"We all suspected the Pope would find a way to rule against us," Fra Kent said. He was a jowly priest, tallest of them all, with a quick wit and a helping hand for others. "Now, the hour of our greatest trial is upon us, and it is more imperative than ever that we act as one mind, one strong heart."

The Magister Regens nodded ever so slightly as he looked around the table with his sternest expression. "I trust I can count on each and every one of you to perform your duties and defend the principles of our Order."

There came an explosion of assent from every priest in the room, Fra Sento's voice joining Fra Kent's and the others'. Then the Magister Regens spread his arms wide and, as they stood as one, addressed his charges formally:

"There is courage in all our hearts, faith fires our souls. We, who have been charged by St. Francis to be his everlasting voice on earth, to carry out his will for generations to come, now gather our strong arms. Though the storm clouds of war gather, though our enemy has sought us out, now we gird ourselves for the battle. Man the battlements south and east, the staircases and the courtyards that have come to be our home. Rain down upon our enemies the retribution for their unwarranted aggression. It is a red day, an evil day, a day of sorrow and of pain! Blood will flow and lives will be lost! Both heaven and hell will receive its share of souls before its end!"

A great, massed cheer rocked the huge room, after which the refectory emptied quickly. As Fra Prospero had said, his priests had been well trained and exhaustively drilled. However, no sooner was he alone with Fra Leoni than he said in a voice filled with an anguish he had not allowed the other priests to hear, "They know."

"I'm afraid so." Fra Leoni nodded. "Somehow the Knights of St. Clement have managed to penetrate the Order."

The Magister Regens looked stricken. "Not just the Order. The Haute Cour-the inner circle-of which you and I are a part."

The enormous fireplace, into which even Fra Kent could step without bowing his head, loomed black and desolate. The stone floor was hard and unforgiving beneath their sandaled feet. They looked at the refectory table, now nearly deserted, as if it were a compatriot who had been struck down by sudden illness, who they would likely never see again. So filled with sudden emotion was Fra Prospero that he was obliged to put his fists on the table to steady his bulk as he rose. He walked to Fra Leoni's side, and together the two left the room, closing the massive door to the refectory behind them.

At that time the Sumela Monastery was divided into three parts. The lower section was built around a central courtyard and, below, an enormous cistern into which the aqueduct emptied. The middle section, the western half of which the Order inhabited, contained the kitchen, library, chapels, and guest rooms. Overlooking these layers was the Rock Church with its sacred icon of the Virgin Mary.

Together, the two members of the Haute Cour went down the corridor, ascended a steep flight of stone stairs and, by means of a narrow wooden door with a great iron lock, passed onto the ramparts. They breathed in the sharp scents of the mountain air, scented with the coming of night and steel-and, therefore, war. They soon reached their goal, and, peering through a gap in the mountainside, swaddled in thick evergreens, they could make out the deep gorge at the highest point of which Sumela rose on its steep and jagged mountain eyrie. On the horizon, farther than they could see, lay the full bounty of Trebizond, which had so irresistibly drawn the Greeks, the Genoese, the Florentines, the Venetians, the trading nexus between East and West, where camel trains from the Armenian hinterlands, from far-off Tabriz unloaded their wares to be transshipped to the warehouses of Europe. The defile was as yet empty, but it was only a matter of time before it was choked with the Knights of St. Clement of the Holy Blood.

"So even here we are not safe from them," Fra Leoni said. "You see the greed of mankind, Fra Prospero. We guard too many secrets, they are too valuable. Man is venal, corruptible, and therefore contemptible, for he falls too easily into sin."

"This is hardly the teaching of St. Francis."

"Our founder lived in a different time," Fra Leoni said bitterly. "Or else he was blind."

"I will not countenance blasphemy!" the Magister Regens snapped.

"If the truth be blasphemous, then so be it." Fra Leoni engaged the other with his eyes. "The Pope believes we preach blasphemy, so what is the truth but what we observe with our eyes? Religion, like philosophy, is a living thing. If it isn't allowed to change with the times, if it is left to calcify, it will surely become irrelevant."

Fra Prospero's eyes slid away, and he bit his lip in order not to say something he would doubtless regret later.

"To return to the subject," Fra Leoni said, "you know as well as I that our secrets must not be allowed to fall into the hands of our enemies." He opened his palm. "I will have your key."

A brief flicker of some dark emotion-fear or perhaps doubt-marred for a moment the face of the Magister Regens. "Is this what you think of our chances?"

Fra Leoni's eyes locked with those of Fra Prospero. "Would you have me regurgitate the rules of our Order? In times of crisis, there is ordained only one Keeper." A brief but unpleasant silence engulfed them. A chill wind stirred, rising from the ashes of the lowered sun, raced up the defile as if itself afraid of what was behind it in the quickening darkness. Fra Leoni knew that he had not answered the other's question. "They outnumber us, and, since the Pope has access to everything, it is safe to assume that they are better equipped than we could ever hope to be. These are simple exigencies of war, and can be overcome, with the right amount of cleverness and the correct strategy. And, of course, we have this stone fortress to act as our stout bulwark." He broke off abruptly and his head turned and, like a canny animal, he put out the tip of his tongue, absorbing the news brought to him on the wind.

"But?" Fra Prospero said, not a little irritably.

Fra Leoni turned back. He possessed the sometimes unnerving ability to direct his full scrutiny on whomever was with him, and that had often proved more than some could tolerate. "But the enemy is clever-far more clever than we gave him credit for. Fra Prospero, there can be no doubt that there is a traitor in our midst. Unless we discover his identity and stop him, tonight Sumela may become our grave rather than our sanctuary."

Fra Prospero's eyes sparked as he shook his head. "You know that I have never been an advocate of the single Keeper."

"And yet now you see its strength," Fra Leoni said. "We have been betrayed from inside the Haute Cour. Seven priests including you and I know of our cache of secrets, but only two know its location and have the key. Otherwise, the secrets would undoubtedly already be in the hands of the Knights of St. Clement. Come now, time grows fearfully short."

Still Fra Prospero hesitated, but then from the highest rampart of Sumela the lookout's cry took up Fra Leoni's intent and drained the blood from his heart.

"They come! The Knights are upon us!"

And, indeed, as they turned and looked, they saw the Knights of St. Clement, their emblematic banner with its seven-pointed purple cross flying along with that of the Pope, charging on horseback, armor glimmering in the twilight, toward the gates of the monastery.

The Magister Regens leaned over, gripping the parapet with tense fingers. "A frontal assault," he snorted. "They will be days at it, and meanwhile we can get word to Lorenzo Fornarini, who so bravely aided us in Trebizond and now will-"

Fra Leoni rudely and urgently stopped him in midsentence with an iron grip on his arm. He had been counting the Knights and had found their number wanting. The only explanation…