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  “Was this reported to the Arcanum?” asked Father Jacob.

  “Of course,” said the bishop. “I asked for you, but I was told you were working to put an end to this evil young man who calls himself the Warlock. A most inconvenient time for you to be away!”

  Father Jacob’s lips tightened. “Yes, wasn’t it,” he said grimly. “I trust you sent Church crafters to investigate.”

  “My personal secretary, the monsignor, led the group,” said the bishop. “He is a very talented crafter. The tower had been reduced to a heap of rubble. Much of the stonework on the ground was still intact. The monsignor was going to study the magical sigils on the stones, but he found that there were no magical sigils. The magic had been utterly destroyed.”

  Brother Barnaby gasped. “No sigils! But that is not possible!”

  Catching Father Jacob’s stern glance, the young monk ducked his head and went back to his recording.

  “Not a single magical sigil left in the whole damn tower,” said the grand bishop. “The monsignor and our crafters went over every single, solitary stone they could find. One would expect to see weakened sigils, broken sigils. The monsignor said, and I quote his words, ‘It was as if someone had taken a rag and wiped away the magic.’”

  “As happened with the cutter Defiant,” said Father Jacob.

  “I reread your report-” the bishop began.

  “Did you, Your Eminence?” Father Jacob said with a glint in his eye. “I was told my report had been burned as heresy, expunged from the records.”

  “We always keep copies, Father Jacob,” said the bishop and he added sourly, “As you know perfectly well. So don’t be so damn sanctimonious.”

  Montagne jumped to his feet with such suddenness that he knocked over the chair. His choleric face was red with anger. “I was wrong, Jacob, and you were right! Does that make you happy? Do you take pleasure in that?”

  “No, Your Eminence,” said Father Jacob quietly. “Given the terrible consequences of my predictions that magic throughout the world would fail, I have been praying that I was the one who would be in the wrong.”

  He reached out his hand to stop Brother Barnaby’s pen. “You needn’t record any of that.”

  Brother Barnaby nodded and scratched out what he had been writing. The bishop started to sit down, only to realize he didn’t have a chair. Brother Barnaby laid down his desk, jumped to his feet, walked over to the chair, and picked it up. The grand bishop muttered his thanks and resumed his seat. Brother Barnaby went back to his note-taking.

  The bishop resumed. “I reread your report, Father Jacob, as I said, but I would like to hear from you directly about the incidents related to the Defiant.”

  Father Jacob was silent a moment, collecting his thoughts, then began to relate the story. “Eight years ago, several merchant ships sailing the Breath near the Bay of Faighn outside Westfirth reported that they had come under attack by pirates. The pirates would pose as a merchant vessel lost in the Breath seeking directions. The pirates would sail their ship over to the other merchant ship to exchange information. Once close by, the pirates would use canister rounds to sweep the deck and then board the helpless victim, rob the merchant of anything of value, then leave the survivors adrift in the Breath. The navy was alerted to this threat and sent the cutter RNS Defiant to the area.

  “The Defiant arrived to find a merchant ship under attack. The Defiant sailed in to stop the attack and capture the pirates. The Defiant was a twomasted floating warship with sixteen twelve-pound cannons and a crew of one hundred men. The pirate vessel was a modified merchant vessel with eight six pounders. The pirates were outgunned and outmanned. I later spoke to the captain of the Defiant, who told me he assumed the pirates would attempt to flee.

  “To the captain’s immense surprise, the pirate vessel turned to attack the cutter. The captain said he and his officers actually laughed, for the pirate vessel was taking aim at them with what appeared to be a small cannon mounted on the ship’s forecastle. The captain told me it ‘looked like a child’s popgun.’

  “The pirates fired. A beam of eerie-looking green light shot from the small cannon aimed directly at the brass panel on which the Defiant’s starboard control constructs were inscribed. The green light disrupted the magic, causing the helmsman to lose control of the ship. The Defiant still managed to go about, when a second blast of green light hit the ship, this one aimed at her larboard cannons. Several of the cannons exploded, killing their gun crews and blasting holes in the hull.

  “Fortunately, the Defiant was close to shore when the attack occurred, or she would have undoubtedly sunk into the Breath with all hands lost. As it was, the cutter managed to limp to shore, where a land-based army patrol came aboard to help protect the wounded vessel.

  “Then something unusual happened. Or perhaps I should say, something more unusual. The pirate ship sailed close to the Defiant, but did not attack. The pirates had their spyglasses trained on the disabled ship. The captain told me: ‘It was damn strange. Looked to me as if they wanted to see close-up the destruction they had caused.’ The army patrol started firing at them and the pirate ship sailed off, vanishing into the mists.

  “Word of the attack reached a nearby garrison. They sent an urgent message to the Westfirth Crafters’ Guild saying they needed a Master Crafter to restore the magical constructs and make the Defiant airworthy as quickly as possible. The crafter, Master Albert Savoraun, boarded the cutter to inspect the damage. He was astounded by what he found and, as required by law, Master Albert immediately reported his findings to the Arcanum. Your Eminence sent me to investigate.”

  They were interrupted by a priest, who returned with the stomachic recommended by Brother Barnaby. He made up the concoction. The grand bishop drank the tea, grimacing at the bitter taste. Suddenly the bishop’s stomach rumbled mightily and he gave a great belch. An expression of relief crossed his face. He cast Brother Barnaby a look of gratitude and told Father Jacob to continue.

  “The captain of the Defiant and her crew had already been transported back to their base. Shocked by his discovery, Master Savoraun asked the garrison to place a guard on the cutter. He was waiting for me when I arrived, in company with Sir Ander Martel.”

  Father Jacob paused, then said, “Before I go into detail about what I found, I need to know how much Your Eminence knows about ships of the air.”

  “I know that through the blessing of God, my yacht sails the Breath,” said the bishop. “I leave the workings of the vessel to the captain.”

  “Then, Your Eminence, I will digress a moment to explain that when an airship is built, crafters spend months putting the magical constructs into place. Magic embedded in an airship ranges from complex constructs that strengthen the wooden hull to the smaller, more delicate interlaced magical constructs on the brass helm that allow the helmsman to steer the ship through the Breath.

  “Magic is in every part of the ship: the wooden planks of the hull, the metal of the cannons, the lines and pulleys of the rigging. Once set, the magical constructs will slowly degrade over time, which is why, when an airship is in dry dock, naval crafters come on board to maintain them.

  “Now, Your Eminence, here is what is important to understand. Even if the constructs, which are made up of sigils, degrade to the point where they break down completely, the magic leaves behind what are known as ‘burn marks.’ Since the sigils have been burned into the wood or onto the metal, a crafter reading these burn marks can detect the imprint of the sigils and restore them.

  “On the Defiant, wherever the green light struck the ship, the magic had been obliterated. Nothing was left of it. No burn marks. No sigils. No constructs. Nothing.”

  Father Jacob lowered his voice and said softly, “It was as if the magic had never been.”

  “As the good monk here says, that is impossible,” said the bishop. “God’s work cannot be destroyed.”

  “In this case God’s work was wiped out. And apparently also in the case of t
he watchtower and the Abbey of Saint Agnes or you would not have sent for me.”

  The grand bishop muttered something that was unintelligible and motioned irritably for Father Jacob to continue. He did so, with a sigh.

  “When I returned to the Arcanum, I spoke to the priest who is the foremost authority on constructs in the world. As you may recall, Your Eminence, Father Antonius was the person responsible for sinking an Estaran floating fortress during the war. He did so by manipulating the hundreds of constructs set into its stonework. I asked Father Antonius to try to replicate what we found on the Defiant. He said what you said, Your Eminence, no crafter-not even the blessed Saints themselves-could destroy God’s work. ‘It is impossible,’ he said, ‘to obliterate a magical construct.’ Yet, Your Eminence, the impossible was done. I saw it for myself.”

  Father Jacob ceased talking so that Brother Barnaby could catch up. He wrote, then laid down his pen to indicate he was finished. The room was so silent that the ticking of the clock was quite loud, reminding them all that time was slipping past.

  At length the bishop stirred. “Which was, unfortunately, precisely what the monsignor found in the tower. The impossible had come to pass. The magic had been obliterated. Witnesses to the collapse described a bright green glow that illuminated the building and then the tower fell down.”

  “Whoever is behind this has made their weapons more powerful,” said Father Jacob. His voice hardened. “Not surprising. They’ve had eight years to work undeterred.”

  The bishop heard the note of rebuke and glowered. “Meaning we should have massed a force and sent our armies to attack Freya. You know why I didn’t recommend that, and His Majesty, for once, agreed with me. An unprovoked attack on Freya would have meant war and we are not prepared for war. We…” The grand bishop shook his head and then clamped his lips together.

  “The real reason was that you didn’t believe me when I told you that this green beam was capable of destroying magic,” said Father Jacob.

  The bishop didn’t respond.

  Father Jacob regarded the man for a moment, then said quietly, “I take that back. You believed me, but you didn’t trust me. Because I am Freyan.”

  The bishop rose to his feet again. He strode over to the sideboard and was about to pour himself some wine. Brother Barnaby gave a gentle cough and shook his head. The bishop, sighing, resorted to water.

  “His Majesty and I thought Freya was behind these attacks,” the bishop said gravely. “We are being forced to reconsider that position. You see, Jacob, the tower that collapsed was in Freya.”

  “Good God!” Father Jacob exclaimed, caught by surprise.

  “The Archbishop of Kerringdon of the Freyan Church has not communicated with us in years, but he was concerned enough by what his crafters discovered that he asked for our help-not directly, of course, but through discreet channels.”

  “The inimitable Dubois?” Father Jacob asked.

  The grand bishop glared. “Do you know all my secrets?”

  He walked back to the desk, but he did not sit down. He stood frowning at it. “I know now I owe you an apology, Father Jacob. But since you are a man of logic, I am sure you can agree that I did have some reason to doubt your loyalty. That said, I prove my faith in you by entrusting you with this secret which, if it leaked out, could bring down the Church.”

  “I concede that you owe me an apology,” said Father Jacob coolly. “However, let us move on. If the Freyans are not the ones who have developed this weapon, then who? No other nation has the capability or the resources to develop such destructive power. You are certain it is not Freya?”

  “I wasn’t. Until now.”

  “The attack on the abbey,” Father Jacob said.

  The bishop laid his hand on a slender document that was rolled, bound, and sealed. “I have here the report of the attack written by the monk who was assigned as the nuns’ confessor. Brother Paul was absent the night of the attack. He did not live at the abbey, but in a small hermitage some miles away. He wrote an account of what he found on his return.”

  Father Jacob interrupted. “I trust I will be able to speak to this Brother Paul?”

  “Of course. He has been told to prepare for your arrival. The abbey-or what is left of it-is under guard. Nothing has been disturbed.”

  The bishop handed over the document. He glanced at the clock. “I have another appointment, Father. If you have any questions…” He paused, then said with some bitterness, “I don’t have the answers. God be with you.”

  Father Jacob understood that this discussion was at an end. He said a word to Brother Barnaby, who scribbled a final note and then began to pack up his writing desk.

  “Your Eminence asked to see my notes.” Brother Barnaby handed over what he had written.

  The bishop glanced at the page. “It looks like a chicken with inky feet has walked across the paper.”

  “Precisely,” said Father Jacob.

  The bishop shrugged and handed back the notes. Brother Barnaby carefully placed the sheets in the writing desk, along with the pen and the ink. Closing the desk, he indicated he was ready. Father Jacob rose to his feet.

  “I would very much like to speak to the monsignor about the Freyan tower collapse.”

  “That will not be necessary,” said the bishop curtly. “I told you everything. Please send a detailed report on the abbey as soon as you have concluded your investigation.”

  Father Jacob was not pleased. He could do nothing, however, except bow and leave the room. Once in the antechamber, he cast a swift glance about, hoping to be able to talk to the monsignor.

  “I could look for him, Father,” said Brother Barnaby.

  “Useless. The bishop will see to it that the man is stashed away someplace where I cannot lay my hands on him,” said Father Jacob irately. He rounded on their escort. “Leave us! I know the way perfectly well.”

  Father Jacob strode off. Brother Barnaby cast the escort a glance of apology for the father’s rude behavior, then hurried after him. Father Jacob stalked rapidly through the Bishop’s Palace, anger trailing in his wake like the flaming tail of a comet.

  Brother Barnaby clutched his lap desk to his chest and, being shorter than Father Jacob, was forced to run to keep up.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It is difficult when walking in darkness, carrying a lantern, to see beyond the circle of your own light. So it is that when a member of the Arcanum carries God’s light into the darkness, we walk with them, the Knight Protectors. We are sworn to defend our charges with our weapons, our courage, our faith and, ultimately, our lives.

  – The Journal of

  Sir Edward Beauchamp

  Order of the Knight Protectors

  SIR ANDER WALKED SWIFTLY ACROSS THE EXTENSIVE grounds of the Conclave of the Divine, taking the shortcut that led around the University, thereby saving at least half a mile. He eyed the students as he entered the quadrangle and thought, as usual, that they looked younger every year. Their faces made him recall those in Capione who had died so young and so needlessly. He shook his head, to shake them out of his thoughts, and continued on his way.

  The sight of the stolid, plain, unadorned motherhouse of the Knight Protectors was comforting, reassuring. Some things in this world never changed. He remembered coming here after being forced to witness the execution of his friend, Sir Julian de Guichen. He remembered going to the private chapel and sinking to his knees and giving way to raw rage and anger and grief, emotions he’d been forced to hold inside or risk losing his own life. He remembered the feeling of peace and calm that had come over him.

  “Your friend is in my care now,” God seemed to say. “His pain and suffering are ended. He has come home.”

  And so had Sir Ander.

  The seventh son of a Travian merchant, Ander Martel had no property to call his own. His oldest brother had inherited the family fortune and the modest house in Travia, a house Sir Ander remembered only vaguely. He had not been back to see his fam
ily since he had left them to join the Travian Military Academy at the age of twelve.

  At the age of twenty, he had been granted a knighthood by the Travian king for valor in action by leading the force that had rescued a Travian frigate captured by the Freyans during one of the many minor skirmishes between the two countries. Sir Ander had been invited by Sir Edward Beauchamp, a friend of his father’s, to the Rosian court. There, Ander had met the man who would come to be his best friend, Julian de Guichen. Both young men had fallen deeply in love with the young and beautiful Cecile de Marjolaine, but she had eyes and heart only for Julian.

  Sir Ander had accepted his defeat with good grace. Finding it too painful to be around Cecile, he had sought a way to leave the court. Sir Edward Beauchamp was a member of the Order of Knight Protectors. He had taken a keen interest in the young knight. He helped Sir Ander find direction in his life and solace for his lost love through faith. Sir Ander had applied to join the Knight Protectors and had been accepted.

  As he walked through the doors that stood open and seemingly unguarded, he remembered the youngster who had first walked through that gate over thirty years ago. Sir Ander looked back at that unhappy young man with sympathy and compassion and he said again a quiet thank you to Sir Edward Beauchamp, who had long ago gone to a well-deserved rest.

  The gates led into a narrow corridor paved with stone surrounded by stone walls. Shafts of sunlight shining through slit windows lit his way. At night, glowing sigils set in the walls lit the corridor. No guards were posted at the gate, no guards patrolled the corridor.

  Sir Ander smiled to himself. Anyone who was not supposed to be here would not have taken six steps through those gates before he was challenged at gunpoint. Ander nodded to the guards concealed in “watch holes” as they termed the closetlike rooms from which the knights observed all who entered their compound.

  The narrow corridor led to a large inner courtyard, open to the air, used for practicing all forms of martial arts from swordsmanship to archery (a skill in which Sir Ander had never excelled) to hand-to-hand combat. He crossed the courtyard and entered the double doors that led into a building housing the central offices of the motherhouse.