Wilhelm Wolf-Slayer, Greetings from the Prince of Constantinople! Yes, your liege is now the Prince of Constantinople. And from this vantage I can easily do that which pleases me—I shall gladly extend your invitation to the Brujah in Constantinople. My city has more Kindred than it can support, and this despite what has occurred in these recent nights. My childe has more details of this. I am in haste, and I can write only briefly. Brief though I must be, I must yet give you joy of your new childe. Jean-Louis de Troyes is a noble heart, and I am pleased that you have made him a Philosopher. He will be a strong and true-hearted childe to you, but, as you are doubtless aware, he is as proud as any Brujah! And his temper is as fiery as your own! I thank you for your kind words concerning my dear childer. I do consider the Lady Isabelle to be nearly as much my childe as she is my dear Mordwyr's. She is truly called the Fey, for there is none fairer among the children of Caine. But I must hasten. Our alliances in these coming nights must hold, for the sake of all our kind. My childe is wise, and though he has little political experience, that can be supplied by his native caution, the keen eyes of his adoring and trusted bride, and the skills of his court. The Court of Paris will be a legend in nights to come, for never have so many Kindred so close to Caine gathered without war. And now I must send this letter, for my carrier awaits it. If there is aught you would know else, ask your Prince. Chrétien of the Blazing Noon
My very dear childe, Mordwyr,
I write from Constantinople, and I have tidings of joy for you. I spoke to our grandsire Michael of the theft of the Lady Isabelle by the Setites and of her torments at their accursed hands. The wrath of Michael was—how shall I describe it? He recalled his own copper-haired Salome, and his fury burned like naked flame. There is not a Serpent left in Constantinople. All, all, have met with Final Death. Even the followers of Desheru, those red-haired Setites, who do not dwell in this our city have felt the ripples of what Michael has done. Be wary, childe. The Serpents cannot but suspect that it was Michael’s own blood which begged his aid. Though they dare not raise a hand against him, they will seek you—and Isabelle—to injure you. All their Clan now hates and fears Michael’s Clan, the Clan of the Rose.
But that is not all that is done in these nights! Send my blessings, thanks, and admiration to my own dear pupil, Gervais. His wise words had worked upon the mighty Michael, and I did not find it impossible to persuade him to rest. He lies now deep in the earth, safe from any and all. May his madness find its cure in rest!
I had hoped that this would not occur, but it was the last request of the glorious Michael, and I could not refuse him. Nor would I allow his city to be in improper Ventrue hands! I am now the Prince of Constantinople, and there is much that I must do to bring this city into order. With the aid of Voivode Dimitri, I do not despair of it. He intends to come to my side for a time. Long, of course, it cannot be; the Tzimisce do not long dwell apart from their mountains. And it may be that I shall have need of your aid, childe, in the nights to come, your aid and that of your mighty court. You have, undoubtedly, the most powerful court since Byzantium became Constantinople. My city suffers from a glut of Kindred. There may be open war in my streets soon, for the Setites no longer provide their foul “services” to those Kindred who cannot hunt.
But I prattle something too much of my own concerns. I wish you joy of your lovely, lovely Isabelle. Long may you and she live to rule the Paris nights, a very Venus and Adonis.
Watch over Wilhelm. He is loyal to you, childe, but he is far from wise. He may attempt too much and bring the eyes of the Church upon you. I know whereof I write, for I have sources within the Holy Church. He is headstrong and will go his own way, but make certain that he does not endanger you or our dear Isabelle. He would not do so purposely, but his folly is great.
Give my greetings to the loyal Gervais, and I hope that his heart is not too heavy in these nights. His own lost Isabelle is become in his mind your Isabelle, and it may make his suffering all the harder to endure. I do not doubt the fidelity of your lovely one, but it may well crush Gervais’ dead heart always to see her. But it may be too late already. It may be that already he loves her so much that it would be worse agony to be apart from her than to be near her, even if she is his Prince’s adoring bride.
My own heart yearns to see my dear childer, but my duty holds me here, in Michael’s city, keeping it safe against the time when he shall wake.
Write to me of all your concerns, and do not hesitate to ask for my aid, should it avail you.
Chrétien
(Received 6 January 1203)
Wilhelm Wolf-Slayer,
I was delighted to receive your letter, and I have given your invitation to the Brujah in my city. Expect that some will come to you. You are, after all the childe of Hasruut the Phoenician, and there are few Brujah who can claim an older sire.
But if you are to be the leader of the Brujah, yours the banner under which they unite, you must be vassal to no Kindred. You must no longer be my knight, but rather your own master. And this I would do: I would release you from your oaths of fealty to me, but I require this much in return. I would require an oath of eternal bonds of love and alliance between the Brujah and the Toreador of Paris and of Constantinople. I would have your oath that you would never, by your own action or those of your Brujah, turn against me or my childer. But this I know you would not do—you are too bound to Mordwyr by love and duty to do otherwise. Therefore, I can already congratulate you on your noble endeavors to unite the scattered Brujah. In nights to come, we shall all have cause to rejoice over this.
As for your childe Jean-Louis, I sensed much potential in him, and it grieved me to see him a blood-bound ghoul. I am joyous that he is a free Philosopher, and I would be pleased beyond measure to have him here at some time. Know that whenever you wish, or he has need, he is welcome in Constantinople.
Awaiting your sealed oath,
Chrétien of the Blazing Noon
My childe Serafim,
Greetings from Constantinople. By the time you receive this letter, I shall be with my friend and ally, Chrétien of the Blazing Noon, now Prince of Constantinople. Together we are forcing Constantinople into some semblance of order.
Your brother Andrei and his consort lack each other. Therefore, the Lady Madalina is being sent to Paris. It is close enough to Andrei that they can visit each other from time to time, and, should London prove safe, he can easily send for her. She is the consort of a Voivode, and I know the Prince of Paris: she will be treated accordingly. Whether she wishes to dwell with you or with the Prince’s consort, the Marchioness Isabelle, I leave to your combined choice.
Have you heard the Prince’s music? He is skilled, and his song in my hall was pleasant.
Have you found a consort of your own? What is your status in the Court of Mordwyr, childe of Chrétien of the Blazing Noon? Does it befit my childe? Should the Prince require your aid, give it. The lines of Michael and of the Dracon have never failed each other. I know that the honor of the Tzimisce is not disgraced in you, Serafim.
Your Sire,
Dimitri, childe of Viorica, childe of the Dracon
From the Journal of Mordwyr, the Marquis de Troyes
January 6th, 1203
The kine celebrate the Epiphany this day, and because I know little about it, I wish Gervais were here to instruct me. But he has been gone this cycle of the moon, living among the Nosferatu, learning the secret ways of Paris, no doubt, and battling demons of his own, for certain.
I have received a letter from my Sire, who is now Prince of Constantinople. Michael sleeps, and such is my delight that I will kiss Gervais’ ravaged cheek when I see him again! Worthy dream-persuader, what effect your words will have on the world we cannot yet fathom. Time alone will tell, and as we are ageless, we will see how your wisdom blooms in Byzantium.
But the contents of Chrétien’s letter—how shocking! Before Michael slept, Chrétien informed him of how Makareta-sherit had taken Isabelle, his grandchilde, and tortured her, subjecting her to demonic Setite chants, hoping to transform her into a loathed Asp. The mad Patriarch, recalling his copper-haired Salome, could not bear the tale and, in his rage, slaughtered all Setites inhabiting Constantine’s city. Not one that lived there now lives. Indeed, Jean-Baptiste’s heart must have been kept secure there, for this night I have learned from my Sheriff that though our prisoner was kept beneath the earth in a secret cell, yet his body had been incinerated, as if the sun had scorched his flesh! So, Jean-Baptiste is no more, but what shall I tell Gervais? I promised him the Setite’s head. Shall I, Mordwyr of the Masque, be known as oath-breaker? Gervais must have satisfaction, so I will think on brave punishments for the Setites and make him my instrument!
So busy this month has been that I have not had time to write. The De Troyes College of Music has begun, and I have met a number of times with my pupils. Enrollment is still small, but I hope in time to increase it, to make the University of Paris, of which my De Troyes College of Music is but a part, the greatest institution of learning in Europe. Come, minstrels all, and let us make a grand music! In that vein, I have written a song about Wilhelm’s exploits, how this “son of Carthage” slew three lupines without aid. I have met a handful of traveling minstrels in these nights, and they have all learned the song. It is a favorite among the students of the University. It did not take long for Wilhelm to learn that he is now known popularly as Wilhelm Wolf-Slayer. It suits his ferocity. Though the song, now called “Ballad of Wilhelm Wolf-Slayer,” I do not consider a masterpiece, all who hear it love it, and Kindred understand its full meaning! When I sang the song this night at Elysium, the assembled Kindred could scarce believe it. “A fanciful tale,” they said, “but a wonderful song, nonetheless. One Kindred defeating three Lupines? Impossible!”
It has been nearly a month since my invitation to the Monarchs of the Courts of Love. I hope to see their eyes soon.
My Masquerade rules Paris now. All Kindred, both denizen and visitor, know the rules, and I am now called popularly Mordwyr of the Masque. Those who oppose the Masquerade, thinking we should hunt without fear of the Church’s fires, call me Mordwyr of the Iron Masque. This amuses me. So be it, as long as, when in Paris (and I hope one night all the Courts of Love), those who disagree with me do not break Masquerade. Then they will feel my full wrath, and I will not be mirthful. I will no longer jest, but the Dark Adonis, of whom few know, will visit them, and the visitation will not be amicable.
Finally, there is my Lady, who, after the banishment of Anne-Marie, has become known as Isabelle la Fey, for rumor of her beauty has spread to all the Courts. If the Monarchs are true Artisans, they will come to Paris for no other reason than to see for themselves if legendary beauty truly resides here. I eagerly await their arrival.
Paris Chrétien of the Blazing Noon, This night was Elysium, but I awoke to find my ‘guest’ in ashes. The Keeper informed me that this is only possible if his heart was gone, too–perhaps exposed to the sun. So, I guess, farewell to J.B. At Elysium your childe confirmed this by reading to me parts of your letter, and I must admit I am glad of it. I am also glad to hear that your illustrious grandsire has taken to rest. Your correspondence to me–though brief–fills me with great joy. Rest assured that my brothers are welcome here and that they shall find a warm reception into the Clan. Though we may not be able to house all within Paris–better if you were to stagger their departure–I am confident that we will find safe and strong havens for everyone within France. Surely, if every brother were to appear before me, I would return some such (and as many as you require) to serve you in the Brujah name–as well as in mine. Please include, in your next dispatch, the names and number of those that will come, or delegate one such brother to correspond with me directly. My childe grows ever stronger and confident, and yes, proud he is indeed–as I am proud of him. I am contemplating sending him to you, as my adjutant and your Brujah representative. Though it would grieve me to part with him, I feel the need to send my most trusted out into the world to make the Brujah strong again. I will speak to him of this, and if you are both so inclined, he will await your summons. For now, I will need a little more time with him, for there is still much I wish to impart to him. Your Childe–of the Masque–is well, and so is the Lady la Fey; and I–as ever–their honored Sheriff, and your humble servant,
Wilhelm Wolf-Töter
Alejandro,
I know not if, with what I have heard of your recent involvements, you honor Ordoño’s memory enough even to care, but for his sake who sired you, I write. Your sire and mine, the honored Don Ordoño de Castile, has met Final Death. I was not a witness to his end, but I fear he was diablerized by his great enemy, Miriam bint Ayesha. They were to have met with Lord Montano, each to plead his case in the dispute which sunders the Sea of Shadows. Because Ordoño is not there, I go to make his plea on our behalf. Our cause—if you yet share this cause—however, is immeasurably weakened by his absence, which was doubtless Miriam’s intention.
I would like to think that all these reports of you, Alejandro, are not true. It would speak ill of our sire to think that he had chosen one so easily drawn in by the Serpents. I fear, I greatly fear, that they are true. And if that be the case, it is likely I write to you no more than you already know, treacherous brother. How could you so dishonor the high blood of your sire—to be the ally of Muslim Lasombra, the pawn of Assamites, the bedfellow of Setites? But I have no need of vengeance. If reports of him speak truly, when your Setite alliances are known, your Prince shall exact a heavier price even than I would.
If it be, as is just barely possible, that you are no more than an unwitting tool—then sever your ties with the Serpents at any cost! Make overtures of peace to your Prince, and find some means of proving to all who watch you—whether it be Sylvester de Ruiz or Isabelle la Fey—that you are no friend to the Setites and are the enemy of the Assamites and their allies.
If we have aught to discuss, which could be only if you yet share my cause, then you may write to me at our sire’s old haven. Messages sent there shall find me.
The true childe of Don Ordoño de Castile,
Doña Beatriz de Castile
(Received on 7 January 1203)
My Dear Sire,
I thank you for your letter, dear Chrétien, and will indeed put to use all that you have told me regarding the Matriarch. I pray the information will be damning enough to force her to relinquish her claim to the headship of the Courts of Love, a claim which we both know is built on falsehood! In this quiet, pre-dawn stillness, my brain teems with scattered thoughts that touch one another, fly apart, and then touch again, in varied combinations: fear of nights to come, memories of friends now dead, trepidation at possible betrayal, machinations about alliances wrought and sundered. I find it difficult to order my thoughts, to put pen to paper, to tell you of all that has occurred this night.
The night began pleasantly, with my Isabelle introducing to me one of her ladies-in-waiting. As befitting her station and wealth, my Lady found it prudent to surround herself with ladies of good breeding and of no small import. Isabelle has a keen mind regarding Masquerade, and I must remember not to let myself be consumed by thoughts of Kindred dealings alone but must make myself more conspicuous as the Marquis de Troyes. Isabelle’s choice of ladies is exquisite, and when she presented to me Lady Lucia Giovanni of Venice, arrayed in finest silk and damask, I was pleased. Lady Lucia is, of course, kine, the daughter of Augustus Giovanni, but Isabelle communicated to me her intention to make this one for Serafim. Yes, the Tzimisce, though not yet a warlord, hopes one day to be a Voivode, and so he must first take to himself a consort and make her flesh of his flesh. Lucia, with her small, slender frame, dark Italian complexion, and long loose curls, is a beauty to be sure, but it was the look of resolve, intelligence, and determination in her aspect that told me she suits Serafim well.
It has been a month since I had last seen my Scourge and my friend, for he had business with his brother, Andrei, which I would not, even as Prince of Paris, hinder. How it thrilled my soul to see him again! Isabelle introduced Serafim to the Lady Lucia. Was he pleased to meet her? What did he think of her? Did she arouse him, interest him, disgust him? I could not tell, for my Scourge is a perfect Tzimisce, with a face carved out of marble. Might he simply fleshcraft his face into whatever expression he wishes to communicate? It would not be unsurprising to see some measure of the Archfiend in him, yet to witness such monstrosity in Serafim would sorely vex me. Sire, I still shudder to think on the Fiend in the Mountains.
We four made our way to the Lycée des les Roses, for I had ordered Elysium this night. I have ordered brilliant multi-tiered chandeliers and have had them hung in the hall. Would that you could have seen them ere you departed! The hall is lit with a suffused intensity, and no one need worry about wandering too close to those old wall-ensconced flames.
I have been reunited with my Seneschal, Alejandro, after a month’s absence. He had been in Iberia, pursuing his Clan’s interests. That is well, but I cannot help but be suspicious of his timing: leaving just after Jean-Baptiste’s insult to my bride. What dealings has he brokered in his absence? Who has he met in his sojourn? Before confronting my dear Lasombra, he could have been in no doubt of my displeasure, for when I entered the hall, with my radiant bride on my arm, and Wilhelm, behind and to the right, cradling his greatsword, was it trepidation I read in his eyes?
To the Red Room Alejandro, Wilhelm, Serafim, and I repaired, and there I exploded in rage. “Why did you abandon my bride?” I cried at Alejandro. The Seneschal shrank back from my tirade, but Wilhelm, as Sheriff, informed me that it would not be prudent to bring personal matters into this. So I apologized to Alejandro, but still I demanded an explanation. “Your silk dealings with the Setites, their alliance with the Assamites, and all the money being used to ship Assamite reinforcements to the Muslim Lasombra in Iberia—how much did you know? Were you a willing party? How much were you paid to betray us?” I threw many more questions at him. At this point, I thought Alejandro would not survive the night. Wilhelm kept an intense eye on me, waiting for the word to dispatch the traitor.
Alejandro had much to report, and it was the contents of his message which stayed my hand: truly, he had been busy in Iberia. Truly, he had been on legitimate business. “I have learned,” he began nervously, “that the Ventrue Nastascio of Galacia, representing the Ventrue in the Fiefs of the Black Cross and the Baronies of Avalon to the Lasombra, hopes to form an alliance between the two Clans. Miriam bint Ayesha of Al Andalus, the leader of the Muslim Lasombra, is allied with the Assamites. And the lord of Iberia, Sylvester de Ruiz of Toledo, is hard pressed to hold Spain, so Ordoño de Castile and Miriam go to Sicily to meet with Lord Montano, he who guards their Clan’s sleeping Antediluvian. I pray Montano will bring them to a peace.”
But Alejandro admitted to the silk trade with the Setites, though he did not know the Assamites were involved. Indeed, there is little that he actually knew at all. He may not be a traitor, but he is, at best, a stooge. Where are the famed scheming, plotting, and intrigues of the Lasombra? For such merits surely do not rest on my Seneschal. To learn more of this, we called for Yitzhak, Alejandro’s silk-merchant contact, to be found and brought before us. But that business was soon forgotten, for then came the Nosferatu.
Into Elysium they came, three hooded forms, carrying a wooden chest. The music stopped; dancers froze mid-step; all stared wordlessly—not a whisper to be heard. They were admitted to the Red Room, for they demanded an audience with me, and such was the gravity in Daniel’s voice that I would openly deny him nothing. The contents of the chest were revealed to us: Jacob’s bones! Dear Sire, my Keeper is no more! What madness grips my city? Who flouts my authority? Am I a scarecrow, that my enemies may slay my Court whilst I stand pinned, unable to swat at the crows which fly around me? I am no such man of straw, and the murderer will rue the night that he thought I could be so easily toyed with! In open Elysium, I declared bloodhunt on the murderer, but how is he to be found? Angelo of Venice, a Cappadocian, asked who the guilty party was. I knew not but assured the assembled Kindred that I would bend all my powers to find the truth.
There is something else, Sire, that bothers me: it seems Wilhelm has alienated the Nosferatu, for he questioned Daniel of the Seine, now patriarch of their Clan, why Henri of the Underhalls, who was to be kept secret, as Daniel saw it, as Wilhelm’s pet spy, was now boldly standing in Elysium. Such a remark enraged the Nosferatu, and they all three threw off their hoods and let their hideous visages infect us all. I, of course, turned away and saw little, but I heard Daniel’s words, and they portended ill. “It was Jacob who had agreed to be used thus,” he growled, “but I find the whole arrangement distasteful and insulting: to be used as the Sheriff’s lapdogs is disgraceful. Such loyalty died with Jacob, and I will see my childer more fittingly used!” And with that, they re-cloaked themselves and left.
Wilhelm and I went to the leper’s hospital, where Jacob had last been seen, while Alejandro and Serafim had Yitzhak fetched to them. Our investigation yielded little beyond slippered feet and a short-haired Moor who spoke to the Templars. After I tracked the murderer’s steps back to a stable, I credit Wilhelm for getting that information about the Moor from the stablehand. Such it went with us, but how could we have known what was happening across town, in Alejandro’s house?
Yitzhak had been brought in, and in his conversation with Alejandro, he had repeatedly implicated the Seneschal in the Setite dealings. This Jean-Louis heard and, in his Beast-fury, tore the Jewish merchant limb from limb and would have done the same to Alejandro had Serafim not rescued him. When Wilhelm and I arrived, all was in an uproar: Dappa grievously injured, Jean-Louis screaming, lusting after Alejandro’s death, Alejandro pleading his innocence. I did not know what to think, whom to believe, so I soul-sighted Alejandro, which told me little. Yes, of course he was afraid, angry, hateful—so would I be in such straits! But was he guilty? This I could not tell. All his looks were of innocence, yet looks alone would not appease an infuriated Jean-Louis who then paced outside the door, grinding his teeth and waiting for my judgment. But for Alejandro, the night was not yet finished with him, and one more blow was yet to come. As Kindred, we are all acquainted with grief, but for Alejandro, sorrows come not in single spies but in battalions. A knock at his door, and in came a messenger! In the dead of night? Indeed, he bore an urgent letter from Doña Beatriz, Alejandro’s sister in the Blood. She imparted to him evil tidings, that their sire, Ordoño de Castile, is dead! Sire, what is happening? How have these nights grown so bloody? Protect yourself, my dear Chrétien, for I could not bear to lose you. Ordoño was diablerized by Miriam bint Ayesha! So, the Muslim Lasombra have made their boldest move yet, and I fear Iberia’s rivers will flow with Kindred blood if we do not soon intervene.
I bound Alejandro to house-arrest until his innocence or guilt was proven, but this decree barely satisfied Jean-Louis. He respected my decision, I think more because I am his sister’s lord than because I am Prince. So be it, as long as he obeys. Wilhelm and Jean-Louis then waited outside, so I asked Serafim to go check on Dappa, to make sure Alejandro’s ghoul would not die of the wound given him by Jean-Louis. Once alone, I spoke openly to my dear friend Alejandro and assured him that I believed him to be innocent, to be no traitor. How these kind words worked like a salve to his wounded soul! How his eyes brightened with hope, where there had been just a moment before only despair! I gripped his shoulder firmly and told him we would soon use Yorak’s blood; we would soon curse the Assamites forever, and Alejandro’s hand would inflict it. This would prove his loyalty to us.
Yorak . . . perhaps something of him lives within Serafim as well. I pray to never see that side of my Scourge. But still my heart quakes to recall his words to Jean-Louis this night: “Do not kill your enemies in rage,” advised the Tzimisce, “for you end them too quickly; suffering should be exquisite, and I will show you how.” Even now, Sire, I see Alejandro’s wailing face stretched across a canvas, his contorted flesh rippling and pulsing and writhing in endless agony. Were that not horrifying enough, it was Jean-Louis’ assent to such torture that truly chills my brain.
Be safe, Fair Star, and God guide your hand in Byzantium. Here in Paris, I am
Harried,
Mordwyr
January 7th, 1203
From the Journal of Lord Serafim Mironescu
It has been some time, and there has been much to write about. The wedding of Mordwyr and Isabelle one month ago was a wondrous spectacle, reminding me of things that could have been. Of course, it is now common knowledge that the Setite, Jean-Baptiste, attempted to ruin it with speaking of foul things, but with the aid of Andrei, the miscreant faced justice at the hands of Gervais and Wilhelm. I would have offered my services in interrogating Jean-Baptiste, but as the newly appointed Scourge, I had much to familiarize myself with. I am more than honored that Mordwyr chose me to take on such an important position, but I am uncertain if I am the best suited for the task. I have spent most of my years at war with the Ventrue and the Tremere on the borders of the Voivodate—I am no master of intrigue. Yet I have been charged with this duty all the same, and I will not fail. I will adapt as is required of me. Fortunately, I am not entirely alone in my duties. Cosmina and Valentin both possess expertise in areas where I am sorely lacking, and through their investigations, they were able to point me in the direction of a Yitzhak bin Yakov. Yakov had apparently been dealing in—of all things—Assamite-made silk! I was not even aware that the fearsome thugs had engaged in such endeavours. What concerned me even further was that Alejandro had apparently had dealings with this Yitzhak, even allowing his ship to be used to bring these materials from the East to Paris. Could Mordwyr's most trusted Seneschal be involved in underhanded dealings, bringing the Assamites to our very door? He had been absent for the month after the wedding, which seemed most suspicious under the circumstances. I approached Mordwyr with my findings, whereupon he revealed that he had his own suspicions of Alejandro, but he bade me wait until he had an opportunity to confront his Seneschal. In the meantime, I had a most pleasant distraction. Some time ago, the lady Isabelle approached me with the offer to find a consort for me. She was well aware of the Dracon's decree that all those who wished to become Voivode required a consort; after all, she and Mordwyr have adopted the custom. Truthfully, I was concerned; while Isabelle's ability to see into the hearts and minds of others makes her ideal for the task, I wondered what she might find within me. But I knew it was time for me to move on; my own unblinking countenance was ever a painful reminder of that. So I accepted her offer and waited to see whom she would bring. That was how I met the Lady Lucia Giovanni—a small, frail-looking woman whose dark Mediterranean looks were quite appealing. What made her most attractive, however, was her voracious intellect—she had a most keen light in her brown eyes. It was also apparent that she was uncomfortable with and was unused to many social situations; while she could hold herself well when required, she looked far more comfortable reading from the book she carried with her. How different she is from me! I have little patience for reading long volumes, preferring to spend time testing my mettle in battle. Yet that is what I find so fascinating about her; she demonstrates an intelligence that many would find threatening, but I cannot tear myself away from her. But to take that final step, to devote myself to one and forget the past—is that possible? Isabelle has forewarned me that Lucia has knowledge of many things supernatural, though she is unaware that we are Kindred, so I will have to make my decision soon. But there were other things to concern myself with this evening. Alejandro was present at Elysium, and Mordwyr chose to meet with in the Red Room while Wilhelm and I were present. Mordwyr confronted Alejandro with my findings, in addition to his suspicious movements while they were in Constantinople. Alejandro was shocked but also well aware of the dire situation he was in. He insisted that while he had business dealings with the Setites prior to the events in Constantinople, he was completely loyal to Mordwyr. He added that he had concluded his business with Yitzhak and had no further dealings with him since that time. Mordwyr, for his part, demanded that Alejandro assist in determining if Yitzhak was indeed a ghoul of the Assamites or the Setites (Mordwyr seems to think there may be a connection between the two Clans). Alejandro agreed to set up a meeting with Yitzhak under the pretense of arranging another business meeting. Before we could attend to that business, we had a rare visit from three of the Parisian Nosferatu bearing a large chest; they insisted they be granted audience with Mordwyr immediately. I understand the Nosferatu usually prefer to keep to their dark places to hide their countenances from the world; the fact that three of them should make their appearance at Elysium did not bode well. And my fears were founded—within the chest rested the twisted remains of Jacob, Mordwyr's Keeper and the leader of the Nosferatu! To add a further blow, Daniel, the new leader of the Nosferatu, assured us that his Clan would no longer act as spies for the Sheriff. Mordwyr, angered at the destruction of one of his court, promised that Jacob's murderer would face justice. He brought the remains of Jacob to the attention of the assembled Kindred and called down a bloodhunt upon Jacob's murderer. Mordwyr and Wilhelm went to investigate the location where Jacob's remains were found, but in the meantime the Prince bade me to take Jean-Louis and accompany Alejandro to his home. There, we would secretly observe Alejandro's meeting with Yitzhak to determine if the merchant was a ghoul and to determine Alejandro's culpability. Interestingly, while we waited for Yitzhak to arrive, Jean-Louis expressed his admiration for Lady Lucia. He was aware that his sister had selected the Lady for me as a potential consort, but he insisted, “Should you decide against her, please let me know.” So it would seem I am not the only one who appreciates the young lady's piercing intellect and dark charms! Perhaps those bred for battle are a moth to the flame of her piercing, discerning brown eyes. Truth be told, were it not for . . . but again, I write too much. Our attentions refocused on the business at hand when Yitzhak was ushered into Don Alejandro's chambers. The merchant was immediately disrespectful and saucy with Alejandro, revealing that he was a ghoul serving Makareta-sherit! He railed against Alejandro, accusing him of going around behind his back to strike his own dark dealings with his master! I observed as best I could, but Jean-Louis has been wrathful against the Setites ever since they harmed his sister. Upon hearing Yitzhak's accusations, the Beast took hold of him, and he burst into the room and tore the Setite ghoul into bloody ribbons. Not fancying my chances against a raging Brujah, I grabbed hold of Alejandro, and we quickly withdrew into the street, hopefully giving Jean-Louis enough time to regain control of his Beast before he turned on us. He did, but he believed Yitzhak's words proved Alejandro's guilt, and, truthfully, it was difficult to argue otherwise. Could the Seneschal truly be so foolish as to not question the trading of Assamite silk? Mordwyr and Wilhelm arrived in short order, and while I aided Alejandro's ghoul (who had been severely harmed by Jean-Louis during his rage) a discussion was held concerning Alejandro's guilt. To add fuel to the fire, the Seneschal received a letter just at that moment from Doña Beatriz, revealing that Miriam had diablerized Don Ordoño de Castile, Alejandro's sire. Beatriz went on to reveal her suspicions that Alejandro had been working with the Assamites. Jean-Louis wished to wreak vengeance upon the Lasombra immediately, and he seemed unwilling to accept Mordwyr's word that further investigation was necessary. I assured Jean-Louis that slaughtering Alejandro in a pique of rage would be a waste; rather, it would be better to wait and determine Alejandro's full culpability. If he is truly guilty, justice can be extended into an excruciating eternity, as our life-spans were now potentially limitless. The dark smile Jean-Louis returned me assured me that he fully understood the implications of my words, and he railed no more.
Paris Noble Daniel of the Seine, childe of Jacob of the Hidden Wells, The loss of your beloved and honored sire must indeed fill you with much grief, and I cannot begin to understand the pain you must be suffering. I beg you to allow me to offer you my shoulder. I pray you would honor me to carry that privilege instead of the burden that weighs on my shoulders now. As you undoubtedly understand, my duty as Sheriff of Paris is to our Prince and his court. Your reaction to my query that night was undeniably just, and I apologize for the suffering it caused. Your choice of how to lead your group, though not known to me at the time, is in no way a conflict with me. I trust I speak for the court when I say that the honorable Keeper can never be replaced. My previous dealings with your Clan are more than brief, and I have little knowledge of your ways and customs. Given more time, though, I feel I would have grown to know and respect your illustrious sire even more than I do now. Perchance we can take up that challenge together and in time call each other friend. With deepest respect and sincerity, Wilhelm
1203, January 7th
My dear Chrétien of the Blazing Noon, I thank you for your letter; there is–as always–much wisdom in your words and actions. I thank you for the release you have given me and for the bond you offer. Within the next nights, I will make this oath before your childer and all the Brujah of Paris as witnesses. I, Wilhelm Wolf-Töter—childe of Hasruut the Phoenician, hereby swear an oath of eternal bond of love and alliance between (you), Chrétien of the Blazing Noon—childe of Michael of Constantinople, and myself. I further swear that I shall never turn against him (/you) or his (/your) childer. Furthermore, I swear that should my endeavor to unite the Brujah under my banner succeed, I shall ensure that all under my command honor my oath to you and yours. And should the Brujah choose me as their voice, I will swear an oath of alliance between our two Clans. May all who wish to follow me do the same! This will be my first open declaration to call those who wish to follow under my banner. Your friend and ally, Wilhelm Wolf-Töter
January 8th, 1203
Have we done right? What abomination have we let loose on the world? Michele du Bois is no longer Michele du Bois. What he has become, only future nights will tell. But I fear an unprecedented affliction has been unleashed. Why did we let him go? Why did we not slaughter him when we saw him transform? His transformation! I still see him, thrashing in the dark street, his fair skin cracking, turning to black ash. I hear his spiteful hissing; his serpent’s eyes transfix me in hypnotic dread. I see in them the death of countless souls.
This night began with a letter from my Sire, telling me that Dimitri is now in Byzantium. The Fair Star of the Toreador and the Tzimisce Mountain God together, rebuilding Constantinople in the Glorious Image—they will do great things there, now that Michael sleeps. Serafim has learned that a Lady Madalina, consort of Andrei, is coming to Paris. Why would the arrival of his brother’s wife cause him such distress? Yes, he tried to hide his discomfort, his anxiety at the prospect of her arrival, but my Toreador eyes do not deceive me. As he told us this news, Serafim’s eyes drifted over to where Lady Lucia sat, and that Italian maid did little to hide her look of love.
Jacob’s murder was the highest priority for us, so we set out, hoping to find his killer. I feared it was the work of an Assamite assassin (for who else could have caught my Keeper unaware?), and I was not mistaken. Once assembled at Alejandro’s mansion, I told Wilhelm and Serafim about Yorak, the Archfiend’s blood, and how we hoped it would destroy the entire Assamite Clan. Once ingested by an Assamite, the infection of the blood would spread mystically throughout the whole Clan—Alejandro and I trusted that that meant death.
Wilhelm first checked at the apothecary’s (the Sheriff’s secret jail), but there was nothing to report. So we made our way over to the stables, where little Pierre worked. Pierre was eager to tell Wilhelm everything he knew and thus pocket another silver denier. Wilhelm has an open hand, and the boy knew it. Pierre knew much that happened in his neighborhood, and he told us of a violent disagreement among the Templar Knights. A certain knight, Edmond du Bergerac, heading his faction, claimed that Jean-Louis and Michele du Bois (whom we had not yet met) were hellspawn. Michele du Bois was a new name to us. If he was Kindred, he was in breach of Cainite tradition, for he was in Paris and had not yet presented himself to me. But Du Bergerac knew Jean-Louis was Kindred! Du Bergerac is reported to be a man of profound faith, and so I, armed with the knowledge of Lord Douglas’ power over our kind, proceeded with caution. We pieced together that the mysterious Moor worked for (and is most likely the ghoul of) Michele du Bois, whom I suspected then more than ever of being an Assamite. The Master-General of the Templar Knights headed the other faction, the one supporting Michele and Jean-Louis. Initially, I thought he was colluding with the Assamite, but in retrospect, I believe he opposed Du Bergerac on this issue simply because he could. He hates Du Bergerac because of his piety; the Master-General, though a Knight of the Temple, a supposed disciple of the Cross, is a lustful creature, with more offenses at his beck than thoughts to put them in, time to act them in, or imagination to give them form.
It was I, then, with experience in battling those with faith, I, the Marquis de Troyes, Jean-Louis’ brother-in-law, who bore the letter of Jean-Louis’ resignation to the Master-General. His letter stated that he would not endure such slander. Rather, he would resign from any Order that defamed a guiltless man. I mastered myself and rode up to the gates of the Order, announcing myself and gaining immediate and unmolested entry. The Master-General initially refused the resignation, demanding Du Bergerac’s apology. Du Bergerac refused, and hostilities within the courtyard grew—I feared a general melee would break out. But the Master-General, in a fit of pique, ordered Du Bergerac and his faction to the Holy Land. They were to leave immediately. I asked to speak with Michele du Bois, so that he and my brother-in-law might commiserate. But he was not there—the Master-General told me he was one of twelve men chosen to guard the King’s Palace, an honor guard for the Lady Margaret of Provence, fiancée of King Louis IX.
As I was leaving, Edmond du Bergerac cornered me. I flushed my face with blood, making sure I looked as human as possible. I feared discovery; I sought escape; I stood ready to tear his throat out if necessary, to make a silent kill. But Du Bergerac was all ease and friendliness. He warned me that Jean-Louis was a child of Satan. To shield me against evil, he handed me a large crucifix. I dared not touch it! My mind raced how I might escape this situation. And then it struck me—I retrieved Isabelle’s handkerchief, explaining that I would not profane such a holy gift with my soiled hands. Du Bergerac accepted this feigned devotion. (I wrote earlier in this journal that Du Bergerac was in collusion with Miriam, the Muslim Lasombra. Du Bergerac, being a true Christian knight, would not throw in his lot with a fiend and an infidel, and so I must conclude that, again, my Seneschal has misinformed me.)
At the palace, there stood the twelve Knights Templar. Soulsight revealed Michele among them: he was calm, a bit aggressive, and, yes—my suspicions were confirmed—he was a diablerist. He was an Assamite assassin. Jean-Louis walked up and relieved Michele, informing him that the Master-General required his immediate presence back at the Order’s headquarters. Michele left, but his aura flushed with bitterness, and a suspicious hatefulness filled his being. We then waited in the deep shadows Alejandro had created, and when the assassin walked by, Alejandro and I pounced on him like hunting cats. In a moment, we subdued him with our fangs, and as he tried to crawl away, Serafim stepped out of the darkness and, with but a gesture of his outstretched hand, twisted Michele’s legs back onto themselves. Bones cracked, tendons snapped, and the Assamite screamed in pain as he lay, a broken wreck, on the wet cobblestone.
Though Alejandro was already trustworthy in my estimation, he had to prove himself to the rest of the coterie, so it was his duty to force-feed Michele the poison. And he did, holding open the Assamite’s mouth and pouring in the Archfiend’s blood. What we then beheld defies rational description. Michele was transformed, and had he not spoken, we would have thought we had failed. His body melted away to a puddle of ooze, reformed, then melted away again. I think even Serafim must have been disgusted by this, though I did not see his reaction. I will ask him! But then Michele reformed, all of his wounds instantly healed, and he stood up. Then his skin took on the hue of burned, blackened wood. His snake-like eyes flashed out, and then the curse did its work, coursing through his body. He fell to the ground with an excruciating howl and cried out in despair, “What have you done to me?” What we had done, I did not know. I looked at Alejandro questioningly. Was this the curse? That Michele be healed and seem more powerful than ever? I prepared for a pitched battle. But none came, for Michele was ruined, and he leapt away, hopeless, miserable, and desperate. Wilhelm jumped after him, not convinced that Yorak’s blood had done its work, and would have cut the Assamite down had I not summoned him back to us. I called out to his mind, and the power of my wordless call compelled him to return. I am loath to use my powers on my friends, but I felt, given the desperate circumstances, that this was the best course. I do not think Wilhelm could have defeated Michele du Bois in his altered state.
But now, as the sun rises, I wonder where Michele du Bois is. Where does he sleep this day? Does he sleep? Where will he go? My Lady saw him with her farsight, and he wept real salt tears as he raced along the Cold Road. What will become of the Assamite Clan—of all Kindred, because of our actions this night? My heart misgives, and I know some faceless evil approaches.
January 9th, 1203
This night has been one both of loveliness and terror. How radiant my Lady was this evening! How the diamonds rested on her neck like sparkling droplets from heaven’s goblet! How her sorrow seemed only to increase her beauty!
Andrei’s consort, the Lady Madalina, arrived this evening and was presented on the arm of Serafim at Nouvelle Caledonie. Her flame-hair and bright but pale blue eyes are striking! She possesses not the beauty of my lady, but there is an ethereal quality to her aspect, as if she has looked into the Fae realm and her eyes still mirror that bright vision. Serafim was the perfect gentleman, escorting his brother’s bride and introducing her to everyone. But, one thing alone was odd: he would never fully look her in the face, not even when she spoke directly to him. He would turn his head towards her but would gaze at her feet, his head slightly cocked, as she spoke. Some troubled history exists between them, but I know not what.
To the parlor we all repaired, and there, with Lady Lucia present as well, I sang for my private audience “Hidden Love,” a bare tune, beautiful in its simplicity, of unspoken love. My friends liked it well, but Serafim sat unblinking, his face a mask. Yes, I know of his disconcerting appearance, that his eyelids never close, but this was different: my song struck him to the quick. It spoke to him in the secret places of his heart.
We enjoyed a pleasant carriage ride along the Seine. Our party numbered six: Jean-Louis and Lucia, Serafim and Madalina, and Isabelle and I. The river is lovely at night, with small fires like stars reflecting on the calm surface of the water. By the water’s edge, we saw Daniel of the Seine, lurking in a tunnel beneath the bridge upon which we loitered, and this sighting prompted Lucia to speak of necromancy and other dark arts. Serafim suggested perhaps another time would be appropriate to talk of such matters. We gazed upon the Seine, and Isabelle took my arm in silence. As Toreador, we share a bond in beauty, and we beheld more in the night scene than our companions. Then she nestled in my arm and whispered, “I wish I were yours, that I might enjoy this more fully.” I turned to her in surprise and said, “But you are mine. What do you mean?” And then I understood: her nightmare! She had not properly awoken from the dream and still believed she was a Setite! I had not rescued her, and she was Makareta-sherit’s childe. I cut short our outing, explaining to our companions that my Lady did not feel well. As Kindred, she is of course incapable of feeling unwell, but my friends were courteous enough not to pry. We returned to Nouvelle Caledonie by the shortest route, and I closeted myself with Isabelle for the remainder of the night. She now prepares for our sleep; she still weeps, for from this nightmare she will have no respite until tomorrow night. Sleep, come! And let my love awaken tomorrow in this world! Let her remember our blood-song!
I received a letter from Wilhelm and Alejandro while I was with Isabelle. I glanced at the message which requested my presence, and I made my uninformed reply: I would not join them this night. I do not care why they need me—the world could end, and I would not abandon my love to her sorrows! But I have since perused the letter, and I see that they have apprehended Auderico, a Lasombra living here in Paris. They were interrogating him, but for what reason? I will know more of this tomorrow.
From the Journal of Serafim Mironescu
January 10th, 1203
Idiocy! Bumbling incompetence! Were not Alejandro my friend, did I not wish an alliance with the Lasombra, had I not already thrown in my lot with the childe of Ordoño by blood-cursing the Assamites, I would turn my Seneschal out of the city and have him trust to his fortunes in avoiding the lupines! But even that is more than he deserves! Does he seek to undermine me? He is not in alliance with the Assamites or Muslim Lasombra, that I am sure. But what motivates him then? Surely such blunders are not accidental: he must be willfully dim-witted!
I wish now Isabelle had not been in such a state as she was, for Wilhelm’s letter to me last night was of dire import. They had apprehended Auderico the Lasombra, and in their interrogation (the reason for which I am still ignorant!), Alejandro told him that the Assamite assassin had mentioned his name. So, Auderico, a Kindred wholly unconnected to the secret dealings of our coterie, knew we had found and spoken with the Assamite, the one upon whom I had called bloodhunt!
I dealt with the fiasco as best I could: at Elysium this night, I summoned Auderico to the Red Room and sought to appease him. But it was too late—all Kindred of Paris knew that we had apprehended Jacob’s killer. I announced to my assembled subjects that we had discovered the identity of the Assamite, but that he had fled the city. Only Auderico knew my half-truth. To keep silent, he demanded a public apology from Alejandro. This is disastrous, for what will the Kindred think of a fool who has appointed a fool as Seneschal? Auderico was incensed, railing against Alejandro and Wilhelm, believing himself to be most maltreated. I could not disagree with him, yet I was compelled to show a united front, to support the actions of my Court, even when their judgment has failed them. Alejandro did indeed apologize, saying he regretted that Auderico had felt abused by his treatment. Sly Alejandro! Your mind is cunning yet, for that was no true apology, only a statement of regret concerning how his victim had interpreted the event. It was well enough, for Auderico accepted the apology. All others present at Elysium assumed the whole argument stemmed from Lasombra infighting, since Auderico is Muslim and Alejandro is Christian.
But the night was not a total catastrophe. Serafim has announced his intention to wed Lucia, and this night, he has Embraced her. Lucia of the Tzimisce was presented to us at Nouvelle Caledonie, and her alteration was startling. Her curly, black hair, before always slightly unruly, took on the Kindred sheen and was arranged perfectly—not a hair out of place. Though her skin still retained its olive color, the flush of life was gone, but it was beautiful in its pallor. And her eyes, though always intelligent, now possessed a piercing keenness. As Kindred, she now saw a different realm, one which she could not have apprehended as a mortal. Her brown orbs questioned everything with a ravenous intellect. Serafim was proud, and he knew he held a jewel beyond compare in his hands.
But bloody are these nights, and death surrounds us all! Who can escape the destruction that is promised to all of us? Where can we hide our heads? For Andrei, who had gone to the Baronies of Avalon, has been slain in the Court of Mithras! Another friend gone; another friend cut off by Final Death, slipped through that impenetrable curtain, beyond which lies torment without end. He has joined Jacob of the Hidden Wells, Ordoño de Castile, Jean-Baptiste the Asp, Kveldulf Fire-Starter, Isolde the White-Lady, Salvatore Flesh-Eater, Yasmeen, Phillipe de Lisle-Gaultier, and Geoffroi du Temple. Who is next to step behind the veil? Serafim stood tall in his most joyous moment, and then he shrank at the sorrowful news of his brother’s death. He discovered it not by letter, not by courier, but by Madalina bursting into the room. Her blood-bond with Andrei was broken—he was no more! And now she was free to love Serafim as she once had, long before, in her breathing days! And so Serafim’s secret was revealed to all. Lady Lucia hissed at Madalina, but Serafim calmed both women with one chill word: “Silence!”
Everyone vacated the parlor and left the three Tzimisce to resolve the matter. In another room, I began to pen a letter to Dimitri, but Isabelle offered to immediately acquaint him with the knowledge of his childe’s death. And so she did, stretching out her mind over the many leagues that lie between Paris and Byzantium. What power she has! Lord Dimitri, Isabelle told me, responded to her call, telling her to tell Serafim that patience was required now. We will first strike at the Fiefs of the Black Cross, thus isolating Mithras in England. But I hardly heard my love speaking to me of these things, for profound dread sank in my soul like a stone in water. Had I been mortal, I would have been holding my breath. I was convinced, am still convinced, that nothing else mattered at that moment except Serafim’s decision. All creation seemed to await his choice, and I knew in my heart, as surely as I have a heart, and I felt with my soul, as surely as I have a soul, that if Serafim chose wrong, it would be the end of all our Clans! I know not why I felt thus, but I was in earnest. But I could not influence my friend, for I knew not what the correct choice was! I was helpless, waiting for inevitability, powerless to stop the coming of crisis. Shall we all perish?
And then Madalina ran screaming from the room in utter dejection. Isabelle felt for her, but I rejoiced! The burden was lifted, and Serafim, in choosing Lucia, had chosen aright! In choosing duty over love, he has averted genocide. That timeline has now faded from my mind, and I can no longer grasp it as I had earlier this evening. As I sit upon the balcony and listen to the pre-dawn chirping of those few hardy birds who brave the winter, I cannot help but think that perhaps my trepidation was of little import.
January 11th, 1203
I have received responses, and the Monarchs of the Courts of Love arrive in two nights’ time. To prepare for their arrival, to send an unequivocal message of our puissance, I decided we needed lupine blood to serve at the Grand Court. And so, this night, we went a-hunting. In retrospect, it was a foolish thing to do, but we slew four wolves and took as much of their vitae as we could collect. We are lucky to be alive, surely, but this is not the Black Forest. The lupines we encountered outside Paris’ walls were nothing like the monsters that claimed Salvatore’s unlife. Wilhelm and Jean-Louis destroyed the silver-back, while Serafim, Alejandro, and I each killed his own. Wilhelm insisted on skinning them, but instead of getting our hands messy, Serafim called upon his Tzimisce heritage, and with but a flick of his wrist, the lupines’ pelts were animated and removed themselves with a kind of independent will. It was frightening to behold, and in the darkness of the forest, I saw the Archfiend in his shadowed visage.
***
January 12th, 1203
(Set to the tune of “Gabriel’s Message”)
The Tzimisce lord came in wolfskin cloaked
His bride arrayed in white, her eyes a-glint
Assembled Kindred all around
Could not see what this marriage meant
The union of two mighty Clans
Long may they live so!
The words repeated from their lips, an ancient text
From now until I see the sun, the rise of Caine
From now until the Judgement Day
My body, unbreathing, yet is thine
My damned heart and soul are thine
My blood is thine
The offered chalice then received their offered blood
Lord and Lady’s life in dark vitae
They raised the cup unto their lips
And drank all that was offered there
The blood-song now as strong as death
I have wonderful news to report! The Courts of Love have been united, and I, your humble childe, have been set up as ruler over them all. This night will be a night all Toreador remember forever, for it is a night of auspicious beginnings, the night the Artisans became the heart of Europe.
The Grand Court of Love saw all major personages in attendance. They squabbled outside the doors of the Lycée des les Roses, each arguing his importance, all bickering like children about in what order they should enter. Such wrangling amused me as I sat upon the dais, my lupine cloak hanging on my chair, secure with my friends around me.
They entered in reverse order of importance, the lowliest coming first. And first among them was Eudes du Tours, Guardian of the Champagne Fairs. He carried himself with a flippant air, a circumstantially-inappropriate carelessness belying his station. Next entered the flicker-eyed Countess Saviarre, and though she pretended to be Toreador, I later discovered she was not. Following the Countess came Veronique d’Orleans, the Princess of that city, and a strange lady was she. She entered on the arm of a Brujah warrior, one Thomas of Gaul. How she flirted with him, and how he was quickly forgotten when she saw Wilhelm standing at my side! A Brujah fetish? I suppose there is no accounting for taste. And the last to enter before the Monarchs was Regis, Prince of Marseilles, known to most as the Saint, for he dresses in the habit of a monk.
I am sure they expected fanfare, so haughty they were, but the Monarchs of the Courts of Love received no such treatment. They entered by the hum of Parisian whispers. First to enter, and therefore lowest in rank, I presume, was Queen Isouda de Blaise, and she wore the finest clothes I have ever seen anyone, apart from me, wear. Helene la Juste, Queen of Champagne, in severe, simple attire, came next. She was accompanied by her Chamberlain. Then King Etienne entered, the one with whom I had had dealings in Poitiers. Before the Matriarch herself entered Elysium, there was one more to come: Queen Esclarmonde the Black of Toulouse. She curtsied and then threw off her ever-present veil, hoping to astonish the Parisian Kindred with her beauty. But we have the Lady Isabelle, and though Esclarmonde is lovely, she is nothing to the Fey, and we all suppressed a snicker. Esclarmonde did not yet realize her gaffe and took her place. Finally, the Matriarch Salianna of Chartres swept into the hall, and all eyes turned to see the self-proclaimed leader of our Clan. She was dressed exquisitely, everything perfectly arranged according to good taste and fashion. She walked into Lycée des les Roses as if she owned it, as if she was mistress of all she saw. I watched with a detached amusement as she came forward. She bowed before me, not because she deemed herself subject to me, but because Paris is my city, and even she had to respect Cainite tradition. And yet, her bow was stiff and unyielding, communicating nothing more than cold courtesy.
I opened my mouth to introduce my court, but before a word escaped my lips, Queen Esclarmonde interrupted me, thanking me for calling the Grand Court. I then thanked her for her kind words and asked her, pointedly and before all the Monarchs, if I had her leave to introduce my court to them before we commenced with business. Though her cheek did not flush with blood as a mortal’s would, still, all read her embarrassment—in mortification, she stepped back into the crowd. Serafim, of course, did not stand on the dais—as my Scourge, his identity is secret. But one by one my Court members stepped forward—Wilhelm, my Sheriff; Alejandro, my Seneschal; Isabelle, my wife and Chamberlain. My lady, not to lord it over everyone but out of a genuine desire to be a gracious hostess, unveiled herself, thinking it polite that the guests see the face of their hostess, and spoke kind words of welcome. In a hall full of Toreador, I knew what its effect would be, and so I watched her only from the corner of my eye. Dear Chrétien, you know well my bride’s otherworldly beauty—all the Monarchs stood instantly entranced by her loveliness. Her radiant aspect called out to their Artisan blood and held them in sway. All but the Countess Saviarre, of course. She did not stand so transfixed—at least, not until she saw how all the other Monarchs were stricken, and then she tried to fake it. At that moment, I knew she was not Toreador. To what Clan does she then belong, and what is her motive in lying, in claiming to be one of us?
Ruminations on the intentions of the Countess held my mind for but a moment, for at the sight of Isabelle’s beauty, Esclarmonde realized her folly—and in her complete humiliation, her Beast nearly broke free. As her eyes blackened and her distended mouth filled with jagged fangs, I rose from my seat, ready for action, ready to tackle the monster when she rushed in. But she did not. The Queen mastered herself, as I had in Jean-Baptiste’s haven, and she shuddered as she quelled her frenzy. Though she had miscalculated, she has a strong mind, an iron will. The Prince of Marseilles, however, was lost. Even after Isabelle veiled herself, Regis’ brow still twitched, his eyes still wide, his jaw still slack. He approached and begged the opportunity to sculpt my lady. I reassured him that there would be time later to discuss such things.
Before the conference officially began, Queen Esclarmonde cornered me and told me she did not regret Anne-Marie’s words of warning. The Matriarch is dangerous, she said. But she had no desire to serve her, so Esclarmonde offered me an alliance right there. “Is this how I am to begin?” I asked, offended. “In secret alliances? No. If I am to unite the Courts, it must be in open council.” The Matriarch, seeing a Voivode present, asked Serafim to mediate the Grand Court. How splendid, for how could she have known that Serafim is my Scourge! And so I would have two court members in attendance: Serafim, as moderator, and Alejandro, my Seneschal, at my elbow.
The Monarchs all retired to the Red Room, which had been specially prepared to receive their august presences, and, as host, it was my privilege to speak first. I laid out my reasons for summoning them all (the idea of a Summons irked the Matriarch, which is why I chose that phrasing in the first place!): (I) to unite the Toreador; (II) to declare finally and conclusively a single leader of our Clan in Europe; (III) to institute Masquerade throughout the Courts of Love; and (IV) to bind everyone in mutual hatred of all Setites and Ventrue.
The Matriarch claimed a lineage descended directly from Michael himself, a claim which you and I know is false—as you are the sole grandchilde of Michael, and Isabelle and I, alone, are your childer! She claimed to be the childe of Salome! The audacity of the woman—but I held my tongue. I did not want to humiliate her, only to find a way for her to back down without embarrassment. The Matriarch wanted to sound magnanimous by offering me my city of choice; but she would have Paris for herself. You know I would never let Paris go, if for no other reason than the fact that you sacrificed so much just to hold it for me while I was in the Voivodate and Byzantium!
Isouda de Blaise did not mind the Matriarch’s suggestion that I be given my city of choice—but then, she did not disagree with anything Salianna said all night. “She is a poor monarch and relies on the Matriarch’s generosity,” Isabelle said into my mind, and I later exploited that knowledge by offering Isouda independent wealth. Perhaps Kindred would frown upon what I had Isabelle do—using her powers at Elysium—but in fact she was not there; she was at home, and employed her Auspex to eavesdrop. A technicality, I know, but as Prince, should I not use all assets at my disposal?
Esclarmonde unequivocally supported my claim to Paris, and Etienne agreed, but he would not accept my reassurances that I wished to be a guide for the Toreador, not a king. His laughing eyes told me that was a fantasy. Helene la Juste, a wise and soft-spoken Monarch, disagreed with my proposed decree that all Toreador should, as a matter of course, hate all Setites and Ventrue, and she helped me understand that personal matters should not be considered when Clan policy is our theme. On her wisdom, I retracted my fourth (IV) cause.
I informed the Monarchs about the danger of the Church and how I was best equipped to aid all Kindred in evading their fires. That is why I have instituted Masquerade in Paris. I did not tell them this, but you know what knowledge I have—my old friend, Salvatore, awakened the persecution of the Church on all our kind by revealing his nature to the Crusader, Edmond du Bergerac, long ago in Euxton, England. And then Kveldulf, another dead friend of mine, abusing the power of his ghouls, called the attention of the Church to himself in the Fiefs of the Black Cross. My own Seneschal’s brother in the blood, a childe of Ordoño, was burned by the Christians. And then, of course, there is Lord Douglas, my enemy, a man of great faith who knows of Kindred existence and seeks my destruction. These are the reasons, Sire! We must hide ourselves, must blend into our society, or we will be consumed. I seek leadership of the Clan not to rule over them but to save all Kindred, starting with the Toreador of France!
All Monarchs spoke, all had their agendas, but in the end, it came down to the essential point: the Matriarch claimed rulership of the Toreador as descendant of Michael of Constantinople. But I knew I was the only progeny of Michael in the room! The Monarchs, Salianna not the least, were all amazed to hear me speak so knowledgably about the history of Salome of the Copper Hair, how she had been captured by the Setites, how they had tortured her, and how, in the bitter end, she had died, never having been Kindred. But, oh, dear Chrétien, I tell you that I was not thinking of Salome! Only Isabelle’s suffering was before me, only her tortures I saw, and I almost wept! But Salianna would not give up her claim; she would not relent. I then used the knowledge you had possessed me of in your last letter—how Salianna had let Geoffroi’s sire take Paris, how she was content to let Paris stagnate under the rule of the Ventrue, how she brokered alliances with the Ventrue who seek to undermine Toreador hegemony in France. None of this disconcerted her, and she expertly defended all her actions. We were at a stalemate. I could not by argument disprove her claim to lineage that was not hers; indeed, she demanded that I myself prove myself great-grandchilde of Michael. I was exasperated, at my wits’ end, and knew that only one course was left to me. Salianna had blocked all alternate routes. She forced me into a confession of the very knowledge which she alone did not want to be made known!
I gave the Matriarch one last chance to relinquish her claim as leader, to walk out of the conference and keep her dignity, to keep secret those things she did not want to be made public. But she defied me to provide such proof! So I did: I let the sigil of Michael blaze forth! My hand, where the symbol is etched invisible, erupted in a flame-like brilliance, one so bright that the Kindred without, in Elysium, were consumed by the Red Fear and scattered for safety. The Toreador Monarchs in the Red Room, however, covered their ears and screamed, begging me to stop the thundering voice. With Isabelle’s song constantly in my mind, I did not hear Michael, but I know well the brutal onslaught of madness, the overwhelming ego of the Dreamer.
With some difficulty—for Michael’s voice would keep her battered down—Salianna rose and, without a word, departed. I have not seen her since. But I will not forget the murder in her eyes when, as the door was closing on her, she turned to me and hissed. I know that one night, far from now, we will meet again, and the encounter will be bloody. And so, my noble Lord, I guide the Courts of Love into the future. I pray it will be a safe and prosperous direction. One matter remains unresolved: Regis, the Prince of Marseilles, will not be returning to his city, for he can think of nothing but Isabelle’s face and would not leave Paris were Caine himself threatening its walls! What shall I do with him? How shall I keep the madman away? He has told me that he plans to build a willow cabin at my gate and call upon his soul in the house all hours of the night until she deigns to hold three-words conference with him! A very Pygmalion at my gates! Though the burdens of being Prince weigh on me, I am
Content,
January 13th, 1203
Tonight was the night Mordwyr had been preparing for—the gathering of the Courts of Love. This would decide the fate of the Toreador Clan and indeed have a significant effect on the Tzimisce alliance with the Toreador. If we are to have any hope of crushing Hardestadt and his damnable armies, the Courts must be united in purpose. Of course, being an outside observer, I expected to have little effect on the evening's proceedings, merely to observe the Toreador engage in their games of one-upmanship while the true Monarchs engaged in their business behind closed doors. But then if there is something I have learned in this very week alone, Fate is not to be underestimated. The Matriarch Salianna of Chartres, in an attempt to demonstrate her claim of leadership of the Toreador, requested me to act as a moderator of the Council of Monarchs. She was quite obviously unaware of my secret position as Scourge of Paris. So I was not only to observe the true business of the evening, I would also be granted a limited chance to have some effect on it! Still, I would not allow the Matriarch's attempt to establish her dominance go unanswered by Mordwyr. I informed my Prince of her request, and Mordwyr made a pointed demonstration of granting me permission to act as moderator. And so the game began. Truth be told, I attempted to act as impartially as possible, though I certainly had a vested interest in the outcome. But soon, the true contest between Mordwyr and the Matriarch was out in the open, and all pretense of civility and adherence to my moderation was thrown out the window. In the end, however, I could not have expected what Mordwyr did to win—he showed the mark of Michael, establishing himself as the Methuselah's true childe and exposing the Matriarch as a fraud. The blinding light that emanated from his palm overwhelmed me with ancient thoughts; only my bond with Lucia allowed me to return to my senses. But I could see the assembled Toreador were not so fortunate. The Matriarch, having been defeated utterly, turned and left without a word. Tonight was a victory for our coterie, and hopefully for our Clans as well.
Paris Chrétien of the Blazing Noon, No doubt your childe keeps you abreast of happenings here in Paris. Sadly, our Keeper is dead, and his murderer unfortunately beyond my reach now. Our Seneschal is not to be trusted and is a fool. I would have had his head if your childe had allowed it. Oh, the machinations of politics are intriguing indeed. The Shadows, the Black Cross, the Baronies, the Courts of Love, and us–all and more, maneuvering for power. It is complex indeed–a macabre, yet sometimes comical, theatre of marionettes. I have not as yet publicly declared my oath to you and yours. There is a Brujah named Thomas of Gaul whom I wish to include, but I have as yet not been able to speak with him properly. But it shall be done in the next few nights, I promise. There are some of us at court now dressed in lupine pelts. Quite an adventure it was to go out and hunt them. Serafim Mironescu, Don Alejandro, my childe, and I went on the hunt by invitation from Mordwyr. It was grand, and the fur and blood we harvested will surely prove as useful as your childe plans. My shoulders, and the seat of Paris, are now greatly warmed. Today the Courts of Love meet. I look forward to this play of power. I pray you are well, and Constantinople safe under your rule.
Your friend and ally, Wilhelm Wolf-Töter
January 14th, 1203
The current European theme of Kindred slaying continued tonight, but this time here in the heart of my realm, and Serafim’s and my hands were the instruments of death. Though I had hoped to find peaceful solutions, bloodshed was, finally, the only answer. Eudes du Tours, of the Champagne Fairs, and Regis, Prince of Marseilles, have met Final Death. I regret what had to be done, but as Prince, my duty is first to the safety of all my subjects, and, as veritable King of the United Courts of Love, I am obliged to enforce Masquerade.
Gervais has returned after his long absence, visiting his old home from his breathing days, indulging in a private penance for gods-know-what. It was good to see my friend again, but he stood at Elysium distracted, his mind elsewhere, a burden seemingly crushing his soul. I had hoped the time away would set things aright within my friend’s troubled and complex soul. I wanted to ease his suffering in any way possible, but with the Monarchs still in town, I could not take the time I wished to speak with him. A few brief words seemed to set him at ease; we would certainly talk soon.
King Louis IX will be married in two days’ time to Lady Margaret of Provence. I have asked Isabelle to write our replies expressing our intention to attend the evening’s revels. She is also to inform him that business unfortunately takes me from town, but I will return on horseback that very morning, while they are in the wedding Mass, and after a brief refreshment and change of clothes at Nouvelle Caledonie, my Lady and I will be prepared to attend the banquet. I must learn to be comfortable with making such excuses for the kine, for such pretexts will become increasingly common as Masquerade develops and grows more sophisticated and nuanced. On that note, the De Troyes College of Music continues to grow and see new students. Having heard of the reputation of one Walther von der Vogelweide, a lyric poet and minnesinger living in Magdeburg, I have invited him to join the school. I hope he will attend. His talents will be much more appreciated here in the Courts of Love, and Paris and its denizens afford near endless inspiration! I cannot in good conscience let him rot among the Ventrue!
Elysium was crowded tonight, for with the Monarchs in town, many Parisian Kindred thought it appropriate to attend. I am sure their reasons for doing so are myriad—what alliances will be formed? What favors will be granted? What demands will be made? What exchanges? What gossip? I do not fear any challenge to my authority—at least, not for a while, not while Michael’s song sings on in everyone’s ears! I am the only true progeny of Michael in all of France, and the Kindred will not soon forget it.
They will also not forget what they have drunk this night. After exchanging pleasantries with several of my guests at Elysium, I produced from my cloak a dark-green bottle. With my own hand, I poured the thick, dark drink for the seven visiting Monarchs and rulers of the realm. The goblets distributed, there was no doubt that the drink was vitae. But whose? “What is Mordwyr attempting?” many asked with their eyes. I set them at ease by lifting my glass, throwing back my head, and emptying the contents. Seeing they were not in danger, the Monarchs, too, drank, and what wildness came into their eyes! I thought some might tear off their fine clothes right there; I expected a romp of sorts. But all managed to control themselves. They knew at first taste that this was lupine blood, and Queen Esclarmonde was pleased at my show of strength; Etienne, remembering how he had once misjudged me as an upstart Prince and had tried to trick me into drinking some of his own blood, shrank back, and his eyes cringed at that attempt in contrast with the situation in which he found himself. Countess Saviarre, however, was withdrawing, trying to hide her anxiety—which immediately brought her to mind! I asked my lovely Isabelle to escort the Countess into the Red Room. I went alone, not wishing the presence of any of my Court to embarrass her. And Saviarre came, but not before Isabelle whispered to me, telling me she was of the same blood of a certain group of other Kindred present: a group of Ventrue! So, a Ventrue masquerades as a Toreador. I confronted her secretly, and a wide-eyed horror overtook her expression. Relaxed and sat back in a plush chair, I told her that her secret was safe with me, insofar as she remains ready to do for me some favor some night. And that night may never come, but she understands that she is in my debt. I have asked Serafim to bribe one of her attendants to keep an eye on her and send regular reports. I do not wish to see such reports—the intelligence should go directly to my Scourge, and he may then use such information as best suits his cunning. I trust this affair to him.
Isabelle and I danced tonight—the music swept us away, and in the intimacy of our swaying, as she pressed herself against me, I felt I was simply her lover and nothing more. Paris and its Kindred, the Monarchs, the Courts of Love, all considerations, all distractions, all responsibilities (save one) were carried away by the music. The song-zephyr blew fresh, and all that remained were my Lady’s bright eyes.
But long such felicity could not last! The dance ended, I was pulled away from my beloved: Esclarmonde wanted me to appoint Anne-Marie, her childe, Prince of Marseilles (since Regis was obviously not going anywhere); Etienne also insisted I intervene for the good of the Courts. I objected, telling them I wished to lead, not to rule, but Etienne only laughed, saying, “That is a fantasy—you must rule, or someone else will.” But Etienne recommended Eudes du Tours, and I wished he had not, for I was then compelled to become better acquainted with the man, and that association brought about his death. “And you must make the voice stop,” Queen Esclarmonde demanded. I had forgotten all about Michael’s voice, for I have Isabelle, and her blood-song alone I hear. Etienne agreed, and Isouda also begged me to intervene. But I did not know how! Confused, I willed the sigil on my hand to appear, and it did. I then tentatively asked Michael if he could hear me. What a fool I felt, especially when my grandsire made no reply. I was sure such a one-way conference would fail, but what had I to lose? The anxious Monarchs crowded around me, clamoring for respite! I asked Michael if he would be so kind as to, very kindly, in his mercy, deign to put my friends at ease. My wording was ridiculous, but I wanted to assure him that I demanded nothing of him. The Monarchs’ pained expressions instantly changed to relief, then joy, and I knew my petition had been heard and granted. And yet, there was a twinge in my hand and a caress in my brain: a warning! I know not to disturb him frivolously, and so I must be guarded in my display of his mark.
I then spoke to Eudes, and he spoke to me as a child speaks to his parents, a pleading whining that accomplishes its objective by sheer force of annoyance rather than by any logical argument. But I was not to be so worked upon. He told me how, when the fairs pass through the villages of Champagne, sometimes there is no one left behind when they leave town. Kindred run these fairs, and occasionally they devour small hamlets which, they claim, no one will miss! “Humanity aside, such conduct has to immediately stop,” I told him. He whined, but I was adamant. He agreed, but as he walked away, I knew he would not stop, and so I sent Serafim after him—discreetly.
Before Serafim left, however, he asked me if he could enlist Lady Jeanne and Katherine, those former Setite whores, in his budding spy network. Of course he does not call it thus, but such it is. I have no objection if he wishes to use the chastened ladies. Being so out of favor, they should be eager to please and thus serve his needs well.
I have known of Giaccomo the Malkavian, but tonight was the first night in which I have actually spoken to him in private conversation. He is strange, but that goes without saying for the Children of Malkav. He spoke at length with Lady Lucia, who engaged him in spirited debate, for which the Malkavian was pleased. He then spoke to me, calling me “bright.” Jean-Louis and Serafim, also present, were “bright,” he said as he pointed them out to me. But Gervais, he said, was not there. I saw Gervais standing near the far wall, and I pointed him out to Giaccomo. The Addle-brain acknowledged his physical presence at Elysium but then proceeded to tell me he was not there! Oh, insufferable contradictions! I will not listen to such madness. But what did he say of my beloved? He said she was almost not Kindred! I can well believe it, for if we are all Damned, then she is not one of us, for she is truly an angel, a very messenger from God, come to tell us of a luminous country beyond the horizon, yet undiscovered. I could not long endure Giaccomo’s mad-talk, however, and found an excuse to make my exit.
Serafim exchanged a few words in secret with his bride and then departed, following after Eudes du Tours. I did not expect to see the ringleader of the Champagne Fairs ever again. I was mistaken. With Serafim gone, I thought it best to talk, for to sit idle might betray my thoughts, my fears that Serafim’s bloody business might fail. And so I spoke first to Auderico, the Muslim Lasombra who had been abused by Alejandro. He has a keen mind! He detected the subtlety of Alejandro’s apology—he knew it was not genuine, but he had accepted it. In shrewd forethought, he had decided it best not to cause trouble, for Alejandro would not be my Seneschal forever, and I would need a replacement. Auderico amazed me: his prudence, his restraint, his ambition. He knew I was impressed with him, and I told him we would speak further, at which time I hoped to become better acquainted with him. Moving on, I glanced round the hall to find everyone either dancing or talking in pairs or small groups—all except the rarely-present Lord Calum of Dunkirk. He was trying to look comfortable sitting alone in the corner, examining a potted plant. Being Gangrel, Calum is not popular at parties, so he seldom attends Elysium. I approached and spoke to him, and he stood, shocked that the Prince had actually come over to talk to him. I smiled and set him at ease, and we sat. I had thought to simply enter into some diverting small-talk, but my conversation with Dunkirk proved most fortuitous! He told me of the Ventrue and how they were invading Scotland. We commiserated as fellow Scots, and we grieved Mithras’ greed. It was nice to have the chance to speak English again. I hate the Ventrue for my own reason, for my Sire’s sake, but that they also want to poison my homeland—I will not bear it! I promised Dunkirk my aid, but he sat stunned. Why aid him? I wished with all my heart to help, and so I promised to pen a letter Chrétien (which I have done and have already sent by express rider to Marseilles), asking him to dispatch a group of Knights of the Bitter Ashes to Scotland to aid the Ventrue. On behalf of Lord Calum, desirous to be a knight himself, I have asked Chrétien if he might bestow upon me, or Wilhelm, the power to dub, by proxy, Dunkirk a Knight of the Bitter Ashes. I pray my Sire’s answer will be favorable, that the Gangrel of Scotland might have some succor, that the Ventrue might be thwarted, that my homeland might be saved, and that I might, through this action, forge an alliance with the Wild-Walkers.
Long my repose could not be, for soon desperate word came to me from Cosmina, Serafim’s ghoul. The Voivode was in dire straits and needed my help immediately. I rushed out, leaving society to my Isabelle, and sped through Paris’ dark, wet streets. What a scene lay before me! A stable on fire; Serafim sitting in a dark archway, intently looking down the street but not moving; Eudes du Tours, both his legs a misshapen mass of contorted flesh and bent bone, desperately clawing at the stones as he dragged himself farther from where Serafim sat. “What has happened here?” I took my Scourge’s face in my hands and pierced his eyes with my gaze. Fear was master there, and Serafim’s will was frozen. “I dare not approach,” he whispered repeatedly and shuddered. As he sat, cowed, I spoke to him, and using my own Presence, I broke Eudes’ hold over him. Serafim’s eyes cleared; a hard, murderous glint entered therein, and he rose to his feet. “Go, and destroy him,” I encouraged my friend, “for this is not supposed to be my fight!” Serafim drew his sword, chased down the Toreador, ineffectually fleeing, and hacked him to pieces.
Serafim and his ghouls dealt with destroying the evidence of the dark deed while I escorted Isabelle back to Nouvelle Caledonie. When we arrived, Regis met us, having just constructed a willow cabin at the gate! As we alighted from the carriage, he bounded at us with crazed eyes and disheveled hair and waylaid us, pleading to my lady, asking her to remove her veil. I interposed myself between him and her and assured him that if he were to exercise just a bit of patience, he would indeed have all he desired. In anticipation of the fulfillment of such a promise, he mastered himself and grew calm. I escorted Isabelle inside and asked her to stay in the inner rooms. She did as I asked while I went back out. I lied to Regis, telling him that Isabelle was waiting for him inside the house. I escorted him inside and took him down into the family crypt. “She is down here?” he asked. “Of course!” I replied. “We are Kindred, after all.” Regis chuckled embarrassedly, and we continued on. “She is just beyond this door,” I lied. I then opened the door for him and stepped aside. He entered in a now-frantic state, desperate to see the object of his obsession. I saw my opportunity and struck. Grabbing him by the hair, I violently jerked his neck to one side and bit deep into his flesh. Using my own blood to fuel my Celerity, I dispatched the unsuspecting Regis quickly, and in a moment, he lay at my feet, dead, his throat ripped out, his bloody flesh hanging in gory ribbons. I disassembled the willow cabin and put Regis’ corpse in Isabelle’s old Sun Room, where she once sat at embroidery. The sun will destroy all proof of what I have done, and I will put out that Regis, insane from Isabelle’s beauty, could not live without her and had killed himself in protest by watching the sun rise in her Sun Room. No-one will know the truth but me and my lady.
My lady—how she looked at me, how her eyes accused me! But what could I do? Would I lose her again, as I had to the Setites? For, surely, Regis would have, in time, borne her away! And that I could not allow! I will strike at anyone, risk everything for Isabelle’s safety. I will tear Masquerade down to its foundations to save her. Isabelle is all that I love.
January 15th, 1203
Greetings once more from Constantinople. I have heard from my consort that the Lady Madalina never returned to the Voivodate. It is possible, of course, that she was simply killed along the way, but I find it unlikely that none of her train would have survived. She is, therefore, elsewhere. I know not where or why she would have gone elsewhere. Can you enlighten me?
I am pleased that your own consort is so very suitable. The debt of honor and love we owe to Michael’s childer only grows. I am glad of this, for the alliance between our houses is an honor to both Clans. Long may you and the Lady Lucia serve the Tzimisce together.
Our work in Constantinople goes well. Perhaps I shall not need to stay beyond a year or two. Tell me all of your work concerning the alliance between the Toreador and Tzimisce.
(Received 16 January 1203)
January 16th, 1203
I kiss the very grave stones under which Marcus Tertius rests! Would that you were awake, so that I could tell you how much to you I am indebted!
Isabelle has retired, leaving me to my writing once again, but this night, her blood-song sings but distantly in my heart, and I feel as if I have dug a chasm and filled it with a sea, and with every despicable deed I commit, I row farther, farther away from her! She is the life of my soul, but I would brave separation even from her, so long as she is kept safe! I will not lose her again! But oh, I long to drown in her blood-song again! Lord Douglas, my great enemy, is no more—and I used my Lady to be the instrument of his death! Curses on him for forcing this desperate act upon me! May his soul rot in hell for obliging me to include my beloved in my evil!
Tonight was the King’s revels. He was married this morning, and at his evening revels, I sang for the assembled crowd (for they all know of the De Troyes College of Music, as it has gained some prominence) “Scarlet Tide,” which was a resounding success—I have not sung so well since I performed for Lord Dimitri! The ties between France and Scotland are strong, and many Scottish noblemen were in attendance, including my enemy, Lord Douglas. He was a man of great faith, and so I have these many years fled before the rumor of his coming. But this night, I could not escape him. He watched me as I sang, but he dared not strike me openly. I watched him as I played and sang, and I forgot everything else. Isabelle, who knew of Douglas’ hatred for me, saw the Scotsman and left the revels while I was singing. I did not notice her exit, but Serafim did and wisely escorted her back to Nouvelle Caledonie. He has since told me that he knew not why she was returning home, that she would not tell him, but he felt it prudent to accompany her nonetheless. Oh, defending Tzimisce! Shield of my love—I owe you much and will remember your kindness to me.
The song finished, I saw that Isabelle had gone. I looked over to where Douglas stood, but his face betrayed nothing. Lady Lucia told me she had left the assembly and Serafim had followed in pursuit. With Lucia in tow, I feared the worst and dashed back home only to find the house empty. A servant told me that the Mistress had returned with Lord Serafim but that they had left almost immediately. Again, praise to my mortal father for teaching me how to track the stag, for I soon found their trail and was after them. Lucia and I caught them up at the inn where Douglas was staying. Isabelle was determined to confront the man, to keep me safe from harm. Bless her soul, the dear, but she is but a girl! How could she stand against such a man, armed with the God-Eating faith which sends our kind scurrying? I have seen it at work and know there is no defense. We are the Damned, and so God hunts us. He would destroy the blight upon his creation. (Bless Gervais in his kindness and generosity, but his god seems to be a blind god, unable to see such sacred souls as the father of my life, Chrétien, my noble benefactor, Marcus Tertius, or my beloved Blood-of-My-Blood, Isabelle. Indeed, how can Gervais pay homage to a deity who, out of course, rejects and damns him?)
But Isabelle would not be dissuaded, and she threw herself at Douglas’ feet, begging for my life. She thought to kill him to ensure my safety, but I would not allow my beloved to bloody her hands—no blood-guilt will rest upon her head! I will give the gods no claim to enact vengeance! I entreated Isabelle to allow me to speak with Lord Douglas alone. Lucia took her to a secluded place across the street, a bench under a low-branched tree. Serafim accompanied me inside the inn and up to Douglas’ room. In Serafim’s hearing, I told Douglas everything: that I was not the man who had seduced his wife those many years ago. I was Ravnos then (the name meant nothing to him) but now I am Toreador—a different Clan. Surely, as a Scotsman, he could understand how one is identified by clan. I told him how the blood of the Magdalena had cured me of my undead state, but that Chrétien, my wise and God-fearing Sire, had re-Embraced me to save my soul. He saw in me something redeemable. And then, I spoke the words that unmade his world: Isabelle, too, is numbered among the Damned. “But she is an angel!” he protested. “Yes, she is,” I cried, “and yet she is Kindred! What is that, then? How do your convenient little walls compartmentalizing everything you know accommodate such a reality?”
Douglas sank into a deep depression, and in his melancholy, he told me to leave, that he could no longer hunt me. “Why?” I asked, incredulous but ecstatic. “Simply, because I hate you,” Douglas replied with venom, “and to kill you now would not be justice but a crime of passion.” Why did he hate me? I thought on the matter and struck at the truth almost instantly. He had loved Isabelle the very moment he had met her, and now to learn that she is Damned, he stood as a man lost. How could he hate us for existing and yet fall in love with one? The contradiction was too much for him to bear.
And then my guile worked its effect, and I discovered how to eliminate my enemy. He might for a time be dejected, but he would master himself and return for me. I knew I would never have peace from him unless he was dead. And so, I achieved his death. That he desired my beloved was clear, so I asked Isabelle to go back in and talk to him, to help him, to explain to him what she saw, so that his tortured soul might have some peace. My lady thought it kind that I would deal with my mortal enemy thus, but I knew better. I knew her words would fail, and that by throwing him directly into the path of temptation, Douglas could only fail! I regret involving Isabelle in my deceit—even as I write, I am increasingly cognizant of the wall I am building between us—but what could I have done? Douglas’ obsession would have developed into something like Regis’, but unlike Regis, he would have the power to take her from me! His death was, therefore, necessary, by any means!
And he did try! Waiting outside, I heard the painful rush of silence fill my ears. Isabelle’s blood-song was gone. For a moment, I was literally blind, and I stumbled about, clutching my head. “Give it back! Give it back!” I repeated, Serafim has since told me. What anguish filled my soul! My grip on life was weakening fast. My Lady has since told me that as she lay screaming, Douglas told her that soon the sway of my witchcraft would pass and she would be whole again. But she cursed him and spit at him and declared her love for me! She has also told me that Douglas was incredulous at such a proclamation, that surely, after the blood-bond was severed, she would hate me! Ah, Marcus Tertius! How much I owe you! My very life, twice over! For I knew Douglas would sever our bond, and I knew it would all be for naught, for you had showed me many nights before that my Isabelle loved me, apart from the blood-bond.
Confused, disbelieving, desperate, Douglas laid violent hands on Isabelle to bear her away, but Serafim and I stood ready. Once he had violated my Lady’s person, I knew he had no power over us, and so we burst into the room and rescued Isabelle. Though the memory of the Archfiend chills my blood, I begged Serafim to use all his Tzimisce powers to make Douglas suffer. Serafim replied not but smiled grimly. My Isabelle safe in my arms, I watched as my Scourge first fleshcrafted Douglas’ mouth away so he could not cry for help. Then I watched in rapt horror and satisfaction as Douglas’ body folded in upon itself. Every sickening crunch of bone, every watery pop of pockets of fluids squeezed inside compressed flesh made me wince. I kept Isabelle’s face buried in my breast, but I forced myself to watch—such was my penance for involving my Lady in this dark affair, such are my nightmares of the Archfiend. Where Douglas resides now I do not know, but I suspect he is to become a permanent fixture in Serafim’s house. I do not want to know any more than that. May his suffering never end for what he tried to do to Isabelle!
My Isabelle! Your song is distant, and I am like a boy standing outside a warm pool of water where once I swam—and the night is cold, and I am shivering as I stand naked, drenched in but a memory. But it is that memory that chills me—and the night air. Oh, to return to that pool! Oh, Liriope! Two more nights—two more drinks—and I will dive back in, safe, swimming in Isabelle’s blood-song.