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  Robert, whose jaw had tightened steadily through this new indignity, spat once, most accurately, at Saint Sebastien, then forced himself once again to stoic silence.

  "You will make it worse for yourself, Robert." Saint Sebastien stood back, then lifted his arms and called out to the members of the Circle, who waited, robed and silent, before him. "We are met in the name of Satan, that we may grow in His power and His great strength, which is the strength of the great lie. We meet that we may join Him in power, be with him in potency and in savagery, and to that end we bring Him sacrifices."

  "We bring Him sacrifices," the circle chanted.

  "Lives, paid in blood, in degradation."

  "In blood and degradation."

  Madelaine, her arms aching from the bonds that held her to the screen, her body already hurt from the cruelty of the men gathered in the debauched chapel, felt herself sway in her bonds, almost overcome with fear and wretchedness. And she knew that for her the heinous men had not even begun to do what they were capable of doing. She remembered that there would be forty days for her destruction. She told herself in the back of her thoughts that they could not succeed, that she would be missed, and her father, that someone would find her, save her. Again she felt her soul reach out for Saint-Germain, filled with her yearning for him as much as with her panic-stricken desire for escape. But she did not know if she could dare to hope, not with the chanting growing louder.

  "This forsworn one, your betrayer, Satan!"

  "Your betrayer!"

  "Brought back again to make expiation for his duplicity." Saint Sebastien held aloft a curiously curved dagger, letting the blade flash in the quivering torchlight.

  "Your betrayer!"

  Saint Sebastien put the point of the dagger against Robert de Montalia's chest, and with concentrated precision he cut the pentagram into his skin. "He is marked as yours, Satan!"

  "Marked!" This triumphant shout covered the groans that Robert could not hold back.

  "For Your strength is not to be spurned, and Your power is not mocked!"

  "Power and strength are Yours alone!"

  Madelaine shook her head, as if the very motion would shut out the sounds that assaulted her. She could not look at her father as he steeled himself against further outrage, and she would not look at Saint Sebastien. The chanting got louder.

  "Let him taste of Your wrath!"

  "Let him taste of Your wrath!" came the shout from the Circle as Saint Sebastien brought the blade swiftly down and held up Robert's ear as a gory trophy. A great cry from the Circle combined with Robert de Montalia's scream, and the noise continued rising like a wave as Saint Sebastien put the ear to his mouth and licked it. The Circle surged forward, hysteria pulling them toward the ghastly spectacle. Saint Sebastien motioned for silence, the dagger held high as he waited.

  His dramatic effect was quite destroyed when a voice spoke from the rear of the chapel, a voice that was beautifully modulated, and tinged with a slight Piedmontese accent. "I am glad I am in time, gentlemen," said le Comte de Saint-Germain.

  Relief, more weakening than her terror had been, filled Madelaine, turning her very bones to water. The tears she had held back welled in her eyes, and a pang sharp as Saint Sebastien's knife lodged itself in her breast.

  The members of die Circle turned, each member's face showing the dazed stupidity that often comes with being wakened from a sound sleep. Their movements were jerky, and the momentum of their ferocity faltered.

  Saint-Germain came down the aisle toward the terrible altar. All of the elegant frippery of manner had vanished with his splendid clothes. Now his movements suited the tight riding coat of black leather worn over tight woolen breeches, also black. His high boots were wide-cuffed, and the simple shirt under the coat was adorned with Russian embroidery showing a pattern of steppe wild-flowers known as tulips. He carried no sword or other weapon, and was alone.

  Saint Sebastien watched him, wrath showing in his narrowed eyes and malicious smile. He nodded, motioning his

  Circle to keep back. "Ragoczy, " he said, "I did not believe. I did not recognize..."

  Saint-Germain inclined his head. "I have told you before that appearances are deceiving."

  "But that was thirty years ago." He moved closer, the dagger held tightly in his hand.

  "Was it? I will take your word for it." If he knew that he was in danger, nothing but the hot stare of his eyes suggested it.

  "Your father, then?" Saint Sebastien closed in on Saint-Germain, almost near enough to strike.

  "I was not aware that I had changed so much in that time." He had taken in the chapel and its uses when he entered it, and now he was prepared to deal with Saint Sebastien on his own ground. He touched the small locketlike receptacle that hung on a chain around his neck.

  Saint Sebastien had already raised his dagger, and was about to make a sudden rush, when Saint-Germain's arm shot out, and his hand seized Saint Sebastien's shoulder, not to hold him back, but to pull him forward, sending him hurtling past Saint-Germain to crash into the stack of ruined pews at the back of the chapel.

  Saint-Germain glanced toward Saint Sebastien, then directed his penetrating eyes to the members of the Circle who stood around the altar. "How absurd you are," he said lightly. "You should see yourselves standing there in your fine robes, with your manhood, if you can call it that, peeking out at the world like so many birds." He waited for the hostile words to stop. "You are foolish. Do you think that you will enhance your place in the world, obtain power and position, by following Saint Sebastien's orders? It is his position and power that your profane offices enhance. It is his desires that are met. And you, thinking that you get these things for yourselves, give yourself to him without question. If I were the one you worship, I would think poorly of your practices."

  Beauvrai was the first to object. "You think we're stupid, you, who came here with nothing to protect you…."

  Saint-Germain held up the locket on the chain. "I beg your pardon, Baron. I have this. You are not so far removed from the faith you were born to that you cannot recognize a pyx."

  The Circle, which had been growing restless, now became hushed again.

  "You are asking yourselves if this is genuine as I am no priest." He held the pyx higher. "You may try to touch it if you like. I understand the burns are instantaneous." He waited, while the silk-robed men held back. "I see."

  A sudden noise behind him made him turn, and in that moment he cursed himself for not being sure that Saint Sebastien was unconscious, for now the leader of the Circle was rushing toward Madelaine, and although he no longer carried a dagger, there was a wickedly broken piece of planking in his hands, and this he held ready to strike.

  At that moment, the hush, the almost somnambulistic trance that held the Circle members to their clumsiness and to Saint-Germain's control, ruptured with the explosiveness of a Dutch dyke bursting to let in the sea. With an awful shout, the men in the silken robes flung themselves at Saint-Germain.

  Excerpt from a note written by l'Abbé Ponteneuf to his cousin, la Comtesse d'Argenlac, dated November 5, 1743:

  ...From my heart of hearts I pray God that He will comfort you and open your eyes to the glory that awaits all good Christians beyond the grave and the shadow of death. It is my duty to write this letter to you, my poor cousin, but even now my pen falters and I cannot find it in me to tell you what has befallen. I beseech you to marshal your heart to greet this terrible news with true fortitude, for all of us who know and love you cannot but wish that you would never have to endure the ordeal that is now before you.

  It was rather less than an hour ago when a coach called for me, to take me to a church on the outskirts of the city. You may imagine my surprise at this unlikely request, for it is not usual to have such a request forthcoming at so late an hour. But I have not been a priest for twenty years without learning to accept what God sends me without complaints. So it was that I went in the coach to the church to which I have already allude
d. We arrived in good time, and I was immediately ushered into the sanctuary, where an awesome sight met my eyes. There, laid out before me, were the bodies of three men. One was a mountebank, from the look of him, and I did not know anything of him. Another was one of Saint Sebastien's servants, whom I recognized by the livery. Saint Sebastien is such an unrepentant sinner of all the Deadly Sins that I did not know the man himself, but his master is not likely to have set his feet on a path toward Our Lord and His Sweet Mother.

  It is the third man I must speak of, and it stops my heart to say this. The third man was le Comte d'Argenlac, your own beloved husband, whom you have loved so tenderly, and who has always been your staunch protector. It is further my most unpleasant duty to inform you that he did not die by accident or an act of God. He was, my unfortunate cousin, coldbloodedly slain by a person or persons unknown.

  The curé at this church has given me the use of his study that I might send you news immediately. His understanding is not great, but he is a good man, and I have told him that le Comte is known to me, and that it is only appropriate that you, as my cousin, should hear of this tragedy from one who has the knowledge of your particular circumstances.

  Do not let yourself be overwhelmed. Pray to Mary for the saving of your husband's soul. You will find that such religious exercise does much to alleviate your grief, which must surely consume you otherwise. I have often remarked that when God made Woman as helpmeet to Man, He made her prey to whims and weaknesses that her mate does not know. The excellent solace of Scripture will help you to control those emotions which must fill your breast as you read this....

  I will take it upon myself to see that le Comte's body is removed to his parish church immediately, and that such notice as must be given of his death be delivered to the proper authorities. If you are not too incapacitated by this terrible event, perhaps you will allow me to visit you and read with you the Great Words that will assuage your sorrow.

  In the name of God, who even now welcomes your beloved husband to the Glories of Paradise, I am always

  Your obedient cousin,

  L'Abbé Ponteneuf, S. J.

  Chapter 11

  Hercule closed the paneled door of Saint-Germain's traveling coach with a grim nod of satisfaction. He had fulfilled all his master's instructions and still had time to help the sorcerers load their equipment on the heavy-bedded cart that stood at the back of the stable. He swung around the coach for one last check of the harnesses, and found them polled up too tightly on the right-wheeler. He made the adjustment and felt new pride as he patted the dappled-gray flank of the right leader. He could hardly wait to take the reins in hand once again, to feel that surge of delight that only driving gave him. His rolling gait was as ungainly as a bear on its hind legs, but with the braces that Saint-Germain had designed for him, he was no longer a cripple. He shouted for a groom, and it was less than a minute before two of them appeared.

  "I'm off to the cart loading," he said grandly. "But if there is anything you think needs my attention, then one of you come double time to fetch me. But you make sure there's someone here with these horses. I don't want to hear my master say that these cattle of his aren't properly cared for."

  One of the grooms bowed his acceptance, and the other nodded as he quailed under Hercule's formidable stare.

  "I'll be back from time to time to see that you're doing it right," he warned them; then, with that curious swaying walk, he swung out of the barn. It was a dark night, he thought, and there would certainly be rain later. He could feel the rain in his scarred knees, and remembered that Saint-Germain had told him that he might feel that discomfort for some while, perhaps his entire life. Most of the time it did not bother Hercule, but tonight, when his driving might mean the difference between death and survival to his master, he did not like to feel unwell. He squared his shoulders and strode toward the cart that was drawn up between the stables and the rear entrance to Hôtel Transylvania.

  "Give you good evening," he said to the woman sorcerer who struggled now with two huge baskets filled with boxes of various sizes.

  "If you would give me a good evening," she snapped, "you would help me to load these baskets."

  Secretly pleased for the opportunity to show the stern sorceress the extent of his capabilities, he pulled himself onto the bed of the wagon, then hauled up the baskets. "Where are the ropes? You will have to tie these down if you are not to have those boxes all over the road between here and the coast."

  "Tie them, then."

  He did as she told him, securing the ropes with two strong knots. "What else do you have to bring from the cellar?"

  Mme. Lairrez put her hands on her hips and directed her intelligent gray eyes on him. "We have several more loads like this one, and of course, the athanor. We will leave the old one behind, but the new one..."

  Hercule clambered off the wagon. "I cannot leave the stables, but I will help you load whatever you bring up." He felt a warming to the strong-willed Mme. Lairrez. "If I am here, I will be able to hear any call for me. Tell your companions I will do the loading for them."

  But Mme. Lairrez was not quite sure she was prepared to deal with this friendship. "We have very special equipment. You may not know what is to be done with it."

  He smiled down at her. "I am a coachman, Madame. I may not know about your special equipment, but I know more than any of the rest of you about how to load a wagon."

  This argument carried much weight with Mme. Lairrez. She studied the wagon bed, nodding twice to herself. "Very well, friend Hercule. You may do the loading. We would be grateful for your assistance."

  "I rely on you to tell me which of your equipment requires special handling."

  "There is a great deal of glass," she said slowly, "but it is the athanor which is most dangerous. You see, we have just heated it, and it will soon reach the temperature at which it will produce the jewels. But the heat is terrible. The athanor is made according to the Prinz's order, and has been impregnated with a certain substance, else the athanor itself would melt with the great heat." She stopped speaking suddenly, thinking that she might have said too much.

  "You bring me the... whatever it is, and I'll see that it is loaded safely." He sounded confident as he said it, but even he did not know what he would do if the thing were as hot as Mme. Lairrez intimated.

  "Very well," she said, though her tone was skeptical.

  When she had gone, Hercule swung back up onto the bed of the wagon and was standing there when Roger came from the darkened Hôtel, three cases in his arms. "Is the coach ready?"

  "It is," Hercule answered. "It could be on the road in a matter of minutes." He felt slightly defensive at being found at the wagon, and added, "The sorcerers need a hand at this."

  Roger agreed. "They are unused to being so few. When Cielbleu died, there were too few of them in this Brotherhood to manage all the projects they had developed. I am not particularly surprised that they are working so slowly." He cocked his head toward the brick facade of the Hôtel. "It is strange to see it so, is it not?"

  Hercule looked at the dark windows and felt the eerie silence. "It is like a grave," he said, and shuddered.

  "I wonder what will happen?" Roger said to the blank face of Hôtel Transylvania.

  "Whatever it will be, I have given my word to wait for le Comte, and that I will, though the Devil come and roar at me.”

  "A noble sentiment," Roger said, looking up at the coachman on the wagon. "I hope your resolve will not have that test." He favored Hercule with an ironic nod and went into the stable, returning somewhat later with empty hands. He stared again at the Hôtel. "It is not natural," he whispered.

  Hercule had heard him, and responded, "It is waiting."

  "Yes." Roger shook the fatalistic mood off, and was encouraged to see the English sorcerer emerge from the cellar stairs. "You will need some help," he said, relieved.

  "Thank you, sir, I will." Beverly Sattin was sweating freely as he lugged two sacks up the st
airs. He stopped to catch his breath. "There are twenty-seven stairs between the cellars and here."

  "Let me help you with the last six," Roger said, going to take the largest of the sacks.

  Sattin thanked him again, then once more bent himself to the task of pulling the remaining sack up the stairs and over to the wagon.

  As Hercule was lashing down the second sack, a strange noise caught all three men's attention, and they turned toward the Hôtel, apprehension in their stances. The sounds, like a distant rush of water, died, sounding now like a hive of subterranean bees.

  "It comes from the Hôtel," Hercule said softly.

  "It comes from the cellars!" Beverly Sattin turned away abruptly and raced for the stairs he had just climbed.

  "Do you think... ?" Hercule could not finish the question.

  "I think that you would do well to get onto your box, coachman. If our master comes through this, he will not want to tarry."

  Hercule accepted this without comment, climbing down from the wagon and striding away toward the stables.

  Roger stood uncertainly, listening for the sound that seemed to rise from the very ground. It grew neither louder nor softer, but Roger, hearing it, felt fear transfix him. He looked down as if to burrow with his eyes toward the combat he sensed raged beneath him. Then, as if impelled by a vast, invisible force, he raced toward the cellar stairs and plunged down them.

  Domingo y Roxas turned in alarm as Roger appeared in the sorcerers' cellar. Mme. Lairrez was occupied with wrapping some earthenware jars in straw and greeted Roger's entrance with the exasperation she had kept controlled for so long.

  "Sattin," she said with asperity, "if you want me to finish this task with all our jars unbroken..."

  But Beverly Sattin, who was holding an armload of very old books bound in heavy leather, was as startled as she.

  "What is it, Roger?" he demanded as Saint-Germain's servant stared anxiously about the room.