The Centaur (34 page)

“Nonsense! You just got here. Please, I’m sorry I frightened you in the hall. I promise not to be so foolish again. Stay a while. No one is home at the moment. No one will know other than the servants, and Sir Timothy, God rest his soul, won’t be returning here. Mark tells me he lost his life in the Holy Lands. It was always a dream of his, you know. To go on crusade with King William.”

“Ahhh, King William, the Lion. Yes, I remember.” Mark nodded and then stepped into the parlor.

“I’ll be back straight away,” she told him and then hurried off in the direction of the kitchen.

Mark went quickly to the windows at the front of the house and looked out. Where there had been a shell drive and parking area was nothing but grass, rutted by wagons and carts. Beyond the grassy front yard was a rolling meadow. No sign of the buildings the Order had built there. Further along, he could see a flock of sheep and the figure of a man leaning on a tall walking stick. He crossed the room and looked out the rear windows. He saw a line of clean sheets flapping in the breeze and several stools, a wooden washtub lying on its side and beyond that the trees rose up much closer to the house than he remembered. A hound sauntered into sight and plopped down in the dirt before rolling lazily onto its back. A young woman appeared with another tub full of laundry and began to pin them up on the clothesline. The hound got up, sniffed the tub at her feet and got a sound whack on the nose for his trouble.

Mark’s heart fell to his knees. This simply couldn’t be happening. None of it made sense. His mother had never lived here! This was not Timothy Ramsay’s home. He had lived in the highlands, not Lothian. And the clothes were all wrong. His mother’s dress was at least eighteenth century if not later and she still spoke of King William and the Crusades. It didn’t add up. It was some kind of magick. Very, very strong magick, and he had no idea who had perpetrated this spell on him. Somewhere Sophia was in danger, and it was his duty to protect her.

Lily returned and startled him again from his panicked thoughts.

“John, you really should sit down. You look rather peaked.”

“I’m sorry. I had not expected to see you.”

She frowned at his remark, and then sat on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap.

“I mean, I didn’t really believe you would see me.”

“Why would I not want to see you, John?” She asked. “You know very well how I feel about you.”

“I don’t know. I…” he stopped as another facet of the situation sunk into his mind. She thought he was John Larmenius, not Mark. She had spoken of Mark. This was not his mother. This was Mark and Luke’s mother. The beautiful wife of Timothy Ramsay, whom he had killed as surely as he stood there. His face grew dark, and he lost his breath momentarily. He had grown to think of her as his beloved mother for so many years, he had forgotten, or rather pushed aside the real truth of the matter. He had killed her as surely as any murderer might have done. He had won her love with no trouble, seduced her into his bed and then killed her by proxy when she could not give birth to the sons he had sired. “Oh, God! Lily… I’m sorry!”

She sat very quietly as he fell on his knees in front of her and buried his face in her skirts, weeping, asking her forgiveness. It was all very puzzling to her, but she patted his head while he cried. He was still crying when the frightened maid brought the tea service a while later.

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

Lemarik reined in his horse and frowned as the company poured from the rubble of the royal palace. The regular soldiers came out first, shouting something about water. They retreated into the debris filled streets in disarray. Lemarik’s four Templars, who had gone down with them, came out next and made directly for the Djinni.

“What goes?” Lemarik asked them.

“The passages fill with water, Your Grace. There is much confusion. We did not see the queen mother.” One of the ghostly Knights with a long red beard, answered him.

“And what of my son? Where is he?” The Mighty Djinni scoured the fleeing forces with an eagle’s eye, searching for the purple and white.

“He stayed with the dark one.”

“Dark one?” Lemarik frowned at the Knight.

“The one you call father, Your Grace.”

“A demon was with him,” another Knight spoke up and glanced over his shoulder, obviously frightened of what he had glimpsed before the water had rushed up the stairs.

“A demon?” Lemarik asked and dismounted. He strode toward the dark opening where Lucifer’s band was emerging from the ruins of the underground garage. “Ho, Lucifer, Lord of Light!” He called to the angelic chief.

Lucifer had turned his back and appeared to be waiting for something. He held his sword out in front of him and his warriors formed a bristling semi-circle behind him, weapons drawn and ready. Lucifer glanced over his shoulder when he heard Lemarik call his name.

The Tuathan healer stumbled from the shadows, clutching his yellow bag tightly. He climbed over the rubble toward them, and then suddenly shrieked and fell on his back as a tremendous rush of cold air struck his back.

A dark shadow shot out of the opening and flew straight for the band of angels. The demon appeared in all its hideous glory, mouth opened in an ear-splitting roar, forked tongue lolling out over sharp teeth. Horns sprouted from both sides of its forehead at the temple and its gray scales were edged in blood red hues. The long, muscular tail whipped the air. A great shout went up as the warriors broke in all directions, blasted by the close brush with the leathery wings of the Scorpion Lord. Abaddon made his exit in grand fashion, flying first low over his enemy and then turning straight up into the air. Lucifer regained his footing and shouted curses after the fleeing figure. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it faster than the ordinary eye could see. The missile flew after the dark angel. It was impossible to know whether the arrow hit its mark, now only a darker spot in the night sky.

Lemarik picked himself up and hurried toward the terrified Selwig. He picked him up and set him on a piece of broken concrete.

“Where is Omar?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” Selwig stammered. “The water! The water was everywhere! Where is Sir Ramsay?” He shot a wide-eyed glance at the dark opening. Everyone was out now.

Lemarik let go of the Tuathan and made his way toward the dark opening. He was stopped when Mark Andrew emerged from the darkness, followed closely by a gush of dark water.

“Get back!” The Knight grabbed the Djinni and pushed him back. The water erupted from the ruins in numerous geysers, spilling over the rubble into the streets. It was cold and dark, and stunk of brimstone and sulfur.

“Where is my son?!” Lemarik shouted in his face.

“He’ll be all right!” Mark told him and continued to shove him backwards. The waters covered their feet.

Selwig stood on top of the concrete mound, staring at the swirling flood.

The soldiers and Templars were already beating a retreat down the street. Lucifer and his warriors were climbing higher onto the ruins to escape the deluge.

Mark and Lemarik grabbed Selwig between them and followed the angels up the mountain of ruin.

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

“You should have known he would go, Your Grace,” Barry grumped and shook his head as he poked at Lucio’s discarded clothing with the toe of his boot.

Edgard stood with one hand on his hip and the other pressed to forehead.

“He could have at least told us that he was leaving,” d’Brouchart muttered and then sighed. His eyes came to rest on face of the Knight of the Apocalypse.

“He told me he would be leaving us soon. There was no talking him out of it, Sir.” The dark Knight answered the unspoken question.

“He stopped following my orders long ago,” Edgard admitted this truth as if making a confession and then crossed himself. “May he find what he seeks in good health as her health mirrors the health of our kith and kin.” He turned on his heel and walked away from the small indention in the cliff wall. They had camped on the muddy slopes of the mountain where the Ark had come to rest when the water had subsided. Lemarik’s people had set up an altar in the rocky soil and lit a flame to attest to their devotion to their prophet and to give thanks to the Creator for their rescue from the deluge. After the solemn ceremony, they had gathered their belongings, flocks and children and left the soldiers and Knights of the Temple to their own fates. Where they were going, no one knew except themselves and no one questioned the good people that had shared their home with them freely for the past several days. The flood had not been quite as severe as Noah’s great adventure. They had spent less than a week upon the open sea before being washed inland and gently set aground on the side of the barren mountain. The landscape below the slopes was drying out quickly in the sun. Here and there lakes sparkled in the valleys and depressions where none had existed before. It would take years for the greater ‘puddles’ to evaporate.

They had taken council and decided to set out for the west as soon as the slopes were dry enough for the horses to traverse without danger. Only Konrad’s vision had given them a good perspective of where they were and the fate of the rest of the world. He had used his gift to look in on New Babylon and found them high and dry and still besieging the city. He had found Scotland and Ireland intact by looking in on Mark Andrew in Lothian, but he had held back his concerns for the jumbled perceptions he had witnessed there. Something was amiss in Lothian. He still retained a close tie with the Knight of Death, but he could not discern between the actual Knight of Death and the Mark Andrew that had left them with Sophia Cardinelli in tow. He cursed himself for never having connecting with Reuben d’Ornan or Vanni in order to keep tabs on their more scattered relations. Once, he had tried to make a mental connection with Catharine de Goth and had received a formidable headache for his trouble. She would have none of it and recognized his attempts immediately. He not only received a headache, but also a severe tongue lashing when he next saw her. She had refused to listen to reason and so he had left it alone. His connection with Mark, on the other hand, seemed fragmented and unreliable. He received emanations from the Knight from three different directions and in three different tones as if there were three Mark Ramsays. Each in a different place and each projecting a mental energy at different levels of power. He had not mentioned this anomaly to the Grand Master, nor had he told Lucio about it. He had simply tried to impress upon the Italian the need to travel to Lothian as soon as he had assured himself of Catharine’s welfare and see what was going on there in person.

Lucio had promised to do just that and Konrad had promised to ‘keep in touch’.

“As soon as you learn something of his whereabouts, let me know.” Edgard issued this order over his shoulder as he and the other Knights and apprentices followed after him. They had been searching for the Golden Eagle for several hours before finding his discarded clothes and equipment in the little alcove under the overhang of the cliff.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Konrad smiled slightly and glanced up at the purple sky. The sun was just above the eastern horizon and the deep color of the heavens promised a glorious day.

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

“Poppi!” Vanni dropped his drum on the floor and bounded across the great hall toward his father.

Lucio caught the young man in his arms and kissed him repeatedly on the cheeks as the rest of the ‘band’ gathered around him, babbling at once, asking questions and laughing at seeing the Italian home and whole.

He let go of his son and looked around at the anxious faces as they fell quite waiting for him to speak. He had a great deal of explaining to do and he hadn’t planned a speech.

“Let him have some air,” Catharine took his hand and pushed her way through the group. “Suzanne, bring us some coffee. We’ll hear what he has to say when everyone is here.”

The crowd shuffled back to the long table in the great hall where abandoned instruments lay scattered on the benches and tables.

Soon they were reassembled and playing lively tunes at the Knight’s request while they drank strong coffee and waited for the rest of the d’Ornan clan to arrive.

A petite brunette that Lucio had never seen before sat very close to his son, staring at him from curious brown eyes.

“Vanni,” Lucio reached for his son’s arm. “Where is your daughter?”

“She’s with the King,” Vanni told him and then smiled at the girl beside him.

“And who is this?” Lucio almost hated to ask.

“This is Miss Veronica Long. She is the daughter of Captain Long. He is captain of the guard at Rushen. Her mother is Martha Mary Selman Long and her mother’s father was the Master-at-Arms and then Gatekeeper at Rushen before he retired to a quiet life in the country just south of Ramsay.” Vanni turned a smile on the young lady and she blushed. Vanni’s introduction made her sound like royalty. “Miss Long, I would like to introduce you to my father, Lucio Apolonio Dambretti, son of the Doge of Venice, Knight of the Golden Eagle, Poor Knight of Solomon’s Temple, Keeper of the Secrets of Isis and Osiris and heir to the thrones of Egypt, Babylonia and Sumeria. His mother was a great sorceress and he was once the husband of Dame Meredith Sinclair, former Chevaliere du…”