The Red Cross of Gold XII:.
“The Son of the Moon”
The Assassin Chronicles
by
Brendan Carroll
The Son of the Moon
is dedicated to everyone who has ever had the idea that children are anything other than exactly what God intends them to be.
The characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons alive or dead is unintentional and coincidental.
Brendan Carroll can be reached at Blogspot: http://redcrossofgold.blogspot.com/
The Red Cross of Gold XII:. Ars Arabia
Smashwords Edition
Published by Brendan Carroll
2010
at Smashwords.com at https://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=Brendan+Carroll
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Preface
Cardinal Bruno Colallucci finished brushing back his shiny black hair and adjusted his cap firmly on his head, admiring his good looks in the gilt-framed mirror. He closed his dark eyes and drew in a deep breath, savoring the moment. A commission from his Emminence and a promotion within the Papal heirarchy all in one week was almost too much for a ‘poor priest’ from the foothills of Tuscany to bear. Nostra Aetate. As a member of the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, he had been assigned to work specifically with the poor Knights of Solomon’s Temple, part of ‘Area 51’ of the Holy See.
Colallucci opened his eyes and smiled with a perfected expression of benign tolerance he had practiced for years. The poor Knights. A legend. A whisper. And who would have ever thought to look in the card catalogue under Nostra Aetate for them? Nostra Aetate: the Declaration on the Relation of the Church with Non-Christian Religions. Non-Christians. So in spite of reports and remarks to the contrary, the Church still considered the Templars heretics. Non-Christian. It seemed almost laughable now. Of course, that is why the Church tossed them out on their collective ears in the fourteenth century, wasn’t it? Strange practices, secretive initiations, heretical teachings. He’d read the charges brought against them by King Philip, the Fair in 1407 CE. Most of it had been nonsense, but some of it had been born of truth. Non-Christians. He had seen the members of the elite Council of Twelve come and go at the Holy See ever since he had first come to Rome as a newly ordrained priest. Whispers and rumors. Arrogant and seemingly beyond reproach. Moving freely through Vatican City with complete immunity. Full credentials. Special lines of credit, but were not their Order’s donations inordinately generous? He had first become suspicious of them when he had been assigned to the office of a minor auditor in the Prefecture for the Economic Affairs of the Holy See. A number of enormous donations had caught his attention. All anonymous of course. At least in the general sense of the word. But there had been annotations, references, vague symbols drawn into the margins of the spreadsheets. A Templar cross. A skull and crossbones. A red rose. These had piqued his imagination and he had done a little digging. A question here, a word there and finally an explanation from one of the clerks. “Your predecessor had a rather odd notion about these sums donated from a private bank account in Switzerland. He believed that these funds were a sort of payola or hush money coming from… would you believe it? Templars.” Really? “Oh, yes, he was quite the Templar fanatic. You know all that flap about Mary Magdalene and the Holy Bloodline of Christ? He actually believed that the Templar Knights were still alive and well and operating behind the scenes. Talked about it all the time.” So what happened to him? “Oh, didn’t you know? I suppose they would want to keep it quiet, wouldn’t they?” Who? Who would want to keep it quite? Keep what quiet?
“His suicide.”
Oh.
The Cardinal shuddered as he thought how close he might have come to unintentional suicide himself over the years, but now his patience had paid off. He was in the loop now. On his way up and so young… so young. He picked up his bag and turned toward the exit. His shoes echoing in the high ceiling, his eyes sparkling with amusement of the thought of finally meeting the legendary Grand Master of the Poor Knights of Solomon’s Temple in yet another dialogue with non-Christian religious entities.
If the Templars were non-Christian, what the devil… he chuckled… were they? From what the Holy Father had confided in him. Such a thought might not be so funny. He found it impossible to believe the Pope’s contention that members of the Council of Twelve or ruling body of this surviving remnant of Templar society might be immortal. Not possible. The Holy Father was surely suffering from dementia. He crossed himself at this uncharitable thought and begged forgiveness silently as he stepped into the bright Roman sunshine.
So they had been right here in Italy all these years or at least since their semi-reinstatement in the fifteenth century under the pontification of Pope Nicholas V, a scholarly man who had the tendency to overlook irregularities in moral standards and opinions of the scholars of the age in which he lived. Apparently, the Templars had struck a chord with Nicholas based on their love of books, especially of ancient tomes and records dating back to the time of Christ, Himself. Colalucci firmly believed that the Templars did indeed possess knowledge that might threaten the foundations of the Church all the way down to St. Peter’s tomb.
“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” he muttered the words attributed to the ancient Chinese General and master of warfare, Sun-Tzu as he walked toward the car waiting to pick him up and take him to the airport. As they drove through the crowded city streets, another piece of advice from Sun-Tzu drifted in from somewhere deep in his memory: a military operation involves deception. Even though you are competent, appear to be incompetent. Though effective, appear to be ineffective. In other words, keep them guessing.
Chapter One of Eighteen
He that is first in his own cause seemeth just
“And he came thither unto a cave, and lodged there; and, behold, the word of the Lord came to him, and he said unto him, What doest thou here? And he said, Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. And it was so that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What doest thou here? And they came to the place which God had told him of; and he built an altar there, and laid the wood in order and [he] lifted up his eyes, and looked, and behold behind him a ram caught in a thicket by his horns: and he went and took the ram, and offered him up for a burnt offering. Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool,” Lucia repeated the words of John Paul’s latest prophecy for the Grand Master ver batim.
“And you say that you understand this?” Edgard d’Brouchart asked, narrowed his eyes at her and then looked at the Ritter von Hetz.
The Apocalyptic Knight sat staring at the girl from under half-lidded eyes. He did not trust her. She looked too much like her father. The Knight of the Golden Eagle. And she had his ways. A striking beauty, yet haughty and arrogant, sure of herself. There seemed to be none of her mother in her other than her voice. She sounded exactly like Sister Meredith when she spoke, except of course, her accent was a bit hard to pin down. She had spent enough of her childhood living in the swamps of Louisiana to retain a small measure of an Amercian deep southern twang. The oddity only added to her aloof charm. If Meredith Sinclair had held sway over the Knight’s of the Council, then her daughter was a force to be reckoned with, but Lucia Dambretti seemed to have no such attraction to the Order or its venerable membership. Quite the contrary, it seemed, she had barely controlled disdain for it. The Knight had to wonder why she had requested a place in Barry’s Academy at all.
“Yes,” Lucia nodded. Her irritation at having been waylaid was very evident. She did not want to be there talking to them.
The Grand Master steepled his fingers in front of his face and leaned his elbows on the desk in the Seneschal’s office.
“Out with it then,” he told her when she fell silent.
“I would not want to do that, Sir. With all due respect I would request the presence of my father before I divulge anything more,” Lucia refused.
“But why? Your father is not here. Do you not trust us?” He frowned. “We are your uncles, your father’s and your mother’s Brothers of the Order. Has not Sir Barry been teaching you of your obligations to the Order, Lucia?”
“Of course,” she nodded. “It is not that I do not trust you, Sir, though I would not lie and tell you that you have my total confidence. It is just that I would like to talk it over with either my brother, John, or with my father before saying anything more. I am, after all, not of legal age and I believe that I need guidance,” she said and glanced at the Ritter. He was trying to read her thoughts, but she refused to meet his eyes. She had learned long ago how to shield against the intruding psyches of gifted people.
Von Hetz stood up. “Perhaps she is right, your Grace. She has suffered some very stressful trauma lately and she still has to face the disciplinary charges along with her Sister, Oriel, for leaving the Academy without Sir Barry’s permission. AWOL, I believe it is called. Whether she is of legal age or no, she has taken the lesser oath and under the circumstances, it is doubtful that she and Oriel will be allowed to join the Order now as regular members. In light of her unstable mental condition and her lack of discipline and devotion to the Rule of Order, I think we may be best served steering clear of anything she might say. She is much too independent to ever hope to attain the status of a Brother of the Order. I am afraid that the same is true of Oriel. Simon of Grenoble and Lucius of Venetia will have to face the fact that their daughters are not Templar material. They are more interested in remaining spoiled children than becoming Poor Knights of Solomon’s Temple and serving the One True God. The school is too rigid for them and they are unwilling to learn. They have lived without discipline for too long.”
Lucia’s face had grown very dark at his words, but she held her tongue. She knew quite well that he was on to her hedging. Her age had never stopped her from doing as she damn well pleased before and it was obvious that she was simply playing all her cards in an attempt to avoid talking to them. Her disdain for Konrad’s father was growing by the second.
“I see. Your opinion is duly noted, Ritter,” the Grand Master said and stood as well. “Run along back to class, child. We will speak of this more when your father comes along.” He reached across the desk and patted the back of her hand, further irritating her. The Ritter was speaking of his granddaughter as well.
Lucia stood up and the Master smiled at the expression he had seen on her father’s face many times. She was her father’s daughter. All she needed was the scar on her cheek. The expression was one of pure unadulterated hatred, but it would pass. Lucio Dambretti had never remained encumbered by hatred for long. He was much too in love with life to allow grudges to keep him down. Even his continuing feud with Mark Ramsay over Lucia’s mother had subsided with time.
“Your Grace,” she nodded her head curtly and turned on her heel, leaving them in the office. The Ritter went to the window and watched her progress across the courtyard. She even had her father’s gait, clenching and unclenching her fists as she went.
“It was never a good idea to allow females into the Academy, your Grace,” von Hetz said as he returned to his chair as he expressed his opinion. He was eternally grateful that God had seen fit to grace him with a son instead of a daughter. “If you will remember, I was against it from the beginning. She has too much of her father in her. A female Golden Eagle. Too much! Too much.”
“I am afraid you may be right. Dambretti will not be happy to hear that his daughter may be expelled from the Academy and I don’t think Sister Meredith will be none too happy about it either,” d’Brouchart said and raised his eyebrows. “I will leave it to you to break the news when the decision is made.”
The Ritter sighed. Of course. “Nor will Simon of Grenoble when Oriel is removed,” von Hetz tried to sound concerned. “But there is something far worse that Simon will not be happy to hear.”
“How so?” d’Brouchart asked and frowned at the platter of fruit in front of him. He had ordered something a bit less healthful for his mid-morning repast. A bowl of chocolate ice cream if memory served. Damn the cooks! He’d be looking for new ones if they didn’t shape up and soon. What did he care for healthful eating? How he lamented the passing of peacock tongues and lambs-eye gruel. He smiled at the irreverent thought.
“The prophecy, Sir, is quite plain to anyone with ears to hear,” the dark knight said as he crossed his legs. “Simon is not the one.”
“How so?”
The Grand Master did not want to hear what he knew the man was about to say. He picked up an apple, polished it on his sleeve and bit into it.
“It is very plain now that I was wrong. These two children we brought from Arabia are very disturbing. I have tried to look into their minds and it is the same with them as it was with John Paul. As it is with Lucia Dambretti. They are mystical creatures even more so than Dambretti's twins. It goes against what I had expected to learn that Lucia can block my attempts to see into her mind.”
“John Paul is not a mystical creature in the same sense, Brother. His mother and father are no more mystical than yourself. Only the Tree of Life Elixir makes them any different from anyone else,” the Grand Master snapped and then turned his chair to face the windows. “A bit... deep perhaps, but he is flesh and blood. He is only a man, just as Simon is only a man.”
The Ritter narrowed his eyes sharply. There was something wrong with the Master’s tone. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought perhaps the man was hiding something. Lying perhaps, but about what? He dare not look into d’Brouchart’s thoughts without permission.
“When I look into John Paul’s mind... when he has allowed it... there are... things there. I cannot explain them. I see the same things in the minds of the two children we brought back here. I see the same thing when I can glimpse Oriel’s mind and I have been unable to see into Jozsef’s mind at all. His father has taught him well. I can contact him no more than I can contact Lucia Simone. Marco Niccolo is more open, but there are areas wherein he is as closed as his sister. And Konrad William. A stone wall. Complete, without chinks. Nothing!” von Hetz admitted again that he was losing his sway over these newest additions to their extended family. At all costs, they had to keep any more of these ‘exceptional’ children from becoming Knights. Of course, Konrad William was already an apprentice and might well be a Knight very soon if things progressed as he foresaw, but well… he was after all, a proud father. Konrad William would be no trouble.
“What of Ramsay’s latest progeny?” d’Brouchart asked him.
“We have filled the world with a new kind of man and woman, your Grace, and I am as guilty as my Brothers for having produced one of them. The son of Mark Andrew, his mother has named him Luke Andrew, as I’m sure you know... he is no good. I have never seen anything like him before. He is even more of a mystery than the abominable son of the Djinn. This little Omar character. An Infidel name. I suggest we look into changing it to something more suitable if he is to remain with us for any length of time. Considering the state of world affairs, we may have a hard time finding a suitable home for him with such a name attached. If this were not the twenty-second century, I would suggest, regretfully, of course, that we rid ourselves of all of them and pray to God for another chance to redeem ourselves. We have produced Oriel, Lucia, Jozsef, John Paul, Marco, these unholy twins of Mark Ramsay’s doing and now, we have another problem. Children of the Djinn! These children were made possible by Sir Ramsay’s misadventures in the underworld. I know who they are. It is only a matter of time before we will see what they are.”
“How so?” d’Brouchart asked and his face grew pale. What was his Seneschal suggesting? The same thing that Sir Philip had suggested when Simon had been born. Sir Philip had begged him to kill the boy. Was the Ritter advocating that they destroy all the children of the Templars and the Djinn’s children as well? He noticed that Konrad William was not listed in the Ritter’s oration. His heart sank at the thought of his beautiful granddaughter, Oriel, being included in this mix.
“I saw the green ball at the Djinn’s palace in Lucio Dambretti’s mind. He was horrified and do you know who is contained within this abominable vessel? Why none other than the Queen of the Abyss, herself, Luke Matthew Ramsay’s shade and that scourge of the Earth, Cecile Valentino,” von Hetz reminded him. “We can now account for two of these children. The ball was split asunder and lying in the bottom of the palace pool.” The Ritter leaned forward and lowered his voice before continuing “I can account for Luke Matthew and Cecile Valentino, your Grace, but my question is: Where is the Queen of the Abyss?”
“What are you saying, Brother? That these two children are Luke Matthew and Cecile Valentino?!” d’Brouchart blurted and stood up again in alarm.
“I am,” von Hetz said darkly. “One has only to look closely at them to see.”
“Holy Mary!” d’Brouchart muttered as he sank slowly into his chair and allowed the half-eaten apple to drop to the floor. It was too much.
“But there is more,” von Hetz told him quickly.
(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))
The following day was long and tedious. Cardinal Colallucci was as he always was. Arrogant, doubtful, aggravating and stupid. And Simon had caught him primping twice in the mirror that hung behind the desk in the Seneschal’s office. He was sure of it. How could the Holy Father appoint such an imbecile to be their liaison officer? The man asked the same questions over and over. Each time, he merely rearranged the words like an expert weaver forming a repeating pattern in a tapestry. After each turn, he waited impatiently while they explained everything they dared to tell him again. Simon was beside himself by the time the man had retired to the quarters they had prepared for him.
“Never wrestle with a pig, you both get dirty and the pig likes it.”
He smiled as he repeated one of Lucio’s old sayings that he often used when speaking of Vatican officials, wondering who had said it originally.
The Healer wandered out the front door of the main building into the parking area. He was torn between getting into his car and simply leaving or going back to his rooms to lie down, perhaps commit a little suicide or maybe get riproaring drunk and take a skinny dip in the Master’s pool. Before he could decide which adventure on which to embark, movement in the shrubbery caught his attention.
“Pssst!”
Simon stopped in his tracks. He looked about for the source of the sound he thought he heard.
“Over here for pity’s sake!” a hoarse, but urgent whisper wafted around the corner of the building.
The Healer walked cautiously to the end of the building and then shrieked as someone grabbed him roughly, pulled him around the corner and slammed him none too gently against the rough, plastered wall. He looked into the deep blue eyes of Mark Andrew Ramsay above a gritty hand pressed over his mouth.
“Hmmmm. Mmmmm!” he attempted and then finished “Brother!” when the hand relented. He laughed in surprise and grabbed the Knight by the shoulders.
“Shhh!” Mark Andrew shushed his outburst before it started and pulled him deeper into the shadows.
“What’s wrong?” Simon lowered his voice.
“Have you been to the mountain?” Mark Andrew asked. He looked like a wild man. He still wore the same clothes he had last seen him wearing in Arabia. His black combat uniform was covered with white dust, his hair was full of the same and his pants and shirt were ripped in several places.
“What mountain?” Simon asked him and then realized what he was talking about. “No! You mean Vesuvius?”
“Yes!” Mark Andrew’s expression put a cold fear in his heart.
“No. We were going tomorrow. To look for you,” Simon told him. “Why? We won’t have to go now. We were going to start our search for you there, I mean.”
“Start… your search?” Mark Andrew said in puzzlement and looked around as if he might expect to help the Healer with it. He frowned and then his expression turned to one of disbelief. “You haven’t even tried to find me?” The disappointment in his voice was almost palpable. Even the normally stoic Scot was astounded by his Brothers’ coldhearted disregard for his welfare. They hadn’t even started a search for him and it had been well over three days since he had been trapped with a broken leg and a broken arm beneath the rubble of the Djinni’s demolished palace in Arabia. What were they doing? Why? Ahhh, but he knew why. They didn’t want him to return. At least, d’Brouchart didn’t want him to return. The Grand Master was afraid that Mark Andrew would wish to keep his title of Grand Master even though Edgard had recovered. They thought he wanted to be Grand Master! This was why the Ritter had come looking for him. Looking for his head, that is. But had Lucio also abandoned him? And Simon?
Simon felt the blood drain from his face as he understood how the Knight might feel. He had risked everything for them… always and they had not even begun a search for him.
“I’m sorry, Brother,” Simon apologized and looked at the ground as tears stung his eyes. It was quite obvious that Mark Andrew had been through a harrowing ordeal since he had seen him in the Djinn’s palace. He even had dried blood on his face amidst the layers of dirt and grime. “I tried to…” he began and immediately felt stupid. “I wanted to stay and look for you. I was in a bad position at the time… outnumbered and outranked, I’m afraid and then my father forbade me to return after we had gotten the children home to safety. He said you would... he said you would come back on your own. I…”
“Nevar moind,” Mark Andrew’s tone and expression changed again. He let go of the Healer. Why had he expected anything more? “Who was going to the mountain?”
“Myself, of course. My father. Probably some of the soldiers. No one else that I know of,” Simon told him miserably. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, but it was hopeless.
“Then I want you to go along with him,” Mark Andrew said and looked away from the Healer. He had already used the powers he retained from the Ritter’s Mystery and looked into Simon’s mind. He was innocent. He knew nothing of what the Ritter was advocating. Nothing of the danger to himself at the hands of his father. It would not do to try to tell him that his father was planning to offer him as a blood sacrifice on the side of the volcano. It would sound laughable. Hell, he even thought it sounded laughable. Simon would never believe it.
“There is something I must do. I would like for you to be there at the mountain. Don’t worry, I’ll meet you there. I just don’t want them to know I’m back yet,” Mark Andrew told him, trying to reassure him and redirect his attention away from the real problem. “If you love me, tell no one that you have seen me. There is unfinished business with the Djinn and I need a bit of time to… set things right. No interruptions.”
“But everyone is worried about you,” Simon protested. “Merry called a dozen times from Scotland asking for you. Lucio is beside himself because the Master will not launch a mission to go back to look for you. I have been expecting him to go off on his own in spite of orders. I have to tell them you’re all right.”
“Brother! You owe me,” he said slowly, deliberately and called in a number of favors. “Do not let me down… again.”
Simon shuddered, but nodded his head vigorously.
“Where is he… Lucio, where is he?” Mark asked as he let go of the priest.
“In Naples, I suppose. He has female trouble again,” Simon said quietly.
“What of the two children you brought back? Where are they?”
“The Ritter took charge of them.”
Mark Andrew slammed his fist against the wall and then held his head back, closing his eyes.
“Th’ Rittar!” he said angrily. “I should’ve known he would take them.”
“What about the Djinn? Do you have him? He didn’t get away, did he?”
“No, I have him. The Djinn is not our only worry, Brother. Th’ dragon is loose in Arabia. She serves the Djinn. Th’ Queen is nae longer in th’ catch boll. She serves her own whims…” his voice trailed off and a sudden spout of anger flared without warning. “Th’ Rittar wud have kilt me own children, Simon, and you went along with it. You didn’t tell me.”
“What are you talking about?” Simon asked, eyes wide. “What children?”
“Th’ twins! Th’ con-joined twins,” Mark Andrew growled at him and looked around as the wild look returned to his eyes. “’e ’ad them... repaired... no, separated! The’ Djinni told me. They air in Scotland with Merry. They didn’t die.”
“Holy Mother!” Simon gasped and then pressed his hands to his head and swayed at this staggering bit of news. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Brother. I thought it best… I didn’t know what to do. What shall we do?”
“The Ritter wants my head now, Brother,” Mark said more calmly. “That is why he came to Arabia. To kill me.”
“Brother…” it was Simon’s turn to be devastated. “Are you sure about this? I don’t understand. What has happened to us? My father is expelling Lucia and Oriel from the Academy. John Paul is being sent home to Scotland for possible retirement. The Master is going to retire him as a Knight! He’s going to have him give up his Mysteries to Stephano Clementi. He has told me this in private. John Paul has not regained his sight. He doesn’t know… Oh! But you didn’t know about his blindness, did you? John was blind when he came out of the coma,” Simon said and stopped.
“Blind?”
Mark Andrew closed his eyes and the world closed in a bit tighter.
“Permanently?” he asked.
“The doctors seem to think so,” Simon nodded. “The Master is sending me to Jerusalem day after tomorrow. How can I get out of it? You will need me here.”
“No! He’s not sending you to Jerusalem, Brother,” Mark Andrew sighed. “Look! I canna stay ’ere. It’s too risky. Is Champlain still in Scotland?”
Simon nodded.
“Good! If something happens to me, Brother, and you have the chance, I want you to take care of my children and if Merry will have you, marry her. And if she won’t have you, tell her I said for her to marry Champlain. I don’t want her to be alone. She will need someone who can protect her and I don’t want her depending on Lucio.”
“I don’t understand, Mark,” Simon shook his head.
“Ye will aftar tomorrow. I’m goin’ t’ look fur Dambretti. If ye dunna hear from ’im tonoight, dunna go with yer father to th’ mountain. Swear it t’ me, Brother! Under no circumstances!”
“But... But...!” Simon was beside himself. Mark took him by the arms again and pushed him against the wall.
“If I come back and you’ve betrayed me, I will kill you. Do you understand?”
“Yes! No, I won’t,” Simon told him and the Knight pressed one arm against his throat.
“Swear it!”
“I swear! I swear!” Simon gasped and Mark let go of him.
Mark Andrew kissed him lightly on the lips and backed away. The Knight of Death truly looked insane and Simon wondered if he had lost his mind finally, once and for all. Before he could protest, Mark Andrew left him. Where was he going? Furthermore, how would he get there? Simon frowned and then remembered that Mark Andrew could go almost anywhere he pleased and he didn’t need a Volvo. The Healer stood staring into the darkness under the olive trees for several minutes before heading for his room. There was nothing to do, but go back and wait to hear from Lucio and try to figure out some way to avoid going up Vesuvius with his father if he didn’t hear from him. His first impulse was to call Scotland, but under the circumstances, he decided he had best wait until he knew better what was going on. He would not take Mark’s threats lightly.
He let himself inside his rooms and flicked on the light at his desk. He shrieked again at the sight of Lucia Simone sitting on his sofa in the dark.
“Uncle Simon,” she addressed him immediately and stood up. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“What?” He looked around. “Why?”
“We have to go,” she said as she took his arm.
“I can’t go!” he said. “I have to wait for Lucio to call me. Go where?”
“No you don’t,” she shook her head and pulled him toward the door.
“Wait!”
He went back to his desk and rummaged about for his cell phone. He stuffed it in his pocket and then hurried out the door with her. She led him rapidly across the courtyard and down the walk to the chapel. The place was dark and deserted. It was almost ten o’clock.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?” he asked her.
“What difference does it make?” she countered. “Tomorrow I will no longer be welcome here at all.”
“Oh, so you know about the Master’s decision?”
Lucia nodded as they made their way up the steps. She led him to the rear of the chapel, through the bell tower door and up the stairs. He was shocked to find Oriel, Konrad and Lavon de Bleu waiting for him in the small, dusty room under the bells.
“What is this about?” Simon asked them as Lucia pulled him into the small circle. They sat around a single candle in a ornate silver candlestick, he recognized as one taken from the altar below.
“Please, father, sit down,” Oriel begged him and gestured to the floor beside her.
“Uncle Simon!” Lucia said as she sat next to him. “You are in grave danger.”
“How so?”
He could see that they were deeply afraid of something.
“Grandfather is planning to kill you tomorrow,” Oriel told him point blank.
“That’s ridiculous!” Simon raised his voice and received four shushes at once.
“You can ask Armand de Bleu. Ask Sir Barry. Ask Sir de Lyons,” Lucia told him. “They know something is wrong. The Master sent assassins to Scotland, but they did not find what they were looking for.”
“What were they looking for?” Simon asked and swallowed hard.
“They were looking for my brother and sister,” Lucia told him.
“The twins?” Simon’s eyes widened. How did these children know of the twins when he had not even known of their whereabouts and their existence until only a few moments ago? Mark Andrew had said that the Ritter wanted to kill his children.
“Yes! And if Uncle Louis had tried to stop them, they had orders to kill him as well and my mother if need be.”
“That’s simply not possible,” Simon objected and shook his head. It couldn’t be. “Why would my father want to kill me or these children or… Louis Champlain? Never!”
“He doesn’t necessarily want to kill you, but he believes that God is telling him to do it,” Oriel explained.
“Are you saying he’s lost his mind?” Simon frowned.
“Not exactly,” Konrad spoke for the first time and Simon turned to Ramsay’s apprentice. He had never trusted the Ritter’s arrogant son.
“My father…” Konrad paused and then continued rapidly. “My father has convinced him that he should sacrifice you as a burnt offering to atone for the sins of the Order. My father believes that the Order is in danger of falling to ruin because of the sins of its members. My father is convinced that only a blood sacrifice will atone for the sins, but he has made the Grand Master think that it is all just a dream or a test at best.”
“A sacrifice,” Oriel took up the narrative. “A sacrifice along the lines of Isaac, son of Abraham. The Ritter believes that God may be testing the Order. He believes that the Master’s dreams and the prophecies of Sir John are telling the Master to take you to the mountain and sacrifice you there in proof of his obedience to God. He has told my grandfather not to worry. That it is all a misunderstanding. He intends to get him to the place of sacrifice and then he believes that Grandfather will follow God’s instructions when he sees the altar. Grandfather is convinced that God will not allow him to carry through with it. Just as he stayed Abraham’s hand before he killed Isaac.”
Simon’s mouth fell open. He had asked his father once if he would sacrifice him as Abraham had offered Isaac. But he had never thought it would become reality. Mark Andrew had been right! Thoughts were dangerous. Words were worse.
“The Master believes that God will give him an out,” Konrad continued. “Provide the ram? Like He provided the ram for Abraham’s sacrifice?”
“Ahh, yes,” Simon nodded. So this was why Mark Andrew had told him not to go to the mountain with his father unless he heard from Lucio tonight. “But how do you know this?”
“I know my father’s mind,” Konrad told him. “It is not a pretty place.”
“And I know my brother’s prophecies,” Lucia told him.
“And I know the secrets of the Holy City,” Oriel told him.
“And I am but a poor Knight of Solomon’s Temple,” Lavon de Bleu added sadly. Lucio’s apprentice had said nothing until now. He turned his golden eyes on the Healer and Simon shuddered to his toes.
“Spes mea in deo est,” Simon whispered.
“Spes mea in deo est,” all four of them answered him in unison.
Mark Andrew climbed the stairs to Lucio’s apartment. Several motley cats met him at the door and rubbed against his dirty boots, hoping for a meal. Several small plastic containers licked spotlessly clean littered the tile in front of Dambretti’s door. One of the cats, a black female with emerald green eyes stretched luxuriously and growled seductively. Cats! Ramsay preferred dogs. The bigger, the better. Cats reminded him of the slinky belly dancers that once populated the marketplaces and opium dens in the Middle East. Trouble. Women were nothing, but trouble. Worse still were the men who allowed themselves to become entangled with them. He had plenty of experience on which to base his opinion, having been an idiot more times than he could count.
He knocked on the door and got no answer. Lucio was not home. He was with the ‘female trouble’ as Simon had called it. Damn the Italian! He used his ‘key’ to open the door and let himself inside. He took a quick shower and helped himself to a suit of clean clothes. The apartment was much changed from when he’d last seen it. Cleaner, less cluttered. He took a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and half a loaf of stale bread from the counter before sitting down in Lucio’s leather sofa.
He set the open bottle on the table in front of the sofa and stuffed some of the dry bread in his mouth before flipping open the ring.
“Lord Adar?” Lemarik’s musical voice called to him from Lucio’s bedroom. “Where are you?”
“In here!” Mark Andrew shouted and shook his head. The Djinn was a real piece of work, but pleasant enough considering his current position as slave.
“Ahhhh. Ohhhh!” The Djinn swayed into the living room and turned about several times. “The Eagle’s nest. I know this place!”
“I’m sure you do.”
Mark Andrew laid his head on the back of the sofa. “I need you to find the Golden Eagle and bring him home.”
“Ohhh. He is with Ruth! You said I could not see Ruth again,” Lemarik objected and shook one long finger in the Knight’s face.
“Keep your eyes closed!” Mark Andrew told him without looking up.
“You are irritable, Adar,” Lemarik commented gloomily and leaned toward him. “You are being rude to your most humble servant.”
“I need to see him, my friend,” Mark Andrew said tiredly and raised his head, reaching for the wine. The wizard retrieved the bottle for him, producing a sparkling crystal goblet from one sleeve to put it in.
“You are weary. You need to rest. Allow me to bring you something to eat.”
“No. Just find Lucio,” Mark Andrew said as he broke off another bit of bread. “This is fine for now. Would you care for some?” He had to remember the rules. He had to offer the Djinn a meal.
Lemarik wrinkled his long, thin nose at the stale bread.
“I am not that hungry, but I will take a glass of wine.” He seemed to flow into the kitchen and came back directly with a glass. He filled the glass and turned it up. “Yes. Yes. The Golden Eagle has very good taste in wines.”
“So I’m told.”
“Now I must tell you something about Ruth,” Lemarik said and seemed to shrink a bit.
“What?” ark Andrew frowned. He was not in the mood for conversation.
“She is in love with me,” the Djinn told him with a hint of sadness in his voice.
“She is in love with Lucio! She doesn’t even know you.”
“Ahhh. But you are wrong. She does not know Lucio.”
“What difference does it make? She thinks she is in love with Lucio.”
“No! She thinks she is in love with Lucio. She is in love with me.”
“That makes no sense.”
“In her mind, she is in love with me. In the physical sense she is in love with Lucio.”
“Ahhh!” Mark Andrew nodded. It still made no sense.
“When she sees me, she will know,” Lemarik shrugged and turned up his wine.
“Then don’t let her see you!” Mark Andrew growled, aggravation sneaking into his voice.
“I was afraid you would say that,” Lemarik sighed and his shoulders drooped momentarily. Then he drew himself up, shook his head and sparks erupted from his long, dark hair. “Have you seen my children?”
“No. But I had news of them. They are safe for now,” Mark told him.
“That is not true,” Lemarik countered and shook his head again. More colorful sparks flew from his hair and floated up to circle his head. “They are not safe. You must get them back from that dark Knight.”
“Do not read my mind!” Mark Andrew told him adamantly.
“As you wish. But it is much easier than talking to you.” Lemarik folded himself down on the table beside the wine bottle.
“Don’t get comfortable! I want you to go now and bring Lucio home.”
“I’m doing that as we speak,” Lemarik explained and frowned at him. “Do not interrupt me while I am working, I beg you, my Lord.”
Mark Andrew sat up and blinked at him in consternation. The sparks swirled around his head and flew away toward the kitchen. The Djinn sat perfectly still on the table. Unblinking. Unmoving. Mark Andrew got up slowly and waved one hand in front of the wizard’s face. He was gone. Only his body remained.
(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))
Lucio sat straight up in the bed and looked around, confused and disoriented. He was surprised to find himself here and not at home. Suddenly it was very important for him to go home. Urgent.
“Ruth?” He looked down at the woman beside him.
“Si`, bambino,” she answered groggily.
“I have to go, my love,” he told her gently and kissed her on the forehead. She reached one arm up to take his hair in her hand and kissed him more forcefully on the lips.
“Don’t go now! You just got here,” she told him.
“Ohhh! I would love to stay with you, my sweet pomegranate, but duty calls,” he said as he got out of the bed and began to get dressed.
Ruth pushed herself up in the bed, looked at the clock and then watched him curiously, wondering if he was becoming schizophrenic. They had only gone to bed fifteen minutes earlier. Why go to bed and get up fifteen minutes later?
“But, Lucio!” she pouted. “It is still early. You are a slave to your work.”
“That is truer than you know, my sweet lotus blossom,” he told her as he sat down to pull on his boots.
“How long will you be gone?” she asked him.
“A long, long time. But I will be back soon,” he told her.
Ruth frowned at him. His answer seemed to confirm her suspicions that he was losing his fucking mind.
Lucio turned, took her in his arms and kissed her passionately, sending an almost electric current down her spine. The kiss made him shudder from head to toe. This was the Lucio she remembered from before he had gone off with those horrible men he worked with. Good! Perhaps they had not done anything too terribly bad to him. Nothing that he could not recover from. He had barely paid any attention to her since his return and had spent most of his time sleeping in her bed and complaining about the politics of the Vatican. A subject Ruth cared nothing about. She had been glad to go to work that morning, but he had still been in her bed asleep when she had come home. He had gotten up to eat supper and drink some wine and then, he had fallen asleep again on her shoulder while they were watching a movie. But now, perhaps, the old Lucio was back. Her bambino!
“Come back to bed, bambino,” she pleaded and held onto his hand. “We can stay here a little while and I will make you glad you did. We can go out for coffee and watch the night streets. It would be fun. Or we could just stroll around the streets while everyone else is at home asleep.”
“Oh, nooo,” Lucio shook his head sadly. “That would never do. But I will try to get back to you as soon as I can get away. There is something I wish to speak with you about, my love... my life.”
“Oh?” Ruth climbed from the bed and pulled her robe on. She followed him to the living room where he looked for his jacket among the cushions of the sofa. “What is that, bambino?”
“I would like to know if you truly love me or if you are only interested in my looks,” he told her and she stopped to stare at him in disbelief.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
She put her hands on her hips and patted one foot on the rug. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t be engaged to you.”
“I cannot talk to you about it now,” he told her and came to peck her lightly on the nose. “I don’t have time, but I must know. You can be thinking about this until we meet again, my little rose petal.” He squeezed her backside firmly and shuddered once more. She giggled and slapped at him.
“I don’t understand the question,” she whined as she followed him to the door. “How can I think about something when I don’t know what it is I’m thinking about?”
“I want to know if you love me for my self. For my mind,” he said and tapped one finger against his temple and smiled at her. “Or if you love me because I look like this.” He held out both hands as if to model himself for her and turned around like a fashion model.
“That is ridiculous!” she told him and then laughed. “I thought only women worried about such vain things.” She tapped her finger against his nose and he shuddered again. She giggled. “You are precious, bambino! I love everything about you except your temper. I don’t have to think about it. I love your looks and your voice and the way you talk to me...”
“But what if I did not look like me?” he asked and frowned slightly.
“Don’t be silly. Who would you look like if you didn’t look like you?” she asked him and leaned her head on his chest. He took a deep breath in her hair.
“I don’t know, my love,” he said, shivered and squeezed her tightly. “Someone more handsome perhaps? Someone a bit taller and less… bulky? Someone with whiter teeth and a brighter smile? Someone effervescent and bubbly? Someone with a dimple in his chin instead of this handsome battle scar? Someone with long, silky locks instead of this curly crow’s nest?”
“You are teasing me!” she shook her head. “I told you that you are jealous of me, bambino. You are describing a movie star. I think you are very handsome… just as you are.”
“I see,” he said, his disappointment quite evident. “Well. I must go now, my precious little bird. My beautiful peahen. Do not forget me while I am away.”
(((((((((((((<O>)))))))))))))
Simon knocked hesitantly on Sir Barry’s door. He waited nervously for the English Knight to answer.
“Brother?” Sussex asked and squinted at him through the screen door. “What is wrong?” Simon never came to his rooms unless there was some disaster in the offing and only then to knock and shout and run.
“I have just spoken with...” Simon began and looked around the courtyard. No one was in evidence anywhere. “I have just spoken with...” He didn’t know what to say. What not to say. “They told me to ask you for... confirmation.”
“Confirmation? Of what?” Barry asked with a puzzled frown. “Come inside, little Brother and tell me what passes.” He pushed the screen open and gestured for him to come inside. Simon stepped inside and looked around. The place was amazing. The small room was filled with weapons. Simon knew that Barry was a weapons specialist and that he collected bladed weapons as well as other, more modern means of killing people, but he’d not known that he collected them for pleasure, for a hobby. That seemed more like something de Lyons would do, something that Beaujold had done in the past. Most of the weapons displayed on the walls were medieval in design and many of them were all too familiar to the Healer. He shuddered at the thought of the hideous wounds Barry’s arsenal could have inflicted, could still inflict and the memory of having witnessed many such wounds first hand on the ancient battlefields from time to time made him blanche. Surprisingly, amidst all the bristling weaponry, several portraits of the so-called King of Rock and Roll smiled down at him.
“Sit down. Please.” Barry offered and pulled up a leather armchair, scooping up a pair of bronze greaves from the seat. Evidence that he had been repairing the relics was spread across the table that took up most of the small room. He dragged another matching chair over from the wall to sit facing the Healer. It was a very strange arrangement. Sir Barry was obviously not accustomed to entertaining guests in his quarters. “What can I do for you, father?” his tone changed to that which he normally used when seeking Simon for confession or other spiritual matters.
“I spoke to Oriel and Lucia,” Simon told him after taking the proffered chair. “They told me some very disturbing things.” He did not want to mention the presence of the two male apprentices. Lucia and Oriel were not Templars yet. Lavon was one of Barry’s prize students, but Konrad was a sore spot with the English Knight even though he had taken the oath in a beautiful rendition completely without the need for prompts, notes, stutters or stammers. The pair were scheduled for initiation in less than two weeks and Barry still had misgivings about the Ritter’s son. There was ‘something rotten in Denmark’ he had repeated his favorite Shakespearean line to Simon on several occasions in reference to the young man. If they were wrong about what they were saying, it would be tantamount to treason and both Lavon and Konrad would be ruined before they had even gotten a chance. The girls would be excused. They were, after all, about to be expelled. It would be only natural for them to have some animosity against the Ritter and the Grand Master. But Konrad was speaking out against his own father… Simon cringed inwardly. He understood perfectly this antagonism between father and son.
“How so, about what?”
Sir Barry narrowed his eyes. They had sent Simon to plead their cases, but Barry had no influence in such a matter as this other than giving personal opinions and unsolicited advice. The Master had asked him nothing about Oriel and Lucia as far as their impending expulsion. He had it on good authority that they would be expelled and that was second hand news. He had tried to broach the subject with d’Brouchart and had been met with a cold stare. “I have done all I can to intervene on behalf of the girls, Brother. I am afraid that it is out of my hands.”
“That is not the subject,” Simon told him and clasped his hands in his lap. “Do you know if my father is planning some sort of sacrifice? An offering for atonement of sins on behalf of the Order at large?”
“A sacrifice?” Barry’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “No.”
Simon was somewhat relieved to hear this.
“Do you know of anything at all that would indicate that something was amiss with the Master since he woke up? Do you know if he was planning to do away with Sir Ramsay?”
“What? No! Surely not. Why do you ask? Wait… no! I only know what John Paul has told me,” Sir Barry stammered as he sat up straight in the chair and frowned. His eyes darted around the room as if he were chasing some lost memory or errant thought or battling with his own conscience. Betray a Brother’s confidence? This was the Master’s son he was speaking to. Was Simon fishing for information, possibly investigating on behalf of his father? But he had already said too much. If it was a trap, he had fallen into it without a whimper. “His prophecies of late have referred to some sacrifices to be made, but I am of the opinion that he is speaking metaphorically and if he is talking to someone in particular, he is speaking to his father. Sir Ramsay has a number of things on his conscience that might need accounting for… someday, but we must all make sacrifices. Always. Atone for our sins. Try to remain in favor with God. Confess to one another,” Barry paused and chewed his bottom lip nervously.
He did not like Simon coming to his sanctuary and burdening him with such thoughts. He had enough to worry about trying to maintain his own soul in good working order. “I will tell you this and remember, this is only my assessment of what I see and what I hear. The prophet is troubled, Brother. Mentally, I mean. He feels that the Master may be plotting Sir Ramsay’s murder. It would appear that you have been talking with him, eh? I would hope that you would keep this in confidence, Brother. I realize that Edgard d’Brouchart is your father. I would not want to cause trouble between him and the prophet. There is already enough, but I hardly think that the Master would want to murder our Alchemist. Why not simply imprison him? He has the means, you know. There are always the outposts,” Barry leaned forward and looked directly into the Healer’s eyes. “We have some very good facilities and no escapes on our record. The Master has done similar things in the past. Do not be overly concerned about Brother John’s suspicions. He has suffered a terrible malady and it has left him blind. He cannot carry out his duties as a Knight of the Council and is being forced into retirement. It is not something anyone of us would take too well.”
“Of course,” Simon nodded. So John Paul was of the same opinion as his father and yet, as far as he knew, they had not see each other, but there were other means of communicating… more subtle. Barry was ready to write it off to John’s mental state. He decided not to tell Barry anything further. Sometimes ignorance was not only bliss, it was best. Simon well remembered the Ritter’s inexplicable behavior when Ramsay did not join them in the desert after the destruction of the Djinni’s palace. The man had been in a very great hurry to vacate the area almost as if he wanted to leave the Scot for dead or at least incapacitated to the extent that he would not be able to come home. Buried under tons of rubble… alive? Simon set his jaw and blinked rapidly as the full implications of what might have occurred and the idea that he had stood by like an idiot, allowing it to happen. Echoes of James Argonne’s plot to leave himself and Ramsay buried under the chapel of Glessyn forever sprang to mind and he felt his heart rate increase. Sweat popped out on his upper lip and the blood drained from his face. The Ritter had cited his concern for the children at the time, but Lucio had voiced his doubts as to the true motives of the Ritter on several occasions during their trip back from Arabia. Mark Andrew had said that the Ritter was coming for him. He remembered those words quite well.
Barry stood abruptly. “Can I offer you a drink? Some water? Wine? You look like you could use a drink, little Brother. Surely thinking of these things is not beneficial to our cause.”
“No, please, don’t bother,” Simon declined and managed a small smile for his old friend. Barry was afraid to talk to him. He was Simon of Grenoble, the Grand Master’s son. “Do you think that the Master has changed since waking? What is your opinion? Do not think me capable of betraying your confidence, Barry. I am your confessor and your Brother. My duty to the Order goes beyond the thin line of blood that connects me to the father who denied me for almost eight centuries.”
“I have spent very little time with him,” Barry spoke over his shoulder as he disappeared into his bedroom and came back with a bottle of water. He resumed his seat, but he was much less comfortable than before. “I really couldn’t tell you. I suppose he is well enough.”