“Jude wrote of this,” Dónall observed. “And Saint Peter, too. ‘God did not spare the angels that sinned, but cast them down to Tartarus, putting them into gloomy dungeons to be held for judgment.’”
“It’s also in Revelation,” Lucien added. “Remember the passage? From the abyss shall rise smoke, like the smoke of a great furnace, that darkens the sky, and from the earth shall come locusts—armed devils with human faces and iron breastplates. The fallen angels, freed to wreak their vengeance on the world.”
His words recalled the chilling image of Remi’s illumination in the Apocalypse of John: the winged demons rising from the pit and attacking the monks and priests who cowered in the margins of the page.
“It speaks again of the giants,” Remi said, continuing to read. “Enoch tried to petition for God’s mercy on behalf of the fallen angels, but God rebuffed him and stood firm in his condemnation. Then he tells Enoch of the giants’ fate, though whether they were slain by the archangels or drowned in the flood, the text doesn’t say. ‘Now the Nephilim, who were born of spirits and of flesh, shall remain on earth and shall be evil spirits. Their spirits shall be like clouds. And they shall rise up against man and woman and oppress and destroy and cause trouble on the earth until they perish on the Day of Judgment.’”
“The origin of demons?” Dónall mused.
“There is more,” Remi added hastily. “It speaks of female angels who were led astray. Uriel tells Enoch they shall be ‘sirens’ on the earth. It says nothing of binding them in chains. Don’t you see? Sirens, creatures of myth, like the nymphs—the Fae—are one and the same!”
“But why would these angels receive leniency?” Lucian asked.
“Perhaps they did not sin against man,” Remi offered.
“Or maybe,” Ciarán said, “someone more persuasive than Enoch pled their case.”
“The first link between scripture and the Fae.” Dónall walked over to the hearth to warm himself. “If only Thomas could have lived to hear this . . .”
Lucien rose from his chair. “He would have liked to be here. The prophecy was his Golden Fleece, his Grail, and for a time we were his Argonauts, his fellow knights.” He put a comforting hand on Dónall’s shoulder. “I know I’m not the worthiest to speak of it, for I was among the first to abandon his voyage for this cloistered life. And when I learned what you had brought to the priory, I admit I was hesitant. But with this discovery, if Thomas was right about all he believed . . . ?”
Remi stopped reading to watch Lucien and Dónall.
“There is still time to finish Thomas’s quest,” Lucien said. “But that raises a question, if I recall correctly. What of Enoch’s device? We’ve found no reference to it in the book.”
“There is much left to learn.” Remi gestured at the scroll, still thickly wound around its second spindle.
“Do you remember the verse from Maugis’ map?” Lucien asked.
“Of course,” Remi said.
“Do you still have it?” Lucien stepped back toward the table. “Maybe there was something we missed before we had the benefit of Enoch’s words.”
“It’s right here.” Dónall took the Book of Maugis from its satchel on the floor. On its cover, the ankh glittered in the candlelight.
Lucien let out a little sigh. “I had forgotten how beautiful it is.”
Dónall opened the book on the table, carefully turning the pages of scrawled characters and strange symbols, until he found the map. The larger of the two seven-pointed stars was indeed the same image as that on the book shrine containing Enoch’s scroll. The ankh in the center of the small star was the same as Alais’ pendant. Around the septagrams that comprised the larger star were the words in Greek. Leaning over the book, Ciarán read those words again:
Enoch saw a great and glorious device
at the end of the whole earth.
There Arcanus found the Stone of Light.
“Look for a reference to the ends of the earth,” he said.
Remi nodded as if he had already thought of this, while Lucien studied every facet of the old diagram. Dónall stood by the hearth, looking deep in thought. In silence, Remi read the scroll, tracing each word with his finger.
Ciarán could feel fatigue weighing on him. The day’s events had left him far more exhausted than he knew. But he snapped alert when Remi looked up from the scroll.
“Interesting,” Remi said. “Uriel takes Enoch to the top of a mountain that reaches all the way to heaven, and there shows him wondrous things: a river of fire, great mountains, the mouths of all the rivers, and the storehouse of all the winds—the four elements of God’s creation. Then he takes him to the abyss, the prison of Tartarus, where the defiant angels are confined. Raphael joins them and, with his brother archangel, shows Enoch the place where the spirits of the dead reside. Then they take him to the desert where Eden once was, and show him the tree of knowledge. And here it says that Uriel showed Enoch the stars and their names and positions, and he wrote them down.”
Lucien looked up from the diagram he had been studying, and blinked in astonishment. “The angels showed Enoch the prophecy etched in the heavens.”
“Of course!” Remi said. He continued reading, then nearly jumped up from his chair. “Eureka!” he cried. “‘From there I went north to the ends of the earth. And there I saw a great and glorious device.’”
He turned to Dónall. “Ye of little faith, here is your evidence! If the device exists, then how can you deny the prophecy?”
Dónall shook his head in amazement.
Lucien glanced about at his old friends, then clapped his hands. “This deserves a celebration,” he announced. “To think that after all these years, we finally found it—or at least a reference to it. We shall remember this breakthrough for the rest of our lives.” He headed for the door. “We keep a few bottles from Bordeaux in our cellar. One of the benefits of a small priory is that everything’s within easy reach.”
As Lucien left the library, Ciarán wondered what Dónall must be thinking. His eyes still held a misty, disbelieving look as he came back to the table and closed the Book of Maugis, then carefully returned it to its satchel. “If the prophecy is real . . .” His voice trailed off.
“But where is Enoch’s device, then?” Ciarán asked. “It’s not much help knowing it exists, if we haven’t a clue how to find it.”
Remi wrinkled his brow. “Do not be naive. Why would Maugis simply leave us with proof of Enoch’s device, but no way to find it? He was the last protector of the prophecy. He would have given us the means to discover its location.”
Dónall buckled the satchel and said, “What if there are no more clues in the scroll?”
Ciarán grew uneasy. He had seen Dónall play the role of contrarian and had seen how it sometimes angered those debating him. “Maybe the scroll’s only purpose,” Dónall continued, “is to confirm the truth about the fallen angels, the Nephilim, and the origins of the Fae.”
“No!” Remi insisted. “There must be more.”
“Let’s reason from what we know,” Dónall said. “Assuming this writing confirms the existence of this Stone of Light, then Arcanus found it, presumably at the ends of the earth, wherever that might be. But in any event, Arcanus would have taken it to Atlantis.”
“Do we even know what it looked like?” Ciarán asked.
“We might,” said Dónall. “Another of Maugis’ drawings may have shown the device: a staff topped with an ankh, and in the center of the ankh’s loop was a stone. In the Secret Collection, we also found references to an Atlantean crystal called the tuaoi stone, or fire stone. Perhaps there’s a connection.”
Ciarán tried to imagine this thing. For some reason, he thought of the staff that Moses carried in the desert, depicting a bronze snake entwined around a cross. “So if this staff was in Atlantis, then what? Atlantis sank into the sea.”
Remi ran his hand over his face and rubbed his eyes. “An old tale from the Hebrew mystics says that Abr
aham had received a so-called testament of a lost civilization—a stone small enough to hold in the palm of his hand. Nicolas and I once spent a week musing about it, but we never found any more reference to it in the texts. I suppose it is possible . . .”
The door to the library swung open, and Lucien entered with a bottle of wine and four wooden cups. “The best our cellar has to offer,” he said, filling the cups. He raised his cup. “Other than our former friend Gerbert, we are, sadly, all that remains of our brotherhood of twelve. To the survivors.”
Remi lifted his cup and drained it in a single draft. Ciarán inhaled the pleasant bouquet of blackcurrant, then raised the cup to his mouth. But Dónall’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist with a grip like a vise. The wine sloshed over the rim and onto the rush-covered floor.
“What about Nicolas?” Dónall demanded
A look of alarm flashed across Lucien’s face.
Dónall, who had not touched the wine, slammed his cup on the table. “I’ve heard nothing of Nicolas’s death.”
Beside them, a gurgle rose in Remi’s throat. His eyes bulged, and his cheeks flushed a violet red.
Abruptly, Lucien barged Ciarán in the chest with his shoulder, knocking him aside. Ciarán barely managed to keep his feet, but the cup slipped from his hand as Lucien bolted for the door.
Remi staggered backward, nearly collapsing on the table.
Dónall’s eyes were dark with fury as he stared after the receding patter of running sandaled feet.
Both Dónall and Ciarán turned toward Remi. Foaming spittle dribbled down his chin, but his face was a mask of rage. Dónall and Ciarán reached for him, but Remi pushed them away.
Then he lurched forward and darted after Lucien, flailing his arms like a man possessed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
BETRAYAL
As Dónall darted after Remi through the library door, Ciarán stood stunned for an instant before grabbing the book satchel and scampering after them.
Dónall pivoted and dashed down one of the cloister’s covered walkways. Ahead, a black-robed figure ducked into a doorway. The staccato of sandaled feet echoed through the cloister. Ciarán was only steps behind.
The doorway opened into the nave of the priory church. Enough moonlight streamed through the windows to reveal rows of benches. Raving screams emanated from the left transept. Dónall dashed down the nave and into the transept, where he disappeared in a narrow alcove.
Ciarán slid to a halt. A stairwell in the alcove descended into darkness, and he could hear footfalls pattering down stone steps.
Ciarán had no time to ponder where the stairwell might lead. He could hear Dónall ahead of him, but the howling had stopped. Steadying himself against the stairwell’s damp stone wall, he slowed his pace to avoid tripping. The stairs descended to a disturbing depth, in absolute darkness. Ahead, a voice cried out. It was Dónall’s voice.
Ciarán’s heart raced. At the bottom of the stairs, a reddish glow revealed a stone floor. He rushed down the steps toward the light, when a sudden force hurled him forward.
He felt himself falling. His shoulder slammed into stone, and he tumbled and went sprawling. A stomach-turning stench filled the air around him.
Looking up from where he lay, Ciarán gasped. Against the far wall of the dimly lit chamber glowed the red eyes of some great beast. A dragon, with skin like stone and teeth as long as swords!
Ciarán started to scream, but a hand on his shoulder cut him short.
“It’s only a statue,” Dónall whispered. He knelt beside Ciarán. Next to them, Remi rocked on his hands and knees, shaking and dripping vomit from his mouth and chin.
Metal screeched against stone, followed by a loud crash, and he turned to find an iron portcullis barring the archway to the stairwell. Behind the iron bars stood the man who had pushed Ciarán down the steps and who would have poisoned them all: Lucien of Saint-Denis, the prior of Saint-Bastian’s.
Clutching his own throat, Remi glared at Lucien. “What did you do to Nicolas?” he rasped.
“He died not far from where you sit,” Lucien replied.
“But why, brother?” Dónall asked.
“Because a war is coming, and Nicolas served the wrong side.”
“And Canon Martinus?”
“He died to protect the Secret Collection—the secrets we held most dear.”
Dónall stared at Lucien in disbelief. “The Fae arts were never worth murder.”
Lucien shrugged. “You and I followed those same arts down different paths, I’m afraid. From other tomes in the Secret Collection, I learned the ways of contacting the dead from the gloom of Sheol. I thought I had found a beloved friend, who took his own life when faced with the hypocritical judgment of the Church. I spoke with him each night while you and the others slept. He told me fascinating things about the world and the black void beyond. But after many conversations, I discovered I was wrong in my assumptions. For it was not my friend whom I spoke with all those nights, but he.” Lucien gestured toward the statue, whose glimmering red eyes washed his face in a hellish glow.
“This is madness,” Dónall said, rising to his feet.
“Is it!” Lucien fairly screamed. “You have no concept of his power—or his greatness! He who led the rebellion against the greatest tyrant the world has ever known.”
“Blasphemer!”
“When did it become blasphemy to speak the truth? Your God was the most prolific slayer of innocents in all history: all life in the flood, the children of Sodom and Gomorrah, all Egypt’s firstborn. Did they deserve to die? Are those the acts of a merciful god? No, Dónall—that way lies madness. Yet it is precisely this tyranny that the Dragon defies. Do not believe Enoch’s lies. The world of the Dragon was the world we dreamed of in Reims: the world of Apollo and Daphne, of Jason and his Argonauts, of glorious Olympus! This is the past to which he seeks to return, like the Ouroboros, coming full circle to a greater time that once was.”
“You have forfeited your soul,” Dónall said grimly.
Lucien looked away. “I have chosen my side in this war.”
“You murdered Nicolas!” Remi cried, grimacing with pain.
“He was but a sacrifice for a higher cause,” Lucien replied coldly.
Behind Ciarán, a guttural sound began to emanate from the dragon statue, as if the thing were coming to life. Ciarán grabbed the hem of Dónall’s cowl and bent his ear toward the statue. The sound ended in a long hiss.
Remi turned his bloodshot eyes toward the statue.
“Ah, yes,” Lucien said. “Soon you will find the evidence of the Otherworld that you have sought for so long.”
The hissing grew louder, and a shadowy form seethed within the dragon’s mouth. Something clicked against the tiled floor.
“Behold,” Lucien said, “the basilisk, a creature of myth!”
In the flickering candlelight, a shape emerged, reptilian and as large as a wolfhound. A pale ridge like a cock’s comb topped its head, which bobbed and waved on a serpentine neck above a huge, scaled birdlike body.
Ciarán froze. The creature was but six paces away, cocking its head from side to side and watching them with gleaming, round obsidian eyes.
“Legend has it that the basilisk’s gaze can turn a man to stone,” Lucien said from the stairwell, “yet I think you’ll find it has far deadlier aspects than its eyes. Au revoir, old friends.”
The basilisk hissed, revealing a mouthful of sharp, evenly spaced teeth. Its breath stank of carrion. As Remi rose to his feet, the fear surging through Ciarán’s veins brought a strange clarity, as if time had somehow slowed. From his left, Dónall barked an order, then held out the leaf-shaped sword. Ciarán grasped it by the hilt. Using the sword against this creature seemed as improbable as taking on a wild boar with only a fruit knife. Ciarán had never even hunted game with a spear, let alone attacked something as large as the abomination that stood leering and swaying before him now.
Then Dónall spoke another wo
rd: “Eoh.”
Blinding light exploded from the small crystal held between his thumb and index finger, and the basilisk’s head whipped to one side. The light quickly faded to a white glow, illuminating the immediate area of the cavernous chamber.
The basilisk recovered with a hissing vengeance, inching toward them, its great, curved talons clattering on the stone floor.
“Look!” Dónall grabbed Ciarán by the back of his hair, jerking his head to the side. The crystal’s glow revealed a small alcove at the end of the chamber, off to the side of the dragon’s-head statue. “A way out.”
But the basilisk blocked their path.
Ciarán brandished the sword, and the grotesque head reared back. A cry of terror rose to Ciarán’s lips, but another voice filled the chamber.
Remi was screaming at the basilisk. Then, with arms raised and fingers clutching the air, he lunged toward it. From the basilisk’s mouth streamed a jet of viscous liquid, spattering Remi just before he collided with the beast. The snakelike neck whipped about, and teeth sank into flesh. The basilisk held Remi’s chest in its great jaws, crushing the life from him.
With strangely lucid eyes, Remi looked at Ciarán and Dónall and gurgled, “Run!”
*
Dónall plunged into the alcove, with Ciarán a step behind. The choking smell of dust lay thick in what the illuminating crystal revealed to be a narrow passageway cut through the bedrock. Behind them, Remi’s dying screams, mixed with the basilisk’s guttural growls, filled the chamber.
The passageway widened, and the dust smell grew thicker, as did the stench of decaying flesh. The crystal’s pearlescent light glinted off a human skull. Ciarán gasped. On shelves carved in the earthen walls were rows of skulls, stacked several deep—a gallery of the dead, grimacing at all who came this way. The shelves climbed to a ceiling cloaked in shadow, perhaps twelve feet from the floor.
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