He really did feel better. He raised his arms from the bed and looked at them. They were still pale, but they did not glisten with sweat as they had done before – and most importantly, they did not shake. He felt his forehead; it was cool. His stomach didn’t tug at him as though desperate for freedom. In fact, he felt hungry. It was a wonderful sensation, having for so many days been unable to tolerate even the smell of any but the most insubstantial foods.
He threw the bedclothes aside and was about to stand, but a voice interrupted him.
‘Whatever are you doing?’
It was his beloved wife, Yelizaveta. She was seated a little way from the bed.
‘How long have you been there?’ he asked in surprise.
‘Since dawn,’ she said.
‘What time is it now?’
‘Almost eleven.’
‘On what day?’
‘Tuesday,’ she said. ‘You’ve been asleep for a day and a half.’
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and attempted to stand. That was not such a wise idea. He ached all over, but that was still no bad thing. The aching was an aftereffect; a reminder of what had been, not a warning of what was to come. It was best to stay in bed for now though.
‘Anisimov!’ he bellowed. The sound was louder than he had expected. His voice was returning too.
His valet’s head appeared around the door. ‘Anisimov,’ said the tsar, ‘open up the shutters. And then go fetch Dr Wylie. And Tarasov. And Danilov.’
Anisimov followed his master’s instructions in the order they were given. The autumn sunlight flooded in through the window, and the valet left to summon the three men. Yelizaveta came over to the bed, and Aleksandr clasped her hand.
‘How utterly beautiful it all is,’ he exclaimed, gazing at the sunlight pouring in.
The two doctors and the colonel arrived presently. Yelizaveta was perceptive enough to leave the men alone. ‘I must write to my mother and tell her how much better you are,’ was her proffered excuse.
Wylie and Tarasov poked, prodded and examined Aleksandr in ways with which he was all too familiar. Danilov stood back throughout, leaning against the door. The doctors then moved aside and discussed their patient in undertones. They beckoned Danilov over and the conversation continued in the same vein. At length, they turned to face the tsar.
‘Am I better?’ he asked.
‘You have no symptoms.’ It was Wylie who responded.
‘So I’m better.’
‘You are as you were before your visit to Chufut Kalye.’
‘Before I drank the blood of a voordalak, you mean?’ said the tsar, irritated by the doctor’s equivocation.
‘If your ailments were as a result of… what you drank,’ said Tarasov, ‘then it would seem that the effect has passed.’
‘For Heaven’s sake,’ said Aleksandr, slamming his arms down on the bed and immediately regretting it. ‘Danilov, will you speak plainly?’
‘I’ll speak honestly,’ said Aleksei. It seemed to Aleksandr a quibbling distinction, but the colonel made his meaning very clear. ‘We have no idea what we’re talking about,’ he explained. ‘The good doctors here know about the disorders of men – but your affliction does not fit well into that category. I have encountered vampires, but every one of their victims I have ever seen has either become such a creature himself, or has died and become their prey. I have never met anyone in the limbo in which you find yourself.’
‘Take a guess,’ replied the tsar.
‘We think Zmyeevich’s blood has left your body,’ said Aleksei.
‘Cain’s book said that such a purification might take weeks, even months,’ explained Wylie.
‘But Your Majesty’s use of quinine may have precipitated matters,’ added Tarasov.
‘So I am not at risk of becoming… like Zmyeevich.’ The three men glanced at one another like naughty schoolboys. ‘Well?’ Aleksandr insisted.
‘If you were to die now, we believe you would die a normal death,’ said Danilov. ‘Your corpse would putrefy and rot like any other.’
Aleksandr blanched slightly at the words, then stifled a giggle, then laughed out loud. ‘Was ever a man so pleased to learn of his own mortality?’ he said.
‘Who knows?’ said Aleksei, returning the tsar’s smile. ‘Ask a priest.’
‘I did,’ said the tsar. ‘I asked Father Fyodotov. He was no help at all, which is why I called on the three of you.’
The two doctors both expressed their congratulations on Aleksandr’s recovery, as did Danilov, but the colonel watched the tsar throughout with an eye of concern that was unnerving.
‘Can I get up now and go about my business?’ Aleksandr asked.
‘Not yet, I think, Your Majesty,’ said Wylie, striding over to the bed to ensure that Aleksandr did not attempt to get out. ‘Your body is weakened from fighting its assailant. It has been victorious, but now it needs rest.’
‘Oh, very well,’ said the tsar. He felt he had the energy to go out and run all the way along the perimeter of the town, but he knew the sensation wouldn’t last. ‘Send Volkonsky in, would you?’
Wylie nodded, and the three men turned to leave.
‘And thank you,’ said Aleksandr. ‘All of you.’
‘It must be by his death,’ said Wylie. They were the same words Aleksei had heard uttered months before, and then, as now, their object had been the tsar, but on this occasion they were motivated by an affection that would not have been dreamed of in Prince Obolensky’s house in Petersburg. Aleksei was pleased Wylie’s train of thought was following his own.
They had gone down to the beach, where they felt assured of speaking in privacy. Volkonsky had been summoned to the tsar’s presence, as requested. It was a good thing that, for now, he would not hear their conversation, much as they might need his complicity, when the time came.
‘The question,’ replied Aleksei, ‘is when he dies.’
‘A long time from now, I should hope,’ said Tarasov.
‘I think we need a more precise reply than simply “sooner” or “later”.’
‘When he is free of Zmyeevich’s blood, you mean,’ said Wylie.
‘But he is free of it,’ said Tarasov. ‘I know it’s guesswork, but we’re all agreed.’
‘And that’s why Cain is coming for him,’ Aleksei pointed out. ‘He knows that any dose of Zmyeevich’s blood will wear off eventually. He needs to re-administer it.’
‘But why risk coming here?’ asked Wylie. ‘He could gain access to His Majesty at any time – back in Petersburg even – and slip the blood into his food or drink.’
‘That’s true,’ said Aleksei, ‘but I think Cain will act here and soon.’
‘Why?’
‘For two reasons. The first is simply that that was what he implied when we spoke in Chufut Kalye.’ Aleksei knew that Iuda could lie just as easily as he could tell the truth, but that did not mean he always lied. If he did, then predicting him would be child’s play.
‘And the second?’
‘The second,’ replied Aleksei, ‘is that he is afraid the tsar will die.’
‘Afraid?’ asked Tarasov.
‘Desperately. His Majesty can only die once. If that happens when he is free of Zmyeevich’s blood then all is lost for Cain – and Zmyeevich.’
‘And so he’ll try to get His Majesty to drink more,’ concluded Tarasov.
‘Exactly,’ said Aleksei. ‘And then kill him – as quickly as possible.’
‘But the influence of the blood lasts for weeks,’ said Tarasov. ‘We’ve seen that. Cain would have no need to rush.’
‘He can’t take the risk. Cain hasn’t observed the state of the tsar’s health. And anyway, how do we know that the period during which the outward symptoms manifest themselves has any correlation with susceptibility to becoming a vampire?’
‘We can make a good guess,’ said Tarasov.
‘We can,’ said Aleksei. ‘But that’s not a chance Cain can take. If you ask me, his biggest fear right now is that Aleksandr is so weakened by what he’s suffered he may die anyway.’