by Lara Adrian
"What is it?" she asked, following his line of vision.
"There. Halfway across the bay."
He need not say any more, for Ariana's gaze settled on the orange glow of a single torchlight, bobbing along on the water. A small boat was approaching, and above the roar of the waves and the bitter howl of the wind, she could just make out the sound of men's voices.
"'Tis them."
"Le Nantres?"
"I'm sure of it. Braedon thought he might have followed us to Avranches."
"Oh, God," Ariana whispered. "What should we do?"
Kenrick turned away from the promontory to take her by the arm. "Let's get inside before they see us."
"We'll be safe from them inside, won't we? You don't think le Nantres and his men would dare breach the sanctuary of the abbey to come after us?"
"Come on," Kenrick said, offering her no assurances as he led her to the huge oak doors and gained them entrance to the abbey's almonry.
* * *
As Kenrick had instructed, Braedon found the old entrance on the north side of the abbey abandoned to time and the elements. The muscles in his calves and arms burned with the exertion it had taken to scale the rocky back side of the mount, but the strain and trouble of the climb paid off tenfold when he tried the weather-beaten door of the old Romanesque structure. Unbarred, unguarded, it gave without protest, save a groan of its rusted hinges.
Inside, the vaulted stone crypt was unlit and cold, a forgotten chamber that seemed ancient compared to the intricate design of the abbey's marvel. Braedon took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom before he closed the door behind him, shutting out the moonlight and the howling aquilon winds that blew in off the open sea beyond. In the dark, his mud-encrusted boots falling softly on the dusty slate floor, he crossed to the rear of the narrow, pillared vault.
A set of stairs led to the floor above. Braedon followed it, pausing when he detected the low murmur of voices and the soft crackle of a warm fire. Illumination glowed from within the elongated chamber, stretching thin fingers of light across the gleaming tiles of the floor. Braedon came to the top stair in silence and peered around the corner into the hall beyond. Three rows of columns ran the length of the scriptorium, dividing the chamber and its twin fireplaces built into the outer wall. Huge, high-set windows seemed to grow out of the groined ceiling. Their arched maws of glass gaped black with the deepness of the night sky above.
Below them, suspended by cording between the pillars that marched the length of the room, hung a number of tapestries. They had been affixed beneath the capitals like curtains, makeshift partitions that provided a level of solitude for the monks who worked so diligently at translations and manuscript illuminations within the tomblike quiet of the scriptorium. Two of those monks, young clerics in the black robes of the Benedictine order, made an abrupt exit from behind one of the tapestry partitions. Braedon moved back into the shadows as they crossed the open floor. The pair was too engrossed in scholarly discussion to notice the watchful, steady gaze that followed them as they quit the hall. An instant later, Braedon crept out of the darkened stairwell. Hastily he crossed the length of the scriptorium.
"Brother Raimond," a monk called, the detached voice trailing Braedon as he stole past the wall of tapestries. A chair scraped away from a table behind one of the curtains. The voice came again, shrill with censure. "Brother Raimond, you've carried in mud on your shoes again. That's the second time this week..."
Braedon reached the anteroom door and slipped outside, narrowly escaping before the angry monk could finish his erroneously placed scold. Bypassing a corridor where a group of brethren stood to converse in low-toned Latin, he pivoted in the opposite direction and skirted along the shadows of yet another pillared hall, this one curving around toward what appeared to be an infirmary. Braedon navigated his way through that room, then a chapel lit by scores of candles held in large iron candelabras. Adjoining this worship hall was an ossuary, the place where the monks stored cemetery remains removed from the limited grounds of the burial plots.
He entered the dank, musty chamber, certain he was getting close to where he needed to be. He could almost feel it, the Stone of Light--Calasaar--clutched in the talons of a serpentine dragon that snaked around the stem of the mystical vessel. He could visualize the golden cup, one-fourth of the Dragon Chalice, its power guiding him.
Calasaar was near, he would stake his life on it.
Then he spied something promising: a plain, unassuming looking door at the far end of the ossuary. Five long strides carried him to the small portal. He tried the latch and cursed. Locked. He rattled the ancient panel of black, oiled wood, testing the hinges. The door would not give. Not unless he meant to smash it in. He considered doing just that, but in the moment it took for the thought to enter his mind, a disturbance made him still where he stood.
Draec le Nantres was inside the abbey. Braedon sensed his movement. He willed his mind to focus and counted three others with him: shifters, all of them--one with the vermin stench of Ferrand de Paris. Braedon felt their malevolent presence stir the air, although their glamour seemed dimmed by the sanctity of the holy place. But they were well armed, and they were on the hunt inside the almonry.
Ariana.
Braedon trained his senses on her, searching for her with his mind. He felt her fear at once, felt her moving deeper into the abbey with Kenrick. They, too, knew le Nantres was there. Infiltrating the crowd. Searching for his quarry. They could elude him for a while, but how long?
He wouldn't have much time.
Bracing his shoulder for the impact, Braedon rammed his body into the small oak door and splintered it off its hinges.
Chapter 24
Not even the tight huddle of mingling humanity could conceal them from the cold green eyes that searched the crowded space of the almonry. Ariana stuck close by her brother's strong arm as he led her farther into the long gathering place with its central support of six tall pillars. Kenrick guided her to the backside of the nearest one, some halfway down the length of the place, and inserted them into a small circle of pilgrims who stood, heads bowed, murmuring in a language she did not recognize, ostensibly absorbed in a moment of shared prayer.
A nod from Kenrick directed Ariana to pose likewise. She whispered a prayer in earnest as he carefully peered around the granite column to assess their position from le Nantres and the men who accompanied him. They had arrived a short while ago, Draec and a small number of armed knights who scarcely attempted to hide their purpose in coming to the abbey on the mount. Like stealthy forest predators, they moved about the crush of people who were taking alms and receiving blessings and lodging from the Benedictine abbot, their gazes searching, relentless as they split up to comb the almonry.
Ariana could not stand the fearful anticipation any longer. Lifting her head only the barest fraction, she whispered to Kenrick, "Where are they now? Have they seen us?"
"I can't be sure. But we can't stay here waiting for them." He ducked back around the pillar, the tendons in his proud jaw drawn tight. "Braedon told me to take you out of here at the first sign of trouble."
"Leave?"
She opened her mouth, ready to protest that she would go nowhere without Braedon, but Kenrick was already shaking his head, his decision made. "It doesn't matter. It's too late to try to leave the abbey. They would spy us for certain. Which means we'll have to press farther in and look for a place for you to hide until this is finished."
"Until it's finished? What do you mean--Kenrick, what will you do?"
She did not have to see his hand tighten around the hilt of Braedon's sword to know that her brother wouldn't hesitate to use it. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder toward the buzzing throng of pilgrims, then took her hand to lead her away. "This way, little sister. Quickly."
They made their way to a darkened stairwell leading to the floor above. Fleeing as swiftly and as quietly as they could, Kenrick brought her out into another chamber, then
down a hallway. Behind them, footsteps followed, the fall of heavy boots echoing off the stone. Kenrick broke into a run, dragging her along behind him as he zigzagged through one torch lit chamber to another.
At the end of the last, they entered a tall, domed crypt. Its rotund perimeter was lined with thick pillars of smoothed stone, situated tight together like the trunks of massive trees. The vault seemed to be an intersection of sorts, for spaced around it were several doors and access ways. Before they could decide which one to try, their pursuer--the largest of le Nantres' men, an ugly, black-bearded brute--thundered in behind them.
He made a grab for Ariana, but Kenrick swept her out of reach and drew his weapon with a warning hiss of unsheathed steel. "Go, Ana! Hide yourself."
She numbly shook her head, hating the thought of saving herself when Kenrick, and very likely Braedon, would stand to defend her to their deaths. For a moment, she stood frozen, watching her brother circle around the other man, Braedon's sword gleaming like molten silver in the torchlight. Kenrick was normally strong and fit, but he was still suffering from his mistreatment by his captors. And he was more accustomed to wielding an ink quill than he was a sword. She gaped at him in horror, certain he was going to get himself killed while she watched.
"Go, Ariana! Now!"
The sheer ferocity of his shouted order jolted her into action. She skirted between two of the fat pillars and fled into the darkness of the corridor as the first clash of steel rang out. Kenrick bit off an oath, hissing in pain. Dear God, had he been struck? The chilling thought shook her to her core as the violent grate of weapons continued. Ariana ran down the lightless passageway in terror, praying the night would not cost the lives of either one of the men she so dearly loved.
* * *
It wasn't there.
With one of the ossuary torches in hand to light the crypt, Braedon stood in the center of Mont St. Michel's treasure room and swore a vivid oath. He searched the domed alcove once more, but met with frustration and anger, and not a little confusion. Impossible as it seemed, he had been wrong.
Calasaar was not there after all.
The vault held a number of other treasures: jewel-encrusted crosses, exquisite sculptures--even an age-darkened, punctured skull that sat atop a pedestal like the holiest of relics. A small wooden casket adorned with brass fittings held a place of prominence on a carved stone altar placed beneath the sole window of the vault. Made of costly stained glass, the window fractured the moonlight that spilled in from it like multihued gemstones, variegated and brilliant. The colors danced across the altar, glittering in rainbow reflections on the polished bowls of several priceless-looking cups and goblets.
But none of them bore the cup containing the Stone of Light.
Braedon raked a hand through his hair, looking around him for something he might have missed. He had searched every alcove, examined every paltry treasure in the vault. To no avail. It simply wasn't there.
And yet...
He scowled, stunned to think he had been wrong. Could he be missing something? He pivoted, shining the torch light in a wide arc around him. Nothing illuminated further, save the smooth brick of the crypt's stone walls and high, arched ceiling. His hunter's senses--that accursed gift that he had finally come to embrace--had, in the end, deceived him. The irony of the situation wrenched a huff of laughter from his throat.
After all he had been through in the journey from London's docks to this very moment, he had failed. His chance to do something good--this determined grasp at redemption--had been for naught. Just when he had begun to believe it, to trust in it, his hunter's gift had proven a jest.
But where it failed to direct him to Calasaar, the fickle gift rose up like a herald's call to warn him that Ariana was in imminent danger. Somewhere in the abbey, she was in mortal fear. In the short while he had wasted searching the crypt in vain, Draec's men were closing in. Braedon felt them moving along the corridors. He scented fresh blood in the air, Kenrick's blood, let by an enemy blade. He could feel the clash of steel somewhere in the abbey, could almost hear Ariana's panicked breathing as she fled deeper within the labyrinth, searching for someplace to escape the danger.
"Run, my love," he quietly intoned. "Hide yourself, and wait for me."
* * *
She found an alcove tucked into a shadowy corner of an empty room some length down one of the passageways. Heart slamming against her ribs, Ariana scurried inside the meager hiding place and waited, willing her breath to calm lest the sound of her fearful panting betray her. She knew not how long she hunched there in the dark, flattening herself against the cold granite bricks of the wall. It seemed hours, an endless time of worry, of wondering.
Was Kenrick all right?
And what of Braedon?
Heaven's mercy, but if she lost either one of them now, she knew not how she would bear it. Fear for her own life paled when she thought of the two men she loved more dearly than anything, both out of her reach and facing danger of the worst kind. Would that she could be with them, that she could help them in some way. As she fought to contain the tumult of her emotions, she realized the din of clashing swords had quieted at the far end of the corridor outside. There was only silence now. Only darkness in the tomblike room in which she hid. She listened, straining her ear for any hint of what lay beyond the chamber.
"Oh, Kenrick," she whispered, praying he escaped the altercation with minimal harm.
Every instinct urged her to go to him, to see for herself if he yet lived, or...
"Ariana?"
The low-voiced summons sounded just outside the dark little room.
"Ariana, 'tis all right, little sister. Are you near? Come out."
With a soft cry of relief, she all but stumbled out of her concealment. Kenrick was at the door to the chamber, throwing her a lopsided grin as she ran to him and threw her arms around him. "I was so worried! Are you hurt?"
"Nay. Come with me."
He took her by the wrist, his strong fingers gripping her tighter than needed as he brought her out into the torchlight of the corridor. Now she could see that he was, indeed, unharmed. He was perfectly well, save the lingering bruises of his captivity. Thank heaven, she thought, feeling some of her alarm ebb as he led her along the passageway.
"Where are we going?"
He didn't answer her, merely hushed her with a hiss of warning tossed over his shoulder. "This way," he said, and suddenly they were turning toward the vaulted crypt where he had just battled with one of le Nantres' men. "Kenrick, wait. This path will only lead us to--"
The words choked off in her throat that next instant, for standing before them, gilded in the wobbling glow of torch flame was Draec le Nantres himself.
She jolted back, but Kenrick's grasp on her wrist prevented her from moving more than a pace. She wrenched against that biting hold, and threw a confused glance at him. "Kenrick...?"
Emotionless eyes stared back at her--eyes that she could see now, in the light, were not the clear blue they should be, but rather a dullish black. Vacant. Cruel in their fathomless apathy. But the smile he gave her was far from unfeeling. Wicked, full of arrogance, the beast who held her bared his teeth in a leering grin of malicious satisfaction.
"Let me go!" she cried, fighting the bruising hold. At first she thought the pressure had lessened, for a spread of queer tingling began to creep up from her wrist. The sensation traveled higher, intensifying, and when Ariana looked up, it was no longer Kenrick's face staring back her, but another. A face that put a knot of revulsion in her stomach.
"Ah, you see, ma belle petite?" The shifted countenance of Ferrand de Paris laughed now. He hauled her spine against the front of his fleshy body, chuckling as she fought in vain to break free. "I promised you we would meet again."
"What have you done with him? You devil's spawn--what have you done to my brother?"
Wrenched around and taken into a pinning hold against Ferrand's immovable girth, Ariana started to scream. His sweaty hand ca
me down over her mouth. Hard fingers clamped firmly over her lips. Ariana bucked. With her struggles, Ferrand's iron clasp on her face grew more punishing. His fingers, fat like sausages and sour with the tang of sweat and steel, tightened to a bruising vise over her mouth. Her teeth scored her lips beneath the pressure, the taste of her own blood making her heart beat faster, her frantic struggling growing more desperate.
Draec le Nantres smiled his devil's smile as his gaze settled on her. "You must think me the worst sort of blackguard, the way we keep meeting up under less than pleasant circumstances."
Ariana dearly wanted to tell him what she thought of him, but the meaty brace of Ferrand's hand had not eased up even a fraction. She glared at le Nantres over the stubby fingers clamped over her face, reining in her fear and anger lest the fury of her emotions drive her wits.
"Let her speak," Draec commanded the greasy Frenchman. "She won't be fool enough to scream. Not when her beloved brother has a blade to his throat."
Ariana looked in horror to where Kenrick was now being brought toward them. The remaining two of le Nantres' men held him between them, hands tied before him. One of his captors pressed a dagger beneath his chin. His tunic was splattered with blood. For a terrified instant, Ariana feared it was a mortal injury, but a quick glance at the rest of his person showed he bore no serious wounds. Not yet, she amended, her gaze rooted to the deadly length of steel poised so hazardously against his skin.
Ferrand's hand dropped away from her mouth, and le Nantres came closer. "Now, why don't you tell me where le Chasseur has gone, Lady Ariana?"
