“We … uh … have evidence, Master,” Sir Ander continued, floundering, “that the monk known as Brother Paul is one of these Bottom Dwellers. We believe he has been acting as a spy for them. Father Jacob believes it is imperative that you find Brother Paul, place him under arrest, and bring him to the office of the provost…”
Sir Ander’s words died away. No alarm had been raised, no command given, yet the monks of Saint Klee were now filing out of their compound, moving to their assigned posts throughout the Citadel. The master was still silent, still waiting.
Sir Ander tried to remember where he’d left off. “As to this Brother Paul, I have a description of him—”
“We know,” said the master, finally breaking his maddening silence.
“Ah, yes, good. I should tell you one more thing. Father Jacob says the target may be the Library of the Forbidden.”
The master’s eyelids flickered. He was no longer looking at Sir Ander. A shadow flowed over the ground. The sun, which had been shining only moments ago, had disappeared behind a large brownish gray storm cloud that was moving rapidly, inexorably nearer. As Sir Ander watched, the shadow overtook the mountains and flowed down the sides.
Sir Ander felt the hair on his neck prickle.
“Master, that’s no storm. That’s—”
He turned to the master, but he was no longer there.
A bell in the monks’ compound began to clang. The bell was inscribed with magical constructs that triggered magical constructs in other bells, causing them to ring. Soon every bell in the Citadel was clanging.
Once yearly, Father Jacob had told Sir Ander, the alarm bells rang in the Citadel. Everyone in the fortress took part in the drill, going to his or her assigned place in case of attack. The Citadel’s inhabitants had come to view the annual drill as a kind of holiday, a break from the routine. They even held a feast afterward to mark the occasion.
This day was not a drill.
People were caught by surprise and instead of immediately going to their places, they wasted time by rushing out into the quadrangles, the streets, and the gardens to demand to know what was going on. The sight of the crimson-robed monks moving swiftly to their posts answered their questions.
The Citadel was under attack.
The word spread as the bells rang. No one panicked, though there were tight lips and pale faces as people finally hurried to where they were supposed to go.
Sir Ander had no assigned place. His assignment was Father Jacob, who was probably on his way to meet with the provost. Sir Ander ran for the stairs that led to the provost’s dwelling, all the while searching for Father Jacob along the way. He feared he would never find the priest in his black cassock in this throng of black-robed priests and nuns, all racing to be somewhere else.
Fortunately, Father Jacob found him. He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Sir Ander! I’ve been looking for you. Thank God you’re tall and not dressed in black!”
Father Jacob seized hold of the knight, separating him from the crowd and hustling him into a garden where they could speak in relative quiet.
“Did you ever see such chaos? These men and women are supposedly rational human beings.” Father Jacob shook his head in disgust. “Listen. We don’t have much time.”
He cast a glance skyward at the cloud that was already down the mountain and moving toward the inland sea. The reddish brown fog was starting to dissipate, and they could see the outlines of a large and ungainly black ship.
“That ship is like the one that sank the Royal Lion,” said Sir Ander. “And took out the side of a mountain. Can the Citadel’s defenses hold?”
“Against contramagic? We are about to find out. If I am right, the Bottom Dwellers won’t dare risk bringing down the mountain because they might do damage to the library.”
“Where is your assigned post? I’ll come with you.”
Father Jacob gave an impatient wave. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. That doesn’t matter now.”
“Then where are we going?”
“To the library, of course,” said Father Jacob.
Sir Ander was appalled. “You’re going to break into the library? You can’t be serious!”
“What better time than during all this confusion? Besides, if the defenses fail, you and I will be needed to stop the Bottom Dwellers from entering it.”
Sir Ander thought quickly. He was armed only with the weapons he’d brought aboard the yacht: his broadsword, his dragon pistol, and the pocket pistol.
“I’ll need the pistols that the countess gave me,” he said. “The ones that have no magic. They are in my quarters.”
“A good thought,” said Father Jacob. “I’ll meet you there. Don’t dawdle.”
Father Jacob hurried off, pushing his way through the crowd toward the path that led to the library. Sir Ander paused to glance again at the enemy ship. The fog had cleared, and he could see, flanking the black ship, a horde of bat riders. He broke into a run.
* * *
Father Jacob arrived to find the main library in a state of confusion. Those inside whose assigned posts were elsewhere were trying to leave, while those outside tasked with taking up the defense of the library were trying to get inside.
Father Jacob took one look at the knot of people tangling in the main entrance and left, circling around to the back of the building. He had observed some time ago that the latch of one of the lead-paned windows on the ground floor did not close properly. He had reported the broken latch to the crafters in charge of maintaining the buildings. But because in the Citadel, as with every other structure in the world, the magic was failing at an increasing rate, the crafters had all they could do to maintain the magical constructs that kept the buildings standing. He doubted they had taken time to repair a broken latch. He was right. He managed to pry open the window from the outside.
Father Jacob took one last look at the enemy ship bearing down on the Citadel and silently commended himself and his friends into the hands of God, then hiked up his cassock and crawled through the window.
The room was empty. Those who had been studying had left to go to their posts. He ran down a corridor, turned into another corridor, and came to the main part of the library. The warrior monks were already in position, guarding the tower stairs and the main entrance. Priests and nuns were busy with their various assigned tasks: carrying valuable books and sacred objects to places of safety, hauling buckets of water and bales of straw, rolling up carpets that could catch fire.
As Father Jacob approached the stair that led to the tower, he saw that two monks now stood guard now, instead of one.
“I have valuable books in the reading room on the third level,” said Father Jacob.
The monks indicated with a nod that he could proceed.
Father Jacob dashed up the stairs. Circumventing those two monks had been the easy part. The warrior monks guarding the Library of the Forbidden would be a different matter. He could not very well say he had left books in there.
He passed his own little reading cell and slowed his pace, thinking about how to deal with the warrior monks. He was skilled in martial spell-casting as well as with his fists, having studied the gentlemanly art of pugilism in his youth. He was forced to concede that while he might put up a good fight, the monks of Saint Klee would likely make short work of him.
His wits were his best weapon.
He came to a narrow arched entrance. In the shadows beyond was a spiral staircase that led to the top of the tower. A monk stood beneath the arch, the crimson of his robe a smear of color in the shadows. One of the warrior monks was always posted at the bottom of this staircase.
Father Jacob hid behind a wall, observed the monk, and formulated his plan of attack. The monk would have heard the alarm, but he would have no way of seeing what was going on, for there were no windows at the top of the tower.
Father Jacob said a prayer, thinking this was likely the first time anyone had ever asked God’
s help in breaking and entering a library. Leaving his hiding place, Father Jacob burst into the corridor.
“Did you hear the alarm, Brother?” he called. His voice boomed in the silence, echoing off the walls. “The Citadel is under attack!”
The monk emerged from the shadows. He cast an inquisitive glance at the priest.
“The same foe that attacked the harbor at Westfirth. I provided information about them to the master. He has no doubt communicated this to you and your fellows. The foe will be using contramagic.”
The monk indicated with the slightest of nods that he was aware of the nature of the enemy.
“I believe their objective is the Library of the Forbidden,” Father Jacob continued. “They have come to find books on contramagic. I need to enter the library and secure these books. I ask that you let me pass.”
The monk fixed his intense gaze on Father Jacob. A shadow darkened the monk’s eyes. The monks respected and trusted Father Jacob. But just how far did that trust go?
“Wait,” said the monk.
He turned and began to climb the spiral stairs that led to the tower room above. Father Jacob followed along behind. Hearing his footsteps, the monk stopped on the stair and looked back.
“Oh, you meant me to wait below,” said Father Jacob. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood. Still, since I’ve come this far…”
The monk gave a slight shake of his head and continued. Arriving at the top level, the monk ducked beneath a low archway. Father Jacob stopped to study his surroundings.
The archway led to a narrow corridor about twenty paces long, bare and cold and dark, with stone walls and a cobblestone floor. Lanterns hanging from hooks on the walls gave off dim light. The corridor ended at a gate made of steel bars arranged in a strange, complex pattern. The gate guarded a door of solid oak with intricately carved magical constructs surrounding the seal of the Arcanum: a sword and a staff crossed beneath a flame set on a quartered shield. The door had no visible sign of a lock, latch, or handle.
Two monks guarded this door. They had also heard the alarm and were wondering what was going on. While the monk who had spoken to Father Jacob went to confer with his fellows, Father Jacob remained in the shadows, observing the gate and trying to figure out how to open it. The design of the steel bars reminded the priest of a crosshatched pen and ink drawing with bars running vertically and others horizontally, crossing and crisscrossing, seemingly at random.
The gate had been designed five hundred years ago by Saint Marie. The provost was the only one who knew the key to the operation of the gate. When forbidden texts had been confiscated, they were listed in the catalog, which was itself kept secret, then placed in a depository in the wall on a revolving tray. After the door closed, the tray swiveled, dropping the book into the darkness. Once a year, the provost entered the Library of the Forbidden to sort the books and shelve them.
The monks spoke together for only a moment before reaching consensus. Father Jacob saw at once that the decision was not going to go his way and he walked down the shadowy corridor to confront them. One of the monks moved to stop him, pointing emphatically toward the stairs leading away from the library, indicating he was to leave.
“Answer me this, Brothers,” said Father Jacob. “Has a monk wearing dark spectacles recently come around here, asking questions about the Library of the Forbidden?”
The monks exchanged glances and Father Jacob knew he was right. Before he could explain, an explosion shook the walls and the floor, sending dirt and dust cascading down from the ceiling.
“The Bottom Dwellers have launched the assault,” said Father Jacob, wiping dust from his face.
The monk again pointed emphatically toward the stairs and actually broke his silence.
“Go somewhere safe, Father.”
Father Jacob knew in his soul, by everything he held sacred, that he was meant to enter the library. If Brother Paul and the Bottom Dwellers managed to break through the Citadel’s defenses, they would come here, and he doubted very much if three warrior monks could stop them.
“Let me at least remain to help you. I have fought this foe before,” said Father Jacob earnestly.
Another booming explosion shook the tower. From below came cries and shouts and more blasts, followed by screams.
“The enemy is in the library,” said Father Jacob.
Again the monks conferred by a silent exchange of glances.
“Our post in the event of an attack is at the bottom of the stairs,” said one of the monks. “You will accompany us, Father.”
“Go to your post! Leave me here to guard the gates,” said Father Jacob. “If the enemy gets past you, I may not be able to do much, but I will do what I can to stop them.”
With the sounds of the battle raging below growing louder, the monks must have decided they had no time to argue with Father Jacob. Or perhaps they simply realized that his offer to guard the library made sense. In either event, the monks departed in haste.
Alone in the darkened corridor, Father Jacob breathed a pleased sigh and went back to studying the gate. He was gazing at it intently when he felt the air stirring, as though someone had brushed the sleeve of his cassock.
Thinking it was one of the monks coming back to order him away, he turned, ready to argue.
He was astonished to find Saint Marie standing beside him.
“You have come to hear my confession,” she said.
Father Jacob was startled. He had forgotten that she had asked him.
“I would be glad to do so,” said Father Jacob. Another explosion rocked the tower. “I fear this is not a good time—”
Saint Marie laughed. Her laughter was robust, boisterous, infectious. She was wearing the robes of a provost, white trimmed with black and edged in gold. Her silver hair was cut in the tonsure as she had worn it in her youth when she had disguised herself as a priest. Her face was aged, careworn, soft with sorrow, yet serene. She had never lost her faith in God, and had always believed in the goodness of men, even as she had fought against the darkness that often possessed them.
Her laughter died, but her smile remained. She shifted her gaze from him to the steel gate.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? The gate is a puzzle, you know.”
“That is obvious to the trained observer,” said Father Jacob.
“Can you solve it?” Saint Marie asked. “Can you find the key that will allow you to enter the library?”
Father Jacob had come here for that purpose, but now doubt assailed him.
“I am forbidden to enter,” he said.
Again, he felt her touch, as cold and light and sharp as a snowflake.
“God has given you great gifts, Father Jacob. You risked all you had for the sake of Him. If you believe that God gave you His gifts so that you might take up His sword and fight His foes, defend His people, then no risk is too great. Believe in Him.”
Father Jacob stared intently at the steel gate, searching for the glowing lines and sigils of the magical constructs in order to understand how the magic worked. Try as he might, he couldn’t see them. He frowned in frustration, and spoke a phrase of command that should have caused the constructs to illuminate. Still the gate remained dark. Father Jacob drew in a slow breath.
“There is no magic,” he said softly. “The gate is only a gate, a puzzle made of steel bars.”
He was dimly aware of the din of battle in the distance. The noise distracted him, and he resolved to shut it out. Moving nearer to the gate, he examined the bars closely. Some of the bars had holes drilled in them, seemingly at random.
Jacob scanned one of the bars, followed it to another and from there to another. He envisioned one bar sliding over and dropping into a hole that caused another to move and that triggered another …
“I know!” he breathed.
But where to start? Which bar was the first? If he moved the wrong bar, the steel gate would seal shut and only the provost could reset it.
Father Jacob was now inte
nsely intrigued by the puzzle, by the challenge. His gaze went swiftly from one bar to another, mentally calculating where each would fall, thinking how the next bars would react, rejecting, starting over. And then in an instant, the puzzle fell into place, one bar after the other after the other.
Father Jacob set his hand on a single bar about a finger’s breadth from the floor.
“God forgive me,” Father Jacob said softly.
“Believe in Him,” said Saint Marie again.
Father Jacob leaned near and shifted the bar, causing it to slide across and clank into a hole. He watched in awe as one by one, the bars shifted and moved and fell into place. The gate had been made with such skill and precision that even after all these years every bar moved smoothly, sliding either up and down or across. His eyes followed the swift progress until the last bar dropped into a hole that had been drilled into the floor. Pivoting on this last bar, the gate slowly swung aside.
Behind it stood a wooden door covered in ancient, outmoded warding constructs. Jacob had little difficulty in their deconstruction. He spoke the arcane words, his hands running swiftly from one construct to the other, and as he touched the last of the sigils their light shimmered and faded. He gave the door a gentle shove and it creaked open.
He had, after all, missed something—removing the right construct, saying the right word. Alarm bells began ringing throughout the library, probably throughout the Citadel. Between the other alarms, the gunshots and shouts and cries and crackling and sparking of magicks, he knew only one person would hear and understand: the provost. He shrugged, took down a lantern from its hook on the wall. By its light, he and Saint Marie entered the Library of the Forbidden.
The first thing he did was stumble over a pile of dusty books that had been dumped in the depository. They lay in disarray on the dust-covered floor. Father Jacob held the lantern above them, curious to see what they were.
“Look at this!” he exclaimed, bending over them.
“No time, Father,” said Saint Marie.
Storm Riders Page 41
