Rodrigo gave a mirthless laugh. “Good luck trying to figure out how to keep the magic working.”
“They only have to go as far as the impound lot,” said Stephano.
Miri and Gythe resumed walking. When they came level with Stephano, he softly called their names. Miri started, looked around, and saw him. She stared at him from beneath the hood of her cloak, her arms folded across her chest. Then she slowly walked over to them. Gythe trudged alongside her sister, sheltering the Doctor from the rain with her cloak.
“They’ve impounded my boat,” Miri said.
“Miri, I’m so sorry—” Stephano began.
“This is your doing, then.”
“Mine, actually,” said Rodrigo meekly.
“You’d better tell me,” said Miri with a sigh.
Rodrigo explained the situation.
“I’ll get your boat back, Miri,” he added, remorseful. “I’ll go to the master smelterer and offer myself—”
“No, you won’t,” said Stephano wearily. “You can’t go back. Someone hired assassins to kill us, remember?”
Miri shifted her gaze to him. “Assassins.”
Now it was Stephano’s turn to explain.
“There were four of them,” he said in conclusion. “Professionals. They fled when they heard the constables’ whistles. Aside from trying to kill us, they actually did us a favor. Warned us the police were coming.”
Miri regarded Stephano in silence. Gythe stood behind her sister, her face a pale glimmer beneath her hood, her eyes large and unhappy.
Miri’s lips twitched. She put her hand to her mouth to try to stop the laughter, but that didn’t help. The laughter rolled out of her. She laughed loud and long, laughed until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes and leaned weakly against a wall.
“Oh, Stephano, Stephano,” Miri said when she could talk. “Only you would be saved from a man trying to kill you by a man coming to arrest you. That’s why I love you. When I don’t hate you.”
Stephano’s answer was to take Miri in his arms. He held her tightly, his own eyes wet, and not from rain.
Miri smiled up at him and freed herself from his embrace. She put her hands on her hips. “So they’ve impounded my boat and driven you and Rigo into hiding. The question is, what do we do now?”
“You and Gythe have relatives in the Trundler village,” said Stephano. “You could go stay with them. Rigo and I will—”
Gythe shook her head emphatically and clasped her hands together.
“Gythe is right. We’re not splitting up,” said Miri.
“But back on board the Cloud Hopper you said—”
“I know what I said.” Miri cut Stephano short. “Gythe and I talked it over. She made me see I was wrong. She is wise, my little sister. We’ve enjoyed the good times with you. We’ll stick with you in the bad.”
“What good times is she talking about?” Rodrigo asked in a low voice.
Stephano glared at him and changed the subject. “What happened to D’argent? I saw him with a handkerchief plastered to his face. I hope you punched him.”
Miri glanced at Gythe, who grinned and held up the Doctor. Only his head was visible, peering out of the cloak. He looked wrathful. Gythe shaped her fingers like claws.
“He scratched D’argent!” Stephano said, grinning. “Good for the Doctor. I owe him some sardines. And speaking of the Doctor, I heard from Dag. He’s safe at my estate outside Argonne with the three dragons and the two dragon brothers. He writes that he is fine and he has news to tell us.”
“Of course, he’s fine,” said Miri. “I knew he would be. And even if he wasn’t, he made the decision to go. I was wrong about him, too. I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately.”
She took hold of Stephano’s hand and squeezed it. “I’m sorry.”
“I am the one who is sorry,” said Stephano. “And I will get the Cloud Hopper back, Miri. I promise.”
He pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “But, in the meantime, we’ll have to leave Rosia, lay low for a while until I can find a way to persuade my mother not to have Rigo arrested—”
“And find out who is trying to kill us,” said Rodrigo.
“That, too,” said Stephano.
The four were silent, thinking.
“I have an idea,” said Miri. “Come with me.”
“Where?” Stephano asked.
“Never mind. I’m in charge now,” said Miri.
“I don’t suppose this involves bed and a hot bath,” said Rodrigo hopefully. When no one answered him, he answered himself. “I didn’t think so.”
They left the sheltering overhang and plunged into the rain, which was now falling in torrents.
* * *
The storm had let up a little and the clocks in the church steeples were chiming four times when Miri announced that they had arrived at their destination. She pointed to a large ship tied up at the dock. The ship was dark save for the running lights. Even without the lights Stephano would have recognized the checkered balloons of the Sommerwind.
He looked at Miri in perplexity.
“The Sommerwind is bound for Braffa,” said Miri. “They’re stopping at Argonne to take on water and supplies and make some additional repairs before the long voyage.”
Stephano stared at her. “Argonne! That’s where Dag is and my estate— Which, of course, you already knew. Miri, you are a genius! Will Captain Leydecker take us on, do you think?”
“The captain owes me for saving his life.” Miri cast a sly glance at Rodrigo. “As for you two, I hear he’s looking for deckhands—”
“Deckhands!” Rodrigo gasped and shuddered. “Swabbing decks and keel-hauling and dancing hornpipes…”
He stopped. The other three were grinning at him.
“Oh, I see. Very funny.” Rodrigo sneezed. “May I point out that while we’re standing in the rain having fun at my expense, I’m catching my death of cold.”
“Going to my estate will be risky, Miri,” Stephano said. “We’ll have to dodge the constables—”
“And assassins,” said Rodrigo with another sneeze.
“All in a day’s work,” said Miri, shrugging.
“Speaking of work,” said Rodrigo. “Do you think this little misunderstanding we’re having with your mother means she is going to stop paying us?”
“Let’s tally up the score,” said Stephano. “We bungled the job she gave us, refused to sacrifice ourselves for our country, and now we’re on the run. What do you think?”
Rodrigo sighed and sneezed again.
25
And God’s voice led blessed Saint Marie across Rosia to a mountain rising from an inland sea, its steep slopes covered in aspen and fir. Saint Marie looked on the mountain island and knew that God had led her to the site of the bastion that would forever guard God’s Word.
—The Life of Saint Marie, Father Ralph Hayden
The branch of the church known as the Arcanum was founded by Saint Marie about five hundred years ago during the Dark Ages, to defend and protect an embattled faith. The church in those times was beset by enemies from without and within. Terrible storms raging in the Breath had disrupted trade and communication between nations, plunging wealthy nations into poverty and poor nations into chaos. Rivers and inland seas rose, flooding farmlands and washing out entire cities.
Famine and disease killed many who survived those disasters. Neighbor fought neighbor over scraps. The church tried to help, but the nuns and priests were overwhelmed, as they, too, were forced to struggle to survive.
Those who practiced the evil form of ancient magic known as “blood magic” thrived during this time as the desperate turned to warlocks and witches for help. Many would come to discover that the price they paid for wealth and power was too terrible, but by the time they did, they were sunk so deeply in depravity they could not claw their way out.
The headquarters of the Arcanum was located in the Citadel of the Voice, an impregnable bastion whose walls, t
owers, dwellings, and the original church had been magically carved out of the mountain. Hundreds of years later, the Citadel had grown and expanded. Many structures dotted the mountain’s rugged slopes in clusters. Each cluster of buildings was built around a central courtyard beautifully landscaped with flowers, hedges, and fountains.
The oldest structures had all been built at sea level. The Citadel had grown upward, climbing the mountainside. There was now the library, the hospital, the prison, the dortoir for the priests and one for the nuns, the provost’s mansion, and the dortoir for the guardians of the Citadel, the monks of Saint Klee. The various clusters were connected by covered walkways and staircases leading up the side of the mountain, from one level to another. They were further protected by curtain walls, set with watchtowers. The cathedral stood at the very top, its delicate spires rising high above the fortress walls, as though disdaining their protection, seeming to reach up to touch heaven.
Built for a more brutal time, the fortifications now served to protect the inhabitants from the elements, rather than from an enemy. Gun emplacements set into the sides of the mountain had long since been turned into gardens and courtyards, as the Citadel came to rely on magic instead of cannonballs.
The Citadel of the Voice was rumored to be an awful place, a towering fortress on a hidden island that lay beneath perpetual brooding clouds beset by fierce, cold winds whipping the waves of the inland sea and sending them crashing upon the shore. The Citadel was the Voice of God in His wrath—a bastion of dark dungeons, dismal cells, and forsaken oubliettes.
Sir Ander chuckled at the notion, which never failed to amuse him. He had friends who ascribed to this belief, and he wished they could see him this fine morning, standing on the ramparts, basking in the bright sunshine that sparkled off the crystalline blue waters of the inland sea. The citadel was in truth one of the most beautiful places on Rosia.
The island was surrounded by the sea, and the sea was surrounded by the Kartaign Mountains. These were not young, fang-edged mountains. They were old, their sharp peaks worn by time, rounded and softened and thickly forested. There were no passes through the mountains. The Citadel was not marked on any map. The only way to reach it was by sailing through the air over the mountains, then traveling across the inland sea. Lookouts on the walls could observe approaching ships long before the ships could observe the lookouts.
Those traveling to the Arcanum on church business were welcomed at the Carriage House. Yachts and coaches landed in the carriage yard—a large, flat strip of land running alongside the sea. Stables housed wyverns and griffins.
Sir Ander admired the view and listened with pleasure to the voices of the choir practicing a new hymn. The hymn praising God was well suited to the beauty of the day. For a moment, he let the music and the sun and the rolling swell of the sea wash over and submerge his sorrow, worry, and regret.
Sir Ander was not alone on the ramparts. The nuns, priests, and monks of the Arcanum who inhabited the Citadel often walked here. Many were out this morning, enjoying the beauty of the day before the heat drove everyone into the cool shadows of the scriptorium, the library, the chapel, or the cathedral; into the privacy of their own cells or the comradeship of common rooms.
Sir Ander was the subject of stares and whispered talk. He wasn’t supposed to be here. The Citadel kept no standing army. In all the years of its existence, it had only rarely been attacked. And in the extremely unlikely event that the Citadel did come under assault, secret, powerful magicks, put in place and operated by the warrior monks of Saint Klee defended it. The monks also guarded those “guests” who had been sent to the Arcanum under Seal.
As a Knight Protector, Sir Ander guarded Father Jacob when the priest was away from the Citadel. His duties as guardian were not required inside its protective walls. Sir Ander and Father Jacob had returned to the Citadel over a fortnight ago and Sir Ander should now be back in the Mother House in Evreux. He had instead taken lodgings in the Citadel’s guesthouse, which usually was reserved for visiting bishops and other dignitaries.
The provost was not pleased, but he had no jurisdiction over the Knight Protectors and he could not order Sir Ander to leave. Only a ranking officer of the Knight Protectors could issue such an order and since the commandant respected Sir Ander and knew the knight must have good reason for his decision, the order for his removal would not come very swiftly.
Sir Ander was not here of his own voilition. He was here because Father Jacob had asked him to remain. Sir Ander was not certain why. Perhaps, he mused, it was to protect the priest from starvation. Sir Ander saw to it that Father Jacob stopped his work long enough to eat and occasionally poke his nose out for a breath of fresh air.
Father Jacob had his own quarters, but he was rarely in them. He was more often to be found in the library, working alone in a small reading room, translating the works of the saints they had unearthed in the Abbey of Saint Agnes. Sir Ander was the only person permitted to enter the reading cell, which resembled the “guest” cells far below in the prison, except that it was furnished with a desk and a comfortable chair in addition to a cot and chamber pot. The library had several such secure reading cells, since the priests and nuns of the Arcanum often worked on sensitive projects.
When the clock in the bell tower struck eleven, Sir Ander turned to leave the ramparts to fix a tray of food to take to Father Jacob. He halted at the sight of a large yacht sailing over the sea, bound for the Citadel. The yacht was instantly recognizable as belonging to the grand bishop. The others on the ramparts stopped to stare and speculate.
Sir Ander took one look and hurriedly left. He had a grim foreboding this visit had something to do with Father Jacob.
Sir Ander returned to his room in the guesthouse to put on his formal uniform coat, shirt, breeches, and boots. He tucked his hat under his arm and ascended the steps to the library. Crossing the courtyard, he approached the library, a large stone structure, rectangular in shape with three stories and two towers. He entered through the bronze double doors, which had been designed to look like the two pages of an open book.
Inside was a large room filled with myriad bookshelves, desks, and chairs. Large windows admitted the sunlight by day; lamps lit the library by night. Sir Ander whispered a greeting to the head librarian, who worked behind a large desk and inquired of each visitor what business he had in the library. Accustomed to the knight by now, the head librarian returned his greeting pleasantly and waved him on.
Sir Ander walked past the rows of shelves and desks. Reaching the north tower, he greeted the warrior monk who was posted at the bottom of the stairs that led to the reading rooms and the Library of the Forbidden at the very top level. The monk regarded the knight with cool appraisal, then stood aside to allow him to pass through the arched doorway. Narrow spiral stairs led to the upper three levels and the reading rooms. At the top, on the fourth level, locked and magic-locked, and locked again was the Library of the Forbidden, where works of a dangerous or heretical nature were housed. A private staircase, guarded day and night by warrior monks, led to that library. As he passed he gave a cheery good morning to the monks, who did not respond. The warrior monks of Saint Klee never spoke unless forced to do so by dire necessity.
Sir Ander proceeded down the hall to Father Jacob’s reading room on the third level. Dusty sunlight slid through slit windows. This level was deathly quiet; not even the songs of the choir rose this far. Sir Ander’s boots, ringing on the stone floor, made an ungodly racket.
He found Father Jacob absorbed in his work, reading with one finger to mark his place in the text, while he made notes on a sheet of paper in a bound book. Sir Ander took out his key to unlock the iron gate.
“Did you remove the warding spell?” he thought to ask before inserting the iron key.
Father Jacob gave an annoyed mumble that might have been a yes.
“Are you certain, Father?” Sir Ander persisted. “I still have burns on my hand from the last time you said you had
removed the spell.”
Father Jacob looked up from his reading.
“Ander, what do you think I’ve found?”
Sir Ander sighed and gingerly touched the key to the lock. No sparks flew, so he deemed it safe to open.
“Tell me later. The grand bishop’s yacht—”
Father Jacob wasn’t listening. “You remember when we were in the underground room in the Abbey of Saint Agnes, the room where the saints had conducted their secret work on contramagic. We found the desks with their initials carved into them: M, D, C, M, and X. Marie, Dennis, Charles and Michael. We could not figure out what the X meant. You theorized that X marks the spot, as I recall. Perhaps a treasure map.”
Sir Ander tried again. “Father Jacob, the grand bishop—”
“Bother the grand bishop!” Father Jacob exclaimed. He laid his hand on the book. “I know what the X stands for. The X is the initial of a fifth person—Xavier.”
“A fifth person?” Sir Ander repeated, intrigued.
“There were five friends, Ander!” said Father Jacob. “Five priests, presumably close friends, all of them studying contramagic.”
“Who was this Xavier?”
“Ah, that’s the question. Who was he? Why have we never heard of him? Why isn’t his name inscribed on the book with the other four? I wonder…”
Father Jacob fell silent, gazing thoughtfully into the shadows.
“Father Jacob, I know this is fascinating, but it must wait. The grand bishop—”
He was interrupted by the sound of slippered feet shuffling down the hall. The head librarian peered at them through the iron grille.
“Father Jacob, you are summoned to the provost’s office.”
“Ah, I knew it,” said Sir Ander grimly.
Father Jacob was leaning back in his chair gazing up at the ceiling. Sir Ander knew that look: the unfocused eyes, the movement of the lips in and out, in and out. The priest wasn’t in the Citadel. He was somewhere off in the distant past, trying to part the curtains of time.
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