Flay. “Yes, my lord.”
“Good,” the vampire prince said, stepping away from the man. “You have until my coronation to understand what the Equatorian empress is doing, and give me something to stop her.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Excellent.” Cesare turned to Flay, who stiffened expectantly. “Flay, return to Lyon and block the humans from advancing further.”
Flay bowed. “Then I should expect new packs?”
“You'll use what I give you!” Cesare yelled violently, his fists quivering in the air. “Keep the humans trapped in the Rhone Valley no matter what it takes. You will do what I tell you. I am your king! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, my lord.” Flay could almost see a smug grin even on Hallow's blank face. “I will always obey my king.”
The war chief watched her prince and his advisor pass her as they walked together out of the room into the corridor, joined in significant conversation, much like Flay used to do with Cesare. She stood in the empty chamber listening to the wail of wind through broken glass.
“T HE OPERA IS in Italian,” Adele said over the sound of the clattering carriage. “But I can explain it to you.”
“Capisco l'italiano,” Gareth replied.
“Okay.” She stared evenly at him in the dim light. “How many languages do you speak anyway?”
He thought. “I'm not sure. Twenty? It depends on what you consider a language. In the north, dialects vary greatly from region to region, even from village to village in some areas. My Italian is northern. But even usage in Savoy can be very different from Lombardy. I've never been south of Milan. Very few vampires have. Have you ever been to Rome?”