Lucius Shepard - The Golden
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Lucius Shepard - THE GOLDEN
Copyright 1993 by LuciusShepard. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-930815-30-1
Published byElectricStory.com, Inc.
ElectricStory.com and the ES designare trademarks of ElectricStory.com, Inc.
These stories areworks of fiction. All characters, events, organizations, and localesare either the product of the authors imagination or usedfictitiously to convey a sense of realism.
Cover art by andcopyright 2000 Brian Snddy.
eBook conversion byJennifer Clarke Wilkes.
eBook edition ofThe Goldencopyright 2000 by ElectricStory.com.
For our full catalog,visit our site at www.electricstory.com.
TheGolden
ByLucius Shepard
ElectricStory.com, Inc.
ForMichael and Mary Rita
Chapter One
T hegathering at Castle Banat on the evening of Friday, October 16, 186,had been more than three centuries in the planning, though only amarginal effort had been directed toward the ceremonial essentials ofthe affair, its pomp and splendor. No, most of that time and energyhad been devoted to the nurturing and blending of certain mortalbloodlines so as to produce that rarest of essences, a vintage ofunsurpassing flavor and bouquet: the Golden. Members of the Familyhad come from every corner of Europe to participate in the Decanting,traveling at night by carriage or train and stopping at country innsduring the day. Now, clad in their finest gowns and evening dress,some accompanied by mortal servants, whothough beautiful andwell dressed in their own rightseemed by contrast like thosedrab ponies chosen to lead Thoroughbreds onto a race course, theymingled in the ballroom, a cavernous vault of mossy stones supportedby flying buttresses, lit by dozens of silver candelabra anddominated by a fireplace large enough to roast a bear. Among thegathering were representatives of the de Czege and Valea branches,who were currently embroiled in a territorial dispute; yet tonightthis and other similar disagreements had been set aside and an uneasytruce installed. There was laughter, there was clever conversation,there was dancing, and it looked for all the world as if it were thekings and queens of a hundred nations who had assembled to celebratesome splendid royal function, and not a convocation of vampires.
Yet despite thegaiety of the assemblage, not every conversation was free frombitterness. Standing by a corner of the fireplace, their facesruddied by the light, two men and a woman were discussing a topic ofsome controversy: the proposal that the Family bow to the pressurescurrently being applied by its enemies and relocate to the Far East,where their activities would be more difficult to detect due to theprimitive conditions and the forbidding, often unexplored terrain.Championing the proposal was the elder of the men, Roland Agenor, thefounder of the Agenor branch, whose position as the chronicler andhistorian of the Family gave added weight to his opinions. Tall,patrician, with a luxuriant growth of white hair, he had the bearingof a retired officer or an accomplished athlete come to a gracefulmaturity. Opposing him in the discussion was the Lady DoloresCascarin y Ribera, a dark-skinned beauty with waist-length black hairand a predatory voluptuousness of feature. She had become the defacto spokesman for the more reactionary elements of the Family,those who maintained that no quarter be asked or given in thestruggle, an attitude that embodied the Familys traditionaldisdain toward all mortals. The third member of the group, MichelBeheim, was a lean young man, taller even than Agenor, with curlybrown hair and remarkable large dark eyes that lent his face analmost feminine delicacy and ardor and supported the impression thathe was always on the verge of bursting forth with some heatedopinion... though at the moment he felt entirely atsea. As Agenors protg he was compelled to lendhis support to the historian, yet being among the newestandthus the weakestof the Familys initiates, havingreceived his blood judgment less than two years previously, he couldnot help but be swayed by Lady Doloress beauty and passion, bythe flamboyant and seductive potency of the tradition whose spiritshe expressed. He found himself nodding by reflex at her tellingpoints and staring at the dusky swell of her breasts, at the cruel,ripe curves of her mouth, and imagined the two of them together in avariety of erotic postures. So distracted was he by her physicalpresence that when Agenor exhorted him to respond to one of theladys assertions, he was forced to admit that he had losttrack of her argument.
Agenor regardedhim with disfavor, and Lady Dolores laughed contemptuously. Idoubt he would have anything of consequence to offer, Roland,she said.
Yourpardon Beheim began, but Agenor cut him off.
My youngfriend may be new to us, he said, but let me assureyou, he is most astute. Did you know that prior to his judgment heachieved the position of chief of detectives in the Paris police? Theyoungest, I believe, ever to reach such heights.
Lady Doloresmade a deferential gesture. Nothing in a policemansexperience can have the least bearing upon the subject of ourdebate.
This time it wasBeheim who cut off Agenor when he began to speak.
Withrespect, my lady, it demands neither a wealth of experience nor anygreat art of reason to deduce that changes are in the offing. For theworld...and for the Family. To espouse adoctrine of death before dishonor is scarcely wise, especially whenone considers that by doing so one forfeits all further opportunitiesfor honorable accomplishment.
You donot yet hear the song of your blood, said Lady Dolores. Thatmuch is apparent.
Oh, but Ido! Beheim returned, though uncertain whether she wasreferring to something actual or merely waxing metaphorical. Andyour arguments have gone far in enlisting my pride, my sense ofhonor. But pride and honor, too, must confront the realities or elsethey become mere conceits. As you well know, certain medicines havebeen developed that allow us to forgo the dark sleep and other of thecolorful hindrances long attendant upon our condition, and thus wemay pass the daylight hours in whatever occupation we favor...so long as we keep from the light. And the time draws near when ourmen of science, perhaps one who even now labors in my lordsservicehe nodded to Agenorwill devise ameans by which we may walk abroad in the day. This is aninevitability. And with that change, must not everything about uschange? I think so. We will be forced to redefine our role in theaffairs of the world. I suspect we will someday redefine as well ourstance toward mortal men and join with them in great enterprises.Perhaps never wholeheartedly, perhaps never openly as regards who andwhat we are. But at least to some degree.
The ideaof walking about in the daylight does not entice me, said LadyDolores. As for joining with mortals in any enterprise otherthan feeding, I can find no words to express my distaste. Next youwill suggest that we seek counsel from the cattle in the fields. Thatis no less odious a prospect.
We wereall mortal once, lady.
Spokenlike Agenors man.
I am myown man, Beheim said sharply. Should you require proofof this, I will be delighted to supply it.
First anger,then bemusement washed across Lady Doloress face. Insolencecan be an entertaining quality, she said. But beware.It will not always find so kindly a reception.
Her eyes,slightly widened and fixed upon Beheim, went a shade darker, a degreemore lustrous, seeming both to menace and to offer sexual promise. Athrill passed across the muscles of Beheims shoulders, and itwas as if he had grown suddenly small and feeble, diminished by thefocus of a vast disapproving majority; yet he recognized this to bemerely a consequence of Lady Doloress stare. He could feel init all the weight of her yearstwo hundred and ninety, so itwas saidand the chill potential of her accumulated power. Hewas helpless before her, like a bird mesmerized by a serpent.Terrified by fate, yet at the same time seduced by it. Her face andform seemed warped, as it might in a watery reflection, and theballroom itself also looked distorted, areas of darkness expanded,candle flames drawn into flickering, fiery daggers, the entireperspective become that of a fever dream, shadowy avenues leadingaway between groups of elongated, elegant phantoms who appeared tohave stepped out of a nightmare by El Greco. And then, as swiftly ashe had been overwhelmed by this feeling, he was free of it, socompletely free that he felt for a moment bereft, unsupported, like achild who wakes in the middle of the night to find that he has kickedoff the blankets that have been overheating him and causing baddreams.
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