Righteousness was too restricting a term. It was more a virtue of plan, a flat out clearness of direction that Agenor had sent to every one of them, a connoting quality that would connect to every one of their deeds. The fortune of his blood, their compound inheritance. Beheim started to know himself as a figure in a centuries-in length custom, its beneficiary and—all the more relevantly—its execute, his fundamental reason for existing being to aid the consummation of a plan whose extreme objective was clear not even to Agenor, yet was an engraving of the blood, a cell maze whose elaborate examples they were front appointed to copy with their plans and brutal activities. He could nearly imagine its inevitable outcome, and he could nearly make out those of the branch—some yet unborn, others living yet unjudged—who might one day style its last designs. Maybe, he figured, he would be among them, for the amazing plan was approaching fulfillment. That much was evident, a shrewdness of his blood. Also, it was, he perceived, his blood that was genuinely astute, not his brain or his spirit. Similarly as that red juice was moved along the entries of his veins by the thumping of a heart, so he, when all is said and done, was moved along the sections of the plan by the operations of some spiritualist motor, its real essence darkened by time and the exigencies of freak science. However he could hear it beating in the tune of his blood (gracious, the Lady Dolores had been directly about that; it was a melody he had not heard till now, and since he had heard it, he knew it obviously for what it was). Furthermore, he envisioned he could see the encapsulation of the tune sparkling like a reference point in the dark sky of his isolation, a straightforward gadget like a cross or an ankh, yet symbolic of a more profound energy and a more key truth. As though their capacity had been only to shepherd him toward this pinnacle of understanding, the shades of the Agenor branch started to subside, undulating like the shadows of flares; their rambling melody rose like a hot aroma, forcing upon him an attention to incredible fate and huge truth and boundless having a place. He felt sedated and ridiculous. It was as though in the wake of having been lost for quite a long time in a captivated wood, he had unexpectedly developed to the height of a goliath and was presently fit for ignoring the treetops and arranging himself in the midst of the Family’s hidden magical topography. He had the inclination to yell, to thunder his celebration; however a feeling of quiet strength washed over him, a feeling that had the extravagance of a church building quietness. The entirety of this may be, he thought, just another dull indication, a speed increase of the fever that had the Family, and consequently may flag a loosening of decision making ability as opposed to an advancement of mindfulness. However he dreaded this to be the situation, he was unable to dismiss the inclination, for it recast his certainty, permitting him to ignore the misery of the circumstance and to think upon what he may accomplish. Giselle made a slight clamor, yet Beheim was excessively engaged with his own motivations to pay her regard. He ventured forward into the passage, envisioning the shadows fitting about him like a cape, and held out his arms to the obscurity past. The hearts of the two men secluded from everything thump quicker. To see one of their previous bosses so not far off must, Beheim thought, have gotten back to them all the unfortunate appeal of their previous help. “Come here to me,” he said. “You won’t be hurt, I swear it.” One bunch of strides withdrew, yet before Beheim could set out in pursuit, a corroded, trembling voice called out, “Show leniency upon me, ruler! I’m weaponless against you!”
Like a picture surfacing from a dark pool, a slight, precise figure with tangles of iron-shaded hair and a prophet’s tangled facial hair growth, wearing a hooded robe faded to an endless dim, came slowly forward from the dull openings of the passage. Underneath the brush of hairs was an emptied, worn down face, yet Beheim saw that the man was not old, as his stooped stance and seamed face demonstrated, just badly utilized. The little, firmly set eyes were a frosty blue, loaning an impression of watchfulness to his provisions; the neck was unwithered, and the squarish hands callused, amazing looking. Beheim could smell the unfortunate poisons in his blood, yet he likewise detected that the man’s dread didn’t run profound, that his cringing disposition was essentially to a limited extent an endeavor to conceal sensations of hatred. “Disclose to me your name,” Beheim said. The man halted a manageable distance away, deflected his eyes, his left shoulder hanging as though getting ready to get a blow. “Vlad, ruler,” he said, and afterward, proceeding in a loquacious and by and large muddled tone, “My name is Vlad. However I am no impaler just like my namesake.” A shaky chuckle that went excessively high and broke. “No, no, not in any manner. A troubled fortuitous event, that’s it.” “Fortunate for me, eh?” said Beheim, and gave Giselle an entertained look, inspiring from her a wan grin. “Where is your buddy, Vlad?” “Master, he was apprehensive. In stunningness of your eminence. He was unable to remain before you.” “And you… you are not apprehensive?” “Goodness, yet I am, master. I’m alarmed. My blood”— he squeezed a hand to his chest, striking a sensational demeanor—”runs cold. However, I am polished at dread. I have figured out how to be an observer to my desires, not their slave.” His eyes shot toward Giselle, waited a second; then, at that point he returned his look to the ragged stones at his feet.