He finished the thought silently. “Something much like a leap into the darkness.”
The conversation flooded Thomas’s mind. They had talked often, usually in the early hours after Thomas had walked the ramparts of Magnus. This conversation had taken place barely a month after Thomas had conquered Magnus. Gervaise had talked simply of faith in answer to all of Thomas’s questions.
“It is a leap into the darkness, Thomas,” he had said. “God awaits you on the other side. First your heart finds Him; then your mind will understand Him more clearly so that all evidence points toward the unshakable conclusion you could not find before, and after that leap, your faith will grow stronger with time. But faith, any faith, is trust and that small leap into darkness.”
“No, Gervaise,” Thomas said aloud. “I cannot do this. You ask too much.”
“After sixty steps, you must make the leap of faith. Understand? Make the leap of faith.”
Yet how could Thomas blindly jump ahead? What lay on the other side? What lay below?
An encouraging thought struck him.
Magnus was surrounded by lake waters. Indeed, the wells of Magnus did not have to be dug deep before reaching water. And this passage was already below the surface. How far down, then, before reaching water from this passageway?
Might he drop his sword to test the depth of the chasm?
“Make the leap of faith.”
No, he could not venture weaponless.
Might he drop Beast ahead to test the depth of the chasm? Or cast the Beast ahead to test the width?
“Make the leap of faith.”
No. He knew that, while his brain compelled him to explore every option, his heart would not let him callously do something like this to the puppy. Not to an innocent creature. Not when Beast trusted him so.
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas frowned. Had he not regarded Gervaise with equal trust? And if Thomas now showed such concern for the puppy, would not Gervaise show that much more concern for Thomas?
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas finally allowed himself to decide what he had known since recalling the old man’s words about faith.
He must leap into the darkness.
Ten times Thomas paced large steps backward from the edge of the chasm. Ten times he repaced them forward again, careful to reach down and ahead with his sword on the eighth, ninth, and tenth steps to establish he had not yet reached the edge.
“Beast,” he said as he retraced his steps backward yet again, “if leap we must, I shall not do it from a standstill. Faith or not, I doubt Gervaise would encourage stupidity.”
Thomas had debated briefly whether to leave the puppy behind. But only briefly. The extra weight was slight, and he could not bear to make it across safely and hear the abandoned whimpers of a puppy left for death.
Thomas squatted and felt for the line he had gouged into the ground to mark the ten paces away from the edge.
He rehearsed the planned action in his mind. He would sprint only eight steps—for he could not trust running paces to be as small as his ten carefully stretched and marked paces. On the eighth step, he would leap and dive and release the puppy. His hands would give him first warning of impact—how he hoped for that impact!—and at best he might knock loose his breath. The puppy would travel slightly farther, and at best tumble and roll.
At worst, neither would reach the other side of that unknown chasm in this terrible blackness.
Thomas drew a deep breath. He hugged the puppy once, then tucked him into the crook of his right arm.
“Make the leap of faith.”
Thomas plunged ahead.
At full sprint, Thomas dove upward on the eighth step and left the ground.
In the black around him, he had no way to measure the height he reached, no way to measure how far forward he flew, and no way to measure how much he dropped.
It seemed to take forever, the rush of air in his ears, the half sob of fear escaping his throat, and the squirm of the puppy in his outstretched hands.
The puppy!
In midair, Thomas pushed him ahead and released him from his hands. Before he could even think of praying for his safety, or the safety of the puppy, the heels of his hands hit solid ground, and he bumped and skidded onto his nose and chin, then, as his head bounced upward, his chest and stomach.
Time, with him, skidded back to normal, and Thomas could count his heartbeats thudding in his ears.
Was he across? Or at the bottom of a shallow ditch?
The puppy’s confused whimper sounded nearby.
Thomas coughed and rolled to his feet.
“My friend,” he said, “we seem to be alive. But across?”
Thomas answered his own question by turning around and crawling back. Moments later, his hands found an edge!
Thomas grinned in the darkness.
The next eighty-eight steps took nearly an hour. Although the occasional flare of reflected light grew stronger and stronger, it provided little illumination, and Thomas dared not to risk another unseen chasm.
Finally, the flame itself!
As Thomas walked closer, the rising and falling light provided him more clues about the passage.
The walls were shored with large, square blocks of stone, unevenly placed. He understood immediately why his groping fingers had received such punishment in the total darkness behind him.
The passage was hardly higher than his head and wide enough to fit three men walking abreast.
Other than that, nothing. No clues as to the builders. No clues as to its reason for existence. No clues as to its age.
Thomas ran the final few steps to the light. The leg ache he had managed to forget in the previous few hours flared again with the extra movement, but he did not mind.
Gervaise had promised the knowledge he needed. It could only mean a message. And if Gervaise had managed to leave the message, Gervaise had managed to get out again. There was hope in that.
Thomas noted the source of the light. It was imbedded in the wall, as if a hand had scooped away part of the stone. A wick of cloth rose above a clear liquid, and from it came the solitary tongue of flame.
Burning water!
He did not examine the light long, because the puppy whined and sniffed at a leather sack barely visible in the shadows along the wall below the flame. Thomas pulled the sack away before the puppy could bury his nose in it entirely.
He understood the puppy’s anxiousness as soon as he opened it.
Cheese. Bread. And cooked chicken legs. All wrapped in clean cloth.
Thank you, Gervaise. Sudden moisture filled Thomas’s mouth as he realized how hungry he was. With his teeth, he ripped into a fat chicken leg, chewed a mouthful, then tore pieces free with his fingers to drop to the puppy.
More objects remained in the bag.
Thomas pulled free a large candle. He dipped the end into the flame in the wall and immediately doubled his light. Next from the bag came a candle holder, hooded so the bearer could walk and shed light without fear of killing the flame.
Finally, Thomas pulled free a rolled parchment, tied shut with a delicate ribbon.
He wiped chicken grease from his hands, then placed the candle holder on the ground and sat beside it.
The puppy nosed his palms for more food.
“Later,” Thomas said absently. His fingers, no longer bleeding and suddenly without pain as he focused on the parchment, trembled as he pulled the ribbon loose and unrolled the scroll.
The inked letter was bold and well spaced, as if the writer had guessed Thomas might be forced to read it in dim light.
Thomas, if you read this, it is only because, as I feared, the Druids, guised as Priests of the Holy Grail, have imprisoned you in your own dungeon. Yet if you read this, it is because you dared make the leap of faith I requested, and in so doing have proved you are not a Druid.
Druids! The shock was as an arrow piercing his heart. Thomas rubbed his forehead
in puzzlement. “Imprisoned in my own dungeon—I did not arrive here from the dungeon. And to suggest I might be a Druid—how could Gervaise even dare to think such a thing? I have spent the entire winter in fear of their return!”
Yes, my friend, the chasm you crossed was a test. Were you one of the Druids, you would have known that these passages and halls—
“Passages and halls?” Thomas sighed. This message created more mystery than it solved.
—are buried so deep in the island that anything more than several feet below their level would fill with water. You, as a Druid, would already be familiar with this. You, as a Druid, would have confidently stepped down and walked across, even without light to guide you. That you are reading this means you are not a Druid, for in that shallow, dry moat, I have placed a dozen adders.
Adders! Snakes with venom so potent that only a scratch of their poison could kill. A dozen adders! In the darkness, the puppy had not growled at the drop-off, but at what his nose had warned him of.
Thomas scratched the puppy behind the ears and shuddered at what might have happened had Gervaise not urged him to make the leap of faith.
Thus you now have my trust, Thomas. I regret I could not give it earlier. There is much to tell you, my friend, and I fear by the time you return to Magnus, I will not be alive to be the one who reveals to you the epic struggle between the Druids and the Immortals who were established by Merlin himself.
Merlin! Mention again of the ancient days of King Arthur. For Merlin, King Arthur’s advisor, had become as much a legend as the king himself!
I cannot say much in this letter, for who is to guess what others may stumble across it, should you not take the leap of faith to be the first to arrive here. Let me simply ask you to consider the books of your childhood. It was not chance that they were placed near you, those books of ancient knowledge from faraway lands. It was not chance that one of us was there to raise you, to teach you, to guide you, to urge you to reconquer Magnus, to show you the way. It was not chance that I spread the legend of the delivering angel shortly before your birth.
These new words were not the piercing of an arrow, but now the bludgeoning of a club. Gervaise knew of those precious books hidden near the abbey? At the significance of the message, Thomas could hardly breathe. He remembered the night he had conquered Magnus on the wings of an angel, how the entire population of Magnus had gathered enough strength from his arrival to overthrow its evil lord, simply because of a legend all believed. This had been planned before he was born?
Yet none of this knowledge I could share, Thomas, much as I treasured our conversations. For many years passed with you alone in the abbey. We did not know if they had discovered you and converted you. We did not know if you were one of them, allowed to conquer in appearance only so that we might reveal the final secrets of Magnus to you, secrets so important I cannot even hint of them now.
To arrive here, you trusted me. I beg of you to continue that trust. Your destiny has grown even more crucial—we did not expect the Druids to act so boldly, so soon. Even now, perhaps they have the power to conquer completely. You, as a born Immortal, must stop them.
“A born Immortal. I am a born Immortal? Gervaise, how can you reveal so much, yet reveal so little?” Thomas protested aloud.
Follow this passage, Thomas. It will take you to safety. Return to your books and search for the answers in them. Ask yourself: Where is the source? Trust no one. The stakes are too high. The Druids must not prevail.
“Recount for me, my daughter, how events have unfolded since our arrival here in York.” Lord Mewburn spoke to Isabelle in his usual commanding tone. “Tell me how I ensured the earl would be imprisoned.”
The two of them were alone in the great dining room with elaborate hanging tapestries covering the stone walls. He was a large man with a dark and heavy beard, his face with the permanent flush of one who enjoyed too much wine far too often. He sat at a table with a flagon of wine in front of him.
Isabelle sat primly across from her father, her hands folded on her lap in the posture of modesty that she’d been taught since she was a child.
She knew why he was doing this. To make the point that she was wrong to doubt whatever he was going to tell her next. But to mention this would be a sign of insolence. And Lord Mewburn had no patience for insolence in any form. When he reigned over Magnus, he would order a man’s tongue to be cut from his mouth with the same lack of hesitation he would display when requesting another flagon of wine.
“The earl’s son sent for representatives from the king. Directed by the son, they found letters from the earl, in the earl’s handwriting, and sealed in wax with the earl’s symbol, in a pouch to be delivered to other earls and lords across the entire kingdom. These letters requested help in overthrowing the king.”
Lord Mewburn scratched methodically at his chin through his wiry beard, a habit that Isabelle found irritating. He nodded.
“These letters, of course, and the wax seals were counterfeits, an easy enough task for us,” Isabelle continued. “The earl protested his innocence, but based on the testimony of his own son, he was immediately thrown into his own prison.”
As she spoke, she wondered if her irritation was rising because of her unhappiness with the situation. Michael, son of the Earl of York, had been placed in a temporary position to oversee the earldom, and soon enough, after the official letter of gratitude from the king, he would be pronounced the new Earl of York. Sacrificing his own ear had indeed been a small price. Betraying one’s father—well, that was a higher price, if a man had a conscience, but she doubted Michael did.
Of more concern to Isabelle was that she was expected to wed Michael once he became the new earl, giving her one of the highest places of nobility in all of England. A perfect place for a woman to be able to influence events on behalf of the Druids. Power and wealth would be hers, something she had been bred to desire. But without Thomas at her side …
“Go on,” Lord Mewburn said.
“In Magnus,” she said, “as we have heard by other messengers, Thomas has gone into hiding from the Priests of the Holy Grail. A bounty has been placed upon his head.”
He shall escape, she told herself. She couldn’t bear the thought of discovering that Thomas had been captured and tortured, as the earl had been, here in York. This was wrong, she knew, to be hoping that Thomas would escape the power of the Druids.
“And he shall escape,” Lord Mewburn said.
For a moment, she wondered if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. She found herself blinking in surprise.
“He shall escape,” Lord Mewburn repeated, “because events are unfolding as planned. It will do our battle no good for Thomas to be in a prison in Magnus or hanging from a rope. We want what he has hidden from us. Magnus has only been taken from him to drive him toward us again.”
“How can you be so certain he will come here?” Isabelle asked, doing her best to hide her emotions at the thought of seeing Thomas again.
Lord Mewburn steepled his fingers and smiled at her. “Because for centuries we have always been proven correct. But as part of your education, I will explain why in this situation. Thomas will have heard about the earl’s imprisonment, and he will be convinced that the earl must be an ally. Thomas will guess that those who have overthrown York are those who have overthrown Magnus. He will want to learn what he can from the earl and, I would also guess, want to try to assist him. It means, of course, that sooner than later, Thomas will arrive here.”
“Yes, Father,” Isabelle said.
“When he arrives,” Lord Mewburn said, “let’s make sure you are in a position to offer Thomas what he wants. Are you capable of that?”
Isabelle made sure that she did not show any of the joy that came with the quickening of her heart.
She simply repeated her words. “Yes, Father.”
SPRING, PARIS, FRANCE—AD 1313
Katherine startled as a shadow crossed the pages of her open book. “I’m so
rry, my child,” a soft voice reassured her. “The thoughts I interrupted, they must have been enjoyable. Your face showed such pleasure. And I was clumsy to—”
She blushed. “Frère Dominic, it is I who should apologize for daydreaming. The progress I have made with my Latin has not been remarkable. With all due respect to the author, it is … it is …”
Katherine fumbled for a tactful way to express how boring she found eleventh-century German philosophy. Her French failed her, however, and all she could do was shrug and look down modestly.
“Katherine,” Frère Dominic admonished, “is it not enough you have won an old priest’s heart? And now you take advantage of it with beautiful helplessness that is merely acted?”
Katherine laughed. Little escaped the old priest. He moved with the energy of a far younger man. Although he was plump and graying and always wore the smile of a jolly man, his eyes gleamed sharp in unguarded moments—or during the rough-and-tumble arguments in logic he and Katherine enjoyed as a means to pass time throughout the long winter.
“Father?” Katherine asked, searching his eyes. “Is something wrong?”
Frère Dominic nodded. “Only for me,” he said. “You see, when I tell you my heart has been stolen, it is not merely the flattery of a man who enjoys too much”—the priest patted his stomach—“your touch with our French recipes. I shall truly miss your presence here.”
Katherine stood quickly. She took one of the priest’s hands in hers and squeezed it tight. “He has returned?”
Frère Dominic nodded, then shook his head mournfully. “After an absence of six months, he refuses to accept the hospitality of one night’s stay here. Even now, that scoundrel is in the stable, preparing a horse for you.”
Katherine dropped the priest’s warm hand. “Travel? So soon? Did he mention …”
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