by Eric Griffin
She could not quite shake the feeling that there was something behind the roiling waters, a presence stirring up the fury of the deep, a will. Chessie clawed sand from her eyes and squinted against the weight of the water.
There, at the very center of the maelstrom, a vast shape was rising, patiently, layer upon layer. She strained to catch a glimpse of it through the swirling sand that gouged at her eyes. She had to know. Had to understand. If only for this brief moment before her vision was taken from her.
Deliberately, she steeled herself and kicked forward into the depths.
Suddenly, there was still water all about her. Buffeted, bleeding, half-blind, she had flailed her way through the maelstrom. She now floated, suspended, inverted, at the very eye of the undersea storm—the still point at the heart of the swirling confusion of sensual perceptions.
Bracing herself, Chessie forced her eyes open, and she saw.
A gargantuan form loomed over her, filling her blood-glazed field of vision. Its feet were lost in the unguessed depths of the hole in the ocean’s floor. Chessie had the unsettling impression that its roots burrowed into the very core of the earth itself.
Visita Interiora Terrae.
Its stony visage glared down at her from high above. Its crown, exalted, streamed toward the surface—toward the world of light. In between these two extremes stretched the vast expanse of wall, its once-sculpted surface worn smooth with passage of water and years. Chessie’s gaze raced the length of that wall, fighting the feeling of vertigo as she struggled to orient herself.
The wall did not, as she first thought, stand fully erect. Rather, it leaned ponderously toward its fellows. Its two fellows, she realized with dawning clarity. A vast pyramid.
As the feeling of vertigo passed, she realized that it was she and not the pyramid that was moving. She sliced through the depths, plummeting toward the base of the great wall.
There was an answering motion, far below her, at the point that the pyramid had so violently pierced the ocean’s floor. Chessie thought she could pick out a familiar figure there, going through the motions of some elaborate ritual. She recognized the bloated corpse she had wrestled with earlier—her captor, the drowned man. Sturbridge’s voice echoed in her thoughts, confiding a name. Goratrix. The Tremere’s beloved serpent. Our Prometheus, our Lucifer.
Light streamed from the mage’s upraised fist as he hammered three times on the unyielding door of the pyramid. Chessie felt the repercussion of each of those blows within the hollow of her breast. She tumbled in her downward plunge and nearly smashed against the side of the pyramid.
From within an answering voice:
Who dares demand admission…?
“It is I.” Goratrix raised his fist on high, revealing the blood-gorged heart cradled there. It was as red and lustrous as a polished apple. “Then your eyes shall be opened,” his voice assailed the impassive walls, “and ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil.”
For a long while there was silence upon the deep.
Then, in answer, the great portal of House Tremere swung wide to receive her prodigal son and his precious double-edged gift.
As her heart was carried over the threshold of the pyramid and into captivity, Chessie screamed and passed into merciful oblivion.
Saturday, 28 August 1999, 1:24 AM
Chantry of the Five Boroughs
New York City, New York
Jacqueline froze. Her first instinct was to dive for the cupboard door. She could still make out the sizzle of arcane energy stretched taut across the tiny opening—a sign that the temporary passage back to the vestry was still operational. She could probably scramble through the low door and, assuming the vertigo was not so severe that she blacked out entirely, slam the corresponding vestry door shut behind her, severing the connection. But this flurry of activity would certainly alert whoever had entered the adjoining room that there had been an intruder present.
Her second thought was to stealthily move around to a position behind the door. From this vantage point, she might fall upon anyone foolish enough to enter the sanctum and take them unawares. She had already taken two light steps in that direction when it occurred to her that she did not want to be anywhere near that ward when the door opened.
She stopped again, feeling awkward and exposed in the middle of the room. The light in the outer office clicked on. The brightness sliced under the door, the glaring artificial light stretching across the floor in a shape like a guillotine blade.
Jacqueline cursed silently. Stupid. If that was not the security team—traipsing through the front door, poking around in Foley’s office and flipping on the lights—then they would not be far behind. Whoever was in the next room was either stupid, careless, or…
The glyph on the door flared suddenly to life. Already, Jacqueline was diving, not for the cupboard (now precisely two full steps too far away), but for the protection of the solid worktable. There was a sharp cry from beyond the door, followed shortly by the sound of something heavy collapsing to the floor. On the inside of the door, the glyph drifted away from the wood and fell gently to the floor in a trail of spent ashes.
A stillness settled over Foley’s chambers. Forgotten, the adjoining door swung slowly inward.
Jacqueline scrambled for the cupboard. If she were lucky, that concussion would have knocked the unwelcome newcomer out cold. The security team would have their intruder and Jacqueline would hear all about it tomorrow. If she were not lucky…
Perhaps unwisely, Jacqueline spared one quick glance toward the open doorway and Foley’s office beyond. There, across the threshold, lay Eva, shaking her head groggily and struggling to pick herself up off the floor.
In that instant, their eyes met.
Damn.
Jacqueline abandoned her mad scramble and with visible restraint, composed herself. There was no point in running now. She turned upon the fallen novice.
“You little twit. What could you possibly have been thinking?” She took the girl roughly by the arm and made to haul her to her feet. “Can you stand?”
Eva nodded and pushed her away. “I’m sorry. I heard someone inside. The regent was quite specific. No one—not even the security team—was to enter these rooms while she was away. What were you…? Oh.”
“I might ask you the same question. But my guess is that we’ve only got about two minutes before we’ll have even more unwanted company.” Jacqueline found her hand unconsciously straying to the carefully rolled parcel concealed beneath her robes. Blood of black cat; heart of black cockerel. Company’s coming.
She cursed herself and then turned her outrage upon Eva. “I can’t believe you. Walking right in through the front door. Flipping the lights on and off. Just what exactly did you expect to…? No, never mind. Don’t answer that. Look, here’s your story.
“You were passing. You heard a noise. You could have gone for help, but then it might have been too late. Against your better judgment, you decided to try the door…”
“But that’s exactly what did happen.”
“All the better. But if they decide to double-check your story, you insist on seeing the regent before you let them open a vein. You’re her favorite; everybody knows that. They won’t risk it—her displeasure, I mean. They’ll probably just put you away under the keystone for a few days until she gets back. Now listen.
“You came in here, got as far as the sanctum door and bam! When you came to, you knew you had to stay put and report the whole incident to the security team. You never saw anyone or anything. You understand?”
“I’m not stupid and I’m not a child.” Eva straightened her robes. Without looking up, she asked, “Why did you kill Foley?”
“Look you, I didn’t kill anybody. You understand me? I’ll go under the knife on that point and the blood will run true. I didn’t like Foley—God, I hated Foley—but I didn’t kill him.”
“Then why are you here? How’d you get in here, anyway?”
“No time for
that now. Tell me we’ve got a deal so I can get out of here.”
“Why should I cover for you?”
Jacqueline rose over her. “Because I am your superior, neophyte. I can make things easier for you or…quite difficult.”
“Not if I don’t cover for you.”
Jacqueline calculated quickly, weighing Eva’s stubbornness against the time remaining. Not worth chancing it.
She rolled her eyes in dismissal of the threat. “All right, look. There are some things here that are just not right. But I had to see for myself. To be sure.”
She expected an argument on this point, but getting none, she hurried on. “I can’t go into a lot of detail right now. The wardings, they’re not missing, they’ve been erased. Now the notes, they’re missing. Foley made a great fuss over his photographic memory, but he always wrote everything down. He was obsessive. He couldn’t do his laundry without making a list.
“And the gem is gone. You’ve figured out that much at least, haven’t you? The one he kept in the fleur-de-lis box. The one he had those three novices flogged down to the bone over. That’s really what this whole ritual was about, the gem. The Keyhole, he called it. Ugly little lump. Red with black smudges at the poles. I told him I didn’t know what he saw in it and he laughed at me. He said whenever you peeked through a keyhole around here, all you saw in it was another eye, staring back.”
“And if you gaze for long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”
“What?”
“It’s nothing. Something the regent told me when we…found him.”
“Look, you’re trying to find out what happened to Foley. I can tell you more about the ritual. About what should have been here, but isn’t. I can help. But if the jackals find me here, I’m just another victim. Do you understand? Do we have a deal?”
Jackals, Eva thought. Anubis. Pyramid security.
“Deal. But I need to talk to you—to talk to somebody—and soon. I think someone’s been…”
There was the sound of purposeful footsteps approaching.
“Tomorrow night. Midnight. The refectory.”
Jacqueline pressed her hand, held it to retain the novice’s attention. Already Eva was worriedly craning toward the outer door. “If you don’t show, I’ll know they’ve got you under lock and key. In that case—listen to me—in that case, they’re not going to let you out of their sight until the regent returns. You’ll be safe enough. And we’ll meet on the night of Sturbridge’s return. Do you understand? You’re going to get through this. You’re going to be fine.”
Eva nodded and Jacqueline gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Now get out there and buy me some time.”
Eva carefully closed the sanctum door behind her retreating co-conspirator. Turning, she put on what she hoped was her bravest face to meet the jackals.
Saturday, 28 August 1999, 4:15 AM
Lord Baltimore Inn
Baltimore, Maryland
Chessie thrashed wildly, fighting the sensation that she was drowning, buried beneath a ponderous weight of water. She heard a familiar voice.
“It is enough, she is coming around at last.”
Chessie felt something massive uncoil from atop her chest. His eyes flew open in alarm, but her sight was filmed over with blood. She had a fleeting impression of a gnarled branch twisting away into one comer of the room and disappearing into rafters with a rustling noise.
“You have returned to us, Miss Lyon. I was beginning to fear for your safety.”
“Professor Sturbridge.” She blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the haze from her eyes, but found them wet with new blood. “What did you…?”
“It was nothing, Miss Lyon, I assure you. Nothing I would not do for any novice entrusted to my care. Can you sit up? No, slowly. Better.”
Chessie wiped at her eyes with the back of one hand. “I apologize. I fear I am unwell.”
As vision returned, she surveyed the wreckage of the fireside seating arrangement. The remains of an end table, its lamp, the crystal decanter and both goblets had been hastily swept to the side—leaving a clear spot on the floor. Chessie lay in the eye of the storm. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what…”
Sturbridge waved dismissively. “It’s nothing. I should not try to stand as of yet.”
Chessie was forced to agree with her assessment and crumpled back to the floor with what dignity she could muster. “It seems I find myself in your debt. You called me back.”
Sturbridge regarded her curiously. “Called you back?”
“Yes, back from the…tell me, was I dead? I mean, really dead.”
“No more so than anyone else.”
“Please, Professor, this is quite distressing. You called me back from the bottom of the sea, from the very center. From the lnteriora Terrae.”
Instantly, Sturbridge’s playful tone vanished, replaced with concern. “Well now, you did go a long way.” She stooped and took Chessie’s chin firmly in one hand. She prised open first the left eyelid and then the right, studying her eyes intently for the telltale gleam of delirium.
“Tell me about the bottom of the ocean. It must have been very…peaceful there.”
Chessie recoiled as if struck, but Sturbridge maintained her grip. “Peaceful? The water was thick with bodies, corpses. They wouldn’t let you be. They kept poking at you, prodding, leaning into you. And their faces. Oh, if you could have seen their faces.”
“Eyes as round and bright as moons…”
“What’s that?” Chessie shot back.
“Nothing. An old dream, a poem, a snatch of song. It is nothing. You were telling me about the children.”
“The children?”
“The Children down the Well.”
“No, no, you are not listening to me. There were no children. There was no well. I was telling you about the bottom of the ocean, about the Drowned Man.”
“I am sorry. I misunderstood. Please, continue.”
“…At least I think it was a man. It may very well have been a serpent. A sea serpent. Yes, I seem to remember a sea serpent. And a shipwreck. Oh, you will think me a very great fool by this point. What nonsense. What utter nonsense!”
With an effort of will, Chessie teetered to her feet. Sturbridge moved to help her, but the young woman’s look said very clearly that assistance would neither be necessary nor welcome.
“Not at all, Miss Lyon. Your tale is not so strange as you might imagine. You have my attention. Can you tell me about the Drowned Man?”
“Tell you about him? But you were the one telling me about him. ‘Our beloved oracular serpent,’ you called him. ‘Our Prometheus, our Lucifer.’”
“The Light-bringer. Yes, I see. But what was he doing? Did he do or say anything…unusual?” Her look became shrewd, predatory. “What did he tell you?”
Chessie hesitated, taken aback by the sudden intensity of Sturbridge’s interest. The young woman could feel it boring into her like the heat of a flame. She shifted uncomfortably but could see no advantage in keeping this knowledge from Sturbridge.
“He told me…he told me to visit the center. Visita lnteriora.”
A broad smile spread across Sturbridge’s features. Chessie exhaled slowly in relief, seeing the familiar Sturbridge return to her.
“Vitriol. He gave you the cup of vitriol? Are you quite sure, Miss Lyon?”
“Cup? I didn’t say anything about a cup. It seems to me that it was you who gave me vitriol to drink. I have not yet recovered from the effects of your concoction, and I am not entirely certain that I ever shall.”
“No, you misunderstand, Miss Lyon. Vitriol. V-I-T-R-I-O-L. It is an ancient alchemical formula: Visita Interiora Terrae, Rectificando Invenies…”
“Occultum Lapidem. Yes, his exact words. Strange. It seems an odd sort of thing for me to dream, don’t you think, Professor? The chances of my accidentally stumbling onto some disused occult proverb, well, you must admit it seems unlikely.”
“Do you think it coinc
idental, Miss Lyon?”
“I do not,” she replied pointedly.
Sturbridge chose to ignore the tone of accusation. “Good. I will suggest to you, then, that it was no accident that you discovered this particular gem, this ocadtum lapidem, on your first journey inward. It is a road map, Miss Lyon. It will be a great comfort to you in the years to come, on your journeys into that inner country. It is also a promise—a promise that you will return there.”
“I am not entirely sure I wish to return there. It was not a…pleasant place.”
At this Sturbridge laughed aloud. “It is your place, Miss Lyon. It is the place from which you arise. It is the place you carry with you, even now. It is the place to which you must, eventually, return. But not tonight, I think.”
Chessie’s suspicions, however, were not allayed. “If you will forgive me saying so, Professor, it did not look like my place at all. It looked suspiciously like your place. It was filled with your forebears, your rituals, your symbols, your occult mutterings. Even I did not feel like me. I felt like some player in an ancient story—a story of your people.”
“Perhaps you still do not understand. You think that I have taken advantage of you, that I have doctored your drink, knocked you out and whispered hypnotic suggestions into your ear.”
There was an uncomfortable silence before Chessie replied, “I have suggested no such thing.”
“But you have. Listen to me, Miss Lyon. The things you saw, they were not of my creation. I did not know you had journeyed to the lnteriora Terrae, I did not know you had met with Gora…the Drowned Man, I did not know what he said or did. It is not my voice that has been whispering to you, it is the singing of the blood.”
Something in her words both rang true and simultaneously filled Chessie with dread.
“It is in the blood,” she recited hollowly, “the power’is in the blood.”
Sturbridge nodded. “The blood that fills you, the blood we shared tonight, it is the blood of the Tremere. The Blood of the Seven. The mortar of the Pyramid. It is ancient, it is potent, and it speaks to each of us—in visions and in nightmares. In ancient words and lost ritual gestures. And in the quiet places, where no others may go, the blood whispers to us.”
