Above the chimney breast hung the silken banner but lately given over to John Balliol. The Scottish lion seemed almost to take life in the shimmer of firelight and warmth-born drafts. With a certainty borne only of such psychic visitations, Torquil knew without question that the man before the hearth was none other than Alexander III, grandfather of the little Maid of Norway and last reigning monarch of the house of Canmore.

The open and closing of a distant door briefly bracketed the sound of a wintry gale blowing outside the hall, and Torquil could feel icy drafts flitting like ghosts around the outer corners of the room. Instinct bade him closer to the fireside, but he could not seem to move.

A door to his left swung open, admitting a bonneted man wrapped in heavy, sleet-sparkled tweeds. At the king's gesture to approach, the man offered him a scroll of parchment, tightly rolled. The king accepted it, dismissing the man with a wave of thanks, and broke the wax lozenge sealing the scroll.

Torquil found himself drifting closer as the king unfurled it to read the message inside-close enough to see that the two lines of text were written not in the crabbed court hand of Latin or French or even the uncials of Gaelic, but angular characters he somehow knew were runes. The runes were accompanied by a single sigil, carefully executed in a substance the color of dried blood. The device was that of a bull.

The king's features went slack as he gazed at it. The parchment slipped from his lax fingers and burst into flame.

In the same instant, Torquil's frame of vision was once again wrenched askew.

An icy blast swept him off his feet and plunged him into a dark maelstrom, spilling him onto a sleet-scoured stretch of frozen ground, where a howling storm wrenched at hair and garments. Pulling himself up, he recoiled with a gasp to find himself at the very brink of a sheer cliff.

White-capped waves pounded the rocks below, sending sheets of icy rime exploding upward to mingle with snow and hail. Instinct drove him scuttling back from the edge, one arm shielding his eyes from the driving wind as he sought shelter in the lee of a nest of boulders. Only belatedly did he glimpse the distant cl.u.s.ter of torches bobbing toward him like will-o'-the-wisps along the path that hugged the cliff's edge.

Through the fury of the storm, he could just make out four hors.e.m.e.n in the party. The one in front had dismounted and was leading his steed by the bridle rein, holding his guttering torch aloft in a futile attempt to light the way ahead. The rider following immediately behind was lean and dark-haired-the king he had seen in the hall.

In the same heartbeat, something even colder and darker than the storm surged out from the rocks at Torquil's back. Borne skyward on the beat of dark-pinioned wings, it peaked, then plummeted directly toward king and steed. Its downward plunge killed the torches. Out of the darkness, in quick succession, came a frantic scrambling of hooves on stone, a hoa.r.s.e outcry, and then a panicked equine squeal, abruptly cut short.

Alarmed, dismayed, Torquil staggered upright and made for the sound-and recoiled, appalled, at the sight of the king's stricken horse on its knees, the king himself struggling in the grip of a monstrous hag-creature with hair like streaming kelp.

It was clinging to the horse's crupper with bare, leprous thighs, its sinewy arms twined tight around the king's chest in a throttling embrace. As its lambent eyes flared green in the darkness, an agonized scream burst from the king's lips-just before the creature dragged horse and rider over the edge of the cliff, in a surging peal of demonic laughter. Torquil, too, tried to cry out, but the storm itself seemed to seize him by the throat, so that the sound that burst from his lips was little more than a strangled cough.

Even so, it drew Arnault's attention-and even more, he saw the younger man's face go suddenly white and blank as the face of a corpse, just before his knees started to buckle. He caught Torquil under one elbow, hissing for Luc to a.s.sist him, and together they managed to keep the Scottish knight on his feet and begin easing him back from the crowd. The incident drew little notice, for the clearing was reverberating with cheers for the newly crowned king, but the movement of three white mantles was enough to make Jay look their way and glare at them. a.s.sessing the situation at a glance, he curtly signaled them to withdraw.

Taking Torquil's weight between them, half carrying and half dragging their charge, Arnault and Luc together managed to manhandle him into the shelter of the trees without arousing much further notice.

Finding there a dry upcropping of rock, they eased him to a sitting position and urged his head between his knees.

By then, Torquil had started regaining control of his legs, and was taking urgent, gasping breaths, shaking his head as if to clear it. After a few minutes, with Arnault murmuring, "Easy, easy, just give yourself a moment, and keep your head down for a bit," he raised his head experimentally, bleary eyes reflecting bewilderment and a lingering ache behind his eyes.

"What the devil happened?" he muttered hoa.r.s.ely.

Arnault traded swift glances with Luc, who moved to support Torquil from behind. "Suppose you tell me."

A painful frown furrowed Torquil's brow. "I-don't know. Some kind of. vision?"

"Close your eyes and relax for another minute or two," Arnault advised quietly, glancing again at Luc.

"There's no one about just now. They're all still back at the Moot Hill."

Torquil obediently closed his eyes, breathing in and out gustily at Arnault's further direction. Signing for Luc to keep a lookout, Arnault sank down on his hunkers and flexed his right hand, readying himself to draw on his inner faculties. Focusing on the stillness that formed at the center of his being, he then lightly closed his hand around Torquil's nearest wrist.

"Take another deep breath-now another. Are things getting clearer now?" he asked, nodding at Torquil's nod. "That's good. Now tell us about this vision of yours. Keep your eyes closed."

Haltingly at first, then with greater fluency, Torquil described what he had seen. It soon became clear to both his listeners that the experience had shaken the younger man far worse than any of the physical dangers he had ever faced in battle. His face had regained its normal color by the time he finished his narrative, but he still looked more than a little unnerved.

Glancing over his head at Luc, who was well aware of his previous misgivings regarding the extinction of the Canmore royal line, Arnault wondered whether Torquil understood the implication of what he had told them-that Alexander Canmore had met his "accidental" death by means of sorcery.

"May I-open my eyes now?" Torquil asked, when Arnault said nothing immediately.

"Of course." Arnault released Torquil's wrist and eased down on the rock beside him, considering the more immediate implications for Torquil himself. Both he and Luc had been antic.i.p.ating and hoping that the younger man would prove to have talents such as they themselves wielded on behalf of le Cercle and the greater Temple, but the time and place of manifestation were hardly what either would have wished-and far overshadowed by the import of what the younger knight apparently had seen.

"You may have provided us with very valuable information," he said quietly, aware that they must return to their duties before they aroused unwelcome interest in what, for now, could probably be explained as a momentary lightheadedness on Torquil's part, perhaps brought on by too little sleep and food. "But this is not a good time to discuss it-and do not mention it to Jay or any of the others, even if they should ask."

"But-I would never-"

"I'm sure you wouldn't, son," Luc cut in quietly. "You neglected to break your fast sufficiently this morning, and watching your Scottish king crowned was a very emotional moment," he went on, only nodding deliberately as Torquil looked at him askance. "You started to feel faint, and we took you aside until you could recover, so you wouldn't disgrace the Order by keeling over. That's all you need to say."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't tell anyone else what I really saw," Torquil muttered, then pulled a sour grimace. "But Jay will certainly make as much of this as he can. He's constantly looking for ways to belittle me, make me look the fool."

"Humilit, my young friend," Arnault said with a faint smile, clapping him on the shoulder and urging him to his feet. "We'll discuss this at a more appropriate time and place. You and I have skirted around such subjects before, but I think perhaps you're ready for some solid answers."

"I need some solid answers," Torquil muttered. "There's more I need to tell you: something about the Stone, that Brother Mungo told me last night, and something I saw at Ma.s.s earlier-"

"Later," Arnault warned, with a speaking glance at Luc. "We haven't time right now. Your new king will have started receiving the homage of his magnates-and the ever diligent Master of Scotland has ordered me to take note of all those present who swear fealty."

And up on the hill, awaiting his turn to pledge his fealty, the Lord of Badenoch surrept.i.tiously retrieved what he had secreted in his sleeve and, as he briefly crouched-ostensibly to free the hem of his robe from one roweled spur-at the same time deposited a whitish, coin-sized object amid a scattering of manure.

This he trod purposefully under the heel of one steel-shod boot as he rose, befouling and obliterating what had been offered as a visible manifestation of purity and profound faith, before moving forward to offer his sword to the new king.

Chapter Eleven.

THE INAUGURATION OF THE NEW KING OF SCOTS WAS TO BE followed by a celebratory feast, lasting well into the night. Given the expected consumption of wine, the Knights Templar were requested to maintain a quiet but visible presence. Accordingly, it was not until much later that evening that Arnault and Luc could withdraw to confer privately regarding the day's developments.

By then, the implications of those developments had been rendered even more disturbing by additional information that Torquil pa.s.sed on to Arnault later in the afternoon, while ostensibly reporting a minor breach of the peace. For, though obliged to be both brief and somewhat cryptic, Torquil had contrived not only to summarize his previous night's conversation with Brother Mungo regarding fears about the Stone, but also to convey some of his shock at what he thought he had seen the Black Comyn do.

This startling new information, coupled with the earlier intimations of Torquil's vision, forced Arnault to reexamine his a.s.sumptions on several levels, and made it imperative that he seek out Luc's counsel.

Though unable to arrange a meeting until later that night, and only able to mention, in pa.s.sing, that Torquil had supplied several additional items of information having possible bearing on recent developments, he knew that Luc took his meaning.

Accordingly, while the magnates of Scotland were toasting the health of their new king-and were unlikely to notice that the number of Templars in and about the hall had been reduced by two-first Luc and then Arnault slipped out of the dining hall and made their way across the dark cloister yard to the now-silent precincts of the abbey church.

The opening creak of the door seemed preternaturally loud as Arnault entered, but the church was deserted, as he had hoped. Compline was long past, and the monks had retired to their beds, unlikely to return until time for the office of Matins, still several hours away. The glow of the Presence lamp before the high altar was seconded by the many votive candles that had been set burning throughout the church in honor of the day.

With this light to guide him, Arnault skirted quietly along the north aisle and into the side chapel of the north transept, where the Stone had been restored to its accustomed place. At once Luc stepped into the light of its attendant vigil lamps, beckoning Arnault to join him.

"Now, what's all this about Torquil?" Luc asked, as they took position against a far wall, where they would see anyone entering the church long before being seen themselves. They spoke in whispers, ever mindful lest someone overhear.

"Our young friend has given me two more rather intriguing pieces of our growing puzzle," Arnault replied.

"In light of what he claims to have seen earlier this afternoon, we have a number of new and startling permutations possibly pertinent to what has been happening."

Briefly he reviewed Torquil's observations regarding the Stone, and also the senior Comyn's startling action. Luc listened in growing incredulity, his unfocused gaze fixed on the squat, dark silhouette of Scotland's palladium-now, it appeared, perhaps but an empty sh.e.l.l.

"Let's put aside the question of Comyn, for the moment," Luc said, when Arnault finally wound down. "If he does intend some improper use of a consecrated Host, I see no immediate connection to anything else presently concerning us-and he might simply have wanted it as a protective talisman. Poor theology, but it could be put to far worse use."

"That's true enough," Arnault agreed.

"As for the Stone possibly having lost its potency-that strikes me as far less significant, in the immediate sense, than the implication of what Torquil says he saw in his vision-mainly, because that tends to corroborate what you saw, when the Maid of Norway died."

Arnault only nodded. "Incidentally, how do you feel about the vision itself?" Luc asked. "Do you think he has true sight?"

"For its content, I very much wish I could say no," Arnault returned. "And of course, what it means may be another story entirely. But your own instincts were squarely on the mark when you spotted his initial potential-and he did tell us that his father has the Second Sight. Since you pa.s.sed him into my supervision, he's only continued to advance- as the last day's developments clearly show. It may be that coming back to Scotland has somehow triggered his next additional growth. In fact, it strikes me that his awakening, at this time, might well be bound up with what's happening here in Scotland."

"I wouldn't argue that," Luc replied. "What concerns me is that his vision regarding Alexander's "~accident' links rather alarmingly with your own fears regarding the death of Alexander's granddaughter.

That raises the possibility that not one but two Canmore sovereigns somehow were murdered by means of sorcerous intervention."

"I've been doing my best to avoid that notion," Arnault said uneasily. "The extinction of the Canmore line has had dire enough consequences, even attributing it to mere fate."

"I agree," Luc said. "But if that extinction was deliberate, rather than the result of random accident-and by the means that you and Torquil suggest-then it bespeaks the involvement of some human agency: someone who would benefit from it and also had the wherewithal to enlist demonic a.s.sistance. We should also remember," he added chillingly, "that demons do not lend their aid without a price-and moreover, are not normally inclined to intervene in the affairs of humans without ample incentive."

Arnault allowed himself a shiver-no difficult thing in the cold church.

"That's hardly comforting. What you're posing is the existence, presumably somewhere here in Scotland, of a black magician-or maybe several of them-with sufficient power and influence to bring about the end of the Canmore royal line." He glanced at Luc, suddenly struck with a notion even more chilling than the night. "You don't suppose this could link with what happened back at Balantrodoch, do you?"

Luc c.o.c.ked his head. "You mean, the attack on Brother Colman's scriptorium?"

"And the disappearance of those pagan grave goods," Arnault replied. "You yourself said that the rune-staves had the feel of dark power."

"Mere coincidence?" Luc said doubtfully.

"I little believe in coincidence," Arnault replied. "Not in the matters that we are appointed to deal with-not when considering whether someone perhaps has used dark powers to topple a dynasty. And now I can't help wondering whether the arrogant and grasping Brother Brian de Jay might somehow be connected with what's going on."

"Surely not," Luc said flatly. "His ambitions lie within the Order; he'd have no reason for meddling in the Scottish succession, even if he had the ability. And as for what you're suggesting-well, I should never have credited him with the self-discipline needed to master even gray magical arts, much less black ones."

"Maybe we've greatly underestimated him," Arnault said. "He was nearby when the Maid died, and he certainly was involved in the disappearance of the missing grave goods- whether he actually appropriated them or merely dumped them in a lake as he claims. There's also no doubt that he was nearby when Brother Colman's ma.n.u.scripts were attacked."

"He was rather in a hurry to see us away from there," Luc conceded.

"Yes, he was," Arnault went on. "And if you're looking for a motive, you needn't look outside the Order.

You yourself said that he's ambitious. In former times, he could have expected to be posted off to the Holy Land to fight Saracens, and perhaps covered himself in glory and gained promotions, if he survived it-but the Order has lost its mission in the Holy Land. Nonetheless, he's managed to get himself named Master of Scotland-helped along, I have no doubt, by the way he's ingratiated himself with the English court-"

"He is English," Luc pointed out. "And it was the Master of England who received him, as I recall."

"Yes-well, that part of his ascendance could be merely political," Arnault conceded. "G.o.d knows, secular political leverage is not unknown within the Order.

"But what if Jay has somehow gotten himself involved in esoteric matters? We of le Cercle are not the only ones to have stumbled onto such things in the Holy Land-and even though he hasn't been there, others have-maybe down in the London Temple. This is all conjectural, of course, but- well, given the circ.u.mstances surrounding the disappearance of those relics of Briochan-not to mention the scriptorium incident-I don't think I much like the direction my thoughts are taking-whether or not Jay is directly in volved."

Luc slowly nodded.

"I, too, find myself coming back to those relics. We still don't know what really became of them. Nor can we a.s.sume that they were necessarily those of Briochan. But we can surmise, from what happened that last night at Balantrodoch, that something connected with Briochan has certainly been stirred up.

"But, why?" He rubbed at his beard as he stared into one of the votive candles on the altar, thinking out loud. "Briochan was an adversary of Saint Columba, resisting the replacement of ancient Pictish religious forms with those of Celtic Christianity. By overcoming Briochan, Columba succeeded in securing the primacy of Christianity in Scotland and establishing a Celtic Christian monarchy, supplanting the older Pictish customs."

As Arnault nodded, following his narrative, Luc went on.

"If we postulate that the deaths of Alexander III and his granddaughter were brought about deliberately-and both Torquil's vision and your own impressions at the Maid's death suggest such a possibility-then it follows that someone-or something-may be at work to undo what Columba accomplished. Eradicating the Canmore line would certainly be a step in that direction. And given the coincidental discovery of Briochan's relics-and then, their entirely too fortuitous disappearance-we perhaps must consider whether there is some connection. Some attempt, perhaps, to revive Briochan's cult, to reawaken him and use his power to further present dynastic aims."

"Here's a possible connection," Arnault said thoughtfully, "though I can't say I like it better than any of the others. It occurs to me to wonder whether any of this has an impact on the greater mission of the Temple-to rebuild the Fifth Temple here in Scotland."

"Now, there's a chilling thought," Luc said. "We know, or at least believe, that the Stone on which the Canmores were inaugurated is also linked with the restoration of the Temple." He cast his gaze over the Stone again. "Which brings us back to Torquil's claim-or rather, Brother Mungo's- that the Stone is ailing; that it has lost or is losing its power-power that both the Temple and the sovereigns of Scotland need badly, in order to accomplish their respective missions."

A taut silence descended between the two of them, until Arnault said, "If the Stone has become deficient in some way-whether or not there has been interference in the Scottish succession-we have an entirely different and more serious problem, as from today. Because even though John Balliol was duly enthroned upon the Stone, that means little without its empowerment."

Luc slowly nodded. "I see where this is leading. The Stone has been mystically linked with the Scottish monarchy since the time of Columba himself-the vessel by which divine grace has been transmitted to the Canmore kings. That vessel is like a well, fed by the fount of grace which is the Arch-Sovereign-except that, in this case, the well has been-clogged, or damaged, so that it cannot fill- or what fills it cannot be contained."

"An apt image," Arnault agreed. "And whichever is the case, we must find out how to undo it, to unclog the well or repair it, else John Balliol wears an empty crown." He paused a beat. "I think it's time I had a closer look at our so-called Stone of Destiny."

"You'll want wards set, then, and someone to keep watch," Luc said-and added wryly, "Since Brian de Jay became Master of Balantrodoch, I find I've become something of an expert at this sort of thing."

"Which may, in itself, say something," Arnault replied, indicating his acceptance of the offer with a gesture to proceed.

Luc withdrew to the arch that joined the chapel to the north transept, standing with his back against the wall, and turned his gaze out to the darkened nave. Leaving him to set in place the needed protections, Arnault moved before the Stone itself, kneeling down on its western side and laying both hands on the indented top surface. With a murmured prayer of invocation, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, pausing to collect himself.

Like a flock of scattered birds, his thoughts and fears came lightly to rest and the outer world receded, fading into the profound hush that marked the boundary between waking and trance. Turning inward in spirit, he sought the shimmering jewel that lay at the center of his being, pulsing with the heartbeat of the cosmos, then cast his senses outward into the world of spirit.

Lifting his gaze, then, to the altar beyond the Stone, lit by votive candles and luminous with a brightness of spiritual virtue, by reason of the countless Ma.s.ses celebrated upon it, he could sense the holiness of Presence imbuing altar and surrounds with sheer holiness. But when he turned his gaze downward to what lay beneath his hands, the dark Stone lay inert and apparently lifeless.

He spread his fingers and sought deeper, thinking that surely he must be mistaken; but it was as if he knelt at the brink of a vast, empty hole into nothingness. Only far into infinity could he sense the faintest glimmer to suggest that what usually was resident within the Stone might yet return to it.

Troubled, he turned his focus inward, seeking clarification, framing a call to those angelic masters whose counsel he sought in times of need. After a moment, a hint of vision came-but only the image of a rich cup overturned atop a small, round table of marble the color of the Stone, bloodred wine spilling across the polished surface. The table was set beneath an airy pavilion whose canopy was like a silver cloud raised up on twelve pillars of alabaster, these forming a circle of brightness around a standing column of pure white light. Three marble steps led the way up onto the floor of the pavilion.

Not presuming to mount those steps, Arnault bowed himself in spirit and lifted open hands in a gesture of appeal. The air grew still brighter around him, as though a number of lamps had been uncovered, and Arnault dared to frame a wordless plea for insight.

A light gust of wind seemed to stir the pure air of the hallow, prompting him to lift his gaze. The pavilion itself had vanished, its pillars now become twelve shining, winged beings armored in light, each with the scarlet cross of the Order burning on its breast. In their midst stood yet another such being, though vested after the manner of a Grand Master of the Order, with wings and beard and eyes all of flame.

Before Arnault could bend again in wordless, awed salute, the being came to clasp his hands between its own-acknowledgment of homage due, but also the greeting of a brother warrior of the Light-and bent to seal the exchange with a fraternal kiss of peace.

The holy and transcendent rapture of that angelic kiss all but made Arnault swoon, igniting remembrance of the vision granted him in the tower at Cyprus. Though newly rea.s.sured that the Stone beneath his hands was meant to be the cornerstone of a Fifth Temple, there was that about the Stone itself that yet seemed-wrong. As, in appeal, he turned physical vision to the altar beyond the Stone, he focused his present need in a scarcely whispered prayer, his inner sight still ensnared by the fiery eyes of the angel, hands still clasped in prayer between those mighty hands.

"Show me." he breathed, with all the fervor he could summon. "Give me a sign."

For an eternal instant the angel's eyes seemed to draw him into their fire. Then he felt the floor seem to melt away from under him, leaving him briefly weightless before he began a precipitant downward plunge.

Strong winds rushed past him, like a tempest trapped in a tunnel. Then, all at once, he grounded with a bone-setting jolt, still on his knees.

Recovering himself with an effort, he tried to force his eyes to focus. He was kneeling once more in the chapel at Scone Abbey, still confronting the Stone of Destiny, but now he was seeing everything around him with new eyes. The objects near at hand were visible not as fixed and solid substance, but as fluid patterns of energy. The altar before him was a tablet of shifting rainbows; the lamps that burned before it were silhouettes of variegated fire. But under his hands, the Stone of Destiny lay dark and lifeless as a tomb slab, its cold sucking the warmth from his hands. Then a wash of red seemed to draw across his vision like a curtain.

He gasped-and blinked-and all the images blurred and whirled, dissolving away. Once again he felt like he was falling, his fingers even grabbing at the Stone to steady himself.