A Song in Stone by Walter H. Hunt

Author:Walter H. Hunt [Hunt, Walter H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4405-4379-1
Publisher: Prologue Books
Published: 2008-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Part II

A Song In Stone

Ignoranti, quem portum petat, nullus suus ventus est.

(If one does not know to which port he is sailing, no wind is favourable.)

—Lucius Annaeus Seneca,

Epistulae ad Lucilum, 71:3

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word. For my eyes have seen thy salvation, which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; a light to lighten the Gentiles and the glory of thy people Israel.

—The Gospel of St Luke, 2:29-32

Chapter 13

The roads of central France scarcely deserved the name. They had been good enough for us to walk on, particularly when the weather was fine; but they were hazardous and far less forgiving for a cart. But with the cargo we carried it was the only choice.

• • •

We carried our precious burden through dimly-lit passages until we reached a hand-operated pulley lift.

“Set it down here,” he’d said. “You work the winch, Templar. I’ll go up first and make sure it’s all clear.”

“I don’t think so,” Rob answered. He squinted at the stonemason in the dim light of a flickering torch.

“You don’t trust me.”

“What makes you think so?” He smiled slightly. “You take Ian with you.” Rodney scowled. I looked from my friend and guide to the Giblumite, who was clenching his fists.

“All right,” he said at last, gesturing to me to climb onto the lift. I didn’t know whether he expected me to object. He stepped next to me, and Rob began to work the mechanism.

Slowly we rode up, the wooden platform shuddering as it encountered rough spots on the adjacent rock wall. To my surprise, the lift was fairly quiet; just the sound of the rope passing over some unseen pulley above u, and the occasional bump of wood against stone interrupted the silence.

It took most of a soft-boiled egg for us to make it all the way up. I could see a roof above us and light leaking through shuttered doors on one side of the shaft; there was a chock attached to each rope that halted the lift when it reached the correct height.

“Best have that staff of yours at hand, Initiate,” he said quietly.

I assumed a fighting stance, not knowing what to expect.

He nodded and turned away, then said, “Do you trust me?”

“What?”

“Do you trust me, Initiate? Any more than you trust the Templar down there?”

“I’ve known him for—”

“Yes?”

He interrupted me, as if he was aware how little I knew Rob. After a moment of thought, I realised that he probably could reach some reasonable conclusion: this was Rob’s twelfth pilgrimage as a guide, and all of them had come through Chartres.

“I trust him with my life. Why do you ask?”

“Because you’re being used,” he answered. He took a step forward and gently knocked on the wall: three times, then a pause, then once more.

“What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer, but someone did from the other side—three times, then once in response.

He knocked once, and so did the other.

“Ready?” he said to me, very quietly.

I didn’t answer this time.

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