The duke bowed low, and Johann couldn’t hide his surprise. What in God’s name was going on here?
“It is a great honor, sir,” said Montcourt as if he were standing before the king.
“I didn’t realize the English were still enemies,” said Karl, who seemed just as astonished as Johann. “Hasn’t King Francis I signed an agreement with Henry VIII that England drops all claims of the French crown?”
“Begging your pardon, I wasn’t speaking of King Francis I but Charles VII,” replied Father Jerome with a soft chuckle and slap to his forehead. “A very capable ruler who reclaimed Paris from the English eighty years ago. Duke Montcourt rode at his side back then. Yes, it’s been a while.” He pulled Johann and Karl along. “What you see here is old nobility, in the truest sense of the word. These people don’t think in days or years, but in generations. They are the most loyal followers of our master. I am so glad that you may meet him today! Not many are granted this privilege.”
“I’ve already had the pleasure,” said Johann softly.
“I know, Doctor. I know. We all do.”
They were introduced to more guests, but Johann couldn’t remember the names. They were all French, and he believed he had heard of one or two of them before, in connection with a long-gone era. They were names from the Hundred Years’ War, in which the French had fought the English. On the French side, Charles VII had fought with many of his followers.
Johann dared to ask a very particular question.
“I would have expected to see Jeanne d’Arc among this illustrious circle,” he said casually. “I heard the maiden died a martyr, but maybe she isn’t dead at all but alive and well like all the others here.”
Father Jerome gave him a hateful stare. “Let me give you a piece of advice—don’t ever mention this name in the presence of our lord. It makes him . . . well, rather sad. Jeanne could have had everything. The master loved her like none other, but she chose death by fire. A true shame!”
The priest shook his head as if to rid himself of an irritating thought. “But enough of the chitchat. These people traveled a long way to see you, Doctor. That is why we had to wait a few days for this mass. They all want to help you meet the lord. But I must tell you one thing—one vitally important thing.” He raised an admonishing finger. “You have to say that you come willingly to him. That is the condition.”
“We’re not haggling,” said Karl angrily, gesturing at the people around them. “What are you trying to achieve with this masquerade, anyhow? Do you really think we believe that all these people are over a hundred years old and personal friends of Gilles de Rais?”
Father Jerome gave a shrug. “You can believe what you will, Master Wagner. But if you—both of you—want to meet the master, then you must fulfill the ancient ritual. Those are the rules.”
Johann remembered his encounter with Tonio at Nuremberg. Then, too, it had been important that he came to the underground crypt of his own free will.
“I come willingly,” he declared loudly.
Father Jerome looked at Karl. “And you? Do you want to go with the doctor?”
“If this superstitious hocus-pocus is really necessary . . .” Karl tried a mocking smile but failed. “Very well. I come willingly.”
“Good.” Father Jerome nodded, then he turned to the Duke of Montcourt. “Please, monsieur, fetch the black potion.”
Johann groaned when the memories returned.
The black potion.
He knew this potion. Two times already in his life he’d been made to drink it. He didn’t know the exact ingredients, but he guessed the brew contained devil’s trumpet, henbane, and other mind-bending herbs of the nightshade family. It made a person feel heavy and extremely light at once. Life was suddenly just an illusion and the delirium was reality; the borders between the world of dreams and real life blurred.
But mostly, it was a nightmare.
“For the journey you are about to undertake, it is crucial that you drink the black potion to the last drop,” said Father Jerome seriously. “You must be pure, from the inside as well as the outside. Which is why you are going to bathe.”
“What journey?” asked Karl with increasing trepidation. “And what bath, damn it?” He looked around nervously.
“You will learn the destination when you have drunk.” Father Jerome watched Johann closely. “Do you want to meet the lord? Do you want your disease to be healed? Or would you prefer your life on earth to be over very soon, dying pathetically and unknowing like a sick mutt?” The voice of the father took on the tone of a snake again. “Would you prefer the master to take his pleasure with your daughter following your inglorious end? If you don’t, then drink!”
Johann stepped toward the Duke of Montcourt, who was carrying a chalice made of black obsidian. He yanked the chalice from the duke’s hand, causing a few drops to spill. Johann almost feared that they would vaporize on the floor like acid. He lifted the chalice to his nose and sniffed. The contents smelled rotten, like old fish and moldy seaweed from the depths of the ocean.
“Drink!” said Father Jerome. “It’s different every time—no one can tell beforehand what the drink will show you.” He gave a little laugh. “But believe me, it is always a deeply profound experience.”
Memories rose up in Johann from the time he traveled to a forest near Nördlingen with Tonio and Poitou; that had been many years ago. Now he had to go through it all again.
“Then so be it.”
Johann took a long sip that almost made him vomit, the liquid burning in his throat like fire. Then he went to pass the chalice to Karl but stopped short.
“You don’t have to do this, Karl. You can still
