The Arcanum Read Online Free PDF Page B

room.
    One was a pile of brown rags: monks’ robes. A rope belt was visible in the folds. The importance was the wearer, and the healing power bestowed upon those who touched its hem. The inscription read:
    THE ROBES OF ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI
    Across from it, imprisoned also in glass, lay a slender piece of wood and a hunk of iron on a cushion. Once it was a weapon held by a Roman soldier. The blood it had spilled belonged to Jesus Christ as he hung on the cross.
    THE SPEAR OF DESTINY
    Doyle’s weight shifted, and a chip of glass snapped under his foot. He lifted his shoe and stared at the glass. His eyes followed that piece to another, and another, and another lying at the base of the last pedestal in the hall. With growing apprehension, his eyes moved to the letters penned in Duvall’s immaculate script. The inscription read:
    AGE UNKNOWN—ABYSSINIA—THE BOOK OF ENOCH
    The globe once protecting it was broken. A velvet pillow lay empty, except for the imprint of a heavy object in its center. Doyle let out a shuddering breath and straightened to his full six feet, his jaw clenched tight.
    “So . . . it begins again,” he said.

6
    IT IS 1912.
    THE CASTLE BELONGS to Wilhelm II, and towers atop a heath
in the dark forests of the Bavarian highlands. Torchlight flickers
on every parapet, and from the muddy roads the fortress resembles
a looming jack-o’-lantern. Moaning winds swirl through the valley, swaying the pine treetops like sea grass.
    Forks of lightning stab down as four black stallions muscle a
royal carriage through the icy rain to join others waiting at the
castle walls.
    A butler with skin like parchment pulls open the mighty doors
and gives way to Tsar Nicholas II of Russia, who sweeps rain from
his sleeves as he enters, trailed by the mad monk: the black-cloaked and bearded Grigori Rasputin.
    The guests gather in the dining hall, a cavernous room dominated by an enormous fireplace where a veritable forest of trees
roar in flames.
    Rasputin guides Nicholas to one of the four chairs at the long
dining table. The only others present are Kaiser Wilhelm II of
Germany, England’s King George V, and lingering in the far cor
ner—wrapped in a black cape and wearing huntsman’s leather
boots—Konstantin Duvall.
    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle removes his glasses and looks up from
his journal. His sits by a tall stained-glass window, far enough
away from the others as to be inconspicuous. Or so he hopes.
    The superstitious kaiser grumbles at the presence of Rasputin.
    Nicholas snaps a retort.
    Tensions are high between these two because of the Balkan situation. The kaiser sees Russia’s formation of the Balkan League
and the declaration of war on Turkey as an attempt to gain a European foothold.
    Nicholas wonders aloud as to the exclusion of Prime Minister
Asquith.
    King George scoffs.
    As the leaders bicker, Duvall strides over to Rasputin and whispers something in his ear. Whatever the contents, it goads a reluctant smile from the monk.
    Kaiser Wilhelm curtly demands an answer to his summons.
    Duvall offers a few more words to Rasputin, then backs away
toward the fireplace, taking the measure of each leader. “I’ve
asked Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to chronicle this meeting for my
personal archives. I trust there are no objections?”
    But Duvall doesn’t wait for answers. Instead, he turns his back
on the leaders. He is framed in fire. It licks around his shoulders,
and casts a halo around his wavy white hair. “Gentlemen. There
has been a discovery in Abyssinia. A discovery of enormous consequence. A discovery that with it brings the potential for great
peace . . . or great war.”
    The kaiser leans forward in his chair.
    Rasputin whispers in Nicholas’s ear, his lips obscured by his
shaggy beard.
    King George sniffs, unimpressed. “You’ve created some marvelous suspense, Konstantin, as is your wont. Perhaps you’d care
to tell us what was found?”
    “A book,” he answers.
    “A book, you say?” The king’s