“He said,” Ferdinand whispered, “to tell Santos that Father Kodesh was here. Nothing more than that. He claims to have known this Santos for a very long time—he said nothing further would be necessary.”
“Kodesh?” the boy repeated dubiously. Ferdinand nodded.
“Well, I will pass the message along, but to tell you the truth,” and now it was the boy’s turn to look about carefully before speaking, “from what I’ve seen, the last person Santos will ever seek out purposely is a priest.”
Ferdinand would have loved to have asked questions, and he thought he might actually have gotten some answers, but just then Jacques de Molay rounded the corner, and the boy he was talking to snapped to attention as if drawn by strings. Ferdinand bowed his head and pressed against the stone of the wall, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible.
“You there,” de Molay called out. “Boy.” Ferdinand looked up.
“Yes, you. I want you to go to the kitchen and fetch a good jug of wine. I will be meeting in my chambers with Louis de Chaunvier, and we will need something to soften the edges of what we shall discuss.”
Ferdinand nodded, turning and dashing away along the corridor. Behind him he could feel the boy’s eyes burning through his back. There had been so much more that had been left unsaid—things that obviously weighed on the young knight’s mind, and Ferdinand was sorry to have not had the opportunity to learn more about this “Santos” who had everyone in such an uproar. On the other hand, his message was delivered, and he was off the hook and out of the bright lights…better to be safe and find out about the stranger things in life after they were history.
No chance of that with Father Kodesh pulling the strings, but suddenly it seemed like an ideal to reach for. He wondered, suddenly, why it was that he’d never been satisfied with the world the way it was. Now that he knew it wasn’t that way at all, he missed the security and normalcy of it all terribly. Still, the image of Father Kodesh (was it really Father, despite everything else he knew?) would not quit haunting him. The notion of eternity was new to him as a reality to those who still walked—and breathed? Did he?
Ferdinand scurried into the kitchen and prepared a tray with wine and goblets, as well as some bread and cheese, that he might carry back to de Molay. The last thing he wanted to do was to draw unwanted attention to himself through sloth or unsatisfactory service.
Kli Kodesh exited the chapel through a shadowed back doorway and began to ascend through the keep by a spiral stair that had seen little use in the last fifty years. It dated back to other clerics, other priests and other times. It was probably not a passage that Jacques de Molay would recognize, though he presided in name over the entire keep, and over the affairs of the Templars. It was a church secret, passed through the years, and Kli Kodesh was privy to many secrets.
He knew that de Molay’s quarters would not be far from the top of that stair, and that if he made it into the passage beyond without being spotted, there was little chance of drawing attention to himself, or his access route. It was always a good idea to have some control over the environment that surrounded him. Less room for surprise, unless it came from him. There were other ways he could have accessed the Grand Master’s Quarters, but he preferred to keep his status as priest at least questionably acceptable.
He stopped at the top of the stair and listened. The door was a smooth slab of stone that blended neatly with the stone of the wall. If it were not for the stairs ending directly against it, one might have concluded that the stairs led to nowhere, or to an unfinished trail. Kli Kodesh knew better. He extended his senses carefully. Nothing moved in the passage beyond. Nothing breathed.
He pushed on the stone and it slid inward without hesitation. He slipped through the opening that appeared and into the passage beyond, pressing the stone back into place quickly. He was two doors down from de Molay’s quarters. Straightening his robes and pulling his cowl up over the wispy gray hairs that fluttered about his head like spider webs, he strode toward that door and knocked. No time for formality.
He could sense the two within, could hear their voices, lowered and muted. He also sensed that they did not intend to rise and open the door to allow his intrusion. Without hesitation he pressed inward on the door, finding it unlocked, and stepped inside.
De Molay rose instantly, his face darkening like the sudden intrusion of a thunderstorm on a clear day. His mouth was open to curse whoever had the impudence to invade his quarters, but he clamped down on his lip, cutting off whatever it was that he’d been prepared to say. He might not know Father Kodesh, but he knew the robes of office, and he knew he faced a man of the Church. He had enough problems without including open sacrilege and blasphemy.
“Yes, father,” he grated, gathering control of his wits quickly. “This is a very difficult time—I’m afraid I am too busy for confession.”
“And I would not ask it of you,” Kli Kodesh replied. “I think we both know that it would be far too interesting to waste on a single priest.”
De Molay stopped, staring openly. What Kli Kodesh had said was as near to an accusation as anyone had ever dared speak in his presence, but somehow the tone in which it had been delivered did not carry the animosity one might expect.
“What do you want, Father?” he said at last. “I have little enough time to live, in all likelihood, and I have no time and little patience for games.
I am here to offer you hope,” Kli Kodesh responded. “I have information that one comes to your aid you might not have expected.”
“Unless he rides two days from here at the head of an army,” Louis de Chaunvier threw in, recovering from his surprise at Kli Kodesh’s sudden intrusion, “then he is too late and unimportant to our present dilemma.”
“He needs no army,” Kli Kodesh responded quietly. “His name is Montrovant, and he has supported and defended you—though you have not known it—since the days of Hugues de Payen.”
“Montrovant?” de Molay asked, sitting back in his chair suddenly and staring blankly. Then his mind worked its way around the information that had just been presented, and that face transformed. First a slightly hopeful, interested expression, then doubt—then his features convulsed in anger and he rose again, slamming both fists down hard enough on the table to send the goblets of wine that had rested there flying.
“You dare to come to me like this?” de Molay cried. “You dare to mock me in my worst hour? Montrovant? A legend? A myth? You taunt me with heroes from a past that might or might not even have existed.”
“Jacques!” Louis’s voice was pained.
“No, it is only fair that he be skeptical,” Kli
Kodesh said, holding up a hand to silence de Chaunvier. “I would expect no less, and yet I tell you the truth. I have my sources, and they say that the man known as Montrovant is less than a day away from here, riding hard, and that he comes to your aid. Do not doubt the past,” he added, moving close enough so that his face and de Molay’s were nearly touching, nose to nose. “Your history defines you,” he added, “and those who deny this truth are cursed to repeat the mistakes of their predecessors.”
“No man is that old,” Jacques whispered hoarsely. “You speak madness.”
“Heads without bodies don’t speak, either,” Kli Kodesh replied, pulling back a bit and letting his face take on an inscrutable, impassive expression.
The two knights stared at him. De Chaunvier leaned forward, nearly standing, and de Molay’s face had gone chalk white. Neither had the ability to speak—nor the ability to move. So they stared. After a long moment of silence, Kli Kodesh continued.
“Do not seem so surprised, Jacques de Molay. There are a great many things in this world that you do not understand. You seek answers beyond the realm of your knowledge, and in the same breath you deny as insanity other knowledge that could serve you just as well. Santos is not what he seems. Montrovant is not what you’ve heard. I am no ordinary priest. There are levels of reality, just like any other thin
g in life…yours is just one of many levels.”
“Who are you?” de Molay asked quietly. “Who are you, and why have you come to me?”
“Be satisfied in knowing that I have,” Kli Kodesh answered. “I am known in this time as Father Kodesh. I have known Montrovant and Santos longer than you, or your father, or your father’s father have drawn breath. I say again, Montrovant is near, and he comes to offer his assistance.”
“Should we wait, then?” Louis asked dubiously, uncertain where to go with the thousand questions assaulting his mind.
“You will do as you must,” Kli Kodesh answered. “Know this. There is no love lost between Santos and Montrovant. They will not work together, so you have choices to make.”
“Why now?” Jacques de Molay asked, rising slowly. “Why now, when everything is so close to ended that it seems an afterthought to offer us aid of any sort? Why would he come now, and not before? Santos came here even before we needed him, and he came bearing knowledge, teaching and power. Montrovant, if it is indeed the Montrovant you suggest, has abandoned us until our situation is so near to hopeless that even his legendary powers will seem pale in comparison to the threat. What can he offer? Will he battle Philip singlehandedly? Will he show us magic that will drive our attackers into retreat and save the lives of those who follow me?”
“You know as well as I that this is not an option,”
Kli Kodesh answered. “Montrovant is a powerful man, but he is not a god. He will offer you aid and answers, but none can stop Philip. Not Montrovant, not Santos. It is only a question of whose answers you will believe.”
“What part do you play in this?” Jacques asked. “What do you stand to gain by telling us this, by filling our minds with false hopes and legends without substance?”
“I gain nothing,” Kli Kodesh replied. “I am a priest of the one God. When you are ash and Philip has walked across your grave, I will preach the Gospel to others.”
“You insolent dog.” De Molay was out of his chair in an instant, drawing his sword, but de Chaunvier was quicker, and he grabbed his friend by the arms, holding him back.
“Listen to him, Jacques,” he cried. “For God’s sake, listen to something other than that madman in the cellars and the wine diluting your blood for just an instant and think! He is offering us hope! He is offering us an answer that doesn’t rely on shadows and promises we can’t even understand, let alone control. Will you not even consider his words?”
“I will not consider insanity as an option,” de Molay bellowed. “For God’s sake, Louis, listen to yourself. He is telling you that some fabled hero from our past will ride up and lead us to victory. He is offering us ghosts to replace something we can see in front of our faces. He is trying to lead us away from Santos and the truth, though I still do not see why.”
“You would not know the truth were it to tap you on the shoulder and offer itself to you,” Kli Kodesh said, his voice suddenly cold and distant as the wind across the desert. “You feed your imagination with images Santos fans into flames, and you trust him because you know that if he lies, you die. I tell you now, neither Santos nor Montrovant can save you, Jacques de Molay, but because you represent the lives of many it would serve you well to consider all your options carefully.”
With that, Kli Kodesh turned to the door and opened it, slipping back into the passageway and pulling the portal closed behind him. Louis leaped to his feet and dove for the door after him, but by the time he reached the corridor beyond, it was empty. There were no echoing footsteps, and there was no sign of the priest who’d stood in their doorway only moments before.
“You should have listened,” Louis said, turning back to the room. “Damn you, Jacques, you should have listened.”
“Are you ready to spend our lives so foolishly that you would stand on the ramparts of the keep watching the horizon for signs of a dream?” de Molay asked his friend quietly. “I heard his words, my friend, and I would love to believe them, but I have seen Santos—I have felt his power—and all I have from this—priest—is words. I must go with what I know, not what I wish for.”
“If you are mistaken?” Louis asked, turning to the window and gazing into the distance, as though Montrovant might ride into sight even as they spoke, ending the debate.
“Then we are dead,” de Molay replied, bending to retrieve his goblet from the floor. He poured it full of wine once again and tossed it down in a single gulp. “We are dead, and he will say the last rites with a smirk on his face, damn his soul.”
Louis continued to stare into the distance, not arguing. It was plain that his heart was not in the decision, but he did not argue further. He leaned over the sill of the window, and he kept watch. He felt as though he might stand that way until Philip arrived and parted his head from his shoulders, but it was not to be. De Molay downed yet another glass of wine, then called out to him.
“It is time, Louis. Santos will be waiting, the others will be gathering. We must go.”
Reluctantly, Louis released the window and turned toward the door, his heart heavy and resigned. In the distance, too faint to be heard, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves sounded through the darkness. The moonlight washed the keep in chiaroscuro grays. It was a night of destiny.
THIRTEEN
Montrovant had grown grim and silent as they continued their journey, but le Duc did not sense anger directed at himself, or at Gwendolyn. The old fire was in his Master’s eyes, the old obsession back to haunt him. Montrovant saw the image of what he sought so clearly in his mind. Jeanne was still uncertain how possession of the ancient artifact could be so important to the Lasombra. He also had difficulty in understanding, particularly after the poor reception they’d received from Syd, just why Montrovant would want to do anything to help the others in his “family.”
So many questions, pushed aside once more in the face of action. They covered many miles in the nights after leaving Holywell, stopping only to rest, and to feed. He noted with consternation that Gwendolyn did not join them in their hunting, nor did she seem to starve. She rode at their sides, and she watched them with a deep longing in her eyes when the blood-hunger overcame them, but she did not join in. Finally, it was too much for his curiosity.
“How is it that you ride with us, night after night, watching us feed, and yet you take none for yourself? I would be mad had I waited so long. You are no different than you were three days ago.”
“It is Kli Kodesh,” she said softly. “I wanted that hunger. I know you won’t believe that. I didn’t truly understand it myself, but now I know—now that it is too late for me. I lived a dull life, over-protected by a father who feared the one thing I yearned for each night. Passion. He kept me from any danger, but danger is the only thing that speeds my heart. “Alphonse, your father is Alphonse, yes?
Montrovant told me some of the tale.”
“Yes,” Gwendolyn smiled, “Alphonse. I saw his passion. I saw him in his hunger, though he was careful to distance himself from me at those times. I’m not really his daughter, you know.”
“I wondered about that,” Jeanne replied, “but I didn’t want to contradict him,” he nodded toward Montrovant, who rode a little ahead of them, scanning the road and the shadows beyond constantly. Jeanne knew that his master was probably aware of every word they spoke—perhaps of their thoughts as well, but he gave no indication of it. It was impossible to tell if he were listening, or ignoring them.
“He is my great-grandfather,” Gwendolyn continued. “My great-grandmother still carried my grandfather, Alphonse’s son, when Alphonse was Embraced. He managed to get away from them, to avoid drawing them into the shadows that had claimed him, but he returned. He followed the family, looked after them whenever possible. He caught me on the road, seeking escape. He would have taken me back to my mother, but I told him that I would just escape again. I thought I was strong enough to tempt him. I thought he would bring me to the shadows and passion I craved. I had more chance, it seems, staying with m
y mother.
“I became Alphonse’s servant, his eyes and hands by the light of day. He kept me close, waking before the night could bring others near enough, and naming me his daughter if any asked. He watched me like a fussy old bitch with her pup. He very nearly smothered all that was left of my dreams.
“Then I saw Montrovant. I don’t know why that was different, or what it was that led me to place everything on the line like that. There is something about your sire that is somehow less tame …less controlled. I knew that there were reasons why few were Embraced, but I thought he might be the one to break those rules. I knew that Eugenio would keep my ‘father’ busy long enough, if only I could convince my dark one…Montrovant…to save me.”
“But Kli Kodesh brought you that gift, or curse, instead,” Jeanne concluded. “Is it so bad? Does it make such a difference?”
“The hunger never came upon me after I fed from my sire,” she replied. “The darkness welcomes me, but I can endure the sun more readily than most of our kind. I have no family or clan save he who made me, though he was once Nosferatu, before the curse that changed him so long ago…binding him to unlife in ways I can’t even fathom, let alone explain. He seeks final destruction more than any I’ve known, but it eludes him easily. To him I am nothing more than a tool—and possibly a short diversion from eternity. He gave me eternity, Jeanne, but he did not give me what I sought. Instead he gave me hell.”
Jeanne grew silent for a moment then, considering her words. He tried to count mentally the times he’d yearned to see the sunlight. He tried to imagine the night without the hunger, Montrovant with anything but the predatory, cat-like gait that marked his power. Eternity to live. He’d never even considered the impact of eternity, and he’d had Montrovant at his side since his Embrace—he’d known no loneliness.
To Speak in Lifeless Tongues: Book 2 of the Grails Covenant Trilogy (The Grails Covenant Triloty) Page 13