Page 109 of The Last Kingdom

“I knew that when you showed me back at my castle,” Fenn said. “Those words pointed straight here.”

That they did.

Beyond the gatehouse was a spacious, split-level inner courtyard devoid of people. He felt like he’d come face-to-face with a remnant of a fantastical world that had long been dead. Lights illuminated the open space. Turnstiles and ropes that formed a zigzagging queue stood empty. An uneasy silence passed around him in the icy air, which only made his breathing more noticeable. He hated the cold. He’d been bred in the heat and humidity of middle Georgia with lots of gnats, mosquitos, and onions.

The sound of a waterfall continued in the distance, somewhere out into the darkness. Fenn led the way inside to a gift shop where a man waited. He was short, with light brown hair and scowling eyebrows, a dark mole dotting his right cheek. He introduced himself as the curator, adding a smile that had all the charm of a durable-press shirt.

“We are old friends,” Fenn said. “He is not Guglmänner. But definitely a friend of the brothers.”

“Marc explained what is happening,” the man said in a nasally voice. “This is quite exciting. I have always wondered if the stories were true.”

Cotton smiled. “Why don’t we find out.”

* * *

LUKE INSTANTLY REALIZED THE SITUATION.

“Your buddy, Fenn, sent us here for a reason,” he said to Christophe, “and it’s not to get into this tomb.”

Toni hustled over and saw the empty receptacle.

“Fenn said there was a body in here,” Christophe said.

“Which ought to tell you something,” Toni added.

“We need to get out of here,” he said. But on the off chance that Fenn had truly not known the tomb was empty, he decided that replacing the cap would be best. “First, let’s clean this up.”

Together, all three of them lifted the capstone and slid it back into place. Then they climbed the stairs to the iron gate, which Toni slowly opened. He recalled the nave’s geography and realized that the portal was toward the main altar, a long walk from there to the exit doors. And whatever special event was happening could make their retreat far from unnoticeable. But the chance would have to be taken.

They stepped out.

The organ continued to blare.

Acolytes were busy arranging the altar, about half a dozen young people in robes milling about. The pews were empty. Thank goodness. Whatever was happening had not yet started. Maybe they’d caught a break and could disappear fast. But his hopes were dashed when he stared back through the nave toward the main doors.

Five uniformed police entered.

Which confirmed this was a trap.

He and Toni turned, intent on finding another way out. But Christophe had other ideas, reaching beneath his coat, finding a gun, and firing in the cops’ direction.

“This is not going to be good,” Luke muttered.

Chapter 62

COTTON FOLLOWED KOGER AND THE CURATOR DEEPER INTONeuschwanstein, admiring the mythical atmosphere. Flashes of another place and time flickered before his eyes. He half expected to see knights in armor strolling the corridors with their squires in tow. The building was now officially closed for the day so the place loomed empty.

At a spiral staircase they climbed up to the third floor.

“The throne hall is down there, to the right,” the curator said as they exited the stairway. “But what you are after is this way.” The man pointed down a long corridor, one side of which was an exterior wall with darkened windows. The other side opened, through Norman arches, into lit rooms. “The normal tour would start ahead at the throne room, moving through the dining room and the king’s bedroom, turning on the far side and then coming back down this corridor to the stairs. But nobody is here, so we can cheat just a little and go in reverse.”

The man seemed pleased at the possible mischief.

The curator led them down the corridor. The rooms to his right were a flaming symphony of color, embellished with rare woods and decorated with exquisite murals, all from Wagnerian operas. Lustrous brass chandeliers contributed to the grand splendor. Cotton wondered how many wood-carvers, painters, goldsmiths, and needleworkers labored to create it. Everything was intensely quiet, like a mausoleum, illuminated by incandescent fixtures and shafts of weak exterior floodlight that filtered in through the mullioned windows.

Halfway, the curator stopped. “This was the king’s study.”

Like the rest of the interior, the walls were a warm, knot-free oak, stained walnut. A gold-plated brass chandelier hung from the center that accommodated electric candles that burned bright. A large writing desk and a high-backed chair with some charming embroidery sat beneath the chandelier. On the desk sat a large inkstand and two bronze lamps. Behind the desk a set of closed double doors led into another room. He breathed in the warm air, heavy with the waft of dust and polish.

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