Shadow Raiders

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 sleep,” 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.

Father Jacob brought the ax down so near his boot that Sir Ander winced.

“Here, Father, I’ll do that,” he said, hurrying forward. “You’re liable to cut off your foot.”

Sir Ander took hold of the pickax. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why we are down here in the middle of the night breaking up bricks.”

“There’s your answer,” said Father Jacob in satisfaction. “Look.”

He held the lantern over the portion of the broken brick floor. Sir Ander peered down and for a moment saw nothing except cracked and broken pieces of brick. Father Jacob pushed aside some of the rubble, then thrust his hand into the opening. His hand disappeared up to the middle of his forearm.

Sir Ander stared down into the hole.

“All right, Father, I’m baffled. How did you know there was a false floor?”

“I heard the water dripping,” said Father Jacob triumphantly. “Water poured onto bricks set into the ground might drain through the rock and could make a dripping sound. I didn’t pay much attention at first. But then the water kept dripping. You can hear it still dripping even now.”

Sir Ander listened and, sure enough, he could hear, very faintly, a drip and then another, like raindrops falling from the eaves after a summer shower plopping monotonously into the grass.

“And look at this!” Father Jacob spoke a word and passed his hand over the bricks. They began to shine, though very, very faintly. “These are laced with magical sigils. Masonry sigils, designed to give added strength. The sigils are very old. There is almost nothing left of them now.”

Father Jacob rose and walked over to a different portion of the floor and did the same thing, passing his hand over the floor. No light shone.

“These bricks have no sigils. They did not need extra strengthening. If you were to look beneath them, you would find dirt.”

Father Jacob pointed to the base of the tomb. “When you slide your fingers in here, you can feel the bricks crumbling. That’s where the water seeped through and made the dripping sound. The blood of the martyrs. The nuns trying to tell me something.”

Sir Ander shivered in the darkness. “But why reinforce bricks used in a floor?”

“Because if you are down below, these bricks are no longer the floor. They are the ceiling.”

“Of course.” Sir Ander grunted. “I’m still half asleep. So you’ve found a chamber hidden beneath the tomb. What do you think it is? The abbey treasure vault? The monks were said to have amassed great wealth.”

“Enlarge the opening,” said Father Jacob. “Enough for us to shine our lights down there.”

Sir Ander went to work and had soon chopped open a large hole. He and Father Jacob lay on their bellies, flat on the ground, and lowered their glow worm lanterns into the hole as far as their arms would reach.

In a child’s tale, Sir Ander reflected, we would be rewarded with the sight of our lights gleaming off stacks of gold and piles of rubies and diamonds and emeralds.

But this wasn’t a child’s tale. This was Father Jacob. What they found appeared to be a classroom. The light from their lanterns illuminated a rectangular-shaped chamber, containing four writing desks and a large wooden table that was empty save for six leather-bound books stacked neatly one atop the other. Book shelves lined two of the four walls. They were empty, as well. The other two walls were made of slate planed flat and smooth. Floor, books, table, desks, and walls were all covered with thick dust. Sir Ander could see rivulets of water running through the dust on the floor from where it had dripped from the ceiling.

“Damned odd place to build a classroom,” said Sir Ander.

“Not if you are working on a project that will forever change the Church and its teachings,” said Father Jacob. “You would want to work somewhere in private. And if you are a prince-abbot and you desperately need to hide something, what better place.”

Sir Ander let out his breath in a soundless whistle. He stood up, took hold of the pickax and began to enlarge the hole. The floor of the class room was about ten feet beneath them, a short drop. Father Jacob was about to jump for it, when Sir Ander took hold of him.

“Perhaps someday humans will devise the ability to fly like birds, Father, but we have not managed to do so at present. Once we are down there, we will need a way to get out.”

“Ever practical,” said Father Jacob. “You will find rope in the stables.”

“I don’t like the thought of leaving you here alone.”

“I’m not alone,” said Father Jacob. “The nuns brought me here. They will keep me company.”

Sir Ander gave up the argument. He left the catacombs and made his way to the wyvern stables. Brother Barnaby was fast asleep in one of the stalls, lying on a blanket spread over straw. The two wyverns were as near him as they could crowd. One had his head draped over the monk’s legs. The wyverns woke when Sir Ander entered, raised their heads, and glared at him balefully. So long as he didn’t come near, they were quiet. He found a coil of rope and left. Brother Barnaby never stirred. Looking back, Sir Ander saw the wyverns still watching him.

He carried the rope into the catacombs and fastened it around the tomb. He felt a twinge of guilt, and hoped the abbess wouldn’t take offense. Father Jacob cast a magical spell on the rope to make certain it held secure. He lowered himself first. Sir Ander sent down the lanterns, then descend.

Father Jacob went straight to the books. He held out his hands, murmured some words, and gave a satisfied nod. “As I thought. Cividae cast spells of protection on them. Very powerful spells. He was a good crafter, our prince-abbot. It will take time to dismantle them.”

Father Jacob set to work, moving and shifting and plucking at sigils and constructs, which was tantamount to dismantling a cobweb strand by silken strand. Sir Ander walked around the room, flashing his light on the writing desks. Brushing away the dust, he looked at the ink splotches and found initials carved in each desk: D, C, M, M.

“So they were all here,” Father Jacob murmured, awestruck. “The Four Blessed Saints: Saint Dennis, Saint Charles, Saint Michael, and Saint Marie.”

“And an ‘X,’ ” said Sir Ander, pointing to a fifth desk that had been shoved into a corner.

“X,” said Father Jacob, frowning in puzzlement. “Why would there be a desk marked with X?”

“X marks the spot,” said Sir Ander. “Perhaps this desk has something hidden in it?”

“Perhaps,” said Father Jacob, though he didn’t sound convinced.

Sir Ander studied the desk with the X, but couldn’t find any hidden drawers or secret nooks. He shrugged and turned away. Another thought had occurred to him.

“This was a monastery not a nunnery back then,” said Sir Ander. “How did Saint Marie manage to live in an abbey inhabited solely by men?”

“Marie was reputed to have been such a brilliant crafter that she was granted permission to attend the University at a time when only male students were accepted,” said Father Jacob. “Popular myth has it that she dressed in men’s robes and shaved her head in a tonsure in order to fit in. Perhaps the myth was true.”

Sir Ander could well imagine her three friends and colleagues sneaking her into the abbey, especially if the prince-abbot was aware of the deception. But if the X was for Marie then who did the other M represent?

Looking at the desks, Sir Ander had the strange impression that time had gone backward. If the four saints had walked through that door, he would not have been much surprised. He could see the four so clearly, each sitting at these very desks, working in comradely silence or gathered around the long table discussing their research.

When he found himself almost seeming to hear their voices, he shook the fancies out of his head and muttered, “I’ve got to get some sleep!”

He inspected the slate walls and was surprised to find chalk markings-diagrams of what he assumed were magical constructs. He was about to mention these to Father Jacob. The priest was deeply engrossed in his work and Sir Ander decided not to interrupt him. Thinking he’d leave the father to his work and see what lay beyond this curious room, Sir Ander went over to the door, opened it, and gasped.

“Good grief!” he said, startled, nearly walking into a plaster wall.

Father Jacob glanced around. He halted in his work, his brows raised.

“Interesting,” he said.

Sir Ander rapped on the wall. “Not very sturdy.”

“It wasn’t meant to be. It was intended to conceal the existence of this room.”

Father Jacob walked over to the diagram. Sir Ander joined him. “I saw you looking at these. Do you know what they are?”

“Some sort of magical constructs-”

“Constructs such as I have never seen. Magic used in a way I have never seen. I will have to study them further, but I believe we are looking at the constructs of contramagic,” said Father Jacob. He breathed a soft sigh. “You were right when you said this was a treasure trove, my friend. It holds a wealth of knowledge.”

“Dangerous knowledge,” said Sir Ander grimly. “Some people would say it should have never been brought into the world.”

“That is where some people would be wrong,” said Father Jacob, flaring in anger. He slammed his hand on the table, sending a cloud of dust into the air. “Damn it, when will mankind learn to stop fearing knowledge? Fools believe that by burning books they can burn away the truths the books hold! God knows what He is about. Every action has its equal and opposite reaction. The same applies to the science of magic. I say to you now, Ander, we would be far better off if we had been studying contramagic all these years instead of denying its existence. We would not now be facing utter ruin!”

Father Jacob was literally shaking with the force of his passion. Sir Ander felt himself properly reprimanded.

“I am sorry, Father. You are right. I wasn’t thinking.”

“That is the problem, my friend,” said Father Jacob with a weary smile. “The Church never permitted you to think. And I am sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

“Do you want me to knock down this wall?” Sir Ander asked.

Father Jacob shook his head. “Not tonight. We must transport these books to the yacht where I can study them. We will return first thing tomorrow morning and then you may knock down the wall.”

“So are these the writings of Saint Dennis the prince-abbot mentioned in the journal, Father? The writings the demons were searching for?”

“We are about to find out.”

Like a bard striking the strings of a harp, Father Jacob strummed the air with his fingers. He blew on the dust-covered book and then gently brushed off more dust with his hand. The cover was plain, devoid of decoration or title. He carefully opened the book’s cover and looked at the writing on the first page.

“Bring the lantern closer.”

Sir Ander held the lantern over the book. Light spilled on the pages. The title and subtitle were written in Rosaelig, which he did not know. But he could read the four names penned beneath: Dennis, Charles, Marie, Michael, and one word: Contramagic.

The two men were silent, both of them thinking of the impact this revelation would have upon a church which taught that contramagic did not exist, could not exist.

“You were right, Father. What does the rest of the writing say?”

“Notes and Collective Thought on the Science of Contramagic.” Father Jacob paused, then continued reading, “Silencing of the Voice of God.”

Sir Ander felt a shiver go through him. Father Jacob stared off into the darkness.

“This is why the demons want the books!”

“What do you mean?” Sir Ander asked tensely.

“They want to silence the Voice of God,” said Father Jacob. “They want to find a way to utterly destroy the magic. And since almost everything in this world is built using the magic, this means they are trying to find a way to utterly destroy us…”

Father Jacob continued to study the book, staring intently at the title, minutely examining each letter, frowning over it and muttering to himself.

“I need more light,” he complained. “It looks as if some of the writing on this page has been magically expunged.”

“Then let us go back to the yacht,” said Sir Ander, with a jaw-cracking yawn. “You can read and I can sleep.”

Sir Ander climbed the rope first, waiting up top for Father Jacob to attach the books to the rope. Sir Ander hauled them up. Last came Father Jacob, climbing the rope nimbly.

“Wait a moment before we go,” said Father Jacob, frowning at the hole in the bricks. “I don’t like to leave that unguarded.”

“No one’s likely to come down here,” said Sir Ander, who wanted only to crawl into his bed.

“Still, you never know,” said Father Jacob. “Someone was here poking about. I saw the traces when we first arrived.”

“Probably the nuns. Caring for the dead.”

“Perhaps, but the prints were recent. Someone tracked in mud and bits of grass. The mud was still damp.”

“All right, but if we’re going to make it look as if nothing had been disturbed, we shouldn’t leave this mess lying about,” said Sir Ander. He picked up a chunk of brick and threw it down into the hole.

“An excellent thought, my friend,” said Father Jacob.

“I have one or two on occasion,” said Sir Ander.

Father Jacob helped toss the evidence that they had been digging down into the hole. When they had cleaned up, he knelt down on the edge of the hole, spoke several words, and traced a pattern in the air with his hand. The hole vanished. Sir Ander found himself looking at dirt. His magical construct laid, Father Jacob picked up a rock and threw it at the center of the hole. Blue light flashed. The rock bounded off.

Sir Ander and Father Jacob left the catacombs. Father Jacob placed another magical spell on the rusted gates, a spell that would give anyone who tried to enter a most unpleasant shock. They carried the books back to the yacht and placed them on the table. Sir Ander undressed down to his shirt and trousers, slid his pistol beneath the pillow, hung his sword belt on a hook, pulled off his boots, and lay down with a contented sigh.

“I suppose you’re going to stay up all night reading,” said Sir Ander.

“Will the light bother you?” Father Jacob asked.

Sir Ander grabbed his tricorn, placed it so that the brim shielded his eyes. He took one last look at Father Jacob, sitting in the lantern’s glow, the book open on the table before him. He seemed to devour, rather than read.

Sir Ander smiled and closed his eyes. He slept so deeply that when he heard the boom of cannon fire, he did not wake at first.

He thought it was still part of his dream.