Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  He fed what meat they had in storage to the wyverns, enough for a meal tonight. The next night when they landed, he would have to hunt. He released the wyverns from their harness and hobbled them so that they would not fly away. Once they were fed, he walked about a bit to stretch his legs and then went back inside the yacht. He found Father Jacob where he had left him that morning, seated in his reading chair. The slim volume lay closed in his lap, his hand resting on it.

  “I hope you’re not picky about dinner,” said Sir Ander. “I didn’t have time to stock up on fresh food and I fed the dried beef to the wyverns. That leaves us smoked cheese, hardtack, and the last of the apples. I’ll go hunting tomorrow when we stop for the night.”

  “I’m not hungry,” said Father Jacob.

  “You should eat something.”

  Father Jacob stood up wearily. “I moved heaven and hell to find this book and now I wish I hadn’t. The grand bishop was right, my friend. I could end up destroying the faith I have dedicated my life to defending.”

  “I don’t believe that, Father,” said Sir Ander.

  “I may not have a choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” said Sir Ander, sitting down to eat. “Explain what happened to the island of Glasearrach.”

  “Saint Marie does not go into detail, but this is how she describes it.”

  Father Jacob flipped through the pages of the book until he found the passage. He read aloud: “‘Imagine you want to take down a gigantic fortress. You bring in sappers to plant huge kegs of gunpowder beneath the walls and legions of crafters to ignite the gunpowder. The resulting explosion blasts apart the very bedrock on which the fortress stands and sends shockwaves rumbling through the ground. The fortress splits asunder. Now imagine this same scenario using contramagic to sink an island. The powerful opposing forces of magic and contramagic collide, sending shockwaves through the Breath…’”

  Father Jacob closed the book.

  “She blamed herself and her friends. If they had not discovered contramagic and learned how to use it, the tragedy of Glasearrach would not have happened.”

  “You say her friends. Did you find out anything about the fifth friend, Xavier? Why no one ever heard of him?”

  “His tragedy was perhaps the greatest. If Marie and the others were responsible for the sinking of the island, Xavier was responsible for the depredations of the Pirate King. His name was Xavier Meehan. He was the brother of Ian Meehan, the Pirate King.

  “Shortly after their discovery of contramagic, Xavier made a visit to his homeland. No one knows what truly happened, but Marie speculates that while he was there, he told his brother—in all innocence—about the wonderful work he had been doing. His brother saw at once how he could use this new magic to his advantage. He forced his brother to design contramagic weapons that he used with devastating effect against his foes. I would imagine they were much like the green beam weapons his descendants are using against us now.”

  “What happened to Xavier?”

  “We have no way of knowing. Marie writes that they never saw him again. Hearing of the weapons of the Pirate King, Marie and the others recognized that he was using contramagic. Appalled by what they had created, they took their work to the Council of Bishops and confessed that they were the ones responsible. They were imprisoned. The church declared contramagic evil and forbade anyone to use it. Then the church went against its own precepts and used contramagic to sink Glasearrach. They almost destroyed the world.”

  Sir Ander chewed hardtack. “So what does any of this have to do with the dragons? How are they involved?”

  “I know where to find their research on contramagic. Saint Marie writes that she and her Knight Protectors took the books to the palace of the Duke of Talwin for safekeeping. Why she took them to the dragons is a mystery, however.”

  “What I don’t understand is this,” said Sir Ander. “If Saint Marie and the others were responsible for creating this great evil, as the church viewed it, how did they come to be canonized?”

  “Because they quelled the storms. We have always been taught that the calming of the storms was a miracle. It may have been in part, but there is a basis in science. Marie and the others knew magic and they knew contramagic. They knew the wizard storms were caused by the clashing of the two forces and they theorized that although they could not end the magical storms, they could diminish their severity. By this time, the situation was so dire that the church had no choice but to release them from prison and let them try. When they succeeded, the church declared them miracle workers, blessed of God.”

  “A very clever move,” said Sir Ander wryly.

  “Indeed it was. The church put the four into an untenable position. If the four told what they knew about the sinking of Glasearrach, they would destroy the church. People needed God; they needed faith and the four agreed to keep silent. But Saint Marie was plagued by guilt. She could not die without confessing the truth.”

  Father Jacob shoved away his plate, his food untouched.

  “Now I understand,” said Sir Ander quietly. “As you said, you are faced with the very same choice. You know the truth about the Bottom Dwellers and the failing magic. What are you going to do?”

  “Turn the matter over to God,” said Father Jacob.

  31

  Since the time of the Sunlit Empire, the fair city of Capione has been the playing field for the games of the rich and powerful.

  —Anonymous

  Dubois was in Capione, continuing his investigation of the Duquesa de Plata Niebla, when he heard the news about the attack on the Citadel. Dubois’s agents had learned little of any use about the duchess in the region of Plata Niebla. He had concluded that the investigation was going to come to nothing, when he discovered she had purchased a château in the picturesque town of Capione. He had decided to travel there himself, to conduct his investigation in person. He was in the inn, partaking of hot chocolate and croissants for breakfast, when a special courier arrived with a pouch marked “Private.”

  Dubois opened the pouch, drew out the contents, and began to sort through them. One letter caught his attention. He stared at it a moment, prey to a deep foreboding. The envelope was sealed with red wax imprinted with the official seal of the church.

  Dubois had received only a few “red seal” letters during his career. A red seal meant dire news. He slit open one end of the envelope with a small knife, taking care not to tamper with the seal, which was magical. If he broke it, the letter would go up in flames. He was startled to recognize the handwriting of Montagne. The grand bishop had not wanted to trust even the monsignor, his secretary, to write it.

  The letter began: “The Citadel has come under attack!”

  Dubois was so astonished he had to read the sentence twice to make certain he understood it correctly. Rising hurriedly from the table, he went to the door of his room, checked to make certain he had locked it, then returned to finish the letter.

  Montagne described the attack of the black ship and the bat riders. He wrote that the occupants of the Citadel, led by the monks of Saint Klee, had managed to drive off the attackers. Many had been wounded, some had died, and it was feared some had been taken prisoner.

  Dubois noted as a point of interest that the grand bishop no longer referred to the attackers as “demons” or “Freyans.” He did not term them “Bottom Dwellers,” either. He merely called them “the enemy.”

  Dubois’s chocolate grew cold while he pondered this astonishing news. The Citadel had not come under attack for hundreds of years. Why was it attacked now? What was the objective? If the Bottom Dwellers wanted to kill people and cause fear, they would have chosen another target, such as Evreux. Few would ever hear about the attack on the Citadel. The Arcanum would keep that a closely guarded secret.

  He continued reading and found the answer.

  Montagne wrote that during the attack, Father Jacob Northrop had broken into the Library of the Forbidden, searching for books on contrama
gic, despite the fact that the provost had told the priest he would not find any such books.

  “This did not deter Father Jacob,” Montagne added.

  Father Jacob and Sir Ander had fled and were now considered fugitives. The grand bishop believed the priest was still searching for the forbidden books. Montagne ordered Dubois to drop whatever he was doing and pursue them. When he located them, he was to inform the monks of Saint Klee, who were also searching for them. The monks would see to it that the two were returned to the Citadel.

  Montagne ended by warning Dubois that he was to say nothing of the attack or the escape of Father Jacob to anyone.

  “Well, well, well,” Dubois murmured.

  He sat down in an easy chair, crossed his legs, put his fingertips together, pressed his two index fingers against his lips and pondered what to do. Dubois knew that finding Father Jacob when he didn’t want to be found would be difficult. Montagne must know that, too, but he was desperate. This led Dubois to wonder: Why was the grand bishop desperate? Given the terrible nature of this enemy, wouldn’t the logical course of action be to support Father Jacob in his search to find a way to stop them? Not send Dubois and warrior monks to arrest him?

  “What do you fear the priest will discover, Eminence?” Dubois asked the letter.

  The letter providing no answer, Dubois finished eating the croissants, placed the letter on the plate, and tapped the seal with the knife. The letter went up in flames. Dubois stirred the ashes with the knife and then dumped them into what remained of the chocolate. He threw the chocolate into the slops jar.

  Dubois wondered how the grand bishop expected him to find Father Jacob when he was forbidden to mention his crime to anyone. Usually when conducting a manhunt, Dubois would have sent word to his agents worldwide. He would give descriptions of the priest and Sir Ander, providing names, known aliases. He could not ask them to find Father Jacob if he could not name or describe Father Jacob.

  His Eminence is not thinking logically, Dubois reflected.

  So what was he to do?

  He had only just arrived in Capione to start his discreet inquiries into the duchess. Given her nearness to the royal family, Dubois considered this investigation of extreme importantance. He rubbed his forehead.

  He would truly like to find Father Jacob, if for no other reason than to learn why the priest was driving the grand bishop to desperation. But Dubois couldn’t very well jump into a carriage and rush off to find him, because he had nowhere to rush to. Father Jacob could be anywhere in the world by now.

  Dubois decided to spread the word that he was interested in information regarding a priest of the Arcanum who might be in company with a Knight Protector. Since there were any number of priests of the Arcanum, most of them accompanied by a Knight Protector, Dubois would be deluged with leads. But he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

  Sending this order out to his agents and receiving information back would take time. In the interval, he would continue with his investigation of the duquesa. He dashed off a note to the grand bishop, which read: “Message received. Starting now.” Dubois wrote letters to his agents and dispatched them. This done, he mounted his horse and, following directions given to him by the innkeeper, rode to the Château de Sauleschant.

  * * *

  Dubois did not go immediately to the château, but stopped first in a nearby village to gather information. The village was small, poor, and shabby. The only establishments in town were a tavern that also served as a post office and an apothecary.

  Dubois went first to the tavern. Owners of taverns were generally pleased to have customers. Dubois was therefore taken aback when the owner glowered at him and demanded to know what the devil he wanted.

  Dubois meekly told the proprietor that he was writing a book on the noble families of Rosia and was interested in the history of the current owner of the château, the Duquesa de Plata Niebla.

  The tavern owner eyed Dubois, decided he looked harmless, and gave him a grudging welcome.

  “Beg pardon, monsieur. I thought you was one of them ghouls who came to gawk at where the murders were done.”

  “Murders?” said Dubois. “Ah, yes. I remember.”

  The Murders of Capione. Gazettes throughout Rosia had been filled with the gruesome details of the tragic story. People had talked of nothing else for months. He ordered a beer for himself and one for the tavern keeper.

  “I recall I did hear something about those,” he said offhandedly. “A nobleman’s daughter was one of the victims. Opium and blood magic.”

  He started to switch the subject to the duquesa, but the tavern owner, seeing that Dubois was not the least bit interested in the murders, immediately told him all about them.

  The murders had occurred only a short time ago, most of them in Capione, but some in the surrounding region. A young man known as the Warlock had gained a following among the disaffected youth of the community, luring them into his evil clutches and then killing them in horrible ways too gruesome to describe. The daughter of Viscount Devroux had been a victim, along with a local lad, whose body had been found in a nearby field. Or rather, parts of his body had been found.

  “The Arcanum even sent a priest,” said the tavern owner with relish. “Name of Father Jacob Northrop. He and the viscount’s soldiers attacked the coven where this Warlock was said to be holed up. The priest couldn’t capture the fiend, but he did drive him away. Though it will be a long while before any of us feel safe in our beds.”

  “Father Jacob,” said Dubois to himself. “He was in Capione when the grand bishop sent for him to investigate the murders of the nuns at the abbey. An odd coincidence.”

  Dubois was always suspicious of coincidences.

  He expressed proper horror and said again he was here to research the château.

  “Was the duquesa in residence at the time?” Dubois asked. “What a shock she must have suffered.”

  “She was here,” said the tavern keeper. “The soldiers paid her a visit, asked if she wanted them to provide a guard, seeing that she was a woman and alone. She was very polite, thanked them for their concern and said from what she had heard, she was far too old to be of interest to the young Warlock.”

  “How did the château come to be for sale?” Dubois asked. He purchased two more drinks and settled back to listen.

  The original owners, the Desmarals, dated their heritage to the Sunlit Empire, when a knight had distinguished himself in service to his king and had been given the land as a gift. The extensive Desmaral family had flourished for a number of centuries, even managing to survive the Dark Ages. The unfortunate tendency of cousins to marry cousins had produced a strain of madness in the family, however, which had resulted in the last heir killing his wife and children and then hanging himself in the wine cellar.

  He had died in debt. The executor put the estate up for sale. The mansion had been purchased by the wealthy, mysterious duquesa, who said she came to Capione to take the waters. Dubois gave the tavern owner a description of the duchess. The tavern owner had seen her only once, on the day she had taken possession. The entire village had turned out to welcome her. He said the description fit her.

  Knowing perfectly well that the duchess was in Evreux, Dubois asked innocently if she was then currently in the château. The tavern owner said he didn’t think so. He could provide directions, if Dubois wanted to view the château, which was a fine example of architecture of that period.

  The château was about five miles from the village, situated on a hill that overlooked a picturesque valley. The tavern owner warned Dubois that the château was haunted by the ghost of the last of the Desmarals, who was said to roam about the building with a noose hanging around his neck.

  As Dubois rode to the château, he wondered if the duchess had made peace with the ghost or if she had ordered him out of her house. From what Dubois had seen, the Duquesa de Plata Niebla was a woman of strong will, not someone to put up with a ghost.

  He arrived
at twilight and stopped at the end of the drive to reconnoiter. The château must once have been magnificent. The structure was massive, solid, with a columned portico and a turnabout drive. A great many chimneys attested to the vast number of rooms. The duquesa appeared to care little about her investment, however. The masonry needed repair. The garden was overgrown with weeds.

  Dubois rode his horse along the tree-lined drive. He was halfway to the château when his horse began acting strangely. The beast shook his head and looked nervously about, snuffling and blowing. Dubois’s natural caution had prompted him to ride on the side of the road, keeping in the dark shadows of the tree line. He couldn’t see anything to cause alarm, but he approached the château even more warily.

  He knew the duchess was not at home. He had made certain of that before he left. He could see no signs that the mansion was inhabited. Yet his horse was growing more and more agitated.

  Dubois discovered the reason when he reached the end of the drive. He found two griffins, tethered to tree limbs. The griffins were saddled and harnessed and showed signs of having recently been ridden. They were aware of his approach. Their large, lion bodies rose to a crouch at the sight of him, their bright glittering eyes keeping careful watch. One gnashed his beak and began cleaning it with a paw.

  Dubois dismounted and led his unnerved horse to the woods on the other side of the road, downwind of the griffins and out of sight of the château. He tethered the horse to a tree limb and went back to have a closer look at the griffins.

  Smarter, faster, and far more reliable mounts than wyverns, griffins were used by the military, royal messengers, diplomatic couriers, and private citizens wealthy enough to own them. The expense of keeping and maintaining griffins was great and one had to be specially trained to ride them. No one ever “hired” griffins.

  Dubois advanced as close as he considered safe. Griffins were not bad tempered like wyverns, but the dignified beasts were generally cool to strangers. A snap from their powerful beaks could take off a man’s head. The griffins kept watch on Dubois as he drew near, but were otherwise not disturbed by his presence.