“So Joan and her escort head off to Chinon next, yes?”
“Not quite. Before they do… we’re going to get a glimpse of the first of Joan’s swords.”
TUESDAY, 22 FEBRUARY, 1429
Word of the Maid of Lorraine had been spreading throughout Vaucouleurs ever since Joan’s first visit, back in May of 1428. While the girl with the black hair and the glorious eyes stubbornly kept vigil every day, hoping for a meeting with de Baudricourt, she had spoken freely to anyone who would listen about her purpose and calling. By the time she returned from Nancy, the townspeople had taken up a collection for clothes and supplies so she might continue safely on her journey.
Joan, de Metz, and another squire, Bertrand de Poulengy, had been in de Baudricourt’s hall for some time. Now, as Joan stepped out of the audience hall, clothed in a man’s tunic and hose, her black hair cropped short as a soldier’s, Simon’s heart skipped a beat.
Gabriel had been surprised when de Metz had suggested the clothing, but it made perfect sense. They were traveling through dangerous territory. If Joan could pass for a man at first glance, the group would draw less attention. It would be easier for her to ride as well, without the encumbrance of a dress and skirt. Now she stood, her face pink, uncomfortable with the attention as the crowd cheered for her, and she seemed to hold back tears when Gabriel made his way through the throng leading a well-groomed, obedient brown horse.
“It is from Papa,” he told her, and Simon felt the boy’s pride in his father. Joan sought out Durand’s face in the throng, and put her hand to her mouth, overcome.
“Gabriel, your family—all these good people—you cannot afford—”
“Maid,” came de Baudricourt’s voice, “worry not for the generosity of your cousin and the good people of Vaucouleurs. I will reimburse them for anything they give you out of love for you and faith in your mission.”
Lovely words, came Victoria’s voice, but he certainly doesn’t look like he shares the sentiments. Indeed, Simon recalled Joan dubbing him “Sourface” at one point when she was particularly upset with him, and it was particularly apt today. Jean de Metz, however, looked very pleased. He stepped forward at his lord’s nod. In his outstretched arms, he bore something wrapped in the de Baudricourt colors of black and gold.
“I place you in good and careful hands, Maid,” de Baudricourt said, “and I pray you come to no harm as you ride to our king. But I also give you your first weapon. May you never need it, but may it serve you well if you do.”
And here it was. Simon felt his body taut as a bowstring. The sword currently in Rikkin’s office was intact; a priceless antique weapon, yes, but nothing more. The only power it currently possessed was that shared by other swords. But if this was Piece of Eden 25—would it appear different from its present state? Would Simon be able to see that it was special, or did it have to be utilized to come to its rarified life?
The last corner of the fabric fell away from the sword.
Joan raised the weapon, and the crowd cheered her madly.
It was definitely not Piece of Eden 25. Dammit.
“Go, then,” de Baudricourt shouted as the group mounted their horses and turned the beasts’ heads toward the gate, “and let come what may!”
Let come what may, indeed, Simon thought. My demotion, certainly, and perhaps worse.
With the Assassin Jean de Metz at her left hand and her devoted Gabriel on her right, Joan the Maid passed through the Gate of France and took her first real steps into the pages of history. What ought to have been a powerful moment for Simon to have experienced had been spoiled by the disappointment. Gabriel, at least, was happy. For now, at any rate.
I’m sorry, Simon, came Victoria’s voice in his ear.
The scene was swallowed by the mists, and Simon was glad of it. It was too optimistic, too filled with a sweet anticipation that would turn bitter soon enough, once these two innocents had their first taste of the horrors of war and the anguish of betrayal.
The mist reformed itself into shapes; a waxing moon throwing cool light on snow-covered earth, the hunch of a building against the night sky. As the mist further solidified, Simon realized the structure was a church by the colors of its small, stained glass windows, lit from within by candles. Soon the only mist was that which formed from Joan’s and Gabriel’s breath as they walked. It was not the hour of the Night Office, yet both had woken almost as if summoned.
Joan’s group had taken eleven days to travel from Vaucouleurs to Chinon. Although several of the towns they skirted en route were held by the enemy, and the journey was over four hundred miles, Joan’s bold prediction that they would come to no harm had proved to be correct.
Tonight the group lodged safely, as the town of Sainte-Catherine-de-Fierbois was occupied by French troops. But other nights, the travelers heading for Chinon had been forced to sleep in fields and in forests. Sometimes, when Joan was not with the men, they had said crude things about her and what they would do if they hadn’t vowed to guide her safely. At first, Gabriel had leaped to his feet in outrage, but Jean de Metz calmed him and steered him away.
“Watch, and wait,” he had said to the younger man quietly, adding, “I swear by my life I will cut the hand off the man that lays it on her ungently.”
Sure enough, Joan would arrive and settle down among them, as content and fearless as if she were with her own family, and the soldiers—all young, strong, and clearly appreciative of the curves her masculine attire could not quite hide—would seem to lose all desire for her, their expressions shifting from leers to genuine smiles of warmth and their language shifting from rude to decorous. The first time this happened, Gabriel had stared, then turned to de Metz, eyebrows raised in question.
De Metz had smiled and said, “I know because it happens to me. She is beautiful, and well formed, but… to just be around her is enough.”
Gabriel had nodded, turning to watch Joan smile and laugh, completely trusting these men, and completely safe in that trust. It should not be; but it was so, and Joan alone seemed unsurprised.
The church door was unlocked and they entered. Earlier that day, the small group had been able to celebrate mass here for only the second time on their journey. Joan had dictated a letter to the future king—she always referred to him as the Dauphin, not the king, and maintained she would continue to do so until she had escorted him to Reims—and a rider had been sent on ahead.
Now, in the hush of this small hour, Joan and Gabriel seemed to have the church to themselves. Joan stared at the statue of Saint Catherine, but the living girl’s rapt face sang to Gabriel’s soul more than that of a carved image. They had not spoken on the walk up, and remained silent now. As they approached the altar, Simon felt his weariness drop from him, as if it were a cloak he discarded. Joan was radiant to his eyes, and his own heart felt warm and full the closer they drew. He followed Joan’s example, kneeling before the saint and praying silently.
Then, quite unexpectedly, the stillness was broken by Joan’s voice.
“You should know, I think,” she said. Gabriel, confused, opened his eyes to discover she was gazing at him, their faces only inches away from one another. Her eyes caught the warm glow of the candlelight.
“They gave me the choice as to whether I told my family I was leaving. They have given me the same choice about you. I almost told you last May, that night when we were both called to keep the Night Office together. But I was afraid. The doubt, even the contempt, of others, I could accept. But not from you.”
Gabriel knew, somehow, that what she was about to reveal to him would change him forever in ways he could not possibly anticipate. But hadn’t she done so already?
Joan took a deep breath. “You have heard me say I know what God wants. Yet you have never asked how it was that I knew. You have just accepted. As I did.”
The glow upon her seemed to increase, and both Gabriel and Simon were rapt, moved beyond words for utterly different reasons. Simon knew what Joan was about to
reveal, and it thrilled him to his very core.
“I was thirteen when it first happened,” she said, her voice taking on a hushed and reverent tone. “I was in my father’s garden.” She looked down at the ring on her right little finger. Gabriel knew it was a gift from her family. She had asked him to write them, begging their forgiveness for what she had to do. She had not heard back, and now she caressed the simple ring as she spoke.
“It was summer. I heard a voice, and I knew this voice was from God. It came from my right-hand side, where the church was, and there was a tremendous, almost blinding light as it spoke to me. I was terrified, but the voice was so gentle.”
Gabriel’s breath came in rapid, shallow sips. “What did it say?”
“At first, only to be a good child, and to do everything that was pleasing to God. To be unafraid, because He would help me. Later, I learned that it was Saint Michael who spoke to me that first time, and I—I saw him.” Her eyes shone, and a smile curved her lips as she spoke. “I fell to my knees and hugged him about the legs, like a child would her parent. He told me that Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret, too, would come to me, and that God had set me a task.” She turned from him, looking up at the stone figure of Saint Catherine, whose church this was, and smiled.
“Jeanne….”
“Saint Michael told me the pitiable state that the kingdom of France was in, and that I was to help its rightful king. And to do that, I would have to leave home. I didn’t want to, I was afraid, but my Voices insisted. They told me to go to Captain de Baudricourt—that he would give me people to go with me to help the king—and to not give up if he turned me away the first time. That I was to keep coming back, and not allow myself to be refused. That God would turn the captain’s ear toward me.”
Gabriel’s mouth was dry as hay, and he swallowed with an effort. He was almost afraid to ask the question in a holy house, but he could not help himself. “How do you know they were really angels?”
A smile that swept through him curved her lips. “I knew it here,” she said, and placed a hand on Gabriel’s heart. “No devil would have made me feel so… so calm. So loved.”
The gentle touch made him tremble and he started to speak, letting the words pour out of him. “I see a light in you, Jeanne. It must be your angels, shining through you, just as they speak through you. Do… do they speak to the rest of us, too?”
Her radiance increased. “Oh, yes,” she breathed softly, her words the barest, most exquisite of whispers. “But others don’t always hear them.”
Joan was not the first girl who had caught Gabriel’s eye. But he had known instantly that there was something different, something sweet and strange in her voice and eyes and spirit, and he knew he couldn’t bear to be without it. He wondered wildly if this devotion to her was coming from his own heart, or from an angel’s whisper, or if perhaps the two things were the same.
The words came from that full heart. “Don’t tell me to leave your side. Ever. Please.”
She turned to look at him, her blue eyes sad. “I cannot promise we will never be parted. Only God knows that. And there are other things I cannot promise.” Gently, she placed her hand on his arm. “How can I be Jeanne, a wife, when I have pledged to remain Jeanne, the Maid of Lorraine as long as it should please God? I made that promise three years ago. My body, my heart… my Voices need of all of me right now.”
The mark of a reckless, smitten fool, no doubt, to cling so desperately to the words “right now.” But Gabriel had long since accepted that he was indeed a reckless, smitten fool. “Only let me share your journey for as long as you can.”
Impulsively she leaned in and grasped both of his hands. “Dear Gabriel, that… that, I can promise with a full and easeful heart. My Voices are glad that I’ve told you. They say that you have chosen to follow me. You will bear witness, be my shadow, for as long as is necessary.”
Tears filled Gabriel’s eyes. Simon’s own heart ached at the thought of what was to come for this blue-eyed girl, so cheerfully and almost earthily human, who felt herself guided by the divine.
This… will be difficult, Simon thought. At the end.
The Animus was not a time travel machine. He was a passenger, not a pilot, and he, like Gabriel, was here to bear witness.
Their hands met and clasped. Gabriel lifted his face toward the saint, and felt peace settle upon him. He wanted to be closer to the image, to stand and go right up to the altar, to—
And then, like a thunderclap, Simon knew where the Sword of Eden was.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Rikkin had initially been annoyed when Bibeau had texted him wanting a meeting. I do not come when bidden, he had replied.
Important. You’ll be pleased.
Fifteen minutes.
He’d intended to be out the door almost at once, but instead, as he waved her inside his office and listened, he realized he’d be a bit late to the private luncheon at Hibiscus.
“So, you know where the sword is?”
“Not for certain, but Simon started acting oddly. He said there were a few things he wanted to check on before he talked to me about them.”
“So, he’s being secretive. Interesting.”
“I think it’s as innocuous as he said—he wanted to research before presenting a theory. But I think he might have sensed where the sword might be. And,” she added, pleased, “I think Joan of Arc may be in contact with Consus.”
That did get Rikkin’s attention. Consus was the name adopted by an Isu—at least, what remained of one. While the Precursors had created (and enslaved) humanity, Consus was known as one Precursor who had instead consistently shown sympathy for humanity’s desire for freedom. He was the creator of what came to be known as Shrouds of Eden; technology somehow woven into a fabric that healed and restored. No one quite understood how the technology functioned, but it was accepted that somehow, while no part of Consus existed physically any longer, some of his essence—his “spirit,” if one liked so sentimental a term—had been incorporated into the Shrouds. Such Shrouds formed the basis for tales of the Golden Fleece, and Joseph’s Coat of Many Colors; garments, or cloaks, or winding sheets. The most famous of these, the Shroud of Turin, had been in Gramática’s possession, and the man had routinely injured himself or others to force the Consus essence to interact with him. Like all constructs of the Precursors, these Shrouds were regarded as mystical or holy by those who did not understand their true technological nature.
For a moment, Rikkin considered canceling what had been put into motion. Perhaps Hathaway really was on to something. He might be able to discover information about Consus that could prove vital. He might be able to discover…
… uncover certain other things. No, that couldn’t be allowed to happen.
“Observing Joan has been fascinating,” Bibeau was saying.
“This isn’t a video game. You and Simon are not supposed to be having an interesting experience, he’s supposed to be proving to me and the Order why we need to channel funds to this broader net of his. And thus far, we have no sword at all—let alone information on how to repair it.”
For just an instant, Bibeau’s eyes flashed. “I think perhaps you don’t fully understand the import of Joan’s Voices and the Assassin—”
“So far the Assassin has done absolutely nothing, the Mentor you promised hasn’t shown up, and Joan may still be talking to herself.”
“May, or may not be. It seems she does have a high level of Precursor DNA. And we will obviously make attempts to identify the Mentor and any other Assassins while we follow Joan to Chinon.”
“Where she meets the Dauphin. Correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor, but doesn’t Joan discover the sword after that incident? Quite a while after that incident, point of fact?”
Bibeau hesitated. “It depends on which sword turns out to be the Sword of Eden.”
He stared at her for a moment. “Well, well,” he said, “this is the first time I’ve been informed of th
is particular wrinkle.”
Bibeau took a deep breath. “We’re investigating all reasonable leads. Sir, we have five days, and now we have a Mentor to seek out. Don’t you think that our discoveries—the only Mentor we’re aware of in a two-century span and the possible presence of Consus—warrant granting Historical Research some extra time?”
“I’m traveling to Spain shortly, Dr. Bibeau, and I intend to see this wrapped up with a tidy bow before then. I dislike leaving HQ with something as important as a department’s entire direction up in the air. Surely you understand.” He smiled, thinly and without humor, and glanced at his watch. “I’ve a luncheon engagement. Text me with any developments, but don’t expect an immediate response.”
“Yes, sir.”
As she left, a text from a number consisting entirely of noughts appeared on Rikkin’s silenced phone. Phase 1 of Omega-104 initiated. Awaiting instructions.
Continue Phase 2. Initiate prep for Omega-105. Stand by.
When they had paused for lunch, Victoria had told Simon he would have to grab something on his own. Something had come up, she said.
“With the Aerie?”
“Sort of,” she had replied distantly as she typed on her phone. “We’ll meet around two. Try to nap if you can.”
The arrangement worked for him. He had a theory he wanted to research, and rather than napping he was back in his office when his phone chimed to announce an incoming text. He raised his eyebrows as he realized it was Anaya and read: Meet for lunch?
Simon wanted to beg off for a variety of reasons. He had plenty of food left for lunch. He had work he could be doing. And… seeing Anaya always made him feel uncomfortable. Not that he had any reason to feel guilty. He’d given the relationship his best shot. It just hadn’t worked out.
He sighed and thumbed back, Got my basket. She’d know what he meant; she’d seen it on his desk often enough. Thanks though. Thinking that would be that, he started to put the phone down, but it chimed again.
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