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

by David Niall Wilson

  “You will share what you know with me,” de Molay continued with a great effort, “or I will tell them all who and what you are. I will admit to every dark thing we’ve done or contemplated, and I will see to it that they drag you out into the sunlight you seem to hate and stake you to burn.”

  Santos stopped short. No one had spoken to him in such a manner for centuries. Even Kli Kodesh, that fool of an ancient, who had stripped him of that which he’d been charged to safeguard and spirited it off into the night, had not been so bold. The instant temptation to kill de Molay and just walk away was nearly overpowering. Nearly. He lowered his eyes and concentrated, then he spoke.

  “I will show you a thing you have not expected,” he said at last. “I will show you the answer to your problems, and mine, and we will find those answers together. All of our training thus far has been leading you toward the completion of the required ritual. We are as ready now as we will ever be, and if we don’t act, we will be destroyed.”

  “Show me,” Jacques said softly. “Show me this answer. I knew that you possessed it, and yet I doubted. Louis thinks me a fool for listening to you at all.”

  “Your friend de Chaunvier is not a visionary,” Santos said, his voice suddenly soothing and sibilant at once. “He lacks your vision, and he lacks your power. You will be remembered as a great man, Jacques de Molay.”

  As he spoke, Santos ushered his guest toward the back of the room. As they came to a stop facing the table, de Molay stopped short, his face awash in confusion.

  “This is a joke? You have brought me here to show me a head that has been sliced from some poor fool’s body, and you offer it to me as an answer to an army at my doorstep?”

  De Molay’s hand was on the hilt of his sword in an instant, but somehow Santos was at his side, pressing down on that hand and holding it in place, not allowing the blade to free the scabbard.

  “You will listen to me, you fool,” Santos hissed, “and you will not interrupt me again. You have done nothing to deserve the answers I will give you. You have corrupted a once-great order and it crumbles around your ears. Your only value is that I cannot perform this ritual alone. You will be grateful, and you will bow down before me,” Santos had turned so that the full impact of his eyes washed over de Molay’s suddenly retreating form, “and you will do as I instruct. You will do this, or you will die. Do you doubt me?”

  De Molay stood still for an instant, and Santos was forced, grudgingly, to admire the man’s courage. He didn’t answer at once, weighing the probabilities on both sides—thinking it through. Lesser men had withered beneath his glare. Weaker men had fallen at his feet and begged for their miserable lives.

  “I will do as you ask,” de Molay said at last. “I will help you to find your answers, and mine. I will bring the others, and we will drive Philip back to his palace. All these things I will do, but know this: I fall at no man’s feet. Suggest that again, and we will see if your power is a match for cold steel. I would rather die here, in the shadows and deceiving my followers, than submit to such dishonor.”

  Santos met de Molay’s gaze for a moment longer, then nodded slightly. What he’d said earlier had been only partially true. While he could continue his existence indefinitely despite what de Molay might do, his immediate needs included the knight and his followers in a very direct manner. They were at somewhat of a standoff, and for some odd reason it was refreshing not to be immediately looked upon as superior.

  “The head is more powerful than you could imagine,” he said at last. “You see an amputated bit of some long-dead body, but you see only the surface. The head has not known a body for centuries, and yet it is preserved as well as yours or mine. The eyes are blind, the mouth silent, but this is not always the case. The mind within? I’m not even certain that it is a mind, or that it is embodied in the head itself, but it knows all, and it will talk. We must bring it to life, you and I, and we must do it now, before we are overrun.”

  “I am glad that you begin to understand this as a possibility,” de Molay said softly. “There are a great number of men, women and children in the keep above our heads. They may not know of you, or care what you do, but they depend on me for their very survival. I do not intend to let that faith be wasted on me. I want to see them through this.”

  “I will not promise you foolishly that I know we will make it through what is to come,” Santos replied. “I do know that if there is a way—if there is a bit of truth that can shift things in your favor, or even turn the tide and calm Philip, the head will know.”

  Jacques nodded. He’d heard enough of what he needed to hear to bolster his failing confidence, and already the implications of what Santos had revealed to him were beginning to sink in. He turned toward the head and gazed at the closed lids of its cold, dead eyes. Nothing. He sensed nothing of the power Santos hinted at, and yet he knew that it was true. There was something itching at him from just beneath the surface—something that would not be ignored, like a voice whispering from just far enough away that the words could not be made out clearly.

  “I will bring the others as soon as the light begins to fail,” he said at last. “Tonight must be the night.”

  “If we are not ready,” Santos cautioned, “if we go into this unprepared, we may perish to the man.

  If we do not, we will surely do so,” de Molay countered. “My scouts place Philip three days from here. I will give you two of those to finish our preparations. We will meet again tonight.”

  Santos nodded, and de Molay turned away, heading directly for the stairs that would lead him back to the upper levels—to his people—his knights. He had neglected them for too long, and it was time for answers, whatever they might be. He had been dwelling for too long in a world of doubts and questions. Jacques felt Santos’s eyes burning into his back as he walked away, but he wouldn’t give the man the satisfaction of turning back. Let him gloat. He would have his moment, and if he provided everything he claimed that he could, perhaps de Molay would not kill him for suggesting he bow down beneath his own keep. The order was not without those of power, and though that power was of little use to him in his present situation, it might prove more difficult to ignore than Santos believed. Jacques did not lack power, he lacked the knowledge that might make that power come to his aid. As he stepped onto the main floor of the keep, Jacques’ first thoughts were of Louis. The Templar leader needed his friend to support him in what was to come more than any other. They had been through life and love together, and Jacques could think of no other he might turn to. He needed the other man’s earthy, well-grounded common sense for a fresh perspective.

  Besides, the two of them would be able to reach the others twice as quickly. There was no time to waste if they were to spread the word as widely and discreetly as necessary. There could be no surprises. They would need every moment of time, and every ounce of concentration to memorize the chants and the steps of the dance. The two days seemed like a matter of short hours as he contemplated the cost of failure.

  He rounded a corner, and ahead he saw Louis’s tall form towering over another man in one of the small interior gardens. Jacques walked more rapidly. A greeting was on his lips when he bit it back. Louis’s words floated across the scant yards that separated them—words Jacques was never meant to hear.

  “You will not speak of Jacques de Molay in such a manner while I walk these halls,” Louis said heatedly. “You have no idea the pressure that presses down upon him.”

  “I have no idea?” the man fairly whined. “Philip is on the road to put us all to the flame, and you tell me I have no idea of the pressure? We all know the pressure, and what I want to know is just what the hell you, and your precious Jacques, plan to do about it.”

  Louis’s face reddened, and he slammed his fist backhanded across the man’s face, sending him sprawling. Jacques stood still for a moment, stunned, then moved forward again more rapidly. Louis was advancing, towering over his fallen adversary with storm-clouds shifting across hi
s brow.

  “Louis,” de Molay called out. “Louis, wait.”

  His friend looked up, startled, and backed off a half-step, though it was obvious from his expression and the set of his shoulders that he did not wish to be distracted.

  “Jacques,” he said softly, “I…”

  “I know, old friend, I know,” Jacques said quickly. “It is not the way to our goal. You know this. Don’t let the frustration drive you to actions that do not become you.”

  “This from you?” Louis replied suddenly, and with venom. “Why don’t you go cower in your shadows and prove them all right, then.”

  Jacques stopped for a long moment, fighting to control his temper. He knew there was a measure of truth in Louis’s words, but he was not accustomed to being confronted by his own men

  —particularly not with others present to carry the word of it to his followers.

  Turning to the man Louis had backhanded, who was just rising from the ground, one hand clamped across his rapidly swelling jaw, Jacques forced a thin smile. “I would suggest that you find another place to offer your opinions,” he said softly.

  The man was going to speak—Jacques felt it—then he stopped. Something in the eyes he faced, or the feel of Jacques’s eyes on his own—or the fear of Louis—stopped him. He nodded quickly and turned away, scurrying out of the garden and returning to the depths of the keep.

  “He will say nothing good of this,” Louis growled.

  “We can’t afford more rumors of our weakness.

  Let him talk,” Jacques replied quickly. “We have more important things to discuss.”

  He moved closer to remove the likelihood of anyone overhearing what he said. “I have seen Santos,” he began. Though Louis frowned at the mention of their dark mentor’s name, he kept his silence. Jacques plowed onward. He told Louis of the head, and he told him of the words that had been exchanged that morning. Nothing in his friend’s countenance suggested that he approved, but he did not interrupt, and it was a long time after Jacques grew silent before he spoke.

  “We have opened Pandora’s Box, my friend,” Louis said at last. “We have no choice but to see this through, or to stand here and wait for our deaths. I have to confess that I’m tempted to wait—but my heart tells me we must try. Whatever the cost to our souls, whatever the weaknesses that Santos will exploit, we have to do what we can.”

  “Then you will help me gather the others?”

  Louis stared into his eyes, searching for something that he obviously found.

  “I will help you,” he said. “How could I not?” The two of them turned back toward the keep, separating at the door. It would be another sleepless night, but what else remained to them? Nothing. They didn’t look back at one another as they parted, but both men had the nagging sensation of laughter from beneath their feet.

  TWELVE

  Ferdinand hurried his steps, moving toward the chapel with his head lowered and his ears burning, as though the Devil had caught him at something and was following on his heels. He’d been outside the chambers of Louis de Chaunvier, and he’d overheard the heated exchange that had gone on within. Before de Molay could exit the room, he’d turned and run, fearful of being caught. It was not odd for him to be waiting outside in case something was needed. He knew it was a needless fear—none would suspect a poor servant of treachery. Not unless the fool didn’t have the good sense not to run. Though his mind cried out for him to slow down and be cautious, he couldn’t force his body to comply. He was long gone from de Chaunvier’s chamber door, but his heart still trip-hammered in his chest, and his legs felt weak. He feared that if he stopped running, he would stumble, or fall, and that would call more attention to him than his headlong flight. The doors to the keep’s chapel were open wide, as always, and he slipped inside, taking a moment to glance around and be certain that none had seen him enter. It wouldn’t do to draw punishment for shirking his duties—he needed his freedom to carry out Father Kodesh’s orders. Now more than ever he knew it would be imperative that there be no slip-ups.

  There were no others in the small chapel. He slipped between the pews and around the altar, passing through a ray of scarlet and green light that filtered in from a stained-glass window above. His eyes were drawn inexorably upward, and he found himself staring into the accusing eyes of the Savior. That deep, sorrowful gaze traced his footsteps, pinned him to the stone floor like an insect on the tip of a dagger, trapped against a table top. He dragged his gaze back to the shadows beyond the altar and plunged through the doorway.

  “Why have you come?” Father Kodesh asked immediately. “It is a bad time—a dangerous time—for you to be here.”

  “I have news of Santos,” Ferdinand gasped, pausing finally to catch his labored breath. “I heard de Molay and de Chaunvier discussing him. They mean to push things ahead, to attempt whatever it is that Santos wants them to do soon.”

  “How soon?”

  “They didn’t say, exactly, but de Molay mentioned that Philip couldn’t be more than three days away. He also said that he meant for this—thing—to happen before then.”

  “That is not such a surprise,” Kli Kodesh frowned. “When else would they attempt it? I don’t think Philip or his priests are going to want to join them.”

  “There is more,” Ferdinand whispered urgently. “Santos showed him a head—some kind of disembodied thing. He told de Molay of its powers, and now our lord is more determined than ever that this is the way to save the keep. He is a man possessed, and somehow it rubbed off on de Chaunvier. They will gather again tonight.”

  Father Kodesh stood very still for a moment, lost in thought. If what Ferdinand said was true, then perhaps there was more danger involved than he’d imagined. He hadn’t thought Santos capable of teaching so many followers so many intricate rituals in such a short time. He’d forgotten that there were adepts of other sorts among the Templars

  …such a ritual was not beyond their scope. If the head were animated none would be beyond its power, not even Kli Kodesh himself. He had no fear of dying, but there were fates worse than death, even worse than a second death, and Santos would not hesitate to force them upon him.

  “You have done well to tell me this,” he said at last, “but you must go now. You cannot be seen here, and I have things to accomplish before the light fails.”

  Ferdinand nodded, turning slowly away. Then he stopped, glancing fearfully over his shoulder, “What is this thing Santos possesses, Father? What is it that is powerful enough to ward off an army?

  It is not,” Father Kodesh replied with a frown. “De Molay believes that it is, I think, but Santos knows better. The head is an oracle—it can provide information impossible to acquire by any other method—names, secrets. If Santos was to ask it for my true name, even I would be in peril. His only thought is of his treasures, his lost pride—we must be the ones to watch the larger impact of all of this. De Molay and his Templars are doomed—make no mistake that Philip will come, and the most that the head can do is to tell them how a few might escape, or how they might best prepare to die.

  Santos has made fools of them all.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them?” Ferdinand whispered, fearing his impertinent question would prove his last. To his surprise, Father Kodesh did not seem angry. There was an odd twinkle in his eye as he answered.

  “It is more entertaining this way, don’t you think?”

  Ferdinand had no answer, so he turned away, ears burning and heart still slamming wildly in his chest. Entertaining? he thought. It was horrible.

  As he was leaving the chapel, he heard Father Kodesh’s voice float after him, and he hesitated.

  “Santos can sense my presence, Ferdinand…but he is not yet certain where I am…they keep him isolated in the levels below. Find one who will be near to Santos, and mention my name. That is all that it will take. Just tell them to let Santos know that Father Kodesh sends his greetings.”

  Shuddering, Ferdinand left the chapel hurr
iedly, making the effort to slow his steps to a more normal speed. He knew he had to get to the kitchen before he was missed, but his mind was awhirl with so many questions and images that he could barely draw a normal breath. And who was he to tell? He certainly couldn’t walk off to de Molay, or de Chaunvier, and confront them with his “message.” If they suspected that Father Kodesh had any information on Santos, they’d confront him in a heartbeat, priest or not.

  He stumbled around a corner, nearly crashing headlong into a tall, thin man he vaguely recognized as a visiting cousin of de Molay’s. The boy was near Ferdinand’s own age, but he held himself with the haughty, aloof manner of a noble. He sneered down at Ferdinand, his hand drawn back as if to strike him for his clumsiness.

  “You will pay more attention,” the boy sniffed at last, holding his hand in check. “You nearly knocked me into this wall!”

  “I am sorry, lord,” Ferdinand said, his voice quavering and his mind working furiously. “I…I have an important message from the priest, but I do not know how to deliver it—I was in a hurry to seek assistance.”

  “Who is your message for?” the boy asked, drawing himself up imperially. “I’m certain I will know them, and I can pass it on for you.”

  “Santos. All he said was to give the message to Santos.”

  The boy’s features grew pale, but to give him the credit due, he did not flinch. Instead he squared his shoulders and stared at Ferdinand carefully.

  “How do you know of Santos?” he asked. “What have you heard?”

  “I have heard nothing,” Ferdinand replied carefully, “but I have a message for this Santos, if he is to be found.”

  “Tell me the message,” the boy replied. “I will see him this very night, and I will be certain to pass on what you tell me.”

  Ferdinand hesitated, as though deciding whether or not he could trust the boy. He waited just long enough for his new “friend” to show signs of impatience, then he nodded, drawing himself up close to the wall and looking about furtively to be certain no one else would overhear.