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

by David Niall Wilson

  As he spoke, his fingers drew forth objects from within the leather-bound pouch. As Ferdinand watched, trapped by the powerful voice and the magic of the moment, Father Kodesh dropped a single silver coin on the floor between them.

  With a toss of his head that sent his silvery gray hair dancing over his shoulders, he smiled down at Ferdinand without humor. “This is my story.

  “There were great men such as this world may never know again in the days of my youth. Men of purpose. Men of honor. There were darker powers, as well, and it was to those that I fell as a young man. I had been warned away from certain ruins. My parents had told me the legends, but I was strong and fierce—born to be a warrior. I would listen to no one who told me there were things I might not do. Because of this, I died for the first time a great many years ago—so many that your ancestors spoke a different language and lived in a far-off land when I was born.

  “That does not matter. I went to the ruins one day while hunting. I told myself it was because I’d seen game in that area, and that the legends would keep the other boys away. I told myself it was only so that I might bring meat to my family and honor to myself. It was not. It was for foolish pride and the satisfaction of boyish curiosity. Satisfaction, from that point on, became a very subjective matter.

  “I could have gone there by morning. I could have taken a friend, or a dozen friends, but I went alone. It was late afternoon when I strayed to that side of the mountain, and I knew that if I did not turn back soon, it would be too late—that I would have to make a camp and wait for the morning. Rumors or not, there were other more natural dangers about by night, and I had sense enough—or so it seemed—to fear those. I made my choice, spurring my mount toward the ruins while the light was still bright.

  “It was a magical place. There were stone towers half torn to the ground by time, and the greedy seeking secrets buried deep within those walls.

  Those walls were eaten away from the top and covered in clinging vines. There were places where windows and doors still opened onto shadowed secrets. Not much of interest to a man, but for a boy it was a treasure trove of adventure.

  “I made my way to the largest of the structures that remained erect. It must have been the main building, for there were stairs stretching beneath it and many of the rooms had kept at least three of their walls, providing some shelter. I found a nook that was particularly well-preserved. There was a fireplace that had not seen use in many years, and a section of roof still remained to break the worst of the wind and to provide shelter if it was to rain. Perfect.

  “While the daylight remained, there was little to fear. I placed what supplies and equipment I carried within my chosen camp and gathered wood quickly. This done, I set out to do the hunting that had been my original purpose. It was not late, and the area was well populated with deer. I remember very clearly the buck I brought down that evening. Somehow the taking of that magnificent beast’s life touched me. I dragged it back to the clearing—the light fading rapidly around me—and managed to hang it from a tree near my camp. I gutted it quickly and left it to drain as I started a fire among the twigs and logs I’d gathered, thinking back on it’s death.

  “I still carry that image embedded in my mind. I found the buck on the slope of the mountain. It had stopped on an outcropping of rock, its chest pulled up proudly and its nose raised to the wind as if it sensed something was wrong. I carried only a short bow, but I was skilled. I watched it longer than I should have, captivated by that sight. Somewhere in that time I pulled back the string and let the arrow fly. I have no idea how long I stood there, before or after the shot. All I could see was the buck, outlined against the sky—the arrow in flight—the buck rearing up and crashing, the expression in its eyes holding my gaze captive as it fell to its death. I’m not certain I had a coherent thought between that moment and the moment I lit the fire. So many things happened that night that I’m not certain I remember any of them clearly.

  “As I cooked a portion of that meat, I watched the stairway that opened through what had once been a doorway a few feet to one side of the fireplace. The dark hole was mesmerizing as I sat, gazing through the dancing flames. I remember that, despite the fire, I felt a chill in the air. I moved as close to the heat as was safe, and when the weariness finally overtook my nervous fear, I turned my eyes away from the doorway and drifted into fitful sleep.

  “I dreamed of red eyes and screaming stags, of shadows that fell from the walls around me and blocked the fire from my sight. They moved about me, touched me, whispered to me and toyed with my senses and my mind. I was never truly brought out of that sleep, and yet I knew that what I saw was truly happening, no dream, and as I lay helpless—they fed. They touched their foul lips to my throat and drank from me as though I were a full wineskin. They did not take all I had to offer, just a little. I know now that they probably did not even need it. Something in me called out to them.

  “I woke as alone as I’d been the night before, but everything had changed. The light was harsh on my eyes and my head pounded as if I’d been drunk for a week and only just woken. I staggered to my feet and took my bearings, remembering almost at once where I was and what I’d done. The stag still hung from the tree outside the walls of the ruins, pale and limp—somehow appearing more dead than it had when I’d hung it. I saw as I approached that there was no blood. Gone. Drained. The embers of my fire still glowed brightly in the ancient fireplace. There was no sign of the shadows, and yet, as I’ve said, everything had changed.

  “I stared long and hard at the entrance to the cellars below. I wanted very badly to turn and to run and never to return, but something in me wouldn’t allow it. Neither did I mount that stair. It was a standoff, of sorts, or so I allowed myself to believe. I turned and left, taking the meat back to my family and accepting their praise without attention. Nothing mattered, though the meat was heavenly when my mother served it that night for dinner.

  “I was waiting for something, you see. That something did not come for a very long time, but the knowledge that it would come was enough to mark me as odd. I spent long periods of time alone, took walks beneath the moon when my family slept. I volunteered for night guards and hunts that kept me away for weeks at a time.

  “It became too much for me when I was nearing my twenty-seventh year. I’d been too long at home, and the ache was burning within me to return to those ruins. I did not go to hunt—the memory of that stag, of its blood and those eyes, boring through to my soul—had removed any taste I had for that. I took my pack, a blanket, and nothing more. I told no one where I was going—they would only have protested, and I knew somehow that this was something I would never be able to explain.

  “The ruins stood much as I remembered them from years before. The remains of my fire had been blown away by the wind, but the stairway still loomed, and the walls and roof remained in place as if they were waiting for me.

  “I made my fire quickly and settled in, brewing some of the herb tea my mother had mixed for me and letting my mind wander. I had no idea why I had come back, what I expected. I knew that my life of hunting and chasing women in the society of my family was growing less and less entertaining, and even then that tendency toward boredom was a factor in my being. It was a different time, a different place—and yet it was me, and I was unhappy. “Flashes of my first night in those ruins had haunted my nights. I dreamed of red, glowing eyes and flitting shadows. I dreamed of a doorway into a darkness I could not penetrate, but that called to me just the same. I sat, sipping tea and waiting, wondering what would become of me.

  “They came as I was nearly ready to drift off. They came openly this time, one at a time, exiting the doorway and forming a moving circle around me. I did not rise, it would have been pointless. I did not desire to flee, though my heart pounded wildly and my gaze swept over them rapidly—waiting, searching. They would never have let me go. I’d made my choice, though they had called to me. I’d come back, and I was theirs.

  “The
re were no words. Perhaps they talked within their minds, or perhaps they’d been so long in the darkness, so long one unit, that they’d forsaken the spoken word altogether. I will never know. One of them, perhaps the leader, knelt in front of me, cupping my face in his hands and tilting his head to one side, curious—searching my eyes. I tried at first to meet that gaze, then I tried in vain to pull free. I felt my energy drained, felt the lethargy falling over me.

  “They moved in closer then, brushing hands and lips over me. I was punctured so many times that I felt my blood would drain away into the soil and restore me to unity with the Earth Mother. It was not to be. They wasted no precious drop of that blood. I grew weaker with each sharp caress, but the images grew clearer, the beauty of their eyes and pale, luminescent skin overwhelmed me.

  “I awoke alone once more, but this time to darkness. It was cold—colder than any place I’ve ever been—and yet the cold seemed somehow natural. Though it was dark, I could see clearly, and the bottom of a stairway beckoned to me. I rose, as though in a trance, and staggered toward that stair. I sensed the sunlight streaming down from above, and I smiled. All would be clear once I was out in the daylight.

  I took one step, then another, and my strength seemed to be returning. It was on the third step that my leg passed through the light of the sun. The searing pain was incredible, and my leg collapsed, sending me crashing back to the stone floor. I clutched my leg against my chest, then scuttled back into the shadows like a crab, panicked. I stayed that way until the unbelievable weight of the sun pressing down on my heart dropped me into blessed darkness, and I lay still.”

  Ferdinand had been sitting, rapt, his eyes locked on Father Kodesh’s features. As the words faded, and the odd priest grew silent, the air left the younger man in a long slow breath. “Vampire,” he breathed.

  Father Kodesh’s eyes were far away, but his words were chilling and sharp as shards of ice. “You will not use that word. You will not acknowledge that I am anything but what I appear to be. If you do, I will know. If you betray me, remember that only I shall live. We will speak more of this.”

  Ferdinand gulped down the words he’d meant to say. He couldn’t vocalize what he felt, and somehow he knew it wasn’t necessary that he do so.

  “Leave me,” Father Kodesh said softly. “Leave me to think on what we must do next.”

  Nodding, Ferdinand nearly leaped to his feet, rushing from the room. Kli Kodesh watched him go, wondering at the folly he’d just committed. It had been too long since he’d had anyone to talk with—anyone who cared to listen, in any case. Far too long. For just an instant he let his mind wander to Gwendolyn and her quest. He hoped she managed to complete the task he’d set her before King Philip came through and leveled the keep. It would be so much more—interesting—that way.

  SEVEN

  The city of Holywell was not large, nor was it particularly prosperous, but Jeanne could sense an aura of antiquity that was both sobering and intriguing. He knew there were others like himself within the city walls, others who would know him for who and what he was. He also knew that they might not be welcome, particularly in the company of one such as Gwendolyn. Kli Kodesh was known to all, and it would not take long for any with the sight to mark her as one of the ancient one’s chosen.

  He’d noticed that despite her initial despondence she’d moved closer and closer to Montrovant’s side during their ride. Now Jeanne was forced to bring up the rear as the other two conversed in low tones. He’d have been jealous, but it didn’t serve his best interests. If there was going to be trouble with Gwendolyn, he knew he was the one who would have to keep his eyes open for it. Montrovant was distracted by his quest, and by Gwendolyn.

  It was not like Montrovant to enter any situation with his mind clouded, and that worried Jeanne most of all. Once or twice he was on the verge of saying something, then pulled back. There were things to be learned from Gwendolyn, as well, and it was interesting to have another companion, even if she were concentrating most of her attentions on his sire.

  It also meant that Jeanne was more free to explore things on his own. That was more of a blessing than he’d dreamed. He knew that the impression that Montrovant was giving of inattention was likely a false one, but it was pleasant to feel, if only for a while, that he controlled a part of his own destiny. There would be a time in the future when that destiny would have to be addressed, but that time was not yet near.

  They entered the city just after dusk. The merchants and vendors were just finishing the stowing of carts and goods against the coming darkness, and the denizens of the darker hours were seeping from the shadows. Loud shouts and cat-calls rang out through the night, women laughed and sang. The music and lifeblood of the inns and taverns echoed through the cool night air. Torches lit small portions of the shadows, and children scurried about, some on their way home, others sneaking off for fun and adventure away from their parents’ watchful eyes. Jeanne was caught up immediately in the sounds and scents, lights and parade of humanity—the rhythmic pulse of blood through warm veins. He was several steps beyond the door of the Weeping Violet before he noticed that Montrovant and Gwendolyn had slipped inside.

  Cursing, he spun on his heel and backtracked, pushing aside the heavy curtain that draped the door and moving silently into the dimly lit interior. He spotted his companions almost immediately.

  Montrovant was deep in conversation with a short, squat man behind the bar, and Gwendolyn was playing the part of his woman very well for one who had claimed to have no interest in him. She hung on Montrovant, draped over his shoulder, one arm dangling around his neck and dangling down across his chest. Her head rested in the crook of his neck at a pert angle, her hair washing over him like a silken waterfall.

  They were the most astounding couple le Duc had ever seen, and yet he couldn’t keep his attention on them. He’d been near the sisters in the convent, but that had been a moment under his own control. He’d been with others, but only to take them, to feed. Not since his Embrace had he been deluged with the variety and intensity of sensations that assaulted him in the crowded tavern. He stumbled, righting himself with difficulty and bumping violently into a large man with ragged black hair and a patch covering one eye. He tried to form the words of an apology, but his tongue was thick and heavy. In any case, the man gave him no chance.

  He spun to face Jeanne, and as he moved—suddenly—his dagger was in his hand and level with Jeanne’s chest. The man’s one good eye glittered dangerously.

  The scene shifted off kilter, and everything slowed strangely. Jeanne saw the other patrons of the bar turning to the disturbance, the men grinning broadly but making no move to interfere, the few women present crying out in delight. His attacker’s arm jerked in a cruel arc toward his face and he reached out calmly and gracefully, catching the wrist beyond the blade and stopping it cold. There was no thought involved. It happened so quickly that the entire room came to shocked silence. The expected blood did not flow.

  Jeanne stood there for a long moment, holding the man immobile by his arm, then he released his grip and stepped back.

  “I was about to say I was sorry, friend,” he said softly. The one-eyed man stepped forward as if his mind couldn’t comprehend what had happened and he wanted another go. It was then that Montrovant stepped in.

  “I believe my friend apologized,” he said. His voice was like ice. “I also believe he will kill you if you don’t put that fool’s toy away and let it go. If he doesn’t, I most certainly will.”

  One-eye had had enough. He turned, glanced at his companions, who had stood a few paces behind him until le Duc grabbed his arm and who now had moved a safe distance back. They turned their heads as if they’d never seen him before, and he bolted for the door. Laughter followed on his heels: loud, derisive laughter. It seemed that the mood had shifted. Those who’d so recently wanted Jeanne’s blood to drench the floor had turned their amusement on his assailant.

  Montrovant grabbed Jeanne’s arm a
nd dragged him to a booth in the back of the room, trying to slide out of the center of the tavern without further incident, but the damage was done. Gwendolyn nodded toward the back entrance and Jeanne noted the passing of a darker patch of shadow into the night. Any hope they’d had of a quick, silent entrance to the city had been shattered.

  “What did you imagine you were doing, you fool?” Montrovant hissed, holding his lips very near to Jeanne’s ear so no other would hear. “You have made a spectacle of yourself that these men will not easily forget. What were you thinking, that you’d kill and feed on the man right in the middle of the tavern?”

  Jeanne shook his head. In truth, he had no idea what he’d thought he would do. He had no memory of any thoughts at all. One thing was certain: whatever had motivated him had not been well-conceived. He still felt a bit overwhelmed, but he was beginning to get a tentative hold on his emotions. His first emotion was anger. Montrovant had kept these sensations from him, all of this—the incredible rush of blood, the interaction with others—and for so long. How could he not have anticipated the effect it would have?

  “Have you never been in a tavern before?” Gwendolyn chimed in, her eyes glittering, delighted. Apparently her understanding of the moment was deeper than Montrovant’s, or deeper than he allowed to show. “You nearly took that man’s arm off.”

  “He attacked me,” Jeanne said softly. “I couldn’t very well let him stab me, then walk away from it like nothing had happened.”

  “You have much to learn,” Gwendolyn said, laughing. “Have you kept him so shielded from the world, then, Montrovant? Is this what I would have had to look forward to, then?”