From the Journals of Mordwyr, the Marquis de Troyes
May 2nd, 1221
The Summons has been completed, and I am on the road to Calais. I am surrounded by those I love: Isabelle, chiefly, the Angelus Mortis, and the Virago Tenebrae. Marko also accompanies us, and Lord Calum longs to see his Gangrel brothers. Farewell Paris! When I return to you, all will be different. You will not be the same city, for you are no longer my subject. No longer will I rule over you. No longer will I be bound to you as lord. That regal mantle has fallen to another—Helene la Juste. And as her first act as Queen of the United Courts of Love, she declared the Lycée des les Roses the permanent venue of Elysium, meaning that Elysium need no longer be explicitly called. “Within these walls, Elysium will always be,” proclaimed she, and her decision was met with pleasant surprise. The assembled Parisians Cainites applauded, and someone struck up some music.
We did not stay long at Elysium but left to see to our final preparations before departure. Marko, lost and lovelorn, asked if he might accompany us. “For where you go, Your Grace,” he breathed passionately, “I am happy to follow.” I shook my head gravely and replied, “But we are going to war. We will take the field against the Ventrue, and you are no fighter.” When I read his devastation and disappointment, I thought to alleviate some of his pain. “Ask the Angelus Mortis. He is our strategist on this mission, and if he approves you, you may come along.” I walked away proudly, for I was certain the Angelus Mortis would refuse to take along the fiddler. I was wrong! The Voivode has actually allowed him to come to Scotland with us. What could I do but have armor fetched for him? And now, Marko sits across from me in the carriage and beams smiles at me every chance he gets.
“I am afraid Marko will perish in Caledonia, my lord,” Isabelle whispered to me. “He is too much in love with you and knows not the danger into which you ride. And there is more.” I turned and gave to Isabelle my full attention. “He has asked me to intercede with you on his behalf! He thinks we only play at love.” Marko is indefatigable in his quest to bed me, but I vow Sol will consume the earth in fire and wind before I lie down in amorous play with him! My blood sings for Isabelle alone; it is kindly inclined to her loveliness—her divinity—alone!
I have told the Angelus Mortis a little of my homeland and of the Highlands—those “mountainish hills,” as I have called them. The hillsides are so sheer they might be called grassy cliffs of broken stone. What godly spade dug out those deep Scottish valleys blanketed in white fog? What violence was done in earth’s infancy, giving birth to the wild, untamed beauty of the peaks? But all will not be beautiful there, for Isolde’s father rules Orkney, the isle upon which we will disembark. Surely he has heard of the young Scotsman by the name Mordwyr marrying into the French nobility. Surely he has wondered all these years what has become of his daughter. I must explain to him that Isolde is dead and gone.
From the Journals of the Angelus Mortis, Voivode of Buda and Pesth
May 12th, 1221
I saw the rolling green hills at sunset. I saw the dusky land rise above the sailor’s inn. I heard the gull’s cry, and I knew I had come home. Back to the land of my mortal birth, back to the home of Elisedd—a man who is but a dim memory, a face of half-forgotten shadows. We have arrived at Orkney and stay as guests of Old Lord Donald, the ruler of this green and lonely isle. I had my servants ensure that the captain would not make landfall until the sun was setting. We had good reason, then, to stay up till nearly dawn as we talked and ate with Lord Donald. He suspects nothing, and we play our Masquerade.
We were unpacked in the sailor’s inn, and the group of Norwegian seamen that were forced to make way for nobility was none too pleased. But we wasted little time there, for we were met by an envoy of the lord, and he asked us to “come and break bread” with his master. With all our hearts, we accepted the invitation, and it was not long until we stood before the aging Lord Donald. He is a man who has seen many hard years, some of them filled with battles, and though he is noble, he is not pampered. As Lord of Orkney, he is a man of salt and soil. Donald is unsophisticated as the earth is firm. He is landed and titled, but sailing gives him his income. We entered his house of weathered stone, and I had unthinkingly expected to see a man of just more than two-score years. But how the time has passed! He is an ancient Scot now with a grandson fully grown. Old Donald’s head of white hair and evident battle scars gave me a start. Has Isolde been dead so long?
“My son, Mordwyr ap-Elisedd,” the old Scot greeted me warmly. “Come and take your ease.” He was dressed in his tartans, and his family, numerous, stood by in hospitality. “I see you have taken a new wife and are now to be called the Marquis de Troyes!” He heartily congratulated me, and then asked me, “But I must know of my daughter. What happened to her?” I thought it best to keep any reference to Isolde’s fate vague, so I replied simply, “She was taken by an illness.” Old Donald nodded gravely and looked about. “And did she leave you any heirs?” I said nothing but only communicated with my eyes my deepest regrets and sorrow. He understood my unspoken reply and said no more on the subject. “But you are here, returned to your homeland!” I took that moment to introduce to the elder Donald my wife and companions. I claimed Marko to be the Boyar’s attendant, and I named Calum my brother-in-arms. Donald cordially greeted them all and then asked, “And why have you come with such an impressive party?” I laughed merrily and clapped Lord Donald on the shoulder, saying, “My lord, we come to cross the English!”
A feast was prepared for us—nothing extravagant, just plain, hardy fare for plain, hardy Scots. Having become quite adept at feigning eating, we Cainites were able to surreptitiously slip morsels of bread and meat to the dogs that lay at our feet. In time, the ladies, at Lord Donald’s behest, retired, and we men discussed how we would move against the Southrons. Calum began with a full report, the details of which most impressed me. “There have been several incursions into Scotland that have originated from the city of York,” he said. “They have grown steadily worse over the last six months. Some of the English knights are nigh unstoppable, and the king is afraid he cannot hold his crown if the situation goes unremedied.” He spoke at length of numbers of men and stratagems, and I must admit, my mind wandered a bit. The Angelus Mortis, however, was the model of attention, so the intelligence was not lost. I came back to my senses when Donald the Youngest spoke up, saying, “Yes, the English knights are invincible, and I have never seen more magnificent warhorses than the beasts they ride! When I traveled to Leslie, I saw a band of them.” And Donald the Youngest spoke more of the awesome nature of his enemies, and the more he enumerated their invulnerabilities, the more the fighting men gathered about despaired. I saw the defeat in their eyes; I saw the futility at fighting a force against which they are hopelessly inferior—if only they knew that they fought against Ventrue! But I could not, would not, break Masquerade by bringing the Church into this. I will not become what Esclarmonde accused me of becoming. But I tried to raise their spirits and give them confidence. “I have come across dark and choppy waters of fathomless depths to fight for Scotland!” I cried. “We are Scots, and we will not be made subjects of the English!” But Donald the Younger cut me off and said, “I go to fight because I love Scotland, not because I think we can win.” What brave words, to fight for honor rather than assured victory! To battle against hope! These men have more worth than any knight in Europe! To hell with pomp and fanfare and lists! I will have honor lodged in my breast, as these Scots do, not as a badge to wear on my chest or something purchased to be painted on my shield! Let my blood alone be my pigment!
“Let us then,” cried I in a patriotic passion, “haste ourselves to England and turn the Wheel of Fortune to favor Scotland once more!” All cried out in joyous agreement. The night did not last long, for the eldest Donald was keen to sleep. But in those few minutes I spent with the family, I realized two distinctly painful things: (I) the youngest Donald will not be going to war, for he must remain behind to preserve the family line, a necessity which deeply grieves the eldest Donald, and (II) Old Donald is glad to have the Marquis in his house but is clearly aware that I am Marquis only because his daughter is dead. I have received Isolde’s forgiveness in the beauty of my wife; I only wish I could ease Donald the Elder’s anguish!
When we Cainites had retired to our private rooms for the evening, we all assembled in my chambers. Marko had been given servant’s quarters, so it took him some time to find his way over to us. Once settled in, the Angelus Mortis and Calum turned our attention to strategy. “We will be mixed in with mortals on both sides,” Lord Calum observed, “so we must be cautious.” The Angelus Mortis waved his hand dismissively and said, “Worry not about the kine. Mordwyr and I will employ our Auspex to discern the auras of the Ventrue, and they will be our sole targets. But simply distinguishing between Cainite and kine is not enough. It would be to our advantage to sabotage their food supply, for,” and here he patted his chest, “my Voivodin has written that the Ventrue are very limited in their choice of blood. If we can eliminate their source by scouting out the Ventrue camp before battle, it will further our advantage.” No one could deny the wisdom of the Voivode’s words, and I added, “We must also meet the Gangrel, for they will know more of our enemy than we.” Lord Calum turned to me and said, “The Gangrel are scattered and isolated—a solitary, roaming lot—all except my clan.” And then the ever-present animalistic agitation in his eyes fled, and an immeasurable distance entered therein. “Mithras attacked my mortal clan years ago,” he said softly, “and we were scattered. His soldiers drew out our war party, and we saw our women slaughtered. No children survived either. Mithras was merciless, and so we fought on bitterly. In the end, only twelve of us remained, and then came our Embraces. Our war party is now all Kindred, and we hunt together in defiance of the Gangrel inclination for solitude.” Then Lord Calum stood and shook off the webs of memory. “I will call a pair of falcons to take word to my brothers.” And he left the room. As he did, he shot a long glance at Isabelle.
When Calum returned, he bade Isabelle goodnight, and Marko watched with interest as Calum took her hand and gently kissed it. Marko did not understand that this is Calum’s knightly courtesy and thought Isabelle and Lord Calum have a discreet relationship with my tacit approval. “Your Grace,” Marko whispered to me as Calum said goodnight to Isabelle, “how can you deny me when you sanction their recreation?” And he indicated my Lady. “Little fiddler,” I turned and looked Marko boldly in the face, “you quite mistake the matter. Calum pays her knightly courtesy—no more. And even if he did not, it would not be reason enough for me to take you to my bed.” And then I took him squarely by the shoulders so that he might hear, finally and clearly, what I wanted to say: “I do not fancy you. You have the wrong equipment!” But Marko was not dissuaded in the least. “But, my lord,” he beamed, “we are Kindred. Such considerations do not apply to us.” I indicated that our conference was at an end, and the Angelus Mortis and the Virago Tenebrae retired. Marko, finally, left as well. When once again alone with my Lady, I sighed and sat on the bed. Isabelle said, “My lord, Marko is beginning to dislike me. He thinks I am simply being greedy in not sharing you. When he importuned me on the subject, I confess I grew angry, but Marko only laughed at my anger and took it as proof of my selfishness!” I laughed and put my arm around Isabelle’s slim waist. “Well, Marko will have to learn the way of things or suffer an eternity of disappointment.”
May 13th, 1221
I let it be known to the house staff that my Lady, my companions, and I were not to be disturbed till evening, since we had had such a late night upon our arrival. And so when the sun had just cooled its shining orb in the sea, Isabelle and I sat up awake. We dressed hastily and made as early an appearance as possible. The sky was still light with the remnants of day, and so the humans naturally assumed that we were seen walking about in the late afternoon. This is a tricky business, for there is window of only half an hour or so in which we Cainites seven times removed from Caine might seem to appear in the daylight hours. From now on, I will sleep in my clothes on the occasions when I must make a sudden appearance for the sake of Masquerade.
We all made our apologies to Lord Donald for our tardiness but, as Isabelle put it, “we could hardly sleep, such was my lord’s excitement at being back in Scotland.” The fighting men could well understand that, and a toast was made to our success against the Southrons. “And I, too, had a fond leave-taking of my wife last night,” the Donald the Younger said, misinterpreting Isabelle’s words. I made no comment on the matter, for I did not wish to dwell upon his flat-faced, big-boned wife in the throes of coupling. I simply smiled politely and nodded.
The Angelus Mortis and I have decided to install our wives in the hospitality of Lord Douglas (the son of my great enemy) at Leslie Castle. I hope the young lord knows nothing of my nature or his father’s hatred for me. If he does, I am afraid there may be an unpleasant incident upon our arrival at Leslie. Donald the Younger has taken 15 men from his father’s garrison. We ride south now, and the tramp of horses’ hooves beats just outside my carriage window.
May 18th, 1221
The Angelus Mortis has left behind the Virago Tenebrae, and I have grudgingly given Isabelle over to the hospitality of Leslie Castle. The master of the house, Lord Douglas, knew nothing of me personally, but he knows that a minstrel seduced his mother many years ago, a crime for which she paid the ultimate penalty. The highlands are breathtaking, and as I stood at the edge of creation—at the edge of the world—it was almost as if I had caught a glimpse of that Shining Shore that lies just beyond the hills. I could almost hear the enshrined dead—poets and warriors fallen in defense of Scotland—singing on the howling wind, and I took up their song as my soul stirred within me. As I walked up the rocky cliff-face, I took my lute and began to sing to the mountains “The Minstrel Boy.” I sang with the dead, and when I finished, I turned to my companions, crying, “This is indeed the land of song! It does me good to see it again!” The Angelus Mortis was happy for me but unmoved. Calum’s heart, however, burned hot in his chest, and he almost wept for the eulogy of our homeland. Isabelle, in the carriage, painted me while I sang, and the soldiers seemed to enjoy the robust tune. My Lady painted with Celerity, and when she had finished, I looked with awe upon a painting of a highlander, dressed in his tartans, standing on a hilltop in the evening. The wind whipped his long black hair wildly about, but there was something peculiar about the face. It was too small to see, but I knew Isabelle had hidden some detail within her brushstrokes. And so, I bent my Cainite vision upon the figure, and small though he was, Isabelle had been able to clearly paint the facial features of the man. Every detail was perfectly in place. I looked upon my own face, visible only to Auspex!
“Isabelle,” cried I, “it is lovely beyond compare. You have captured the perfect moment, and with this painting, I may look upon Scotland any time I wish!” My Lady blushed—a conscious reaction, no doubt—and her loveliness increased. After kissing her hand in thanks, I said, “But what of Douglas? Does he know me? Know of me?” The Virago Tenebrae suggested that Isabelle pretend to be ill and be taken ahead to the castle. Therein, she may be able to discern what Douglas knows or does not know of me. The Voivodin’s simple but clever plan was soon enacted, and the ladies, with some knights in escort, approached Leslie. “You will not accompany?” Donald the Younger asked. “I will not,” I replied, “for I have an important matter to discuss with the Boyar before entering the castle.” I turned to the Angelus Mortis and led him away, whispering to him that I actually had nothing to discuss with him.
I soon heard Isabelle’s voice in my mind as she spoke, saying, “Young Douglas’ faith is not like his father’s, but he hates all seducers. He knows that a minstrel seduced his mother, and he is glad at her punishment. He has no heir and will never marry, for he fears betrayal above all things. But Douglas is a creature who, in classic irony, likes to seduce married ladies, for he unconsciously wants to prove all ladies false and all men cuckolds.” Isabelle gleaned all that from a simple introduction to the master of the castle? What can then be hidden from her sight? She is most wondrous, a lady from whose beautiful mind no secrets remain buried. And so we leave the ladies at Leslie. Douglas impressed me not at all—not even a shadow of his father, my great and worthy enemy! Doubtless, Douglas will attempt a seduction, and though he will obviously fail, I have no desire to slaughter kine needlessly. I have therefore instructed Isabelle to never leave the Virago Tenebrae’s side. If they are always together, Douglas will never have occasion. I hope the fool does not try any shenanigans with the Virago Tenebrae, or the Angelus Mortis will have to make room for a piece of furniture which will accompany them on our return voyage.
May 21st, 1221
We rendezvoused with Calum’s clan tonight, and when we had come to the designated place, I said to my Cainite companions, “Come, my friends. We must draw ourselves apart and consecrate ourselves to the God of Battles as Joshua did.” And we three rode far from the mortal warriors. When we were assured of privacy, Calum called to him a hawk and spoke to it in feral speech. It flew off, and when it returned, we followed it. “It has found my brothers,” Calum said, “and will lead us to the pack.” The pack—the thought conjured up a frightening image. I had never met a pack of Gangrel in the wild. What would they do to us? Would they be reasonable, sensible, logical creatures? Or would they be slaves to the Beast? I had worked myself into a state of acute trepidation by the time we came upon a moonlit valley, and at the top of the far hill stood a pack of silver wolves. They were large and majestic, and their coats glowed in the night. The identity of the leader was clear—larger than all the rest, who gave a howl as master of the forest and the night. His pack responded to the howl with their own baying, and down the hill they raced and met us in the valley floor. I thought they would attack, and my hand moved toward Zephyr. Little good that blade would have done, I now realize, against the likes of the Gangrel! Had they been inclined to attack, I would not now be sitting writing in my journal.
But the wolves did not attack. They stopped and transformed into their man-shapes. These were hardy Scots that roamed under a starry blanket, no roof other than the bespeckled canopy. Fierce independence and defiance burned in their eyes, but they were merry as they greeted their brother Calum. The Angelus Mortis and I also introduced ourselves, and it was refreshing to find Kindred who had not heard our names before. We could carry on with them as equals, as brothers-in-arms against the Ventrue incursions, rapes, and depredations. The leader, William of Dunkirk, who was Calum’s brother in his breathing days, is a bitter Cainite, fueled by thoughts of revenge and bloody deeds. His mouth is full of wolf’s teeth, the evidence of his past frenzies. He talked fondly of the ancient alliance that the Gangrel and the Tzimisce shared, and the Angelus Mortis expressed his wish that they two, this night, could perhaps be seeing something of a renewal of that alliance in nights to come. “For when we have shed blood together,” the Angelus Mortis said to William, “that crimson stain is stronger than any ink on paper. Let us, therefore, make the deaths of our enemies the seals to our alliance!” The Gangrel smiled wickedly at this proposal, and the Angelus Mortis continued, saying, “And this puts me in mind: the Ventrue have limited feeding capabilities. If we can sabotage their blood supply, then perhaps—” And he let the scenario form in everyone’s mind. The Gangrel leapt at this proposal and cried, “Then we will wipe out their camps!” And the Gangrel leapt about and howled and were whipping themselves into a general frenzy and excitement. Even the Angelus Mortis was energized by the prospect. I had to say something, to get them to put aside their thirst for destruction. I would not stand by and let them kill innocent people—kine, no less—but I could not express my reservations thus. If I had, the Gangrel would have fallen away and not followed us. They would have ran off into the night to continue fighting the same hopeless, fruitless, meaningless fight they have always been fighting—much to Mithras’ pleasure. And then I hit on it. “We shall not attack the kine, for that is a clear breach of Masquerade!” I cried. When in doubt, I can always couch my moral reservations in the law.
The Angelus Mortis and I took a moment to explain to the Gangrel about the finer points of Catholic Inquisition and what happens to Cainite flesh when it is subjected to the persecuting flame. “So if we descend on the camp and slaughter them all, as we clearly could,” I concluded, “such a report would surely reach the ears of the Hunters. And then, the Ventrue would be the least of our problems. The maintenance of Masquerade is the paramount consideration.” To distract the Gangrel from going off and doing something rather rash, the Angelus Mortis and I have convinced Calum to acquaint his brothers with a basic understanding of horseback riding, striking from horseback, swordplay, and the wearing of armor. “Here is a writ of credit sufficient to purchase the requisite arms and armor,” I said, handing the paper to Calum. “The Angelus Mortis and I will scout ahead, find the Ventrue camp, and investigate. We shall have no rash attack from our brother Scots, Lord Calum, or all is lost. One does not charge a line of mounted Ventrue knights and hope to survive. Go with the Gangrel, rendezvous with Donald and his men, and ride south. When we have learned something, the Angelus Mortis will send an animal with news.”
Thus, I have found a safe enough hollow for my Tzimisce friend and me to sleep in. Day approaches, and the Angelus Mortis spreads out soil from his homeland. There is one thing of note: Marko has become quite popular with the soldiers, as he has dedicated himself to learning to ride and fight. I cannot help but think that he does so in order to impress me. But he does not know me so well if he thinks this is the way to conquer my affections. What strange behavior!
May 24th, 1221
We have defeated the Ventrue at Lanark. The Angelus Mortis and I went ahead of the Gangrel and Lord Donald’s men, and we came upon the Ventrue camp last night. We managed to sneak into the camp and slay one of the Kindred who had just fed upon a brace of prostitutes—such was that one’s taste. We also convinced an honorable Ventrue, by the name of Joseph, to take no more part in the depredations of Robert of York’s Kindred and go pledge himself to a more worthy master: Jürgen Swordbearer. Even now, Joseph makes his way south, fleeing the sullying of the Ventrue name here in Scotland. I gave him a heavy purse with which he might purchase safe transport. Before he left, Joseph was kind enough to tell us that the Ventrue band would attack the town of Lanark the following night. Gallant heart! I hope to see Joseph again one night! It would please me greatly to go to Magdeburg and find the noble, principled Joseph at court.
Armed with Joseph’s intelligence, the Angelus Mortis and I made haste to Lanark. Using his Animalism, the Voivode sent word to William of Dunkirk by way of wild creatures. We two arrived in Lanark before either the Ventrue or our allies. I asked a villager to tell me who ruled the town, and he took us to Edwin, a fine, hardy Scot who bears no love for England. When we explained that a group of marauding English knights planned to this evening attack the town, Edwin immediately began mobilizing his men. “Those damned Southrons! It’s just like them to attack us in our sleep—not even an animal would murder children in their beds!” Our force, having been informed of the imminent attack, arrived first, and I was surprised to see Marko sat armored on horseback. How much he has advanced in the martial arts, and how quickly! He is a quick study, and his natural Toreador grace helped him grow into his saddle. I put on armor of my own and mounted a warhorse. I was prepared to meet the Ventrue steel on steel, blow for blow, but I did not expect to survive, for what injury can I, with a sword, give to an armored Ventrue knight? He would laugh at my assault and cleave my head in twain! But I was resolute. I had prepared myself—ready to die for Scotland! No such patriotism moved the Angelus Mortis, and he stared long at the moon-drenched field north of Lanark. “We will pour oil on the field,” the Voivode cried aloud in a martial voice, “and when the English approach, archers, armed with arrows dipped in pitch and set alight, will fire the field.” At that moment, the Angelus Mortis became our general! He became first in our hearts, and I looked to him often in the fray. What deadliness in simplicity! The Angelus Mortis’ command perfectly cloaked our attack on the Ventrue, for the fires, from which we Kindred also kept a healthy distance, would naturally drive the kine and Kindred apart. We Cainites would therefore be able to quickly engage our Ventrue enemies.
The plan was enacted, and when the English heavy-horse shook the ground, the Angelus Mortis gave the order to fire. We of Caine’s aversion for fire stayed far from the archers, and the field was set alight! An inferno engulfed the English, and the Ventrue scattered. In the midst of confusion, our Gangrel flank rode down on the enemy. Marko, the Angelus Mortis, and I were right there in the thick of the fighting! In their abject fear, the Ventrue had jumped off their horses and were running—with arms flailing, fangs bared, and eyes blackened—from the field. We waited in their line of escape, and when we met, the Ventrue rallied and formed a hollow square. Their discipline in formation was amazing, but we rode down on them with all our fury. I was wounded almost immediately, but I felt the touch of Isabelle’s compassion, and she took my hurt into herself! What greater love is there than this? I strove to be worthy of that love and fought on all the more, and with my celeritous strikes, I sent one of the knights into torpor. I struck at another, but Zephyr had no effect, and then the Ventrue’s eyes blackened-over once more; he bared his fangs, and I felt a profound fear wash over me. How his eyes glowed and communicated to me my destruction! In my panic, I struck at him thrice more, but the Knight of the Dread Visage only laughed at my feeble attempts. I knew Zephyr would do me no good here—the first to fall had simply been by the grace of the gods. And so I sheathed Zephyr and unleashed my own horror—I revealed to him in my eyes his death. In terror, the knight fled, gibbering and mad with fear! I knew I had little vitae left within me, for I had employed much to fuel my speed. I could not strike anymore. The Angelus Mortis was faring no better with his greatsword, so he, too, called upon the secrets of Presence (which I am now glad I taught to him!) and sent another Ventrue scurrying. It was easy to catch up the Ventrue who were running in fear, for we were still ahorse. The Angelus Mortis and I positioned ourselves to pull up our mounts right in front of our fleeing enemies, and once again, we unleashed the full brunt of our frightful Presence. The knights collapsed to the ground and covered their heads. We each took their heads and hands with single sword strikes.
We rode back into the fray and caught others in our dread gazes, and soon the field was ours! Half of the Gangrel died, but we have been victorious! Marko won for himself many glories in the battle, and he brought me a Ventrue head as proof of his bravery and skill. “That is wonderful, Marko,” said I, not sure what I was supposed to do with the head. “Dispose of the head as we would any of the Kindred bodies that remain.” Marko stood incredulous and cried aloud, “But the Voivode said I would have a reward for my service!” Indeed! The Angelus Mortis has advised Marko to take this path? I will have words with the Voivode when time permits. If he has encouraged Marko’s little infatuation, then I will be revenged on the Angelus Mortis in some mischievous way!
May 25th, 1221
The Angelus Mortis, Marko, Calum, and I have left Lanark. I could not convince Lord Calum to stay behind, so he comes along. I value his company and his aid, though I thought perhaps he would want to stay with his kin. “I am my lady’s champion,” said he, “and so I guard her lord’s life as I would hers. Besides, I am eager to destroy my lady’s defiler, Robert of York!” I have asked Donald the Younger to stay in the town until our return, telling him that we plan to infiltrate York and destroy the blackguard who orchestrates these bloody forays into Scotland. Marko ostensibly goes as the Boyar’s interpreter. I long to see Daniel again—yes, I, a Toreador, long to see a Nosferatu. Daniel did me a great service in Paris, and he served me faithfully as Sheriff for many nights. Rescuing him from his English prison is not payment enough for his kindness.
Dearest Chrétien,
Greetings from York—or, rather, just outside the city. We have fled the English Ventrue after accomplishing what we had come to this town to do: namely, to free Daniel of the Seine from his cruel imprisonment and deal justly with Robert of York, the blackguard who has continually attempted to lure me to England by attempting to kidnap Isabelle. Although he never succeeded in taking my love by force, he did indeed entice me to England, and no doubt now he rues the night he ever tempted me to violence!
What I write to you now is of the utmost secrecy, for my tale involves casual slaughters and a clear breach of the Traditions. I did what was necessary, and I do not regret my actions! When Robert of York, directed by Mithras, plays such a dangerous game with Daywalker, he must be prepared to reap the wind! And so he has. The Angelus Mortis, Lord Calum, and another—a newcomer named Marko—assisted me in rescuing Daniel and assuring that Robert of York will harm no others from this night forward.
When we arrived in York tonight, we were all famished, for the battle with the Ventrue at Lanark had taken its toll on our vitae. We fed, but hunting was difficult. We did not feel inclined to present ourselves at Elysium—since our thoughts were bloody—nor did we ask permission to hunt. We took what we wanted, and damn the Ventrue for bringing us to this state! “Daniel is our best lead, Your Grace,” Calum said, and I knew he was right. We could not simply wander the streets hoping to bump into someone who might know something. So I bent my mind toward Isabelle, hoping that she would sense my desire to speak with her. My Lady’s mind is always kindly inclined toward me, and she felt my desire to contact her. “What is it, my love-lord?” she asked gently in my mind. “I need you to find out where Daniel is, my love,” I replied, “if you are not otherwise engaged at present.” Isabelle laughed and said, “No, my lord. The Virago Tenebrae keeps us to our apartments, lest the young Lord Douglas do something foolish and she be forced to slay him.” In mere moments, I learned from Isabelle that Daniel was being guarded in a prison near the city wall, in the northern quarter. “Thank you, my heart,” I communicated to her, “and is there any message the Virago Tenebrae wishes me to carry to the Angelus Mortis?” Isabelle laughed lightly again and said nervously, “She wishes only for the Voivode to bring back with him a part of Robert of York. My lord, I think she has dreadful plans for it.” I told the Angelus Mortis what his consort had said, and his eyes, gleaming with fiendish delight, and cruel smile alarmed me. What part of their haven will include Robert of York? When I visit the Voivode in future nights, will I sit on him? Will I drink from him? I shudder to think on what the poor wretch will be fleshcrafted into.
My companions and I walked north through the city streets until we saw the high, stone wall. Two armored guards stood by the door of a structure, and when I looked into their souls, I knew they were Cainites. They were distrustful and suspicious, and they were ever-vigilant. The door of the structure opened, and a heavily-cowled monk stepped out. He also was Kindred—a Nosferatu, no doubt—and he sped away. He was angry and bitter, surely due to the entertainment he had just received at Daniel’s hands. The Ventrue in York certainly wanted information from Daniel, and he was not giving it to them. Proud mind, noble heart! I turned to the Angelus Mortis, hoping he would have devised some kind of plan. “So, how do we go in, Voivode? We know nothing of the situation—gods! We do not even know who the Prince of York is!” And I laughed aloud at our arrogance. In retrospect, I think we should have died in York, had I not taken such extreme measures, had I not broken the revered Traditions. But more of that later.
The Angelus Mortis began in earnest by devising a plan of approach, assault, and entry, but Marko wandered away, and by the time we noticed he was gone, Marko was prancing up to the door of the structure. The guards had gone inside, and now one opened the door in response to his light knocking. The Cainite within eyed him warily, but Marko only flashed his most winning smile and said in his best English, “I have come to play for you, stalwart men of honor, to beguile the long hours of the watch!” Then the door was thrown wide, and Marko was actually admitted! I wonder now if he did not use Presence on the guard. “Well,” the Angelus Mortis grumbled, “there is no longer need to discuss a plan of entry. The fiddler just danced right in.” Calum, the Voivode, and I sat stunned at Marko’s boldness, and after several long minutes, Marko whirled his way back out. “There are four inside,” he said as he approached our hiding place. “Two are Ventrue, and two are Nosferatu—by the looks of them.” Marko was no longer smiling, and his eyes were hungry. I felt his heavy gaze upon me most of all, so I said, “Return to the door, and call that one out again.” Marko bowed with a flourish and returned to the building. I took up a position right next to the door. I stood flat against the wall, and when the door swung open again, I moved swiftly in front of Marko and caught the guard in my entrancing gaze. The Cainite knight smiled, and I knew I could have at that moment asked him to cross the Torrid Zone to take a message to the antipodes, and he would have done so. “What is your name, good sir knight?” I asked soothingly. “Matthew,” he replied, Entranced. I smiled at him and asked, “Is there another way into this building besides the front door?” My voice was honey in his ear, and he was greedy to please me. “Yes, by the kitchen,” Matthew replied. “Go, then,” said I, “if it is not too much trouble, and unlatch the kitchen door. I will meet you there, Matthew.” The knight only sighed softly and whispered, “As you wish, Shining One.” Marko slipped in to play an encore for the guards while the Angelus Mortis, Lord Calum, and I slipped around back and met Matthew by the kitchen door. “Matthew,” said I with a condescending smile, “call back one of your companions. Tell him you need help moving something.” Matthew called out to the guards in the outer room, and Marko played softly for a time. “What could you possibly need help with in the kitchen?” one angry voice barked, and the door was thrown wide. I caught the intruder in my gaze immediately and made him my thrall. “Come in quietly, good man,” I commanded, “and close the door behind you.” This new arrival was Nosferatu, so I caught his eye only as long as was possible to entrance him. Keeping my gaze slightly averted, I questioned him, saying, “It would greatly please me to learn your name, worthy watchman.” The Nosferatu was only too pleased to please me, and he immediately replied, “I am called Justin of the Crooked Stile.” This Cainite was huge, and I sensed that he would not be long under my spell. His mind was sharp, and his heart was not easily touched. “I left my satchel outside, Justin,” I said. “Would you go get it for me?” And as the Nosferatu walked past me, exposing his back to attack, I gave the Angelus Mortis a knowing nod and then leapt into action. Justin threw me off as easily as a father would his rambunctious child, but Calum crippled him with his monstrous claws. Marko must have sensed the disturbance in the kitchen, for his music ascended to a feverish pitch and speed. The Zulo monster, which stood where the Angelus Mortis had been mere moments before, tore Justin apart and drank what vitae he could from the slaughtered wretch.
Matthew frowned at what we had done to his companion, but he made no violent move against us. “It was necessary,” I explained. “Justin meant me harm.” Matthew almost wept blood at the thought of my injury and said, “God forbid the Shining One ever be hurt!” I then asked Matthew to tell me of the Cainite structure of the city and learned that one William of York is Prince, and the one for whom we were searching, Robert of York, was Sheriff. “Robert was here earlier,” Matthew said, “but he left with Jacques to attend Elysium.” The Zulo monster stepped forward and with his slavering maw managed to ask, “And just where is Elysium?” Matthew’s eyes grew hard and murderous, but I caught the Ventrue knight’s attention and nodded my assent that he should speak. “At William’s house, near the center of the city,” he replied. “He lives under the kine identity Sir William of York.” My vitae ran weak in my veins, and I needed nourishment, so without thinking, I took a little drink from Matthew. And the Ventrue was happy to oblige me. But then I realized my error. Calum stared at me in shock and disbelief. Instantly, I saw my mistake. I am mutually and thrice blood-bound to Isabelle, but this is our great secret, as the Voivode and Voivodin guard theirs. I may drink from whomever I wish without any thought of bonding, but my condition, which I have grown used to in these many years, is peculiar among Kindred. Calum knows not of my bond, thus rightly he was shocked to see me bonding myself to another Cainite. I had to think fast, to concoct some excuse. I had hoped to keep Matthew alive, to further use him, but my error cost him his life at that moment. I gave Calum the word, and then all was clear to the Gangrel knight: I had drunk from Matthew only because I was about to give Calum the authorization to destroy him. With pleasure Calum leapt at my approval and ripped into Matthew’s breastplate. The Ventrue knight did not fall to the initial assault, but it was too late to turn back. I leapt at Matthew and tore his armor back so that I might be able to rip out his throat with my fangs. Now, Matthew was desperate and fought for his unlife. Such was his desire to live that he tossed the Zulo monster across the room. “Help! Attack!” cried Matthew, and he rushed at me with sword raised high. I was injured, but not severely. The music had stopped, and I heard cries of alarm in the outer room. I heard the footsteps approaching and knew we had to dispatch Matthew quickly. With movements too fast for the Ventrue to track, I leapt on him and bit deeply into his throat. I tore muscle and flesh away, and Matthew’s damned soul sped to its dark fate.
Another heavily-armored and -armed Ventrue knight, along with a Nosferatu dressed in monk’s robes, burst in through the kitchen door. The Zulo monster lay in wait and leapt at the Nosferatu. Lord Calum rushed the Ventrue, and the battle of the kitchen was joined! Zephyr sliced deeply into the Nosferatu several times before he could recover from the Zulo monster’s assault, and, in tandem, the thing that was once my friend and I took down the Sewer Rat. The Zulo monster then turned on the Ventrue and caught the unfortunate knight in its grip. Lord Calum had, with his claws, already seriously wounded the Ventrue, so the Zulo monster easily crushed its enemy in its grasp. The battle was short but deadly, and in my famishment, I drained the Ventrue of all but his heart’s blood. The Zulo monster smacked its hideous lips as it hovered over the torpid Nosferatu, ready to rend his flesh and gain nourishment. I could not stay to watch, so I raced down the stairs to find Daniel. I found him—staked and alone. “Daniel, my old friend!” cried I as I pulled out the wooden stake and tossed it aside. “It is I, Mordwyr! I have come to deliver you from the clutches of your gaolers.” Light came back into Daniel’s eyes, and the pain in his expression eased. “Mordwyr,” he said quietly, “I am well now, but my mind—I do not trust it.” I helped Daniel to his feet, not because he needed my help, but as a sign of my friendship and support. “Come, my friend,” said I, “and let us leave this place. Let us be revenged on your brutish keeper, Robert of York!” This plan liked Daniel well, and we all went over to William of York’s house.
Once arrived, Daniel sneaked in, masterfully cloaking himself. “Do not kill anyone, Daniel,” I told him, “for your revenge will come in good time.” When Daniel returned, having nobly restrained himself from enacting his revenge, he told us that Robert was dancing inside. He was surrounded by associates and acquaintances. How would we get to him? Robert of York apparently kept himself always surrounded by Kindred, to keep himself safe. I could see no way to catch him alone, so I did something of which you might strongly disapprove. If you think, Sire, that I have severely erred in this, do tell me, so I might be better equipped to protect myself. What I have done in York, however, no one knows, for everyone we met died. Sire, we burned down Elysium. I Entranced eight mortals and had them set fire to William’s house. As Elysium burned down, Cainites flew through the windows and burst through the doors to escape the fires. Robert of York fled as well, but he had a woman in tow. No woman—this was Arianne, the Toreador who had tried to seduce me in Prague! Here she was, Robert’s dance partner! If she saw me, she would instantly recognize me, but I did not wish to kill her, so, when we had all moved into position to ambush Robert, I had Marko step out with Calum. She recognized neither one of them. “Bitch, leave,” Marko commanded, and Arianne, seeing her lover outnumbered, immediately fled. Then the Angelus Mortis, Daniel, and I all stepped out, and Robert of York stood no chance against our combined might. Grappling, claws, and fangs brought him down quickly, and there, in an alleyway, Daniel of the Seine got his revenge as he tore out the throat of the Sheriff of York. Elysium continued to burn just a few streets away.
I had hoped to send Robert of York’s head to Mithras, but that cannot be, for if I did, he would know who broke the Traditions and burned down Elysium. And so the Angelus Mortis takes the head as a gift for his Voivodin. We have fled York and sleep as soldiers in the field. I have found us a comfortable enough place, shielded from the sun’s rays. Again, my nights as a wandering Ravnos now do me yeoman service.
I hope you are well, my Sire, as celebrant in Michael’s Dream, and I remain
Ever envious of your idyllic position,
Mordwyr
May 30th, 1221
June 7th, 1221
We will stay this night at Leslie Castle, thought the master of the house is dead. He was lawfully slain for daring to impeach the honor of the Marchioness and tempt her to his bed. Having strapped on my armor, I stood across the courtyard from my enemy and cried aloud, saying, “You will answer my challenge, Douglas, or I will subscribe you a coward! And your cowardice will convict you of your crime!” Douglas could not refuse the challenge, and he met me on the field with sword drawn. I used none of my vitae to enhance my strength or speed. Zephyr was simply too fast, and with a single stroke, I slew him. So has fallen another Douglas by my hand. This duel, however, is sanctioned by kine society. This duel keeps to Masquerade, for the Marquis de Troyes has rightfully and lawfully executed Lord Douglas of Leslie. This outcome is preferable to the Voivodin’s plan: to castrate and fleshcraft him. We will leave tomorrow and, gods willing, see our homes again before long. Happy am I, for I leave this home only to go to another!
June 7th, 1221 We arrived at Castle Leslie to retrieve our ladies and deal with some more-than-expected foolishness. Douglas proved true to the Lady Isabelle's analysis, and Mordwyr had the privilege of disposing of him, thanks to his drawing the proper straw. Tenebrae was most displeased that she could not neuter him while he was still alive, but she gained some consolation from taking his scrotum postmortem. She was also well pleased to see Robert's dead eyes gazing from my chest.
July 4th, 1222
Tonight is my Death Night, and Isabelle gave me wonderful clothes cut in the latest Italian fashion. That is the only good thing that has happened this night, for what good can come out of Venice, save the Virago Tenebrae? I was happy to adorn my body in Isabelle’s gifts, for what better way to make an entrance into the Giovanni mansion? But I was overcome with passion for my goddess, and our friends were made to wait an uncomfortably long time for Isabelle and me to descend from our room. How could a night that started so well end so badly? Happy Death Night, indeed, Mordwyr!
We arrived in Venice tonight, and I saw my old friend the Angelus Mortis for the first time in over a year. He is, of course, unchanged, and his Voivodin is unalterable as the mountainside. Nothing could etch its influence into their stony faces; nothing can prevail over the coldness in their dead eyes. Bartholomaios, who has been staying in Paris, came with me and my Lady, and once again, as in nights past, our coterie has been reunited. We came to Venice with the intention of renegotiating with the Giovanni, for when Augustus Giovanni ceased to be Kindred, his signature on the treaty was void, and the treaty with the Alliance became nullified. We also had hoped to convince the head of the Giovanni Clan (whomever that may be) of the need for Enforcers of Masquerade. But we knew nothing. We did not know if Laura still ruled the Clan or if Cesare had been successful in supplanting her with the help of Isabelle’s soul-portraits. We knew little as we approached the ever-engaged, brightly-shining Giovanni Elysium. “I vowed never to return to Venice,” I grumbled to the Angelus Mortis, “and yet here I am.” The Voivode chuckled, a humorless laugh, and replied ironically, “Nor do I consider this a holiday excursion for me and the Voivodin.” I laughed merrily at his attempt at humor, and then my friend said, “Happy Death Night, by the way.” Isabelle, the Virago Tenebrae, and Bartholomaios were close, and the Voivodin laughed aloud as her mind struck on another amusing thought. “I wonder if that big, dumb Brujah—what was his name? Erašts? I wonder if he still guards my sister.” We all amused ourselves with remembrances of the swordless Brujah standing awkwardly in the middle of the Giovanni Elysium. “Did he not speak of anything but silk doublets?” Tenebrae asked. I could have blushed, were I mortal. “Indeed,” said I, “and I fear I am to blame for his attachment to such trifles, for I enticed him with an offer of five doublets, and he sold his service cheaply. He could out-Toreador a Toreador with his fascination for new clothes!”
Thus we spoke until we came to the door, and two finely-liveried footmen escorted us in. But before I stepped inside the mansion all a-chatter, the most remarkable thing occurred: the Virago Tenebrae was gone, and the girl I thought was forever gone stood nearby! Lucia had returned, and it was her familiar face, her soft Italian features, that greeted everyone. The Virago Tenebrae had forced her flesh to take the form of her old self, that she might better deal with her family, no doubt. “How disconcerting!” I whispered to Isabelle. “To see Lucia returned after being gone for so long. To see Lucia defy the work of the Archfiend!” But my Lady shot me a glance of warning, and in my mind her voice spoke: “My lord, this is not the time to speak of it.” Indeed. We were escorted into a waiting chamber, and the Angelus Mortis was no less shocked at the Voivodin’s appearance than I. “This face I must wear before my family,” the Virago Tenebrae said, “for they are not Tzimisce and therefore have a narrow vision of things corporeal.” Truly, the Giovanni are not alone in their narrow vision, for I, too, along with everyone else not Tzimisce, subscribe no small amount of meaning to the faces of those I know! The Mountain-Gods are singular among Caine’s childer, for they are at once so malleable yet so inflexible.
Into the waiting chamber swept a matronly Kindred, attractive but earthy and natural. She wore little adornments, and she stood before us fully unflushed in hue. There was a scent of olive oil and wine about her, and she looked as if she should be wearing an apron and attending to kitchen duties. “I am Marisa,” said she in Italian, “Chamberlain to my cousin. She will see you now, so please follow me.” We were taken into Augustus’ old study, and there, in her father’s chair, sat Laura Giovanni still. The brute Erašts stood marble-like behind her, and Santiago sat at a side table scribbling. In our entire interview with the Prince, the scratching of quill on paper never once ceased. As we had walked through the attendants at Elysium, I could see that Venice was less touched by the Inquisition or the Bloodletting than any other city to which I have been. “I suppose you have come to present yourselves?” Laura asked rhetorically, and her voice was venom. “Well, consider yourselves presented.” She waved her hand dismissively as she stared at us scornfully. “Venice remembers well who you are! And my zombies’ eyes remember you, Voivode!” And then her brow furrowed as she looked past me and the Angelus Mortis, catching Bartholomaios in her gaze. “But this one is unknown to me.” Bartholomaios stepped forward, and he said in his booming voice, “I am Bartholomaios of Thessalonika, childe of Kephalos of Athens.” Laura’s lip curled. “A strange voice to be coming from a fresh-faced youth.” And Laura made quite a dramatic show of looking around for anyone else. “What? No blond? And where did he get off to?” I stepped forward and said, “No, Prince. That one is not with us.” Laura shot me a deadly stare. “Yes, I see that,” she seethed. “Do you know who else is missing? Antonio! And I want him returned!” I looked at my companions, and I could not hide my surprise. Laura stood and continued, not allowing me to make a rebuttal. “You have some nerve showing your faces here after what you did! Why are you here? Speak quickly.” Laura was incensed at our presence, but she knew much which I had thought was secret.
The Angelus Mortis stepped forward and spoke of our wish to discuss the Alliance. “Ah yes, the Alliance which was nullified!” Laura cut him off. “Santiago, fetch the treaties.” Santiago rose wordlessly and immediately saw to his Mistress’ bidding. When she had the treaty in hand, she showed us her father’s signature. “This signatory is dead, so I do not recognize the validity of this document!” The Angelus Mortis, his calm and steady voice a counterpoint to Laura’s excitability, spoke at length of Masquerade, the Alliance, and the need for a body of Enforcers to ensure that all Kindred adhere to the rules set down in the Alliance, a body of judges whose authority would be recognized as legitimate, not subject to the whims of individual Princes. “Perhaps you need such an organization,” Laura countered, “but look around you: we are untouched by the Inquisition, though we are closest to Rome of all Clans. We Giovanni know how to hide without your pathetic Masquerade. All it takes is a modicum of intelligence, not convoluted rules and regulations.” And with a sneer she tossed the treaty onto her desk. Laura Giovanni was clearly upset. Her anger only grew the longer we stood before her. “But what do you offer me?” she asked, her eyes glinting dangerously. I responded with “Security and aid from the member Clans of the Alliance.” Laura snorted at this. “And Antonio as well. He is mine!” I refused, and Laura’s annoyance turned to wrath. “I will join Mithras and the Tremere in Avalon and split Europe if you do not give me what I want!” I looked to my friends, but they said nothing. Isabelle looked pained, but she did not communicate anything to me, neither by voice nor by mind. Something bothered her, and I did not find out until it was too late. “I would rather ally with you,” Laura continued, “and just think how the Lasombra will feel about you when they find out you are willing to sacrifice the Alliance for the sake of a kine child! Voivode,” Laura turned to the Angelus Mortis, “I see in your eyes that you know this is the wrong course. What say you?” I looked to my friend, and my heart burst with pride and affection for my dear Tzimisce brother when he said, “I will not break the Alliance with the Toreador!” I am no fool—I know that the Angelus Mortis would rather turn Antonio over, but he is a proud Cainite who hails from a Clan that breeds honor and loyalty. I am privileged to call him friend! Laura spun and walked back behind her desk. Resuming her seat, she said to the Angelus Mortis. “I give you an hour to make your silly Toreador friend see reason. Leave me!” The door opened, and we were obliged to exit the room.
Once back in the Elysium of lights and whispers, the Angelus Mortis and the Virago Tenebrae drew themselves apart from us to speak privately. I turned to Isabelle and Bartholomaios, desperate for support. “I could make no other decision! It would be wrong to turn him over to death or damnation!” Isabelle and Bartholomaios encouraged me that my decision was righteous and human. “But we must hide Antonio, my lord,” Isabelle said, “for the Giovanni will certainly send agents to Nouvelle Caledonie to find him. But my lord!” cried she, her face pained. “Laura was bluffing! She did not know we had Antonio!” The knowledge struck me like a blow, and I staggered under the realization. Of course! I stared at my wife and my friend in wide-eyed horror; my mouth hung agape, and I searched for forgiveness in their eyes. “I am sorry,” I whispered. “I did not see it. I naturally assumed she knew, for she spoke of the zombies remembering the Angelus Mortis’ face—ah! but that was the bluff upon which she laid the lie about Antonio!” I shook my head in disbelief. “Laura Giovanni played that beautifully,” I cried, my voice full of rue. Now, as I think on it, I am ashamed. Had I seen her bluff, Antonio would not now be in danger! Had I detected her ruse, I would not have jeopardized the Alliance over a single boy! I am to blame if this whole affair comes crashing down. I am to blame if the Alliance is led to ruin.
Isabelle was much calmer than I, and while Bartholomaios comforted me, she set about crossing the dark leagues with her mind and contacting Beatrice, instructing her to take Adrien Malcolm and Antonio to the Abbey of St. Denis. From there, she would later receive instructions via our steward on her travel arrangements to the Orkneys. There Antonio should be safe until this entire fiasco is but a dim memory. Gods willing! Neptune, twenty bulls I will sacrifice to you if you rise up from the sea and toss aside any ship bearing hostile servants of the Giovanni to Antonio! Let not hands that are quick to shed innocent blood prevail! “We will tell no one of our plan,” Isabelle said. “Not even the Angelus Mortis and the Virago Tenebrae must be made aware of the location of Antonio’s exile.” I agreed with my Lady and kissed her lips in thanks. Just then, the Angelus Mortis and the Virago Tenebrae rejoined us. “Shall we walk in the garden?” I proposed, and all were in agreement. “But I,” the Virago Tenebrae excused herself, “have family affairs to attend to.” And she left us for a while. “I am sorry, my old friend,” I said sadly, turning to the Angelus Mortis, “for not seeing through Laura’s bluff. Rarely have I allowed myself to be so blatantly deceived. I am heartily ashamed of myself.” The Voivode tried to downplay the severity of my failure, but it was no use. I know what I have done! “You know, Mordwyr,” the Angelus Mortis said, “that I am not moved by compassion or mercy, but I have no intention of turning over the child to the Giovanni. We are friends, come what may, though I am sure we will lose the Lasombra over this.” The Angelus Mortis’ kindness drove me to tears, and I thanked him for standing by me and my decision.
The Virago Tenebrae returned and joined the conversation, and her cold, calculating observation set me ill at ease, evaporating the well of my tears. “The Lasombra would be right to break alliance with us, for we would be unworthy allies. We are willing to sacrifice the Alliance for the sake of an insignificant human child. Beatriz would despise us and all that we represent.” I examined the Virago Tenebrae, trying to determine whether she was censuring me with her own opinion, trying to couch it in how she thinks Doña Beatriz will respond. But I could learn nothing, for my own heart ached. The Angelus Mortis then received a message from a servant, and he departed for a time. We continued our walk in the gardens, but the soft moonlight on the flowers did little to calm the storm of regret brewing in my soul. Why did I not see through Laura’s bluff?
When we re-entered Laura’s father’s study, our refusal was unified, and we left, eager to make haste to Toledo, to travel overland and take ship to Barcelona, hoping to outpace the news from Venice. “My lord,” Isabelle said back at the inn once we were alone, “I must tell you that Augustus Giovanni was there in the study.” I turned in utter shock toward my Lady. “Indeed, he directed all that went on within the chamber. I would very much doubt it if the Virago Tenebrae attempted to deny not being aware of her father’s presence.” I told the Angelus Mortis at once, and then the Voivode revealed to me his genius. “I have made a secret pact with Laura Giovanni. I have betrayed you and told her that I work behind your back to achieve Antonio’s death, thus preserving the Alliance.” My soul leapt up at my friend’s plan. “And so, what is the next step? How do we continue to deceive her? Bring back a fleshcrafted dead body?” I was all excitement. Here was a way to salvage the situation! “No,” the Angelus Mortis replied evenly, “for Necromancy would quickly reveal the fraud. So what we will do is this: we will tell Beatriz of all that has occurred here. We will tell Beatriz that for three months the Giovanni will be silent on the matter. Then, when the three months have passed, Laura will write a letter to Beatriz, telling her how I failed to keep the bargain and how we did not kill Antonio to preserve the Alliance. And she will want Beatriz to break her treaty and follow the Giovanni into a new alliance, one that will split the continent. And how do you think Doña Beatriz will feel about an upstart Giovanni telling her her own business and arrogantly offering the Lasombra a seat at the table?” I could have kissed the Angelus Mortis at that moment! I leapt from my chair in my happiness and cried aloud, “My friend, your double-blind is genius, and I love you for it!”
And so we make for the coast, and then to the Sea of Shadows. Isabelle and I have decided to send the boys to Byzantium rather than the Orkneys, for what safer place is there than at Chrétien’s side in the eye of Michael’s Dream?
Venice is the bane of our existence, and ultimately it will be our undoing. In order to protect the alliance and ensure the safety of our friends, I have chosen to betray them and so damned myself. If only Mordwyr were not so obstinate in his unswerving protection of these kine! They are his inspiration, yes, but what good is inspiration if it leads to failure and destruction? For surely that is what would happen if we rebuffed Laura's demand for Antonio. Not only would we lose the Giovanni, they would pass on word to the Lasombra that the architects of the fledgling alliance were so sentimental that they sacrificed the addition of a powerful Clan for the sake of a kine boy! Doña Beatriz would contemptuously leave the alliance, and the balance of power would shift to Avalon. Mordwyr and Isabelle's humanity is endearing, and I cannot deny that Isabelle's divinity has saved our existences on more than one occasion; but this is clearly a time when the milk of human kindness puts us at a severe disadvantage. There is too much at stake to allow for sentimentality! Tenebrae clearly sees this as well; she has the wisdom to see that a deal had to be made with Laura behind our friends' backs. Tenebrae has always been my guide, the one who can see clearly how a problem must be resolved. But ultimately, I was the one who had to carry out, for when the time came to speak to Laura, she was unable to do so. “I stood in front of the doors to Laura's chamber,” she wrote to me in a secret note, “but Isabelle was in my thoughts as I reached for the handles. I am sorry, I could not do it.” Her sense of loyalty, her honour, would not allow her to betray our friends, and so it fell to me to strike the deal. And so, just as Serafim betrayed Lucia, the Angelus Mortis has betrayed Mordwyr and Isabelle. It is as if the remaking into a true Voivode never occurred. I can only take solace that the ends are greater; Serafim betrayed Lucia because he was a coward who would not defend his love's honour. I betray my friends in order to save them. The deal was struck; Antonio will die, and we have three months in which to accomplish it. I will write a letter to Petrov to put it into motion. It will not be easy, for even though Mordwyr and Isabelle do not suspect, even though they know we do not approve of their decision, they will almost certainly be wary of leaving Antonio alone for fear of Giovanni agents. But first, I must write a letter to Mordwyr, to be read upon my death; one night they may learn of our treachery, and when they do, our destruction will come without warning. When it does, we will make no attempt to fight it. Such is our sacrifice for the greater good, the veracity of our friendship, and even our very lives.
[A letter sealed tightly within Tenebrae's book, hidden inside the Angelus Mortis' chest Mordwyr, In return for the Giovanni joining the Alliance, I made a deal with Laura to murder Antonio. I speak bluntly because it is likely you already know this, and I have been destroyed by your hands. Or perhaps you were unaware and believed me to be the worthy friend you deserved to have, but I was not adequate enough to be. If so, no amount of soft words will lessen the impact of the truth. I did so in order to ensure the alliance, which I hope has prospered in these nights. I knew there would be no dissuading you from protecting Antonio. I could not allow what I saw coming, the weakening of the alliance, for it would put all of us in danger. And yet it was no easy choice to do so; it was the most difficult decision of my entire existence. I have never been one good for words, to explain my emotions which are sometimes alien to me, but know that I mourned my betrayal even as I understood its necessity. Know that Tenebrae is innocent of betrayal; if she still exists, I beg you to consider mercy for her, though she will not ask for it. Angelus July 4th, 1222]
[A letter written on July 4th, 1222, later destroyed Petrov, The Voivodate has need of your services. There is a young Italian boy by the name of Antonio, and for the alliance to be secured, he must die. He is located in Paris, under the careful eye of a powerful ally of ours; while any guards may be dealt with as necessary, under no circumstances are any other mortals to be harmed. It is entirely possible that he has been moved to another location, but he must be found and destroyed—]
July 4th, 1222 (continued) Greater than the Alliance itself, by my betrayal I had almost sundered the Four detailed in the visions. It sickens me to think that, for focusing so much on more immediate goals, I had almost sundered that which the Dracon, Viorica, and Michael could have once been. Only now do I see that my betrayal gave Laura, and by extension Augustus Giovanni, leverage enough to manipulate the alliance to her whims. Were Tenebrae up to her full capacity, she would have easily seen the truth and told me, but Venice deeply unsettles her, for the spirit of her damned father holds sway here. She had shifted her appearance to be more like Lucia's; I thought it merely a way to better influence her family, but clearly there is something darker that moved her to do so. I do not know which is worse: that I did not see it for myself, or that it was concern for the prophecy—above reluctance to betray my friends—that made me reconsider. But we have found a way to save the situation. My deal with Laura has given us time—three months in which we can turn the situation to our advantage. We will stop in Iberia, speak to Doña Beatriz, and couch things in such a way that she will see Laura's information as an attempt to sway the Lasombra to the whims of an upstart Clan. Then, through the Doña's pride, the Lasombra will remain in the alliance. To those who are aware, it will appear that Tenebrae and I simply tricked Laura with some clever political maneuvering and that we never had had any intention of truly betraying Mordwyr and Isabelle. When I informed Mordwyr of my betrayal, he did not hesitate even for a moment. “So you have tricked Laura,” he replied, a smile creeping onto his face. “So how will we use this time to our advantage?” I should have been sickened by his lack of guile, but I could feel nothing but shame. Had they the smallest doubt in either Tenebrae or me, it would have taken but a moment for them to learn the truth. Though the situation is saved, I cannot escape what I know in my heart. My capacity to betray those closest to me remains at my core, and not even the Dracon's reshaping can remove that.
From the Records of Bartholomaios of Thessalonika
July 25th, 1222
I have always enjoyed orange-blossoming Toledo, but this visit finds me happier than previous visits. When last I was here, I was Makareta-sherit’s thrall. Sylvester de Ruiz’s castle, always drenched in the sweet floral scents, calms my heart every time I see it. But now, as I think on that high and magnificent Spanish abode, Alejandro’s withered face, contorted in madness and agony, poisons my remembrance. This place, beautiful and fresh without, houses a heart of rotten desiccation! He who was my friend—the great Fool who sullied the name of the Lasombra—is as I had left him, though worse for his tortured condition. Alejandro’s eyes are like opaque stones now, though I can spy the creeping insanity within. His mouth, from which the infernal threads still hang, hangs open, twisted in a silent, never-ceasing scream of anguish. “Alejandro, old friend,” said I, drawing close to the case which holds him, “it pains me to see you this way.” Truly, I was moved to pity. “Why did you take up with the Infernalists? Why did greed always rule your thoughts?” My heart softened toward Alejandro, and then terror struck me. Out of his open mouth crawled a roach! I was sickened by the sight and fell back in horror. And my heart hardened against Alejandro once more. No more do I wish to look upon the Serpents’ Rattle. No more!
Doña Beatriz will arrive tomorrow night, and thus, Sylvester de Ruiz is gracious enough to give us lodging here in his castle. When we were shown to our chambers, I recognized the hall, the door, everything! This was the room in which Makareta-sherit raped me. Though the unnatural and compelled feelings of lust toward that temptress are gone, still the memories remain. They flooded in on me and nearly bore me away—malevolent, mocking waves sweeping me toward a hell in which Makareta is Mistress, a consignment I could not escape! But my Isabelle was there like a buoy and an anchor, and I lashed my heart to her love; I grabbed on and did not let go. Isabelle got us new rooms, and she took me into the bed. Lying by her naked, I was enveloped in her long red tresses, her hair our only garment. Isabelle has redeemed Toledo.
July 26th, 1222
Doña Beatriz has been a vast deal more than civil to us. She welcomed us as warmly as the Mistress of Shadows could be expected to, and I was sure, with what knowledge we were going to bring to her attention, that our discussion would go well. The Angelus Mortis began to explain our situation, but the Voivode is not graced with a smooth tongue, and so I took the reins and drove the horse into the barn. I explained to Beatriz as succinctly as possible the following: Laura Giovanni will write to Beatriz in three months’ time; she will be livid, disparaging the Angelus Mortis and me for not having destroyed the child Antonio, for sacrificing the stability of the Alliance over a single child’s welfare; she will want the Lasombra to break the treaty they have made with the Courts of Love, the Fiefs of the Black Cross, and the Voivodate; she will invite Beatriz to follow her lead into a new alliance and thus break up the Continent. As briefly as that, I laid the scenario before Doña Beatriz.
“Who is this Laura Giovanni?” Beatriz asked. For a moment, I considered explaining to Beatriz who she was and how she had come to be Prince of Venice and leader of the Clan, but that story is too long and complicated. Furthermore, it would only exhibit Laura’s power—her ability to take command of the Giovanni. So I settled on a shorter explanation, something that is true but unflattering. I said off-handedly, “She is some ghoul whom Alejandro fucked years ago.” Beatriz’s eyes grew wide in surprise, and then her lip curled into a smile. “Indeed,” said she, “and this ghoul-turned-Prince thinks she will dictate terms to me?” The Angelus Mortis and I nodded silently but emphatically. “And so, Laura labors under the assumption that the Angelus Mortis has betrayed me,” I said. “We have come to inform you of this, for we are not so haughty as to assume that we can determine what Doña Beatriz should do.” Beatriz’s eyes danced with mirth, and she said, “I know what you are doing, Mordwyr.” And she caught me in a gaze that stripped me of my feigned goodwill. I simply nodded. Having thus tacitly understood each other, Beatriz continued, asking, “And who devised this plan?” I turned to my companions and said, “The Angelus Mortis, the Virago Tenebrae, and young Bartholomaios are chiefly responsible for this stratagem.” We spoke more of the details, and Beatriz finally decided on a course of action. “I will show this upstart what it means to lead a Clan,” she announced. “I control Sicily and the sea, and I will blockade the ships of her mortal line. When she begins to lose profits, she will come begging for alliance with me. And when I have brought the Giovanni to heel, we will all meet in Paris to formalize final relations.” And so it shall be in six weeks’ time.
Great and Terrible Archfiend, Architect of the Cathedral of Flesh, The Lasombra's position in the alliance is all but secured, but it comes, unfortunately, at the expense of the Enforcers. Some of Laura's political maneuvering over the return of one of her family line, who currently resides in Paris, could have turned the Lasombra away from the alliance. However, thanks to Tenebrae's skillful planning and Mordwyr's way with words, we reframed Laura's plans for Doña Beatriz' ears as the scheming of an upstart Clan to manipulate the Lasombra. Now, it appears the Lasombra will bully the Giovanni into joining the alliance rather than siding with Avalon, as Laura had threatened. The delicacy of this maneuvering, however, meant the subject of the Enforcers could not be broached in Iberia and likely will not be for some time. Trust that I will not let it die, however; I will make what preparations I can on my own for the night when there is talk of the Enforcers again, for most surely it will come again. By the Glory of the Dracon, The Angelus Mortis Voivode of Buda and Pesth July 26th, 1222
August 3rd, 1222
Damn the Brujah, and to the darkest Pit with Cartageña! Leaving me alive is the biggest mistake the Prophet will ever make! I will be revenged—but I must first temper my rage with cunning. I will wait and strike him when it is to my best advantage, for he is two generations closer to Caine than I, and throwing myself at him would be self-slaughter. For young Bartholomaios’ sake, we went to Cartageña, and there we were met by debased, violent Kindred, and there we suffered the utmost degradation! Had I known how much the Brujah of Moloch despise Bartholomaios for his sire’s sake, I would never have stepped foot in the cursed city.
As it was, we entered Cartageña yesternight, and we had hoped to present ourselves in our alter egos: I would be Ganymede of the Brujah, Bartholomaios, Demetrius, and the Angelus Mortis, Andrei. “There are Infernalists here, Mordwyr,” Bartholomaios informed me. “Isabelle would surely attract them.” He was right, and I did not wish to risk my Lady. I was not surprised to see that young Bartholomaios has discovered the secret of Isabelle’s unique nature; there have been many clues—the relics, the blood on the crypt, her incredible holiness. But what Bartholomaios does not understand is that Isabelle places me above God; I am chief in her thoughts, and thus, Heaven is barred to her. And yet, how can Heaven turn its back on one so lovely and so perfect? She enjoys a partial grace that has made her blood into myroblite. In the eyes of Heaven, her only fault is misplacing me in the hierarchy of the Universe. Such a little fault for one so lovely!
Through deduction and observation, young Bartholomaios, whose mind is as sharp as any I know, save the Virago Tenebrae’s, has pieced the puzzle together. “I understand, my friend,” I replied, “and I thank you for bringing this to my attention. I had thought to enter the city with Isabelle, but now I see, quite clearly, that this cannot be so.” And so I have left Isabelle, with our train, in a neighboring fishing village. The Angelus Mortis did not have to convince the Virago Tenebrae to stay with Isabelle; the Voivodin was all too eager to support and protect her friend. Thus, we men entered Cartageña alone, and not taking our consorts with us was the wisest decision we have ever made! We had learned from the Virago Tenebrae that Riccardo of the Lasombra is Prince, but his power is nominal. “I thought it best that you know something of the political structure of the city before entering it,” the Virago Tenebrae said with a smile, jesting at our failure to gather such basic information before striking York. Once in the city, Bartholomaios said, “We are here, my friends, to discover what connection, if any, these Brujah have to Adonibaal in London. Is there a link between these Kindred and Mithras?” The Angelus Mortis and I nodded our understanding and bade the young Philosopher to take the lead in this matter. He led us straight to Elysium.
We were prepared to give our false names, but there were some in attendance who recognized us: Khilletzbaal and Kanmi. They glared in open hatred at Bartholomaios, and I suddenly grew uneasy. Elysium was just what I would have expected in the Sea of Shadows: no mirrors and bright but curtailed lighting. Riccardo was dressed in black, and he sat on his seat listless. His brow was furrowed, and he stared off into space, at once distracted and contemplative. No doubt he contemplated what error he had committed to be consigned to being Prince of a Brujah city, a figurehead among Carthaginian Brujah who far exceeded him in power. He heard our names and Clans with half an ear, and he asked, barely looking at us, if we required feeding grounds. “Yes, Your Grace,” Bartholomaios said, “if it please you.” Riccardo made a motion with his hand, and a beautiful Cainite of perhaps Egyptian or Palestinian extraction (or both) came over to us. He was dressed in Spanish fashion, but his luxurious black curls and beard were finely oiled in a fashion I have not seen among the kine. “I am Philosir,” said he, bowing, though he kept his eyes of hate locked on Bartholomaios. “I am Seneschal and will assign you feeding grounds.” Philosir, sire of Khilletzbaal. So, the whole infernal family was present! “And might we be blessed with a song from the famous Mordwyr of the Masque,” he asked mockingly. When I refused, Philosir turned to the Prince and called out to him, saying, “Would Your Grace not like to hear a song from Mordwyr? For him to come all this way and not sing for us—what a waste!” Riccardo looked up from his ponderings, his face still pained, and nodded. “Yes, give us a song,” the Prince said, indolently. And so I was obliged to sing. But what? I would sing no intimate song here! They deserved no such treatment! Something innocuous and not touching my heart. In the end, I decided on “O Mistress Mine” and performed it well in spite of myself. Bartholomaios was clearly moved by my music, I could see.
After the song, Bartholomaios tried to engage Philosir in conversation, but the Seneschal would not speak to him. Without looking at him, he cried, “The childe of the Traitor shall be silent. It shall not speak!” So I did what I could and spoke to Philosir on Bartholomaios’ behalf, though I couched the questions in my own feigned interest. The Seneschal spoke long of Carthage and all its glories, and this prompted from me an irresistible question. “Why then,” asked I, “did you not send Hannibal the funds he requested, the money which would have allowed him to annihilate Rome? Why was simple containment sufficient for you?” Philosir trembled with rage and cried, “We sent the funds! But Kephalos—” and he spat on the ground and murdered Bartholomaios with his eyes. “Kephalos intercepted the money and gave it to the Ventrue and Toreador to fund Rome’s wars! Has there ever been a greater betrayal?” And he continued to stare at Bartholomaios. “And shall we not then be revenged?” I felt it necessary to point out that Kephalos was dead, and though Philosir already knew this, it pleased him to hear it again. “But the viper still lives,” he said, and his fangs protruded menacingly, and his eyes glowed. He was referring to Bartholomaios, and at that moment, I knew we were doomed. They hate Bartholomaios in Cartageña, and we were surrounded by his mortal enemies. But as long as Elysium continued, I knew we were safe. Philosir knew he had shaken us, and so he prodded further. “Silent Voivode? Have you nothing to say?” The Angelus Mortis merely shook his head and uttered the one line that came out of his mouth all Elysium: “No, for you Carthaginians always complain about matters which neither concern nor interest me.” Philosir hissed at the Voivode, and I was proud that my friend had bested the Seneschal in that verbal duel. Philosir stalked off to go stand near his childe. They eyed us hungrily the rest of the night.
“Pretty Toreador,” said a female voice behind me, and, turning, I was face to face with a dark-skinned, exotic Cainite. “I am Ashanti, the Chamberlain. It would be best not to anger the Carthaginians. You can be friends with them if you bring them a squalling infant as a gift at their altar.” My mind flashed back to Hasruut in the forest, when Adonibaal and the others had planned to slaughter the innocents, and my mind rebelled from the horror of that scene. I would not relive that night in Cartageña! Young Bartholomaios stepped forward and asked in his deep voice, “What is the makeup of the city as far as Kindred are concerned?” Ashanti curled her lip in disgust at the sight of the “viper” and replied, “We are all Brujah, save the Prince. I do not date from Carthage, and so I feel no personal enmity against you.” Bartholomaios smiled at these words. A hint of kindness? But Ashanti’s next words wiped the smile from his face. “But for what your sire did—I would desiccate you for a thousand years and then throw you out in the sun at the end of them.” And Ashanti glided away.
We crossed the room to speak to Riccardo, and he asked us why we had come. “The Brujah clearly hate you, Bartholomaios.” The young Philosopher was distraught and cried aloud, “I would not have come if I had known they would kill me the moment I stepped into town!” Riccardo showed no signs of alarm but only said, languidly, “But I have called no bloodhunt.” What could we do when faced against so many enemies? Dryly and somewhat flippantly, I said, “Could you do us a favor and go ahead and hold off on that?” The Prince enjoyed watching us squirm and thus pronounced—knowing it would do no good—that bloodhunt against the visitors was forbidden. But Elysium had all cleared out. Only we were left within the building. “Doubtless they are waiting for us outside,” I said. “Is there a back door?” Bartholomaios asked. Riccardo only smiled and said, “I must retire.” And he got up and left. My anger rose within me; my indignation seized me, and I stalked toward the main door. “To hell with these Brujah!” I cried and stepped outside. They could have killed us anytime they wanted, so why not just cut short our suffering? The last thing I remember is collapsing in fear at Philosir’s feet! The terror of the Dark Gift which blazed forth from his eyes reduced me to a gibbering wreck. They drove a stake through my heart. Although I was paralyzed, I clearly heard the crunching of bone and the screams as my friends were pummeled into submission. I fell into torpor.
I awoke tonight in a dark room of wet stones. Still staked, I could not move, but I knew that Bartholomaios and the Angelus Mortis were nearby. I was hanging by ropes from the ceiling, and I was naked. And then a white-robed figure entered the room. I knew immediately that this was the Prophet. He had won, and now he would take his revenge. He pranced before us; he mocked us; he spat in our faces; he cursed us; he gloated; he threatened Isabelle’s life—for which, my staked heart swelled in hatred for the monster! What happened next was horrible, but more for my friends than for me. Our orifices were sewn shut, and the Prophet, ministering to us one by one, poured the hellish insects into our mouths. He kissed me on the mouth before pouring my portion in! I do not know what happened to my friends in that first terrifying moment, but the insects crawled down my throat and attempted to nest in my stomach. But when they touched the cold blood that sat in my belly—when they came in contact with Isabelle’s myroblite—they all died. Though disgusted by the sickening experience, what felicity I felt! What ray of light in dark dungeon! The sensation of suffocating and a desire to vomit was past, and my anguish cried out to Isabelle. My Lady was keenly aware of my suffering and said, “Fear not, my love! The Virago Tenebrae and I are on our way!” I quickly explained the situation to Isabelle, and she said, “We will wait until the best time to strike.” That time came sooner than I had thought. I still could not see my friends, for I could not turn my head to look at them, but I heard their muffled screams and the clacking and scurrying sounds of the insects as they burrowed deeper and deeper into their flesh. “Thank you, Isabelle, for your goodness!” I cried out to her in my mind. Though staked, I was not alone. Though full of the Prophet’s insects, I was not cursed.
I was blind, for my eyes were sewn shut. “Now,” the Prophet said, “you belong to Moloch—or will soon enough. Rest easy, my friends, for in a few weeks you will be like brothers to me! Soon, you, too, will serve the Devourer of Children!” A door opened and closed, and then I heard Kanmi’s voice. “I am truly sorry,” he said mockingly, “that you and the Angelus Mortis had to get involved in this.” I wish I could have torn him apart. Some time passed—I do not know how many hours—and then I heard Isabelle once more in my mind. “We are at the door.” I explained to her our shocking state and told her to inform the Virago Tenebrae. “After all,” I added. “We do not want her frenzying when she sees the Voivode all sewn up, hanging naked in his humiliation. Also, my love, the insects within me have died. Thank you, dear heart!” I then heard a knock on the door. The door opened. The Virago Tenebrae’s voice cried out in a harsh whisper, “Marena take you!” There was some choking. I heard liquid splashing on the floor. Then there was a dreadful hissing sound, hurried footsteps, and more hissing. Then there was weeping. Then the Virago Tenebrae said, “You have only begun to know suffering.” We were then set free. Isabelle slashed my eyes open, cutting away the stitches. Once free, I caught her up in my arms and kissed her—once I had removed the stitches which held my lips together. The Angelus Mortis, also freed, ripped open his chest and tried to scrape out the insects. “It is futile, my friend,” I said. “They have taken root.” His chest was full of maggots. “You know what must be done.” And the Angelus Mortis nodded, understanding that I alluded to Isabelle’s blood. He had drunk it once before, when we killed Ishmael. Bartholomaios got on his hands and knees and deliberately forced himself to vomit. A stream of angry, black insects poured from his mouth, but I shook my head in pity, knowing that he could not free himself from the curse. “Mordwyr, Zephyr please,” Bartholomaios asked with hand extended. I found my drusus in the corner and handed it to him. The young Philosopher eviscerated himself right before us, and still I knew that these measures would do no good.
We all fled the building and jumped in our waiting carriage. The Voivode took the fleshcrafted Kanmi with him. Once we cleared the city, I stopped the carriage and, taking Zephyr, cut open my stomach. The dead insects fell easily from my body. There were no maggots, and Bartholomaios eyed me curiously. I knew I could not hide it and told him of Isabelle’s blood and its effect on the infernal insects. “But if you drink,” I warned, “you will be once-bonded to Isabelle. Do you understand what this means?” Bartholomaios nodded and asked, “But Mordwyr, how do you feel about this?” I shook my head and replied, “I would of course prefer you not to drink my wife’s blood, but you are not sharing blood together, so it is not the same thing.” Isabelle cut her wrist and let a small amount of her vitae drain into a cup. The Angelus Mortis drank first, and he doubled over in pain. The drink burned away the insects in moments, and the Voivode was returned to his former self. Then Bartholomaios drank, and when he had recovered from his short-lived agony, he looked on Isabelle with a markedly-increased affection. He now prefers her and her company to any other being that walks the earth. I do not distrust young Bartholomaios, but I must be ever watchful, ever cautious around him. I am keenly aware of the fact that he will always desire a second drink from Isabelle, and I must make sure he never achieves his wish. Indeed, he eyed hungrily my tunic as Isabelle wept against my chest. “Now that you are once-bound to Isabelle,” said I, “you must be made aware that Isabelle is not my childe but Chrétien’s. I know you have always thought she is mine, but her blood is equal in potency to ours. You also are now aware that Isabelle’s blood is holy.” Bartholomaios nodded his understanding, and then his sharp mind quickly deduced the truth. “But the Angelus Mortis is not bound to the Lady Isabelle because he is already triply-bound to the Virago Tenebrae.” The Angelus Mortis then walked over and said, “This is true, and this is our great secret. You will repeat it to no one.” The Virago Tenebrae approached Isabelle and threw her arms around her in gratitude. All has been repaired, but all is not yet revenged!
We have made our rendezvous with our entourage and will make our way back to Paris. Though we have escaped, the Prophet does not think we have the means to counteract his insects, and so he will expect us to return in a few weeks. The next time we meet, I will not be his fiend-brother; I am his sworn enemy!
August 3rd, 1222 I thought the nights of foolishness were long behind us, but that was before I went to Cartageña! I was beaten into submission and humiliated, all for the sake of one who would cower before those he professes to hate with every fiber of his being. For the sake of Bartholomaios I went to Cartageña; for the sake of Isabelle and Mordwyr I fought against the Prophet's agents; but now the Brujah have earned the personal enmity of the Angelus Mortis and the Virago Tenebrae! I will see them all humiliated, locked into a never-ending torture which even their corrupted minds could not devise. They think they know suffering because they truck with demons? As Tenebrae told the whimpering Kanmi, “You have only begun to know what suffering is!” Though there is a Lasombra Prince, it is clear the Brujah control the city; clearly Riccardo was sent here for punishment, and for the sake of pride, Doña Beatriz will not acknowledge that any part of Iberia is not under the control of the Lasombra. So Cartageña will have to fester for the moment, but in the meantime, we will amuse ourselves with Kanmi. The insects in his body will provide us with a wonderful mattress, excellent for resting stiff muscles. But even in my righteous anger, I cannot forget that, once again, I was saved from corruption by the virtue of Isabelle's blood. Mordwyr and Isabelle are greater friends than one such as I deserves.
August 4th, 1222
I heard the buzzing of insects yesterday while my body lay torpid. The vermin are gone, yet they have left an indelible mark on my spirit. The Angelus Mortis and Bartholomaios also heard the infernal noise, but they remain quiet on the subject. How deeply was the young Philosopher wounded, and how much has Isabelle’s bloodsong cured him of that hurt? And the Angelus Mortis—what of his suffering? He speaks not of it, but I know his feelings run deep. He is the remade True Voivode, yea, but he is not untouched by the blot those demonic insects left on his soul. He suffers silently, and he thinks there is nobility in his silence.
Lucia—she has not taken the form of the Virago Tenebrae since Venice—has advised us three to sleep until Paris, and that is what we intend to do. I have taken a long, slow drink from Isabelle, to fortify me during my rest. The ladies will watch over us on the three-week journey to the Beauty Seat of the United Courts of Love.
My dearest childe,
I was sorry to learn that you had burned down Elysium. You should indeed protect yourself, my childe, for should anyone learn of it, blood-hunt would be called upon you in every city in Europe. Even your allies would have to turn away from you, lest they be seen to condone the breaking of the Traditions. But, have no fear, dear Mordwyr, for neither I nor your Isabelle would turn away from you.
Your son, dear little Adrien Malcolm, and his companion Antonio have arrived safely in Byzantium. I sent servants to meet their entourage part-way, for I feared that they might miscarry. If my fears were well-founded, then my purpose was achieved, for the larger group reached Constantinople unmolested. But when shall you come to visit me? I have heard that you are no longer Prince of Paris—again, and that, too, you are no longer King of the United Courts of Love. This means you are free to come to visit me. Please do so, my childe. Your son speaks longingly of his father and mother. I have rarely seen so precocious a child, particularly in the appreciation of beauty. He shows such sensitivity to the beautiful!
But now I am merely rambling. Write to me again soon, my childe, for I worry over you and your Isabelle. You are both so very precious to me.
And now I must write of something which I dread disclosing to you, dear Mordwyr. Your old friend Gervais is no more. Yes, he has met with Final Death. This much I have been able to learn. He left Constantinople for a brief time, seeking out his sire, Mesud the Turk. Rumors of Mesud’s presence east of Byzantium had reached us, and Gervais desired to destroy the one who had destroyed his own life. But Gervais, it seems, was not successful. He followed Mesud, and I think now that Mesud must have known Gervais was following him. I think Mesud lured him away. The last message I received from Gervais described a mountain, The Mountain, where the Dracon dwelt—or dwells yet, for aught I know. I received no more messages from our old friend, and I attempted to search for him. He was not visible to my Far Sight, but I hoped that he had been merely captured and hidden. But I have told you before, my childe, that I am a seer. I have seen Gervais, lying dead and in pieces. I know not where or how, but I know that he is dead. I thought it only right that you should know of it.
I pray God nightly that He pour out His blessings upon you and our dear Isabelle. My childer, come to visit me soon. I long to see your eyes.
Your loving sire,
Chrétien
(Received 25 August 1222)
August 25th, 1222
On the Mountain How the mighty has fallen
With these words, I bid you farewell, Gervais of the Broken Lance. May your spear be mended in Paradise! Gervais, alone lovely among the Nosferatu—how much stronger than lions were your grand words! How like the radiant moon at full your illuminating counsel! You were a paradox, my friend, a lover of beauty, though Nosferatu; though numbered among the Lepers, you saved the beauty of Byzantium! Michael’s Dream flourishes, and it finds its roots in your words of wisdom—let the Mad Patriarch dream as Joseph did and, in it, be mighty! Fly, then, Gervais of the Broken Lance, to your reward. Be at peace at last.
Chrétien’s letter, waiting for me at Nouvelle Caledonie, stunned me. Gervais, gone? It could not be! And yet my Sire wrote that Gervais had gone in search of his sire, Mesud, and how he had last been seen on the Mountain—the Dracon’s Mountain, where Jubal has languished all these centuries, fleshcrafted into the living rock. Gervais has then fallen, a Cainite mighty in word and deed, but mightier in faith. Once recovered from my astonishment, I read Chrétien’s letter aloud. The Angelus Mortis was shocked, but it was young Bartholomaios who took the news the worst: he sank into a deep depression and could not speak for nearly ten minutes. He and Gervais had been close friends those years Bartholomaios had lived in Byzantium, and so, among us all, the young Philosopher knew him best. I thought Bartholomaios would have some words of eulogy to say, but he kept his thoughts pent up in his heart. Let these mere scratchings thus immortalize the brave Nosferatu knight!
When once I had recovered, I spoke to my Lady, telling her how the audible dream of insects buzzing in the darkness gradually faded the longer I slept. Now, nothing remains, save Isabelle’s bloodsong. I wonder how my friends fare? “I dreamed repeatedly of you rescuing me,” I said to Isabelle. “You are the gentle counterpoint to the Valkyries—a spirit of loveliness who comes, not to whisk my soul away to Valhalla, but to give me life once more. Thank you, my love.” Isabelle glowed under my attention, and we drank from one another privately. When Bartholomaios could speak again, he asked, “And where is little Adrien Malcolm? He is not here to greet his father and mother?” I smiled and replied, “The child, along with his playmate, Antonio, and his mother, Beatrice, are safely in Byzantium. Just arrived, my Sire tells me.” Bartholomaios understood and said, “Laura Giovanni would be a great fool to attempt any violence against Adrien in her desire to destroy or reclaim Antonio.” But Lucia cut in and observed, “My elder sister’s pride cannot be crossed. She surely did all she could. But I have seen Chrétien at work, and Laura has certainly found it impossible to take the boys from him. She may as well command the moon to wax when it should wane.” The Voivodin then rose and turned to her lord with a peculiar smile, saying, “Well, the Voivode and I must return to our old residence. We have a few things to take care of there.” What their business could have been, they did not expound upon, and it was not anyone’s place to ask. But the Angelus Mortis asked if they might borrow one of my carriages, so I of course had one summoned immediately. “We will meet you at Elysium, then,” the Voivode said, and they departed.
The Lycée des les Roses has become permanent Elysium—within those walls, no Kindred may strike at another. This ruling of Helene la Juste has had a peculiar effect on the nature of the Paris Elysium, for now it has become a place, not so much focused on entertainment or socializing or making alliances, but one in which most times not many Cainites are present, but when they are, they whisper in dark corners and scheme. And the Seneschal, Auderico, is there every night, supervising. Only twice in a week, when the Prince attends, is Auderico allowed time for personal matters. Tedium and drudgery! I wonder how Auderico endures it. Despite his nightly consignment to the Lycée des les Roses, Auderico was merry, and he greeted us warmly and welcomed us back to Paris. He told us that Jürgen, Beatriz, and Laura Giovanni will be arriving in two nights’ time. And so, we have no engagements tomorrow night. I have things to attend to at Nouvelle Caledonie, so I welcome the brief respite. It took the Angelus Mortis and Lucia some time to arrive at Elysium, but when they did, they were—for Tzimisce, at least—positively jolly. What mischief had they gotten into? I tried to discover their secret, but their eyes only danced and laughed and betrayed nothing. “Lucia is in a good mood only when she has just murdered someone,” I whispered to Isabelle.
One more thing, and then I close for the morning: Thomas of Gaul, having tired of being Veronique’s amorous plaything, has removed himself from her web and now thrives as Sheriff of Paris. I am happy for him.
August 25th, 1222 The nights traveling from Cartageña to Paris were harrowing. In the aftermath of our violation, I could focus upon vengeance upon Kanmi, but throughout the day, my ears were filled with the incessant buzzing of insects. I wanted to clasp my hands over my ears, but in my delusions, I was completely paralyzed, the stake holding me still. When I awoke, I found both Mordwyr and Bartholomaios had suffered similar visions, and we were all the worse for it. Lucia's study into the nature of Vicissitude-fed insanity led her to inform us that we should stay in torpor throughout our journey, lest we should fall to madness. I write of my dreams in painstaking detail only because Lucia, in her prescribed treatment, has insisted that I do so. I am blinded, my hearing dulled by the stitches that hold my ear canals shut. I feel my mouth forced open and a pair of lips encircle my own; a fleshy tongue is rammed between my teeth. I concentrate with every fiber of my being to tear the offending blob from its owner's mouth with my fangs, but the shaft of wood within my chest holds me still, weaker than a mewling babe freshly ripped from the womb of its mother. And then the insects come; there is no starting trickle, the first of many; rather there is only the mouth and tongue one moment, and then a deluge of insects, like an advancing wall, pouring into my mouth. I am helpless as the swarm works through my gullet, into my stomach, pouring into my heart, up through the roof of my mouth to fill my nose, crawling along the ridges of my brain. At first, I try to focus on the sensations as a new experience to be analyzed and enjoyed as a form of defense, for I am a Tzimisce whose body has been remade and shifted in ways too numerous to count. It works for a short time, but as the invasion continues, the reality that I am helpless to stop it overwhelms my defenses. Soon, even Lucia's bloodsong is overwhelmed by the swell of vermin scratching behind my eyes, pulsing through every organ and member. The facade of the immovable Voivode cracks, and I am nearly consumed by something horrific and primeval, but then I hear Lucia's voice, and the stake is pulled from my chest.
There. It is done, and I shall not write of it again. Lucia is once again the woman I knew before our remaking, and she has no intention of retaking the form of the Virago Tenebrae. “I am Lucia,” she proudly declared when I inquired, “and who will gainsay me?” Indeed, she has every right to be proud of who she is and from whence she has come; that Lucia was spawned from the Giovanni only makes the fact of who she is all the more remarkable. I, however, have been transformed not only by the remaking but also what has occurred over the nights since then; I could not so easily retake the visage of Serafim, even if I were so inclined. The Angelus Mortis is a far more fitting name. After reorganizing our things within Nouvelle Caledonie, we went down to the parlor only to find a distraught Mordwyr, holding a letter from Chrétien. Gervais has disappeared near the Mountain of the Dracon and most likely has been destroyed. The news of Gervais himself held little concern for me, but the location of his disappearance was disturbing. Neither the Dracon nor Viorica have been heard from since the fires of the Inquisition swept Europe; furthermore, Gervais is also the childe of Mesud, who sought to free damned Jubal from beneath the Mountain. The news stirred a fear in my heart that I would not speak of, lest the utterance of it give it life. But we have agreed to investigate the Mountain as soon as business is concluded in Paris, Buda, and Pesth. Fortunately, this evening has not all been one of dire reflections. Lucia and I have taken care of some important business, managing to mix in pleasure at the same time. Marko is cured of his obsession with Mordwyr, and the annoyance that was Jean-Michele is no more! All it required was the reshaping of Jean-Michele's face into the likeness of Mordwyr, as he had requested. These Toreador and their idiotic games of one-upmanship—so concerned are they with scoring points in the social arena that they fail to take into account more practical matters, such as if their latest, magnificently-crafted social coup d’état will get them killed. If they are so intent to run upon their swords, then it is our duty to support their blades, lest another Esclarmonde or Horse Princess bring death to our doorstep. In this case, it has the bonus effect of removing an annoyance from Mordwyr which I in part helped fuel, thereby lessening any urge the Daywalker might have to inflict some sort of mischief upon me. Lucia had spent the past weeks lovingly crafting the visage of Mordwyr from several blobs of flesh, so when the time came to metamorphose Jean-Michele's visage, it was nothing short of perfection. He thanked us profusely and went off to commit his mischief upon Marko, but we followed him under cover of shadow to witness my wife's diabolical plan bear fruit. Jean-Michele soon located Marko playing a sorrowful tune within a tavern, no doubt pining for the former King of the Courts of Love. Without a word, Jean-Michele approached Marko and kissed him fully upon the lips. It was not long before the pair relocated into a private room and entwined in the only way that two men without the aid of Vicissitude can. But when Marko was at the height of his passion, Jean-Michele ripped open the mask of Mordwyr to show his true self. He sneered in triumph, but it was short-lived, for Marko's look of shock gave way to the blackening of his eyes as the Beast overtook him. We thought it best to close the door and relocate, lest we be caught within Marko's frenzy. However, we were gifted with the sounds of spattering blood and wet flesh smacking against the walls as we left. By the time we had relocated to Lycée des les Roses, Lucia was positively glowing, and I longed to remove her from the boring proceedings and take her as the Zulo. At least for some of us that night, lust did not ultimately lead to blood. Oh yes, we also retrieved dear Matteo from his rest beneath the flagstones of the ruins of the former Tzimisce demesne. How happy Igor will be to add him to the collection!
August 26th, 1222
Would that I could rain down fire on all of Egypt! Why cannot all Setites be destroyed in wind and flame as the Ravnos were? That would be true, limitless, exceeding felicity! But instead, Isabelle and I must languish under the shenanigans of the dust-eating, belly-crawling Asps! My Lady woke tonight, and I had just healed myself of the wound of the Magdalena when I noticed how strangely Isabelle spoke to me. Some foreign inflection had crept into her words, some slurring of her speech. I looked at her, and then, as sudden and as shocking as when lightning strikes, Isabelle’s snake tongue slipped from between her lips and snapped out at me. I fell back in horror and screamed out for the gods’ aid! But oh, how my Isabelle also leapt in fear and wept at my reaction. I recovered my wits and ran to her and caught her up in a tight embrace. “My Love, what has happened? What does this mean?” Thick, cold tears ran from our eyes as we rued our wretched state. Without thinking, I grabbed a knife and cut her tongue out. The lump of flesh in my hand returned to normal, and before it could wither away, Isabelle reattached it. All was anguish for the moment, and we sat in an unmoving, wordless embrace until Bartholomaios and the Angelus Mortis pounded on my door in a panic. “I am well, my friends,” I said through the door. I had steadied my voice, and they seemed to believe me. To make the lie iron-clad, I added, “I just forgot to gag myself. You know—the wound in my chest?” This convinced them, and I told them, through the still-unopened door, that Isabelle and I would be down shortly. Turning back to my Lady, I said, “After this Grand Alliance is settled, we are for the Voivodate anyway, so let us keep counsel with ourselves until we reach Buda and Pesth. The answer is in Brutus and the missing ring of your hair. The Angelus Mortis can get him to divulge his secrets. But I suspect the worst.” This made Isabelle weep all the more, but she finally agreed to keep her condition a secret until we reach the Voivode’s home.
Would that I could suffer in her place! She is so good, so pure, so bright—why should one so perfect be made to suffer so? We walked in the garden with our friends, and though we spoke small with our companions, Isabelle’s and my mind communed. When it had grown fully dark, our friends made their ways to different places and diversions, but Isabelle and I were not in any mood to go to Elysium, so we stayed home and enjoyed each other in our bed—that is, until a servant knocked on our chamber door. I roared at him to go away, so he asked, sheepishly, if he should send Marko away. Marko had arrived and obviously wanted something. “Tell him I will be right down,” I growled, and Isabelle and I got dressed. I thought it best to see Marko, for the longer Isabelle and I made love, the longer our passion, commingled with sorrow, increased. Our minds spoke to each other, and we were beginning to morbidly dwell upon the Setite inclinations of Isabelle’s blood. Marko was a welcome break in our despondent wallowing.
When I met Marko in the east parlor, I knew something about him had changed. He no longer lusts after me—no longer pines for me—though the attraction still remains. “Your Grace,” he began, “I apologize for having made a nuisance of myself these past many nights.” I told him there was no need to apologize, that no injury had been given or sustained, but Marko seemed distraught. It pained me to see my friend in this state, so I offered him a glass of Fae vitae. The manic minstrel had never before drunk Fae vitae, and he was quite unprepared for the effect it would have on him. His distress evaporated, and as he bent his eye on vacancy, he cried, “I understand now! Everything is so clear to me! I hear the music.” But there was no music save that which played in his head. It must have been a lively tune, for the pace at which he danced with me and Isabelle was somewhat frantic. He frolicked for some time and then stopped as suddenly as he had begun. He grew serious as he stood erect and brushed out the wrinkles in his clothes. “I must go compose!” He threw the curls out of his face and strode from the room.
And then we heard a plucking at a harp in the next room and thought maybe it was Marko. It was not. Bartholomaios sat and strummed the strings absentmindedly. I think regarding the young Philosopher, Solomon’s words are too true: with much learning comes sorrow. “Why are you these nights out of measure sad?” asked I, coming to sit beside Bartholomaios. “I want to remember my father—my human father,” he replied without looking up. But then his eyes brightened, and he stood up. He must have sensed Isabelle’s presence in the room. He walked over to her but dared not touch her, though I could see that he longed to. “How about you, my lady? Do you remember your father?” Isabelle, oblivious to Bartholomaios’ agony for her, replied, “I do not, good Bartholomaios, for he died when I was but 10.” The young Brujah fidgeted before her; he shifted his weight; his eyes flitted from left to right. I thought he would not be able to fight back his urge to take another drink from Isabelle, so I interposed myself and said, “Good night, young friend. My Lady and I have matters to attend to.” And I escorted Isabelle safely from the room. When I looked back, I caught the burning of Bartholomaios’ desire gleaming in his eyes. The young Philosopher is not vicious, but I am obliged, from this point on, to keep a close eye on him when Isabelle is near.
Soon I will sleep beside loveliest Isabelle, and yet I dread the setting of the sun. Surely, as certain as the wound of the Magdalena will fester in my breast, the serpent’s tongue will tomorrow night replace my Lady’s perfect instrument.
August 26th, 1222 We awoke to Mordwyr's screams echoing throughout Nouvelle Caledonie, and Lucia and I sprang up without a moment's hesitation to see what was the matter. But when we reached Mordwyr and Isabelle's door, the Daywalker assured us that it was nothing to be concerned about, that he was just reacting to the horrific wounds which are inflicted upon him every evening. He remarked that he had forgotten to stuff a cloth in his mouth to muffle his screaming. It is odd; in those times we have slept in caravans or caverns, I do not recall seeing him do such a thing, but it is hardly as if I studied Mordwyr intently whilst he slept. In any case, all is well for once. Aside from that and a short visit from Marko (which fortunately occurred whilst Lucia and I were in our room), the evening has been largely unremarkable. Mordwyr was relieved that Marko has miraculously overcome his lust, though Mordwyr’s eyes scoured us with suspicion. I believe our ecstasy of the night before did not escape our friend's attention, and perhaps he suspects our hand in Marko's change of heart. I merely kept silent as a true Voivode is wont to do, for fear that anything I said might fully reveal our hand in the affair. But eventually Mordwyr and Isabelle left to attend to their own affairs, and after Lucia played some chess with Bartholomaios, we retired to our room to perfect the manufacture of testicles. Corneliu has already had his only pair chewed away by the hellhounds, so it seems only fair that we give him several more to be consumed anew.