A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

When I rejoin the upper floor, the man in red has returned to an animated discussion with Jean-Baptiste and the lady in blue. The air around them warps strangely so that I cannot discern their words, an intriguing effect created by a proximity enchantment set on his mask. A useful tool.

The few guests in white have gathered in clumps, taken in their own intrigue, while Luther has wandered to the main floor on some errand. I am hailed by Dominique.

I am, in fact, taking notes. One does not every day get pointers from a centuries-old master of intrigue.

Dominique and I make small talk, and by small talk, I mean that he questions me about the New World. Our discussion remains light-hearted, and I never come close to revealing what I believe to be confidential information. His main focus seems to be the opinion we have of our European cousins. When I imply that we expect interference sooner or later, my host surprises me by confirming my doubts, as expected, in a roundabout way.

I finally understand. Bertrand heads a faction dedicated to uniting all of us under one flag, by force if necessary. That includes taking over the New World as we are comparatively weaker, and that means that if he has the opportunity to deprive us of one of our assets, he will. Such assets include a stable, sane Devourer with a proven record of acceptable combat prowess. Bertrand wants me dead. He was the one who tried to dispose of me, and Dominique just informed me in the most direct way possible. For a Mask, that is.

Maximilien steps on the stage again while a string quatuor sits behind him to provide background music.

A pair of burly men in sphinx masks come, carrying a rectangular black box covered in shimmering runes and reinforced with silvery bands, which they unlock to reveal a circular opening at the top. The thing looks massive and incredibly heavy.

I think for a second and… of course.

Maximilien is done ranting about the illustrious tradition he created merely a few years ago. He plunges a hand in the box and moves it around while the four players accompany him with dramatic tension.

Everyone applauds immediately, and I do not detect a hint of distress from those who played and lost. A fair lady in a bee-themed mask points a finger at herself, apparently surprised. Instead of climbing to the stage to claim her prize, she turns to a man by her side and curtsies deeply. Dominique leans towards me to whisper in my ear.

I try to imagine someone in a bank vault, juggling magical implements and a screwdriver to achieve his goals. It must have been quite the task.

And indeed, Maximilien enthrones Meredith in a farcical remake of a royal coronation. No sooner is the lady crowned, that she calls upon the crafty thief to join her side. The couple then walks through the crowd on their way to the balcony, receiving silent accolades and excited signs from everyone around. Meanwhile, Maximilien flutters from group to group.

Dominique leaves me behind, and Luther uses this opportunity to take my side. Chairs of stone emerge from the stage’s ground, white and sober, as the quartet leaves and a column of mortals joins the party.

They wear expressionless white masks and carry their instruments with them in an awkward shuffle, clearly unused to the ponderous red garments they had been given for the occasion. At their head stands a tall, fat man with long white hair. He huffs and puffs as he carries a pulpit with him, on which he fastened music sheets.

“Ahem.”

Luther leans towards me. From so close, the scent of old power and the sensation of being in the forest almost overwhelms me.

Luther’s amusement is palpable. Bravo, Ariane, very subtle.

Any witty retort I may have found dies on my lips as we watch the orchestra, now settled, welcome the arrival of a diva in a pink gown with a domino mask, and a male singer in a grey tuxedo.

Also, did I seduce the train operator? It was by accident. I swear.

The musicians tune quickly. The lights dim while strange lamps criss-cross the stage until the performers are illuminated and we bask in darkness.

What follows is a reproduction of my very first night at the opera with Torran. The orchestra and singers play airs from Verdi’s masterpiece with talent backed by experience and hard work. The performance is flawless. The stage comes alive with the distressed arias of the disgraced nobleman Ernani and his promised, the beautiful and fierce Elvira. By themselves, then in pairs, they proclaim their love. I have to stop myself from leaning too much over the balustrade on two occasions, especially when Elvira begs Ernani to save her from marriage with a decrepit old codger. Poor thing. I have Luther to thank for offering context, as I do not speak a word of Italian.

The performance ends too soon, and Maximilien now steps on the platform.

“Une extraordinaire performance, toutes mes felicitations,” he says to the orchestra, then he turns to us.

The chef d’orchestre lifts a wand. Wood and brass answers. The music starts softly, with strings offering melancholic phrases, then the vast cavern booms with the call of fate, mirroring the cruel destiny of Nabucco’s Hebrews as they lament the loss of their city. Finally, the introduction ends with hints of hopes.

The vampires come into play.

With a single voice, they sing, as umoving as the cavern around them. The chorus should express a powerful longing, but in the polar voices of the assembly, its tune becomes hollow and threatening. The assembly’s inability to convey emotions they no longer experience turns the hymn into a dirge, the auric wings tarnished, yet no less imposing for it. Mask voices are as exact as they are flat, and their mechanical precision echoes an increasingly distressed orchestra.

They can feel it. Haunted eyes rise from music sheets and away from the frantic director. They steal glances at what they finally recognize as predators.

Rekindle the memories in our heart, and speak of times gone by!

Too late. It is far too late for us. No golden harps or prophet’s voices will help us recover what we left behind. The only warmth we feel is the one we plunder.

After touching the hidden sky and the depths of the world, the chorus finally dies down with pianissimo voices and lightly plucked strings. The harmony lingers in the air for a few more seconds which are still, to me, parts of the song… then the conductor lowers his hands and the performance is over. We all applaud the mortals and each other, and I do so with gusto. Truly, that was a show like no others.

I only listen with half an ear to Maximilien’s compliments. Afterward, the orchestra shuffles away in silence, heads bent and eyes lost like drunken revelers heading home. Light progressively returns to the cave and the flickers of conversing hands heralds the return to normalcy. I lean back from the balcony.

Yes, well, no.

Me and everyone with functional ears in a fifty yards radius.

I was not aware that the game of kings was such a dreadful pastime. I am personally terrible at it, but I still have a good time watching experts play.

As expected, Maximilien returns to the platform.

Hmm, what?

From the door behind the stage, a portly man with a frizzy black beard in a dark ensemble comes out. He is a mortal, calm and composed.

I have a terrible feeling about this.

The crowd twitches and signs as a young woman appears, eliciting a raised brow from the chess master. She has sad, large brown eyes, and an elegant dress that both fits and does not. It is too majestic for the girl’s nervous hands and bent back.

The stones of the platform shift again. Squares disappear below ground and emerge back later, now a shiny onyx. Soon, a traditional board, eight by eight, occupies a significant portion of the space. Then the pieces appear.

Wearing swords and square shields, men in black and white uniforms emerge in two lines from the back. Cattle. They take the places of pawns as I watch with horrified fascination. Then…

No, this is not what I think it is. I refuse to believe it.

Maximilien flips a coin.

“Pawn to D4,” the girl declares in French.

A man with glassy eyes takes a few steps forward.

“Knight to C6,” D’Alembert retorts with barely hidden contempt.

And so they go on, until the fateful moment.

“Pawn to E5,” Sabine announces.

One of the cattle steps forward and to the diagonal. He brandishes his sword and sweeps at the opposing pawn’s neck.

The sharpened blade hews through sinew and cartilage with a ghastly crunch. A tremendous geyser of blood splatters the killer, the ground, and a few nearby pieces as the fallen piece collapses on the ground with a last gurgle.

Surely, surely they would not. Surely.

Two guards in sphinx masks come to retrieve the body, leaving promptly to free the space for D’Alembert’s next move. The victorious pawn’s rule ends when D’Alembert has yet another cattle strike him down. Sabine, however, was expecting it.

“Queen to D8.”

Gasps echo through the spectators, and I understand why. D’Alembert’s move deprived his queen of cover, and Sabine decided to trade pieces in what I recognize to be a suicidal move. Her queen will take his and be in turn taken by the king. But… no. They would not.

A tall woman with a lost look steps forward with a heavy mace. On the other side, a smaller woman with very dark hair turns rigid.

With slow purpose, the white queen moves forth. Her mace rises. This is WRONG. WRONG. THIS IS ALL WRONG.

The black queen lets out a muffled scream, a sharp thing that escapes through gritted teeth. I step forward and stop when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I swipe it away, feeling something impact. Claws grab my neck. No no no NO NO NO, FIGHT IT.

Broken skull, one eye falling down, a mess of brain and matted hair. A second squishy hit. I am dragged away, through a door, only to hear Sabine’s calm voice.

“We forfeit.”

A corridor and Dominique slams me against an engraved wall. He shows no emotion but regret.

I hiss and sputter, knowing that I offend and not caring a bit. They are insane. They are monstrous. Such a travesty should never have been allowed to occur. BLASPHEMY. SUBSUME AND PREVENT.

Claws grab my neck once more.

I swipe once more with as much speed as I can gather and Dominique takes a step back.

All the art and the songs, they no longer matter to me. The evening is entirely ruined by… I cannot think about it without feeling a bone-deep anguish. I should have… but no, I tried and was restrained. They are fools. Imbeciles.

Dominique takes my measure. I cross my arms to signify that we are fully done.

Dominique gestures. On a dark wood table, in the middle of the space, a single book has been left with a fountain pen by its side. This is a collector’s tome with a richly decorated cover and the crisp, white pages I associate with brand new editions. Indeed, I approach and realize that the bindings still smell of fresh leather. I pick up the pen without quite understanding my role until I look closer.

A good half of the cover shows an excellent rendition of a red-haired man fighting off goons in brown outfits. He holds a sword in one hand, and a voluptuous dark-haired beauty in the other. In the background, a fetching blonde woman with a torch and a muscular man with dark hair and a beard fend off more assailants. The title jumps to my eyes in all its golden-lettered glory.

Dominique’s voice wakes me up from my consternation.

Motherfucker.