Page 74

"Yes, it's a small self-contained world, the village," I replied. "Requires a certain retiring type to enjoy this kind of exile."

"But the rewards are considerable," she said, "or so your devoted staff has told me."

"I find myself marveling," I said, "that they ask so few questions about the people who live in this castle."

"Maybe they know more than they ever admit," she suggested, "and they aren't curious so much as cautious."

"Ah, could be," I replied. "Come, we'll go up to the Council Chamber in the north tower. The walls are lined with soundproof insulation. It cannot keep out all the telepathic eavesdroppers but it works surprisingly well against most."

And did these creatures have telepathic powers of their own?

I sensed that they did not.

"We will record all of this," said Fareed. "I want to remind you of cameras and speakers in the walls."

"We'll be recording it as well," said Kapetria. She held up a tiny black digital recording device with a small screen which would likely outlast the battery of any cell phone if the meeting went on into the night, which, frankly, I was hoping it would.

I smiled. Our coming out into the modern world had begun over forty years ago with a human radio interviewer in a rented room in San Francisco inviting Louis to tell his story to a tape recorder. And now here we were, all of us, storing every word and gesture of this historic meeting on the modern offspring of that old recorder.

I led the procession through the many large and small rooms to the northern stairs, with Kapetria walking beside me, her heels making that erotic click on the hardwood floors that women's high-heeled shoes so often make. Odd that it made the hair on my neck and arms rise, and that I felt again the intense desire for blood and for her blood. Were the others feeling this?

Pandora and Arion were there when we entered the Council Chamber, and so was my mother, hanging back with hard eyes, in her usual dusty khaki attire making a sharp contrast to the gowns of Pandora and Sevraine or the casual glamour of the two visiting women. Armand was the last to enter behind me. Again, I caught that signal to me as he passed by. Be prepared to do what must be done.

The room had been lovingly prepared, no doubt about that.

Additional chairs had been placed around the great central oval table, and the greenhouses had been raided for every perfect bloom imaginable, and the chandelier threw

a warm glow over all. I felt a rather foolish pride suddenly at the spectacle of it with the potted rose trees in the corners, and vases of white lilies on the mantelpieces and on the side tables bouquets or pots of random flowers, and the twin fires vigorously at work on their oak logs. Mirrors, mirrors, everywhere, everywhere, that is, where there were not murals, with all the happy rosy-cheeked putti staring down from the ceiling corners, and other gods and goddesses gazing on from the plaster borders that surrounded the windows and the doors.

Our guests did appear to appreciate this. There was a flurry of new introductions, nods, and handshakes. Derek, the former prisoner of Roland and Rhoshamandes, seemed visibly delighted in some way by the scent and the colors of the flowers, breathing deeply and reaching out to touch a pot of exquisite fuchsias before examining the mahogany shield-back chairs as if they were treasures. His hand was trembling as he touched the carving.

Marius invited our guests to gather on the side of the table to my left and Kapetria gestured for four of the party to take the chairs back along the wall.

It was plain the elder generation was at the table, with the clones behind them, though Derek took some coaxing before giving up and sitting to Kapetria's right. He'd wanted to have Dertu take his place, but Kapetria was firm on her wishes.

These four were the ones who had but one gold streak in their hair. Derek was the only one among them who appeared somewhat fragile, a bit thinner than the others, and perhaps tired. No wonder, but there was no fear in him of us either, and in fact, he was staring at me with the license of a little child, just the way he'd stared at the fuchsias or the furnishings. Marvelously innocent face.

But they all had highly expressive faces, mobile and flexible faces. And again that finely polished sculpted look that so enhanced their allure.

I took my usual chair at the head of the table, with Marius opposite me at the far end. My mother sat to my left with Sevraine beside her, and Pandora beside Sevraine, with Derek, Kapetria, Welf, and Garekyn filling out the remaining places. On Marius's left and coming towards me up the length of the table were Teskhamen, Gremt, Arion, Gregory, Seth, Fareed, and Armand.

Seth was about in the middle, directly opposite Kapetria. Then came David, the youngest blood drinker in the room. And Armand was close to my right hand.

Cyril and Thorne shut the doors and came round to where I could see them, and then took their positions as Marius directed, flanking the row of seated guests along the far-left wall. But they remained standing.

I sat forward and folded my hands, my eyes finding the tiny camera lenses in the walls, and my ears picking up the very low throb of the audio and video devices.

"Amel is with us," I said, addressing Kapetria. "He's inside me, but then you know all about that. You know the whole story. Well, he's present, so to speak, but whether he'll say anything remains to be seen. He may speak up. He may not. But he is here. And he can see and listen through any one of us, but not through more than one at a time."

"Thank you for explaining this," said Kapetria. She smiled. Her white teeth were perfect. They all had perfect teeth. But her face, expressive as it was, was transformed when she smiled. "And if I want to address a question directly to Amel?" I wondered if she was a true female in any sense.

"Address the question to me." I sat back and folded my arms, remembering vaguely some inane nonsense about what this gesture means in such a group, but ignoring it, and I continued to speak. "That's the best that I can offer. He is here, as I said. He is listening. I can feel it."

"How?" she asked, with an innocent curiosity. Her huge eyes suggested Middle Eastern women to me. Her eyebrows were high placed and long, rising at the outer ends.

"A pressure," I said, "at the back of my neck, the pressure of something living inside me, something that can flex when it wants to. When he's not here, well, the pressure's just gone."

She appeared to be thinking this over.