"Briochan, my beloved, be present before your G.o.ddessss," said the voice behind him.

In answer to that command, tendrils of smoke began to rise from the casket, gradually weaving a head crowned with laurel leaves, tonsured like Torgon. but it was not Torgon. As the face solidified, overlaying Torgon's, Comyn was aware of a shift-that it was that other who now held him steady for what had been agreed. And as that other bade him take that next step, from which there was no turning back, Comyn brought the two distal ends of the rune-staves together, like setting flame to tinder.

Green fire flared in a blinding light, power crackling down Comyn's arms to envelop him in a mantle of otherness that overlaid his own consciousness. In that instant, he felt his perceptions stir, shift; and then Torgon was taking his arm, leading him blindly up the stairs to the surface, to the topmost tower of Burghead, bidding him turn his face toward the south.

"Be his voice, Briochan," Torgon murmured, touching his hand in bidding him to raise the staves. "Seek out and find our enemies. Show him where they lie!"

Aware of that other, with him and in him, Comyn cast his senses outward, along the sight lines of the rune-staves in his hand. Partnered with Briochan, he discovered that sensory impressions were strangely enhanced. Sight, hearing, taste, touch, and smell had all been sharpened to an uncanny degree of acuity.

The touch of his clothes against his skin, the taste of salt sweat on his lips, the sound of men quietly talking in the yard below-all these things came to him with a sharpness he had never experienced before.

In mounting excitement, he spread his sensibilities wider, like a net, reaching out beyond the confines of the fortress to the south.

As his field of perception broadened, his nostrils flared wide at the scent of something that both drew and repelled him. Its sweetness was that of church incense, causing the dark aspect within him to snarl and spit in revulsion. But it was also the trace he was seeking: the signature of a hostile sanct.i.ty that would lead him to where the Stone of Columba lay hidden.

He closed his eyes and mind to all other sensations in order to focus on that one impression. The scent drew him southward. Like a wolf on the hunt, he followed it over wood and water, mountain and glen.

Skirting the hateful beacon that was the cathedral at Dunkeld, he reached the thread of a river and followed until he came abruptly before a cavern mouth that reeked of the fragrance of holiness.

Stomach-turning in its potency, the fragrance told him that he had found what he was seeking, though it lay behind a veil that must be torn. Knowing he had found it, his darkling aspect rejoiced at the prospect of attacking and destroying the altar stone of his patron's saintly adversary.

With the site indelibly imprinted in his mind, Comyn pulled back within himself, feeling that other ent.i.ty fall away.

"I know where the Stone is hidden," he said to Torgon, "but it is well protected. I sensed no physical protectors, but they will come-and they will be the weak point. When they gather in the presence of the Stone, their thoughts will be on what they hope to accomplish-and that will also be their time of greatest weakness. It is then that we shall strike in earnest. We must make ready."

The next day dawned fair. Immediately after the conventual Ma.s.s of the abbey, Torquil set out for the cave where the Stone lay hidden, with Brothers Christoph and Flannan, Father Bertrand, and the two Columbans. Meeting afterward in Abbot Henry's chamber, Arnault and Luc listened as Gaspar told them of his dreams in the early hours of the morning.

"It could be that all our talk of this work last night set my mind to fearing," he said, as he rubbed at his forehead.

Luc shook his head. "No, there's trouble in the air-and I think your headache confirms that you were catching glimpses of it. When our Columban brethren joined us in the spring, they said they'd been sensing something brewing all through the winter. We were aware of it at Balantrodoch, too. We just can't seem to work out where it's coming from."

"Could there be English patrols in the area?" Gaspar asked.

"Possible, but not likely," Arnault said. "Besides, it isn't conventional soldiery I fear. I've told you before about my suspicions regarding the Comyns."

"I thought the old Comyn had died," Gaspar said.

"He did," Luc said, "but his son is cut from the same cloth. Torquil saw both of them there, that night that Jay and de Sautre gave the casket to them-and he told you about what came after him, after they'd spotted him. Thank G.o.d for His grace-and for that talisman Torquil was carrying!"

"Do you think this Red Comyn has inherited his father's full powers?" Gaspar asked.

Arnault shrugged. "Inherited or a.s.sumed, I couldn't say-but we cannot afford to rule out that possibility.

From the evidence thus far, I fear the worst. We've learned that the late Comyn put a great deal of money and work into restoring an old Pictish fortress up on the north coast, deep in the heart of Badenoch country-and when we've tried to probe in that direction, there's a psychic haze, almost a fog, that none of us have been able to penetrate. Given the delicacy of our waiting game, we haven't dared to go up there in person."

"You think it's sorcery obscuring the fort?"

"Probably. But whether or not this Comyn is dabbling in such things, his focus is on political gain. As much as he hates the English, he doesn't want to see anyone but himself become the next king of Scotland-even if it's only as a va.s.sal of Edward. If he has any inkling what we're up to- whether or not he's in league with his father's old allies-he'll certainly try to interfere, to whatever extent he's able."

The second party left Scone late in the afternoon-Arnault, Gaspar, and Luc-armed with Abbot Henry's blessing. Other travelers on the road to Dunkeld were few, and those the party did encounter hurried on about their business, sparing curious glances for three Templars obviously on some portentous errand; but they had decided that they needed the symbolic comfort afforded by the habits of their Order more than the anonymity that would have accompanied disguise.

The settling dusk was heavy and still, warm even for August. When they stopped to rest the horses, shortly before the place they intended to leave the main road, the only thing moving anywhere was a large black bird catching the air currents high above them, wheeling in leisurely spiral patterns that seemed to spell ill omen.

"I don't think I like the look of that bird," Gaspar remarked to Luc, as he adjusted his horses's girth.

"I don't either," Luc replied, "but it's out of bow-shot range, even if we'd thought to bring a bow."

Arnault overheard them, and cast an anxious glance skyward as he mounted again.

"Never mind," he told them. "We'll soon be among the trees of Birnam Wood."

The leafy precincts of the forest seemed welcoming at first. But as the three pressed on, the patches of shadow amid the trees began to take on a sinister quality. For a while, Arnault wondered if it was just a trick of his imagination- until he noticed that Luc and Gaspar were also casting uneasy glances over shoulders.

"Something isn't right here," Gaspar muttered under his breath. "Whatever it is, it has no liking for anyone who travels under the sign of the Cross."

Darkness was approaching as they threaded their way along the series of streambeds that led toward the Stone's hiding place, Arnault in the lead. They forded the stream at a shallow point and struck out westward along the north bank. The river was running low, leaving margins of sand and rocks on either hand. It looked different from what Arnault remembered, and he was relieved when they came within sight of the ravine leading to the cavern where, for the past seven years, the Stone of Destiny had lain hidden.

The others had already established a picket for the horses at the mouth of the ravine. Leaving the horses for Torquil and the others to deal with, Arnault took Gaspar and Luc up to the cave to visit the Stone.

Christoph was sitting just inside the entrance of the outer chamber, his sword thrust into the ground before him, and rose to sketch a sign in the air before the opening, before stepping back to admit them.

Light spilled from the narrow doorway that led to the inner chamber, and Arnault gestured for Gaspar and Luc to precede him.

Inside, the chamber of the Stone had been transformed into a worthy shrine to contain it. Candles were set at the four quarters, with the real Presence of the Sacrament established in the east by a pyx and a votive light burning in a cup of red gla.s.s. A faint hint of incense hung on the air-a breath of frankincense mixed with something clean and slightly citric.

The Stone itself lay in the center of the s.p.a.ce, now set upon a small rug of the sort Arnault had seen used for prayer in the Holy Land. Fingon and Ninian were kneeling behind it, each with a hand upon it, and looked up as the three newcomers entered, but Gaspar waved them back to what they had been doing.

As the Columban brethren returned to their labors, murmuring between them in the Gaelic tongue, Gaspar studied the Stone from afar, finally turning to Arnault.

"I hadn't thought to ask before, but-a.s.suming this sacrifice has the desired effect, do you know now who Wallace's successor is to be?"

"Aye, Robert Bruce."

Gaspar lifted his eyebrow in surprise. "The same whose grandfather challenged Balliol for the crown?"

"The very same," Arnault replied. "Little did we guess then that their mutual animosity prefigured a battle between the forces of darkness and light. But Bruce is definitely our man."

"And Wallace-you're sure he is the Uncrowned King?"

"Alas for him-I am," Arnault replied.

Leaving the two Columban brothers to continue their deliberations, the three emerged from the cavern.

Before the entrance, the others had traced a sweeping line in the sand delineating a crescent-shaped area of protection, studded with the swords of all the other knights. Led by Father Bertrand, they were erecting a warding wall of prayer along the boundary so formed. The Columbans joined them after a while, weaving moonlight into the protection as the late sun set and the moon rose, all but full.

As they settled, then, around a small fire to partake of an evening meal of travel rations, Arnault withdrew to a sheltered spot far to the right of the protective crescent, where he could sit with his back against a tree. After sticking his own sword into the ground like a protective talisman, he drew up his hood, under the ensign of the cross of his Order, and took out the keekstane from his belt pouch, as he had each night since learning of Wallace's capture.

Holding the opening of the stone before his gaze, he let a series of slow, deep breaths serve to center his thoughts as his spirit slipped across the threshold of awareness into trance, and breathed a prayer learned amid the kindred of Saint Columba.

"The Son of the King of Life be my strong shield behind me, to give me eyes to see all my quest."

A moment's shift in perspective sufficed to anchor his physical aspect to the ground beneath him. Using the hole in the stone as a window to another dimension, fixing his focus on a bright point of moonlight glinting from the cross-hilt of his sword, he sent his spirit from his physical body and set off in search of Wallace.

That other's soul-signature, imprinted in blood on the stone in his hand, drew him toward its source like steel drawn to a magnet. The intervening distances melted away as Arnault sped southward across moor and mountain and meadow in his soul-flight, no longer seeing with merely mortal eyes. Towns and villages whisked past him, blurs in the deepening twilight, until finally the silver serpentine of the Thames led him to the turrets of the Tower of London.

Walls and ramparts of mere stone posed no barrier to one seeking access in spirit-form. The presence he sought grew ever stronger as Arnault plunged downward through the many levels of the citadel until he reached a cramped cell, deep in the bowels of the Tower complex. Shackled by heavy chains to an iron staple set in the wall, the rebel Scots leader lay on a heap of moldy straw in one corner of the chamber.

He was filthy and battered, his face scarcely recognizable beneath a mask of grime and bruises, but to Arnault, his very presence blazed forth like a beacon shining in the midst of darkness.

There was an English gaoler attending to Wallace's chains. The man stooped to make sure the locks were secure at wrists and ankles, then stood back and gave the prisoner a spiteful kick in the side.

"That's for all the schoolboys you burned alive!" he said vehemently.

Wallace contained a grimace as he turned his face toward his tormentor. "Is that what's charged against me?"

"Aye, and more than that," came the sneering retort. "You'd best make your peace with the devil tonight, because tomorrow you go to Westminster Hall, to answer for your crimes."

He spat on Wallace and shuffled out, clanging the door fast behind him. Left alone, Wallace settled back on the straw and closed his eyes in resignation-but not before Arnault had glimpsed the grim turmoil in his soul.

Moving closer in spirit, he willed the other to sense his presence as a touch of hand to hand, as he had done at that last meeting, not a month before. At once Wallace's eyes flew open, the initial surge of his doubt and despair like the blast of a hurricane; but Arnault held steady and kept his focus set on pressing through it until that instant when Wallace realized that it was he.

Grateful recognition brought a flood of renewed hope and relief as the bond between them tightened, like a handclasp between friends who know they are soon to be parted. Eschewing words, Arnault projected his promise and a.s.surance that Wallace would not be alone in that final hour-that he and others were prepared to play their parts in renewing the power of the Stone. As he did so, an image came to him of a great Temple spanning heaven and earth, whose cornerstone was the Stone of Destiny.

Therein was enthroned the holy Lamb of G.o.d, Whose resplendence filled the Temple with a supernal Light that spilled from its manifold windows in a dazzling tide. Enfolded by that tide, his soul cradled in its healing balm, Wallace surrendered gratefully to the joy of that vision and was content to set aside his fears, at last giving body and mind to the exhausted release of blessed sleep.

Less contented, Arnault withdrew to his own body, drained and wearied from his long spiritual journey, articulating a final prayer for Wallace.

Thou King of the blood of truth, forget not Thy servant in Thy dwelling place, do not omit him from Thy treasure-house.

When he shortly roused from trance, he felt light-headed and almost sick. Shivering despite the balmy summer night, he wrapped his mantle more tightly around him before putting away the keekstane and going to rejoin his companions, all too aware that food would only replenish his body, could do nothing for the fact that he was sick at heart.

"At least the wait will not be long, for us or for him," he said quietly, as Torquil offered him a chunk of bread and Luc unstoppered a wineskin. "Tomorrow they bring him to trial. The verdict is of little doubt-or the sentence."

Chapter Thirty-three.

THEY POSTED WATCHES FOR THE NIGHT: TWO KNIGHTS ALways on guard before the outer entrance of the cave while the others rolled up in their blankets in the outer chamber, to take what rest they could. Arnault withdrew to sleep in the Presence of the Sacrament, before the Stone, laying the packet of the High Priest's Breastplate upon the Stone to serve as a further protection and shield. Father Bertrand and the two Columbans kept a rotating vigil, maintaining a bulwark of prayer around the Stone.

Even within the protection of Sacrament and Stone, Arnault found it difficult to sleep. Food had dispelled the worst of the chill residual from his scrying exercise, but when at last he finally dozed off, his slumber was haunted by shadows and whispers. He drifted uneasily in and out of a series of formless dreams until he was abruptly roused by a shrill whinny from one of the horses tethered out beyond the cavern.

He came instantly awake, instinctively reaching for his sword as he sat up. Ninian had been praying, the other two clerics were rousing. Gaspar had been lying down across the doorway from the outer chamber, but was already on his feet, sword in hand. With an emphatic staying gesture toward Arnault and the three clerics, he disappeared into the outer chamber.

Bertrand and Fingon came to kneel on either side of the Stone, their hands upon it; Brother Ninian kept his place before the Sacrament, laying his hands upon the pyx as his head bowed in more fervent invocation. Unsheathing his sword, Arnault came as far as the doorway to the outer chamber and rammed the weapon into the sand. Beyond, Gaspar had taken up a defensive stance in the opening to the outside, flanked by Luc and Flannan. Torquil and Christoph were not to be seen.

"Where are the others?" Gaspar said to Luc.

"Gone to check the horses."

"Could it just be a wild animal of some kind?" Flannan asked.

Luc shook his head. "I don't think so. There's something very wrong about the feel of-"

Before he could complete his sentence, the air beyond them lit up with a sizzling crackle of energy.

On their way down to the horses, Torquil and Christoph pulled up short at the warning tingle of pure evil very near, swords instinctively lifting in warding. For a split instant, Torquil thought he glimpsed the ghostly flicker of a misshapen human form skulking against the trees far ahead. Around them, other flash points flared in the darkness, strung out like fireflies along the ward-line of their personal protection. A stink like burning seaweed briefly wafted past them, acrid enough to halt them, choking, in their tracks.

The horses went wild. The picket line snapped and they scattered like sheep, plunging off into the surrounding trees. A few stampeded past Torquil and Christoph, and a host of shadows broke from the surrounding trees in swooping pursuit. Farther off, a horse screamed.

It was no time for heroics. As one, Torquil and Christoph bolted for the safety of the cave mouth. As they fled, something caught viciously at Christoph's arm, but he twisted away with a cry, opening a shallow gash along the wrist, and pelted after Torquil until they gained the safety of the guardian boundary. There they added their swords to the three already holding the protective line, joining hands then in a human bulwark to reinforce the line just behind its boundary.

Their pursuers were hard behind them-and vaguely visible now, but only in side vision: six or seven of them, vaguely humanoid, but twisted and deformed, with grasping talons that raked the air in mortal threat, and eyes glowing an eerie green at the level of a tall man's head. Hydra hair streamed from their misshapen heads like trailers of decaying moss, and their gnarled, angular bodies were rough and gray as weathered rocks, the gaping mouths lined with a double row of razor-sharp fangs.

In a concerted rush, they flung themselves at the defense barrier, the force of their impact reverberating in showers of silvery sparks, but the barrier held. As a second onslaught again jarred the barrier, Father Bertrand came from within with an armful of unlit torches. He thrust one into the watch-fire, crying, "Per ignem Dominum Nostrum Jesum Christum Filium Deum, te consecro!"

As the fire flared, he pa.s.sed the torch to Gaspar, who brandished it before the barrier.

"By the power of the Most High, I abjure you to depart, or perish in these flames which the Almighty has sanctified!"

The wraiths fell back, hissing, and Bertrand continued lighting torches, pa.s.sing them to the others, who struck them in the ground between the swords to fortify the line.

The wraiths recoiled before them, then broke and fled, disappearing into the shadows of the wood with piercing yowls of rage and frustration. Behind the barrier, hearts still pounding, the Templar party drew cautious breaths of relief, trying to peer beyond the wall of fire. Blood was dripping from Christoph's injury, and he let Bertrand ease him to a sitting position as Gaspar summoned the Columbans. They came at once, tsking over the wound.

"What manner of fiends were these?" Christoph gasped, as Abbot Fingon bathed the hurt with holy water, murmuring in Gaelic. The wound smoked as the water made contact, eliciting an indrawn hiss of obvious discomfort; but it melted away under the cleansing stream, and Christoph flexed the arm gratefully.

Torquil watched, waiting until Fingon had signed a cross over the site of the former injury, then gave the other Templar a wan attempt at a smile.

"From blessedly limited prior contact with such things, I would have to guess that this confirms that the Red Comyn has, indeed, learned to use the relics of Briochan, Saint Columba's ancient adversary."

"Do you think he's physically present in the vicinity?" Gaspar asked.

Torquil shook his head. "I have no idea how close he has to be-and I don't think I particularly want to go out there to find out. I think we and the Stone are best served if we make our stand here. The cave itself will offer some protection to the Stone-and this is the only way in."

He swept an arm before their bulwark guarding the cave mouth, and Gaspar nodded.

"If he's fathomed our intention regarding the Stone, I expect he'll attack again."

"I would think it almost certain that he found the Stone because of the very protections we've erected around it," Torquil replied. "And if the Comyns were responsible for eradicating the Canmore kings, they'd not want the Stone to be reempowered, since that was the foundation of Canmore power. That means this is only the beginning."

They set new torches beside the ones still burning between the swords, ready to be relit at the first sign of renewed attack. Arnault came out briefly to inspect the line of their defense, but he knew he must husband his strength for the defense of the Stone itself-and for that more awe-ful work of the morrow, when he must serve as channel to reempower the Stone. Peering out beyond the boundary line, he could catch occasional furtive hints of movement darting through the inky blackness under the trees. Every now and then, something would brush against the edges of their mystical rampart, touching off a brief crackle of hostile sparks.

He retreated to the Stone's sanctuary at the first signs of the second attack, just after midnight. The barrier withstood the a.s.sault, but the fabric of its defenses was left weakened by the strain. Restoring the mystical barrier to full strength was costly in terms of vital energy.

"If we can hold until dawn," Gaspar said grimly, "the power of the attacks should diminish. Fortunately, it is an axiom of the Unseen, that the powers of darkness gain strength during the hours of darkness.