by Eric Griffin
The shower hissed to life. Nickolai’s hand shook as he fumbled with the dial. Running water, he thought. Just what the doctor ordered. For the first time this evening, he smiled. Running water was the usual folktale prescription for these situations. Interpose running water between self and pursuing nightmare. Take once per night as needed.
His kind, however, were traditionally on the receiving end of this particular superstition.
Nonetheless, the scalding water worked as advertised. Its humble magic not only dispelled the physical signs of the previous night’s struggle, but some of the terror as well—the terror of waking with the certainty that, while he slept, he had been observed.
It was always the same—the faces of the children, watching him, judging him. He could find no hint of accusation in their glassy, unblinking eyes, nor words of condemnation on their cold, bluish lips. But the very sight of them sufficed to fill Nickolai with a dread, a certainty of condemnation.
For the third night in a row, Nickolai had dreamt of the Children down the Well.
Nickolai closed his eyes. The faces were there still, awaiting him. Round and bright as moons, smiling up at him from just beneath the surface of the still water. Infinitely patient. His gaze was arrested by the face of the nearest youth, a boy of no more than seven years. Nickolai traced the gentle curve of the youth’s smooth, unblemished cheek. The boy’s icy blue eyes were as large and perfectly round as saucers. His hair fanned out all around the bright face like a fishing net cast out upon the surface of the dark waters. Tangled strands lapped gently at the slick side of the well.
The faces neither moved nor spoke. They had been drowned and their bodies had apparently been some time now in the waters. Although the faces were calm, almost serene, Nickolai knew that their deaths were not the result of some misstep in the dark.
They had been drowned. He repeated the phrase a second time with a slight, but significant shift of emphasis. They had been willfully drowned, cast into the well, abandoned to panic, flounder and sink beneath the chill waters. Lost to sight. Lost to memory.
Only they did not stay down (would not stay down!). They had performed that final and miraculous transformation.
They were like the alchemists, struggling for decades in their damp cellars to work the Great Art—to transmute lead into gold—to free themselves from the burden of their leaden physical bodies and achieve the pure gold of spiritual transcendence. But it was the Children who had discovered how the trick was turned.
The waters of the well had swallowed them utterly and completely. But the children, they had worked the Great Reversal, swallowing in turn the waters of the well. They rose, ascending bodily, if not into the heavens, at least to the water’s surface. There they hung, suspended like luminous moons, presiding over the benighted waters.
These were his silent accusers, his judges. The lapping waters whispered to him like a lover, promises and gentle reproaches.
Nickolai no longer railed against their rebuke. In a strange way, he had begun to look upon their nocturnal visits as something of a legacy, a birthright.
They were old certainly, those bright, youthful faces. Older by far than Nickolai or any wrong he might have committed. Still, he knew himself to be party to the crime against them—if not against this child who bobbed gently against the slick stones of the well, then certainly against hundreds like him. Souls he had cast suddenly and unprepared into the river of night.
Nickolai had always suspected (but did not know, could never know now) that the well was brimming full of youth, swarming with bright golden eyes, buoyed up ever nearer to the well’s lip by the sheer mass of bodies beneath. He imagined that some night soon (very soon now) he might awaken to find that they had spilled out over the brink of the well. He imagined the tide of the drowned washing out over the fields, running like a tangled river through the woodlands, crashing against the heel of the mountains. Nickolai wondered what, if anything, might hope to stand against that great flood—whether any bulwark against the rising tide might hope to endure.
No, they would win in the end, these Children. This flood of shining victims. They had the weight of numbers behind them. They had the advantage of age—of uncounted ages. And they were so very patient.
Nickolai knew that he was to be their victim as surely as they were his own. He had been specially sought out, chosen, marked. When that tide finally rose, when his dream lapped over into the waking world, he would be culled out. Nickolai did not fear death (he had been there at least once already). Nor did he fear oblivion. But he very keenly felt it his duty to remain among the living. This desire did not arise from any overdeveloped sense of self-preservation, nor even of self-interest, nor certainly of self-importance. Nickolai had a very acute sense of what he was. He was the last of his kind. And that was a great and terrible responsibility. He had witnessed what no one should be forced to witness—his brothers, his order, his house, being slaughtered to a man. When Nickolai’s death came for him at last, it would obliterate not only his physical form—a debt which was, admittedly, long overdue—but it would also erase forever certain memories, ideas, ideals of which this physical form was the final repository.
With Nickolai’s death would pass forever the sight of that ill-fated ritual enacted beneath the streets of Mexico City—the massacre that had destroyed his brethren. With his death would pass the memory of the multiform and varied wonders, the arcana, the passwords, the miracles, the secret sigils, the hidden names of God—the hard-won treasures of centuries. The legacy and birthright of his people.
And with his death would also pass the last living memory of those unforgettable eyes, their terrible brightness undimmed by the weight of death and dark water upon them. In victory, the Children must necessarily die with him and the night tremors—les tremeres—at last come to an end.
Nickolai killed the spray of water and walked dripping from the tub, painfully aware that he was one evening closer to that end, and not knowing how to arrest or even delay its coming.
Thursday, 15 July 1999, 1:10 AM
Chantry of the Five Boroughs
New York City, New York
The sensation of the pen’s brass nib scratching across the paper eased Johnston Foley’s tension. The nib grabbed the grain satisfyingly. No slick modern grade of paper could hope to compare. Craftsmanship, tradition—this was the essence of the art. To Foley, the humble magic of pen and ink was a spiritual rite. Each sheet of hand-pressed parchment, each individually carved pen was a specially consecrated ceremonial tool.
His hand moved deftly, confidently, darting in and among the five oversized illuminated letters that already graced the left-hand margin. The fruit of his previous week’s labor. Reading from top to bottom, they spelled out TYLIA—a name to which Foley attached no particular significance.
Foley’s scratchings did not pause until he reached the bottom of the sheet. With a flourish, he generously dusted the wet ink.
Then the waiting.
He let the moment stretch, savored it. A week of painstaking illumination might have been fulfilled or ruined in that single minute’s mad scribbling. It was sublime. It was, in many ways, the legacy of his people, the birthright of the Tremere. The decades (sometimes centuries) his brothers spent in their patient plotting, their scheming, their jockeying for position—all leading up to a single night’s gamble, the play for power and prestige. All or naught.
Foley turned the paper on end and tapped it gently on the desktop. A cascade of fine blue dust settled to the blotter. With mounting anticipation, he devoured the newly revealed words:
There is a quiet shadow
Between pen and page
The oldest of wards set
Perhaps to guard the art
From the casual hand
Yet even now after years
Of learning the feints, parries,
Attitudes of approach, I see
Not one opponent, but hundreds
Living and dead: readers<
br />
Lovers, rivals
Old works and masters
And I hesitate
If the pen is truly
Mightier than the sword, who
Is cut? Perhaps
I will write no more
Already the blood
Of people I will never know
Has run from the shadow
Streaking this page
With words and doubts.
Foley scrutinized each serif, each curve, each of the eighteen individual ‘i’-crowning dots. Perfect.
Opening an upper desk drawer, he withdrew two pieces of tissue paper and a manila folder. He quickly crossed to an overstuffed file cabinet against one wall and filed the whole—parchment nestled inside paper inside folder—under “T” for “TYLIA.”
To anyone else, this filing system might have proved frustrating if not maddening. Foley, however, did not need a “system.” His memory was infallible. He could just as easily have filed the piece under “F’ or “Q,” as the fancy struck him. It made no difference.
But the alphabet was a discipline. An ordered list. Foley appreciated order in all its guises. Over the years, he had become a creature of lists. Initially, the lists had provided him a means of establishing order amidst a world where entropy was only too willing to rush in at the slightest lapse in vigilance. An insane world, a world turned upside-down. A place where the nightmares were real, the dead walked, and the heroes drew pentagrams traced in stolen blood.
Even decades later, long after his faculties had progressed beyond the point that the lists were a necessity, he’d continued and actually redoubled his efforts to tabulate, to enumerate, to impose that perfect order that is a reflection of the truly disciplined mind and spirit. And his unwavering perseverance had not been lost upon his superiors.
Settling himself back at his desk, Foley shifted another sheet of parchment from the pile at his right hand to the blotter in front of him. He considered a moment before selecting a favorite writing implement from the display stand at his left hand. A quill unadorned with any ostentatious plumage. Its former owner, a porcupine.
His hand jabbed rapidly at the page. Words, numbers, formulae began to reveal themselves, rendered almost, it would seem, by pointillism.
Foley took great pride in his attention to detail. His writing table was clear except for blotter, inkwell and paper. His compact study was crammed to capacity with bookshelves, jars of pigment, rare woods, fine specimens of the taxidermist’s art, and other curiosities. Nonetheless, it remained distinctly uncluttered.
Each book, each vial, each unseeing glass eye had its place, from which it was removed only when Foley required it, and to which it was invariably returned.
A sharp knock broke the ordered silence of the room.
“Enter,” he called, allowing his displeasure to be apparent in his voice. The knock should have come ten minutes earlier.
Jacqueline, Apprentice Tertius, stepped demurely into the small room. She was a mature woman, a former academician whose features continuously betrayed the torment of one accustomed in mortal life to speaking authoritatively to students.
In her new “adopted” family, she had found that she must now accommodate herself to taking instruction and directives from practically every other member of the community. The abrupt disjuncture obviously did not sit well with her.
Her personal contentment—or lack thereof—however, did not concern Foley.
“You are late,” he said curtly.
“I was assisting Aaron with…” she began.
“Did I request an explanation?”
“No.”
Foley narrowed his eyes. “And that is how you address your superiors?”
Jacqueline stiffened. “No, Secundus.”
Foley paused, laying his quill across the inkwell and folding his hands deliberately.
“I mean, no, Regent Secundus,” she corrected herself hastily.
Foley sighed in mock exasperation. The novice seemed adequately contrite, though an Initiate of the Third Circle should have been beyond such lapses of decorum.
It was a difficult situation, when an apprentice’s capabilities clearly exceeded her understanding of her station. Jacqueline had proven her potential, but the Tremere could ill afford chinks in the armor of discipline that had allowed the clan to survive this long despite determined opposition.
Foley made a mental note to humble the novice publicly at the earliest opportunity. Tonight’s ritual should prove a suitable occasion. If the problem persisted, he would be forced to advise Regent Quintus Sturbridge that Jacqueline was simply not working out. And that he had been forced to terminate her.
“I will not abide familiarity in a subordinate,” he said at last, then paused again significantly.
“Yes, Regent Secundus.”
When Foley was satisfied, he pushed the list across the desk to her.
“Here are the materials I require for a certain ritual next week,” he said. “See that they are assembled in my sanctum by dawn of the 22nd.”
Jacqueline studied the list. After a moment, Foley held out his hand. Realizing his meaning, she reluctantly returned the paper to him.
“That is all.” Foley watched as she backed out of the chamber. He was gratified by the brief glint of alarm he’d seen in her eyes as she’d handed back the list. He’d allowed her ample time in which to commit the items to memory. If she’d failed to do so, that was her shortcoming, and she would be held accountable.
Of course, Foley was not about to let her potential incompetence interfere with his upcoming ritual. Dawn of the 22nd would allow him ample time to inspect her work and make any necessary adjustments.
The knowledge that ultimately, he would be held responsible for the failings of his underlings was not lost upon Foley.
He rose with the list in his hand and moved into his sanctum. The adjoining room was, if anything, even more packed with oddities than the outer office. The effect was exaggerated as the sanctum was only slightly larger than a broom closet. It was a point of some contention. He realized that the accommodations constituted no personal slight. But the arrangement still rankled.
With open warfare raging between the Camarilla and Sabbat forces—and the battle lines surging back and forth over their very heads—little time and effort had been spared for material comforts. The energy and resources of every Tremere present were required for defense. It had been thus for many years and the situation showed little sign of improving any time in the near future.
Foley supposed he should let the matter drop. After all, his appointment to such a prestigious chantry was not inconsequential. The Chantry of the Five Boroughs—or “C5B” as it was designated in inter-chantry memoranda—was renowned for the unique opportunities it presented. Its name consistently topped the lists of candidates for advancement within the clan. Upon closer examination, however, Foley was forced to concede that most of these promotions were of the battlefield variety.
Five Boroughs was one of the few places in the country where the hawks among the dovecote could openly ply their trade. Foley had endured the posturings of countless self-styled battlemages, pyromancers, astral warriors and other abominations that were so much cannon fodder to be thrown in the path of the advancing Sabbat forces. With the recent Sabbat gains in the Southeast, however, more and more of the clan’s hawks were being drawn off toward Washington, D.C. Some of the newcomers to C5B had been enticed by the persistent rumor that the chantry was, due to its somewhat tenuous position, more lenient in enforcing the Third Tradition—the granting of permission to embrace others into the clan.
Ridiculous, Foley thought. He wondered how such an improbable tale was perpetuated. He imagined the formula was one part wishful thinking to two parts never having met Aisling Sturbridge. If the truth were known—and it was not in Foley’s nature to distribute a commodity as volatile as the truth without adequate compensation—during his entire tenure at Five Boroughs, not one had ever been gran
ted leave to sire progeny. Not a single one.
Despite this curious—some might say, perverse—tradition, the chantry continued to enjoy a steady influx of new novices by way of transfer from her sister houses all across the U.S.
Foley supposed he should be grateful. It was this very turmoil that necessitated him being here.
Five Boroughs was something of a curiosity, a relic of an earlier age. It always reminded Foley of a medieval monastic house at the height of the order’s temporal power—when the abbot of an influential house wielded feudal dominion over the surrounding countryside. C5B enjoyed just such privilege. It was probably the most prestigious chantry in the U.S. that was not the personal haven of some clan dignitary—a great lord or pontifex. Nowhere else in the country could a mere regent exercise such a free hand.
A mere regent. Foley snorted. He was a mere regent. Never mind that he would be leading any other chantry to which he might be assigned. Five Boroughs was one of the few chantries that supported two regents: himself as the regent secundus and his superior, Aisling Sturbridge. It was not normal clan policy but, as Sturbridge so often pointed out to her superiors—and with such unaccountable and infuriating success—C5B was no normal chantry. Things just worked differently here.
It was not such an indignity after all, being a junior regent. Sturbridge herself had been a junior regent at one time. They said that her superior had been caught unawares by the Sabbat, just beyond the protection of the chantry defenses. A shame.
There was nothing to say that this same misfortune might not befall Sturbridge herself—some night when she was alone and abroad. Some night like tonight. The possibility that a well-earned promotion might conveniently fall into his own lap was not lost upon Foley. So he tried, if not with complete success, to tuck his resentment back into its appropriate niche. Probably Sturbridge’s quarters were no more spacious than his own. He could not speak authoritatively on the matter, of course. He had never been invited into her chambers.
