“Love does away with fear: for fear expects punishment, while love is forgiving,” Ivona said. “My heart is not hardened toward your past transgressions, de Garcia, nor is my mind.”
The old, veteran killer was a child in emotion. “My lady, you know what I have done?”
“I do, since childhood.”
“And yet you do not disdain me? In the catapult, that night we first met, you smiled at me in innocence – and your smile cut me more than the whips of the jailers. Did you know, at that moment, consciously?”
“I did.”
De Garcia moaned and was visibly pained. “I am the devil incarnate.”
“No, and I neither judge nor condemn you. A convict cannot despise his fellow prisoners, can he?”
“But you are neither guilty nor convicted! Your mother’s blood was spilled by these very hands,” and he held his hardened, plate-mail hands before him. He paused to combat his tears, but when they did not retreat, he continued. “And yet you drink my cup, and call yourself guilty? May it never be!” De Garcia wept. “Listen, the footsteps have been replaced with the clashing of swords. If I remain here, I am dead within and to be killed without. Let us deliver Montague from whatever creatures steal the silence.”
Before the others could object, de Garcia charged toward the clamor coming from further within the massive chamber. They followed him, willingly or not, into the melee. It was still too dark to see what was taking place before them, but as they drew near the chamber suddenly burst into light, coming from a multitude of fire-buckets hanging from the lofty ceiling.
In the light, the chamber was suddenly dispossessed of its damning demeanor. The ceiling stood fifty feet from the floor and both were crafted entirely from the mountain’s native stone. Carved murals adorned the walls in the same fashion as the previous hall, but they were proportional to the room’s size and therefore much larger. In its entirety, the chamber was circular; but it was divided into three distinct sections: the first was a semi-circle beside the hallway to the outside, and the last section was its symmetric partner with a tunnel leading to some other portion of the mountain’s chest. The central division was square, however, with a stout pillar in its center that formed a wall, in which stood a double-hung stone door. This central island blocked either party from seeing the other, until they came out at right angles and converged their lines of sight.
“Forward,” de Garcia called back to the others, “We can see our enemy, so let us overcome him.”
Indeed, the mysterious footsteps were no longer shrouded in mystery. Montague and his five men were huddled into a tight circle, surrounded on every side by a horde of terrible creatures, similar in appearance to the one Montague had conversed with. They wielded tridents, using two hands and thrusting them like spears. Amid the tumult the approaching party was not observed until they chose to join the battle.
When that moment came, de Garcia unfurled himself to his full height, drew his sword, flourished it above his head, and bellowed in a deep, throaty voice, “Montague, we have come to rescue you!” Then he cut into the creature nearest him, removing his head with a single, clean stroke. The body fell left, the head right, and the latter split in two – an intricate mask and an ordinary human skull.
“No one desires your rescuing,” Montague called over the din, though his men were clearly being overcome. As they grew tired, their circle collapsed foot by foot.
“And yet we give it,” Willard returned. “Prepare to receive it!” and he thrust his sword into one of the strangely attired men.
Nearly a hundred men fought behind the strange masks, but when de Garcia and his comrades charged they were sent into confusion. They could not see at first how many the newcomers were, nor where they had come from. Above the clash of steel could be heard their shrill cries, articulated in some strange tongue, though their fear was evident in any language. One of them – more prominently built than his fellows – formed them into a tight company and retreated to the chamber wall. Once there, they fled precipitously; but the lights were extinguished at that moment and their destination could not be guessed.
“Nicholas Montague,” Willard said, advancing toward the same with an extended hand and a somber face. “Nicholas, we meet again.”
“So we do. Let it be the last,” and he motioned as if to force a duel upon Willard.
But the latter held his hand before him in the lantern light, “Do not be so quick to seal your doom.” He turned to the Elite Guards, “Depart from here, if you wish. You are Atiltians, and I your king, unless you continue to follow Gylain.” His was the majesty of a king. In the preceding days, he had become king in more than birth and right.
The soldiers bred with silence for a moment. They were trained to resist all pain and toil, to endure all hardships without wavering. Yet they were also trained to be loyal to the king, and, with Willard standing before them in the armor of the Plantagenets, they gave way. First one, then the other remaining three, bowed and said, “We obey.” Then they departed, leaving Montague alone with Willard and his followers.
Montague watched his soldiers’ lanterns as they were eaten by the darkness, listening to their fading footsteps. “So it goes,” he said, deserted in the end by those he forced to follow him. “So it goes,” he mumbled, thinking of something distant. But then – when he had collected himself again – he resumed: “Why do you spare me, your highness? What purpose do you have for me?”
“It is for my sake that your life is spared,” de Garcia stepped forward, “Because it was for another’s sake that my own was redeemed, and hers by yet another. It is the unending chain and even for you the time is at hand.”
“Then you wish to seduce me with forgiveness? Know that I am beyond your seduction, beyond all hope of redemption. If I am to be slain, let it be done.”
“No one is without hope,” Ivona said, “Unless his heart is so hard it will not admit the possibility of such hope.”
“Fool of a woman! Your words are eloquent, you think, but I know them to be fire before the water: easily extinguished by a moment’s thought,” and Montague drew his sword to strike her.
De Garcia intervened. He drew his own sword and rendezvoused with Montague’s blade as it cut the air, blocking it with a resounding clang.
“Do not resist,” de Garcia warned, but Montague turned his wrist in response, rotating his blade to open its pathway to de Garcia’s chest. The great warrior would not have it, though, and turned his sword downwards while pushing its rounded sides against Montague’s hand. Then – without visible exertion – he brought the sharp point to play and placed it to Montague’s throat.
“You are better than I,” the latter said. “Dispose of me, for I am weak and do not deserve life.”
“Yield, and I will not consider it against you.”
“Yet you are not the keeper of accounts!” Montague hit de Garcia over the head with his broad side, causing him to stumble. Once clear of the party, he dove into the darkness with a covered lantern in his hand.
De Garcia started after him. Willard called him back, “He is gone.”
And indeed, he was. Montague did not stop until he reached the tunnel to the outside. Then, assured he was not pursued, he stopped to consider his course.
“Who is there?” he whispered, “I can hear your breathing, your hissing.”
“How easily you forget!” a familiar voice returned.
Montague opened the flaps of the lantern, casting a beam of light upon the creature. It was the same which he had spoken with before.
“You are but a man, fool,” and he hit the creature’s head with the broadside of his sword, to dislodge its mask.
But the creature did not move, nor did its head roll to the ground. For it was not a mask that he wore.
“Welcome to eternity,” it hissed in return, “Welcome to my harem!”
“My God!” Montague fell silent. “And yet I forget – I have no god but you!”
Chapter 70
> “Time runs short,” Patrick said, his voice as heavy as the darkness.
“But what to do?” asked de Garcia. “To go deeper into the mountain risks the return of the masked men, but to turn back risks our purpose.”
“Forward,” Willard said, “For if they would have us, we are already theirs. Come, in the light I saw the path forward,” and he started toward the pillar in the center of the chamber.
After a moment of blind travel, their lanterns struck the stone door, all of which could not be seen in the dim light. Its face was covered in esoteric symbols, carved meticulously in vertical columns. Each figure was at once hieroglyphic or symbolic: a drawing that represented a single idea, usually according to the Egyptian system. At the same time, however, each of these symbols was also an alphabetic letter: the symbol was drawn as an embellishment of a letter, the alphabet of which was an ancient ancestor of both the Phoenician and Mayan alphabets. Because of this dual purpose, the writing could be read two different ways, depending on whether the symbols were read as hieroglyphics or letters. Yet there was also a third message, for the individual symbols were mosaics of a larger image, which – when taken abstractly – formed a giant third symbol.
“There is writing upon its surface,” de Garcia said as he held the lantern against the door. “But I cannot read it.”
“Nor can I,” Leggitt added, “But I am fluent only in French, Latin, and Atiltian.”
“My father has many books in his library,” Ivona offered, “Perhaps I can make sense of them where others cannot.” She stepped forward and examined the face of the door. “Space the lanterns apart, so the whole door can be seen at once,” and they did.
Ivona stepped back to look as they stood close and held the lanterns.
“Ingenious!” she cried as she grasped the pattern. “There are three meanings, each derived by reading it a different way. The first two are dialogs from lesser gods to mortals, and the last is a greater God’s answer,” and she read as follows:
LETTERS : You are cursed and downtrodden, for you are men treated as gods. Yet he who was first is now last, and he who was highest is now lowest. Uranos, beware the Titans.
SYMBOLS : The ocean’s crust is pierced by the trident and its sons are sent to Hades. No longer will the ancients reign, for they think themselves more ancient than even the gods.
MOSIAC : A picture of a White Eagle, its claws extended and its eyes gleaming, holding a lion’s head in its talons.
“There is a hole in the center, a rectangular place for a tablet, but there is nothing around. Whatever it says, we cannot know.
“No doubt, but we are not here to understand ancient scribblings,” Patrick said. “We have come to retrieve the Holy Graal, so let us be on with it. The air grows fouler every moment we remain.”
“So it does,” Willard said, and he laid his shoulder against the door to force it open. The others joined him and it began to creak, then to rumble, and at last swung open – rousing the dust and sediments of many years. There was a mysterious glow for an instant, but it passed quickly.
The opening revealed an ancient staircase, roughly hewn from the stone from which the pillar had been carved. It was narrow and steep, curving around within the diameter of the pillar and leading them to the mountain above. Even after it passed from the chamber it did not expand: they could walk only in single file. The ornate carvings of the previous rooms ceased, replaced by a rough, minimalist architecture. Willard led them, led himself by the short lantern light that went before him. They could not stop to rest along the way, for the stairs were too narrow to sit upon and too steep to be leaned upon.
After a long climb, the stairs ended, opening into a veranda that occupied the top of the mountain, open to the air on every side with only occasional pillars to uphold the roof. The stairs came in on the far side. Outside, the moon was sinking fast and the swaying canopy of the forest could be seen far below. To the west, the dawn’s cold fingers were grabbing onto the horizon and the lanterns were no longer needed in the faint, phosphorous haze. A man sat in the furthest corner, looking over the dawn with his back to them. His hair and beard were uncut, wafting around him and dropping to the floor. They said nothing, some from respect, others fear.
“You have come for the Holy Graal,” said a pleasing voice, coming from the man. “But to what end?”
“My father stands before death, my lord,” and Ivona fell on her knees before the back of the chair. “I come for the Graal, that he might live.”
“The blood of Christ can be found in many places, why have you come this far?”
“Are not the hardships of the search rewarded by our God? I have come with a great request, so I come with great ceremony to ask it.”
“God rewards no one; for who has given the heart to seek, or the heart to remain aloof? If a man is saved by grace, can he be rewarded for what he has not done? No, for God gives grace to whom he pleases, as well as damnation. You do not need blood to heal your father, child, for the blood has already been spilled.”
“Then may it be, for I have faith!”
“Who has faith, who has not been given it? You may go, for he his healed.But beware the sign of Jonah.”
As he finished speaking, the sky was darkened by a school of clouds passing under the sun. When the light returned, the man was gone. They were silent for a moment, wondering over what they had just witnessed, until Ivona rose from her knees and turned to the others.
“We are done here,” she said faintly and began walking to the stairs across the room.
“Then this is all?” asked Patrick in unbelief, “We have come on a mistaken whim? Time is not my lover, that I can safely forget it, and you are no different. Let us return to the action!”
“We came for Montague and have had him. But if it were not for our mistaken whim, you would yet be imprisoned; and a man is not always imprisoned without reason,” Willard said.
“What do you think? That I am a mere farmer’s boy and Lydia my youthful dame? Then I understand why you do not value my counsel.”
“You are more than a farm boy?” Lydia mocked him, her blue eye turned his way. “Are you a king simply because you inflamed the countryside to rebellion in order to capture my heart?”
“Her heart does not seem so much a prize,” de Garcia moaned.
“Do not blaspheme my god!” Patrick cried vehemently, “Do not mock my savior, my world, my Lydia! If she is contrary at times, it only accents her innocence at others. If a woman is always gentle, who knows and relishes it? But if she is foul tempered, her previous gentleness is praised. She is made perfect by her imperfections, so do not blaspheme my love!”
“How can you call a mortal your god, with what we have just seen?” Ivona asked quietly, as if in pain.
“All I have seen is a man. Lydia is more lovely than a mere man.”
“With eyes, they fail to see!” Ivona sighed.
“With minds, they fail to think!” Lydia mocked. “Poor farm girl, poor farm boy! Fools the both of them, but what can one expect?” she hissed at Patrick, who turned his head and closed his eyes.
“Fools!” Lydia continued, but her head turned and her hazel eye fell upon Patrick. “But all men are fools and their ways with them. If you are a fool, it is the crown of your manhood.”
The dawn broke out, the sky was lit, and the room was silent from its outburst.
“A man’s heart is revealed when he is given authority,” Willard said at length. “If you were a farmer’s boy, I was lower still; but if you are now a noble warrior, I will only see you as such.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Patrick McConnell, his passion subdued for the moment. “I am only an English peasant, though the people have followed me into rebellion. Yet I am only a boat which is pushed along by the tides; for I, myself, do not shape events. I fought for love,” he looked to Lydia, “And the rebellion came behind.”
“So it is for many.”
“They come,” de Garcia interrupted,
running to them from the mouth of the stairs, where he had been standing in silence. “The footsteps have returned, my lord, and in greater numbers!”
As they became silent, the floor began to shake and the air to spin with the sounds of war. From the echoing stairway poured an onslaught of rumbling footsteps, followed by terrible screams and cries in an unknown tongue.
De Garcia alone voiced their thoughts. “They come, and there is no escape!”
Chapter 71
“Our fruitless quest damns us,” Patrick moaned, the horde growing nearer on the stairs even as he spoke.
“Nothing is without purpose,” Ivona said quietly, and she forgot herself in the dawn beyond the veranda.
“Theology is one thing, but escaping is quite another,” Patrick returned.
“Have you no ideas,” purred the blue-eyed Lydia, and her voice was a tiger in the savanna.
“My mind has become a hermit, my love. De Garcia, veteran warrior, what say you?”
“There is no escape,” and he looked over the side to the ground far below, hidden by the mists.
The stairs shook under the force of the coming horde. Drums were beaten, wails of agony resounded, and a droning, bumble-bee chanting floated up to the heavenly veranda. The stairway had no door, but opened directly into the room. The sound of their approach was the masked men’s only vanguard.
“We cannot escape,” Ivona said faintly, still staring into the dawn, “Yet there is no need.”
“Speak your mind, Ivona,” Willard said.
Ivona turned away from the rising sun, “We have no reason to fight them. No one has been wronged, and forgiveness’ mandate is not violence. Let us lay down our arms and meet them as friends.”
“I cannot let the destiny of my followers rest on the benevolence of a brutish mob,” Patrick cried. “How can we know what they will do?” and he ran to the door and peered into the darkness, struck across the face by the approaching chaos.
“How can one know anything, but through faith?” Ivona asked him. “You must have faith that either they will fight or forgive, so you cannot abdicate on grounds of reason. We cannot know, so let us have faith in what is good.”
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