{"product_id":"the-eight-isbn-9780345419088","title":"The Eight","description":"\u003cb\u003eNew York City, 1972—\u003c\/b\u003eA dabbler in mathematics and chess, Catherine Velis is also a computer expert for a Big Eight accounting firm. Before heading off to a new assignment in Algeria, Cat has her palm read by a fortune-teller. The woman warns Cat of danger. Then an antiques dealer approaches Cat with a mysterious offer: He has an anonymous client who is trying to collect the pieces of an ancient chess service, purported to be in Algeria. If Cat can bring the pieces back, there will be a generous reward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe South of France, 1790—\u003c\/b\u003eMireille de Remy and her cousin Valentine are young novices at the fortresslike Montglane Abbey. With France aflame in revolution, the two girls burn to rebel against constricted convent life—and their means of escape is at hand. Buried deep within the abbey are pieces of the Montglane Chess Service, once owned by Charlemagne. Whoever reassembles the pieces can play a game of unlimited power. But to keep the Game a secret from those who would abuse it, the two young women must scatter the pieces throughout the world. . . .“Readers thrilled by \u003ci\u003eThe Da Vinci Code\u003c\/i\u003e will relish the multi-layered secrets of \u003ci\u003eThe Eight\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e—MATTHEW PEARL, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Dante Club\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A BIG, RICH, TWO-TIERED CONFECTION OF A NOVEL . . . \u003cbr\u003eA ROUSING, AMUSING GAME.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A fascinating piece of entertainment that manages to be both vibrant and cerebral . . . Few will find it resistible.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLos Angeles Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“With alchemical skill, Neville blends modern romance, historical fiction, and medieval mystery . . . and comes up with gold.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eKatherine Neville \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Eight, The Magic Circle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e(a \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestseller), and\u003ci\u003e A Calculated Risk\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e(a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Notable Book). \u003ci\u003eThe Eight\u003c\/i\u003e has been translated into more than thirty languages. In a national poll in Spain by the noted journal \u003ci\u003eEl País\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Eight\u003c\/i\u003e was voted one of the top ten books of all time. Neville lives in Virginia and Washington, D.C.THE DEFENSE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharacters tend to be either for or against the quest. If they assist it, they are idealized as simply gallant or pure; if they obstruct it, they are characterized as simply villainous or cowardly. Hence every typical character . . . tends to have his moral opposite confronting him, like black and white pieces in a chess game.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e–Anatomy of Criticism, \u003c\/i\u003eNorthrop Frye\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMontglane Abbey, France\u003cbr\u003eSpring 1790\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA FLOCK OF NUNS CROSSED THE ROAD, THEIR CRISP WIMPLES\u003cbr\u003efluttering about their heads like the wings of large sea birds.\u003cbr\u003eAs they floated through the large stone gates of the town,\u003cbr\u003echickens and geese scurried out of their path, flapping and\u003cbr\u003esplashing through the mud puddles. The nuns moved through\u003cbr\u003ethe darkening mist that enveloped the valley each morning\u003cbr\u003eand, in silent pairs, headed toward the sound of the deep bell\u003cbr\u003ethat rang out from the hills above them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey called that spring \u003ci\u003ele Printemps Sanglant, \u003c\/i\u003ethe Bloody\u003cbr\u003eSpring. The cherry trees had bloomed early that year, long\u003cbr\u003ebefore the snows had melted from the high mountain peaks.\u003cbr\u003eTheir fragile branches bent down to earth with the weight\u003cbr\u003eof the wet red blossoms. Some said it was a good omen that\u003cbr\u003ethey had bloomed so soon, a symbol of rebirth after the long\u003cbr\u003eand brutal winter. But then the cold rains had come and\u003cbr\u003efrozen the blossoms on the bough, leaving the valley buried\u003cbr\u003ethick in red blossoms stained with brown streaks of frost.\u003cbr\u003eLike a wound congealed with dried blood. And this was said\u003cbr\u003eto be another kind of sign.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHigh above the valley, the Abbey of Montglane rose\u003cbr\u003elike an enormous outcropping of rock from the crest of\u003cbr\u003ethe mountain. The fortresslike structure had remained un-\u003cbr\u003etouched by the outside world for nearly a thousand years. It\u003cbr\u003ewas constructed of six or seven layers of wall built one on\u003cbr\u003etop of the other. As the original stones eroded over the centuries,\u003cbr\u003enew walls were laid outside of old ones, with flying\u003cbr\u003ebuttresses. The result was a brooding architectural melange\u003cbr\u003ewhose very appearance fed the rumors about the place. The\u003cbr\u003eabbey was the oldest church structure standing intact in\u003cbr\u003eFrance, and it bore an ancient curse that was soon to be\u003cbr\u003ereawakened.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the dark-throated bell rang out across the valley, the remaining\u003cbr\u003enuns looked up from their labors one by one, put\u003cbr\u003easide their rakes and hoes, and passed down through the\u003cbr\u003elong, symmetrical rows of cherry trees to climb the precipitous\u003cbr\u003eroad to the abbey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the end of the long procession, the two young novices\u003cbr\u003eValentine and Mireille trailed arm in arm, picking their way\u003cbr\u003ewith muddy boots. They made an odd complement to the orderly\u003cbr\u003eline of nuns. The tall red-haired Mireille with her long\u003cbr\u003elegs and broad shoulders looked more like a healthy farm\u003cbr\u003egirl than a nun. She wore a heavy butcher’s apron over her\u003cbr\u003ehabit, and red curls strayed from beneath her wimple. Beside\u003cbr\u003eher Valentine seemed fragile, though she was nearly as tall.\u003cbr\u003eHer pale skin seemed translucent, its fairness accentuated by\u003cbr\u003ethe cascade of white-blond hair that tumbled about her\u003cbr\u003eshoulders. She had stuffed her wimple into the pocket of her\u003cbr\u003ehabit, and she walked reluctantly beside Mireille, kicking\u003cbr\u003eher boots in the mud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe two young women, the youngest nuns at the abbey,\u003cbr\u003ewere cousins on their mothers’ side, both orphaned at an\u003cbr\u003eearly age by a dreadful plague that had ravaged France. The\u003cbr\u003eaging Count de Remy, Valentine’s grandfather, had commended\u003cbr\u003ethem into the hands of the Church, upon his death\u003cbr\u003eleaving the sizable balance of his estate to ensure their care.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe circumstance of their upbringing had formed an inseparable\u003cbr\u003ebond between the two, who were both bursting\u003cbr\u003ewith the unrestrained abundant gaiety of youth. The abbess\u003cbr\u003eoften heard the older nuns complain that this behavior was\u003cbr\u003eunbecoming to the cloistered life, but she understood that it\u003cbr\u003ewas better to curb youthful spirits than to try to quench them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, too, the abbess felt a certain partiality to the orphaned\u003cbr\u003ecousins, a feeling unusual both to her personality and\u003cbr\u003eher station. The older nuns would have been surprised to\u003cbr\u003elearn that the abbess herself had sustained from early childhood\u003cbr\u003esuch a bosom friendship, with a woman who had been\u003cbr\u003eseparated from her by many years and many thousands of\u003cbr\u003emiles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, on the steep trail, Mireille was tucking some unruly\u003cbr\u003ewisps of red hair back under her wimple and tugging her\u003cbr\u003ecousin’s arm as she tried to lecture her on the sins of tardiness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If you keep on dawdling, the Reverend Mother will give\u003cbr\u003eus a penance again,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eValentine broke loose and twirled around in a circle. “The\u003cbr\u003eearth is drowning in spring,” she cried, swinging her arms\u003cbr\u003eabout and nearly toppling over the edge of the cliff. Mireille\u003cbr\u003ehauled her up along the treacherous incline. “\u003ci\u003eWhy \u003c\/i\u003emust we\u003cbr\u003ebe shut up in that stuffy abbey when everything out-of-doors\u003cbr\u003eis bursting with life?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Because we are nuns,” said Mireille with pursed lips,\u003cbr\u003estepping up her pace, her hand firmly on Valentine’s arm.\u003cbr\u003e“And it is our duty to pray for mankind.” But the warm mist\u003cbr\u003erising from the valley floor brought with it a fragrance so\u003cbr\u003eheavy that it saturated everything with the aroma of cherry\u003cbr\u003eblossoms. Mireille tried not to notice the stirrings this caused\u003cbr\u003ein her own body.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We are not nuns yet, thank God,” said Valentine. “We are\u003cbr\u003eonly novices until we have taken our vows. It’s not too late to\u003cbr\u003ebe saved. I’ve heard the older nuns whispering that there are\u003cbr\u003esoldiers roaming about in France, looting all the monasteries\u003cbr\u003eof their treasures, rounding up the priests and marching them\u003cbr\u003eoff to Paris. Perhaps some soldiers will come here and march\u003cbr\u003eme off to Paris, too. And take me to the opera each night, and\u003cbr\u003edrink champagne from my shoe!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Soldiers are not always so very charming as you seem to\u003cbr\u003ethink,” observed Mireille. “After all, their business is killing\u003cbr\u003epeople, not taking them to the opera.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That’s not \u003ci\u003eall \u003c\/i\u003ethey do,” said Valentine, her voice dropping\u003cbr\u003eto a mysterious whisper. They had reached the top of the hill,\u003cbr\u003ethe where the road flattened out and widened considerably. Here\u003cbr\u003eit was cobbled with flat paving stones and resembled the\u003cbr\u003ebroad thoroughfares one found in larger towns. On either\u003cbr\u003eside of the road, huge cypresses had been planted. Rising\u003cbr\u003eabove the sea of cherry orchards, they looked formal and forbidding\u003cbr\u003eand, like the abbey itself, strangely out of place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I have heard,” Valentine whispered in her cousin’s ear,\u003cbr\u003e“that the soldiers do dreadful things to nuns! If a soldier\u003cbr\u003eshould come upon a nun, in the woods, for example, he immediately\u003cbr\u003etakes a thing out of his pants and he puts it into the\u003cbr\u003enun and stirs it about. And then when he has finished, the nun\u003cbr\u003ehas a baby!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What blasphemy!” cried Mireille, pulling away from\u003cbr\u003eValentine and trying to suppress the smile hovering about\u003cbr\u003eher lips. “You are entirely too saucy to be a nun, I think.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Exactly what I have been saying all along,” Valentine admitted.\u003cbr\u003e“I would far rather be the bride of a soldier than a\u003cbr\u003ebride of Christ.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the two cousins approached the abbey, they could see\u003cbr\u003ethe four double rows of cypresses planted at each entrance to\u003cbr\u003eform the sign of the crucifix. The trees closed in about them\u003cbr\u003eas they scurried along through the blackening mist. They\u003cbr\u003epassed through the abbey gates and crossed the large courtyard.\u003cbr\u003eAs they approached the high wooden doors to the main\u003cbr\u003eenclave, the bell continued to ring, like a death knell cutting\u003cbr\u003ethrough the thick mist.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach paused before the doors to scrape mud from her\u003cbr\u003eboots, crossed herself quickly, and passed through the high\u003cbr\u003eportal. Neither glanced up at the inscription carved in crude\u003cbr\u003eFrankish letters in the stone arch over the portal, but each\u003cbr\u003eknew what it said, as if the words were engraved upon her\u003cbr\u003eheart:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCursed be He who bring theseWalls to Earht\u003cbr\u003eThe King is checked by the Hand of God alone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBeneath the inscription the name was carved in large\u003cbr\u003eblock letters, “Carolus Magnus.” He it was who was architect\u003cbr\u003eboth of the building and the curse placed upon those\u003cbr\u003ewho would destroy it. The greatest ruler of the Frankish Empire\u003cbr\u003eover a thousand years earlier, he was known to all in\u003cbr\u003eFrance as Charlemagne.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE INTERIOR WALLS OF THE ABBEY WERE DARK, COLD, AND\u003cbr\u003ewet with moss. From the inner sanctum one could hear the\u003cbr\u003ewhispered voices of the novitiates praying and the soft clicking\u003cbr\u003eof their rosaries counting off theAyes, Glorias, and Pater\u003cbr\u003eNosters.Valentine and Mireille hurried through the chapel as\u003cbr\u003ethe last of the novices were genuflecting and followed the\u003cbr\u003etrail of whispers to the small door behind the altar where the\u003cbr\u003ereverend mother’s study was located. An older nun was\u003cbr\u003ehastily shooing the last of the stragglers inside.Valentine and\u003cbr\u003eMireille glanced at each other and passed within.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was strange to be called to the abbess’s study in this\u003cbr\u003emanner. Few nuns had ever been there at all, and then usually\u003cbr\u003efor disciplinary action.Valentine, who was always being disciplined,\u003cbr\u003ehad been there often enough. But the abbey bell\u003cbr\u003ewas used to convene all the nuns. Surely they could not all be\u003cbr\u003ecalled at once to the reverend mother’s study?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs they entered the large, low-ceilinged room, Valentine\u003cbr\u003eand Mireille saw that all the nuns in the abbey were indeed\u003cbr\u003ethere–more than fifty of them. Seated on rows of hard\u003cbr\u003ewooden benches that had been set up facing the Abbess’s\u003cbr\u003ewriting desk, they whispered among themselves. Clearly\u003cbr\u003eeveryone thought it was a strange circumstance, and the\u003cbr\u003efaces that looked up as the two young cousins entered\u003cbr\u003eseemed frightened. The cousins took their places in the last\u003cbr\u003erow of benches. Valentine clasped Mireille’s hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What does it mean?” she whispered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It bodes ill, I think,” replied Mireille, also in a whisper.\u003cbr\u003e“The reverend mother looks grave. And there are two women\u003cbr\u003ehere whom I have never seen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the end of the long room, behind a massive desk of polished\u003cbr\u003echerry wood, stood the abbess, wrinkled and leathery\u003cbr\u003eas an old parchment, but still exuding the power of her\u003cbr\u003etremendous office. There was a timeless quality in her bearing\u003cbr\u003ethat suggested she had long ago made peace with her\u003cbr\u003eown soul, but today she looked more serious than the nuns\u003cbr\u003ehad ever seen her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo strangers, both large-boned young women with big\u003cbr\u003ehands, loomed at either side of her like avenging angels. One\u003cbr\u003ehad pale skin, dark hair, and luminous eyes, while the other\u003cbr\u003ebore a strong resemblance to Mireille, with a creamy complexion\u003cbr\u003eand chestnut hair only slightly darker than Mireille’s\u003cbr\u003eauburn locks. Though both had the bearing of nuns, they\u003cbr\u003ewere not wearing habits, but plain gray traveling clothes of\u003cbr\u003enondescript nature.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe abbess waited until all the nuns were seated and the\u003cbr\u003edoor had been closed. When the room was completely silent\u003cbr\u003eshe began to speak in the voice that always reminded Valentine\u003cbr\u003eof a dry leaf being crumbled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My daughters,” said the abbess, folding her hands before\u003cbr\u003eher, “for nearly one thousand years the Order of Montglane\u003cbr\u003ehas stood upon this rock, doing our duty to mankind and\u003cbr\u003eserving God. Though we are cloistered from the world, we\u003cbr\u003ehear the rumblings of the world’s unrest. Here in our small\u003cbr\u003ecorner, we have received unfortunate tidings of late that may\u003cbr\u003echange the security we’ve enjoyed so long. The two women\u003cbr\u003ewho stand beside me are bearers of those tidings. I introduce\u003cbr\u003eSister Alexandrine de Forbin”–she motioned to the darkhaired\u003cbr\u003ewoman–”and Marie-Charlotte de Corday, who together\u003cbr\u003edirect the Abbaye-aux-Dames at Caen in the northern\u003cbr\u003eprovinces. They have traveled the length of France in disguise,\u003cbr\u003ean arduous journey, to bring us a warning. I therefore\u003cbr\u003ebid you hark unto what they have to say. It is of the gravest\u003cbr\u003eimportance to us all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe abbess took her seat, and the woman who had been introduced\u003cbr\u003eas Alexandrine de Forbin cleared her throat and\u003cbr\u003espoke in a low voice so that the nuns had to strain to hear her.\u003cbr\u003eBut her words were clear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My sisters in God,” she began, “the tale we have to tell is\u003cbr\u003enot for the faint-hearted. There are those among us who\u003cbr\u003ecame to Christ hoping to save mankind. There are those who\u003cbr\u003ecame hoping to escape from the world. And there are those\u003cbr\u003ewho came against their will, feeling no calling whatever.” At\u003cbr\u003ethis she turned her dark, luminous eyes directly upon Valentine,\u003cbr\u003ewho blushed to the very roots of her pale blond hair.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Regardless what you thought your purpose was, it has\u003cbr\u003echanged as of today. In our journey, Sister Charlotte and I\u003cbr\u003ehave passed the length of France, through Paris and each village\u003cbr\u003ein between. We have seen not only hunger but starvation.\u003cbr\u003ePeople are rioting in the streets for bread. There is\u003cbr\u003ebutchery; women carry severed heads on pikes through the\u003cbr\u003estreets. There is rape, and worse. Small children are murdered,\u003cbr\u003epeople are tortured in public squares and torn to\u003cbr\u003epieces by angry mobs . . .” The nuns were no longer quiet.\u003cbr\u003eTheir voices rose in alarm as Alexandrine continued her\u003cbr\u003ebloody account.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMireille thought it odd that a woman of God could recount\u003cbr\u003esuch a tale without blanching. Indeed, the speaker had not\u003cbr\u003eonce altered her low, calm tone, nor had her voice quavered\u003cbr\u003ein the telling. Mireille glanced atValentine, whose eyes were\u003cbr\u003elarge and round with fascination. Alexandrine de Forbin\u003cbr\u003ewaited until the room had quieted a bit, then continued.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is now April. Last October the king and queen were\u003cbr\u003ekidnapped fromVersailles by an angry mob and forced to return\u003cbr\u003eto the Tuilleries at Paris, where they were imprisoned.\u003cbr\u003eThe king was made to sign a document, the ‘Declaration of\u003cbr\u003ethe Rights of Man,’ proclaiming the equality of all men. The\u003cbr\u003eNational Assembly in effect now controls the government;\u003cbr\u003ethe king is powerless to intervene. Our country is beyond\u003cbr\u003erevolution. We are in a state of anarchy. To make matters\u003cbr\u003eworse, the assembly has discovered there is no gold in the\u003cbr\u003eState Treasury; the king has bankrupted the State. In Paris it\u003cbr\u003eis believed that he will not live out the year.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA shock ran through the rows of seated nuns, and there\u003cbr\u003ewas agitated whispering throughout the room. Mireille\u003cbr\u003esqueezed Valentine’s hand gently as they both stared at the\u003cbr\u003espeaker. The women in this room had never heard such\u003cbr\u003ethoughts expressed aloud, and they could not conceive such\u003cbr\u003ethings as real. Torture, anarchy, regicide. How was it possible?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe abbess rapped her hand flat upon the table to call for\u003cbr\u003eorder, and the nuns fell silent. Now Alexandrine took her\u003cbr\u003eseat, and Sister Charlotte stood alone at the table. Her voice\u003cbr\u003ewas strong and forceful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In the assembly there is a man of great evil. He is hungry\u003cbr\u003efor power, though he calls himself a member of the clergy.\u003cbr\u003eThis man is the Bishop of Autun.Within the Church at Rome\u003cbr\u003eit is believed he is the Devil incarnate. It is claimed he was\u003cbr\u003eborn with a cloven hoof, the mark of the Devil, that\u003cbr\u003ehe drinks the blood of small children to appear young, that he\u003cbr\u003ecelebrates the Black Mass. In October this bishop proposed\u003cbr\u003eto the assembly that the State confiscate all Church property.\u003cbr\u003eOn November second his Bill of Seizure was defended before\u003cbr\u003ethe Assembly by the great statesman Mirabeau, and it\u003cbr\u003epassed. On February thirteenth the confiscation began. Any\u003cbr\u003eclergy who resisted were arrested and jailed. And on February\u003cbr\u003esixteenth, the Bishop of Autun was elected president of\u003cbr\u003ethe Assembly. Nothing can stop him now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe nuns were in a state of extreme agitation, their voices\u003cbr\u003eraised in fearful exclamations and protests, but Charlotte’s\u003cbr\u003evoice carried above all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Long before the Bill of Seizure, the Bishop of Autun had\u003cbr\u003emade inquiries into the location of the Church’s wealth in\u003cbr\u003eFrance. Though the bill specifies that priests are to fall first\u003cbr\u003eand nuns to be spared, we know the bishop has cast his eye\u003cbr\u003eupon Montglane Abbey. It is around Montglane that many of\u003cbr\u003ehis inquiries have centered. This, we have hastened here to\u003cbr\u003etell you. The treasure of Montglane \u003ci\u003emust \u003c\/i\u003enot fall into his\u003cbr\u003ehands.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe abbess stood and placed her hand upon the strong\u003cbr\u003eshoulder of Charlotte Corday. She looked out over the rows\u003cbr\u003eof black-clad nuns, their stiff starched hats moving like a sea\u003cbr\u003ethick with wild seagulls beneath her, and she smiled. This\u003cbr\u003ewas her flock, which she had shepherded for so long and\u003cbr\u003ewhich she might not see again in her lifetime once she had\u003cbr\u003erevealed what she now must tell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Now you know as much of our situation as I,” said the\u003cbr\u003eabbess. “Though I have known for many months of our\u003cbr\u003eplight, I did not wish to alarm you until I had chosen a path.\u003cbr\u003eIn their journey responding to my call, our sisters from Caen\u003cbr\u003ehave confirmed my worst fears.” The nuns had now fallen\u003cbr\u003einto a silence like the hush of death. Not a sound could be\u003cbr\u003eheard but the voice of the abbess.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I am an old woman who will perhaps be called to God\u003cbr\u003esooner than she imagines. The vows I took when I entered\u003cbr\u003ethe service of this convent were not only vows to Christ.\u003cbr\u003eNearly forty years ago upon becoming Abbess of Montglane,\u003cbr\u003eI vowed to keep a secret, to preserve it with my life if\u003cbr\u003enecessary. Now the time has come for me to keep that vow.\u003cbr\u003eBut in doing so, I must share some of the secret with each of\u003cbr\u003eyou and vow you to secrecy in return. My story is long, and\u003cbr\u003eyou must have patience if I am slow in telling. When I have\u003cbr\u003efinished, you will know why each of us must do what must be\u003cbr\u003edone.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe abbess paused to take a sip of water from a silver\u003cbr\u003echalice that sat before her on the table. Then she resumed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Today is the fourth day of April, Anno Domini 1790.\u003cbr\u003eMy story begins on another fourth of April many years ago.\u003cbr\u003eThe tale was told me by my predecessor, as it was told by\u003cbr\u003eeach abbess to her successor on the event of her initiation,\u003cbr\u003efor as many years as this abbey has stood. And now I tell it to\u003cbr\u003eyou. . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Abbess’s Tale\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn the fourth of April in the year 782, a wondrous festival\u003cbr\u003ewas held at the Oriental Palace at Aachen to honor the fortieth\u003cbr\u003ebirthday of the great King Charlemagne. He had called\u003cbr\u003eforth all the nobles of his empire. The central court with its\u003cbr\u003emosaic dome and tiered circular staircases and balconies\u003cbr\u003ewas filled with imported palms and festooned with flower\u003cbr\u003egarlands. Harps and lutes were played in the large halls amid\u003cbr\u003egold and silver lanterns. The courtiers, decked in purple,\u003cbr\u003ecrimson, and gold, moved through a fairyland of jugglers,\u003cbr\u003ejesters, and puppet shows. Wild bears, lions, giraffes, and\u003cbr\u003ecages of doves were brought into the courtyard. All was merriment\u003cbr\u003efor weeks in anticipation of the king’s birthday.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pinnacle of the festival was the day itself. On the\u003cbr\u003emorning of this day the king arrived in the main courtyard\u003cbr\u003esurrounded by his eighteen children, his queen, and his favorite\u003cbr\u003ecourtiers. Charlemagne was exceedingly tall, with the\u003cbr\u003elean grace of a horseman and swimmer. His skin was tanned,\u003cbr\u003ehis hair and mustache streaked blond with the sun. He\u003cbr\u003elooked every inch the warrior and ruler of the largest kingdom\u003cbr\u003ein the world. Dressed in a simple woolen tunic with a\u003cbr\u003eclose-fitting coat of marten skins and wearing his ever-present\u003cbr\u003esword, he passed through the court greeting each of his\u003cbr\u003esubjects and bidding them partake of the lavish refreshments\u003cbr\u003ethat were placed on groaning boards about the hall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe king had prepared a special treat for this day. A master\u003cbr\u003eof battle strategy, he had a special fondness for one game.\u003cbr\u003eKnown as the game of war, the game of kings, it was the\u003cbr\u003egame of chess. On this, his fortieth birthday, Charlemagne\u003cbr\u003eproposed to play against the best chess player in his kingdom,\u003cbr\u003ea soldier known as Garin the Frank.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGarin entered the courtyard with blaring trumpets. Acrobats\u003cbr\u003ebounced before him, young women strewed palm fronds\u003cbr\u003eand rose petals in his path. Garin was a slender, pale young\u003cbr\u003eman with serious countenance and gray eyes, a soldier in the\u003cbr\u003ewestern army. He knelt when the king rose to greet him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe chess service was borne into the great hall on the\u003cbr\u003eshoulders of eight black servants dressed in Moorish livery.\u003cbr\u003eThese men, and the chessboard they carried aloft, had been\u003cbr\u003esent as a gift of Ibn-al-Arabi, the Moslem governor of\u003cbr\u003eBarcelona, in thanks for the king’s aid against the Pyrenees\u003cbr\u003eBasques four years earlier. It was during retreat from this famous\u003cbr\u003ebattle, at the Roncesvalles Pass in Navarre, that the\u003cbr\u003eking’s beloved soldier Hruoland had been killed, hero of the\u003cbr\u003e“Chanson de Roland.” As a result of this unhappy association,\u003cbr\u003ethe king had never played upon the chess service, nor\u003cbr\u003ebrought it before his people.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe court marveled at the magnificent chess service as it\u003cbr\u003ewas set upon a table in the courtyard. Though made by Arabic\u003cbr\u003emaster craftsmen, the pieces bore traces of their Indian\u003cbr\u003eand Persian ancestry. For some believed this game existed in\u003cbr\u003eIndia over four hundred years before the birth of Christ and\u003cbr\u003ecame into Arabia through Persia during the Arabic conquest\u003cbr\u003eof that country in 640 A.D.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe board, wrought entirely of silver and gold, measured a\u003cbr\u003efull meter on each side. The pieces of filigreed precious metals\u003cbr\u003ewere studded with rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and\u003cbr\u003eemeralds, uncut but smoothly polished, some the size of\u003cbr\u003equails’ eggs. Flashing and sparkling in the lamplight of the\u003cbr\u003ecourtyard, they seemed to glow with an inner light that hypnotized\u003cbr\u003ethe beholder.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe piece called Shah, or King, was fifteen centimeters\u003cbr\u003ehigh and depicted a crowned man riding upon the back of an\u003cbr\u003eelephant. The Queen, or Ferz, was seated within a covered\u003cbr\u003esedan chair embroidered with jewels. The Bishops were elephants\u003cbr\u003ewith saddles encrusted in rare gems; the Knights were\u003cbr\u003ewild Arabian steeds. The Rooks, or Castles, were called\u003cbr\u003eRukhkh, the Arabic word for “chariot”; these were large\u003cbr\u003ecamels with towerlike chairs upon their backs. The pawns, or\u003cbr\u003epeons, as we call them now, were humble foot soldiers seven\u003cbr\u003ecentimeters high with small jewels for eyes and gems flecking\u003cbr\u003ethe hilts of their swords.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlemagne and Garin approached the board from either\u003cbr\u003eside. Then the king, raising his hand aloft, spoke words that\u003cbr\u003eastounded those of the court who knew him well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I propose a wager,” he said in a strange voice. Charles\u003cbr\u003ewas not a man for wagers. The courtiers glanced at one another\u003cbr\u003euneasily.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Should my soldier Garin win a game of me, I bestow\u003cbr\u003eupon him that portion of my kingdom from Aachen to the\u003cbr\u003eBasque Pyrenees and the hand of my eldest daughter in marriage.\u003cbr\u003eShould he lose, he will be beheaded in this same courtyard\u003cbr\u003eat dawn.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe court was in commotion. It was known that the king\u003cbr\u003eso loved his daughters that he had begged them never to\u003cbr\u003emarry during his lifetime.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe king’s dearest friend, the Duke of Burgundy, seized\u003cbr\u003ehim by the arm and drew him aside. “What manner of wager\u003cbr\u003eis this?” he whispered. “You have proposed a wager befitting\u003cbr\u003ea sottish barbarian!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharles seated himself at the table. He appeared to be in a\u003cbr\u003etrancelike state. The duke was mystified. Garin was himself\u003cbr\u003econfused. He looked into the duke’s eyes, then without a\u003cbr\u003eword took his place at the board, accepting the wager. The\u003cbr\u003epieces were selected, and as luck would have it, Garin chose\u003cbr\u003ewhite, giving him the advantage of the first move. The game\u003cbr\u003ebegan.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePerhaps it was the tension of the situation, but it appeared\u003cbr\u003eas the game progressed that the two players moved their\u003cbr\u003epieces with a force and precision that transcended a mere\u003cbr\u003egame, as if another, an invisible hand, hovered above the\u003cbr\u003eboard. At times it even seemed as if the very pieces carried\u003cbr\u003eout the moves of their own accord. The players themselves\u003cbr\u003ewere silent and pale, and the courtiers hovered about them\u003cbr\u003elike ghosts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter nearly one hour of play the Duke of Burgundy observed\u003cbr\u003ethat the king was acting strangely. His brow was furrowed,\u003cbr\u003eand he seemed inattentive and distracted. Garin too\u003cbr\u003ewas possessed by an unusual restlessness, his movements\u003cbr\u003equick and jerking, his forehead beaded in cold sweat. The\u003cbr\u003eeyes of the two men were fixed upon the board as if they\u003cbr\u003ecould not look away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly Charles leaped to his feet with a cry, upsetting\u003cbr\u003ethe board and knocking all the pieces to the floor. The\u003cbr\u003ecourtiers pushed back to open the circle. The king had flown\u003cbr\u003einto a black and horrible rage, tearing at his hair and beating\u003cbr\u003ehis chest like a wild beast. Garin and the Duke of Burgundy\u003cbr\u003erushed to his side, but he knocked them away. It required six\u003cbr\u003enobles to restrain the king. When at last he was subdued, he\u003cbr\u003elooked about in bewilderment, as if he had just awakened\u003cbr\u003efrom a long sleep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My lord,” said Garin softly, picking up one of the pieces\u003cbr\u003efrom the floor and handing it to the king, “perhaps we should\u003cbr\u003ewithdraw from this game. The pieces are all in disarray, and\u003cbr\u003eI cannot recall a single move that was made. Sire, I fear this\u003cbr\u003eMoorish chess service. I believe it is possessed by an evil\u003cbr\u003eforce that compelled you to make a wager upon my life.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlemagne, resting upon a chair, put one hand wearily\u003cbr\u003eto his forehead but did not speak.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Garin,” said the Duke of Burgundy cautiously, “you\u003cbr\u003eknow that the king does not believe in superstitions of this\u003cbr\u003esort, thinking them pagan and barbaric. He has forbidden\u003cbr\u003enecromancy and divination at the court–”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlemagne interrupted, but his voice was weak as if\u003cbr\u003efrom strenuous exhaustion. “How can I bring the Christian\u003cbr\u003eenlightenment to Europe when soldiers in my own army believe\u003cbr\u003ein witchcraft?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This magic has been practiced in Arabia and throughout\u003cbr\u003ethe East from the beginning of time,” Garin replied. “I do not\u003cbr\u003ebelieve in it, nor do I understand it. But”–Garin bent over\u003cbr\u003ethe king and looked into his eyes–“\u003ci\u003eyou felt it, \u003c\/i\u003etoo.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I was consumed by the rage of fire,” Charlemagne admitted.\u003cbr\u003e“I could not control myself. I felt as one feels upon the\u003cbr\u003emorn of battle just as the troops are charging into the fray. I\u003cbr\u003ecannot explain it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut all things of heaven and of earth have a reason,” said\u003cbr\u003ea voice from behind the shoulder of Garin. He turned, and\u003cbr\u003ethere stood a black Moor, one of the eight who had borne the\u003cbr\u003echess service into the room. The king nodded for the Moor to\u003cbr\u003econtinue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“From our Watar, or birthplace, come an ancient people\u003cbr\u003ecalled the Badawi, the ‘dwellers in the desert.’Among these\u003cbr\u003epeoples, the blood wager is considered the most honorable.\u003cbr\u003eIt is said that only the blood wager will remove the Habb, the\u003cbr\u003eblack drop in the human heart which the archangel Gabriel\u003cbr\u003eremoved from the breast of Muhammed. Your Highness has\u003cbr\u003emade a blood wager over the board, a wager upon a man’s\u003cbr\u003elife, the highest form of justice. Muhammed says, ‘Kingdom\u003cbr\u003eendureth with Kufr, infidelity to al-Islam, but Kingdom endureth\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003enot \u003c\/i\u003ewith Zulm, which is injustice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A wager of blood is always a wager of evil,” replied\u003cbr\u003eCharlemagne. Garin and the Duke of Burgundy looked at the\u003cbr\u003eking in surprise, for had he not himself proposed such a\u003cbr\u003ewager only an hour before?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No!” said the Moor stubbornly. “Through the blood\u003cbr\u003ewager one can attain Ghutah, the earthly oasis which is Paradise.\u003cbr\u003eIf one makes such a wager over the board of Shatranj,\u003cbr\u003eit is the Shatranj itself that carries out the Sar!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Shatranj is the name that the Moors give to the game of\u003cbr\u003echess, my lord,” said Garin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And what is ‘Sar’?” asked Charlemagne, rising slowly to\u003cbr\u003ehis feet. He towered over everyone around him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is revenge,” replied the Moor without expression. He\u003cbr\u003ebowed and stepped back from the king.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We will play again,” the king announced. “This time,\u003cbr\u003ethere will be no wagers. We play for love of a simple game.\u003cbr\u003eThere is nothing to these foolish superstitions invented by\u003cbr\u003ebarbarians and children.” The courtiers began to set up the\u003cbr\u003eboard again. There were murmurs of relief coursing through\u003cbr\u003ethe room. Charles turned to the Duke of Burgundy and took\u003cbr\u003ehis arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Did I really make such a wager?” he said softly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe duke looked at him in surprise. “Why, yes, my lord,”\u003cbr\u003ehe said. “Do you not remember it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No,” the king replied sadly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCharlemagne and Garin sat down to play again.After a remarkable\u003cbr\u003ebattle, Garin emerged victorious. The king awarded\u003cbr\u003ehim the property of Montglane in the Bas-Pyrenees and the\u003cbr\u003etitle of Garin de Montglane. So pleased was the king with\u003cbr\u003eGarin’s masterful command of chess that he offered to","brand":"Ballantine Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302160519397,"sku":"NP9780345419088","price":24.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780345419088.jpg?v=1767739142","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-eight-isbn-9780345419088","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}