"Your Hierarch, Philippe Emonet, was dying. That is what came next. Consider now, if you did not already know this, the cost borne by your liege for the death of a city. Ask the brother next to you what happens to the Hierarch when darkness devours the Land; ask your brother if he did not know how the death of those fifty thousand would poison the body and spirit of the Hierarch. And with the loss of his spirit, what followed?" I nodded. "Yes, we began to fight among ourselves."
Glossing over the fact that it had started several years prior, I think they knew what I meant. The Upheaval was a general shift in focus; the last few days had been war. The difference between Cristobel's long-range vision and Lafoutain's view from the rank.
"We have all lost friends recently, haven't we? Was it worth it? What have we gained from the death of our brothers? Have we gained knowledge? Does this blood on our hands bring us closer to the Divine? When the sun rises over the top of this dome behind me, will it bless you for all that you have done?
"There will be a new Hierarch soon, and whoever he may be, he will be the leader we deserve. I ask you now, mi fratres, do we deserve a man who has lied to us? Antoine Briande did not stand against Bernard du Guyon in the tower. He did not stop the harvest in Portland. Fifty thousand died because he stood by and did nothing. Yes, it could have been worse, but it did not have to happen at all. I was there, mi fratres; I went to the tower and confronted Bernard-not once, but twice, and that is more than your Protector did."
I turned toward Vraillet and opened the case. The gauntlet was clumsy, but I managed not to drop the sword as I picked it up. The fingers continued to tighten about the hilt as my Will meshed with the magick in Modrone's armor.
Turning back to the crowd of Watchers, I raised both swords.
"You could kill me now," I said with a laugh. "All of you. But, instead, I ask a boon. Ritus concursus. The Protector is a liar. He calls himself your Shepherd, but he cares not for the flock which he has been charged to protect. I challenge his right to participate in the Coronation. I challenge his right to claim the title of Architect and to approach the Land. Will you bear Witness to my challenge?"
Vraillet smiled, a wicked smile of satisfaction. "I will," he said, and his reply was picked up by others, spreading in a wave of sound down the hill. It wasn't unanimous, but the roar of approval was more than enough to consecrate my challenge.
"And I accept," came a voice in the silence that followed the shouts of the Watchers.
The tall door of the church was open and Antoine stood there, framed by the heat mirage blooming out of the church. "Ah, the rough beast has slouched his way here at last," he said. He beckoned with his left hand. "Tempus fugit, Michael. Bring your toys; I want to make you bleed a little before we end this once and for all."
He held the Spear in his right hand. My right hand. He had attached the whole thing to his arm, and much like Nuriye had magicked the gauntlet so I could operate it, Antoine had forced my dead flesh to respond to his Will.
So much for handicapping the fight to my advantage.
XXXV
Kind of heavy on the rhetoric, weren't you?" Antoine noted as we walked up the central aisle of the church. My attention was drawn to the gigantic mosaic of Christ over the main sanctuary. I had forgotten how huge that piece was. Behind me, over my right shoulder, was the tiny rose window that held the sacred heart.
Sacre-C?ur. Built ostensibly to honor the dead of the French Revolution and, later, the dead of the Franco-Prussian War, the church was erected on the highest point in Paris, and was dedicated to the motif of the Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ. The symbolic representation of love for mankind by the Divine. Used by the Watchers as the center of their universe during the annual renewal of the Hierarch's promise to the Land. To Watch and to Wait.
"They deserve to know," I replied. "You lied to them."
Antoine was examining the sword I had given him. "There are worse sins, my friend. Besides-" He shrugged off the weight of my words. "It is your word against mine. When this is over, the matter will be settled." He glanced at me. "Once and for all."
"Once and for all," I echoed. "It'll be nice to be done with it, don't you think?"
Antoine didn't answer.
Inside the church, the presence of the Land was palpable. The leys came here, pouring all the world's energy to this nexus. Once a year. The abundance of energy beneath our feet was overwhelming; too much, in fact, for the ground to contain. It was almost like an inverse of the blank oubliette where there was no etheric energy to tap; here, there was such density of force that it was starting to collapse in on itself. Too much longer and who knows what would happen. A black hole of magickal force, perhaps. Or something worse. I didn't really want to find out. Nor did anyone else.
Tapping this energy would release an uncontrollable eruption of power. It would be like trying to stick a pin in an overinflated balloon and control the release of the air trapped inside. You can't control the release of all that pressure. It tears everything around the hole, and the entire balloon becomes a ragged scrap of cheap rubber.
That'd be my fate if I tried to tap the power. Turned inside out and spattered all over the church floor.
Antoine could tell what I was thinking. Sweat beaded across his forehead and on his upper lip. How long had he been standing in here, waiting for dawn? "It's too much, isn't it? Too much for anyone."
"And yet, here we are, fighting for it."
He raised an eyebrow. "Are we?"
I wondered if Antoine was strong enough. Was that one of the hallmarks of being granted the rank of Architect: being able to handle the touch of the Land? Was that why the room wasn't mobbed with all of the rank, fighting to be the one given the opportunity to take the Crown? Was Antoine's Will focused enough that he could control the etheric flow? Instead of a messy explosion of spirit and flesh, would he be able to control the flow in a tight beam through a pinhole of restraint?
"Maybe," I tried, seeing if he bit. Seeing how much he knew.
A smile tugged at Antoine's lips, as if he saw through my bluff. He fell back a step and swung the sword experimentally. The one he had taken was the more simple of the two: just a long blade, burnished steel, with a hilt wrapped in gold thread. Layers and layers of gold thread. In the pommel, a single, flawless diamond, about the size of a walnut.
"They're nice blades. Where did you find them?"
"The Archives."
Mine had a slight curve to it, an Arabian influence in its design, and the hilt was plain-black leather wraps worn with sweat and blood. The blade itself was mercurial, shifting in color as it cut the light in the chapel.
He pursed his lips. "A gift from the daughters?"
"Loan, more likely. They expect them back."
He caught me looking at his right hand. "The way I see it, you owed me at least one." He had cleaned up while I had been climbing out of the subbasement of Tour Montparnasse, and his suit was impeccable as ever. When he raised both hands and held them side by side, the difference between them was noticeable against the white cuffs of his shirt. "Though, it is a bit worn," he said. "But it won't matter later." He smiled. "When I am Crowned."
We were more than halfway to the front of the church now, and I let my gaze roam across the space beyond the low railing separating the nave from the sanctuary. The platform was low, only a few steps, and the altar was a simple marble block. Marielle and Husserl stood behind it, off to one side, watching us. The Grail sat on the altar in the middle, and it shimmered and wavered in the mirage-inducing heat. The gold chalice was bleeding energy off, acting as a release valve for the pressure building beneath the ground.