Shadow Raiders tdb-1

by Margaret Weis

  “Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob, “come over here. I want you to make a diagram-”

  “Brother Barnaby left,” said Sir Ander.

  “Oh?” Father Jacob glanced vaguely around. “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.” Sir Ander snapped the words. “He’s upset, Father. This has been terrible for him.”

  Father Jacob was too absorbed in his work to take notice. “You come look at this.”

  Sir Ander heaved a sigh and stalked over.

  Father Jacob pointed to the column. “What do you make of that?”

  The column with its fluted shaft was typical of churches of that period. What wasn’t typical was that in places, the ridges and grooves of the fluting had been destroyed. He could see blast marks on the column, like a castle wall struck by cannon fire.

  Father Jacob passed his hand over the column. “Let us take a look at the magical constructs embedded in the stone. See what they tell us. A castle wall hit by cannon fire would still retain traces of the magic that had strengthened the walls.”

  Sir Ander hoped he would see the faint blue glow of magic. He hoped Father Jacob was wrong. Unfortunately, the priest was right.

  “No blue light. No magic. This is why the grand bishop sent for you,” said Sir Ander. “The magical constructs have been erased.”

  “Remember the nun who survived said that ‘the demons threw balls of green fire and cast beams of green light.’ ”

  Sir Ander looked down the long double rows of columns, probably twenty-five or more on each side.

  “Without the magic, the columns will be too weak to support the roof. The cathedral is liable to fall down around our ears. So why are we standing here discussing it?” Sir Ander demanded. “Why aren’t we standing outside discussing it? Where it’s safe?”

  “We’re in no danger,” said Father Jacob complacently. “At least not for the moment. Only a few of the columns I’ve studied were hit with the green fire. The assailants did not want to destroy the cathedral until they had found what they came for. Instead, they weakened the columns. The magic will continue to fail and, in a month or two, the cathedral will come crashing down.”

  “When it would be filled with masons and crafters and priests and others working to repair it,” said Sir Ander grimly. “They would all be killed.”

  “I fear so,” said Father Jacob and he added in an undertone, “Demonically clever.”

  Sir Ander grunted. “So turning the cathedral into a death trap was the reason they didn’t destroy it during the attack.”

  “No, I believe that was an afterthought,” said Father Jacob. “Another crime of opportunity. They left the cathedral standing because of the library.”

  Sir Ander blinked. “The library?”

  “Well, of course,” said Father Jacob. “That was the real reason they came. The library is inside the cathedral. The attackers could not destroy the cathedral because they needed to search the library.”

  “Demons came for the library? But why?”

  “Ah, that is the question. I need to ask Albert-” Father Jacob looked around impatiently. “Where is Albert? He has been gone far too long. You better go search for him. I will investigate the library-”

  They were both stopped by the sight of Brother Barnaby entering the sanctuary. The monk carried a large wooden bucket filled with water and a bundle of rags.

  “Are you finished with your work here, Father?” Brother Barnaby asked.

  “Yes, Brother,” said Father Jacob. “I am finished. What are you doing?”

  “The sanctuary has been defiled, Father. With your permission, I will clean it.”

  He set the bucket on the floor, kilted up his robes, and knelt down on his hands and knees and began to mop up the blood. Father Jacob watched a moment, then he walked over to where the young monk was scrubbing the blood off the floor and wringing the soiled cloth in the bucket. The water was already stained red.

  “You are my conscience, Brother Barnaby,” Father Jacob said, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. “I think that is why the blessed Saint Castigan sent you to me.”

  Brother Barnaby looked astonished at the thought that he could be anyone’s conscience, much less Father Jacob’s. He gave a self-deprecating smile and shook his head as he continued his sorrowful task.

  “Sir Ander, return to the Retribution and fetch my sacred vestments,” Father Jacob continued. “When we have finished the cleansing, I will say a mass for the dead.”

  He hiked up his cassock, got down on his hands and knees, and began scrubbing.

  Sir Ander stood watching the priest and the monk working together to cleanse God’s House, and he reflected on the fact that there were times-many times-when Father Jacob could be arrogant and insufferable, insensitive and demanding, stubborn and infuriating and so on and so forth. More than once, far from protecting Father Jacob, Sir Ander could have cheerfully throttled him.

  And then there were times like this when Sir Ander saw the Father Jacob he had come to revere and admire, the brilliant, gifted Freyan crafter who had been offered fame and fortune if he would only renounce his faith; the priest who had risked his life and fled the land of his birth to remain true to his beliefs.

  As Sir Ander left to fetch the vestments and see if he could find Albert, he again affirmed the vow he had taken when he had become the priest’s Knight Protector.

  “ ‘If Death reaches out for Father Jacob,’ “ said Sir Ander, “ ‘I will step in between.’”

  He added quietly, “And the same holds true for Brother Barnaby!”

  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 th
at 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.”