The Lafayette Sword (11 page)

39

Nicolas Flamel's shop, Paris

March 21, 1355

T
he nightmare woke him again. He had heard that even the most horrible dreams never exactly reproduced the reality that inspired them. The books Flamel had read said that the imagination always added its own variations. But that wasn't the case now. It was the real event, and only the reality, that was playing over and over again in his dr
eam world.

It had been nearly a week since he had staggered out of the dungeon. He remembered every detail, every word—the torture chamber, the torturer's gestures, and most of all, Flore de Cenevières's voice recounting the Jew's arrival at her home in the provinces. Her life had been stuck between her overly religious mother and her elder brother, who was jealous and would have just as soon sent her off to
a convent.

She had bitterly recounted the humiliation, the fear, the suspicions, and the threats. And then her mother had come down with a languishing illness. Every morning she woke up weaker. Her fat and muscle melted away until her flesh stuck to her bones. Her breath smelled of death. They had tried everything, from doctors to dark-eyed charlatans, from country remedies to philters that smelled l
ike bogs.

Nothing worked. Her mother was afraid, and then she was terrified. Panic poured out of her, soaking her sheets in sweat every night. Then something evil came over her. She was willing to do anything to av
oid death.

And Flore was desperate. She had heard of a man who had stopped in Cahors and whose cures were miraculous. Rich and poor spoke of no
one else.

One day, when her brother was off hunting, she had gone into the city on the pretext of doing some shopping. Once there, she had asked around and was led to the apothecary, where the stranger wa
s staying.

In the shop, among the bouquets of dried flowers and amid the sound of marble pestles meeting mortars, she saw a tall man standing near the fireplace. He was calmly reading while enjoying the warmth of the fire, as if it were there just for him. The only other men she had ever seen reading were priests, and they were always hunched over the
ir Bibles.

She spoke to the apothecary, who gestured to the
stranger.

Flamel turned in his sleep. Even in his dream, the woman's confidences made him unco
mfortable.

His dream leaped to an image of Isaac Benserade the day of his execution, when his body had been broken, but not his will. He had said nothing. Nothing about what had happened between him and Flore and nothing about why he had come
to Paris.

Then the image of the woman's naked body came to Flamel. He saw tongues of fire caressing her limbs, filling the folds in her flesh, and kneading he
r breasts.

He knew the torturer was assailed by the same images: horrible, but also drenched with desire and temptation. Otherwise, how could yo
u explain…

He returned to the pitiful scene in th
e dungeon.

Flore had started talking again, faster and faster. The return home and her mother's cure. The woman had put all her faith in Isaac and had finally turned Flore over to the healer, which had certainly pleased th
e brother.

And then the
wandering.

As she spoke, Flamel wrote. Every word passed through his muscles, his hand, and his plume and came out in a thin flow of ink onto the
parchment.

He felt like the woman's whole body had settl
ed in him.

That was when the nightmare tightened around him like a vise. He couldn't move. He tried, but his muscles wouldn't respond. Like the young woman, he was bound to the table of suffering. The visions came to him night after night, and the terror consumed him. They always stopped at the most crucial moment, when the torturer started his purification rite and when Flamel could no longer bear it. Would he ever find pe
ace again?

No longer hearing the fire flicker in the hearth, Flamel guessed that daybreak was close enough to get up. He glanced at Lady Perenelle, who was sleeping soundly under the thick duvet. He had nothing to fear. She would no
t wake up.

He descended the steps. The blaze in the large stone fireplace had gone out. He threw some kindling into the hearth. Flames shot up, coloring the walls a
blood red.

Flamel shuddered. Evil lurked. He jumped up and double-checked the lock on the door. The walls were thick, the shutters barred. Nobody could enter without the Devil's help. But it was the Devil that Flamel feared. The Devil incarnated in the
torturer.

No matter how hard he prayed to the Virgin Mary, as soon as he closed his eyes, the same abominations
returned.

He considered confessing, but with pyres going up faster and faster, it was better to remain discreet about the tribulations of his soul. Last Easter, a monk from Spain, where the Inquisition was battling heresy without mercy, had preached at the church. The man had a gleam in his eye as he called on his brothers to see the work of Satan in all things, especially the dreams of wives and daughters. Handsome young incubi were eager to visit girls and women. They would corrupt innocent virgins and turn honest mothers int
o wenches.

The Spanish brother captivated his audience with plentiful details regarding the erotic power of these incubi. As the listeners signed themselves, he described every aspect of the demons' huge organs and tongues of fire capable of becoming three serpents of metal that penetrated women's orifices and possessed them
forever.

The brother didn't stop there. He followed with succubi, female demons that haunted men's sleep. He described their languorous bodies and expert caresses. Vampires of the soul and flesh, they condemned and drained men of their vit
al energy.

By this time, the parishioners were beside themselves. Several cried out in pain, while others shouted in anger. In the heat of the moment, Flamel nearly succumbed to self-accusation. The priest's glowing eyes st
opped him.

But what he had heard then couldn't hold a candle to what he was going th
rough now.

Flamel added a log to
the fire.

He frequently stayed up at night, listening to the sounds of the city. Like all other shopkeepers, he feared the students the most. Lacking any discipline, they roamed the Latin Quarter and occasionally crossed the Seine, looking for trouble in the Marais. They were lawless young men who had no compunctions about attacking honest people. And then there were the apprentice physicians who roamed the neighborhood late at night to gather cadavers from the Holy Innocents'
Cemetery.

He heard the bells of Saint Jacques Church. A plaintive chant rose into the night. A priest and his deacons were giving last rights. Tomorrow, a new shroud would find itself at the bottom of a hole in the
Innocents.

Flamel said a prayer, not really knowing if it was for the person who was dying or fo
r himself.

And yet, amid the dark bog of fear, a curious light shone. A small golden flame fed by Flore de Cenevières's c
onfession.

The manuscript seller got up and contemplated the street through a narrow opening in a shutter. The neighborhood was still sleeping, it seemed, except for the Dominicans' house, where the ground floor was
fully lit.

This time, Flamel didn't hesitate. He couldn't spend his days being afraid of the night. A man had led him into this impasse. And that man would have to lead him o
ut of it.

40

Antoine Marcas's home

Evening of his discharge from the hospital

A
document icon appeared in the flash-drive window. Marcas clicked, and a text filled t
he screen.

My Dea
r Brother,

If you're reading this, my worst fears were founded, and my time has passed. I wish the end had not come so quickly, especially at the hands of a
murderer.

Forgive me, Antoine, for waiting until now to tell you my story and for doing it this way. You have been my friend and my brother. And it was never a matter of trust. It's just that some things are best left unsaid until it's n
ecessary.

In writing these lines, I realize that I'm afraid of death. I've been dispirited over the last several months, and in truth, I fell into a depression a while ago that I just couldn't shake. It wasn't about my inability to use my legs. It was more about what I hadn't accomplished. My career had reached a dead end, and I never found the right person to share my life with. But I don't want to bore you with my lamentations, because what I have to tell you is far more
important.

Before anything, I need to ask you to believe me. My story is so strange that I, too, refused to give it any credence for a long time. And it's because I doubted th
at I died.

I'm going to share a family secret
with you.

My father died a little more than twenty years ago in a suburb of Lausanne. We hadn't seen each other in years. In fact, it was our shared heritage that separated us. Descending from Lafayette was a weight my father couldn't bear. It was as though the marquis's shadow kept him from being himself. So as soon as I showed the desire to know more about our ancestor, my father distanced himself. Later, when I wrote books about that period, I had to bear his criticism. And when I became a Freemason, he cut me off
entirely.

That was why it wasn't until my father died that I learned the family secret, which I discovered while handling h
is papers.

What I'm going to tell you was written in a small notebook handed down from one generation to the next. Each heir added his part. Some tried to crack the enigma. Others, like my father, were just depositories. I had no knowledge of this notebook, and the last person to study the enigma was my grandfather. Because I never had any children myself, it might as well be a brother like you who takes up
the flame.

The Marquis de Lafayette honored my family and France at a time when Freemasonry had as many aristocrats as commoners. Everything has been recounted by my famous ancestor's biographers, including me—everything except o
ne secret.

When he fought in the American Revolution, he was friends with three brothers—all French. And these four brothers shared a secret so powerful, they made a pact to split the information up and encode it. Each would be guardian of part of it, to be handed down in secrecy and safety from generation to g
eneration.

Marcas made himself more comfortable in his armchair, his laptop balanced on h
is knees.

What he passed down is found in these two
sentences:

“The blade follows the flame of pe
rfection.”

“In the shadow o
f Jachin.”

According to the notebook, each of the four descendants has a formula like this. Together, the four formulas should shed light on th
e mystery.

Unfortunately, my notebook didn't disclose all the other heirs. I had reason to believe that each descendant knew at least one other descendant. The name Archambeau was in my
notebook.

I did my research and was able to locate an old French family in the United States, whose only descendant lives in New York. I found her a month ago, and we talked on the phone. She seemed suspicious and wouldn't confirm the story. I didn't
press her.

That was when my troub
les began.

Two weeks ago, a man contacted me. He seemed to know everything. This time, I was the suspicious one. His voice was strange, insistent. And he spoke like
a brother.

Then, last week, someone broke into
my house.

The Grand Orient has my ancestor's sword—the real one. I have reason to believe it holds one of the keys to t
he enigma.

If you read these lines, get the sword. I'm also leaving you contact information for Joan Archambeau. Either she has played a role in my disappearance and will give you a lead to my killer, or she has nothing to do with it, and she is i
n trouble.

Be
the light.

Your brot
her, Paul.

“The blade follows the flame of perfection. In the shadow o
f Jachin.”

Marcas leaned back. Every Freemason in the world was familiar with the meaning
of Jachin.

41

Nineteenth arrondissement

Paris 12:30 a.m.

N
ighttime covered Paris like a heavy coat. The killer blew a swirl of smoke out an open window in his large living room. He was taking in the magnificent sixth-floor view of the city's carved-stone buildings. To the west, he could make out the top of the Eiffel Tower, which was flashing its gigantic beam of light like a lighthouse in a sea of tiled
rooftops.

Nothing calmed him more than these moments alone, when his family was in bed, and no noise disturbed the apartment. Absolute calm. Inhaling another stream of smoke, he let his eyes wander across the sky. The nascent moon seemed to smile. Everything was perfect. Never had he known such a time of
plenitude.

His employees had ended their strike. His son had brought home an excellent report card, and his wife had managed to turn a profit in her chain of lingerie stores that had been in the red for f
ive years.

And he had just carried out the first murders in
his plan.

He put out his cigarette in an ashtray on the windowsill and walked over to an armchair. As soon as he sat down, a ball of gray fur jumped onto his knees. The cat, which still smelled of his wife's perfume, snuggled in his lap. He stroked her head and back. The purring c
almed him.

“I am the Elu. The chosen one. The Sword of Light. The great work is u
nder way.”

The faces of his two victims came back to him, with the surprised looks that turned to terror when they understood. He could still hear them begging for mercy. He disdained them, especially the young one who thought he could become on
e of them.

Deep down, he knew that his transformation wasn't a coincidence. He wasn't killing gratuitously, but as part of his quest for the great secret. Paul de Lambre had also been aware of th
is secret.

The Sword of Light. The name had come to him naturally. It was logical, perfect, i
mplacable.

He spilled the blood of the impure, whether they were brothers or not, and purified himself in th
e process.

And then there was that other brother, the one who had pursued him. He'd been a surprise, but this new element had just made the game more interesting. The chase underneath Paris was an excellent opportunity to test his capacity for impr
ovisation.

His clemency had surprised him. He should have drowned the man, but then again, any encounter with a brother could be a sign from the Great Architect. For that matter, the brother had shown courage and determination, two rare qualities in these times. He didn't seem like the others, who weren't building a better society. The killer was sure the ultimate goal of his quest included this brother, but he would decide on his destiny at some later moment. He had other things to
do first.

He felt anger welling up inside him. His doctor had told him to avoid stress and had prescribed medication. He had acquiesced and filled the prescription. But then he tossed the bottle in the trash. He needed a clear head to complete his mission. Freemasonry had strayed. It was time to purify it, which was exactly his intention as soon as he held the great secret in
his hand.

The great secret. He was patiently collecting the clues, and he woul
d find it.

He jumped up from his chair, forcing the cat to do the same, and headed to his office. The vast room overflowed with books. The shelves holding them covered two wh
ole walls.

On a free wall he had hung a painting that he loved: a folly he had ordered from a talented artist. All the Masonic symbols were in it, surrounding a central figure, a
tall man.

He pressed a hidden button and heard a click. Three parquet planks in the floor opened up. He'd discovered this hiding place while he was restoring the apartment. He stuck his hand in the dark hole. The hiding spot wasn't deep, but it was long. He pulled out an object swathed in bla
ck velvet.

The Marquis de Lafayette's Masonic sword, with the flamed blade and mother-of-p
earl grip.

He put it on the desk and took down another sword, which was hanging on the wall behind his desk. The sword was the same. An exac
t replica.

The killer had received it from his father, who had gotten it from his father. It was the sword he had used to kill the two
brothers.

It was a perfect match, except for one detail. And that was a maj
or detail.

His was made of gold. He pulled it from the scabbard, and a fine mist of gold dust filled the air. He set the second sword next to the Lafayette sword, which he unwrapped so the blade could shine in
the light.

He contemplated the two weapons. How long had it been since they had been reunited? And now he would discover the mis
sing clue.

A clue for him alone. For the Sword
of Light.