Shadow Raiders

Chapter Seventeen

There are many paths to Heaven. The Martyr walks a dark path holding her faith like a candle that lights her way but also attracts those that hunt in the darkness. Some on that path would hide their candles until the evil has walked by, but the Martyr holds her faith dear, her candle bright, no matter the outcome.

– The writings of Saint Marie who was martyred three years later

“WHAT DO WE DO WITH THE WATER we used for cleaning, Father?” asked Brother Barnaby somberly, wringing a bloody cloth into a bucket. “We cannot simply dump it in the yard, as if it were waste.”

“You are right, Brother. This water contains the blood of martyrs,” said Father Jacob and he sat back on his heels to give the matter serious thought.

They had worked for over two hours, and the sanctuary was finally almost clean. Brother Barnaby had found additional buckets in the stable. He had placed the buckets filled with water red-tinged with the blood of the murdered nuns before the altar. Another bucket, this one covered with a white cloth, contained the gruesome remains recovered from the ground outside the cathedral. Father Jacob had attended to this heartbreaking task. As for the blood on the ground, the tears of the angels and the saints falling from Heaven would eventually wash it away.

“The first abbess is buried in the cathedral, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Her tomb is in the catacombs beneath the cathedral. We will pour the water around the tomb. We will bury the remains in the abbey cemetery.”

Brother Barnaby was content and went back to washing away the last vestige of blood. Father Jacob spent a few moments quietly observing the young monk. His expression was solemn, sorrowful, troubled.

“You must have questions for God, Brother,” said Father Jacob abruptly. “Perhaps you find yourself doubting in His love and mercy?”

Brother Barnaby looked up from his task. “I do have questions, Father. With God’s help, you and Sir Ander will find the answers.”

“And with your help, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Our triangle is equilateral.”

Brother Barnaby smiled. “All I do is drive the wyverns, Father.”

“There, you see? That’s more than I can do,” said Father Jacob. He rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his knees and back. He reflected that he had not scrubbed floors since he was a novice, some twenty years ago.

He remembered that time. He remembered that person-the man he had been. A young man with a dazzling gift for magic, Jacob had been proud and arrogant-a real bastard, he could now admit. He had always felt God’s calling, but he had tried to ignore it. He had harangued and questioned, fought and bullied, tested God’s patience every step of the way. He had turned his back on God, run to the edge of the precipice, stared into the blackness and had been ready to leap when he had felt God’s hand gently drawing him back. He had been guided by the touch of God’s hand ever since.

Father Jacob glanced about the sanctuary. “I will hold the service when Sir Ander returns. See if you can find some candles, Brother, though I have no idea where we will place them.”

The beautiful golden-and-silver candlesticks that had graced the altar had been hit by the same ruinous green fire that had melted the stone. Father Jacob recalled what he had said to Sir Ander about the hatred that had driven these attackers to destroy what they could have stolen for gain. The candlesticks alone were easily worth fifty gold rosuns. Whoever attacked the abbey did not raid it out of greed. They came for something far more important than gold.

“I am going to the library,” said Father Jacob. “Let me know if anyone finds Master Albert-Ah, speak of the man and here he is! Albert, where have you been? You have been gone for hours. I was growing worried. Now that you are here, when will I be able to speak to this nun who survived? I have a great many questions. It is more important now than ever that I talk to her…”

Albert stood in the door that led into the sanctuary. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard, so hard he had to wait a moment to catch his breath before he could respond.

“As to that, Father, I fear you will never be able to talk to her this side of Heaven. The woman is dead.”

The echoes of his voice reverberated off the walls, sounding hollow in the empty chamber.

“Dead?” said Father Jacob, regarding Albert intently. “You said her injuries were not severe.”

“The injuries to her body were not serious,” said Master Albert with a sigh. “But those of the mind could not be cured, seemingly. She took her own life, Father. She threw herself off the cliff.”

Brother Barnaby gave an exclamation of pity and grief.

Father Jacob was very thoughtful. With an abrupt gesture he motioned Albert to accompany him into a hallway.

“Tell me what happened,” he said when he and Albert were alone.

“I went to find Brother Paul. When I reached the infirmary, the monk was in a terrible state. He said that his patient had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Weary himself from watching over her, he dozed off. When he woke, she was gone. He asked me to help him find her.

“Her trail was easy enough to follow. She had taken no care to hide it. We came across her tracks on the path leading up the cliff. They led to the edge of the cliff. No footprints led back. Brother Paul and I searched for her body on the rocks below-” He shook his head.

“Damn and blast it to Hell and back!” Father Jacob swore, causing Albert to stare at him in astonishment. “Poor child. May God grant her ease.”

He sighed deeply, his brow furrowed. Whatever he was thinking, he did not share. “Show me the way to the library.”

Albert escorted the priest through a door that opened into a narrow corridor leading to the other areas of the cathedral. They passed schoolrooms, the office of the abbess, a communal room where the nuns ate their meals, the kitchen, and eventually arrived at the library.

They had no need to open the door. It lay splintered on the floor. Father Jacob stepped over the shambles and paused to survey the damage. Shelves had been knocked down, their contents strewn about. The floor was covered, ankle-deep in some places, with papers and parchments and books.

“A real mess,” Albert said unhappily. He started to right a bookshelf.

“Please, Albert, have I taught you nothing?” Father Jacob said sharply. “Don’t touch anything. Go stand by the door and don’t move. You told me that the library was well-organized. Church records in one place-”

“Over there, Father,” said Albert, pointing.

Father Jacob waded through the piles of books and papers, careful to disturb as little as possible.

“To your right were the books on theology,” Albert continued. “That bookcase, the one on the floor, held hymnals and sheet music.”

“I see, yes.”

Father Jacob took note of some of the titles of the books, then roamed on. One of the shelves was still standing, though all its contents had been pulled down and scattered about. He happened to come upon one of the few spots on the floor not carpeted with books or paper and saw what he had expected to see: bloody paw prints, the same that had left marks on the ground outside and tracked blood through the sanctuary.

Father Jacob carefully shifted a pile of books and found more paw prints. He straightened and looked around, but he was not looking at his surroundings. He was seeing, in his mind, the attack.

“The demons-we will call them that, for the time being-flew over the walls as the nuns were leaving the sanctuary. Probably they had been lying in ambush. They left the bats they were riding to kill the women outside and entered the sanctuary, where they tortured and murdered the women they found inside. Some of the demons remained behind to defile the cathedral and drag away the bodies, which they fed to their bats. The rest came here, to the library. The true reason for the attack. They spent their time searching…”

“Searching for what, Father?” Albert asked.

“The writings of the blessed Saint Dennis,” Father Jacob said, sitting down on a toppled bookcase and gazing about. “The books mentioned in the prince-abbot’s journal.”

Albert gave a horrified gasp. “Are you saying, Father, that this. .. this terrible tragedy happened because of me? Because I found that journal? But I don’t understand! If all the demons wanted was to search the library, why murder the nuns?”

“Hatred and rage, for one reason. But there is another. Picture this: two men stage a fight on a busy city street. A crowd gathers. While people are watching the fake fight, a third man picks their pockets.”

Albert was bewildered. “I’m sorry, Father, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The term is ‘misdirection.’ We are meant to focus our attention on the murder of the nuns and not on the fact that the demons were truly here to search for the books written by the saint. Fortunately, the demons made two mistakes that led me to look in the right direction.”

“Mistakes…” said Albert weakly.

“The first was the theft of the journal,” Father Jacob went on. “The demons had to steal it, you see, because they needed clues as to where the prince-abbot might have hidden the work of the saint.”

“But who stole it, Father? There were only the nuns and Brother Paul and myself-”

Father Jacob gave a wry smile. “Think about it. That makes one hundred and two people, not counting you, Alfred, and maybe more. The abbess might have mentioned the information in a report to the grand bishop, for example. Or she could have told any number of sisters over dinner, perhaps. They could have told any Trundlers who had stopped to seek refuge with the nuns. Brother Paul might have mentioned it to any sailors whose ships docked here. And so on.”

“I don’t think the nuns would have talked about it-”

“Ah, but you don’t know for certain! As for the theft, you were gone from your yacht at least an hour, probably longer. Trout fishing is a leisurely sport. There are unscrupulous crafters who make their living by thieving. A talented thief could have entered the yacht, removed the magical spells, stolen the journal, replaced the spells. ..”

“It’s all my fault, then.” Albert stood with his arms crossed, leaning back dejectedly against the wall. Father Jacob stood up and made his way back through the mess, stepping carefully over the piles of books, trying not to dislodge anything.

“Do not take the blame upon yourself, my friend,” said Father Jacob gently. “All you did was find a journal.”

“I know what you say makes sense, Father,” said Albert. “Still, I can’t help but wish my eyes had been gouged out before I ever saw that thing. What do demons want with writings of the saints?”

“ ‘Know thy enemy,’ says the wise man,” said Father Jacob. “You mentioned Saint Dennis and that was enough to pique someone’s interest. The thieves broke in, read the journal, and found that one single word: contramagic. That was why they stole it.”

“I know it is forbidden by the Church to even speak that word, Father, but can you tell me why demons would be interested in it?”

“Because they are using contra magic, Albert. The green light that destroys magic.” Father Jacob cast Albert a rueful glance. “You are aware, my friend, that no hint of this must get out. I may have to place you under Seal.”

“Meaning you take me to the Arcanum and hold me there so I won’t tell anyone else what I’ve seen.” Albert gave the ghost of a smile. “I might enjoy the rest. I need to know the truth, Father. I know you say I shouldn’t, but I do feel responsible-”

“If it will ease your mind, I will tell you what I know. Especially,” Father Jacob added with a sigh, “since there may soon come a time when the Church can no longer hide it. After much study, I reached the conclusion that contramagic had been used to disable the cutter. The sailors spoke of seeing green light, you remember.”

“My God!” Albert exclaimed, staggered.

“The bishop refused to believe me or even admit such magic existed. He very nearly had me arrested for even thinking such an idea. Montagne believes me now. He has no choice. And now here we have the abbey’s lone survivor talking of the demons hurling balls of green fire-”

“But she was mad,” Albert protested feebly.

“She was not mad,” said Father Jacob sternly. “She was their second mistake. They let her live. They wanted a survivor to talk about demons and giant bats, to make us so terrified of Hell’s legions that their raid on the library would go unnoticed. But she said something that gave them away. When I arrived and asked to talk to her, they feared what she might tell me. She had to die.”

“But she killed herself!”

“We are meant to think she killed herself.”

“But what about Brother Paul? He was with her?”

“He had fallen asleep. They waited for their chance.”

Albert grew pale. “That means they are out there, watching us.. .”

“I think it likely. Especially since they did not find what they came for.”

“How do you know, Father?”

“They would have burned the cathedral, destroyed all the evidence. As it is, they need to come back to continue the search. The prince-abbot risked his life to save these books. He would have hidden them with care. The books of Saint Dennis will not be easy to find.”

“You don’t believe the attackers were demons from Hell, do you, Father,” said Albert.

“I think it highly unlikely Aertheum the Fallen would be interested in the writings of a saint,” said Father Jacob.

“I saw the paw prints,” said Albert. “The claw marks left by the fiends that ripped those poor women apart. I think you are wrong, Father.”

Father Jacob gazed somberly out a broken window. He didn’t see bloodstained grass or fire-torched trees or the shadow of the dragon, passing over the bleak land. He saw the future, and he sighed deeply.

“I almost hope I am wrong, my friend. I think I would rather face the immortal hordes of Aertheum the Fallen than the terrible foes who flew over these walls that tragic night…”

Sir Ander did not hurry his errand to the Retribution. He walked slowly, taking his time, trying to come to grips with the tragic sights he had witnessed. In the skies above, the faithful Hroal was still on patrol. Or perhaps that dragon was Droal, his brother. Sir Ander waved, and the dragon dipped a wing in return.

When Sir Ander finally reached the yacht, he looked out into the Breath and saw the balloon and sails of a naval cutter. Had the navy been sent to assist in the investigation? If so, Father Jacob would be furious.

The cutter drifted slowly among the light mists, sailing close enough to be able to keep watch on the shoreline, but apparently not intending to dock.

The cutter must be on routine patrol duty, searching for pirates who liked to hide in secluded coves and inlets. The grand bishop might have hinted that the navy pay more attention to this section of coastline, but he would not have told them to start looking for demons riding giant bats! No one is more superstitious than a sailor and no one more talkative when they go ashore. The grand bishop would keep the details of this attack secret as long as possible.

Father Jacob had both key-locked and magic-locked the yacht door. The key Sir Ander used to unlock the door was inscribed with a magical sigil that broke the spell. He entered the yacht and first checked to make certain all his weapons were cleaned and loaded. He then unlocked and opened a cabinet hidden beneath one of the beds, took out a swivel gun, and, climbing up to the yacht’s roof, mounted it on top.

He then went to the chest where Father Jacob kept his vestments. Drawing out the alb, the stole, and the chasuble, Sir Ander held the sacred garments, smoothing the fine fabric with his hand and thinking of the battle that he, like Father Jacob, saw coming.

On his way back to the cathedral, Sir Ander paused to scan the gray cliffs and jagged rock formations. A grim landscape, bleak and desolate. The demons could hide an entire army among those crags, he thought, and he was thankful the dragons were keeping watch from the skies. Hroal and Droal might be well past their prime, but dragon eyesight was still much keener than that of humans-even the eyesight of elderly dragons. The brothers would have been quick to notice any sign of enemy movement.

Sir Ander shifted his head to look once more into the vastness of the Breath with its swirling mists. Nothing much to be done to stop an enemy that came from the mists. He was glad to have the cutter with its cannons out there. He hoped it stayed around.

He returned to the cathedral and found the sanctuary cleansed of blood. Candles glowed on the altar. Brother Barnaby was carrying the last few buckets containing the blood of the martyrs. Another monk was assisting him in this sorrowful task.

Brother Barnaby smiled to see Sir Ander, took the priestly vestments, and went to find Father Jacob. Barnaby made introductions before he left.

“Sir Ander, this is Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Saint Ignatius.”

“I am pleased to meet a Knight Protector,” said Brother Paul, straightening from stooping over the buckets and turning to face Sir Ander. “God honors your selfless service.”

“Thank you, Father-” Sir Ander began.

“I prefer to be known simply as ‘Brother Paul,’” said the monk, with a grave smile. “I joined the Order of Saint Ignatius several years ago and have since dedicated my life to his service.”

Brother Paul was not ill-favored, but he was certainly unusual in appearance. So much so that Sir Ander found himself staring. Brother Paul was slim, of about average height with a wiry build. What struck Sir Ander was the monk’s excessively pale skin, almost alabaster. His hair, cut in the tonsure, was dark black and curly. His face was smooth. He had no facial hair. He was not too young to grow a beard. He looked to be at least thirty-five. Sir Ander could not tell the color of the monk’s eyes; they were hidden behind spectacles made of dark glass.

“You find these curious,” Brother Paul said, touching his spectacles.

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” said Sir Ander, flustered. “I’ve seen spectacles before, but never ones made of dark glass.”

“No need to apologize. They are specially made for me. My eyesight is weak. I am subject to headaches, and I find these help.”

Sir Ander muttered something about that being good, then asked, “Can I do anything to assist you?”

“Our sad task is finished,” said Brother Paul. His voice was deep, with a musical tone that had a pleasant, soothing quality. He staggered at that moment, and almost fell.

“Sit down, Brother,” said Sir Ander. “You seem weary to the point of dropping.”

“I have slept little in all the nights since the attack,” said Brother Paul in an apologetic tone.

“No one could blame you,” said Sir Ander, assisting the monk to a pew.

He sat beside the monk, noting as he did so that the hem of his robes was covered in mud and stained with blood.

“You were nursing that young woman who survived,” said Sir Ander. “I heard she died.”

“Thanks be to God, she is at peace,” said Brother Paul somberly. “The demons did not rend her flesh, but they sank their claws into her soul and dragged her down into Hell’s pit. I pray for God’s love and mercy for her tormented soul.”

“Then you believe Hell’s legions were responsible for this attack?” Sir Ander asked.

“I do not have the slightest doubt, sir!” Brother Paul seemed astonished at the idea that anyone could think otherwise. He regarded Sir Ander sternly. “You do believe in Hell, Sir Knight.”

Sir Ander didn’t know quite how to answer. He and Father Jacob had often held discussions regarding the nature of Hell and Heaven. Sir Ander didn’t like the thought of a wrathful God who doomed souls to eternal torment.

“We are commanded to believe in Hell, sir,” Brother Paul added in rebuking tones.

Sir Ander saw the road ahead littered with theological caltrops and wisely reined in the conversation and switched subjects, asking questions about the grand organ whose pipes gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. Did it still work, did anyone play?

Brother Paul answered readily, and the uncomfortable moment passed. Astonished by the monk’s fervor, Sir Ander made a mental note to tell Father Jacob.

There was no more talk of Hell, for Father Jacob, robed in his vestments, entered the sanctuary, accompanied by Brother Barnaby. Both made a reverence to the altar, then Father Jacob took his place before it. Master Albert joined Brother Paul in a pew in the front. Sir Ander retreated, finding a pew by himself in the back. He felt in need of solitude.

Father Jacob’s voice resonated through the sanctuary.

“Eternal rest grant to them…”

The sun shone through the broken glass. Sir Ander felt its warmth ease the chill that seemed to have struck to his heart. Outside, he could hear birdsong, making up for the lack of music, for the sister who had played the organ was dead. The song of the birds, accompanying the words of the mass, comforted Sir Ander. Simple souls, the birds gave no thought to Heaven or Hell. They sang for joy because the sun shone.

He brought his mind back to the service and was kneeling to pray when, to his immense astonishment, he caught sight of a man also seated at the very back, in a pew a few rows over. The man was short and nondescript. Dressed in a plainly made traveling cloak well-splashed with mud, he looked like a clerk on holiday. He was on his knees, his hands clasped, as Father Jacob prayed for the souls of the dead.

Sir Ander dared not interrupt the sacred sermon by calling attention to this stranger who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He cast a glance at Father Jacob, to see if he was aware of the stranger. If so, the priest gave no sign. Sir Ander wondered how the man had slipped past the dragon, who was apparently keeping such careful watch. The Knight Protector clapped his hand on his dragon pistol and kept his gaze fixed on the interloper. If the man noticed, he gave no indication. He sat listening to the service reverently.

The moment the service ended, Sir Ander bounded to his feet, crossed over to the pew, and seized hold of the man by the arm. He searched him for weapons and pulled an odd-looking gun from a leather holster. The man offered no resistance, but smiled placidly at the knight.

“Who are you, sir?” Sir Ander demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“Sir Ander Martel,” said the man. “I am glad to see the Knight Protectors take their vows seriously. My commendations.”

“I take my duty seriously, sir, as you will find out to your sorrow if you do not answer my questions,” Sir Ander said grimly.

“His name is Dubois,” said Father Jacob, walking down the aisle. “He is the bishop’s agent, Sir Ander. One might say we are on the same side.” He regarded Dubois with a slight smile and added, “Or one might not.”

Sir Ander released Dubois reluctantly and handed back his weapon. Dubois tucked the gun into its holster.

“All of us are on the side of the angels,” Dubois said gravely. He cast Father Jacob a keen glance. “I would very much appreciate a moment of your time, Father.”

“I rather suspected you might,” said Father Jacob wryly.

The two walked off toward a shadowy alcove. Seeing Sir Ander moving to accompany them, Dubois stopped and said politely, “You are not needed for the moment, Sir Ander. Your charge is safe with me.”

“I am here to ensure the safety of you both,” said Sir Ander gravely. “We have reason to believe that whoever committed these atrocities may still be in the area.”

Dubois appeared rather disconcerted by this statement. He looked around uneasily, as though suspecting murderers hiding beneath the pews.

“My time is short,” said Father Jacob irascibly. “As I am certain your time is as well, Dubois.” He glanced at the mud-stained cloak. “My guess is that you are hot on the trail of someone. Sir Henry Wallace, perhaps?”

Dubois gave a great start of astonishment. Then he smiled and twirled his hat in his hands. “You do like to have your little jests, don’t you, Father? But since you bring up the topic yourself, you won’t mind my asking if you have seen any signs that might lead you to think Henry Wallace had anything to do with this terrible tragedy?”

Father Jacob regarded Dubois with narrowed eyes. He did not immediately answer, but asked his own question.

“Do you have reason to think he does?”

Dubois gave a little cough. The two stood staring intently at one another.

Like a pair of duelists, Sir Ander thought.

“No,” Father Jacob said at last. “I have not.”

“Do you have any idea where Sir Henry Wallace might be?” Dubois asked.

“The last time I saw Henry Wallace was some twenty years ago. He was firing a gun at me at the time in an attempt to kill me. Needless to say, we do not keep in touch,” Father Jacob answered gravely.

Dubois inclined his head, then put on his hat. “That is all I needed to know. I should warn you, Father, and you, Sir Ander, that I have reason to believe Sir Henry Wallace is in Rosia. You should be on your guard.”

“Thank you for your concern, Dubois, but since I have nothing to do with the Royal Armory, I doubt if Wallace would be much interested in me.”

Dubois again looked startled, then he wagged his finger. “Ah, Father Jacob, you are a caution. You will have your little jest. And now, I must be going. God be with you, gentlemen, and speed your holy work to find those who committed this unholy crime.”

Dubois gave a bobbing bow and took his leave, looking more like a clerk than ever, Sir Ander thought, as he escorted him out of the cathedral. Sir Ander kept an eye on Dubois until he exited the gate, where a wyvern-drawn carriage was waiting for him. The shadow of wings passed overhead. Hroal was also keeping an eye on Dubois.

He waited until the carriage had taken to the skies, then walked back inside the cathedral. He found Father Jacob standing with his head bent, deep in thought.

“You think Wallace is behind this, Father?” Sir Ander asked.

Father Jacob shook his head. “Henry Wallace may be many things and most of them bad, but he is first, last, and always a Freyan patriot. He has worked all his life to one end and that is for Freya to rule the seven continents. He has no motive. The slaughter of these poor women has nothing to do with politics.”

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.