“The head?” de Chaunvier asked. “Is the head such a treasure?”
“The head is a power unto itself,” Montrovant intoned. Gwendolyn would have smiled at the purposefully ominous tone of his voice, had the situation been anything but what it was. “It is not a part of Santos’s charge, but something he acquired through association with the Cappadocians. He is an extremely learned scholar in all of the dark arts. The head is the key to his power—the answer to his questions. If Santos possesses your true name, he can control your soul. The head can provide that name—even mine. That power cannot save you from Philip, as he claims, unless of course you have some way of forcing him to use that power on Philip himself…which I doubt. The damage he can do once it is his again is beyond description.”
“What do we do about Philip, then?” de Chaunvier asked, his voice rising an octave. “If you don’t come to aid us, why should I listen to you?
There are worse things than dying at Philip’s hand,” Montrovant replied evenly. “Much worse. If you believe that the short years of your life are the only ones that can matter in your existence, you have not been paying attention to what Santos has told you. There are powers you do not understand, issues that hang in the balance this night that you could never comprehend. What is important is this—Santos must be stopped. Jacques de Molay must be stopped. He has been drawn in too deeply. He may even know that it is wrong, but still he will go through with this because he sees no other alternative. He is not ready to give himself for the good of the many. He will have it all or none, and that is when Santos is at his most dangerous. He will suck de Molay dry, and he will take you all along with him. He has no soul left to lose—that is the difference.”
There was silence for a long time after that. Gwendolyn waited until she heard them descending the stairs before she slid from the shadows and followed, keeping herself pressed tightly against the wall and carefully back from the group descending ahead of her.
Once she caught le Duc glancing back over his shoulder. His eyes met hers unerringly, their minds linked—just for that second, and he nodded. Then the contact was broken and she was following at a distance again—separate, but knowing they were aware of her presence. The energy she’d felt seeping up from below was growing in intensity—driving up through stone and brick to grasp at her with ghost-fingers of unclean desire. She sensed that what was sought was not herself, but the blood that flowed through her veins. Kli Kodesh’s blood. The blood that could lead Santos back to her sire and be the force behind his revenge.
There wasn’t enough behind the groping assault to be effective, but it was an insidious reminder of how much was at stake. Her mind reeled, and in a sudden moment of clarity, she saw that there was no way that Kli Kodesh had not foreseen this, that he had not let her go full aware she was leaving. How could he not be aware? The only questions was, why had he allowed it, and what did he expect her to do now that she was within the keep? What possible entertainment value could she provide that would be worth the risking of his blood?
She followed them to the main level of the keep, and moments later, de Chaunvier in the lead, they disappeared down the stairs that led to the lower levels. She moved to the head of that stair, but hesitated. There would be no turning back from this. She didn’t know why she was drawn after Montrovant as she was, but in the end the reasons did not matter. She slipped onto the stairs and melted into the shadows along the walls. There was no movement below save the three she followed, but she could sense that something was growing—something deep and resonant that shook the walls and vibrated through the stone of the floor and up through her bones.
It had begun. She knew, somehow, that de Chaunvier’s presence was necessary to the completion of the ritual, but they had not waited for him to begin it. Santos was no fool. He would not hold off his plans for one mortal—even if the lack of that mortal might cause him to fail entirely. His life was in little danger, comparatively. It was his new followers who fought for their lives. It gave them an energy and power that they would not otherwise have had, and perhaps—despite de Chaunvier’s treachery—it would be enough.
The chanting was loud enough to be heard clearly from where she made her way along the wall, but she could not make out the words. They were in no language she was familiar with—not even in a language that sounded remotely human. The syllables were too rough—and at the same time too complex—for human speech. Instead it reminded her of an odd, rhythmic melody—a dirge. There was no real tune to it, but the patterns of sound were unmistakably musical in nature.
She felt a rift growing between Montrovant and de Chaunvier. Apparently the Templar lord had gone ahead, entering the chamber as he was expected to, leaving Montrovant beyond the portal. The chanting shifted subtly, new tones adding themselves into the mix and others melting to different notes as if whatever had shifted in the energy that flowed through the tunnels and chambers had been made complete. De Chaunvier. He’d added his voice to those of the others.
Somehow Santos seemed unaware of the intrusion of Montrovant, le Duc, and herself, but it did not ring true with stories Kli Kodesh had told her of events in the past. If he was not aware, then something else was taking his full attention, and if he was aware, and just unconcerned, then it was worse yet. She knew that if anyone was an unexpected twist in the mix it was her. Montrovant knew she was there, le Duc as well, but de Chaunvier did not, and it was his mind that Santos had drawn into the chant.
Gwendolyn doubted that the Templar lord had the strength of will to keep any secrets. If Santos didn’t yet know he was in danger, he would know soon enough. The question was whether or not de Chaunvier could reach Jacques de Molay in time to warn him, and whether that warning would be taken well. Santos might be evil, but de Molay still believed him the only answer to their dilemma. It would not be easy to sway the man from this belief, even less easy with Santos’s spells weaving their way around them all.
She pressed as close to the wall as she could and slid forward. The doors to the chamber itself were still out of sight, and she wondered where Montrovant was hiding, or if he was hiding. There was no way to predict what he might do. The only thing she knew for certain was that they could not let the ceremony reach completion. She could only imagine what kind of danger that might bring as Santos anger burst on them full bore; not to mention the bulk of the Templars, who would see their intrusion as sacrilege.
She glanced around the corner and took in the passage beyond in a second. Montrovant and le Duc stood poised on either side of the doors to the chamber, as though they were waiting for something, a sign from within, or the last moment when concentration would be furthest from the possibility of interference.
She slithered around the corner, making no sound and willing her mind to silence. It was not enough. Montrovant looked up from where he stood on the far side of the entrance to the chamber, met her eyes, and stopped her cold. She had never seen such resolve—such intensity—in a single pair of eyes. He nodded toward the door almost imperceptibly, then held up a hand to warn her back.
Something was happening. The energy, which only moments before had circled them, permeating the air, was coalescing and sliding inward. She could feel the circling of force, like an invisible vortex, drawing everything into that chamber of shadows, drowning out separate sounds in a single cloak of confusion and darkness.
She reached her own hand out toward Montrovant, but before he could react, a scream arose from within the chamber. It rose like the mournful cry of a banshee—the wailing of a tormented soul. A shiver sliced through her veins, and she knew the voice in that moment as de Chaunvier’s.
The energy crackled and rushed out of control—no longer focused, but still powerful. At that moment, Montrovant leaped through the doorway into the chamber, le Duc at his heels, and, knowing nothing else to do, Gwendolyn rushed for the entrance after them with her head lowered and her mind reeling. For better, or for dead, there was no turning back.
SEVENTEE
N
Jacques de Molay was only aware of Louis’s arrival on the very periphery of his senses. He knew that things had changed, that something formerly lacking in the chant had shifted and grown more powerful. He felt it as it coursed through him, entering and receding in waves that drained each of his thoughts as they came to him, taking with it his energy, his resolve. He stood and he danced. His lips moved and he knew that the odd, incomprehensible words of the chant were pouring forth in waves, but he had control of none of it.
He was beginning to wonder if there would be anything at all left of him by the time it was over—part of him hoped there would not be. The sensation was of such completion, such wonder and power, that to become a part of it for eternity did not seem such a bad end. Not as bad as being burned alive by Philip and his fanatics, or betrayed by the very Church he’d sworn to serve.
Santos swayed before the altar like a serpent, sleek and hypnotic. When Jacques looked he did not see the short, slight man he’d spent so many hours listening to and studying under, but another altogether. This being was tall, emaciated and powerful. He waved his arms and threads of energy that Jacques had not previously been aware of were spun through the air like a giant tapestry, crackling with energy and leaping wildly toward the walls. The pulsing energy behind those threads was blended with the rhythm of the chant—with the patterns of the dance. It was woven into his own mind and soul, a part of him as he was of it. Magic.
How many times had he dreamed of that word—that notion. Magic that he could control. Magic that would open doors to things unknown and solve problems where his own mind came up against stone walls. This was an impossibility, all of it, and yet he danced, and he sang, and he watched the lifeless face glaring down on them from the altar, heart in his throat for the miracle that would save them all.
Now the magic flowed around him like water in a raging river and he had no control over it whatsoever. He wasn’t certain if he’d even survive it, and the notion that the prancing demon by the altar cared for the salvation of his soul, his people, or his order had passed through fantasy to the totally surreal long before that moment. Santos was not human. He walked and talked as a man, but Jacques knew that what he saw now was much closer to the reality—the rest was a clever facade. These thoughts and others slipped in and out of his mind, but he wasn’t able to grasp them or give them coherent consideration. They were snatched away and replaced with the thoughts he was supposed to add to the spell.
He sensed that the magic was not all Santos’s doing. He felt each and every one of his followers in that force, felt them draining away toward the altar in the same fashion that he felt his own strength fading. It didn’t affect their ability to prance and leap to the rhythm of the chant, or to keep the words pounding loudly from throats that should have been dry and sore. That strength was being focused back through them by Santos. He was taking their essence and distilling it through himself, using it to work them like marionettes.
Suddenly Louis was at his side. His friend’s features faded in and out, wavering from shadow to grim visage and back again with each pounding of the energy that forced the blood through his veins. He concentrated, gripping the final strands of his dissolving mind. Louis. He had to try to warn him—to let him know what was happening. He had to force his lips to form coherent words.
In a sudden instant of clarity he was able to make out his friend’s eyes. They were panicked, bloodshot. Louis was fighting the same fight within his own mind, clawing his way through the others toward Jacques. He was trying to say something, to snap free of the power that bound him.
Jacques saw this, then he saw Santos rise to an impossible height above them—or seem to—and he saw him snare Louis with a glance. Waving his hands in a new pattern, not part of the rhythm, but running in syncopated time to it, Santos reached out toward Louis and Jacques saw his friend lurch, stricken, nearly dropping to his knees. The energy surged, threatening to break free, but suddenly Louis was back on his feet. He spun past Jacques, dipping and leaping with a perfection his limbs could never have attained on their own. His eyes flashed past Jacques, and they were dead. Where there had been a strong will battling for freedom there was dead, unseeing darkness.
It was too much. The weight of the responsibility he’d carried for so long roared down on Jacques like a landslide, crushing its way straight through to his heart. He let his head fall back and he forced the scream that rose from somewhere deep within him to slash through the sound, disrupting the chanting and flying at Santos like a weapon.
“No!” He forced the word out, and though it was strangled and garbled, it was heard. Santos spun toward him, raising his arms again, but it was too late. “Enough!” Jacques cried. “Enough. It. Will. Stop. Now.”
All around him, the others dropped like flies. The energy had sustained them while Santos was directing it, circling it back to them and draining it free again. Now the flow had stopped, and there was nothing to keep them animated. Jacques staggered, but did not fall. Somehow he held himself steady, keeping his gaze directed at Santos.
Santos quivered with rage. The power rippled through and around him. There was a greenish haze rising from the altar, surrounding the head, but it sat as dead and silent as when Jacques had first laid eyes on it, and somehow he knew that it would continue to do so. Santos took a step forward, then another. His eyes were blazing now, and his hands were in motion once again. His lips were moving—mumbling something so low that the sound did not carry. Jacques felt the hairs rising on his neck, and he knew that he’d made the last mistake of a long life. As surely as his mother had borne him, he was going to die.
Then the world exploded around him for the second time in only a span of short moments, and strong arms grabbed him from behind, dragging him away. He had no opportunity to resist, nor did he have any way of knowing who it was that held him. It didn’t matter. They were moving back through the fallen bodies toward the door, and others were moving as well. A huge, dark figure had materialized in the door as Louis screamed, dark hair flying about his head as he dove into the chamber with impossible grace and speed. A second shadow flitted across that opening, not so fast, but with purpose, and he caught the glitter of a blade drawn.
Then there was nothing to do but lower his head and force the remaining energy in his tortured frame toward his feet. Whoever held him supported him a bit, but it was obvious that they were not much stronger than he.
“Damn you, Jacques,” Louis’s voice snapped in his ear, “stand up and run, or as God is my witness I will kick you through that door and all the way up the stairs. We have to sound the alarms—these men need help, and we are in no condition to offer it.”
“Who?” Jacques managed to grunt. “Who has come?”
“Montrovant.” Just that one word, but it slammed through Jacques like a stake hammered through his heart. He’d been warned. He’d been told that the Dark One would come, and he’d chosen his own path—the wrong path. Now good men lay at his feet as he ran for the sake of his own doomed life. He didn’t know if any of it could have been avoided, but he knew that the fault for it lay on his shoulders.
They ducked through the door and into the passage beyond, expecting at any moment to feel the familiar tug of Santos’s mind dragging them back, but the attack never came. There were cries from the room at their back, sounds that neither Jacques nor Louis could identify, or cared to.
A woman stood in the hall, just outside the door, and Jacques tried to stop and warn her, to let her know of the danger that lay within, but Louis dragged him onward. Jacques nearly broke free, but then he saw her face—met her gaze. She was not frightened, but there was a dark beauty about her that defied description, a luminescence to her skin and a depth to her eyes that he’d never before experienced.
He met that gaze for only an instant, then Louis was dragging him away again, but the image of her features embedded itself in his mind. Then there was the gray stone of the walls and the sudden added difficulty of fo
rcing his drained body up the stairs toward the levels above—toward the world he’d known all his life and forsaken, toward those he’d doomed. He owed them this last effort. He owed them anything that was left to him, but still he could not erase the woman’s image from his mind. He swore to himself that, should he live through the night, he would find her—would test the hunger in those eyes and know her mind.
The sound of dark, maniacal laughter floated up from below, and they redoubled their efforts to climb free. Louis was calling ahead of them, trying to attract the attention of guards, or servants, anyone who might roust the others from their bed. They might all die when Philip made his way to the castle, but they would fight one battle before then, and in this they could not fail. The laughter continued to mock them as they fled.
EIGHTEEN
Le Duc sensed that Santos was aware of their presence, but he was equally aware that de Molay’s sudden outburst and treachery had not been expected. The room was a chaos of cries and bodies slamming against one another in a frantic effort to escape something that could not be seen. Santos stood in the midst of it, swaying back and forth like a confused serpent, sweeping his gaze around the room.
Montrovant was moving, and Jeanne followed his sire’s lead. There was enough movement in the shadowed chamber to disguise their motion and give them a few more seconds. Jeanne felt his mind slipping away, felt his hand groping for the blade he wore at his side, as the tense lines of his face melted into a grim smile. The haze was descending, the red madness of battle that had been his mantle since the days of his youth, that had led him from his home, to the Holy Land, to the Templars, and finally led Montrovant to him. He welcomed it.
To Speak in Lifeless Tongues: Book 2 of the Grails Covenant Trilogy (The Grails Covenant Triloty) Page 18