“Brother Barnaby left,” said Sir Ander.
“Oh?” Father Jacob glanced vaguely around. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know.” Sir Ander snapped the words. “He’s upset, Father. This has been terrible for him.”
Father Jacob was too absorbed in his work to take notice. “You come look at this.”
Sir Ander heaved a sigh and stalked over.
Father Jacob pointed to the column. “What do you make of that?”
The column with its fluted shaft was typical of churches of that period. What wasn’t typical was that in places, the ridges and grooves of the fluting had been destroyed. He could see blast marks on the column, like a castle wall struck by cannon fire.
Father Jacob passed his hand over the column. “Let us take a look at the magical constructs embedded in the stone. See what they tell us. A castle wall hit by cannon fire would still retain traces of the magic that had strengthened the walls.”
Sir Ander hoped he would see the faint blue glow of magic. He hoped Father Jacob was wrong. Unfortunately, the priest was right.
“No blue light. No magic. This is why the grand bishop sent for you,” said Sir Ander. “The magical constructs have been erased.”
“Remember the nun who survived said that ‘the demons threw balls of green fire and cast beams of green light.’ ”
Sir Ander looked down the long double rows of columns, probably twenty-five or more on each side.
“Without the magic, the columns will be too weak to support the roof. The cathedral is liable to fall down around our ears. So why are we standing here discussing it?” Sir Ander demanded. “Why aren’t we standing outside discussing it? Where it’s safe?”
“We’re in no danger,” said Father Jacob complacently. “At least not for the moment. Only a few of the columns I’ve studied were hit with the green fire. The assailants did not want to destroy the cathedral until they had found what they came for. Instead, they weakened the columns. The magic will continue to fail and, in a month or two, the cathedral will come crashing down.”
“When it would be filled with masons and crafters and priests and others working to repair it,” said Sir Ander grimly. “They would all be killed.”
“I fear so,” said Father Jacob and he added in an undertone, “Demonically clever.”
Sir Ander grunted. “So turning the cathedral into a death trap was the reason they didn’t destroy it during the attack.”
“No, I believe that was an afterthought,” said Father Jacob. “Another crime of opportunity. They left the cathedral standing because of the library.”
Sir Ander blinked. “The library?”
“Well, of course,” said Father Jacob. “That was the real reason they came. The library is inside the cathedral. The attackers could not destroy the cathedral because they needed to search the library.”
“Demons came for the library? But why?”
“Ah, that is the question. I need to ask Albert-” Father Jacob looked around impatiently. “Where is Albert? He has been gone far too long. You better go search for him. I will investigate the library-”
They were both stopped by the sight of Brother Barnaby entering the sanctuary. The monk carried a large wooden bucket filled with water and a bundle of rags.
“Are you finished with your work here, Father?” Brother Barnaby asked.
“Yes, Brother,” said Father Jacob. “I am finished. What are you doing?”
“The sanctuary has been defiled, Father. With your permission, I will clean it.”
He set the bucket on the floor, kilted up his robes, and knelt down on his hands and knees and began to mop up the blood. Father Jacob watched a moment, then he walked over to where the young monk was scrubbing the blood off the floor and wringing the soiled cloth in the bucket. The water was already stained red.
“You are my conscience, Brother Barnaby,” Father Jacob said, rolling up the sleeves of his cassock. “I think that is why the blessed Saint Castigan sent you to me.”
Brother Barnaby looked astonished at the thought that he could be anyone’s conscience, much less Father Jacob’s. He gave a self-deprecating smile and shook his head as he continued his sorrowful task.
“Sir Ander, return to the Retribution and fetch my sacred vestments,” Father Jacob continued. “When we have finished the cleansing, I will say a mass for the dead.”
He hiked up his cassock, got down on his hands and knees, and began scrubbing.
Sir Ander stood watching the priest and the monk working together to cleanse God’s House, and he reflected on the fact that there were times-many times-when Father Jacob could be arrogant and insufferable, insensitive and demanding, stubborn and infuriating and so on and so forth. More than once, far from protecting Father Jacob, Sir Ander could have cheerfully throttled him.
And then there were times like this when Sir Ander saw the Father Jacob he had come to revere and admire, the brilliant, gifted Freyan crafter who had been offered fame and fortune if he would only renounce his faith; the priest who had risked his life and fled the land of his birth to remain true to his beliefs.
As Sir Ander left to fetch the vestments and see if he could find Albert, he again affirmed the vow he had taken when he had become the priest’s Knight Protector.
“ ‘If Death reaches out for Father Jacob,’ “ said Sir Ander, “ ‘I will step in between.’”
He added quietly, “And the same holds true for Brother Barnaby!”
Chapter Seventeen
There are many paths to Heaven. The Martyr walks a dark path holding her faith like a candle that lights her way but also attracts those that hunt in the darkness. Some on that path would hide their candles until the evil has walked by, but the Martyr holds her faith dear, her candle bright, no matter the outcome.
– The writings of Saint Marie who was martyred three years later
“WHAT DO WE DO WITH THE WATER we used for cleaning, Father?” asked Brother Barnaby somberly, wringing a bloody cloth into a bucket. “We cannot simply dump it in the yard, as if it were waste.”
“You are right, Brother. This water contains the blood of martyrs,” said Father Jacob and he sat back on his heels to give the matter serious thought.
They had worked for over two hours, and the sanctuary was finally almost clean. Brother Barnaby had found additional buckets in the stable. He had placed the buckets filled with water red-tinged with the blood of the murdered nuns before the altar. Another bucket, this one covered with a white cloth, contained the gruesome remains recovered from the ground outside the cathedral. Father Jacob had attended to this heartbreaking task. As for the blood on the ground, the tears of the angels and the saints falling from Heaven would eventually wash it away.
“The first abbess is buried in the cathedral, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Her tomb is in the catacombs beneath the cathedral. We will pour the water around the tomb. We will bury the remains in the abbey cemetery.”
Brother Barnaby was content and went back to washing away the last vestige of blood. Father Jacob spent a few moments quietly observing the young monk. His expression was solemn, sorrowful, troubled.
“You must have questions for God, Brother,” said Father Jacob abruptly. “Perhaps you find yourself doubting in His love and mercy?”
Brother Barnaby looked up from his task. “I do have questions, Father. With God’s help, you and Sir Ander will find the answers.”
“And with your help, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “Our triangle is equilateral.”
Brother Barnaby smiled. “All I do is drive the wyverns, Father.”
“There, you see? That’s more than I can do,” said Father Jacob. He rose to his feet, grimacing at the pain in his knees and back. He reflected that he had not scrubbed floors since he was a novice, some twenty years ago.
He remembered that time. He remembered that person-the man he had been. A young man with a dazzling
