I, Giulietta Marisa Livianus, have spent the past several years compiling the documents which make up these volumes. In most cases, I was able to find the original documents. In two cases, however, I had to resort to a combination of Necromancy and Auspex to divine the truth of unrecorded events known only by their later effects. I have entitled these “A Parisian Interlude” and “A Mojave Interlude.” Though there now remain no witnesses to these occurrences, I have been able to learn the truth of them.
From the Journal of Jean-Louis de Troyes, Knight-Templar
7 September A.D. 1202
All is strange to me, and my very blood is treacherous in my veins. I am drawn to Sir Wilhelm of the Order of the Crimson Rose in ways I cannot explain. I honor him greatly, and yet I cannot understand why. At least, I know that he is a member of the same Order as Sir Chrétien, and him I have honored these ten years. But what was that draught that Sir Wilhelm gave me?
I write to organize my thoughts. These past days I have not been myself. I do not know why, but the thought of being disgraced before my brother Templars quite unmanned me. It should not have. It was shameful to have lost the relics, but I could not have prevented the theft. I should have accepted any punishment the Master-General saw fit to mete out, but for that unearthly melancholy. And then Sir Wilhelm told me that he and the angel-voiced minstrel Mordwyr knew that the relics I was to guard had not only been stolen from my care, but that they had been stolen to come into the possession of my superior officer Sir Pierre. This was an aspersion not on myself but on my Order, and I knew that it must be proven false. But how if it were true? Then someone—and from the appearance that one would be Sir Pierre—had turned traitor to our vows.
What was I to make of this? I was confused, and still that inexplicable melancholy plagued me. Sir Wilhelm then told me of an elixir which could clear my sight and grant me the power to learn the truth of all this. I knew that I must learn the truth; nothing else was more important. But why I believed Sir Wilhelm I am not certain. I accepted his offer, and I drank the elixir.
It has granted me power, that much is clear; but it has bound me to Sir Wilhelm. I am near to him, and nothing else will satisfy the drumming of my blood.
At least thus much is true: I do have the power to learn the extent of the sacrilege in the Order. I will find it and stamp it out.
***
8 September A.D. 1202
The night began with another infusion of the elixir, and only now do I know it for what it is: the blood of Sir Wilhelm! I am now what They—and by They I mean those like Sir Wilhelm—call a ghoul. I can hear the pulsing of the rhythm of his blood in my veins. It nearly overwhelms me, and I cannot endure that it should continue. Nor can I endure that it should cease.
But this blood-song drives me from myself. I have not yet written of that which is most important. My sweet sister Isabelle is now like unto me! She, too, has drunk of this heady draught. But, may God be praised, she is not Sir Wilhelm’s. She is bound to the minstrel! What can I write of this? How my heart aches at the thought of her dishonor! But yet—yet is it dishonor? For I do not think that he has taken her. He seems truly to honor and love her. And that is what makes it bearable. Rank is not what it once was. My eyes have been opened. All that matters is her honor and chastity, and those I think Mordwyr respects. As for the rest, she is even more beautiful than before, if that were possible. She moves with a grace that nearly hurts the eyes. Sweet sister, may God have mercy on you!
Sir Wilhelm has promised that soon we shall learn more of those who have brought this stain upon the Knights-Templar. That must be redressed.
9 September A.D. 1202
And now the song of Sir Wilhelm’s blood is all that I hear, all that I feel. I love him, honor him, as father and brother and master. His lightest wish is my law. And I know within myself that he is not worthy of this honor, for he deceived me into this. But still I love him. I shall serve him as best I can. All that has mattered in my life up until this point is now meaningless beside him. Only sweet Isabelle is still precious to me. I refuse to compare my love for her, the freely given veneration a man may give a saint, with the love I feel for Sir Wilhelm.
Greetings Don Alejandro, Our joint silk venture is proving most profitable. We have established a solid route between here and the silk merchant in Venice, and all is going well. However, all could be unbalanced by the strange, new silks that Yitzhak bin Ishmael is bringing in. They are of a quality that I have never seen. They are either heavenly or devilish, but they are certainly more than human! I have taken the liberty of arranging a meeting with Yitzhak. It would be most helpful, most profitable, if you could also be there. I mistrust Yitzhak. He is grown suddenly bold. This move of his was perilous in the extreme, and he would never have made such a move. I fear I am not even sure what mischance. I await your reply. Ever your humble servant, Moseh ben Yusuf
(Received 10 September 1202)
Ordoño of Castile, I draw comfort from my familiar writing desk. The flickering light from the hooded candle burns nearby as I pen this letter. Autumn is here and, while the season had some difficulty at the start, it has arrived fully formed now. The heat is abating, and all worthies of Paris are stepping out in new fashion. I myself have shed my mantle made of fine silk in exchange for a warmer cloak. My new mantle, which I purchased at Denis Guillaume's fine tailor shop, is not only made of fine wool, but has silver thread woven into it. I must, when I see you, tell you more about some of the court fashions now the Countess Renault has been seen wearing… (Begin cipher interpretation.) Sire, many things have happened since I last wrote. I have traveled around Paris learning about the Fourth Crusade. It is falling out of favor in the kine society, but it seems to have gained a foothold among Kindred. But that is all likely to change. While helping a friend, a Toreador by the name of Mordwyr, found a music academy and gain patronage, I ran afoul of some kine who are seeking to bankrupt me and drive me out of Paris. But I have them well in hand. I have accused them of insulting both my honor and the honor of the Queen of Castile by the imposition of their import tariffs on our goods. They would not dare risk a confrontation with Spain over such a trivial matter. The real news occurs with the fellow Kindred. Everyone knows that the Toreador hold sway here in Paris. They have all the real power in this Court of Love. But the Ventrue have had their Kindred as the Prince of Paris. Geoffroi, as he calls himself, has made many enemies of the Toreador and his position has recently been weakened by having to exile one of his trusted lieutenants, Guillaume. I have many friends among the Toreador, seeing as they truly hold the power in Paris, and last night my friendship with them paid off. A Tremere was visiting the court and was being introduced to the Prince. In a loud voice, Mordwyr told him to take no notice of the Prince, for the Toreador were really in control. This was obviously a threat directed at the Prince. The room went quiet and there was no sound for several moments but the crickets outside. Geoffroi lost his temper and immediately declared a bloodhunt on Mordwyr! None of the Toreador wanted any piece of this fight, and it seemed like the Prince was going to have to do it himself. So the Prince called off Elysium and went to attack Mordwyr. Acting quickly to help my friend, I called upon the power of my blood to order the Prince quiet, and he was obviously cowed by my prowess. But the real action came when Mordwyr displayed himself. He used all his power to shock and awe everyone in the room. We stood in awe of the sheer majesty of the dark, beautiful, powerful figure that Mordwyr had become. When the Prince moved to attack Mordwyr, the entire crowd pounced on the luckless Prince. They were going to rip him to pieces but then backed off and offered him to me. I drank deeply from the Prince and sealed the blood pact between myself and the new Toreador Prince, Mordwyr. So with the fate and future of Paris now being guided by our hands, we are in a better position to exert our will over kine and Kindred alike. (End cipher interpretation.) ...and the Dauphin is set to be introduced to court in a manner of days. They say it is because of the King's failing health. God save the King! I am very much looking forward to what the Dauphin will be dressed in. It will set the tone for Paris fashions for the next season. Your Obedient Servant, Don Alejandro Penasco de Toledo
19 September A.D. 1202
Thoughts of Isabelle fill my mind. My uncle has died, and all his lands have passed into her possession. Our father’s lands were already hers by virtue of my joining the Order, and now she is the wealthiest woman in France—not to mention that she is a Marchioness. She is surrounded by suitors, and something must be done. Though we are not as other humans are, still we must deal with these things.
I hope that Sir Wilhelm is pleased with what I have done, and I despise myself for so hoping.
I trust that Sir Wilhelm and Mordwyr between them will arrange the matter of my sister’s marriage. Mordwyr seems to love her; can he give her up? Can he share her with a mortal man? And the blood-song in my veins mocks me for even caring.
From the Journal of Mordwyr, the Marquis de Troyes
September 21st, 1202 I held no Elysium tonight but have banished one of the four Ventrue in the city. His hatred for me was clear, but it was his calm response to Alejandro's clear provocation that kept me from giving Wilhelm the word to dispatch him. But banishment is enough—let him avoid the lupines until he can reach the next town.
My Liege, I thank you for your message and am pleased to inform you that I will make delivery this very night. I will present myself–in private–and hand over the contents to Him personally in your name. I trust your seal will gain me entry. My trusted friend, Jean-Louis, who has returned from his errand, has now informed me that none of his ‘brothers’ were present during the previous disappearance, but locals confirmed a description matching Pierre. He has also informed me of the arrival today: a party of about 15 to accompany the General. Your son is in good health and enjoys the hospitality of his trusted patron–my friend’s sister. I will of course continue my vigil, and my protection of his home and person is now official. Soon we will depart on our journey. I feel it is vital that we meet, as I wish to clarify future actions so that they may aid both you and your son. Ever your humble servant, Wilhelm
September 21st, 1202
21 September A.D. 1202
Sir Wilhelm was pleased with my report. It seems that Sir Pierre did, indeed, steal the relics from the church. They have since been returned, however, and Sir Wilhelm was pleased with this also. His pleasure is my only joy; I love him more even than my own life, and he has told me that, when I have found ten men to follow us, he will Embrace me into his life of death. And the blood-song in my veins demands this very thing. So it shall be done.
My dearest sister told me of what had occurred in Paris during my absence. It seems as though Sir Wilhelm’s physical prowess knows no bounds. Is this what lies ahead for me? Am I to be as he is? My mind recoils, but my heart leaps up.
And tomorrow night Isabelle hosts a supper at her home, and to it her suitors flock. I pity her, for what love can she have of Mordwyr? Her heart is lost to him; she is as I am, a slave of the blood-song. So she loves him. But can he love her? I pray that he can, for she will be utterly miserable without him. And if he gives her over to one of her suitors—
September 22nd, 1202 I scribble this by candlelight as I sit naked upon my cold marble slab, preparing for the sleep that comes with the dawn. This is where I awoke as the sun was dragged down to its rest last night, but an age has passed since then, and the demands put upon a Prince weary my mind. I sit now upon a clean slate, without blood or gore. But not so in the evening. Not so last evening, when I awoke with the hole in my chest, the fiery gash in my heart, burned through by the blood of the Magdalena. But there Lady Isabelle stood over me, already ministering to me, wiping away the blood as it boiled and oozed out of the wound. Isabelle is rich and powerful, but it is for her beauty that I have ghouled her. In time, I will become accustomed to a valet dressing me and servants bustling about the house. In time, I will truly embrace what it means to be Prince of Paris. As she tended to me, Isabelle spoke about her problem with persistent suitors. I told her that Elysium would soon begin, but that I would see her later at her salon, and there we could discuss it further. The loathsome Nosferatu approached me at Elysium and begged my leave to Embrace. The three, Jacob of the Hidden Wells, Daniel of the Seine, and Julie of the Cathedral, stood before me in all their wretched hideousness, and I was compelled to avert my eyes. My blood recoiled at the sight! The Sheriff and Seneschal gazed fully upon their monstrous visages, but I could not. I gave Julie permission to sire, which utterly astonished the assembled supplicants, but my Sheriff wanted to use these monsters as spies. I could not disagree with his shrewd usage of them, and the Nosferatu seemed only too happy to oblige, to sire in secret, to present the new childe to me in secret. Jacob, the eldest of the trio, agreed to be my Keeper, the last post that needed to be filled in my Court. I understand that his misshapen eyes can see more than I ever could, but to stand in the presence of the gathered Kindred at Elysium, he will need cloak and mask. The Chamberlain is seeing to that. I have been Prince but a short time, and already there is a challenge to my power. Not a direct challenge, of course (I doubt there ever will be one after I simultaneously cowed all the Kindred of Paris), but a test of my ability to keep control of my city. I can, and I will! The offender—the murderer—obviously Kindred, who exsanguinates his victims and tosses them into the street, brazenly defies my laws. There is to be no killing from feeding on the kine. Furthermore, there is a danger beyond that: the Church. If churchmen or holy knights discover these bodies, they might learn of the existence of Kindred, and then we would all be staked in our havens and burned alive. We must, in the coming nights, be more cautious and learn to blend in with mortal society. But this is something about which I will have to speak at length with my Court. A Kindred named Marcus Tertius, childe of Julius the Wanderer, makes my Keeper nervous. He has never heard of this Julius. I will look into the matter. After attending to business at Elysium, my Sheriff and I were off to Lady Isabelle's salon. Finally, a bit of relaxation, a bit of culture. I was all too happy to oblige the Lady's request for a song, and I entertained her with “Sigh no more, ladies.” But the assembled suitors were anything but impressed. Their attitudes ranged from aristocratic scorn to outright hatred. Gathered in Lady Isabelle’s hall were Lord Gustave of Burgundy, the Duke of Orleans, and Sir Phillip, the idiot who always wants to duel the minstrel! Isolde was there also, and I spoke to her briefly in the mirror. What did she want? She spoke of the Lady, wondered if I had truly changed, and said something about doing right by Isabelle. I do not know what she means—I only wish that infernal wraith would rest! Why does she torment me so? Were I left out in the sun by my lover, I certainly would not stalk her after death. Indeed, the perturbed spirit rails ceaselessly. As I sang, Wilhelm and his ghoul, Jean-Louis, were engaged in discussion. What they spoke about I do not know. I only know that after Phillip's outburst (incited by the Lady’s clear favor for me), Wilhelm went after him. Phillip was escorted out by Jean-Louis, but the former attacked the latter—with his teeth! He was Kindred? That I did not see. I must trust my eyes more. But Wilhelm dealt with him by impaling the foolish fledgling on his greatsword. While the hunt was on, I announced my betrothal to Lady Isabelle to the Duke and to Burgundy. They left without ceremony. Then Wilhelm departed on Order's business. I will speak with him tomorrow to find out what has happened. As for Phillip, I hope Wilhelm did not send him to Final Death, but I fear in his haste to apprehend the fool, he has slain him. I will know soon enough. The sun must be rising now for my strength pours out of me. I can no longer hold my pen, and so I sleep.
My Liege, I have sent my friend to deliver this letter to Gabriel, in the hope that he may bring this message to you as well. My successful delivery of your parcel has earned you a boon. Mine was to grant your son a title, which has been granted. The official seal will hopefully be presented tomorrow, and will then ensure a correct betrothal of Isabelle to your youngest. It seems that a recent outcast has a new son (Phillip), who is now in my custody and will trust me soon enough. I aim to retrieve all the information I can from him but would value your advice on how best to make him malleable. My research has not brought forth any items of interest yet, but I will continue my efforts to increase your collection. A complete sextet (including Don Seneschal, the innKeeper Jacob, the chambermaid Anne-Marie, your son, and me) now plays in Paris. We eagerly await your return. Ever your humble servant, Wilhelm
September 22nd, 1202
22 September A.D. 1202
This night was full, so full. First came the Elysium—where those of the Kindred meet—and there Sir Wilhelm took his place as the Prince’s Sheriff. I had not known that Sir Wilhelm held such a position; I serve one who holds a high position.
From “Elysium” we returned to what is a truer Elysium, my sister’s home. And there Mordwyr—Prince Mordwyr—made my sister truly happy. He sent off her suitors and told them all that he alone would wed her! Wed her! So my heart did not deceive me. He does love her, and he has not dishonored her. Then all shall be well for my sweet Isabelle. In that way my heart is at peace. If only the King could be made to accept the marriage of a Marchioness to a penniless minstrel!
But the night was far from over. Sir Philippe de Lisle-Gaultier was among the suitors of my sister, but it seems that he was Embraced by some other Kindred! He threatened to injure my Isabelle—
Sir Wilhelm caught and destroyed Philippe. Sir Wilhelm thinks that Philippe will awaken tomorrow night, but I do not think so. That body, whatever the cursed blood of Caine can do, will never rise again.
And still the night wore on. Sir Wilhelm, using the badge of the Order of the Crimson Rose, was allowed to see the King’s Grace. And in recompense for the delivery of the chest he brought, His Grace gave to Sir Wilhelm a boon. The boon he requested gladdened my heart, and for it I shall ever honor him. I shall repay him. Mordwyr ap-Elisedd is now Sir Mordwyr de Nouvelle Caledonie. He is to be made a knight, and though of low nobility, still he will be noble! My sister’s betrothal to him cannot now be questioned!
My Dear Childe,
I congratulate you on having taken one of the fairest maids in Christendom to wife. I have known the Lady Isabelle since she was a small child, and indeed her beauty has more than once tempted me to the Embrace. The Lady Isabelle is, I have learned, your ghoul. That is well, for it will preserve her beauty. But eventually you will find that it lacks.
I had never Embraced any childe before you, Mordwyr, and my Embrace of you was prompted by pity for your damned state. God had mercy on me in that I Embraced from clemency, and you have been a more-than-exemplary childe. You are a childe such as every Kindred would hope to sire: ambitious and powerful, yet not one to turn against your sire. I would warn you against Embracing recklessly, but I do not think that you will be able to Embrace at all. Given the fact that the saint’s blood is what un-made you, I doubt that you will ever be able to Embrace. This is not likely to trouble you at present, but one night, I foresee that it will. As the years pass, you will wish for your Lady to be Kindred like yourself. I know, for we are Toreador. We alone among the Kindred are fully capable of loving a kine. But one night you may wish to wed in Kindred fashion; one night you may wish to see what feats your lovely Lady Isabelle is capable of were she Kindred. And yet you will not wish her to be Embraced by any other. It is for this that I give you this gift, a gift as much for you as for her. It is a vial of my own blood. It is not much, but it is sufficient. Should you ever wish to Embrace, then you need only drain your future childe of blood. Then, when you would have given your own blood to her, give this vial of mine. It will be as close to your own blood as is possible for you. I recommend giving of your own blood to the childe to drink as soon as she is fully a vampire. But beware. This childe will be as near to Caine as you are yourself; this childe will be powerful. Embrace only when you know that the childe will not turn upon you—but I forget myself. If your childe is the Lady Isabelle, she would not turn on you. Not because she is a blood-bound ghoul! Do not think it. The Embrace breaks the blood-bond, for it is Death. But you took her because she loved you; she has told me of it. This is the sort of love that will survive death, and you could safely Embrace her. Ah, but do not let Wilhelm forget himself and Embrace carelessly. I wander. This is my gift to you and to the Lady Isabelle: immortality for her and her beauty.
Go in grace, my childe.
Your Sire,
Chrétien
(Received 23 September 1202)
Sir Wilhelm,
I send word to you by Brother Gabriel. He can be trusted to bear the reply. He is not, however, acquainted with what we are. Do not reveal it to him, I charge you. The Templars will be in Paris by this time. The relics which Brother Gabriel carries must be given to His Majesty King Louis—and to him only! Do not let them fall into other hands. You yourself must be certain that the King receives them. I greatly fear that some of the Templars wish to take and keep these relics for their own purposes.
I hope to be in Paris soon. There is another relic I hope to acquire for our Order. If I can, then I shall entrust it to you, that you might see it safely to Scotland. Give my regards to my headstrong childe, and be certain to aid him in his rule of Paris. He will have need of you, particularly in his journey to the court of the Matriarch Salianna.
In haste,
Sir Chrétien de Beauvais,
Knight of the Order of Bitter Ashes
September 23rd, 1202 Although my flesh does not feel the pre-dawn cold seeping into the room, I know it is here as I watch Isabelle, asleep, pull the blankets tighter around her neck and shoulders and nestle her head deeper into the soft white pillow. This is the first time I have seen her sleep, for it is I who, at daybreak, always falls into that deathlike sleep to which all Kindred must succumb. But now it is she who sleeps, but unlike me, her rest is full of life and vitality. That life and vitality is chiefly what I love. Long may she be so, unless necessity force me to take the darker route open to me. We are married now, both according to kine law and tradition and, more importantly, in our hearts. One day, perhaps, we will wed in true Kindred fashion, but for now, all is well. The ring that I now wear on my finger—I feel its weight but not the cold touch of the metal—how strange it looks there. I cannot stop fidgeting with it. I am like a child with a new toy. If my heart could beat, it would be racing at the thought of my new bride. You can rest now, Isolde. Rest perturbed spirit, for it was the Ravnos curse that made me abuse you! As a Toreador, I would cut off my hand, gouge out my eyes, before I did any harm to my beloved. Take this promise and my apology as you embrace oblivion. The events of this night that led up to my sudden and hasty wedding must be recounted, if for no other reason than to collect my own thoughts, to make sense of all these wild, whirling events. My Sire has returned to Paris, and both Wilhelm and I were delighted to see him. He is a great one of the earth, but he is not haughty, for which I am thankful. Chrétien's desire to see Paris united under the Toreador and his wish to see the Fourth Crusade not go awry are precisely the motivations that prompted him to accept my proposal that he be my Regent in Paris, that he temporarily rule in my name while I, with my coterie, make embassy to Matriarch Salianna. No Kindred in Paris would dare make a hostile move against my Sire. He is awesome even among the Children of Caine. My meeting with my Sire was brief because I had a prior engagement that could not be broken: the banquet of the King. There were so many people about—as Prince, I must learn who everyone is and how they relate to one another. This is where I desperately need the expertise of my Seneschal. But that can wait. More pressing matters are at hand. At the banquet, I used the gift of the Toreador to read the auras of several key figures, namely the General of the Knights Templar, the kine King himself, and my rival, the Duke of Orleans. What I found there surprised me. This sanctimonious knight is nothing more than a lustful brute, where thoughts of violence and sex alone fill his depraved mind. King Louis also surprised me. His compassion and sadness for Wilhelm was startling. But as a living saint, one of pure goodness and innocence, the King possesses an inscrutable perspective. The Duke, however, did not surprise me in the least. How he glared! How he leered! One did not need to employ Kindred powers to read his heart! Naked aggression sits on his brow; murder is in his eyes; and lust for my bride consumed his heart and set a fire in his flesh. But he could not openly attack me there, certainly not when the King himself requested a song of me. Had I simply started playing, I am sure I would have been paid no heed by the varied courtiers of France, but as I sang at the particular request of the King, all stopped to listen, all turned to see this nameless troubadour who was so favored by His Grace. I chose a love song, appropriate for my love who is a second Helen, and partly, of course, to annoy the Duke of Orleans. "Arise, my Love" was a resounding success, and I could not help but bask for a moment in the adoring applause of my audience. It was then that I turned back to the King, and he dubbed me Sir Mordwyr de Nouvelle Caledonie.
Dear Wilhelm, how much I owe to your intercession with His Grace! I will not forget this deed, my fast and true friend.
King Louis thus legitimized my claim to Lady Isabelle in kine society. How this infuriated the Duke! But I could not enjoy my victory over my insignificant rival, because it was then that I heard a voice from my homeland, a Scottish voice, a voice I had heard before. I all but abandoned Isabelle at the banquet as I ducked out of sight. I could not let my old enemy, Lord Douglas of Leslie, find me there, for he knows what I am and would, at best, expose me and, at worst, destroy me. So I fled. I fled back to Nouvelle Caledonie, the name which I have given Isabelle's estate. There I waited. My coterie returned shortly after, and then they were off to investigate these strange murders of which I have previously written. But I could not risk discovery, not with my old enemy in Paris. So I waited for the return of my beloved. She came, but with her came ill news and grave foreboding of nights to come. My plans had to be altered altogether. The Duke of Orleans sent word to Isabelle, demanding that she relinquish her betrothal to me and accept him, and that if she did not do so, he would come with no small number of armed men and take her by force. I do not fear these men, but I fear discovery were I to use my powers to defeat them. This masquerade of life that I have put on must be maintained, for the good of all Kindred in Paris, and for my beloved. I cannot let her come to harm. So the house chaplain was summoned, and we were summarily married, there on the moon-blanched balcony, as the west wind blew in leaves crisp red and brown, as Notre Dame struck three.
Now the Duke must turn brigand to take her from me. He must flout all laws of both God and man to sever the marriage bond. We have consummated our union, and that is why she sleeps now. But I feel no fatigue, so I take this time of quiet, just before the sunrise, to write all that has occurred. I must leave Paris, and that soon, more so now than ever. I must flee the Duke and also visit the Matriarch. I hope my friends can go with me. I hope they have been successful this night in their investigations. I hope all will be well. But soft! the glowworm brightens, and Dawn treads the frosty earth like a barefoot maiden. When her rays reach this house, I will fall into the dreamless sleep of death. I will lie down beside my love and rest.
Dear Sire, Last night was the King's Banquet and it was amazing. Let me tell you about . . . (Begin cipher interpretation.) Doña Beatriz has been very helpful, and she is keeping her eye on Paris. Tonight was the King's Banquet, and it was interesting to see my coterie's plans taking shape. The new King Louis is being given powerful relics and has met and spoken with Wilhelm. The King suspected his true nature but nevertheless gave him a boon! Now Mordwyr has been given a title and the Royal Blessing for his marriage. This distresses me, as I did not want to have the eyes of the King scrutinizing our activities. I was able to make excuses and was not presented to the King. Hopefully, he will remain unaware my true nature. I must make pains not to associate with Wilhelm or Mordwyr outside of Elysium. In Kindred society, there has been a puzzling rash of murders. The victims are kine, so they matter not. What does matter is that the victims are being drained of blood and dumped in the city streets. Such acts will surely lead the Church to our doorsteps and doom us all! Mordwyr's masquerade of life is becoming law in Paris, and such an incident is a slap in the face of the Prince and all our society. That the Kindred who committed this breach of etiquette left the bodies in the open is not only the insult but the proof that someone is trying to send us a message. Tonight we learned what that message was. A local Setite and two Toreador have been participating in a blood orgy. This cross-Clan blood-sharing disgusts me, and they were wise to hide their ways from society. If only I could have seen their faces when Wilhelm walked in on them in the middle of their disgusting ritual! The only downside was an outsider who almost witnessed the entire thing. Wilhelm calls him trustworthy, but he is a Templar. With so many righteous men in Paris at the moment, I took no chances and subtly ensured that he would tell nothing of what he saw. Tomorrow is Elysium, and I am looking forward to putting those deviants in their place. (End cipher interpretation.) . . . I will post this letter before I leave Paris. Your Obedient Servant, Don Alejandro Penasco de Toledo
23 September 1202
23 September A.D. 1202
And so tonight is my sister wedded. The King held his revels, and there Prince Mordwyr received his knighthood; there he sang as beautifully as any angel; there my sister was revealed as lovelier than any mortal woman. The Duke of Orleans could not accept the loss of my fair sister to another. He pressed for Isabelle’s hand, pressed for her to throw over her Prince. She refused, for she is an honorable maid—wife! She is now a wife. No more a maid.
A Parisian Interlude
12 October 1202
Chrétien sat in Mordwyr's high-backed wooden chair and surveyed the gathered Kindred. Chamberlain, Scourge, Keeper. The door opened, and Chrétien found the vampire he had sought. Wilhelm. The word in his mind was a sigh, but he knew that he and Wilhelm had to speak. With a gesture of liquid grace, the Regent motioned to the Red Room. Wilhelm bowed his acknowledgment, and the two withdrew from the gathered Kindred. Once alone with the Sheriff, Chrétien broke the silence. "I have heard from the Prince and the Seneschal. Their course is diverted, and they do not return to Paris for some time. They direct their steps to the lands of the Tzimisce." The Brujah was silent, waiting. Chrétien's displeasure was heavy in the air, and Wilhelm hesitated to broach the subject again. It had to be done, however, and Wilhelm finally spoke. "My liege, I fear that my loyalties will be divided. What should I do?" "What loyalties do you fear will be divided, Sir Wilhelm?" Chrétien's voice was cold. Wilhelm looked down. "I am the Sheriff of Paris, loyal to my Prince, and I am loyal to my Order. If the two conflict, then what shall I do?" Chrétien responded at once. "The Order is dedicated to the preservation of the relics of God. I am, I admit, the head of this Order. I am not the only one, of course." Wilhelm nodded. "But only as the head could I have taken you into our group without having to ask permission. Now, if you fear that the Order, of which I am the head, is likely to cause a conflict of interest between its needs and those of my childe, I will transfer you." Wilhelm spoke. "I have an idea. Why not make one of the 'secret' tasks of Paris be the goal of the Order? This way, while serving Paris, I serve you." Chrétien shook his head slightly. "The Order is dedicated to the preservation of the relics of God. I think, rather, that this is the best way for you. Because I received your oath in my own person, I will accept it in my own person. Perhaps rather than be a knight of the Order of Bitter Ashes, it would be better if you were my own knight." Wilhelm spoke, still hesitant. "Again, I still see a possibility for conflict." "Between my childe and myself?" asked Chrétien. "Between my duties." "Between your duties as my knight and as Sheriff?" pressed the Regent. "If your childe wishes an errand and you another—which am I to follow first? What if they do not complement each other?" Chrétien sighed inwardly. "In this instance, you may rest easy. My own goals and those of my childe are not incompatible. He is a musician, and his love is music. I have heard of his dream. I have heard of his ideas for this—this—Masquerade of mortality." Wilhelm sensed the Regent's displeasure. "I apologize for my frankness. I have not had the advantages of a sire to guide me." "Ah, my dear Wilhelm, your Sire is . . . How shall I say this?"
As Chrétien paused, Wilhelm spoke again. "The bond of a childe to his Sire or the bond of Sire to childe—I do not trust easily them." "I see, and I understand. But in this case, I think that you must needs trust to me. The bond of a childe and a Sire, you do not know. But the bond of a lord and a liege-man you do. That is a bond which can be depended upon." "Aye. That is true." "You would not wish to break that. You would not be yourself if you did. You are true to your oath. I am, also, true to mine. I can give to you an oath, then, that your being my liege-man shall not be to the detriment of your Prince." Chrétien shrugged his shoulders, glad to be rid of the unpleasant topic. "But your Sire—this is a serious matter." "You have news?" "I have. I have heard that he approaches Paris. He desires to seek you out." "Does he wish me harm?" asked Wilhelm. "He is old," replied Chrétien. "And he has dwelt too long alone, dwelling on his grievances. I know not if he wishes you ill, but I know that of the six childer he has sired, only you yet walk the night. I know that three of his childer, he slew himself." "It was when he dispatched his last that I met your own childe." "He slew your elder brother," agreed Chrétien. "I know not his name, but I know for what cause: your brother served the Ventrue. Unwillingly, I think it was said, but nonetheless he served. Your Sire's hatred for the Ventrue is old and implacable." "On that he and I see eye to eye." Wilhelm's jaw tightened. "Yes, the Ventrue of Mithras are not known for their honor. I, too, have known their forked counsels in Constantinople." "Why were the others killed—my brothers?" "The first of all his childer was a young Egyptian. This vampire followed Hasruut faithfully, but he was slain when the Ventrue sent their armies upon Carthage. Since that night, Hasruut has sought to replace this vanished childe. Two other childer fell in battle. One fell to the claws of Lupines; another to the fires that soldiers light in war. But the fires were lit by Hasruut, for he feared this childe had been dishonored. Whether this was so, I know not. None does in these nights." "So honor is his master," mused Wilhelm. "That cannot be wrong." It was only two nights later that Wilhelm met his Sire, and Hasruut the Phoenician was announced to the court of the Prince Regent. Wilhelm had only a few moments with the Regent before Hasruut wished to speak with his childe. "My liege?" Wilhelm bowed to Chrétien. Chrétien motioned to the Red Room where Hasruut waited. "He . . . remembers me." "Fondly?" "As an honorable man. Whether Hasruut is still capable of affection—or even of friendship—I do not know. He is old, and he is alone. It is a dangerous combination." "I will think on this. My Liege—my oath still binds me to you—I willingly follow the path my honor will take me." Then Wilhelm saw Hasruut reenter the chamber, and the Phoenician spoke. "My long-wandering childe, will you speak with your Sire? Or do you fear to speak to me alone?" "I would be foolish not to fear one such as you, my sire. Let us go to the chambers." Wilhelm followed Hasruut into the Red Room, and, as soon as the door had closed, Hasruut spoke again. "My childe, you have done well, far better than I could have expected. I did not think to find you, still less than a year after your mortal death, the Sheriff of one of the greatest cities in Europe. Your power is grown great. But what of your honor, childe? What of that? I have sought to learn if you have had aught to do with the Ventrue, and so far none has been able to tell me that ever you aided one. Are you yet their enemy?" "As always I will be, my Sire. It is yet too soon for me to wage war against my home region." "Your home region?" "Bavaria—the house of Arlow—" "—Here shall be your home. The House of Arlow need mean nothing to you—unless you so will it. Do you so desire?" "It is a longer and more complicated path—but yes—one day I will restore my name and my lands. But for now I am here—my new home as you say." "That is well. You need not forget where you have come from in order to go forward. But what of your Prince? I have heard he is the childe of the Regent." Wilhelm scarcely heard. "I will take back what the Ventrue have taken from me—and then I will take their heads!" "Ah, yes, the heads of the Ventrue!" Hasruut's eyes lost their focus as he spat out the name Ventrue. His hands shook slightly, and before Wilhelm realized what was happening, Hasruut's hands had become bestial claws. He continued speaking, as though he did not realize what he was doing. "The Ventrue shall indeed pay for all that they have taken from us! I shall continue my undying hunt for them, and they shall pay! Mithras himself shall see the sun." "If my service as Sheriff can aid you, my Lord. . . ." Hasruut shook himself slightly. The claws began to fade. "My war with Mithras shall never end until I have made him suffer as I have suffered. Until he has known the loss of childer, of love, of all. And then he shall die and be damned!" "Tell me of this Mithras." "Mithras?" Again, Hasruut's control over himself seemed to slip. The claws came all the way out again, and he barely seemed to see Wilhelm. "Mithras led the charge. Mithras took his life. I watched him die. I saw him ripped apart." Hasruut did not specify who "he" was, but nor did he stop talking. "When Mithras drank his blood, I swore that I would have revenge. Centuries I have waited, and still Mithras has no childer. Until he does, my revenge cannot be complete. So I fight the Ventrue in every way." Without realizing it, Hasruut lashed out at the wall, his claws leaving deep gashes in the stone. "I fight the Ventrue, and I wait. I wait. I wait. When will it be?" There was the track of bloody tears on Hasruut's face, but he did not notice that, either. Wilhelm waited silently for Hasruut to calm himself, and eventually the younger Brujah's patience was rewarded. Hasruut stopped speaking, and his eyes gradually refocused on Wilhelm's face. "Sire," began Wilhelm at last. "For ill or good, I was abandoned when you left me . . ." "Aye?" "I had little hope, a lot of anger, and much confusion as to who and what I had become. I have since journeyed with . . . friends . . . The Prince of Paris." "We Kindred have few enough of friends." "He aided me and guided me. He saved my life, and I have been able to repay that debt many times. But the bond is there . . ." "It is always honorable to repay one's debts." Hasruut was puzzled by this turn of the conversation. "Now his Sire, a man of respect and wisdom and much honor—much as you are, my Lord—he aided me as I was protecting his childe." "Chrétien?" asked Hasruut. "Aye, I have sworn fealty to him, for he has been like a father to me." "And he has accepted your oath?" "He has. I thought I had no father," began Wilhelm. "He is . . . an honorable Kindred," interrupted Hasruut. "He is one of the few left whom I know will never be part of anything the Ventrue might do, for Mithras hates him. He will be a good lord to you, childe." "So I have your blessing, Father?" When Wilhelm spoke the word "father," Hasruut froze. He stood as still as only a Kindred can, and then he reached out to touch Wilhelm's face. Once he did so, he saw the claws for the first time, and he retracted them at once. "Father?" repeated Wilhelm. "Is it true, then? Have I truly regained my Imhotep? Is it my son again?" Wilhelm began to speak again. "I have heard of your son. And it grieves me, the pain you have suffered. I may never replace him. Father, but perchance I may be a tool to avenge my lost brother." Hasruut seemed almost to lose track of where he was, and he spoke to Wilhelm in Egyptian. After a few moments, he placed his hand on Wilhelm's head like a benediction. Then, without a further word, he leapt out the window and was lost in the darkness.
14 October A.D. 1202
So much has happened during these weeks. My angelic sister journeys with her lord throughout the Holy Roman Empire, and they are for Constantinople. And Sir Wilhelm tells me we are to go to join them. We are to set sail at once.
October 27th, 1202 Ah, love! dost thou not feel the bite Of the cold mountain air? the howling Wind that bloweth through The dark, empty halls of this citadel? What lights burn in yon hamlet, nestled in the Bosom of the world’s jagged bones, Snow wrapped round it like a blanket? These wild, whirling nights! love, have we Come so far, so short a time? Where now lie the fields of France? in what Otherworld doth Paris gleam a beacon? Where now beateth the heart of Europe And my otherhome? It is an age away. Our travels began on the twenty-fourth of September, A night of endings and beginnings: Marcus Tertius sleepeth with the cold stones Beneath Nouvelle Caledonie, and may I see the sun When he comes to harm. I have pledged him my word for the service he hath done me: My beloved desireth me apart from the blood-bond. I brought order to Paris ere I departed, And all Kindred now know that, to survive, we must Hide in the light—we must dance and move and live and be, Grasping firmly our masks, clutching a Masquerade Of Mortality. Jean-Baptiste, Katherine, and Lady Jeanne Now understand the foolishness of blood-thirst: Church fires consume Kindred flesh. Wise Regent! Fair Star of all our kind! May thy light and thy wisdom enlighten The Kindred of Paris, bringing them a veritable Day. These snow-capped mountains glow In Moon-blanched glory, and I am honored not least Among the Dracon’s guests. But would that I were in Paris, To see thy face again. The bolt of silk standing hard by, Look not upon it, cursed Toreador! Lest thou fall into deadly reverie And greet Hyperion when he doth spring Full-blazoned from the black sea of Night. Alejandro’s wedding gift, the Assamite work, doth scintillate And threaten to draw me down to death. How long hast been the road? What leagues of The fathomless deep have we crossed? What dark waves didst our ship’s prow cut through, Throwing sea-foam upon its deck, soaking wood And rope and sail and skin in salty brine While Alejandro and I slept in dark confinement In the belly of the ship? But before the sea-sleep, when feet still Trod the hard earth, and my footsteps brought me To the Court of Etienne, King of the Courts of Love In Poitiers: the bewildered stares, the baffled whispers As I approached the Prince at his Elysium. In cloister-talk we discussed Masquerade, And the King inclined his ear to my reasoning. But there is no beauty in Etienne’s Court That doth outshine my beloved. I hold a snow-white dove In my hand, and Etienne’s Kindred are all crows, Black and circling, outlying birds that feed upon scraps, Nothing like unto my Lady, bright Jewel of France! Etienne’s town is but a shadow and then forgot. I will be Prince of Paris, or I will be Prince of Nowhere. Foolish King! Dog among the Toreador! Tempt not the Dark Adonis! Thou know’st not How near Final Death thou didst come. Had I drunk thy vitae, Etienne, thy soul Wouldst now be howling in Hell! Thou shalt not put me to the test! The base ground is chalice enough for thee. The Cold Road lead’st on to lands unknown, To peoples, climes, and tongues strange to me. I plucked the strings of my lute and didst serenade Lovely Night; and the nightingale, Her mysterious song warbled among bare branches, Tangled and thin, whereto the last dying leaf didst cling, As we fled from the Duke of Orleans. But the Duke’s blood was nothing to me: For my Lady’s honor and safety, I would make All the rivers of Europe flow with the vitae Of the Dishonorable! Intent to lay violent hands Upon Isabelle: dying upon my sword’s point Was dear mercy. My heart clamored for his torment, For his repudiation, for his humiliation. Sing with me, Knights Templar, of merry wars And courage wedded to conviction! ’Twas your Christian duty to bear the Duke’s body Back to Paris, but had you let him rot in the fields, I wouldst have rejoiced and praised the carrion birds. But our song was enough; our brief chorus A bitter lullaby to accompany the Duke to his deathless agony. At Chartres, with the Matriarch we didst speak, And the purpose of my travels was realized. We spoke of Masquerade and of secluded nights ahead, But her focus turned towards Iberia, and that I did not expect. Momentous events are set in motion, alliances form And are broken, and Alejandro and I Stand at the center of the coming tempest. A storm of blood and fire cometh, and I would fain avoid it, And so my coterie took to ship, across the Middle Sea, To the forbidding mountains of the east, To the Realms of the Tzimisce. Bone-Crafters, Unnatural they are called, and yet to me There is none more honorable among the Kindred: They are the Mountain Gods. ’Twas late October when to the Voivodate shores we came; To a high castle we were brought, and Lord Dimitri, Sire of Andrei, a Great One among us, gave us succor. In his magnificent hall, he lacked nothing but a song, And that I didst provide for him. The Toreador, the Lasombra, the Tzimisce: We three will rule in nights to come! From Dimitri’s hospitality, we were called away Into the presence of the Dracon, Lord of the Earth. Among all Tzimisce, none reigns but him alone, And as descended from his brother and friend, Michael of Constantinople, I made bold to approach Him and rekindle the fire of our mutual loves, And beg for his aid in the West, in Iberia. For the love he bear’st Michael, For the hatred he bear’st the Ventrue, The Dracon will to the Spanish, and there set A fire in the blood of the Assamites, So that, unhallowed as they be, The strength of their Clan will be their undoing. Haste it to be done. Tomorrow we are for Yorak, the Archfiend, The Dracon’s eldest childe, Whom all these rugged mountainfolk fear. But this night, as the moon waneth, My thoughts fly back to Paris. How doth Chrétien rule in my stead? How farest Wilhelm? I hope all will be well.
Ordoño of Castile, I hope this letter reaches you in time. It is being penned from the home of one who knows of you. I am in the heart of the Tzimisce, in the home of the Dracon. I have had an eventful couple of weeks. Let me start from the beginning. In Paris I met a man named Yitzhak ben Yakov. He is selling Assamite-made silk. I brokered a deal with him. This trade route will help to supplement my income. By the time I got to Elysium, more important things had transpired. Our Prince had unveiled the new rules we must all live by. He used the term “Masquerade” to describe how we should live. We need to hide our true nature from the world. This is the only way to escape the fires that the Church has stoked. To prove his point we set out to visit Matriarch Salianna just before dawn. Along the way, Mordwyr engaged in a duel with the Duke of Orleans. Naturally, he won, but we did lose a day of travel to such silliness. Once in Chartres, we met with the Matriarch. I told her about the troubles in Iberia and how the Toreador can help and benefit. I learned that Ruiz of the Ventrue is offering to make an alliance with the Lasombra. We cannot accept help from the Ventrue, and I will not allow such an alliance to be made. To that end, I have traveled to the Tzimisce land. I have spoken to the Dracon, and he has agreed to uphold his alliance with the Toreador and forge a new one with us. The Dracon has more power than I could have imagined, and we are meeting with his childe, Yorak the Archfiend, to discuss ways of destroying the power of the Assamites. I will be on my way back to Paris soon. I wish to meet with you. It seems that plans are moving faster than we could have expected, and I feel it is time for us to talk more openly. Doña Beatriz has been working to root out any spies sent by Miriam, but it is always better to walk in shadow. As always,
Your obedient servant,
Alejandro Penasco
Gervais of the Broken Lance,
My childe is due soon in Constantinople. Do all that you can to aid him; treat him as you would me. Mayhap my vassal Wilhelm will also be there. He is Brujah and sensitive, but he must respect your abilities.
When my childe leaves for Paris, request his aid and his permission to go with him to Paris. Should he refuse, then you may use the signet I left with you to require that my vassal Wilhelm take you back to Paris. But I trust to my childe. He will not refuse what you ask in my name. When you go, take the small chest from my chambers. Guard it as you would your soul, and give it into no hands but my own.
(Received 2 November 1202)
Mordwyr, my Dear Childe,
If you are reading this, then Wilhelm has found you safe in Constantinople. Though he is no longer a Knight of the Order, he is yet my knight. He can still be trusted, childe.
Now for your affairs in Constantinople—if you see Michael he may listen to you. You are my childe, and he will feel his own blood in you. He may not listen. I do not know. If he does not listen, do not force him. Come back to Paris. I will return and try. It would be best if, somehow, we could approach him together. But you are a wondrous childe; he may listen.
If you have need of anything in Constantinople, seek out my protégé, Gervais of the Broken Lance. He is a Nosferatu, but he is loyal. He can aid you. He will know your name, for I have spoken to him of you. You can usually find him not far from the Cistern of Mokius.
You have been the guest of the Dracon, and you go to see Michael. All that you touch has prospered, childe. Be wary of trusting too much to fortune you do not make yourself. Trust to your love, and long may it guide and protect you. When you do seek to use the gift I gave you, make sure that soon afterward you bind your Lady Isabelle to you with all the rites of Kindred marriage. She is more beautiful than any mortal should be, thanks to Isolde, and her beauty is like to increase upon the Embrace. Ah, I could nearly envy you, my dear childe. You have found—and so quickly!—all that Marcus Tertius has searched a thousand years in vain to find.
But I ramble, and Wilhelm awaits. In Constantinople, be wary of the Setites. They are devious. You can trust to Gervais; the other Toreador in the city may be affected by Michael’s madness, but they will not knowingly seek you ill. You are, after all, my childe. There are few Tzimisce in the city, but they are your allies; for they all serve the Dracon. The Gangrel and the Nosferatu are loyal to Michael, but the Brujah and the Lasombra play their own games.
(Received 4 November 1202)
November 4th, 1202
God of the Christians, for the sake of her who loves you, protect my beloved Isabelle, and do not let her come to harm. By the Cross which she adores, I will let no evil befall her. With this invocation, I prepare for another night of dreamless sleep. What crypt is this? What burial vault has Gervais found for us? It is the very reflection of his own hideousness. Who sleeps here in rat-infested darkness, here in the dank heart of Constantine’s city? City of Darkness; City of Light, where east meets west; Vasileuousa Polis! How many bezants flow like noisome rivers through your congested streets? What dealings? What pilgrims from far sundered lands fill your streets? And now, will my beloved, while the kine fill the morning streets, truly lie down with me in this city of marvels and sleep as Kindred do? Is she so suddenly converted? Is the mortal coil so quickly, so thoughtlessly, so passionately shuffled off? But even here, in this close room of putrid death, Isabelle’s beauty is not diminished. These walls, home to the diseased vermin of the city, cast no shadow on her shining countenance. Would that I could leave this place and return, with my immortal beloved, to Paris! But I have one task yet to be done—I cannot leave until I see my grandsire. It is an undertaking I both anticipate and dread. As I stare at the hypnotic dance of the candle flame, by the light of which I write, my mind races across the dark waves of the Middle Sea by night, through the snow-filled valleys, and up the cruel peaks, to the house of Yorak, the Archfiend. It was the 28th of October. Would that I could forget the Archfiend, but I fear he will be always with me, always at the periphery of my vision, standing like a night-terror. And when I look to the corner of the room, he will vanish. But I will know that he was there, watching. And I know he will return. I know I will never be rid of that grotesque visage. I now know Hell’s Master. Alejandro and I entered the Archfiend’s Cathedral of Flesh, and, inexplicably, the ghoul who had conducted us thence envied our invitation into the structure! The crunch of our snow-shod boots was the only sound I heard, and it was as if hammers fell with stupendous force, shattering the world’s bones. I sinned with every step. The wind that had howled at all hours was now hushed. Try as I might, I knew that, however lightly I stepped, I had awoken the Lord of the Cathedral. The façade of the house sneered at us, and my unease grew as we mounted the steps. The relatively mundane exterior of the house concealed horrors within. There we stood in a house, not of wood and stone, but of flesh! Whose flesh it was or how this was possible I dared not ask. The walls breathed; the house writhed, and I was keenly aware that one misstep, one misspoken word, would cause the house to vomit us out. I looked at my companion, but Alejandro appeared to be unmoved. I touched my brow, hoping to feel a cold sweat (for that would have given me some comfort), but the reminder of my own cold, dead, unresponsive flesh only made this flesh-tomb all the more frightening. My mind screamed at me, begging me to flee. But the Archfiend himself appeared before my courage utterly failed, and he did so in the same way that the boggart entered my nightmares as a child: he stepped through a wall of living flesh. Had the Archfiend ever been human? I wondered. The Tzimisce lord’s frame was massive, and he made Wilhelm seem a boy playing make-believe, a lad who had sneaked in and put on his father’s armor. Did this Flesh-Crafter even walk? I do not remember. I think he was part of the house. I think his legs rooted themselves in the flesh, and he waded through it as one pushes his feet through sand in the shallow ocean surf. The bone-spurs that grew from his body were cruel razors. I thank the gods that I no longer dream, for if I did, I know I would feel his clammy hands on my face. I spoke not a word to the Archfiend, and in his mercy, he seemed to understand my plight. Was he wryly amused? I do not remember. Besides, how would wry amusement manifest itself in his alien features? Alejandro, thankfully, did all the talking, and before I knew it, the nightmare was finished. We had a vial of some liquid. I think it is the Archfiend’s blood, but I do not remember. I trust this to Alejandro. But the boggart could not leave quietly as when the dawn breaks. Oh no! he transformed! Sprouts of jagged bone ripped their way out of his flesh, and these chitinous appendages attached themselves to the skin-walls. Did I cry out? I believe so. In a sudden, grotesque jerk, he was lifted from his feet, and the house swallowed him once more. Long live the Tzimisce, and long may the Archfiend live . . . out of my sight! When I returned to the carriage, Isabelle saw well my distress. She asked me what was the matter, but I could not make a reply. Perhaps, someday, I will find the words to tell her. The next night we arrived back at the residence of Lord Dimitri. He is a Tzimisce that I have come to love, both for his hospitality and for the treatment my beloved Isabelle received at his gracious hands. When I entered Dimitri’s welcoming halls, the torturous memories of the Archfiend were immediately banished. And even now, as I write and recall that noble Lord and his lady, my heart warms, for I carry him in my bosom. Alejandro and I stayed but one night with Dimitri, but a time spent with close friends is not soon forgot. They asked for a song, and I happily agreed. I asked them if they wanted to hear a song of love, and the Lord’s lady instead requested a song about death. So I sang for the assembled company “Lady Margaret,” and I believe I have never sung that song better. But it was the company I kept that cold, wintry night that was my Muse. The lady showered my lady with rich gifts of furs and jewels. I could say nothing, but I turned toward Dimitri and bowed, wordlessly accepting his praise.
But the night was not ended, and the servants brought out a bottle of dark glass. What liqueur was inside? Was it iridescent, or was that just a trick of the candlelight? It was vitae, that much we knew, and Alejandro and I drank with the Lord. I have never tasted drink sweeter, richer, more full of life and youth and vigor, as when the world was in its infancy! It was fae blood, Dimitri told us. Vitae of the fae! What joy, what excess! A glass—and I felt as I had not felt in two-score years. I fell from my chair in laughter. “Am I not drunk?” I asked. How long had it been since I felt the touch of alcohol? I remembered my breathing days. Were my mortal father there, he would have roared in stocious mirth! Long we could not stay, and the next night, we took to ship bound for Constantinople. Lord Dimitri saw to all the arrangements, and Alejandro and I traveled as Dappa’s and Isabelle’s luggage once again. When Alejandro was brought aboard, my beloved later told me, all the rats abandoned ship and were drowned in the harbor. The sailors took this as an ill omen and were adamant against setting sail, but Isabelle bought their courage, and it was not long before we were out to sea. Before I slept, I lay in the dark confines of a wooden box, committing to memory the name of Lady Szantovich (Lord Dimitri’s arranged contact for us in Constantinople) and some of the Legacies, for the Kindred in the Queen of Cities do not follow the Cainite Traditions. Our trip was uneventful, and Alejandro and I were awoken in our harborside inn in Constantinople at the beginning of this very night. This night, however, has been nothing like our sleep across the sea. Has it been but one night? I have lived a lifetime since the sunset. The new scents of the city: fishy, heavy with clouds of incense, full of spices. The strange sounds: outlandish tongues clashing, a veritable antithesis of Babel, and the calls of hawkers in the night, and the bells of animals that were only unheard when the city’s thousands of church bells tolled on the hour.
Chrétien’s blood flows strong in my veins, and so I always awake just as the sun dips below the western horizon. I have seen many skies streaked with purple and gold, as if the gods had taken brush and paint to the canopy of heaven, and all the earth was their gallery, and we, earth-bound denizens, turn our awe-struck, gazing faces to the sky. But never had I seen the glittering top of the Hagia Sophia, and I am not like to fix my eyes on a truer reflection of the Blessed Realm. I had but one reason to come to Constantinople: it was imperative that I speak with my grandsire, Michael of Constantinople. And so, when we met the Lady Szantovich (she is a ghoul), we asked her to let out that we had arrived, that the childe of Chrétien was in town. She said she would begin the rumor, and we instructed her to stay with Isabelle while we walked the streets. And so Alejandro and I set out, and the peculiarities of this eastern city assaulted my Toreador senses: the smells, sounds, and sights forced me to distance myself from all that I sensed. We eavesdropped on a conversation between a red-haired Egyptian and a local. The Egyptian was Kindred; I saw that much in his aura. But he was also filled with thoughts of lust and obsession; he was overwhelmed with envy. The local was kine, and suspicion ruled his thoughts. The Egyptian wanted the local to go get some girl and bring her to him. He offered the local a handsome sum for this deed. Alejandro, suspicious of this Kindred’s activities, followed in created shadows, but the Egyptian discovered him, quite easily, it seemed. The Egyptian explained that he was simply purchasing a slave girl. Alejandro and I entered a hookah bar, and this establishment was run by Kindred with dyed-red hair. On the second floor, we found Kindred openly feeding on kine! Truly, the Traditions are not followed here, and I would have to be more than Prince of Paris to establish Masquerade in this city. As I walked around and observed this brazen feast, Alejandro must have offended the proprietor, for we were asked to leave. I left without argument, for Alejandro is not trained in subtlety and often insults people. I must take time to train him in the finer points of polite conversation. When we returned to the inn, all was in an uproar. We had stayed out too long, and my Isabelle has been carried off by violent hands. The ghoul left to protect her lay with her neck broken, and Alejandro brought her back to health with his vitae. But what did I care for her? My beloved was gone, and where would I find her in this city, its streets, its people, its ways unknown to me? In my distress, I reached out across the unbridgeable distance and called to Wilhelm. I needed his aid now, more than ever before, and I then flew from the room to search for her I knew not where. My blood took a new course through my body, and in an instant, I found myself out in the street. For a moment, I paused. How had I gotten outside so quickly? The world had slowed, and time crawled about me, though I moved normally. I had passed a chambermaid in the upper hall, and such was her surprise at my approach that she dropped her washing basin. But the water did not splash to the ground. I watched the basin upset, the water begin to fall, the droplets hanging suspended in the air. What had just occurred? And then I saw Wilhelm racing toward me, with Jean-Louis in tow. I explained to him what had transpired concerning Isabelle’s capture. Alejandro said he would investigate back at the hookah bar, and I sprinted off in the opposite direction. The buildings alone moved—there and then gone; but the torches that lit the streets were frozen in mid flame-dance. Only Wilhelm, running at my side, moved in time with me. Then I knew that I had learned to do what he did: move with preternatural speed. I ran like a man gone mad. I knew not where I was going. And so Wilhelm grabbed me and told me that it would be better to take to the rooftops. Our conversation was overheard, and from the shadows stepped Gervais of the Broken Lance. I did not at first know he was Nosferatu, as his frightening visage was cloaked in shadow, and I caught only a slight glimpse of his hideousness before I averted my eyes. The Frenchman directed us to Makareta-sherit’s temple, the nest of all Setites in Constantinople. I knew that the Setites were the red-haired Kindred, and so Gervais directed us thence. I have had nothing but good dealings with the Nosferatu, and my experience with Gervais has only served to strengthen my trust in their Clan. Outside the temple, we tried to formulate a battle-plan, but such preparations were impossible once I heard Isabelle’s weak, terrified voice calling out to me. Wilhelm and Gervais ripped the door from its anchoring, and I rushed into the room, my dread countenance flashing out. “Turn and look upon your death, for the Dark Adonis has come among you!” I cried, and two of the three Setites overseeing an orgy of kine were crushed beneath my burning gaze. Battle ensued, and all I remember, before I saw Isabelle, was the warmth of Kindred blood spilling over my face and nearly blinding me as I devoured the top of one of the Setites' head. But then I heard my lady cry out again, and into another room I rushed, after Gervais of course had forcibly removed the door. What incredible strength my coterie possesses! And there hung Isabelle, by cruel chains, in heathen Egyptian fashion. My love! I knew she hung as precariously by those chains as she clung to her life. Will alone kept her here on this earth. Beside her stood Makareta-sherit herself, the Setite whore! She had carved a wicked S-shape in Isabelle’s back. My lady’s blood-soiled clothes lay at her feet. The following was a flurry of blood and fangs. All I remember is the Asp-bitch draining Isabelle to the point of death, me rushing forward and giving her Chrétien’s vitae, and Gervais sending the now-transformed monstrous snake-like form of Makareta-sherit into torpor. Isabelle was safe, but she was starving, and so I gave her a drink. What ecstasy! Were I telling this tale to a kine, I would tell him that my feelings at that moment . . . oh, my feelings! It can be compared to the burning lust a man feels when he is about to enter a woman. Nothing else matters at that moment. It is his chiefest desire, and he would risk death rather than retreat! And then I fed from her, and our first kiss was completed! But the sweetness of Isabelle’s blood: is it because she is Kindred or because she is my beloved? Gervais’ scream from behind me startled me, ripping me from my reverie. He was mad with grief, accusing me of ushering Isabelle into damnation. He would not see reason, that had I not made her Toreador, she would have been Setite. He demanded that I kill my beloved rather than let her live a monster! For that, I nearly killed him, and when I bared my fangs and roared at him, the Nosferatu cowered and quaked with fear inside his cloak. Wilhelm was busy feeding on the mortals in the front room who were still oblivious of our presence. We all fed to satiety and then left. As I write, I look over at Gervais. He prepares for his rest, and yet my ears discern his whispers. He speaks of Isabelle, my Isabelle, but it is obvious now that he once had a love of the same name, and, in his mind, I can see that he does not separate the two. His rambling whispers yet belie his rigid exterior. Within, he is a raging storm of conflicting emotions. I will speak to him further when time permits. Jean-Louis has seen his sister. He was not prepared for the shock, for the reality of the Embrace, but it was not until Wilhelm abruptly told him that Isabelle was no longer his sister that his mind rebelled at the thought. His body reacted, and he ran to the corner and retched. He sobbed there like a child and would not be comforted. My heart misgives. If I can trust in my discernment, I think Wilhelm will live to regret his harsh words.
And now, to sleep. But this day, I sleep in the cold embrace of my wife.
4 November A.D. 1202
5 November A.D. 1202
Isabelle!
I shall yet repay my debt to Wilhelm, but my heart, though it yearns with love because of the inescapable melody of his blood, my heart is broken! Isabelle!
His cruel words, words which shook my very soul, were true. She is my sister no more. And for that, I know that my will hates Wilhelm. My heart feels only love, and my honor keeps me bound to serve until my debt is repaid. But, oh, I know that I shall hate him when I can.
She is my sister no more. Isabelle!
My Dear Sire,
Greetings from Byzantium and the seat of our Grandsire’s power. And yet I find in this earthly reflection of his glory the heart of his madness. How fare you in Paris? All goes well I hope. I know you long to return home, and so I make haste to once again see your eyes and take my rightful place among the Parisian Kindred.
I pen this letter tonight but will send it by boat faster than mine, and then from Marseilles by express rider. So when I see you, you will be apprised of all that has occurred here. There is much to tell, so let me begin, ere my sleep across the Middle Sea. I hear preparations being made overhead, but I have retired to the privacy of the ship’s hold to write, for it is vital that you have this news as soon as may be.
Lord, I did not dare broach the subject with dear Wilhelm without first consulting you, but I see that he no longer wears the tabard of the Order of the Bitter Ashes. Surely you have not had a falling out, for Wilhelm is as he always has been. What, then, has occurred?
My lord, necessity forced my hand, and damn the Setites for making me do it! The Lady Isabelle can no longer be counted among the breathing, for she has swallowed the vitae you gave me, and now she walks as one of us. I know you may think me hasty, but I tell you: the Setites are to blame. They captured her, not only because of her beauty, but because she also has the copper hair that those snake-like monsters lust after. And so they took her from me, whilst I walked the congested streets of Byzantium. With the help of your loyal vassal and my good friend, Wilhelm, and also with the much-needed aid of your pupil, Gervais, whom we have indeed met, Isabelle was restored to us, but not without cost.
I thought the Embrace would cure all ills, set all to right, but I now see that that cannot be. The foul touch of Makareta-sherit reaches across the unbridgeable chasm that separates life and death, and so my beloved is haunted with nightmares of the ritual to which she was subjected! Bless her soul, but my Venus tried to hide the tracks of blood on her cheeks when she awoke this night. It was her first awakening as Kindred, and she was in such a state that I feared for her safety. “What ails you?” I asked as I leapt from the slab upon which I slept in Gervais’ crypt. “What has happened, by the names of all the gods?” “Naught, my lord,” she replied, shying away from my touch. “It is nothing,” was her weak answer. But I would not be discouraged, and in confidence, as we hunted together in the streets of Byzantium, she told me all: that she awoke from a torturous dream in which I had not rescued her. In this dark vision, she looks to the door through blood-dimmed eyes; she whispers my name in hope that I will come. All the while the infernal chanting continues, and Makareta’s horrid visage appears before her again and again, but my beloved is insensible to the fiend’s snake-whisper voice. She weakens, and she weakens, and then I do not come. The heartbreak she suffers at my absence is compounded with the agony of the Embrace. Agony, she told me, for there was no pleasure in becoming that which she most hates! She awakens a Setite, with her sire, Makareta-sherit, smiling over her. And then, she awakens to the real world.
Would that I could slaughter all the Asps like chattel! Call me traitor to my Toreador heritage, but I would spill their accursed blood till the ocean was not vast enough to hold the deluge! I told Isabelle that we would speak more of this with you, face to face, but at that moment, we had to find Michael. Michael the Archangel, he calls himself, I had discovered. Surely, he is mad, as when the wind and wave contend which is the mightier. With only Alejandro absent, Wilhelm, Gervais, Isabelle, and I made our way to a certain well of which the good French crusader knew. There, as local lore had it, one had but to drop a stone into the dark water below, then speak Michael’s name and what petition one brought. Michael would then judge whether he need bother attend to such a request.
To my entreating, I was confident Michael would respond, and when he heard my name, and that I was childe of his favorite, Chrétien, he did indeed. We were directed to your very own crypt, my Sire, but along the way, visions flitted before us. What visions we saw! At first a flutter of white wings, then stray feathers found in the streets. Glances here and there of enormous wings! These were no birds, dear Sire. I have overglanced the books of Christians, and I dared not give voice to my suspicions. But I never had need, because soon the possessors of such beautiful snow-white wings made themselves visible to us all. After the slaughter of the Setites in their temple, the Kindred of Byzantium were incensed, and three great Nightwalkers stalked near as we departed from the well. Who they were I know not, but their power rippled forth from them, like when one drops a stone in the water. In my mind, I heard their promises of exquisite tortures.
Suddenly and inexplicably, angels surrounded us, protecting us from these vengeful Cainites. Angels, Sire! It was as if the pages of the monk-penned volumes had taken wings. The artist had turned his pen to the very air incorporeal and there sketched a beauteous vision upon an invisible tapestry. Here they took shape, and they moved synchronous with us, keeping our enemies at bay. Their drawn swords turned in all directions at once, and the Kindred dared not approach but bore their fangs and hissed in impotent fury.
To your sleeping cell we came at last, and therein we stood face to face with the Methuselah of Byzantium. He came upon us unawares, and when we heard his many-waters voice, we all turned in unison. There was not a window in Chrétien’s dark vault! I thought. But there a stained-glass window stood, its top near scratching the ceiling. The window portrayed a magnificent angel of God, surely a true vision of Heaven’s beauty. And then it spoke, and I nearly fell senseless, such was the musical sway of its voice. Heaven here thundered in liquid radiance, and I feared an infection in my blood, a fever in my brain. Would such articulation forever sing in my ears? I confess, my Sire, that as I write this letter, I barely hear the briny water lap against the ship, for the song of Michael’s voice still thunders in my head, both comforting and tormenting me!
And so it was Michael who stood there, a stained-glass image of Heaven’s warrior, and his countenance shone upon us all, illuminating the walls of your once-dark crypt. What can I say that you do not already know yourself, Noble One? How does one find his voice with Michael of Constantinople? How does one dare utter a syllable in his presence? And yet I knew that utterance, and such utterance as might give him cause to strike me down in my insolence, had to be spoken. For a time, the Patriarch slipped into a kind of monologue, and no one dared interrupt him. He knew us intimately—our blood, heritage, yea, even our secrets and desires! He spoke at length of people, places, and events unknown to me.
With a clumsy flattery that did not go unnoticed by Michael, I attempted to convince him that he was lonely and that, with his power, he could easily rule Byzantium from torpor as one might swat a fly. And yet my arguments with him failed, for he answered every objection I put forward until—oh wonderful crusader! True angel in monstrous form!—Gervais spoke of Joseph (the story of whom he has since explained to me) and how it was in his dreams that he was most powerful. Unschooled in the stories of the Christians, I was at a loss. But the look on Michael’s face—the recognition, the willingness to think further on the subject was there. Gervais had struck the nail as true as any veteran carpenter, and the wood held fast! Michael asked if there was aught else we would speak to him about, but all were silent! It was not until later that I realized I should have told him of how the Setites molested my Lady. How he should have responded to that, considering his history, considering Copper-Haired Salome. Surely Michael would have put the whole sect to rout! Lord, I beg you to speak of this to Michael upon your return to Constantinople. I beg you to possess him of the abuses under which Isabelle toiled, all for love of me! May Michael do one last thing before he sleeps—send all the Setites in Byzantium screaming to Final Death.
The interview finished, we returned to the inn, and there we were reunited to Alejandro. He stood by the door, speaking with someone whom I had never before seen, neither in my breathing days nor in those I have passed counted among Kindred. Being already in what I feared would become a permanent state of suspicion, I got the stranger clearly in my sights, looked beyond the illusion of the material realm, and beheld his spirit. He was Kindred; that became clear immediately. And yet still I delved, to uncover the secrets of his soul. The stranger stood calmly speaking to Alejandro, and this was no ruse. He was calm within as well, but Alejandro’s conversation had aroused only a mild interest in him. His stark dress, angular features, and Caucasian hue told me instantly that he was not native to Byzantium. Indeed, he dressed as the Tzimisce do, so when I learned his Clan, I was not surprised.
What did surprise me, though, was his parentage. His immortal origin, I mean. This Tzimisce, called Serafim (fitting, considering what visions we had seen that night), was childe of none other than Lord Dimitri, my fast and true friend! How it warmed my heart to see a Tzimisce once again. I heartily shook his hand and bade him welcome. Most welcome, indeed, for his Sire is dear to me as my own coterie. Fortune smiled on us in this city of strange sounds and heady aromas.
To Serafim’s haven we repaired, and I anticipated seeing the place all the way there. I was not disappointed, for Serafim is a true Tzimisce, a perfectly obliging host. I expressed my gratitude for his hospitality, but he waved his hand and would hear nothing more on the matter. True Tzimisce indeed!
We went to hunt for Makareta-sherit, for her body, which had fallen into torpor, was gone from our apartment. Alejandro told us of a quarrel he had with a red-haired Kindred whom he had discovered among our luggage. Could this have been she? Most likely. Fortunate, then, that Alejandro, not knowing her true identity, did not attempt Amaranth, as he seems inclined to do. To have a coterie member even thus much bonded to a Setite would be unpalatable.
Our search at the Setite-run hookah bar and at the temple was fruitless. Along the way, I spoke to Gervais privately and asked him to be my Lady’s champion, for it is only fitting that a knight of such nobility of heart, such courage, devotion, and piety as he possesses should fill such a worthy role. And as I am Prince of Paris, it is not my place to answer insults or accusations brought against my bride. The very Galahad in goblin-shape gladly accepted the charge with all his heart. He was rapturous, and I was content.
At the hookah bar, we could get no information from Yasmeen, the proprietor, but that Makareta-sherit must have fled the city, for her servants and all her trappings had gone out. I took the opportunity, for I was not a participant in the conversation, to speak to Serafim more, but I fear such a moment was not a good time to launch into an ode about his homeland’s breathtaking scenery! Ah, well, so go the Toreador.
The temple was deserted, but I was in earnest and, with the gift of the Toreador, found a well-concealed entrance to a heretofore unknown chamber. Someone forced the door; I cannot remember who, suffice it to say it was not me. Within, what horror awaited my eyes! Glad I was that Isabelle had not returned to this place and was safe at the inn with Dappa. Kine lay about, some dead, others barely alive, with open wounds from which they had been fed upon. No light entered here, and those who were sensible enough recoiled from the pain in their eyes. I stood, terror-struck by the macabre scene, but Gervais moved forward. Surely he was grieved by this grisly sight, but his compassion conquered any revulsion. Would that I had his pious courage! Alejandro, Wilhelm, and Serafim lent no aid to the kine, if memory serves. But I expected nothing from them. Gervais ministered to their wounds, and he did all he could, but his efforts yielded little. One succumbed to death, but before he did, the Frenchman prayed over him in Latin and spoke words of reconciliation to Heaven, of a clean heart with which to meet the Maker of All Things, and his patient replied with his dying breath that he wished to see God with no offense lodged in his breast.
In a rage, at what I had seen, at what the Setites had done, I roamed through the temple, smashing every statue of Set I came across. One statue held a secret fist-sized compartment, no doubt where Makareta-sherit had but until recently stored her heart. When we returned to the inn, we spoke of our failure to find the wretched Queen of the Asps, and my beloved shuddered at the name, and she wept blood. I placed a veil over her face, and her grateful smile was food for my soul.
Preparations for departure have been completed, and now I enter a sleep which will last a fortnight. I will write again when we reach Marseilles. Isabelle sends you her love and gratitude. Be well, Father of My Life, as I remain
Constant & True,
Mordwyr
November 6th, 1202
I write this short note to you as the cold rain here pours down on all things that move about this night. Marseilles is shrouded in thick fog, and after dashing through its streets to make sure all is safe, I am back at the inn where we are staying. Having gotten out of my rain-soaked clothes, I now sit by the white-hot coals of a dying fire (though I have no need of its warmth—but I am again in France, and Masquerade is the paramount consideration) and write to you. Wilhelm feeds the night through, and so we wait. Much of his vitae was spent on the sea journey, for he was damaged deep in his flesh, and he had to bend all his effort to healing himself. I send this letter by express rider as well, and I pray all is well in Paris. I hope to see my city and embrace you on the 5th of December. Until then, peace be upon you. I am
Longing to be Home,
December 5th, 1202
Paris! My otherhome! I am come home at last. How it thrilled me to throw open the doors of Elysium and stride in among the general astonishment of my assembled subjects. They knew I was returning, but still they were not prepared for the sight of the Dark Adonis. How they trembled when I turned my gaze upon them. I sensed their excitement. How exhilarating!
Chrétien has done me a great service by reigning as Regent in my stead. If there is aught I can do for him, he has to but ask, and it will be done. All is well in Paris, and I have learned that though my Sire is disappointed with his servant, Wilhelm, they are in no way enemies. Wilhelm is simply no longer a part of the Order but has become Chrétien’s personal vassal. I did not importune my Sire further on the subject, for this is a matter that I am confident Wilhelm would not have me prying into. Still Jean-Baptiste and his two Toreador whores play their little games; they were not at Elysium tonight. I will know the reason for their absence at my homecoming.
Gervais has had a troubling vision concerning, I can but guess, Jacob, my Keeper. The knight is convinced that this vision is telling him that he will one day be Keeper. And Jacob? What of him? Will he die? I have come to trust in Gervais’ divinations, and Wilhelm also understands the truth that lies in his visions. My Sheriff therefore keeps a close eye on the Nosferatu.
I called for revels as soon as I had assumed my throne in the great hall. I will purchase the hall, to secure it as the permanent grounds of Elysium. I am a Marquis, and it is time I started acting like one! I am giddy as I write this, for I am truly happy to be home. And what better way to celebrate our homecoming than a song from Isabelle. Does the nightingale sing in bare, dark branches move lovely than she? I will to the lists with any man who dares make such a claim! For I have never heard such exquisite music as the tones she struck. The power of her voice could half-create the things about which she sang! “Lady Margaret” is a difficult piece, for the melody repeats almost to the point of redundancy, and it takes a skilled performer to manipulate the nuances of this song to keep it fresh. She did so marvelously, and I swelled with pride as she entertained the gathered Kindred of Paris.
I have been this night engaged in a series of interviews, and business has devoured the short hours of night. Would that I could have reveled more! With one ear, I listened to the music playing in the outer room, and with the other I attended to all that went on in the “Red Room.” And with my mind’s ear, I heard nothing else than Michael’s voice! Yes, I still hear him. It is something of an echo but with a life of its own. And when I look at the glowing sigil (which apparently only I can still see) that Michael drew in the palm of my hand, the song of his voice only strengthens. He is my grandsire, truly, but I would be rid of his voice if I could. And even that seems blasphemy to me! But enough of that for now.
My Sire thanked me for the letters I sent, and I enlightened him on some points about which he was not clear regarding my interview with Michael. He will begin the journey back to Constantinople tomorrow night, after my wedding. Yes, I will be wed in Kindred fashion to Isabelle tomorrow! I will have Isabelle all to myself, possess her body and soul, blood and bone.
Business bores me, so let me in simple terms put down what has been done this night: Doña Beatriz has been replaced by Serafim as Scourge. His identity will be kept secret, and I hope this alliance will strengthen our bonds with the Tzimisce. Alejandro suspects spies of Miriam in the city (Miriam being that Muslim Lasombra), and Edmond du Bergerac, a lieutenant of the Knights Templar, colludes with her. We thought to give Beatriz the vial of the Archfiend’s blood to give to the Assamites, but, alas, she fears her mission may misgive, and to keep the vial from falling into the claws of the lupines, we will keep it safe within the city. Alejandro and I will find a way to capture and force-feed an Assamite.
This night has passed quickly, and as I prepare for sleep, I can still taste Isabelle’s vitae on my lips. We have taken our second drink, and I feel my soul drawn closer to hers. The thundering of Michael’s voice, though still present, has faded, as if now he speaks from behind a thick curtain. Tomorrow is the wedding, and Isabelle, naked, awaits me on the marble slab which will be shortly converted into our bridal bed.
My Dearest Voivode and Sire, I have received your order to accompany Mordwyr ap-Elissed, Prince of Paris, and his retinue back to his domain, to replace Andrei. Truth be told, I am relieved to leave Constantinople behind; there is a chaos that seems to infect all those who remain for too long. The city surely cannot bear the demands they place upon the kine. I fear something will give before long; but I digress. I was considering how best to find Prince Mordwyr when fortune came to visit. Lady Szantovich returned to our holding, bearing a request from one Don Alejandro Penasco of Paris. His companions had apparently gone missing in Constantinople, and he required assistance to locate them. Realizing there could be no coincidence here, I bade the lady lead me to the inn where the Don was staying. The Don explained that he had come from Paris with his Prince and fellow members of the court, but they had gone on a Setite hunt while he had been otherwise occupied. This quickly explained what had occurred at the Setites' temple the previous evening—someone had attacked their holding, forcing the snakes to flee in fear for their unlives. I was just ready to explain this to Don Alejandro when who should appear but Prince Mordwyr and his entourage; and what a varied and interesting collection they are—mountainous Wilhelm Friedrich von Arlow, rough-looking yet devoted Gervais de la Lance Brisée, and the glorious Lady Isabelle de Troyes. The Lady had apparently been snatched away by the serpents, stirring the ire of the Prince who lays claim to her, and he and his companions had dealt with the snakes as they well should have. It is quite apparent the Prince is taken with the Lady, and for that, I feel few could hold it against him. Upon first glance I had assumed she was Tzimisce, so painstakingly perfect were her features, but even in the courts of the Dracon I have never seen anything so disarmingly perfect. Were I moved beyond pure aesthetic appreciation for evidence of high breeding, I might proclaim the Lady's radiance as evidence of a “higher power,” like the fanatics of the nailed god. We exchanged introductions, and Prince Mordwyr was most pleased when he learned of my lineage. He claimed to have had favourable dealings with you, referring to you as a great friend, and he assured me he was most honored to meet me. The Prince and his companions wished to hunt down Makareta-sherit, the Setite who had planned the kidnapping of the Lady Isabelle, (she had apparently tricked the Don into thinking she was but a hapless neonate, effecting her escape shortly afterward) but first they required shelter for the Lady. I brought them back to our holding and placed her in the capable hands of Cosmina Grimaldi before strapping on my own armor and accompanying them in the hunt. I led them to a hookah bar wherein many Cainites find easy prey in the opium-addled wretches, a business the serpents have their fangs in, but the search proved fruitless. The Prince then insisted we investigate the temple despite my assurances that there were no Setites left, so strong is his hatred for them. The doors lay battered from their hinges, clear evidence of the fury of their previous visit, but the hole remained unoccupied save for a secret chamber filled with dead and near-dead kine. A revolting example of excessive waste—it was unlikely the disappearance of a few of these wretches would alarm anyone, but eventually such practices will draw unwanted attention from the nailed god's fanatics. Any Tzimisce worthy of his blood knows a fortress is only as good as the foundation it is built upon. This is why we reside in the mountains where we have absolute control, not in a morass of chaos and unrestrained excess such as Constantinople. Foolish snakes with delusions of dragonhood. Much to my dismay, Gervais recited the twisted blessings of his cult over the last wretch who remained alive. I will not deny his prowess and apparent dedication to Prince Mordwyr and Lady Isabelle, but if more of those who share the insane beliefs of restraint for promises of gossamer are Embraced, I shudder to think what will become of the Kindred. Will they throw themselves upon the Inquisition's fires in martyrdom, believing their greatest gift to be a curse? This is a most dangerous infection, one that must never be allowed to gain hold in the Voivodate. Our search largely fruitless, we returned to the household where we made arrangements for the journey back to Paris. Cosmina, in her usual impeccable manner, ensured we did not want for blood or any other comforts before we prepared for the fortnight-long undertaking. Back in Paris, the Prince demonstrated his full regal command of his court soon after we arrived, throwing the doors wide in a dramatic manner before striding in, with the rest of us in tow. I was reunited with my dearest brother Andrei, whom I have not seen in a decade. Much of what I am today I owe to his stern but guiding hand. We spent some time talking of things that have changed over the decade, and I handed him your letter as well as the Lady Madalina's. As you have commanded, he is to be transferred to England, where he will attempt to exacerbate the rumored discord between Mithras and the Fiefs of the Black Cross, led by Jürgen. It is a most dangerous undertaking but one which I am sure Andrei is equal to. Before the night was through, the Prince summoned me to the ‘Red Room,’ the very mention of which drew alarmed gazes from some of the Kindred present in the court. Inside, Don Alejandro, whom I have learned is the Prince's Seneschal, informed me of the position of the Scourge, a role that remains secret in the court of Paris. The Scourge uses the veil of secrecy to find and destroy those Cainites who pose a danger to the court. It seems both the Prince and Seneschal find me equal to the task, and I was more than honored to accept the position, though it seems the previous Scourge was quite happy to vacate. Don Alejandro introduced me to Doña Beatriz, the former Scourge and his sister by blood. She gave me details on Miriam, a Muslim Lasombra who has undue influence over the Knights Templar, a group of fanatics made even more dangerous by the presence of Edmond du Bergerac. This Templar's misguided faith is apparently so strong that he is able to perform magicks which allow him to sense Cainites. To add to the danger, there is also concern over the presence of Assamites in the city. It would appear I have my work cut out for me.
Prepared and devoted,
Serafim
Ordoño of Castile, I am back in Paris now. I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I am to be back home. Having secured an alliance with the Tzimisce and obtained the destruction of the Assamites, I am now back home. Constantinople is a mess: Kindred moving about boldly with no rules at all. Such openness is repugnant and deserves to be punished. Kindred attacking and killing right out in the open will only lead to violence. It is no way to run a city. Paris is much more civilized, and we are better for it. We have returned to Paris with two more companions. Gervais de la Lance Brisée is a Nosferatu, hideous and ugly. He seems to be a spiritual man. He is a formidable warrior and seems to have been granted the ability to see glimpses into the future! I feel he will be useful indeed. He is a trustworthy sort, but he seems to enjoy the swearing of oaths. He is loyal to the Prince and will be quite useful to us. If I cared about his well being, I would try to dissuade him from his foolish sense of morality, but he seems like the kind who needs to believe in something. On the other hand, the Tzimisce, Serafim Mironescu, Childe of Voivode Dimitri is quickly becoming a trusted friend. He is quiet, resourceful and most importantly, discreet. More than any of my companions, he understands the natural order of things. It is my hope that the bond between us will represent the bond between our Clans. He and his Sire are both capable and honorable. I have convinced my Prince to appoint Serafim our Scourge. I have no doubt that he will perform this task admirably. The news from Doña Beatriz has me troubled. The spy of Miriam is in Paris but has been able to elude us. The murders seem to have stopped, but I fear that if something is not done soon this city will become very dangerous for us. My dear sister has served us well, but she naturally has her own matters to attend to and will most likely depart with you after our meeting. As for the meeting, I fear that Paris is becoming dangerous. With the spy still on the loose, the recent Setite attack on the court, and the constant intrigue among the Kindred, I feel that it would be best to meet outside of Paris. The three of us—Doña Beatriz, you, and I—should meet at the second tomb on the Cold Road south of Paris. It will be safe and secret, a suitable place for our meeting. I look forward to your reply.
Your obedient servant, Alejandro de Toledo
5 December 1202
My Liege, How good to be back in your presence. I am overjoyed that you are in good health, and that I have been able to return your childe to you unharmed. As you have requested, here is my report of our venture to Constantinople. After arriving by boat on the 3rd of November, I immediately felt your childe’s summons and rushed to his side. He was at the time greatly distressed, as his Lady had been taken by Setites just a few minutes prior.
We immediately took to the roofs and searched the area but to little avail. It was then that we were met by your humble servant, Gervais, and it was he who led us to the Setite lair. With hellish vengeance, we fought our way through this evil and laid waste to many a Kindred. Alas, we were out of time to rescue our Lady, and it was then that I observed your childe as he gave her his dark gift (which you had given him).
Makareta-sherit had grievously tortured our Lady, but we sent the Setite Queen into torpor. Makareta’s heart was missing, and I was told she thus could not be destroyed; so we secluded her, intending to delay our Lady’s retribution. That day we slept within the crypt of your servant, Gervais, and the next night we found your Sire Michael. I was most honored to be in his presence, and it was your childe and your pupil that opened his eyes to the possible sleep you wish for him. I felt his madness and pray that you may succeed in getting your Sire to take his much needed rest. After our meeting with Michael, we met up with our Seneschal and another called Serafim. It was then that we found out that Makareta-sherit had woken from her torpor and that the Seneschal had not been able to contain her–if only I had taken better precautions–if only I had informed Don Alejandro. I pray that you may forgive me this terrible oversight. Though Gervais shows an almost fanatic passion for his god, I must emphasize the great aid your servant and pupil rendered us. He is a fearsome fighter and I am honored to fight at his side. It is well that he is now our Lady's champion. Our party now also includes the Tzimisce Seraphim, a most noble Kindred of whom I know little, but your childe’s trust in him will guide my opinion. Further investigation showed that Makareta-sherit most probably fled the city for Egypt, though we cannot be sure. At this point, we decided it best to return to Paris. We left Constantinople on the 6th of November, reached Marseilles within 22 days, and after a night’s rest, we departed for Paris. I wish to bring to your attention a vision Gervais had upon reaching Paris: he saw himself cloaked as our Keeper would, and your childe reacted concerned. I have informed Jacob of this, but he seemed untroubled. Another matter of import is my good friend Jean-Louis. It looks as if he is changed. A hunger burns within him. I do not know if it is the jealous hunger for the Embrace his sister has received before him. Perhaps he is at odds with the Embrace I have promised him. I know not, and I pray you guide me to find a way to temper my friend’s pained passion. I fear for him. Ever your humble servant, W.
December 6th, 1202
And so I am married. What a rapturous, bloody night this has been! As I sit here and write, on the third-storey balcony of Nouvelle Caledonie, looking out over the fire-dappled, dark waters of the Seine, I can barely hear the scratching of the quill on paper, so strong is the song of Isabelle’s blood in my heart and in my head. Nevermind more distant sounds! And the cry of my Patriarch’s gloriously-mad song is heard no more. It is gone as if it never had been. Strange, that even his voice is subsumed by the Kindred blood-bond. But my bride’s call to me is sweeter, and it guides me with its gentleness, its strength cloaked in fragility, an impregnable bulwark of glass. It is not Michael; it does not threaten gibbering madness dragged down into a screaming void.
The sky lightens in the east, and the inexorable, fiery Dawn approaches, relentlessly hounding all Kindred to sleep. Brief must I then be! We had Elysium again this night. This is not Geoffroi’s Court, where Ventrue rot in stagnant company, but the Seat of Love, and music is played from sunset to sunrise! Tonight was no different, and revels abounded, where the most rapacious libertine would find satiety. The food and drink laid out like a Sultan’s banquet for the mortal attendants who were present—why, the sight gave me pause, and for the briefest of moments, I wished I were mortal again. To taste again, and the senses all the more alive because of their mortality; to find pleasure for oneself because one is but a wisp of smoke; all the more reason to revel, for as oft as the gods blink, generations of men are born and die. But this is Paris, and Masquerade rules all here. Thus, though my love for the Tzimisce can be sundered by no force in the heavens or on earth, I will not imitate them but keep an Elysium in which no Kindred feed upon kine. And yet, after this night’s events, I cannot help but look to these coming nights with dread: will Masquerade save us? Will chaos consume my city? I pray my allies stand fast with me!
All was set for the exchange of nuptials, and my Sire escorted into the hall a palpable vision of loveliness! My Isabelle, how shall I record in words what my mind’s eye can never forget? Were I unschooled in the old stories, I might make the same blustering mistake as that wretched braggart, Cassiopeia, or I might worship at her feet, as did men of renown when they looked upon Psyche’s radiance! My bride? Surely not! Truly, she is meant for a god. Without doubt, Chrétien escorts her in, granting us the privilege of a brief glance at divine perfection before she is whisked away to the gods’ dwelling place, where she is among equals. But that momentary vision would nourish the souls of all assembled in the hall until the Last Fire unmakes the world.
But no! This vision was for me, and I took her hand before my subjects, before my dear friends, Wilhelm, Alejandro, Gervais, and Serafim, and made this vow:
From now until I see the sun, From now until the rise of Caine, From now until the Judgement Day, My body, unbreathing, yet is thine. My heart, unbeating, yet is thine. My soul, damned, yet is thine. My blood is thine.
And then we drank, one from another, from Chrétien’s offered chalice, and oh! serendipitous joy! The singing of Isabelle’s blood was like some bright bird, until now unseen, bursting through bare, tangled branches, and as she flies about, drops of liquid light rain down from her wings. Night is illuminated, and the tree is leafy and bears fruit in winter. Michael’s voice was banished, and though it had seemed to me some magnificent chorus, it was to my Isabelle’s song like war drums to a sonata.
We danced, and though Chrétien played, and that exquisitely I am told, I needed not his tune, for by Isabelle’s blood-song I could keep time. The external world vanished, its edges receding forever and forever from my sight, until alone danced my bride and I. And then I vanished as well, was unmade in the brilliance of her aspect. I relinquished my hold on myself, happily embracing insubstantiality, except that the beauty of her face would shine forth beyond the darkening of the universe’s last star. Then I realized that I was no longer dancing but was standing, along with all other Toreador in the hall, save my Sire, simply enraptured. Isabelle was veiled, and the spell was broken. How my eyes then burned! How my head pounded! For several moments, I could see neither the walls nor the ceiling. Surroundings were dim. They were an afterthought, a blurred image, and then they rushed back into my field of sense with a thunderous crash. The vision was over, and I did not see who had veiled my Lady, but I know it was one of my coterie.
Jean-Baptiste, that dog of a Setite, had not witnessed my nuptials, but now he strode into Elysium, and how haughtily he came! Scorn and pride sat emblazoned on his brow, and I longed for him to be gone. But as Prince of Paris and bridegroom, I played the gracious host. The Egyptian mannequin, the tattooed fiend approached, and with deliberate mockery, he bowed low to me and my bride. And when he spoke, vitriol and hate poured out: “My mistress, Makareta-sherit, sends her greetings, and most heartily she congratulates you on the occasion of your marriage. Long may you enjoy your Setite bride!”
My mouth opened and closed wordlessly. The audacity! Insufferable arrogance! I turned to my Lady, but she was weeping blood, and she turned and fled. I was after her in a moment, but then I remembered myself and, turning, roared to my coterie, “Do not let this monster leave! Elysium is canceled!” And then, all within the hall froze as, with all the power of my Toreador heritage, I pursued Isabelle out into the garden. I did not know what was occurring inside the wedding hall, nor did I care, for I held and comforted Isabelle, and yet I felt my efforts were futile. Makareta-sherit’s cuts ran deeper than any salve from my tongue could heal. Chrétien stood beside us in the garden, and in a moment, the noble Crusader, Gervais, came running out to us. I did not fear Jean-Baptiste’s escape, for he would not escape the eyes of Lord Dimitri’s children, Serafim and Andrei, and as sure as the ground is at my feet and the stars dance overhead, Wilhelm’s sword would find his flesh. My Brujah friend always strikes true!
But Gervais was before me, pleading, “My lord, on my knee I beg of thee the head of the unholy slanderer!” I cannot remember his exact words, so excited was I, but that was the full meaning of his request. “With all my heart, noble knight, I grant this. Bring me his head!” I growled.
Chrétien and Jean-Louis saw Isabelle safely home while I, as Prince, dealt with this outrage. When I re-entered the hall, my thoughts were ripe with mischief, but I saw how Gervais and Wilhelm had expertly handled the situation: Jean-Baptiste hung on the wall, pinned through the chest by Wilhelm’s greatsword. We discussed what was best to be done and agreed that, of all the places to which we had direct access, Nouvelle Caledonie’s dungeon best suited our purposes. And so Wilhelm and Gervais carried the foul dog’s tattooed, bloody, broken body to my house. I took pains to hide what we were doing from Isabelle, and my Sire aided us in that endeavor by installing her in apartments far from the dungeon’s entrance. Gervais knew we would torture the Setite and wanted nothing to do with it; his head alone he wanted. Wilhelm offered the good knight a place to stay, but Gervais kindly refused, speaking of his necessity to mortify his spirit awhile. I did not question his piety, his personal devotion to his faith, and let him go without another word. But the look I gave him left him in no doubt: he would have satisfaction!
As feared, Jean-Baptiste has no heart, and so he is un-killable! Wilhelm tore his chest open, and what we had expected was true. Chrétien must be already aboard ship now, sleeping safely, beginning the long journey back to Byzantium. This Setite was a problem; this is still a problem which our coterie must deal with alone. But we are the Court of Paris. We are up to the task!
Wilhelm ordered chains to be brought, and he securely bound Jean-Baptiste’s vile, tattooed body to the cold, damp wall. While he was arranging that method of restraint, I sent word and carriage to Perotin, the musician at Notre Dame, asking him to come to Nouvelle Caledonie and bring with him a decanter of water that had been blessed by a priest. He arrived just as Wilhelm had finished his gaoler’s labors. Perotin was overjoyed to see me, and though it was the middle of the night, he had jumped at my summons, for he had been longing to speak to me about my proposal.
My proposal! Yes, I had forgot. Before my journey to the east and Byzantium, I had mentioned in passing how I hoped to one day found a college of music and to invite to Paris the best talent and thereby make my city the musical jewel of Europe. Perotin had not forgotten the favor I had shown him, and he assumed this midnight summons concerned that. It did not, and yet I gave him a handful of silver deniers, assured him that I would speak to him more of this another night soon, and sent him on his way. I instructed him that I expected my pupils to be well dressed, that their exteriors should be comely as their music is beautiful.
Wilhelm and I stood before the hanging form of the hateful Asp and discussed how best to proceed in our interrogation. First, he must be drained, lest he call upon the powers in his blood and, at best, escape or, at worst, catch us unawares and injure us. Wilhelm thought this the most prudent way to proceed, but I warned him about the blood-bond, that draining his blood by mouth would prove difficult, for the urge to swallow Jean-Baptist’s vitae would be nearly irresistible. And so Wilhelm first took a drink from me—I was at first reluctant to allow this, but Wilhelm said it might act as a safeguard against danger if he could not resist the call of our prisoner’s blood.
As I write this, I see how foolish I have been! I am already blood-bound and cannot be so again. It should have been I who drained Jean-Baptiste, for it would have been perfectly safe for me! But what a way to spend my wedding night!
Wilhelm took the little drink from my wrist and immediately wanted more. I cried out, commanding him to stop, and, with not a little effort, he did. I felt no different, but I am sure Wilhelm heard the distant song of my blood. He then turned on the Setite worm and slit his wrist, draining as much blood as possible in a rather messy fashion. How barbaric our interrogation had become! As our captive was being squeezed and shaken, I watched him closely with soulsight, and when his aura began to fade, I told Wilhelm to cease. Then, my Brujah friend took those last mouthfuls, but not until shackling himself as a preventative measure. The first he drew and spit out. The second was the same. But I knew one more mouthful had to be taken to be safe. This last one, however, was too much for Wilhelm to resist, and, though he roared out his frustration at his helplessness, he relished its taste as he swallowed it!
So he had a one-drink link to our common enemy. But I thought of Marcus Tertius, sleeping in the de Troyes crypt. Could he do for Wilhelm what he had once done for me? Could he break the blood-bond? Would we even be successful in rousing one who so desperately longed for torpor? We had to try—but Wilhelm did not want to. “Why break the bond?” he asked. Ah, yes, the blood-bond, weak though it was, was doing its work. I had to bend all my concentration and persuasion towards my end: to get Wilhelm to accept severing his connection to Jean-Baptiste.
I removed the heavy stone slab that shielded the noble Roman from the cares of this world. How my heart broke, that necessity compelled me to awaken one so weary! I instructed Wilhelm to place his hand on Marcus’ breast, and when he did so, the elder’s eyes fluttered open, and he sat up. In his graciousness, he acceded to my request and removed the blood-bond.
I have no desire to recount in any detail the bloody methods of our interrogation, yet it will suffice to write that arrows first dipped in holy water and then fired in one’s flesh have the peculiar result of Kindred sobbing, thrashing, howling, wailing, and begging for Final Release. We learned that Makareta-sherit is in Paris and was staying in Jean-Baptiste’s haven!
After sending the Setite dog back into torpor by impaling his head to the wall, we made haste to the Setite haven, the location of which my Sheriff already knew. It was a place of blood orgies, he told me, but I was not prepared for its full effect on me. As we approached and I heard the infernal Setite chanting coming from within, a maddening shriek crying out from the inner chamber of my mind answered. From that dark place which I have never dared explore, from that locked cell holding prisoner a Beast which, if set free, could not be controlled, a wordless snarl issued forth. The crouching Inmate of My Soul clawed at the walls which I had built around it and threatened to tear down the prison in which it slumbered. The foundations shook as it raged and sought release—all the time, the chanting continued in the house, and a red mist rose before my eyes, shrouding Wilhelm, who stood before me, in obscurity. My friend spoke to me, but his mouth moved in pantomime, for the gibbering of the Beast filled the canals of my ears, a river of filth flowing from its slavering maw. I retreated at its approach, abandoned my watch, for the beast would sunder its bonds—this I knew!
Then it came on like a pulse—gentle, calm, yet ultimately insurmountable in its strength, for it was a song that, though temporarily drowned out by the raging of the Beast, would still play on long after the monster within fell silent. I ceased my retreat and clung to Isabelle’s song like a shipwrecked sailor hugging a rock, the only thing keeping the dark waves of a storm-tossed sea from engulfing him. It took only a moment, and my Lady’s song burst through the fury. It wrapped about the prison cell, reinforcing its walls and transplanting the haunch-sitting lunatic into a deeper darkness, one from which I pray it never returns.
Having mastered myself, with my Lady’s aid, I ascended into the house, and there Wilhelm and I found a mass of writhing, painted kine. Among them stood Lady Jeanne and Katherine, both Toreador and both blood-bound to Jean-Baptiste, chanting the final words of a ritual. They spoke in unison, always answering our questions with a distracted ecstasy. Surely, they were deep in the Setites’ dread sway.
What happened next was a flurry of rushed events. Taking Wilhelm’s steed, I returned to Nouvelle Caledonie, told Jean-Louis to go fetch Jacob, and ordered my carriage. We were intending to bring the ladies back to my castle and question them further, with Jacob present. Perhaps he could advise how best to thwart Jean-Baptiste’s hold over them. But when I returned to the Setite haven, what had occurred? Lady Jeanne was gone, and Wilhelm had tied Katherine up in a curtain. With her sister absent, she was now slack-jawed and dazed. My boyhood growing up in the Highlands, the nights spent stalking deer and other quarries, did me yeoman service, for I quickly picked up Jeanne’s trail. We followed it into a nearby residence, wherein sat an old, blind woman before a low fire. We gave the blaze a wide berth, lying to the woman by telling her that brigands had entered her house. Considering her advanced age and her abject poverty, she was not really concerned that she was in any danger.
Down to the cellar we flew, and there we found Lady Jeanne hiding. Katherine, wrapped up in the curtain and slung over Wilhelm’s shoulder, immediately reverted to her annoying, vapid prattle. Taking both women in tow, we left the house, but seeing the old woman had made me think of Gervais (why?), and I was moved by her humble condition. I pressed a few silver deniers into her thin, gnarled hands and entreated her to feed.
Safely back at Nouvelle Caledonie, we asked the Keeper to speak wisdom, but Jacob could find no way to break their blood bond. I would not again awaken my honored guest, for to abuse him thus would be to sin against hospitality. So another way had to be found—but none was, and so we released the ladies.
I have just spoken with Isabelle, and she has told me of Jean-Louis’ obsession. “It is almost a derangement,” she told me with tremulous voice, “and thoughts of Setites consume him.” Something must be done about this. I will speak to Wilhelm tomorrow, for he now sleeps in the dungeon, just outside the door of our prisoner. O worthy watchman! May the gods watch over you this day.
I hear the muffled tones of my Lady’s voice, for she says her matins in the next room. The sun will soon burn away the night and fill the sky, and so I make haste to pen a new law. After I write it, I will seal it, and only when the Sheriff reads it at Summons will all know what lies therein.
To all Kindred of Paris.
December 7th, 1202
Having just finished writing directions to my steward, I now have time, once again before another dawn, to scribble out my thoughts, to make sense of a night’s events. These nightly entries help organize my thoughts and bring a dispassionate perspective to proceedings which, when I am engaged in them, cannot be properly discerned. My steward will tomorrow go to Lycée des les Roses and purchase it from the kine owner, M. Gerard de Beaufort. I have long wished to establish Masquerade, and what better way than to have a permanent venue for Elysium? Business will also take my steward across town to the docks district, near the Seine, where he has been instructed to purchase a whorehouse and transform it into an apothecary’s. I will install Jacques the Blond, my own surgeon’s assistant, as proprietor of the shop. I have no interest in medicines, of course, but this shop will serve to disguise what occurs beneath its floors, in its secret dungeon which Wilhelm will construct. There the Sheriff will live and be happy in the knowledge that he is in possession of a concealed prison.
Isabelle was painting much of the night, and as she did so, she hummed beautifully to herself. She moves with such grace and poise, and I long to see her work. But she is not yet finished, and though I flirted with her, teased her, tweaked her, she was an unmoving oak. I could not prevail upon her. So I stood in the hall and gazed upon Chrétien’s likeness of my Lady for some time before mounting the stairs to my chamber where I now write.
Our Setite prisoner still hangs in my dungeon, and though we awoke him this night and demanded to know where the invisible Makareta-sherit lurks (for it was Katherine and Jeanne’s ritual that rendered her so), he would not speak. Nor did I expect him to, for I understand better than my Sheriff the powerful sway of the blood bond.
This night has been taken up with concerns of Jean-Louis. With his obsession, he has forced the situation to its crisis, and Isabelle had to be cruel only to be kind. Wilhelm’s ghoul lamented that my Lady was no longer his sister, but it was not the Embrace, per se, that grieved him. She is far from him, and that bothers him. He wished to protect her, and he could not. He failed to keep her pure, to keep her innocent. He would hunt every Setite on earth until all are destroyed.
There was too much confusion in his words, and his mind was like a ship batted to and fro by stormy waves. Wilhelm wished to have his ghoul’s mind restored to its former cohesion, for a knight must be sound of mind, he told me. So I decided to use my Toreador powers to persuade Jean-Louis out of his madness. Isabelle may have the eyes of a Toreador, but I have the tongue.
And so it was begun. Wilhelm told Jean-Louis that he cannot sire, so if he wanted to be Embraced, he would have to choose Toreador or Brujah. Would he be closer to his sister or take up sword and shield, continuing his vocation as warrior? He could respond honestly only after my influence was brought to bear. I spoke at length with my brother-in-law, first gaining his trust. As we spoke, I understood his pain. I knew the mindless hatred of the Beast within myself. As Isabelle’s husband, I also understood her brother’s desire to protect her. This set Jean-Louis at ease, and we spoke more naturally after this.
Now came the delicate part—I had to dive deeper to find the root of the problem, to find that part of him which had gone awry. This was the most difficult for me, and I feared for a time that I had failed. But Jean-Louis’ bright, burning eyes and nodding head assured me that we were still commiserating. With the root found, I hefted my axe and severed the anchor of his mania. The tree fell, and the obsession died.
The rough road had been trod. All would be well from here. Or would it? My Lady does not cease to amaze me—what she sees in people, how effortlessly she pierces all facades and forces the heart to bare its secrets! She spoke bluntly for effect, telling her brother that he needs to let her go. My husband is more to me than you can ever be, she told him. Jean-Louis might have taken a physical blow on the chin, for he stumbled back a step at her words. Wilhelm directed his friend to a chair, and there the knight sat in wonder and deep thought, and we did not disturb his reverie. He pondered what his sister had said to him, and how it must have ripped his heart asunder! But after a time, Jean-Louis stood, resolute, square-jawed, and announced his desire to be Brujah and to win Isabelle’s respect and love apart from fraternal bonds. This pleased us all.
Wilhelm then told his friend that he can indeed sire, but that he had said he could not because he had hoped Jean-Louis would make an unbiased decision. And yet something still bothered my friend, for he paced a bit and fidgeted with the blond braids in his beard before he spoke again. Now that the moment had come, he looked again and again at his friend, but every time his eyes beheld Jean-Louis, there was dejection in his aspect. What? Is Wilhelm sad, now that Jean-Louis will be Embraced? Surely not, for my friend has longed for this. What then could it be? Why does Wilhelm grieve whenever his eyes fall on Jean-Louis? His feelings run deep, I know, and I would not dare broach the subject with him. If he wishes to tell me, I am sure one day he will, when he is ready. For now, Wilhelm has sent Jean-Louis away, to spend some time apart in contemplation, to be assured that this Embrace is truly what he wants.
Ah! but Wilhelm’s blood-song is as strong in the ears of Jean-Louis as Isabelle’s is in mine. How could he have ever refused? Was there even a choice? I now understand my friend’s sorrow.
And now I fully understand Marcus’ gift to me—allowing Isabelle the chance to accept or refuse me, without reference to the overwhelming sway of the blood bond. Noble Roman, I thank you! My house is yours until the world’s end. Sweetly sleep in fame!
December 8th, 1202
I have spent this night in ecstasy with my Kindred bride, and we have drunk from each other until our senses reeled and I thought my heart would burst at the pleasure. We indulged in each other until it hurt.
Greetings from Paris, the Beauty-Seat of the Courts of Love. This night has been a momentous night and may be the beginning of a complete restructuring of Kindred throughout the Courts. War may be upon us. The monarchs of the Courts of Love may move against one another. I do not yet know how this drama will play itself out. But have patience, my Sire. I will put down for you here all that has occurred.
Infuriated at the Setites, not only for what they did to my Isabelle but also because of their nefarious activities in Paris, I enacted a Summons, at which my Sheriff read my newly-proclaimed law banning all Setite rituals, chants, and activities that deliberately seek to undermine Toreador hegemony in France. I am enclosing a copy of my decree.
I strode into Lycée des les Roses wearing silver coronet, embroidered black silk, and billowing cloak. Wilhelm was with me, and our unified march brought everyone to immediate silence. My Sheriff’s sword was drawn, for this was not Elysium, and he insisted on a show of strength. My gaze was my weapon, and as I approached the ornately-carved, high-backed chair on the dais, all bowed when my eyes fell upon them. Isabelle had already been escorted into the hall, and she stood near her chair, which sat at the foot of the dais. She was all loveliness, Sire, and even with a mind brimming with thoughts of business, I could not help but pause an instant, before assuming my throne, kiss her hand, and welcome her. It was then that she took advantage of the brief moment to ask me if I wished her to listen to the minds of the assembled Kindred. I assented, with all my heart.
The proclamation read, the law enacted, the Sheriff’s voice boomed over the silent forms gathered together, asking them if there were any questions or objections. The Parisian Kindred were of course surprised that a Prince so newly seated in his throne would make so bold a declaration against an entire Clan of Cainites, but there was no protestation. It is done, and Isabelle tells me that there is no outright dissension in the ranks.
My subjects were thrilled when I told them that the hall in which they now stood, Lycée des les Roses, I had purchased, and that it would become our permanent venue for Elysium. We will make our times of revelry the envy of all the Courts!
Katherine and Lady Jeanne, blood-bound slaves of Jean-Baptiste, were present, and, through them, Isabelle heard again the damned Setite whisperings! Would that I could banish those whores, but my Lady will not let me risk my tenuous position in Paris. She says she will suffer for a greater good, but what good is greater than the ease and safety of my wife? Isabelle’s counsel is the wind that blows over the hot coals of my heart and cools my rage.
I released the assembled Kindred, and each returned to his business. Lady Anne-Marie, my Chamberlain, brought in Edouard du Guilbert to see me. He is the sire of Katherine and Jeanne, and I had hoped he could help me find a solution to their condition. But he had no advice, though he deeply loved them and would have their affections returned. They are lost to him, and he laments this, but I espied a secret conflict of feeling within him: he loves them more precisely because they are lost to him. He loves them in wanting them; were he to possess them once more, he would tire of them quickly. After all, their insipid blather cannot be solely influenced by the Setites. They were silly girls before Jean-Baptiste tempted them.
I would have quickly dismissed Edouard, but I remembered an Elysium many nights previous and how he had played for me then. He was not skilled in composition, but his performance of others’ works was exquisite. Then I thought of Perotin—my first two pupils. I dreamed of founding a college of music. Maybe now is the time. So I spoke to my fellow Toreador bard, and he told me of a Lord Henri of Provence, arrived in the train of Lady Margaret of Provence, betrothed of King Louis IX, who was building a school but who had lost his financing, so the institution stood finished but empty. Edouard was delighted when I told him I would complete the financing, but that it was important for this school to have a College of Music. Kine students could meet for normal classes during the daylight hours, but the school of music would operate at night. The ostensible reason was space and efficiency, and this is all Lord Henri need know. Edouard is seeing to the details. I have given him the legal power to finance the institution’s completion in the name of the Marquis de Troyes.
To the Red Room Wilhelm, Anne-Marie, Isabelle, and I retired for relaxation and conversation. I thought this a good time to bring up Anne-Marie’s sire’s contention with the Queen Matriarch of Chartres. And even though she was my Chamberlain, Anne-Marie saw fit to lie to me—with my Isabelle in the room, no less! Anne-Marie thought she could fool my Lady, so her shock at Isabelle’s discernment was understandable. Queen Esclarmonde the Black of Toulouse wishes to eradicate the Matriarch because the former thinks the latter is weak and a sham. The Matriarch does lay claim to Michael’s blood, and we both know that is not true! I do not want infighting among the Courts of Love, but what did King Etienne tell me? What has Anne-Marie told me this night? Is the Matriarch content with my rule? She could not dislodge Geoffroi from Paris, but she did not need to. He was Ventrue, so she could always tell herself that she was uncontested Matriarch because Geoffroi was not Toreador. But now that a Toreador Prince rules Paris, will she be content? Fair Star of Our Clan, grace me with your wisdom! How would you proceed?
Anne-Marie is a dullard indeed, for she still thought she had free reign over her thoughts, though Isabelle was still present and staring into her soul. She hated me, my wife, and wished to see us staked and left for the sun. Isabelle raised her veil and spat in her face, but Anne-Marie did not retaliate. The intense focus of her eyes told me that she stood transfixed. Isabelle had entranced the Chamberlain. I did not want to lose my grip on the situation, so without looking at my Lady, I asked Wilhelm to cover her shining beauty.
I was finished with that faithless lapdog of the Black, and I banished her from Paris. Anne-Marie thought me a fool and told me so, but I knew that she spoke from courage built upon false assumptions. I disabused her of her notions and let the mark of Michael shine forth! Sire, you do not know this, but when I met the Patriarch, he traced a symbol on the palm of my and Isabelle’s hands, and it has never faded. He said it was his mark, and that if I was ever in danger, I should call to him, and he will give me succor. From this symbol Anne-Marie fell back in terror, shock, and disbelief. “I am who I say I am! Take this message to your Queen!” I told her, and she fled into the night.
I will write an open invitation to all the Courts, inviting King Etienne of Poitiers, Matriarch Salianna of Chartres, Queen Isouda de Blaise of Anjou, Queen Helene la Juste of Champagne, and Queen Esclarmonde the Black of Toulouse to Paris, so that we may toast together the unified reign of the Toreador in France. May it be a time of peace and not a royal fellowship of death!
Finally, Isabelle has completed her first painting, and though I had been forbidden to see it for many nights, I knew from her quick brushstrokes that she was putting the finishing touches on her work. Not a quarter of an hour ago, my Lady showed it to me. How marvelous her skill! It is a painting of my very self, but its realism is frightening. When first I looked upon it, I thought my double sat before me, trapped within an artist’s frame. Would my doppelganger speak to me? Would it step out of its frame? My nervous laugh brought Isabelle to my side, and she hooked her arm in mine as we gazed at it. “’Tis marvelous!” I breathed in wonderment, and she thanked me.
I bid you good-day, my Lord, and I hope you have been successful in convincing our Grandsire to rest. I await news from Byzantium with constant anticipation. May God direct your steps; may your hands work to do His will. As always, I remain to you
Ever faithful,
December 9th, 1202
Paris My Liege, I was sad to see you leave! Your wise counsel shall be missed, by more than just myself, but I am nonetheless confident that your childe and his court shall do well in your absence. After your departure the night of your childe’s wedding, we proceeded to treat our guest as you advised us to. First we bled him, and then I drew his blood. As I was loath to be in any way bound to him, and to counter this possible effect, I first took some blood from your childe. Never having done/felt this before, I unfortunately succumbed to our guest, but while so inclined, I agreed to meet with your childe’s other guest and was 'cured' by his faith of ALL my ties. It is indeed interesting what a 'holy-tipped' arrow may do to persuade the stubborn, and so J.B. finally–reluctantly–informed us that the Serpent Queen was in Paris, and we immediately gave chase. The two sisters under our guest’s influence were found, but I am sad to say the Queen has eluded us once more. The next night, I focused on my loyal, ailing friend and–thankfully—with the help of his sister and your childe, we managed to alleviate his madness. I am ever so grateful for the gifts you have bestowed on your childer, and they have been wielded so well. Yet, I was saddened by his ‘loss of family’ and gave him (through some well-formulated lies which removed me from the equation) an honest choice of our two Clans. Added to this, his sister also removed herself by revealing to him some deep-seated truths about his near-obsession of her, which she had plucked from his deepest thoughts and emotions. To my joy he chose the way of the warrior but still I gave him three days of leave, to secret himself in meditation, and (hopefully) preparation. Your blood runs strong, and thus our Lady mentioned that indeed she was haunted by the sounds of hissing within her walls. Your childe immediately penned and sealed a new law of Paris and handed it to me. A formal Summons was set for two days hence, where I was to declare it before the Kindred. Having realized that our heartless snake could not die, and that his presence within these walls was felt by our beloved ‘Fey,’ we decided to accommodate him elsewhere. Your wise childe instructed and enabled me to acquire new lodgings–for myself–and those less fortunate to be in my ‘care.’ With the Keeper’s help, Paris now boasts (secretly of course) a very hospitable jail. I have yet to make it more spacious and comfortable. I have again met with Thomas, and am glad to have made progress in befriending him. He is a proud warrior, and I seem to have kindled a fire within him, but more so within myself. I see a future Brujah Clan, united, strong, and proud–and held together by my firm hand. I believe I have found my first, best destiny. Tonight we held our Summons, and the proclamation of the new law was well received amongst the Kindred (to all but two). Attached you will find a copy. Once again, our Lady proved her lineage by identifying these two ‘lovers of snakes’ as having the same sire. But all is not well with her, I fear! She shows a visible affliction when confronted with–or sensing–anything ‘Set’. Later, in the Red Room, our Chamberlain revealed her true colors (again, thanks to our Lady), and she has now been banned from Paris. She departed–rather swiftly—when your childe revealed to her his ‘seal’ and the error of her ways. Personally, I know that she must regret this action, for she is now aware of your true lineage; and it must be painful for her to realize she is now on the wrong side. Through her testimony it has become so obvious that the Matriarch is not who she pretends to be, but merely an upstart. Also, the Black of Toulouse may very well side with the stronger. Now, your childe has respectfully called upon all Courts of Love to gather as a newly unified Toreador France in its capital. Once congregated, they are to acknowledge their leader. We trust that then your childe shall be able to unite them under him. This is a bold move; I pray it is a wise one. This political game is new to me and the pawns are far too powerful to warrant that metaphor. I must trust that our new alliances are strong enough. Ever your humble servant, W.
December 10th, 1202
Tonight has been a glorious night for my dear friend, Wilhelm, and my heart rejoices in his gladness! Jean-Louis is now counted among the Kindred, and I know he will rise to be a great one among the Philosophers. They are gone now, and I have the rare opportunity to write without racing the sun. Where Wilhelm, Jean-Louis, and Thomas have gotten themselves off to is beyond me—but the way they raced out of here like boys at play was delightful!
Thomas, another Brujah and now friend of Wilhelm, was requested to be present at Nouvelle Caledonie for the Embrace, and while Isabelle and I sat within the parlor, Thomas stood without. I told him he was not on guard duty, but he told me Wilhelm had made a formal request of him, and so he stood hard by, as was his duty to his friend. Unable to argue with that logic, I went back in and practiced a new song I have composed. It is not yet to my liking, as I am having trouble with some of the phrasing. Perhaps another night or so, and it will be completed.
Of course two of my trusted servants stood by, prepared to offer their veins to Jean-Louis, to slake that initial burning thirst that every Kindred feels upon first awakening to his new life. But all went well, and Wilhelm is a wise Sire and a patient guide. How thrilled I was to embrace Jean-Louis, not only as a brother-in-law but as a brother-in-blood! But how I did not at first know him! Was this the same self-doubting child whom Wilhelm had taken under his wing? How his eyes blazed with determination! How his gait bespoke a man of supreme confidence! Indeed, there stood the man who was once the Marquis de Troyes. This night I have met a friend reborn, for the old Jean-Louis is no more. He cannot be found, neither by my own perusal nor by Isabelle’s penetrating gaze. Brother and sister are reunited, and the breach I feared would form between them has not been created, but only the deepest love and respect is shared between them. Happy nights these have become.
Paris My Liege, My good friend arrived tonight, and his mind was set. I had prepared myself, and once we arrived at Nouvelle Caledonie, both our Lady and Thomas stood ready (the latter was not thus informed). It was a wise precaution but not needed as I Embraced him, and he is now counted among my Clan—my first, my only, my childe, and my friend. Ah, what bliss to behold him! What grace! What joy! You should have seen us this night. We sped through the city like gods. Gloriously we dueled and matched our powers. He is faster, but I am stronger…and stronger for it; the NEW Brujah Clan now numbers three! I pray that I may one night be able to forgive myself for setting my friend on this path. I needed a servant but found a friend instead. To have taken a servant is not against my grain, but to ask of a friend to become one of us, when I know he has no choice, does not stand well with me. His joy and his strength fill me with pride, and I hope he feels favorably toward me always. With men such as he, I can surely lead the Brujah toward a new future—a consolidated force to be counted and reckoned with—an army of (and for) the Masquerade that will uphold and enforce the laws of Kindred society. Spread the word that there is one who is willing to lead all that call themselves ‘Brujah,’ to be part of THE BRUJAH CLAN—back to their former glory. Ever your humble servant, W.
1202, December 10th
Paris My dear Liege, How are things with you, and how is Constantinople? As I await your reply to my previous correspondence, I felt it good to inform you of the latest happenings here. Paris does well, and the Kindred seem at ease (besides the two sisters). The new law has had no negative repercussions that the Court or I are aware of. The Prince’s letters have been dispatched, and now we await the arrival of the Courts of Love, where our Lady la Fey now honors us as the new, glorious and insightful Chamberlain. Sadly, yet understandably, I have subsequently realized that her sibling carries a similar trigger, but to his Brujah temper. The Prince has penned a song, which has made the rounds, and there is a hum wherever I go of ‘Wolf-Slayer.’ I cannot deny it, but the tune is catchy indeed, as it would be—because it is from his hand. The name does, too, have a sweet ring to it. It has traveled far, for I hear it mentioned in many tongues. I am rather partial to ‘Wilhelm Wolf-Töter.’ Perhaps it has reached your shores by now. You must tell me what you think, for your Childe honors me greatly with this song. My Brujah now number four. The other resident Philosopher is now a part of my circle. Each week we make a point to meet—to joust and debate the finer or broader aspects of many things. On other nights we battle with swords (our Philosopher tends not to join in here –which is good—for we shall require more than just the voice of steel), but I cannot truly tell you which of these two pastimes I enjoy more. It is glorious indeed to match my skill with others of my Clan. I pray that I may have the steadfast will to serve them as they now respect me. Only now does it truly dawn on me how much I am honored and favored by my Sire’s blood. Every night I realize anew how fortunate Paris is to behold a Court so powerful, yet so united. My Childe is well, and I begin to understand how you must feel: the proud fathers we are, the noble children we have sired. Are they not grand? The love and bond I feel is strong. But sadly, now too, I am reminded of my Sire’s loss of a Childe such as this, and again a new awareness—a new insight—is reached. Until I hear from you again, trust that I am your humble servant.
Wilhelm Wolf-Töter PS: I smile as I add this note. There were only two that I slew—the third was your Childe’s.