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

by David Niall Wilson

  Jeanne and Montrovant moved very quickly once they left the others behind. Le Duc watched their back, carefully scanning the streets for any paying too much attention to their passing. Montrovant moved through streets and back alleys as if they were his backyard. They were on the far side of town before he finally slowed and stopped before the doors of a huge, ancient building. The edifice had once been a magnificent place, spanning four streets across and two back. Later days had cost it much of its glory. The lower floors had become a catacombed conglomeration of taverns, vendors, and shadowed alcoves.

  Montrovant swept his gaze up and down the building’s face, then stepped quickly through a doorway. Soft light leaked out from the interior, firelight dancing merrily. Above the door, hanging crookedly on a bent nail, a sign proclaimed “La Flambeau.” The low hum of voices joined with the soft throb of heartbeats to draw Jeanne in his sire’s wake.

  The scent of roasting meat and that of sweet red wine drifted to Jeanne, but the blood drowned it, diluting it to a background haze. He heard the voices and could make out some of the words, but that first instant, melting into that moving mass of life and heat, was always dizzying for him. Jeanne had spent the earlier years after Montrovant had Embraced him traveling, secluded. He had never quite gotten used to the crowds.

  Montrovant moved quickly ahead, and Jeanne concentrated, following as his sire led him toward the back of the tavern to a table in the shadows. Here they slid onto benches on opposite sides of a rough-hewn table and leaned against the wall, watching the activity in the room.

  Jeanne had no idea what they were looking for, so he let his senses range as widely as possible, feeling he could do the most good by missing nothing. He mentally noted each face, tried to catch the tones of each voice. It distracted him from the growing hunger. Montrovant showed no signs of such an inner struggle. His eyes were clear and deep, sweeping the room with purpose.

  The ceiling was high, but hung with nets, the sort you would find on fishing vessels. Lamps were mounted on the walls, soaking the room in mellow, golden light. It was surprisingly busy for such a late hour. It was not a prosperous area of the city, and the surrounding buildings and shops had shown nothing similar in the way of activity.

  “Why do they come here?” Jeanne said softly. “What is this place?”

  Montrovant turned slowly, eyes still staring across the tavern. “It is an old place, Jeanne. The rest of the city has moved away, but this one tavern remains of the old city. When the Crusaders came through, they drank here. Templars were closeted in the basements and transported safely from these walls when Philip decreed them disbanded. I believe that, should the rest of the city crumble to dust around it, this one place would have light, and music.”

  Jeanne watched Montrovant carefully as he listened. Such poetic discourse was hardly the dark one’s habit.

  “You know this place, then,” Jeanne prompted.

  “I have been here many times. It is a good place to find secrets, my friend. Sometimes one finds secrets that others do not even know are secrets. So many pass through here, it is easy to forget those who stay. Those with eyes and quick wits. These are the ones I seek. If the Order passed through Grenoble, or near the city, information about that passing also passed through here. You may count on that.”

  Jeanne looked about again, this time watching for those most comfortable…larger groups not attired for travel, or the road. Eventually one of the serving girls made her way to the table and Montrovant ordered mulled wine for them both. The warm, scented drinks filled their senses, the heat enticing, but the aroma fell so far short of blood that it nearly nauseated Jeanne, who was less used to such masquerades.

  “There,” Montrovant said at last. He nodded toward a man leaning against the far wall, his fist gripping a tall mug of ale tightly. The man’s eyes were never still, and each time he shifted his gaze in another direction, his head cocked, as though he listened for sounds on the wind. “He will know, if any do. If not, he will know who does.”

  The dark one rose, and Jeanne followed. They moved along the wall of the room, carefully averting their eyes from the one they sought. As they turned toward the bar, their paths running directly before the man, Montrovant raised his eyes and caught the man’s attention. At first it seemed the other would flee, or turn away. His mistake was meeting the eyes.

  They were beside him in seconds, and Montrovant’s arm had snaked around the man’s shoulders in a friendly gesture of camaraderie.

  “You will come with us,” the dark one whispered. The man had no chance. He was swept from his post by the wall, pressed through the crowd and out the door before he even had a chance to finish his ale, or set down the mug. None took any notice of their passing, and they were in an alley moments later, their new companion pressed tightly to one stone wall.

  “I wish only information,” Montrovant said, voice steady and low. “You will provide it, and then you will return to your drinking, a much wealthier man. The other possibility, of course, is that you will lie to me, or resist, in which case, you will not return at all.”

  The man twisted to one side, trying to make a break, and Montrovant slapped him hard, slamming his head back into the stone. Trembling now, their prisoner waited, eyes wide.

  “I…I have done nothing. I came only for a drink, please…”

  “I am counting, my friend, on the fact that you very often ‘come only for a drink,’” Montrovant said, smiling darkly. “Now, no more foolishness. I am seeking a strange group of men. They would have passed through here in the last month, or near here. Probably they traveled in the guise of monks, moving only by night and transporting a cargo in one or two wagons.”

  The man’s eyes shifted. Jeanne saw that the fear, which had ruled the fellow’s face seconds before, was swept aside momentarily by greed, then again by a wary, sidelong expression that attempted to avoid Montrovant’s eyes.

  “I never saw such a group in my life, lord, but might be I’ve heard tell of such a thing.”

  The man waited, as if expecting something, and Montrovant lunged forward suddenly, his forearm pressing the man’s throat to the wall. “I have no time to play games with you over this. Tell me what you know. If it is what I need, you will be rewarded; if not…”

  The man tried to swallow, fought the panic as his air was cut off, then relaxed a bit as Montrovant pulled back. After a harsh coughing wheeze, and a quick rub of his throat, the story poured out quickly.

  “I was in the bar, minding my own business as usual, having an ale with Jean Thomas, the bartender’s boy, when three men came in looking as if the spirit of Lucifer himself was on their heels. These were not timid men now,” the man’s eyes narrowed, as if testing to be certain Montrovant understood, “they had the look of bandits, and I’ve seen a few of them in my time.”

  “Get on with it,” Montrovant grated.

  “Well,” the man cleared his throat, seeing that it was no time for lengthy tales, “they claimed they’d been with a larger group, on the road, when they’d met a small caravan coming the other way, skirting the edge of the city. They said it seemed odd to them, such a group traveling in the dead of night, so they hailed them.”

  The man stopped here, turning to include Jeanne in his gaze for a moment, then continued. “You ask me, the only greeting offered was a demand for their gold. These were up to no good, that much is certain.

  “To make the story short, for they went on a long time, babbling about demons and death, they said it was a group of monks and that their companions had been killed. They only survived because they’d hung back. Me, I think they were cowards. In any case, no one paid much attention to them, except me.

  “Not sure exactly why, but I just couldn’t imagine them making up such a crazy story. It stuck with me, and now that you mention a group traveling like that, it comes back to me. I hear a lot in that tavern.”

  “Where might we find these gentlemen?” Montrovant hissed. “Those who saw?”

&nb
sp; The man’s eyes widened for just a moment, then he met the dark one’s gaze once more and spoke. “I wouldn’t know for certain, now,” he coughed, still fighting for air, “but there’s a forest just outside the city where it is said their like can be found. A place to be avoided.”

  Montrovant released him suddenly, drawing back with a humorless smile.

  “That is exactly what I needed to hear.” He reached into his cloak and withdrew his pouch, counting out several gold coins and dropping them into the man’s hand. The last of these he held for a moment. “You say you see a lot of things in that tavern,” Montrovant’s voice had gone very cold…very distant. “You did not see myself, or my companion. Ever. We never asked you questions, and you never answered. Believe me when I tell you that if I find you have forgotten this last bit of information, you will die a very long, slow, painful death…at my own hand. Am I clear?”

  The man nodded, gasping as Montrovant’s arm pressed again into his throat. The dark one dropped the last gold coin, which bounced off the fellow’s hand and into the dirt of the alley with a dull thud.

  The informant dived after the coin, scrabbling around in the dark alley for a moment and letting out a soft cry as his hand wrapped around the smooth surface of the coin.

  As he turned to rise, his jaw dropped, and his face grew pale. He was alone in the alley. There was no sign of Montrovant, or Jeanne, no sound had marked their passing. He glanced down at the coin once more, shaking. It was real, very real, and the dark one’s words slipped back in to haunt his mind as he returned to the bar in search of something stronger than ale.

  The two horsemen approached the rear wall of the cathedral shortly after midnight, drawing up short of the rear wall. Noirceuil remained mounted, staring at the huge edifice fixedly, but Lacroix slid easily from the saddle and approached. He’d been there many times before, and he knew his old friend, Cardinal du Pois, would be expecting them. If they were to make their greetings and be properly welcomed, it was important that they make their way inside at a decent hour.

  “We should search the city,” Noirceuil said harshly. “If we wait, we will be left behind again.”

  “We have our orders, my friend,” Lacroix reminded his partner with a stern glance. “If we are on the road another few days for the delay, what does it matter? His Eminence, Cardinal du Pois, is expecting us. Who knows, maybe his men have learned something. You know that he is aware of the focus of our mission, if not the…details?”

  Noirceuil nodded distractedly, then spoke again. “They are not equipped as we to search. The dark one could slide through their fingers without their even being aware of his passing. You know this, Alexis. I wish only to complete our mission, to rid the Earth of his evil. I burn to do this, and the delays do not sit well with my heart.”

  “They are necessary delays, Noirceuil,” Lacroix answered, tying his horse off near the wall and climbing the stairs to pound on the rear door. “I wonder sometimes what has happened to you, my friend? You act as though hell is going to rise and swallow you in a matter of hours and every blood sucker must be wiped from the Earth before it happens. We have time.”

  The door opened quickly, and three cowled monks stepped out, exchanging polite greetings with Lacroix. Noirceuil watched them for another long moment, as if he might just turn and ride away, then he reluctantly dismounted, handing the reins over to one of the men who reached for them and following Lacroix into the cathedral.

  “If he escapes us,” Noirceuil said, as he stepped past Lacroix toward the door, his voice very low, “it will be on your head.”

  The echo of those words followed them down the vaulted passage beyond the doors, and Lacroix let them die to a silence punctuated only by their footsteps. He could feel the glaring intensity of his partner’s eyes seeming to bore into his back, and for the first time since knowing the man, felt a small twinge of fear for himself. Shivering, he continued into the shadows.

  NINE

  Abraham approached Grenoble warily. He knew that it would be difficult for a party the size of Montrovant’s to hide in the city, but the two agents of the Church were a different story altogether. If they came from Rome, they might know about Abraham, and from the looks of the Damned one, Noirceuil, it would not matter if Abraham were on a mission from the Church or not. If they met, one of them would not walk away.

  He kept to the shadows, using the roads only when necessary, and slipped into the city from one of the side roads. He’d visited Grenoble once before, many years back. He knew which side the cathedral was located on, and he entered from the other side. He had his own letters of introduction from Rome, but Noirceuil and Lacroix had changed his perspective on their value. It seemed Abraham was on his own, more so than he’d thought.

  It was possible that Santorini was not even alive. The bishop had been in disfavor after Montrovant’s departure; if word, somehow, had gotten to the Church that he had hired another of the Damned to join in the hunt, it might have been too much for the venerable cardinals to accept. They weren’t above executing their own to preserve their secrets.

  There was to have been a communication for Abraham waiting along the road, anything pertinent, but now he decided he would do without it, and Santorini without his answer. He would find Montrovant on his own, and he would do what he could do, but he wouldn’t risk being destroyed by those who had sent him.

  Up until that night on mountain, the only one who brought fear to Abraham’s heart had been Montrovant. Noirceuil had doubled that number.

  He slipped out through the entrance of an alley and cantered down the empty street. It was still fairly early in the evening, families were in their homes eating, the day was over and it was still early for those who haunted the streets and taverns by night. He needed to be certain he had a safe haven for the coming day before he could begin his search. It was always the same, and particularly difficult in such a large city. He knew he could just ride out of the city and sink into the earth, but he would almost surely lose his mount doing that, unless he stabled it and walked. The city was no place for a vampire far from anything familiar to wander unannounced, and it was another delay.

  Montrovant was no fool. If he’d come to Grenoble he’d done so with a specific plan in mind, and he would not waste a lot of time over it. The dark one had his own agenda, and it did not allow a lot of time for wandering about city streets. Without the refuge of the cathedral to count on, Abraham knew he would be wasting valuable time. He moved through the center of the city quickly, heading for the older part of town. Near the fringes things were falling into disrepair. There were abandoned homes, others gutted by fires, even a church with the wooden doors swinging loosely. The place had been vandalized and looted long before and left to rot.

  Beyond that was a small cemetery. Abraham moved closer, considering…but he caught several dark flitting shapes, just out of the line of his vision, and decided against it. There were others there. He could sense them, and knew they had felt his presence as well. They were waiting to see if he would move into their territory, and he had no time for such confrontation. They might offer him sanctuary, or they might drag him off and drain him for their own strength. He moved further to the edge of the town, and he saw what he was looking for.

  An old house stood, shutters long rotted away, windows open and gutted, but with a shed still standing out back. There was no sign that any other had set foot on the property for years, but somehow the shed still stood. It would do to hide his horse from the road. As he approached, a second pleasant surprise met his gaze.

  There was a rotted wooden door flush with the foundation of the ruined house, angled downward. A wine cellar. It was perfect, if the door did not crumble in his hand. He might not have to take to the earth after all.

  He opened the door to the shed, peering inside and inspecting the walls, the floor, looking for any sign of recent inhabitation or use. There were none to be seen. It was empty, musty, and smelled of the musk of cats. Still, for a single
day, it would do the animal no harm. He could leave food and water. The beast was well trained…it would not give him away, and if it did, still, there would be no reason for any to search the cellar.

  He made a quick circuit of that dank place as well. There was a low table that was still sturdy, and though it was slimed with mold and very old, it would hold his weight nicely. Rats peered out at him from the little cubbyholes that had once held wine, and vermin crawled along the base of the walls. There was not a chink in the wood of the door. No light would enter, and if by some odd fluke the doors were opened, he would be far enough inside that direct sunlight would never reach him.

  It would do. He left the majority of his things in the cellar and returned to his mount, heading back into the city. It was later now, and there were lights and sounds rising from the squares and taverns. He smelled the scent of fresh, red blood, and very suddenly realized how long it had actually been since he’d fed. Too long.

  Now that he was among mortals again, too close for control, it was driving him mad. He caught a sudden, close scent, and then the sounds reached him. A low, chuckling voice, rang out. The smooth sound of a blade being drawn…a dagger. Muffled cries. Abraham slid from his mount quietly, making it fast to one of the posts that lined the street and slipped along the nearest wall to the mouth of the alley.

  Inside Abraham saw two figures, one large, the other slender. He slipped into the mouth of the alley and the scene became clearer. A large bearded man was facing a young woman. She was pressing her back to the wall, and though he stood two heads taller than she, there was a fiery glint in the girl’s eyes. She had a very small blade gripped tightly in one hand, and though he was laughing at her, her assailant stood back a bit warily, his own dagger gleaming brilliantly in a small patch of moonlight filtering down between the buildings.