Surely this wide path would betray him if he stayed on it any longer. The Magician would see him easily. He crept back into the thickets, which were thinner near the edge of the clearing.
Crack! The fire consumed another branch with a startling noise. Xan peeked out from between two branches.
There on the scorched earth, the Magician sat on a rock before the blazing fire. The orange glow lit his long, wild eyebrows and sparkled across the fabric of his white, flowing robe.
The man held a stick that pierced some kind of meat. He waved it over the flames several times and then sniffed at it. He didn’t seem to sense Xan’s presence.
It was time for Xan to do what he’d come to do: he must sneak around the back of the cottage and enter through the window. That might be his only chance. He took his first step.
Snap! A brittle branch broke under his weight. He threw himself to the ground. Had the Magician heard him? He lay perfectly still on the dirt, his heart thumping a thousand beats a minute. Nothing happened. He lay there for it seemed an eternity. Finally, he peered out again between the branches. The Magician was nowhere in sight.
He’s gone! Where had he gone? He could be circling around to trap Xan at this very moment.
Suddenly the Magician reappeared in front of the fire holding a jagged wooden staff, which he used to support his weight. The stirring wind provoked the flames before him. The Magician raised the staff to the sky. Its crystal headpiece trapped a sunbeam and shattered it into a hundred shards of light.
In a deep voice, the seer began reciting words in a strange tongue: not Latin—Brother Andrew had taught him well enough to recognize that language. Was he calling down a curse?
The Magician’s words, rising and falling in a strange rhythm, would mix with the wind to cover the sound of Xan’s movements. Curse or no curse, this was the moment to enter the cottage. If he were careful, he might just get past the old sorcerer without being noticed.
Ignoring his trembling legs, he took to his feet once more. Crouching as low as he could, he scrambled around the side of the cottage. The window gaped open. Excellent!
He pulled himself up and dropped to the floor inside. Outside, the chanting continued, like some demon’s song. He might only have a few moments before the Magician returned.
On his hands and knees, he began to search. The window provided just enough light to make out the furnishings and contours of the one-room dwelling. Filthy clutter littered the floor, but worse yet was the odor of the straw mattress. What did the Magician have in that bed—a dead rat? A blanket hung down, stained and smelly.
On a small wooden nightstand next to the bed, a whittled statuette of a blackbird rose above scattered trinkets. It was much smaller than the one in the woodlands, but alike in its design.
On the tall table in the center of the room lay that thick book with the strange markings that he’d seen the day before. Perhaps he could take a peek inside it. Nay, time was already running out. He had to stay focused. Eden’s Fire must come first.
He continued his search and soon had touched every piece of furniture: the small, cluttered bed stand; a shelf filled with ancient books; a ripped, padded chair; and a short, crooked table. Nothing—no jewel, no signs of theft. Even the bracelet brought by Brother Bernard had disappeared. Eden’s Fire wasn’t there. John had been wrong once again.
Xan circled back to the center table. Upon it, the bound volume beckoned—perhaps it really was that secret book, Secrets of the Sultans. Was it truly filled with spells and sorcery? Reaching for the book with trembling hands, he lifted it up.
Boom! Heavier than it appeared, the book had dropped from his hands to the table, blowing dust everywhere. He jerked his head toward the window but heard no one approaching.
He turned to the book and flipped a few pages. His eyes grew wide. What? He raced through the heavy leaves of the book, stopping when he reached its center. He carefully examined what he found there—so unexpected, yet so revealing of the truth.
“I can’t believe this,” he whispered, his heart thumping even louder in the deep quiet that surrounded him, now that the chanting had stopped outside. “No wonder he keeps it a secret.”
Wait! Where was the Magician?
He shut the book and shot back to the window. It was quiet. No one was in sight. This might be his one chance to escape. Diving through the opening, he plummeted to the ground.
The bonfire crackled again. Then once more came the murmur of the Magician’s voice. A new chant had begun, sung to a different demon-melody than the previous one. Xan raised his body up, bending low to the ground, and passed into the brush.
The chanting suddenly stopped.
“I know you are there,” the Magician said, his voice calm but terrible.
20
The Storm Breaks
Come into the clearing,” the Magician ordered. “If you come out now, I may spare your life.”
Xan froze. Was it too late to escape? He might be too close to run now.
“My patience runs dry.” The Magician’s tone had grown irritated.
He had to get away. Surely, he could outrun the old man.
He bounded from the brush and onto the path, but the pounce had caused him to lose his balance. He fell hard to the dirt, startling the seer, who’d been focused in the opposite direction.
The Magician spun and turned the pointy staff upon him, grasping it between bony fingers. The man raised it as if to strike him with a curse but then pulled back.
“A child?” The Magician laughed, gazing down at Xan, who must have looked terrified. “Why do you spy on me, boy? I might have harmed you.”
Xan lay on his back now. How much had the Magician heard? Did he know he’d been inside the cottage—had uncovered the truth inside that secret book?
“Answer me, child,” the man ordered, “or I still might smite you with my magic.”
But a new courage had sprung to life in Xan’s heart. He’d seen the Magician’s home and the secrets inside his ancient book. And he’d been brave enough to follow shadows and ghosts before.
“Go ahead. Use your magic.”
With furious eyes, the Magician stood over him and raised up his staff as if to strike—not with a curse, but with the edge of the wood itself, perhaps to bludgeon him to death. “Why are you here, child?”
Xan shook his head in defiance. Never would he cooperate with that villain.
Just then the man jerked his head toward the trail. “What’s that sound? Horses?”
A tall black horse appeared on the trail, pulling a cart. One of Lady Beaumont’s guards rode upon it. The guard dismounted and drew forth a long broadsword.
The Magician suddenly looked nervous, but he furrowed his bushy eyebrows and spoke sternly. “Why do you trespass on my land?” He held his staff aloft and shook it.
The guard eyed the jagged staff as if it were a magical, deadly serpent. “You—you must come with me for questioning to—to Grenton Priory. By order of Lady Beaumont.”
The Magician smiled, revealing a sharp row of crud-filled, yellow teeth. His tone became oily slick. “Come, friend, put down that sword. Let us reason together. Let me tell you your future.”
The guard’s sword drooped toward the dirt in obedience. “You can do that?”
“For a price—nay, for you, friend, I would do it at no cost.”
“Well, uh, I do not believe in such things,” the guard said, though he sounded unsure.
“Let me read your palm and you shall believe.” Something in the Magician’s tone and pitch was soothing—reasonable, convincing—as though lulling to sleep the ability of the mind to resist the Magician’s suggestions. The guard seemed to be falling under that persuasion. It needed to stop.
Xan stood and pointed at the Magician. “Don’t listen to a word he says!”
The guard snapped out of his daze, lifting his sword. “The boy is right. Just come with me.”
The Magician pointed the crystal tip of his staff.
“I will ride at a time of my own choosing.” Without seeking approval, he strode into his cottage, leaving Xan and the guard speechless.
But soon the Magician emerged from his house with a flowing cape over his white robe. His thick, ancient book was pressed safely under his arm. “Let us go,” the Magician commanded. He mounted the cart, filling its space.
The guard turned to Xan. “You need to leg it back through the woods, lad.”
The men rode off on the main road, leaving Xan to stare at the long trail ahead of him. Something was happening back at the priory. If Alford had summoned the Magician, then he must believe the conspiracy with Brother Bernard was the key to unlocking the mystery. If only Alford knew what Xan knew about that magician.
Xan rushed along the path. At this rate, he wouldn’t make it back until after dark. Yet this time of travel wouldn’t be wasted. His mind could process all the clues as he went. Indeed, in this peace and silence he was thinking clearer than at any time since coming to this boisterous carnival of a priory, where prayer and reflection were smothered by too much activity.
There was Eden’s Fire under Brother Andrew’s bed. No windows; no secret doors; two guards. No one entered except Brother Andrew, unless they were tricked by Adela or the Magician.
Who could steal that ruby: the Magician, Brother Bernard, Gilbert and Adela, the beggar? Surely none of them could get in that room without the guards knowing and telling Alford later.
Nay. The theft of Eden’s Fire was an impossible crime.
And that was when the clues fell into place, even without a single prayer uttered from his lips.
It can’t be!
Once again—like with the Shadow and that ghost in the cathedral—his mind had somehow connected the clues into a vast tapestry that took on the shape of a single work of art.
There it was: the solution. It was an answer perhaps only Xan himself could figure out. He knew the clues; he knew the suspects; he knew Brother Andrew and the lady. He knew it all.
He must tell Lucy and the lady before an innocent person got hurt again, like when Brother Leo had been thrown into jail. Imagine if that monk had been wrongfully executed!
He quickened his pace. Finally he reached the panorama, the blackbird, the embankment, the road to the priory. Twilight engulfed the little monastery, save for an orange glow that shone from the doors and windows of the refectory. Too late for supper—there must be a major meeting going on.
All seemed quiet, yet the mood in the air felt as though something terrible could happen.
And where was Brother Andrew? Probably still in prayerful solitude in preparation for his ordination while evil was tearing up the priory.
Xan sprinted, arriving at the refectory to the sound of chaos. He flung open the door—monks leaning on the corners of the tables; guards posted at the doors and windows with drawn swords; guests scattered everywhere, clamoring for an explanation. Even the tables had been pushed from the middle of the room, blocking up the aisles.
Lady Beaumont towered at its center, her servant Alford by her side.
“We are not prisoners!” one man shouted from the crowd.
“We have been stuck here for hours,” yelled another. “I demand you call the sheriff.”
Familiar faces dotted the place: the Prior of Grenton at a side table with Brother Charles; Brother Bernard alone, his back against a wall; Gilbert and Adela waiting near the room’s largest window; even the Magician, sneering and leaning on his staff under the watch of two guards. And there was the old beggar on the floor, his wretched back pressed against the leg of a table.
Xan searched among the heads. There was Brother Leo, Brother Lucius, and the two lay brothers, Miles and Jacob; but Father Clement and Brother Andrew were nowhere to be seen.
“Xan!” Lucy called from her space on the floor near John, Aubrey, Giles, and Odo. Her worried expression seemed almost as fearful as in the cathedral in Lincoln.
He pushed through the crowd to her side and sat next to her. “What’s going on here?”
Aubrey answered for his sister. “That dotie Lady Beaumont has gone absolutely mad.”
“What has she done? And where is Father Clement?”
Lucy pointed to the door. “The lady sent the prior to get Brother Andrew from his retreat. Xan, she’s panicking—desperate to find Eden’s Fire before the prince-bishop gets here.”
That made sense. When the prince-bishop arrived, he would take control of the situation from the lady. No doubt, he’d end all this chaos and put things back on track for the ordination.
“What happened with that magician?” John said, with Odo nodding at his side.
But before Xan could answer, the Prior of Grenton signaled to Brother Charles, who climbed upon a table and gave a loud whistle with two fingers in his mouth. Then he raised his hand high into the air. “Attention! All will be made clear if you would just quiet down!”
A hush finally graced the refectory. Only then did Lady Beaumont address the crowd. “Thank you for your patience, good people. It has been a trying day for us all, but my servant Alford has concluded his investigation and will now reveal his findings.”
She pointed a finger in Alford’s direction and beckoned him to speak, even as she stepped to the side of the room farthest away from where Xan and the other children sat. The crowd pushed even closer together to make room for Alford as he paced about the room’s center.
“’Tis true,” he said. “I have now spoken with one and all of you—guests, guards, monks, and even some of the rabble that roam the outskirts.” He made this last remark as he gestured to the beggar, who seemed oblivious to his surroundings. “I have searched all your rooms and have just received word from the trio of guards I lately dispatched to search this magician’s cottage.”
Those three guards must have shown up after Xan had already left on the woodland trail.
“Alas,” Alford said, shaking his head sadly. “Our efforts have borne no sign of Eden’s Fire. I fear the jewel is already removed from this place or hidden in a cunning spot.”
Alford folded his arms and waited through the uproar that his words had caused.
“Attention!” Brother Charles whistled and called out again. Eventually most of the conversations subsided.
“But,” Alford said, “I have my suspicions as to which of you is the true villain. I have called this meeting to test my theory; indeed, to show your guilt.”
This is where the situation could become dangerous unless Xan intervened. He squeezed Lucy’s hand. “I need to fix this. Wait here for me.”
He left her side and began pushing past the furious guests crowded around him. He must get to the lady. She could call all this off before something went horribly wrong. Yet all were pressed so closely together that he could barely squeeze between them.
“Before us here tonight,” Alford continued, “are all the lady’s guards, to whom I entrusted the task to protect this precious gem. One of these guards, I fear, is a traitor.”
He stepped up to a guard—perhaps the one Giles had seen with Adela—and pointed in his chest. “Erick?”
Erick’s face—which was dark and bearded and spotted with pimples on his cheeks—turned deathly white as he realized the head servant was directing this accusation at him. “But I—”
“Guards,” Alford ordered, his gray hair swishing as he turned. “Take hold of Erick and remove his weapons! His part in this foul deed will soon be apparent.”
Three stunned but disciplined guards seized Erick and disarmed him. “Nay, I am innocent!” Erick cried.
“We shall see,” said Alford. Then he told the crowd about the tortures awaiting all who had conspired to steal the jewel. “The dungeons of the lady’s manor are quite unpleasant, I assure you. And for the one who stole this precious treasure, there awaits the edge of a dagger.”
Alford passed the Magician and was now within an arm’s reach of Gilbert and Adela.
That’s when a burly guest stepped backward
onto Xan’s foot. The two of them fell together to the floor, with the heavy man landing on Xan’s leg. “Ach!” Xan yelled, reaching for his ankle. The pain had shot all the way up to his waist. But as he lay stunned, Alford was smiling kindly at the crowd.
“Yet even these punishments may be spared for those who confess their crimes or whom they have helped. At the feet of the lady you will find mercy.”
If Xan could get back to his feet and make it to the lady’s side, she would understand. She would stop her servant and come back to her own senses.
Alford drew a dagger from his belt and fingered the sharp tip of the blade. “Unfortunately, the time runs short for mercy. The prince-bishop will soon arrive—and the lady will be quite unhappy if Eden’s Fire remains missing. A speedy confession is needed.”
He finished this final thought and stared directly at Adela. “Do you not have something you wish to share with us, woman?”
Adela shook her head as her eyes grew wide.
Alford stuck a scrawny finger in her face. “Did not you and this guard Erick work together to steal the gem? Tell me!”
She squirmed, but Gilbert/Apollo came to her defense. “How dare you make these accusations against my sweet love! Take back your words or I will be forced to challenge you to the death.”
Xan pulled himself up and put weight on his ankle. It held, but only with a sharp pain.
Alford ignored Gilbert’s threat. Instead he stepped to the beggar—sitting uninterested on the floor—and yanked him to his feet with a pained grunt.
“And you,” Alford said. “You are the guiltiest of them all.” The crowd fell back in astonishment at the accusation.
Alford held the dagger to the beggar’s throat, his eyes glinting with rage. “I know you met this she-devil on the road, you filth. You took Eden’s Fire from her, true? Where did you hide it?”
The beggar said nothing.
“You try my patience. If you are innocent of this accusation, defend yourself; else all here shall be witnesses to your guilt. Speak or suffer the consequences.”
The Fire of Eden Page 14
