“The chest was heavy, covered with dirt and cobwebs. I managed to haul it down, though I nearly fell off the ladder in the process. I set it on the floor and dusted it off as best I could. The chest was magic-locked and cost me considerable effort to open it.
“Inside were five slim volumes, all bound in leather with no title on the covers. I opened the first one to a frontispiece, very elaborate art, which appeared to be have been drawn by the author, consisting of his name and title all done in fancy lettering. The name was: Cividae. The year was 721 GF (Grand Founding).”
“Interesting,” said Father Jacob.
“Why? Who was this Cividae?” asked Sir Ander.
“Prince-Abbot of this abbey during the war with the Pirate King and the subsequent descent into the Dark Time,” said Father Jacob. “The Abbey of Saint Agnes was then known as the Abbey of Saint Castigan-Brother Barnaby’s patron saint.”
Brother Barnaby smiled and shifted the writing desk he was carrying to a more comfortable position. They had rounded the north corner of the wall. The front gate faced south, so they had a considerable way to walk before they reached it.
“The reason you sent for me was something you found in the prince-abbot’s journals, or so I’m guessing,” said Father Jacob.
“Yes, Father. The journals were written in the old Church language, Rosaelig. I couldn’t read a lot of it. But one word kept appearing over and over-a name, as if this prince-abbot were writing about this person.”
“And this name was-”
“Dennis, Father.”
“Dennis!” Sir Ander exclaimed, taken aback. “You don’t mean… Saint Dennis?”
“Of course, he does,” said Father Jacob. His tone was cool, but his eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement. “We have long known that after Saint Dennis left his home in Travis, he traveled to Rosia. We always wondered where he went. It makes sense that he would have come here to this reclusive place to pursue his studies of magic in solitude.”
“I found another word I could read, Father. A word that wasn’t written in Rosaelig and was easy to spot, because the writer consistently underlined it. I was rocked back on my heels so to speak when I saw this word, Father. I went all over gooseflesh. Here.” Albert reached into his coat and brought out a small piece of paper. “I was so struck by it that I used my magic to lift the word off the paper and set it down on another sheet. I dared not write it in the letter.”
He opened the paper and held it out. Sir Ander and Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby gathered around, gazing down at the word that was written in a neat and precise hand and, as Albert had said, had been underlined.
Contramagic
Sir Ander looked at the word, then looked at Father Jacob. The knight’s expression was dark. Brother Barnaby looked at the word and involuntarily moved back a step and raised his hand to ward off evil.
“ ‘Contramagic.’ ” Father Jacob read the word in a murmur, scarcely heard. “Yes, it was wise you did not write this down, Master Albert. You could be tried for heresy.”
He drew in a deep breath, then let it slowly sigh out. “I must see this journal, Albert.”
“I wish you could, Father,” said Albert in an unhappy tone. “At the moment that’s not possible. The journal disappeared.”
“What do you mean ‘disappeared?’ ” Father Jacob asked sharply. “Was it lost in the attack? Destroyed?”
“No, Father. The journal wasn’t in the abbey when it was attacked. The theft occurred long before the attack, the day after I sent the letter to you. I was alarmed by what I had found. If anyone knew I was reading about such forbidden knowledge I would be arrested. I removed the journal from the library to my yacht. I asked permission of the abbess first, of course. I told her and I told Brother Paul that I was interested in the abbey’s history, about Saint Dennis and the fact that he’d spent time here…”
Father Jacob frowned and shook his head. “That was a mistake, Albert.”
“I did not tell anyone about this… word, Father!” Albert looked haggard. “I’ve been terrified to even think it, much less speak it!”
“You mentioned nothing about contramagic,” Father Jacob said, thoughtful. “Only Saint Dennis. What did the abbess say?”
“She had worries enough of her own and wasn’t the least bit interested in Saint Dennis. She readily gave me permission to study the journal, provided that I returned the volume when I was finished.”
“Brother Paul?”
“He said only that my time in this world would be better spent in doing good works than in reading about them. I translated part of the journal that day, then my eyes gave out and I needed a break. I had found a trout stream not far from here and I decided to go catch my dinner. I left the door to my room key-locked and magic-locked and magic-sealed and a protective spell on the journals. When I came back, the lock on the door had not been tampered with. The magic-lock had not been broken. The magic seal remained intact. The journal was gone.”
Father Jacob frowned. “If it were any other crafter, I would say you had been careless in your spell-casting. But I know your work, Albert, and I know you. You are one of the best. Obviously it was stolen.”
Albert gave a sigh of relief. “I am glad you trust me, Father. I was afraid you would think I had been negligent.”
“But who would steal it?” Sir Ander demanded. “The nuns? This Brother Paul? They were the only people around. Why would they steal a book that had been in their own library for centuries?”
“Because they didn’t know it was there,” said Father Jacob. “Because someone knew or suspected that the blessed Saint Dennis was here seeking forbidden knowledge.”
Brother Barnaby was distressed. “You cannot believe Saint Dennis was a heretic, Father.”
“Of course, not. He was seeking the truth. And knowledge should not be forbidden, Brother,” said Father Jacob, his brows coming together, his fist clenching. “No grand bishop, no king, no authority in the world has the right to dictate what we think, to prevent us from studying, from learning, from discovering!”
Brother Barnaby shrank back, dismayed by the priest’s passion. Sir Ander drew him to one side.
“You touched a sore spot, Brother. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”
“He’s very angry with me, I fear,” said Brother Barnaby unhappily.
“Not with you, Brother,” Sir Ander sighed and repeated quietly, “Not with you.”
Father Jacob had lapsed into deep thought, his brow furrowed, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. When Albert started to speak to him, Sir Ander shook his head, warning him to keep silent. Father Jacob walked on, preoccupied, absorbed, until at last they arrived at the broken remains of the gates of the Abbey of Saint Agnes.
Father Jacob raised his eyes at last. He looked at the twin spires, pointing to Heaven.
“God, grant us courage. What happened here at the Abbey of Saint Agnes could forever change our world.”
Chapter Sixteen
In the places where God’s voice cannot be heard, his fallen children, cast from Heaven, have found refuge. They seek forever to destroy that which God has created. Beware the quiet. Beware more the terrible voices.
– Anonymous
THE GATES THAT PIERCED THE TALL GRAY GRANITE WALL encircling the abbey compound were made of oak studded with bronze rosettes and banded with iron. The gates were extremely heavy, their hinges rusted. The nuns would not have been able to open them and, fondly believing themselves safe from any enemy, they had never closed them.
“Not that the gates would have stopped the assault,” Albert added bitterly. “Their attackers came out of the Breath, flew over the walls.”
“Demons on giant bats,” Sir Ander said, shaking his head. “We read the account of that poor girl.”
“Yes,” said Albert in subdued tones, “Brother Paul told me what she said.”