Kate Mosse - Labyrinth

Pic de Soularac

FRIDAY 8 JULY 2OO5

The thin robe provided little protection from the damp chill of the chamber. Alice shivered as she slowly turned her head.

To her right was the altar. The only light came from an old-fashioned oil lamp, standing in its centre, sending shadows running up the sloping walls. It was enough to see the symbol of the labyrinth on the rock behind, large and imposing in the confined space.

She sensed there were other people nearby. Alice looked down to her right and nearly cried out loud as she caught her first sight of Shelagh.

She was lying curled up on the stone floor like an animal, thin, lifeless, defeated, the evidence of her mistreatment on her skin. Alice couldn’t see whether or not she was breathing.

Please God let her still be alive.

Alice slowly became accustomed to the flickering light. She turned her head slightly and saw Audric in the same place as before. He was still tethered by the rope to a ring set in the floor. His white hair formed a kind of halo around his head. He was as still as a statue carved on a tomb.

As if he could sense her eyes on him, he caught her eye, and smiled.

Forgetting for a moment that he must be angry with her for charging it in when she’d promised to stay outside, she gave a weak smile.

Just like Shelagh said.

Then she realised something was different about him. She lowered her i to Audric’s hands, fanned out against the white of the robe.

The ring is missing.

“Shelagh’s here,” she whispered under her breath. You were right.“

He nodded.

“We have to do something,” she hissed. he gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and glanced to the far side of the chamber. She followed his gaze.

“Will!” she whispered in disbelief. Relief rushed through her, and something else, followed by pity for the state of him. His hair was matted with dried blood, one of his eyes was swollen and he could see cuts on his face, his hands.

But he’s here. With me.

At the sound of her voice, Will opened his eyes. He peered into the darkness. Then, as he saw her, recognised her, a half-smile came to his battered lips.

For a moment, they stared at each other, holding one another’s gaze.

My love . The realisation gave her courage.

The mournful howl of the wind in the tunnel intensified, mixed now with the murmur of a voice. A monotonous chant, not quite singing.

Alice couldn’t work out where it was coming from. Fragments of oddly familiar words and phrases echoed through the cave until the air was saturated with the sound: montanhas, mountains; Noblesa, nobility; libres, books; graal, grail. Alice started to feel dizzy, intoxicated by the words that clamoured like the bells of a cathedral in her head.

Just as she thought she could take no more, the chanting stopped. Quickly, quietly, the melody faded away, leaving nothing but a memory.

A single voice floated into the watchful silence. A woman’s voice, clear and precise.

In the beginning of time,

In the land of Egypt,

The master of secrets,

Gave words and scripts.

Alice tore her eyes from Will’s face and turned towards the sound. Marie Cecile appeared from the shadows behind the altar like an apparition. As she stood before the labyrinth, her green eyes, painted with black and gold, sparkled like emeralds in the flickering lamp. Her hair, held back from her face by a golden band with a diamond motif on the forehead, shone like jet. Her elegant arms were bare, except for matching amulets of twisted metal.

She was carrying the three books, one on top of the other, in her hands. She placed them in a row on the altar, beside a plain, earthenware bowl. As she reached out to adjust the position of the oil lamp on the altar, Alice registered, almost without realising it, that Marie-Cecile was wearing Audric’s ring on her left thumb.

It looks wrong on her hand.

Alice found herself immersed deep in a past she did not remember. The vellum should be dry and brittle to the touch, like dying leaves on the tree in autumn. But she could almost feel the leather ties between her own fingers, soft and flexible, even though they ought to be stiff through the long years of disuse, as if the memory was written in her bones and blood. She remembered how the covers shimmered, shifted colour under the light.

She could see the image of a tiny gold chalice, no bigger than a ten pence piece, shining like a jewel on the heavy cream parchment. On the following pages, lines of ornate script. She heard Marie-Cecile speaking into the gloom and, at the same time, behind her eyes she saw the red and blue and yellow and gold letters. The Book of Potions .

Images of two-dimensional figures, animals and birds flooded into her head. She could picture a sheet of parchment, thicker than the other pages but different – translucent, yellow. It was papyrus, the weave of the leaves apparent. It was covered with identical symbols as at the beginning of the book, except this time tiny drawings of plants, numbers and measurements were interspersed between them.

She was thinking of the second book now, the Book of Numbers . On the first page was a picture of the labyrinth itself, rather than a chalice.

Without realising she was doing so, Alice looked around the chamber once more, this time seeing the space through different eyes, unconsciously verifying its shape and proportions.

She looked back to the altar. Her memory of the third book was the strongest. Shimmering in gold on the first page was the ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol of life, familiar now the world over. Between the leather-covered wooden boards of the Book of Words were blank pages, like a white guard surrounding the papyrus buried in the centre of the book. The hieroglyphs were dense and unyielding. Row after row of tightly drawn symbols covered the entire sheet. There were no splashes of colour, no indication of where one word ended and the next began.

Concealed within this was the incantation.

Alice opened her eyes and sensed Audric looking at her.

A look of understanding flashed between them. The words were coming back to her, slipping quietly from the dusty corners of her mind. She was momentarily transported out of herself, for a fraction of a second, looking down on the scene from above.

Eight hundred years ago Alais had said these words. And Audric had heard them.

The truth will make us free.

Nothing had changed, yet she was suddenly no longer afraid.

A sound from the altar drew her attention. The stillness passed and the world of the present came rushing back. And, with it, fear.

Marie-Cecile took up the earthenware bowl, small enough to cup between her hands. From beside it she took a small knife with a dull worn blade. She raised her long, white arms above her head.

“ Dintrar ,‘ she called. Enter.

Francois-Baptiste stepped from the darkness of the tunnel. His eyes swept around his surroundings like a searchlight, skimming over Audric, then Alice, then coming to rest on Will. Alice saw the triumph on the boy’s face and knew that Francois-Baptiste had inflicted the injuries on Will.

I’ll not let you hurt him this time.

Then his gaze moved on. He paused a moment at the sight of the three books laid out in a row on the altar, surprised or relieved, Alice couldn’t tell, then his eyes came to rest on the face of his mother.

Despite the distance, Alice could feel the tension between them.

A flicker of a smile played across Marie-Cecile’s face as she stepped down from the altar, the knife and the bowl in her hands. Her robe shimmered like spun moonshine in the flickering light of the candles as she moved through the chamber. Alice could smell the subtle trace of her perfume in the air, light beneath the heavy aroma of burning oil in the lamp.