To Speak in Lifeless Tongues: Book 2 of the Grails Covenant Trilogy (The Grails Covenant Triloty)

by David Niall Wilson

  They made their way up the mountain in silence, lost in separate worlds and content to remain that way. The road narrowed as they climbed, and it was obviously less traveled, but Montrovant hardly slowed his pace, passing over rocky crags and leaping cracks in the road at breakneck speed. They did not need the horses to carry them. They would make better time without them, in fact. It was for the sake of appearances that they rode, and Montrovant was not concerned enough with those appearances to worry over the health of his mount. It would move with sure-footed grace, or it would fall. If it fell, he would leave it. Le Duc knew this from experience.

  He wasn’t as gifted as his sire at taking other forms, but he could move very quickly when the need arose. They neared the peak of the first crag, and Montrovant reined in, turning to stare back the way they’d come.

  “I don’t want to climb farther than this. We should be far enough ahead of them that they can’t catch up before nightfall—not allowing time for them to discover what we have left behind. There was a village here once—there.”

  He pointed down the steep side of the mountain toward an indistinct grouping of shadows. Le Duc could make out the shapes of crumbled buildings, but there was no sign of life. He turned back to Montrovant quizzically.

  “There are safe places for us there,” Montrovant said simply. “I have stayed there before—long years ago. We will camp.”

  Le Duc was surprised. There were still many hours before the sunrise would crest the mountain, and he’d thought Montrovant would want as many miles as possible between them and the convent before he sought shelter.

  They turned from the road and began the slippery trek down the mountain. Jeanne felt his mount flounder once, sliding and whinnying sharply, but it regained its balance, and thus its life. He followed Montrovant, still silent, but suddenly full of questions. There had to be something of significance in the ruins they now approached. The question was, how did he broach the subject without knowing the nature of his sire’s emotional attachment to the place? He had no desire to be attacked again.

  The ground evened out and they moved along what must once have been another road, though it was covered over by sliding rock and gravel. It led straight into the center of the ruined village, and Montrovant rode through the crumbled square without once glancing to the right or the left. He moved to the center of the square and stopped, looking around slowly as if he saw things that were not there.

  “It was different last time I saw it,” he said softly. “I came here with Eugenio once, before he locked himself away and became prince. We spent a lot of time on the road in those days—nothing like you and I have done—but more often than not we found ourselves between homes. We came here one evening, to an inn that stood beyond those trees.” Montrovant gestured to the left of the road.

  “There was a woman—Gwendolyn—who came to me that first evening we were there. Something was different about her, I saw it from the start, but I couldn’t quite make the connection. She knew me immediately as one of the Damned, and yet she was not one of us. The blood pumping through her veins was as red and hot as any I’ve tasted, and it was her own. Her eyes were what set her apart from the others.

  “She couldn’t have seen more than twenty summers, and yet those eyes drank me in as if she’d known my spirit for eternity.”

  “What did Eugenio think?” le Duc asked softly. “Did he approve?”

  “Eugenio was much wilder in those days. He saw none of this. If he was aware of her, and I have to believe that he was, he did not care that she was present. If she had no intention of revealing us to the mortals of the village, then Claudius was content to leave her, and me, to our own devices.”

  Le Duc was truly intrigued. This was certainly a side of Montrovant he’d never expected to see, though he knew he should have suspected it.

  “Who was she?”

  “I never found out,” Montrovant sighed. “I spent most of a single night in her company, dancing, talking. She knew what I wanted of her, and I was arrogant enough to believe that I would just take her when the time was right. It became one of those moments that Claudius is so fond of throwing up in my face when he gets onto one of his sermons on caution.”

  “Do you want to tell me the story?” Montrovant spun in his saddle, smiling slightly.

  “I thought I already was.”

  They dismounted, and Montrovant led the way to the remnants of what must have been a stable. Enough remained of the walls to conceal their mounts and to shelter them if the weather grew bad.

  Next Montrovant moved down one of the side streets and came up near the rear of what must have been the inn he’d spoken of earlier. There was an opening leading downward, broken steps and the scent of stale, damp earth. Montrovant didn’t hesitate, and le Duc followed. Moments later they were swallowed in comfortable darkness and they passed more deeply inward until they reached a door.

  It was odd. The door stood, even after all the years since Montrovant had claimed he was last in the village. Wrought of stone, the door had a wrought-iron handle in the shape of a great ring. It looked as though it would take two large men to pull it aside, though le Duc had no such concerns about Montrovant’s ability.

  To his consternation, however, Montrovant grabbed the ring with a single finger and pulled. There was no sound save a soft, sibilant hiss, and the stone slid aside smoothly. Turning to face Jeanne once again, Montrovant grinned widely.

  “This is where she brought me, Jeanne. It is here that the story truly begins.”

  Jeanne ducked inside, taking in the stone benches that lined the walls and the torches embedded in the walls. There were racks that must once have held hundreds of bottles of wine and there were one or two smaller alcoves that might have been for the storage of supplies, but the main room looked like the ruined, rotting memory of someone’s private chambers.

  Montrovant pulled the door shut once again, slipping a metal bar into a bracket beside the door that secured it effectively. Taking a seat on one of the stone benches, he crossed his legs, glancing up with a gleam in his eye that was different from any Jeanne had seen.

  Jeanne seated himself as well, waiting, and after a few moments, Montrovant spoke.

  THREE

  Montrovant was vaguely aware of Jeanne leaning back to listen, but his mind was a thousand miles and a hundred years away. He could still paint the images of the village over the remnants. The walls and buildings, streets and squares had not been crumbling ruins then—they had lived and breathed, and he’d stumbled into the midst of it like a drunken prince. He spoke, and the words washed the present into the recesses at the back of his mind.

  Claudius had known of the inn they approached from some earlier time. Dwelling on his past was not something Montrovant’s sire was known for, and he looked even less kindly on those who would try to force the issue. To Montrovant it hadn’t mattered. He was content to live the present and let the bones and shadows bury themselves.

  For whatever reason, he had no idea that the inn would be anything more than what it appeared to be, a gathering place for mountain peasants who wanted a deep tankard of ale and an even deeper measure of cheer. The sounds of song and laughter had carried beyond the village to the road, and Montrovant drank it in like a prince might enjoy a fine wine. Life. He could sense them, could pick up their scents on the wind, each subtly different, each magnificent.

  Claudius was in rare form himself. His pace had picked up steadily as they drew near to the inn, and there was a gleam in his eye that Montrovant had not seen in months. He was actually looking forward to rubbing elbows with these mortals, and Montrovant found this more fascinating even than the prospect of the hunt. Claudius was a creature of habit, and this night he seemed bent on breaking his own rules.

  “We must be cautious,” Claudius warned as they entered the village square. “They will be drunk, and they will all be stumbling away from this place through the shadows…but they are not stupid people. They know the kinds of dange
rs those shadows hold all too well, and they will jump before there is even a reason to do so…you must watch them. They will know if something is seriously amiss, and we must be careful that they don’t realize it is so until we are gone from here, the memory of our passing nothing more than mist on the grass.”

  Montrovant nodded. He knew all of this as well as he knew his own mind. It was not like Claudius to instruct him, but Montrovant knew better than to question it. His sire had an air of distraction about him that made Montrovant nervous. He wanted no ill words between them until he knew exactly what was going on.

  Light spilled from the windows of the inn, and the bloodscent permeated the night. The two were met near the entrance by an old man who took the reins of their mounts. His grin was lopsided, and the left side of his face did not function properly, falling slack and lifeless. His expressions lacked completion. He was half-grinning as he took Montrovant’s reins.

  “I’ll take good care of ’em, masters,” he slurred through a nearly ruined mouth. “Take fine care of ’em, that’s what. You go on in and have a drink or two—best thing for a night like this one. Best thing for a night like any.”

  The man’s cackling laughter floated after the two as they made their way to the door of the inn and entered. The light from the fire was bright, and it took Montrovant a moment to adjust his senses. He moved quickly toward the back of the room, ignoring the sudden silence and the stares of the locals. Claudius followed more slowly.

  As the two slid into a booth near the back of the inn the sound picked up slowly. It was clear that they weren’t going to prove immediately entertaining, so for the moment they’d been appraised and forgotten. Montrovant knew that his sire had worked toward that end, making the two of them as inconspicuous as possible and clouding them in the eyes of those they passed.

  It was a necessary precaution. Montrovant stood nearly six foot five, gaunt and thin but at the same time wiry and powerful. Claudius had long, flowing gray hair and eyes that could steal one’s soul. The two made an imposing sight, one not the usual fare for such an establishment. If they were to draw no attention to themselves, it was necessary that they sacrifice a bit in style.

  A few moments after they’d seated themselves, a thin, waifish girl sauntered over to the table. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, but the wink in her eye and the swish of her hip told other stories about her experience.

  “What’ll you have?” she asked, tossing her hair over one shoulder and letting her gaze linger a bit longer than necessary over Montrovant’s eyes. She clearly intended herself as a menu item, and Montrovant had to fight to hide the grin that threatened to surface. Claudius had no such problems.

  “We will have wine, mulled and hot. We will also have privacy. You will leave us, and you will not return, except to bring our wine. Do you understand?”

  It wasn’t a true question. The girl had no more choice in the matter than the wine. They would not drink it, of course, but they could savor the aroma and dream, and the sight of the drinks in their hands, emptied discreetly now and then to be refilled, would serve their anonymity.

  She turned, but not before taking another instant to stare at Montrovant longingly. She sensed something in him. He drew her and she flitted around the flame that was his essence like a trapped and helpless moth. Eugenio snapped her mind free and sent her scurrying toward the bar with a glance. Glaring at Montrovant, the elder vampire almost snarled.

  “I told you to be careful. She is the innkeeper’s daughter. Too many would miss her presence. She is not for us.”

  Montrovant was shocked. He’d enjoyed the moment of control with the girl, but he’d not meant to follow that road. He could sense her mind as well as his sire could. He’d already removed her name from the menu. What in Hell was bothering Eugenio?

  “I am not a child,” Montrovant grated at last, aware of the possible mistake he was making but unable to keep his silence. “I know what is safe and what is not. What I don’t know is why you have so suddenly forgotten my knowledge of these things, and why you would insult me when I have done nothing to deserve it.”

  Claudius half rose from his seat, then sank back down. The anger drained from his features as quickly as it had risen, but Montrovant was pinned to his seat by the remnant of the fear that short moment had generated. Scenes from his past he’d not thought of in decades had surfaced, and he’d contemplated, just for a second, what it might mean to truly die. The moment passed.

  “I am here on business,” Claudius said at last. “It is a tricky thing, and I am not certain how it will go. This place is not exactly what it seems. It would serve you well if you could learn to look at every new place in that fashion. I have to talk to an old acquaintance, and you will be on your own.”

  “Acquaintance? One of the clan?”

  “No,” Claudius said almost too fast. “I will tell you more when we are a safe distance from this place. Suffice it to say that our roads may never be the same after this night.”

  “You are afraid.” Montrovant didn’t ask it as a question, he stated it in disbelief.

  “I am not afraid,” Claudius snapped. “I am nervous. There is a difference.”

  Montrovant snorted once, but he held his silence. He knew he’d pushed the boundaries of good sense already, and he knew when to retreat. He already had enough to mull over in his mind; no sense in agitating Claudius further.

  “I’ll be fine,” Montrovant assured his sire. “I’m certain I can behave myself for a few hours on my own, and I’m equally certain I can provide my own meal without causing undue stress to your meeting, whatever it might be. Dismiss me from your thoughts.”

  Claudius had glared at him for what seemed an eternity. Montrovant knew that the elder vampire was weighing the dangers of their situation. If Claudius knew that things were not as they seemed, that meant he also had a good idea what things were. Montrovant wondered what test he was passing or failing in the mind’s eye of his maker.

  “Just be careful,” Claudius said at last. “It is an important night.”

  It was then that the girl returned with their wine. She also had a small bit of parchment which she nervously placed before Claudius. She stood staring at him, as if waiting to see if he would reveal his secrets in her presence.

  Impulsively, Montrovant reached out and took her hand in his own, meeting her gaze with a smile. He watched Claudius out of the corner of his eye. The response was sudden and final. The girl clutched her hand to her breast, ripping it free of Montrovant’s own and whirling in sudden fear. Claudius only smiled after her, then turned for an instant to meet Montrovant’s gaze. There were volumes of anger and promises of pain in that gaze, but Montrovant met it steadily. He tried to keep his own smile cold and unreadable.

  “I hope that everything goes…well.” he said softly.

  Claudius turned to the parchment and unfurled it hurriedly, scanning the single page quickly, then rolling it and tucking it beneath his robes. Montrovant waited, as had the girl, but he got no more response than she, and finally he feigned a loss of interest to let his eyes rove about the room. “You will know more than you care to soon enough,” Claudius whispered, suddenly so close to his ear that the soft exhalation of air behind the words tickled Montrovant’s ear. “For once, trust that I am serious and act accordingly.”

  Before Montrovant could answer, he was alone. He glanced quickly about the room, but none seemed to have noticed Claudius’s passing.

  A fight broke out momentarily at one end of the bar, but a well-aimed swipe of one huge arm from the beefy innkeeper, catching one on the chin and the other across the throat, sent both assailants crashing into a wall. Montrovant stared, caught by surprise for the first time in decades.

  “That’ll be enough out of the both of you,” the innkeeper growled. “Next time I won’t be so easy on you.” Neither of the two assailants was rising, though one of them was shaking his head groggily and trying to roll over to his back. The power behind tha
t blow had been incredible.

  Turning to Montrovant slowly, the innkeeper caught his eye for just a second. The man winked, nodding ever so slightly at the two on the floor and giving a quick shrug of his shoulders.

  This place is not exactly what it seems.

  Eugenio’s words came back to him in an instant, and Montrovant scanned the room more cautiously, but with renewed interest. Most of the attention, for the moment, was drawn toward the short scuffle, so he was able to take in each patron in turn without fear of being caught at it. In remote places such as this, it was best not to show any undue interest in the affairs of strangers.

  There were three men at the corner booth, small and swarthy and dressed in the rough clothing of farmers. They kept to themselves, each nursing a mug of ale. They talked in low voices, dark eyes locked on their drinks and the table. Montrovant probed more deeply, exerting just the slightest bit of mental energy, but there was nothing there.

  He slid around to the next booth. A man and a woman sat opposite one another. He was tall and thin, blonde hair sweeping back over his shoulders and a hat pulled close over one eye. He leaned so far across the table that his chest was flat against the surface and his hair dangled dangerously near his drink. She was shorter, but equally fair of complexion. She did not lean forward as he did, but neither did she lean back. She hung on his every word, and he laid it on thicker and deeper as the moment progressed.

  Before Montrovant was able to probe further, the man stopped speaking suddenly and turned. Montrovant lowered his gaze to the table before him barely in time. They knew he watched them. More to contemplate, more danger to avoid. He waited until he heard the faint murmur of the man’s voice again, then continued to scan the room.

  Nothing caught his interest among the others. A pair of hunters, two guardsmen on leave from the service of a Welsh lord. Talk of the wars in the East, rumors from France and the British Isles. Nothing new or even slightly captivating. He was about to return his mind to contemplation of just what might be going on in such a place when a whisper of silk and the scent of jasmine ushered a slender figure into the seat opposite him.