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

by David Niall Wilson

  The Church might not trust Santorini any longer. The bishop had been the liaison between Montrovant and Rome, and Montrovant was gone, as well as the Order he’d been supposed to be “guarding.” None of this was likely to have won Santorini points in the Vatican.

  The other possibility was that it was Santorini who lacked trust in his own agent, that he had turned Abraham over to another branch of the Church. The solution of a problem was more certain if it was approached by more than one avenue. What if Santorini was also behind these others, and they were also on Montrovant’s trail, or Abraham’s own? Too many things left to question, and no answers to be had except through the road ahead.

  If he found Montrovant, he knew, things would fall into place, one way or the other. If these others sought the dark one as well, they would find him a bit more of a challenge than Dorval, whose drained, worthless carcass now slipped back to the earth that would eventually claim it. Abraham wiped his sleeve over his lips, cleaning away the last remnant of blood, mind lost in thought.

  The night was not so old, despite all that had happened, and Abraham knew he should return to the road soon, but he held back a bit longer, moving back to the stone and seating himself with his back to that solid wall, thinking. Montrovant would waste no time reaching France, but that made the trail easier to follow. A straight line was what the dark one would take, and that is how Abraham would follow.

  Abraham wondered at these others. He wondered if this Noirceuil knew as much of those he sought as he claimed, and what could possibly have turned him so against his own that he would hunt them like animals. Most pointedly he wondered why he’d never heard the names Noirceuil or Lacroix before, and what they would mean to his own future.

  Mounting at last, he returned slowly to the road and continued on over the mountain, not hurrying his pace, wanting to catch up with neither Noirceuil nor Montrovant until it was at a time and under circumstances of his own choosing.

  There would be time to pick up Montrovant’s trail once all of them were safely across the border in France. The time in between would allow him to make a few contacts of his own and communicate with Santorini. There were answers he needed now, and he needed them quickly. He was in as much danger from the Church which had sent him on this fool’s errand, it seemed, as Montrovant himself. More so, in all likelihood, considering the dark one’s age and power. He did not intend to leap in headlong until he at least knew the depth of the hole he was entering.

  He moved slowly down the road, lost in thought, as those ahead pulled steadily away, moving to their own designs.

  Noirceuil and Lacroix made good time now that the hunt was over and behind them. Neither spoke, but they moved comfortably together. They had shared long roads, and though neither qualified as normal by the standards of the world at large, they were well acquainted with one another’s idiosyncrasies.

  Lacroix tolerated his partner’s odd hours and habits because, whatever dark hunger it was that drove him, the truth was that Noirceuil’s methods were the most effective Lacroix had ever seen. To live as they lived, to hunt and sleep by the light of day, to leave behind all that meant the most in life, all for a dream of service to God. All for the good of Rome.

  Noirceuil’s mind was so attuned to the Damned they hunted that his habits mimicked theirs at times. His violence grew with each hunt, his ability to ferret them intuitively from behind their clever disguises and the many masks they wore was unparalleled. Some of that ability had rubbed off onto Lacroix himself, but most of their success as a team was based on Noirceuil. If not Lacroix himself, there would be others to travel by the hunter’s side.

  Lacroix’s ability was of a more mundane nature. He was well connected in the Church. His own efforts were largely responsible for the recognition of the Damned, and the dangers they presented to Rome. His quiet, whispered praise of Noirceuil, his own name cleverly inserted whenever possible, had led to the founding of their own small branch of the growing power of the Inquisition itself.

  The Pope would not be coming to their rescue if they got into trouble. That much he’d not been able to accomplish, but at least they were supported, and cleared for safe passage and assistance wherever possible. It was a start. The more of the evil, blood-sucking monsters they brought down, the further they could push their cause, and their own worth.

  Lacroix expected one day to be a bishop. Noirceuil, he knew, would be the hunter still. No amount of success would quell that one’s hatred. No amount of revenge would end his pain, whatever it might be.

  Lacroix had attempted once to delve into Noirceuil’s past. One lonely night, three damned souls rotting back to dust in the wake of their passing, he’d broached the subject of the past. He’d gone so far as to ask the hunter why—why the pain, the fire…the darkness?

  It was a mistake he’d never repeated. One glance into those cold, deep, empty eyes, had been enough answer for a lifetime. For several lifetimes. Noirceuil had not said a word. Nothing. He’d turned from the fire, moved into the darkness, and disappeared, not returning until early morning. The fire had burned low, but Lacroix had not slept. Something in his partner’s actions had chilled him beyond the ability of simple flame to brush aside.

  No words had been spoken. Noirceuil, true to his habit, his ritual, had moved to his horse, grabbed his pack, and secluded himself from the sunlight that morning, leaving Lacroix alone to face the day. The subject had been dropped, and it remained a mystery that Lacroix had decided was better left unsolved.

  Now, on the road once more, he was beginning to wonder about the stability of his hunter, and their future together. The hunt for Dorval had been a long one. Months of watching and spying, reports and intrigue, had ferreted this lone human from the ranks of hundreds of others, informant and servant to the one they sought, this Montrovant.

  Then they had spent another week in getting the man away from his own people, out alone where he could be separated quietly, and hunted. The hunt had always been a challenge, a glorious moment of hot blood and dark thrill. That had not changed. What had changed was Noirceuil.

  The man should not have been killed without questioning. The entire circle of intrigue they’d drawn had become so much wasted effort in that one short moment, and Noirceuil did not even see it. He was blinded now by his rage. The closer they came to this one, this Montrovant, the crazier Noirceuil became.

  After this hunt, Lacroix decided, he would be forced to offer his partner a choice. Take a hiatus, regain control of his thoughts and regain the focus that had made him the force for God he’d become…or have his association with Lacroix, Rome, and the protection that came with it all severed. Lacroix did not intend to have his own future plans destroyed in a fit of insane rage.

  The only question, he knew, as he watched Noirceuil’s mount cut through the night, its grim passenger bent low against the whipping of the wind, was how to break that news and remain alive himself.

  EIGHT

  The mountain did not hold Montrovant and his followers back for long, though they were getting a bit nervous over the cold and the lack of supplies before they reached the pass on the far side, winding down. Beyond that mountain they could see smoke from scattered settlements and camps, and signs of activity on the road. This side did not seem quite as secluded.

  Montrovant took to leaving the others behind as they began moving again each evening, and not returning until late in the night, or early morning, in time for making camp. He took Le Duc with him twice…two other times he went alone. Not a word was spoken to his men of where he’d been, or why. Since the events in the monastery, and his “feast” with Rachel, they were quiet and subdued in his presence. Their loyalty was not swayed, but the answers to questions they had been content to leave as mysteries had been thrust upon them by fate. Her story was quite a bit to swallow all at once, as well.

  The dark one was content to watch them, waiting for them to sort it out. They all knew him, and his ways. They also knew that they would not live
long if they chose to cross him. That left the two choices of accepting, or dying. There was little doubt in any mind which they would choose. All that was truly in question was the manner in which they would work it out in their hearts and minds.

  Montrovant was lost in his own world. He left like a shadow and returned just as silently. He spoke only when spoken to, and his brief replies left little doubt that his silence was not to be disturbed. So they rode, and they waited. The days slipped slowly away behind them, and they neared the border of France. They were passing small villages now, stopping now and then at an inn, or to awaken the merchants in a small market in order to replace their supplies. Montrovant spent those times in the streets, the alleys, asking questions and slipping gold from his fingers into the hands of those who possessed what he sought—knowledge.

  Le Duc watched in silence as well. It was not the first time he’d been left to wait, and to watch, guarding his sire’s back. He held the men together, listened to their stories, their jokes, and the mumbled questions, quickly suppressed whenever Montrovant appeared. Although they feared Jeanne as well, each knew that Le Duc himself feared Montrovant. He was their link, their liaison to their leader, and he tried to do what he could to fill that role without betraying the trust of either side.

  One of the oldest and truest rules he’d learned since his Embrace was a deep-rooted distrust of mortals. They served their purpose, and they made excellent servants and slaves, but to trust them with your existence was little short of foolish. That was the position Montrovant had put them both in. It was an indication of the dark one’s sense that it was all coming to a close. They had sought the Grail for so long that Le Duc could scarcely remember a time when it had not been his focus, or at least a secondary focus.

  Through that time Montrovant had run hot and cold. They had been close enough that their goal seemed just beyond their groping reach, and so far away that the entire thing seemed like a foolish dream. None of those times had been like this. Montrovant was drawn inward, concentrated and focused, and they traveled at a pace that indicated Montrovant knew where he was going.

  Each time Montrovant left and returned, they shifted their course slightly. He was on the hunt, and he’d caught the scent of his prey; the only thing left was the chase. They slept by day in any shelter they could find that was adequate protection, cemeteries, old abandoned keeps and churches. One night was spent in the root cellar of a farm house. The family, a man, his wife and his daughter, had fallen to Montrovant and Le Duc, and the others had ransacked the place, taking anything of use and disposing of the bodies as Montrovant and Le Duc slipped into the cellar and pulled the strong oak doors closed over their heads. They had left the place with their packs full, leaving no trace whatsoever of a struggle, or their passing. Another mystery for the drunks to debate hotly in the inns by night. Another step closer to their goal.

  Eventually their path wound into the city of Grenoble. The lower reaches of the mountain were behind them at last, and the farmland stretched to either side of the road where they passed. The dwellings of the farmers and a few larger homes appeared, near enough to the road to be made out in the hours of darkness, fires lit, smoke rising from chimneys. Montrovant ignored them. He was more careful as they neared the city.

  It was necessary to minimize their presence whenever possible. He had little fear from the inhabitants of Grenoble unless he was careless, but there was no reason to spread rumors of strange happenings before he even entered the city’s boundary. Grenoble was not a small city, and it was certain to boast Cainites of its own. Le Duc knew nothing of them, but Montrovant was wary. Le Duc had long been aware that anything that made his sire leery was worth looking out for, even if one did not know exactly what it was.

  With inns and women and the promise of ale just around the corner, the spirits of the others were picking up as well. Nothing had changed in the way things were between them and their lord. He treated them just as he always had, if a bit more silently than was his norm, and that lack of change was heartening. He had trusted them with his very existence, and he did not seem to be regretting that decision. It made them proud to a man, drawing them slowly closer together than they had been before.

  A rumor had even started among them, much to Jeanne’s amusement, that Montrovant sought the Grail only so that he might drink blood from it and become human once more, to drink and carouse with them, dying a natural death.

  It was a healthy tale, one with no danger that Le Duc could foresee, so he ignored it. When questioned, he merely watched the eyes of whoever asked until they were forced to look away, neither confirming nor denying their theory. He knew that his silence was tantamount to agreement, but was careful to leave it at that. It might come in useful if they needed a rallying point, a standard against which to call loyalty beyond that they already held. Save Montrovant’s soul. Find the Grail and make him a man among men once more…bring him back to the sunlight.

  Under other circumstances it might have been funny. Montrovant sought a great many things, but a return to mortality was not among them. Jeanne himself had contemplated that subject more than once. He remember riding to battle in daylight, the sun glistening off the armor and weapons of a thousand men. He recalled the subtle pleasures of the flesh, the sweet hot bite of wine and the cool, swiftly heating flesh of a woman. Nothing in all the years since his Embrace had been able to wipe away the memories of those sensations.

  It meant nothing. When laid beside the hunt, and the sensation of hot, red blood flowing down the throat, it paled. When the brightness of the day, coupled with its discomfort, sweat, and toil was held to the mirror of cool nights, bright moonlight, and stamina and strength beyond human reckoning, it reflected poorly. Though the images of his life, and the things and people he’d left behind crept into his dreams at times, there were no real regrets. There was nothing to draw them back toward the world of humanity and mortality save the off-kilter promise of salvation and redemption, hard to believe in on the best of nights, and certainly nothing to die for. Not any longer.

  No, Montrovant did not seek that. He sought to rule, to gain more power, to set himself above his own and others and have them acknowledge him as superior. He sought entertainment in all its forms. He had told Eugenio, his own sire, that it was for the “family,” the Lasombra. Le Duc knew better. They had left the dark one on his own for so long that he had become quite the renegade, bending his will and energy to abilities not strictly inherent in his blood. Making his own way. Trafficking with Nosferatu and Ventrue alike, sitting late under the moonlight with the gypsy-blooded Gangrel. He knew no boundaries of family, and if it were not for the Blood Oath, he would not bother to acknowledge Eugenio. With the Grail in hand, Le Duc was uncertain that even that bond would hold him.

  Now they moved into a city none of them had seen in over a hundred years. Too much could change in such a span of time. Those in power once, even among the Damned, were not so likely to be the same. And there was a banding together among those of like blood; the powers in a city were not as accepting of outsiders. The older one became in the blood—and Montrovant was old—the more valuable they became to those who came after. France was home to both Montrovant and Le Duc, but they had been away too long to expect a cordial welcome.

  They entered the narrow streets of the city only about an hour after sunset, walking their horses slowly down the streets, eyes sweeping right and left, taking in businesses and homes, markets and scurrying peasants. None approached them, but all were watching. They moved in silence until at last Montrovant turned down an even narrower side street, almost an alley, and led them to the very end. The road ended at a sheer wall of brick with an alley turning right, and another left. Montrovant swung his mount around to the left and led them into deeper shadows until they reached the rear of the row of dilapidated homes.

  Montrovant dismounted, taking the reins of his horse and making it fast to a rail. The others followed more slowly as the dark one mounted the back st
airs of the building, produced a key from some dark fold of his cloak, and pressed the door inward, disappearing from view.

  They followed him quickly, glancing at one another in consternation. They had been looking forward to a night or two spent in one of the many inns Grenoble boasted. They had dreamed of women, roasted meat and wine. He brought them to cobwebs and dust. The building had obviously housed no one in a number of years.

  “We will make this our base,” Montrovant said as they joined him inside. “You may move about by day and bring the provisions you will need, but you will at all costs remain absolutely silent about our mission. Leave the questioning to myself, and to Jeanne. I want it to appear in every way as if we are a band of knights, weary of the road, ready to make our home here for an indefinite period of time. When we have all that we need, we will disappear the same way we entered. If I have my way, that will be tomorrow night. Silently and quickly.”

  There was a moment of silence, but no complaints. The inns would still be there, and he had not forbidden them access. Silence was a small price to pay. Once the initial disappointment wore off, the wisdom of his choice became apparent. They were at the very back end of a street where, if there were any inhabitants at all, they were not showing themselves.

  They moved about the large home, poking into closets and shadowed corners, finding some wood still stacked beside the fireplace, which had not been cleaned out in years, and set about making a makeshift camp inside. They knew it was best not to change too much that was visible. The smoke alone would attract some attention, and the idea of slipping into this uninhabited little corner of the city was to attract none. Still, when St. Fond struck a spark and brought a small pile of tinder to a quick blaze, Montrovant said nothing. He turned to the door, Le Duc close behind, and moved into the streets.