With a shrug, Alexander tossed his gnawed bone to one of the wolfhounds lying in the rushes at their feet and allowed the subject to be changed.

Later that night, having drunk more heavily than was his usual wont, Comyn retired alone to a private chamber where he often slept when his darker affinities required solitary contemplation. The news regarding Wallace was most satisfying. Not only would his capture satisfy the English king's demands on Comyn and the other Scots lords charged with delivering him, but his execution-for that was a foregone conclusion, once he was delivered into Edward's hands- would be fitting punishment for presuming to lord it over his betters.

There had been a time when Comyn had even feared that Wallace might be the mysterious Uncrowned King of whom he and his father had been warned, so many years ago; but after that one brief year of glory, Wallace's influence had declined steadily-and the manner of his impending death should ensure that he suffered most satisfyingly for his impudence. As Comyn lay back on the narrow bed and closed his eyes, light-headed from wine, he put Wallace from his mind and thought upon how he might next use the sorceries at his disposal to enhance his position.

The night was close, oppressive, and after a while he stripped off his clothing and lay down again. Focus was not coming easily tonight. In the five years since his father's death, under the tutelage of the shaman priest Torgon, he had come into a measure of the powers previously wielded by his father, but he did not yet have the mastery he craved-and feared to spend too much time at Burghead, for she was there, as well as Torgon, and extracted payment for each new power granted.

But something in the very air kept tugging his thoughts back to the Pictish fortress-a heaviness like thunder, a metallic flavor to the warm wind blowing in off the sea. Something of its taste reminded him of his first draft at that dark well, and of another visit, the first time he went there after his father's death.

There had been no bull sacrifice that day. Instructed by Torgon-though the pagan priest did not accompany him down those dark stairs-Comyn had dragged another sacrifice into that darkness, toward the flickering torchlight that dimly lit the pool. The dark-haired boy had been too drugged to struggle much, wrists bound tight behind his back, wilting dull-eyed and compliant against the curbing at his feet as Comyn intoned the ancient chants, Torgon's bronze sickle held aloft in invocation.

When the waters began to froth and boil, Comyn had used that sickle. There had been blood-a great deal of it-but little sound save a strangled gurgle, right at the beginning, and then the brief thrashing as he held the dark head under the water until the weakening death throes all but eased. And when he then tipped the twitching body into the water, she had come, rearing out of the depths to take the offering.

Even to that moment, with murder on his hands, he had not been sure that the memory he had of that other time, with his father, had been anything but a dream. As a sickly green radiance bubbled upward, engulfing the sacrifice, he had sunk back, weak-kneed and open-mouthed, as the spectral form manifested before him, his body shuddering in mingled revulsion and the stirrings of something akin to carnal l.u.s.t. The lambent eyes had fixed him with a force that compelled his utter attention and obedience as a voice seemed to fill the shadowed cavern.

"Your every thought is known to me, little mortal.and every secret desire. Your flesh hungers for my embrace, but your soul l.u.s.ts even more for the promise of my power. Both you shall have, as your father before you, but only as you bend your will to mine."

John Comyn had bowed low, too overwhelmed to speak, trembling before the beguiling potency of all that was offered.

"You shall yield to me utterly, to be my scourge that shall drive out the servants of the murdered G.o.d. Do this, and I shall give you the power you crave-even the earthly crown of this land."

The crown- With heart pounding, the blood singing in his ears, he had dared to lift his face to her again, his hunger for power igniting a reckless courage.

"I will have it!" he whispered. "The bargain is agreed!"

"No bargain is agreed without the offering of your blood-not this paltry virgin sacrifice!"

In a burst of green-tinged bubbles, the limp body of the boy had bobbed abruptly to the surface of the pool, to tumble briefly with dead eyes open and wide-staring in a glaze of horror, until her gesture sent it back into the depths.

And Comyn, enflamed, had given her his blood, gashing his hand and plunging it into the pool-and had twisted and cried out as something in the water held him fast and drew him backward over the curbing, free arm flailing, his face only just clear of the water.

"Now we have a bargain! " came that dread voice, both terrifying and irresistibly seductive, as the apparition filled his vision.

And he had yielded utterly before the force of that utterance, no longer caring for any mortal danger as evil invaded and possessed him, a choked moan of mingled anguish and pa.s.sion gurgling from deep in his throat as he was ravished, body and soul. Pain and pleasure had collided in an explosive climax-and exploded now, plunging him into something between dream and vision, again at the edge of that dark pool, but now in spirit, not mere memory.

And she was there, terrible in her fury, serpent hair writhing around her bony shoulders, taloned fingers flexing in menace as she reared out of the pool.

"Why have you been so long from me?" she demanded, her voice like a lash. "You will come to me in my dwelling place! The Uncrowned King goes to be slain, and a flicker has stirred in that which was safely dead. His death can restore it to life!"

He cringed before her, only slowly dragging himself from the dregs of pa.s.sion to sober focus. "The Uncrowned-Wallace?" he blurted. "And what can be restored?"

"His willing sacrifice can give life to that accursed hallow that was the altar stone of Briochan's adversary, he who brought the new religion to this land."

Briochan's adversary.an altar stone.

Suddenly it came to Comyn, through his stunned bewilderment, that she was speaking of Columba, and the Stone of Destiny.

"But-the Stone is in England," he managed to protest. "Its power is no use to England's king."

A shrill howl of frustration rent the air like ripping gauze.

" No! It lies yet within this land of Alba-protected by the servants of the murdered G.o.d, who has the power to bring the dead back to life. And life for the Stone means death to all our ancient ways."

"But the Uncrowned King-Wallace-is on his way to London," Comyn faltered. "If the Stone is still in Scotland-"

"The Stone will draw life from the land, once it be quickened by the sacrifice," she said sharply, "and that is echoed in the Between, where distance has no meaning! The Stone's renewal is the danger, if it drinks of the well of grace which is the Uncrowned King."

"Then, I shall find the Stone and those who guard it!" he declared, refocusing his courage and intent.

"Give me the power to do this, and I shall destroy both!"

"Come to me, then," came her whispered response. "My priests shall teach you. And I shall give you such power as may wreak my contempt upon the Stone, and destroy it and the white-robed ones who guard it-the servants of the lost temple. By this shall I win you the crown that you seek."

The thrill of that promise was enough to stir new pa.s.sion in Comyn's blood, but he gave himself instead to exhausted sleep, not stirring for what remained of the night. When at last he roused, his body was sore in every limb, and his groin ached as if he had been kicked. With a groan he struggled to his elbows, squinting against the sunlight streaming into the room-and gasped as memory came flooding back.

Last night-news of Wallace being taken! And then, in his dreams, a summons from his dread patron, warning that the Stone of Destiny lay not in England, as he had long supposed, but somewhere here in Scotland, waiting to be reempowered by the death of Wallace. But the promise of the crown was his, if he was bold enough to take it!

Heaving himself to his feet, he drew on clothes and staggered down to the hall, where his cousin was already at work on the accounts.

"Fetch horses," he ordered brusquely. "We must ride at once to the shrine of the G.o.ddess at Burghead.

Our enemies will be gathering, and it is from Burghead that we shall strike at them."

Chapter Thirty-two.

AT SCONE ABBEY, UNAWARE THAT THE FORCES OF DARKness had taken interest in the Stone of Destiny, its protectors immersed themselves over the next fortnight in holy preparation for what was to come, fortifying themselves with prayer and meditation, clinging to each new snippet of news that came in from a succession of observers set along the route by which Wallace's captors were taking him toward London.

They were four Knights Templar, a Templar priest, and two Columban brothers. The latter two, having been there since the spring, could move openly amid the community; the Templars took discreet residence in the cottage where some of them had lodged for John Balliol's inauguration, never venturing outside during daylight hours, for the presence of so many Templars would have been remarked.

Designating the smaller of the cottage's two rooms as their chapel, they kept vigil by twos, night and day, sending forth their prayers to strengthen and fortify Wallace and channeling energy into the distant wards that hid the Stone. In addition, the Columban brothers joined them for many hours each day, sharing aspects of Celtic wisdom likely to be of use regarding the Stone; and when the Columbans must return to the abbey, Arnault and Torquil reinforced their teaching, seeking to integrate the Celtic and Templar wisdom.

They did not yet venture near the Stone itself, for they dared not risk drawing unwelcome attention to its location by premature activity in its vicinity. But nightly, a.s.sisted by at least one other member of le Cercle and one of the Columban brothers, Arnault composed himself with prayer and trance and went out upon the Via Spiritus, with the keekstane in his hand, to pay homage to the essence of the Stone, as reflected in the spiritual realms, and then briefly to touch the Uncrowned King. Lest he arouse some human hope of physical reprieve, he did not reveal his presence to Wallace, but always he left a benison of peace and courage, so that he knew his friend slept dreamlessly as time and Edward's men moved him ever closer toward his destiny.

By the night that Flannan returned from Paris with Gaspar, the pair having all but ruined several relays of horses in their haste to reach the Stone in time, Arnault had learned that Wallace and his captors were within two days' journey of London. Once he was in Edward's hands, his trial and execution would not be long in coming.

"It will not be an easy death," Arnault said quietly, to the group of them gathered in the cottage to welcome Gaspar- the Templars only: Arnault and Torquil, Luc and Father Bertrand, and Brothers Christoph, Flannan, and Gaspar himself, for Abbot Henry and the two Columban brothers were keeping vigil in the abbey church. Flannan was posted by the door, lest eavesdroppers come upon them unbeknownst.

Gaspar closed his eyes and sighed, wearily ma.s.saging the bridge of his nose, a cup of wine unheeded in his other hand.

"When he returned to Scotland, and determined to stay, his capture was inevitable. He knew this. Having so chosen, we must ensure that his death is made to serve a greater purpose." He sighed heavily. "I like it not, though, that he must suffer a traitor's death. Have any of you ever seen a man hanged and drawn and headed?"

"I have," Flannan said bleakly, turning his head slightly toward them.

"That, perhaps, is hardest to bear," Torquil said. "He is no traitor. Wallace never swore allegiance to Edward Longshanks, and no man was truer to his king than he-little though Balliol deserved such loyalty."

"The legality of his allegiance will have little role to play at the English court just now," Luc said. "Coveting your Scottish lands, Edward has spun himself a web of hatred for the Scots-and at its heart is Wallace, to whom he has attached a host of long-nurtured grudges and resentments. Your brave Scot has become too much a symbol of the liberty Edward is determined to eradicate once and for all. By destroying the symbol, the king believes he will also destroy the ideal it represents. In truth, killing Wallace will serve a purpose Edward does not dream."

Torquil glared moodily at the floor. "I accept that his death must be made to serve as sacrifice. But a traitor's death is a hard one. Must it be this way?"

"We like it no more than you do," Arnault said gently, "and I speak from a certain personal interest. But we have been shown the way to restore the power of the Stone, for the benefit of this land and for that Fifth Temple we are commanded to build. It is not for us to question that this is so. Nor are we required to be the instruments whereby the sacrifice is made. It is enough that Wallace himself has willingly accepted his role. And our charge is to ensure that his sacrifice achieves the purpose for which it is intended."

Wordlessly Torquil nodded, dropping his eyes from Arnault's, hitching angrily at his sword belt. Flannan, the only other Scot in the room, had been taking it all in, but now he shook his head.

"Brother Arnault, may I speak freely?" he asked.

"Of course."

"I am still disturbed by this notion of-well, human sacrifice. I am youngest here, in le Cercle, but-"

As he broke off, looking distinctly uncomfortable, Arnault signed for Luc to take his place as door warden, and gestured for Flannan to come and sit beside him.

"Flannan, you have only voiced what all of us have felt, at some time. We do not a.s.sist or condone the judicial murder that will be done to our friend William Wallace, a few days hence. It is his a.s.sent that transforms that murder into an oblation. Consider it a lesser rendition of an old, old play, beginning even before our Lord was offered in the ultimate sacrifice."

"Treacherous ground, my friend," Father Bertrand warned.

"Aye, blasphemy, and worse, in other company," Arnault agreed. "But sometimes there are no clear demarcations between old and new. That is for testaments and even religions. Our human ability to discern the direction of our spiritual evolution is more a continuum, as is the magic we of le Cercle learn to wield in service of that evolution."

He could see Gaspar nodding slightly, at the edge of vision, and he continued.

"According to what I have learned from our Columban brethren, whose knowledge spans the shift from older to newer expressions of faith in these Celtic lands, the particular magic touching on the Stone derives from sources beyond human memory. As abhorrent as we may find the notion of human sacrifice, we should recall that, in its purest sense, it was never practiced lightly. Blood has ever been the most potent of links between the human and the Divine- which makes the ritual shedding of blood awe-ful.

Why else did our Lord redeem us with His blood, and command that the wine be changed into His blood in the Eucharist?

"Wallace's death will mirror that ultimate sacrifice-as above, so below-and will release energies capable of renewing the potency of the Stone of Destiny. But unless those energies are properly harvested and contained-not in a physical sense, but on a spiritual level-they will dissipate like mist. Fortunately, the Stone is a fitting vessel to receive those energies."

"Thus fitting it to be the cornerstone of the New Jerusalem, the Fifth Temple?" Flannan ventured, looking greatly rea.s.sured.

"That is our hope," Arnault said. "That was why I asked Gaspar to send the High Priest's Breastplate. In addition to affording protection during the procedure-especially if there should be sorcerous opposition-we hope the outcome may give us some further confirmation that the Temple's true destiny does, indeed, lie in this troubled land."

Flannan slowly nodded, then glanced at Gaspar, who sighed and set aside his cup.

"That is another urgency upon our work, Arnault, for I fear that France may not harbor us much longer. If this land be not the place ordained for our next work, I begin to sense the cold edges of despair for our very survival. You should be aware of what has been developing in Paris."

"Things have deteriorated further?" Arnault asked.

"I fear they have. A malignant star seems to have risen over Christendom. The situation within the Order grows worse with each pa.s.sing day. The brotherhood has become rife with factions, each considering itself to be the one true heir to the traditions of our predecessors-and each is prepared to accuse the other of heresy and worse crimes. When your Robert de Sautre was there, en route to Rome, he stirred up considerable disquiet."

Arnault grimaced, thinking of Brian de Jay and John de Sautre: both ambitious, both deluded, both dead.

Bertrand and Christoph, both usually resident at the Paris Temple, nodded their agreement.

"Who would have thought to see us so divided among ourselves?" Christoph observed. "And yet, these divisions merely reflect the chaos that is overtaking the world at large. Malice abounds everywhere; trust is a thing of the past. And nowhere is this malady of spirit more in evidence than within the French court."

"All too true," Gaspar continued, picking up the thread. "Philippe le Bel is devoured with suspicions. His counselors know this-and instead of rea.s.suring him, they are playing to his fears to secure their own advancement. The worst amongst them is the lawyer Guillaume de Nogaret. By means best known to himself, he now has the king's ear, and daily he fills it with poisonous calumnies."

"Nogaret is a toad," Arnault said disgustedly. "It was he, I recall, who championed the king's request to join our Order."

"Toad he may be," Gaspar agreed, "but he is a powerful toad. Philippe is totally in his thrall-and has become even more capricious since the death of his queen."

"The queen is dead?" Luc interjected. "Jeanne de Navarre is dead?"

"Aye, some four months ago."

"But, she was only-what-thirty or so?"

"Thirty-four," Gaspar supplied. "The court physicians attribute her death to natural causes, but Philippe has persuaded himself otherwise. He has accused Bishop Guichard of Troyes, a member of the queen's entourage, of poisoning her-even though there is no evidence to support such a charge."

"But-why would he say such a thing?" Arnault asked.

Gaspar shrugged. "Who can fathom the mind of the man? Rumors persist that agents of the crown had a hand in the deaths of both Boniface and Benedict. I am loath to believe that a consecrated monarch could so forget his divine office as to sanction such crimes, but I cannot help wondering whether his recent delusions might be the result of a guilty conscience turning upon itself."

"Or of a toad's venom," Arnault muttered.

"That is, indeed, a possibility," Father Bertrand allowed. "Nogaret's influence at court is considerable, and Philippe's vision is so distorted that he cannot see anything but what Nogaret and his other ministers show him. Thanks to their lies, the king is becoming persuaded that the Templar Order is rife with heresy and sorcery."

As Arnault and the other Scots-based Templars exchanged glances, Gaspar went on.

"I fear it may be only a matter of time before the king is incited to move against us," he said. "The fleet has been advised-those captains who can be trusted-and they are primed to stand ready to evacuate the Order from France, as from Acre. But we cannot risk putting the treasures on board without some guarantee that a safe haven stands ready to receive them."

"It will be ready," Arnault promised. "The cornerstone of the Temple is ready to be set in place, and Wallace's sacrifice will secure the foundation."

Gaspar nodded heavily, again rubbing at his forehead as he shook his head.

"I only wish I could believe that this will be the only sacrifice required," he said heavily. "But I greatly fear that others will follow-not because G.o.d Himself wills it so, but because there are evil powers loose in the world which are always hungry for blood. There are always idolators who are ready to offer holocausts to the evil that resides in their own hearts and minds-for gold, for gain, for power, for riches, for the right to pride themselves on virtue. They delude themselves into thinking they are purifying the world; in fact they are merely blackening their own souls, stoking the fires of h.e.l.l for their own reception."

"Then we must be certain that our own efforts work to reverse this," Luc said quietly. "Wallace will arrive in London very shortly, and we must be ready. If we miss this opportunity, we will not have another.

Wallace will have suffered and died in vain, and the Order will be doomed."

"He's right," Arnault said, shifting his gaze to the rest of them. "We must go tomorrow to where the Stone lies hidden; we dare not cut things too fine. I suggest we travel in two groups, lest we draw too much attention to our presence in the area. I believe our Columban brethren have made the necessary arrangements with Abbot Henry, for supplies and horses," he added, with a glance at Father Bertrand.

The priest nodded. "Everything is in readiness. Abbot Henry would go with us, if he could."

"His prayers will go with us," Arnault said. "We could not ask for more."

That same night, in the fastness of the fortress of Burghead, one who courted far darker forces knelt by a dark pool, again having made the sacrifice to summon his dark patron. This time, the shaman-priest Torgon had accompanied him, and stood behind him with the casket containing the relics of Briochan. As the waters churned and boiled, and she approached, John Comyn glanced over his shoulder at the pagan priest; but Torgon was standing motionless with his eyes closed, a pungent wind lifting strands of his long, stringy gray hair, the open casket held forth in offering.

"Art thou prepared to receive my priest Briochan?" came the soft, seductive whisper of her voice amid the shadows.

"I am," Comyn said steadily.

Blood afire with the promise of new power, he rose and turned toward Torgon, boldly reaching into the ivory casket to take out two of the rune-staves, earlier identified as the appropriate ones for the work to come, remembering how his father had seized the staves before Falkirk, and the power he had called. As he lifted his eyes to those of the pagan priest, he felt himself drawn into their power, caught and held, a willing captive for what had been prepared, this ten-day past.