Santa Maria delle Grazie, Later That Evening

The church was deserted, of course; even the most vigilant monk in the adjoining cloister would be lost in that stretch of void between the first and second nocturn. This was to be a forlorn little Mass, choirless, bell-less, attended only by a relative handful of silent, unbreathing parishioners. Which was, Etienne supposed, only fitting.

A pair of mounted figures waited before the church doors as the company arrived. They looked like equestrian statues — with no breeze stirring, not even the hems of their garments moved: a girl and a man, both plainly noble. The girl was small and gossamer-frail, her face altogether dominated by eyes so wide, dark, and knowing they could have been copied from a Byzantine mosaic. She was beautiful as well, but that seemed somehow beside the point. Her rich brown hair was actually the brightest part of her; random filaments of it caught and multiplied the light of her companion's lamp. She wore a gown of pine-green velvet, the bodice stiffened with gold vinery. A brooch fashioned from a large emerald rode the edge of her little maroon cap. A child-empress, was the phrase that came to Etienne; but she could only be the Contessa.

The man offset her as though chosen for the purpose. Where she was slight, he was thick, mostly through the middle; where she looked barely grown enough to carry a child to term, his hair was a patriarchal gray. Yet in their identical way of sitting, deathly still and unblinking, they proved they were more alike than one might assume from the bodies unsuspecting nature had first given them. The Blood erased so much that was necessary distinction in mortal life.

"Contessa." There was a distinct note of deference in Isabella's tone, though she and the Contessa kept to the strict observance of rank as all present dismounted and gathered for greetings.

"My lady." The Contessa's voice was soft, but pitched to project; certainly a shade more proud than a murmur. They exchanged a formal kiss.

"We are hungry for your son's words of solace and remonstrance," said Isabella.

"As am I," the Contessa replied.

"Signor Vincenzo."

"My reverend lady. I pray the night finds you well." Now Vincenzo had an enviable way of speaking, warm and elegant, equally suited to the fireside or the grand salon. Etienne liked him at once.

"It finds me full of gratitude for all I am privileged to possess, and eager to give my heart and prayers to those less fortunate."

"Then I pray we may all find it in ourselves to learn from your example, my lady."

"Someone's coming," said Marius Della Torre, wheeling round.

"It's my brother." Etienne felt a surge of relief. A moment more and he might have endured the awkwardness of making Antonio's excuses to the Contessa as well as to Isabella.

Antonio, fortunately, looked as calm as he ever got. Nothing in his soul's colors betrayed what had happened with the second ward. Perhaps no news was good news in this case.

"Messer Antonio," called Isabella. "Join us."

The young wizard obeyed, dismounting hurriedly as he reached Isabella and the Contessa. He had not changed clothes. At least he was not wearing the court robe with its pagan sigils.

"Your ladyship."

Isabella gestured. "Contessa, I present to you the Tremere envoys from Florence: Messer Antonio and his younger brother Messer Etienne."

Younger! Alianora's eyes alighted on them now, touching Antonio, flicking briefly over Etienne, then coming back to land on Antonio again. She had the same knack that Ercole did, that same ability to send a thrill of causeless shame down the spine.

"Messeri." She nodded in the direction of Signor Vincenzo. "This is Signor Vincenzo Della Torre of Ventrue, who has been kind enough to accompany me this evening."

"Signore," they responded.

"Messeri. My best wishes to you in your search."

"Signore is most kind," said Antonio.

"It is good to see you out of hermitage, old friend," Cecco spoke up, nodding to Vincenzo. Vincenzo nodded back with a little smile, but nothing further was added on the subject.

Male now paired with female, forming a handsome little cortege. Isabella adroitly evaded any trouble over whether Vincenzo should abandon the Contessa's side for hers — where was Ercole, and the rest of the court, for that matter? — by requesting that their most esteemed guest Antonio see her into the church. (Etienne begrudged Antonio the honor, but felt well repaid by the trapped expression on his brother's face.) Vincenzo then took the Contessa's arm, Marius Della Torre that of the Doña Teresa, and Benedio that of his sister Elisabetta. Cecco Rucellai ambled amiably beside Etienne, looking always as though he were just about to raise a topic; but the empty church in its very character stifled idle chat.

I haven't been to a Mass in ten years, thought Etienne in amazement.

The nave smelled of a full day's accumulation of incense and bodies, even though it stood all but bare now. Dantini was there already, vested simply, trimming and lighting the last altar candle's wick; he had only a very elderly friar for an assistant, whose hands shook as he set down the thurible, paten and chalice to await their appointed moments.

Were they all to be sprinkled with blessed water, did they dare adhere to the liturgy that far? Evidently, yes. Etienne had a momentary terror but lined up obediently with the others. Dantini took the aspergillum in hand and as he began the Vidi aquam he flung a spray of drops onto Isabella, who received it without surprise. He moved through the words quickly; there was no choir to sing the antiphon, nor was it needed with a congregation of ten.

"Ostende nobis, Domine, misericordiam tuam, alleluia." Dantini began the responsory as he continued down the line.

"Et salutare tuum da nobis, alleluia," Etienne murmured in reply. He was not the only one who knew the words, thankfully.

"Domine, exaudi orationem meam." The aspergillum now reached him. A flick of cold, nothing more. Had he flinched? Dantini's eyes met his; there was a hidden smile there, or he thought there was.

"Et clamor meus ad te veniat." Let my cry come unto You.

There had been Masses years before, in the Schwarzwald. For that matter, there had been Masses in Avignon, before and after. There had been a papal Mass. This was a vampire Mass; foolish to expect too much from it. It was only Dantini's words in the letters that had raised some hope of he knew not what.

The congregation arranged itself, settled in for the duration. Etienne listened with professional approval to Dantini's offices. Evidently the man either could not sing or felt awkward about his singing, so they had to be content with a rising and falling intonation that merely approximated the shape of the chant. Still, better there be no music than bad music. His Gospel reading, on the other hand, was masterly; no flat landscape of gibberish such as too many priests indulged in, but a true rendering of the drama, human and divine, of the emptied tomb.

Etienne was aware of eyes passing over him, taking invisible notes, particularly when Dantini's back was turned. As for Antonio, his eyes had glazed over sometime during the Benedictus; no doubt he was lost in vertices, tangents, and paths of flow, consulting his memory of the only writ he held sacred.

"Brothers and sisters in Christ." These words in Italian seemed to startle most of the company out of reverie. Quite suddenly Dantini was a man again rather than a mystery play, addressing them directly, demanding response. Even Etienne started, because the Collect had not been prayed yet, but no. Dantini was not getting mixed up; Milan's Ambrosian rite followed a different order of worship.

"Yes. I do not hesitate to name us so. Their legends condemn us — I must be brief with you tonight because we can share their church only in the greatest secrecy. And our legends, alas, concur, amplify the story of our damnation. It is a hoary legend. Adam's fall did not predate Caine's by much.

"But we must ask ourselves what stories we believe. Which we choose to ignore, and why. It is surely no easy thing to pass beyond the veil of death and return. I have seen it break mind and spirit. I have seen the holy become blasphemous in the wake of that cheated death. I have also seen the reverse. All we have ever trusted in seems open to question.

"Like our common ancestor, we too are exiled into Nod, but this is a Nod of the soul: a Nod that claims this house from a row of houses, and no one knows it but we; a Nod that claims that man among men, and those around him do not know it — all too often, even those who share his curse do not ask what paths of agony his heart travels. If we were like the Children of Israel in exile, complaining perhaps, failing along the way, but at least bearing our woe in brotherhood, at least ultimately trusting in God, no doubt that would be easier. But this is part of the misery of our Nod, that all too often we choose to suffer alone, eschewing the sacraments as we eschew the Church that we believe failed us, too proud to beg even our Creator for comfort."

There was general nodding at this. To whom was the friar's vehemence directed, if he was preaching to the converted here? To those not present, Isabella's husband perhaps? Or to the strange Tremere? Did he take the nodding for hypocrisy, or was he himself the hypocrite, breathing passion out of pure habit?

"Well, then. Let us not turn our eyes away from facts. The Embrace, as I said, calls everything into question; question we must, then. But be honest with yourselves as you do. Certain things are inescapable. If you accept that God the Creator indeed had the power to curse Caine as our legend and Scripture both tell, then you accept that He likewise has the power to lift that curse at His choosing. Is the salvation promised in the blood of Christ real or not? Ah, yes, you say. Your blasphemy is not so great as all that. You agree meekly that yes, there was enough blood in the wounds of Christ to redeem all humanity from Adam down, all the men, women, and children who ever have been or ever will be born; that that grace has no limit and no ending. Yes, there is enough, you say, enough for everyone in all Creation — except for you!"

A little thrill coursed through Etienne. It was involuntary, the natural response to a chain of rhetoric well concluded. He reminded himself that he too could have written this sermon, perhaps even done a better job. It was possible to preach utter beauty and never mean a word of it. Whatever Dantini said, the question was not that of what the congregation believed, but what he believed. Yes, speak to him after the Mass. Get him alone if possible, take him apart doctrinally; remove him from the world of one-sided correspondence, the world of sermons, to a world where the devil could reply, and then see what was left.

"Is it not a wonder? An inconvenient Grace, this, denied to those who most need it. But then you tell me you are not being inconsistent. It is simply that that offer of grace is not meant for your kind, that you had it once, but it was rescinded the first night you rose to drink blood. Why? Is that written in Gospel? Show me the Scripture and I will concede. Was Caine's damnation somehow more primal, more terrible, than Adam's, was his folly greater? Then I will concede. But if you cannot show me these proofs, then I cannot stop saying it to you: Believe what you believe. You have already been killed once, in body; do not kill yourself in spirit by allowing your pride to convince you that somehow yours is a particular evil — that somehow you have transmuted your own soul past the power of God to save. How could that be? If God chose, He could forgive Lucifer himself; He can certainly forgive you. Nor have you aught to gain by refusing to ask Him for that forgiveness. All rebellions against the Almighty are, by definition, doomed. Are they not? Believe what you believe."

Murmurs of assent.

Dantini shifted his weight, changed tone. Another device, that — a slight bodily movement, a tiny change in pitch signaled to the congregation that one was letting them off the first hook, but only to bait a second.

"That is the first step, the belief. With that moment, the heart comes alive again: it fills, it swells with love of the Creator, with love of the Son He sacrificed and this mystery of the Son's infinite worthiness, paid over and over again to remit our infinite unworthiness; with love of the Holy Spirit sent to guide us while we endure what would otherwise be unendurable. I know that some among you have already taken this step. How do I know? By their fruits shall ye know them, our Lord said. Some things are inescapable. When our hearts fill, when we know the love of our Creator for the first time, that is when we become able for the first time to love our fellow-creatures as we were meant to. I have seen your charity and it gives me hope. I pray it gives you hope as well.

"And yet it can be hard to keep on showing this love, even for such as you." Dantini surveyed the gathering. His expression was the distilled essence of priesthood now, rebuke softened by compassion, compassion sharpened with rebuke. "The swords are not beaten into plowshares, not yet, are they? We have among our own kind those whom we would see as the ancient Judeans saw the Samaritans, meanwhile forgetting Our Lord's parable on the subject."

He means us, Etienne recognized immediately. He doesn't want to say it any more directly than that, but he won't let the point be lost.

"Our Lord taught us to know our neighbor by his actions, not his name. For that matter, He taught us to love our enemies, but if that is too difficult a lesson now, you can at least resolve that you do indeed have an enemy before you resolve to hate him."

Dantini's eyes travelled over all of them again in a great sweep, but this time he seemed to catch Etienne in particular. The significance of it escaped Etienne for a moment, but then he realized: Ah. And of course he means Ruthven as well, that we should not judge too quickly either. Could it be that he's worried? That he does not share the Tzimisce's storied boldness, when it comes to vendetta?

The Lasombra then wove his little topical thread deftly back into the main thrust of his sermon, making it seem as though it had been a side point, touched upon only because it was conveniently nearby. With his closing remarks he again pleaded the necessity of loving each other in their common exile, as both consequence and proof of love for God. He ended with the image of the Children of Israel again — suffering, waiting, perhaps for many years, but ultimately destined for redemption if they could but keep their faith.

The Collect followed, and Etienne caught Alexander's and Taliesin's names among the Latin syllables streaming flawlessly by. He glanced quickly toward Antonio, who stirred only slightly. Dantini's prayer touched on all the expected sentiments: let those who are lost be found again, be with them whatever their trials, please bless these their brethren who have come in search of them, open their eyes to truth and their hearts to wisdom, this we pray in the name of the One who is risen today, so on and so forth. The benediction flowed over Etienne as easily and uselessly as the holy water.

Then with the beginning of the Communion service things again subsided into familiarity, for the most part, with only the occasional Milanese variation on what Etienne remembered. It was almost home, painfully close.

There was a tiny portion of bread, just enough to tear a crumb from for putting in the chalice. The chalice was filled from a stoppered silver flagon. Dantini elevated them in order, reverently. Etienne, whose lulled gaze had drifted into other realms, saw something completely new to his experience. A glow seemed to begin with the altar and the cross. They accumulated colors as though they were living souls, and the colors blended until they had become the rosy, golden hue of dawn. The glow then bled through the air, suffusing it, reaching the Host and chalice as they were raised, imbuing them; next it traveled down Dantini's arm, touching his colors and changing them in just the same way. All at once he was the incarnation of a triptych saint, a layer of gilding outlining him — only the gilding of a painting was flat, stiff, glaring where this radiance was infinitely gentle.

To Etienne it seemed to bathe the entire nave in the colors of sunrise. Secretly he glanced about him, expecting someone else to look as astonished as he felt, but there was only pious attention from the others.

Was this a vision, could this be his alone?

Had the doors of his heart opened for just a moment while his attention had been elsewhere, analyzing Dantini?

Foolish questions. Some ancient, strong, rarely-felt part of him rose and quieted them.

Dantini intoned the Agnus Dei and took his own Communion, then turned back to them. Etienne mumbled the proper words for this part of things, Domine, non sum dignis — Lord, I am not worthy, thinking to himself, whirlingly: does he mean us really to drink, should I try now?

Antonio finally roused to give Etienne a warning glance. In Florence they had been forbidden to attend Mass, ostensibly for safety reasons. Gilbert had never expressly said they were not to have the comfort of the Eucharist anywhere, ever again, world without end; still, his rumored heresy made his disapproval implicit. And then again, this might be the last chance for God alone knew how long.

The others had lined up once more. Etienne hung back, undecided. Dantini offered the chalice to Isabella, and she kneeled before it and sipped. As it tilted, an odor rose from it, an odor that began almost imperceptibly and grew each time the chalice was tipped toward new lips.

Blood. Dantini had brought human blood to the altar of God. This was a parody, a black Mass. He had left the flagon stoppered till the last possible moment so that his flock would not be hungering, panting for it all the time he was speaking to them of salvation, making the lie plain.

Etienne felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, steadying. It was not compassion, of course. Antonio's face remained set in its usual stoic lines. His concern was that Etienne be stoic as well, and Etienne could only agree on the political necessity of it. He made his own face a mask, the one he reserved for dire moments — the closest thing to utter neutrality that muscles could construct.

The butcher-smell from the chalice, maddening, like a cramped muscle yearning to stretch, filled the church. Dantini's eyes rose to Etienne one last time as he began to wash his fingers, but now Etienne saw only delusion in them.

"Your book, Monsignore." Etienne passed over the Lucius, presenting it with a little bow.

"My thanks, Messer Etienne." Dantini took it, nodding politely. He had gone to unvest immediately after Mass and was now clad only in his cassock and scapular. The white, Etienne thought, did not suit him nearly so well as the black of the cloak. It left him ghostly, washed-out.

"Not at all. I'm loath to give it up, I can tell you. I only do so in the interests of friendship between our cities."

Dantini smiled. "I wish you had said, in the interests of friendship between your clan and House dell' Aquila; but I thank you again nonetheless."

Antonio shifted uneasily.

"You found it instructive, then?" the friar continued.

"Fascinating, would be the better word." The company was starting to straggle apart now; Benedio had already ridden off on the heels of Ite, missa est, the Contessa was in conference with Vincenzo, and Cecco hovered nearby, just out of hearing range, talking to Elisabetta but plainly taking less interest in her than in anything else about him. Where had Marius Della Torre and the Doña gotten off to? A moment ago the young courtier had taken her arm, and now they were nowhere to be seen.

"Ah, then you did not agree," said Dantini.

"It has raised questions in my mind," replied Etienne.

"I would be happy to discuss those questions."

Ah! I knew it. "As would I, if my brother has no more need of my services tonight."

Antonio tried to hide his consternation. "Well. Of course I hope your musings, however edifying, will not keep you from your task..."

"We may muse on that subject as well," the Lasombra reassured him. "I must assume, then, Messer Antonio, that you take no interest in the Lucius."

The Florentine hesitated. "No. Not as such."

"A pity. But I do not doubt that Clan Tremere has its own sages and philosophers."

"Indeed it does."

"Perhaps there are books I should petition you to borrow, to continue my own education." The voice was gently humorous, the badgering expert. He had every right to ask that such a favor be returned.

"Alas, we brought only the necessities on our trip, and Taliesin's books are not ours to lend."

"Another pity. Well." Dantini turned to Etienne. "Shall we?"

"Indeed, Monsignore. Good evening, brother..."

Antonio nodded curtly. He had missed his opportunity to invite himself and could only make the best of it now.

"Yes, till later."

Dantini paused to give bows of leave-taking to his sire and to Isabella, who seemed entirely lost in contemplating the stations of the Cross (convenient, that; was she so very pious, or just extraordinarily sensitive to the needs of her dell' Aquila subjects?), then led Etienne down out of the church, into the cloister.

Dantini's cell lay buried in the heart of the building, far out of reach of the casual visitor. Etienne wondered how he managed. If he was clever, no doubt he did as Etienne had once done and posed as a recluse, penitentially immured, all the holier for his invisibility. The cell had a good thick door on it, and it radiated a familiar sense of antagonism.

A ward, Etienne thought in astonishment. Far weaker than those guarding the Tremere chantries, to be sure, and strangely tuned; but a ward nonetheless.

"Enter in peace and be welcome, Etienne, son of Tremere," the Lasombra pronounced. "Come freely, go freely, and accept my hospitality and protection, however unworthy."

Again, formulae. What had Dantini said at the start of his chantry visit? Etienne combed his memory.

"It is I who am unworthy, Monsignore. Peace be upon you and your house. I beg God and His angels to witness that we are host and guest." It had been something along that line, anyway.

Dantini gave him an approving look. He murmured something and made a gesture of blessing before the door, then opened it. There was the thunderstorm-odor of magic dispelled. A simple monk's cell waited within, a row of handsome books the only sign of extravagance, a pleasantly cluttered desk imparting the only warmth.

Dantini ushered Etienne in and followed behind, shutting the door. "Shall I light a fire?" he asked, indicating a little brazier in the corner.

"I myself have no need of it," Etienne answered, "but if Monsignore wants it lit, I certainly won't object." In point of fact, it would make him a little nervous. Braziers could tip over, and Cainite skin ignited like lamp-oil. But he was determined to show no fear.

"Fires are cheery things...any cheer in our eternal night is a blessing well worth the risk, or so I beguile myself." Dantini gestured to a chair across the room. "Sit, Messere."

Etienne sat. Dantini got the fire going in short order, then pulled up the room's other chair. Etienne could not help noticing Dantini had arranged them in such a way as to make his own colors harder to see against the firelight. Clever.

"You are troubled, Messere." Dantini's voice was quiet now, the sermonizing tone tucked away wherever it rested in between Masses.

His directness caught Etienne by surprise. "I — the business at hand is troubling, yes." Perhaps he should bring up the letters, the parchment crackling now in his doublet as he shifted.

"Yes. But that is not all that troubles you, I think."

Deep-set eyes, further obscured by Dantini's position by the fire. What right had he to make himself opaque and then demand Etienne's transparency? Did he really think himself a priest?

"Don't misunderstand, Monsignore," Etienne blurted. Ridiculous. He had to restrain himself, or Dantini would take charge of the conversation and he would learn nothing. "I mean that I find it very interesting, and — and in a way noble, that you try to minister to these people...and I think you are sincere in your belief..."

Dantini sat back, raising his eyebrows. He folded his hands into his lap.

Too late to retract it now. "But I don't see how you can think you have any place administering the sacraments, especially in such a manner," Etienne finished.

Even as he said it he thought he was making a mistake. Discarding the faintest chance of political utility in all this, and certainly there was little else left to gain.

"I see." Dantini sat a moment, collecting his reply. "And are you not...one of 'these people', Messere?" He paused again. His gaze rested briefly on the top of Etienne's head, where a circle of shaved pate would remain even now, if not for Tremere sorcery. "You were a priest once, unless I mistake myself."

Etienne's left hand squeezed the chair arm. He forced it to uncurl. "I was a priest once, yes." There was no real harm in admitting this — it only felt like harm. "But now I am a vampire. I meant I thought it interesting that you try to minister to vampires."

"Do you believe you still possess a soul?"

Did the infamous creature mean to start a dialogue, to make Etienne play Timaeus to his Socrates? "Yes," he said at last. "I seem still to possess free will, which would imply that my soul is still my own. But what does that have to do with it?"

"Then if you still possess these things, what forbids you God's mercy and grace?"

"I believe Monsignore covered all this in his sermon."

"Or absolves you of the vows you took to serve Him?"

Yes, that was exactly it. He was being challenged, intellect to intellect. He must prove he could respond in kind.

"As far as God's grace is concerned, Monsignore, I hope one day to regain it, though how I don't know." He must not avert his eyes, either. "And as for serving God, of course I should, as should everyone. But the priesthood is supposed to be a special calling, not a pastime for wicked men and perhaps not even for men of ordinary character...clearly, I was not worthy of it. And while I may still play the hypocrite in other matters, in that hypocrisy I refuse to continue."

"You consider your condition a defrocking in and of itself, then." Dantini steepled his hands thoughtfully. "That is, of course, between you and God. I do not judge you, Messere. What we are...is a burden, a cross that no mortal can ever hope to understand. God gives those that seek it the strength to bear that burden — but that does not lighten it. I do not consider myself of special character. I was once a mortal man, and I am a vampire, and I have been so for a long time. But I am also a priest, and as such, I do what I can for those no human priest can help. That is my calling, such as it is."

This, now, this was more the Dantini of the letters. "To help, yes, to counsel, that I can understand," Etienne replied, heartened. "God has rebuked you, and perhaps this is how you propose to earn your redemption. I cannot argue, for I know the way no better than you do. But to administer the sacraments! To serve human blood at the altar of God! How can it be justified? Do you somehow consider yourself still blessed and sanctified, that you may absolve sinners from the blood you yourself have put in their mouths?"

The Monsignore's jaw took on a stern set. "I said I would not judge you, Messere. Nor do I recognize your right to judge me. I was ordained a priest. You know well that sacrament is immutable. God has not released me from that vow, despite what I am, or what I may have done. 'Thou art a priest forever, of the order of Melchizedek.' I will not lapse into Donatism." Then he softened again. "As to the nature of the Communion...it is blood, is it not? Christ's blood, shed for the remission of our sins. True, the custom is to use wine — but I ask you, Messere, how many of my flock could partake of such a sacrament and not choke on it? Would you have them choke?"

Donatism indeed. "It is not my intention to judge you; I am speaking only of what I can see: that we are both cursed of God." Etienne stopped himself. The Dantini of the letters, if he existed at all, was deserving of a gentler answer. "I know there is a reason for my curse, and I can only presume that there is a reason behind yours as well. As Scripture says, all have sinned. I don't ask what your sins were, and you may certainly seek your peace with God in any way you see fit. No, I am not a Donatist either. I do not suggest that a priest cannot administer the sacraments simply because he is in a state of sin. But I must insist that — that there is more to our state than ordinary sin. And while it is certainly true that a vampire must have real blood rather than wine, how can a real Communion be obtained with the blood of an unwilling innocent?"

"Do confession and penance have any meaning on our side of the grave?" Dantini shook his head. "If they do not, then my efforts are simply futile. It is logically impossible to further harm the damned. But if they do, then I am as much a priest as any in this city. And the offering...was given freely; believe that or not as you will. I —" He hesitated. "I will not harm an innocent. That has been my vow for many years. Not an easy one, I admit, though true innocence is rare."

"And what if it is all futile?" Etienne demanded. "What if more is required of us than the usual gesturing and scraping and chanting? Have you never considered that it might not be enough —"

The Lasombra smiled faintly. Etienne realized that he was almost shouting. The monks in the neighboring cells were doubtless trying to sleep.

"More is required." Dantini leaned forward. "For we bear Caine's curse as well as Adam's, and it is a heavy one: a 'thorn in the flesh' that tempts us to deadly sin every night of our existence. Mere gesturing, scraping and chanting...without faith, it avails us nothing. It avails them nothing. Can our kind ever do enough to make amends? Truthfully, Messere, I doubt it. I only have my faith, that faith which tells me Our Lord is merciful to all who truly repent and trust in the saving power of His blood. His blood." His voice was low and ruminative again, but his colors had rekindled; they stood out even against the flames of the brazier. The golden glow pulsed like a heartbeat. It was beyond any art Etienne knew of to falsify such a thing. "I have His Word, and the words of the Apostles, and I have my faith, and my soul, however darkened. If all those amount to nothing, what then are we? Demons? Ravening beasts, fit only for the fire? I cannot accept that a God who will forgive even the most wicked living man would abandon us without so much as a glimmer of hope."

A crucifix hung over the Monsignore's narrow bed. Its reproachful gaze, its aura of injury, reached across the room. Between it and the Monsignore there was scant room to spare. But Etienne could not lie, could not simply promise to go and sin no more. The protest would not be stifled.

"I want to hope," he snapped. "I ask for nothing but hope!"

Keep it quiet. He drew in a slower breath. "But as hard as I have tried and after decades and decades of prayer, I have not found even a moment's grace — an instant's reassurance. Perhaps faith just isn't my strong point. Or perhaps God really has withdrawn, not only from us but from the world of men as well. And why shouldn't He? Look what has happened to our Church, schism and heresy and...all I know is I turn my face again and again to God, and He shows me nothing."

Dantini did not reply. The Lasombra's face was unreadable. Etienne felt the despair in his own words hanging between them like a funeral pall.

"Forgive me, Monsignore," he said after a moment. "Even though I think you err, at least you have your conviction, your cause...I have nothing but my doubts. Perhaps I do you a disservice after all to voice them."

"And when you were cardinal, was it so very different?" Dantini asked softly.

Now, now it was said.

"Ah, yes. I finally remembered where I had seen you." The Lasombra was smiling that faint smile again. "It was some time ago."

"I think you realize by now I wasn't much of a cardinal." Etienne stared past Dantini into the dancing flames. They hurt his eyes. He told himself his eyes were moist because they hurt. At least Antonio was not here to learn this; that would have been unbearable. "Perhaps you see why I do doubt, then. Men venerated me as among the most holy, when I knew I was a simoniac, a sybarite...I'm surprised not that I was cast down, but that my brothers in the College were not cast down along with me, and much sooner."

"Perhaps they were," Dantini shrugged. "We cannot know what was in their hearts. You, however, still have a chance to find your way, your faith. I daresay for them, it's roughly a century too late."

He had hoped Dantini's face would become familiar once the crucial thing was said, but it had not. "When did we meet? I'm afraid I don't recall."

"I don't believe we ever met, formally. You were mortal, at least at first, and I was not; and you would have had little notice for one minor priest. But we knew of you. Is the drinking of blood itself the sin, do you think, or the manner in which one must take it?"

"Thou shalt not consume the blood, for the blood is the life; but that's kosher law. I suppose it would have more to do with the manner, but I haven't considered the matter in great theological depth —" Etienne turned to stare at Dantini as it sunk in. "What do you mean, we?"

"Come, Messere. Surely you did not imagine the tale of your 'miracle' would be lost on others of your kind? Or did you think yourself and the one who Embraced you the only vampires in Avignon?"

Cardinal, miracle — they were dagger-words, even spoken gently. "I...I didn't think about it," he murmured. "My mind was elsewhere. You may condemn me, Monsignore, but at the time I meant only to undo some of the wrong I had caused. No others of...my kind approached me in Avignon. For which I am still grateful."

"I am scarcely in a position to condemn anyone; particularly when it comes to atoning for past wrongs. Actually, I did consider approaching you. But it was forbidden, and I was not of a strength to challenge the Prince's edict."

"Forbidden..."

"Yes, forbidden," Dantini said gravely. "That order probably saved your life, Messere. You do know the Traditions?"

"Of course I do — what of them?" he began, irritated, and then realizing, "You are trying to imply that my sire had no right to make me, or did not seek permission of the Prince, or something to that effect."

"Indeed. In fact, no one had any idea who your sire was, or even of what clan. It was hoped that leaving you alone would lure him — or her, but somehow I suspect a him — out of hiding, and he could be caught and dealt with." He paused. "In some quarters, there was also debate over whether you truly might be...holy. Your miracle was well contrived."

"But contrived it was."

"Yes."

"I never tried to pose as a saint — I know that doesn't matter. Ordinary people have visions and do things because of them. It's not common, but it happens."

"I know." Dantini was maddeningly still, studying him as Antonio studied his alchemical reactions. "I was sent to see you say midnight Mass at Christmas. To ascertain if it were true, and if you were holy. It was thought that of all of us, I had the best chance of getting close without danger. And, of course, as a foreigner, I was expendable."

"I remember that Mass." The first Christmas under two popes. His vision blurred a moment; he blinked it back. "I tried to get out of it...there's a limit to a cardinal's ability to refuse to say Mass in public, of course. Even falling deadly ill doesn't help when you're being prematurely canonized."

"I know."

A memory came back to him unbidden: stumbling into the sacristy afterward, ordering out the deacon, ordering out everyone, falling in a perfect animal passion on his own gilded vestments and tearing them off, tearing them to shreds, sobbing over and over: He doesn't care; He doesn't care; He doesn't care...

Perhaps if he had looked over his shoulder he would have seen a lone figure, clad in black and white, defying his order, opening the door a crack to spy?

"I went back and counseled caution, leaving the issue of your sanctity as untouched as possible," Dantini continued. "The Prince heeded me. He passed his edict to give himself more time to ponder the delicate matter. And then you disappeared — until now. But none of this need concern you anymore."

"Like hell," Etienne exclaimed, catapulting to his feet. He took a couple of steps, as though to escape somewhere this very minute, then fell to pacing instead. "You know who I am, and my age, and that I was, shall we say, illegitimate in Avignon. I suppose you will be telling the others. I suppose it was only a matter of time."

"Why should I?" asked Dantini calmly. "You are a member of Clan Tremere and a guest of Prince Ercole. The Prince who once ruled in Avignon is dead, and even if he were not, this is Milan. You are in no danger, Messere. Please, sit down."

Etienne threw him a look of disbelief.

"If you wish to remain merely Etienne of Tremere," the Lasombra insisted, "then I shall consider your past under the seal of the confessional. Will that satisfy? I doubt you will find many who survived the events following your departure, in any case. I survived only because I had left for Germany by the time the anarchs struck. Your exit was more fortuitous than you know."

"Well. For that I must thank God." Etienne struggled with himself a moment, then sat again. It was still only a promise and could always be broken. But the seal of the confession was no light oath, not to anyone who styled himself a true priest. "I would appreciate your discretion, Monsignore, if you are offering it. Frankly, my brother is already unhappy enough about the whole thing. After all, we are here to investigate, not to be investigated."

Dantini nodded. "You have my word, Messere. It was never my intention to disturb you. I admit there's something in my soul that likes finding the answers to old questions, but I may well be the only one who remembers that particular puzzle anymore. Don't trouble yourself over it. As you have pointed out, there are other matters commanding your attention. In which, I hope, I can provide some assistance — whether you believe me a true priest or not."

"Well. Now we come to it." Etienne marshaled his scattered thoughts. Part of him did not really wish to change the subject, but Dantini was right: he could not revisit Avignon yet. That was a corpse whose wounds had long since congealed. It would wait patiently, as it always had. "You maintained a long correspondence with our missing brother. I have here some of the letters which he kept. Evidently he held them in high regard, Monsignore."

"I am flattered," Dantini replied. "May I see them?"

"Indeed," Etienne said, drawing them out of his doublet and leaning forward to hand them over. "I would like to draw your attention to the fact that they're in different hands. Do you remember them all?"

The Lasombra accepted the letters, unfolded them and scanned them briefly. "Yes...yes. Oh, did he keep this? Yes. These are my letters to him, Messere. And this is my seal. As to the different hands...yes, of course." His eyes leapt downward for a moment; then he raised them with a rueful smile. "I dictated these letters, Messer Etienne. My own skill with a pen is, ah, fit only for my own scribblings, and no more. There are several brothers here who serve as my secretaries when I must write something intended actually to be read. Of course they remember nothing of it afterward."

"And the signature?" Etienne pressed.

"I did sign them all, naturally. Thus you can see how clear a hand I write."

"It is difficult even to make out the Frater," Etienne agreed.

"I was never a scribe, I'm afraid." Dantini made a pantomime of signing his name, raising his left hand to do so. "One of the failures of my ecclesiastical career."

"A pity," Etienne said with a smile of his own. "I'd been hoping the glosses in the Lucius were yours, and we could discuss them."

"The glosses — ah, no. Those are not my notes. I had them from a cousin, of the church in Constantinople. Do you read the Greek? No, of course you do. I remember hearing that of you. At the time it was something to be remarked upon."

"Back at the chantry, Monsignore, you said you were quite positive that neither your lady sire nor your brother-in-Blood could have written Alexander at the villa. I assume you've since spoken to them on the subject."

"I have. Neither of them know anything about the letter, Messere."

"And I don't suppose there are any others of your House, however distant, that could lay claim to your seal?"

"Only one who yet walks the night," Dantini replied, folding his hands again. "And I will vouch for her also; besides, I don't believe she's even met Alessandro."

"Then be good enough to consider with me, Monsignore. You and Alexander ride together to the villa. Now you yourself said that he was afraid to get even that close to Signor Ruthven — afraid enough to request your protection. Yet the next evening a letter arrives at the villa bearing the seal of your House, and in response to this letter, Alexander goes haring off south down the road, never to be seen again. What would you conclude?"

Dantini got a wry expression. "If I were Tremere, I might well conclude that I had pretended this long friendship of the pen with poor Alessandro, precisely so that when the proper time came I could easily lure him to his death. After all, we Lasombra specialize in the elaborate betrayal, do we not?"

"We have no Lasombra in Florence, Monsignore, and so I don't hear much about them, though I understand that is the burden of the gossip. In any case, it bears pointing out that you are not Tremere."

"True enough."

"Come, Monsignore."

"I don't doubt there was a letter, Messere, if that's what you're asking. I see no benefit to either you or your masters in such a falsehood. Clearly, someone did lure your brother to his doom."

"It has not occurred to you that we might have put up a mock-crime, in order to have a pretext for accusing Signor Ruthven?"

Dantini was increasingly wreathed in shadow. "Since you force me to consider the idea, I must acknowledge it seems possible. I know Alessandro and trust in his character; he would not willingly stage a charade against us. But he is only an apprentice. Still, I doubt it."

"You doubt the Tremere enmity for Ruthven." This sort of game could go on forever, and in open court it would be obligatory to play it. Etienne deliberately dropped the Signor to declare the game here at an end.

"No, Messere," Dantini replied, taking the point at once. "I am only too aware of the enmity that has persisted for several centuries now. Nor can I forget that there is cause for it on both sides. The thought of your last slaughtered chantry must still burn in Lord Gilbert's memory, and he has never made any secret of blaming my sire's consort."

"No."

"Again, what I fail to see is the benefit. There has been a truce between Signor Ruthven and the Tremere ever since the new chantry was founded. The Signore has kept his half of the bargain, but a bargain cannot be kept singly. Your masters have upheld their end as well. Why break it now? What is opportune? Nothing has changed between us and you since Taliesin took office. Besides — if I may be frank, since you have requested my frankness?"

"I welcome it, Monsignore."

"Your clan has already had two chantries massacred in Milan. What could Taliesin's and Alexander's deaths accomplish that the others' did not?"

"It could be a pretext," answered Etienne.

"But as I say, your clan has had sufficient pretext against Signor Ruthven for a very long time."

"Very well then, it could be a fresh pretext." He was rapidly warming to the contest. Dantini might be a friar and thus a man of peace, but on the battlefield of the mind he would not concede a single unnecessary inch.

"You think events a mere century past are not fresh enough for the likes of your master in Florence?" Dantini shook his head. "Forgive me, Messere. I intend no insult to either you or him; but I also know that you are still young as our kind go. One thing you will doubtless learn is that our memories are long and spiteful; it is seldom too late for a Cainite to revenge an injury to his pride. Among those who, however misguidedly, hope for immortality on this earth, to consent to be unavenged forever is very hard indeed."

"Yet Signor Ruthven claims to have forgotten all his rage against our clan," Etienne pointed out.

Dantini looked steadily at Etienne, dark eyes keen in the glancing firelight. "Signor Ruthven wishes only peace for himself and us. If forgetting his 'rage' against the Tremere is the price of that peace, I can assure you, he is happy to pay it."

"Even if it gains him the derision of his own clan?"

"His own clan is a thousand miles away, Messere, too far for him to hear their derision or suffer for it; and from what I can tell, he has planted himself in Italian soil for good."

"So, then." Etienne sat back at last, tucking away each morsel Dantini had let drop for later digestion. "You're convinced that we sincerely mean to discover the truth."

"That is my assumption, yes."

Etienne nodded. "Then you will indulge my curiosity just a bit further?"

"If it will assist."

"I thank Monsignore. Now, these letters to Alexander...he had them hidden away in his bedroom."

"Hidden?" Dantini echoed.

"Yes, from Master Taliesin, I assume. Surely the Regent would have disapproved."

"I imagine he would have."

"It must have been difficult to maintain the correspondence under his watchful eye," probed Etienne.

"Somewhat, Messere. Taliesin was a recluse, and so when he had business with the rest of us, he often preferred to send Alessandro as his liaison."

"But surely such occasions didn't come up frequently."

"No, I suppose not."

"Did Signor Brandini carry your letters?"

Dantini looked taken aback. "Why — yes, sometimes," he admitted after a moment. "Did he tell you?"

"No, but I surmised it. Signor Brandini was already serving as courier for the Prince; he could bring your letter along with some other official correspondence that he would only consent to release to a fellow Cainite, in which case Spinello would most likely call Alexander up to get it."

"That was my thinking. Messere is plainly no stranger to spy-work."

"Messere had to hold his own in the Curia," Etienne shrugged.

"Indeed," Dantini replied, much amused.

"Your pardon, Monsignore. I would not ask this if it were not relevant. Is there anyone else in the city that you exchange letters with?"

"There is; but it would hardly be courteous of me to expose any such person to interrogation on the subject. You will, of course, ask others what you wish. You may tell them that I do not mind having the association revealed, should they decide to oblige you."

"I see. Well, perhaps you will consider my next question just as inappropriate: but would you happen to know where all your family were on the night that Alessandro disappeared? You were on your way to Pavia, as I recall..."

Dantini stiffened slightly. "I can give no absolutes, Messere. But I imagine Marius was in the city, quite possibly at court, possibly not...his taste for it waxes and wanes. My sire was at her city palazzo. I spoke with her there but an hour or so before Alessandro and I rode out. Signor Ruthven —" He paused. "I don't know. He was not at the villa when I stopped by; but then again I didn't write ahead to say I was coming, since I knew I would not be staying long enough for a real visit."

"Ah, of course your lady sire has a palazzo in the city."

"We've always had a palazzo here, Messere. We used to rule this city, as you know. Marius and my lady are the only ones dwelling there now, however. Signor Ruthven prefers the privacy of the countryside."

"I see. And the other mysterious dell' Aquila you spoke of earlier, the one you vouch for?"

"Miles away from either here or the Signore's lands, I assure you."

"I see."

"Now you are wondering where we all were when Taliesin disappeared, and the trouble is that you don't know exactly when that was," Dantini guessed.

"Monsignore is astute. Of course, it must have occurred within a certain span."

"The length of the journey from Magenta to Florence — less than a week on a fast horse, up to two weeks going by wagon."

"Precisely," agreed Etienne — which was not so much a lie as a fragmentary truth. The other night, Antonio had finally explained a little more about the Rite of the High Road: the spell was designed to whisk a magus from one place to another in three nights no matter how great the distance; meaning that Taliesin must have disappeared on either the second or third night after leaving Milan. But presumably, no one else in Milan knew that...which could prove an advantage.

"One more matter, Monsignore," he went on.

"Of course."

"I must also ask what you know of any Cainites in this city who may be able to work magic." Etienne held up fingers to tick off the candidates. "Leaving aside our brothers, and Signor Ruthven, who I do hear is well-versed in the sorcery of his clan. Signorina Elisabetta said something about the astrologer Droga being able to conjure. And I also understand there is one of the Cappadocian line dwelling in the city? At least the Florentines say there is."

"Fra' Sigismundo," replied Dantini pleasantly. "A scholar, and an astrologer as well. He may have a little art of a sort, but I would not call him a magus as the Tremere understand the term. As for Droga, I do not know him well; he is a man of the court, and I am not. He too is said to have art of a sort, though again I do not know if he would qualify in your estimation. — I must also add myself to the list, Messere."

"I confess, I have been intensely curious about the wards on your door...but I have pried into your affairs enough for one night, and will not ask where you gained such skill. What of others?"

"Intensely curious, but will not ask. Others, Messere?"

"Mortal wizards in the city."

"Ah." Etienne disliked the ring of enlightenment in Dantini's tone; that the Tremere were roundly hated by the mortal Hermetics from whose ranks they had sprung was not supposed to be common knowledge in the other clans. "No, there are no mortal magi in the city that I know of...certainly none of a strength and disposition to kill Cainites."

"A comfort to all, I'm sure," Etienne remarked.

"Indeed."

Etienne fell to puzzling. Dantini took advantage of the silence to page through the letters again.

"He was so young," the Lasombra mused. "Rarely do I have the opportunity to touch a Cainite mind while it's still green and pliant, like a sapling. They harden so quickly. I suppose I should not say they."

"Even without seeing his half of the correspondence, I can tell he was eager for it," Etienne replied somberly. "Eager for any word of comfort."

Dantini glanced up at him. "Hope is what the devil seeks above all to kill."

It was a quote from the gloss on the Lucius.

"I see Monsignore reads the Greek as well; not that that surprises me."

"Have you finished the book, Messer Etienne?"

Etienne hesitated. Antonio would protest most stridently if Etienne were to actually borrow the book; it would oblige them further to the Lasombra.

"To all practical purposes, yes," he said.

Dantini reached over to his desk, picked the book up, then stood to hand it to Etienne.

"A book half finished is like a meal poorly digested...worse than nothing at all on a sensitive stomach."

"I thank Monsignore most humbly."

"Think nothing of it. I too know what it is to be eager for comfort..." The friar settled his spindly frame back into the chair.

Etienne held the book carefully, like a fragile thing; actually, it did seem many, many years old, and had plainly been rebound at least once.

"Monsignor Dantini," he began, hesitated, then forged on. "If I have not exasperated you utterly...I implore you to tell me more of this man, this...vampire theologian..."

"Lucius of Aachen?"

"Yes. Who he was — or is; where he may be found, if he can be found; whether his life has matched the testimony of his words?"

Dantini smiled once more; no faint trace this time, but a look of welcoming warmth.

"It would be my privilege, Messere. I regret I never had the good fortune to meet him in person, but I did have a letter or two from him, long ago, and my cousin in Constantinople knew more. They say that he was once a Roman shoemaker in old Lyons, who first heard the Gospel from the very lips of the martyrs..."

"Messere." The bare hand was laid on his gloved one; the little complaint of pain that rose from it stirred him.

Etienne looked up; Dantini was near him, seeming even taller than before, largely because he stood while Etienne sat. The fire in the brazier had broken down to a heap of angry coals.

"You dropped off," the friar explained. "A pity, too; it was a sentence I was eager to hear the end of."

"Forgive me, Monsignore." Etienne shifted in his chair. The muscles of his legs and back felt stiff from inaction. "I've had a rather tiring couple of nights."

"Don't apologize, Messere. You inspired me to check upon the time..."

"The time!" The idea was like the jolt of a misfired spell. He sprang up. "What time is it?"

"Messere — it's no good. You'll never make it back to Porta Vercellina. The sky is lightening already. Do you doubt me?"

"No." Etienne nearly gave breath to a deeply impious oath. "I don't doubt you. It's just one trouble after another, that's all."

"It is, and it is you who must forgive me, Messere; I gave the waning night no more thought than you did, but I will not suffer for it as you might."

"Suffer!"

"I fear your brother will be annoyed."

"To put it mildly."

"That was not my intention." Dantini's hands clasped. He looked honestly agitated. "I pray you can believe me..."

"It's my fault, and only mine," said Etienne, although in truth part of him could not help noting dryly that any strife in the Tremere delegation would certainly benefit Ruthven and House dell' Aquila.

"No. I chattered on even more than you did. Take sanctuary with me, Messer Etienne," the Lasombra urged. "Consider it an act of contrition, not hospitality. You will owe me nothing for it."

"What, stay in your cell?"

"It's protected. No one will think even to knock with the wards in place. You have my word, as I hope to be saved."

There was no time to weigh the perils. Etienne did not need to leave this windowless cell to know that the sun lurked just under the horizon. The leaden feeling in his limbs told him as much. Perhaps he could make it to some sort of improvised shelter, under a haystack, into someone's cellar, but was that really any less a risk than accepting Dantini's offer? Even a minor obstacle could delay him enough to be caught by the blazing dawn, crushed under a thousand golden lances.

"Your word?" Etienne rounded on him.

"I give it to you, earnestly. Come, Messere. The bed is yours. I'll sleep as soundly on the floor. I often did so for penance when I was younger, before deciding it wasn't hard enough on Cainite bones to make a good penance."

"Nonsense. I won't turn a Monsignore out of his bed," said Etienne, determined not to lose another war of courtesy.

"But I insist."

"It would not be just of me. It is not my place."

"Only because you have disavowed that place, Messere. Some might argue I should bow before you regardless."

"I beg you not to say that..."

"Forgive me," Dantini said immediately, and put a hand on his shoulder. The casual contact surprised him, stirred his heart impossibly quickly; how long since anyone had touched him so? "I don't mock you, Messere. Nor do I dispute your judgement. It's getting rather late to fight over niceties...let us share, then. I believe the mattress will fit two — if they lie on their sides, and don't toss in their sleep."

"Not a finger. I sleep like the dead, oddly enough."

"Are we agreed, then?"

It was not terribly monkish of Dantini, thought Etienne, to seek company in his bed. Still, no point objecting; Etienne could not protect himself against a daytime betrayal in any case. The charms to ward off such dangers took a good hour to cast, even if it were not forbidden to practice the Art before outsiders, which it was.

"Agreed," he mumbled back. His wound was drawing on him, demanding, itself vampiric. He dropped onto the bed and undid the laces of his shoes. His gloved hands fumbled, particularly the left.

"I'm glad." Dantini watched him curiously a moment, then went around to his side of the bed.

"God grant you sweet sleep, Etienne of Tremere."

"And you...Franciscus Dominicanus..."

It was a half-witted joke, and Francesco must surely have heard it before, but he chuckled nonetheless as he drew up the covers around them both. Etienne was unconscious by chuckle's end.

The Milanese Chantry, Near Dawn

Spinello was greeted with the very vision of pique. The door opened just a crack; the glittering black eye on the other side easily froze his blood even without its twin to help it.

"I trust this is of cataclysmic importance." Antonio's voice issued from the crack, hoarse from chanting.

"Yes, my lord, the time, I know. But my lord — there's been a gift delivered—"

"A gift?"

"Yes, my lord," Spinello stammered. "For your lordship. The man who brought it, my lord, his face when he doffed his hood..."

"Spinello." The voice dropped, took on the deceptively soothing tones with which one addresses children and imbeciles. "The sun is nearly up."

"Yes, my lord, but his face! Nothing created of God could bear such features—"

"What are you going on about? A monstrosity with a gift for me?"

"I sent him off, my lord. I couldn't bear it. But the gift, my lord." Spinello's agued hands wobbled as they brought up a little carved wooden box.

A white, spidery hand reached out toward his and grasped the top of the box, resting there a moment.

"Give it to me, Spinello. Let go now..." Antonio commanded him. "Wait out here a moment."

"Gladly, my lord."

Antonio shut the door, leaning against it. The box itself was a pleasant little thing, the sort of container in which jewels and official gifts were commonly presented. But the spirit-traces upon it...

There was a faint sense of magic on it as well: a ward, and something else. Perhaps a curse, perhaps not. To open it now without a whit of preparation would be foolish indeed.

It would be just as foolish to simply leave it sitting here or elsewhere in the chantry while he slept the day away.

Unresolved, he touched the little hasp. It flew open with a spark, carrying the rest of the lid up and off with it to land with a clatter across the room. Antonio ducked reflexively, throwing up his free arm, but he did not drop the box; and as it failed to explode in its turn, he lowered his arm again to look at it.

The box was cushioned in dark velvet. Sitting upon the velvet was a hand, severed at the wrist, marble-white flesh veined in a dense, gangrenous network of blue. The nails were delicate but dirty, rimed with black and the near-black of blood that had streamed from underneath their edges. The fingers had somehow been twisted backwards with no visible breakage, as though they had softened like wax for just long enough to be sculpted and then hardened again; they fanned up and out in an impossible flowering shape. A miasma of scent arose from the thing, powerful even in its decay: Cainite blood.

Lolling insolently at the base of the distorted third finger was a silver ring bearing the seal of the House and Clan.