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

by David Niall Wilson

  “Misunderstanding?” Jeanne spoke out quickly, the red haze that filmed his eyes and mind in battle releasing him slowly and very reluctantly. “Misunderstanding?” His gaze dropped to young Louis, dead and bleeding on the floor, and to the small mound of dead monks beside and around them. He did not drop his blade.

  Montrovant was calmer, but the anger shone bright in his eyes. “I think mistake is the word. I think you have made a very grave error in judgment. That is what I think.”

  “I agree,” she nodded, turning back to Maison. “I have done exactly that in trusting my ‘brother’ here to complete a task as simple as greeting you. He is not Damned, nor am I,” she shifted her gaze back to meet his coolly, “but he has ways to know that you are. For some reason he didn’t think to employ them.”

  Maison hung his head and shivered, leaving no doubt that his punishment for this transgression was far from over. Rachel continued to meet Montrovant’s gaze, taking in his tall, muscled form. Then she smiled slowly.

  “If it is possible, I believe we would all be best served by beginning this again.”

  Montrovant hesitated. They were outnumbered, but he sensed that all of those they faced were not Damned. There were mortals mixed in, making the odds a lot more even. There was also the anger. Only Rachel’s eyes, locked to his own gaze, old and young, beautiful and somehow rotten, held him from sneering at her words and leading his own attack.

  “I’m not certain it is as simple as that, my lady, now that you have shown your first act of hospitality to be murder.”

  She smiled again, obviously unconcerned by the situation. “I can understand your feelings, my friend, but you of all people will understand the scarcity of…sustenance…for my followers. If I don’t allow them to feed here, then they must hunt in the villages near the base of the mountains, and I don’t want to draw more attention to this place than we already have.”

  “You kill everyone who comes here and think you won’t attract attention?” Le Duc could hold in his anger no longer. “You must take us for fools.”

  “No,” she replied calmly, “but I did take you for mortals. And no, I do not let them kill all who come here, but it has been a long time since any other has visited, and Maison led me to believe that you were a solitary group of knights, on Church business, but private Church business. That meant to me that you would not be expected to appear publicly until you reached whatever you had been sent to do or retrieve. By then the trail would have been cold, and the monastery, while possibly attracting momentary notice from those who lived nearby, would not be suspected as the cause of your disappearance.”

  Montrovant laughed suddenly. “The Church would not miss us so much at the moment. We have been on better terms with His Eminence in the past.”

  Then his eyes darkened once more. “You have not told me who you truly are, lady, and if we are to continue this discussion, then I am going to insist. Not a child of Cain, but you know me as I am. You are served by Nosferatu and human alike. You live alone on a mountain, surrounded by stone, like a huge tomb, and yet you live.”

  Her soft laughter rippled out again. “Let’s just say that I am no more truly alive, or mortal, than you yourself, and not as young as I seem. Please,” she moved forward toward Montrovant, eyes dancing, “accept my explanation, and my apologies.”

  Montrovant watched her approach warily, and Le Duc glared at her with barely concealed anger. Neither met her eyes, but as she came closer Jeanne breathed a name the two knew too well, and hated too completely.

  “Santos.”

  She stopped very still for a moment, eyes darkening, then narrowing in suspicion.

  “How do you know Santos?” she asked quickly.

  “You are the same as he,” Le Duc stated, ignoring her question.

  “We do not ‘know’ Santos,” Montrovant rejoined, “though I was present to watch his head severed from his neck, and to see him crumble to the dust that spawned him.”

  She took half a step back. “Santos is dead?”

  “Unless he can reclaim his form from a pile of dust,” Montrovant replied, watching her reaction with curiosity and caution, “then he is, yes. He would have done the same for us, I assure you.”

  She was staring openly now, and the menace they had felt in her approach had shifted to shock, and even a bit of apprehension. She shook her head in silent negation, then focused once more.

  “Tell me how it happened? I am sorry for my reaction, but I have known Santos for…a very long time, or known of him. He was chosen as guardian for certain holy objects that have long since been beyond my knowledge. Do you know if these objects have been recovered then, by the mortals, or destroyed?”

  “We have a lot more to discuss,” Montrovant said softly, “before I share any knowledge or secrets with you. Knowing you are as he was does me little good, since I never fully understood who, or what, Santos was. I find myself in that position again, and I must tell you, he was not a very trustworthy…man.”

  “Let me have my followers clear these away,” she swept her arm back, indicating the dead bodies behind her with an impatient flourish, “and we will sit and talk. I can have them all withdraw if you like, and suitable quarters will be made available.”

  “You will pardon me,” Le Duc cut in, “if I am less than enthusiastic about resting in quarters prepared by one who moments ago wished me dead?”

  She shifted her gaze to Jeanne for a long moment, eyes cold, then back to Montrovant, waiting. Her shoulders had squared a little at Le Duc’s sarcastic tone. Montrovant watched carefully for a reaction that would give away the woman’s intentions. If she wanted them dead still, she had two options, and he was weighing those carefully in his own mind.

  He remembered all too well the awesome powers that Santos had wielded, but those powers had seemed to take time and concentration to call upon. There was none of the dark, heavy aura of danger in the air that had accompanied Santos’s ritual chanting, and this woman, or whatever she was, had not had the time or opportunity to summon such power. This did little to assure him that she did not have some equally powerful weapons at her disposal, so a frontal assault, attempting to take him by surprise, was still a very real danger.

  The second possibility was that she would extend her “hospitality” and then attempt to kill or take them in their rest. Montrovant feared no one, but the hours before daylight grew steadily shorter, as did their options.

  “I will speak with you, and we will remain here this night,” he said at last. Turning to his men, he nodded at St. Fond and du Puy. The mortals who followed him, while accustomed to odd occurrences and odder meetings, were staring at the woman in open distrust, grouping nearer to Le Duc.

  “My men,” he continued, “will of course be involved in securing whatever quarters you allot us. Not that I do not trust you, though I do not, but only that I trust my safety to no others.”

  “Of course,” she answered softly. “I am no more fond of the daylight than you, though it does not affect me in the same ways. My more…powerful followers will be disposed as you yourself, and only those fully mortal will be moving about. I will assign you a chamber without light and easily secured against attack. It is the most I can do to assure you of my good intentions.”

  “We are not in a position to argue with you, my lady,” Montrovant replied dryly. “We now have the choice of trusting you, or killing you. The latter choice might lead us too close to the approaching daylight. Besides, I would have you answer a few questions for me while the opportunity presents itself. I have wondered too long about Santos, for instance.”

  She nodded again, turning to call out to a number of her followers and issue quick instructions. The bodies were already being drained in preparation for hauling them off, and the efficiency of the collection of the blood indicated how often this same scene had unfolded, though with considerably less resistance from those on the receiving end.

  “Since one of my men died,” Montrovant said softly, “I
expect your ‘followers’ to share that blood.”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling. She snapped her fingers, not looking back, and Maison was at her side. “Bring our guests food and drink, and, for these two,” she indicated Montrovant and Le Duc, “something…richer.”

  The odd little man nodded, rubbing a bruise on the back of his head where he’d struck the wall earlier. He did not speak, either out of respect, or because the red, swelling bruise on his lip made it painful. Among the others he seemed to command the same level of respect as Rachel did with him, and food, wine, and silver chalices filled with rich, still-warm blood were brought forward and served in silence.

  St. Fond, du Puy, and the others watched in silence. Things that had been left silent and unspoken for a very long time were being laid bare, and their eyes never shifted from Montrovant as he lifted the chalice, breathing in the heady scent of fresh blood, and tipped it back to empty it in a single gulp. Montrovant felt the weight of their combined gazes, but did not hesitate. The time for such foolishness was over. He intended this journey to be the one that brought him at last to his final goal, to the Grail, and all that might mean to him. They could follow him and join in that moment of triumph and magic, or he would simply kill them, feed again, and move on. He was better served on the road by those who understood his truth.

  Not a word was spoken or whispered, and as Montrovant laid his chalice gently on one of the tables, licking his lips clean of the last remnant of blood, the others lifted their own glasses in silent salute. Not one of them dropped his gaze, and Montrovant smiled.

  Seating himself on the end of one of the tables, preferring to remain at eye level with his hostess, or higher, he began to speak softly.

  “I met Santos while in Jerusalem, pursuing my own quest to possess the Holy Grail. He had set up vaults and labyrinthine tunnels beneath the city, or was taking advantage of those already in place, and somehow he had the sanction of the Church in Rome.

  “I knew that he guarded something important. The setup was too obvious to hide that, and my research indicated it was a very likely thing that the Grail was among those objects he kept. Unfortunately, he escaped me that time, and I was forced to track him down, only to watch as he disappeared in one direction, a strange ‘head’ in his possession, as another, older and more devious still, made off with the treasures and artifacts in question behind my back.

  “I met Santos one other time, in the tunnels and vaults beneath the keep of Jacques de Molay, Grand Master of the now very secretive order of the Knights Templar. It was there that his head was removed from his body and silenced, but that act brought me no closer to what I sought.”

  Rachel had been listening in silence, eyes glittering. She opened her mouth several times as though to interject a question, or make a comment, but in the end held her silence until Montrovant had finished.

  “It is possible then,” she whispered. “It is possible that you have ended that long, long existence. It is very hard to imagine.”

  She looked away then, and continued more softly. “You have already surmised that Santos and I have certain things in common.” Her gaze shifted quickly to meet Montrovant’s head on. “There is a similarity, but it is superficial. It would be like my looking at you and hating another of your…inclination…and passing that hatred on to you. It is unfair.

  “Both Santos and I were created, but by very different powers and for very different reasons. He is the guardian. He existed because there are things, artifacts and talismans, that have been created by men, or circumstance, over the centuries of what passes for civilization, that should not be wielded by any mortal. Most believe these objects should be destroyed, wiped from the Earth and the threat ended before it can take root.

  “That is not the thought of Santos’s makers. They felt that a time would come when they might have use of these items, or when man might be ready to understand and wield them wisely. Thus was Santos conceived.

  “What they did not predict was his fanaticism. They could not have known, either, his insatiable thirst for knowledge…for power. He was created with a certain set of abilities, but even in the early years of his charge as guardian, he was learning and growing. Centuries, as you well know, can do that to a man…or woman.”

  Montrovant nodded, a small smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes remained dark and unreadable.

  “You want to know what the artifacts were. I know this,” she continued. “Many have wanted to know…men have died for that knowledge throughout the years. I wish that I could tell you.

  “Some of the items come from Santos’s homeland, Egypt. There are talismans created by great magi, the bones of pharaohs and kings, scepters and jewels with both the curse of death and the healing touch. These I knew before his creation. The rest, the things that most interest the followers of the Christ? These were added at much later dates, and though the one you know as Santos guarded them as selfishly and jealously as any of the original items placed in his care, they were not announced to the world.”

  She turned to him a final time. “He was there when those tunnels were dug, my friend; when Jerusalem was young, he was guardian. When the city was taken, mosques rising where temples once had stood, he was there still. The treasures of the God of both Hebrew and Muslim lined his walls.

  “I don’t have your answer, but I will tell you this. If any on the face of this planet know where your Grail is located, Santos would have been that one. If he did not have it, he coveted it. If it existed, he tracked it from the moment it left the Christ’s hand.

  “I have my own quests…my own search, and I am frustrated by the news you bring me. I have a companion—you may have heard his name—Owain ap Ieuan? He seeks as you seek, though for different knowledge, different objects and powers. Still, the end is the same…he seeks because the burning desire to know, and to possess, will not let him free, and because he must or die of boredom and disuse.”

  Montrovant listened to every word, sifting it through his mind and looking for holes, evidence she might be lying, or withholding information that he required. The silence that followed her words was long and filled with the heavy weight of tension, but slipped away slowly.

  “Your words make sense,” Montrovant said at last. “I can find no way they differ from what I know, and what I have heard.” He turned to Jeanne, but Le Duc was silent as well. It was plain to see that the knight believed what he’d heard.

  “Santos was both the beginning of my quest, and its bane. When I detected his activities beneath the mosque of Al Aqsa, I knew he guarded something important. When I realized that the Church allowed him to exist, and to continue his obviously dark practices, my suspicions seemed confirmed.

  “But he managed to escape me the first time we met, and another, Kli Kodesh, a very ancient vampire, made off with the treasures Santos and I both sought. He nearly ended my own existence more than once, and I his, but when he existed there was a scent to follow. Since his destruction, the scent has grown colder.

  “Kli Kodesh entrusted the treasure to an order he founded. They are led by one once Nosferatu, as your own followers, but since changed in some way, perhaps from a taste of Kodesh’s own blood. They have been called by some the Order of the Bitter Ash, and though they seem to have some remarkable traits even for undead, they are not invincible.

  “I was the agent of the Church responsible for watching over them. Rome knew they held treasures, they knew when Santos guarded the same, but they were content to know these items were there and kept from the hands of others. Perhaps there are secrets hidden among them that would discredit their faith. This I do not know. I do know that very suddenly, and very completely, they disappeared.

  “I waited too long. They held the artifacts, rumored among them the Grail, in a vault beneath a mountain near Rome. By the time I realized it was happening, they were gone. No warning. No trace left behind…just gone. I was able to capture one who followed them, Damned, but not of the Order, b
ut he knew no more than I have already told you. He came to them and they were gone.”

  “Where is he now?” Rachel asked suddenly…eyes bright.

  “Unless his God has a sense of humor,” Montrovant answered softly, “he is a small pile of dust, blown from the wall of my keep by the morning breeze, victim to Father Sun.”

  “A sacrifice to Rah,” she breathed.

  Montrovant turned to her. “A sacrifice to frustration. He would have joined them, and they are my enemies. I removed an obstacle, that is all.”

  “I will strive not to become such an obstacle,” she replied, eyes dark, but not with fear. “I have no time, nor energy for such a conflict.”

  Montrovant met her gaze a last time, and laughed suddenly, loudly, the sound filling the room and echoing from the stone walls. “Nor do I, lady. Nor do I.”

  At that moment Maison reappeared. He shuffled up behind Rachel slowly, holding back beyond her reach. “The quarters are prepared,” he said softly. “Very safe…very dark.”

  Rachel nodded in his direction, not turning from Montrovant to acknowledge her ‘brother.’ “You will be safe among us,” she said. “I know you have no reason to believe this, but it is the truth. I have gained more by not killing you a second time than had you been destroyed, and there is little point to risking my followers in the attempt at a bit of sustenance from yours.”

  “I understand, and yet, we will keep our watch, lady, and we will be gone when the sun sets again.”

  Montrovant rose, and Rachel followed suit. “Maison will see you to your rooms,” she said, offering a slender, shapely hand.

  Montrovant took that hand, holding it for a long moment and studying her eyes, then turned away without another thought, following Maison’s shuffling form off down the back passage and into the depths of the monastery in silence.

  Rachel watched him go, his men filing in behind and around him, watching carefully over their shoulders. The shadows swallowed them, and still she watched, but she made no move to follow, or to speak to her own followers. Her eyes were vacant and very far away.