Son of the Morning

France and the Holy Father were so intent on stripping the Order of its more earthly treasures, of gold and silver, but the Brotherhood’s secretiveness centered around these things rather than mere gold. Oh, there was gold aplenty-Niall had it. But its only purpose was to provide for the safekeeping of the real Treasure, this disturbing and powerful group of

Things. A cup, plain and scarred. A shroud, with its secrets embedded in the very fabric. A throne, unsettling and pagan-,–or was it? A banner, rich and compelling despite its age, reputed to hold strange powers in its frayed threads. And an ancient text, written in a mixture of Hebrew and Greek, which told of a secret, and of a power beyond belief.

"I could go back," Niall said, thinking of the text. He lifted his merciless warrior’s gaze to Valcour. "Both Philip and Clement could fall under my sword, and this could be undone as if it never was, and our brothers would live."

"Nay," said Valcour. His face had the drawn, exalted look of someone who has gone beyond horror, beyond fatigue. "We must not risk discovery for our own sakes.Only for the sake of God may the secret be used."

"Is there a God?" Niall asked bitterly. "Or are we but fools?"

Valcour’s thin, bloodless hand lifted, gently touched Niall’s head in both a benediction and a restraint. He felt the steamy heat emanating from the warrior’s muscled body, for Niall had just discarded his helm and still wore heavy armor. Would that he had a fraction of Niall’s great strength, Valcour thought tiredly. The Scot was like iron, neither breaking nor wearing down no matter the hardships he faced. His sword arm was tireless, his will unswerving. There was no greater warrior in the Lord’s service than this formidable Scot with royal blood running through his bastard veins. Not just noble, butroyal. ‘Twas that blood that had won him entrance into the Order, for legitimacy was a requirement. Wisely, the Grand Master had decided that, in this case, blood ties were more important than rules.

And because of that blood, Niall would be protected. Clement would not be able to lay his bloody, greedy hands on the Scot, for he would be safe in his homeland, among the craggy mountains of theHighlands .

"We believe," Valcour finally said, in simple response to Niall’s question. "And, believing, we’ve sworn our lives to protect. You are released from all your other vows, but on the blood of your brothers, you must swear to devote your life to the guardianship of these holy relics."

"I swear," Niall said fiercely. "But forthem. Never again forHim. "

Valcour’s eyes were troubled. Loss of faith was a terrible thing-and a common one, in these days of horror. More men would lose their faith, or their lives. Not all Brothers had remained true; some of them had turned their backs on the Order, and the God, they had served so faithfully but who had allowed this ungodly thing to happen to them. Friends, brothers, had been tortured, dismembered; burned at the stake, the Order shattered-all for the love of gold. It was difficult to believe in anything except betrayal, and vengeance.

And yet Valcour tried to keep a small, central part of himself pure, to keep his belief enshrined there, for without belief there was nothing. If he didn’t believe, then he had to accept that so many good men had died in vain, and that he could not do, could not live with. So, because the alternative was so unbearable, he believed. He wished Niall could have that comfort, but the Scot was too uncompromising, his warrior’s heart seeing only black and white. He had been on too many battlefields where the choices were simple: kill, or be killed. Valcour had fought for the Lord, but he had never been the soldier Niall was. The heat of battle did tend to make one’s vision very clear, to distill life down to the simplest of choices.

The Order needed Niall, to fulfill its greatest, most secret vow. The Brotherhood was at an end, at least in this incarnation, but its sacred duty would continue, and Niall was the chosen protector.

"For whatever reason, then," Valcour murmured. "Guard them well, for they are the true treasures of our Lord. Should they fall into the hands of evil, then the blood of our brothers will have been shed in vain. So shall it be, then: if not forHim, forthem."

"With my life," said Niall of Scotland.

‘December 1309

Creag Dhu,Scotland

"Three more Knights have found their way here since last you visited," Niall murmured to his brother as the two men sat before a crackling fire in Niall’s private chamber. A tall, thick tallow candle sat on the

table where they had recently filled their bellies, its flame adding to the golden glow of the hearth fire. Except for that, the chamber was in shadows, and delightfully warm. No drafts crept through the stone walls to stir the air with icy breaths; the cracks and crevices had been carefully daubed with clay, and the tapestries were thick and heavy. The door to Niall’s chamber was stout, and securely barred. For all that, the two men kept their voices low, and spoke in French, so that if they were somehow overheard they wouldn’t be understood. None of the Scots servants spoke the language; most of the nobility did, but here in this impregnable fortress, in a remote comer of theHighlands , they had only the servants and men-at-arms with whom they had to concern themselves.

Both held heavy goblets filled with fine French wine, and now Robert sipped his in contemplation. He had seated himself in a huge, carved wooden chair, while Niall had drawn up a heavy bench and placed it at an angle to the fire, so that he faced his visitor rather than the flames. Robert watched the dancing flames as he drank his wine; when he glanced back at Niall, it took a moment for his vision to adjust, and suddenly he realized that was why Niall had placed the bench as he had. Even here, in his own castle, secure in his own chamber with his brother, Niall’s instincts were those of a warrior and he had protected his vision. Should an enemy somehow take him unawares, he would not be hampered by limited sight.