Brother Barnaby was always offended by this rude treatment of the priest. Father Jacob did not mind. Instead, he even toyed with people by suddenly stopping and fixing his gray-green eyes on them. His victims would grow pale and shrink, some would even break into a sweat. Father Jacob would then give them a cheery greeting and go on his way, chuckling to himself. Brother Barnaby thought he would never completely understand Father Jacob.
They passed through several gates, were questioned (briefly) by the gate guards, and finally gained entry to the palace. A young priest who acted as escort led them through the echoing halls of the palace, down corridors adorned with tapestries and paintings and life-sized marble statues depicting the saints and various episodes in their lives. Brother Barnaby had been to the Conclave of the Divine before, but never to the palace. He was awed by the magnificence and enthralled by the works of art. His steps lagged. He gazed about in wonder and sometimes, forgetting himself, he would come to a halt to gaze in rapture at a mural on the wall.
Father Jacob did not chide the monk or try to hasten him. The priest would stop, rocking on his heels, patiently waiting. Their escort, however, was extremely annoyed. He would hasten back to speak sternly to Father Jacob, reminding him that the grand bishop’s time was valuable.
“God works in wondrous ways, Father,” said Brother Barnaby in a low voice to Father Jacob as they walked the corridors of white marble, surrounded by saints and angels. “Yesterday, seeing the terrible work evil men do, I was cast down in despair. Today I see the work created by men blessed of God and I am filled with hope.”
Father Jacob smiled. Sir Ander had feared that Brother Barnaby would be wounded, his serenity disturbed, his gentle and kindly disposition destroyed by his exposure to the dark caverns, cruel wastelands and stinking swamps of the human mind. But as Sir Ander wore a cuirass enhanced with magical constructs when going into a potentially dangerous situation, Brother Barnaby went into battle accoutered in armor far stronger than the strongest, magically enhanced steel. He was armed with his faith.
Father Jacob had accepted Brother Barnaby as scribe and assistant for one reason-he was intrigued by the young man’s claim to have been led to him by the command of Saint Castigan. Father Jacob was intensely interested in the study of mankind and while he did not quite add Brother Barnaby to his collection of specimens, as he might have added a rare sort of beetle, he did look forward to studying a young man driven by such intense faith.
To Father Jacob’s credit, he would have immediately returned Brother Barnaby to his monastery if he had thought any harm could come to the young man. But as Father Jacob had told Sir Ander, “Brother Barnaby’s faith in God is not like water in a glass that will spill if the glass is broken. His faith will not evaporate or leak out through a crack. Brother Barnaby’s faith is the air he draws into his lungs and the blood that pulses in his veins and the quiet beating of his heart. His soul does not exist separate and apart from his body. His soul is his body and his body is his soul. You need have no fear for Brother Barnaby.”
The young monk did not blame God for the evil in the world. Nor did he rail against God or demand accountability. He often asked questions of Father Jacob, not because he doubted God, but for help in understanding.
“We imperfect creatures are constantly striving for perfection,” Brother Barnaby said, as they traversed the hall. “I’ve been thinking, Father. Perhaps men and women succumb to evil because they seek to achieve perfection too easily, without having to work to attain it. They give up the struggle and thus fall into the pit.”
“And how do we help such people?” Father Jacob asked.
Brother Barnaby considered this question. “Some priests would say we should stand on the rim of the pit and preach to those who have fallen. But I believe the only way to help them is to climb down into the pit and put our arms around them and lift them out.”
“You are a wise man, Brother,” said Father Jacob gravely.
Brother Barnaby was quite startled by this compliment and retreated into shy, if pleased, silence.
When Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby reached the offices of the grand bishop, they were ushered into the antechamber-a large room, beautifully decorated with more famous works of art. The ceiling was high and had been painted to depict the Breath with its twilight-orange-and-pink mists and white clouds, the sun, moon, and stars. The parquet wooden floor was covered with a sumptuous carpet into which the foot sank most pleasantly. Although the large room was occupied by many priests, seated at desks or busy at various tasks, the antechamber was so intensely quiet that Brother Barnaby tried to hush the sound of his breathing.
“Is that the grand bishop?” he whispered to Father Jacob.
Brother Barnaby was referring to a man dressed in a scarlet cassock bound with a broad golden sash and a white stole about his shoulders.
“That is the monsignor,” said Father Jacob, speaking loudly. The sudden intrusive sound caused all the priests to snap their heads up and glare at him in rebuke. “The monsignor serves His Eminence in much the same capacity as you serve me, Brother Barnaby.”
Having seen all he cared to see, Father Jacob strode rapidly forward, his black cassock swishing about his ankles. The priests followed his progression through the room with their eyes. The monsignor, seeing and hearing him, rose hurriedly from his desk.
“Father Jacob Northrop,” Father Jacob boomed and he added, unnecessarily, since the black cassock proclaimed him, “of the Arcanum.”
“His Eminence left instructions for you to be immediately admitted upon your arrival,” said the monsignor. “If you would accompany me.. .”
The monsignor placed his hands on the handles of a pair of double doors, beautifully and intricately carved of wood, and was about to open them when he saw Brother Barnaby.
The monsignor gave a delicate cough. “Your servant may wait for you here, Father Jacob,” he said. “He will be well cared for, of that you may be certain.”
“Brother Barnaby is not my servant,” said Father Jacob, his brows coming together in a frown. He latched onto Brother Barnaby’s arm. “He is my amanuensis and, as such, he goes everywhere with me.”
Brother Barnaby clasped the lap desk in both hands and lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “I don’t mind, Father.”
“I do,” said Father Jacob sternly, keeping fast hold of the monk.
The monsignor took a moment to consider, then said, “Very well.” He opened the doors and announced, “Father Jacob Northrop and… er
… Brother Barnaby.”
Grand Bishop Ferdinand Montagne motioned for them both to enter. He was seated at his desk, frowning over a small piece of paper which had been delivered last evening, but which the bishop had only received this morning.
“Please be seated, Father Jacob and Brother…”
The grand bishop had not caught Barnaby’s name. He dispensed with formalities by waving his hand at two chairs placed directly opposite his desk.
“If you will both excuse me one moment.”
The grand bishop motioned the monsignor to approach the desk and handed him a note. They both spoke in low tones, their voices soft. Father Jacob watched and listened with interest.
“Dubois sent this last night,” said the grand bishop softly. “He wrote it in haste. Can you make out what it says?”
The monsignor read the note. “‘ Find out what happened at the Royal Armory.’ ”
“That’s what I thought it said. Do you know what he means?”
“No, Your Eminence, I am afraid I have no idea.”
“Then do what it says. Find out.”