The elders, of course, were not ignorant of this relationship. Fatima had never been able to hide her heart from those stronger in the blood of Haqim. They might not have known that she and Lucita met other times—tense encounters where guarded talk only slowly gave way to begrudged trust, and where each eventually was drawn into the arms of the other. The elders might not have known the depth of the strange bond between the two women. But the elders sensed divided loyalty, and so they sent Fatima to destroy Lucita, to atone. Even now Fatima cringed at the memory. That time it was not the darkness that failed her, but rather her heart, and Lucita had survived.
There were those among the brotherhood who whispered that, had Fatima only fulfilled that duty, had she taken the blood that was spoken for and given Lucita unto Final Death, that the other childe of Thetmes would now be caliph, that she would be one of the three favored, the tripartite du’at of Alamut. Woman or no. She had betrayed that for which she had striven with all her will—all except the smallest portion that she could not hand over to Haqim.
At the very least, though, her failure had secured Lucita’s safety. The Dark Rose of Aragon had survived the assassin. She had proven herself worthy. There the matter had rested for several centuries. Only recently had the winds shifted on mighty Alamut and blown storm clouds over the horizon; only weeks ago al-Ashrad had again laid the demand of the elders at Fatima’s feet. This time, her defeat would only mean her disgrace or destruction, and others would follow to see that the deed was done, to ensure that Lucita was destroyed. Fatima, even through failure, could offer protection no longer.
The best she could do was to delay. There was less urgency that Lucita be destroyed. Monçada, not the childe. But for how long? How long could Fatima delay and thereby guarantee Lucita’s safety? For the time being, the death sentence protected Lucita—none of the brotherhood would attempt Monçada or his childe while Fatima was engaged. How long?
The time has come. We must prepare the way.
Fatima raised a hand to her breast. She felt that a great weight had been placed upon her, but no one had entered her cell. She lifted her other hand, pressed down hard with both upon her chest, tried to crush the breath that was not there, tried to find the peace of the grave, but still it eluded her. Peace was not hers. That which she had known was borrowed, stolen. Now her masters reclaimed it. Not two masters but three: Blood. Spirit. Love. Each jealous, each all-consuming. Somewhere above, the sun burned, waiting for its chance to consume, to reclaim the body, all the bodies that were rightfully dust.
At last, her patience at an end, Fatima rose and sat upright. She reached out and took hold of her jambia, which was never far from her hand. There was no light to reflect from the blade, but she didn’t need sight to know every inch of her weapon’s curve. She held the blade flat between her palms, felt the cool steel against her equally cool skin. Then she took the handle in one hand and pressed the blade against the tip of her other middle finger. The keen edge sliced easily through her flesh, down smoothly until it struck bone. Fatima gritted her teeth but did not stop. Slowly, she rolled the blade along the length of its curve so that it sliced downward along her finger, across the palm, and to the heel of her hand. She kept her blood from rushing to the wound, kept it from healing nerve and muscle, kept it from denying her pain.
There would be pain. There would always be pain. To see that pain served a purpose was honor. To ensure that the people of God survived and prospered—that was a purpose worth serving, and Fatima did so in the name of Allah: To see that the get of Khayyin vanished from the face of the earth—that too was a noble purpose, one that she served in the name of Haqim. How the two conflicted, she did not understand. She could not see what al-Ashrad saw through his diamond eye. What had become of the original orb? Did the amr keep the memory of it in mind and heart so that he might rule those fickle kingdoms? Or perhaps there was no strife in those lands. Fatima longed for such peace—such peace as she had sometimes known in Lucita’s arms. Yet there, Fatima could find no noble or worthy purpose. Only self-gratification, that which she denied herself in all other matters.
Now she laid the flat of the blade against her cheek. The selfish feelings would pass with the destruction of their object. The sire and the childe. This unworthiness Fatima could see within herself. But the other?
La ilaha ilia ’l-Lah. There is no god but God.
Did even Haqim think to set himself above Allah? Did the Eldest dare?
Fatima traced a curve across her forehead, pressed with just enough pressure to leave a red crescent. The tip of her jambia slid lightly over her cheekbone to her nose and followed the low route to the soft tissue at the corner of her eye.
La ilaha ilia ’LLah.
La ilaha ilia ’l-Lah.
And what of Haqim? How could she doubt the Eldest and still serve him? She could not see. The tip of the dagger pressed against the white of her eye, slipped easily through the membrane. Fatima would see. She would banish doubt and confusion. Through force of will, she would defeat them, just as through force of will she now kept open her eyes. More pressure on the blade. Deeper, into the orbital socket. She would rule her own mind and heart, as did wise al-Ashrad, through constant vigilance, unceasing dedication.
A slight flick, and the blade did its work. The eye came free, landed at her feet. A great trembling overcame Fatima. She was all pain and rage and sorrow. And in minutes the eye was dust, no more than a memory.
The sun was high overhead when, somewhere among the delirium, Fatima found respite, if not peace.
Monday, 30 August 1999, 9:12 PM
Catacombs, Iglesia de San Nicolás de las Servitas
Madrid, Spain
“Mea culpa.” Crack!
The cuerda stung flesh; the fragments of glass carefully woven in along the length of the cord peeled back skin.
“Mea culpa.” Crack!
And then the right shoulder as well.
“Mea maxima culpa.” Crack!
Cardinal Ambrosio Luis Monçada sat naked and half-submerged in the sunken, stone pool that was large enough to accommodate three or four men—if one of the men was not Monçada. As it was, though the pool had been less than half-filled before he lowered himself into it, water lapped over the edge with his every movement. Blood beaded on the surface of his back only slowly.
“Mea culpa.” Crack!
“Mea culpa.” Crack!
“Mea maxima culpa.” Crack!
He maintained a pace that would easily have killed a mortal, that would have driven many a Cainite to fatigue and beyond, perhaps into torpor. But Monçada harbored in his great bulk a well of devotion and determination that others could never comprehend.
“Mea culpa.” Crack!
He could tell from both feel and sound if the whip dug into an existing gouge or flesh still whole. How could he be sincere in his contrition if he still found unbroken skin? The first few hours were always the most frustrating. His vitae had the unfortunate habit of healing the chewed streaks of flesh. In the end, however, this circumstance merely drove him to redouble his efforts, drove him to greater heights of sacrifice, so that he might sufficiently abase himself in the eyes of his Creator.
The night wore on. The staccato crack of leather against unworthy flesh measured the passage of time like the clicking of a pendulum—steady, rhythmic, counting the unvarying movement of hours from present to past. Years and years ago it had been the pain that had drawn Monçada—the burning, mind-numbing pain that scourged his unworthy flesh and cleansed him of pride, of sin. Those were his mortal days when he would pass out from the agony, or in later years, from exhaustion. Those were the days before his Embrace, before that greatest of boons to his spiritual existence.
With unending night, came sure knowledge of his own damnation—as well as the physical capacity that allowed him to surpass all boundaries of pain as he’d known it. God’s vengeance upon the sinner, Monçada came to realize, was as liberating as God’s grace upon the saint. P
erhaps more so.
Scourged away from Monçada’s bleeding soul was the salve of redemption.
“Mea culpa.” Crack!
Taking its place was the sharp, clean lash of predestination.
In those first heady years, he had spent nights at a time—and sometimes days, resisting the call of the sun—wallowing in the ecstasy of his torture, and his guilty pleasure had served only to strengthen his hand. He explored the efficacy of fasting, denying himself the blood—for was not all blood merely a substitute for the blood of Christ, which he did not deserve?—and then, with leather and glass, drawing his own vitae through the flesh—filtering, purifying, a spiritual aquifer.
Eventually, he would transcend the physical pain. The body would fall away into nothingness and he would see it for what it was. Although powerful in earthly terms and fueled by the curse of Caine, his form was an empty husk, and the nights of his unlife were nothing more than damnation of the flesh. In those timeless moments of epiphany, Monçada saw that his true and eternal reckoning was yet to come. Not until the Endtime would he know true degradation. In the Final Nights, the black cancer of his soul would be revealed. Carrion birds would feed on his heart, and maggots consume his eyes and tongue. He would burn in hellfire long after his lifeless corpse fell away to dust. And on that glorious day of his final torture, God would be served. For there could be no ultimate good without pure debasement, no salvation of the saints without damnation of the sinners.
“Mea maxima culpa.” Crack!
Tonight, however, Monçada found himself distracted, and even hours of discipline had failed to banish the intruding thoughts. He paused in his strokes and slid lower in the pool, down far enough that the salted water washed over the churned flesh of his back and shoulders. Fire shot anew through the fibers of his body. He drew strength from the pain as dangling chunks of meat rose to float upon the surface of the pool. The water grew cloudy with droplets of his blood.
Still, he could not escape the present of the bathing chamber. He could not rise above and achieve that blessed state wherein his ultimate destiny was revealed to him. His ears captured the slapping sound of sloshing water; he imagined it as a chorus of angels, or as the voices of worshippers at the hours-passed midnight mass in the church, hundreds of feet above his labyrinthine haven. His eyes still saw the frescoes surrounding the pool: Eve, cursed woman, tempting Adam with the fruit of the tree of good and evil; those same first lovers, shamed in their nakedness, and then cast from Eden; Abel, giver of burnt offerings, lying dead at his brother’s feet.
But Monçada could not escape the place. He was not quite able to lose himself in the ritual of flesh and blood. Not even the cleansing waters were enough to visit epiphany upon him.
And what was the reason? What distracted him so and disturbed his holy contemplation? What, at times like these, almost always distracted him so?
Lucita. His daughter. The dark rose that, Monçada felt sure, would one night become his crown of thorns. The thought of her name pained him more deeply than the saltwater among the gashes in his torn flesh. She was his creation, yet to this point he had not controlled her, had not possessed her completely.
“Mea culpa,” he whispered at the thought of possessing her completely, at the thought of her bowing down before him, kissing his feet. He remembered the night that he’d watched from the spy hole as Lucita had grudgingly modeled, and Vykos had sculpted her likeness, first in black, then in white, for Monçada’s chess set. He remembered the line of her bare shoulders as she donned the opulent dress… the curve of her spine, her naked back….
“Mea culpa.”
But there was so much more to his desire for her than mere carnal lust. He could overpower her will, if he so desired; he could break her slender body like a dry twig or call forth shadows darker than night to drag her away to the low places of the earth from which she’d never emerge. None of these things, however, would he do. For he had come to the same conclusion as countless Christian theologians over the centuries—without free will, there could be no true adoration. An automaton was not a worthy worshipper. Monçada had created the prodigal daughter in his image—spiritually, if not physically—and he allowed her defiance so that, eventually, she might properly glorify him. She would worship him. He would possess her, body and soul, and bask in her adoration.
“Mea maxima culpa.”
With a sigh, Monçada raised his cuerda again…but paused with the whip swaying gently in the air before him. “Alfonzo,” called out the cardinal, hearing the approach in the hallway beyond.
One of the room’s two heavy oak doors swung open with a labored creak. Alfonzo, eyes downcast, took a single step into the bathing chamber. He wore the dark uniform of Monçada’s personal legionnaires—that elite force created as a counterweight to the regent’s feared Black Hand.
“Your Eminence,” said the captain of the guard. “You requested to be informed immediately of any news about your…your daughter.”
“Yes. I don’t believe I need be reminded of my own order,” Monçada said coolly, squeezing the handle of the cuerda tightly in his fist. He found quite annoying the legionnaire’s hesitation in mentioning Lucita. Alfonzo had no prerogative to approve or disapprove of Monçada’s relationship with his childe—whether the cardinal considered her daughter, slave, or concubine. That was no business of a lesser. Vallejo had always recognized and respected that important fact. With Vallejo and the first squadron occupied in the New World, however, command of the half-squadron left as the home guard fell to Alfonzo. Thus far, Monçada was not overly impressed. Alfonzo, like so many military men, functioned competently when afforded the luxury of following orders—normally from Vallejo—but when forced to exercise his own discretion, the second-in-command seemed to lack the judgment and confidence required of a leader.
“What news?” Monçada prompted.
“She has eliminated another Sabbat member—one Peter Munro, in Delaware.”
“Munro,” Monçada repeated. “I recognize the name. An arms dealer.” The cardinal reflected for a moment on what he knew of the Sabbat’s flow of materiel worldwide. The details, of course, were far beyond the scope of any one person to know, but he kept a multitudinous number of facts in his mind—for the only rule more cardinal than know thine enemy in the midnight struggles of the Jyhad was know thy supposed friends.
“Munro. That will produce some difficulty,” Monçada conceded, “but only temporary in nature. And Lucita is generally impeccable in her taste. I suspect this Munro was a disagreeable fellow and needed eliminating.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
Monçada glared at Alfonzo. What the cardinal did not need was an underling who felt compelled to agree with his every musing—as if Monçada desired another opinion, much less one rendered from perpetual obsequiousness. “That will be all, Alfonzo.”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
After the door closed, Monçada sat for some while in thought with the strands of the whip pressed against his frowning lips. At intervals his tongue would slip from between those lips, alternately to reclaim a tantalizingly small amount of the blood he’d offered in sacrifice, and to be lacerated by the fragments of glass embedded in the leather. His mind, however, barely registered the succession of titillation and mutilation. His thoughts were drawn, again, to his childe, his prodigal daughter.
Monçada cared little about the random Sabbat lackeys she decided to remove from existence—not so random, he corrected himself. Pack leader, war chieftain, arms supplier. Her targets thus far did harm the Sabbat’s cause in North America in some minor way, most notably the loss of some arms procurement via Munro until he could be replaced. But they all could be replaced. The more telling effect, Monçada appreciated, was that her victims were seemingly random enough that every Sabbat member, from the lowliest pack leader on up, had to question in the back of his mind if he was next. This hesitancy, a slight psychological advantage for the Camarilla at best, suggested that someone a
mong their ranks had contracted Lucita.
It also showed that they were desperate.
The assassinations would not be enough. Even should Lucita succeed in destroying one of the archbishops, the Sabbat advance would only be slowed, not crippled. Already, only a handful of eastern American cities remained in the hands of the Camarilla.
And where did this news of Lucita’s activities on behalf of the Camarilla fit with the conflicting rumors Monçada had received that his daughter had been retained to destroy an archbishop by one of their own? The accounts, Monçada knew, were less contradictory than overlapping.
The cardinal drew a small portion of the cuerda into his mouth and bit down. The glass ground satisfyingly between his teeth. Then he pressed his tongue hard against the tiny jagged edge, flicking up and down until vitae began to fill his mouth.
Monçada rose to his feet. Water cascaded from his massive body into the now blood-tinted pool. Upon first standing, he felt slightly dizzy. He’d fasted for many nights in preparation for tonight’s bloodletting. Tomorrow night he would feed, and feel the strength return to his purified body. And until then and beyond then, he would worry—not about the assassinations, for in the end they would accomplish only little; not about the rumors of a traitor among his archbishops, for ambition was law among the Sabbat. Like any father, he would worry about the safety of his daughter, for the cardinal had sent his clansman, Talley the Hound, to oppose her, and the English assassin-turned-bodyguard would play rough. Monçada suspected that Lucita would, at the very least, survive. But a father always worried.
Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 6