Storm Riders

by Margaret Weis

  When Sir Ander returned to Father Jacob, Sister Elizabeth greeted him with disturbing news.

  “Father Jacob was considerably agitated after you left. I had to summon the guards to help me keep him from leaving the room. Father Diego wanted to bind his wrists—”

  “Never!” said Sir Ander angrily.

  “We managed to calm him and there was no need,” said Sister Elizabeth. She sighed deeply. “God knows I do not want to have to say this, but I really think we may have to consider … for his own good…”

  “Never,” Sir Ander repeated, but he uttered the words with less conviction than before.

  “The healers are meeting again tomorrow to discuss his case. I will do what I can, but after this incident…” Sister Elizabeth rested her hand on Sir Ander’s arm. “God be with you both.”

  Sir Ander removed his heavy dress uniform coat and flung it over a chair. He went to stand at the foot of Father Jacob’s bed. The priest had been quiet. Suddenly he sat straight up and spoke loudly and angrily.

  “Again, Sister, I quote the wise philosopher: ‘I am assured that there will arise neither peril nor error from this course, and that I cannot for the present yield too much to distrust, since the end I now seek is not action but knowledge!’ I seek knowledge! They will not, they cannot stop me!”

  Father Jacob sprang out of bed and appeared ready to storm out of the room. As Sir Ander attempted to seize hold of him, Father Jacob struck him a right cross to the jaw.

  The priest had been a pugilist in his youth. The blow sent Sir Ander staggering and for a moment he saw stars.

  “Ander, what do you mean manhandling me?” Father Jacob said, glaring at him. “I must go to the library—”

  Sir Ander stared in glad astonishment. Father Jacob was glaring at him. He was speaking to him. Not to a dead saint.

  “Are you going to the library in your nightdress?” Sir Ander asked, massaging his jaw.

  Father Jacob gazed down in perplexity at the long nightgown he was wearing.

  “Why am I…” He looked about at his surroundings and frowned. “This is not the Arcanum.”

  He fixed Sir Ander with an accusing glare. “What is going on? Where am I? Why am I dressed like this?” He put his hands to his head, felt the bandages, and started to rip them off.

  “Father Jacob, sit down and I will explain everything,” said Sir Ander. “And please don’t take off the bandages.”

  “Where is Brother Barnaby?” Father Jacob demanded irately. “Tell him I am perfectly well and he will remove these at once. The bandages itch like the very devil.”

  “Jacob,” said Sir Ander. “Sit down. Please.”

  “I will not sit down!” said Father Jacob. “Stop treating me like a child and send for Brother Barnaby—”

  “Barnaby is dead, Jacob,” said Sir Ander quietly. “He was lost in the battle. Do you remember?”

  Father Jacob stared at him wordlessly. Pain shadowed his eyes, memories flooding back.

  “You and I and Brother Barnaby were at the bastion, talking of what I had discovered about the Bottom—”

  Sir Ander put his finger to his lips and cast a warning glance over his shoulder at the door. “Guards outside.”

  Sir Ander drew closer to Father Jacob and spoke in a whisper.

  “We were at the bastion, you and Brother Barnaby and I, when the dragon came to us. Sergeant Hroal warned us that he had seen the Bottom Dwellers coming to attack Westfirth. We ran to one of the guard towers to give the alarm.”

  “I remember!” Father Jacob said. “One of their ships, a black ship of horror, rose out of the Breath and…” He shook his head. “I can’t recall anything after that.”

  “The Bottom Dwellers refitted an old Guundaran warship. It carried a single cannon that fired a beam of green light. The beam destroyed the gun emplacements and blew up the Royal Lion. The ship sank into the Breath. All hands were lost.”

  “I warned the grand bishop…,” Father Jacob said softly. “I tried to warn him all those years ago when I saw what happened to the Defiant.”

  He lapsed into silence. Sir Ander waited, knowing and dreading Father Jacob’s next question.

  “What happened to Brother Barnaby?”

  “He stopped to assist a soldier who had been wounded. When the beam hit the gun emplacement, the beam destroyed that side of the cliff on which we were standing. Brother Barnaby lost his footing and fell into the Breath. I was too far away to save him.”

  Sir Ander sighed deeply.

  “I searched the rubble for his body, but there is no trace. I can only assume he is dead.”

  “He is not dead,” said Father Jacob, his voice rasping.

  “Jacob, I know this is hard. But I have come to terms—”

  “He is not dead, I tell you,” Father Jacob said irritably. “How long have I been unconscious?”

  “Four weeks. You weren’t unconscious, but you weren’t with us either.”

  Father Jacob snorted. “Where was I?”

  “You have been discussing theology with Saint Marie,” said Sir Ander.

  “Oh, come now…” Father Jacob stopped. His eyes lost their focus. He gazed inward.

  “Saint Marie,” he murmured. “Yes, I remember now … We must return to the Arcanum at once, Sir Ander. Our yacht was in the shipyard. Was it damaged in the attack?”

  “The yacht suffered some minor damage, but our friend, Master Albert, has finished the repairs. We can’t leave, however. The harbor has been closed because His Majesty—”

  “Of course, we will leave. Tell the person who closed it to open it again.”

  Father Jacob began rummaging about in his trunk, trying to find his cassock. Sir Ander took the cassock from the wardrobe and handed it to him.

  “You must speak to King Alaric, then,” said Sir Ander drily. “He was the one who ordered the harbor closed. His Majesty is here to inspect the damage.”

  “Closing the harbor. I never heard of such nonsense,” Father Jacob stated irately. “Send for the archbishop.”

  Sir Ander smiled inwardly. Father Jacob was definitely back to full health.

  “I … um … don’t think that would be wise, Father. The archbishop is a bit preoccupied these days. Quite a lot has happened that you should know about. I can explain what’s going on, if you’re not too weak—”

  “I knocked you on your rump, didn’t I,” Father Jacob said, smiling.

  “You caught me off guard,” said Sir Ander, rubbing his jaw and smiling back.

  He thought how close he had come to losing this man he honored, loved, admired, and occasionally wanted to throttle. He had to resist the urge to embrace him. Instead, he cleared his throat and returned to business.

  “We can’t talk here, Father. Too many ears—”

  There came a sharp knocking at the door.

  “Speak of the devil,” Sir Ander muttered, and went to open the door.

  Before he could bid them enter, Father Diego swept into the room, accompanied by Sister Elizabeth.

  “Sir Ander, I understand that Father Jacob has regained his wits—”

  “I never lost my wits,” said Father Jacob testily. “Though I have serious doubts about yours, Diego.”

  Sister Elizabeth laughed, her cheeks dimpling. Father Diego cast her a rebuking glance and turned back to his patient.

  “Father Jacob, I strongly insist that you return to your bed. You have been suffering hallucinations—”

  “I have been talking to Saint Marie. Do you talk to the saints, Father Diego?”

  “I pray to the saints,” said Father Diego. “I do not hold discourse with them.”

  “Then maybe you should. Saint Marie performed a miracle,” said Father Jacob. “She healed me. Perhaps you question the ability of saints to perform miracles?”

  “No, of course I do not…,” Father Diego began patiently.

  “Good, then get out,” said Father Jacob curtly. “I have work to do.”

  Father Diego gave a
deep sigh. “I am here by the authority of the Arcanum and by that authority, Sister Elizabeth and I will examine you.”

  Father Jacob fumed, but he had to submit to the ministrations of the surgeon. Sister Elizabeth explained the operation she had performed. Father Jacob was quite interested and wanted to see the wound, which meant that Ander had to go in search of a mirror. After asking Father Jacob a few questions to test his memory, Sister Elizabeth pronounced her patient on the road to recovery. She added that Father Jacob must rest—an order she knew he wouldn’t obey.

  When the examination was finished, Father Diego, who had observed in silence, smiled. “Welcome back, Jacob. Believe it or not, we’ve missed you.”

  Father Jacob muttered something that might have been thanks and motioned for them to leave. Father Diego departed, and Sister Elizabeth was about to follow, when Sir Ander stopped her.

  “Thank you, Sister,” said Sir Ander earnestly. “For saving Father Jacob’s life and for not mentioning the conversation you overheard.”

  “You mean about the contramagic? He was, as Father Diego says, hallucinating.” Sister Elizabeth winked. “We’ll leave you to your work, Father Jacob,” she called as she left.

  “About time. And take those confounded guards with you!” Father Jacob ordered.

  Sir Ander waited to watch the guards walk off, then he shut the door and locked it. He turned back to find Father Jacob holding up the mirror, trying to see the scar left by trepanation.

  “Father, you said Saint Marie healed you because she has a task for you,” said Sir Ander. “Is that the truth or did you make that up to annoy Father Diego?”

  “Poor Diego. I’m afraid I’ve been a trying patient.” Unable to obtain a good view, Father Jacob put down the mirror. “I told you the truth, my friend. Saint Marie has a task for me.”

  “What does she want?” Sir Ander asked, uncomfortable with the conversation.

  “Saint Marie died unshriven. The evil men who killed her took their time, tortured her. She knew she was dying and she begged them to allow her to make confession. They took cruel pleasure in refusing. They even cut out her tongue so that she could not speak.”

  Sir Ander had never heard this tale. No one knew the facts of how the saint and her knights had died. They had been ambushed in a wild part of the north country, their bodies left to rot. The search parties found fragments of clothes, armor and weapons, but nothing more. They could only assume the bodies had been dragged off by wild beasts.

  “Saint Marie asked me to hear her confession, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander was startled. He believed in miracles, but he wasn’t certain he believed that for the previous month the blessed saint had been sitting in the chair at Father Jacob’s bedside, talking metaphysics and asking him to be her confessor.

  “Father, you had a severe head injury. Sister Elizabeth drilled a hole in your skull, for mercy’s sake. Our minds play tricks on us at the best of times…”

  Father Jacob was shaking his head. “No trick, my friend. Sister Marie wants me to hear her confession.”

  “But how can she confess to you when she’s dead?” Sir Ander asked.

  “I don’t know. At least not yet.” Father Jacob was silent for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought. Then he shook his head. “Nothing comes to mind. Now, tell me what has been going on in my absence.”

  Sir Ander took the precaution of opening the door and looking up and down the long corridor outside the bed chamber. Satisfied that no one was eavesdropping, he shut the door. Father Jacob sat down and Sir Ander drew a chair close to him and began relating everything that had gone on, from the bishop’s decision to commit the priest to a lunatic asylum to Sir Ander’s strange encounter with Dubois in the garden.

  Father Jacob listened intently in silence. When Sir Ander finished, Father Jacob asked a few questions, desiring clarification on several points. Sir Ander, stiff from sitting so long, rose, stretched, and went to look out the window. The royal barge and the yachts made a colorful show bobbing up and down in the harbor. Members of the crews, with nothing to do, basked in the late afternoon sun. Sir Ander focused on Cecile’s yacht, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

  “Do you see her?” Father Jacob asked, coming to stand beside Sir Ander. “Is she there?”

  “No,” said Sir Ander. He glared at Father Jacob. “Damn it, I am permitted to have secrets of my own! Get out of my head! Stop reading my mind.”

  Father Jacob chuckled. “I did not read your mind. You are wearing your dress uniform. I know how you feel about King Alaric, therefore I know you have no intention of paying your homage to him. However, if Countess Cecile de Marjolaine was part of the royal entourage, you would certainly go to see her. Is she with the king?”

  Sir Ander flushed deeply and said nothing.

  “I would not ask, my friend,” said Father Jacob gently, “if it were not important. Is the Countess de Marjolaine in Westfirth?”

  “Yes, Father, she is. She came in her own yacht—”

  “Excellent,” said Father Jacob. “God works in wondrous ways. I need you to visit the countess and your friend, Monsieur Dubois. You will carry an invitation to them to meet with me here this evening when the clock strikes eight.”

  “Both of them?” Sir Ander asked, skeptical. “Together? They are bitter enemies.”

  “They must come together. That way I can explain everything only once. I will not be required to repeat myself as I would if I spoke to them individually.”

  Sir Ander raised an eyebrow. “This should be interesting. What do you plan to tell them?”

  “The truth, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob gravely.

  Sir Ander put on his dress uniform coat and began to button it. Father Jacob sat down at the desk to write the invitations. He picked up the pen and then gazed at it in silence. He made no move to start writing. This time, Sir Ander could read Father Jacob’s mind.

  Brother Barnaby had been Father Jacob’s amanuensis, writing all his letters, taking notes of the priest’s various investigations.

  “I was thinking that we could hold a memorial service for Brother Barnaby,” said Sir Ander quietly.

  “We will,” said Father Jacob, picking up a sheet of foolscap. His pen scratched over the paper. “When Barnaby is dead.”

  He wrote briefly, shook sand over the paper to dry the ink, and when it had dried folded it in thirds and sealed it with his own personal seal, not that of the Arcanum. He then jotted a second note and handed them both to Sir Ander.

  “Give these to Dubois and the countess in person. Do not entrust the letters to a servant. And do not tell either of them the other is going to be here,” Father Jacob added with a chuckle.

  “You know, Father, that the countess is supposed to be attending a royal gala this evening and that Dubois might have another engagement. You can’t expect them to drop everything to come meet with you.”

  “I’ll wager you a bottle of the finest wine in Westfirth that they come,” said Father Jacob, unperturbed.

  Sir Ander did not take the bet. Placing the letters into an interior coat pocket, he left upon his errand. He would take a carriage to the Ivy, the inn where Dubois had said the knight could find him, and then he would walk to the countess’s yacht.

  Before he left the palace, Sir Ander had something important to do. He purchased a bouquet of roses from a flower vendor and brought them to the chapel, where he placed them before the statue of Saint Marie.

  “I do believe in miracles. Thank you,” he told her.

  He had the impression the marble lips smiled.

  10

  In any royal court, alliances are as fragile as threads of gossamer. Today’s bosom friend may thrust his knife into my back tomorrow. I have found it advantageous not to take such betrayal personally. Next week, this same person may hold the key to my political salvation. Of course, keeping a pistol close at hand is never a bad idea.

  —Sir Henry Wallace, Earl of Staffordshire
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br />   Sir Ander delivered his messages and returned to the archbishop’s palace to find that Father Jacob had been busy in his absence making arrangements for the meeting. He had also entertained the archbishop, who had stopped by to express his joy at the priest’s recovery.

  “To tell the truth, I believe he only wanted to see if I was in my right mind,” said Father Jacob, chuckling. “I was tempted to introduce him to Saint Marie.”

  “I trust you didn’t,” said Sir Ander.

  “No, no, I was on my best behavior. I asked him for the use of the library for my studies this evening. He graciously gave me permission, telling me the palace will be nearly empty tonight. The archbishop and his staff have been invited to a grand ball to be given on the royal barge.”

  “The library is a good choice if you want privacy,” said Sir Ander. “The room has no windows and only one door, although I suppose there might be secret passages behind the bookshelves. Someone could hide there.”

  “I checked,” said Father Jacob. “No secret passages. The marquis who built this palace was a good, solid, unimaginative old fellow, completely devoid of romance and tight-fisted with his money. He would have never wasted his silver on such frippery. That said, Ander, you must come armed,” Father Jacobs added gravely.

  “I always do when I am with you, Father,” said Sir Ander, smiling. “The list of people wanting to kill you grows longer by the day.”

  Sir Ander returned to his own room in the palace to bathe, dress, and arm himself. He discarded the dress uniform coat and chose the uniform coat he wore when he and Father Jacob were on a dangerous assignment. The coat had been specially designed for the Knight Protectors and was enhanced with magical constructs meant to protect against various types of attacks, from a dagger in the back to a bullet in the chest. The coat had a special pocket for a stowaway gun and another for a knife. He wore beneath the coat a weskit with similar constructs and his best dress shirt, which was trimmed in lace. He tied his cravat with more than usual care.

  Of course, Father Jacob noticed. He was seated in the library, reading a book, when Sir Ander entered. Father Jacob raised an eyebrow.