The Book Knights
Page 23
A few feet inside, the passage widened, and Tomas saw the foot of a stone sarcophagus with the name Jean de Lac engraved on its end. He recalled the ceremony for The Bard of Lucinne held in this place half a decade before. Like the letters on the casket, the dignity that Vivian and her nephew, Lance, had shown in their moment of grief was still etched deep in Tomas’s memory.
Tomas and Lance had grown up together, the closest of friends, though their educations differed. With Vivian as his instructor, Tomas had spent his youth in service of the Order, studying and conserving the extensive collection of books in the de Lac library. Lance, on the other hand, followed in the footsteps of his forefathers, reciting The Verses and training in the strike of words under the watchful eye of his legendary uncle and master.
It was Lance who had given Tomas the message from Vivian a month ago, just before leaving for Old Tintagel in answer to his aunt’s unexpected summons. As strange as her instructions seemed to Tomas, he followed them without question: At midnight on All Souls Eve, take the book into the Tomb of the Knights of Maren. Hide it deep within the crypt. No one but Lance and I must know you’ve done this. Never return to it. Never speak of it again.
The line of stone coffins continued, one after another, arcing off into the murky gloom of the catacomb. Resting next to Jean de Lac was his brother, Bayne, Lance’s father. He died young, but Lance still talked about him often. It was too bad that he never got to see how skilled a fighter his son had become.
A third of the way into the deep cavern, one sarcophagus stood out among the others. It was ornately decorated with carved oak leaves and garlands. On its lid was the sculpted form of its occupant, Guillaume de Lac. Tomas had read many of the renowned author’s works, most of them fascinating histories of the men to be found in the darkest depths of the tomb.
Tomas passed generation after generation of de Lac knights, finally arriving at the end of the rough-hewn shaft where the first of them, Marglen of the Lake, had rested for two millennia. The young librarian had never come this far before, had never seen The Founder’s resting place. He held the lamp over the ancient sarcophagus, illuminating the king’s effigy, careful not to defile it with his touch.
Marglen’s arms were crossed at his chest, hands wrapped around the handle of a great sword, the blade of which ran the length of his chiseled body. The bearded warrior of old wore his crown proudly, content in his rest, satisfied that eighty generations of his line had served the Order of Librarians and the people of Ference so well.
As instructed, Tomas set The Souls’ Keep on a ledge next to The Founder’s casket. Holding the lamp out, he looked at the book one last time, wondering what reason Vivian had for storing it here. It was a question he intended to ask her.
Content that he had completed his mission, Tomas started back the way he had come. He’d only taken a few steps when he heard the low hiss of a woman’s voice in back of him. He spun around, his heart racing with the kind of terror a child feels when they imagine a monster hiding in the darkness. Tomas stabbed at the shadows with the lamp but saw nothing there—just the stone caskets he had passed. Then he heard the phantom woman whisper again.
“No,” she said, in what sounded like disbelief. “No, it can’t be.” The moment of silence that followed was pierced by her agonized scream. “No!”
Tomas staggered back from the terrifying lament, tripping over a stone on the tomb’s rocky floor. He dropped the lamp as he fell, and its flame went out. In the sudden darkness, he scrambled blindly to his feet in the panic to escape. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, Tomas glanced back to the end of the tunnel where he had placed The Souls’ Keep. A weak halo of light warmed the rough stone wall next to The Founder’s coffin.
Tomas shuffled hastily toward the tomb’s opening, probing his way through the darkness, desperate to get away from the book—and whatever or whoever was trapped inside it. The last thing he heard was another voice, this one belonging to a man.
“What’s happened?” he asked feebly. “Where are we, Mother?”
Table of Contents
Contents
Dedication
Copyright © 2017 by J. G. McKenney
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
EPILOGUE