dilemma that faced him now.
"Fear neither God nor devil, and always cut the cards." Lafitte raised his hand again, and Franklyn's
nerve broke completely.
"No! I beg you, sir—I can make you rich!"
Lafitte shook his head, smiling.
"For years I have traded with France—" The words burst from Franklyn as if he could no longer contain
them. "Early this year I was told to be at a certain establishment upon a certain day to take this man—"
he jerked his head toward Louis "—into custody. I was to bring him as quickly as I could into
Nouvelle-Orléans, letting no man see him, and bring him to the Cabildo by night. D'Charenton would pay
a thousand gold napoleons for him—it is because he is the Dauphin Louis Capet—"
As he uttered the name, a terrible thing happened. His face swelled and darkened as if a garotte had
been placed about his throat. The blackness spread across his skin as ink would spread through a glass
of water, and in seconds he fell to the deck, dead.
There was utter silence from the sailors.
"I correct you, Captain Franklyn," Lafitte said gently. "Old Louis is dead, so there is no Dauphin, only a
King. We must always observe the niceties of correct address, my dear Captain. It is what separates us
from the beasts. Put him overboard." He gestured, and with only a moment's hesitation the pirates took
hold of the bloated and already rotting corpse and heaved it over the rail in one smooth movement.
"Do you wish to join him?" Lafitte asked Louis with a lazy smile.
"You know I don't," Louis said, forcing the image of the captain's unnatural death from his mind.
D'Charenton… where had he heard that name before? "But I tell you again, France has no king. And any
man who wished to proclaim himself the heir to the Bourbons had better have more to back him than a
trick of likeness. The Corsican is hardly likely to resign his honors for a simple request."
"True," Lafitte conceded. "We thought we might be free of his attention here in Louisianne, but as you see
he has sent us a governor to scourge us into fealty to his Empire. It is in my mind that this d'Charenton
should discover the manner of man he has displeased, but how this is to be arranged will require some
thought. It will not disturb you to remain my guest while I discover just what it is that the governor wants
with you?"
"How can I refuse such a charming invitation?" Louis asked ironically, bowing elaborately. Traitorous
relief surged through his veins at his narrow escape, but beneath it was a puzzlement as great as Lafitte's
own. He could not imagine what use he could be to the Imperial Governor of a province still loyal to the
Bourbon kings.
And he wasn't entirely sure he wished to find out.
Scratched and sunburned and close to starving, Meriel finally reached the banks of an enormous river,
the widest she had ever seen.
The thick mist of morning—by which she had found it—still hung over the water and spread across the
plain beyond, making the world a thing of grey shadows, and the river itself seemed to steam. It stretched
before her as smooth and glassy as a lake, but white ripples out near the center of the river warned her
that she dared not try to ford it. She knelt in the mud of the riverbank near a stand of reeds and scooped
water into her mouth. Her thirst, at least, she could assuage, if not her hunger.
The mud before her was patterned with deer-slot and bird tracks, but though game was here in
abundance, Meriel had no way of taking any of it. She had no skills in woodcraft. She had been very
lucky to get as far west as she had.
But now, perhaps, my luck has run out
, she told herself fatalistically. She did not despair—for the nuns
had told her as a child that despair was the most grievous of sins—but she was confused, and held that to
be no fault. From the first, she had not been certain why she had been brought into this wilderness, and
now that she had reached the end of her trail—or so it seemed—she was no more enlightened. She had
followed the Grail, and the Grail was not here.
There was a rustling in the reeds. Meriel turned in that direction, wondering if she would be lucky enough
to find a bird's nest with eggs there.
A man stepped out of the mist. He was tall and bronze-skinned, nearly naked after the fashion of the
savages. His hair was stiffened with clay into a high ridge that was stuck with clusters of duck feathers.
He took a quick step toward her, reaching out.
Meriel sprang to her feet and tried to run. But her skirts tangled her legs, and she was hungry and
footsore. She didn't get far. The savage seized her, bearing her to the ground.
Meriel struggled in his grasp, terrified. He was shouting at her in a language she did not know, and at last
she closed her eyes and waited to die.
But whatever the savage intended for her, it was not to be that He hauled her, not ungently, to her feet,
and pushed her ahead of him along the shore.
"What do you want with me?" Meriel asked despairingly. "Who are you?" She received no reply, but
when they had gone a few yards, Meriel realized he was leading her to his boat. She had seen native
canoes before on her travels—long, narrow boats made of birch-bark or deer-hide. When they reached
it, her captor motioned to her to step into it.
Meriel glanced around herself, hoping there was something else she could do besides comply. Once in
the boat and on the river, she would be entirely at his mercy, for if she tried to swim to safety, her heavy
skirts would bear her to the bottom of the river. But as much as drowning, she feared what other fate the
savage might be bringing her to. But there was nothing else she could do but obey, and so Meriel got into
the boat, arranging her muddy skirts as modestly as she could around her ankles. She held very still as
the savage pushed the narrow boat into the water, and then climbed into it.
What a fool I was! Faith is easy on a sunny day, and trust is a simple thing when one has nothing
to lose. Was Father MacDonough right all along? Is it pride that has brought me to this?
She shook her head, trembling with weariness and fear. The canoe rocked furiously, and Meriel gripped
the sides tightly, her heart hammering. With swift smooth strokes, the savage thrust the little craft out into
the center of the current, which seized it and pulled it more swiftly down the river than any man could
have done. They moved forward in silence, wrapped in the mist, one with the river.
After a time the sun began to bum through the mist of early morning, and Meriel could see the land that
rolled past them on either side. Not so much as a plume of woodsmoke broke the flawless blue of the
sky, and the animals that came to the river's edge to drink stopped and regarded the travelers without
fear. Plainly, this was a land that had not known the touch of Man.
It would have been a very pleasant journey if only Meriel could have put aside her fear, but dread of
what was to come blinded her to the beauty that surrounded her.
Surely the angel had known this was what would happen when it sent her out into the wilderness. What
purpose could such a death serve?
I am no one! Not a religious
—
certainly not a saint! Why am I here
?
At last the turbulent absurdity of her question made her see it was foolish to ask such a thing. 'Why am I
here?'—was this not a question everyone asked, even those who were
not
sailing down an uncharted
river as the helpless captive of a New World savage? The answer was always the same: it is not for you
to know.
Her rosary had survived her latest misadventure, and after a while Meriel looped it around her wrist and
began to tell her beads, finding a measure of comfort in the familiar prayers.
The sun had traversed a significant portion of the sky—and the river widened even farther—when they
reached their destination. For a long time Meriel had been able to smell smoke, and now, when they
rounded the bend, she could see the source. On an island in the middle of the river, there stood a city.
Father MacDonough had told her that the natives of the New World did not build in stone, but before
her she saw a stone city as great as any in Old Europe. Four round towers like chessboard rooks,
bounded a set of handsome palisades crafted from dressed timber. The gates stood open, and Meriel
could see more stone buildings within, square and strong with thatched roofs. A short stone quay had
been built to jut out into the river, and the canoesman paddled strongly toward it. He did not tie up his
canoe at the quay—something it was not designed for in any event—but used the jetty to break the force
of the current so that he could beach his frail craft. He drew it up on a sandy bank and then gestured for
Meriel to follow him into the strange city. Hie long hours spent in the tiny canoe had stiffened her muscles,
and her slowness made him impatient, for he reached out and seized her wrist, dragging her ashore by
force. He spoke to her in his strange language, searching her face for any sign of comprehension. Free to
observe him at last, Meriel realized there was something about him that was different from any other
native she had ever seen.
He had blue eyes.
Realizing that she could not understand him, the native shrugged in disappointment and gestured for her to
precede him into the city. Meriel stumbled forward. For the first time in many hours, curiosity
overwhelmed fear. In her travels she had heard tales of lost colonies—could this perhaps be one? An
outpost of Christian men here in this pagan wilderness? The sight of so well-built a settlement reassured
her. The city was filled with people. Children played in the street, their shouts and laughter sounding like
that of children anywhere. Men and women dressed entirely in the native style went about their tasks,
paying little attention to Meriel. Many of them had blue eyes, and their hair was not black, but shades
ranging from light brown all the way to blond. They were a tall and handsome people, and if they had
only been wearing European dress, they could have passed her on the Baltimore streets and Meriel
would never have given any of them a second glance.
At the center of the village was a large stepped pyramid, its grey stone surface carved with rows of
symbols in an alien alphabet, and inlaid, in places, with carved and colored stones. A wide row of steps
led up to a dark archway surmounted with a carving of some winged creature.
At the foot of the steps stood two men holding spears. On their heads they wore queer conical helmets
whose rims were carefully trimmed with animal teeth. On the bare chest of each, a large circled cross
was painted in red earth. Her captor spoke to them at length, and as she listened to their conversation,
Meriel was possessed of the taunting thought that she could almost understand it. She was fluent in
English and French, and could get along in Spanish, and it was none of these, but though she did not
know the tongue they spoke, she could not escape the feeling that it was familiar, nevertheless.
Their conversation ended, the man who had brought her here turned and walked away. He paused for
one last look at Meriel, as if he were willing her to understand through will alone what he had been unable
to communicate through language. But Meriel paid no attention. While they had been talking she had
been looking at the pyramid. The design above the door was not a bird, as she had first thought.
It was a cup. A cup of green stone, surrounded by flames.
Without a thought for her safety, she ran up the stairs. The guards had not been expecting that, and she
was past them before they could react.
The stairs were carved for show, or for ceremony, but certainly not for use. They were too high for her
to climb easily, and Meriel slowed as she came near the top. But when she glanced back, the guards had
halted several steps below her, as if unwilling to proceed.
Puffing and out of breath, Meriel reached the top. There was no one in sight—only the carved
representation of the Cup she had followed so far, set above the lintel like a taunting signpost.
More timidly now, she ventured inside, despising her rash actions but unable to disavow them.
The interior space of the pyramid rivaled that of the great cathedrals of Europe. It was dimly lit by
smoking rushlights set in niches carved into the stone. These interior walls were covered with painted
pictures too dim for Meriel to make out; she walked through the center of the vast shadowy space as if
drawn by an invisible call, and then she saw it.
It stood on a squat altar of black stone, illuminated by a beam of sunlight that shone down through an
opening in the roof far above. It was not the Cup she had seen in her vision, and yet it was. The shallow
bowl was shaped from a single slab of cloudy emerald-colored stone, and an aura of great age radiated
from it. The bowl stood upon a pediment that represented the masterwork of some unknown medieval
goldsmith—the stem of the cup was crafted in pure gold, in the shape of a jeweled falcon with outspread
wings that cradled the bowl, and whose ruby eyes seemed to glow warningly at Meriel in the dimness of
the room. The carving on the body of the bird had been worn away by the touch of many hands over the
years, until all that was left was a soft golden curve where once sharp-cut feathers had lain.