Second Skin (74 page)

The
Magister Regens
dug his clawed fingers into Fra Leoni’s robes. “Your insolence will be your downfall one day.”

“Mayhap,” Fra Leoni said. “But not today.”

Without taking his gaze from the obsidian eyes, he lifted one hand up and slowly, finger by finger, freed himself the other’s grip. “Today your heartfelt prayers go with me,
Magister Regens,
for I am the sole Keeper of our secrets now. If I die, the Order dies with me.”

All at once, shouts rose from below, the sound of steel whistled through the air, cries and terrible groaning.

“Now you have your proof,” Fra Leoni said tersely. “We have been betrayed again. Our citadel has been breached.”

Fra Prospero’s eyes flickered with a tiny stirring of fear. His bearded face glistening, he drew himself back to the urgent conversation. In a lowered voice, he said, “And what of the one secret—the one that dwarfs all others, the one even those who come, even he who sent them, is unaware of? Will it be safe with you?”

“It is why I was ordained Keeper. The trust is sacred; it can never be broken. I guard them all with my life, the one secret especially.”

Fra Prospero nodded. If he was not pleased, then he was at least satisfied. He had to be; he had no other choice. “Then God go with you, my son. In Christ’s name, be safe.”

“And if we both survive, you know where to meet me.”

“Within a year,” Fra Prospero said. “Yes.”

“Then we will see each other again, and resume our debate.”

“God willing,” Fra Prospero said.

Tucking the hem of his robe into his belt, Fra Leoni went down the western spiral staircase. Where the blood had dried, the fabric had become stiff and uncomfortable. Passing the first in a line of windows, he could see the darkening stain of night climbing upward into the cobalt vault of the sky. Closer to hand was the brief sloped ridge of the kitchen’s tile roof and, beyond, the pillared terraces of the royal wing. An evil flicker of light caught his eye. Someone had started a fire close to the walls.

Just below, he encountered fighting, already at a fierce pitch. Seeing two of his brothers under attack by four Knights, he drew his weapon and threw himself into the fray, beating back a Knight who had come close to cleaving Fra Benedetto’s skull in two. This was not what he should be doing. His first and only duty was to save himself and, in so doing, keep the cache of secrets safe. The trouble was, he could not help himself. His brethren were in dire straits; how could he leave them?

He parried a blow weakly, giving his opponent a false sense of his prowess, then as the Knight recklessly stabbed at him, he neatly knocked aside the strike, drove the point of his sword through the other’s midsection. Another Knight attacked on his right, and he sliced through the enemy’s wrist. But now six more Knights leapt up from below, and he was forced to leave the defense to the others, retreating back up the stairs to the level of the trefoil window. He beat back the broadsword thrust of a Knight who had broken away from the pack to bring him down, struck what seemed a rather awkward blow with the flat of his sword. It had the desired effect, throwing off the Knight’s balance. And while he was thus at a disadvantage, Fra Leoni kicked him hard in the shoulder. The Knight spun, his booted foot missed the edge of the step, and he tumbled heavily backward into two of his compatriots.

Fra Leoni took this moment and, gaining the stone sill of the window, leapt out onto the tiles of the kitchen roof. From here, he could see into the lower courtyard, swarming now with Knights of St. Clement. He could see the wall that had been permanently smoke-blackened by Saracen siege fires.
Betrayed,
he thought bitterly,
from within our most sacred inner sanctum.

Then a crossbow bolt passed not a foot from his head, and he dove to his left, stretched fully on the tiles. As soon as he raised himself on one elbow, another bolt was loosed at him, though he could not make out the bowman. Not that it mattered; his antagonist was far outside his reach.

Flattening himself again, he contrived to pull himself across the tiles. His intention had been to gain the kitchen below, and thence out a passage beneath the stone flooring. But one glance at the bloody chaos that had overtaken the courtyard told him he would never make it to that section of the lower floors, let alone to the kitchen. That being the case, he needed to gain the library. He changed direction, scuttling back up to the crest of the kitchen roof. This had the disadvantage of making of him an excellent target for the three or four seconds it would take him to heave his body across the crest and down the other side to the eastern wing of the monastery’s belly.

There was no help for it; no other way presented itself for him to get to the library. But he needed to lengthen his odds, he needed a diversion. Just below the crest, he waited, gathering himself, slowing his breathing. He searched with his free hand until he found a loose tile. Ripping it from its moorings, he launched it into the air in the opposite direction from which he intended to go. He heard it shatter onto the cobbles of the courtyard below, heard the shouts of the Knights raised in warning. Immediately, he rolled over the top, onto the eastern side of the roof. No crossbow bolts followed him and, without pausing to catch his breath, he made his way as quickly and unobtrusively as he could, at length swinging down onto the library terrace. On his way down, he had disturbed a bird’s nest and, knowing he might not get another chance at sustenance for some time, he ate the three eggs, for once his scent was on them the mother would no longer sit on them but would cast them out, just as his Order was being expelled from the bosom of the Church.

He went quickly through the room, filled with shelves of precious volumes. Even now he was terrified that the Knights would set fire to the monastery and all this knowledge would be lost forever.

Fra Leoni cautiously stepped from room to room, moving ever eastward. He needed to gain the eastern wall. From time to time, like the tide rushing recklessly onto hard shingle, he heard an upsurge in the terrible sounds of war that set his teeth on edge—the clash of steel on steel, the animal grunts of warriors straining one against the other, coarse oaths and the deep groans and cries of those wounded or near death.

In the semidarkness, he at last reached his goal, the eastern wall, which was entirely tiled in a bewildering Greek pattern. He felt with callused fingers for the mechanism that would allow him entry to the hidden stairs—a tile, fifth from the floor, third from the left—and was about to press it when a sound came to him, both low and sharp. He froze and allowed his senses to quest outward. At first nothing, then it came again, the scrape of steel against stone. Someone was in the chamber with him. But instead of attacking, he was watching and waiting.

Fra Leoni quelled his instinct to open the door and flee. He could not let the enemy know of this escape route, for if he did, the Knights would come after him with everything they had.

As casually as he could, he moved his hand down the tiled wall, walked away. And then he did the last thing his enemy expected him to do: he moved directly toward him—or more accurately, because he couldn’t see his enemy, toward the origin point of the noise. He had been right, and there was a small, tight smile of triumph on his face when the brief flash of rising steel crossed his vision. But in that moment, he saw that the Knight was aiming a hackbut point-blank at him. Fra Leoni sprang forward as the Knight squeezed the trigger of the firearm rather more quickly than he had intended. The loud report stung the monk’s ear like a swarm of bees, and for a moment he felt as if his head was filled with lead shot.

Then he had barreled into the Knight and the hackbut was spinning away. He used his fist, then drew his weapon. He and the Knight of St. Clement crossed swords.

Now that they were on equal footing he felt better, but almost immediately the other drove him backward beneath a series of vicious blows. Fra Leoni fought back in a peculiar way—he defended himself. In this way, he was able to gauge the ability of the Knight without giving the level of his own ability away. The Knight was larger and more powerful than he was—and was also skilled and confident. Fra Leoni, driven ever backward beneath the hail of blows, allowed the Knight’s confidence to blossom. A penultimate two-handed blow sent him to his knees. The Knight, grinning in triumph, raised his sword for the killing blow. Fra Leoni, withdrawing a dagger, slashed the entire length of its blade through his assailant’s Achilles tendon. At once, the Knight fell, his sword swinging wildly. Fra Leoni knocked it away. Then he was on top of the Knight, assured that he hadn’t been hit, and drove his dagger through a gap in the other’s armor.

Panting, he levered himself off the corpse, half-staggered to the Moroccan tile wall, pressed the mechanism, and before anyone else could appear, he vanished through the doorway, closing the hidden door behind him.

In absolute darkness, he made his way down a steep spiral staircase. Both he and Fra Prospero had made this journey numerous times, first with crackling reed torches when they had explored, and afterward, in pitch black, to immunize themselves against just such a situation.

He reached the bottom of the stairs without incident and thence made his way to the base of the eastern wall. From the corner he paced off fifteen feet, then he felt for the locking mechanism set flush with the wall. Here was another secret doorway leading to a steep iron staircase that wound down through the thick walls of Sumela—through the hewn stone itself—to emerge some half mile from the monastery grounds. At once, he hurried down the underground passageway, which reeked of mold and the sharp mineral odor of water seeping through stone. He made as little noise as possible, but under the circumstances it was impossible to be absolutely silent. Nevertheless, he was impelled to hurry, and at last, he reached the end of the tunnel. Like a blind man, he reached out, found the rope ladder that led up to the old well, which had never been a well at all but an escape portal should the monastery ever be breached.

He climbed, and kept climbing until he could smell all the myriad scents of the forest. There was another scent, however, overlaying the others, an acrid scent that was altogether familiar....

A powerful hand gripped his shoulder as he climbed out of the well.

“Keep still and absolutely silent,” Fra Kent whispered in his ear.

“How did—?”

“This way,” Fra Kent said urgently, overriding his question. “We’ve been betrayed. Our enemies are lying in wait for you.”

And, indeed, he could see the bobbing flares of light that spoke of torch-lit search parties.

Fra Leoni followed his guide, who led him away from the lights, deeper into the forest, until the torch flares were no longer visible. A moon, huge and lambent, rose in the sky. By its monochromatic light, Fra Leoni saw the tall priest’s visage, which was tense and terribly drawn. And yet, there was a flicker of elation, for they had eluded their enemies.

Fra Leoni turned to him, grasped his forearm in fervent thanks.

“Don’t despair,” Fra Leoni said. “We’ve found a way out, the Order will live another day.”

For an instant, he thought the blue moonlight was playing tricks on him, for it seemed to him as if the look of elation on Fra Kent’s face had turned it demonic. Then Fra Kent had driven the point of a dagger into the meat of his shoulder. As he lurched backward, pain like a fire inside him, Fra Kent came after him.

“What... what are you doing?”

Fra Kent grabbed him, shaking him like a leaf. The look of obsessive concentration on his face was terrifying. He had no interest in Fra Leoni’s momentarily confusion. In fact, he no longer had an interest in holding onto the dagger. He was clawing his way through Fra Leoni’s robes, frantically trying to find the keys.

In that moment, Fra Leoni shook off his pain and shock. Against all odds, Fra Kent was the traitor. He understood, as well, that Fra Kent had betrayed everyone, even his new masters, the Knights of St. Clement. It was obvious by the look of naked greed on his face that he was determined to steal the cache of secrets for himself.

Fra Leoni twisted away from the fumbling hands and, with a cry of anguish, pulled the dagger from his flesh. Immediately, blood began to run from the wound and he grew dizzy. Fra Kent was on him in a flash, knocking the dagger away. Fra Leoni put his hands up an instant too late. Fra Kent’s fist slammed into the point of his chin, knocking him off his feet.

Flashes of light filled his brain, and there was a gathering darkness pressing in on him that was altogether separate from the moonlit night. He could hear birds calling, and the hoot of an owl, far off, or was it the shouts of the enemy as they methodically ground through his brethren? With a major force of will, he shook off the cobwebs, got his arms inside those of Fra Kent, dug white knuckles into the other’s windpipe. A stutter of horrible sounds emanated from Fra Kent as he reared back, his huge torso towering over Fra Leoni.

Fra Leoni threw him off, gained his knees, his hand scrabbling for the dagger. Moonlight gave him a glint, all he needed, and he grasped the hilt, made to stab at Fra Kent.

But the other, coughing still, gripped his shoulder, as he had done when Fra Leoni had first emerged from the wellhead. But this time the spatulate thumb plunged into the open wound. Fra Leoni howled in pain, and his palsied hand released its grip on the dagger.

A grin washed over Fra Kent’s face. With an almost languid movement, he snatched the dagger, turned its point toward his foe. His grip tightened and he turned the blade just so, about to run it across Fra Leoni’s throat, when a shadow appeared from out of the forest and fell over them both.

Present Day—
New York City,
Washington, D.C.

On an exceptionally hot and humid July fourth, Dexter Shaw turned a corner and all at once found himself back in the tense days and edgy nights of his youth. Perhaps it was the sight of the nubile young woman in her sleeveless halter top or the drugged-out young man sitting in the hot shade of a white-brick building, a somnolent dog at his side, a cardboard sign between his knobby, scabbed knees, scrawled with the message, “Please Help. Lost Everything.”