“So … any vampires Emala sires will be weak?”
A languid shrug. “No one truly knows how much of a turned vampire’s strength is due to the innate will and strength of their chosen mundane, and how much is the result of their sire’s power. Emala’s next vampire could surprise her. But they will never be close to the first few vampires she sired. And it’s most likely that they will only live a couple of centuries at most.”
I shake my head. What must it be like to speak of time in terms of centuries? “And born vampires? Like you?”
“I am born of a First. I will outlive most on this continent.”
His arrogance makes me want to bring him down a notch. “Sounds lonely.” I smile sweetly. “And boring. What about other born vampires?”
“They are entirely at the mercy of their own parents’ bloodlines.” His gaze lingers on my sigil. “Just as the sigilmarked are.”
The carriage slows, and Rorrik pins me with a cold stare. “You haven’t asked me what you truly want to know.”
“And what would that be?”
“Whether my brother has sired vampires of his own.”
“And has he?” My voice is hoarse, and Rorrik gives me a dismissive look.
“Ask him yourself.”
The carriage door suddenly swings open. We’ve pulled to a stop outside the ludus. When the driver offers his hand, I’m not too proud to take it, even with the vampire at my back.
“Thank you.”
Rorrik climbs out and I scowl up at him. “Your deal with Tiernon is complete. I’m here.”
He ignores me, nodding to the driver, who climbs back up into the seat and clicks his tongue.
Rorrik gestures for me to enter the ludus. It’s an entrance I haven’t seen before.
“Why are you here, Rorrik? Shouldn’t you be skulking around looking for whatever it is you’re hunting?”
He’s suddenly standing in front of me, his nose inches from mine. “Careful.”
I stop breathing. I was wrong. I have plenty of fear left in me.
Rorrik smiles. Smug bastard.
“You know, you never seemed to ask yourself why you couldn’t help but strike at my father the night of the Sundering Ball. You completely ignored your own instincts, didn’t you?”
I did.
Rorrik nods, as if he’s come to some conclusion I don’t understand. When he turns, I follow him into the entrance, down a staircase, and into a corridor near the imperius’s quarters.
Two novices walk around the corner, take one look at Rorrik, and change directions. He ignores them, his eyes on me.
“The moment Bran spoke to you at the Sundering Ball was the moment he solidified his grip on you, squeezing until the bond drove your actions. He wanted my father dead quickly, so he ensured the impulse to kill the emperor was impossible for you to ignore. You’re lucky I was there—in fact, you should be thanking me. Without a target to point you at, you probably would have attempted to kill the emperor at the ball itself.”
The corridor spins dizzily around me. I’ve felt out of control since the moment I arrived. Because my actions weren’t wholly my own.
Rorrik ruthlessly continues. “How much of a fuss did you make before you decided to throw your life away tonight? It must have taken most of Bran’s power to make you walk into that room. You told yourself it was solely because of your brothers, but the truth is you couldn’t help it.”
I stumble on my injured leg. Rorrik reaches out and I flinch away, pressing my back to the wall. He goes still.
My mind provides me with memory after memory, all tainted by this new information. “You’re saying Bran’s been playing with me like I’m his puppet. Nothing I’ve done has been my choice.”
Rorrik’s low laugh dances across my skin. “I wouldn’t go that far. All your other impulsive decisions were your own. Bran certainly didn’t want you to draw attention to yourself with your misguided heroics.”
