Father Jacob only grunted. His gaze grew abstracted. He chewed thoughtfully on a hunk of beef and said suddenly, “Do you know what strikes me as odd about this atrocity we’ve been sent to investigate?”
“I have no idea,” said Sir Ander, finally sitting down to breakfast. “Has Brother Barnaby eaten anything?”
“I offered to drive while he ate, but he said he wasn’t hungry.”
“God forgive the good monk the sin of lying,” Sir Ander said to himself, inwardly smiling. Aloud he remarked, “What do you find odd?”
“Dubois,” said Father Jacob.
“Dubois? Who is Dubois?” Sir Ander asked, startled.
“A remarkable man. One might say, a very remarkable man. He has a mind like a rat terrier. Once he sinks his teeth into the meat of a problem, he never lets go. Dubois is the bishop’s most valued agent. Dubois is to the bishop what the Countess de Marjolaine is to His Majesty.”
Sir Ander felt his face grow warm at the mention of the countess, warmth radiating perhaps from the letters in his breast pocket. He hoped Father Jacob wouldn’t notice. Fortunately, Father Jacob was engaged in holding a loaf of bread on the table in an attempt to slice it without slicing his fingers.
“The bishop mentioned Dubois’ name as Brother Barnaby and I were in his office.”
“He mentioned it to you?”
“Well, no,” said Father Jacob. “He was talking to the monsignor-”
“-and you were eavesdropping.”
Father Jacob smiled slightly and shrugged. “Dubois and I worked together many years ago, before your time. He was low in the ranks then, but he has since advanced to become the bishop’s right hand, his ears and, in some cases, his brain. Dubois sent a note to the bishop wanting to know about something happening in the Royal Armory. And it has something to do with Henry Wallace.”
“Wallace?” Sir Ander was alarmed. “He’s not still after you, is he?”
“I’m sure Sir Henry would be extremely pleased to hear of my demise,” said Father Jacob cheerfully. “But, no, I don’t think the man is pursuing me. Not after all these years. He has moved on to more important matters.”
“Something happening at the Royal Armory?” Sir Ander looked exasperated. “We’re investigating the tragic murder of one hundred nuns. What could the Royal Armory possibly have to do with that?”
“Nothing that I can fathom,” said Father Jacob. “And that’s what I find odd.”
“You’ve lost me,” said Sir Ander.
“The grand bishop calls upon Dubois to deal with matters which are of the utmost importance,” said Father Jacob. “One would think a hundred murdered nuns would fall into that category. And, yet, Dubois is poking about the Royal Armory. Although if Wallace is involved.. .”
Father Jacob fell into a musing silence.
Sir Ander eyed the priest, saw he was drifting off course. Sir Ander forked cold beef on a slice of bread and said sternly, “What could be more important than this terrible attack on the abbey?”
“Something happening at the Royal Armory apparently,” said Father Jacob in thoughtful tones. “I can’t help but wonder what. Ah, well.” He shrugged. “No sense wasting time worrying about it.”
He says that, Sir Ander thought, but I know better. This Dubois fellow isn’t the only terrier who doesn’t know when to let go. Though Father Jacob might be considered more like a bulldog in that respect.
“I read through this report the bishop gave me on the abbey. The report from the unknown Brother Paul.” Father Jacob shoved over a sheet of paper covered with close, jagged handwriting. “Read that. I want your opinion.”
Sir Ander smoothed out the paper. Whoever Brother Paul was, he had obviously written the report in a state of great agitation-portions were scratched out, notes had been scrawled in the margins. Sir Ander had considerable difficulty deciphering the brother’s hysterical penmanship. Fortunately, the report wasn’t long.
“I pray to God we find the bastards responsible for these atrocities!” Sir Ander said grimly when he had finished reading. “One survivor, and that poor young woman driven out of her wits by the horror.”
“Out of her wits.” Father Jacob raised an eyebrow. “You believe she is crazy?”
“Don’t you?” Sir Ander gestured to the report with a bit of bread. “She talks about demons riding on the backs of gigantic bats with glowing eyes of fire…”
“Brother Paul doesn’t think she is crazy. I quote: ‘Demonic legions of Aertheum the Fallen attacked the nuns in response to their godly work.’ Demons ‘hurling balls of glowing green flame’…”
Father Jacob tapped his knife on the table. “Does that put you in mind of something? A certain cutter, maybe?”
Sir Ander stopped with the bread halfway to his mouth. “The Defiant? The cutter was attacked by a ship armed with a weapon that fired a green flame, but those were pirates, not fiends riding giant bats.”
“His Eminence noted the connection. That’s why he sent for me to investigate.”
“But, still, giant bats?” Sir Ander appealed to reason.
“The nun said one thing that I found particularly instructive. See if you come to the same conclusion.”
Sir Ander read back through the report and shook his head. “I don’t know what-”
“‘The demon yelped…’” Father Jacob repeated the words with relish, seeming to savor them.
Sir Ander looked blank. “I don’t understand. What is so important about that?”
“You don’t find it interesting? Ah, well, perhaps I’m jumping at shadows,” said Father Jacob. “No use speculating. I look forward to talking with our sole witness. According to Brother Paul, the nun’s injuries were not severe.”
“Injuries to her body, maybe,” said Sir Ander gravely.
“We are coming up on the abbey, Father,” Brother Barnaby relayed from the driver’s seat. “You can see the two spires of the cathedral. And”-Brother Barnaby caught his breath-“there’s a dragon, Father! Flying over the abbey!”
Sir Ander bolted a last bite of bread and beef and hastened to join Father Jacob, who had gone out the hatch to sit with Brother Barnaby.
Below the yacht the land was wild and untamed-jagged hills covered with brush and scrub trees from which rose strange and grotesque rock formations. The sun sparkled on streams and glinted off a river winding back and forth upon itself through hollows and ravines.
The abbey had been constructed centuries ago on a large promontory that jutted out into the Breath. The twin spires of the cathedral stood in lonely, haughty isolation, dominating and defying the wilderness.
The Abbey of Saint Agnes was ancient; its history murky. The decision to build their abbey in this remote part of Rosia had been made by an order of monks who had vowed to shun the world, spend their days and nights in worship. The early buildings had consisted of a single large, crude wooden structure where the monks slept and a small and humble church. The monks built a high stone wall around their compound and lived their lives behind it.
The monks did not venture into the world, but they could not escape it. The world came to them. King Alfonso the Third, who ruled over eight hundred years ago, was involved in secret and delicate negotiations with the foreign minister of Travia. Surrounded by spies in the royal court, the king contacted the Prince-Abbot of the Abbey of Saint Castigan, as it was known then, to ask if he could meet the minister at the abbey. The prince-abbot reluctantly agreed. The meeting was successful, and both His Majesty and the minister gave substantial donations to the order by way of thanks.
Word went round among the princes of all nations that if they wanted a secure place for any type of secret liaison or assignation, they could find safe haven in the Abbey of Saint Castigan. Kings and nobles who visited the abbey made donations to the abbey’s coffers. The order spent their wealth on building a beautiful cathedral, a dortoir, a comfortable guesthouse with stables for wyverns, griffins, and horses and carriages, and docks for airships.