“Father Jacob—”
“He can’t hear you, Brother,” said Sir Ander.
“But he’s sitting right there.” The head librarian raised his voice. “Father Jacob!”
Father Jacob sat up and frowned. “I’m not deaf. Well, Brother, what do you want?”
“You are summoned to the office of the provost,” the head librarian repeated patiently. “The grand bishop has arrived and he requests that you attend him immediately.”
“Tell the grand bishop I’m busy,” said Father Jacob.
He returned to his reading and note taking.
The head librarian was a middle-aged monk devoted to the Order of Saint Thomas, patron saint of knowledge. He and the other monks spent their days in the peaceful, quiet confines of the library, their only upset the mishelving of a book. And now here was Father Jacob refusing a summons to attend the grand bishop. The poor librarian staggered from the shock and stammered incoherently. “Father Jacob … The grand bishop … no one … I couldn’t possibly…”
Sir Ander rescued him. “Tell the provost Father Jacob will be there presently.”
The head librarian cast the knight a look of intense gratitude, then hurried away.
“You have been summoned, Father,” said Sir Ander. “You know you have to go, so don’t make me carry you.”
Father Jacob looked obdurate for a moment, then muttered irritably, “I’d like to see you try! Oh, very well. Let us get this over with so that I can return to work.”
He pushed himself up out of the chair, grimacing at the stiffness in his legs and back, and started out the door.
“You can’t appear before the grand bishop looking like you’ve been sleeping in your cassock,” said Sir Ander.
“What’s wrong with the way I look?” Father Jacob demanded indignantly. “And for your information, I have been sleeping in my cassock.”
“There’s a large gravy stain on your sleeve and what appears to be dried soup that dribbled down the front. You haven’t shaved in days. Your hands are black with ink and there’s ink on your chin and the side of your face.” Sir Ander wrinkled his nose. “And when was the last time you bathed?”
Sir Ander herded Father Jacob out the door of the cell and clanked it shut behind. He persuaded the priest to bathe, shave, put on a clean cassock, and rid himself as much as possible of the ink on his hands and face. When Sir Ander deemed his charge presentable, they climbed the stairs that led to the provost’s dwelling, located near the summit.
“I don’t know why you’re insisting that I accompany you,” Sir Ander stated. “The grand bishop sent for you, not me. His Eminence and I don’t get along, as you well know.”
“I need you as a corroborating witness in my defense.”
“You haven’t been accused of anything. At least not yet.”
“I’m always being accused of something,” said Father Jacob mildly. “You can take notes like Brother Barnaby.”
“I am not Brother Barnaby,” said Sir Ander sternly.
“I know that, my friend,” said Father Jacob in gentle tones.
“I had a dream about Barnaby the other night,” said Sir Ander in subdued tones. “Do you remember the time when we were investigating the massacre of those young people in Capione, when he told me he could not understand how I could justify killing another human being, even one as evil as the Warlock?”
“I remember,” said Father Jacob.
“Brother Barnaby told me in my dream that he understood now. He asked me to pray for him.”
“What do you think the dream means?” Father Jacob asked.
“That I’ve been thinking a lot about Brother Barnaby,” said Sir Ander with a faint smile.
“And he’s thinking of you,” said Father Jacob earnestly. “He is not dead, Ander. He’s reaching out to you. You must let him know you support him with your prayers.”
Sir Ander only shook his head.
They arrived at a quaint, old-fashioned building that had once been a chapter house, but which now housed the provost’s office, as well as rooms for those who served the provost. Sir Ander and Father Jacob were shown into the office by the provost’s secretary. He had been reluctant to admit Sir Ander, since only Father Jacob’s presence was requested, but when Father Jacob insisted he required the knight’s attendance the secretary decided that he would let the provost decide and announced both of them.
The provost was seated at his desk. The grand bishop, Ferdinand de Montagne, was standing at the window, staring out at the magnificent view of the mountains reflected in the water. He had his back to the door and did not turn around as Father Jacob and Sir Ander entered.
Provost Phillipe rose to greet his guests with a warm handshake and a cordial smile. Those who met Provost Phillipe were often astonished that this mild-spoken, scholarly looking man was the head of the Arcanum, one of the most feared institutions in the world.
Some said Phillipe had been placed in this position by the Council of Bishops on order of Montagne, who wanted a provost he could control. If Montagne thought that, he soon found out he had been mistaken. Phillipe of Allamaine possessed a rare quality: He had the scholar’s ability to assess a situation and make an unbiased judgment. He expected good of men and yet was not shocked when they fell short. He seemed never to be angry or upset. Nothing ever disturbed his equanimity. Yet when he made a decision, it was said that the mountain on which the Citadel was built was more likely to shift its position than Provost Phillipe.
The provost was short and stocky with a round face, made rounder by the tonsure and a pair of round spectacles. He was dwarfed by the towering Montagne. If the provost was the mountain, Montagne was the storm wind that occasionally blew in to rage and cast his thunderbolts. When the storm was gone, the mountain remained unmoved.
The provost bade his guests be seated and took a seat himself. He did not sit behind his desk, which might have been intimidating to his guests, but joined them in a cozy circle. His office was dark and cool in the heat of the day. The room was small and well furnished with comfortable leather chairs. Curtains were closed on all the windows except the one where Montagne stood.
The grand bishop turned around to greet his guests. Sir Ander was shocked at the man’s appearance. Montagne was gray with fatigue, and the flesh around his eyes was puffy. He had visibly lost weight. He frowned at the sight of Sir Ander, who remained standing, proud, upright. Montagne had never forgiven Sir Ander for his loyalty to Julian de Guichen during the Lost Rebellion. Sir Ander, for his part, had never forgiven Montagne for his betrayal of his friend.
“I understand, Sir Ander, that you have refused to obey orders to return to the Mother House,” said the grand bishop.
“Your Eminence is mistaken,” said Sir Ander. “I have not yet received my orders.”
“I have sent word to the commander of the Knight Protectors that I require Sir Ander to remain with me,” Father Jacob said, annoyed. “He is instrumental in my investigations of the books we discovered at the Abbey of Saint Agnes.”
“I don’t see how a Knight Protector can possibly be instrumental in your studies,” said the grand bishop caustically. “Does he read to you aloud?”
Father Jacob rose to his feet.
“I am glad we had this chance to talk, Eminence. If you will excuse me, I have work to do—”
“For God’s sake, Jacob, don’t be such a pain in the ass!” The grand bishop was practically shouting. “Sit down!”
The provost raised an eyebrow, lowered his head, and rubbed the side of his nose. Sir Ander exchanged glances with Father Jacob, who resumed his seat.
“You heard, of course, about the collapse of the Crystal Market hall,” said the grand bishop abruptly.
“A terrible tragedy. We held a mass for the dead,” said Provost Phillipe.
“We held a great many masses for the dead,” said the grand bishop in heavy tones. “The funerals were too numerous to count. Our priests were overwhelmed. Coffin makers work
ed day and night, and the cemeteries are now filled with fresh graves. So many little graves … small children. So many flowers. And all of them wilting…”
He sighed deeply and shook his head. The provost motioned discreetly for Sir Ander to be seated; apparently he was going to be permitted to stay. Sir Ander moved quietly to a chair beside Father Jacob, who was regarding the grand bishop with grave intensity.
“You put out a report, Eminence, that the failure of the crystal bricks was due to the architect’s design, that the building was structurally unsound,” said Father Jacob. “I happen to know for a fact that is not the truth.”
The grand bishop frowned. “How do you know this for a fact, Father Jacob?”
“Because I received a report from the architect himself stating that the magic in the crystal bricks was failing. A report he gave to you months before the collapse.”
The grand bishop was livid. He struggled to speak, choked on his anger, and finally managed to squeeze out words. “Who told you that?”
“A friend, Eminence,” said Father Jacob gently. “A friend to the church.”
The grand bishop bowed his head. His anger drained out of him, and he seemed to collapse, shrivel up.
“God help me,” he said in a low voice.
He tried to walk toward a chair, staggered, and nearly fell. Sir Ander and the provost both sprang to their feet, fearing the man might collapse. He waved them away.
“I am fine,” he said, leaning against the back of the chair, gripping it with both hands. “I have not been sleeping well.”
He sank usteadily into the chair. The provost summoned one of the brothers who served him and ordered brandy for the grand bishop and a pot of tea. When the tea and the brandy arrived, the provost dismissed the servant and handed around the steaming cups himself. They drank their tea in silence. The brandy restored Montagne. Some color returned to his face.
“You have not told anyone about this report, Father Jacob.”
“No, Eminence. Not even the provost.” Father Jacob gave a small nod of apology to the provost, who gave a mild smile. “And I feel confident in saying that the person who sent the report to me will remain silent, as well.”
The grand bishop nodded. He drew in a deep breath and passed his hand over his face.
“I read that report months before the collapse.” The grand bishop spread his hands helplessly. “What was I supposed to do? Close down the Crystal Market? And if so, what was I to tell the people of the world? Was I to say to them that the Crystal Market, the pride of the Crafters’ Guild, the symbol of God’s gift to us, is cracking like an eggshell?”
“No, Eminence,” said the provost. “You could not say that.”
“I thought we had time,” the grand bishop continued. “I set the most skilled crafters to work to try to fix the magic, find out the cause … God forgive me. I thought we had time.”
Father Jacob shook his head and looked very grave. “Tell me what happened.”
“A number of crafters were present when the collapse occurred, working to repair the magical constructs set in the glass bricks. They had been able to stay abreast of the repair work. They had seen no drastic disruptions in the magic, nothing to alarm them. And then something changed.”
Father Jacob sat forward eagerly, nearly upsetting his tea that stood forgotten and untasted on a small table at his side. Sir Ander rose and quietly removed the cup so as not to spill tea on the provost’s fine rug.
“Almost immediately following the collapse, we took the crafters who had been present to a quiet place to hear their reports. They talked of the glass ‘singing’ and ‘quivering’ right before the glass bricks shattered. They said, one and all, that the magic failed utterly, catastrophically. They could do nothing to stop it.”
“Did you speak to your agent Dubois?” Father Jacob asked. “Did he tell you about the helm I recovered, about the Bottom Dwellers?”
“He told me. I told the provost.”
“Then you both must be aware that this failure was caused by contramagic.”
“You don’t know that!” said the grand bishop angrily. “Demons did not attack the Crystal Market—”
“Nor Freyans either, I suppose,” Father Jacob remarked.
The grand bishop sucked in an angry breath.
“The Bottom Dwellers caused this catastrophic failure, Eminence,” Father Jacob continued. “Just as they have been causing magic to fail throughout the world. What else did the crafters tell you?”
The grand bishop was seething. He was being interrogated by one of his own priests and he could do nothing except submit to the questioning. His hands curled around the arms of the chair. Sir Ander had the impression Montagne would have been happy to curl them around Father Jacob’s throat.
“Some reported hearing sounds other than the singing. Several said they had heard a drumming sound, very faint. One young woman described it as the sound of ‘a hundred beating hearts.’”
“‘A hundred beating hearts,’” Father Jacob repeated thoughtfully. He jumped from his chair and began to pace about the room. “The Bottom Dwellers have contramagic weapons, but neither the bat riders nor their black ships were anywhere in sight when the market collapsed. Yet I am convinced they are responsible. The question is how? How did they knock down a structure when they live at the bottom of the world? A hundred beating hearts…”
The provost placed his fingertips together and looked at the grand bishop.
“Father Jacob,” said Montagne impatiently, “I came for answers, not to listen to wild theories—”
“That is my answer, whether you want to hear it or not,” said Father Jacob, rounding on them. His eyes glittered. “I do not know how they are attacking us, though I have an idea. Blood magic. The helm I recovered was made of human skin. The Bottom Dwellers have found a way to use blood magic to fuel contramagic.”
He resumed his pacing and thus he did not see the alarmed look the provost cast at the grand bishop, nor did he see the darkening of Montagne’s brow, the tightening of his lips. Sir Ander saw both and shifted uneasily in his chair. He sensed approaching danger and wished he could whisk Father Jacob out of the room.
Father Jacob saw nothing. He was muttering to himself. “I once saw a soprano shatter a glass with a single note. Perhaps the same theory applies to the Crystal Market, though at the moment I cannot explain how they managed it…”
“Perhaps you can find the answers at the scene of the disaster, Father,” said the grand bishop. “I came here to take you back with me to Evreux to investigate this tragedy.”
Father Jacob was tempted. He stood with his head down, his hands behind his back. Then he shook his head.
“No, I cannot leave my work here.”
“I could make this an order,” said the grand bishop, frowning.
“You could, Eminence,” Father Jacob conceded. “And I might learn much in my investigation that was useful. However, I believe I will learn more if I remain here. You term my theory about the Bottom Dwellers ‘wild ravings.’ I believe I am close to discovering the truth.”
Sir Ander observed another exchange of meaningful glances between the grand bishop and the provost.
“I recommend a substitute, Provost. You know Father Antonius,” Father Jacob continued. “He is knowledgeable about engineering magic. He was once responsible for maintaining magical constructs in a floating fortress.”
“I do not want anyone else to know about this,” the grand bishop said.
“Soon everyone will know, Eminence,” said Father Jacob gravely. “Magical constructs are failing the world over. They will continue to fail, and unless we find a way stop these attacks, more buildings will fall. Ships will sink. People will die, not only in Rosia, but in every nation.”
He fixed both men with a piercing gaze. “We face a foe who is using contramagic to try to silence the Voice of God. If this foe succeeds, the world will be plunged into another Dark Age far worse than the first. It is my fear t
hat if God’s voice is silenced, we will never hear Him speak again.”
Montagne’s jaw tightened; a muscle in his neck twitched. The provost sat quite still, giving no hint of his thoughts. His mild expression was perhaps a little more solemn, but that was all.
“Very well, Father Jacob,” the grand bishop said tightly, biting the words. “Stay here. Continue your work.”
“Thank you, Your Eminence,” said Father Jacob.
The grand bishop gave him a bitter glance. What else could he do after Father Jacob’s dire warning? Sir Ander almost pitied the man.
The provost rose to his feet. “Thank you for coming, gentlemen. We will not keep you longer.”
Sir Ander stood up, glad to leave and take Father Jacob with him. All in all, the meeting had turned out far better than he had anticipated. No blood had been shed. Father Jacob had other ideas, however.
“With regard to my work, Provost,” said Father Jacob, “in order to continue my research, I need to have access to the Library of the Forbidden.”
The grand bishop stiffened. The provost was shocked. He raised his eyebrows. His spectacles slid down his nose. Yet he managed to retain his customary mild tones.
“The Library of the Forbidden exists for a reason, Father Jacob. Works of evil, exposing the darkest parts of men’s souls, are contained within.”
“I am not seeking to study blood magic spells, if that is what you fear, Provost,” Father Jacob said irritably.
“What do you seek?” the grand bishop demanded. “The provost is familiar with the catalog of books in the library. What is the book for which you are searching?”
“I will know when I find it,” said Father Jacob.
The grand bishop gave a sour smile. “As the provost says, we are allowing you great liberty already, Father. Do not try our patience.”
“‘Ignorance is the foe,’ writes Saint Dennis!” Father Jacob declared angrily. “‘Knowledge is salvation.’ When will you learn the truth of this? If it were up to me, no book would be forbidden! Come along, Sir Ander.”
Father Jacob turned on his heel and walked across the floor, his cassock snapping around his ankles.
Storm Riders Page 37
