When the wyverns had been housed and calmed, fed and watered, Brother Barnaby came to join them, carrying his portable writing desk which he had brought from the yacht.
“Would you like to rest after your journey, Father?” Albert asked.
Father Jacob shook his head. “We should view the site while there is still plenty of daylight.”
“In that case, you will need these.” Albert produced several handkerchiefs.
“Ah, yes,” said Father Jacob.
He took one of the handkerchiefs for himself and offered the others to Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby. The young monk looked confused.
“The stench,” said Father Jacob gently.
Brother Barnaby accepted the handkerchief and tucked it into the belt of his plain brown monk’s robes. Sir Ander, looking grim, signaled that he didn’t need one.
They walked around the outside of the abbey, the wind whipping them and blowing sand in their eyes. They could not see anything beyond the abbey’s high stone wall except the twin spires of the cathedral soaring to Heaven.
As they walked, the dragon’s shadow flowed over them. The dragon dipped his wings, gave a wheezing cough. The dragon’s advanced age was apparent in the color of his scales. Once shining blue-green in his youth, the scales were now a dull greenish gray. His beard was hoary, but his eyes were still fierce and proud.
“That’s Sergeant Hroalfrig,” said Albert, seeing Father Jacob’s interested gaze closely observing the dragon. “Formerly of the Dragon Brigade. He and his twin brother, who was also a member of the Brigade, live on a small farm some twenty miles inland. When they heard of the tragedy, they flew here to offer their help.”
Master Albert gave a wry smile. “Neither of the old boys can stay up in the air too long, so they take turns flying patrol.”
He was silent a moment, brooding, then said abruptly,
“I’m glad you were able to come with such speed, Father. Brother Paul has been insisting on burying the dead. After what I saw, I knew I had to keep everything just as it was until you could see for yourself.”
“You mean, the dead have not been given proper burial, sir?” Brother Barnaby was shocked.
“I’m sorry to say, Brother, that there is not that much left to bury,” said Albert.
Brother Barnaby’s dark complexion paled and he murmured a prayer beneath his breath.
“Please relate your story, Albert,” said Father Jacob briskly. “I’d like to hear it before we enter the walls.”
“The night of the attack,” Albert began. “I was asleep-”
Father Jacob interrupted. “Everything in the proper order, please. A fortnight before the attack, you sent me a letter coded in magic saying you had found something of interest in the abbey. What was it?”
Albert was impatient. “That’s of little consequence in view of this tragedy, Father.”
“I will be the judge of that,” said Father Jacob mildly.
Albert paused to mop his forehead with his coat sleeve. The sun shone brightly. No clouds drifted in the sky, save the misty haze of the Breath on the horizon. The day was going to be a hot one.
“Guild members have long complained that they couldn’t get access to guild records, which had been stored in the abbey for safekeeping. That included the guild charter and bylaws, membership rolls and legal documents and such like. I proposed that we have the records brought back to the guildhall and have copies made.
“When I arrived at the abbey, I asked the nuns where the guild records were kept. They weren’t much help. Poor women. They lived in poverty. It was all they could do to keep body and soul together. When they weren’t praying, they were tending to their crops and their livestock. They told me the records were likely in the library, which was in the cathedral. Brother Paul had the key. He used the library as his office when he was visiting the abbey.”
“He was the nuns’ confessor and priest, but he would not reside at the abbey, of course,” said Father Jacob. “That would not be seemly.”
“He’s a strange one, is Brother Paul. He wouldn’t reside at the abbey, seemly or not. He’s a hermit, lives in the wilderness somewhere.”
“Where was he when the abbey was attacked?”
“He was in his dwelling, asleep. The attack happened long after he’d left for the night.”
Father Jacob nodded. “Well, for the moment, we can dispense with Brother Paul. What did you discover in the abbey library that you thought I would find interesting?”
Master Albert paused to look around, which Sir Ander thought an odd precaution, considering the fact that they, Brother Barnaby, and Brother Paul were likely the only in a hundred-mile radius.
“Brother Paul’s office consisted of little more than a stool and a desk where he did his writing. He paid scant attention to the books in the library. He has weak eyes and finds it difficult to read for long periods of time. He had no idea where the guild records were located. He told me I could ‘rummage around.’
“As it turns out there was no need to ‘rummage.’ The library is well-ordered, with church records in one place, theological texts in another, books on crafting in yet another and so on. I found the guild records easily enough, and I put them aside. Since no one minded my being there, I poked around some more and ended up in the section where there were books on crafting.”
Albert gave a rueful smile. “As you know, Father, I’ve always regretted that I was never able to study the art properly. My father didn’t hold with reading about magic in school. He taught me crafting as he had learned it from his father who had it from his father and so on. I’ve always been interested in finding out more on the subject and here I was, surrounded by books on crafting. I was like a kid in a bakery.
“I roved among the stacks and came across an entire section given to seafaring magic. The books were on the very top shelf. I had to fetch a ladder to reach them. I was taking out one of the books when I noticed a wooden chest on top of the bookcase. The chest was tucked well back from the edge, so it hadn’t been visible from below.
“The chest was heavy, covered with dirt and cobwebs. I managed to haul it down, though I nearly fell off the ladder in the process. I set it on the floor and dusted it off as best I could. The chest was magic-locked and cost me considerable effort to open it.
“Inside were five slim volumes, all bound in leather with no title on the covers. I opened the first one to a frontispiece, very elaborate art, which appeared to be have been drawn by the author, consisting of his name and title all done in fancy lettering. The name was: Cividae. The year was 721 GF (Grand Founding).”
“Interesting,” said Father Jacob.
“Why? Who was this Cividae?” asked Sir Ander.
“Prince-Abbot of this abbey during the war with the Pirate King and the subsequent descent into the Dark Time,” said Father Jacob. “The Abbey of Saint Agnes was then known as the Abbey of Saint Castigan-Brother Barnaby’s patron saint.”
Brother Barnaby smiled and shifted the writing desk he was carrying to a more comfortable position. They had rounded the north corner of the wall. The front gate faced south, so they had a considerable way to walk before they reached it.
“The reason you sent for me was something you found in the prince-abbot’s journals, or so I’m guessing,” said Father Jacob.
“Yes, Father. The journals were written in the old Church language, Rosaelig. I couldn’t read a lot of it. But one word kept appearing over and over-a name, as if this prince-abbot were writing about this person.”
“And this name was-”
“Dennis, Father.”
“Dennis!” Sir Ander exclaimed, taken aback. “You don’t mean… Saint Dennis?”
“Of course, he does,” said Father Jacob. His tone was cool, but his eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement. “We have long known that after Saint Dennis left his home in Travis, he traveled to Rosia. We always wondered where he went. It makes sense that he would have come here to this reclusive place to pur
sue his studies of magic in solitude.”
“I found another word I could read, Father. A word that wasn’t written in Rosaelig and was easy to spot, because the writer consistently underlined it. I was rocked back on my heels so to speak when I saw this word, Father. I went all over gooseflesh. Here.” Albert reached into his coat and brought out a small piece of paper. “I was so struck by it that I used my magic to lift the word off the paper and set it down on another sheet. I dared not write it in the letter.”
He opened the paper and held it out. Sir Ander and Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby gathered around, gazing down at the word that was written in a neat and precise hand and, as Albert had said, had been underlined.
Contramagic
Sir Ander looked at the word, then looked at Father Jacob. The knight’s expression was dark. Brother Barnaby looked at the word and involuntarily moved back a step and raised his hand to ward off evil.
“ ‘Contramagic.’ ” Father Jacob read the word in a murmur, scarcely heard. “Yes, it was wise you did not write this down, Master Albert. You could be tried for heresy.”
He drew in a deep breath, then let it slowly sigh out. “I must see this journal, Albert.”
“I wish you could, Father,” said Albert in an unhappy tone. “At the moment that’s not possible. The journal disappeared.”
“What do you mean ‘disappeared?’ ” Father Jacob asked sharply. “Was it lost in the attack? Destroyed?”
“No, Father. The journal wasn’t in the abbey when it was attacked. The theft occurred long before the attack, the day after I sent the letter to you. I was alarmed by what I had found. If anyone knew I was reading about such forbidden knowledge I would be arrested. I removed the journal from the library to my yacht. I asked permission of the abbess first, of course. I told her and I told Brother Paul that I was interested in the abbey’s history, about Saint Dennis and the fact that he’d spent time here…”
Father Jacob frowned and shook his head. “That was a mistake, Albert.”
“I did not tell anyone about this… word, Father!” Albert looked haggard. “I’ve been terrified to even think it, much less speak it!”
“You mentioned nothing about contramagic,” Father Jacob said, thoughtful. “Only Saint Dennis. What did the abbess say?”
“She had worries enough of her own and wasn’t the least bit interested in Saint Dennis. She readily gave me permission to study the journal, provided that I returned the volume when I was finished.”
“Brother Paul?”
“He said only that my time in this world would be better spent in doing good works than in reading about them. I translated part of the journal that day, then my eyes gave out and I needed a break. I had found a trout stream not far from here and I decided to go catch my dinner. I left the door to my room key-locked and magic-locked and magic-sealed and a protective spell on the journals. When I came back, the lock on the door had not been tampered with. The magic-lock had not been broken. The magic seal remained intact. The journal was gone.”
Father Jacob frowned. “If it were any other crafter, I would say you had been careless in your spell-casting. But I know your work, Albert, and I know you. You are one of the best. Obviously it was stolen.”
Albert gave a sigh of relief. “I am glad you trust me, Father. I was afraid you would think I had been negligent.”
“But who would steal it?” Sir Ander demanded. “The nuns? This Brother Paul? They were the only people around. Why would they steal a book that had been in their own library for centuries?”
“Because they didn’t know it was there,” said Father Jacob. “Because someone knew or suspected that the blessed Saint Dennis was here seeking forbidden knowledge.”
Brother Barnaby was distressed. “You cannot believe Saint Dennis was a heretic, Father.”
“Of course, not. He was seeking the truth. And knowledge should not be forbidden, Brother,” said Father Jacob, his brows coming together, his fist clenching. “No grand bishop, no king, no authority in the world has the right to dictate what we think, to prevent us from studying, from learning, from discovering!”
Brother Barnaby shrank back, dismayed by the priest’s passion. Sir Ander drew him to one side.
“You touched a sore spot, Brother. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”
“He’s very angry with me, I fear,” said Brother Barnaby unhappily.
“Not with you, Brother,” Sir Ander sighed and repeated quietly, “Not with you.”
Father Jacob had lapsed into deep thought, his brow furrowed, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. When Albert started to speak to him, Sir Ander shook his head, warning him to keep silent. Father Jacob walked on, preoccupied, absorbed, until at last they arrived at the broken remains of the gates of the Abbey of Saint Agnes.
Father Jacob raised his eyes at last. He looked at the twin spires, pointing to Heaven.
“God, grant us courage. What happened here at the Abbey of Saint Agnes could forever change our world.”
Chapter Sixteen
In the places where God’s voice cannot be heard, his fallen children, cast from Heaven, have found refuge. They seek forever to destroy that which God has created. Beware the quiet. Beware more the terrible voices.
– Anonymous
THE GATES THAT PIERCED THE TALL GRAY GRANITE WALL encircling the abbey compound were made of oak studded with bronze rosettes and banded with iron. The gates were extremely heavy, their hinges rusted. The nuns would not have been able to open them and, fondly believing themselves safe from any enemy, they had never closed them.
“Not that the gates would have stopped the assault,” Albert added bitterly. “Their attackers came out of the Breath, flew over the walls.”
“Demons on giant bats,” Sir Ander said, shaking his head. “We read the account of that poor girl.”
“Yes,” said Albert in subdued tones, “Brother Paul told me what she said.”
“You did not see her?”
“I helped carry her to the infirmary, but she was unconscious. I have not spoken to her since she woke up. Brother Paul says she needs rest and quiet.”
“I would like to interview her,” said Father Jacob. “I want to hear her account in her own words.”
“She is in the infirmary, Father,” said Albert. “One of the few buildings that was not extensively damaged. Brother Paul has been nursing her. She’s only sixteen. As for demons attacking the abbey.. . After you’ve seen the horror for yourself…” Albert sighed and shrugged. “I believe it. No human could be so depraved.”
“You’d be surprised,” said Father Jacob, exchanging glances with Sir Ander.
“The writings of the Saints speak of angels and their evil counterparts,” said Brother Barnaby and he added quietly, almost to himself, “I saw paintings depicting demons on the walls of the Grand Bishop’s Palace.”
“I will hear her and judge for myself,” said Father Jacob brusquely.
The shadow of the dragon, still circling overhead, had been expanding as the dragon flew lower and lower. The dragon was so low now that he had to be careful not to brush one of the cathedral’s spires with his wing tips.
“I believe Master of the Flight, Sergeant Hroalfrig, would like a chance to meet you, Father,” said Albert, as the dragon’s scaled belly passed overhead.
“Of course,” said Father Jacob. He rubbed his hands. “I would like nothing better.”
Sir Ander shot Brother Barnaby a warning glance. The monk gave a slight nod in response. When Father Jacob had been a University student in Freya, his area of study was dragon magic, with particular emphasis on a dragon’s innate ability to deconstruct human-crafted magical constructs. This ability was the reason dragons had once been highly valued by the militaries of all the major powers. A dragon attacking a ship could use his breath to cause the magic of the constructs in the hull to break apart. A dragon could not erase the magic, but he could do serious damage.
Father Jacob had b
ecome so interested in his studies, he had expanded them to include dragon lore, dragon culture, and dragon history. If his life had not taken the near-disastrous turn that had caused him to flee Freya, he might have become one of the world’s foremost experts on the subject.
Thus, whenever Father Jacob encountered a dragon, he had a most unfortunate tendency to completely forget the task at hand. He would engage the dragon in endless conversation, delving into the dragon’s family history, find out where and how the dragon lived, and so forth. One of Brother Barnaby’s tasks was to remind Father Jacob of his duty without hurting the feelings of the dragon.
This was the first dragon Father Jacob had met in some time. The great dragon families of Rosia had served proudly in the Dragon Brigade for over two centuries and they had been deeply angered and offended when King Alaric had disbanded the Dragon Brigade. Relations between the noble dragon families and the Crown had grown strained. Dragons no longer attended the royal court, but kept to their estates in the mountains.
Hroalfrig made a lopsided and decidedly ungraceful touchdown. The elderly dragon shook himself, lifted his head, folded his wings against his flanks, and advanced, with a slight limp in his right leg, to greet the newcomers.
“Master of the Flight, Sergeant Hroalfrig,” said Albert, introducing them. “Father Jacob Northrop, Sir Ander Martel, and Brother Barnaby.”
The dragon’s head reared high over the abbey walls. The towers were about one hundred fifty feet in height. The dragon could have looked into the windows about a third of the way up with ease. He had landed on his heavier and more muscular rear legs, but he walked on all four. Father Jacob noted the beast’s stubby mane, his short snout, and thick neck and knew him to be a dragon of the lower class. Dragons of the noble families had long manes, slender and graceful necks, and elongated, elegant snouts.
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