“But she killed herself!”
“We are meant to think she killed herself.”
“But what about Brother Paul? He was with her?”
“He had fallen asleep. They waited for their chance.”
Albert grew pale. “That means they are out there, watching us.. .”
“I think it likely. Especially since they did not find what they came for.”
“How do you know, Father?”
“They would have burned the cathedral, destroyed all the evidence. As it is, they need to come back to continue the search. The prince-abbot risked his life to save these books. He would have hidden them with care. The books of Saint Dennis will not be easy to find.”
“You don’t believe the attackers were demons from Hell, do you, Father,” said Albert.
“I think it highly unlikely Aertheum the Fallen would be interested in the writings of a saint,” said Father Jacob.
“I saw the paw prints,” said Albert. “The claw marks left by the fiends that ripped those poor women apart. I think you are wrong, Father.”
Father Jacob gazed somberly out a broken window. He didn’t see bloodstained grass or fire-torched trees or the shadow of the dragon, passing over the bleak land. He saw the future, and he sighed deeply.
“I almost hope I am wrong, my friend. I think I would rather face the immortal hordes of Aertheum the Fallen than the terrible foes who flew over these walls that tragic night…”
Sir Ander did not hurry his errand to the Retribution. He walked slowly, taking his time, trying to come to grips with the tragic sights he had witnessed. In the skies above, the faithful Hroal was still on patrol. Or perhaps that dragon was Droal, his brother. Sir Ander waved, and the dragon dipped a wing in return.
When Sir Ander finally reached the yacht, he looked out into the Breath and saw the balloon and sails of a naval cutter. Had the navy been sent to assist in the investigation? If so, Father Jacob would be furious.
The cutter drifted slowly among the light mists, sailing close enough to be able to keep watch on the shoreline, but apparently not intending to dock.
The cutter must be on routine patrol duty, searching for pirates who liked to hide in secluded coves and inlets. The grand bishop might have hinted that the navy pay more attention to this section of coastline, but he would not have told them to start looking for demons riding giant bats! No one is more superstitious than a sailor and no one more talkative when they go ashore. The grand bishop would keep the details of this attack secret as long as possible.
Father Jacob had both key-locked and magic-locked the yacht door. The key Sir Ander used to unlock the door was inscribed with a magical sigil that broke the spell. He entered the yacht and first checked to make certain all his weapons were cleaned and loaded. He then unlocked and opened a cabinet hidden beneath one of the beds, took out a swivel gun, and, climbing up to the yacht’s roof, mounted it on top.
He then went to the chest where Father Jacob kept his vestments. Drawing out the alb, the stole, and the chasuble, Sir Ander held the sacred garments, smoothing the fine fabric with his hand and thinking of the battle that he, like Father Jacob, saw coming.
On his way back to the cathedral, Sir Ander paused to scan the gray cliffs and jagged rock formations. A grim landscape, bleak and desolate. The demons could hide an entire army among those crags, he thought, and he was thankful the dragons were keeping watch from the skies. Hroal and Droal might be well past their prime, but dragon eyesight was still much keener than that of humans-even the eyesight of elderly dragons. The brothers would have been quick to notice any sign of enemy movement.
Sir Ander shifted his head to look once more into the vastness of the Breath with its swirling mists. Nothing much to be done to stop an enemy that came from the mists. He was glad to have the cutter with its cannons out there. He hoped it stayed around.
He returned to the cathedral and found the sanctuary cleansed of blood. Candles glowed on the altar. Brother Barnaby was carrying the last few buckets containing the blood of the martyrs. Another monk was assisting him in this sorrowful task.
Brother Barnaby smiled to see Sir Ander, took the priestly vestments, and went to find Father Jacob. Barnaby made introductions before he left.
“Sir Ander, this is Brother Paul of the Holy Order of Saint Ignatius.”
“I am pleased to meet a Knight Protector,” said Brother Paul, straightening from stooping over the buckets and turning to face Sir Ander. “God honors your selfless service.”
“Thank you, Father-” Sir Ander began.
“I prefer to be known simply as ‘Brother Paul,’” said the monk, with a grave smile. “I joined the Order of Saint Ignatius several years ago and have since dedicated my life to his service.”
Brother Paul was not ill-favored, but he was certainly unusual in appearance. So much so that Sir Ander found himself staring. Brother Paul was slim, of about average height with a wiry build. What struck Sir Ander was the monk’s excessively pale skin, almost alabaster. His hair, cut in the tonsure, was dark black and curly. His face was smooth. He had no facial hair. He was not too young to grow a beard. He looked to be at least thirty-five. Sir Ander could not tell the color of the monk’s eyes; they were hidden behind spectacles made of dark glass.
“You find these curious,” Brother Paul said, touching his spectacles.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” said Sir Ander, flustered. “I’ve seen spectacles before, but never ones made of dark glass.”
“No need to apologize. They are specially made for me. My eyesight is weak. I am subject to headaches, and I find these help.”
Sir Ander muttered something about that being good, then asked, “Can I do anything to assist you?”
“Our sad task is finished,” said Brother Paul. His voice was deep, with a musical tone that had a pleasant, soothing quality. He staggered at that moment, and almost fell.
“Sit down, Brother,” said Sir Ander. “You seem weary to the point of dropping.”
“I have slept little in all the nights since the attack,” said Brother Paul in an apologetic tone.
“No one could blame you,” said Sir Ander, assisting the monk to a pew.
He sat beside the monk, noting as he did so that the hem of his robes was covered in mud and stained with blood.
“You were nursing that young woman who survived,” said Sir Ander. “I heard she died.”
“Thanks be to God, she is at peace,” said Brother Paul somberly. “The demons did not rend her flesh, but they sank their claws into her soul and dragged her down into Hell’s pit. I pray for God’s love and mercy for her tormented soul.”
“Then you believe Hell’s legions were responsible for this attack?” Sir Ander asked.
“I do not have the slightest doubt, sir!” Brother Paul seemed astonished at the idea that anyone could think otherwise. He regarded Sir Ander sternly. “You do believe in Hell, Sir Knight.”
Sir Ander didn’t know quite how to answer. He and Father Jacob had often held discussions regarding the nature of Hell and Heaven. Sir Ander didn’t like the thought of a wrathful God who doomed souls to eternal torment.
“We are commanded to believe in Hell, sir,” Brother Paul added in rebuking tones.
Sir Ander saw the road ahead littered with theological caltrops and wisely reined in the conversation and switched subjects, asking questions about the grand organ whose pipes gleamed in the afternoon sunshine. Did it still work, did anyone play?
Brother Paul answered readily, and the uncomfortable moment passed. Astonished by the monk’s fervor, Sir Ander made a mental note to tell Father Jacob.
There was no more talk of Hell, for Father Jacob, robed in his vestments, entered the sanctuary, accompanied by Brother Barnaby. Both made a reverence to the altar, then Father Jacob took his place before it. Master Albert joined Brother Paul in a pew in the front. Sir Ander retreated, finding a pew by himself in the back. He felt in need of solitude.