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

by David Niall Wilson

  He thought of Montrovant, but somehow knew it was not the dark one. It had to be Noirceuil, and if it was, crawling into the cavern was no true escape. They moved steadily inward, and eventually he felt Fleurette hesitate, then slide to one side. He slipped ahead, and found that he’d come up nearly beside her…the tunnel was widening.

  Silently, she nodded at the wall to his right. There was a stone slab there, pushed aside, large enough to slide back over the tunnel. It was not a natural cavern then, but a tunnel, and that tunnel could lead but one place. Pressing her ahead a bit further, he grabbed the stone slab and slid it slowly across the opening. It moved smoothly and easily, but when it hit the far side, there was a sudden CLICK! It would not budge either way after that. The tunnel, effectively, no longer existed. He stared into the pitch-black void where the stone blocked their way for a long moment, then turned to crawl ahead again, tapping Fleurette on the thigh so she would know to follow.

  It was only a little before dawn, he could sense the weight of the sun’s rising, and when they reached a hollowed-out area about twice the width of the original tunnel, he chose to stop, dragging his progeny to him and holding her there in darkness and silence. If none used the tunnel on a regular basis, they could rest through the daylight. He only hoped that whoever was following would not figure out the mechanism to move the stone door.

  Noirceuil came up to the cliff, seeing the horse and its baggage, and noting the cavern moments later. His eyes narrowed. It would be a moment of reckoning if he followed as he desired. Lacroix would not fail to see him as he was if he crawled into the belly of a mountain and dragged the Cainites out without dying himself in the process. It was not yet time for such a revelation as that would be.

  He placed his hand to the stone over the opening. He called into it loudly…listening carefully to the echo. His eyes flashed as the echo returned quickly. Not hollow. It had an end, and that meant they would have to come out. Eventually. He would wait.

  Turning to Lacroix, he smiled for the first time in days.

  “Let’s make camp here,” he said. “They are holed up for the night, and we will be safe enough until tomorrow evening.”

  Lacroix nodded. He dismounted quickly, eyeing the hole in the mountain warily, then moving to place a silver crucifix across that opening. He reached to his pack and brought forth a vial of water, blessed by the cardinal in Grenoble, and dripped it in a tight semicircle around the cross. Noirceuil watched in amusement for a moment, then turned once more.

  “I will keep watch on the perimeter until it is too light for Montrovant to surprise us,” he said.

  Lacroix found that he was more weary than he’d realized. Nodding, he sought the shelter of a nearby outcrop of stone with a small bent tree dangling over it for shade. He brought down his pack, placing it beneath his head and drawing his long cloak about himself tightly, lying back to watch the way they’d come.

  Noirceuil slipped off into the trees, moving swiftly and leaving his mount behind. When he was certain he’d put enough distance between himself and Lacroix, he stopped. Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to slow, and his feet slipped softly through the earth, to the heels…ankles… thighs…disappearing slowly into the embrace of the soil of the mountain. He would rise before Lacroix grew suspicious, and then he would find a way to flush his rabbits from their hole. The hunt was on.

  FIFTEEN

  Jeanne returned to their room in the inn to find that Montrovant was already there. The dark one sat by a window, staring out into the darkness in meditative silence. Jeanne slid into the chair opposite his sire, leaning back and waiting. He was full, sated and feeling the first vitality-sapping effects of the coming dawn steal through his limbs.

  “It is coming full circle,” Montrovant said softly, turning from the window to meet Jeanne’s gaze. “I can feel it. I’ve hunted this thing for so long, followed this fool’s errand until I have begun to see myself as the fool. I cannot continue as we have.”

  “They have not all been bad times, my friend,” Jeanne said softly.

  “No,” Montrovant said, laughing suddenly, “no, they have not. But there has always been this at the root of it all. The Grail has been fixed in my mind for so long that I feel it with me, even though I’ve never set eyes on it. I can sense it, calling to me, mocking me, and that eats at me constantly. I was a rational man in life, a bit impulsive, but a good leader. I was destined for great things, I believe. That ended, and even after death, I was cautious, learning, seeking knowledge if I did not possess it.”

  “Then Eugenio told me the story of Kli Kodesh, and of the Grail. I still dreamed of the sunlight then…did you know that? I still thought of the times I walked carefree with women, stealing away with them, not to drain their life and continue my own, but to share hot, sweaty moments and secrets by moonlight. When he told me the legends about the Grail, it was the beginning of a dream.

  “I believed it might bring some of that back to me. I believed that, with the Grail, I might be able to free myself from the shadows, return to that light. Certainly all those I knew would be dead and buried, but what did that matter to one who was eternally young, and handsome? I saw myself as a king in the world of the living, and that intoxicated me.

  “Over the years,” his voice lowered, and his gaze shifted back to the window, “I have come to a different perspective, though the fire to possess the Grail is no less intense. I know now that there is no going back to what has been. I would no more fit into the world of the living than I would wish to join it. My Embrace did not lessen me, Jeanne, it fulfilled me. This is who I am, what I am.

  “That is why I will go to that mountain. I know, as well as you do, that in a true test, we have no chance to wrest the Grail from Kli Kodesh. There is no power on Earth I would wager on pitted against him. But he is a mad old fool, and he will give us a chance. I will take that chance. I have taken it before, and it has done nothing but extend the chase, but somehow I feel this is different. He grows weary of the game as I do. He will not play it any longer, but will work the pattern to a close.”

  “Do not be comfortable with that,” Jeanne said, leaning forward suddenly. “He has always woven the patterns, and we have always done just as he knew we would, have always woven ourselves into the tapestry of his little games without considering options that might have changed the outcome.

  “You are not a chess piece. You do not have a set move that you cannot deviate from. You need to anticipate the pattern. Probably more than once. He will expect us to try something new, and we must do that, but perhaps there are several things we can do to change the pattern. Maybe there are ways to alter it altogether.

  “The goal will remain, and that part of the puzzle is his to command, but the pathway to that goal, that depends entirely on you.”

  Montrovant continued to stare out the window, but Jeanne could tell that his words were getting through.

  “The trick,” Jeanne added softly, “is to know just what would amuse the old one the most. That will be the pattern, and once we know it, we can work to upset it.”

  Montrovant spoke then, voice low and thoughtful. “If we can find a way to disrupt his pleasure, a way to make things swerve toward an end that will not satisfy him, we might tip his hand. He might move too swiftly, trying to rectify that which we shift, trying to fill what would be a horrible void in his existence, a dull ending to a long, drawn-out game. It is possible that if he believes he is winning too easily that he will tip the scales on our side to balance things, and we might take advantage of that moment.

  “One thing I do believe. If we win, he will let us go. He will see the Grail in my hand, and he will smile, and he will begin to scheme with that new knowledge and image in his mind. The changes that could be possible if even half of what I’ve learned of the Grail are true would be enormous. The entertainment value of it all cannot have been lost on him.

  “If not me, he must plan to unleash those artifacts one day. I have to believe that his d
esign for the game includes both possible endings. He certainly did not seem concerned whether I killed Santos, or Santos ended my existence, so long as we met and clashed. Neither does he care so much about his own followers, since he has pitted them against powers they cannot possibly face more times than I can count, only to pull them out at the last moment.”

  “Well, whatever we do must wait for nightfall,” Jeanne said, rising slowly, “and the dawn is growing too close for my comfort.”

  He moved slowly to the closet, pulling the door wide and making his way inside. Montrovant watched, then turned to the window again before he rose as well.

  “There is something else,” he said softly. “I sensed it as I hunted this evening, a presence, a power. Not Kodesh, I would recognize that. Something different, dangerous. I wonder if it is a part of the old one’s puzzle that we haven’t seen, or a new piece yet to be fitted, one that we can work to our advantage.”

  Jeanne smiled. “If there is a way, we will find it. I have grown quite fond of the notion of holding the Grail myself. I would hate to be disappointed so near the end.”

  Montrovant laughed softly. “We will drink from that cup together then, my friend. You have been with me longer than any, been more supportive even than my own sire, and his ‘family.’ When the time comes, we will end our existence, or begin anew, together.”

  Then they closed the door quietly behind them. Du Puy was already asleep, half drunk and snoring, along the wall beside the closet door. As it was closed, the knight stirred, scanning the room in silence without rising, then resumed his slumber. His rest was deceptive. Even a few flagons of wine would not be enough to prevent instinct from taking over if any opened the outer door to their room. It was locked, and there were strict orders to prevent any entering, even the others who traveled with them. If that door stirred (and it would not give easily, since one of the stout wooden chairs had been propped at an angle beneath the handle) du Puy would be on his feet and ready before any could gain access.

  It was probably an unnecessary precaution. There was no reason for the villagers to suspect anything, and the innkeeper was certainly going to be loath to do anything to end the steady flow of gold that had been flowing into his purse since they entered his establishment.

  Montrovant was not one to take chances, and du Puy needed a place to sleep it off in any case. The room fell to soft shadows and the only sound was the tall knight’s heavy breathing. From the closet, nothing.

  On the mountain, deep within the earth, Noirceuil’s body rested, but his mind roamed. He could not find the rest the light should have brought, though he was beyond its reach. He could not find peace in any form, but only endure until the night fell once more and the hunt could begin anew. It was the only time the ache would stop, the only way he could reconcile his existence in any way that did not lead to madness.

  He tried to pray. Where he’d once felt his God very close to his heart, holding him up and supporting his mind and heart, he felt a void. Where his voice had seemed to take wings each morning and night, his thoughts and dreams making their way to realms beyond his understanding, where answers had always been waiting to fill his mind with peace, there were no answers now. The words, prayers, and dreams shot off into a deep, dark pit from which there was no return.

  He remembered the church so vividly. He could still remember the feel of the sun, warm in the morning, shining in through stained-glass windows to fall over the altar as he prayed. It had been a small church, a parish of so few that there were Sundays he shared the Mass with no more than one other, but it had been so precious, so complete. Now nothing was complete.

  Every thought brought the anger. Every memory brought the rage. He knew what he was, and he knew he was Damned. He knew the void would never be warm, or filled, or complete, but he did not lose sight of his God, for all that. If he could not serve and be redeemed, he could serve and save the souls of others. With his own soul forfeit, the means justified the ends. He would put them all to rest, one by one. He would kill them finally and completely, preventing them from stealing the lives and souls and afterlives of others. He would not rest until they all crumbled in the sunlight, or until he himself ceased, at last, to exist. His prayers were no longer for a place in Heaven, but for the nonexistence of Hell.

  Lacroix did not understand. He saw the raw edge of Noirceuil’s anger, his rage, but he did not see the pain at its base. He saw the dark hunter, but he did not see the angry young priest, robbed of salvation. He saw the obsession, and the growing lack of concern for the Church, and these things angered and frightened him. Lacroix was a man with his mind and heart set on a very worldly future. A nice, soft job in Rome, and a long, opulent retirement.

  He had been so vibrant when Noirceuil first met him, so full of fire and the love of the hunt. Lacroix would have been a knight instead of a priest, if it had not been for the hunt. The notion that darkness existed, and was powerful and loose in the world fascinated and intrigued him. When Noirceuil had shown him how it could be hunted, ferreted out, and exterminated, the seeds were sown. Rome had known for years, possibly centuries, of the Damned.

  There were legends and stories to frighten children, had been since the beginnings of time. There were no stories without some sort of basis in reality. Noirceuil had heard those words; now he lived them.

  Lacroix had never questioned his partner’s idiosyncrasies, though others in the Church had certainly cast some odd glances in his direction. It was the results that had kept things moving and relatively safe. Some suspected Noirceuil’s secret— how could they not? Rumors were rampant. Though he had what seemed a logical explanation for his odd actions, the lack of deviance in his routine had been noted more than once. It was unnatural, to say the least, to never see the light of day, even if one were obsessed with the night.

  To exist as the Damned existed. To walk only when they walked, see only what they saw, and to end their foul existence at every opportunity, all in the name of God. That was his story, his tainted afterlife, all that remained of his dreams, and the glory of the love he’d felt for a God who had long abandoned him.

  If there was hope for him, he would seek it in revenge. If there were truly “many rooms in his father’s house,” he would seek his through the hearts of as many of the filthy, bloodsucking demons as he could bring along for the journey. They were Damned, as he, and they should not be walking the earth. They should not be borrowing the lives and souls of others to continue their own unclean existence. They should, in fact, not be at all. That was his goal, to make that a reality.

  The sun rose, and kissed the earth, the trees, the wind stirring the grass and animals slipping from their holes and dens to scamper about the clearings in search of food. Noirceuil waited. No rest, no peace, only the agony of knowing that the time would be wasted until again the sun dropped.

  For once, Noirceuil’s little jaunt into the forest, from which he never returned before morning, did not upset Lacroix. He still watched the opening in the cliff warily, but he did not believe that, if Abraham and his young one had entered there, that they would be exiting into the bright sun, so he was safe from them.

  Sadly, it was the partner with whom he’d spent long years on the road who brought his fear. He was losing trust in Noirceuil fast; and in their work, that could prove fatal very quickly. They had to be able to depend on one another, and without Noirceuil’s uncanny ability to spot, flush, and destroy the Damned, Lacroix would have been dead, or risen to a darker unlife, a hundred times over. He focused on that as he rolled into his blanket beneath the stone ledge. They had come so far, and this was to be their most important mission. He could not afford to become the weak link over some childish fears.

  Surprisingly he felt his eyelids growing heavy, and it was not long before he drifted off, ignoring the dangers that surrounded them. One thing that had characterized his time with Noirceuil was their enemy. During the daylight, there was no enemy. They hunted by night, a practice he now thought
, at last, to question, but by day it was as if the entire madness of it all slipped away and disappeared.

  The sun missed him as the shadow of the stone wrapped around him, and he slept, though dark shadows chased him through his dreams.

  SIXTEEN

  Abraham felt the weight of the sun release him with a slow reluctance. He shook Fleurette gently, knowing she would be slower to rise, but needing her to move as quickly as possible. If this was a way into the new stronghold of the Order, two things were fairly certain. Those inside would know it was there, and they would use it as a way of exiting. Neither fact was cheering to him as they lay side by side covered by a mountain of earth. It was not a good place from which to negotiate.

  As soon as Fleurette stirred against him he urged her forward. There was no going back, and he had no way to be certain that Noirceuil would not find a way to open the portal from the far side. Even less than the Order did he want to meet that one in such a dark, confined space.

  So they moved on and in. It was no more than fifty feet before the passage turned, and around that turn they came to another portal. This one was already closed, but Abraham did not panic. He slid forward, gesturing for his companion to stay as she was for a moment. The passage had widened considerably, and there was a bit more room over his head as well, so maneuvering was less of a problem. Abraham examined the stone door carefully, fingers pressing into it here and there, sliding around the edges, then walking across the center, looking for a latch. He found nothing, and as he continued to search, growing a bit more frantic, he felt Fleurette moving up beside him.

  She remained quiet for a long moment, then her hands shot out, sliding past his outstretched arms and pressing against the stone. With a quick shrug of her shoulders, she pressed the stone slab to the side hard. It slid easily, sinking into a slot in the tunnel wall. She looked at him again, and he thought for just a second that the smallest flicker of a smile had danced across her eyes, but then it was gone, and she was still as silent and unreadable as she’d been since the morning she awoke to death.