saber de clanes 344257123-V20-Lore-of-the-Bloodlines-11056187-pdf | Page 41

facades of the moon, sun, winter, an
d death. “Such as the type worn by
those dancers.
No less than seven score will suffice
. All must be different.”
Jacopo put his hands together an
d bowed his head. “Of course. You
are attending a gala, and
wish for more than your current—
” he gestured towards the death ma
sk in her lap, “—disguises.
To where do you require delivery?
”
Liliana suddenly stood in the gon
dola, taking Gian by surprise and
rocking the vessel enough
to make Jacopo seize the sides. Loo
king down at the Setite, she replac
ed her death mask and
put one bare foot on the walnut
of the starboard side. “Guggenheim
Museum. The dead tell us
the Camarilla’s new Justicars int
end to meet there three months hen
ce for a Masquerade Ball,
along with select dignitaries of oth
er Clans. Your delivery will be to
the
art storage cellars the
day before the party. Several of my
companions will await within.”
Looking up at the emaciated corp
se as Gian attempted to right the
boat, Jacopo frowned. “It
will be done, cousin of Hades. Bu
t Liliana — were members of you
r
blo
odline invited to such
an exclusive soiree?”
Liliana’s hard gaze answered his
question. She silently stepped int
black waters. Jacopo stared aft
o the impenetrably
er her, at the void of darkness
surrounding the gondola.
Not a ripple remained.
A Fable Agreed Upon
As written by Khurshid, Wearer of the Sun Mask
History is only what is written. When it goes unwritten,
it becomes a source of endless conjecture. The past of our
lineage is remembered by me differently than how my sire
remembers, or the kin with whom I share this mausoleum
recall, so we play a game of who can tell the more tragic,
inspiring tale. Perhaps there will come a night where a
single account strikes us a resounding blow of realization.
Perhaps not. The River Lethe takes memories from one,
and there’s no guarantee of their ever returning in full.
I feel it to a degree pleasing to shroud our past in layers
of mystery and seals of tar, not dissimilar to the wraps
festooning the cooling bodies in this cellar. If we cannot
know truth, then neither should any outside of our blood.
We Harbingers sailed our ferries to the darkest pits and
made an odyssey of our return. It’s only natural we should
wish to forget fragments of that grueling journey, and what
made us set forth in the first place.
My sire claims we were not born in the Shadowlands; we
were created there. It’s a poetic aphorism, but perhaps not
Truth. I recall my being a Harbinger long before I entered
the Underworld.
40
Torn and Bleeding Hearts
For millennia, we chose to be known as scholars, ascetics,
and diplomats. Our rich knowledge made us indispensable
to other Cainites. We honed ourselves in hundreds of fields,
but advertised few. In Persia, Greece, and later Rome, we
became loyal subjects to magi, philosophers, and emperors.
Rarely would our full array of powers be exposed, allowing us
to dance in the background as empires fell, and learn from
the mistakes and successes of others. I’m told of the time
Emperor Caracalla of the Romans was slaughtered by his
own men at the advice of one of my Harbinger brethren, who
was herself in his employ. She gained little obvious benefit
from murdering Caracalla, except to study and record how
his followers rebuilt afterward. She carefully observed the
variation in how the soul of a ruler exits a body, compared
to when escaping the mouth of a deceased peasant.
As it turns out, there’s little difference to be noted.
Our line was rarely renowned for its proficiency in the
field of conflict. This was deliberate. I was cupbearer to the
Malkavian warlord of Diyarbakır. Despite my position, my
true skill was in laying waste to Theodosius’ soldiers through
use of blade, horse, and understanding of pestilence’s carriage.
My sire was a poet of Zamya, who channeled his art through
the rotting corpses of loved ones. He used those same corpses
as unerringly reliable killers. Our skill in dealing death was as
sharp as our knowledge of its forms, but it was a secret talent.
HARBINGERS OF SKULLS