by James Moore
“Best you not know, Kurt. The more you know, the more enemies you’re likely to make." The mage’s eye twinkled with amusement, and Kurt couldn’t help but wonder if his leg was being pulled. Just the same, he kept his mouth shut on the subject.
“Well, then, let’s be off.” Kurt looked around his apartment one last time, wondering what the chances were that he’d ever see it again. He did not feel good about the odds.
Going through the complex, Kurt spent a few minutes on each floor making certain that the Ventrue he’d called upon could block the memories of anyone who had seen too much. They would remember the Final Reich causing an uproar, but there would be no memories of vampires or bloodshed. Best to bring a little order to the confusion around him and better still to cause the Brujah grief simultaneously.
Outside the Europa Center, the streets were almost
completely empty, save for a few of the vampires that Kurt already knew. He stopped beside one slender man who was almost awkwardly tall, dressed in tattered jeans, a T-shirt bearing the image of Alfred E. Neumann and a top hat. He carried a black lacquered cane and an opera cloak that had seen its best days a few years back draped over one arm. In the fist of that arm, he carried a bloody chainsaw. Kurt nodded and watched as the man picked up a broken bastard sword left behind by the Knights who had invaded the building. “Hello, Ozzy."
“Kurt, when you said they planned to violate the Masquerade, I had no idea...”
“Yes. I really didn’t expect the Reich to assist them myself. The damnable Tremere seem intent on destroying a thousand years’ worth of secrecy.” He looked over his shoulder towards Jing Wei. “No offense, my dear.”
“None taken, Kurt."
“We believe we know where the Tremere will show themselves, Ozzy. In the Harz Mountains, at the Brocken. Can we count on you for assistance?”
“The Brujah tore three of mine apart, Kurt. One of them took Druscilla’s head away from her shoulders.” He paused, motioning with the chainsaw hidden halfway under his opera cloak. “Persia has not stopped crying since she heard about it. Yes, you can count on the Malkavians. Even without the destruction of our own, Gilbert Duane has spoken well of how you aided him in the recent attempt to discredit him. For that reason alone you would have our help.” The cultured voice had changed in the last few seconds, and Kurt was now standing next to a slightly broader man, better dressed and a few years older. While he knew he still spoke with J. Oswald Hyde-White, he knew also that he was speaking with Dr. Henry Jekyll. Ozzy was decidedly an interesting individual, and almost always enlightening in one way or another, but Kurt dearly hoped his Mr. Edward Hyde persona stayed quiescent for the next few nights. Hyde was too unpredictable and far too violent.
“Thank you, Ozzy.”
“You are certainly welcome, Kurt. But please, call me Henry.”
“Henry it is. Will you spread the word? Can you meet with us in Frankfu.t tomorrow night? Early tomorrow night?”
“Consider the situation taken care of. My best to your lovely lady, Jacqueline.”
“I — I’ll tell her, Henry. Have a good night.”
Kurt moved on, taking Zho and Jing Wei with him. Charnas had disappeared again, for which Kurt was grateful. Emergency visits with both Gustav Breidenstein and Wilhelm Waldburg were necessary, as was a phone call to Democritus. All three were civil, but only barely. Had it not been for his importance in handling the Tremere problem, Kurt had little doubt that he would be completely ignored. After the discussion with his sire, the two princes were asked to join forces yet again, in an effort to remove the danger to the Masquerade brought on by the minions of Etrius. Gustav, with his well-known bias against the Tremere, was more than glad to assist under the circumstances. A few hours later, after meeting with both princes and discussing the situation with select members from both the primogen of the East and the primogen of the West, Kurt and his associates departed for Frankfurt.
The night seemed to go on forever, a silence stretching further and further between them all. Kurt had no desire to talk to anyone save Jackie, and that was not likely to happen.
Friday, April 30, The Brocken — Walpurgisnacht
The sun set, and the other members of Council of Seven arrived at the Vienna chantry, or at least two of them did: Abetorius and Xavier de CincaS.
Xavier de CincaS was a stunning man, hard-muscled and lean, with dark skin and dark hair, but startling crystal-pale blue eyes. A Spaniard of partially Moorish dcscent — or a Moor of partially Spanish blood, depending on how you looked at it — he stood naked to the waist, whether in preparation for the coming ritual or because this was his usual mode of dress, Ilse was unsure. Beside him, almost draped over him, was a Peruvian woman of feline grace and matchless beauty, who made Ilse think of jaguars and deadly jungle cats. As she’d arrived with him by way of the House of Doors, she was no doubt also bound to the South American Councilor by ties of blood.
Abetorius, the Councilor who ruled Istanbul and little else, came in by the front door with no fanfare or retinue. He was, in two words, bitter and jaded, and these emotions were writ into his face with lines centuries deep. He’d dressed in the clothes of a mystic or holy man, though he did not look in the least serene or contemplative — the word tormented would probably more easily apply. He seemed willing to go along with
Etrius’ experiment for the same reason he’d no doubt gone along with Goratrix’s before: It was simpler than suicide, if just because someone else had already done the planning and the preparations. Atop his shoulder he had a small familiar of some sort, a miniature gargoyle with leathery wings and scaly green skin, and though it didn't move much more than one made of stone, it still possessed more life and animation than its master.
Of the other four Councilors, Grimgroth and Thomas Wyncham were opposed, while Elaine de Calinot had abstained. Meerlinda, the Preceptor of North America, had sided with Etrius, but was said to be off arranging things with Melsinde, the mistress of the Hexenhaus and leader of the ancient circle of witches who held the Brocken, the greatest node of magical power in Europe. This, it turned out, was the Melsinde that the Hermetic wizard, Aries Michaels, had mentioned to Carl at Etrius’ Kaffeeklatsch, and the white-bearded gentleman seemed to have been instrumental in formalizing relations with the Hexenhaus coven, as the Brocken was crucial to the success of the ritual.
Michaels was busy talking with Etrius, while the rest of the Kindred of the Vienna chantry were lined up in the Grand Hall preparatory to the wizard’s Unlocking of the Gate.
“Why is the Brocken so important?” ilse asked Carl, standing next to her. They’d hardly had a moment to speak with one another since his rescue, the English mage closeted with Etrius or Etrie or Master Harry or Dr. Dee behind one door or the other of the House of Secrets.
Carl grimaced, “The Brocken’s the bloody biggest magical site in the world if you want to do a fertility rite, or at least for Hermetic magic and witchcraft, and that's about all I know.” He shrugged. “You Tremere may be able to do your magic wherever you please, but us mages have to be a bit pickier, and we’re the one’s picking up the other half of your spell.”
“So you’re going along with the rite?”
“Of course, love. You think I’d want to disappoint all these people? Eh, that’s right, let’s call off the wedding and upset all these nice vampires who went out and bought new suits and dresses just for the occasion." He chuckled, sparks dancing in each mismatched eye. “Listen, Ilse, whatever else may have happened, being kidnapped by Westphal cemented one thing — my ancestor, Zho, is a twit, and I almost like the demon he admits he sold my soul to more than I do him. At least Charnas doesn’t apologize in between the ‘I’ve made every mistake a man can make, so listen to me' speeches. Zho’s also half-blind, and I mean more than just because he gave his left eye to a demon, along with your previous incarnation’s life and my soul, not to mention my six brothers’ souls, my dad's, and a substantial portion of the bloody family tree’s. Zh
o went on and on about how if Etrius dies, Charnas gets my soul and the souls of all my other relatives without bothering to think that our mutual umpteen-great-grandad has been practicing magic a mite longer than either of us. Etrius noticed this complication too and came up with a little twist around it."
Carl grinned, his odd eyes still laughing. “Etrius is going to unite with me at the same time as I unite with Etrie, since the Mandrake at the heart of the homunculus is both immortal and quite a bit older than any other person on God’s good green earth, at least as is supposed to be here. And if we do this rite right, it’ll both save my soul and resurrect the lot of you, and the only bad thing — if you can call it bad — that will come out of it is that Thadius Zho will get his comeuppence, and the Lord of Misrule will take back Zho’s immortality and whatever other perks he sold me and the rest of his descendants out for, including his imp’s own purple little self. It may not be the kindest thing to do to Zho, but it’s no more than the dirty rotter deserves. Besides, I rather like the idea of being an immortal mage in a world of magic, especially since once I do the trick of merging with Etrie, I get the next world’s model for a body."
ilse nodded and, since Carl seemed willing, gave him a hug. The changes that would come about were frightening, but more than that, were wonderful and bewildering.
Aries Michaels was got up in full Hermetic regalia and began his invocation in Latin, ilse translating in her head: “House of Secrets, House of Shadows, House of Mystery, House of Fear — Open the Doorways of the Forgotten, the old and ancient magics from when the world was young and the portals between the Death and Life.”
After her shock at realizing Michaels’ invocation was an ancient variant on the Rite of the Iron Key — a formula the Order of Hermes had no doubt preserved even after House Tremere seceded — Ilse also realized that the Unlocking of the Gate was also the beginning of the great rite, preparing the Kindred for the resurrection that was to come. The doors at the end of hall swung open, but instead of leading to the grand ritual room, they now opened out onto a mountainside. The Kindred filed forward, Ilse with Carl beside her, until he dropped aside as they passed through the Gateway, emerging out onto the top of the Brocken.
The witches’ mountaintop was a marvelous thing, covered with grass and spring wildflowers, poppies and gentians, glowing in the light of the enormous bonfire at the crest of the hill, a cleared dancing ground to one side, a Maypole with ribbons and maidens’ crowns to the other.
Ilse proceeded up the hill alongside Dieter Kleist, who was frantically scribbling in his notebook with a pencil, chronicling everything he saw, and there was much to see. Witches and Hermetic wizards had obviously been busy all day, the air sparkling with magic and the lines of spells, ribbons set down to create the boundaries of thaumaturgic figures, and other patterns cut into the very turf.
Around the ritual ground, almost encircling it, was an immense hunting lodge, beamed and half-timbered, brown on white, with runes and hex signs formed by the placement of beams and crossbeams. Gables and dormer windows abounded, with elaborate wooden gingerbread trim and stained-glass jewels. Rippled diamond panes in all the windows reflected the firelight, giving the Hexenhaus the appearance of some epic Christmas confection left out and allowed to go to springtime, grass and wildflowers sprouting in the cracks of the slate roof after the frosting snow had melted.
The third Councilor, Meerlinda, was there to greet them. She was a grave, beautiful woman apparently in her late thirties and reminded Use of a younger, thinner version of Cassandra, who, Use considered, might actually be a descendant, as there was a strong resemblance.
But the resemblance was stronger yet to Melsinde, their host. The great witch appeared to be nothing more than a simple peasant girl, pretty, but hardly a raving beauty, with sun-browned skin and long, lightly curled chestnut hair, scarcely more than seventeen and just entering the first flush of womanhood. She was dressed in a grass-stained cotton gown and apron embroidered with wildflowers, a crown of their living counterparts in her hair. Ilse was certain that if she looked with the Monocle of Clarity, she would see a far different story and likely one that would drive her mad. She wished she could covertly take a picture of the woman, but knew the witch wouldn't take kindly to it. Instead, Ilse sneaked a glance at Dieter Kleist’s sketchbook, who, in honor of the occasion, had brought out a huge tome filled with Bristol board, easily three feet across. For Melsinde, he had begun a portrait of the Triple Goddess, Hecate, Trivia of the Crossroads, naming her a dozen times in the margins and depicting her as Mother, Maiden and Crone, with flowers, nuts and leaves twined in her hair.
Once they were all standing before the crest of the hill, Melsinde raised her wand to the assembled company. “Good friends, sweet lovers and valued allies, Das Hexenhaus and my Circle bid you welcome to the Brocken this Beltane, and thank you for gracing us with the opportunity to enact this great rite and usher in the next age of the world. The doorways to the memories of death and decay are closed—” She gestured back to the Hexenhaus, and two witches, kirtled in brown and green, pulled the doors at the center of the crescent of the lodge shut, closing the Gateway to the House of Secrets and Vienna, “—and we entreat Venus and her nymphs to bestow their blessings on us, calling for the Venusberg to lend us Her power on this night. The pathways of light and life are open, we salute the changing moon, and let us dance to the return of spring!"
Melsinde turned about, dancing up the hill with her wand, and music started up, fiddles and zithers, woodwinds, and even a few accordions — yes, Use had to remember, whatever else, she was in Germany — but she’d hardly expected one the world's greatest rites of magic, and the legendary Witches’ Sabbat, to begin with a polka.
Nonetheless, the rhythm was infectious, and pretty soon everyone had lost their clothes, including the Hermetic magicians, who, in preparation for this eventuality, had already painted themselves with magical seals in woad. ilse cast aside her dress, and, wearing nothing more than her silver necklace and the Iron Key, danced with Carl, feeling alive for the first time in ages. The Witch Queen called the tune, and Ilse switched off, taking a turn with Etrius, then Xavier de CincaS, then others, most of whom she had never even met. Witches and magicians flew, actually flew, in on broomsticks, rakes, or milking stools. Some of them rode on horses or goats, and there was even one woman on a sport bike, all of them disrobing and joining the dance, a few in aerial choreography.
Melsinde then came to the center of the ring and clapped her hands, naked but for the flowers in her hair, and the music and dancing stopped. “Who shall come with me?” she asked. “Who will be the Beltane King? Who will come with me to sample the delights of Venus and reconsecrate spring?”
It seemed any number of the males, and no few females, were ready to take her up on the offer, but she spun about until she came to Etrius, whose sole clothing was his chain of office and his steward’s key. “I choose you to be my companion on this night of nights! Come and be King of May!”
It was elaborately rehearsed, but unless Ilse had known better, she would have thought the choice was as spontaneous as it seemed. Melsinde took the Councilor by the hand, a young woman with a young man, but both of them ancient souls, and the music started up again, a wild and discordant tune of the dying of the year. The witch grabbed him close to her, spinning and waltzing him about until he fetched up against the Maypole, and the music stopped again.
“With briars I bind you,” the witch queen called, “with briars and nettle and the thorns of winter. You are the old king, and you must die to make way for the new."
From her daisy chains and dandelions, Melsinde somehow produced a rope of thorns, wrapping it around the Councilor, binding him tight no matter how greatly he struggled or how loudly he screamed. The witch then silenced him with a kiss, coming back a minute later, her mouth bloody.
Melsinde clapped her hands, and the music started up again, a slow dance tune with a dark edge. The witches and warlocks skipped forw
ard, seemingly at random, but then taking up the maidens' crowns that hung in a wreath just above Etrius' head, unwinding the ribbons, men going clockwise, women dancing widdershins, over and under, the music weaving its spell as the ribbons wove a prison of both magic and thread, binding Etrius to the pole as the bonfire blazed higher. Ilse knew that he would be cast upon it once the rites were done.
Meerlinda, Xavier de CincaO and Abetonus then signaled the Tremere to order, and ilse linked hands with the two Kindred nearest her, Master Harry to her left, Dr. Dee to her right. Together they began the Chant of Union, hands linked, moving in a circle, widdershins around the outer perimeter of the ritual of the mortal witches and magicians. The Chant was usually only performed at the opposite side of the Wheel of the Year, Samhain, what mortals knew as Halloween, but it was done now, calling through the blood of each of Clan Tremere and through the blood of each of those bound to them. Allies from other clans were joined into the circle, including Anvil, Smudge, and Kleist — his notebook set aside for once — and the light from the witches’ bonfire gleamed in the eyes of the Kindred as the clarion call went out invoking the power of the night, and unifying the minds of those of the blood of House Tremere.
The cry rose and fell, and then the voice of Etrius rang forth, at the center of the ritual: WE CALL YOU TOGETHER IN THE NAME OF TREMERE!
WE CALL YOU IN THE NAME OF MAGIC! cried Meerlinda. WE CALL YOU IN THE NAME OF POWER! cried Abetorius. WE CALL YOU IN THE NAME OF UNITY! cried Xavier de CincaS.
WE CALL FOR THIS MEETING TO DISBAND! cried the souls of Thomas Wyncham and Grimgroth as one. WE HAVE NOT CALLED YOU! THIS IS NOT THE WILL OF TREMERE!
SINCE WHEN HAS IT EVER BEEN? came the voice of another soul. Goratrix, the wicked Councilor who had authored their vampirism with bis impious experiment and who had abandoned the clan to join the Sabbat and start his own line. TREMERE IS AN OLD. DEAD FOOL, AND THE ONLY WISDOM HE EVER TAUGHT IS THAT POWER IS ALL THAT MATTERS.