Empire of Bones (18 page)

“He welcomes the Irish,” Rupert whispered. “The Brothers of the Voyager, their coming is ‘as blessed as the rising light of the sun to men trapped in nightmare.’ ”

The Abbot continued. Cyrus knew most of the words, but they were coming too fast for him.

“ ‘The day has come, my sons and brothers,’ ” Rupert whispered. “ ‘The day long awaited and long feared, the day of abomination.’ ” He looked at Cyrus and rolled his eyes. “Brilliant.”

The monk with the golden patrik stepped forward and took over. His Latin was quicker, his pronunciations archaic, and his accent made it sound almost like a song. Cyrus understood maybe one word in five. Rupert was listening intently, no longer translating.

Cyrus tapped his Keeper on the shoulder.

Rupert glanced back. “The old words,” he whispered. “He’s quoting the original covenant between the monks and the O of B.” The force of the monk’s voice rose. The old man’s words were angry and slow.

“Now all the ways the O of B has broken that covenant,” Rupert whispered. He shrugged. “And he’s not wrong.” The monk threw his arms into the air and began to shout, gold light from his snake haloing his wild hair. “ ‘Enemies rise,’ ” Rupert translated in a low monotone. “ ‘Dragons and flesh-mixing devils once again take root among men while the Order sleeps in its own rot and filth. Let fires burn away the dross. Let the storm winds rid us of the chaff. Let the Order once more raise holy hands; let us wear the robes and wield the tools of Reapers. Cleanse Ashtown of her impurity, empty her halls of vain unbelievers, open the terrible armories of the forgotten wars, rouse the Brothers Below, let every man feel the cold Breath of Brendan and tremble before our Justice and Wrath.’ ”

The monk dropped his arms and the room was silent.

“Wow,” Cyrus mouthed.

“If this goes badly,” Rupert whispered, rising to his knees, “you know the way out. Don’t linger. Get to the plane.”

Rupert ruffled Cyrus’s damp hair, and then he stood.

“What are you doing?” Cyrus whispered. “Rupe!”

Rupert hopped up over Cyrus onto the stone railing, and he crossed his big black-sleeved arms. Cyrus bit his lip and pressed himself down against the floor.

The Abbot had once again waddled forward. His red face had paled while the monk with the patrik had spoken.

“Don’t get too courageous, there, Irish!” Rupert’s voice filled the domed room. “Or this lot might have to fight someone.”

With that, Rupert turned and dropped, catching his hands on the rail. He winked at Cyrus and dropped again, down into the crowd of gasping monks below.

 ten 

TWO BELLS

T
HE MONKS PARTED AS
R
UPERT WALKED
toward the altar, his sleeved feet silent on the bright map tiles beneath. The old monk with the patrik tightened his lips and smiled. The fat Abbot wiped his forehead.

“Mr. Greeves,” the Abbot said. “How did you … Why?” His Latin was gone.

Rupert laughed. “I am the Avengel, Abbot. I know every door into every one of your little chapels. I know your calendars and rituals and liturgies. I know your covenants with the O of B, and I know what recourse lies before you if, as dear Father Patrick of Monasterboice just informed us so eloquently, those covenants have indeed been broken.”

“You have no standing in this gathering,” the old Irish monk growled. Niffy, thick and hooded, inched toward Rupert.

“But I
am
standing in this gathering,” Rupert said. He stopped in front of the altar. “And despite the lawless efforts of this Order’s current Brendan, I have managed
to retain my office and rank within the rule of law.” He bowed to the Abbot. “But if the Abbot chooses to side with Bellamy ‘Blasphemy’ Cook, if he believes the office of Avengel was truly abolished and that our current Brendan is not, in fact, a lackey of Phoenix, then I will beg your pardon and make my exit.” He faced the Abbot and bowed his head, waiting. After a moment of silence, he glanced up. “Abbot, I await your judgment.”

Cyrus smiled. Rupert was enjoying himself. Niffy took another silent step forward. Cyrus opened his mouth to yell, and then clamped it shut. Not yet.

The Abbot stammered. Rupert kept his eyes on him but cleared his throat loudly.

“Brother Niffy,” Rupert said. “If you touch me here, it will be no puppy scuffle.”

Niffy froze where he stood. Cyrus saw him look up at the old monk Rupert had called Father Patrick. Patrick nodded slightly, and Niffy backed away.

“Right!” Rupert turned and faced the crowd. “As the Abbot has no objections, I ask that you, my cowled brothers, hear my proposal before you elect to burn Ashtown into a ruin. Bellamy Cook was duly appointed by the Sages of this Order.” The monks began to grumble, but Rupert raised his gloved hands for silence. “Aye, he was elected when the O of B was under duress. He was elected with threats hanging in the air. And he serves at the pleasure of Phoenix, not the members of the Order.”

“Liar!” a voice shouted. “He’s a stooge for the bloody flesh-mixers and transmortal devils!”

The crowd murmured approval.

“So I thought as well,” Rupert said. “But since I left Ashtown behind me, I have discovered otherwise. Radu Bey and Gilgamesh saw that they would benefit from his appointment. But Bellamy was not their puppet. It was Phoenix who ordered the treaties voided and the old bonds severed. Phoenix wants to freeze the O of B in fear while he builds. He wants Radu and the others to tear us down, and then he will tame the beasts with new collars. He will bind the wild ones to himself. And he can do it. Two months ago, I saw transmortals challenge Phoenix and fall before him, paralyzed by darts with poison spelled from the Dragon’s Tooth, from the Reaper’s Blade. They fear him already, and if he is given the time to prepare, he may even break them. If not, he falls, but only after we are already buried in the rubble of this place.”

“We need the old weapons!” Father Patrick shouted. “Rouse the Brothers Below and see what Phoenix’s darts, or even the tooth itself, can do to their stone flesh.” He stepped to the altar and swept up one of the black-bladed swords. “These will sing with the Reaper’s kiss as well, Avengel! Why is Radu Bey’s head still on his shoulders?”

The monks cheered. Fists rose.

Rupert let his chin hit his chest. He stood still, silent, waiting for the storm to pass.

“The treaties bound this Order, too,” Father Patrick said. “She once had tools of pain and madness to make even the Draculs weep. And she put them away! Forbade her own strengths! But the old curses on the dark tools are lifted now, Avengel. Mortals can once again wield them without fear. It is a day long awaited by the brothers of Monasterboice, by the Cryptkeepers, abandoned for centuries to labor long without the great arms sealed in Ashtown.”

Rupert’s head still hung.

Father Patrick paced behind Rupert with his glowing snake on his arm. The room quieted slowly. Finally, Rupert spoke, but to the floor, without looking up.

“Seventy-two,” he said. “In 1859, the Brothers Below were roused by a fool of a Hungarian monk studying in this very cloister. Seventy-two people were killed in less than half an hour. The monk was the first struck down.”

“I’ve read the account,” Father Patrick said. “The number was inflated, to discourage the use of the Brothers.”

The Abbot sputtered and suddenly found his voice. “I assure you, Patrick, our records are meticulous and serve only the truth.”

“One hundred and forty-four,” Rupert said. He finally looked up. “The Brothers’ previous spree. In 1617,
they obliterated a nearby Indian encampment. But what would a wise man expect from Brother Justice and Brother Wrath? We are all impure. We all need mercy, and the Brothers are heartless, soulless stone.”

“They have been used wisely,” Patrick said. “It can be done.”

“Possibly,” Rupert said. “But like all of Ashtown’s dangerous residents, there is good reason why they were Buried in our deepest cells. Any man who seeks to free them seeks guilt—for his own death and the deaths of many others.” He turned, gave Father Patrick a slow assessing look, glanced at the sweating Abbot, and then once again faced the crowd. This time he spread his feet and gripped his arms behind his back.

“Here is my proposal,” Rupert said. “I will arm you. The old Sages wove many curses around many tools to prevent us from using them. Those curses may now be gone, but true evil cannot be lifted from a tool in the same way. I will choose which weapons will remain untouched. There will be no complaints about my choices. And even those weapons that I consider righteous are not to be used against a transmortal who begs mercy and willingly surrenders.”

Grumbles rose from the crowd. Father Patrick laughed. The Abbot wiped his forehead.

“Without a trial,” Rupert continued. “Unlike the Brothers Below, we have some wisdom to discern when
mercy is the stronger weapon than wrath. We will remain an Order of laws, or we have already been destroyed.” Rupert looked around.

“That’s it, then?” Father Patrick asked. “You’ll play at picksies in the deep vaults and then hand the weapons over? I know a promise with strings on when I hear it. Drop the other shoe.”

“There are two stipulations and one difficulty,” Rupert said. “I will hand the weapons over only if all seven Cryptkeepers renew their alliance to the O of B. The Brothers of the Voyager must resubmit their governance to the Brendan. Centuries ago, your founders left because of treaties that are no more. Your current ranks would be honored on reentry, and thus, six of your seven would immediately hold our rank of Sage. One would be Keeper. The last I tallied, five votes are all that is needed to remove Bellamy Cook as Brendan. Do that, and Ashtown, these assembled brothers, and the Cryptkeepers will be armed, a corrupt Brendan ousted, the O of B preserved, and the rule of law observed.”

Father Patrick scowled. “And I suppose we are to name you in Bellamy’s place, then?”

Rupert shook his head. “I am Avengel. Alan Livingstone would make a better Brendan than I. Or perhaps Robert Boone.” Rupert smiled. “He would govern to your liking.”

The old Irish monk was fidgeting with the snake on
his arm. “It is a lot to ask of us. But you’ve named the stipulations. What is the difficulty?”

“The weapons you seek are not all here,” Rupert said. “Some were destroyed when the treaties were formed. Others were sealed behind the Brothers Below or used in the Burials, and must not be disturbed. As for the rest, over the centuries, many power-thirsty thieves have wormed through the vaults of Ashtown. Weapons have been taken, destroyed, or lost when curses fell on those who tried to use them.”

Father Patrick laughed. “This seems a great deal more than a mere difficulty. You’ll arm us, but there are no arms?”

“There is a map,” Rupert said. “Left to me by an outlaw spy who lived and labored under Phoenix’s nose. Many of the old weapons were collected and hidden. I will tend to their gathering.”

“You and the young Smiths, you mean,” Father Patrick said. “The map was William Skelton’s making? The man called Billy Bones?”

Rupert didn’t answer. Cyrus pressed his face all the way against the cool stone rail, watching the crowd of monks shift uncomfortably. Finally, Father Patrick nodded. Five of the monks, including Niffy, stepped out of the crowd and moved toward Father Patrick. Six of the Cryptkeepers.

Cyrus couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t work, could it?
Just like that, the Irishmen would rejoin the O of B as Sages and Bellamy could be removed? Rupert was smiling, but not because he had been joking. He was happy. Cyrus’s mind began to race. Hope surged up inside him, and it felt strange, like being suddenly well fed after weeks of hunger. He hadn’t realized just how hopeless he had become. But with Bellamy gone, everything would change. The Order would stop hunting his family. They could stop running and move back to Ashtown. They could train again. Rupert could unite the O of B to stand against Phoenix and the transmortals both.

“We have stipulations of our own,” Father Patrick said. “About your transmortal ‘allies,’ so-called, and they cannot be negotiated.”

A large cold hand suddenly slid over Cyrus’s mouth. Another clamped tight around his throat, closing off his windpipe. Cyrus jerked and writhed onto his back. The arms were as solid as timber, long and bare to the shoulders. The skin was tinged green and traced with bone tattoos. One of Phoenix’s men—one of the Reborn. Cyrus punched. He kicked and slapped and clawed cold skin, gasping in silence, watching small gills flutter on the sides of his attacker’s throat. The world was suddenly slow, and Cyrus noticed everything. The man’s wide eyes were lunar gray and scribbled with zigzagging black veins instead of pupils. And he wasn’t even looking at Cyrus. He was looking down at the chapel floor, his steel grip
barely even an exertion for him. More shapes flowed up the narrow stairs behind the tattooed man and slid around the ringed balcony like shadows.