ABBEY DES FONTAINES
8:00 AM
THE SENESCHAL STOOD BEFORE THE ALTAR AND STARED AT THE oak coffin. The brothers were entering the chapel, marching in solemn order, their sonorous voices chanting in unison. The melody was ancient, sung at every master's funeral since the Beginning. The Latin lyrics spoke of loss, sorrow, and pain. Renewal would not be discussed until later in the day, when the conclave would convene to choose a successor. Rule was clear. Two suns could not set without a master and, as seneschal, he must ensure that Rule was maintained.
He watched as the brothers completed their entrance and positioned themselves before polished oak pews. Each man was cloaked in a plain russet frock, a cowl concealing his head, only his hands visible, folded in prayer.
The church was formed as a Latin cross with a single nave and two aisles. Little decoration existed, nothing to distract the mind from considering heaven's mysteries, but it was nonetheless majestic, the capitals and columns projecting an impressive energy. The brothers had first gathered here after the Purge in 1307--those who'd managed to escape Philip IV's grasp, retreating to the countryside and stealthily migrating south. Eventually they'd convened here, safe within a mountain fortress, and dissolved into the fabric of religious society, making plans, pledging commitments, always remembering.
He closed his eyes and allowed the music to fill him. No tinkling accompaniment, no organ, nothing. Just the human voice, swelling and breaking. He sapped strength from the melody and steeled himself for the hours ahead.
The chanting stopped. He allowed a minute of silence to pass, then stepped close to the coffin.
"Our most exalted and reverent master has left this life. He hath ruled this Order with wisdom and justice, pursuant to Rule, for twenty-eight years. A place for him is now set within the Chronicles."
One man shoved back his cowl. "On that I challenge."
A shudder swept over the seneschal. Rule granted any brother the right to challenge. He'd expected a battle later, in conclave, but not during the funeral. The seneschal turned to the first row of pews and faced the speaker.
Raymond de Roquefort.
A stump of a man with an expressionless face and a personality of which the seneschal had always been wary, he'd been a brother for thirty years and had risen to the rank of marshal, which placed him third in the chain of command. In the Beginning, centuries ago, the marshal was the Order's military commander, the leader of the knights in battle. Now he was the minister of security, charged with making sure the Order stayed inviolate. De Roquefort had held that post for nearly two decades. He and the brothers who worked under him were allowed the privilege to come and go from the abbey at will, reporting to no one other than the master, and the marshal had made no secret of the contempt he felt for his now dead superior.
"Speak your challenge," the seneschal said.
"Our departed master weakened this Order. His policies lacked courage. The time has come to move in a different direction."
De Roquefort's words carried not a hint of emotion, and the seneschal knew how the marshal could clothe wrongs in eloquent language. De Roquefort was a fanatic. Men like him had kept the Order strong for centuries, but the master had many times counseled that their usefulness was waning. Others disagreed, and two factions had emerged--de Roquefort heading one, the master the other. Most brothers had kept their choice private, as was the Order's way. But the interregnum was a time of debate. Free discussion was how the collective decided which course it would follow.
"Is that the extent of your challenge?" the seneschal asked.
"For too long the brothers have been excluded from the decision process. We have not been consulted, nor has the counsel we offered been heeded."
"This is not a democracy," the seneschal said.
"Nor would I want it to be. But it is a brotherhood. One based on common needs and community goals. Each of us has pledged his life and possessions. We do not deserve to be ignored."
De Roquefort's voice had a calculating and deflationary effect. The seneschal noted that none of the others stirred the solemnity of the challenge and, for an instant, the sanctity that had for so long loomed within the chapel seemed tainted. He felt as if he was surrounded by men of a different mind and purpose. One word kept ringing through his mind.
Revolt.