Sir Ander shook his head. “Still, I don’t like the fact that Wallace is in Rosia.”
“The man is up to some mischief, you may be certain,” said Father Jacob. “But let us leave Wallace to Dubois. We must lay to rest the blood of the martyrs.”
Master Albert, Brother Barnaby, Father Jacob, and Sir Ander each picked up the buckets of bloodstained water and carried them to the back of the cathedral. Brother Paul led them to the entrance to the catacombs—a long row of stone stairs that had been cut into the ground, leading down to a wrought-iron gate.
Beyond the gate, the dead slept in silent darkness.
The gate was not locked and, though the hinges were rusted, it opened easily enough. Brother Paul brought two lanterns. Guided by their light, they entered the catacombs.
Dating back hundreds of years, the catacombs had likely been constructed at the same time as the abbey, built far below ground level. The men entered a long corridor with an arched ceiling made entirely of bricks. Magical constructs would have been placed on the bricks to keep the catacombs dry and preserve the structural integrity. When the magic constructs started to fade, crafter priests would have renewed them.
Many bodies, shrouded in white linen, had been placed in niches in the walls. Due to space considerations, only high-ranking members of the Church had been buried in tombs. During the Dark Time, the abbey had been abandoned and there had been no more burials. When the world emerged from the Dark Time, burial customs and practices had changed. The idea of placing bodies out in the open covered only by a shroud was considered distasteful. The Abbey of Saint Agnes, like many other churches, established a cemetery where the sisters were laid to rest. The abbesses were entombed in the cemetery’s mausoleum.
The catacombs were not forgotten. Once a year, the abbess and the sisters entered to pay their respects to the dead in a reverent ceremony, saying prayers and placing flowers on the tomb of the first abbess.
The men walked single file in respectful silence through the narrow corridors. They found the abbess’ tomb—a large and elaborately carved marble sarcophagus—in a large niche covered with dust and remnants of dead flowers. The effigy of a woman graced the top of the sarcophagus; her stone face seemed grave, sorrowful.
“She grieves,” said Brother Barnaby softly.
Beyond, the corridor grew narrower. Dimly seen in the lantern light were the tombs that dated back to the time of the prince-abbot. The men placed the buckets on the floor, gathered around the tomb, and bowed their heads.
Father Jacob led them in prayer, then Brother Barnaby slowly and reverently lifted a bucket and poured the water stained with the blood of the martyrs onto the stone floor around the tomb. The red-stained water slid over the bricks that had been worn smooth by time and seeped down through the cracks. One by one, each man said a soft prayer, then poured the water around the tomb. Brother Barnaby placed the bucket carrying the remains on the altar.
Their sad task accomplished, the men stood a moment in silence, broken by Brother Paul saying softly, “The martyrs shine with glory, safe in the arms of God.”
Brother Paul turned to leave. Albert, carrying one of the lanterns, accompanied him. Sir Ander was about to go with the other two, when Father Jacob softly called his name. Turning, Sir Ander saw the priest standing beside the tomb, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I feel the need to remain here a moment,” said Father Jacob. He shot Sir Ander a glittering glance from out of the corner of his eye.
Sir Ander tensed and slipped his hand inside his coat, to the pocket where he kept his stowaway pistol.
“Leave the lantern with Sir Ander and go with the others, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “I know your wyverns will be hungry.”
Brother Barnaby’s face brightened at the mention of his beloved wyverns, then constricted with concern. “You are right, Father. Poor things. They must be starving. I have neglected them. I will go to them at once.”
Brother Barnaby handed over the lantern, then hurried off.
Sir Ander played the light on the stone walls, sending it jabbing into dark niches. “He is safely gone. What is wrong?”
“I hear something,” Father Jacob said, cocking his head.
Sir Ander cocked the pistol’s hammer and listened.
“I don’t hear anything,” he said after a moment.
“You must!” said Father Jacob testily. “Unless you’ve gone deaf.”
“Nothing but dripping water . . .”
“That’s it!” Father Jacob exclaimed. “The sound of dripping water!”
Sir Ander sighed wearily, let down the hammer and slid the pistol back into his pocket. “Is that all?”
“Why do we hear the sound of dripping?” Father Jacob stood staring at the bricks. “Don’t you find that curious?”
“It’s late, Father. We still have work to do. You need to interview Brother Paul and the dragon brothers.”
Father Jacob shook his head turned away. They walked back down the narrow corridor and emerged into the bright sunlight, blinking their eyes. Sir Ander checked his pocket watch and was surprised to see that it was almost four of the clock in the afternoon. The day had been long in some respects and passed by far too swiftly in others.
“I have decided on second thought that you should go talk to the two dragons,” said Father Jacob. “They are more likely to be open with you—a fellow soldier—than with me.”
“What do you want me to ask them?”
“I want to know the truth about what they saw the night of the attack.”
“But they weren’t even here at the time,” Sir Ander said, puzzled. “They live twenty miles away. They couldn’t have seen anything.”
“I think they were here. I think they did see something,” said Father Jacob. “Something that scared them enough to volunteer for patrol duty.”
“If you say so,” said Sir Ander. “I’ll go speak to them now.”
“And I will talk to Brother Paul.”
Father Jacob started to walk away, then paused and turned to stare, frowning, into the darkness of the catacombs.
“Why is the water dripping?” he muttered.
Father Jacob spent the next two hours in a most unsatisfactory interview with Brother Paul. He came out of the meeting thinking he might as well have spent ten minutes. Brother Paul was of little help. He knew that Albert had found a journal and had taken it back to his yacht. That was apparently all he knew or even cared about. Brother Paul had not read the journal.
“Reading is very difficult for me, due to my poor eyesight, Father,” he said.
Brother Paul wasn’t the least bit interested in the writing of a prince-abbot or the fact that Saint Dennis had spent time here.
“The words of God are the only words that have meaning,” said Brother Paul.
As for the person who could have stolen the journal, “I have prayed for the thief’s soul,” said Brother Paul.
Father Jacob asked the monk about the night of the attack. Brother Paul had been sequestered in his dwelling in the wilderness. Weary from his day’s work helping the nuns by working in the fields, he had fallen into a sound sleep. The first he knew of the attack was when he had been awakened by flashes of green fire in the sky.
Regarding the young woman, the sole survivor, he said he had found her in a pitiful state. She had been in the sanctuary when the demons entered. One of them struck her. She fell to the floor, stunned, and waited to die. The demons surged past her and she realized they assumed she was already dead. He had recorded in his report to the grand bishop everything she had said to him. He had nothing to add.
“According to what you wrote,” said Father Jacob, referring to the report, “the nun said that when the demons were smashing the windows, one of the demons was hit by shards of glass and ‘the demon yelped.’ Do you remember that?”
“I am afraid I don’t, Father,” said Brother Paul. “I was shaken by the terrible events of that night as you
might expect.”
“Yet you were able to write this report . . .”
“It was my duty, Father,” said Brother Paul simply. “God guided my hand.”
He blamed himself for the young woman’s death. “I had not slept in many nights and I dozed off. When I woke up, she was gone.”
Father Jacob continued probing and prodding, but Brother Paul never wavered in his account. He did not grow confused, frustrated, or angry. He answered every question readily, patiently. At the end of the interview, he thanked Father Jacob.
“I want to do everything I can to help,” said Brother Paul.
He declined an offer to partake of their evening meal and spend the night with them.
“You realize, Brother, that you could be in danger,” Father Jacob warned. “It would be safer for you to remain here with us.”
“God is my sword and my shield, Father,” said Brother Paul as he departed. “He protects me.”
Twilight tinged the mists of the Breath pinkish red, reminding Father Jacob of the bloodstained water in the buckets. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly through the fading light, leaving the abbey compound, heading for the yacht and an early bedtime. He planned to spend tomorrow sorting through the mess in the library.
One of the dragons was back on patrol in the skies. In the distance, Father Jacob could see the sails and ballast balloons painted with the Rosian flag of the naval cutter as she took up a station out in the Breath.
“Father!” Sir Ander called. “Wait for me!”
Father Jacob turned to see his friend coming around the corner of the wall. He waited for him to join him and noted that he was alone.
“What did you do with Master Albert and Brother Barnaby?”
“Albert went back to his yacht. He was falling asleep on his feet. Brother Barnaby is with his wyverns. He says something is still bothering them. He thinks it’s the presence of the dragons. He asked if he could spend the night in the stables. I gave him permission. I hope that’s all right. It means I’ll have to do the cooking.”
“Fortunately, I have little appetite,” said Father Jacob. “How did your talk with the dragons go?”
“You were right, Father. The brothers had been flying close to the abbey that night. They usually eat the goats they raise themselves, but every so often they develop a taste for venison. In essence, they were poaching. The deer they were hunting happened to be on the abbey’s land. That’s why they didn’t want to say anything.”
“I am certain the grand bishop can spare a few,” said Father Jacob dryly. “I hope they know we will not turn them in.”
“I assured them we would keep quiet. And you were also right. They did see the attackers,” said Sir Ander.
“Excellent news!” Father Jacob exclaimed, excited. “Dragons are creatures of good common sense and practical turn of mind. They do not believe in our God or in our Heaven or our Hell. No demons or giant bats for them. What did they see?”
“Demons,” said Sir Ander. “Riding giant bats.”
Father Jacob heaved a sigh.
Chapter Eighteen
God’s voice pours forth the Song of Magic. Man has learned to create constructs some liken to a symphony. But what if that symphony were written in a minor key? What dread voice would sing the counter notes?
—On the Nature of Magic
by Saint Dennis
THE BENCHLIKE BED IN THE YACHT SEEMED UNUSUALLY comfortable to Sir Ander, or perhaps he was just uncommonly weary. Brother Barnaby’s chicken stew, cooked in a kettle over an open fire, lay pleasantly on the stomach. Sir Ander and Father Jacob had not been forced to rely on the knight’s cooking after all, though his cooking wasn’t bad, as far as he was concerned. He liked boiled beans and salt pork. Brother Barnaby had fixed supper, then returned to the stables to be with his wyverns, which remained uneasy. The dragons did not fly at night, but took turns resting in a nearby field in case they should be needed.
Sir Ander stretched out on the wooden plank bed with its goose down mattress, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. It was good just to lie still and let the sad events of the day sift through his mind, like sand between the fingers. He listened with drowsy amusement to Father Jacob fidgeting and rolling about restlessly.
“Your body tyrannizing your mind?” Sir Ander asked.
“There is nothing wrong with my mental discipline. Something is bothering me, that’s all,” said Father Jacob irritably.
Sir Ander smiled in the darkness and, rolling onto his side, he dragged the blanket over his head and fell asleep.
He was awakened by an explosive shout from Father Jacob. Whenever Sir Ander accompanied the father on a dangerous investigation (and most of the investigations performed by members of the Arcanum fell into that category), he slept in his trousers and shirt, his boots by the side of the bed, one of his pistols within easy reach beneath his pillow.
Sir Ander was instantly awake, his hand sliding beneath the pillow to take hold of the gun. “What? What is it?”
Light flared, magical light that half-blinded him. He had a glimpse of Father Jacob’s face, eager and excited, bent over a “glow worm”—a type of lantern whose light came from magical sigils embedded inside the glass panels. When he could see, Sir Ander found Father Jacob buttoning his long black greatcoat over the black cassock.
“You’ll need your coat, as well,” said Father Jacob. “The night air has a definite nip to it.”
Sir Ander yawned. “What time is it?”
“Near midnight. I’m sorry to wake you, but this is important.”
Sir Ander sighed and swung his feet out of bed. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the abbey. Bring the pickax.”
Sir Ander stared. “What for?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Father Jacob. “We’ll need a shovel, as well.”
“The ax and shovel are in the storage compartment in the rear.” Sir Ander thrust his feet into the boots, struggled into his coat, tucked his pistol into the inner pocket, buckled on his sword belt, ran his hand through his hair, thought about wearing a hat and decided against it, and yawned again.
Father Jacob snapped his fingers and another glow worm lantern burst into light. Leaving one lantern for Sir Ander, Father Jacob opened the door and went out. Sir Ander could hear him rummaging about in the storage compartment. Picturing the havoc the impatient priest was causing in his search, Sir Ander grabbed the lantern and hastened outside.
He found the pickax and shovel and picked up the other tools the priest had hurled onto the grass. Father Jacob did not wait but headed for the abbey. Sir Ander could see the bright white light of the glow worm swinging back and forth from the priest’s hand.
He hefted the pickax and shovel and followed. The night was clear, the mists of the Breath shredded to wisps and tatters by a chill wind coming down from the distant mountains. Stars crusted the sky. A sliver of moon glimmered palely on the horizon.
The two dragon brothers, slumbering in the field, were bulky black hulks against the starlight. One slept on his side, like a horse, his legs stretched out, his head on the grass. The other slept on his belly, legs tucked beneath him, his neck curled about his feet, his head almost touching his tail which was wrapped around his hind legs.
“So why haul me out of my warm bed?” Sir Ander asked.
Father Jacob made an impatient gesture for him to be quiet and kept walking. Sir Ander was accustomed to the priest’s sudden after-dark escapades and he said nothing more, knowing he would be wasting his breath. He spent the time trying to goad his sleep-fogged mind into wakefulness.
Father Jacob did not enter the cathedral, as Sir Ander had expected, but went swiftly around to the back. Sir Ander thought now he knew where they were going and why. When they came to the gate that led into the catacombs, he called a halt.
“It’s the dripping water, isn’t it?”
“The sound of the water kept nagging at me. That’s the reason I couldn’t sle
ep,” said Father Jacob. “Then I figured out why.”
He thrust open the gate and walked inside. Sir Ander remained standing at the entrance. He threw the pickax and shovel on the ground.
“I’m not going to desecrate a tomb, Father,” Sir Ander said.
Father Jacob scowled, displeased.
Sir Ander faced the irate priest calmly and shook his head. “Not for you or the Arcanum.”
Father Jacob stood silently regarding his friend for a moment, then he bent down to retrieve the ax and the shovel.
“I know you will think I am being irrational, Ander,” Father Jacob said earnestly, “but I believe the murdered nuns are trying to tell me something. Keep watch. See that I’m not disturbed.”
He entered the catacombs alone. Sir Ander watched the light of the glow worm until it disappeared into the darkness. He stood outside in the whipping wind, pulling his coat collar up around his ears and wishing he’d worn his hat. After several moments, he heard the faint sounds of a pickax ringing against stone. Sir Ander could stand it no longer. He entered the catacombs.
Sir Ander did not believe in ghosts, but he conceded that there were far more pleasant places to take a midnight stroll than a dark burial chamber. The white-shrouded figures shone with an eerie pallor in the lantern light. The dark eye holes in the skulls seemed to be watching him. The sounds of the pickax grew louder. He came upon Father Jacob raising the ax over his head, prepared to bring it down. He was not attacking the tomb—to Sir Ander’s vast relief. The priest was chopping up the floor beneath the tomb.
The floor was lined with bricks, as were the walls and the arched ceiling, making it difficult to determine where the brick floor left off and the wall began. The bricks beneath the tomb were still wet and glistening from the bloody water they had poured around it.
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