But this was the lie he wanted me to believe. A twist of logic that seemed so obvious and so natural, but when I looked at it more closely, it fell apart. So Husserl was privy to Philippe's plan, and Philippe knew that Husserl knew. But that didn't tell me who was ultimately playing whom. Husserl had as much opportunity-if not more-than any of the Architects. If he could read the future, then I would have been disappointed if he hadn't been able to anticipate what was coming. It would be easy to claim ownership of the plan now as I was the only one who could readily contradict him. Control didn't mean compliance or agreement. It simply meant knowledge.
Those who understand the big picture get to fine-tune the small details. One of the truisms of the Watchers. If you Know, you can act. If Husserl Knew, then why couldn't this all be an act? A misdirection for my benefit?
Which circled us back to the basic question: Why?
I put my hands flat against the floor, and the Chorus remarked on the rhythm of ley energy storming beneath me. Like the vibrations from the DJ's record, back at Batofar. A subsonic vibration, a confusion of echoes. In my own head, the same sort of mixture-too many histories, too many divergent desires. It became difficult to parse the "why?" out of the noise.
"Why did you call me when I was at the Archives?"
Stalling. Trying to think. Trying to put more of the pieces together.
"I've already told you."
"I don't believe it was just to tell me that I was the axis around which all of this turned. I would have figured that out eventually. You forced the issue, and you revealed yourself. I didn't know your involvement prior to that call. Why did you give away that advantage?"
"It confuses you, doesn't it? That we might not be enemies. That we might be working toward the same goal."
"What goal? Coronation?"
"It is the inevitable outcome of this course. A new Hierarch will be Crowned."
"And you think I should be showing more enthusiasm about giving you that opportunity."
"I know you will."
I shifted my weight forward and Husserl didn't seem bothered by the shift in my position. I considered the distance between us, and the obstacles: Antoine, Henri, the blood, Charles. .
"Where's Marielle?" I realized.
He smiled, a motion made all the more sinister by the fact that no lines developed on his face. He really did have the skin of an infant. "That's a better question."
I repeated it.
Husserl inhaled deeply, like a hound scenting the approach of rain. "I won't try to convince you that she came willingly, because you won't believe me, so I will say that she is in my care, and will remain so until Coronation. At which time, I will put a knife into her chest and cut her heart out."
Her heart.
On the floor beside me, the tarot card twitched, the wet smear of ink and blood solidifying into a concrete picture. Hearing some echo in Husserl's words, I listened to the Chorus for a moment as I watched the picture on the card become clear. A woman holding up a cup, and rising out of the frame, only his crossed feet and the wide pole upon which he was crucified visible, was the Martyr. It was identical to the watercolor I had seen at the Chapel of Glass, though a close-up detail. The crucified man's flaming heart wasn't visible. But the cup was.
Philippe's spirit giving me a nudge, trying to bridge a gap and make a connection. Drink from this vessel. The Ace of Cups; I had drawn it on the chart of the Architects, an unconscious doodle while Vivienne had been mesmerizing me. Words and tongues; tell me what ails you? Earlier, at Batofar, I had sipped from a cup Marielle had given me containing a concoction that had driven out the poison in my system. But was that all it had done? Had it created some other connection?
Her hips moving, inviting me to try again. In the alcove on Batofar, the physical connection. I had been caught up in the moment, in the sensation of being alive and whole again, and I hadn't been paying close enough attention. Keys and locks. Opening doors and crossing thresholds; connections made across disparate spaces. Marielle hadn't been fucking me. She had been trying to extract something from me during the sex. She had tried to break open some mystery hidden within my heart. What I say and what I mean are never the same.
What had she tried to take?
"You won't harm her," I said.
His smile remained. "You are guessing, calling my bluff."
"No, I know you're lying."
"And how do you know that?"
"Because if you wanted to kill her, you'd have done so already."
He nodded. "Yes, in much the same way I would have cut your throat while you were busy dreaming that petty little dream of yours if that is what I had wanted."
"Yes."
"Very good. You are learning to think." He leaned on his cane, the light flashing on his glasses. "If I haven't killed you, then I must want something."
"I'm guessing you do. Why don't you tell me?"
"The Spear, M. Markham. It and the Holy Grail are required for the Coronation ceremony."
I glanced at the solid floor, and then at the circular indentation left by my fist. "Ah," I said, getting it. "And I suppose she is the carrot by which you will entice me to retrieve the Spear for you."
"Precisely. The sisters of the Archives will only release the Grail when the Spear has been retrieved."
The ground trembled. It felt almost like an aftershock of an earthquake, the faint vibration that seemed like nothing more than the sort of rumble caused by a heavy truck downshifting on the road outside, but as we were far from any major roadway, that was hardly the case. Something else had shifted.
"The Coronation was supposed to have taken place at dawn this morning," Husserl said, seemingly indifferent to the tremor. "The first day of spring. But that was not to be, it would seem. The sun is already in the sky, and the Land is troubled by the lack of a Hierarch. We will have one more chance tomorrow to greet the sun."
The ground trembled again, more obviously this time, and I scrambled to my feet.
"What's going on?" I demanded.
"The Architect Spiertz." Husserl tapped his cane against the floor. "He, too, wants the Spear."
The Chorus tried to get a reading, but couldn't sense anything through the crawling web of etheric energy in the rock. "Where is he?" I asked, even though I had a bad feeling about the answer.
"Underground," Husserl said. "Though I believe he is trying to break out."
XXV
The next tremor was strong enough to make me stumble, and I lurched against the nearby wall for support. By the time I recovered, Husserl had retreated from the room. It was a good idea; Chapelle Notre-Dame-sous-Terre was directly under the nave of the main cathedral. There was a lot of masonry overhead that I wasn't too sure was built to withstand a major earthquake. It would pancake this chamber should it all come down. As I passed the mess of Henri's body, the Chorus registered a stuttering rhythm in Antoine's chest.
I considered not stopping for a second. Keep on going. Follow Husserl. Get the fuck out of this deathtrap before the ceiling comes down. Before whatever is down in the grotto gets out.