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a look of wonder on his face as he turned to glance at Ninian and Torquil.
"What do you make of that?" he asked softly.
"Which part?" the Columban abbot answered, with a whimsical smile. "The ?rst is clear enough, I think.
We all know the tale of how Father Columba dispelled a faerie water-beast that had been troubling King
Brude of the Picts. By this sign, I would say that we are to take the stone to Urquhart Castle and commit
it to the waters of Loch Ness."
"We're to sink it in the loch?" Torquil asked incredulously. "Beyond retrieval?"
"What better place to keep it safe until the end of time?" Ninian replied. "It is Scotland's anchorstone, and
the Temple's cornerstone. Guarded by the secrets of the loch, none shall dare to try and take it from us,
ever again.
"As for the second part," he went on, again resting his chin on his folded hands to gaze at the artifacts
spread atop the Stone, "the image of the Shard piercing the Stone recalls for me the legends of the sword
in the stone. In English, the very word for sword embodies the Word. Thus it seems to me that the
Shard, which is the very Word of God, is to be united with the Stone of Destiny before it is sent to its
watery resting place. Thus will the Word of God help to anchor His Fifth Temple here in Scotland."
His brow furrowing, Arnault picked up the Shard and looked at it, then touched its point to the Stone.
"I don't understand. How is this to be done?"
"I can only assume," said Ninian, "that this will be made clear at the appropriate time, as have other
things. I suggest that the Feast of Saint Andrew would be the most auspicious time to carry out this task."
"That's less than a month away," Torquil said. "And it's a long way to Loch Ness."
"Aye, the ?rst snows already lie on the hills," Arnault said, looking at Ninian in question. "But you
obviously have something in mind, or you wouldn't have suggested so near a date."
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Ninian summoned a faint smile. "I have had several months to prepare, my friends," he said, "and Brother
Flannan was most helpful. Two of your Templar galleys will be at Dundee by the time we can transport
the Stone south."
His listeners only nodded, by now well accustomed not to question anything that had to do with the
abilities or information sources of the Columban brethren.
The next day, they began the slow process of bringing the Stone out of its hiding place in the crypt below
the cathedral and transporting it down from Dunkeld by wagon, by way of Scone, Perth, and the River
Tay. True to Ninian's promise, the galleys were waiting for them, one for transporting the Stone and one
to provide an armed escort. All of the remaining Templars of le Cercle still in Scotland were part of the
escort party-Aubrey, Flannan, Hamish Kerr, and Breville, along with Arnault and Torquil-and even Luc,
who had come over from Argyll, where the rest of their brethren had retired after Bannokburn.
"It's good to see you, old friend," Arnault told him, as they clasped hands on making the rendezvous at
Dundee. "You and I are the only ones left who were present at that council on Cyprus. It's only ?tting
that we both should witness the ful?llment of that prophecy."
The Templars crewing the galleys were all known to Arnault and Torquil, and asked no questions. Ninian
and Brother Seoirse, a young monk from Iona, joined them, their Columban robes most welcome among
men so long denied the right to wear the white habit of their own order.
"We expect fair winds, with you along!" Torquil said aside to Ninian, grinning, as they sailed out of the
Firth of Tay and headed north.
And fair winds they had, day after day. Skirting the coast past Arbroath and Aberdeen, then along the
sandy shoreline to round the points at Peterhead and Kinnaird, the galleys made good time. It was the
end of the third week in November as they passed Burghead, where, after the slaying of Red John
Comyn, Arnault had led a band of Templars in rooting out what they believed to be the last vestiges of
the Comyn family's links with Scotland's pagan past. Glancing at Flannan Fraser, standing farther along
the rail, Arnault wondered if he, too, was remembering that day, and perhaps re?ecting on developments
since then.
The wind shifted as they entered the Moray Firth, coming directly from where they wished to go, so they
were obliged to drop sail and resort to oars. The weather worsened as the wind rose, and even the
prayers of their Columban brothers were to no avail, though Ninian had a thoughtful expression on his
face as he came away from the bow of the ship.
They continued up the ?rth, rowing against the wind and hidden by the rain and the mist. Three days
before Saint Andrew's Day, they pulled into a hidden inlet, where they took an extra turning of the tides
to transfer all unnecessary supplies and extraneous crew to the escort vessel, which would not attempt
the transit into Loch Ness. There they also winched the Stone up onto the deck, covering it with a heavy
blanket of tartan wool. Arnault sat beside it, occasionally reaching out to touch it, for all the long day it
took them to row out of the bay and proceed up the ?rth, with the coasts drawing in on either hand.
They slipped past Inverness that night, under cover of sleet and hail. Dawn found them at the mouth of
the narrow sea estuary that connected the ?rth and the loch, with the Feast of Saint Andrew but two days
away. During the night, the temperature had plummeted below freezing, and a rime of ice clung to the
rocks inshore and all across a raft of seaweed clogging the mouth of the stream. Ice likewise adorned all
the ship's rigging.
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"Are you sure the channel is navigable?" Arnault asked the captain of the transport galley.
"No, not at all sure," came the response. "But Brother Ninian tells me that Saint Columba will take care
of it. Meanwhile, the best time to try it is at the high tide."
They waited until nearly noon to attempt a transit, more than an hour before the expected high tide.
Timbers creaking in protest, the galley nosed her way cautiously into the mouth of the stream, with a
crewman sounding the depth from the bow and oarsmen occasionally fending them off from obstacles.
The channel was close, the depth variable. Now and again the ship's keel scraped along a sandbar. They
had been at it most of the day when the galley softly grated to a standstill.
"It's too shallow, and there's ice clogging the channel ahead," the captain informed Arnault, before
hurrying forward to investigate.
Going with him to peer ahead from the bow, Arnault saw that the previous night's intense cold had
constricted the brackish waters of the stream to an ice-bound trickle midstream.
"Can we cut through with axes?" he asked.
"We could try," the captain agreed, "but this late in the day, we wouldn't get very far. The tide's turned,
and the temperature will drop again with nightfall."
"What can we do?" Torquil whispered to Arnault, as the captain directed men overboard to try with the
axes anyway.
Arnault slowly shook his head. "I don't know what will happen if we miss the appointed time."
He asked the Stone, laying his hands upon it and offering up his plea for guidance, but none was
forthcoming. He knew the Stone was still alive, but he could get no response from it. Nor could any of
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