To Dream of Dreamers Lost: Book 3 of The Grails Covenant Trilogy

by David Niall Wilson

  TO DREAM OF DREAMERS LOST

  Book Three of The Grails Covenant Trilogy

  By David Niall Wilson

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  To Dream of Dreamers Lost is a product of White Wolf Publishing.

  White Wolf is a subsidiary of Paradox Interactive.

  Copyright © 1998 by White Wolf Publishing.

  First Printing August 1998

  Crossroad Press Edition published in Agreement with Paradox Interactive

  LICENSE NOTES

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  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  PART TWO

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  EPILOGUE

  PART ONE

  ONE

  “You disappoint me, Antonio,” Montrovant said, placing his empty brandy snifter on the polished wood of his desk. He sat back and steepled his fingers. Peering over the small temple he’d made of his hands, he added, “truly.”

  Bishop Antonio Santorini’s face approached the hue of a ripe beet, and his huge frame shook with rage, but he kept his silence. He might hate the man who sat across from him more with every beat of his heart, but he feared him equally. Antonio wanted to reach a ripe old age and retire to a monastery…a pleasant dream. Montrovant didn’t care about Antonio’s dreams; Montrovant dealt in nightmares.

  “I speak for the Church in this,” Santorini grated finally. “The bargain was not met—the alliance has been broken. Surely you can see our position.”

  “Has it now?” Montrovant’s eyes gleamed wickedly. “I hope that you and I still consider ourselves allies, Antonio, truly I do.”

  “Of course,” Santorini cut in quickly. “That is why I am here. You and I must forge a new alliance, and quickly. It is clearly the Order which has broken the trust. We must find a way to return what they have taken before Rome grows impatient with us both.”

  Montrovant laughed mirthlessly, reaching for the decanter on his desk and refilling both of their glasses. “You think I give a damn about Rome, Antonio? I do not. Your Church, and your Pope, can rot and fall to dust tomorrow and it is the same to me. You have known this from the start. Our alliance has nothing at all to do with faith. Those of my brotherhood may share your belief, but be certain of this, I believe only in the darkness, and in myself.”

  “There will come a time when you will regret that,” Santorini replied, his voice little more than a whisper. “For all who walk the Earth, there is a judgment.”

  “When, and if, I am judged, my friend,” Montrovant chuckled, “you will not exist, even in memory. Now, we have business to attend to, and I suggest that we get started. I have kept my end of the agreement. I have brought you proof. The vault is empty, as I suspect it has been all along, and the Order has vanished. I have provided a witness.”

  Montrovant’s gaze slipped to the side, coming to rest on a sealed chest of the same dark polished mahogany as his desk. He stood, his tall, lean frame dramatic in a long, sweeping cloak and coal-black suit. The cross of the Templars was embroidered into the material, catching the light and glittering hypnotically. The Templars had been disbanded, officially, but Montrovant did not fear the wrath of kings, or God. He might have been a shadow, but somehow he made the simple act of standing seem elegant and fascinating. Santorini shook his head, trying to clear his momentary lapse of concentration, but all he achieved was to increase the pounding pressure of his headache.

  Montrovant made his way across to the chest and stood with his hands pressed gently onto its surface. It was large, the length of a grown man and easily twice the width. The bishop could not remove the image of an elaborate sarcophagus from his mind.

  The chest was bound in straps of polished metal, ornate but functional. No brass or copper here, but strong steel, and carefully worked. The sides of the case appeared seamless, but the bishop knew it had been opened at least once.

  “Put your ear to the surface, my friend,” Montrovant leered, his eyes flashing even more brightly. “You may hear something interesting.”

  Santorini’s throat went dry, and he didn’t attempt to reply. He kept his distance from the case. He also kept his distance from Montrovant. In all the years he’d been Rome’s liaison with Montrovant’s sect, he’d never felt such menace as he did in that instant. It passed quickly, but the memory lingered, cold and vast, and empty.

  “Shall I let him out, Excellency?” Montrovant whispered, the sound carrying with unbelievable clarity though his lips barely moved. “Shall I introduce the two of you? A little first-hand experience? Perhaps you would like to chastise him for his failure, for the failure of the Order? He was not one of them, but he served them. No? A shame. It might prove an interesting diversion.”

  The man moved closer, holding Santorini’s gaze with his own, a viper mesmerizing its victim before the strike. “You don’t know, Antonio, how I thrive on diversion. I’m afraid I don’t get out like I used to.”

  Suddenly control of his body returned, and the bishop backed away a step, gasping. Montrovant was laughing again, and the man’s nearness was at last more than Santorini could handle.

  “I will trust you in this,” the bishop said quickly, nearly tripping over himself as he backed toward the door. “The Church has authorized me to bargain with you, and I will consider that bargain sealed. Find the relic, and return it to the Church, and we will provide whatever recompense you ask.”

  “I doubt that, Antonio, truly I do,” Montrovant said, still laughing harshly. “I doubt you could even comprehend my needs. Perhaps one day an opportunity for—sharing—will arise.”

  Santorini shuddered. Turning quickly, but keeping his gaze locked on Montrovant’s tall, dark figure, he bolted for the door. He felt, somehow, that the danger of runn
ing into a wall or tripping from lack of attention would be a small matter compared to turning one’s back on Montrovant. Some mistakes are eternal.

  Montrovant stood watching as the portly, bumbling idiot of a bishop made his way out the door. Perhaps it had been indiscreet to push so hard, but the man was contemptible, and Montrovant was not one to withhold his contempt. He turned his attention slowly back to the case on the floor, his smile deepening and darkening at once. He rapped on the wood once, sharply, then returned to his desk to wait. The others would be arriving shortly, and he had his thoughts to collect. It was going to be an interesting night, and that alone made it all worthwhile.

  Inside the case, the hunger ate at Abraham like acid, forcing its way through dry, empty veins and shriveling his will. How long since he’d felt fresh air on his skin? How long since he’d moved? Days? Weeks? What remained of his mind told him days, but the hunger screamed of eternity.

  He fumbled weakly with the wire that bound him, but it was futile. His full strength had been unable to free him; now the effort was nothing more than a focus for his mind, the only diversion left to him. Soon, he knew, he’d begin to try to gnaw at the wood of his prison, fighting toward the blood mindlessly.

  He heard Montrovant knocking on the wood, sensed the other’s presence, but there was nothing he could do. He called out, clawing at his captor’s mind with talons formed of hatred and desperation, but there was no answering thought, nothing but an echoing laughter that reverberated through his mind.

  He concentrated on the events leading to his capture, scanned the memories as if they were the faded pages of a book, or a holy scroll, searching for an answer that could free him. He had retreated through those memories so many times since his capture that they had blurred to a surreal haze, but he had no recourse. He was trapped as surely by those events as he had been by Montrovant’s treachery.

  The others had been long gone by the time Montrovant arrived. The Order had vanished into the dust of the road and the mist over the mountains. It was not only the Grail that had been taken. Abraham’s promise had dissolved as well, the price of the service he’d offered and consummated. Now it had become the price of his imprisonment. The Order had gone, and his hunger remained.

  Montrovant had slipped undetected into the mountain the very night of Abraham’s betrayal. When the sun dipped and Abraham awakened to the darkness, he’d known instantly that something was different. The mountain and its labyrinth of passageways and vaults were usually filled with the scent of the brotherhood—the wonder of their blood, the magic of their auras, so full that Abraham would be dizzied by the sudden onslaught of it. This night he’d awakened to a void. They were gone, and the promise of sharing that wondrous blood, and the promise of the Grail, had been gone as well.

  He’d made his way to the vault—knowing in his heart what he would find, but unwilling to sacrifice the last moment of hope remaining to him. The door to the vault had stood open, the cavern within had loomed, empty and barren. The Grail was gone. He’d never even seen it. None but those of the Order had seen it, in fact. Only legend had placed it in that vault. Still, there was an emptiness about the vault that spoke of loss beyond price. It was impossible to doubt that it had lain there, so close, and yet so completely out of his reach.

  Then Montrovant had fallen on him, and he remembered little else. His captor was old, perhaps as old as those in the Order, and certainly more powerful than Abraham himself. His captivity was proof enough of that. He’d been taken like a child, bound and imprisoned without even the opportunity to fight for his freedom.

  Now that freedom seemed an unlikely future. His best hope rested in swift destruction and in true death, with the judgment to follow. Montrovant was known for many things, legendary in his cruelty, but mercy had never been a trait ascribed to him. That the man would break Abraham’s mind and spirit to get what he wanted was never in doubt.

  All Abraham could do was wait. He had not partaken of the blood of the Order, and that might be the thing to save him. He would be far too valuable, had he done so, but the fact that they had betrayed him, leaving him behind to take the blame for their own breaking of faith with both the Montrovant and the Church, might see him through this. Even as his mind clutched at this flimsy hope, his heart rejected it with a sneer. His last memory would be hunger.

  The first of the others began to arrive within an hour of Santorini’s departure. Montrovant was ready for them, having forsaken his dark cloak and embroidered tunic for floor-length robes of velvet. He still wore the cross of the temple on his breast, but the ceremonial garb gave him the aspect of a priest, or royalty. The finery did not overpower him, but complemented the strength of his features, the beauty of his form and the strength of his presence. He might have been a prophet.

  The others, while none had Montrovant’s presence or dark energy, were an impressive lot. There was du Puy, long mustaches trailing down his cheeks, nearly resting on his shoulders, and hair to match—his eyes ice blue and ancient. There was Jeanne Le Duc, rebel son of a Duke who couldn’t bear the thought of being cooped up with a castle and a crown, eyes dark with a hunger of his own. Though traveling on his own now, there was a bond between Le Duc and Montrovant that the rest would never understand.

  They were all men with no solid roots, men with secrets and concerns of their own, but a heart that beat with a single rhythm. The Knights Templar had been a service to which few heard the true calling, but for which men would die. While the Templars had been disbanded, their spirit lived in this group. Montrovant’s smile broadened as they trickled in.

  Montrovant was the worst and best of the lot. None of the others knew a fraction of what there was to know about Montrovant, though Le Duc came close. They did not wish to know. It was enough that his leadership was strong and his will like iron. It was enough that he held the Church and Rome at bay on one side and the people on the other by the force of his presence. It was enough that he led, and they followed, and that the road was paved with blood and adventure. It was no matter, or concern, that he was a thing already dead. It was not spoken of. It was not acknowledged. It was a fact known to all. He was God’s gift to them, and he was their strength.

  As they came, they stopped beside the large wooden case within which Abraham clawed and shriveled. Each gazed on the casket-shaped prison with a mixture of reverence and awe. None showed fear. If they had feared such a thing as that case held, they would not have followed Montrovant. They treated their prisoner as a holy relic, with caution, and with concentration.

  When the majority were in place, Montrovant rose, raising his hands for silence, and began to speak.

  “We are faced with a dilemma, and a quest. Our present bargain with the Holy Father appears to be forfeit, though they will never act upon this. The caverns are barren, the Order has flown. We are left to sift through what remains and salvage what we can.

  “This,” he gestured at the case before him, “represents the only knowledge we may claim. This is the sole witness to the treachery of the Order. I bring him before you as witness and as a sign of the dedication we must all swear to the coming trials of our spirits.”

  Montrovant swept the room with his gaze, lighting for a quick moment on each man present, waiting for reactions to his words. There was little movement, but the light dancing in every eye was all the answer he needed. They would follow him to the very gates of Hell. If he told them that the hierarchy of the Templars had fallen to corruption, and it was their duty to purge it, they would follow him in that, as well. He and they were a single unit, a weapon of righteous vengeance. They lacked nothing, he lacked only faith. The irony was not lost on him.

  They believed because he gave them strength. He believed in nothing but himself, and yet he fed off them in turn.

  “We must follow. I don’t know how, or where, but we must prepare ourselves for a journey that may end in nothing but death and suffering. We have a duty to the Church, a bond sealed in the blood of our brothers
and the faith of our fathers. We have sworn to protect the Grail, and all other holy relics. The Grail has disappeared.”

  He didn’t mention that he had never believed the damnable cup to be in those vaults. He didn’t mention that the search for the Order of the Bitter Ash was as ancient as that Order itself, and that none before them had succeeded. He didn’t mention that, when they completed their journey, it was not the Grail he sought, but the blood of those who held it. Montrovant had spent lifetimes seeking the Grail, and he had learned a great many truths along the way, as well as the reality behind quite a number of lies.

  Du Puy stood, glancing around the room. He turned back regally to face Montrovant, eyes blazing.

  “We will find this Order. Our arms are long. The eyes and ears of our keeps are without limits in the known world. No such group, with such a treasure to guard, could remain hidden for long.”

  Montrovant nodded.

  “There is more,” he said at last. “We must question this one, and then we must punish him. He is not of the Order, but he has served it. While it is for God to judge, it is for God’s hands to punish, and though the Poor Knights of the Temple of Solomon walk in the shadows now, still we are those hands.”

  All heads nodded. Everybody leaned closer, every eye was locked on Montrovant’s hands. He reached for the steel band that bound the center of the wooden case. He did not have a hammer, or a crowbar. He had no tool whatsoever, and yet none in the room doubted that the steel would give way. None was present who had not born witness to their leader’s strength. The knights believed Montrovant possessed a faith beyond their ken, God’s power manifest. At least, that is what they whispered to their hearts when the questions arose. Angel or demon, they followed him to death and beyond.