Blood. Fresh blood.
Dargent sighed deeply. He guessed that the old man had returned from the palace to catch the searchers in the act. They had beaten him, then had either kidnapped him to see what he knew or they’d taken away the corpse. Leaving the house, Dargent told his carriage driver not to spare his whip.
The countess received the disturbing news regarding the ransacking of Stephano’s house and the disappearance of Benoit with a raised eyebrow and a deepening of the frown line on her forehead.
“Thank you for trying,” she said to Dargent. “You may go now.”
When he was gone and she was alone, the countess sank down in her chair. She tried to think what to do, how to warn Stephano that he was about to unwittingly cross swords with Sir Henry Wallace, spymaster, assassin, a man she considered the most dangerous man in all the world.
The countess had agents in Westfirth. She could alert them, tell them to find Stephano. She ruled that out. Sir Henry had his own agents in Westfirth and his agents knew her agents, just as her agents knew his. In using any agent to warn Stephano to keep away from Sir Henry, she might inadvertently lead Sir Henry right to him.
Yet, if she did not warn Stephano…
Night was falling. The servants came to light the candles. The countess sent them away. She preferred to sit alone in the darkness, her head resting on her hand. She would have to apprise His Majesty of the situation regarding Sir Henry Wallace or at least some part of the situation, the part she chose to tell. Alaric would be upset, but she knew how to handle him. He was not the problem that concerned her, deeply concerned her.
Closing her eyes, the countess brought Stephano’s face to mind; the face so like his father’s that her heart constricted with pain every time her son smiled.
“Julian, my love, my own dear love,” Cecile de Marjolaine whispered softly, “Be with our boy!”
Chapter Eleven
Man is imperfect and thus our understanding of God is imperfect. This lack is most evident in the understanding of God’s gift, Magic. We have learned to use magic for His glory, but I fear there are those who seek to use magic for His downfall. Beware the quiet night, when the dark voice whispers in your ear, for the magic in his voice is corruption.
– Writings of Saint Dennis
SIR ANDER MARTEL WAS KNIGHT PROTECTOR to Father Jacob Northrop, a priest representing that most mysterious and greatly feared order of the Church known as the Arcanum. As Knight Protector, Sir Ander had pledged before God to hold the life of this priest as a sacred trust, to lay down his own life in defense of the priest, to protect and shield him from all harm.
Far easier pledged than done, Sir Ander gloomily reflected as he removed the cuirass, marked with the emblem of the Knight Protectors, and enhanced with magical constructs, his helm and other accouterments before placing them in the yacht’s built-in storage locker. He kept his armor and his weapons close to hand. One never knew, when traveling with Father Jacob, when they would be needed.
Sir Ander flung himself down in a chair and tried to sleep, without success. Whenever he started to drift off into slumber, lulled by the gentle swaying of the airborne yacht, he saw again the horrific scenes of last night’s bloody debacle in the town of Capione and was jolted back into unpleasant wakefulness.
Sir Ander looked with envy and some bitterness at his companion, Father Jacob, who was sleeping quite soundly. The priest slept in the same position always, lying on his back, his hands resting on his chest, fingers clasped, his body completely relaxed.
Never mind that eleven soldiers had lost their lives last night, half a city block had been destroyed, and months of careful planning had literally gone up in flames. Never mind that the yacht, specially designed for a priest of the Arcanum, was now speeding through the night in reply to an urgent summons from the grand bishop. Father Jacob could still sleep soundly and even, to add insult to injury, snore.
“The mind is the ruler, the body is the subject,” Father Jacob often said. “When the mind tells the body it is time for sleep, the body should obey. The inability to fall asleep when and where you desire means your body is tyrannizing your mind; something I never permit.”
Sir Ander shifted about on the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. He could have made up the yacht’s other bed, which was now a bench, but Sir Ander disliked lying down when the yacht was airborne. The swaying motion always made him feel slightly queasy.
He thrust out his long legs and settled himself in the chair, chin on his chest, and gave up the fight for sleep. He was once more in the flames and smoke of the battle last night, a battle they thought they had won, only to discover that even with all their careful plans, their quarry, a man known to his deluded followers as the Warlock, had managed to escape…
The soldiers who had survived the assault and finally fought their way into the coven’s hideout searched among the dead on orders of Father Jacob. They found a body in the wreckage that matched the description of the Warlock: a young man of about seventeen or eighteen years of age with blond hair, blond beard and mustache, and intense blue eyes. Those blue eyes were now wide open and staring in death. They could not tell how he had died. There was no blood on the corpse, no sign of a wound.
The soldiers set a guard over the room and sent word to Sir Ander and Father Jacob that they had found the Warlock and that he was dead. No one went near the corpse. Father Jacob had warned the soldiers that if they found their way into the Warlock’s inner sanctum, they were to be careful not to touch anything-an order the soldiers were happy to obey.
The room was below ground level; the walls and floor lined with stone. Two rows of thick wooden pillars supported a vaulted stone ceiling. On the pillars were sigils of warding and protection. Brass lamps shed a dim light throughout the room. Small cells had been built in the middle of each wall. Iron bars enclosed each cell, leaving just room enough for a person to stand. Each contained the body of one of the coven’s many victims. All of them had died horribly, in some depraved manner.
Sir Ander was not a crafter. He did not have a magical bone in his body, as the saying went. Yet he was able to feel the dark magic in that room hiss and sputter like the fuse of a bomb. Bodies of the Warlock’s allies lay on the floor, some torn apart by bullets, others burned to death, victims of their own black magic gone awry. All the victims were young, none of them above twenty years of age. Sir Ander had seen death in many gruesome forms on the field of battle, but the horror of this sight, as he entered the room, made his stomach roil.
“God save us!” whispered a voice at his elbow.
The knight turned to find Brother Barnaby standing at his side. Sir Ander was startled. He had not realized Brother Barnaby had tagged along after them. The young monk was always so quiet and self-effacing, one tended to forget he was around.
Barely in his twenties himself, Brother Barnaby was slight of build, with intelligent brown eyes and a fine-boned face. His skin was the onyx color of those who dwell in the Galiar region, east of Argonne. His hair was blue-black, shaved in the tonsure. Despite his appearance, he was strong and capable, far stronger than he looked.
Sir Ander regarded the young monk with concern.
“Brother Barnaby, you should not be a witness to this sad scene. Go wait for us back at our lodgings.”
“I have a letter for Father Jacob, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, clutching a folded and sealed document. “It just arrived, forwarded to the Father from the Arcanum. And I have a message from one of the Bishop’s Own, who flew to Capione on griffin-back and needs to speak to Father Jacob most urgently.”