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

by David Niall Wilson

  There was no sign of Montrovant, and the pain of the sun was finally too much for Jeanne to stand. Gwendolyn stood silently at his side, waiting for his word. He knew she would get him to shelter, knew as well that she didn’t require it as soon as he did—but that this day she would wait with him. He wondered, not for the first time, about the blood that had given her this gift, or curse, dampening the burning fear of the sun, and taking the hunger that drove him, day and night.

  “He will come,” she said softly. “We must get you out of the light.”

  Nodding, Jeanne let her lead him away from the cliff, and the sudden release of the concentration he’d focused on the horizon, where Montrovant had disappeared, allowed the pain and the immediacy of his danger to flood his senses. The pain lanced through him and he cried out, setting off for the cemetery with every ounce of strength left to him. He felt the hunger building, but there was no time, or way, for him to feed, not with the sun rising and an army camped only a few short miles away.

  Gwendolyn was at the tomb even before he flashed into the small clearing. There was no sign of the others—only footprints and the ruts where the wagon-wheels had plowed into the earth remained. He had no time to wonder what had happened. He slid into the soothing darkness of the tomb with a groan, and Gwendolyn entered after him, pulling the stone seal back into place easily and shutting out the light. The pain slipped away almost as quickly as it had come, and the darkness called out to him.

  “I…” he began.

  “Shhhh…” Gwendolyn soothed. “Rest. When the sun has departed once more, we will talk, and we will go to the keep to see what has happened. The Dark One will return…he is not so easily evaded, no matter what Kli Kodesh or the bishop believe.”

  As Jeanne slipped into darkness, he thought he heard screams and the clatter of weapons, but they faded into shadow. Long after his mind had shut down, Gwendolyn sat at his side, staring at the door and listening to what happened beyond. She was listening when the doors of the keep opened and Philip’s army rolled in. She was listening when those who would survive trudged wearily out onto the road and began to make their way to homes and families far away. She was listening, still, when Jeanne awoke.

  The first thing he noticed was that the door was rolling aside, and that Gwendolyn was nowhere near it. The second was the sound of screams, and the acrid smell of smoke and soot.

  Montrovant stood framed in the doorway, haggard and worn, though his eyes blazed with incredible intensity. He spoke a single word, “Come,” and turned away. Jeanne rose, and he followed. The edges of the shadows were illumined by the glow of distant flames, and with Gwendolyn at his side and Montrovant striding purposefully ahead, they returned a final time to the keep of Jacques de Molay.

  TWENTY-THREE

  They followed Montrovant for a few moments in silence, neither willing to be the one to drag him from his reverie. Finally, without turning to acknowledge them, he began to speak.

  “When I leapt from the cliffs,” he began, “I could sense them, barely, against the horizon, and I thought that there might be time—just enough time—for me to reach them. I knew you could not follow, but there was no time to explain. One lost moment and I’d have had no chance at all.”

  “You found them, then?” Jeanne asked quickly. “No. The sun rose, and I knew that, even if I made it to the ship, they would deny me shelter and I would be destroyed. I followed as far as I dared, and I memorized the course they were sailing, but

  I could do no more.

  “I barely made it back to the shore, and not near here, before the light burned too brightly for me to continue. I found a small cavern just above the rocks, and I crawled as far back into it as I could. There I stayed as the sunlight burned and the ship moved farther and farther out to sea. When it grew dark, I flew over the sea once more, but there was nothing. Not a sign, not a glimpse. I came straight here then, though I knew Kli Kodesh and the others would be gone. I’d hoped to find you here.”

  “What is that smoke?” Jeanne asked, not wanting to change the subject, but unable to contain his curiosity.

  “They will burn the heretics at the stake this night,” Montrovant replied matter-of-factly. “Those who have not repented their vows to the Templars will die.”

  “Who would be foolish enough to die for such a cause?” Jeanne asked. “Why would they not pretend to capitulate, then leave and regroup?”

  “Because they do not think like you, my friend,” Montrovant said, smiling for the first time since he’d returned. “Jacques de Molay will die, and also his friend, de Chaunvier, I believe. There are others, some fanatics, others fools. All will die before the Earth has fully cooled from the sun.”

  Gwendolyn shivered, clutching her arms about herself. To live after death did not mean that one lost the fear of it—the acidic, heart-stopping terror that oblivion could muster. Fire was as dangerous to the three of them as it would be to de Molay, and Jeanne wondered fleetingly if they were truly safe. Certainly Philip could not harm them, not on his own, but Eugenio had still not given up the secret of what had dragged him forth from his monastery—his safe-haven. Kli Kodesh had not made his presence known, either, and both of them were still nearby. Even Jeanne could feel them.

  The two ancients were keeping their silence, and Montrovant ignored them, moving closer to the keep with every passing moment. They could see the glow of flames in the distance, and as they neared the cleared area before the keep, the light grew brighter. Voices materialized from the silence, cries of pain, cries for mercy…cries of glee from those who looked on. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, reminding Jeanne briefly of feasts and tournaments—days long denied him.

  They reached the outer ring of those gathered, and Montrovant began, slowly, to work his way forward. He kept to the shadowed area along the wall, preferring to be behind the stake—beyond the point where all eyes would focus. He didn’t want to call attention to himself, but he had to know—had to see.

  Jeanne wanted to see as well. He had been one of these men, had worn the white robes of the Templars and ridden at their side. He’d known Hugues de Payen, tall, proud founder of the order, and he’d lived through the first of the hundreds and thousands of conflicts that had besieged them. Though he was beyond such concerns, it was difficult to let them go completely.

  They worked their way through the crowds, and eventually they broke into the front ranks. One man hung from a stake in the center of the clearing, half-charred as flames licked at his legs and torso. He screamed, but no one listened—not to his pleas for help. They listened to his pain, to the screaming, but none cared for his well-being. They had not come to see him saved, but to see him destroyed.

  The man was Jacques de Molay, and Jeanne felt a moment of pain, a hint of loss, that was difficult to explain. The Templar lord had made poor choices. He’d nearly sold them all into a slavery much worse than any punishment Philip might mete out, and that included death. He’d been willing to sacrifice them all—everything—for answers to questions he would never have fully understood. Still, he was Grand Master. It was not a position held by the unworthy.

  Jeanne thought that the end must be somewhere near, but suddenly the man’s features returned to their lucidity. Though the flames licked and crackled about him, engulfing all but his head and shoulders and setting his hair ablaze like a flaming halo, he smiled, and against all the laws of nature, or of God, he began to speak.

  “Are you ready to repent your sins?” a voice boomed out. Jeanne turned in shock. Kli Kodesh stood a pace beyond the circle of wide-eyed spectators, and at his side was Bishop Scarpocci. Ko-desh wore the robes of a priest, and none in the circle seemed dismayed by this. Jeanne had forgotten that the ancient had stayed in the temple under the guise of a priest.

  “There is time to save your soul, if not your life,” he continued. “What say you, Jacques de Molay? Will you burn now and forever for your sins, or will we welcome you into the arms of your God?”

&
nbsp; “I burn,” de Molay croaked, forcing the words through parched, crackling lips, bending over with the effort. “I burn, but you will follow, Philip. You and the coward you call Pope will join me before the court of God Almighty before a year’s time has passed. This is my promise to you. The Knights of the Temple will not die…but you shall.”

  As he spoke his eyes pierced the shadows, ignoring Kli Kodesh, bypassing Eugenio, and driving their full weight into the rapt gaze of King Philip. The monarch met that gaze, but looking more closely, Jeanne saw that there was a tremor in Philip’s stance.

  De Molay’s jaws still moved, but no further sound emerged. Jeanne tried to read those crackling lips, to know who else was cursed, but there was no hope for it. The flames rose, engulfing de Molay’s body and charring him to ash.

  “Ashes to ashes,” Montrovant whispered, as if mocking Jeanne’s thoughts, “dust to dust.”

  Montrovant turned away, and moments later, Jeanne followed. Gwendolyn turned as well, but stopped suddenly, and Montrovant stiffened in that moment. He’d felt the same tug that she had, and he turned quickly, taking her by the arm, pulling her close, and guiding her out through the gathered warriors, knights, servants and onlookers. Kli Kodesh was calling to her, but it seemed that the Dark One was not quite ready to let her go.

  He held Gwendolyn’s hands tightly between his own, and turned quickly to Jeanne.

  “Go to them,” he said. “Tell them that she is with us, now, and that we will continue our quest. Tell them that it is over for now.”

  “And if they will not listen?” Jeanne asked. “Then return, if you can,” Montrovant finished, “and if you do not, I will come after you. I think our friend,” he gestured at the grinning, flaming skeleton engulfed in flames behind them, “would agree that it truly is a good night to die.”

  Jeanne made his way back through the crowd quickly. He had little patience for those gawking at the spectacle of men being burned alive, and he pushed his way roughly through the crowd, ignoring those he angered. The two “priests” had moved back from the front ranks for the moment, probably until the next victim was brought forth to the slaughter.

  Jeanne meant to find them before that happened.

  He saw the colors of the Church flying above one of the tents, and he made straight for it, sweeping his eyes over those who scurried about the camp and watching for any sign of Scarpocci or Kli Kodesh. He sensed them both before he saw them, and Eugenio met him at the flap of the tent, one hand dropping in a calming gesture onto the shoulder of the guard Jeanne was about to cast aside to gain entrance. He realized that they must have known he was coming, possibly from the moment Montrovant commanded it.

  “So, the Dark One has sent his whelp,” the bishop said suavely. “Enter, Jeanne le Duc, we have much to discuss. It is always good to welcome—family.”

  Jeanne felt the rush of anger that threatened to overcome his thoughts and battered it down. He was here for a reason, and that reason did not involve tossing away his existence in a futile attempt to retaliate against Eugenio. He lowered his head and entered the tent as the bishop held the flaps open wide. They slipped closed behind him, and he found that he now faced both elders.

  “Why is he here?” Jeanne asked, the words leaping forth before he could regain control of his thoughts.

  Kli Kodesh smiled and rose from where he’d been sitting.

  “The bishop and I have come to an agreement of sorts,” he said suavely. “I think your sire will find the arrangement—entertaining.”

  Jeanne bit his lip to keep from responding. He’d had enough of the ancient’s “entertainment” to last several lifetimes, but now was not the time to tell him so. Not before he had what he’d come for.

  “Arrangement?” he prodded.

  “It seems,” Bishop Scarpocci joined in, “that ‘Father’ Kodesh has slipped his treasures through our grasp another time. I take it from your presence that Montrovant did not reach the ship in time.”

  “No,” Jeanne replied simply, “he did not.

  Then it is settled,” Scarpocci said with finality, turning to nod at Kli Kodesh. “We will bring the matter before the Church upon my return, but you may take my word that they will agree. I am not without influence in Rome.”

  “I don’t doubt you,” Kli Kodesh replied. “You have been closed up in that monastery so long that I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever break free, but your influence is not to be questioned. Your name is spoken in places much farther from Rome than this, and with respect.”

  “Enough of your words,” Eugenio snapped. Jeanne watched the two carefully. Apparently things were not quite as civil in the seclusion of the tent as they’d first appeared.

  “Your order will guard the treasures, maintaining constant contact with the Church, and with Montrovant. These are the conditions. I will set the Dark One up in a stronghold not far from the mountain in question, and you will have your followers contact him there. A representative of the Church—unless things have changed since my departure, Bishop Santorini—will keep tabs on both Montrovant and the order. He is not quite aware of my nature, but he knows enough to fear me. I trust Montrovant will have no trouble in earning the same level of ‘respect.’ The first indication of treachery, and it is ended.”

  “Agreed,” Kli Kodesh said, a faint smile dancing across his lips.

  “Order?” Jeanne cut in.

  “You will remain silent until I speak to you again,” Eugenio lashed out. “You will take the instructions I will give you to Montrovant, and you will convince him to follow them, or I will have you, and he, on the very pyre that took de Molay this night. Is that understood?”

  Jeanne gazed at the bishop calmly, though the anger raged just below the surface of his thoughts. He did not acknowledge the bishop’s words, nor did he deny them. He gazed silently into those ancient, timeless eyes, and he waited.

  “Tell the Dark One I will meet him on the walls of my monastery in two weeks’ time. Tell him to prepare himself for the task of building a new Order, a new breed of knight. Tell him that not everything is as it seems, and that he must do as I say—just this once—in all the long years of his existence. Tell him to search his heart, and to trust me. I will speak to him when I can—soon. Can you remember that?”

  The words were etched into Jeanne’s mind, but still he hesitated a moment. Despite his obvious disadvantage, he wanted to be certain that fear did not show on his features. He wanted this arrogant, ancient vampire to know that things were indeed not as they seemed; that though it might appear to be so at the moment, he did not have every advantage. Finally, as if in afterthought, Jeanne nodded. “It is well,” Eugenio said softly. “Go, and deliver my message. You must take yourself from this area swiftly.”

  “What of Gwendolyn?” Jeanne asked quickly. “She wishes to accompany us, but,” he hesitated, turning to Kli Kodesh, “that choice is not entirely hers.”

  “She may go as she wills,” the ancient cackled. “I will see her again. I will see you all again. I will see you all as dust, and there will be new entertainments.”

  Jeanne turned, not acknowledging the ancient’s taunting words. He slid through the flaps of the tent and headed off into the shadows. Behind him, mocking laughter floated through the night. A single word filled his mind, floating out from the interior of the tent to haunt him.”Dust.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Montrovant’s eyes narrowed dangerously as Jeanne relayed Eugenio’s message. He spoke quickly, not commenting or embellishing the words. The central point was that their search was over. Not only had they not acquired the Grail, but they would now be expected to maintain contact with Kli Kodesh’s Nosferatu, never truly knowing if those had it or not, and unable to act. It was a bittersweet moment, and when he’d finished, Jeanne stepped back a pace, watching his sire’s features.

  A world of emotions and a longing that stretched up from his very soul crossed the Dark One’s face.

  Years—centuries—a lifetime. He�
��d dedicated them all to this singular purpose, and for what? To become a watchdog for the Church? A guardian of guardians, only in place because he was powerful in ways the holy men were not?

  Finally he spoke.

  “It would seem that, for now, our traveling days are numbered, Jeanne,” he said softly. “I don’t know whether Kli Kodesh ever had the Grail, but if he has it, we can’t afford to turn aside from this. You say that Eugenio told him treachery would end our bargain?”

  Jeanne nodded.

  “Then our course is clear. We will go to this mountain, we will watch them as we are bid, and we will find a way to incite them to treachery.”

  With a sudden laugh the tall, gaunt vampire clapped Jeanne on the back heartily.

  “Will you join us, milady?” he asked, turning to Gwendolyn and offering her his arm.

  Smiling, she took it, offering her other to Jeanne. There were several hours before morning, and suddenly he felt the urge to run—to run and not look back—all cares forgotten.

  As if in answer to his wish, Montrovant took her hand, turning and streaking off into the night. Gwendolyn ran easily at his side, and Jeanne watched as they took off, smiling softly. He lifted his eyes to the moon, feeling that silvery light wash over him, and went in pursuit.

  A sudden dizziness shifted through him, and he stumbled, smacking his chin on the ground painfully. Something was happening—something new—and he was having trouble orienting himself.

  The Moon called, and they answered. Behind them, smoke rose over the keep of Jacques de Molay…dark, bitter, and final.

  EPILOGUE

  Beneath the keep of Jacques de Molay, in a silent room of damp stone, the head lay forgotten in a corner. The dust that had been Santos shifted. At first the movement was slight—barely a shifting of air—a whispered promise in the dark stagnancy of the dungeon. Then there was more. Energy coalesced about the area, and the spirit that had been Santos reached out—sought—found maggots, wiggling and squirming in one of the damper corners. He dug deeper, found their name—vibrated the air to form the sound. The change was slow—excruciatingly slow. What passed for consciousness nearly left him, but then he had experienced the change.