"Drachenblut," Harrowheart repeats quietly, still awed by this turn of events. "Dragon blood. Five hundred years..." In a rushing sigh he whispers, "Light."

And suddenly his surprise and wonderment melt away, his eyes stop their frantic darting across the vampire's features, and he becomes thoughtfully still. Then he leans in, lips parted, and for a moment he's hesitant. He knows this question is pointless, knows it must have been asked of Mislav dozens if not hundreds of times in his long life, and yet...

"Were you alive when Nandhuglynd was around? Did you know any of the original Drachenbluts?..."