The skies above the Conclave of the Divine were also patrolled by the Grand Bishop’s Own. Flying on the backs of griffins, the soldiers guarded the walls and the Breath, permitting only those who could prove they had business in the Conclave to enter.
The glistening black yacht, Retribution, with its striking, ornamental brass work was met by three of the Bishop’s Own, who flew to meet it. Upon speaking to Brother Barnaby and noting the symbols of the Arcanum painted in gold on the side, the soldiers immediately escorted the yacht to the main courtyard.
Brother Barnaby decreased the magical energy flowing into the Retribution’s lift tanks, a process called “cooling,” and landed the vessel. Once on the ground, the wyverns hissed and snapped at the griffins, which were well trained and held themselves aloof from such inferior animals, though the griffins did take care to keep clear of the wyvern’s sharp fangs and claws. Brother Barnaby soothed his wyverns and praised them and made certain they were given space in the stables and fed and watered. Once settled, the wyverns tucked their heads under their wings to rest.
“If it is agreeable to you, Father,” said Sir Ander, while they were waiting for Brother Barnaby to return from the stables, “I will forgo meeting with His Excellency.”
“A wise move,” said Father Jacob.
Grand Bishop Montagne disliked Sir Ander Martel and the feeling was mutual, an animosity that dated back to the Lost Rebellion, the name given to the fight waged against the king by the Duke de Bourlet. Sir Ander had remained true to the Crown, but he had made no secret of the fact that he thought King Alaric and Bishop Montagne had both conspired to drive the Duke de Bourlet to rebel. The grand bishop had attempted to block Sir Ander’s acceptance into the Knight Protectors, but Sir Ander had an influential friend at court-the Countess de Marjolaine. She had seen to it that Sir Ander was made a Knight Protector. The grand bishop had taken his revenge by assigning Sir Ander to protect a member of the Arcanum, one of the most dangerous assignments for members of the Order.
“I will pay my respects to my commander and see if those pistols I ordered from the Royal Armory have been delivered,” said Sir Ander. “Shall we meet at noon for dinner in the dining hall of the Knight Protectors? Will you be finished with your meeting with the grand bishop by then?”
“Dear God, I hope so!” said Father Jacob. “Ah, and here is Brother Barnaby, armed for battle with his lap desk, pen and ink, and other mighty weapons.”
Brother Barnaby looked slightly startled at this and glanced down at the lap desk, a hinged wooden box containing the tools he needed for recording notes of the meeting. He had no idea what Father Jacob meant, but Brother Barnaby had grown accustomed to the priest’s odd way of speaking, so he only smiled in response and fell into step beside him. The priest and the monk followed the path leading to the Bishop’s Palace, bidding good-bye to Sir Ander, who trod another path that would take him to the motherhouse of the Knight Protectors.
Although the day was early and the gates had not yet been opened to the public, people were coming and going through the courtyard surrounding the Bishop’s Palace. Morning prayers, a light meal to break the night’s fast, and then off to do the Lord’s work.
Father Jacob walked among the crowd with a well-measured pace, his hands behind his back, his keen eyes taking in each and every person he encountered, much to that person’s consternation. The black cassock of the Arcanum struck guilty fear into even the most innocent hearts, causing each individual to secretly run over his or her catalog of sins.
Nuns in their white habits and wimples saw the black cassock and made graceful reverence to Father Jacob, then glanced at each other with round eyes as they hurried past him. Monks in their plain brown robes, priests in their more colorful garb, eyed Father Jacob askance and kept their heads averted and stayed out of his way, fearing lest his eye fall on them.
Brother Barnaby was always offended by this rude treatment of the priest. Father Jacob did not mind. Instead, he even toyed with people by suddenly stopping and fixing his gray-green eyes on them. His victims would grow pale and shrink, some would even break into a sweat. Father Jacob would then give them a cheery greeting and go on his way, chuckling to himself. Brother Barnaby thought he would never completely understand Father Jacob.
They passed through several gates, were questioned (briefly) by the gate guards, and finally gained entry to the palace. A young priest who acted as escort led them through the echoing halls of the palace, down corridors adorned with tapestries and paintings and life-sized marble statues depicting the saints and various episodes in their lives. Brother Barnaby had been to the Conclave of the Divine before, but never to the palace. He was awed by the magnificence and enthralled by the works of art. His steps lagged. He gazed about in wonder and sometimes, forgetting himself, he would come to a halt to gaze in rapture at a mural on the wall.
Father Jacob did not chide the monk or try to hasten him. The priest would stop, rocking on his heels, patiently waiting. Their escort, however, was extremely annoyed. He would hasten back to speak sternly to Father Jacob, reminding him that the grand bishop’s time was valuable.
“God works in wondrous ways, Father,” said Brother Barnaby in a low voice to Father Jacob as they walked the corridors of white marble, surrounded by saints and angels. “Yesterday, seeing the terrible work evil men do, I was cast down in despair. Today I see the work created by men blessed of God and I am filled with hope.”
Father Jacob smiled. Sir Ander had feared that Brother Barnaby would be wounded, his serenity disturbed, his gentle and kindly disposition destroyed by his exposure to the dark caverns, cruel wastelands and stinking swamps of the human mind. But as Sir Ander wore a cuirass enhanced with magical constructs when going into a potentially dangerous situation, Brother Barnaby went into battle accoutered in armor far stronger than the strongest, magically enhanced steel. He was armed with his faith.
Father Jacob had accepted Brother Barnaby as scribe and assistant for one reason-he was intrigued by the young man’s claim to have been led to him by the command of Saint Castigan. Father Jacob was intensely interested in the study of mankind and while he did not quite add Brother Barnaby to his collection of specimens, as he might have added a rare sort of beetle, he did look forward to studying a young man driven by such intense faith.
To Father Jacob’s credit, he would have immediately returned Brother Barnaby to his monastery if he had thought any harm could come to the young man. But as Father Jacob had told Sir Ander, “Brother Barnaby’s faith in God is not like water in a glass that will spill if the glass is broken. His faith will not evaporate or leak out through a crack. Brother Barnaby’s faith is the air he draws into his lungs and the blood that pulses in his veins and the quiet beating of his heart. His soul does not exist separate and apart from his body. His soul is his body and his body is his soul. You need have no fear for Brother Barnaby.”
The young monk did not blame God for the evil in the world. Nor did he rail against God or demand accountability. He often asked questions of Father Jacob, not because he doubted God, but for help in understanding.
“We imperfect creatures are constantly striving for perfection,” Brother Barnaby said, as they traversed the hall. “I’ve been thinking, Father. Perhaps men and women succumb to evil because they seek to achieve perfection too easily, without having to work to attain it. They give up the struggle and thus fall into the pit.”
“And how do we help such people?” Father Jacob asked.
Brother Barnaby considered this question. “Some priests would say we should stand on the rim of the pit and preach to those who have fallen. But I believe the only way to help them is to climb down into the pit and put our arms around them and lift them out.”
“You are a wise man, Brother,” said Father Jacob gravely.
Brother Barnaby was quite startled by this compliment and retreated into shy, if pleased, silence.
When Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby reached the offices of t
he grand bishop, they were ushered into the antechamber-a large room, beautifully decorated with more famous works of art. The ceiling was high and had been painted to depict the Breath with its twilight-orange-and-pink mists and white clouds, the sun, moon, and stars. The parquet wooden floor was covered with a sumptuous carpet into which the foot sank most pleasantly. Although the large room was occupied by many priests, seated at desks or busy at various tasks, the antechamber was so intensely quiet that Brother Barnaby tried to hush the sound of his breathing.
“Is that the grand bishop?” he whispered to Father Jacob.
Brother Barnaby was referring to a man dressed in a scarlet cassock bound with a broad golden sash and a white stole about his shoulders.
“That is the monsignor,” said Father Jacob, speaking loudly. The sudden intrusive sound caused all the priests to snap their heads up and glare at him in rebuke. “The monsignor serves His Eminence in much the same capacity as you serve me, Brother Barnaby.”
Having seen all he cared to see, Father Jacob strode rapidly forward, his black cassock swishing about his ankles. The priests followed his progression through the room with their eyes. The monsignor, seeing and hearing him, rose hurriedly from his desk.
“Father Jacob Northrop,” Father Jacob boomed and he added, unnecessarily, since the black cassock proclaimed him, “of the Arcanum.”
“His Eminence left instructions for you to be immediately admitted upon your arrival,” said the monsignor. “If you would accompany me.. .”
The monsignor placed his hands on the handles of a pair of double doors, beautifully and intricately carved of wood, and was about to open them when he saw Brother Barnaby.
The monsignor gave a delicate cough. “Your servant may wait for you here, Father Jacob,” he said. “He will be well cared for, of that you may be certain.”
“Brother Barnaby is not my servant,” said Father Jacob, his brows coming together in a frown. He latched onto Brother Barnaby’s arm. “He is my amanuensis and, as such, he goes everywhere with me.”
Brother Barnaby clasped the lap desk in both hands and lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “I don’t mind, Father.”
“I do,” said Father Jacob sternly, keeping fast hold of the monk.
The monsignor took a moment to consider, then said, “Very well.” He opened the doors and announced, “Father Jacob Northrop and… er
… Brother Barnaby.”
Grand Bishop Ferdinand Montagne motioned for them both to enter. He was seated at his desk, frowning over a small piece of paper which had been delivered last evening, but which the bishop had only received this morning.
“Please be seated, Father Jacob and Brother…”
The grand bishop had not caught Barnaby’s name. He dispensed with formalities by waving his hand at two chairs placed directly opposite his desk.
“If you will both excuse me one moment.”
The grand bishop motioned the monsignor to approach the desk and handed him a note. They both spoke in low tones, their voices soft. Father Jacob watched and listened with interest.
“Dubois sent this last night,” said the grand bishop softly. “He wrote it in haste. Can you make out what it says?”
The monsignor read the note. “‘ Find out what happened at the Royal Armory.’ ”
“That’s what I thought it said. Do you know what he means?”
“No, Your Eminence, I am afraid I have no idea.”
“Then do what it says. Find out.”
The monsignor nodded, bowed and, taking the note, left the room.
The bishop gave a sigh and ran his hand over his head. “Affairs of state,” he said by way of apology. “We always seem to find ourselves entangled in such matters, though most unwillingly.”
He sat down in his chair and looked directly at Father Jacob.
“How are you, Father Jacob? It has been some time since we last met.”
“I am well, Your Eminence. And you?”
“Not good, Father. Not good.” The grand bishop placed his hand on his stomach. “Dyspepsia. It seems that nothing I eat agrees with me. The pain and discomfort I experience is most debilitating.”
“If I might presume to suggest something, Your Eminence…” Brother Barnaby spoke up meekly.
The bishop looked at him, startled.
“Brother Barnaby is known for his healing skills,” said Father Jacob. “You would do well to listen to him, Your Eminence.”
“If your Eminence would mix ground gentian root with hot tea, drink this three times daily, eat only the blandest foods, and abstain from wine for at least a week, I believe you will show improvement.”
The grand bishop raised an eyebrow. “And you say this gentian root works, Brother?”
“I have had much success with it in the past, Your Eminence.”
The grand bishop rang a bell and a priest appeared in the doorway. “Bring me hot tea mixed with ground gentian root,” the bishop ordered.
The priest appeared slightly startled at the request, but he hastened to fill it.
“Now,” said the grand bishop with a heavy sigh, “we must discuss this terrible business.”
“At the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” said Father Jacob.
“The abbey and elsewhere,” said the grand bishop.
Father Jacob raised an eyebrow, then he glanced at Brother Barnaby and nodded. The young monk placed the lap desk he had been carrying on his knees, opened it, and drew out pen and paper and a small bottle of ink. He set the ink in a hole in the desk that kept the bottle stable, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and made ready to write.
The grand bishop frowned. “Is this man intending to take notes on what we say?”
“With the permission of Your Eminence, of course,” said Father Jacob. “I find-”
“You do not have my permission! What I am about to tell you is of a highly volatile nature! If anyone were to find out-”
“Your Eminence can rest easy,” said Father Jacob in soothing tones. “Brother Barnaby writes the notes in a special code I devised. He and I are the only ones who can read it. I will show Your Eminence what he has written before we leave and if you can decipher a word of it, I will destroy the notes immediately.
He added gravely, “These notes are critical to my work, Your Eminence. I would be laboring at an extreme disadvantage without them.”
“Why even bother to seek my permission,” the bishop grumbled. “Oh, very well. But I will look at these notes before you leave.”
Montagne wasn’t happy, but he was desperate. He rose to his feet and began to pace restlessly back and forth behind the desk as he talked.
“You know my secret, Father Jacob. The secret that keeps me awake at night and eats holes in my stomach.”
“The secret that magic in the world, the Breath of God, is being destroyed,” said Father Jacob.
Brother Barnaby looked up, astonished. Father Jacob glanced at him and nodded slightly. Brother Barnaby’s pen scratched across the paper.
“Recently, the situation has grown more dire,” said the bishop. “Magical constructs have begun breaking down at an alarming rate. I am hearing reports from crafters that they require more and more time to maintain the existing constructs.”
The bishop stopped in his pacing, stood frowning down at the carpet, then suddenly lifted his head and turned to face Father Jacob directly.
“To put it bluntly, Jacob, magic is failing! It is failing in all parts of Rosia, and now I have received a report of the same occurring in Freya. Magical sigils are weakening at an alarming rate. The Church has managed to stave off panic by telling people that the magic is cyclical, that every few hundred years the magic wanes as the moon wanes and waxes. We maintain that we are in a part of the cycle where the magic is weak and that it will eventually come back.”
“You do realize that what you are saying is bullshit, Your Eminence,” said Father Jacob crudely.
Brother Barnaby raised his head and blinked his eyes.
&nb
sp; “Pardon my language, Eminence,” Father Jacob continued, “but magic is not ‘cyclical.’”
“I know that,” the grand bishop said irritably. He extended his hands in pleading. “But what else can we say? That the magic is dying? That the Breath is being sucked out of our world? That God is gasping for air? Do we tell the populace that some day soon their houses will collapse? Their airships will drop out of the skies? Do we tell them that some of the continents are starting to sink and that doomsday may not be long in coming? Do we tell them this?”
Father Jacob was silent, grave. The only sound in the room was Barnaby’s pen crawling across the paper and, occasionally, the tinkling sound of the nib touching the rim of the inkwell as he refreshed his ink.
“Well?” said the bishop shortly. “What do you have to say, Father?”
“That what I predicted eight years ago is now come to pass,” said Father Jacob.
“Damn it, Jacob!” the grand bishop swore angrily and struck the desk with his clenched fist. “How can you be so goddamn cool about this? I know that I blaspheme, but if the blessed Saint Dennis himself were standing here, I have no doubt he would say the same!”
“I assume this has something to do with the massacre at the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” said Father Jacob. “Since that is why you sent for me.”
The bishop sighed deeply, ran his hand through his hair, belched, grimaced, and lowered himself back down in his chair.
“It does, but there is more you must know before I tell you. A few weeks ago, a watchtower collapsed. The tower was old, but the crafter mason who maintained the magical constructs that strengthened the stonework has sworn on the sacred writings of the Four Saints that the constructs were in perfect condition. Twenty soldiers were inside the structure when it fell. All of them were killed.”
Brother Barnaby said a prayer for the dead beneath his breath as he made the notation.
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