Darren Shan - 02 Ocean of Blood

A huge cheer went up and Mika was engulfed by Generals eager to toast his name and be the first to challenge him to a fight. Larten bumped into him later that night and hailed him as Mika of the Howl.

“It sounds strange,” Mika said, managing a rare, thin smile.

“Were you surprised to win?” Larten asked.

“No,” Mika said. “I practiced for the last decade. I took singing lessons from a human tenor and he taught me how to extend a note.”

Larten frowned. “Why? It surely cannot mean that much to you.”

“It means respect,” Mika said seriously. “I hope to be a Prince one night and I want to be invested sooner rather than later. As trivial as this contest was, it got me noticed, and that’s important.”

Larten was amused by the ambitious General. Most vampires weren’t political — they didn’t care about power games and moving up the ranks. Mika was more like a human in that respect. But the clan was changing. The world was becoming hostile as mankind bred in ever greater numbers and claimed more territory. Vampires would have to keep an even lower profile than before if they were to survive. That meant taking the clan in a new direction. They would need youthful, imaginative leaders. A hundred years ago Mika wouldn’t have gotten far in his quest to be a Prince, but Larten believed he might prosper in the current climate. He wished Mika luck in his princely pursuit, even though it wasn’t a goal he personally aspired to.

But Mika wasn’t the only one earning respect at that Council. Although he was unaware of it, Larten had caught the eyes of many of his peers and was beginning to make a name for himself. The clan approved of the way he had faced the one-armed General, and although he’d lost that challenge, he had won most of his subsequent contests, defeating a host of older, more experienced vampires.

Paris Skyle heard of the youngster’s success and sought out his friend Seba to congratulate him.

“The credit is not mine,” Seba said with a smile, watching from the sides as Wester struggled with a vampire who had only been blooded within the last couple of years. “Larten is driven by an inner passion.

I have helped him, I hope, but he cannot be molded, merely guided.”

“He could go far, according to the rumors,” Paris murmured.

Seba sighed. “Is that so important? If he lives a good life and is true to himself, should that not be enough?”

“My words stung you,” Paris said, surprised.

“Forgive me.”

“You do not need to apologize, Sire,” Seba said. “I have heard others talk highly of Larten, but they have noticed no merits that I had not already seen many years ago, even when I first met him as a child. I have always known that he will climb high, if he chooses to climb.”

Paris frowned. “You hope that he won’t.”

Seba pulled a face. “Larten could be a great General, maybe even a Prince. I will be delighted if that is his aim and he achieves it. But I will be just as pleased if he merely wants to lead a clean, honest life. I have no desire to be a mentor of Princes. I simply hope that those I care about are content.”

“Do you worry about what power will do to him?” Paris asked, recalling a time when he had offered Seba the chance to become a Prince. “Do you think he is not suited to a position of authority?”

Seba shrugged. “Think it? No. Fear it? Aye. Whether my fears are well founded or not, I cannot say. He is much like I was at that age. Perhaps I see flaws that are not there, reflections of my own weaknesses. Only time will tell. Either way, there is no point worrying about the future. He could break his back tonight and that would be the end of the matter.”

“The gods give and the gods take away,” Paris agreed.

Across from them, Wester finally got the better of his opponent and the pair went to drink to each other’s health. Wester was beaming — he didn’t enjoy many victories. Seba was pleased for him. He worried about Wester too, but felt his weaker assistant might find his path sooner than Larten, and take to it with more ease. He suspected Larten didn’t yet understand his true desires, and there was nothing harder than chasing a dream if you didn’t know what it was.

As if reading his friend’s thoughts, Paris said, “Have you told them your good news?”

“No. I will wait until after the Ceremony of Conclusion.”

“Do you think that they will stay with you?”

“Wester, aye. Larten… I do not know.” Quietly he added, “I hope not.”

“Come!” Paris boomed, taking his friend’s arm. “I’ve darkened your mood. Let me lighten it again with a glass of wine.”

“Wine?” Seba smiled. “I thought we only drank ale at Council.”

Paris winked. “Ale is fine for younger, less sophisticated palates, but it’s the juice of the grape for veterans like us, aye?”

“Aye,” Seba chuckled and went to try to drown his worries with the Prince.

The children of the clan began departing Vampire Mountain a few nights after the Ceremony of Conclusion, once their heads had cleared and they could stand without wobbling. It was an undramatic exodus. Most didn’t even bother to bid their friends farewell, especially the older vampires, since that wasn’t their custom. They simply slipped away, some heading off in specific directions, others wandering wherever their feet took them.

Larten and Wester helped clear up inside the Halls and tunnels. It was a mammoth task, even more involved than the preparations beforehand. But it was a calmer time and they went about their work in a merry mood. Even Vanez Blane was relaxed now, often stopping to joke with the pair and tel them not to work too hard. He had already forgotten the stressful lead-up to Council and was thinking about offering his services again in the future.

Seba let the dust settle before summoning his assistants to a meeting in the Hal of Khledon Lurt. Over a bowl of bat broth he told them of his exciting offer.

“The Princes have asked me to become the quartermaster of Vampire Mountain. I have accepted.”

Wester had expected the announcement — he had heard rumors during the Festival — but Larten was taken by complete surprise.

“Quartermaster?” he frowned, pushing his bowl aside. “I thought you did not yearn for power.”

“I do not want to become a Prince,” Seba corrected him. “Quartermaster is a very different proposition. I will wield no actual authority. In theory I will be responsible only for taking care of supplies and keeping the Halls tidy. But as you know, in reality the quartermaster has a huge say on everything that happens in Vampire Mountain, not just at Council but the rest of the time. Princes and Generals come and go as needs dictate, but the quartermaster is ever present. I will have the task of approving tutors and guards, determining how and what students are taught. I will have the ears of the Princes — the ear in Paris Skyle’s case — and they will listen carefully to my opinions.”

“They do that anyway,” Larten said.

“Perhaps,” Seba smiled. “But it is a different situation now. I cannot command as I could if I became a Prince. But if I live a long time — and the gods seem unwilling to take my soul, even though I am old and weary — I will be able to exert a strong influence for many decades to come. I can be a link between the old ways and the new. I think the clan needs someone like that right now.”

Seba studied his assistants, awaiting their reactions. As he had suspected, Wester responded enthusiastically. “Congratulations, master. You deserve this and I know you’ll be a credit to the clan.”

Larten wasn’t sure what to say. He already had an idea what this would mean for him and he was struggling with which path to take now that he had come to an unexpected fork in the road.