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

by David Niall Wilson

  “I don’t envy you your pain,” he said at last, “but I would not so easily discount the magic of daylight, or the control your lack of hunger affords you. You may find passions of a different sort, if you set your mind to it. Kli Kodesh might be bored—he has lived long enough to use that as an excuse. For you, a world awaits.”

  She stared at him in silence, then a slight smile creased her face. “You sound like my sire,” she said at last.

  “Then perhaps he is wiser than you let on,” Jeanne said, returning the smile.

  Suddenly Montrovant reined in, motioning for them to do the same. He had his head cocked to one side, as if he were listening for something, but Jeanne knew that it went deeper than that. He was reaching out with his senses, seeking—something. Jeanne had detected nothing, but he didn’t doubt Montrovant’s ability. He’d seen it proven on too many occasions.

  “We are near the army,” Montrovant said at last. “We must be more cautious from here on out. No mention of the Templars unless we are certain we have found someone who will speak freely, and we must find ways not to draw attention to ourselves. I intend to get information here, but we must be on our way soon enough to get a lead on the army. We must reach de Molay before they do, or we have wasted our trip. The first of their guards are watching the road about a mile from here.”

  Closer than Jeanne had thought. Montrovant turned and started down the road again, not moving too fast. He didn’t want to alarm the perimeter guards, who would no doubt stop and question them soon enough. Jeanne followed, and Gwendolyn rode at his side, a bit closer, it seemed. Jeanne smiled.

  Jeanne detected the guards himself about five minutes before they drew abreast of the small stand of trees that concealed them. Montrovant had slowed his mount to a slow walk, and when a voice called out to them from the shadows to halt, he did so calmly, turning to watch the two men approach. “Who are you,” the man asked gruffly, “and where are you headed?”

  “We are traveling to the holdings of my cousin, Claude,” Montrovant answered smoothly. “Is something the matter?”

  “Philip’s army is less than a dozen miles ahead,” one of the two guards replied. “You will have to make your way around to one side or the other. None may pass except Philip’s own men.”

  “And aren’t we all Philip’s men?” Montrovant smiled, sitting up a bit taller in the saddle. Nothing, not shadows or the silly smile planted on his face, nothing in the world could remove the regal, overbearing presence that was Montrovant. He towered over the two guards, and suddenly royal blood seemed to drip from his words. “I am certain that Philip would not appreciate your impertinence. This is the road that leads where I am going, and I am certainly not going to turn aside. Perhaps I can get a flagon of wine in your camp—some food?”

  The reaction was instantaneous. The two men moved back a step, and the one who’d been silent spoke up suddenly. “No disrespect, Lord, but we were tasked with the guarding of this road.”

  “And you are doing an admirable job,” Montrovant cut him off, “but I doubt that your orders were to make trouble for one of Philip’s own nobles?”

  The two shuffled uncomfortably. It was clear that they did not want to let Montrovant pass—and equally clear that they were going to do so. Jeanne smiled again, but he lowered his face so that they could not see.

  Just then, there was a clatter of weapons, and the soft footfalls of approaching horses from the direction of the camp. Jeanne searched the darkness until he could make out two more men approaching slowly.

  “Your reliefs?” Montrovant asked, dropping the venom from his voice as suddenly as he’d added it.

  “Yes, lord,” the first guard replied.

  “Then your problem, and mine, are solved, are they not? You may escort us to the camp.”

  Straightening his shoulders haughtily, a movement that Jeanne didn’t believe he could have perfected in a century of practice, Montrovant started on down the road again. The two guards moved forward as if to protest, but Gwendolyn was passing them and she gifted them with a sudden, brilliant smile. There was more power in that smile for a soldier on the road than in any amount of royal posturing on Montrovant’s part. Sad and haunted she might seem, but Gwendolyn was beautiful, and the ancient blood that coursed through her veins only enhanced that beauty.

  The three of them continued into the shadows. Jeanne could hear the four guards exchanging hurried words, then he heard the two moving quickly up behind them. It seemed that, despite Montrovant’s desire to move into the camp without drawing attention, they were to have a personal entourage.

  “Have you been on duty long?” Montrovant asked as the two pulled up to one side of him. He didn’t turn to look at them, but his tone was friendly enough.

  “Since sunset,” the first man said gruffly. “It has been a long, thirsty night.”

  They rode in silence for a moment longer, then Montrovant spoke again. “I am more tired than I imagined.” he said, faking a yawn. “Perhaps you would like to stop with us and share a drink? I’ve brought a gift of wine for my cousin, but somehow I doubt he’ll begrudge us a drink on the road…”

  The two guards looked at one another and shrugged. They were off duty—the road was no longer their problem, and free wine was never something to be turned down lightly.

  “What are your names?” Gwendolyn asked. Her voice was an octave lower than normal, husky and sensual.

  “I am Pasqual,” the first man replied quickly,

  “and this rascal at my side is Thomas.”

  Montrovant smiled at them, reining in his horse quickly. “We must really stop and drink,” he said. “I don’t think I can ride another mile without some rest.”

  “Don’t mind if we do,” Thomas said, glancing at his partner to be certain he’d said the right thing. “It’s still a ways to camp, and we’d have a fight on our hands to find a good bottle this late.”

  “Excellent. It’s settled then,” Jeanne piped in, speaking for the first time. “We haven’t had a rest in hours, nor a drink. I for one was beginning to think that this saddle had become a part of my body. Fine thing that would be, trying to walk.”

  They all laughed at this, and what tension remained in the air was broken. Jeanne sensed the warm blood flowing through the veins of their new companions, and he steeled himself to ignore it. There would be time enough for feeding when they’d learned all they could learn, and it wouldn’t do to take a guard on his way back to the main camp. They dismounted near a large, gnarled tree and Montrovant made a great show of rummaging through his backpack. He’d brought the wine from Holywell with just such a use in mind. There was no way for the two men to know that the three of them had no use for provisions. Sometimes the extra space in their baggage could come in handy.

  Turning back, Montrovant held high two large bottles of dark red wine.

  He set one aside and popped the cork easily out of the second with his dagger. The two guards eyed the bottle with appreciation. When they could, they stole sidelong glances at Gwendolyn. She watched them in amusement, smiling when she caught them staring—even winking at Thomas when he stared a bit too long. Montrovant was an imposing man—neither of them wanted to be too forward with his woman.

  Sensing this, Jeanne spoke again. “You are remiss, Andre,” he said, speaking directly to Montrovant. “You have failed to introduce yourself, your sister, or your companion. What sort of host do you suppose you will seem?”

  “You are right, Antoine,” Montrovant replied without missing a beat. “I am Andre le Duc Puy, third heir in line for a holding so small it barely qualifies as a holding—just this side of the mountains.” He nodded vaguely back in the direction they’d come. Thomas and Pasqual paid little attention to his words. They’d perked up at Jeanne’s calling Gwendolyn Montrovant’s sister, and they were eyeing the bottle Montrovant waved about thirstily.

  “This is my sister, Jeanice, and my traveling companion Antoine de Monde. And this,” he held forth the bottle s
o that Pasqual could reach it, “is the finest vintage my father’s cellars can boast. I hope that you’ll find it to your taste.”

  Pasqual had already tipped the bottle up for a long gulp and handed it off to Thomas, who followed suit. The bottle then moved through Gwendolyn’s hands—after a lingering touch of her slender fingers on the guard’s hand as she took it. She held it to her lips, never letting her eyes leave Thomas’s, tilted it but did not drink. She passed it to Montrovant, who followed suit, and then Jeanne took his turn. If Pasqual noted that little of the contents had disappeared before he had the bottle in his hand again, he made no indication of it.

  “So,” Montrovant said as the bottle passed to Thomas a second time, “Philip has finally had his fill of the Templars?”

  Thomas barely noted that he had spoken. His eyes were locked on Gwendolyn, who smiled at him, letting her eyes drop to the ground coyly, then glancing up again. Pasqual watched his companion in amusement for a moment, then answered.

  “There are rumors of dark things in de Molay’s keep,” he said softly. “Philip is not intolerant, but there are things that must not be allowed. I have heard from the mouth of one who walked the halls of that keep of strangers who rarely come out by the light of day, of strange chanting rising from the lower levels of the keep, late at night. He spoke of the worship of things unclean as if they were commonplace. The Templars, I think, have fallen from their faith.

  I have known some of those knights,” Jeanne offered. “They seemed steadfast, honest warriors to me, if a bit over-zealous.”

  “Oh, they are not all like de Molay,” Thomas said quickly. “My brother and two of my cousins have taken that oath, and more honest, God-fearing men you could not find.” He took another long swallow of wine as the bottle passed back to him. Jeanne watched the play of moonlight over the man’s features. When the hunger was upon him, things that normally would not catch his eye came to new life. He could see the muscles working in Thomas’s jaw, could sense the pulse of blood through his throat. The man’s eyes glittered, and the scent of his blood was intoxicating. Jeanne clamped down on his senses, managing to nod at the appropriate pauses in the conversation to show his interest and attention.

  “De Molay is said to traffic with demons. He has brought sorcerers into his keep. My friend told me,” Thomas’s voice lowered, as if the shadows might be listening to him speak, “that he heard that chanting himself, and that it was in no tongue of man. He speaks five languages, and none of them were a help to him listening to those voices. De Molay has called more upon himself than he realizes, I think.”

  He took another quick drink and upended the bottle, letting the final drop splash free. Montrovant smiled and reached for the second bottle. He had it open in a second and handed it to Pasqual, who had inched his way slowly around until he sat directly beside Gwendolyn, so close that their legs nearly brushed. Jeanne could feel the heat of the man’s desire flooding through him—the rush of blood to his loins.

  Gwendolyn glanced over at him and he saw a flash of something—hunger?—in her eyes. Then it was gone and she was whispering and giggling with the guard again. Jeanne cursed under his breath. She knew what the added heat was doing to him. She knew he hungered, and she teased him with it. Anger boiled forth, but as soon as it reached the surface of his mind he realized the ridiculousness of it and it transformed to sudden laughter. The sound burst from him in a wave of uncontrolled hilarity. Montrovant and Thomas stopped speaking for a moment to look at Jeanne in amazement. He couldn’t help himself. He needed to release the tension building within him, and somehow the image of Gwendolyn, a drunken, foolish mortal hanging on her every word and motion, smiling across the clearing as she made the blood pulse faster through her companion, was too much for him.

  “For…forgive me,” he said, staggering to his feet and walking quickly into the shadows.

  “He has trouble with wine,” Montrovant said apologetically. Gwendolyn had turned away to prevent her own smile from following Jeanne’s into gales of laughter.

  “Ah,” Thomas said, nodding in understanding. “Well, then, that much more for the rest of us.”

  “No more for me,” Gwendolyn said softly. “I wouldn’t want to act the fool.”

  Pasqual mumbled something soft and stupid into her ear—no doubt considering himself gallant—and Montrovant returned to the subject at hand.

  “But these sorcerers,” he said, somehow managing to sound truly puzzled, “where did he find them? France has no lack of magicians and charlatans, as we both know. Are these Frenchmen?”

  “It is said they are not,” Thomas replied, suddenly serious. He took another long gulp from the bottle. “There was one in particular, a short, dark man who rarely left the lower levels of the keep—this one bothered my friend deeply. He had the look of a Turk, or some other Saracen dog. Not a fit companion for holy knights, I’m thinking.”

  “Indeed,” Montrovant replied. His mind was whirling. “Did this sorcerer have a name?”

  “He did,” Thomas replied, scratching his head with the bottom of the bottle as he thought. He’d forgotten completely about passing it to his companion, and Pasqual was so enamored of Gwendolyn that he’d forgotten completely why they’d stopped in the first place. “I’m not certain I remember what he said. It seems it was San something or other, like a saint, but this one is no holy man. He wears long robes that seem to be brown, but that ripple with shifting colors as he moves—no fabric like my friend had ever seen.”

  Montrovant had grown very still. “Could his name have been Santos?” he said at last.

  Thomas sat bolt upright, nearly spilling the remaining wine and wasting the next few moments in making certain that he did not. “That is it,” he said. “How did you know?” He looked slightly suspicious for a second, but then he remembered the wine in his hand and upended the bottle. The last of it slid down his throat and he stared at the empty container reproachfully, as if it had betrayed him personally.

  Montrovant had turned away. His shoulders were tense, and Jeanne walked back around the tree, having recovered his control, just in time to see his sire turn back to the guard, reach out, and snatch the man out of his seat in one fluid motion. He clamped onto Thomas’s throat, draining the hot blood from his veins, before Jeanne could gasp in protest.

  Gwendolyn shrugged, slapped Pasqual hard across the face, and let him drop into her lap. She cocked her head to one side, smiling at Jeanne in invitation. He didn’t hesitate. He couldn’t imagine what Montrovant was thinking, but the hunger was too powerful to be ignored. There would be time enough to sort it all out when he had sated the thirst.

  He fell on Pasqual, letting his head lean against Gwendolyn’s breast. He felt her leaning in close, felt her lips close to his own throat as he fed. She was entranced. He knew she was reading his emotions—sharing the heat of the moment somehow.

  He pressed up against her lips more fully, drawing Pasqual along with him. It seemed an eternity before he tossed the body aside. When he did so he did not move away from Gwendolyn, but lay shuddering in her lap. Montrovant had finished with Thomas and was up, striding back and forth before the tree, deep in thought.

  As quickly as he could, Jeanne gathered his wits about him and untangled himself, rising. “What is it?” he asked. “What did he tell you?”

  “It is Santos,” Montrovant snapped. “That is why Kli Kodesh wants me there, why he sent you,” he turned to Gwendolyn in sudden fury, “to drag me here. He couldn’t get what he wanted from Santos before without using me for a decoy, and he thinks to do so again.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gwendolyn replied, rising at the sudden accusation in his voice and facing him. “I have done only what I was told, and I have traveled with you in good faith.”

  Montrovant grew calmer suddenly. “I know that. I have seen how Kli Kodesh treats his followers. I am only angry that I didn’t guess what was to come sooner.”

  “Who is Santos?” Gwendol
yn asked.

  “He is ancient, and he is a guardian, that is the gist of what I know. You should ask your sire if you truly want more information. I intend to do just that when we reach de Molay’s keep.”

  Montrovant stared down at his feet as if he’d just realized there were bodies there. “We must ride. We have half of this night left to us, and we have to reach de Molay in time.”

  They pulled the bodies behind the tree, obscuring them slightly from the road, and Jeanne drove the two guards’ horses off into the night. They would find their way back to camp, riderless, and a patrol would be sent out—but in the direction from which they had come. Jeanne knew they’d be beyond range of the army the following night.

  He thought briefly of Gwendolyn, of how she’d shared his hunger, of how it had felt to be so close to another besides Montrovant. He’d sensed the blood that flowed through her veins, as well—the ancient’s blood—the curse. It had seemed intoxicatingly sweet. He also thought of Kli Kodesh. The old one would have enjoyed their trip so far—it had been nothing if not entertaining.

  They mounted and, turning from the road, Montrovant led them off into the night at a gallop. The moon, still high in the sky, lit their way. The race was on.

  FOURTEEN

  De Molay and his followers drifted down into the lower levels slowly, men from different levels of nobility, different provinces and backgrounds, coming together under the cloak and mantle of darkness for a single purpose. They would save those above by any means possible, and if it meant the cost of their own souls, that was acceptable. Santos sensed this as they made their way into the chamber he’d prepared so carefully. Many times he’d felt the energy rising and the desire flowing from man to man—but this was different. Always he’d been the focus, the power bending each soul to its task. De Molay, weak as he as he was, malleable and naive in the ways of power, was their focus.