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.
When the Dark Time fell, bringing catastrophic upheaval to the seven continents, princes, kings, and nobles were caught up in the daily struggle to keep their people alive from one day to the next. The Breath churned and boiled and was far too dangerous to travel. All trade between nations and continents ceased. The Abbey of Saint Castigan was forgotten.
When the world finally emerged from darkness, Rosia basked in the sunshine of wealth and power. The grand bishop came across old records from the Abbey of Saint Castigan and wondered why nothing had been heard from the monks for many long years. He sent representatives to the abbey and found it empty, abandoned. They could find no trace of the monks, no records left behind to indicate what had happened. There did not appear to have been any sort of catastrophe. All had been left in order: beds made, dishes washed, treasure coffers-still full-safely locked.
No one ever learned the fate of the monks, though there were many theories. The most logical of these was that the monks, near starvation, had been forced to take to their airships and sail into the stormy Breath, where they had perished. The Abbey of Saint Castigan was given to an order of nuns, who rededicated it to Saint Agnes. The nuns lived quietly in far more reduced circumstances than the monks. No more wealthy nobles came to the abbey. The nuns’ visitors tended to be of a humbler nature.
Every night, the nuns would climb the spiraling stairs to hang lights in the twin spires to guide ships sailing the Breath. Oftentimes occupants of these ships and boats-sailors and Trundlers-sought shelter at the abbey’s docks, which were located in an inlet several miles distant from the abbey’s walls. The nuns would give the sailors food and water and tend to any illnesses or injuries they suffered. In addition, scholars would sometimes come to the abbey to do research in the famed library. Among these was Master Albert Savoraun, who lived in the nearby city of Westfirth.
Master Albert Savoraun had traveled to the abbey to track down old records of the Maritime Guild. Some guildmaster had decided the records would be safer behind the abbey walls than in the guildhall in Westfirth. Given that the guildhall had twice in its history been destroyed by fire, this decision had undoubtedly been a wise one.
The guild owned a ship and several yachts, all of which were used to conduct guild business. Albert had sailed himself in one of the small yachts to the abbey. While going through the library, he had found something there that had astonished him greatly. Thinking Father Jacob Northrop would find this discovery interesting, Albert had sent a letter to the Arcanum.
Albert had been in the vicinity of the abbey the night the attack took place. Sleeping aboard his yacht, he had been awakened by what he had thought was lightning. He believed a storm was coming, and he had gone out to make certain his yacht was securely tied down. Once he was outside, he realized that the eerie green light did not emanate from a storm, but was flaring around the abbey. He could smell smoke in the air and he saw, to his consternation, that the lights in the cathedral’s spires had gone dark.
Alarmed, Albert dressed swiftly and, taking up his lantern, hastened to the abbey to see if he could help. During his walk, which took him about half an hour, he watched the green flashes of fire diminish and then cease altogether. The smoke grew thicker; he could see plumes roiling above the abbey walls, blotting out the stars. He could not hear any sounds, no screams or voices calling or shouting as one would expect to hear if the nuns were battling the fires.
