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

by David Niall Wilson

  Santos shook his head violently, returning his concentration to the chant. It was enough that those he worked with required so much of his time to learn their parts without causing the ritual to fail on his own. There was a time and a place for everything, and the time for revenge would come soon enough. For the moment he needed to build his strength and to train his followers. The Templars were about to fall, and he needed to be certain that he and those he chose to keep would be prepared to make it out in one piece. He needed to be free and with the means to carry on the search that dragged him onward.

  Santos required no companionship. Ancient tomes, secrets long buried and others yet to be discovered, these were his bedfellows. He needed no conversation, nor did he require respect or friendship. He had dedicated a long existence to a single purpose, and he had failed at that purpose. It was too late to redeem that failure, but it was not too late to rectify the situation.

  He needed to recover what was rightfully his. The secrets he’d been entrusted with were not his possessions, but the position of guardian was his alone. It was his right, and his responsibility. Without that responsibility, he was nothing, and that reality had spun its web of bitterness over him slowly and certainly. The darkness that had swallowed his reason at times was more constant since he’d been run out of Jerusalem, and he needed to regain the control it was costing him to hold it at bay.

  There had been a time when he’d considered certain of his followers students. He’d even thought of teaching them secrets that might have given them a semblance of his own power, his “gifts.” These before him he held in nothing but contempt, though he was careful not to let this show. To them he was the “Dark Master.” They believed that he would lead them to the spiritual purity and strength that their puny, disorganized Church had not been able to provide.

  He felt nothing for them. They were tools to be used toward his goal, and the deadening of his heart told him that it would always be so. He had trusted others too much in the past, and they had failed him. Though he hadn’t been stripped of everything in his flight from the Holy Land, he’d lost more than he cared to admit. That defeat had taken something he’d clung to for centuries—the last remnant of his humanity.

  Behind him he could feel the cold, lifeless stare of glassy eyes. They bored through him to the core of his being, calling out to be freed. He did not flinch from that call. Soon it would be time, and answers would be his. When he had that information, these fools would be tossed to the King of France as bait, and he and a very few others would depart on the greatest adventure of a long, long life. He would regain what had been stolen, and he would find a way to make Kli Kodesh pay. If the ancient could not be killed, nothing said that unlife had to be bearable.

  With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Santos returned himself fully to the task at hand. The others swayed back and forth to the rhythm of the chant and he let himself be swept away by that motion. Releasing his mind, he slipped free, riding the current of sound generated by the ancient words. Close. He was very close to his goal. It would not be long before it was over.

  SIX

  The night was nearly ended when Jacques made his way to the upper levels of the keep, avoiding contact with the few others who were about and staggering into his quarters. He was spent, heart and soul. No energy remained for balance, and the bruises on his legs and shoulders from banging against walls and door frames were witness to this. He’d sent the servants away before slipping below to meet with Santos, so there were none present to witness his weakened state. His mind whirled with images and strange words, rhythms and incantations only half understood. Jacques did not have full control of the power they were unleashing, but he could feel it just the same. He knew when something grand was knocking, and he meant to find a way to open that door.

  The pungent aroma of incense had embedded itself in his hair and clothing, and his eyes were red pits of exhaustion. He stumbled across his chamber to the table beside his bed and reached immediately for the bottle in its center. Hands trembling, he dribbled a cup full of the rich, red wine into a goblet and gulped it down. The drink burned his parched throat, but he ignored the pain, pouring a second and downing it with equal disregard.

  After a third cup had disappeared, the trembling dissipated, and he was able to stand up straighter. Jacques moved to the window, where the light of dawn was just beginning to seep over the horizon, and he stared down at the road leading up to the keep. No sign of Philip. No one was moving on that road at all, in fact, and that was a sobering thought. Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same again. Jacques looked out over the land that was his by right, by birth and blood. His remaining time as ruler could be measured in heartbeats, he knew, and there was one, and only one, resolution. The dark stranger inhabiting the lower levels of his keep was the key. Santos was many things, mage, savant, teacher, but Jacques had never fooled himself on one point. The man was evil. He represented power, but it was not the pure power of the spirit.

  If Jacques was to find a way to save his knights, and his life, it would be through that power. The tremble threatened to return to his hands, and he doused it with yet another mug of wine. His thoughts were beginning to fog, but he fought for a few more coherent moments. He wanted those moments for himself. Santos had begun to leak up from the dungeons into his daily affairs, his thoughts and his dreams. Jacques did not like the sensation of another controlling his actions.

  There was a soft knock on his door, and he contemplated sending whoever it was away with a gruff shout. He needed to rest. He could not fight Philip, or Santos’s control, if he couldn’t keep his eyes open and his mind sharp. Too many nights had been spent in darkness and shadows with too little result, and he needed to shut down his overworked mind before it fell apart completely.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “Louis,” came the quick reply. With a grunt, Jacques stumbled away from the window sill, managing somehow to grab the wine bottle as he turned.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Louis de Chaunvier entered quickly, pushing the door closed firmly behind himself. He showed many of the same signs of fatigue as his lord, but somehow his dark good looks hid the bags beneath his eyes more easily. Though the fatigue was obvious in his expression, the fire in his eyes burned brightly. Too brightly.

  “What is it, Louis?” Jacques asked.

  “I cannot sleep, Jacques. I cannot think. What is to become of us, do you think?”

  “I do not know, my friend,” Jacques replied, lurching forward to slap the shorter man’s shoulder drunkenly. The wine combined rapidly with his exhaustion to steal his reason. “We will find a way through this. I swear it. It has always been so, and it will remain so.”

  “That may be true,” Louis frowned, “but it has never truly been like this.” He shook his head and walked across to the table for another glass. Guiltily, Jacques filled his own glass while his friend’s back was turned. The bottle was getting low.

  Turning back quickly, Louis added, “There has never been one like him.”

  “If you believe the chronicles, there has,” Jacques argued. “The very foundations of our order rest on legend. Hugues de Payen himself spoke, when he’d had enough wine, of a man he called only Montrovant. This man had powers beyond anyone’s understanding. There are others. Do not make a fool of yourself through naiveté, Louis. Santos may not be all that he claims, but he is more than we believe.

  Your words make no sense,” Louis snapped. He snatched the bottle and poured the last of its contents into the mug he now held. “You speak of legends and ghosts when the very walls of your own keep are to be assaulted by an army. That army is very real, Jacques, and very large. I do not believe that Philip will be in any mood to negotiate.”

  “You have seen Santos,” Jacques whispered hoarsely, tossing back the last of his wine. He brushed the unruly locks of his hair aside so that he could make eye contact with his friend. “You have seen what he can do, felt what he can
bring forth in a man. How can you deny that?”

  “I deny nothing,” Louis replied. “but I fail to see how he will help us. Has he given you a plan? Has he explained to you how these ‘great secrets’ will win our salvation from the fate that awaits us? No. I see it in your eyes, and I know it in my heart. He offers nothing, and he eats our very souls. We must ready ourselves for war, Jacques, and we must rid ourselves of this dark burden.”

  “No.” Jacques turned away so that Louis could not read the fear that was rising quickly, fear that he would be denied what Santos had promised, fear that there might be nothing to the dark stranger’s words after all. Fear that he’d cast himself and all that followed him onto a dark path that led to roads he had no desire to travel.

  “Jacques…” Louis started toward him, but Jacques held up a hand to warn him back.

  “It is beyond our control now, Louis. You know it is. I cannot send him away. I have to know what he offers, to know it fully. We are doomed men whether he stays or goes. We allowed him within our walls and our minds. The only way to be rid of him is to understand him, and we have little time left to gain that understanding.”

  “I don’t even understand you any longer,” Louis snapped, downing his wine in a quick gulp.

  De Molay didn’t answer. He teetered between anger and unconsciousness, and he used the last of his remaining strength to lurch toward his bed. Jacques fell face forward across the mattress and Louis only stood, watching, waiting for him to rise. When it became obvious that he would not, Louis whirled to the window, sending his mug through the opening and out to the courtyard beyond with a loud curse.

  Spinning on one heel, he slammed back through the door and left de Molay to his silence and his rest. As he passed from the chamber, he spotted Jacques’s servants huddled nearby, waiting anxiously with a tray of food and drink. There was a single bottle of wine in the center of the tray, and he snatched it from the startled serving girl as he passed.

  “He won’t be needing it,” he explained, “or you. Not for several hours. I believe the ‘master’ has passed out again.”

  Louis turned away and marched off toward his quarters, the bottle clutched tightly in one hand. He did not look back.

  One of the servants was a young man with a piercing gaze and hair so blond that it glistened like spun silver. He slipped back along the wall the way they’d come as soon as de Chaunvier had passed from sight. The others were whispering among themselves, still wondering if they should go to de Molay and check on him, or leave him alone. They did not miss the blond youth as he drifted along the wall, silent as a puff of smoke, and slipped around the corner.

  Once out of sight, Ferdinand wasted no time. He followed the curving stair to the main level of the keep and made his way to the south wing. He kept his eyes to the ground and his movements were smooth. All around him others were beginning their day, making their way to prayer or meals, talking in small groups and wondering what the next few hours would bring.

  There was none among those gathered, knights and servants alike, who did not fear that the next day might bring their last few hours on the Earth. De Molay had put forth no plan, no means by which they might escape the fate that Philip planned for them. The only hope lay in casting aside their pride and their beliefs, and slinking off into the shadows. Surprisingly few of them took advantage of this means of prolonging life.

  Ferdinand did not understand their motivations. He knew they would die. His master, Father Kodesh, had seen it and proclaimed it. Of course, the father had not proclaimed it to de Molay, or to the other knights. To them he was a simple priest.

  He recited the mass when it pleased him and took confession for those who had the inclination. He blessed their weapons and their hearts and sent them on their way. He played with them like pieces on a grand chess board, waiting eagerly for some counter-move that would bring him the challenge he so craved. That was why Kodesh fascinated Ferdinand…drawing him like a needy, hungry moth to a flame.

  None of those in the keep held any meaning for Father Kodesh. He came to them as an emissary of the Church, but he could have as easily come to them as the focus of a nightmare. Ferdinand knew this. He’d seen both sides of his master, dark and light. He’d been singed by both, and yet he could not bring himself to draw away.

  He rounded a final corner and entered the small chapel that bordered the south side of the keep. The interior was dark. Only the muted glow of the early morning sun leaked through the arched windows to lap at the edges of shadow. He knew he would find Father Kodesh there. It was in these moments, lost between darkness and light, dusk and dawn, that the father walked most freely. Ferdinand knew he would want to hear what he had to say, though at times he wondered why the priest didn’t just reach out with his mind and take the knowledge he sought. Another part of the elaborate game that was Father Kodesh’s life.

  “Good morning, Ferdinand.” Father Kodesh leaked from the shadows, never registering at the periphery of Ferdinand’s vision, and yet there before him as if he’d been thus all along. Kneeling, Ferdinand lowered his eyes.

  “Good morning Father.”

  “I trust you have found something of interest for me?”

  Ferdinand nodded, rising slowly and keeping his eyes downcast. It was only partly from respect. He’d been captivated by the depths of his master’s eyes often enough to know the dangers that lurked there. Better to chance a surprise blow to the head than a lost soul.

  “De Molay has returned from the dungeons, Father. He returned to his quarters over an hour ago, and since then he has finished a bottle of wine and passed out.”

  “That is all?”

  Before the level of dismay in Father Kodesh’s voice could rise to dangerous levels, Ferdinand added, “Louis de Chaunvier was with him. He stormed out, taking the wine from de Molay’s breakfast and muttering about how de Molay would need nothing for some hours to come. He did not look pleased.”

  “And well he should not,” Father Kodesh replied, twining the long, slender fingers of his hands behind his back and turning away to walk slowly toward the altar at the front of the chapel. “De Molay is weakening. His hold on this keep, and on his knights, is dwindling. It will not be much longer that he is able to hold this place.”

  “He has the darkness wrapped about him like a cloak,” Ferdinand observed, watching carefully to see how his words would register with the priest. “He is so caught up in his spells and the dark one below that he cannot see the wolf slipping up to swallow him whole.” Then, suddenly realizing his boldness, the boy fell silent, eyes downcast and face flushed.

  “Do not underestimate de Molay,” Father Kodesh said quickly, spinning and lifting Ferdinand’s chin with one long, slender nail, forcing the young servant to meet his gaze. This time the young man was not quick enough to avoid the other’s eyes. “That mistake has been made with these knights in the past, and that is why the Dark One has had to come a second time. It is not perhaps the second coming that the Church would have me teach, but it is significant. De Molay is more aware of what is happening here than any give him credit for. His chosen method of delivering his order might be flawed, but his heart is strong. It is going to be a most interesting confrontation.”

  Ferdinand felt the words he’d longed to speak hurtling to the surface of his mind, and he was not able to bite them off. This time the curiosity got the better of him. “Father, who are you? Really? I need to know who it is that I serve.”

  Trembling, Ferdinand dropped to his knees on the stone floor. He’d dreaded this moment, dreaded the time when his own resolve would crumble. He’d not even seen it coming.

  There was no immediate flash of pain, nor did Father Kodesh raise his voice in anger. At first there was no reaction at all. Then came the laughter. It was like the crackling of ice on a lake when the sun’s rays hit full force. Ferdinand didn’t dare to raise his eyes from the stone. Not until he heard Father Kodesh speaking to him softly.

  He raised his head slowly
, and he found that the old priest wasn’t watching him at all. That thin, haunted face was turned away. The words were very softly spoken, so soft that—despite his fear—Ferdinand was forced to crawl closer to make them out.

  “I will tell you a story,” Father Kodesh began. “It is a story of love and hate, betrayal and salvation. It is the story of a bargain and a curse. I will tell you my story, and when I have finished, you will sit with me and help me to decide whether I must kill you for the knowledge.”

  Ferdinand grew very still at that moment. Father Kodesh had grown momentarily silent as he gathered and sorted his thoughts. Ferdinand heard his heart echoing dully in his chest, and for a moment he thought it would pound its way free. There was a great rushing sound in his ears, and his sight grew red and hazy. He found it difficult to breathe. None of this mattered. He pushed away from the concerns of his body. He tipped forward for an instant that lasted an eternity, then righted himself and raised his eyes to meet his master’s.

  Father Kodesh looked deeply into his eyes, then nodded as if he’d found whatever it was he sought. Without further hesitation, he began to speak, and as he did so his hands moved to the pouch that he always wore at his side, absently undoing the leather strips that bound it as he spoke.

  “I knew a man who was once king,” Father Kodesh began. “He gave me many things: a family that I’d never had, a purpose that would serve me for eternity, and a love I never asked for. These things he gave me because it was his nature to give. I would not have taken them. I was not as you see me now—nothing is ever twice as you’ve seen it once. Remember that, Ferdinand, it is an important lesson.”