Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  Sir Ander shook his head. “What happened to your father?”

  “As it turned out, Jacob was right. Friends in court intervened on our father’s behalf. Certain people were paid off and he was set free. The business suffered for a long time after that, however. Clients didn’t trust a family of traitors. My father worked hard to prove himself a loyal subject of the crown and eventually the business revived. We never truly lived down the scandal, though.” Captain Northrop gave a bitter smile. “There is a reason my friend Randolph is an honored and respected admiral and I am a glorified pirate.”

  “Yet you seem to have done well for yourself,” Sir Ander observed, indicating the Estaran wine. “A case of that would cost me a month’s pay.”

  Captain Northrop poured another glass, finishing off the bottle. “Some people consider me lucky. I was a second son with no prospects and suddenly I was the first son with the world before me. I attended university and purchased a commission in the navy, then left that when I was passed over time and again for promotion. I bought my own ship. A cousin now manages the business for me. I’m a successful privateer, a wealthy man. Yes, I have done well for myself. And I owe it all to Jacob.”

  Sir Ander heard the ironic tone in the captain’s voice. “You should know, Captain Northrop, that your brother has done an incredible amount of good as a priest. Countless times, he has risked his life to save innocents. When you tried to kill him, you say you missed. I say God’s hand intervened.”

  Captain Northrop smiled faintly. “You mean God nudged my elbow so that my shot went wide and then He tampered with Henry’s pistol so that it misfired. All this so my brother could live to pray another day.”

  Sir Ander decided he didn’t much like Captain Northrop. The knight was thinking he’d rather wait in the corridor, when he heard the sound of a door opening and Father Jacob’s voice calling for him.

  “The meeting has ended,” said Captain Northrop, rising. “Thank you for letting me ramble on, sir.”

  Sir Ander was already on his feet and out the door. He found Father Jacob in the corridor, looking for him, with Sir Henry nowhere in sight. The door to the cabin where the two had been meeting was closed.

  “Ah, there you are, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob, catching sight of him. “Ready to leave?”

  “More than ready,” said Sir Ander emphatically. “How did your meeting go? What did that man want with you?”

  “We cannot talk here. Suffice it to say, my friend, I did not see how matters could possibly grow worse.” Father Jacob sighed. “But they are now worse.”

  They moved to one side of the corridor to allow Captain Northrop to squeeze past them.

  “The wherry is waiting to take you to Capione,” said Captain Northrop. “If you will follow me…”

  He led the way back up the stairs and onto the top deck. The wherry had traveled some distance down the inlet, and at a signal from Captain Northrop, Da released the lines that were holding the wherry to a tree and sailed back. Father Jacob, Sir Ander, and Captain Northrop stood waiting in silence,.

  Captain Northrop said abruptly, “You never asked about our father.”

  “How is he?” Father Jacob asked.

  “Dead,” said Captain Northrop. “He died of a fever he contracted in the Aligoes.”

  “I didn’t know, Alan. I will keep him in my prayers.”

  “He does not need your prayers!” Captain Northrop had dropped the bantering façade. He was angry, his eyes dark and brooding. “He needed you, Jacob! Father was never the same after you left. You broke his heart. He never understood how you could betray your country. How you could betray him!”

  “God called me to His service, Alan,” said Father Jacob simply.

  “God!” Captain Northrop gave a mirthless laugh. “Where was your God when our father was dying? Where were you? He called for you. Where was his Jacob? I held him in my arms. I had to tell him you weren’t coming.”

  Father Jacob was quiet, sorrowful, grieving. Sir Ander stood by, helpless to intervene. He would fight Father Jacob’s foes, would place himself between Father Jacob and knives, bullets. But he could not protect his friend from such pain as this.

  “I do not know what to say, Alan.”

  What could the man of faith say to the man of the world? Father Jacob reached out toward his brother.

  “I am sorry—”

  Captain Northrop struck his brother’s hand away.

  “I am sorry, too, Jacob,” Alan said harshly. “Sorry my shot missed!”

  The wherry nudged up against the Terrapin, and the crew again lowered the covered gangplank. Sir Ander and Father Jacob crossed it and took seats in the wherry. The crew of the Terrapin raised the gangplank, and Da steered the wherry among the trees.

  As they slowly pulled away from the gunboat, Father Jacob sat in silence. Sir Ander looked back to see Captain Northrop standing on the deck, his hands clasped behind him, staring at them.

  Then they rounded a bend in the inlet and the Terrapin was lost to sight.

  “That was unpleasant,” said Father Jacob.

  “Family,” said Sir Ander.

  He had family of his own.

  * * *

  The two left Capione that afternoon. Sir Ander again drove the yacht, holding the wyvern’s reins and keeping an eye on the brass panel that regulated the flow of magic into the lift tank. The journey was peaceful. The wyverns were well fed and as docile as could be expected for the recalcitrant beasts. He’d had to put a stop to them snapping at each other only once, sending a small electrical jolt that traveled through the harness to remind them to tend to their business.

  The jolt was painless, but Sir Ander always felt guilty whenever he was forced to resort to such tactics. In his mind’s eye he could see Brother Barnaby gazing at him in sorrowful dismay. The notoriously bad-tempered wyverns loved Barnaby, as did all creatures. The monk would have said a gentle word or two to calm them. Sir Ander had tried a gentle word, only to have one of the wyverns spit at him.

  Father Jacob opened the door that led from the cabin to the driver’s compartment in the front of the yacht.

  “May I join you?”

  “Of course. Just don’t annoy the wyverns.”

  “Stupid beasts,” said Father Jacob, settling himself.

  The wyverns, hearing his voice, whipped their heads around to glare at him. Sir Ander shouted at them and they sullenly returned to the business of flying.

  “What did you and Sir Henry discuss?” Sir Ander asked. “Must have been important for him to risk his life traveling to Rosia.”

  “It was important,” said Father Jacob somberly. “He told me the true identity of the woman we call ‘the Sorceress.’”

  “Henry knows her? That doesn’t surprise me,” Sir Ander said.

  “Her name is Eiddwen. She is associated with the Bottom Dwellers. That came as no surprise, since she sent them to kill us in Westfirth. What I didn’t know was that she was the one who provided Sir Henry with the design to build the green fireball weapon that nearly sank the Defiant. After learning that her weapon worked, Eiddwen vanished, taking the weapon with her, leaving Sir Henry in a very embarrassing position with his queen.”

  “My heart bleeds for the man.” Sir Ander grunted. He glanced at Father Jacob. “Do you trust him? If this Eiddwen is really in league with these Bottom Dwellers and has been all this time, why would she get involved with the Warlock and all those gruesome murders and blood magic rituals in Capione?”

  “I have been thinking about that. Sir Henry describes Eiddwen as extremely intelligent, calculating, fearless, and amoral. Everything she does has one focus: to advance her goals, which means these murders were committed for a reason, not for some sort of perverted pleasure, which is what I first thought. As I told the grand bishop, I believe the Bottom Dwellers are using blood magic to enhance and stabilize the effects of the contramagic. Eiddwen was conducting experiments with the blood magic and contramagic.”

  “Whe
re is this woman now?”

  “Henry doesn’t know. She stowed away on board his ship when he was escaping from Westfirth with the journeyman, Alcazar. He dropped her off at some remote location. He has agents searching for her, to no avail. All he knows is that she is still working with the Bottom Dwellers. She told him as much.

  “Sir Henry also told me that this journeyman, Alcazar, did in fact invent magically infused steel, which he sold to the Freyans. Henry has the man a virtual prisoner, manufacturing the steel for him. That strange-looking ship was outfitted with the magic steel. Apparently cannonballs have almost no effect on it. And according to Sir Henry, the steel can defend against contramagic.”

  Sir Ander stared at him. “You mean the green beam weapons? How can Henry possibly know that?”

  “Eiddwen sent one of her agents to test the steel. Henry and his man, Mr. Sloan, caught the Bottom Dweller in the shipyard firing a green fireball weapon at the steel panels. They killed him, but apparently not before the man was able to report back to Eiddwen. They found evidence that the intruder had been there once before.”

  “Why would Henry tell you all this?” Sir Ander asked suspiciously. “He’s betraying Freyan interests and that is not like him.”

  “He is a patriot, that is true. He is also a visionary. He has told me this for the same reason I wrote him all the information I obtained regarding the Bottom Dwellers. Both of us foresee a time when Freya and Rosia will be fighting back-to-back for our very survival.”

  “You know that if either his queen or our king find out the two of you are sharing information—”

  “We would be drawn and quartered, our heads stuck on pikes,” said Father Jacob calmly. “We both know the risks.”

  He added, after a moment’s pause, “But I am very sorry you are involved, Ander. I should not have permitted you to come with me to this meeting. You should return immediately to the Mother House to request reassignment. Tell them you find working with me to be impossible.”

  “They already know that, Father,” said Sir Ander, grinning. “I was assigned to you as a punishment, remember?”

  Father Jacob frowned. “I could force you to go—”

  “How?” Sir Ander asked, amused. “I can be just as stubborn as you, Father, and almost as good with my fists.”

  Father Jacob was silent a moment, then he said quietly, “I value your friendship, Ander. I don’t tell you that often enough.”

  “You’ve never told me,” said Sir Ander. He glanced at Father Jacob. “But I know it, just the same.”

  Embarrassed by his own emotions, Sir Ander steered the conversation back to the original topic.

  “So what will the Bottom Dwellers do now?”

  “Sir Henry believes—and I agree with him—that when Eiddwen discovers that his magical steel can repel contramagic, she will urge the Bottom Dwellers to act swiftly, accelerate their plans.”

  Sir Ander was grim. “What plans? They don’t appear to have any plans, other than butchery. First they attack the abbey and murder nuns, then they blow up ships in Westfirth, then massacre innocents in the Crystal Market. Who knows where they will strike next or what devilry they will perpetrate?”

  “I think it’s safe to say that wherever they strike, we won’t be ready for them, since we stuipdly refuse to learn anything about contramagic! I must find a way to the Library of the Forbidden!”

  “Provost Phillipe said there are no books on contramagic in the library.”

  “Then where are they? Because I know from the books of the saints that they must be somewhere!”

  Father Jacob sat hunched over, his brow furrowed, his expression grim. Suddenly he lurched bolt upright and seized hold of Sir Ander’s arm with such force he nearly knocked him off the bench.

  “Good God, Sir Ander, I’ve been blind as a beetle!” Father Jacob tried to grab the reins. “We have to get back to the Arcanum, to stop Brother Paul! Tell these beasts to fly faster!”

  The startled wyverns began flailing wildly, clawing and biting each other, threatening to snap the cables and tangle the lines. The yacht rocked back and forth perilously.

  “Jacob, what the— Let go, damn it, Father! It won’t help if we crash!”

  Sir Ander elbowed the priest aside and at last managed to bring the wyverns under control.

  “What’s this about stopping Brother Paul? Stopping him from doing what?”

  “He didn’t come to the Citadel to kill me,” said Father Jacob. “I’m not the only one who wants to know what is in the Library of the Forbidden.”

  “Do you really think he can find a way to break into the Library when you can’t?” Sir Ander asked skeptically.

  “He won’t act alone,” said Father Jacob. “I know where the Bottom Dwellers will launch their next attack.”

  28

  The joy and terror of experimentation is the possibility of attaining the unexpected. Joy in that you have discovered something new. Terror in that you may have unleashed effects over which you have no control.

  —Sister Marie Allemand, first provost of the Arcanum

  Sir Ander landed the yacht in the carriage yard at the lowest level of the Citadel. He had been worried that they might find the Citadel already under assault, but the early morning was peaceful, the sun shining in a cloudless sky. A cool breeze blowing from the mountains had brought a drop in temperature. Once the yacht was safely moored, he handed care of the wyverns over to the lay brothers who worked in the stables, and went to confer with Father Jacob.

  “I will go warn the provost, Sir Ander. You go to the master of the warrior monks. Tell them to find Brother Paul and bring him to the provost for questioning. And they should ready the Citadel’s defenses. Tell them to prepare to defend against contramagic.”

  “How do the monks know about contramagic?”

  “They are warriors,” said Father Jacob shortly. “They studied the attack on Westfirth as they study every attack, in order to learn about the attackers. The master knew I had been there and he came to me with questions. I told him what I had discovered about the Bottom Dwellers, their weapons, their armor. I told him what little I know about contramagic. He listened in silence and left in silence. I have no idea if I was any help.”

  Sir Ander walked swiftly across the stable yard, heading for the stairs that led to the guardian compound of the monks of Saint Klee. Their compound was built out on a jutting promontory, at a far distance from all other buildings in the Citadel. Although the monks lived and worked here, they kept to themselves. They did not worship in the cathedral, instead praying in their own private chapel. They trained in their own training ground in their compound, surrounded by walls of stone and walls of faith and discipline. The monks did not speak unless someone spoke to them and then their responses were limited to gestures or, if absolutely necessary, a few brief words.

  The monks had been responsible for the Citadel’s defenses since the Citadel’s founding by Saint Marie. Their order dated back to the time immediately following the collapse of the Sunlit Empire. According to legend, Klee had been a Freyan soldier in the wars that eventually brought down the empire.

  A giant of a man, with long blond hair typical of the northern region of Freya, Klee (pronounced in Freyan as “clay”) was renowned for his courage and ferocity in battle until God reproached him. The ghosts of all the men he had slain appeared before him. With them, they brought all the children and grandchildren who would never be born.

  Horrified, Klee began to develop methods of fighting without the use of weapons. Magic would be his weapon and he would kill only as a final resort.

  The monks of Saint Klee remained true to their saint’s teachings. Over the centuries the monks had developed specialized magicks, which they kept secret. They would do everything in their power to subdue a foe, not kill him, although they were permitted to kill if innocent life was threatened.

  Shortly after the Citadel’s founding, the monks were tested when the Citadel was attacked by an army
of blood wizards and their knights. The wizards, having just killed Saint Marie, thought that without her the Citadel would be vulnerable. They miscalculated and they paid dearly for the mistake. So many were lost during the battle that the cult was broken, and had never fully recovered.

  The path that led to the monks’ compound was steep, and difficult and arduous to navigate. Sir Ander was winded by the time he arrived at the gate. He spoke to the gatekeeper, saying that he needed to see the master on an urgent matter.

  The gatekeeper did not move or make a sound that Sir Ander could detect and yet within moments the gate opened and the master walked out. Like the rest of the monks, he wore his hair long in honor of their saint, abjuring the tonsure. He dressed in crimson robes worn by both the men and women of the order who, nameless, considered themselves as one. The bright robes stood out in contrast to the black robes of the priests and nuns of the Arcanum.

  The master was a tall, spare man, seemingly made of gristle, bone, and muscle, with shoulder-length steel-gray hair. He stood waiting to hear why he had been summoned.

  “Master, I come from Father Jacob,” said Sir Ander. “We have reason to believe—very strong reason to believe—that the Citadel is likely to come under attack from the same foe that struck Westfirth. We do not know when, but we believe the attack to be imminent.”

  The master’s expression did not change, and he said nothing, only stood, waiting expectantly.

  Sir Ander lowered his voice. “Father Jacob asked me to tell you he believes it probable the enemy will be using weapons of contramagic.”

  The master accepted this information with equanimity, gazing steadily at the knight. Sir Ander found his silence and lack of emotion disconcerting. Had the master heard him? Did he understand the dire nature of the situation? Was he going to do something, sound the alarm, mobilize his monks? If Sir Ander had given this news to the commander of the Knight Protectors, there would have been shouted orders, drums beating, trumpets blaring the call to arms.

  Sir Ander was seriously tempted to pinch the man, just to get a reaction, when he realized suddenly that the gatekeeper was gone. Sir Ander had not seen the monk leave. The master remained alone, waiting patiently.