Dustless Pages
Myra and Sissi lit three candles and placed them on the frozen stony ground. Myra wrapped her coat around herself, shivering. The air was heavy with frost, and the cold permeated her skin and bones through all the layers of ragged clothing. Myra rubbed her hands together and cupped them in front of her face, breathing into them. Her fingers ached, and she clenched and unclenched them.
Myra looked into the darkness, expecting Vlad to emerge at any point. She had told Zack the truth—that she doubted the Prince’s motives and needed to find out what had driven him to do what he had. Of course, Zack had wanted to join them, but she had convinced him to stay back.
The sun had set long ago, but the thick layer of clouds remained. Myra narrowed her eyes, scanning the sky. She remembered Vlad had programmed the Wizard to disperse the clouds and reveal a starry sky after every sunset, but no matter how hard she stared, she could not spot a single star. Why were the clouds still here?
“This must be so difficult for the Prince,” Sissi said. “The story must be really painful if he’s reluctant to share it.”
“Aw, poor Vlad.” Myra snorted, rubbing her hands together. “Surely more painful than vampires killing your entire family, destroying the world as you know it, and breeding you as livestock. Franka had no problem sharing her story, and I doubt Vlad’s beats it.” She threw Sissi a sideways glance. “You wrote stories about him. You gave him some dark and troubled past, didn’t you?”
Sissi blushed. “Let’s see if the truth beats them.”
A single tear formed in the thick layer of clouds, revealing a pale full moon. The clouds around it shone with a blood-red halo.
Suddenly, the Prince materialized from the darkness itself. Myra yelped.
“Forgive me,” Vlad said. “I should have announced my presence. I suppose you cannot see far beyond the candle flame.”
Myra tried to peer behind him but saw only darkness. He had come on foot; otherwise, they might have heard the horse approaching. He had a large load of firewood in his arms and carried a backpack.
“Thanks for coming.” Myra gestured at the wood. “What’s that for?”
“We need to keep you warm,” he said. “We’ll be here all night. I told you, my tale is long.”
Just as he spoke, a small, bright star danced in front of Myra’s eyes. It landed on her hand, and she stared at it, spellbound. Miniature lines, triangles, and heptagons formed a whole new world, no bigger than a grain of sand. But before she could marvel at it, the thing turned to water.
“Snow,” she breathed.
“Indeed.” Vlad laid down the firewood and removed his backpack. “It used to be common at this time of year, and it is even easier to create nowadays, when the overall temperatures are lower than before the Nightfall.”
She looked up at him. “So that’s why the clouds stayed? You did this on purpose? You want us to freeze to death just to create some atmosphere?”
Vlad took two heavy woolen cloaks out of his backpack and handed them to her and Sissi. “I wanted to show it to you. I’ve made snow in the past years, but I understand you spent them underground and never saw it.”
Myra rubbed her hands and breathed into them. “Oh, thanks, Vlad. How thoughtful. The night we’re going to spend outside was certainly the best choice.”
A smile crept to his lips, hesitant at first, as if he wondered if there was anything to smile about. Silver snow streaked his raven hair. “I had to hurry. Soon, I won’t be able to control the weather any longer.”
Myra had never thought about this. Before the Nightfall, world governments had decided together what the weather at any point on earth had to be, after much deliberation, voting, and consulting experts to ensure climate and wildlife would not be adversely affected. Now, Vlad held all this power in his hands, and he was about to give it away.
“I admit it wasn’t the best choice for ambience,” he added. “Most parts of my tale unfold in summer.”
Myra watched as more snowflakes fell, settling on the ground and starting to form a soft blanket. Some fell on Sissi’s hair and did not melt, but shone like bright stars against the red locks. “Yeah, you could have brought some sunshine instead.”
He arranged the firewood, placing paper and dry grass on top. “Don’t worry. I have brought water and herbs for tea, and your cloaks are warm.” He took two pieces of flint out of his pocket and made a bright spark, setting the paper on fire. The flames spread to the firewood, and he blew air into it until the fire took hold.
Myra stared, wide-eyed. She had practiced building a fire many times, but she could never be a match for him. His movements were so quick and precise, they almost looked like magic, as if he had conjured the fire out of thin air.
Myra moved closer to the warmth, watching as he took a parcel wrapped in paper out of his backpack. He opened it, and a sweet freshness engulfed Myra’s senses. In her mind’s eye, she saw green fields and blue skies, and sweet-smelling flowers growing under the sun. In the open package lay dry flowers and leaves—small white blossoms on a single branch, long stems with many purple flowers and round leaves.
He gestured at the plants. “Elderflower, oregano, thyme, leaves of blackberry and peppermint. When I was a child, I often hiked in the mountains to collect herbs such as these.”
Myra froze. Vlad was talking about his human life. Was he finally ready to share his story?
“You lived near mountains?” Sissi said. “I assumed you lived somewhere on the Great Steppe.”
“The Steppe?” Myra glanced at Sissi. How much had she read in these torn pages?
“The steppes are grasslands,” Sissi said. “Just like prairies and savannas. The Great Steppe spreads all across Eurasia, from Eastern Europe all the way to China.”
The Prince gave her an appreciative look. “My ancestors lived there, but I was born elsewhere. I only saw the Steppe after I became a vampire. It stretches beyond the horizon, like a vast yellow sea of grass under the Eternal Blue Sky. Boundless plains, where you can ride your horse for many moons and never see a tree or a hill.”
He reached into the backpack once again and produced a kettle, a glass bottle of water, two black porcelain cups, and a strange metal coffee pot. “The night will be long. I have also brought ground coffee to brew, but first, let us make you some tea and warm you up.”
He used a long stick to remove a few red-hot charcoals and set them aside. He placed the kettle on top and poured water in. Then, he sat on the stony ground, cross-legged, and stared into the flames. “I understand you have questions for me.”
Myra moved closer and tried to peek at his face under the bright orange firelight. “Vlad, I thought we agreed you’d tell us everything. How you came to be what you are and to do what you did.”
Snowflakes whirled into the air, falling over the fire. The flames devoured them until nothing was left. But the snow on the cold ground around them remained, becoming thicker and thicker. Snowflakes fell on Sissi’s and Vlad’s hair and heavy cloaks, and Myra brushed it from her own hair and shoulders. She shuddered at the soft, gentle cold. The air smelled clean and fresh.
The Prince placed a large log into the fire. “You mean how I came to be the monster who destroyed the world? I gave you hints of the man I once was, part hoping, part dreading that you’d piece it together. Perhaps it is for the best that you never did.”
He stood up and started pacing around the fire. “What would you have read in the dusty pages of history? Tales of great changes, faiths and cultures clashing, civilizations burning to ashes. Facts and figures, battles and victories, strong leaders and dynasties rising and falling.” He stopped in his tracks and whirled around, the move so sudden that Myra’s breath caught in her throat. His eyes burned brighter than the charcoals.
“But you could read all history books in every library in the world,” the Prince resumed, “and it would never be enough. You could spend lifetimes reading, but not a single page would ever mention Roxana, or Erniké, or Asmara, or anyone who truly matters.” Myra followed him with her eyes. His pacing was making her nervous, but she was afraid to interrupt.
“No,” Vlad went on. “For history is written by the victors. The fallen disappear from memory and time. Their tales are never told and their songs are never sung.”
He fell quiet and continued pacing back and forth. His booted feet left prints in the snow, and new snowflakes hurried to fill them in. The fire cracked, as if numerous twigs were breaking at the same time.
“But you’ll tell us their story?” Myra coaxed.
Vlad looked at her, his brow furrowed. He sat down on the stones, crossing his legs underneath him, and reached out to place some dry flowers and leaves into the now-boiling water. Myra’s eyes fixed on the stream rising into the frosty air. She saw he was hesitating but had no idea how to make him speak.
“Should we start with your human life?” she said. “Your people were ruled by a khan? Were they the Huns?”
Sissi brushed off her cloak, but the snow in her hair remained. The red and white stood in stark contrast around her face, like blood and bone. “Stop it with your favorite Huns.” She looked at Vlad, blue eyes wide. “Your Highness, I suppose your people belonged to one of the many nomadic tribes that moved west during the second wave of the Migration Period?”
“Indeed.” Vlad smiled at Sissi, and she beamed. “My people were the Bulgars. Centuries before my birth, my ancestors were seminomadic and lived on the Great Steppe. And, yes”—he winked at Myra—“they were indeed related to the Huns you mentioned. In the seventh century, wars and hardship drove them from the lands they had always known, and they rode on and on, through rivers and mountains, with only the moon and the stars to guide them.”
The clouds above moved as he spoke, hiding and revealing the full moon. A long and narrow cloud passed in front of the pale disk, shining bright crimson. Soft whirlwinds blew snowflakes in a circle around the fire as the flames rose into the dark night sky.
“But they found no empty plains to settle,” he continued. “The lands they reached in the far southwest were under the rule of Byzantium, and the great empire would not give them up lightly. After a difficult victory, my forefathers and foremothers conquered a piece of land they decided to call home, a land they would share with the local Slavs, who had lived there since long before the arrival of the Byzantines.
“We lived like this for two centuries. We were the ruling class, but the Slavs outnumbered us many times over. They worshipped their multiple gods, and we prayed to Tangra. They spoke their own tongue, and we spoke ours. But we truly shared the land. We cared for it together, and reaped its fruits together. We fought together to protect it from our neighbors.”
Sissi raised her palms against the fire and rubbed them together. “You had many wars with your neighbors?” she asked.
“We had complicated relationships with them all,” said Vlad. “War and peace, trade and education. Different tribes and peoples surrounded us on all sides but, for better or for worse, it was our neighbors to the south who left the deepest mark upon us. The Greeks of Byzantium. We were always living in the shadow of this great civilization, always the barbarians, always striving to be something different while staying true to who we were. Until one khan decided things needed to change.”
Sissi gasped. “You were that khan?”
He looked up. “Oh no, not at all. I was never a khan, but I was a great boíla—a nobleman with considerable power, who sat on the Khan’s council and advised him.” He removed the kettle from the now-cooling charcoals and poured two cups, handing them to Sissi and Myra. “The Slavs had their own noblemen who joined the council, but they were all vassals to the Khan and had to pay tribute. Still, their voices were heard in all matters important to our khaganate.”
“Khaganate?” Myra asked and immediately regretted it. Sissi’s face beamed, and she looked about to start jumping up and down in the snow.
“It’s like a kingdom,” Sissi said, “but ruled by a khan instead of a king.”
Myra’s eyes narrowed. So easy to know things when you rip pages out of books.
Vlad nodded, and Sissi’s face shone brighter than the fire. But there was no light in the Prince’s face as he started to speak. His eyes focused somewhere far away, beyond the snowy night, beyond mountains and seas.
“My world didn’t fall apart overnight.” His voice sounded ghostlike in the darkness, low and deep and drained of life, rising and falling in time with the forlorn dance of the flames. “Its complete collapse took decades, but I can trace it all back to one sunny summer day…”