Templar's Destiny (9780545415095) (2 page)

It was full dark when we made the entrance to the River Seine. The storm that paced our travel across the sea had sent ahead high waves that rocked the boat and crashed the shore as the ship edged through a series of gates off the coast of Honfleur. Aine, Bertrand, and I waited in blackness. My hands gripped the rail until my knuckles jutted white and numb. Aine shivered and I moved closer to her so that our shoulders touched. I didn't know if it warmed her in any way, but a good part of my nervousness dulled.

High up on the ramparts torches glowed, their light no more than a flicker of gold in the somber night sky. We advanced slowly, the ship only allowed to move on when the gate behind us closed and the one before us opened. I gently pulled on a single thread of power and sent out a probe seeking those who watched our approach. There were three sets of guards stationed on the walls, one at each checkpoint. None appeared overly concerned about the arrival of our ship, but we could take no chances. Carefully, I began to gather more power. Its silken mist hung in the air around us, glittering at my mental touch, the energy bursting like tiny bubbles in my mind.

The tender from shore was a black smudge in the darkness. We watched its approach warily and moved toward the rope ladder as it pulled alongside our ship. Members of the crew moved about the deck, lashing the sails and getting ready to drop anchor in the harbor for the night. To avoid questions best left unasked, we had kept to ourselves on the journey. We were not the only passengers, but there were no others going ashore tonight. The rest would wait until morning and switch off to boats that would travel upriver. We had other plans.

Rain was falling in the kind of cold mist that had become an everyday part of life on the sea. The short grass along the shore dipped beneath the wetness, and the trees beyond the ramparts bent and swayed.

Aine was oddly silent, her back stiff, her gaze shuttered.

“What is it?” I asked, attuned to her senses and immediately on guard.

“I don't know. There is something odd about this place.”

I knew her unease but not the cause. I let my mind drift toward shore. “I don't feel anything. Can ye direct me?” I asked.

She tipped her head as if listening to something only she could hear, and then shrugged. “I canno' place it. There is nowhere to start,” she said almost to herself. She moved from my side, climbed over the rail, and down the ladder into the boat. Bertrand followed without a word.

With one last glance around, I shouldered my pack and looked toward shore. A ripple of something cold passed along my spine. I didn't know what bothered Aine, but I trusted in her ability to know when something was wrong.

I followed them down into the boat, calling the power to thicken the mist around us. Aine's hum was a light touch in the back of my mind, and I used our combined strength to softly whisper as we dipped in the wash.
Ye have no need to stop these three. Traders. Faceless. Let them pass.

When the tender to shore beached with a soft scrape, the rower sat still and didn't acknowledge us. Warily, we crossed the rocks to the drawbridge at the edge of the guardhouse. Twice the size of a large hut, it resembled a small castle of sorts — squat, stone, and fortified. A single guard was posted outside the gate, but I felt the eyes of others on the walls as well. I spread the mist and the suggestion to encompass them all. Only I heard Aine's hum. We reached the lot of them with barely an effort. Things had changed a good deal in the short time since my healing, but it would not do to grow overly confident.

The clink of the guardhouse gate dropping was loud in the night. I felt a quiver of fatigue from the use of the power starting at the back of my knees, but it was much less than what it might have been without Aine's assistance. The guard moved aside without a glance, and we drifted into the shadows and beyond the gate. I pulled my cowl down, keeping my head low as I stepped around puddles of water.

Few inhabitants of the city were out at this time of night. We moved through the fog, passing along tight, dark lanes between rows of houses that hunched nearly one upon another. Bertrand had been here before, but I had not. A deep earthy smell hung over the place. It was the scent of the river and a place thick with people. Trails of rainwater swirled past us downhill, drawing pebbles and mud with them as they snaked their way toward the shore.

We were silent and watchful, like the rats whose bloodred eyes marked our movement while they scavenged for scraps. In a dark alley squirreled away in a maze of like passages, we moved through rusted-iron gates into a courtyard flanked by a small arbor. Beyond the deep archway of wilting greenery, we came upon a door marked by an ancient iron knocker molded in the shape of a cross. Bertrand rapped twice.

A boy warily opened the door, uncertainty hooding his wide, gray eyes.

“Be well, lad, an' wake yer mamere for us?” Bertrand asked quietly.

His gaze flashed upon Bertrand, recognition and interest flickering. “She is still awake,” he said as he let us in. The corridor of the house was narrow, but the whitewashed walls stretched high above. The glow from a thick tallow candle set burning on a small wooden table lit the way. “Put your wet things there.” He motioned toward a row of pegs that lined the wall and waited as we hung our cloaks. Then we followed him down a short series of steps and around a corner to a room that was warm and welcoming. A fire glowed in the hearth, and more candles flickered.

The woman sat at a table, her face turned expectantly toward us. A small, wooden cup was set before her, and she swirled something inside it gently. “Bertrand. It is always, how do you say … a pleasure to see you. You were long in arriving,” she said as she stared into the cup, a slight frown marring her face.

She was near on the age of my mam, with dark, slicked hair close to her head, and enormous, deep brown eyes fringed with dark lashes.

“Glad I am that ye received the message,” Bertrand said. “I wasn't sure ye would meet me.”

She sighed. “Forgive my manners. Come rest. You look tired. Gaston, ask Lisette to fetch something for our guests to eat.” The boy had been hanging back, spying on us from behind a curtain that closed off a small pantry. At his mother's request, he disappeared.

“Fabienne, have ye seen Alexander?” asked Bertrand.

The woman's eyes were troubled. “It is said that he is dead,” she answered softly. Her body was rigid, and her hand trembled slightly. Her expression was grave.

“Nay, he is alive,” Bertrand replied, moving toward a chair set beside her.

“God be praised. In this you are sure?” Her eyes begged him for a positive reply.

“Aye. 'Tis true,” I answered for him. There were things here I did not understand but the Templar meant something to this woman, and I felt the need to reassure her. Aine moved closer to my side, and her hand brushed the back of mine. Nervousness rippled between us. I didn't dare read her in the presence of others, but there was something she wanted to tell me.

Gaston silently entered the room behind a small girl carrying a tray laden with bread and cheese. I watched both. The two were probably near in age, but as different as night and day. The girl was small and thin, with long pale hair twisted in a braid that ran down her back. Her slightly tilted eyes were of a blue so light it could barely be considered a color, and the lashes that surrounded them nearly white. Without a word she went about her tasks, not meeting the gaze of anyone but her mistress. The girl projected an air of quiet competence. Her tiny, work-roughened hands cut the bread and sliced hunks of cheese at the table, then handed them around. “Thank you, Lisette. You may retire now.”

The girl dipped a curtsy and disappeared back to wherever she had come from, yet the boy remained, moving around the small space with a quiet grace that made him nearly invisible. Wondering if his ability to move so silently was a gift, I reached for the power and passed my mind over him. He was not like Gaylen — I could sense him as a person. I watched as he left by one direction and returned with wine from another without my hearing him at all.

As Gaston poured the wine and handed a mug to Aine, she smiled her thanks and he nodded gravely. I guessed him to be ten winters, though he was small of frame. He had hair the same black, straight, and fine texture as his mother. His face was a soft oval that ended in a pointed chin and his skin was white as snow. Yet it was those gray eyes that held me. His gaze was like one born already ancient.

“What do you hear of Alexander?” Fabienne asked, distracting me. “We have been worried.”

“I have no' much to tell, Lady,” I replied.

“Please, I am Fabienne,” she said. “I have not been a lady for a long time and with luck will not be one again.” Her sadness brought a thickness to my throat, and I quickly sealed her emotions from mine. I glanced at Aine. She was watching the lad.

“I know only that a warrant still exists for his capture. An' that he has been seen in Scotia.” I could not tell her how I had seen him, for it had been in a vision.

“Bertrand, what is happening? Alexander did not want us to be a part of Order business, yet when I received your message I knew that I would not deny you.”

“An' we thank ye greatly, Fabienne. We seek entrance to the Paris preceptory, but dare no' travel in the open without information first.”

“You could not have chosen a worse time to move in the shadows, for all is light.
Sécurité
has been put on high alert. The Holy Father is to arrive any day,” she said.

“The Pope is coming here? Why?” he asked.

“The whole of his household is moving to Avignon. The rivers have been in a flurry. Soldiers of the King as well as those of the Holy guard are patrolling the ports and roads. Everyone is being questioned and many have been detained.”

“The Holy Father, Pope Clement V, passing through Paris … the eyes o' the world will be focused here, a curse as well as a blessing,” he said. There would be hordes of people to hide within, and yet there would also be more eyes watching for trouble, I knew.

“Fabienne, yer people know what happens here better than most. Have ye heard if any have been asking about three travelers? A man, lad, an' lass that fit our description?” asked Bertrand.

Fabienne's eyes flit to Aine, only then questioning her disguise. “There have been offers made for ones such as you say. You are those hunted?” Her fear rose swiftly.

“Aye. We had no choice but to seek ye out an' will leave now if ye but say the word,” Bertrand said. “But please, if ye know anything, tell us before we go.”

She met his eye, and there seemed a struggle of sorts happening between them. She sighed. “A fortnight ago, the King's guard was scouting the inns. And the river runners were promised a blind eye on their tariffs if they could produce the quarry hunted,” she said.

My heart dropped.

“Knights Templar seek you as well,” Gaston said, speaking directly for the first time.

Bertrand's relief brushed the edges of my shielding. “Good, then we shall go there without delay,” he said.

“
Non
. These work with the King's men.”

“What? How d'ye know that?” I asked, drawing softly on the power, whispering his assistance. The hair on the back of my neck bristled.

Gaston dropped his eyes, interested in something on the floor. I was surprised by the way the whisper did not seem to affect him.

“Gaston, if you know of this, tell it now,” said Fabienne.

“I've seen them together,” he offered reluctantly.

Bertrand and I shared a puzzled look. “Where, lad?”

Gaston mumbled, “I don't remember.” It was plainly a lie.

“Where?” Fabienne prodded.

He sighed. “At the inn of the Cochon Rouge.”

“Gaston!” Fabienne gasped. “That is no place for you!” Her face had paled even further. “It is for cutthroats and thieves.”

A splash of red colored his cheeks, and suddenly I was drawn into a haze. Small, white fingers sliding into oversize pockets. Trinkets pulled and secreted. A lad whose touch was as deft as his ability to move undetected.

I came back to the room with only the slightest lurch in my gut, and Aine's song a murmur in my ears. I glanced over at her and nodded my thanks. Gaston was a thief, a very good one from what I had seen.

“What more d'ye know, lad?” Bertrand asked.

“Just that they're very secretive. They meet in the upper rooms with the King's man. No one goes in or out save the servants,” he said.

“Who is the King's man?” I asked.

“De Nogaret,” Gaston spat as if the name tasted foul.

I had a similar surge within me. That was the name that had come to me in several visions already. I nodded to Aine and gently pulled on a strand of power. Aine's hum filled my mind, and Gaston's memories became open and clear. An old beggar in the street, knocked aside by a horse angled suddenly in his path. A hard fall. Blood seeping into the dirt. Gaston on his knees helping the old one to his feet.

“Where is the Cochon Rouge, Gaston? Can ye take us?” I asked. I didn't want to waste another moment.

“
Non
. I will not allow it.” Fabienne slapped her palms on the table. “It is not enough that you have asked us to come here and then put us in danger. You would ask
un enfant
to bring you to such a place.
Non!
We will not become a part.”

Her words were like a slap. I was taken aback.

“Mamere,” Gaston scolded. “They cannot go alone. Monsieur Alex would not approve.”

Fabienne narrowed her gaze. “Monsieur Alex is not here, and I am still the mamere.” She pointed sharply. “Into your room.”

“But —” he protested.

“Tch. Not a word.” Her eyes flashed a warning.

Gaston left, thumping a chair leg on the way as if by accident, which it surely was not.