The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4. Darren Shan
have to publicly reject you and that would be embarrassing for both of us.”
“I don’t understand,” Paris growled. “You deserve this. You’re respected by everyone. If you were the power-seeking sort, you could have swung a nomination a couple of hundred years ago.”
“But I do not seek power,” Seba said quietly. He stared into the flames of the fire and spoke in a quiet tone that Larten had never heard him use before. “I fear true power, Paris. I have seen it twist people, change them beyond recognition. Some, like you, thrive on it and remain masters of their souls. But I do not believe that I would be one of those.
“There is much about the clan that I would change. I would have us regress to a simpler, purer way of life. I think we interact too much with humans. I dislike the Cubs and their war packs. I do not approve of the impasse between ourselves and the vampaneze. I would push for less personal freedom, more regimented control of ordinary vampires by the Generals, a tighter, more restricted community.”
“What’s wrong with any of that?” Paris asked. “I feel that way myself.”
“But you can act neutrally,” Seba said. “You can balance your personal wishes against those of the many. You are happy to make suggestions, but not impose your will. You consider both sides of most arguments.
“I could not. My emotions would get the better of me. I do not trust myself to act as selflessly as a Prince should. Please, Paris, do not tempt me. Some are fit to rule, but I am not one of them. If I accepted the power of a Prince, you would live to regret it. More importantly, so would I.”
Larten was bewildered by his master’s words. He had always thought Seba was in total control of himself, the equal of any challenge. It distressed him to think that Seba was afraid. The vampire had been urging Larten to overcome his fears for the last five years. How could he now back away from his own like this?
“The boy is disappointed,” Paris remarked, spotting Larten’s expression.
“Larten is sharp, but inexperienced,” Seba said stiffly. “He may see it my way in time. Or he may not.”
“If he doesn’t, I certainly do.” Paris laid a hand on Seba’s arm and smiled, then arched an eyebrow at Larten. “Wipe that look from your face!” he thundered. “An assistant should never dishonour his master, even by thinking poorly of him.”
“But… you said… I thought…”
“I think Seba is incorrect,” Paris said. “He would be a fine Prince, a credit to the clan. But I can only judge him by what I see. He judges himself by what he feels. We should all be so honest and true to ourselves. It takes a vampire of the highest integrity to acknowledge self-doubt. My respect for Seba has increased after our talk tonight. Yours should too.”
Talk turned to other matters. Larten listened for a while, then slipped away and idly explored the forest. Thinking back over everything he’d heard, he wondered who or what ‘war packs’ and the ‘vampaneze’ were — both terms were new to him. But mostly he pondered Seba’s rejection of power and tried to decide how that made him feel.
Paris had gone when Larten returned. The boy looked around in case the Prince was still in sight, but he and Seba were alone.
“Most vampires do not bother with farewells,” Seba said without looking up. “We live for so long that after a time we tire of saying goodbye. Do not take it as a sign of disrespect.”
Larten thought his master was avoiding his gaze because he was ashamed. But when he edged around the fire and caught Seba’s wistful look, he realised the vampire’s thoughts were elsewhere.
“You wish you had accepted,” Larten said softly.
Seba nodded. “Part of me craves power.” He smiled bitterly and glanced at his assistant. “But it is a part I do not like, a part I must always be wary of. I said you had mixed blood when I tested you, Larten. What I did not tell you was that I have it too. My master almost rejected me when he tasted my blood. But in the end he gave me a chance. He is long dead, but there are not many nights when I do not think of him and vow to honour his memory by denying the hunger of my lesser self.”
Seba sighed and fell silent. Larten quietly cleaned around the elderly vampire, quenching the fire, scattering the ashes, bagging the remains of the Wildcat.
Finally Seba stirred. “Did you notice Paris’s bare feet?” he asked.
It was an odd question, but Larten was accustomed to strange queries. “Yes. I assumed that was his preference.”
“No,” Seba said. “Some vampires disregard footwear as a matter of course, but Paris is not one of them. He has commenced his trek to Vampire Mountain, to attend the latest Council. When we undertake that trip, we cast our shoes aside and travel barefoot. It is one of the rules of the clan.”
“Are you going to the Council this time?” Larten asked.
“Aye,” Seba chuckled wryly. “Broken legs permitting.”
“And…” Larten hesitated.
“…will I take you with me?” Seba shook his head. “Human assistants do not make the trek. You must be at least a half-blood.”
“You’re leaving me behind by myself.” Larten wasn’t dismayed. He would be able to get by for a few months without the guiding hand of his master.
“I am leaving you,” Seba said, “but not by yourself. There is a reason why I have not cast aside my shoes yet. I wish to make a detour before I set off. An old friend of mine is travelling nearby and I think you will enjoy his fine company.” The old vampire smiled warmly. “Tell me, Larten, did you ever hear tales in your youth of the weird, wild and wonderful Cirque Du Freak?”
CHAPTER TEN
Gervil was on fire. Flames engulfed his lower legs, his hands, his torso and his face. People in the crowd were screaming. Some had fainted. A few fled by the exits at the back of the large tent. On the small stage, Gervil writhed, fell to his knees and rolled around as if trying to quench the flames.
A couple of the braver men tried to mount the stage and rush to Gervil’s aid. But as they clambered on to the boards, the owner of the Cirque Du Freak, Mr Tall, appeared before them suddenly. It was as if he’d materialised out of thin air.
“Please return to your seats, gentlemen,” Mr Tall murmured in his deep, croaky voice, his lips barely moving. “Your efforts are appreciated, but unnecessary.”
The men stared doubtfully at the impossibly tall, bony man in the dark suit and red hat. He had huge hands, black teeth and even blacker eyes. They’d seen him at the start when he introduced the show. He had looked merely strange then, eerie in appearance, but otherwise harmless. Now, staring up into his pitch-black eyes, the men felt uneasy, as if the tall owner of the fantastical circus was peering into their hearts and could stop them with a whistle if he wished.
“The Cirque Du Freak has been touring the world for more than three hundred years,” Mr Tall muttered, and even though he spoke softly, everyone in the tent heard him. “We have lost several audience members in grisly circumstances during that time — as I told you before the show began, this is a place of fabulous dangers and we cannot guarantee your safety. But in all those years we have never lost a performer. And we will not break that fine record tonight. Observe!”
Mr Tall stepped aside and the people in the crowd saw that Gervil had stopped struggling. He was sitting in the middle of the stage, still covered in flames, but grinning. He waved at the stunned spectators, jumped to his feet and took a bow. As they realised this was part of his act and went wild with applause, Mr Tall slipped off stage and paused out of sight of the audience, where Larten was watching, mesmerised as he had been every time he’d seen Gervil in action.
“A lively pack tonight,” Mr Tall said. “But I think they will be quiet after this.” He studied the toys and sweets on the tray that Larten was holding.