Guardian of the Gate Page 24
I almost weep with relief as he passes the ladder to the loft, but I continue to hold myself still, keeping my breath shallow and silent until I hear him reach the back of the barn. The sounds of him mounting his horse are muffled, coming from outside, but the rattle of the animal’s hooves are unmistakable as they race away from the barn. I wait a couple of minutes in the silence left by his departure, trying to calm my galloping heart.
“Il est parti, mademoiselle. Vous pouvez descendre maintenant,” the boy calls from below, telling me it is safe to come down.
I take one last look around the barn, my paranoia getting the better of me, before I manage to drop the dagger back in my knapsack and coax myself down the ladder. When I drop to the ground, the boy is waiting for me. I turn and embrace him. His shocked body is small and stiff in my arms.
“Merci, petit homme.” I pull back to look at him, hoping my French is passable enough that I might at least know which direction the Guard was headed. “Que voie lui avez-vous envoyé?”
The boy turns to look at the open front door of the barn. “À travers le champ. Loin de la ville.” Across the field. Away from town.
The town with the church.
Bending down, I look into the boy’s deep brown eyes. They remind of Dimitri’s, and I push the thought aside. I cannot afford to be sentimental when I might discover the name of the town in the distance.
“Quel est le nom de la ville? Celui avec l’église grande?” I can hardly breathe as I wait for his answer.
He replies with only one word, but it is the only one I need.
“Chartres.”
32
Sitting astride my horse just outside the barn, I survey the field and my options.
The boy did say that he sent the Guard in the opposite direction of the town, but even so, there is no guarantee that the Guard has not changed course and gone looking for me in Chartres. Especially if he thinks the pages are hidden there.
Twisting atop the horse, I gaze into the forest behind the stone farmhouse. Its leafy shade provides more places in which to take cover than does the open field that stretches toward Chartres, but I don’t know what has happened to Dimitri or where the rest of the Guard may be. I could very well walk right into their hands should I reenter the wood. At least in Chartres there is the sanctuary of the church.
And the possibility of finding the missing pages. If there is any way at all, any way in the world, to see them in my hands, I will do it.
I fix the town in my sights, pressing my heels into Sargent’s flank. He lurches forward, his hooves a bolt of thunder against the ground. He carries us across the field as if propelled by the wind itself.
As if he knows well the danger we are in.
The field’s openness is terrifying, though the sun shines brightly, turning gold the wild grass and swaying wheat that stretches in every direction. For all its beauty, the field leaves me no place to hide. My heart hardens on the heels of the thought. I am done hiding, I think.
Still, I feel as if I will jump out of my skin every step of the way. I am half surprised to make it across the field without hearing the sounds of the Guard’s horse behind me. The town grows nearer until I am finally upon it, and I veer onto what looks to be a main street.
Chartres is not as small as it seemed from a distance, but there are still only a few people walking its dusty streets. They seem to be in no hurry, and they watch me pass with equal parts curiosity and annoyance. Observing their tranquil countenance, I can only gather that I have disturbed what was likely one in a string of endlessly serene and uneventful days.
But my afternoon in Chartres will be anything but uneventful, for as I turn down a small street, trying to follow the cathedral’s spires, I come upon the blond Guard speaking to an old woman on the corner. He is still atop his mount, and even from my position some distance away, I hear the animal undertone in his voice. He stops speaking at once and, as if he senses my presence, swivels his head in my direction.
I do not know how long it takes me to get moving. Everything seems to speed up and slow down at the very same time. I only know that as I turn Sargent toward the church, the Guard spurs his horse forward, leaving the old woman standing on the corner, her mouth still hanging open in mid-sentence.
He is right behind me as I bolt through the village, zig-zagging down one street and up another in a desperate attempt to make my way to the cathedral. It takes me a few such turns to get it right. I am twice misled by small roads that seem to lead toward the church but that in the end lead me away from it entirely. My pursuer, ruled by the same earthly limitations as I, does not seem to know the town any better. He follows me every which way, even when I am sure he will find a place to cut me off.
I finally turn down a dusty road that leads to a hill, and it is then that I see a sign reading NOTRE-DAME CATHEDRAL CHARTRES. I round a bend in the road and see the cathedral sitting regally atop the hill. Its spires rise above the ancient stone walls of the church, seeming to touch heaven itself. Sargent, his breath coming loud and fierce, clambers up the road with the Guard in close pursuit.
I prepare to dismount and make a run for the safety of the church as we approach the front of the cathedral. It draws closer and closer until I am right upon it. Once at the foot of its imposing facade, I barely slow before dropping to the ground with more force than I expect. It takes my breath away, and I stumble, trying to right myself even as I see my pursuer enter the final stretch of road behind me.
I have never been more grateful for breeches than I am now as I race up the stairs toward the cathedral’s massive, arched wooden doors. I take the steps two at a time. My bow smacks at my back as I try to move as quickly as possible while also ensuring I do not fall on the ancient stone. If I stumble it will be the last time I do, for I hear the Guard behind me. His footsteps fall faster than mine, growing nearer until I am sure he must be right behind me.
I do not look back when I arrive at the doors. I simply reach forward, grasping an enormous iron handle and pulling until the door opens a crack. It is all I need. I slip through it, pushing it shut behind me as I step into the cool sanctuary of the cathedral.
Sliding immediately away from the door, I lean back against the wall. After the frenzied journey through town and up the hill to the church, the quiet in the nave is deafening. My breath, noisy and labored, echoes off the stone walls, and I stand for a moment, eyeing the door and trying to breathe normally. Despite Dimitri’s assurances, I half-expect the Guard who gave chase to burst through the door. He doesn’t, and after a moment I dare to move away from it and into the cavernous church.
The church is immense, the ceiling rising so high that its end is barely a shadow above my head. Intricate stained glass windows cast a rainbow of dim light over the cathedral’s walls and floor, and I catch glimpses of elaborate stone carvings depicting saints and biblical scenes. Darkness lurks in the rooms beyond the altar, but I move quickly toward them. The Guard may not be able to enter the church, but the enormity of it makes me feel vulnerable. There is too much mystery here. I want only to find the sacred grotto and determine if it is where the missing pages lie.
Passing the altar, I come to a great hall. I know from the many times I traveled with Father that historical sites often have signs guiding visitors to places of importance, and I search the walls for direction as I make my way quickly toward the back of the church. There are a few closed doors along the way, but I do not dare open them.
Instead, I turn onto a smaller hallway and discover a faint beam of sunlight coming from a door at the side of the church. I follow the light to the door, and am relieved to see that it is open just an inch. I push it open a little more and peer through the crack.
At first, I am disappointed to find myself looking out on a small street. It seems foolish to waste time in an area that is not even within the sanctuary proper, but something catches my eye. Something on a smaller building not far from the cathedral.
A sign reading MAIS
ON DE LA CRYPTE.
House of the Crypt.
There is, of course, no way of knowing if the pages really are hidden in the crypt, but I have not come this far to sit by while the Guard stalks me outside the church. I contemplate for a moment the possibility of waiting for Dimitri, but it only takes me seconds to discount the notion. Dimitri may have helped me through the woods leading to Altus, but I have traversed alone many dark and frightening paths to this place.
If I hurry, it should take less than a minute to travel along the small street to the entrance. I am doubtful of any protection offered by sheer proximity to the cathedral, but I have no choice, and I look around to be sure there is no one on the street before slipping through the crack of the open doorway.
It must be growing late, for the sun is already fading behind the buildings on either side of the alley. I feel as though the temperature has dropped in the short time I have been in the church. Night will soon fall. The thought spurs me onward, and I reach the entrance to the crypt quickly and without incident, pulling open a door that, while large, would be dwarfed by those of the cathedral itself.
Closing the door behind me, I find myself standing in a small, humble room. There are no ornate carvings or stained glass windows, and yet a deep sense of peace settles into my soul. Somehow this place, without all its pretense and glory, feels more like home than any place save Altus. A now-familiar heat grows against the skin of my bosom, and when I reach a hand to it, the adder stone is hot against my palm.
Moving farther into the room, I am relieved to see that it is quite small. There are very few doors and only one hallway, and I imagine the building was erected haphazardly over the grotto while the cathedral received more glorious attention. Reaching the back of the room, it does not take me long to come upon a narrow doorway atop a winding staircase. The stairs are stone, and I step onto them without hesitation, the adder stone growing hotter beneath my shirt as I make my way toward the bottom.
I touch the walls for stability on the way down, marveling at the dank smell that rises from the depths of the crypt. It is the scent of the earth itself on every side. Descending the stairs is like coming home, and I somehow know that these walls have seen much over thousands of years. That they have protected and hidden things precious to our cause.
When I finally step to the floor of the grotto, I am surprised at its size. The walls are stone on all sides, and though the ceiling is not nearly as tall as those in the cathedral, they still rise well above my head. The crypt itself is quite wide, stretching a good distance from end to end. It is larger, in fact, than the room above it. Lit only by torches along either wall, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the faint light.
When they do, it is the altar at one end that catches my attention.
I make my way down the length of the crypt, trying to keep my footsteps as quiet as possible. I doubt one would be reprimanded for paying tribute to such a site, but one would certainly be reprimanded for what I may have to do to find the pages, and when I reach the altar, I take a moment to observe the statue there. It is the beautiful, if fairly common figure of a robed woman I imagine must be the Virgin Mary.
At the feet of the Guardian. Not a Virgin, but a Sister.
Taking one last glance around, I move toward the statue, dropping to my knees at her feet. The stone is cold and hard. It bites into my skin even through my trousers.
I study the floor, looking for anything that might indicate a hiding place, but it does not take me long to discount the notion. Despair rushes in as I look at the floor beneath the altar and statue. It is all the same. An endless stretch of gray stone with no distinguishing characteristics in the dim light.
This is what I think at first. Before I see the line of darkness, no more than a smudge, really, running through one of the stones.
I lean back, trying to get a better view and wondering if my proximity only makes it more difficult to decipher whatever is there. And then, yes, I see the same line running through the stone next to it and the one up from that. Beginning to understand, I use my sleeve to wipe away some of the dirt before jumping to my feet. Then I take a few steps back to test my theory.
I can feel the smile break out over my face even as there is no one to see it and even as I never imagined I would smile to see such a symbol.
There, on the ground at my feet, is the same symbol that is on my medallion. The dark line, curving across seven large stones to form the Jorgumand. And though it is dark and faded and covered with centuries of grime, I can still make out the “C” at its center.
“C” is for chaos. Chaos of the ages.
I drop hurriedly to the ground, feeling around the mark of the Jorgumand for a loose stone. It does not take me long to realize that it is no use; every stone bearing a piece of the snake is solid. My fingertips soon ache from trying to pry them loose. But there is one last stone at its center, the stone bearing the “C,” and when I feel it shift under my fingers, I wonder at my stupidity.
I should have known it was there all along.
Reaching into my knapsack, I remove my dagger. The many-colored jewels on its hilt glimmer, even in the dim light of the cavern. I remember finding it in Alice’s room at Birchwood, wood shavings still clinging to its shimmering blade. Wood shavings from my floor and the spell of protection Alice worked to undo in order to leave me vulnerable to the Souls on the Plane.
This time it will be used for a more noble purpose.
Loosening the marked stone is not easy. For a long while, I scrape away at the dirt, debris, and old mortar, pushing the dagger deeper and deeper into the crevices surrounding the stone on every side. I stop to test my progress every few minutes, frustrated when time and again I can do nothing more than wiggle it back and forth. I lose all track of time until, finally, the stone begins to move more easily, and I believe I might just be able to free it.
Returning the dagger to my knapsack, I push my fingers into the openings around the stone. There is not much room in which to work, but I try to move the stone back and forth in an effort to lift it out of the ground. I push and tug for some time to no avail. The angle is all wrong. There is not enough room to get a good grip, though I try to pull straight up rather than at an angle. The stone breaks what little is left of my nails, and my fingers bleed with the effort, but soon I begin to feel that there is more room on either side of the stone. Pressing my fingertips deeper into the narrow spaces at the side of the stone, I bite my lip to keep from crying out as the neighboring stones scrape and cut my already tender flesh. Knowing I will not have an unlimited number of opportunities before my hands give out, I grip with every ounce of strength I have.
Then I pull.
The stone is heavier than it looks. My hands shake as I lift it from the ground, and for a moment, I think I will drop it. But I don’t.
By some miracle, I manage to keep a hold of it until it is clear of the abyss revealed by its absence. I do not bother catching my breath. Setting the stone aside, I peer into the seemingly infinite chasm. It is black as pitch. I reach my hand into its dark, moist depths and feel around. Beyond worrying about insects, mold or dirt, I do not even wonder at the strange things my hand bumps up against on its way to the bottom of the hole.
It is far deeper than I expect. My arm is engulfed nearly to the shoulder before I reach the bottom, but when I do, my hand immediately touches upon something softer and warmer than the surrounding stone. I grasp for it and lift my arm, bringing with it a small square of leather.
Putting the stone back in its rightful place, I ensure that everything looks as it did when I arrived. When it does, I rise to the altar and open the fragment of leather that has been lying in wait far beneath the ground.
The breath catches in my throat as my eyes light on a remnant of thin, crackly paper. Lifting it from the leather, I unfold it gently. It feels as old as time. Even flat, it is still lined with creases, and I smooth it carefully, peering at the words written across its surface.
I hold one in each hand, peering first at one and then the other in the dim light of the grotto. It does not take me long to understand.
One piece of paper is an even rectangle with a perfectly smooth edge and words printed carefully in Latin. I recognize the format from the Librum Maleficii et Disordinae — the Book of Chaos found in father’s library at Birchwood Manor nearly a year ago. Latin has never been my strong suit. It was only James’s translation that allowed me to read that first, harrowing glimpse of the prophecy.
Which is why I gasp with relief when I see the second page nestled behind the first. A page clearly torn from something else, for it is not as neat and clean as the page of the book itself. No. This is a small piece of paper. A piece of paper that also holds the words of the prophecy, though this time in cramped and hurried writing.
But that is not the important part.
The important part is that these words, these cramped and hurried words, are in English, translated long ago as if someone knew I would be the one standing in the crypt at Chartres needing desperately to read the words of the final page of the prophecy.
Breathing a sigh of relief, I tuck the page of the book behind the translation. Then I bend my head to the dim light of the torches.
And I read.
Yet from chaos and madness One will rise,
To lead the Ancient and release the Stone,
Shrouded in the sanctity of the Sisterhood,
Held safe from the Beast, and
Setting free those bound by Prophecy’s
Past and impending doom.