Yet another time when he’d been piloting his boat alone through the violent seas off the Irish coast, he’d seen her high on a bluff looking out at him. He’d wanted to drop anchor and go to her. He’d sent her the message. But telepathy was dim or nonexistant among those made in the first thousand years, and it seemed to have become even dimmer now. He had caught no greeting from her. Indeed she’d disappeared. After that he’d searched Ireland for her but never turned up the slightest indication of her presence or a habitation or a coven or a clan. And it was known that the great Sevraine had always about her a number of women, a female clan.

Not a single other blood drinker had ever come here. So this was and always had been the realm of Rhoshamandes. And he envied no one, not the erudite and philosophical Marius, nor the other gentle well bred vampires of the Coven of the Articulate.

Yes, he wanted to know those new poetic vampire writers, yes, he had to admit it, wanted to know Louis and Lestat, yes, but he could live with that longing for centuries. And in a few centuries they might be gone from the Earth.

What was an immortal like Lestat, who had less than three hundred years in the Blood, after all? One could hardly call such a being a true immortal. Too many died at that age and beyond. So yes, he could wait.

And as for Armand, he would despise Armand till the end of his days. He would like very much to destroy him. Again, on that he could wait, but he had been thinking of late the time for vengeance on Armand might be drawing closer. If Rhoshamandes had still been in France when Armand arrived there to lead the Children of Satan, he would have destroyed Armand. But by that time, Rhosh was long gone. Still, he should have done it, should have ravaged that Paris coven. He’d always thought some other ancient one would do it, and he’d been wrong. Lestat had destroyed it and not by force but with new ways.

Ah, but this is my kingdom, he thought now, and how can all this be coming to my shores?

Never had he hunted in Edinburgh or Dublin or London that he hadn’t wanted to come home immediately to this zone of quiet and changelessness.

Now this thing, this Voice, was threatening his peace and his independence.

And he’d been talking to the Voice a long time, something which he had no intention of confiding in Benedict. He was furious with the Voice right now, furious that Benedict had been in danger.