"I am hungry," Csimenae announced as she looked across the main room of Sanct' Germain's house. "The sun is down. How soon can we hunt?"

"Not yet," Sanct' Germain warned. "There are villagers still awake. If they saw you leave with me, some of them might become suspicious."

"You said I could visit them as they sleep," she reminded him, smiling in a way that revealed her determination. "You have said you will tell me how it is done. There are many things you have said you will tell me."

"Yes, and I will. But I also told you visiting your people in their sleep is not safe. Your neighbors know you, and once they associate you with dreams of the sort we give-" He broke off. "It would expose you to more danger than is wise."

She thought about his answer. "Have you ever visited any of the villagers in their sleep?" Before he could respond, she continued, "I want to know; this is my son's place. Do not lie to me."

"I would not lie to you, whether Aulutis had anything to do with the village or not." He paused, making sure he had her attention. "No, I have not visited any of the people of this village in dreams. I never would; not in a place so small and isolated-I would endanger myself and any I visited. You are all untouched by me. People here are suspicious about me as a foreigner. How much worse would their fears be if they discovered that I was more of a foreigner than they knew. I would not be able to remain here were my true nature revealed."

"Are you certain of that?" Csimenae challenged. "You have power. Surely that would earn the respect and devotion-"

"I am certain," he said, interrupting her. "I have centuries of experience to guide me. This village is no different than any other in that regard, and the villagers are much the same as villagers everywhere. They, like you, do not want to be touched by anyone foreign. They do not trust your friendship with me, you know." He shook his head. "You risk enough coming here while the others are still about, and might see you in my company." He wished that Rogerian were back from his journey down the mountain to buy flour from the monks; he should be returning in the next few days if all went well. Sanct' Germain was still uncertain if he should have gone himself, as he had intended, but he had not thought it prudent to leave Csimenae on her own until she had learned how to deal with her vampiric state.

"Let them think what they wish. What can they do? This village is my son's assumption, and I hold it in trust for him. If I fail in that, I fail in all. As long as I am alive, my son is protected. These villagers know as much, and honor it." She held up her arms in a gesture of defiance. "They have too much to be grateful for. They should thank me, not question me. You will show me how to do it."

Sanct' Germain sighed. "There are more of them than there are of you."

"And they are cowards, all of them," she said, shrugging to show her opinion. "They will accept me so long as I am true to my child."

"Even cowards will act to protect themselves." He had seen that many times in the past, and had come to think that a coward fighting was as dangerous as a brave man.

"They are too cautious," she said, dismissing his concerns with a single motion of her hand. "They know how much they owe to me."

"Their lives are more fragile than yours," he persisted. "You must learn to respect that fragility."

"Why?" She faced him directly. "Because you tell me I must? You say that I have to follow your example. You tell me that because you brought me to your life, I must live it as you tell me. What arrogance! Your blood is not the blood of horses." She laughed without mirth, her hands on her hips. "You have been reading me lessons since the battle, and I have no more reason to believe you now than I had then. Your life is not my life." She took a step closer to him. "You have told me what I must do. I have listened. That is sufficient."

"But you are unconvinced." In the five weeks since she had wakened to his life, Csimenae had become more imperious, demanding respect and devotion, though she gave neither to anyone but her child. He wished now he had tasted her blood, for then she would be less of a conundrum to him; as things stood, she was too much a stranger to him.

"Why should I be?" she asked. "For Aulutis' sake?"

"Yes. He is as mortal as any of them," Sanct' Germain reminded her. "And we are not proof against all things. We can die the True Death."

"So you have said," she reminded him impatiently, and ticked off what he had told her on her fingers. "If our spine is broken, if our heads are chopped off, if we are consumed by fire. We cannot drown or suffocate or bleed to death. We cannot become ill. Or starve."

"True enough," he said, interrupting her recitation. "But we are not wholly proof against them and all those things are...not pleasant to endure. You would do well to avoid them when you can." He had personal experience with all five, and the memories still made him shudder inwardly. "Because you are able to withstand them does not mean they are desirable."

Csimenae held up her hand, continuing her enumeration. "There's more. We cannot be poisoned. Even the sun cannot entirely kill us, but it can burn us. Without our native earth, we are weakened." She stared at him, defying him. "See, Sanct' Germain? The things you have said-I have been listening. I have learned."

"You have learned lists, but you do not comprehend," said Sanct' Germain quietly. "In time, you will discover-"

"In time!" She laughed aloud. "In years and years and years of time!"

"That is my point," he said, not wanting to argue with her. "You may have the luxury of time, but you are not invulnerable. We must be careful of how we live, or we alert the living to our presence, and then we are at risk. Much as you may doubt it, you will need the people of the village-"

She interrupted him. "Not if you will not let me feed on them."

He did his best to hide his vexation. "You need them for your son's sake. You want him to have a village in which to rule, do you not? If you prey on these people, you prepare a cemetery for his inheritance. You want him to have a legacy that lasts more than his lifetime. Think of what you have dealt with to assure him of the fealty of the villagers. And you want him to be held in high regard, not dreaded and loathed."

"All right. That is what I want; chide me for it if you must," she allowed unhappily. "You say because your blood saved me from death that you are bound to me. Very well. I will hear you out."

"I am bound to you. The blood is a bond as strong as that of native earth," said Sanct' Germain, realizing that she did not understand what he was telling her.

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently. "No doubt you will hound me through all eternity."

He looked at her in silence for several heartbeats, then shrugged. "You do not want to accept what you have become. You will not learn-"

"But I am hungry." She folded her arms. "If I wait much longer, I will set upon Gratius or Pordinae. They will sustain me. They will know I am honoring them."

Sanct' Germain regarded her gravely. "And I tell you that they will know you for what you are, and they will seek you out and give you the True Death. Do not doubt that they will. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but in time." He saw her disbelief. "You think that because you have been one of them, they will permit you to raven among them? You have stoned mad dogs here: why do you suppose they would not do the same to you?"

"They are incapable of such perfidy," she said with a great deal of confidence. "You have not lived here long enough to know this."

"I know what those in my homeland are capable of doing to those of my blood," he said. "Your village is not much different from my homeland."

"No. You are wrong. Mont Calcius is not the same as other villages. No matter what you say." Her face was pale with hidden anger. "This village knows when it is guarded. They will not begrudge me an occasional sacrifice in exchange for what I can give them."

"Do you think so." Sanct' Germain looked steadily at her. "You are assuming your son will not mind, as well."

If he had hoped to persuade her with such an argument, he was disappointed. "Why should he? He will benefit the most of all." She turned away from him in a fine display of contempt. "You are always telling me of calamity and doom, as if I have become a monster. I am the guardian of this place as much as the horse-skulls are, and in time everyone here will know it." Csimenae tossed her head. "You do not know these people: I do. They will not deny me. For the sake of Aulutis."

"They would be more likely to visit the same fate on your boy than to permit you to make cattle of them." He held up his hand to keep her from interrupting. "Listen to me, for your son's sake if not your own. Try to understand what I am telling you without disputing everything I say: until you were fatally injured, I had not intended to bring you to my life, or to reveal my true nature to anyone in this village-indeed, I had been at pains to conceal what I am-but circumstances intervened. You would have died utterly, and your son with you had I not made it possible for you to change. For doing this, I am responsible for you, for the manner in which you live, because it is my blood that transformed you. I am only sorry you were unprepared, for now you must learn quickly how a vampire must live, or you will pose a danger to everyone living inside these walls."

Her face stiffened in ill-controlled rage. "I would not be so foolish! That would redound to my son's discredit and make him an outcast. You cannot think I would do such a thing. I will make the villagers glad of my presence. I will not make mistakes."

"Then you would be unique among my kind," Sanct' Germain said, unimpressed by her posturing. "None of those who come to this life unprepared-as you were unprepared-are innocuous to the living, little though you may think so. You have my blood in you, and although it is not the blood of horses, it is a bond, whether or not I have tasted yours. The bond cannot be denied. I am bound to you until you die the True Death, or I do." As he spoke, he saw her distrust. Only twice before had he experienced such perplexity, and now, as then, he was flummoxed by it: he did not know what he could do to remedy his predicament. He tried the most sensible approach he could think of. "You admit you are hungry. How long are you prepared to deny your need? Do you know what you hunger for? It is more than blood that sustains you. You have said already that you will permit the villagers to assuage your appetite, as if they were nothing more than sheep or goats. It is not what we ultimately seek." He paused, increasingly aware of the isolation that wore at him. Watching her pace the small room he sensed her inner conflicts. "Still, I am beholden to you, and your people, for giving me a refuge for so long. I would repay you egregiously if I were to treat the villagers as so much fodder, and you would be no less responsible for behaving in so dishonorable a manner."

"How noble you are," she mocked him.

"How pragmatic I am," he corrected her.

"Then, if I am not to feed on the villagers, let us go into the forest. There are goats and boar about. If we are fortunate, we will find the wild ponies, and drink the blood of horses. We may even find a marauder to feast upon." She gestured impatiently. "You may be used to this, but I am famished. I must feed."

"Lie back on the mat, the one with the blanket," he recommended, pointing to where it had been made up on the ground floor; it was where Rogerian slept. "Your native earth beneath it will sustain you for a time."

"Why should I? It is dark enough. We can hunt without fear." She frowned at him. "Or are you afraid?"

"Not in the way you mean," he said, growing apprehensive about her. "It is prudent to be careful. If you disdain thought, you may put yourself at more risk than you can handle."

Her eyes mocked him. "So you tutor me to model myself upon you."

He did not respond at once. "I have lived a very long time; I did not reach this age by being impetuous, or capricious; or foolish."

"So you say," she said, sulking. Then she sighed. "Oh, very well. We shall wait a little longer and then we hunt." She folded her arms. "Aulutis deserves my protection."

"Yes. He does." Sanct' Germain rubbed his chin with his thumb. "If he is to reach manhood, you will have to curb your desires, learn to control your appetite, and be willing to put his interests before your own, or he will answer for it." He hoped this argument might finally have some weight with her. "You are not the one who will suffer for your acts."

"But if I am weak, I cannot help him," she came back at him. "Hunger weakens me," she added pointedly.

He did not speak at once. "Tell me," he said, taking up his stance by the single backless chair, "how long do you expect to live in this place?"

Startled, she pursed her lips as she thought about her answer. "As long as my son is ruler here."

He nodded. "And you do not suppose that as the rest of the village grows old and dies, your unchanging youth will not be noticed? If the others age, and you do not, what then? Do you think Aulutis will not be aware of your nature?"

"It will be thought that I am fortunate, and my son will be glad of it," said Csimenae defiantly. "It will be thought that the horses have made me one of their guardians, if they think anything about my long life."

"A sign of favor from the horses, or the gods, or the angels," Sanct' Germain added for her, a deep exhaustion in his voice that came from the depths of his memories. "Or the newtri, or the Celestials. No doubt some would believe that, at least for a time. But as all your generation dies, and you do not; you show no signs of age-what then? Consider what I have told you: do you suppose no one will remark upon your unchanging youth? If not while your son is young, perhaps later? Then, when all of Aulutis' generation dies, and you do not, do you suppose the villagers will not have qualms about you?"

"I will deal with it when I must; you will not tell me how I will live," she said, dismissing the matter with a turn of her hand. "Now, have you finished? Can we go out to the woods to hunt?" From the tone of her voice, Sanct' Germain knew it was useless to try to talk to her anymore this evening.

"All right. But take the precaution of walking out through the barn. That way no one will suppose that you are going to hunt; they will assume you are tending the sheep and the goats." He straightened up. "I will join you at the edge of the olive trees in a little while. Wait for me there."

"Must I?" She frowned in displeasure. "I know how to follow animals in the forest."

"Certainly," he agreed. "But you have not yet learned how to catch them with your own hands and subdue them without killing them."

She pointed to him. "And why not kill them? It would be easier."

"Because we are nourished by life. Once the animal is dead, there is no virtue in its blood, not for us. It is life that sustains us, and nothing is more living than blood." He bowed slightly. "So wait for me. We will both be satisfied."

"How will we kill them?" she asked eagerly.

His answer was without emotion. "Bring a knife. It is no easy thing to bite an animal's neck while it lives." There were ways to immobilize quarry, but they took time to learn.

"Very well-I will bring a knife." For the first time she was eager. At the door she paused, taking the time to look out into the market square, making an attempt to ascertain if any observed her before she left.

Sanct' Germain watched her go with misgivings. He was failing with her, he knew; it was in every aspect of her, from the angle of her head to the contempt in her tone. She did not believe him, or any of the admonitions he gave her. If only he had some means of persuading her that did not sound as if he were reading her a lesson. He did not know any other way to convince her of the perils of her vampiric life, for although she claimed to comprehend all his warnings, she clearly did not think she had anything to worry about, and resented his repeated attempts to instill some sense of accountability in her expectations. He pondered her circumstances in this remote village and tried to discover some aspect of this place that would serve as an example to her-one she would heed. Nothing suggested itself, and finally he gathered up his dagger and a small axe before he left his house, going along the street swiftly and silently to the wall. He vaulted up on it, and leaped over it, landing with ease on the outside near the olive trees.

"How do you do that?" Csimenae asked as she came up to him.

"Those of our blood do not easily break our bones, nor do we harm our sinews." He saw the eagerness in her face, and added, "When we do break bones, they are as painful to align and as hard to knit as those of the living."

"But you, who tell me to be cautious, you would not make such a leap if you thought you would be hurt by it, would you?" Excitement shone in her eyes. "Do you teach how to do that, too, or only those things I am not supposed to do?" She had begun to stride toward the forest and the path that the woodsmen used.

"You will learn, in time," he said, knowing she was hoarding grievances against him. "It is like many other skills-you cannot do it well at the beginning, but practice over time will make you proficient." He lowered his voice. "The same with hunting."

"So you tell me," she muttered, ducking her head as the forest thickened around them. "What shall we hunt, then?"

"Goats. Boar," Sanct' Germain suggested. "Both are about tonight, and near enough to hunt with ease. It should not take long to find game to our liking." He raised his head and sniffed the wind. "The boar are eating acorns. You can smell them both on the wind."

She inhaled and tried to sort out what the scents and odors told her; shrugging her disdain, she said, "There is no need to snuffle the air, like mice seeking the pantry. I know where their favorite grove is. If we go there, we will find them." She motioned for him to follow her.

"Do not be reckless, Csimenae," he recommended, following after her.

Without hesitation she rounded on him. "Or what? Or you will chastise me?"

He held up his hands. "No. The tusks of a boar can cause real injury, and their hooves can break our spines."

"Oh," she said, somewhat mollified. "You wanted to keep me from being hurt, is that it?"

He decided not to answer directly. "The woods are no place to be hurt. We are not the only creatures drawn to spilled blood."

She laughed softly. "Wolves and cats, you mean?"

"Among others," he said. "Kites, vultures."

"And insects?" she suggested, moving quickly toward the narrow trail made by animals passing among the trees.

"Yes, insects. And rats." He could sense her shudder of distaste. "They all dine on blood and flesh."

"And we drink living blood," she said with pride. "Not like those who scavenge on the dead."

Puzzled, he made a gesture of agreement. "Does that matter to you?"

"Does it not to you?" She stopped and tugged at his arm in a show of exasperation.

He studied her face. "No. Not as it seems it does for you. I revere life; it sustains me. The rest is the nature of death." He wondered if she would tell him why this difference was so significant to her. Whatever her answer might have been, it was cut short by the sudden noise of a sounder of boar coming through the undergrowth. "Hold to the side," he ordered, all but thrusting her off the trail and into the cover of the thick-growing trees.

She moved with alacrity, crouching down behind an old oak, completely alert, as feral as any prey she sought. Her eyes glistened with excitement and she grinned, anticipating her kill. Although Sanct' Germain was only an arm's-length away, she paid no attention to him, her full concentration on the boars.

Listening to the forest around them, Sanct' Germain could hear the silence grow around them, and knew it was not caused by the boars. Something else was out hunting this night, and he strove to discover what it might be. He motioned to Csimenae not to attack, to remain where she was, and saw insolence in her gaze. "Something is coming," he whispered, hoping he would not disturb the boars.

One of the nearest lifted his tusked head and squinted into the darkness, then ducked back down toward the ground to root for acorns and mushrooms.

"Let's get him," Csimenae hissed. "I can reach him easily."

"Stay still," Sanct' Germain responded.

She was not listening; already she was moving into position so that she could drop upon the nearest boar's back. Her knife was in her hand, ready for use. She glanced once at Sanct' Germain, confident and expectant. Then she flung herself forward, attempting to straddle the boar and stab its neck at the same time.

The boar squealed in fury and pain, and began to run, heading into the deepest undergrowth, crashing headlong through the brush. The rest of the sounder panicked, and began to mill about, grunting and shrieking in dismay, a few of the larger boars slashing out with tusks and hooves, snapping branches and gouging the earth.

Forced to act before he was ready, Sanct' Germain slipped out of his cover behind the tree, moving with a speed greater than living men achieved; he was as surefooted as he was swift, unhampered by the uneven footing and the nervous boars. With his senses wholly engaged, he dodged his way through the sounder, striving to keep up with the one bearing Csimenae in spite of the close-growing branches that tangled around him, and the precarious footing.

Suddenly the boar Csimenae had caught slowed, then stopped just before it toppled over, blood welling from a long gash in his throat: the boar was dead. Scrambling to her feet, Csimenae began to kick the carcass, outraged at the boar's demise.

"Your people will get meals from the body," Sanct' Germain said as he came up to her.

"But I will not, and I am hungry," she protested with another kick to the boar's shoulder. "He ought to be alive."

"And it is unfortunate that he is not," said Sanct' Germain quickly. "But it is too late to worry about such matters."

The rest of the sounder was increasingly restless; one of the older males made a rush at the two of them, but stopped short of slashing at them with his tusks. Others in the sounder pawed the ground, grumbling.

"I will find another," Csimenae said, starting impetuously toward the nearest of the boars.

This time Sanct' Germain caught her arm in time. "No. We must move this animal and soon. We are not the only hunters abroad tonight. Once we have it inside the village walls, we may hunt for other prey. We have time enough to search for more sustenance. The goats will be out, some distance up the slope; they will suit us well." He released Csimenae and bent to lift the boar, which was more than half again his weight. Slinging it across his shoulders, he peered into the darkest part of the forest, still uneasy. "Something is coming."

The sounder wheeled and began to scatter, running down the mountain, ignoring Sanct' Germain and Csimenae in their sudden headlong plunge. The sound of their shattering escape filled the forest.

"What now?" Csimenae asked impatiently, annoyed that she had been denied more hunting.

Sanct' Germain motioned her to silence. "Now you run," he breathed in utter stillness. "Toward the village. Now."

She glowered at him, ready to protest, and lost valuable time. Confused by the flight of the sounder of boar, she had not heard the approach of the bear.

It shambled toward them, taller than the tallest man, standing upright, its front legs swiping the air ahead of it, emitting rumbling grunts as it came on.

Csimenae stifled a scream and sprinted away toward Mont Calcius; the bear dropped onto all fours and prepared to give chase, a chase in which the bear would surely prevail.

Sanct' Germain swung the boar from his shoulders and threw it at the bear.

With a coughing roar, the bear half-rose and snagged the boar out of the air, then struck out at Sanct' Germain as well, his huge, curved claws leaving four deep furrows along Sanct' Germain's shoulder and shredding his hippogaudion.

Sanct' Germain staggered and strove to stay on his feet as the pain sank into him. Only when he saw the bear tearing at the boar did he dare to move, and then at an unsteady walk, for he felt his back wet with blood.

By the time he reached Mont Calcius, the night was more than half over, and he was reeling with every step. He made his way around to the barn, hoping to get inside the walls without attracting any questions. Vaguely he wondered where Csimenae might be, but concentrated on reaching his house and the annealing comfort of his native earth. He had just rounded the goat-pen when he heard a voice from the slaughtering-shed.

"Sanct' Germain," Csimenae repeated a little louder. "Come."

Reluctantly he obeyed, his body so sore that it seemed each pebble underfoot was spiked and the air filled with sand. As he reached the shed, he saw a young ram hanging from the rafters, his trussed feet kicking feebly as blood spurted from the wound in his throat. Csimenae pointed to the ram with pride, her face smeared from her feeding. He nodded. "You have fed."

"So can you," she encouraged him. "I did not take all."

"This is from your herd," Sanct' Germain said.

"Yes. I chose carefully." She motioned to the animal. "He will last a little longer, and you are in need, are you not?"

His esurience was as much a part of him as the pain from where the bear's claws had raked him, but he made himself shake his head. "It is unwise to feed on your own flocks and herds."

"Why?" She was dumbfounded. "The villagers will get the meat when I am done. Where is the trouble in that?"

"The villagers will know you as a vampire if you feed on their herds and flocks," he said. "In time, they will resent what you do."

"They will understand, as they know why we sacrifice horses, to gain their protection." She went back to the ram. "I have earned this."

Sanct' Germain leaned on the wall of the shed and pointed to the ram. "You had better finish your meal. He is almost gone."

A single glance confirmed this, and Csimenae moved hastily to catch the last of his living blood as the ram kicked his last. "It is sweet, this blood."

"It is fodder," said Sanct' Germain. "It will keep you from starving, but there is no touching with it."

"Touching," she said, and laughed. "You keep talking about touching. You chide me because I will not have it, as if I have put myself at hazard by my refusal. Why should I want touching of any sort? What use is that to me?"

"It is the touching that nurtures. The blood is the least of our nourishment. We do not sustain ourselves without the humanity of touching." He closed his eyes, fighting the weakness that went through him.

"You have not had any touching here," she told him bluntly.

"No," he agreed, an emotion that was almost grief in his dark eyes.

"But the blood is necessary," Csimenae said pugnaciously. "You cannot deny that."

"No. It is necessary." He paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. "You do not understand what I mean because you had no chance to experience-"

"Why should it matter?" She cut him off. "You think you have found the only way to live this undead life. If that is the case, why should you have to teach me so much? Would I not find it out for myself, through compulsion?" Licking the ram's blood off her lips, she went toward Sanct' Germain. "Well? Wouldn't I?"

"In time you might," he said, longing to rest. "It took me several centuries to learn that I was feeding on despair, and to turn away from it."

She laughed. "Why would I despair? You lost all your family, and your homeland. I have lost neither, nor will I."

He shook his head. "You cannot remain here forever," he told her gently, for he could feel her fear beneath her defiance.

"You had better dress those wounds," she said, her abrupt change of subject indicating she was tired of their discussion.

"Yes; I will tend to them," he said slowly, righting himself as if all his body had gone stiff.

Belatedly she shot him a concerned look. "You will not take any lasting injury from the wounds, will you?"

"No; as are all vampires, I am proof against such damage. I have nothing to fear from these gouges. They are not pleasant, but they will pass." He paused. "If you will consider this awhile: soon or late, all those of us who have come to this life are vagabonds and exiles."

"I will not be," she declared, glaring at him. "You say this because it is how you live. I have this village and I will not have to leave it. This is where I live and die." She went back to the ram and began to gut it, taking care not to cut the intestines, but to pull them from the carcass intact. Soon her arms were red to the elbows; she finally turned to speak to him, but found he was gone. "Good," she said aloud before she started to quarter the ram.

Text of a letter in Imperial Latin from Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus to Atta Olivia Clemens, carried by Rogerian to Osca, there entrusted to a merchant bound by ship from Valentia to Ostia. Delivered on November 29th, 622.

To my most dear, long-time, long-treasured friend, Olivia, my greetings, and the assurance that I am still in this world, as you are no doubt aware through our bond.

My apologies for this dreadful vellum, but it is the best I have left in my sadly depleted supplies. There is no better to be had here. I have been in this out-of-the-way village for some time; you will not recognize the name: Mont Calcius. It is in the mountains north and somewhat east of Valentia, a walled group of houses and a barn, not much larger than the stable-yard at Villa Ragoczy. Presently twenty-nine people live here, although there is room for eighty or more. I will probably not leave until the winter snows are out of the high passes, but I will be gone from this place by May. I plan to go to Tolosa for a time, and then I may venture to Roma once again. Do not wonder at the route this travels to reach you-Rogerian is carrying this to Osca for me, where he is going to purchase grain for the village, and such other supplies as he can bring back on a mule. He will find a merchant or pilgrim bound for Valentia and Roma to take this to you.

For all its smallness and isolation, this place has been something of a haven for me, but it will not be so much longer, for it may be that I have erred in bringing another to our life, though I did so with the hope that in preserving her from death I would also bring her to cherish the living, a goal which thus far I have not achieved. Since she is determined to hunt without regard to touching or compassion, I will be prudent; for that reason Rogerian and I leave here when winter is done, as I have told you. I have already begun preparations against that day. Perhaps we should depart sooner, but that would mean traveling over water; considering what happened to me the last time I did that, I suspect it would be wiser to keep to the land, no matter how inconvenient it is. I have not vellum enough, nor the inclination, to tell you the whole of it.

If I am truthful, I must also admit that I am growing lonely. No one but Csimenae knows my true nature, and there is no one here who seeks me as a lover, or I would want to seek me thus. So I have sustained myself with hunting animals in the forest, and I long for the intimacy that is the heart of our life. To know a living being in totality, there is no greater gift, is there? As I cannot achieve that cognizance here-nor can I safely visit any of the villagers in sleep-I will seek it elsewhere.

Have you fared better than I in these matters? I hope you have, for that would remind me that fulfillment is not beyond reach, which now I begin to wonder if it is. Tell me what your life has been these last twenty years, and I will be grateful beyond anything I can express.

May all you long for be yours to your benefit. May you seek nothing to your disadvantage. And until I send you word from Tolosa, may you be content with this missive, brief though it is. Be sure that it comes with my utter appreciation and the unfaltering bond that is the blood we share, as well as my

Love,

Ragoczy Sanct' Germain Franciscus

(his sigil, the eclipse)

on the September Equinox in Sanct' Iago's year 622