“You and Brother Barnaby have been awake all night. You should both try to get some sleep,” said Father Jacob. He stood up, walked to the hatch, and flung it open. “I will drive, Brother Barnaby.”
Brother Barnaby looked at the priest in alarm.
“Uh, no, Father, that’s not necessary. I’m not at all tired.”
The monk cast a pleading gaze at Sir Ander, begging him not to let Father Jacob drive. The wyverns did not like Father Jacob. There was no telling what the beasts might do if the priest took the reins.
“I’m not sleepy,” said Sir Ander, stifling another yawn. “Come, Father Jacob. I will let you beat me in a game of dominoes.”
Father Jacob’s eyes brightened. His one weakness was an avid passion for dominoes. He drew a magical sigil on the letter from Master Albert, spoke a word and the letter was instantly consumed in a flash of blue fire. Not a trace of the letter remained, not even the ashes.
Sir Ander sneezed and irritably waved away the smoke. Father Jacob brought out his cherished set of ivory dominoes in their hand-carved rosewood case. The two sat down to their game. On the driver’s seat, Brother Barnaby closed the hatch and sighed in relief.
Sir Ander dumped out the dominoes. Father Jacob turned them upside down to hide the pips. Sir Ander began to stir them around.
“Too bad you didn’t receive this letter earlier,” said Sir Ander.
“I was meant not to receive it,” said Father Jacob.
Sir Ander stopped stirring to stare. “What?”
“As I suspected, the Warlock was a diversion, my friend,” said Father Jacob. He picked up a domino, but he did not play it. He tapped it on the table. “Poor Lady Elaina. The viscount was frantic to recover his child. Of course, he would insist on having me investigate. I went. Master Albert’s letter missed me. And now the nuns of Saint Agnes are dead.”
“But why?” Sir Ander asked. “What has one to do with the other?”
He turned over the domino.
“You’ve drawn a blank. How very fitting,” said Father Jacob. “Until I know more, that is your answer.”
Chapter Twelve
The laws of kings exist to judge and punish those who sin against man. The priests of the Arcanum, God’s warriors on Aeronne, are responsible for protecting the faith from those who would corrupt or destroy it. We carry the light into the dark places, ever vigilant, searching out Aertheum and his foul servants.
—Mandate of the Arcanum
Saint Marie Elizabeth
First Provost of the Arcanum
BROTHER BARNABY CAREFULLY GUIDED THE WYVERNS into the mists that drifted serenely above the extensive grounds of the Conclave of the Divine—the official residence of the grand bishop and the administrative center of the Church of the Breath in Rosia. Although his majesty’s palace was far more beautiful, floating high above the Conclave, the grand bishop could take comfort in the fact that the Church owned more buildings and took up considerably more land. The Conclave of the Divine was larger than many small cities.
The grounds housed three cathedrals, each dedicated to a different saint; motherhouses for four orders of monks, two orders of nuns, and three military orders; an elementary school for children skilled in magic, and a University with dormitories to house the students.
The Grand Bishop’s Palace was the largest structure and the oldest in the Conclave. All the other buildings had been erected down through the centuries, radiating out from the Grand Bishop’s Palace, which stood in the center as the sun of the small world—as was right and proper in the eyes of God and the grand bishop.
The cathedrals and other structures had been built at different periods of time with each architect attempting to outdo his predecessors and thus there was no consistency of style. One cathedral had graceful spires. Another featured a vast dome. The third was adorned with minarets, while the University had tried to outdo them all by erecting spires and minarets above a vast dome.
The Conclave’s sacred grounds were always busy. By day, the gates were thrown open so that people could attend services in one of the grand cathedrals. University students played croquet on the green lawns or studied in the gardens. Monks and nuns and priests, abbots and abbesses, answered the bells that called them to their prayers. At night, the common people were shooed out, the gates closed. Those who required admittance had to enter through a single gate where they came under the scrutiny of a porter and the Grand Bishop’s Own, as his soldiers were called.
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 si
ns.
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 the 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.
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