“I’d like to hear our conversation,” said Sir Ander, after long moments of continued silence.
Father Jacob stirred. “I’m sorry. I am still trying to make sense of what I have discovered. I hope the two of you can help me. You will recall I managed to retrieve that remnant of the demon’s remains yesterday. I spent the night studying it. As I thought, we are not dealing with forces of Aertheum or legions from Hell. Though, as I told Captain de Guichen, it depends on how one defines Hell…”
He again fell quiet. Sir Ander waited in foreboding, not certain he wanted to hear. Brother Barnaby’s pen stopped scratching. The only sound was the wind whistling through the empty hallways.
“The demons are, as I suspected, humans,” Father Jacob said at length.
“I don’t suppose any of us really believed they were demons,” said Sir Ander. He caught Father Jacob’s eye. “Well, maybe I did, but just for a moment…”
Brother Barnaby was sorrowful, grieving. “I could almost wish they had been demons.”
“I know, Brother,” said Father Jacob quietly. He regarded the monk with an odd intensity. “It is hard to think that human beings could commit such terrible atrocities as we have witnessed. Yet, there is no doubt. I found a part of a human skull inside the burned helmet.”
“Human.” Sir Ander shook his head. “But why the elaborate disguise?”
“We are meant to think they are demons. The demonic mask fosters fear,” said Father Jacob. “Brother Paul and those sailors all believe they were attacked by demons, which is why I placed them under Seal. If they went around telling people that Aertheum was launching a war against humanity, the panic among the populace would be incalculable. Their demonic aspect is designed to play upon the fears that dwell in our hearts from childhood, the terrors that assail us in the dead of night.”
Father Jacob sighed and rubbed his eyes. His shoulders sagged; he was gray with fatigue. “Terrors that are well-founded.”
“What do you mean?” Sir Ander asked.
“The helm the man was wearing was made of leather. But these people, whoever they are, did not use animal hide. The leather hide was from a human.”
Brother Barnaby dropped the pen. He had gone so pale, the ebony skin going gray, that Sir Ander hastened to pour him a glass of wine.
“Steady, Brother,” said Sir Ander. He flashed an irate glare at Father Jacob.
“He needs to know the truth,” said Father Jacob sternly. “These people spoke to him. Remember?”
Barnaby shuddered at the memory, but went on to say that he was all right. He drank the wine at Sir Ander’s insistence and managed a smile that was meant to be reassuring. But Sir Ander could see the lingering shadow of horror and loathing in the young monk’s eyes; a horror he knew must be a reflection of his own.
“These are not humans, Father. They are monsters!” Sir Ander exclaimed heatedly. “How could you tell if the leather was…”
He glanced at Brother Barnaby, trying to hold the pen in trembling fingers and could not say the words. “What you said it was.”
“What I have discovered will not be easy to hear, Brother Barnaby.”
“I am myself again, Father,” said Brother Barnaby. “I will not fail you. Please go on.”
He held the pen poised over the paper, his hand steady.
“When I touched the helm, I felt intense pain,” said Father Jacob. “The pain did not come from the so-called demon. The pain was from the victim whose skin had been used to make the leather. I had a vision of a man tied to a rock, while other men were flaying the flesh from his bones. He was alive during the heinous procedure.”
Sir Ander’s gut clenched. He rose to his feet and, wiping his hand over his mouth, took a walk around the garden. Brother Barnaby recorded the information. A tear dropped on the page, but he hastily whisked it away and continued writing.
“Are they Freyans?” said Sir Ander harshly, coming back to resume his seat. “No offense, Father, but I have to ask.”
“No, they are not. There are indications-” Father Jacob shook his head and fell silent.
“So who are they?” Sir Ander demanded.
Father Jacob looked again at Brother Barnaby, as though he could provide the answer. The monk was completing a sentence and did not notice. Father Jacob rose to his feet with a grimace and massaged his back.
“You could use the Corpse spell,” said Sir Ander abruptly.
“I could,” said Father Jacob. “I did.”
Sir Ander had witnessed the priest performing the magical spell that could be used to determine the identity of corpses. The energy of a living person remained with the body for a long time after death. Father Jacob used his magic to cause this so-called “ghost” to materialize. The use of such magic was forbidden to all except those of the Arcanum, who were often called to identify bodies that had been burned or mutilated. Unless the bones were too old, the spell could sometimes be used to identify skeletal remains. Contrary to popular opinion, the ghost that was summoned by the magic did not speak to the loved ones. It was not capable of pointing to a murderer, nor did it go flitting about graveyards, fling dinner plates, or dwell in attics. A portrait artist would make a likeness of the ghostly face and, once this was done, the priest would end the spell and the ghost would fade away.
“The spell takes a long time to cast and requires a vast store of energy,” said Father Jacob wearily. “I am exhausted.”
“What did you find out?” Sir Ander asked. “What did you see?”
Father Jacob continued to regard Brother Barnaby as he spoke. “I saw a man with pallid skin, white as milk, with a sickly yellowish hue. He had unusual eyes, large with enormous pupils. Given the abnormally pale skin and strange eyes, I theorize this person had been born to darkness, had been raised in darkness-”
“The Bottom Dwellers,” Brother Barnaby said softly. He let the pen drop. His gaze was abstracted, looking inward.
“Is that what they called themselves?” Father Jacob asked quietly. “When they spoke to you?”
Brother Barnaby nodded. “They said the same to Gythe, only in her language.”
Sir Ander was about to interrupt. Father Jacob raised an urgent, warding hand.
“Continue, Brother,” he said.
“That’s all. I don’t know…” Brother Barnaby appeared distressed. “Except… they hate us…”
“Indeed they do,” said Father Jacob. “Even after death, the rage felt by the dead man lived on, radiating from the corpse. I had never seen the like before now. I did not know such hatred was possible.”
He sighed deeply and said sadly, “Yet, perhaps, they have good reason to hate us.”
Brother Barnaby stirred and regarded Father Jacob with wondering anguish. “Who are they, Father?”
“And what bottom do they dwell in?” Sir Ander asked, looking skeptical.
“I do not know for certain,” said Father Jacob slowly, seeming to talk to himself, as though thinking his thought process out loud. “But I have my suspicions. Recall your history lessons. Long ago, the nations of Aeronne banded together to rid the world of pirates, who were taking shelter on the Trundler island of Glasearrach. War crafters of both Freya and Rosia and the other nations came together to use powerful magicks to sink the island, dooming the pirates and those innocents who had refused to heed the order to flee to certain death in the foul mists of the Breath below.”
Father Jacob raised his eyes. “But what if those people on the island did not die?”
“Merciful God in Heaven!” Sir Ander exclaimed. “You can’t be serious, Father? You are saying they live in the depths of the Breath? That is not possible. We know that no one could survive down there!”
“We have long theorized that no one could survive,” Father Jacob corrected. “We do not know for certain. The pirates were said to be dabbling in contramagic, the reason the Church advocated the sinking of the island to stop the spread of heresy.”
Sir Ander swallowed. “Which is why these fiends want to silence the Voice of God.”