Story Eighteen: A Light In September

Something was bothering Marat, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. As soon as their boat had docked at Hong Kong, the feeling had been there. Something nagging at him, a shiver slithering up and down his spine, setting his hair on end; it was the warm breath of a whisper in his ear, only he couldn’t hear the words spoken. Whatever it was, it had forced Marat to scan the crowded harbor docks for danger, looking each person up and down for any signs of something amiss. There were too many people in the dense crowd for most people to do that to, but Marat’s preternatural senses were able to compensate. Yet no one thing stood out to him as wrong. Maybe there were merely enough other supernatural forces present in the city to alert his own senses. Then again, perhaps someone was waiting in the shadows for them, waiting to plunge their knives into their turned backs? Or maybe some moment of great import had arrived: a turning point from which the choices to be made and the actions taken would change everything.

In earlier days, Marat would have reacted differently. He would not have trusted the situation to anyone else. He would have escorted his cabal, the Seraphim, to their hotel. He would have seen to all the arrangements personally. However, Marat had learned over the years to trust others, and to trust that things could be done competently without him. Especially now. Now that Sebastian Duvalier had been left in the jungles of Thailand and King Charles Zelinsky had formally taken the reigns of their craft of mages, the Pendragons.

Shortly after coming ashore, Marat could take it no more. He had told his friends that he would meet them later, instructing them only to get into the hotel by nightfall, and to stay there. Marat had to go do something; he didn’t know what, but he knew he had to answer the call of the voices in his head. It was an impulse, compelling him in ways he could not understand, yet trusted were true. So Marat had turned and walked down the street, with nothing but his pocket watch, some converted Yuan, and the clothes on his back.

Normally, this kind of impulse would have put Marat on battle-ready status, his entire body flooded with adrenaline, searching for something lurking behind every corner. But for some reason, The mage had arrived at an unnatural calm. Marat’s worn khakis and long sleeved white-button up shirt blended right in with the mostly Western-style dress of most natives of Hong Kong, and his naturally dark skin, its half Gaul-blood bred to tan, darkened by the quarter bloods of native Caribbean and black slaves, made him almost look perhaps Thai or Cambodian, especially after adding the tan of the week-long boat trip from Sunat Thani.

Teach me Chinese. Mandarin, Marat had asked one of the boatmen. A shaking of his head. We don’t have time. There’s no time. Hand moving in and out of a pocket. The sun glinting off of silver. The watch opening. A smile. There’s always time. And it was like that. Sitting by the edge of the boat, for hours at a time, yet to the rest of the boat it was seconds. It happened so fast there was no need to obfuscate their actions from the other boatmen. They never even noticed anything awry, other than two men sitting down for a moment to speak. The boatman’s confusion of time was always blurred by the others. Their mind magick was enough to simply nudge his perception, to keep him from realizing. Marat would have taught them all, but to make it happen so fast, he could only extend the time field to himself and one other. So he had learned.

The cosmopolitan feel of Hong Kong in some odd way reminded Marat of New Orleans. He couldn’t link the two, however, so he dismissed the thought. The sun setting was bright in his eyes. Marat went to rub his eyebrows, forgetting that they were no longer there. Marat had no hair at all on his body. For a moment, he actually stopped walking, as if someone had picked his pocket. With a slight smile, he shook his head. Since another Tradition Mage—an Akashic Brother—had taught him mind magick, Marat had adopted a physical focus for that brand of magic. Many Akashics favored martial arts movements to focus their magick. In general, most mages were inclined toward developing coincidental magick so that those who were not aware of their kind, Sleepers as most mages called them, did not discern what they were truly doing.

Pendragons were even more apt to develop unseen magickal techniques. For example, Marat’s focus for Mind magick had been a physical mantra, a sort of meditating repetitive motion of stroking his eyebrows with his fingers, letting them linger along the thin hairs just enough to be subtle while serving as a connector to his magickal intent. Beginning to walk again, Marat rubbed his temple with the side of his index finger, almost as if he was warding off the falling sun’s rays, or if the sun had given him a headache, and he was rubbing his temples softly for relief.

Instead, the Mage used the mantric motion as a focus for his magickal senses, and split his mind into two. It was an old mage trick to multi-task, one which Marat had found much simpler as he had mastered Do, an ancient magick-related martial art; its discipline focused him, giving him order and strength. His right hand was in his pocket, gently rubbing his silver pocket watch. The other hand fell from his temple back down to his side slowly, almost as if he were waving–or rather as if he had went to wave, realized the person he thought he had seen was someone else, and was casually retreating from that wave. As the hand fell, Marat rubbed the rings that lined each finger with his thumb. In so doing, he cast a quick Entropy spell, manipulating the lines of probability tugging at each person in his immediate vicinity, asking only that for the next few seconds, none of them look his way.

Unlike most Sleepers, and indeed many of the enlightened individuals in the World of Darkness, Marat had the ability to see not only through three dimensional space, but through time; actually he could sense much more of reality than that, but as he rubbed the pocket watch in his pants pocket, that was what he was looking for. And then as simply as one might dart one’s hand out to grab a falling object, Marat’s hand darted through time, moving back and forth faster than anyone could have seen–even had they been looking at him.

With a contented smile, Marat pulled on the sunglasses that were suddenly in his hand. The thin mostly clear lenses sat along a wiry silver frame. They were just enough to cut the glare from the falling sun. The Pendragon had probably not needed to cast the Entropy spell on top of his Time spell, but he had learned over the years that taking unnecessary chances could be dangerous, especially when one could take protective measures with a modicum of effort. Doing any less was just reckless.

Marat continued walking down the busy Nathan Street sidewalk. With the sun almost down, he probably had not needed to swipe the sunglasses, but old habits died hard, and sunglasses were what he had always used as a focus for his Spirit magick, so it never hurt to have them around. Unconsciously, he lifted a hand to run through his hair, yet this habit only again reminded him that he had no hair. Though pausing for a moment, he ultimately rubbed his too bald head and shook his head again.

The bright electric signs, each seemingly fighting each other for a more and more prominent position alongside, above, and over the buildings were starting to turn on. Marat wondered if they were just getting an early start, or if they were on some form of timer. Signs cluttered the space over the narrow streets as well, as ubiquitous as power lines in American cities. Above, a huge sign, easily the size of a car, shone with bright red Chinese characters, a blue rectangle surrounding them, other smaller gold characters just above the box. Behind it, a white sign glared with dark green letters. Beyond that an oversized poster tied to the building with the large face of an attractive American movie star and a bottle of perfume. Across the street a neon pink sign blinked at him with the outline of a person in blue, with something written in English in orange letters—Marat couldn’t quite make it out—and red characters above. He was not sure if he needed the sunglasses as protection from the falling sun, or from the bright signs.

Turning down a side street at a 7-Eleven, Marat walked under rows of strings of multi-colored paper triangles; they acted as a ceiling of sorts to the side street of street vendors. Do not enter signs were posted at the intersection, instructing drivers to stay out, but throngs of people crowded up and down the street, swarming around the rows of goods.

Jewelry vendors, American music and movie vendors, and food stands, each hawked their wares, calling out to passerbys to stop and see their stand. Their tables were overflowing with goods, and even make-shift walls, temporarily installed behind each vendor, were covered with goods hanging from nails and impromptu racks. Overhead, the wire system holding up each wall interlocked with poles perhaps ten feet from the walls: the “storefront.” Along the wire rails running overhead, Chinese characters detailed what each sold perhaps, or who sold them. Marat shook his head. There had been no time to learn to read also.

Marat stopped walking. He sniffed. He caught a familiar smell. Or at least close enough that it reminded him of something. He clasped his hands behind his back and looked in and around the rows. The instincts of his wayward youth kicked in. He navigated beyond the throng of vendors and moved toward the next block intersection. Behind his back, he rubbed his rings together as he attuned his senses toward probability, toward order, toward chaos, and found the gap he was looking for: the hole in outward society, the random element, and instinctively knew the smell would be found there.

Marat wound down an alley; making a left hand turn past piles of garbage, he walked through a short hall that turned right again and then emptied into a courtyard. The dirty gray building had windows all the way up. Who knew who was watching?

A circle of men stood around a fire, laughing. They slowly stopped as one by one, they came to look at the stranger. Scrutinizing him, they knew he was no Thai or Cambodian. Yet they also instinctively knew that Marat was not normal. He did not seem to be one of the night terrors that ruled Hong Kong, though. They paused. Were they unsure if Marat meant harm? Or perhaps they were considering ridiculing his odd, hairless appearance—it was never the hair, there were bald people everywhere, nor the lack or hair on his arms, exposed by rolled up sleeves, it was the lack of eyebrows—but something made them reconsider and reject that option. Instead, one simply asked what Marat wanted.

Marat put his hands out disarmingly and smiled, immediately putting them at ease. He bartered quickly with them before making his purchase and taking his leave. Hashish was not the Marijuana he had smoked in his youth, but it was close. Luckily, one of the men had reminded Marat that one did not smoke it straight, like weed. Rather, one needed to roll it into a spliff, mixing it with tobacco. So Marat returned to the street vendors and purchased a bag of tobacco and rolling papers.

Marat took a pinch of hash out of the bag he had just bought and smelled it. He wondered if it would act equally as well as a focus as weed did. There was one way to find out. He closed his eyes and stretched his Correspondence senses outward. As he inhaled the aroma of the hash, it was as if he had opened his eyes again. The scene was the same. Only, as he continued to slowly breathe in and out, his vision extended three-hundred and sixty degrees, as if he had eyes in every direction. Not finding what he wanted, he extended his senses, as if running along forward and looking down each and every side street. Then Marat found what he was looking for a block down and two over.

As he opened his eyes, an elder man stopped next to him and looked at Marat with a mix of concern and care. The man asked if Marat was okay. Marat smiled, assuring him that he was. The man went on his way. Marat began walking.

After the short walk, the mage sat down on a park bench at a small, block-length park, lined with small trees sewn with pockets of flowerbeds. There he mixed the hash and tobacco and rolled it into a spliff. Licking the last bit of the paper to seal it, he looked at the spliff contentedly. He patted his pockets. Damn. Had he forgot to bring a lighter? He always had his Zippo on him. Marat glanced up. A man walking past him was lighting a cigarette with matches. Fire always came in handy. He had no time for foci.

Marat leapt to his feet as the man inexplicably tripped over his own feet and began to fall. Marat’s hand darted out, grabbed each of the falling matches, pocketed them, and reached out again to catch the cigarette falling from the man’s mouth, as the other hand wrapped around his torso. The mage’s momentum pushed him forward, past the man, but he turned, using his momentum to torque the man, and reverse his own fall, and thus as he spun, he lifted the man back onto his feet.

Stunned, the man looked around, and very embarrassed, thanked Marat, even as the mage handed the man back his cigarette. Forgetting the matches, bowing and thanking Marat profusely, the man backed away and left, shaking his head at what he thought was his own foolishness. A thin cloud of cigarette smoke trailed after the middle-aged man.

Marat raised the near-clear sunglasses to sit on the top of his head and put the spliff to his lips as he retrieved the matches from his pocket. Striking a match, he immediately cupped the flame with his other hand, protecting it from the gentle sea breeze. After a moment, content that it was lit, he shook the fire out and tossed it into a small garbage canister next to the park bench.

Marat inhaled. It had been a long time since he had smoked. He exhaled, blowing the smoke outward in a thick cloud. Long ago, under the tutelage of Ecstatics, this had been a nearly daily ritual. Even afterward, he had been much accustomed to it. It brought back memories. Marat sat back down on the bench. He held the spliff in one hand, cradling it between his middle finger and ring finger. He threw the other arm over the back of the bench.

Breathing slowly, controlling his breaths, he used Do breathing techniques to savor the slightly different feeling inside him as the drug began to kick in. Marat thought about his avatar, what mages considered their magickal soul. It had been quiet lately, he thought to himself. Did that mean anything or was this another of its periodic disappearances? Marat shrugged.

 

09 September 1998, 8:02 PM
A Street Food Booth
Kowloon, Hong Kong

Seated at the outdoor food vendor’s station, Marat sipped slowly on a small clay cup of hot tea. Right in front of him, behind the protective shield of a thin plate of glass, the vendor was cooking his meal on a small grill. Above, a red, green, blue, and yellow umbrella gave what would have been daytime protection from the sun; each different color on the multicolor umbrella spread from the center like a different petal on a flower.

Although the vendor was gibbering on about something, Marat only nodded his head every now and then and muttered agreement. His thoughts were elsewhere. He was thinking about magick. At times, as earlier, the use of his magick was an ordained event, one planned and scripted: sometimes performed by rote, others by inventive preparation. Yet more and more, he found himself just doing it. No thought. No effort. He sometimes couldn’t even remember whether or not he went through the casting routines that he had his whole life. Marat took another slow sip of the hot tea.

The mage was reminded of an ancient Do saying, that Do was like breathing. One did not think about it; it just was. Marat’s magick was more and more like that. He might just as easily sip the hot tea as he might cause the vendor to have a heart attack; the fluttering of his eyelids might have been blinking away a fallen eyelash, or scrying deep within the spirit realm: the nature of the manifestation of his will was evolving. Marat did not quite fully understand the transition, and his avatar had been quiet on the subject. He stared into the hot tea.

Looking back at him in the simmering tea was a reflection that only he could have seen. In that cup was not the blurred reflection of his face too close, but rather the narrow walkway behind him, where he could see a man running, chased by two others. The angle was impossible, and the breadth of the reflection nonsensical, yet the oddity did not even strike Marat as such; rather he simply lifted his head and turned to look over his shoulder. Turning the corner was a man in traditional Chinese loose-fitting beige casual wear, brown hair fluttering behind him, yet the man was Caucasian. He was being chased by two Chinese punks, both in full black leather. Having learned that the world was full of conflict, Marat was about to turn away from the spectacle.

Then, impossible, as if the very air had stopped and the random dust motes trickled down like rain, and even their very breaths were a disturbance dispelling the too small particles, as if the Caucasian were no longer running, as if his arms were not pumping, and his legs in full stride, he turned his head to the side and stared directly at Marat. And then time returned to normal and he was running again.

Marat leapt to his feet, almost knocking over the small plastic stool he had been sitting on. Had the man smiled at him? Did the man know him? Marat watched as the man began to turn a corner—Marat squinted—but then, faster than any of the other Sleepers could see, he abruptly spun around and sprinted in the opposite direction. The two men in chase saw where he was heading; judiciously, they waited until they rounded the corner and were out of sight before they took off with superhuman celerity.

Marat turned back to the vendor. He had not even realized that his Correspondence senses had snapped on, allowing him to see around the corner. Nor did he even consciously recognize that he was in no rush, because his Time senses told them exactly where they would end up and when. Instructing the vendor to keep cooking his food, Marat took a last sip of his tea and promised to return, paying quickly for the tea, and promising to pay for the food when he returned.

As Marat took off running, he began to see two worlds at once: one focused on the mundane world, watching his step, propelling him over cracks in the sidewalk and navigating him through the maze of streets; the other spun backward in time to examine the three men. His spirit sense found only a vacuous emptiness, which indicated they were dead; the fact that they had been running through the streets of Hong Kong meant that they were more accurately undead.

Before Marat had departed for current quest, the Kindred Prince of Detroit, Krayvis, had warned him that the Kindred of the East were of a totally different sort, nothing like either Camarilla or Sabbat Kindred of the West. Yet the one they were chasing, he knew. In that paused moment in time, Marat had seen this Kindred’s face too. It was one had seen only weeks ago in Kosovo. An elder Kindred of some sort. Alexandros. The name rolled off his tongue unconsciously like one spoke of a thing they thought they had forgotten in a dream and had suddenly remembered. Alexandros.

His fingers flexed, wiggling back and forth as he ran, his thumb playing along the undersides of his rings. He turned the last corner and found them all in an alley. Overturned vendor’s carts lined the thin walkway. The Chinese people still maintained enough superstition and belief in ancient lore to know when to run, to know when three devils had just entered your little strip of town, and to know that what they would do to each other was not meant for mortal eyes: all the while knowing that all of their possessions would be there when they returned, no worse for the wear—presuming of course, that there was no blood splattered on their wares.

“We had a tip you were in town, Sabbat flotsam,” one of the leather-clad Kindred said, speaking in Mandarin.

“Your days as a Black Hand assassin are over,” the other said. The two Kindred split, starting to flank Alexandros.

Neither Camarilla nor Sabbat. The words repeated over and over in Marat’s head. It was what Alexandros had told the Seraphim in Kosovo. Neither Camarilla nor Sabbat.

“And they send only two of you?” Alexandros asked. He held his hands up, palms upturned, an eyebrow raised.

‘They didn’t send just anyone,” one of the leather-clad Brujah said. “They sent their two best.”

The other merely snorted.

“You Brujah,” Alexandros said to the other two, spitting the name of their clan as if something filthy had settled in his mouth, “think you are so tough. So driven. But all you are are angry lapdogs for the Ventrue.”

The one Brujah was about to leap forward in rage, when the other caught his arm. He pointed back to Marat, who simply stood at the end of the alley, head bowed, as if he were meditating.

“Get out of here,” the Brujah yelled across the alley, his eyes flaring red. He started to turn, a smile on his face, expecting the mortal to already be gone. But he caught himself when Marat did not move, and instead only raised his head and started walking forward. “What the—?” the Brujah said, his narrow eyes widening.

The other Brujah looked back and forth between Alexandros and Marat. “No matter,” he said. “You bringing a ghoul won’t change anything.

“Hah,” Alexandros snorted. “Do you smell my blood in him?” The elder cocked his head as he spoke.

The Brujah turned and sniffed. “Wizard,” he cursed. “Get him,” he commanded the other Brujah. “He’s still mortal.”

Faster than most humans could have even perceived, the Brujah tore through the alley, leaping over a fallen vendor cart, his eyes glaring red, a fist raised. Marat could see the unholy blood coursing through the Kindred’s arm and had no doubt it would knock his head clean off if it connected.

Hands clasped behind his back, Marat patiently endured the milliseconds it took the Brujah to reach him and then as the Kindred’s cocked fist exploded forward like a piston on a great machine, he moved faster. Sidestepping to his left, hands still clasped behind him, Marat leaned back and then almost as if his own fist were the barb on the end of a whip, cracking forth supersonic, it swung around in a wide violent arc and smashed into the back of the Brujah’s skull.

Marat moved so slightly that the Brujah’s momentum carried him over Marat’s leg, and he fell to the ground screaming. Four indentations in the Kindred’s skull were clear where Marat’s rings had struck him. The Brujah writhed on the ground as if his head had been set on fire. Giving the other Brujah only enough time to snap his head around, dizzy with shock, Marat dropped his dark brown shoe directly on the fallen Brujah’s skull, a Do finishing move; it exploded as if hit by a dragonsbreath shell and the body dissolved into ash.

Marat stared down the other Brujah and adopted a Do battle stance; turning his palm upward, he waved the Brujah on. “Come,” he said.

Caught in rage, the other Brujah threw himself at Marat, teeth extended, believing all the while in the red-foam of his bloodlust that he would succeed where his comrade had failed. The gap was closed before even Marat saw the creature move; the mage saw only outstretched hands, reaching for his throat. But Marat caught the Brujah’s wrists, stopping him from ripping out the mage’s throat with his bare hands, but his too-long teeth still surged forward.

Marat’s hands were occupied, the Kindred was too close for a kick, and a headbutt seemed not to be the wisest choice, so Marat kneed the Brujah in the chest, but this did not stop his approach. Marat’s foot dropped back to the cement, only to rise again and strike his chest again; this time he pulled the man’s arms to the side and pulled him into the knee. The foot fell again and rose again like a metronome, striking a third time. This time, however, Marat threw away the man’s arms, knocking him off balance just enough to continue the rhythm of foot fall below to leg raising, this time with just enough space to land a well placed Do kick to his head, sensing the perfect angle with Entropy, and with a shoe laced with pure Prime energy, the fourth beat of the measure was the last when spinning Marat stuck the blow which was the last and the Brujah’s head exploded in white flame and a second body collapsed into ash.

Marat stood there, collecting his breath, endeavoring to put his body back into balance. He looked down at his rings; the spell was fading. He looked up.

Alexandros was just watching him. He smiled. “So,” he said. “That’s what you can do when not under a Tremere ritual that blocks your magick.”

Marat looked around to make sure they were alone. Although he could have more easily and efficiently done so with his magick, and in fact, he already knew they would be alone. His human habits were hard to break.

“They were cocky because they saw a young mage swinging his fist. I saw the trails of magick running from your rings and shoes.”

“You didn’t need my help,” Marat said. It was not a question.

“Not with them,” Alexandros said.

Marat’s gaze fell on Alexandros’ arm. He couldn’t see it with his eyes, but he knew it was there. He could sense it. The Black Hand tattoo. Neither Camarilla nor Sabbat.

Alexandros smiled, but did not mention Marat’s lingering gaze. “Beating those Brujah thugs would have cost me a lot of blood, though, and I didn’t really feel like hunting again.”

“If you don’t mind,” Marat said, “can we finish this conversation back at the stand? Unlike you, I seem to have worked up even more of an appetite than I had before.”

“Certainly,” Alexandros said walking toward the mage. “Fascinating though.”

“What?” Marat asked.

“I was surprised when you understood the Brujah, and responded to them in Chinese. Out of curiosity, I started speaking Spanish when you started addressing me in English.”

Marat turned to leave the alley. “So?” he said defensively.

“And now that I spoke in French, you answered in French.” Alexandros held up his index finger, cutting off Marat before he could speak. He walked past Marat. “And I don’t think you realized once that you switched.”

“It’s common among multi-lingual persons,” Marat said as he now walked past Alexandros. “They don’t even realize they’re doing it. He clasped his hands behind him as he walked, ignoring the elder Kindred’s snort. The observations did concern him. His demeanor was nonchalant, but Marat was inwardly worried about the lack of connectivity between himself and the Sleeper world of late, of instincts running his perception, magickal or not.

 

09 September 1998, 8:07 PM
A Street Food Booth
Kowloon, Hong Kong

As soon as the vendor handed Marat his meal, Alexandros looked up at the man and said, “Leave us, return in 15 minutes.” The man bowed his head and walked away.

“Enough idle conversation?” Marat asked before putting the grilled strip of chicken into his mouth.

“You know the Kindred you killed were Camarilla, right?” Alexandros asked. His eyes bored into the side of Marat’s bald head.

Marat did not answer. He only looked down at his plate. He ate quickly, as if knowing he wouldn’t be able to finish otherwise. After a few bites he nodded.

“Conversations where both persons know what will be said are tedious aren’t they?” Alexandros asked, his stare unabated.

Marat shrugged. “Please continue,” he said, his mouth full. “Or else I’ll never have a chance to eat.”

“You have no questions for me?” Alexandros said. Had anyone the bravery to stop and watch the imposing Kindred—which they did not—they would have been struck by the oddity of his not moving. Alexandros was statutesque, not swaying in his seat, not looking around absently, nor did his chest move under the burden breath. The only movement he spared was the simple rise and fall of his jaw as he spoke.

For the first time, Marat turned and glanced at Alexandros. Although he noticed the Kindred’s dangerous glare, he was unaffected. The mage turned back to his food and continued to eat voraciously.

“So uncivilized, really,” Alexandros said. “You know, it’s been centuries since I’ve watched a Kine eat. Disgusting really.”

Marat laughed through the last of the chicken. “How quickly we lose touch with reality.”

Alexandros still did not move anything other than his jaw, although as he went to speak, he paused, allowing himself the tiniest hint of a smile, his too-sharp teeth shining under the ubiquitous vendor lights. “And you should cast the first stone, mage?” Alexandros paused again before uttering his final word, the point when a human might have drawn in a breath after talking too long, only he hadn’t been talking long and he didn’t breathe, and then said the word mage as if it had been some form of invective.

Marat froze in mid-bite. Losing touch with reality. He swallowed. “Very well,” he said at last. Marat turned again and spoke as if reciting a soliloquy of a play he had rehearsed over and over as some form of school assignment, but one for which he had little enthusiasm. “Neither Camarilla nor Sabbat. But you are Black Hand. What does that mean?”

“Thank you,” Alexandros said. “I – hold up.” The Kindred moved. He turned and waved toward a teenage boy, carrying a box full of red vials, a roving vendor of some sort.

“Snakes’ blood,” he said. I am delivering it. Cannot sell.”

Alexandros smiled, again baring his teeth. He pulled a few Yuan from his pocket. He then made several signals with his other hand, it appeared to Marat to be some form of sign language. At this, the boy bowed slightly and reached out to take the Yuan. Alexandros then chose one of the vials and sniffed at it. Nodding in approval, he shot it back, draining it down his throat. He returned the empty vial to the boy. “Thank you,” he said.

The boy bowed again and then resumed his path.

“What was that?” Marat asked.

“Ha!” Alexandros laughed. “You didn’t see that one coming did you? Ravnos ghoul. Blood dealer.” His eyes glinted dangerously. “Not snakes’ blood.”

Marat shrugged. He pushed away his plate and took a sip of his fresh cup of hot tea. “Yes, yes, impressive. Aren’t we rushed for time?”

“I noticed you’ve lost your peculiar American accent.”

“Practice,” Marat said. He smiled. “No harder than learning Chinese, really. I believe we only have ten minutes before the Ventrue ghouls arrive?”

“All business,” Alexandros laughed. But the laughter died fast and his face became stoic. He leaned an elbow on the counter space where most patrons ate. He crossed a leg over his other knee, and his body assumed that stone-like stability once again. His eyes glinted too white as if they were reflecting the bright vendor lights directly into Marat’s eyes, the way a pair of sunglasses or the side mirror on a car would catch the sun’s rays and blind one. Alexandros’ jaw moved up and down. “You know you are sitting with an elder Cainite who is as dangerous as the worst villain you have ever met, one whom you hardly know, and you know my kind enough to know that none of us can be trusted. Yet you have no fear. Is it because you believe I won’t harm you?”

“No, Marat said, glancing at Alexandros over his tea. “It’s because I trust that nothing could possibly sneak up on me or move so fast that I wouldn’t see it coming, should anyone choose to try and harm me.”

Alexandros did not reply.

Marat turned to look over his opposite shoulder. Alexandros was already there, his teeth bared as if he would rip out Marat’s jugular. Marat could feel Alexandros’ cold breath as he spoke—not as he breathed, like humans, but as he spoke. “And could you have moved fast enough to have prevented me from draining all of your blood before you even knew it, and all the while begging for me to do it?”

Marat did not move. He simply turned back to where Alexandros had been sitting previously and sipped his tea. “Or maybe I just don’t believe you won’t harm me,” he said. Marat blinked. Alexandros was back in his seat, an elbow on the counter, one leg resting on the other. Alexandros again bore into Marat with his gaze, this time staring through the mage’s dark eyes as if he was looking at Marat’s very avatar.

Marat sipped his tea, but otherwise, refused to break his own stare from Alexandros’ eyes. The two supernaturals did not move for a full two minutes and three seconds. Even over the sounds of the sparsely populated side street market, both could plainly hear Marat rapping his rings on the side of the teacup; his other hand idly fumbled with the hashish in his pocket. Alexandros did not move at all.

Finally, Marat smiled, sipped his tea again, and looked away. “In my youth I wouldn’t have done that. I would’ve stared at you until the sun was almost up and you had to leave. But what you have to tell me is far more important than any false pride.”

“Don’t you know the answers to your questions already?”

“Yes,” Marat said, looking back over at Alexandros, who had not moved one bit. He examined the Kindred’s impassive face. How many centuries had the creature seen? His face gave no indication; his skin was remarkably smooth, his features sharp. “But I need to hear those answers from you. My mind refuses to accept what you have to say.”

Alexandros again flashed the smile that showed too much teeth and looked more like smirk of an assassin who loved his job, and was hovering over his prey: a smile that spoke years of death, of countless lives flickering away under that smile. “Yes,” Alexandros said very slowly, letting the S sound slur along his tongue. “Yes.” His eyes, though unwavering in their gaze, widened slightly. “But first you must kill the Ventrue Primogen of Hong Kong. The Western Kindred have very little influence in Asia, but here, they still hold a small bastion of power, left over from the colonial days. And they would hunt me down and kill me, because they believe I am Sabbat.”

Marat pulled his one hand out of his pocket and placed it also on the clay teacup. “And although you needed no help against the two Brujahs toughs I killed earlier, you cannot get to this man?”

Alexandros frowned, the most emotion his impassive face had made in a while; even when he had moved behind Marat, he had had that same implacable look of utter calm, as if nothing could any longer move the elder Kindred. “Neither could you were you try and approach his haven.” The Kindred quickly hid his displeasure, as the frown melted to reveal an eager smile; he carefully licked his tongue against his upper teeth as he continued to bore into Marat with his gaze. “But you need not approach his Haven.”

Marat looked away from Alexandros; he looked straight ahead, but not necessarily at anything in particular. “Perhaps one such as I need only hear where this man’s haven is, hone in on it with farseeing vision, and use the powers of decay at my command to break down and disintegrate his blood, causing him to frenzy in search for more, ripping through Kine and Kindred alike in his desperation to survive, out of a mad panic that could only be caused by the possibility of betrayal and centuries’ senseless end, and then at that moment of confusion, rampage, and blood, when he is most vulnerable, he slowly begins to feel the affect of time—one that his blood can always heal, but not when so low on vitae, and not when the mortals around him who could not possibly understand what he is feeling and have begun to open fire on him to stop the sudden monster in their midst—only to again feel the tug of time as suddenly it goes out of control and the skin on his neck begins to flake away and decay, only to his total dread to feel the arteries and bone to follow, and unable to hold it up, the last thing he sees is that head falling off of its shoulders before everything else is black and he is dead again, and finally his body falls into ash, and consequently the city’s Kindred are left scrambling to fix the damage to the Masquerade, and to piece together what might have possessed their poor departed leader, and all thoughts of a lone Black Hand assassin will be forgotten. And those Ventrue ghouls will be recalled immediately and not bother us.” Marat blinked. He looked over at Alexandros. “Would that suffice?”

Alexandros’ dangerous smile was still there, locked in stone, never having left his face. His jaw moved. “That would be perfect,” he purred.

Marat set down his drink. He reached into his pocket and pulled out enough Yuan to cover the meal, and dropped it behind the glass. “I did it in the two minutes and three seconds we were staring at each other.”

For the first time, the elder Kindred looked nonplussed. “Are you serious?”

“Please tell me now,” Marat said. He looked down into his tea. “I must know.”

Alexandros shook his head. Perhaps he was the one that should be careful. He had presumed that the mage was no match for him. He still liked his chances, but he was not as sure as he had been a moment ago. “Yes,” he said, almost as if he had not said anything, but was only buying time to gather his thoughts. “Yes.”

Marat turned his body to face Alexandros and waited.

Alexandros leaned in close to Marat, locking eyes with the mage again, stopping only inches away. “Listen carefully then, child. I am not the Brujah you know, but a True Brujah. You know what an Antediluvian is?”

Marat bobbed his head once, careful not to bump into Alexandros’ head.

“You know the term diablerie?”

Marat bobbed his head once.

“Our clan founder was named Brujah. He was diablerized by his childe, Troile. The Brujah you know are the descendants of the betrayer, Troile. Those of my clan are not the offshoot bloodline, filled with delusions of grandeur, the profusion of those that claim to be Brujah are. We were among the founders of the Black Hand, of those loyal to the true elders of our clans.”

Marat pulled back slightly, as if Alexandros was about to hit him.

Alexandros bared his teeth, smiling again. His jaw moved again. “Yes,” he purred. “The Black Hand pretend to be a part of the Sabbat to keep the Camarilla weak. That collection of ancilla and methusalahs portends to carry out the wishes of the founders, but we know better. It is the Camarilla who sat by and did nothing as the Cappodocian and Salubri clans were replaced and slaughtered by those that are now called Giovanni and Tremere. It is the Camarilla who would rather put a blood curse on the Assamites rather than help them defeat the curse of the Baali which instilled in them their bloodlust in the first place.

“We are why the American west coast Anarch Free States continue to survive against Camarilla incursions. We are why in less than a year a major war will break out among Camarilla and Sabbat on your east coast. And because the Cappodocians and Salubri were not wiped out, but will return and will do so through the Sabbat, and will wreak horrible vengeance, as will the Sons of Haqim upon the Tremere who cursed them, we have put plans in motion to ensure that the Gangrel leave the Camarilla. We have decided they need not be destroyed. Some say the Final Nights are on hand.”

Alexandros reached up and put a hand on Marat’s shoulders. His hand was cold. Had Marat not already known he would do so, the sudden motion, quicker than humans could have seen from the immobile Kindred would have shocked him. “And it is why the Prince of your New Orleans has passed up offers to be both Archon and Justicar over the last two centuries: because he was a loyal friend of his destroyed clan founder, as well as that of Cappadocious and Saulot, the slain leaders of the two usurped clans.

There was no way Marat could have understood all the information at once. But as overwhelming as it was, the part he could not accept had yet to come. How could such momentous Kindred affairs affect him? Marat glared at Alexandros, his body accepting the truth before his mind could, the anger already rising: his practiced patience trying to hold it down.

“And all of this is why Prince Lebeau is bitter toward his own clan,” Alexandros continued. “And that is why he is one of us. A Black Hand. And you are the last human descendant of the entire Cappadocian clan. It is their return that your grandfather worked so hard to ensure. In some senses, he was a hero,” the Kindred’s eyes flashed; he knew the affect this would have on the mage. “And knowing your role in the events to come, Prince Lebeau of New Orleans made sure you fell into his hands. He made sure you, Sebastian Duvalier–call yourself Marat now if you will–were involved in our world, not that of the Kine. That is why he had your parents killed.”

Time stopped around them. Not figuratively, not metaphorically. A master of the True Brujah discipline of Temporis, Alexandros simply stopped all time around them. He knew Marat’s reaction would not be good.

For a moment, Marat just stared at Alexandros. He blinked. He began to stand up, but the Kindred’s grip was like that of a stone monolith. As if the anger building up in Marat was starting to so much seep through cracks in a dam, Marat’s face slowly contorted into an expression of rage, and utilizing a Do technique, he impossibly twisted out of Alexandros’ grip, ducked down, picked up his chair and threw it over the vendor cart.

Marat spun on the Kindred, his breath fast, his chest heaving, his hands gripped in fists, magick seeping out of his pores. It was the mage now who was glaring at Alexandros, boring through him, searching his soul for lies. Neither moved. They only stared at each other. Marat clenched and unclenched his fists. He closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing.

“To a Cainite of Lebeau’s age,” Alexandros continued. “two human lives were not nearly as important as that which he fought for. Powerful as he is, there was no way he could have remembered the importance of one’s mortal parents. Yet he was not unreasonable. He made sure that you had your revenge on the man who killed your parents.”

Alexandros watched Marat continue to focus on his breathing. “May I restore time to its natural flow?” he asked. “I can’t do this forever.”

Without looking at the Kindred, Marat pulled over another stool and sat. “Neat trick,” he said.

“Now,” Alexandros said. He was back leaning on the counter. “Will you ask the right questions?”

Marat ran his hands down his button up white shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles. He re-rolled the now loose sleeves that had come unfurled. He rubbed his temples where his eyebrows had once been. Pulling two bags out of his pocket and a wrapper, he began mixing the tobacco and hashish. He was still controlling his breathing. “I’ve split my consciousness in six parts,” he said.

“And you’re wasting one on rolling smoking hashish?” Alexandros asked, moving only his jaw.

“No, that’s an old habit,” Marat said. “I don’t need any for that. Most are latched onto the facts you’ve presented to me, trying to make sense of it; and the last is conversing with you.”

“And?” Alexandros asked.

“I find it funny that I’ve never gotten along with these poser Brujahs, and I have this…role…in things.” Marat said, pointedly not using the word ‘destiny.’ “But ultimately, I can wrap my head around it with enough time to think. Same with the Black Hand and their role in Kindred affairs.”

“There go two parts of the mind into retirement,” Alexandros quipped.

Marat licked the completed spliff. “I actually can’t wrap my head around the Gangrel leaving the Camarilla, especially since I grew up with them; some were like brothers to me. But what you say is a straight-forward proposition. I’ll consider it later.”

“Well reasoned,” Alexandros said.

Marat put the spliff in his mouth and retrieved the matches from his pocket. He hesitated before striking one. “Pardon me,” he said.

Alexandros bared his teeth again. “Please, go ahead.”

Marat lit the match, igniting the fire. He was too polite to look directly, but with his Correspondence senses, he could see Alexandros’ jaw tighten ever so slightly. He held the flame over the end of the spliff and inhaled, lighting it. As soon as he was sure it caught, he waved it out and tossed the match on the ground.

“And have you pieced together the other puzzles?” Alexandros asked. “You must have solved at least one of the remaining.”

“I don’t know the terms Cappadocian or Salubri,” Marat said, slowly working through all that Alexandros had told him.

“What about the name Marie Duvalier?” Alexandros said.

Marat paused. The very name drew out whispers from his long-quiet avatar. Yet they were like the whispers of those in the next room, which you could hear, but not quite discern what was being said. Marat cocked his head, as if the answers would fall out of his ear like so much water lodged in his earlobe.

“A very beautiful, woman,” Alexandros said. “Sensible too. If I had paid more attention to her early on, we could have saved centuries–“

“Marie,” Marat said, expelling hash smoke and cutting the Kindred off. “Beautiful.”

Alexandros’ eyes flashed, supernally reflecting the artificial light they were under. “You have it!”

“The woman who was with you in Kosovo,” Marat said. “Marie. She was a Cappadocian? My ancestor?”

“Correct,” Alexandros said, nodding his head ever so slightly. “Her kind was a collection of macabre academics, always studying death. Ironic that you are a bringer of death so often.”

“Saulot,” Marat said, as if he knew all he needed to know about the former subject. He flicked away ashes from the end of the spliff. “I know that name,”

This, Alexandros was not prepared for. He pulled his arm off of the counter and dropped his one leg back to the ground and leaned forward. “How could you know the name Saulot, but not know of the Salubri?”

“I don’t know,” Marat confessed. “Whispers of my avatar. I didn’t know what they meant.”

“Odd,” Alexandros said, rubbing his chin.

Marat unconsciously ran his hand along his bare scalp; he didn’t notice the lack of hair. “You mentioned a curse of the Baali. Who are the Baali?”

Alexandros dropped his hand from his chin and turned to the side, spitting blood on the ground. “They are devil worshippers. Similar in faith to the Nephandi that your kind has often fought; only imagine if those mages had centuries of perversion behind them: then they would be the Baali.”

“I ask,” Marat said, holding the spliff away from his mouth, “because when I was in Mexico, I heard of an ancient vampire in service to one named Baal.”

“Yes,” Alexandros said, licking his upper teeth again. Likely a story of one of that tainted bloodline’s few survivors.”

“Well this ancient vampire, Shaitan, we saw him rise and fight some other – “

Alexandros was standing before even Marat saw him move; it happened so fast the stool was knocked over under him. He had Marat in his grip and was shaking him before the mage understood what was happening. “Did you just say that you watched Shaitan rise?” he asked.

“Yes,” Marat said, unsure what had gotten into Alexandros. “What’s wrong? Do you know this Shaitan?”

Alexandros’ hands dropped to his side. He spun and walked a few paces away before turning back to face Marat. “You might have just told me Troile was not killed at Carthage, and had risen to destroy us,” he said.

“You mean?”

“Kindred legends say that Shaitan was the founder of that accursed bloodline, using vitae stolen from some other clan.”

“Damn,” Marat said. Unconsciously he shivered. He put the split back between his lips and took a deep drag.

“I must go,” Alexandros said suddenly. “Gehenna may indeed be upon us all.”

“Wait, I have questions about Lebeau,” Marat said.

“Those answers will be revealed, but not now,” Alexandros said. “Besides those are the least thought through questions. You already have all the answers, you just haven’t put all the pieces together.” He stared at the mage. “I would not let you have kept the picture of the Black Hand tattoo on my arm nor given you the information about us that I did then if I had not known who you were. But you needed time to accept things. Even now, you must continue to be patient.”

Marat looked to the ground and flicked away the burnt out spliff. He looked back up to glance at Alexandros, but the Kindred was gone. Marat looked around, but could not see Alexandros anywhere.

Marat shrugged to himself. He stood up and put his hands in his pockets, and began to walk away from the booth. Suddenly the dark night cement illuminated by the various streetlights and vendor lights under him was dark nighttime sand.

Had it been only a few months prior, Marat would have fallen to the ground rolling, moving away from whatever danger might be present, full magickal senses snapping to alert, a pistol withdrawn from out of his black leather jacket. Yet again, the mage found himself possessed with a supernatural calm, the inverse anthropomorphism of the eye of the storm. Or maybe this time he just presumed someone powerful enough to snatch him from the streets of Kowloon could just as easily have made him dead if that was what they had wanted.

Marat’s head itched. Even as he started to sense his entire surroundings with perfect clarity using Correspondence, his head itched. Marat softly rubbed his temple. He paused. A cool, gentle wind rippled through his white button-up shirt. In every direction, as far as he needed to sense, there was nothing around him but sand. Perhaps a mile in front of him dunes swept upward, almost like a mountain range might look in the distance. Yet he sensed something familiar in the barren landscape. It was nothing he saw, though. It was what he felt. Something magickal. Yes, a magickal aura. And it was one he recognized.

Marat nodded, finally tracking down what he could not otherwise sense. “Masters of space you may be,” Marat said finally, “but one whose magick is strong enough and knows your signature will be able to find you.”

“Were such a person standing a few feet in front of me, perhaps,” a voice said.

As the man let down his defenses, Marat saw him with his Correspondence before he turned and glanced at Achmed Bashir. The Persian was dressed in traditional Middle Eastern robes. Most of his body was lost under the flowing white robes.

Marat bowed slightly. “This has been an odd night. Forgive me for being so slow to recognize you.”

“Quite the contrary,” Bashir said. “I didn’t expect you to find me for another twenty-seven seconds.”

“Hunh,” Marat grunted.

“Your powers are growing fast, Sebastian–ah, Marat,” Bashir said, coreecting himself.

“Never fast enough,” Marat said.

Bashir took a step closer. “More importantly you are doing it wisely.”

“What do you mean?” Marat asked.

“Some mages are impatient, too eager for power. Many in your position would not have focused on controlling their powers, but on expanding them. There is much hubris that comes with the title ‘Master,’” Bashir said. “And many rush to learn just enough magick to gain that title.”

Marat said nothing.

“You had that opportunity,” Bashir said. “But you forsook that path,” as he said it, Bashir pushed his hand outward and drew a fist, “to rather master your Arete, your control of what you already knew. And so now you are one of the rare ones.”

“Rare what?” Marat asked.

Bashir folded his hand back under his robes. He again took a step forward. “You already know. You’ve known for days. But like many things of late, you refuse to believe.”

Marat’s back stiffened. He looked out over the barren desert, running a hand over his bald head.

“Did you realize that the slightly less than three minutes that you should have been here has transpired in closer to three seconds? Have you realized that your avatar has communed with mine in that time and has thusly understood every word I’ve spoken in Arabic?”

Marat shot Bashir a confused look. He apparently had not realized that.

“You are living, breathing, and exuding pure magick. I had to bring you this far out to remain undetected. You cannot contain what you do not understand. Your power is waxing such that it will destroy you if you do not accept this. And then your learning curve will return to normal. Until then, you are a danger to all around you.”

Marat waved his hands in consternation. “What are you saying?” he asked.

“You are no Master, Marat. But your mastery of control, the breadth and depth of your magickal knowledge, the discipline with which you rule your Arete has made you an archmage.”

Marat ran a hand over his head again. Part of him was surprised to hear the word. Another was as nonplussed as if he had been told his true name was Sebastian, as if he had always known this would one day be true.

Bashir stepped forward and took Marat’s shoulders in his hands. “Do you accept this?” he asked.

Marat looked Bashir in the eyes. “Yes,” he said.

Bashir continued to hold onto Marat. “Realize, that from now on Sleepers will always feel that you are different. They won’t know why, but they will know. Your emotions will be palpable to them, so you must control your feelings.”

“What about this exuding magick you mentioned?”

“Consider it a new oil field, Marat,” Bashir said. “Once raging out of control, it has now been properly capped and may be harnessed profitably.”

Marat nodded his head.

“But you of all people must make other choices wisely, as well.”

“What do you mean?” Marat asked.

“All mages have a resonance which is a result of their particular use of magick. And some mages whose Entropic Resonance is strong, especially those familiar with breaking the circle of life and death, experience a state known as Jhor. In particular, mages who use their adeptness of skill to destroy life with Entropy find themselves quickly on this path. This is a skill which you not only possess, but are renowned and feared for. As I have watched you over the years, as your power has grown, your use of it has become even more and more casual.”

“But – “ Marat began.

“And worse, you do not recognize it,” Bashir finished.

Marat said nothing.

“Some lost to the path of Jhor become death mages, obsessed with all facets of death. They pursue it, they study it, they even visit the death realms. Take care that does not become you.”

Marat again started to speak, but clamped his jaw up and cut himself off. Images ran through his head. Truths to which Bashir spoke, things that he had seen and remembered and on which he put too little importance. How could it be that a mortal descended from one who would become a near extinct death clan of vampires would specialize in death magick? What were the probabilities?

Bashir let Marat think for a moment. He patiently clasped his hands in front of him, the long sleeves falling over his arms.

“So now what?” Marat asked.

“Marat,” Bashir said. “You have always sought reinforcement from without. Despite your pleas of rebelliousness, you’ve found your strength from others. You found yourself attractive when a woman told you so. You found your magick great when the Council was impressed by your handling of Helekar. You believed you were a good leader because your Pendragons told you so. To truly be strong you must find your power from within.”

Marat looked off again into the sand dunes.

“Come with me,” Bashir said.

 

09 September 1998, 4:48 AM
A Vodun Hounfort
Port-au-Prince, Haiti

Bashir walked into the building. Marat followed him. “I’m glad we beat the sunset,” Bashir said. “That is good for us.”

On the dirt floor in the middle of the room was several arcane markings that Marat did not recognize. In the middle of that dirt floor was a large wooden pole rising to the ceiling. Slumped before it was a black man with bullet holes in his chest.

“Fuck,” Marat swore. “Where are we?” He quickly looked around.

“Haiti,” Bashir said. “This houngan was the last of his kind. The last of the true mages taught by your grandfather.”

Marat knelt down next to the man. His body was cold. “How many others are there?” he asked.

“In this Hounfort?” Bashir asked. “Four.”

Marat stood and examined the dark area with his magickal senses. He found each of the other three corpses. They had each met a similar fate.

“Who did this?” Marat asked.

“The Technocracy,” Bashir said. “Come.”

“No,” Marat said. ‘Not yet.”

“It’s no time to try and feel close to your family, Sebastian.”

“It’s Marat,” the Pendragon muttered, though did not deny Bashir’s claim.

Marat put his hand on the pole in the middle of the room. He could sense it was some sort of focus for their magick.

“The Traditions are arrogant and blind,” Bashir said. “They believe the exterminations of the orphans and crafts around the world have nothing to do with them. Some even see it as a tidying up.”

“It’s the death of magick,” Marat breathed, still touching the wooden pole.

“Yes,” Bashir said. “The Ascension War is coming to an end.”

Marat’s head snapped up. “How could you know that? Your people refuse to get involved.”

“What do you think your Pendragons have achieved?” Bashir asked. “Stay away from the Traditions.”

Marat stood slowly. “I’ll never give up fighting.”

“I didn’t say you should,” Bashir said. “But some time in the next year the Technocracy will attack the Traditions’ umbral chantry, Doissestep, the center of their power and home to most of their masters. And it and all Tradition mages there will be killed. And with that, the War will be over, and the Technocracy will have won.”

“I don’t believe that,” Marat said.

“You don’t have to,” Bashir replied. “Because you know it’s true.”

Bashir was right. Marat did know that. It was no different than when the Batini had told him that he was now an archmage. It seemed as if he had always known.

Bashir took a step back into the hounfort. “And when the darkest time of humanity comes, then, and only then, will the world be ready for the return of Camelot.”

Marat shook his head. “What?”

“You told me once that you felt like the Greek tragic character, Cassandra, doomed to issue your warnings to all of Troy, only to have the city fall despite your unheard warnings. I’m sorry to say you are today’s Cassandra. Our Troy and its glorious walls will fall. And there is nothing you can do about it. So I would recommend waiting out this storm, staying at its calm center, and advise all your people to do the same.”

“Why not warn the Traditions?” Marat said. “They might be able to defend–“

He was cut off by Bashir’s rich laughter. “We did. They scoffed at us.”

“Maybe you’re wrong,” Marat said.

Bashir’s laughter died immediately. “No. It will come to pass. You must stay away from that place and from all Tradition mages until we know what the fall out will be.”

Marat’s jaw tightened. “Let’s go,” he said.

 

10 September 1998, 12:53 AM
Somewhere in the Syrian Desert
Western Iraq

“I know this is hard to hear, friend, but you must realize the wisdom in what I say, and not go rushing headlong off into battle like some damn fool.”

Marat blew smoke out from the tobacco cigarette. “I see that now,” he said quietly.

Neither spoke for a moment.

“Doesn’t all this teleporting around cause paradox?“ Marat asked. “Seems like pretty vulgar magick.”

“Yes,” Bashir said slowly. “I have a nagging paradox headache. But I spoke personally to several Correspondence paradox spirits and assured them that not a soul would see us.”

“What about getting me back to China?” Marat asked. “That side street wasn’t all that crowded, but some were bound to have seen.”

“Ahem,” Bashir said, clearing his throat. “Had to work out a deal with Time spirits for that one. I had to get them agree to let me drop you back at the exact time you left.”

“Moving back in time?” Marat said, wide-eyed.

“Technically, yes,” Bashir said. “Normally paradox would destroy one who attempted it, but in this case, it’s the only way to avoid paradox. The most coincidental answer, if you will.”

“Hunh,” Marat grunted. He took another puff from his cigarette.

“Any luck with your 10th sphere lately?” Bashir asked.

Marat flicked the cigarette off into the sand. He turned to face the Batini. “There is no 10th sphere,” he said.

“Don’t give up so soon,” Bashir said. “We’ve been trying to discover it for centuries.”

“As have all the Traditions,” Marat said. “I’ve heard a lot of things today; things that most people in the world do not know. And I’ve realized for the first time that understanding must lead to acceptance, and with that, one arrives at wisdom. I’ve come to understand and accept that you are right, one’s strength does come from within.”

Bashir smiled.

“Let me ask you something.”

“Certainly.”

“Today a Kindred, who many might call a member of a bloodline, referred to his brood as a clan.”

Bashir clearly did not understand.

“Let me ask you this, do you consider the Ahl-i-Batin a craft or a Tradition?”

Bashir spun, pacing away. “We are one of the oldest and grandest magickal Traditions,” he said.

“Because that is how you perceive yourselves?” Marat asked.

“Yes,” Bashir said, turning to face Marat.

“Such are the Pendragons, then. I will not crave the Nine’s permission or acceptance. We simply are what we are: legacy to a great magickal Tradition.”

“Exactly,” Bashir said, smiling.

“But I also understand and accept that there is no tenth sphere. Mages for millennia have looked to discover its secrets and failed, always yearning for more power. Yet do the nine spheres not allow us to do nearly anything we might wish? What more power could one seek? Even the spheres themselves are not really spheres, but convenient labels we put on them to better understand them. All spheres are one, they are unified, they are all. Thus we should seek to master our knowledge of them, not greedily hunger for more, or out of ego seek to discover what our ancestors could not.”

Bashir silently rubbed his chin. He had never thought of that before.

Marat held out his hand. “I can’t thank you enough for all that you have shown me. As always, your help is invaluable, and I am in your debt.”

Bashir put out his hand and accepted Marat’s, shaking it. “As always, I am pleased to be of service.” The two men looked at each other. “Peace be with you, Archmage Marat.”

“I pray I am fortunate enough to have such luck,” Marat said.

“There is no luck that we ourselves or the gods do not create,” Bashir replied. “There is only destiny.”

 

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Original Content © 1996-2005 Michael Wawrzycki, Jesse D. Edmond
World Setting © 2005 White Wolf Publishing Inc.
All Rights Reserved