Isle of Fire (5 page)

Cat stopped on the crest of a green hill and looked back on the Citadel of the Brethren. Cat marveled at it still. For all its orchards bursting with flowering trees, its dizzying rows of lush crops, and its serene pastures, its other name—the Monasterio de Michael Arcángel—seemed to fit it best for it looked more like a fortress than an abode for monks. It was nestled in a mountainous crescent at the base of the volcano. The hills and rocks formed a natural defensive barrier, protecting the monastery on three sides. The structure's façade, which was all that was visible from Cat's vantage, stood tall with seven parapeted towers, implacable, curving, crenelated walls, and a high iron gate that looked to Cat as if it could withstand a dozen barrels of Jacques St. Pierre's black powder.

Cat wondered how these men of God could be so peaceful and, at the same time, be such formidable warriors. And he wondered what they could possibly want with him.

A bell tolled from the Citadel tower, snapping Cat back to awareness. Cat wondered how long he'd been standing there. The sun looked markedly lower in the sky. Cat rushed back to his chamber.

There he found Father Brun standing at the window. Cat began to apologize, but Father Brun turned and shook his head dismissively. In his hands, he held a large leather-bound book. He held it out for Cat.

“This”—Cat said, taking the volume from the monk—“this is the book I brought back from the Isle of Swords.”

“Yes,” replied Father Brun. “But what you did not know is that, aside from the Nails of Christ, no other treasure from that place is of more worth to the Brethren than this book. You see, this volume chronicles the pilgrimages of those blessed members of the Brethren who traveled to the Isle of Swords and looked upon the nails. There is great wisdom in such moments, and I think God speaks to us today through the writing within these pages. It is . . . precious to us.”

Cat looked up questioningly.

Father Brun nodded. “You are wondering why I spirited you away from the crew of the
Robert Bruce
and brought you all the way to Saba only to see this book. How could I not? For in the final written pages of the volume you will find something that belongs to you, perhaps . . . something that will help you. Your memory has still not fully returned?”

Cat shook his head. “Only some visions, bits and pieces, but always as if I am watching the life of another.”

Father Brun smiled sadly. “Read, Cat, . . . and may God deliver your memory or if not that, wisdom to live this life without pity for the missing years.”

Cat stared at the book. With a combination of raw anticipation and fear, he opened it and began turning pages toward the end. So many amazing tales of men who had been transformed by an encounter with the nails that held their savior to a cruel Roman cross—in many ways it was inspiring to Cat. Of course, he couldn't read it all because most of it was in Latin or Spanish. He began to wonder what Father Brun had been talking about. There seemed to be nothing that concerned him directly.

Then Cat turned the page. He froze. Most of the entries in the journal had been written in large flowing script. What he saw written on this next page was actually quite ordinary and, well . . . slop pier than most. All the entries thus far had been addressed to members of the Brethren who would come after. The heading on this page said . . .
My son
.

Chills, like whitecaps on a windblown sea, surged across Cat's flesh. He began to read.

My son, you have come to the very place I prayed you,d come. I came here seeking gold and jewels. I found something else. And I suspect your father will not approve of the choices I now feel I must make. Whatever happens, my young lion, remember that I will always love you and be with you. Did you know that ,s what your middle name means? Lejon . . . it is an old Norse word for lion. With your mane of blond hair, and your courage, I always thought the name fit. If you are reading this, you truly have become the lionhearted man I knew you,d be. May you find here that which rescued me.

Hunt well.

Katarina Thorne

Cat stared at the signature at the bottom of the message.
Katarina Thorne
.
Mother
. He let himself fall backward onto the cot and lay with the book open on his chest.
She'd been on the Isle
of Swords. Of course, that's how she got the map and the key to the
chest that held the nails. And . . . she left them for me: a trail I could
follow
.
The lock of red hair had been hers. The green diamond had
been worth enough to hire Vesa Turinen to take them to Portugal. The cross had been the key. The pouch itself had the map etched inside
it.
Cat closed his eyes and began to wonder how so many things had fallen into place so that he could journey to the Isle of Swords and rescue the nails. And how, in turn, the nails had rescued him. He also thought about his name—his full name— Griffin Lejon Thorne. He had been named after a lion.
“Hunt
well
,
” she'd said.

“Extraordinary, isn't it?” Father Brun asked.

“My mother wrote this,” Cat whispered. “She wrote it for me.”

“Yes,” Father Brun replied, but sensing Cat's need, he said nothing more.

“She died . . . she died not knowing if I would ever find it.” Suddenly, he felt a pulsing in his head. His skin prickled. In his mind's eye he saw cold blue eyes flaring with venomous anger. A whip crackled. He saw a spray of blood on a stone wall. And then the vision was gone. He bowed his head quietly for a moment and then said, “My own father . . . tortured me. He left me for dead on that blasted island. If Anne had not come when she did I would have died. I would never have known.”

“It goes far beyond coincidence,” said Father Brun quietly.

Cat nodded. He had thought the same.

“Your coming to the Isle of Swords,” Father Brun went on, “was a divine appointment. You were called by the Almighty.”

“I don't know.”

“Do you not? Remove one small event from the chain that led you to the Isle of Swords, and what happens? It all falls apart. No, Griffin Lejon Thorne, you were called to rescue the most sacred of relics. You were called to find your mother's final message to you. And, I think, for something more.”

Cat's blue eyes flickered. “What do you mean?”

“I brought you here for you to read this book, but also to make you an offer. As you no doubt noted on the way into the Citadel, the Brethren . . . are not ordinary priests and monks. Not superior— no, not by any measure that matters—only called for a different purpose. Some of the men here grew up in the church, but many others were grafted in. Some were members of the military. Others were pirates.” Cat's mouth fell open.

“For many years, the Brethren order has remained hidden, involved only when our hand was forced and also to protect the holy relics of God. But the world has changed and not for the better. Evil roams abroad, preying unchecked on the innocent all around us. The Brethren has spent a season in prayer—seven years to be precise—beseeching our Lord for wisdom. What, if anything, should we do? And over this time, we have been brought to the conclusion that we cannot remain idle any longer. It seemed a great answer to prayer that Declan Ross and the British were willing to assemble a fleet to hunt down and redeem those who have made piracy their lives. But we are now convinced that their effectiveness may be undercut by powers beyond their control. They will need help to defeat the menace that yet stirs.”

“My father,” whispered Cat.

“Yes,” said Father Brun. “He may yet live. Though, if that is the case, he is but one among many—and by far not the worst. The Brethren has been called to come forth as the Soldiers of God to stem the black tide that approaches. And we would like you, Cat, to join us.”

“Me?” Cat was stunned. “But I don't even believe in God . . . not completely.”

Father Brun looked at Cat knowingly. “We are content to leave that in the hands of the Lord.”

“I don't know what I can do to help your order.”

“You can captain a ship. The Brethren has purchased a trio of tall ships for a special mission. We have, through great research and prayer, selected captains for these vessels. And we want you to be one of them.”

Cat closed the book and stared. After the training session with Brother Dmitri that morning, Cat figured the Brethren would want him off the island as soon as possible—and now they ask him to join them? “You mean . . . you mean, you still want me, after what I did?”

Father Brun frowned. “Of course, I still want you,” he said as if Cat could not be any more absurd. “I want you now more than ever. You are a broken man, and a broken man in the hands of the Lord is a powerful weapon.”

“But Captain Ross . . . the
Bruce
.” He didn't mention Anne, but he could see her face in his mind. “I am one of his crew. They're my friends.”

“And that is the decision you face. Declan Ross and the crew of the
Bruce
are fighting a threat to all who travel the sea. But there is an enemy beyond their means, an enemy the Brethren must face on its own terms.”

Cat was silent, deep in thought, and then blurted out, “I need time to think about this. But . . . if I did decide to join the Brethren, do I have to wear a robe?”

Father Brun laughed aloud. “This is the simple and customary garb of the Brethren for most occasions,” he said. “But there are times when we must conceal our identity. This may be such a time. Think on it. You have the whole week to consider. But when Declan Ross returns from the northern coast of South America, I will need your answer.”

4
THE WHISPERING GALLERY

I
n the shadows of the great dome of St. Paul's in London stood a lone figure. Clad all in black, he faded in and out of sight as if tendrils of the night tried relentlessly to contain him but could not. He loathed being in a church. But the infamous pirate Edmund Bellamy had told him it was the only way to meet the Merchant.
The
north side of the gallery
, he'd said.
Precisely six minutes after midnight—
don't be late. The Merchant will speak to you then. If he trusts
you, he'll tell you what to do next
.

“Very punctual,” came a long whisper. It sounded as if spoken by someone right beside him, but the man in black looked left and right along the gallery's curling rail and saw no one.

A man of ordinary courage would have been startled by such a disembodied voice. But the man in black had seen too many horrors—caused most of them himself—to be affected in the least. He knew that his visitor, the Merchant, stood exactly opposite of him, 107 feet away, in the darkness on the southern side of the gallery. It was peculiar, if not frightening, that the acoustics of the great dome made it possible to hear even a whisper over such a great distance.

“Did Bellamy tell you what I want?” asked the man in black, his voice a raspy whisper.