the cross of the Crusades storming a fortress in the Middle East.
Clement walked to the bare wall beneath the Crusades tapestry.
He stopped.
“It is paramount that what I am about to show you remain between us,” the Pope said mysteriously. “You will either come to know it by way of the papacy or we both will die this day and another successor will come to the knowledge on his own. Will you bide my authority and keep this secret I am about to unveil?”
Cormac nodded, confused but curious.
The Pope grunted and stepped to the simple gray blocks comprising the wall. He ran his leathered fingers over the stone as if searching for something. After long moments had passed, he placed the palms of his hands flat to the rock and, pressing inward, closed his eyes and grew still. Sweat glistened on his wrinkled skin. Mumbling words Cormac thought were Welsh, Clement leaned in closer to the wall as if unable to hold his body up any longer.
Cormac was about to step in, worried despite his misgivings for the Pope, when yellow light began to emanate from the fingertips of the pontiff, first barely perceptible but growing in brightness. With the knights of the Crusade watching from above, the cold fire seeped into the stone as if it were porous, and shot outward in various directions like cracks in a broken pane of glass. The room became drenched in golden light. Soon the outline of a tall rectangle became visible, the fire in the wall changing, molten and alive, moving fluidly as if sentient.
Just when Cormac thought fire would engulf Clement entirely, a bright, soundless flash erupted from the wall and Clement disappeared. Cormac shielded his eyes but when he looked again the fire was gone. Replacing it was a tall rectangular doorway.
And beyond, a room shrouded in gloom.
Eyes still closed, Clement took a deep breath, standing in front of the doorway, and then looked to Cormac.
“What did you do?” Cormac asked, shocked. “How…? What happened…?”
“If the white smoke blows for you one day, you will learn it,” Clement replied tiredly. “It is a very old power, one of a few passed down from Pope to Pope for several centuries. The right words, a strong will, and need.”
“What is beyond?”
“Beyond? Our salvation, I pray.”
Clement strode into the dark recess without another look at Cormac. The Cardinal Vicar followed. Air grown stale from years of being trapped washed over them, and darkness met him with a terrible chill. Cormac barely felt it. Somewhere in the chamber an unidentifiable entity stirred, thrumming with life that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Unsure suddenly about the intentions of Clement, Cormac paused, wondering if he should defy the Pope and leave.
Then he realized what he sensed. It was collected power unimaginable.
Clement struck a flame into existence in the depths of the dimness and lit a series of small torches placed in sconces at even intervals around the square perimeter of the room. The light revealed an armory of sorts. Clamps set in the wall held numerous swords, axes, spears, staves, lances, and various other weapons of war, each unique, most glimmering in the firelight as if alive. A series of shelves set in the left-hand wall stored folded blankets, robes, cloaks, and gloves, while another shelf on the right carried numerous leather-bound books and trinkets. A glass case in the middle of the chamber held the remains of hair, splinters of wood, urns, and a number of different bones, from fingers to legs to skulls. It was a macabre repository, one Cormac could not believe existed.
“What is this place?” he asked, mesmerized.
“It is the Vault. How did Myyrdin Emrys empower the Knights of the Yn Saith?”
“He gave them magical weapons,” Cormac answered. “Given such great power by the wizard, the knights can decide for themselves how to best serve the promise of the Vigilo.”
“Partly right,” Clement said. “He gave them magical weapons possessed by one person in history—the Britannian King Arthur. Along with the blade of Lancelot, the wizard chose to give the weapons he had access to.”
“And?”
“These are many other relics the wizard had no ability to gain and subvert,” Clement continued, gesturing at the walls and glass case. “Each of the items you see before you hold a property that science cannot explain. Magic, if you want to call it that, imbued by the Word’s will. Over the years, beginning in the fourth century with the building of Old St. Peter’s,