Darren Shan - The Saga of Larten Crepsley 1-4

“This is the honour of a lifetime,” Paris huffed. “Thousands of vampires dream of such an offer.”

“I would say it is more than most even dare dream of,” Seba nodded.

“You could enforce your views,” Paris said. “If you object to the way we treat those who blood children, you could help reshape our laws.”

“But I do not want to,” Seba said. “I am old-fashioned. I do not like some of the changes that have been introduced in recent decades, but I acknowledge the need for change. I am no revolutionary.”

“I need your support,” Paris pressed. “There will be a crop of new Princes this century. I’m currently the second youngest, but at six hundred I won’t be for long. The prospect of sitting beside a handful of young, headstrong Princes troubles me. I need an ally who sees things my way, but who can also relate to the newcomers. You’re the best of both worlds, Seba, the old and the new.”

“You flatter me,” Seba murmured. “I am proud that you think so highly of me, but…” He spotted Larten listening. “Paris has made me a marvellous offer, Master Crepsley. He has pledged to help me become a Prince.”

“A Vampire Prince!” Larten gasped, eyes widening. He didn’t know much about Seba’s past. He thought his master was a General, but he wasn’t certain. And even if he was, Larten figured he couldn’t be one of great importance, since he had so little to do with the rest of the clan.

“At least the boy is excited by the prospect,” Paris muttered sourly.

“Power always impresses the young and foolish,” Seba said dismissively.

Larten scowled at his master and almost snapped at him, but bit down on his tongue, not wanting to earn a thrashing in front of their visitor. “How do you become a Prince?” he instead asked Paris Skyle.

Seba frowned – he would have preferred Larten to listen some more before chipping in with questions – but Paris was happy to answer.

“A General is nominated by an existing Prince,” Paris explained. “If his fellow Princes approve – one can object, but no more than that – it’s put to the vote. That can take a few years, because at least three-quarters of the Generals must be asked. If the majority give their backing, he’s invested at the next Council.”

“But what do you have to do to be nominated?” Larten pressed.

“You must prove yourself worthy,” Seba cut in. “It starts with knowing when to ask questions and when to be silent.”

“Peace, old friend,” Paris laughed. “I have irritated you. Don’t take your anger out on the boy.”

“I am not angry,” Seba said. “I am amazed and humbled by your offer. But I must ask you not to take this further. If you do, I will have to publicly reject you and that would be embarrassing for both of us.”

“I don’t understand,” Paris growled. “You deserve this. You’re respected by everyone. If you were the power-seeking sort, you could have swung a nomination a couple of hundred years ago.”

“But I do not seek power,” Seba said quietly. He stared into the flames of the fire and spoke in a quiet tone that Larten had never heard him use before. “I fear true power, Paris. I have seen it twist people, change them beyond recognition. Some, like you, thrive on it and remain masters of their souls. But I do not believe that I would be one of those.

“There is much about the clan that I would change. I would have us regress to a simpler, purer way of life. I think we interact too much with humans. I dislike the Cubs and their war packs. I do not approve of the impasse between ourselves and the vampaneze. I would push for less personal freedom, more regimented control of ordinary vampires by the Generals, a tighter, more restricted community.”

“What’s wrong with any of that?” Paris asked. “I feel that way myself.”

“But you can act neutrally,” Seba said. “You can balance your personal wishes against those of the many. You are happy to make suggestions, but not impose your will. You consider both sides of most arguments.

“I could not. My emotions would get the better of me. I do not trust myself to act as selflessly as a Prince should. Please, Paris, do not tempt me. Some are fit to rule, but I am not one of them. If I accepted the power of a Prince, you would live to regret it. More importantly, so would I.”

Larten was bewildered by his master’s words. He had always thought Seba was in total control of himself, the equal of any challenge. It distressed him to think that Seba was afraid. The vampire had been urging Larten to overcome his fears for the last five years. How could he now back away from his own like this?

“The boy is disappointed,” Paris remarked, spotting Larten’s expression.

“Larten is sharp, but inexperienced,” Seba said stiffly. “He may see it my way in time. Or he may not.”

“If he doesn’t, I certainly do.” Paris laid a hand on Seba’s arm and smiled, then arched an eyebrow at Larten. “Wipe that look from your face!” he thundered. “An assistant should never dishonour his master, even by thinking poorly of him.”

“But… you said… I thought…”

“I think Seba is incorrect,” Paris said. “He would be a fine Prince, a credit to the clan. But I can only judge him by what I see. He judges himself by what he feels. We should all be so honest and true to ourselves. It takes a vampire of the highest integrity to acknowledge self-doubt. My respect for Seba has increased after our talk tonight. Yours should too.”

Talk turned to other matters. Larten listened for a while, then slipped away and idly explored the forest. Thinking back over everything he’d heard, he wondered who or what ‘war packs’ and the ‘vampaneze’ were — both terms were new to him. But mostly he pondered Seba’s rejection of power and tried to decide how that made him feel.

Paris had gone when Larten returned. The boy looked around in case the Prince was still in sight, but he and Seba were alone.

“Most vampires do not bother with farewells,” Seba said without looking up. “We live for so long that after a time we tire of saying goodbye. Do not take it as a sign of disrespect.”

Larten thought his master was avoiding his gaze because he was ashamed. But when he edged around the fire and caught Seba’s wistful look, he realised the vampire’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“You wish you had accepted,” Larten said softly.

Seba nodded. “Part of me craves power.” He smiled bitterly and glanced at his assistant. “But it is a part I do not like, a part I must always be wary of. I said you had mixed blood when I tested you, Larten. What I did not tell you was that I have it too. My master almost rejected me when he tasted my blood. But in the end he gave me a chance. He is long dead, but there are not many nights when I do not think of him and vow to honour his memory by denying the hunger of my lesser self.”

Seba sighed and fell silent. Larten quietly cleaned around the elderly vampire, quenching the fire, scattering the ashes, bagging the remains of the Wildcat.

Finally Seba stirred. “Did you notice Paris’s bare feet?” he asked.

It was an odd question, but Larten was accustomed to strange queries. “Yes. I assumed that was his preference.”

“No,” Seba said. “Some vampires disregard footwear as a matter of course, but Paris is not one of them. He has commenced his trek to Vampire Mountain, to attend the latest Council. When we undertake that trip, we cast our shoes aside and travel barefoot. It is one of the rules of the clan.”

“Are you going to the Council this time?” Larten asked.

“Aye,” Seba chuckled wryly. “Broken legs permitting.”

“And…” Larten hesitated.

“…will I take you with me?” Seba shook his head. “Human assistants do not make the trek. You must be at least a half-blood.”