Chapter One
His name was Thorne. In the ancient language of the runes, it had been longer -
Thornevald.
But when he became a blood drinker, his name had been changed to Thorne. And Thorne
he remained now, centuries later, as he lay in his cave in the ice, dreaming.
When he had first come to the frozen land, he had hoped he would sleep eternally. But
now and then the thirst for blood awakened him and using the Cloud Gift, he rose into the
air, and went in search of the Snow Hunters.
He fed off them, careful never to take too much blood from any one so that none died on
account of him. And when he needed furs and boots he took them as well, and returned to
his hiding place.
These Snow Hunters were not his people. They were dark of skin and had slanted eyes,
and they spoke a different tongue, but he had known them in the olden times when he had
traveled with his uncle into the land to the East for trading. He had not liked trading. He
had preferred war. But he'd learnt many things on those adventures.
In his sleep in the North, he dreamed. He could not help it. The Mind Gift let him hear
the voices of other blood drinkers.
Unwillingly he saw through their eyes, and beheld the work as they beheld it. Sometimes
he didn't mind. He liked it. Modern things amused him. He listened to far-away electric
songs. With the Mind Gift he understood such things as steam engines and railroads he
even understood computers and automobiles. He felt he knew the cities he had left behind
though it had been centuries since he'd forsaken them.
An awareness had come over him that he wasn't going to die. Loneliness in itself could
not destroy him. Neglect was insufficient. And so he slept.
Then a strange thing happened. A catastrophe befell the world of the blood drinkers.
A young singer of sagas had come. His name was Lestat, and in his electric songs, Lestat
broadcast old secrets, secrets which Thorne had never known.
Then a Queen had risen, an evil and ambitious being. She had claimed to have within her
the Sacred Core of all blood drinkers, so that, should she die, all the race would perish
with her.
Thorne had been amazed.
He had never heard these myths of his own kind. He did not know that he believed this
thing.
But as he slept, as he dreamt, as he watched, this Queen began, with the Fire Gift, to
destroy blood drinkers everywhere throughout the world. Thorne heard their cries as they
tried to escape; he saw their deaths in so far as others saw such things.
As she roamed the earth, this Queen came close to Thorne but she passed over him. He
was secretive and quiet in his cave. Perhaps she didn't sense his presence. But he had
sensed hers and never had he encountered such age or strength except from the blood
drinker who had given him the Blood.
And he found himself thinking of that one, the Maker, the red-haired witch with the
bleeding eyes.
The catastrophe among his kind grew worse. More were slain; and out of hiding there
came blood drinkers as old as the Queen herself, and Thorne saw these beings.
At last there came the red-haired one who had made him. He saw her as others saw her.
And at first he could not believe that she still lived; it had been so long since he'd left her
in the Far South that he hadn't dared to hope she was still alive. The eyes and ears of
other blood drinkers gave him the infallible proof. And when he looked on her in his
dreams, he was overwhelmed with a tender feeling and a rage.
She thrived, this creature who had given him the Blood, and she despised the Evil Queen
and she wanted to stop her. Theirs was a hatred for each other which went back
thousands of years.
At last there was a coming together of these beings - old ones from the First Brood of
blood drinkers, and others whom the blood drinker Lestat loved and whom the Evil
Queen did not choose to destroy.
Dimly, as he lay still in the ice, Thorne heard their strange talk, as round a table they sat,
like so many powerful Knights, except that in this council, the women were equal to the
men.
With the Queen they sought to reason, struggling to persuade her to end her reign of
violence, to forsake her evil designs.
He listened, but he could not really understand all that was said among these blood
drinkers. He knew only that the Queen must be stopped.
The Queen loved the blood drinker Lestat. But even he could not turn her from disasters,
so reckless was her vision, so depraved her mind.
Did the Queen truly have the Sacred Core of all blood drinkers within herself? If so, how
could she be destroyed?
Thorne wished the Mind Gift were stronger in him, or that he had used it more often.
During his long centuries of sleep, his strength had grown, but now he felt his distance
and that he was weak.
But as he watched, his eyes open, as though that might help him to see, there came into
his vision another red-haired one, the twin sister of the woman who had loved him so
long ago. It astonished him, as only a twin can do.
And Thorne came to understand that the Maker he had loved so much had lost this twin
thousands of years ago.
The Evil Queen was the mistress of this disaster. She despised the red-haired twins. She
had divided them. And the lost twin came now to fulfill an ancient curse she had laid on
the Evil Queen.
As she drew closer and closer to the Queen, the lost twin thought only of destruction. She
did not sit at the council table. She did not know reason or restraint.
"We shall all die," Thorne whispered in his sleep, drowsy in the snow and ice, the eternal
arctic night coldly enclosing him. He did not move to join his immortal companions. But
he watched. He listened. He would do so until the last moment. He could do no less.
Finally, the lost twin reached her destination. She rose against the Queen. The other
blood drinkers around her looked on in horror. As the two female beings struggled, as
they fought as two warriors upon a battlefield, a strange vision suddenly filled Thorne's
mind utterly, as though he lay in the snow and he were looking at the heavens.
What he saw was a great intricate web stretching out in all directions, and caught within
it many pulsing points of light. At the very center of this web was a single vibrant flame.
He knew the flame was the Queen; and he knew that the other points of light were all the
other blood drinkers. He himself was one of those tiny points of light. The tale of the
Sacred Core was true. He could see it with his own eyes. And now came the moment for
all to surrender to darkness and silence. Now came the end.
The far-flung complex web grew glistening and bright; the core appeared to explode; and
then all went dim for a long moment, during which he felt a sweet vibration in his limbs
as he often felt in simple sleep, and he thought to himself, Ah, so, now we are dying. And
there is no pain.
Yet it was like Ragnarok for his old gods, when the great god, Heimdall, the World
Brightener, would blow his horn summoning the gods of Aesir to their final battle.
"And we end with a war as well," Thorne whispered in his cave. But his thoughts did not
end.
It seemed the best thing that he live no more, until he thought of her, his red-haired one,
his Maker. He had wanted so badly to see her again.
Why had she never told him of her lost twin? Why had she never entrusted to him the
myths of which the blood drinker Lestat sang? Surely she had known the secret of the
Evil Queen with her Sacred Core.
He shifted; he stirred in his sleep. The great sprawling web had faded from his vision. But
with uncommon clarity he could see the red-haired twins, spectacular women.
They stood side by side, these comely creatures, the one in rags, the other in splendor.
And through the eyes of other blood drinkers he came to know that the stranger twin had
slain the Queen, and had taken the Sacred Core within herself.
"Behold, the Queen of the Damned," said his Maker twin as she presented to the others
her long lost sister. Thorne understood her. Thorne saw the suffering in her face. But the
face of the stranger twin, the Queen of the Damned, was blank.
In the nights that followed the survivors of the catastrophe remained together. They told
their tales to one another. And their stories filled the air like so many songs from the
bards of old, sung in the mead hall. And Lestat, leaving his electric instruments for
music, became once more the chronicler, making a story of the battle that he would
pass effortlessly into the mortal world.
Soon the red-haired sisters had moved away, seeking a hiding place where Thorne's
distant eye could not find them.
Be still, he had told himself. Forget the things that you have seen. There is no reason for
you to rise from the ice, any more than there ever was. Sleep is your friend. Dreams are
your unwelcome guests.
Lie quiet and you will lapse back into peace again. Be like the god Heimdall before the
battle call, so still that you can hear the wool grow on the backs of sheep, and the grass
grow far away in the lands where the snow melts.
But more visions came to him.
The blood drinker Lestat brought about some new and confusing tumult in the mortal
world. It was a marvelous secret from the Christian past that he bore, which he had
entrusted to a mortal girl.
There would never be any peace for this one called Lestat. He was like one of Thorne's
people, like one of the warriors of Thorne's time.
Thorne watched as once again, his red-haired one appeared, his lovely Maker, her eyes
red with mortal blood as always, and finely glad and full of authority and power, and this
time come to bind the unhappy blood drinker Lestat in chains.
Chains that could bind such a powerful one?
Thorne pondered it. What chains could accomplish this, he wondered. It seemed that he
had to know the answer to this question. And he saw his red-haired one sitting patiently
by while the blood drinker Lestat, bound and helpless, fought and raved but could not get
free.
What were they made of, these seemingly soft shaped links that held such a being? The
question left Thorne no peace. And why did his red-haired Maker love Lestat and allow
him to live? Why was she so quiet as the young one raved? What was it like to be bound
in her chains, and close to her?
Memories came back to Thorne; troubling visions of his Maker when he, a mortal
warrior, had first come upon her in a cave in the North land that had been his home. It
had been night and he had seen her with her distaff and her spindle and her bleeding eyes.
From her long red locks she had taken one hair after another and spun it into thread,
working with silent speed as he approached her.
It had been bitter winter, and the fire behind her seemed magical in its brightness as he
had stood in the snow watching her as she spun the thread as he had seen a hundred
mortal women do.
"A witch," he had said aloud.
From his mind he banished this memory.
He saw her now as she guarded Lestat who had become strong like her. He saw the
strange chains that bound Lestat who no longer struggled.
At last Lestat had been released.
Gathering up the magical chains, his red-haired Maker had abandoned him and his
companions.
The others were visible but she had slipped out of their vision, and slipping from their
vision, she slipped from the visions of Thorne.
Once again, he vowed to continue his slumber. He opened his mind to sleep. But the
nights passed one by one in his icy cave. The noise of the world was deafening and
formless.
And as time passed he could not forget the sight of his long-lost one; he could not forget
that she was as vital and beautiful as she had ever been, and old thoughts came back to
him with bitter sharpness.
Why had they quarreled? Had she really ever turned her back on him? Why had he hated
so much her other companions? Why had he begrudged her the wanderer blood drinkers
who, discovering her and her company, adored her as all talked together of their journeys
in the Blood.
And the myths - of the Queen and the Sacred Core - would they have mattered to him?
He didn't know. He had had no hunger for myths. It confused him. And he could not
banish from his mind the picture of Lestat bound in those mysterious chains.
Memory wouldn't leave him alone.
It was the middle of winter when the sun doesn't shine at all over the ice, when he
realized that sleep had left him. And he would have no further peace.
And so he rose from the cave, and began his long walk South through the snow, taking
his time as he listened to the electric voices of the world below, not certain of where he
would enter it again.
The wind blew his long thick red hair; he pulled up his fur-lined collar over his mouth,
and he wiped the ice from his eyebrows. His boots were soon wet, and so he stretched out
his arms, summoning the Cloud Gift without words, and began his ascent so that he
might travel low over the land, listening for others of his kind, hoping to find an old one
like himself, someone who might welcome him.
Weary of the Mind Gift and its random messages, he wanted to hear spoken words.
Chapter Two
Several sunless days and nights of midwinter he traveled. But it didn't take him long to
hear the cry of another. It was a blood drinker older than he, and in a city that Thorne had
known centuries before.
In his nocturnal sleep he had never really forgotten this city. It had been a great market
town with a fine cathedral. But on his long journey North so many years ago, he had
found it suffering with the dreaded plague, and he had not believed it would endure.
Indeed, it had seemed to Thorne that all the peoples of the world would die in that awful
plague, so terrible had it been, so merciless.
Once again, sharp memories tormented him.
He saw and smelled the time of the pestilence when children wandered aimlessly without
parents, and bodies had lain in heaps. The smell of rotting flesh had been everywhere.
How could he explain to anyone the sorrow he had felt for humankind that such a disaster
had befallen them?
He didn't want to see the cities and the towns die, though he him self was not of them.
When he fed upon the infected he knew no infection himself. But he could not cure
anyone. He had gone on North, thinking perhaps that all the wondrous things that
humankind had done would be covered in snow or vine or the soft earth itself in final
oblivion.
But all had not died as he had then feared; indeed people of the town itself had survived,
and their descendants lived still in the narrow cobbled medieval streets through which he
walked, more soothed by the cleanliness here than he had ever dreamt he would be.
Yes, it was good to be in this vital and orderly place.
How solid and fine the old timber houses, yet the modern machines ticked and hummed
within.
He could feel and see the miracles that he had only glimpsed through the Mind Gift. The
televisions were filled with colorful dreams. And people knew a safety from the snow
and ice which his time had never given anyone.
He wanted to know more of these wonders for himself, and that surprised him. He
wanted to see railroad trains and ships. He wanted to see airplanes and cars. He wanted to
see computers and wireless telephones.
Maybe he could do it. Maybe he could take the time. He had not come to life again with
any such goal, but then who said that he must hurry upon his errand? No one knew of his
existence except perhaps this blood drinker who called to him, this blood drinker who so
easily opened his own mind.
Where was the blood drinker - the one he had heard only hours ago? He gave a long
silent call, not revealing his name, but pledging only that he offered friendship.
Quickly an answer came to him. With the Mind Gift he saw a blond-haired stranger. The
creature sat in the back room of a special tavern, a place where blood drinkers often
gathered.
Come join me here.
The direction was plain and Thorne hastened to go there. Over the last century he had
heard the blood drinker voices speak of such havens. Vampire taverns, blood drinker
bars, blood drinker clubs. They made up the Vampire Connection. Such a thing! It made
him smile.
In his mind's eye, he saw the bright disturbing hallucination again of the great web with
so many tiny pulsing lights caught within it. That vision had been of all the blood
drinkers themselves connected to the Sacred Core of the Evil Queen. But this Vampire
Connection was an echo of such a web, and it fascinated him.
Would they call to each other on computers, these modern blood drinkers, forsaking the
Mind Gift altogether? He vowed that nothing must dangerously surprise him.
Yet he felt shivers through all his flesh remembering his vague dreams of the disaster.
He hoped and prayed that his newfound friend would confirm the things he'd seen. He
hoped and prayed that the blood drinker would be truly old, not young and tender and
bungling.
He prayed that this blood drinker would have the gift of words. For he wanted to hear
words more than anything. He himself could seldom find the right words. And now, more
than anything, he wanted to listen.
He was almost to the bottom of the steep street, the snow coming down lightly around
him, when he saw the sign of the tavern: The Werewolf.
It made him laugh.
So these blood drinkers play their reckless games, he mused. In his time it had been
wholly different. Who of his own people had not believed that a man could change into a
wolf? Who of his own people would not have done anything to prevent this very evil
from coming upon him?
But here it was, a plaything, the concept, with this painted sign swinging on its hinges in
the cold wind, and the barred windows brightly lighted beneath it.
He pulled the handle of the heavy door and at once found himself in a crowded room,
warm, and full of the smell of wine and beer and human blood.
The warmth alone was overwhelming. In truth, he had never felt anything quite like it.
The warmth was everywhere. It was even and wondrous. And it crossed his mind that not
a single mortal here realized how truly marvelous this warmth was.
For in olden times such warmth had been impossible, and bitter winter had been the
common curse of all.
There was no time however for such thinking. He reminded himself, do not be surprised.
But the inundating chatter of mortals paralyzed him. The blood around him paralyzed
him. For one moment his thirst was crippling. In this noisy indifferent crowd he felt he
would run rampant, taking hold of this one and that one, only to be discovered, the
monster among the throng who would then be hounded to destruction.
He found a place against the wall and leant against it, his eyes closed.
He remembered those of his clan running up the mountain, searching for the red-haired
witch whom they would never find. Thorne alone had seen her. Thorne had seen her take
the eyes from the dead warrior and put them into her own sockets. Thorne had seen her
return through the light snow to the cave where she lifted her distaff. Thorne had seen her
winding the golden red thread on the spindle.
And the clan had wanted to destroy her, and wielding his ax he had been among them.
How foolish it all seemed now, because she had wanted Thorne to see her. She had come
North for a warrior such as Thorne. She had chosen Thorne, and she had loved his youth
and his strength and his pure courage.
He opened his eyes.
The mortals in this place took no notice of him, even though his clothes were badly worn.
How long could he go unseen? He had no coins in his pockets to purchase a place at a
table or a cup of wine.
But the voice of the blood drinker came again, coaxing him, reassuring him.
You must ignore the crowd. They know nothing of us, or why we keep this place. They
are pawns. Come to the rear door. Push it with all your strength and it will give for you.
It seemed impossible that he could cross this room, that these mortals wouldn't know him
for what he was.
But he must overcome this fear. He must reach the blood drinker who was summoning
him.
Bowing his head, bringing his collar up over his mouth, he pushed through the soft
bodies, trying not to meet the gaze of those who glanced at him. And when he saw the
door without a handle, at once he pushed it as he'd been told to do.
It gave upon a large dimly lighted chamber with thick candles set upon each of its
scattered wooden tables. The warmth was as solid and good as that of the outer room.
And the blood drinker was alone.
He was a tall fair creature whose yellow hair was almost white. He had hard blue eyes,
and a delicate face, covered with a thin layer of blood and ash to make him look more
human to the mortal eye. He wore a bright-red cloak with a hood, thrown back from his
head, and his hair was finely combed and long.
He looked most handsome to Thorne, and well mannered, and rather like a creature of
books than a man of the sword. He had large hands but they were slender and his fingers
were fine.
It occurred to Thorne that he had seen this being with the Mind Gift, seated at the council
table with the other blood drinkers before the Evil Queen had been brought down.
Yes, he had seen this very one. This one had tried so hard to reason with the Queen,
though inside him there lurked a dreadful anger and an unreasonable hate.
Yes, Thorne had seen this very one struggling with words, finely chosen words, to save
everyone.
The blood drinker gestured for him to take a seat to the right, against the wall.
He accepted this invitation, and found himself on a long leather cushion, the candle flame
dancing wickedly before him, sending its playful light into the other blood drinker's eyes.
He could smell blood now in the other blood drinker. He realized that the blood drinker's
face was warm with it, and so were his long tapering hands.
Yes, I have hunted tonight, but I will hunt with you again. You need this.
"Yes," said Thorne. "It's been so long you can't imagine it. To suffer in the snow and ice
was simple. But they're all around me now, these tender creatures."
"I understand," said the other blood drinker. "I know."
These were the first words Thorne had spoken aloud to anyone in years and years, and he
closed his eyes so that he might treasure this moment. Memory was a curse, yes, he
thought, but it was also the greatest gift. Because if you lost memory you lost everything.
A bit of his old religion came back to him - that for memory, the god Odin had given his
eye, and hung upon the sacred tree for nine days. But it was more complex than that. It
was not only memory which Odin gained, it was the mead which enabled him to sing
poetry.
Once years ago Thorne had drunk that poet's mead, given him by the priests of the sacred
grove, and he had stood in the middle of his father's house singing the poems about her,
the red-haired one, the blood drinker, whom he had seen with his own eyes.
And those around him had laughed and mocked him. But when she began to slay the
members of the clan they mocked him no more. Once they had seen the pale bodies with
their eyes plucked out, they had made him their hero.
He shook himself all over. The snow fell from his hair and from his shoulders. With a
careless hand he wiped the bits of ice from his eyebrows. He saw the ice melt on his
fingers. He rubbed hard at the frost on his face.
Was there no fire in this room? He looked about. The heat came magically through small
windows. But how good it was, how consuming.
He wanted to strip off his clothes suddenly and bathe in this heat.
I have a fire in my house. I'll take you there.
As if from a trance, he woke to look at the blood drinker stranger. He cursed himself that
he had been sitting here clumsy and mute.
The blood drinker spoke aloud: "It's only to be expected. Do you understand the tongue I
speak?"
"It's the tongue of the Mind Gift," said Thorne. "Men all over the world speak it." He
stared at the blood drinker again. "My name is Thorne," he said. "Thor was my god."
Hastily he reached inside his worn leather coat and pulled out from the fur the amulet of
gold which he wore on a chain.
"Time can't rust such a thing," he said. "It's Thor's hammer."
The blood drinker nodded.
"And your gods?" Thorne asked. "Who were they? I don't speak of belief, you
understand, I speak of what we lost, you and I. Do you catch my meaning?"
"The gods of old Rome, those are the gods I lost," said the stranger. "My name is
Marius."
Thorne nodded. It was too marvelous to speak aloud and to hear the voice of another. For
the moment, he forgot the blood he craved and wanted only a flood of words.
"Speak to me, Marius," he said. "Tell me wondrous things. Tell me all that you would
have me know." He tried to stop himself but he couldn't do it.
"Once I stood speaking to the wind, telling the wind all things that were in my mind and
in my heart. Yet when I went North into the ice, I had no language." He broke off, staring
into Marius's eyes. "My soul is too hurt. I have no true thoughts."
"I understand you," said Marius. "Come with me to my house. You're welcome to the
bath, and to the clothes you need. Then we'll hunt and you'll be restored, and then comes
talk. I can tell you stories without end. I can tell you all the stories of my life that I want
to share with another."
A long sigh escaped Thorne's lips. He couldn't prevent himself from smiling in gratitude,
his eyes moist and his hands trembling. He searched the stranger's face. He could find no
evidence of dishonesty or cunning. The stranger seemed wise, and simple.
"My friend," Thorne said and then he bent forward and offered the kiss of greeting.
Biting deep into his tongue, he filled his mouth with blood, and opened his lips over those
of Marius.
The kiss did not take Marius by surprise. It was his own custom. He received the blood
and obviously savored it.
"Now we can't quarrel over any small thing," said Thorne. He settled back against the
wall greatly confused suddenly. He wasn't alone. He feared that he might give way to
tears. He feared that he hadn't the strength to go back out into the dreadful cold and
accompany this one to his house, yet it was what he needed to do so terribly.
"Come," said Marius, "I'll help you."
They rose from the table together.
This time the agony of passing through the crowd of mortals was even greater. So many
bright glistening eyes fastened on him, though it was only for a moment.
Then they were in the narrow street again, in the gentle swirling snow, and Marius had
his arm tight around him.
Thorne was gasping for breath, because his heart had been so quickened. He found
himself biting at the snow as it came in gusts into his face. He had to stop for a moment
and gesture for his new friend to have patience.
"So many things I saw with the Mind Gift," he said. "I didn't understand them."
"I can explain, perhaps," said Marius. "I can explain all I know and you can do with it
what you will. Knowledge has not been my salvation of late. I am lonesome."
"I'll stay with you," Thorne said. This sweet camaraderie was breaking his heart.
A long time they walked, Thorne becoming stronger again, forgetting the warmth of the
tavern as if it had been a delusion.
At last they came to a handsome house, with a high peaked roof, and many windows.
Marius put his key into the door, and they left the blowing snow behind, stepping into a
broad hallway.
A soft light came from the rooms beyond. The walls and ceiling were of finely oiled
wood, the same as the floor, with all corners neatly fitted.
"A genius of the modern world made this house for me," Marius explained. "I've lived in
many houses, in many styles. This is but one way. Come inside with me."
The great room of the house had a rectangular stone fireplace built into its wooden wall.
And there the fire was stacked waiting to be lighted. Through glass walls of remarkable
size, Thorne saw the lights of the city. He realized that they were on the edge of the hill,
and that a valley lay below them.
"Come," said Marius, "I must introduce you to the other who lives here with me."
This startled Thorne, because he had not detected the presence of anyone else, but he
followed Marius through a doorway out of the great room into another chamber on the
left, and there he saw a strange sight which mystified him.
Many tables filled the room, or perhaps it was one great broad table. But it was covered
all over with a small landscape of hills and valleys, towns and cities. It was covered with
little trees, and even little shrubbery, and here and there was snow, as if one town lay
under winter and another lay under spring or summer.
Countless houses crowded the landscape, many with twinkling lights, and there were
sparkling lakes made of some hard substance to imitate the gleam of water. There were
tunnels through the mountains.
And on curving iron tracks through this little wilderness there ran little railroad trains,
seemingly made out of iron, like those of the great modern world.
Over this tiny world, there presided a blood drinker who didn't bother to look up at
Thorne as he entered. The blood drinker had been a young male when he was made. He
was tall, but very slight of build, with very delicate fingers. His hair was the faded blond
more common among Englishmen than Norsemen.
He sat near the table, where before him was a cleared space devoted to his paintbrushes,
and to several bottles of paint, while with his hands he painted the bark of a small tree, as
if in readiness to put it into the world that stretched out all over the room, surrounding
and almost enclosing him.
A rush of pleasure passed through Thorne as he looked over this little world. It struck
him suddenly that he could have spent an hour inspecting all of the tiny buildings. It was
not the harsh great world outside, but something precious and protected, and even slightly
enchanting.
There was more than one small black train which ran along upon the wandering tracks,
and a small droning noise came from these trains as if from bees in a hive. The trains had
lights inside their tiny windows.
All the myriad details of this small wonderland seemed to be correct.
"I feel I'm the frost giant in this room," Thorne whispered reverently.
It was an offering of friendship to the youngish male who continued to apply the brown
paint to the bark of the tiny tree which he held so delicately between his left fingers. But
the youngish male blood drinker did not respond.
"These tiny cities and towns are full of pretty magic," Thorne said, his voice a little more
timid.
The youngish male seemed to have no ears.
"Daniel?" said Marius gently to his friend, "do you want to greet Thorne who is our guest
tonight?"
"Welcome, Thorne," said Daniel without looking up. And then as if neither Thorne nor
Marius were there, Daniel stopped the painting of his tree, and dipping another brush into
another bottle, he made a dampened spot for the tree in the great world before him. He set
the tree down hard upon that spot and the tree stood firm as though rooted.
"This house is full of many rooms like this," said Marius in an even voice, his eyes
looking at Thorne gently. "Look below. One can purchase thousands of little trees, and
thousands of little houses." He pointed to stacks upon stacks of small containers on the
floor beneath the table.
"Daniel is very good at putting together the houses. See how intricate they are? This is all
that Daniel does now."
Thorne sensed a judgment in Marius's voice but it was soft, and the youngish blood
drinker paid no attention. He had taken up another small tree, and was examining the
thick green portion which made up its leafy upper limbs. To this he soon applied his little
paintbrush.
"Have you ever seen one of our kind under such a spell?" Marius asked.
Thorne shook his head, No, he had not. But he understood how such a thing could
happen.
"It occurs sometimes," said Marius. "The blood drinker becomes enthralled. I remember
centuries ago I heard the story of a blood drinker in a Southern land whose sole passion
was for finding beautiful shells along the shore, and this she did all night long until near
morning.
She did hunt and she did drink, but it was only to return to the shells, and once she looked
at each, she threw it aside and went on searching. No one could distract her from it.
Daniel is enthralled in the same way. He makes these small cities.
He doesn't want to do anything else. It's as if the small cities have caught him. You might
say I look after him."
Thorne was speechless, out of respect. He couldn't tell whether Marius's words affected
the blood drinker who continued to work upon his world. Thorne felt a moment of
confusion.
Then a low genial laugh came from the youngish blood drinker. "Daniel will be this way
for a while," said Marius, "and then his old faculties will come back to him."
"The ideas you have, Marius," Daniel said with another little easy laugh. It was hardly
more than a murmur. Daniel dipped the brush again into the paste that would make his
little tree stick to the green grass, and he pressed the tree down with appropriate force.
Then out of a box beside him, he drew another.
All the while the small railroad trains moved on, winding their way noisily through hill
and valley, past snow-covered church and house. Why, this tiny world even contained
small detailed people!
"Might I kneel to look at this?" asked Thorne respectfully. "Yes, please do," said Marius.
"It would give him pleasure." Thorne went down on both knees and drew himself up to
the small village with its cluster of little buildings. He saw delicate signs on them but he
didn't know the meaning of them.
He was struck dumb by the wonder of it—that rising and confronting the great world, he
was to come here and stumble upon this little universe.
A finely made little train, its engine roaring, its cars loosely connected, came rattling past
him on the track. He thought he glimpsed small figures inside it.
For a second, he forgot all else. He imagined this handmade world to be real, and
understood the spell, though it frightened him.
"Beautiful," he said in thanks. He stood up.
The young blood drinker neither moved nor spoke in acknowledgment.
"Have you hunted, Daniel?" asked Marius.
"Not tonight, Marius," said the youngish one without looking up, but then suddenly his
eyes flashed on Thorne, and Thorne was surprised by their violet color.
"Norseman," Daniel said with a little note of pleasant surprise. "Red hair like the hair of
the twins." He laughed, a light laugh as if he were a little mad. "Made by Maharet. Strong
one."
The words caught Thorne completely off guard. He reeled, scarcely able to keep his
balance.
He wanted to strike the careless young one. He almost lifted his fist. But Marius held his
arm firmly.
Images crowded into Thorne's mind. The twins - his beloved Maker and her lost sister.
He saw them vividly. The Queen of the Damned. Once more he saw the helpless blood
drinker Lestat with the chains around him. Chains of metal could never have held him.
From what had his red-haired Maker created those chains?
He tried to banish these thoughts, and anchor himself within the moment.
Marius held tight to his arm, and went on speaking to the blood drinker Daniel:
"Let me guide you, if you want to hunt."
"I have no need," said Daniel. He had gone back to his work. He drew a large bundle
from beneath the table, and he held it up for Marius to see. On the cover was painted, or
printed, Thorne could not tell, the picture of a house with three stories and many
windows. "I want to assemble this house," Daniel said. "It's more difficult than anything
you see here, but with my vampiric blood it will be simple."
"We'll leave you now," said Marius, "but don't try to leave here without me."
"I would never do that," said Daniel. He was already tearing at the sheer wrapping of the
bundle.