To Speak in Lifeless Tongues: Book 2 of the Grails Covenant Trilogy (The Grails Covenant Triloty)

by David Niall Wilson

  Montrovant grinned at him. “You think he won’t know we are there? How did we find out he was up to his old tricks?” He spun quickly to Gwendolyn. “Your sire will be certain to drop some hints, I’m afraid. It is all a game to him—everything is a game.”

  “He has no contact with Santos,” Gwendolyn retorted hotly. “He would not.”

  “You have no idea from whence you come,” Montrovant said, cutting her off. His voice had dropped an octave, and there was an odd energy in the air. Jeanne felt himself removed from it, but it crackled around him.

  “You trust no one,” Gwendolyn accused.

  “You will not exist as long as I if you do not learn that lesson,” the Dark One replied. “Kli Kodesh may be amused by you now, but he is not easily entertained, nor for long. He will sell us all out for a midnight show. We must plan with him in mind as well. If we are to get into de Molay’s keep, get what I seek, and get out without being destroyed, then we will have to make this the best effort of our second lives. Are you prepared for that?”

  He swept his gaze from Jeanne to Gwendolyn, back to Jeanne. Gwendolyn wasn’t really included, but there was the question hanging in the air. When the time came, could they count on her? Would she be with them, or would Kli Kodesh yank her by the hidden, subtle ties that bound her, and cause her to betray them?

  “The most important thing,” Montrovant went on, “is that we get to de Molay as quickly as possible. We may have to leave our mounts behind. I don’t want to be riding down some dusty country road when Philip takes the keep and hands over the treasure to the Church, or to his own coffers.”

  “We might be spotted,” Jeanne pointed out. “We might die any number of horrible deaths, or be staked by mindless mortal fools, or burn in the light of the sun,” Montrovant countered, eyes blazing. “But if we cower in fear in the face of challenge, we might as well be dust.”

  No one spoke after that. They moved among the cots, each of them choosing a place to rest, and they lay back to await the encroaching weight of the sun’s light. Montrovant had made their choices, and neither of them had disagreed. When darkness fell, they would fly, fast and free. Though Montrovant had listed the walls that stood between them and their goals, the tone of his voice had fired Jeanne’s mind. It was time to see what fate would pit against them. As comfortable as he’d been on the road, it could never replace the red mask he wore to battle. The darkness held only questions, but the answers hovered on the periphery of his mind. He met unconsciousness with a smile.

  TEN

  Mordecai watched the sun set from the parapet of his keep. Despite the years since Kli Kodesh had gifted him with blood that lessened the pain brought on by the light of day, he still could not get over the wonder of such a simple thing—to watch a sunset. He wasn’t comfortable in bright sunlight, but in those quiet hours between day and night, he felt as though he ruled the world. Free of death, and less inhibited by the restrictions of his kind. Free of everything save responsibility, and that responsibility gave him a purpose to drive him—another gift.

  The others rarely joined him for his evening vigil. They were a quiet bunch, loyal and true, but not much in the way of imagination. When Mordecai and his old brood had Embraced them, they had been on their way to the Holy Land to lend their lives to God. Now they did that same thing, after a fashion, though the lives they would have given were long behind them.

  “It is nearly time to go,” a voice floated to him through the growing shadows. Gustav stood a few feet inside the doorway.

  Mordecai nodded. “In a moment. The night is just now upon us, and we haven’t so far to travel.” Mordecai stood at the wall, the wind whipping at the wispy remnants of his hair. His skin was so pale that it seemed translucent, glowing faintly from within. His disfigured face, long beak of a nose and ears tapering to sharp points somehow failed to mar the austere beauty of his features. He was Nosferatu, but he was more, as well. He was of the blood of Kli Kodesh.

  He spun from the wall and entered the tower. The steep stairs wound away below him and he followed their mesmerizing spiral toward the lower levels. He knew Gustav would have the others ready in the stable. They would be mounted, awaiting his word.

  At times like these, Mordecai wished more than anything in the world for another to talk with, one who knew the places and times he’d known, one who would look upon him as an equal. That was, after all, the cost of his gift. He could not truly go among men, though he walked nearer to the light, earlier and later than almost any other Cainite he’d encountered. He could not go among his own kind, either. The blood in his veins was too valuable, too important. Mordecai hadn’t fed on human blood since he’d left the Holy Land, and the hunger, behind him.

  He entered the stable and strode directly to his horse. Gustav stood beside the animal, one hand holding the reins, the other soothing the beast as he spoke to it in hushed tones. Mordecai took the reins and levered himself into the saddle in one smooth, quick motion. Gustav was mounted before Mordecai could wheel his snorting stallion. Without a word, they moved out.

  The doors to the stable closed behind them as they passed through the portal and into the night. Not all of his followers would join them on the road: the tower had to be guarded. That which had been entrusted to them had been spread across the land in small pockets, but not all of it had passed from their hands. Certain treasures, certain secrets—these mortals were not yet ready to know, if ever they would be. These had to be kept safe.

  “Did the master tell you what it is we seek?” Gustav asked, pulling his mount alongside Mordecai’s. “It must be something powerful indeed if he wants us so directly involved.”

  Mordecai didn’t answer immediately. Then, “I know only that the Templars have gathered an abundance of relics and treasure into their coffers over the years. Among that hoard there were bound to be things better left hidden. Santos has come to them.”

  Gustav’s eyes sparkled. “Santos? You have spoken to us of that one, but I never expected to see him alive and sniffing around our business again.”

  “The guardian is not so easily driven away,” Mordecai replied. “He is ancient, and he can sense objects of power more readily than you can trace the lines across the palm of your hand. His presence verifies what the master has told me. We must be there before Philip puts the castle to the torch, and we must find a way to get in and out with whatever they have found.”

  Gustav didn’t reply, but Mordecai sensed the questions hanging between them. It was one thing to guard secrets carefully in a tower, tucked away from the sight and intrusion of the world. It was quite another to go wandering into the midst of a war, sneak into a heavily guarded keep and make off with the thing those inside coveted most. Even ignoring all of that, there was Santos to consider, and he alone would make it a risky endeavor.

  Mordecai was thankful for the silence. He had no answers to offer, and he preferred not to dwell on the impossibility of what was to come. The Master would not summon them if there were no hope, or plan. They would just have to wait until the time came when that plan could be revealed.

  They wore heavy robes with deep cowls to hide their ravaged features, and the wind from their horses’ speed whipped the cloth back behind them like huge wings. The road to their tower was not often traveled, and time was wasted as their mounts worked across the rough footing, but none would see them pass. No one came near the tower. Dark legends surrounded the forest skirting those stone walls, legends that had been old when Mordecai first led them down that road with their wagon dragging behind them and the dust of Jerusalem on their sandals.

  Kli Kodesh had sent him to the tower. Kli Kodesh knew the legends—for all Mordecai knew, the ancient was the cause of the legends. Whoever or whatever was behind them, they were powerful. No more than a dozen travelers had made their way to those gates since Mordecai first strode through them, and none of these had returned. It is not difficult for the Damned to provide substance to legends. In fact, those moments had prove
n immensely entertaining. Mordecai was beginning to understand the ancient’s love of entertainment.

  The tower disappeared behind them, and the road stretched ahead. Miles and miles to travel, hours to think and wonder, plan and pray. Odd, that last, but after so many years with Gustav and the others, Mordecai wasn’t beyond the notion that someone might be listening—even to the Damned.

  ELEVEN

  Jacques woke with his head throbbing madly and his eyes half-focused into blinding, invasive light. He wrenched to the side, burying his face in the sheets, but the damage was done. Pain lanced through his brain and dragged him back to consciousness. With a groan he rolled over and sat up, letting his head fall into his hands.

  The light told him he’d slept too long again. The cries of vendors and steady clip! clop! of horses’ hooves were signs that the rest of the inhabitants of the keep had met the new day when it was truly that. He wondered for a moment what time it was, just as quickly forgot the question. Not important. What was important was to stop the pounding in his head and to find Santos. There was something about the daylight hours that diminished the dread the smaller man could instill. Now was the time to confront him, and for Jacques to find his answers. There was a quick knock on his door. The servants must have heard him stirring. He imagined them standing there, huddled against the door, waiting for the moment he would finally rise and require their services. He ran his hands quickly back through his hair and sat up straighter. “Yes?”

  “We have food, your lordship. Food and wine…

  Bring me water in place of the wine,” he growled, regretting the sound as it vibrated through his skull. “I will take the food now.”

  The door opened and a young girl, no more than fifteen years behind her, scurried into the room with a platter in her hand. Hushed voices echoed in the passageway, and the retreating footsteps of the others as they rushed off after the water. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Jacques scowled at the girl and nodded curtly in dismissal. She launched herself back through the opening as if her dress were on fire, and he almost managed a smile. Louis. As soon as he thought of his friend, the memories seeped back, dim candle-light flickering this way and that, shadows and chanted words in languages spoken in tones that reverberated in some strange, unnatural way. Following Santos in the circle, shuffling, then dancing, leaping and throwing themselves about in a frenzy of dark emotion and anticipated power. Louis had shared those moments, and yet he didn’t quite grasp what Jacques knew deep within his heart. Santos was the key.

  There was nothing concrete that he could lay a finger on, but he knew he was right. With Philip only days away on the road, leading an army with the might and righteousness of the Church behind it, nothing short of a miracle could save them. There were miracles both dark and light, and Jacques had felt curiously alienated from things that leaned toward God and daylight since he’d begun his studies.

  Not all of that learning had come from Santos. There were secrets that had been passed down through generations of Templars, powers granted to those with the sight and spiritual power to recognize and use them. These were his by right of birth and office. He was Grand Master of the Knights of the Temple, and that was no small thing. Neither was it enough to stop Philip.

  The faithful gathered around him now. Many of them had never been near the central keep. There were those who still lived and died by the creed—no possessions, no purpose but to serve the temple, the Church, and their lord. There were others whom Jacques doubted had ever stood within the walls of any temple for fear of burning to ashes on the spot. The order had grown out of all proportion, and far beyond his complete control. Like all empires do eventually, it was failing. The only thing that had kept Jacques and his followers on their feet for this long was the fact that half the rulers in Europe owed them money.

  Louis was among those who would rather fight and die than fall into the debt of one such as Santos. Louis had the power, as Jacques himself, but with Louis it was more a question of honor. Jacques wanted knowledge to bring himself to a higher level, to find answers for himself. Louis wanted the answers for the order. It was a difference of opinion that had slowly driven them apart since Santos had arrived at their door, and now it was driving them all to destruction.

  Unless he was right.

  He staggered to his feet and wolfed down the fruit, leaning heavily on the table and closing his eyes against the stabbing pain in his head. The girl returned moments later with a pitcher of water and poured him a goblet. He took it from her trembling hand, smiling again, and upended the glass over his head.

  “My Lord…” she backed away a step, nearly dropping the pitcher to the stone floor, and he grinned at her, the water pouring from his hair and dribbling down his chin.

  “Much better,” he said. Then he laughed. “Pour me another.”

  With a timid smile in return, the girl did as he asked, and once more he tossed it down over his head, feeling the chill as it shocked him from his lethargy. He set the goblet on the table and ran his fingers back through the long, damp tangles of his hair.

  “Do you want me to fetch a comb, Lord?” the girl asked.

  “A comb?” he stared at her dumbly for a moment, then grinned. “Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,” he answered her. “I have much to do.” He reached for the water again, pouring a third goblet full, and she stepped back away from him, eyes wide with wonderment and confusion.

  Jacques threw back his head and roared with laughter. Then he turned the cup up and drained it, letting the cool water flow down his throat and wash away the sensation of swallowing sand that the wine had left him with. He slammed the goblet onto the table and turned away, looking for his sword. He found it leaning against the table beside his bed and grabbed it, belting it in place. At least he’d not been too drunk to take care of his weapons.

  The girl scampered back into the hall as he turned, and Jacques allowed himself to drop his head into the palm of one hand a final time to concentrate on ignoring the pain. He might fool the servants and save himself a bit of unnecessary scandal, but he couldn’t fool the pain away.

  With a final regretful glance at his bed, he turned toward the door and strode purposefully into the hall. One of the servants, a boy of about sixteen, still stood waiting in case he needed anything.

  “Go and find Louis de Chaunvier,” he ordered tersely. “Tell him that I have gone below, and that I require his company.”

  The boy nodded, dropping his eyes to the floor. Jacques waited, and the boy bolted suddenly like a frightened deer. Jacques turned away and continued toward the stairs. He looked neither right nor left, nor did he scan the passage behind him to be certain that the boy was doing as he’d asked. He was already fixated on what lay ahead and below, and there was no room for mundane concerns between the throbbing bursts of pain that were his blood pounding through his temples.

  Santos heard footsteps approaching. He knew it would be de Molay. Only one of his own would dare to come to him at such an hour—alone. He smiled into the shadows. Time was slipping away from them, and it was good that the Templar leader was growing impatient. It would make the next few days’ events go more smoothly. Santos had to finish what he’d begun, and it would have to happen before Philip’s arrival. In his present state, de Molay would be malleable, open to more radical suggestions than he might otherwise have been.

  Behind him, lost in the shadows of the chamber he’d claimed as his own, sat a short wooden table. Atop that table rested the head, silent and staring—watching his every move with comprehension beyond time and physical dimensions. Waiting with all the answers he needed and sought, waiting for the ritual. Only the perfect blend of sound and scent, rhythm and meter could invoke that power. It had been a long time since he’d had the resources at his disposal, and that last time had ended in disaster.

  A mortal. A half-Damned mortal had walked into his chambers and prevented him from completing his ritual. He’d sought only a name. He’d not been car
eful, letting arrogance rule his actions, and he’d failed. That mortal had cost him everything, and he meant to restore all that had been stripped from him. One power still in his possession could grant him that, and it stared blankly at him with the wisdom of the universe captured behind blind eyes and a silent tongue.

  A knock on the door startled Santos back to the moment, and he pulled the door wide. De Molay stood just outside, glaring at him. The lack of sleep and wealth of wine that had been the Templar leader’s night shone forth from the overly bright glitter in his eyes and the slight slump of his shoulders, despite the tension with which he held himself.

  “Enter,” Santos said, beckoning Jacques closer. “I have been expecting you.”

  “None of your dark lies today, Santos,” Jacques grated, stepping quickly into the room. “We have listened to you, done as you asked, learned—but too slowly. Philip marches on the castle not a week away from our gates. Give me an answer, a way through this.”

  “All the answers you require reside within you,” Santos replied, turning away. He measured his steps, knowing that de Molay’s anger would only be fueled by such a cryptic response.

  “You mock me,” Jacques said softly. “You mock me, and you laugh behind my back, and it will end. You will tell me the secrets I need to know to save my order, my holdings and my life, or I swear you will regret it for the rest of your unnatural existence.”

  Santos spun, eyes blazing, and strode toward de Molay defiantly. “You would do well to watch the tone of your voice,” he said softly. “You will also do well to remember what you have seen, and with whom. You are dust beneath my feet, Jacques—a moment’s diversion in years beyond your comprehension. I don’t need you, but you need me. Perhaps this has slipped your mind?”

  He was close now, so close that he could feel the slight tremor that rippled through de Molay’s frame. Close enough to see the light of fear, coupled with the madness of total despair, that kept the man standing before him, defiant despite the consequences.