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 family 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.