Sign of the Cross
By JeanTre16
Chapter 20
And One for All
For three days the lone Musketeer had been trapped in the bowels of the palace, hoping to find proof of Cardinal Mazarin's secret society. Having heard the sound of running water, he followed the trail of lit torches only to find them leading nowhere a short distance later. 'Why would someone light only a few torches and then leave the rest unlit?' he hypothesized nearly aloud. Siroc sighed heavily to shake off his lack of concentration. He was tired. He had been alone in this time-eluding prison too long and was beginning to feel the effects.
Again, he forced himself to focus on the evidence presented. He felt the surface of an unlit torch and rubbed the soot between his fingers. With squinted eyes he adjusted his vision to get a better look. The residue was anything but fresh. Progressing down the corridor, he observed that the remainder of the torches lining the descending steps also showed no sign they had been used for some time. Then, the path abruptly ended at an empty, unvisited chamber. Siroc frowned and shook his head, perplexed. More mysteries, he reasoned, were not exactly what he needed right now.
Holding his lantern up, he walked about the vacant stone room, studying it. He stopped to listen to the sound of steadily flowing water, which seemed to come from beneath the ice-cold flooring. Seeing a grate, he placed his lantern down, removed the heavy barrier and slid it aside with effort. At first he could see nothing, but as his eyes adjusted he made out the movement of the blackish fluid running lengthwise from under where he squat. He surmised its path led to the Seine.
Inquisitively, he speculated the purpose of the chamber and the utility of its water source. It was a handy place for disposing unwanted evidence; no one would ever find a discarded object there. Consequently, the scientist wondered how many secrets presently lay at the bottom of this forgotten tributary or somewhere downstream from where he was.
Staring at the water, his vision caught on several obscure objects obstructing the current. He brought his lantern up over the opening to shed more light below. They were unrecognizable at first, but then, he saw them. Horror crept over his face. There, resisting the blackish current, like great stones, were the remains of several corpses, buried forever in the dark, cold waters beneath where few would ever tread. An unnerving wave coursed over Siroc's dampened skin, and he quickly rose to his feet, backing off from the demons that lurked below. With his lantern clutched in his hand, he fumbled his way backwards, all the while his eyes never leaving the haunting pit. When he had reached the steps, he physically shook off his fright and made his way hastily out of the chamber, up to where the last lit torch had been.
Reaching the spot, he leaned his back heavily against the wall and closed his eyes. "Damn!" he cursed aloud, not caring or even giving a thought of anyone hearing him. He reopened his eyes and ran a shaking hand through his hair as he tried to focus his thoughts. "Get a grip!" he reproved himself sternly. Terror blazed in his orbs and a sickly pallor hued his fear-etched features. While intentionally taking deep, extended breaths to calm his nerves, he reached into his sack and withdrew his flask of water. Removing the lid, he emptied it into his parched mouth. When he caught his breath, he replaced the lid—more out of habit than necessity, since there was nothing left inside—and shoved the useless container back into his work sack.
His non-existent water supply and nearly depleted food rations only fed his discouragement. The water beneath the palace was out of the question for drinking with the pollutants of decaying flesh so near. "Perhaps there's nothing else here but dead men, no lair of the Dark Order and no masterminded plot to manipulate the king," Siroc voiced his uncertainty.
He wiped the beading sweat from his brow and leaned his full weight against the stone to study his surroundings. He couldn't be very far from where he had started his journey after leaving Cardinal Mazarin's office. The thought was disheartening. He stared at the cross-shaped mounted torches and their flickering flames. Then it hit him. "Wait one minute," he extrapolated, scrunching his face in astonishment. "No torches were lit when I entered." He wondered excitedly. Who lit them and why had only a few been ignited? And where were these mysterious men now? Overcome by the new wave of questions, he groaned angrily and slammed his fist in frustration on the stone behind him.
To his shock, the stone gave way, depressing with a low rumbling sound into the flushed surface. "Huh?!" he exclaimed, unprepared and unbelieving of what was happening. A pale-faced Siroc stared at the widening rift appearing between the stonework, revealing yet another set of stairs. "A secret passageway within a secret passageway," he whispered, not so much to keep his voice down, but from sheer surprise.
His mind began to whirl with implications. 'Now what could be of such importance that even the privileged weren't to know about this?' Forgetting his fear and bankrupt rations, the inquisitive man eagerly entered the musky doorway, more than ready for a real discovery.
Once more, he saw a stiff descent of stone steps, curving gradually to his right. Before progressing further, he carefully returned the hidden door to its closed position. The infiltrating Musketeer had no desire to draw attention to his unwanted presence by the Cardinal or his henchmen. Satisfied that he had left no trace of his entry, he extinguished his dark lantern and made his way along the torch-lined downgrade. The well-tended flames and worn grooves on the stone steps spoke to him of frequent and recent use.
At the bottom of the stairs a familiar black robe hung on a peg. Hypnotically he took the fabric in his fingers. Siroc and his comrades had seen Cardinal Mazarin wearing perhaps this very cloak on the night they had first witnessed proof of the secret society. Jacqueline's brother had been freed in the wee morning hours by his own winged marvel. The inventor released the garment from his grip as sadness swept over him. Their victory had been short lived. Less than a year later, her brother wound up dead after another confrontation with Mazarin's men.
The grieved friend turned from the cloth and morbid thoughts to peer through the metal, slat gate blocking his way. Finding the release mechanism, the bars raised smoothly, and he stepped through the door and into the chamber. He stood for a moment, scanning the surroundings with an affirmative nod. Although there were immediate puzzles to the structure's design, there was no doubt that he had breeched the Dark Order's den.
A shudder ran through him as he noted the familiar stone flooring he found in the adjoining room with the submerged victims. From the direction he had traveled, he positioned this space directly upstream from where he had been. Again, a grate covered an opening in the center of the floor. Only this one had an enormous stone altar on top of it.
Directly over the altar was a recessed section in the parabolic ceiling. Flat metal sheets interlocked to seal off whatever lay above the chamber. "Whew! Look at that," Siroc exclaimed, giddy at the sight and forgetting his previous fear. To a layman, they were oddly lain metal sheets opening and closing to reveal whatever lay beyond; to the inventor, they represented a costly but brilliant piece of machinery. "A complex iris-like diaphragm controlling the aperture of a lens," he voiced in amazement.
He had read about these mechanisms, but had never imagined one of this size. He marveled how the entire chamber must somehow facilitate the single orifice. In his recent optic inventions, he had skirted around the rudimentary designs of light apertures. If what he was looking at was a giant optic lens, there would be an intense light source on the other side of it—the sun or other celestial body, perhaps. "But what would receive the focused beam?" he questioned, riddled by the absence of an object other than the ordinary stone altar below the opening. As he pondered over his analysis, he visually checked the perimeter walls for some sort of machinery to open the barriers.
High along the walls were several large depressions where recessed reflective surfaces were mounted within. He could see that the mirror mounts on the adjoining walls were nowhere in line with the lens' light path. Yet, somehow he knew the glass or mirrors held some purpose with the enormous mechanism. He knew he'd have to climb up there to have a closer look at their physical properties and at the direction of their focus. Noticing a narrow ledge beneath the fixtures, he began looking around for a pedestal or any other fixture to climb up on. While he searched, he continued to classify the components of the Spartan-like chamber.
Directly across from where he had entered, a wider set of short steps climbed to another iron grate that barred a larger entry. There, the waterway was unobstructed by flooring, providing a dock for the reclusive meeting place. Siroc guessed that townspeople doubling as secret order members made their mysterious entries and exits via this route.
Where and how was coming together, but Siroc needed to know what went on there. Just to the right of the still-gated doorway was a flat-topped stone with an ancient book on it. Like a fly to meat, the scientist flew across the distance to eagerly feast on his find. Anxious, but careful not to disturb the fragile pages, he delicately turned the cover and the first of its leaves. "Knights of the Order of the Black Tabernacle," he hoarsely whispered, every inch of his body prickling with goose bumps. This was it! Proof of the secret society's deviant activities sat right before the Musketeer's eyes.
Wanting to read more of its pages, he quickly turned mid-way through the tome. The words were in Latin, but that was no hindrance to the self-educated man. Half of what he had accumulated in scientific reading had been in foreign languages. But the fact that this book was in Latin spoke that these rites had been passed down through those with Roman descent. In the heyday of the Roman Empire's accumulation of religious artifacts, the insatiable quest to manipulate the supernatural had driven power-hungry men to grasp at any and all venues of religious powers. His eyes scanned the pages. What he read did not weaken his hypothesis. In essence, the volume contained recipes for conjuring up and harnessing life powers from subjected hosts.
Siroc cringed. While he was fascinated in the possibilities, he could see why the manuscript was kept secret. It was sadistic and dark in nature and purely egocentric in purpose. It was the 'how to' of taking what belonged to another and wielding it for personal gain. Brutal and unethical methods were written on the pages with total disregard for life. Siroc closed the book. What he had here would be more than enough to remove the Premier from office if he could be tied to it. He shoved the sizeable artifact in his bag, barely fitting it in. Shifting the weight of his bag to his back, he continued his tour around the den.
On yet another stone pedestal a single box sat. The inventor made his way over to unlatch the lid and reveal a perfect, black obelisk within. Its appearance immediately triggered the Musketeer's memory of the markings he had seen on several dead men suspected of belonging to Mazarin's secret society.
The cold, dark stone had ancient writing descending its length. He had seen the writ before, but he had no idea of its translation. And Siroc doubted that Mazarin or his cronies had made headway in translating it either. If it was the hieroglyphics he believed it to be, it was a lost language. Egypt's scribes had lost the ability to read their own pictorial writing sometime in the fourth or fifth century. No one could interpret it; anyone who tried would only be guessing.
His suspicion was warranted. The night his comrades and he had rescued Gerard, the recognized voice of Cardinal Mazarin had sounded anything but certain of what he read in the ancient text. It made the Musketeer feel sick, remembering the man who had lost his life over the cliff just to satisfy the masked leader's curiosity. He looked at the tower-shaped stone and wondered what guesswork the Dark Order used the obelisk for now.
His thoughts returned to the lens. Curiously, he considered the origin of the Egyptian obelisk. In Greek, obelisk meant skewer—referring to the shape of a roasting-pit tool. He smiled at how unscientific that sounded. As with many superstitious icons, its unusual name did have a bit of a history. The obelisk dated to the Egyptian worship of Ra—their sun God. Underlying Ra's association with the "skewer" shape was the natural occurring "light pillar" phenomena. With the right atmospheric conditions, a solar reflection would give off a vertical tower of light in the sky. This occurrence visually resembled the shape of a roasting pit skewer; thus, it was given its name—obelisk. Over time, the artifact's association with the ancient religion gave its name a mythical sound.
'Sun god; light pillar…lens!' the tingling thought hit Siroc. 'Was there a connection of the obelisk to the lens apparatus? Was that what this chamber's construction was all about?' Excitedly, yet with care, he lifted the object from its case and brought it to the altar in the center of the room. Setting it below the closed ceiling lens, he stepped back to process the configuration. 'Yes!' he reasoned. 'This did make sense!'
Reminding himself that he had yet to find the trigger mechanism to open the diaphragm of the lens, he quickly returned to complete his mapping of the room. One last platform stood to the side from where he had entered. Blood stained the porous stone surface. It was no question that men had been tortured and perhaps had even died there. Unfolding a cloth pouch that sat on top, Siroc gazed at numerous fine tools that he presumed someone's vile hands had used to experiment on their victims.
What the Musketeer saw angered him. How many lives had the religious man's pursuit of mystic powers claimed? At heart, Mazarin was no holy man, representing his church's beliefs; he was a maliciously evil imposter, taking on any form that offered a promise of accomplishing his will. No matter what goal the Cardinal thought he was serving, the means were certainly no justification for it.
It was then that Siroc realized what he'd have to do. In the event he was unable to resurface with the knowledge he had gained, he would not risk leaving his discovery in the hands of the crooked Cardinal. Quickly, he looked around and made his plans. He'd waste no time; he may not have another chance at it.
ooooooo
Cardinal Mazarin and his parascientist, Jean Baptiste Morin, were in His Eminence's office discussing agenda for the meeting that was about to take place. "Are you sure the attachment is complete?" the leader asked. "I have some imminent plans for Marie to carry out."
"Yes, Your Eminence," Morin's weaselly voice responded. "Mademoiselle Mancini's energy, or life force if you will, has been successfully linked to the king's. Like a puppet, where she goes, he will follow. What she asks, he will find impossible to resist."
"For your sake, I hope you are right," the Premier coerced mildly.
"I know I am correct," Morin answered with feeling. Strolling across the Cardinal's office toward the secret door, he supported his positioning in detail. "The sacred text dictates it. For every inherent power there is a mate. Match them up through rites, careful manipulation of formulas gained through coded lettering of religious text and reinforce that with a strong self will… any soul can be conquered. I'm positive of it!" Stopping at the armoire, he looked to his employer. His eyes blazed as a mad man's, fully immersed in and sold to his cause. "And we have seen the pair bond right before our very eyes, have we not?" he resounded, levying for his skeptic's support.
Mazarin paused in consideration. Finding nothing to dispute the man's claims on, he agreed, "Very well, I will progress with Marie as planned." His bearded chin dipped and his firm glare rested on the occultist. With that, the Dark Order leader placed his hand on the horse-head mechanism and opened the secret passage for Morin to pass through. He watched as the short, round, balding man disappeared through the arch. The red-robed leader would soon follow, but first he had some affairs to tend to.
ooooooo
Outside Cardinal Mazarin's office, a trembling dark-haired waif stood plastered to the wall. Marie Mancini had been about to knock—intending to drop in on her uncle for what she deemed to be a long overdue tête-à-tête—when she overheard the mention of her name. Taken back by hearing her uncle and another man talking about her, she held off announcing her presence and wound up eavesdropping instead. What she had heard terrified her.
Without warning, a guard seized the petite girl from behind by her thin elbow and delivered a sound rap to his boss' door. Receiving a muffled approval from within, he entered, dragging the protesting girl into the Premier's office. "Your Eminence, look who I found snitching outside your door," he informed, prideful at having been of service to the powerful man.
Marie looked around the room in confusion. Her uncle was alone; yet, she had distinctly heard a second man's voice just moments ago. Questions raced through her mind. Where could he have gone? Could he still be there, hiding somewhere? Had she really heard anyone at all?
Her puzzlement must have been transparent to her lofty relation, because he let out a disappointed sigh and shook his head. Calmly folding his hands, he began pacing the room as if considering his next words with care. "Tsk, tsk," he expressed his reprimand, "you must know that the affairs of your uncle can be… sensitive in nature." He pivoted his head around to read her response.
Marie was frightened. All she had wanted to do moments before was to enjoy her distinguished relative's company and to thank him for inviting her to Paris. But in light of what she had just overheard and her uncle's odd behavior, nothing was making any sense. Unsure of what to say in her defense, the usually talkative female balked. "But uncle, this is all a mistake. I came by just to say hello," she nervously discharged herself of any wrongdoing, her dark curls bouncing with the shake of her head.
The Cardinal studied the girl blankly before turning to his guard. "You see, my niece was just coming to tell me that she missed me," he excused smoothly, barring his teeth in an unconvincing smile. His business with the child was personal, and he would not permit his henchman to invite himself into affairs that did not concern him.
"Of course, Your Eminence," the guard responded, less sure of himself than before.
"That will be all," Mazarin dismissed calmly.
Marie's eyes followed the subservient man as he left the room, and then returned her worried gaze to the intimidating man she was now alone with. Why, she wondered, would her uncle obviously shroud his intent to get rid of his guard? In a short passage of time, Marie Mancini had been exposed to a deceptive side of the esteemed man that she had never even suspected existed before.
"Now—" the outwardly patient Premier circled his captive "—be honest. Tell your uncle exactly what you heard." Once again, he smiled warmly, inviting her to speak freely.
Closing her large brown eyes, she sighed heavily and drew on her courage. She decided that she could not fib to the man who had shown her nothing but kindness up to this point. If there had been some misunderstanding, he would surely accept her genuineness and correct her where she erred. "Uncle, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to listen. But when I thought I heard you and another man discussing me and how I would help you persuade Louis…" She stopped to open her eyes and look ponderingly around the room, and then began again more doubtfully, "But I must have been wrong, because there's no one here but you."
"No, there's no one here but me," he echoed in agreement, completing his picture of innocence with his fingers piously interlaced.
Compelled to speak her heart, she confessed, "I care for Louis too much, Uncle. If it were true—what I thought I heard—I want you to know that I could never be dishonest to him." Her brown eyes looked pleadingly at her religious relative. She had really wanted to talk with him about how she'd fallen in love with the king, but their present situation had clouded that hope with awkwardness.
Mazarin stood, head tilted to the side, in consideration. His flaring indignance was kept well in check under his mask of benevolence. Unfolding his prayerfully clasped fingers, he approached the girl in a patronizing manner. "Go, my child; spend the day with Louis. Obviously, there's nothing to warrant your concern. Like you said, it was all a misunderstanding." He took her by the arm and led her to the exit.
Marie could tell he was not being forthright with her; he was hiding something. Confused and speechless, she let her uncle lead her along.
Mazarin stopped before the door. Momentarily dropping the civil pretence, his face hardened along with his grip on her arm. He leaned close to her ear and grated, "I will say this nicely only once. Be warned, my dear niece, if what you desire is truly here in Paris, do not be foolish enough to think that you have a choice when it comes to matters of state. Oh, and listening in wrong places can cause… grave misunderstandings." He nodded condescendingly, locking gaze with his wide-eye subject. Satisfied that his point had been driven home, he released the girl's delicate arm and let her out.
In the hallway, the petite Italian girl turned back toward the shut door, stunned by her uncle's dark-sided behavior. Her imagination ran wild. What was he trying to do with Louis and just how much freedom of choice was she willing to give up for love? Trembling from the confrontation, she left her silent questions unanswered at her uncle's door and resumed her path down the corridor, resolved to find her beloved.
ooooooo
One man had decided how much he'd be willing to give up for those he cared for. Siroc had evidenced enough suffering under the leadership of the malicious Cardinal, and he was determined to put an end to it. The inventor reached into his workbag, feeling around for his last minor adjustment piece to the chamber's mechanism. "Mazarin will pay for his crimes," he choked past the dry lump in his throat.
"Will he?" came a voice from behind him along with the sound of a cocking flintlock. "I advise you to stop what you're doing and put your hands up," the voice warned.
Startled, the blond-haired man released the object his fingers were curled around in his bag. The inventor's eyes opened wide and he could feel the hairs on his neck rise. Someone had caught him in the act of sabotage. Quickly, his mind shifted to cover for the worst-case-scenario. In an unprovoking manner, he removed his hand from the sack to join his other one in the air.
"I do believe that is a Musketeer's uniform you wear, not the proper attire for our little club," the mysterious man sneered. "Turn around slowly and identify yourself," he ordered with less humor.
Siroc cautiously kept his hands up and cranked his neck around. From over his shoulder, he could see the profusely sweating man dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. It was Jean Baptiste Morin, and he was profoundly nervous. Most likely, the soldier thought, he had no stomach for the actual dirty work of His Eminence and had not expected to run into company in the sanctum. This was information he could use, knowing that the wimp-of-a-man would prefer waiting for the others to arrive. The procrastination would hopefully buy Siroc the few moments that he needed.
Morin's chin rose and his face lit up in recognition of his adversary. "I know who you are," he sneered. "You're that fool who turned down Cardinal Mazarin's offer to work for him." Gesturing wildly with the flintlock, he arrogantly scoffed, "It's all the better for me that I don't have a young know-it-all running about underfoot, delaying my progress with his uneducated questions."
Siroc stung with surprise that the noted scientist had even heard of him. The man's words were arrogant, but the soldier thought he saw a tinge of fear in Morin's bold front. Or was it envy? The inventor pivoted for a better view of his subject. Was it possible that this man felt his career was being threatened?
"Siroc," Morin snickered haughtily. "What an odd name. Did your parents not know what to name you?"
With his hands still up, the inventor let out a pathetic laugh and returned the compliment. "Jean Baptiste," he said, letting his captor know that he too was aware of the other's identity. "What a common name for a common criminal," he tagged on in flattened sarcasm. "How convenient that half of King Louis' staff shares the same assumed name. It stands out just as much as your questionable accomplishments."
"Pshew!" Morin smirked. "Accomplishments. You would know nothing about accomplishments, working out of that makeshift lab of yours in some storeroom of Musketeer headquarters. I'm sure your captain allots you ample funding for your pitiful research," he jeered through his nose. "My employer once spoke highly of your talents; yet, less so of your affiliates. Your worthless band of associates will get you nowhere. Without funding and endowments, your genius will go to waste."
"Oh, I don't know." Siroc detected the bitterness in Morin. Needing to divert the man's attention, he played on it. "I'd say my choice of friends are of high character, which is more than you can say for yours."
"Friends," Morin mocked, his eyes keenly on Siroc's back, "where are you're friends now? Let me tell you about friends. The first chance your brilliance brings you recognition, they'll disappear into the stonework." He scoffed loudly, "Friends!"
The Musketeer still had not fully turned to face Morin. With his hands up and peering over his shoulder, he purposely kept his betraying expressions and bulging workbag obscured from his foe's line of vision. Calmly, he continued to engage the man in conversation, "Well, I don't know. Sounds to me like you just chose the wrong friends… or maybe the wrong branch of science to gain your notoriety." Siroc's fingers twitched, anxious for the minute distraction that would allow him to work his final deed.
Privately, the Musketeer grinned, believing he knew exactly what motivated this opportunist. Previously, he told Captain Duval that Morin's pride had estranged him from the scientific community. Now, the young scientist believed that the aging, unpopular man had most likely taken his current position out of fear that he would not be remembered for any of his life's works.
Siroc considered how his comrades often accused him of being solitary. It was a truth he would admit to; he did like to work alone. But, he did not work to promote himself as this man did. The Musketeer believed that a scientist's tribute was in advancing the causes of mankind, benefiting all. Da Vinci's mechanical invention had taught him that lesson firsthand. The curiosity of building what could be built had been so great that Siroc had nearly lost everything really mattering to him. "Morin, you're nothing but a corrupted, selfish man who will sooner or later end up with nothing you want," he declared with mixed sadness and distaste.
"Silence!" Morin lashed out. "No more talk until the others arrive."
The captive submitted to the suggestion. Conversation had proven futile; he'd have to divert the armed man's attention with something else. But an alternate course of action of his making was not to materialize. While he was yet scheming, echoing footsteps and voices could be heard approaching from the dock side of the sanctum. Siroc was out of time; his move would be now or never.
"It will all soon be over," the round man gloated, shooting an anticipating glance over his shoulder.
Morin's brief look away was all Siroc needed to capitalize on the situation. He lowered his hand and shoved it into his pack, re-claiming the final touch needed to set his chain-reaction into motion. The contrived object had originally been fashioned as a gift for Ramon, to lure him away from his lab. When the poet mentioned how the flicker of the candlelight about the room inspired him to write, the inventor created the multi-faceted, mirrored, spherical object on an oscillating stand for the Spaniard's private quarters. The work-in-progress was never intended to have wound up at the palace with Siroc; it had made its way into his workbag sheerly by the fact that it required the use of the glass-working tools stored within. He carefully removed the object from his pouch and ushered it to its position on the blood stained slab. Gently, so as not to upset its balance, he gave it a spin on its axis and stepped back to watch.
Concurrently, the Musketeer saw the large gated entry recede upward and the Dark Order men begin to file into the room. As of yet, they hadn't taken note of the stranger's presence; most likely, he figured, they had not expected to see an outsider in their most sacred chamber. Before Morin could alert them to his captive's identity, Siroc heard a whirring sound and realized that someone had activated the opening of the metal plates overhead.
His moment had arrived. "Here goes nothing," he mumbled and watched with great anticipation. His eyes darted about the room—from orifice to obelisk, from obelisk to recessed reflectors. Gradually, the resonance hummed louder and louder as the light poured in. The black object in the center began to glow with a bluish-white hue and emitted rays diagonally toward the individual mounts on the wall.
Like a child having set up a line of pegs and preparing to watch them fall, the blond-haired inventor anticipated the result of his carefully orchestrated grand finale. The beams intensified and began to reflect off the wall recessions. Then, two of the refracted rays met their intended end—the spinning mirrored ball. Suddenly, the room ignited with a dazzling display of dancing lights.
The effect completely surprised and terrified the dark robed men entering the chamber. Mayhem broke out. Superstitious of the obelisk's inherent powers, the men sought to avoid the ever-moving lights. Bumping into one another, pushing, shoving, and climbing under surfaces, they scrambled in confusion.
While chaos erupted, Siroc gleaned a last look at one particular recessed mount where he'd fixed his dioptic lens. He anticipated that the lens from his dark lantern would act as a magnifier for the beam, making it even stronger as it hit its mark. His observation was short lived. The effect was more than he had hoped for. 'Now!' his internal sensors blared. He grasped his sack tightly to his side and braced himself for a dive. As he did, everything in the room went amuck.
The amplified beam that hit the grating below the altar gave a spectacular display of light. Its intense energy superheated the support with an eerie glow. Effectually, the weight of the stone above compromised its strength and the whole structure collapsed downward to the water below. The obelisk that sat on top jostled from its perch, misaligning it from the sun's rays. Abruptly, all displays of light and vibration cut off. A sudden and deafening interlude of calm and soundlessness enveloped the sanctum before the black icon met the stone floor with a loud smack, shattering it into uncountable splinters. Pieces shot forcefully in every direction as though an innate force had exploded from within its blackness sending its shockwave outward. Then, all fell silent and only the natural lighting from the ceiling skylight filtered into the motionless chamber.
Through the misty haze, Mazarin appeared. The luminary's silhouette alone cast a respected quiet over his cowering, fearful men. They watched his face undulate between disbelief and livid anger as he gawked at the enormous hole in the center of the sanctum floor where the octagon pedestal had been.
Quaking on the verge of losing control, he visually scoured the sanctum, assessing the damage and calculating who to blame. Everywhere he looked, black glass shards littered the stonework beneath his feet. The icon that had been handed down for centuries in the Secret Order of the Knights of the Tabernacle lay destroyed and irreparable for all time. Its power, his power, had been broken, and the knowledge pierced him straight through.
Mazarin was about to speak, to ascertain the first victim of his psychotic rage, when someone spoke up from behind the dark leader. "Where is he?" the small, raspy voice asked. The plump man stepped forward, aimlessly brandishing a flintlock.
Realizing it was his parascientist who spoke, the religious leader demanded with great constraint, "Where's who?" Silently, he swore that if the sniveling man ranted on about some resurrected enemy's spirit seeking revenge, he'd kill him. He was in no mood for a superstitious guessing game.
"Why Siroc, Your Eminence," Morin replied, unafraid and as if his employer should have known. "I caught him snooping about in the sanctum," he explained as he waved the weapon wildly about.
"Siroc?!" the Premier railed, explosively. Alarm rippled over his demeanor, and he distractedly confiscated the man's weapon as though he were swatting an annoying fly. "Find him!" he barked out at the idle group of men.
No further encouragement was needed. Immediately the black robed men scrambled like roaches, combing every section of the underground labyrinth. Some retraced their steps to the boat while others searched the adjoining passageways. All effort concluded one thing: Siroc had vanished.
Having given up their vain efforts, the men gathered again in the sanctum. One of the Cardinal's guards stepped forward and knelt by the hole where the pedestal had been. Wonder shone on his face. "Your Eminence, look!" he said and slowly un-snagged a strap of cloth from the jagged rim. Raising it up, Siroc's workbag slowly emerged from the icy water. "He must have fallen though with the altar and drowned," the guard informed his master.
Cold sweat trickled down Cardinal Mazarin's tension-lined forehead. If that intuitive Musketeer had somehow penetrated his sanctum, then who else knew about its existence? His comrades? Captain Duval? "I want a body!" he exploded, blazing from mask to mask. "I want that water searched! I want proof he is dead!"
His horrified men balked at the order. They all knew what lay beneath their feet. No one said it, but they were all thinking it—their leader had lost his sanity. Only one question riddled their thoughts: How far would they go in following this mad man? Standing there, they watched him, the man who had caused nations to tremble, shrink before their eyes.
Mazarin flinched, feeling a wave of panic set in over his crumbling world. "No! I want them all dead!" he bellowed, fighting back. "I will not succumb to them! They will not destroy the society that I have worked so long and hard to build!" Convulsing with rage, his eyes pierced into the souls behind each of his men's masks. "I still wield the power to destroy the Musketeers." His face glowed hauntingly as he revealed the conspiracy. "King Charles II has expressed his desire to form an alliance with France in exchange for certain collateral—" a bated prelude elapsed before he spat his curse "—Jacqueline Roget, that d'Artagnan wench, and the beheading of her irksome Musketeer husband." Having said his news, the Premier fled the sanctum to pursue his mission, leaving his men to make their decisions.