REGNABO

Estuans interius
Ira vehementi
In amaritudine
Loquor mee menti:
Factus de materia,
Cinis elementi,
Similis sum foilio,
De quo ludunt venti.

Cum sit enim proprium
Viro sapienti
Supra petram ponere
Sedem fundamenti,
Stultus ego comparor
Fluvio labenti,
Sub eodem tramite
Nunquam permanenti.

                            Burning inside,
                            with violent anger,
                            bitterly
                            I speak to my heart:
                            created from matter,
                            the ashes of the elements,
                            I am like a leaf
                            toyed with by the winds.

                            If it is the way
                            of the wise man
                            to build
                            foundations on stone,
                            then I am a fool, like
                            a flowing stream,
                            which is set
                            in its course.

10:11 pm, 9 August 2009
Manchester, New Hampshire

The last two days had been spent in the ranch house, tying up loose ends with the various organizations that had coem to depend on him: Adam Stone would be taking a brief sabbatical.

Senator Thomas was disapopinted, to be sure, but wasn't too worried: as long as he was back before the appropriations bills came up after Labor Day, she would be all right. The Currier Board of Directors wasn't due for another meeting until November. The Palace Theatre Board was meeting before then, but he could afford to miss that one: the most crucial item on the agenda was whether or not to let _Hair_ go up with its minimal nudity.

So with that, he packed his bags and set off for the airport.

Feror ego veluti
Sine nauta navis,
Ut per vias aeris
Vaga pertus avis;
Non me tenent vincula,
Non me tenet clavis,
Quero mihi similes,
Et adiungor pravis.

                            I am carried along
                            like a ship without a helmsman,
                            in the paths of the air
                            like a light, hovering bird;
                            chains cannot hold me,
                            keys cannot imprison me,
                            I look for people like me
                            and join the wretches.

8:04 pm GMT, 11 August 2009
Oxford, United Kingdom

People were still filtering in, but the young man at the lectern was trying to get everyone to settle down anyway.

"Welcome to a special summer meeting of the Oxford Union. Term hasn't begun yet, but we already have a special guest we would like to share with you. John Barrows here is an insurgent candidate for MP here in Oxford, and he has requested a debate with our sitting MP, Mary Dixon. They have both agreed that the format we used last spring with the candidates from Buckinghamshire would be suitable for them: each will state their position on a question, and then debaters from the Union shall argue it out in four speeches. Each of our guests will have final speeches to sum up their positions. Ms. Dixon shall speak first and last, as is her prerogative as incumbent.

"Now the question shall be put, as stipulated by the two candidates: this House would unionize petrol lorry drivers. Ms. Dixon, you have the floor."

The handsome young man nodded to a dashing woman with a winning smile, a well-known Tory MP. She stepped up to the microphone and began her disquisition.

The debate barely interested Clayton. He hadn't even expected it to be happening--it was the summer, after all--and he was rather annoyed that it was taking place on this very night.

The room was long and high-ceilinged, looking more like a refectory than a debates room. Dark wooden beams contrasted to the pale whitewash, reaching up to a ribbed ceiling. Dark squares identifiable as portraits only at point-blank range broke up the white space between the columns. The place reeked of old-style Oxbridge arrogance and culture: the accents were plummy, the faces were rosy, the hands were soft, and the tuitions were paid for from trusts. A quick scan of the room indicated that the Union hadn't loosened its strong bias against women.

Clayton sighed as the woman sat down and the fiery young man who was trying to unseat her stood up to speak. He walked down in front of the podium, like an American televangelist.

Against the wall, a dark-haired man with silvery eyes caught Clayton's eye and nodded slowly, one eyebrow rising. Clayton nodded back. When Clayton had known him, Pablo Salazar was a new member of the /other/ Oxford Union: the coterie of intellectual Brujah who originated, then paralleled, the human debating society. By now he was probably one of the strongest influences here. His silvery eyes were so striking that he could move listeners to action simply by holding eye contact with them, with no use of Caine's blessings.

Clayton smiled a little, rather happy to see a familiar face, even if it was from the Union. Seeing Salazar here made him chuckle to think of how little these human kids here knew about where this organization came from, so long ago.

"Clayton. It has been a long time."

The aristocratic young man watched Clayton from across the huge oaken table. Edward Wright was one of the few beings alive who remembered Clayton as a mortal. Indeed, were it not for Edward, Clayton would not have *been* Kindred.

Clayton smiled. "Indeed it has. Is Doran well?"

Wright shook his head. "He met his end recently. You remember how much of a supporter he was of the Children of Seth and their ability to overcome Kindred when circumstances allowed?" Wright allowed himself a weary smirk at that. "He died in the Battle of Britain, trying to save a family in Coventry. Killed by human ingenuity."

Clayton's stomach knotted. Wright was still on about the debate he lost to Doran back in 1455. The fact that his defender had died in Clayton's place of birth only made things more difficult.

"I will say Kaddish for him when I next have a chance," Clayton returned, jabbing Wright once more for his long-standing hatred of Solomon Schechter, a Jewish member of the Union.

Long ago, Wright and Doran--an English aristocrat and an Irish spitfire--had a debate about the power of humans to excel over Kindred in some affairs: Wright maintained that the Kindred would always win, Doran believed that the Children of Seth could, sometimes, emerge victorious. The debate continued, argued eloquently on both sides, for over a century, much to the genuine entertainment of the other Oxonian Brujah. One night, Doran decided on a test, and invited a young mortal scholar to race against Wright on horseback.

The scholar's name was Clayton--his first name lost to memory--and the race was his, for most of the course. Only a burst of Cainite speed from a ghouled mare brought Wright across the finish line. Of course, a debate erupted over whose point had been proven, which nearly escalated into a fight.

Then Clayton, a mere mortal surrounded by the metaphysical equivalent of piranha, stepped in to arbitrate. He shouted down the disputants, and cross-examined Wright about the insults he had hurled at Schechter ("Dirty Jew!"). A withering ("almost Socratic," one observer commented) line of argument decmiated Wright in front of his peers, and earned Clayton the respect of the Oxford Union.

Not much later, the mysterious voices students whispered about arguing in the lecture halls after the buildings were locked for the night, were their own: the Oxford Union began to admit mortal students, and the Kindred faded into the background.

But, Clayton thought, returning to the present, not entirely.

"Why have you returned, Clayton?" Wright asked warily.

"I am on sabbatical, just visiting. I do not intend to stay more than a week."

Wright nodded, looking somewhat relieved. "You are welcome to stay here. You may not have heard, but I now hold Praxis in Oxford and Cambridge."

Indeed, Clayton had not heard. But this was welcome news. For all of his flaws, Wright was a reasonable Kindred.

Clayton nodded. "My congratulations." He looked around the room, eyes instinctively avoiding the faded portrait of him in the dingy corner. Wright knew he hated that picture. "I trust the Union is well?"

Wright nodded, and gestured to Salazar. "Salazar here is leading the Union now. I am merely an emeritus." He smirked wanly once more. Salazar bowed his head once, acknowledging the reference.

Clayton looked from Wright to Salazar, and to the other, younger faces lining the massive table. He only recognized those two, much to his chagrin: he had hoped more of the Kindred he knew would still be active.

Unaccountably, Clayton smiled.

9:19 pm MDT, 17 August 2009
Albuquerque, New Mexico

Prince Martinez bowed to Clayton. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Clayton. Welcome to the Land of Enchantment: please make yourself at home. Unfortunately, I need to go help Mr. Harada with security. Please excuse me." He nodded curtly to the young Kindred to Clayton's left. "Mr. Fraser," he said icily, and turned to leave.

The younger Toreador with the strikingly grey eyes chuckled and turned to Clayton, leading him toward the bar. "Well, that's Martinez. He hates me, and he is scared to death of you, because he thinks you're exactly like me, just older." He chuckled.

Indeed, Darien Fraser was a member of Clayton's lineage several Generations down--Twelfth, to be exact--even though he had made quite a name for himself both in Dallas and Albuquerque. As the youngest member of the Primogen Council in a fairly democratic--by Kindred standards--Domain, Martinez knew he could not blow off this Neonate without consequences.

The low ceiling in the hidden chamber beneath Albuquerque's downtown Convention Center pressed down on the throng. Kindred here gathered at the Prince's behest, usually not in the best of spirits. Darien was maneuvering Clayton toward a table occupied by a sullen-looking blond teenager, a short man of about thirty, and an African-American woman with sparkingly intelligent eyes.

"Clayton, this is Berlin--" Darien indicated the blond boy, who flopped a bored hand in greeting, "--Lucien de Montreuil--" the short man nodded a greeting and beamed a smile, "--and Grace Dewitte." The woman nodded, and was the first to reply: "Pleased to make your acquaintance." Clayton took her offered hand and gave it a genteel peck before seating himself in a place indicated by Darien.

Darien sat down next to Lucien, who gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. "So, you introduced him to El Jefe, huh?"

Darien rolled his eyes. "Hospitality, Lord Brujah."

Lucien smirked, and turned to Clayton. "If these things matter to you, I'm the Brujah Primogen." The sour look on his face spoke volumes about how he viewed that post. "Grace is Primogen Tremere, and Regent of the Chantry." Clayton nodded, taking stock of Grace more carefully now. "And Berlin here is Primogen Nosferatu." The blond boy's face shimmered and faded for an instant, leaving behind an impression of a steely-grey, angular plate that looked somewhat like a facial area. Then the boy's face returned, smiling. Lucien continued: "And Mister Modesty here--" he indicated Darien "--is *finally* Primogen Toreador once more, now that that Alana woman is gone."

Clayton recalled hearing the story the last time he was in New Mexico. Darien was the sole survivor of an attack on the Toreador of New Mexico that had been inteded to wipe out their entire lineage. Instead, the Symposiastes had survived and gone underground, but the rest of the Clan perished. As the eldest in the Domain, Darien claimed the Primogen seat by right. The challenges soon died away, but not much later a Tenth Generation flautist named Fiona had swirled into town and taken the seat in a shower of glitter. She had proven largely incompetent, in comparison to the able Fraser, but did throw good parties. Because she was a thorn in Darien's side, however, was enough to make her the Prince's favorite: he knew Clan Toreador had been on the brink of staging a power play when they were destroyed, and Fraser was very close to re-establishing that base. Quite recently, however, Fiona's star faded, and she moved on to greener pastures, where nobody knew she was boring, and Darien--much to the relief of many of the other Kindred, and definitely to the consternation of the Ventrue--reseated himself as Primogen. And Darien did look in his element, here among the Primogen who supported him.

Darien leaned over to speak more quietly to Clayton. "i'm sorry that I couldn't get the rest of the family together. The message you sent was very...disturbing. I'd like to talk with you about it later on, if you're free."

Clayton chuckled. "Darien, that's what I'm *here* for."

The two Toreador walked slowly along the dark dirt road. A warm, dry breeze ruffled their slacks around their ankles. Above, the sky reflected thousands of stars. Up the road lay Darien's house, out in the sparsely-populated land around Albuquerque.

"You know, I've always sort of looked up to you, Clayton, even though I barely heard anything about you. We share an Art, you know."

Clayton nodded. "I wish I had followed the rest of the family more closely. Tom fell in love with Chris and Embraced him, though, and I sort of became the black sheep and lost touch."

"Well, you know how we felt about losing you. It was so good to see you back up in Acoma a couple of years ago."

"I wish it had been in better circumstances. As it is," Clayton sighed, "I'm not visiting under much better ones."

Darien stopped and turned to him, his face silvery in the moonlight. "Why not? The asshole who did that to you is gone. One of the Enemy is dead. That's cause to celebrate."

Clayton shrugged. "I have mixed feelings. I am glad Shore is gone, no question. But I cannot help but feel frustrated that it *wasn't* me who pulled the trigger."

Darien shrugged. "Gone is gone. Time marches on."

Clayton shook his head. "Not in this battle. You know how far back it goes. You know the price we've paid." And Darien did. After Fiona came in and took over the Primogen seat, he moved to Dallas for a while, but the millennia-old feud between the Toreador lineage and a family of Lasombra would not let him be: they tracked him down there, slaughtered the other member of Darien and Clayton's family there, then paid for it in their own blood. Lucas Shore was one of the masterminds of that attack, and one of two survivors.

"Yes, I do know. But what does it matter whether it was one of us who fired the killing shot?"

"You should ask your boyfriend Lucien about that."

Darien chuckled, and even colored a bit in the moonlight. "He'd ask you the same question, Clayton. He never cared if he fired the fatal shot, as long as someone did."

Clayton jostled his arm jokingly. "So you already read his mind, eh?"

"Aw, give us a break! We're not *married*!"

"Sure, but it's been several years now."

Darien nodded. He and the Brujah Primogen had begun dating soon after his seating as Primogen in 1995, much to the amusement of the rest of the Kindred. Somehow, however, they managed to hold things together.

After a pause, Clayton sighed. They had reached the portico of Darien's low adobe house. He sat down on one of the chairs out in front.

"Darien, I'm questioning the wisdom of this war."

Darien was caught short by that. This war was well older than both of these Kindred, combined, plus several more.

"Do tell," he said, sitting down himself, now curious.

Clayton frowned. "Why did Shore attack me?"

Darien recognized Clayton's old Socratic debating style. "Because of what happened in Dallas."

"And why did you all do what you did in Dallas?"

"Because they killed Chris Falk."

"And why did they do that?"

"I can see where you're headed with this, Clayton," Darien said. "They killed Chris because they found out they missed when they lobbed the grenades in '95, and he was a sitting duck in Dallas. And they lobbed those grenades because they wanted to kill all of us while we were together. And they wanted to do that because Luc stole Dolores' childe, David, and raised him as one of ours. Luc did that because he saw a chance to leverage a victory out of an evenly-matched battlefield--"

Clayton leapt in before Darien could continue. "Exactly. The battle has been evenly-matched for centuries. Longer, even. Luc stole David, and threw off that balance. One thing led to another, and their line was decimated in Dallas. We won, they regrouped, and attacked me. I survived, but the Kindred who attacked me is dead."

Clayton leaned forward to underscore his next words. "Darien, we won. We won back in Dallas. Bloody hell, we won back in '95 when we *didn't* all die. And though he is a huge loss, Chris is our /only/ loss."

He leaned back. "I think I've figured out why I'm questioning the wisdom of this war, Darien. It's because it's over. Anything that's left is strictly personal."

9:09 pm MDT, 19 August 2009
Santa Fe, New Mexico

Darien and Clayton sat in the curved gallery above the darkened State Senate room, gathering their things to leave. The security guards knew they were there, and knew better than to question their presence: Clayton's air of authority would not be trifled with.

Darien had not taken immediately to Clayton's argument, but he had begun to see the merit by the time the sun had touched the horizon. The discussion continued the full length of the next night, and engaged the interest of Lucien de Montreuil, who was intimately aware of the details of the situation.

The discussion had continued to the early hours of the previous night. Tonight, Darien had business up in the state capital, and had driven up early. The State Capitol--the Roundhouse, as it was known locally, the only circular capitol building in the country--was declared Elysium under the joint protectorship of the whole Primogen Council, who were meeting there at midnight.

But first, they had an appointment to continue the chat with Lucien. He was late, of course, and they were heading out into the Rotunda to intercept him.

"Sorry," the short Brujah said as he strode across the granite floor. "I got caught up at the club: Jezebel was causing trouble again." Lucien usually spent his nights at Beyond Ordinary, a club near the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque, and Jezebel was a particularly thorny Ancilla. His voice echoed hollowly off the dome above.

"No problem," Darien answered, giving Lucien a peck on the lips as they met in the center. The sight of the slim young Toreador in his fashionable double-breasted suit kissing the shorter Brujah in his baggy trousers and billowing linen shirt made Clayton cock his head: definitely an unusual pair. The fact they were so familiar and nonchalant about it made Clayton think about it even harder.

"Well, we've still got about two and a half hours to kill before the meeting. What say we go hit the town?" Lucien offered.

Clayton nodded. "I've never really spent much time in Santa Fe."

Lucien grinned and led them off into the night.

The three vampires strolled into the warm evening, joining tourists and a few locals on their own late-evening constitutionals.

"One thing still puzzles me," Clayton explained hesitantly. He had decided the night before that he could actually confide this in Darien and Lucien.

"What's that?" asked Darien, cocking his head. They turned onto a side street that ran parallel to a creek.

"She told me to 'evolve.'" Clayton knew that, by now, they knew who 'she' was. "And said that Shore already had."

Darien hrmed. "That is puzzling. It really seems like she just doesn't understand what was going on."

Clayton shook his head. "Oh no, she understood all too well. She was there when I woke up from the attack. And I'm almost positive she knows where the remains went."

Lucien shook his finger, as if trying to dislodge an idea that was stuck on it, then turned to the other two. "Who was the other man?"

Clayton gave Lucien a confused look. "What other man?"

"The other man with Shore. You said there were two gravestones."

"Ahhh. His name was Jesse. Jesse Dennison, the obituaries said."

"Who was he?"

Clayton paused. "I'm not sure. He was there with Shore.... An accomplice, maybe?" Darien looked back and forth from Lucien to Clayton as they batted around the question.

Lucien narrowed his eyes, an idea overtaking him. "There's your key. i'm willing to bet you he had something to do with why your Prince thought Shore was somehow more evolved than you. That's the only thing I can think of."

Clayton stopped dead. Of course. In focusing so much on the Enemy, he had completely overlooked the fact that Luke hadn't been alone that night. And Jesse was the one that woman at the cemetery had called 'an innocent.'

And Clayton knew he would have to go into the jaws of the beast in order to find that answer.

Austin, Texas.

[Lyrics: "Estuans Interius," from _Carmina Burana_, by Carl Orff]