“I told him that Father Jacob tends to be irresponsible in tossing about magical spells and that I feared that if his magic went awry around the weaponry, he’d blow himself up and the rest of us along with him. Which is not exactly a lie,” Sir Ander added dryly.
“I see. I’ve heard rumors…” Sir Conal paused, then said, “I sometimes wonder what would happen to weapons imbued with magic if for some reason the magic ceased to work. Pistols wouldn’t fire-”
“Or they would blow off your hand,” said Sir Ander. He fixed Sir Conal with an intense gaze. “That’s what they are, you know. Just rumors.” He paused, frowning down at the guns, and then said impulsively, “I wish-” He stopped and sighed.
“Wish what?” asked Sir Conal.
Sir Ander forced a smile. “I wish I was drinking some of that remarkable old port I know you have stashed away in the wine cellar.”
He took two pistols and powder horns from the box and then closed the lid, leaving three pistols inside. “I’ll leave these here. In case.”
He didn’t say in case of what, but Sir Conal nodded gravely. Sir Ander shut the gate to his storage cell and locked it and returned the keys to the ring on the wall.
“We’ll pick up a bottle of port on our way past the wine cellar,” said Sir Conal.
“I’ll meet you in the dining hall,” said Sir Ander. “First I want to stop by the chapel and pay my respects to God. Then I need to go to the Bursar’s to make arrangements to pay for these pistols.” He gave a shrug. “Good-bye military pension.”
“I am certain God will be glad to hear from you,” said Sir Conal, “but you need not bother the Bursar. The pistols are a gift, it seems. Someone else has paid for them.”
“A gift?” Sir Ander repeated, astonished.
“The bill came in from the Armory marked ‘Paid.’ ”
“But who?” Sir Ander asked, puzzled. “Not Father Jacob. He doesn’t know anything about them.”
“You must have a secret admirer,” said Sir Conal.
Sir Ander remembered the letters with the lavender seal, and he flushed. He knew who had paid for the pistols and was pleased, at first, to think that Cecile de Marjolaine was thinking of him. On reflection, he was not so pleased. He was glad he did not have to impoverish himself in order to pay for the pistols, but he didn’t like the thought that the countess was spying on him.
Sir Ander had not seen Cecile de Marjolaine in years, although they did frequently correspond. Sir Ander had been to court. He knew the ways of the court and he knew Cecile de Marjolaine. Thinking of her, he remembered the desperate battle she waged all alone and regretted his twinge of resentment. He thought he knew why she was watching him, why she had given him the pistols.
Sir Conal had been observing his friend’s face and said with a grin and a wink, “Ah, these pistols came from some lady.”
“A very great lady,” said Sir Ander gravely, and he and Sir Conal left to pursue their reunion over a bottle of port, which was every bit as good as Sir Ander had remembered.
Father Jacob arrived at the motherhouse of the Knight Protectors in a foul mood. He barked at the startled young squire on desk duty, demanding where to find Sir Ander. The squire said politely that he didn’t know, but he would go look. Father Jacob told the squire he was a blithering idiot and began shouting Sir Ander’s name in a thunderous voice that echoed off the rafters.
Confronted by the fearsome black cassock of the Arcanum and a priest who appeared to be more than a little insane, the squire bolted from the desk and ran in search of Sir Ander. He had already heard the commotion and, sighing, drank the last of his port. He hurried down the stairs to find Father Jacob pacing back and forth impatiently.
“There you are!” Father Jacob snapped in a tone that implied that he’d been waiting for Sir Ander for weeks.
“Here I am,” said Sir Ander imperturbably. “I was thinking we might take supper-”
“The devil with supper! We are leaving now. I have sent Brother Barnaby to ready Retribution. I will meet you at the landing site. And don’t dawdle!”
The priest glared at him, turned on his heel, and stalked out.
Sir Ander heaved a deep sigh, then shrugged and gave a rueful smile.
“Something’s up, seemingly,” he said to Sir Conal, who had limped after him. “So much for supper and another glass of that wonderful port. Farewell, Conal. Use the gift in good health.”
“Farewell, my friend,” said Sir Conal. He cast an apprehensive glance after Father Jacob. “And good luck!”
The two friends shook hands and then embraced. With the taste of the port, like drinking honeyed chocolate, warming his mouth, Sir Ander departed the motherhouse, new pistols tucked into his belt, the letters in his inner coat pocket.
Arriving at the landing site, he found Brother Barnaby fussing over the wyverns. Father Jacob was nowhere to be found.
“He’s inside the yacht,” said Brother Barnaby in a low voice, “writing a dispatch to be sent to Master Savoraun by swift courier. He’s in a terrible state!” he added in a whisper.
“What happened with the bishop? Why the rush?” Sir Ander asked, glancing askance at the yacht and keeping his voice down.
“I will let Father Jacob tell you himself,” said Brother Barnaby circumspectly. “You know that I sometimes misspeak.”
“I know that you strictly observe your vow of secrecy,” said Sir Ander with a smile. “Even when it comes to me. And I honor you for it.”
Brother Barnaby’s dark skin darkened further with pleasure and embarrassment. The young monk scratched one of the wyverns on its head between its eyes. The wyvern gave a rumbling sigh of pleasure, while its partner attempted to shove its head under Brother’s Barnaby’s soothing hand. Sir Ander reflected that if he tried petting a wyvern, he would end up missing an arm.
“The wyverns haven’t had nearly enough rest,” said Brother Barnaby with a fond and worried look for his beasts. “They can travel only a couple of hours before we will be forced to stop. I tried telling Father Jacob…”
“Useless,” said Sir Ander. “When he’s in this sort of mood, a sixty-four-gun ship of the line couldn’t stop him. Don’t worry. Once he’s stomped around the yacht for an hour and aired his frustrations, he’ll calm down. Of course, we’ll have to listen to him-”
The hatch banged open and Father Jacob came bounding out. He looked around, then glowered.
“Where’s that godforsaken courier!” he demanded, waving his letter. “Why isn’t he here by now?”
“You only just sent for him-” Brother Barnaby began.
“The man is on the way,” said Sir Ander, seeing the wyverns bristle at the priest’s strident tones. “I’ll take charge of your letter, see that the courier gets it.”
“Complete incompetence!” said Father Jacob, scowling. “I’ll be inside the yacht. Let me know when he comes.”
He disappeared. The hatch banged shut.
“Perhaps I should go look for the courier,” Brother Barnaby said worriedly
“No, you won’t, because then he’d be in an uproar as to where you’d gone,” said Sir Ander. “Just keep pampering your wyverns. I’ll take this opportunity to read my mail. Let me know when the courier arrives.”
Brother Barnaby nodded and continued fussing over his charges. Sir Ander walked over to a bench beneath a shady maple tree and sat down. He quickly scanned the letters from a family he scarcely knew (he could never keep track of the various nieces and nephews) and then, with a feeling of pain mixed with pleasure, he drew out the letters with the lavender seals.
He was aware of a faint scent of jasmine as he broke the first seal. The scent evoked memories. He could envision Cecile quite clearly; even hear her voice speak from the firm, feminine handwriting on the pages.
She wrote to him often, at least once a month and sometimes more. He wrote to her sporadically. Sir Ander disliked writing letters. He wasn’t any good at it. He never knew what to say. Most of his work for the Arcanum he was forbidden to talk about, and the rest of his life was mundane. He was aware that his lapse in responding to her letters did not bother Cecile. She wrote to him for one reason and that was to keep him informed about his godson, Stephano.