The monsignor nodded, bowed and, taking the note, left the room.
The bishop gave a sigh and ran his hand over his head. “Affairs of state,” he said by way of apology. “We always seem to find ourselves entangled in such matters, though most unwillingly.”
He sat down in his chair and looked directly at Father Jacob.
“How are you, Father Jacob? It has been some time since we last met.”
“I am well, Your Eminence. And you?”
“Not good, Father. Not good.” The grand bishop placed his hand on his stomach. “Dyspepsia. It seems that nothing I eat agrees with me. The pain and discomfort I experience is most debilitating.”
“If I might presume to suggest something, Your Eminence…” Brother Barnaby spoke up meekly.
The bishop looked at him, startled.
“Brother Barnaby is known for his healing skills,” said Father Jacob. “You would do well to listen to him, Your Eminence.”
“If your Eminence would mix ground gentian root with hot tea, drink this three times daily, eat only the blandest foods, and abstain from wine for at least a week, I believe you will show improvement.”
The grand bishop raised an eyebrow. “And you say this gentian root works, Brother?”
“I have had much success with it in the past, Your Eminence.”
The grand bishop rang a bell and a priest appeared in the doorway. “Bring me hot tea mixed with ground gentian root,” the bishop ordered.
The priest appeared slightly startled at the request, but he hastened to fill it.
“Now,” said the grand bishop with a heavy sigh, “we must discuss this terrible business.”
“At the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” said Father Jacob.
“The abbey and elsewhere,” said the grand bishop.
Father Jacob raised an eyebrow, then he glanced at Brother Barnaby and nodded. The young monk placed the lap desk he had been carrying on his knees, opened it, and drew out pen and paper and a small bottle of ink. He set the ink in a hole in the desk that kept the bottle stable, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and made ready to write.
The grand bishop frowned. “Is this man intending to take notes on what we say?”
“With the permission of Your Eminence, of course,” said Father Jacob. “I find-”
“You do not have my permission! What I am about to tell you is of a highly volatile nature! If anyone were to find out-”
“Your Eminence can rest easy,” said Father Jacob in soothing tones. “Brother Barnaby writes the notes in a special code I devised. He and I are the only ones who can read it. I will show Your Eminence what he has written before we leave and if you can decipher a word of it, I will destroy the notes immediately.
He added gravely, “These notes are critical to my work, Your Eminence. I would be laboring at an extreme disadvantage without them.”
“Why even bother to seek my permission,” the bishop grumbled. “Oh, very well. But I will look at these notes before you leave.”
Montagne wasn’t happy, but he was desperate. He rose to his feet and began to pace restlessly back and forth behind the desk as he talked.
“You know my secret, Father Jacob. The secret that keeps me awake at night and eats holes in my stomach.”
“The secret that magic in the world, the Breath of God, is being destroyed,” said Father Jacob.
Brother Barnaby looked up, astonished. Father Jacob glanced at him and nodded slightly. Brother Barnaby’s pen scratched across the paper.
“Recently, the situation has grown more dire,” said the bishop. “Magical constructs have begun breaking down at an alarming rate. I am hearing reports from crafters that they require more and more time to maintain the existing constructs.”
The bishop stopped in his pacing, stood frowning down at the carpet, then suddenly lifted his head and turned to face Father Jacob directly.
“To put it bluntly, Jacob, magic is failing! It is failing in all parts of Rosia, and now I have received a report of the same occurring in Freya. Magical sigils are weakening at an alarming rate. The Church has managed to stave off panic by telling people that the magic is cyclical, that every few hundred years the magic wanes as the moon wanes and waxes. We maintain that we are in a part of the cycle where the magic is weak and that it will eventually come back.”
“You do realize that what you are saying is bullshit, Your Eminence,” said Father Jacob crudely.
Brother Barnaby raised his head and blinked his eyes.
“Pardon my language, Eminence,” Father Jacob continued, “but magic is not ‘cyclical.’”
“I know that,” the grand bishop said irritably. He extended his hands in pleading. “But what else can we say? That the magic is dying? That the Breath is being sucked out of our world? That God is gasping for air? Do we tell the populace that some day soon their houses will collapse? Their airships will drop out of the skies? Do we tell them that some of the continents are starting to sink and that doomsday may not be long in coming? Do we tell them this?”
Father Jacob was silent, grave. The only sound in the room was Barnaby’s pen crawling across the paper and, occasionally, the tinkling sound of the nib touching the rim of the inkwell as he refreshed his ink.
“Well?” said the bishop shortly. “What do you have to say, Father?”
“That what I predicted eight years ago is now come to pass,” said Father Jacob.
“Damn it, Jacob!” the grand bishop swore angrily and struck the desk with his clenched fist. “How can you be so goddamn cool about this? I know that I blaspheme, but if the blessed Saint Dennis himself were standing here, I have no doubt he would say the same!”
“I assume this has something to do with the massacre at the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” said Father Jacob. “Since that is why you sent for me.”
The bishop sighed deeply, ran his hand through his hair, belched, grimaced, and lowered himself back down in his chair.
“It does, but there is more you must know before I tell you. A few weeks ago, a watchtower collapsed. The tower was old, but the crafter mason who maintained the magical constructs that strengthened the stonework has sworn on the sacred writings of the Four Saints that the constructs were in perfect condition. Twenty soldiers were inside the structure when it fell. All of them were killed.”
Brother Barnaby said a prayer for the dead beneath his breath as he made the notation.
“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.”