Now they were gathered in Kapetria’s rooms at the very front of the inn. Her quaint leaded glass windows looked down on the slumbering village, and the sheer white curtains no doubt kept out all prying human eyes, but then no one was awake in the village—in spite of the fact that when the wind was quiet, you could hear that nightmarish music coming from the Château. And if you did step outside and go to the very top of the street, you could see them all moving up there, those strange beings, a community of strange beings, moving behind the windows through rooms and corridors filled with brilliant yellow light.

Lestat and Marius. They were beautiful, undeniably, positively majestic, and from the beginning they had appeared to Derek like father and son.

Lestat sat back in a chair tilted against the wall like a Hollywood-western cowboy with one boot heel hooked on a chair rung and the other booted foot on the seat of the chair in front of him. His rakish long hair was tied back at the nape of his neck. But Marius sat still and straight as though he’d never slouched or slumped or relaxed in his entire long immortal life. Both wore red. The Prince a velvet coat and pressed blue jeans, and Marius a long tunic of heavy wool that might have been court dress in any kingdom of the ancient world for a millennium.

“But is he really really dead?” asked Derek. “I mean he burned up, but does that really mean he can’t come back?”

It was Marius who had done all the talking and Marius who answered the question now.

“You might be able to survive such a little conflagration,” he said. “But we cannot. Roland had maybe three thousand years in the Blood. That makes for a powerful blood drinker, but not one that cannot be burned up.”

He was using Derek’s phrase but not mocking Derek. Marius’s preferred vocabulary included such words as “immolated” and “incinerated” and “annihilated.” And phrases such as “quite gone beyond reprieve.”

“This was witnessed by some ten of us,” said Marius, “and of course Rhoshamandes witnessed it as well. It was an exemplum for Rhoshamandes. Rhoshamandes yielded. Rhoshamandes has his young partner again, Benedict. Benedict saw this too. Between the fire that consumed Roland and the love that consumes Benedict, Rhoshamandes has been mollified and has given his word.”

“You believe him, that he will not try to hurt us?” asked Kapetria.

“I do,” said Marius. “I might be wrong. But I believe him. And for the moment, if any one of us acts on his own and tries to annihilate him, well, there will be tremendous discord. Believe me, I have in my heart of hearts not a particle of love for this creature, but I feel that the forgiveness of Rhoshamandes must be the cornerstone of what we are seeking to build.”