by Anne Rice
We were astonished. We’d expected the usual pantheon of Roman gods, and instead we found a great dancing procession overhead of the blood drinkers who made or make up our history, hands clasped here and there to suggest an immense circular chain. All were done in the full robust and colorful style of the baroque—the regal figures of Akasha and Enkil with their golden crowns and long braided Egyptian locks, faces dark, remote, seemingly mindless; and following them the figure of Khayman, poor Khayman, in Egyptian robes as he might have looked when he had been the steward of the royal household, and the red-haired twins with their fierce deep-set green eyes, their slender bodies garbed in soft billowing gowns, and Santh, the mighty figure of Santh, with his huge blond mane covering his shoulders, clad in bronze-studded leather armor with his hand on the hilt of his sword, and Nebamun (our Gregory), resplendent as the Babylonian angel who had given me his blood, and Seth, the son of the Queen, in full Egyptian linen, and Cyril, my Cyril, enshrined right there with the ancients, with his dark smiling face and mop of unruly brown hair. His worn leather coat and boots had been painted as carefully as if they were royal raiment. But nothing outshone his expressive face. Beside Cyril stood Teskhamen, spare of build, in long Egyptian robes. Next came the strangely lifeless figure of Rhoshamandes, with a face that signified nothing, in the austere brown robes he’d worn when I somehow managed to destroy him, and his tender Benedict in a monk’s robe of white, cleaving to his master with a beguiling and boyish smile. Clasping Benedict’s hand was the queenly Allesandra in the ornate and bejeweled garb she might have worn in the days of her father’s reign. Beside her, but apart from her, and alone, stood my maker, the hunchbacked Magnus, in his dark hood and cloak, his gaunt white face and hooked nose infused with an undeniable beauty yet paling in the radiance of his enormous dark eyes. After Magnus came Notker in his usual monastic attire, surrounded by a cluster of his singers holding lyres like angels in a painted celestial choir.
Then the Great Sevraine appeared in her Greek-goddess gown of white, glittering with precious stones, and the delicate and imperious Eudoxia, the long-lost fledgling of Cyril, of whom Marius had told us and whom he pointed out now, followed by the tall muscular figure of Avicus and his blood bride, the ever-beautiful Zenobia, and Marius himself, Marius in his familiar red velvet robe, his long hair completely white, with Pandora, the elusive Pandora, all in shades of brown in her simple gown and sandaled feet, and then Flavius in his old Roman tunic with the ivory leg that had once been his crutch.
After these came the blond Eric who had perished long ago, and cold-eyed Mael who’d disappeared as well and now the vibrant and dazzling Chrysanthe known to all of us, and Arion with his beautiful black skin and pale eyes, clad in an ancient Greek chiton clasped at the shoulders and bound about the waist by a leather belt. And there appeared other Children of the Millennia—some new to Court and some known only in legend, impressive figures all, figures to ponder in time, figures to talk about—until the great procession moved on to the magnates of the present age.
Armand had been rendered with undisguised devotion in velvet the color of blood, his youthful face angelic, his soft brown eyes infinitely sad, and beside him stood the lithe and beguiling Bianca in her stately purple Renaissance gown. Beside her stood my mother, Gabrielle, her hair long behind her back, her tall slender form quite dignified in her khaki jacket and boots, her face serene with only the smallest smile. Next appeared Eleni in swirling skirts of embroidered blue, and Eugenie and Laurent in striking eighteenth-century garb, these being the faithful servants of the Théâtre des Vampires in its early years. There followed Fontayne in his old-fashioned frock coat, lace studded with pearls, his lean face bright as if illuminated from within, and Louis, my handsome Louis, in dark wool and old-fashioned high-collared linen, gazing down on us with a look of thinly veiled amusement, but with a secret in his hypnotic green eyes. At his side was Claudia, my tragic little Claudia, in her puff sleeves and blue sash and golden ringlets—the only real child vampire in the procession, reaching out with one small dimpled hand to David Talbot in his trim Anglo-Indian body who, in turn, reached out to Benji Mahmoud, Benji who had been exquisitely outfitted in his black three-piece suit with his round cheerful face, black eyes laughing beneath the brim of his black fedora, and the sweet Sybelle, our gifted pianist, Benji’s ever-faithful companion, the wan and mysterious Sybelle in her simple modern gown of black chiffon.
Jesse Reeves followed, so slender and fragile with her long rippling coppery hair identical to that of the twins who’d been her ancestors, and black-haired Rose, the fragile girl I’d sought to protect from every bad thing when she was living, who was now one of us, and her spouse in the Blood, Viktor, my beloved son, Viktor, taller than his father, just as blond, and perhaps a bit menacing with eyes that were cold and more reminiscent of my mother’s than mine. Next came his mother, Flannery, in the simplest modern garments, wrapped in silence and mystery, who had become one of us many years after Viktor’s birth. Fareed was beside Flannery, handsome as always, his golden skin irresistible, his eyes fierce and almost mocking, dressed in his simple white doctor’s coat and pants. There followed other blood drinker physicians and scientists, secretive, reluctant, as if quietly suffering as Flannery was under the painterly hand that rendered them with the same care lavished on all the others; and then, Barbara, my lovely self-effacing assistant in her handsome dress of magenta wool, and finally Alain, the very last to complete the great circle, hand raised to point to the figure of King Enkil. Alain was in the fancy duds I’d forced on him, supple suede tailored as if it were velvet, and antique lace, his face ruddy and his hazel eyes filled with optimism.
This was the great circle of dancing figures who encompassed all of the ballroom ceiling.
In the very center, on a great shield that was equidistant from the chandeliers, was a figure of the Prince in his red velvet, fur-lined cloak, wearing an actual crown of gold and holding in his hand a scepter.
I blushed when I saw it. I felt Marius patting me on the shoulder and I heard him laughing that I’d blushed. I shook my head and looked at the floor. Then up again. It was a perfect likeness, as were all Marius’s likenesses, and surrounding the Prince was what appeared to me to be the wilderness of the Savage Garden.
Behind these large blazing figures, the figures of the procession, and the shield that framed the Prince, the night sky covered the ceiling in a pale luminescent blue sprinkled with the smallest stars forming their inevitable patterns and constellations.
If only words could capture the art of Marius’s work, and the remarkable flow of colors through the great procession, and the subtle touches of gold and silver, and his preternatural skill at capturing the glitter of jewels and the vitality of eyes—if only, but words cannot.
It was a gorgeous achievement. Marius noted that there was room on the ceiling to make another circle within the grand circle, and room enough to add figures behind the existing figures. And we left the ballroom convinced that all would love this new work.
Why was I apprehensive? Did I not want the Court to succeed? Of course I did. Was I not glad that I’d destroyed Rhoshamandes? I was more than glad. So what was changing in me that so confused me? Whatever it was, it had to do with me. It was private and vital to my well-being.
Chapter 26
The night of the ball came. While the gates were still locked, and the ballroom still closed off, the orchestra was arranged to the far-left side of the room and the back, which still provided it with ample space for some one hundred musicians, and a chorus behind it of one hundred singers.
And a new large dais now stood at the very center of the back wall, with the throne given me by Benedict in the middle of it and towards the front. A row of gilded French chairs had been placed behind the throne in an arc, and I was told by Gregory that these were for the council.
This all seemed very fine to me, but the position of prominence given to the
throne—that it now faced the distant double doors to the room—made me very uneasy. Seeing myself rendered in brilliant color on the shield in the center of the plaster ceiling also made me uneasy.
The dungeons were packed with murderers, assassins, and cutthroats of every kind, so as to provide for the fledglings. And on the lower floor of the Château just inside the inner court were the rooms filled with garments to be freely offered to all comers. But I made a point to Barbara and Alain and others who were managing these rooms that no one must be pressured to take finery against his or her will. All were welcome.
Just before the ball was officially to commence, the members of the council placed a lectern near the entrance to the passageway, at the head of the grand stairway, with a great black leather reception book laid open on it, and an artfully made modern pen ornamented with a quill for the guests to sign their names. I had to confess I was curious as to which vampires would take the time to sign this registry.
Meanwhile the council was poised to split up and line the walls of the passage on either side from the entrance to the ballroom doors to greet the newcomers. All the family of the house was dressed in spectacular clothes, and the ancients had chosen to let their facial hair and the hair of their heads be long and natural. Gregory, Seth, and Santh were the oldest vampires in the house, and they all wore embroidered satin robes and gilded slippers. Marius, Notker, Flavius, Avicus, and other male Children of the Millennia wore long gold-etched tunics for the most part, with only Thorne and Cyril dressed in handsome sleek leather coats and boots, each with an ornate lace shirt with lace at the cuffs as well as at the collar. I had never seen them like this and I was delighted.
Of the female vampires, Sevraine was the most remarkable in her slender Grecian gown of gold cloth, her satin hair like a veil, and her shapely naked arms like marble. But Bianca, Pandora, Chrysanthe, and Zenobia wore ball gowns of sumptuous velvet in a spectrum of muted and dazzling colors. And the young members of the household wore the finery one might expect at a formal ball of these times, with Viktor, Benji, Louis, Fontayne, and Alain in white tie and black tailcoats, and the younger women, including Sybelle and Rose, in the streamlined gowns currently in fashion. The display of jewels was breathtaking, with rubies, emeralds, diamonds, sapphires everywhere that one looked, or ropes of pearls and barrettes and pins of gold and silver.
As for me, I was dressed as I usually am, in a frock coat of red velvet with cameo buttons, and layers of embroidered lace at the neck and the same snow white lace dripping over my hands—with the invariable pressed dungarees and high shiny black boots, and the gold Medusa ring on my finger. My hair was groomed as it always is. And I wondered if I might not be a disappointment on the throne in the very middle of the ballroom facing the open doors and the long passage to the grand stairs, but I wasn’t all that concerned about it. If I disappointed, it would be for obvious reasons—that the newcomers drawn by word of the ball, and our recent story, would find me ordinary, young, and uninteresting. As I said, I fill the bill of a matinee idol in looks and always have. And until I decide to really hurt someone, I look harmless too, which doesn’t help. Enough on that subject.
Now let me explain about the newcomers.
Ever since we had opened the Château, newcomers had been arriving. But for the most part they were young vampires—vampires Born to Darkness in the twentieth century. There were even some who had become blood drinkers after the year 2000. But the elders who came, the older powerful blood drinkers, were largely connected with someone already at the Court or known to someone. Notker, for example, brought a pair of blood drinker intimates from his alpine refuge to see the Court, and of his boy sopranos many were ancient. And Arion had become part of the Court, a beautiful dark-skinned vampire with yellow eyes who boasted at least two thousand years in the Blood, introduced to us through his connection to the convicted enemy of the Replimoids, Roland. Another Child of the Millennia, a hermit by nature, and a friend to Sevraine, had also come to see the Court and stayed with us for months before taking his leave with thanks and blessings.
But by and large, the newcomers were young, very young, and they were the ones most desperate to be part of the Court and to be protected by it, and now to be allowed to feed upon the miserable prisoners in the dungeon.
It had become clear as Fareed made his lists and tried to gauge the size of our population that most of the blood drinkers of the world perished in the first three hundred years of their existence. And that is why Armand, encountering Louis in the nineteenth century, had presumed himself to be the oldest vampire in the world, having been kidnapped by the Children of Satan in the 1500s.
Now, after the death of Rhoshamandes, more and more young vampires came to us, and some of these recent visitors were four hundred or even five hundred years old, but without the powers or sophistication of Armand, and eager to learn whatever the elders of the house would teach them.
But on this night unusual things happened.
First and foremost, just about every blood drinker who had ever visited us had returned, and every single one welcomed the invitation to the wardrobe rooms and appeared on the grand stairway in glittering garments that increased the air of merriment and excitement.
And as I took my place on the throne, as the doors opened, as all the young residents of the house filled the ballroom on the right and on the left, as the orchestra under Antoine’s direction began to play a magnificent canon composed by Antoine—born of Pachelbel and Albinoni—I began to realize, in spite of my anxiety and uneasiness, that something of historic magnitude was happening. I could hear the soft unmistakable heartbeats of vampires in such numbers that I knew this crowd would exceed any other we’d ever hosted.
I heard heartbeats, I heard greetings on the floor below. I heard cars moving down our deserted and out-of-the-way roads towards us. And I was aware of others appearing out of nowhere in the snow-covered fields around us.
My nervousness increased. A great pathway through the crowd gave me a view of those strangers just coming to the top of the faraway stairs, and I felt myself struggling desperately to conceal my confusion.
But then a ravishing woman appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, smiling at me as she approached, her hand out to greet me.
Her hair was gloriously done up in the old French style of which Marie Antoinette would have been proud, and her bodice of gold damask revealed a slender waist descending to great skirts of dark purple silk, flanking an underskirt open in front of layer upon layer of embroidered lace that covered her feet to the tips of her slippers. The shape of her arms in the close-fitting upper sleeves, the sight of her bare arms emerging from the lower open sleeves of dripping lace, and her graceful hands, all of this was tantalizing and lovely and drew from me an immediate smile—until I realized this was my mother.
Gabrielle! These brilliant blue eyes, these rose-tinged lips, this soft confidential laughter—belonged to my mother.
As she mounted the podium and took her place at my side, I started to rise to embrace her, but she told me gently to remain as I was.
“Mon Dieu, Maman,” I said. “I’ve never seen you more beautiful.” There were tears of gratitude gathering in my eyes. The room swam with color as I struggled to regain my composure, and the music and the color melded in some great pervasive intoxicating brew that made me faintly dizzy.
“You didn’t think I’d be the Queen Mother for you tonight?” she asked. She looked down at me, lovingly. “You think I don’t know what is going on in your mind and has been for nights now? I can’t read your thoughts, but I can read your face.”
Her hands, warm from the kill, clasped my right hand, and she lifted my hand and kissed the golden Medusa ring that very soon others would also be kissing.
“I’ll be at your side,” she said. “Until you tell me that you don’t want me.”
I breathed a deep sigh of relief that I didn�
��t attempt to conceal from her.
And now the first of the newcomers were streaming into the room and coming right towards me. Younglings as expected and proud and merry in their fine clothes, some rushing up to confess how much they adored me for vanquishing Rhoshamandes, and others shrinking back until my mother motioned for them to approach.
“Come meet the Prince,” she said in a cheerful voice I don’t think I had ever heard before from her lips. “Don’t be afraid. Come!”
And then came ancients, ancients such as had never visited us before, moving slowly towards the throne, blood drinkers as stately and pale and powerful as Marius or even perhaps Sevraine, with eyes like gems. I extended my hand, and over and over they kissed the ring rather than simply clasp my hand in greeting.
Their voices came low and intimate, offering names with little preamble: Mariana of Sicily; Jason of Athens; Davoud of Iran; Kadir of Istanbul.
I heard Cyril’s voice beside me on the right, just behind my mother, also offering his greeting. And then he whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry, boss, got it covered.”
And I gave him a quick grateful smile, though to be afraid, genuinely afraid, had not even occurred to me.
As these impressive figures moved into the swelling crowd, I saw Seth approaching them and offering them a cordial face and hand. Meanwhile others came, young, bright, still ruddy with human flesh, sometimes babbling in their enthusiasm that they were grateful, so grateful, to be welcomed here.
“All blood drinkers are welcome to the Court,” I said, over and over again. “Keep the rules, keep the peace, and this is your Court. It belongs to you as much as to us.”
And now another ancient one approached, lean and with the same severe features of Seth and the same solid-black hair and a beard as lustrous as that of Gregory.
Old, so old. So filled with power. So filled with power as Rhoshamandes had been filled with power, able to destroy the village in one wanton quarter of an hour, and able to destroy all that had been achieved here.
