“Wisdom!? You know not the word!” Clement thundered.
The room fell silent. The anger of the Pope infused the air. Cormac had never seen the pontiff so enraged—and he understood, to a point. Clement felt trapped by circumstance that he had no control over. Events he was barely privy to were directly threatening all he had come to shelter and grow. Few courses of action were available to him. Cormac could deflect the fury of Clement; the Cardinal Vicar only hoped the Pope would choose to fight back.
“It might be best for Your Eminence to vacate the Vatican,” Cardinal Diaz suggested, breaking the silence. “The Lateran Palace on the other side of Rome, perhaps?”
“And present our faith to Plantagenet on a silver plate? No.”
“Your safety is more important than—”
“My safety is tied to that of the Church, Cardinal Diaz,” Clement said. “And the Church is in danger. Those of you here represent many souls around the world. It is you who must find sanctuary, weather the storm that comes into our home.”
The Cardinals spoke their protestations at once.
“I will not hear it,” Clement said loudly, raising his hand. The others fell silent. “You will leave St. Peter’s immediately and find safety from what comes. There is nothing any of you can do in the midst of this danger, but you must remain to keep the hope the Lord instilled in each of us alive.” He paused. “Cardinal Tucci, organize the Swiss Guard. Call all to arms and order them into the catacombs. They must be outfitted with the entirety of firepower the Vatican has at its disposal. Cardinal Villenza, make preparations as if the Vatican will be besieged—food caches, water, medical needs. You understand?”
The Cardinals nodded, but they were not pleased.
Clement turned to Ennio. “Do you have the power to destroy the portal?”
“I do not,” the young knight admitted, fidgeting under the scrutiny. “It takes a wizard of immense power to achieve an event of that magnitude. I can, however, bring the catacombs down upon the portal, closing it off for the time being.”
“It is settled,” Clement said firmly. “Carry out my wishes and then find sanctuary.” He turned to Cormac. “Cardinal Vicar, come with me.”
Cormac frowned. “Me, Your Grace?”
“You will remain by my side in this,” Clement said resolutely.
Ice filled his chest. Clement spoke a quick prayer, asking the Lord to watch over the Cardinals and keep all who required it safe. He then gave the members of the Vigilo his farewell before striding from the chamber with an urgency Cormac had never seen the Pope possess.
With the murmur of Cardinals discussing how events had unfolded and the choices the Pope had made fading behind, they both ascended the stairs into the upper levels of the Basilica.
Cormac wondered where he was being taken.
Once the two men had gained the upper corridors of St. Peter’s, Clement glanced over his shoulder.
“I know you desire the papacy, Cormac.”
Cormac walked a step behind Clement, unprepared for such a statement and unsure of how to reply. The two men made their way quietly, their soft boots barely making a sound on the polished granite floors. No one was about. The wing they were in was private, several rooms holding treasures from centuries past and housing the secondary suite of the Pope, offering a place of refreshment if he was uninterested to return to his primary Papal Palace apartments.
Cormac had rarely been here—few had—but Clement guided him with earnest purpose.
“I hope to serve the Lord in any capaci—
“No!” Clement cut him off and stopped, a finger raised like a sword. “When I say you desire it, I mean the darkest filament of desire possible runs through you. You wish the authority to protect the Church and all souls who comprise it, of that I have no doubt, but personal reasons guide you. I know of your past. The death of your family so long ago has never left you, and the revenge in your heart has been tempered over time into a driving force. The Seer knew it just as I do.” He paused. “You have done well in overseeing the spiritual needs of Vatican City during my tenure, but I fear for what you will do if given the chance.”
Old wounds opened for Cormac. “I have no reason to provoke anyone,” he said.
“I truly doubt that, Cardinal Vicar.”
Clement continued down the hall. Cormac did not know what to say. With a few pointed words, Clement had peeled back and exposed the lingering pain Cormac had carried with him for decades.
It would never die.
The two men eventually entered a suite, Clement locking the door behind them. Sunlight flooded multiple rooms through tall stained glass windows, casting various colors upon rugs, small statues, and ancient oak furniture that glowed as if newly waxed. Walls were adorned with large bookshelves laden with books; vases holding fresh flowers sat upon the tables. Several architectural maps of the former Basilica hung in encased glass. Marble, gold, silver, and other highly polished stones and metals flashed, artisanal perfection at every corner, but the beauty of the room felt sterile to Cormac. Cold. It was a suite for kings who flaunted their wealth.
Cormac looked around, drawing it all in. The suite would be his one day. If he survived whatever the Pope had in mind for him.
“I know you hoped to the gain the seed for yourself,” Clement said, moving through the vestibule into the rooms. “It explains the secrecy you employed. I am not daft. Controlling the Heliwr would make for the strongest of tools in whatever endeavor you made him embrace. You failed, however, and now the Heliwr has fallen to the wizard.”
“I did nothing but try to protect the Church and its interests.”
“If that is true, you did a terrible job of it.”
“And now you wish to castigate my good faith by putting me in harm’s way?” Cormac questioned.
“Maybe you aren’t as incompetent as you’ve demonstrated in recent days,” the Pope said.
Cormac let the rebuke fall aside.
“Then again,” Clement added. “Perhaps I am acknowledging your eventual rise.”
The Cardinal Vicar had no idea what the Pope meant. He followed Clement into an adjoining sitting room where six plush chairs surrounded a short round coffee table. The walls were draped in colorful tapestries depicting epic events from the history of the Church—the upside down crucifixion of Saint Peter upon a barren Vatican Hill, the Emperor Constantine with sword held high standing firm against paganism as he legalized Christianity with his other hand, the crowning of Charlemagne before Pope Leo III on Christmas day, and knights bearing the cross of the Crusades storming a fortress in the Middle East.
Clement walked to the bare wall beneath the Crusades tapestry.
He stopped.
“It is paramount that what I am about to show you remain between us,” the Pope said mysteriously. “You will either come to know it by way of the papacy or we both will die this day and another successor will come to the knowledge on his own. Will you bide my authority and keep this secret I am about to unveil?”
Cormac nodded, confused but curious.
The Pope grunted and stepped to the simple gray blocks comprising the wall. He ran his leathered fingers over the stone as if searching for something. After long moments had passed, he placed the palms of his hands flat to the rock and, pressing inward, closed his eyes and grew still. Sweat glistened on his wrinkled skin. Mumbling words Cormac thought were Welsh, Clement leaned in closer to the wall as if unable to hold his body up any longer.
Cormac was about to step in, worried despite his misgivings for the Pope, when yellow light began to emanate from the fingertips of the pontiff, first barely perceptible but growing in brightness. With the knights of the Crusade watching from above, the cold fire seeped into the stone as if it were porous, and shot outward in various directions like cracks in a broken pane of glass. The room became drenched in golden light. Soon the outline of a tall rectangle became visible, the fire in the wall changing, molten and alive, moving fluidly as if sentient.
/>
Just when Cormac thought fire would engulf Clement entirely, a bright, soundless flash erupted from the wall and Clement disappeared. Cormac shielded his eyes but when he looked again the fire was gone. Replacing it was a tall rectangular doorway.
And beyond, a room shrouded in gloom.
Eyes still closed, Clement took a deep breath, standing in front of the doorway, and then looked to Cormac.
“What did you do?” Cormac asked, shocked. “How…? What happened…?”
“If the white smoke blows for you one day, you will learn it,” Clement replied tiredly. “It is a very old power, one of a few passed down from Pope to Pope for several centuries. The right words, a strong will, and need.”
“What is beyond?”
“Beyond? Our salvation, I pray.”
Clement strode into the dark recess without another look at Cormac. The Cardinal Vicar followed. Air grown stale from years of being trapped washed over them, and darkness met him with a terrible chill. Cormac barely felt it. Somewhere in the chamber an unidentifiable entity stirred, thrumming with life that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Unsure suddenly about the intentions of Clement, Cormac paused, wondering if he should defy the Pope and leave.
Then he realized what he sensed. It was collected power unimaginable.
Clement struck a flame into existence in the depths of the dimness and lit a series of small torches placed in sconces at even intervals around the square perimeter of the room. The light revealed an armory of sorts. Clamps set in the wall held numerous swords, axes, spears, staves, lances, and various other weapons of war, each unique, most glimmering in the firelight as if alive. A series of shelves set in the left-hand wall stored folded blankets, robes, cloaks, and gloves, while another shelf on the right carried numerous leather-bound books and trinkets. A glass case in the middle of the chamber held the remains of hair, splinters of wood, urns, and a number of different bones, from fingers to legs to skulls. It was a macabre repository, one Cormac could not believe existed.
“What is this place?” he asked, mesmerized.
“It is the Vault. How did Myyrdin Emrys empower the Knights of the Yn Saith?”
“He gave them magical weapons,” Cormac answered. “Given such great power by the wizard, the knights can decide for themselves how to best serve the promise of the Vigilo.”
“Partly right,” Clement said. “He gave them magical weapons possessed by one person in history—the Britannian King Arthur. Along with the blade of Lancelot, the wizard chose to give the weapons he had access to.”
“And?”
“These are many other relics the wizard had no ability to gain and subvert,” Clement continued, gesturing at the walls and glass case. “Each of the items you see before you hold a property that science cannot explain. Magic, if you want to call it that, imbued by the Word’s will. Over the years, beginning in the fourth century with the building of Old St. Peter’s, the Church has hunted for these items, the most deliberate effort carried out by the Templars in the Crusades, invading the Middle East. Others have brought them to the Church, some out of goodness to see right done, others for political favor or financial gain.”
“Why have I not heard of this room before?”
“The best way to keep a secret is for few to know it,” Clement said. “In this case, the Cardinal Archivist also possesses the knowledge, in case of a pontiff’s sudden death.”
The Pope went to the wall of weapons. With a steady hand he reached up and carefully removed a sword, the blade shining like chrome in sunlight. It was a long broadsword, its hilt thick, golden, and slightly curved toward the tip, the double-handed grip wrapped in silver wire. The pommel glimmered gold, the disk bearing the image of an oak leaf. It was a simple piece of craftsmanship but it radiated beauty and might. Holding it upright to catch the torchlight, Clement looked it over from tip to end, admiring what he held.
“Here is Durendal,” Clement said.
“It’s a work of art.”
“It was once the weapon of Roland, a captain of Charlemagne, slaughtered in the battle of Ronceveux Pass. Legend recounts Durendal once belonged to Hector of Troy, reforged from his sword after his death at the hands of Achilles, but that has never been proven. It is a powerful weapon, unbreakable, enchanted by several Saints. It should aid us at this time of need.”
“Ahh yes, I know of it. Didn’t that sword vanish…into a river?”
“Poisoned stream,” Clement corrected. “And yes, it disappeared from the sight of man. Roland tried to destroy it, but when he failed he had to hide it from his enemies. As with many things lost, it was found—and eventually brought here.”
Cormac nodded. “We are arming ourselves then?”
“Indeed. The knights are equipped with powerful talismans. Philip Plantagenet has the power of the Grail at his command and who knows what else. Even most of the fey creatures of Annwn possess magic. The only chance the Basilica has of withstanding what marches toward it is to even the odds.” “You know the potential of each relic here?”
Clement pointed at a lone book sitting on a pedestal near the door that Cormac had missed. “The Exsequiae Codex. All of the relics here have been documented.”
“I assume you are showing me the Vault to equip me as well?” Cormac asked.
Clement found an oiled belt with a scabbard, and after tightening it about his waist he sheathed Durendal. He then pulled down a dark gray broadsword from its placement on the wall, its metal glistening like a darkened rainbow. It was longer than Durendal, longer than Cormac’s legs even, but Clement held it as if it were light as a feather. The blade was the opposite of the one Clement carried on his belt; the entire sword appeared to be iron, its hilt wide jagged blades like sharp thorns, its pommel a dagger-like diamond, the weapon absorbing the light and reflecting none.
He handed the sword to Cormac, hilt first, all too carefully.
“This is Hrunting.”
“Hrunting…?” Cormac asked, unable to remember where he had heard it before.
“Yes, Hrunting. The Demon-nail.”
“It can’t be,” the Cardinal Vicar whispered. “That’s fiction!”
“Fiction to whom?” the Pope asked. “Those who lacked the ability to document the story originally as history? Oral traditions are corruptible; they can become history or tale quite easily. Beowulf was real. Hrunting is real. It is one of the oldest relics to have been brought to the Vatican. Roman Catholic monks recovered it in Northumbria, sometime in the eighth century I believe, and they brought it to Rome. Hrunting can slice through stone. No one knows how it does this, nor how its iron can be stronger than steel.” Clement paused, prepared to release the sword. “Take it, now.”
Cormac took the blade. Hrunting was as light as a feather but he almost dropped it anyway. A tingling immediately traveled into his hand and up his arm, a throbbing like his entire limb had fallen asleep. The feeling passed after seconds, but heat continued to emanate from the hilt.
Cormac tightened his grip. He did not want to drop it.
“None of my predecessors know what that feeling in your hand is,” Clement commented. He handed Cormac a belt and sheathe. “But it matters not. Hrunting is powerful. It will keep you safe for what comes.”
“I like the sound of that, Your Eminence,” Cormac said, a bit sarcastically.
“This room must remain protected.”
“It will be,” Cormac said, belting Hrunting at his waist. “We will not fail today.”
“It cannot fall to the fey or anyone else,” Clement said. “For anyone to take these items could mean terror for the world. Philip may have the Holy Grail, but the relics here would make an army even more powerful.”
Cormac nodded.
“Cardinal Tucci and Cardinal Villenza will have already started fortifying the catacombs around the portal,” Clement continued, extinguishing the torches in the Vault. “The knight will have need of us. He is young and inexperienced. He will need our guidance.”
Cormac left the room, with its ancient relics and musty smell. When Clement had cleared the entrance he whispered a few words under his breath. The wall reformed as if it were alive, the blocks of stone returning to their original positions, mortar joining them all.
By the time they left, the Vault had become hidden once more.
Clement exited his suite. Cormac once again followed. They traveled back downward, through the elegant halls of granite and beautiful tapestries, passed marble statues in piety, back to the nave of the Basilica and into the warrens carved out of the rock of Italy. All that Cormac saw he now fought to protect, with his life if it came to that. Both men did not speak; the time for speaking had ended. The exacerbated animosity they both held was relegated to the past and held no place in the present.
That might change after Philip Plantagenet. If they survived.
For now, they were willing companions.
By the time they had returned to the barren underground world beneath St. Peter’s, much had changed. Hundreds of Swiss Guard flooded the catacombs, each fulfilling some order they were given, all bearing semi-automatic weapons, pistols, and additional ammunition. Clement and Cormac parted them like a sea, authority and purpose written on their faces and in their strides. The air grew cooler as they descended farther, and soon they were standing on the subterranean shore of the underground branch to the Tiber River. Provisions for a long siege had been brought to the catacombs and defenses erected to aid them.
None of the soldiers questioned their orders, but they all sent awkward glances at the shimmering portal from time to time.
Cormac fingered the hilt of Hrunting, standing behind the line of soldiers and next to the Pope. Power emanated from the sword, his at command. He was ready. He suppressed his fear with anger and memories. Someone in Annwn had murdered his mentor and friend, and it gave him renewed strength to see right done.
He hoped he would have the opportunity to avenge that death.
The Dark Thorn Page 41
