The Dove (12 page)

Directly behind the ‘Prophet’ and his general was an armored truck formerly used to transport money and valuables about New Babylon.  Now it contained one thing:  the severed head of King Ramsay.  Jozsef had been elated to see the perfectly preserved head again.  He’d thought it long ago perished in the Abyss at the hands of the Queen.  He had been surprised and puzzled to learn that the elven King had made a shrine to the head, but its significance was not quite clear.  It was possible it held no significance at all, but highly unlikely.  Whatever the little King had been doing with it must have been important or else the Templars would not have allowed him to keep it on their property under their protection.  He dared not leave it behind with Hubur, just as he dared not take off the Urim and Thummin from around his neck, even though it seemed at times to drag on him mentally and physically as if it had a mind of its own.  Being omnipotent was extremely taxing and he had let some of his control relax a bit.

The landscape stretched out in front of them, barren and devastated by Hubur’s handiwork.  He had spread the word that the Emperor and Nicole had been abducted by the Templars who had also taken Mark Ramsay and the woman, Sophia.  The story had been accepted readily enough and he had simply stepped back up to take control of the government as well as the army.  When they captured the Emperor and his traitorous little crew, they would never make it back to New Babylon.  He would use the Urim and Thummin to get rid of them once and for all and blame it on the Templars.  A sound plan.  And then… after procuring the Ark from Jerusalem, he would return triumphantly to New Babylon and be rid, once and for all, of Hubur.

((((((((((((()))))))))))))

Simon’s absence was noted immediately, but there had been no search.  He had left a rather lengthy note to his father and an apology.  At first, Edgard had been beside himself with anger and then worry, but then Barry and Konrad had pointed out that Mark Andrew would have done the same for any one of them and had, on several occasions, saved Simon’s life, as well as, his own.  If Simon had gone, it had been God’s will. 

Lucio would have been quick to point this out, but Lucio was not with them either.  Vanni had assured them his father would be safe as long as he retained his form as an eagle and Lucio had promised Vanni that he would not try to intervene in anything he found.  He was simply going on a reconnaissance mission to gather information.  As they set about making ready for the trip south to London, Izzy composed a letter for Lucio, written in Ogham script, detailing as much as possible where they were going and their expected timetables. 

They were going first to London to gather King Ramsay’s troops and the King, himself.  Then they would go on to France and unite with King Louis and from there they would travel by sea to Italy.  Eduord de Goth would be on his way to Rome with his own army.  They would muster as much man and firepower as possible, and then head for either Egypt or Turkey, depending upon the outcome of the War Council, which was to be held in Rome.  It reminded more than one of the elder members of the Council of the journeys they had made to Crusade in years gone by.

Their only hint of what had transpired at the council in the underworld was nothing more than a quick description of a plan to go to the east, take the Ark of the Covenant from the Temple in Jerusalem and eventually destroy it in the Temple of Jethro on Mount Sinai.  How this would be accomplished was not discussed, but they all agreed the Ark was much too dangerous to allow it to fall into the wrong hands again. 

The most startling development of late had been the Grand Master’s physical appearance, when he had suddenly joined them at the supper table on the second day into his strange coma.  He had walked into the room wearing the ancient battle gear and younger body he had given up in the thirteenth century.  At first, they had thought him to be King Corrigan of Ireland, but it had not taken his grandsons long to recognize the amazing truth.  Catharine de Goth had, naturally, recognized him first and had laughed aloud to see him in his splendid glory, whereupon he had bowed graciously to her and reminded her she was a married woman.

The brief moment of levity had been quickly followed by chaos as everyone descended on him, demanding answers, filling him in on what had happened in his absence.  Edgard had been appalled to learn that he’d only been gone two nights and two days and had lost two Knights, two apprentices and a Tuathan Healer in his absence.  Barry was duly embarrassed, but the Master took it in good stride for a change and refrained from his usual display of temper.  His deepest concern was for Simon, of course, and then Lucio.  The two most troublesome of all his ‘children’.

He was disappointed that Simon had not been there to greet him.  He had wanted to see what his son would have to say about his new appearance.  It was a great relief to be young again, without the extra weight and ungainliness that had accompanied the creaking knees and bothersome girth and weak eyes. He had not realized just how much he had allowed himself to degrade and wondered why he had not done something about it sooner, but Catharine’s reaction to him had reminded him quite quickly why he had not resumed his former glory through the years.  He was simply a rougher and gruffer version of Carlisle Corrigan.  There was none of the faery-like femininity about the full red beard interspersed long braids at his temples.  Most of his remaining curly hair was cropped rather close, giving him a decidedly Viking appearance.  His clear blue eyes sparkled over ruddy cheeks and his skin was milky white, like glowing alabaster in appearance.  There were no blemishes or freckles to mar his perfect complexion.  He would have made a perfect model for Michelangelo’s sculpture of David.  Even the mighty Lucifer would have been jealous. 

His grandsons were amazed and amused, but seemed totally accepting of their new grandfather who actually appeared younger than some of them.  He was not nearly so intimidating now, but he was still Grand Master.  The only exception was Reuben.  He had been shocked to his foundations to see his grandfather, looking as young as, if not younger than his father, Simon.  It was at best unnerving.  But they had had little time to think about this latest odd occurrence as they packed and readied their wives and children for the trip to St. Patrick’s Island.  Reuben, Simeon and Matthew d’Ornan were going back to St. Patrick’s with the women and children.  Everyone else would go south with the army. 

Luke Andrew was most miserable of all the Templars.  He was his father’s apprentice, but his father was not here.  He was the King of Britain’s nephew, but his uncle was not here. He was half-brother to the mighty Djinni, Adalune Kadif, but Lemarik had not been heard from. He was half-brother to the King of the Elves, Il Dolce Mio, but Il Dolce Mio had gone home to his kingdom. He was the uncle of the Prophet, Omar Kadif, but Omar could be found nowhere.  He was great uncle of the Emperor of Persia, but Bari was the enemy and his sister, Nicole, was with him.  His nephew, and number one fan, Michael Ramsay and his good friend, Galen Ramsay, were both gone from him now.  He felt absolutely, irrevocably lost.  Even little Selwig was gone.  Everyone seemed to have a purpose or predestination or a fate or whatever it might be called, except him.  Something to live and breathe for… a wife, a child, a dog, a cat.  He had nothing.  He had lost everything, even Sophia and Jasmine.

The brief contact with Nicole in the meadow had affected him profoundly, and he had never felt so lonely in all his life.  He felt hollow and every time he spoke, his own words seemed to echo endlessly in the emptiness in his head.  He had already packed everything that meant anything to him in a single backpack.  He sat on the front steps of his father’s house, dressed in Ramsay red.  He wore black leather boots that laced up his shins to his knees.  The golden sword of the Cherubim, his own personal copy, was at his side as was the magick dagger from the Treasures of Briton that Lemarik had given him.  He didn’t even have anyone to say goodbye to as the women and children with whom he had shared a home for the last several years, hurried and scurried back and forth, loading their baggage in one of the only running vans left in Scotland, and, for the first time, he realized how lonely his father must have been during his all too brief years spent at his beloved home in Lothian.  It was incredible to think how much he had come to love this land of fogs and long, dark nights, deep lakes and rolling meadows.  Several minutes passed as he watched the Knights and apprentices come out with their families.  There were many hugs and kisses and tears as they said goodbye.  He tried to watch and not watch these displays as they fascinated him and, at the same time, made him feel even more miserable. He stood with the rest of the men as they watched the van drive away, loaded inside and out with bags and baggage and weeping women. 

It seemed like a waking nightmare.  This was the first time he had ever witnessed such a thing and wondered how many times just such scenes had occurred as families had been torn apart by wars in the past.  It was never ending. The men go off to death and destruction and the women stay behind weeping and wringing their hands in despair.  Here there, along the way, women had rode out to battle, but inevitably, it was the women who carried on the race, cared for the children and bore the grief of man’s folly.  It mattered very little whether they considered themselves liberated or oppressed.  Grief was grief.  His only regret was he had no one to grieve for him.  If he left here and was never seen again, he would hardly have been noticed as missing until one of the Brothers needed a bit of decapitation.  This irreverent thought, arising from his old cynicism, made him smile in spite of it all.  He had even lost Sophia to his own father!  He was failure when it came to women.

The second vehicle, an ATV loaded with a few of the Templar soldiers followed the van, carrying more luggage and all the records Lavon and Issachar had packed for transport to the keep at St. Patrick’s.  Luke suddenly wished that he was going with them.  He had no heart for this campaign.  It seemed there was something else that he should be doing.  The Knights and apprentices scattered again, leaving him to his solitude in the bright morning light.  He got up slowly and walked down the path toward the stables.  He passed the stable where the horses were being rounded up from the pastures and made ready for travel.  He walked past the rock pile that had once been his father’s favorite place of solitude, now surrounded by a rusting cast iron fence.  He plucked a stalk of the sweet grass growing in the crevices and stuck it between his teeth as he walked along.  The thought that he would never see these meadows again weighed heavily on his mind and he tried hard to imagine what it must have been like here three or four hundred years ago.  Everyone would have been wearing kilts then.  Things would have been much better if he had been born then or, perhaps, not born at all.  He sat down in the grass and then lay back, looking up at the steel blue sky.  The sun was warm on his face and the meadow larks sang to him as he drifted off.  The sun grew warmer and warmer and until he realized that something was wrong.  He opened his eyes and saw a silvery sky over his head, completely cloudless.  The sun was a blinding glare. 

The scene changed as he brought his gaze down and he was looking across the stark landscape of a desert wasteland.  The ground was flat, featureless, except for a scattering of rocks and boulders.  A line of deep purple mountains marched across the horizon and in the foreground a long string of camels, walking one behind the other, made him blink rapidly.  What was this?  What had happened?  The scene moved and he felt dizzy.  It was as if someone were turning him about.  The horizon slipped sideways and he tried to raise his hands to his face, but he could not move.  Suddenly he was looking into Sophia’s face.  She was frantic, panicked.

“Mark!”  She said.  “Come on!  Hurry!  They’ll see you.”

His vision bobbled along behind her head and it seemed that she was dragging him along, but he could not feel anything.  He could see the ground, rough and rock strewn; he could see her long, black robe and her arm and his hand in hers… no,
not
his hand.  This hand was attached to an arm wearing a long, white sleeve with purple trim.  He tried to call out to her, but he was paralyzed.  A dark doorway loomed in front of him and he was pulled through.  The light was better inside.  He flinched as Nicole’s face appeared in front of him.

“Daddy!  Don’t run off like that again.”  She admonished him.  “You don’t know who or what’s out there.  You scared us to death!”

“Grandfather?  Are you all right?”  The scene changed and he saw Omar… no, Bari Kadif.  What was this?  Where was he?  Why were they calling him Mark?  Daddy?  Grandfather?

“Outside!”  He heard his own voice, also excited.  “Outside!  Horses!”

“No.  Those were camels, not horses.”  Sophia’s voice again.  “Come on now.  Sit down.  Drink some water.”  He seemed to tumble toward the floor and then he saw Bari again and Nicole, briefly before a canteen obscured his vision. 

“Who is that out there?”  Nicole’s voice from somewhere nearby.  The room spun and he saw her framed in the door, talking to a man dressed in black.

“A trade caravan, headed for New Babylon.”  The man answered.  “Bedouin.  A rare sight these days.”

“Did they see you?”  Bari’s voice, urgent, excited.

“I spoke with them, your Grace.”  The man answered him.  “I told them we were headed for the Gulf of Oman.  They know nothing.”

“They will tell of us.”  Bari spun around and began to pace back and forth.  Luke’s eyes seemed to follow him without the sensation of moving his head.  He was seeing from his father’s eyes somewhere deep in the desert country of the Middle East.  Bedouin.  Caravans.  Nicole. Bari.  It was maddening not to say something.  He tried to speak to them.  Nothing came out.