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boldly into the wilderness, trusting in God to see us through the trials that lie ahead."
And so it was agreed.
***
Later that night, following the conclusion of Vespers, the members of le Cercle made their way by
separate routes down to the lower levels of the treasury wing, each bearing a lamp to light his way.
Arnault was the last to arrive-and had a sudden sensation of being watched, as he traversed the
passageway giving access to the treasure chambers-but it was gone as quickly as he noted it.
He cast an involuntary look over his shoulder, but could sense nothing more. None the wiser, he
shrugged the sensation aside and joined his companions in the antechamber, passing then into the secret
inner strong room where the Order's choicest treasures lay hidden.
As always, his pulse quickened as he stepped across the threshold. The very air of the inner chamber
seemed rare?ed yet invigorating, and he inhaled deeply, tasting the inde?nable savor of purity and power.
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The others had set their lamps on a narrow ledge that ran at eye level around the circular chamber, the
positions marking out the room's four quarters. Christoph took Arnault's lamp to a bracket suspended
above a square central altar-table of white marble. Several brass-bound coffers and a large oaken chest
occupied space on the ?oor nearby.
Arnault set his back against the door to compose himself as the others continued preparing the room with
quiet ef?ciency. While Gaspar and Hugues de Curzon did what was necessary to ward the room,
Christoph and Oliver de Penne began removing items from the oaken chest: ?rst an altar cloth of pure
white linen, and then a collection of ceremonial items including a pair of seven-branched candlesticks cast
from bronze. When these had been properly arranged, Christoph beckoned Arnault to his side as he
took out a stack of folded vestments.
"You can work without these, I know," he said, as he helped Arnault don the checkered linen tunic, "but
it isn't always that we have the luxury of full ceremonial preparation." He laid the white silk stole around
Arnault's shoulders, with its fringe of golden tassels. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
Arnault smiled faintly as he pulled the ends of the stole under the linen cincture Christoph tied around his
waist.
"Yes. Thank you," Arnault murmured.
In fact, he had not worn these vestments since a night some ?fteen years ago in Cyprus, when he had
received the revelations that had impelled le Cercle to abandon Outremer as a site for the Fifth Temple
and transfer their focus to Scotland. He had been involved in far more arduous and dangerous workings
since then, but he had no doubt that appropriate ceremonial accoutrements could do a great deal to
enhance the desired spiritual focus-and tonight, he wanted all the help he could get. As he again donned
the mantle of purple silk, with its border of golden bells and pomegranates, he could only hope that the
Providence that had brought them so far would sustain them to their journey's end.
Meanwhile, unlocking another of the treasure caskets, Oliver removed a silver reliquary box inscribed
with Hebrew characters and placed it on the altar between the candlesticks. Then, from inside, he lifted
out a silk-wrapped bundle the size of a small book. Even before Christoph folded back the wrappings,
Arnault felt a stirring in the depths of his very soul, for power radiated from the High Priest's Breastplate
like an invisible corona of glory re?ecting from the throne of Heaven itself.
"Baruch ateh Adonai, Elohenu melech haolam." Arnault murmured, moved to prayer in the language of
the object's origins, for its visible splendor was no less arresting. Blessed art Thou, O Lord our God,
King of the Universe.
His touch was reverent as he laid his hand brie?y over the twelve large jewels adorning the face of the
Breastplate, set in bezels of pure gold and arranged in three rows of four. Stitched to a backing square of
stiffened linen, they shimmered in the light of the lamps with a more than earthly luster. On each of the
stones was engraved the name of one of the Twelve Tribes of ancient Israel.
These, on their own, were a wondrous treasure, but the true glory of the Breastplate was vested in a less
obvious component known as the Urim and Thummin, the Lights and Perfections. The very name
attempted to embrace not a physical object so much as a concept, though the spiritual attributes of the
Urim and Thummin were presently embodied in a pair of ?at, coin-shaped stones, one black and one
white, which resided in a double linen pocket stitched to the back of the Breastplate. Said to be of
celestial origin, their siting on the back of the Breastplate ensured that, when the Breastplate was worn,
the Urim and Thummin rested over the wearer's heart-for it was from the heart's truth that the wearer
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drew his inspiration, when invoking their power.
Placing the Breastplate there now, and holding it over his heart while Christoph secured it with ?ne
golden chains fastened to the corners, Arnault could feel both the physical substance and an inward
shiver of anticipation, calling to him. Oliver lit fresh candles on the altar, and Hugues ignited a cone of
incense set in a silver dish. As the fragrance of frankincense and myrrh wound gently upward on the still
air, Christoph summoned the rest of them to gather at the altar, where, after commending themselves and
their work to God with the sign of the cross, he offered up an opening invocation.
"Find your strength in the Lord, in His mighty power," Christoph murmured, paraphrasing Saint Paul. "Put
on all the armor that God provides, so that you may be able to stand ?rm against the devices of the
Devil."
His words hung on the silence of the little chamber. As Arnault started to add an invocation of his own,
according to usage long familiar in Roman rite, he was suddenly reminded how, when empowering the
Stone for Bruce's sacring, they had used more ancient Celtic prayers-and he reached deep into memory
for more ?tting words.
"Thou Michael the victorious,
I make my circuit under thy shield.
Thou Michael of the white steed,
And of the bright brilliant blades,
Conqueror of the dragon,
Be thou at my back.
Thou ranger of the heavens,
Thou warrior of the King of All,
O Michael the victorious,
My pride and my guide,
O Michael the victorious,
The glory of mine eye."
As Arnault spoke, resting his hands on the altar and closing his eyes to the material world, the air began
to tingle with invisible energies. Welcoming it, he ?ung open the gates of his soul and let himself fall into
the angelic Presence drawing near.
In that instant, in a dizzying burst of inner illumination, he felt himself transported in spirit to a realm of
supernal light: a sanctuary not made by hands, where stood a glorious Presence robed in living ?ame and
holding a blazing sword at rest beneath powerful hands. Joyful recognition pierced Arnault to the heart,
and he knew that he knelt in body and in spirit before the Archangel Michael, whose great wings trailed
?ames and the many iridescent eyes of peacock feathers, and gently stirred the breath of incense that
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gusted through the celestial vault.
"Be the cowl of Michael militant around me," he murmured, enwrapped in wonder.
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