gift for magic, Jacob had been proud and arrogant-a real bastard, he could now admit. He had always felt God’s calling, but he had tried to ignore it. He had harangued and questioned, fought and bullied, tested God’s patience every step of the way. He had turned his back on God, run to the edge of the precipice, stared into the blackness and had been ready to leap when he had felt God’s hand gently drawing him back. He had been guided by the touch of God’s hand ever since.
Father Jacob glanced about the sanctuary. “I will hold the service when Sir Ander returns. See if you can find some candles, Brother, though I have no idea where we will place them.”
The beautiful golden-and-silver candlesticks that had graced the altar had been hit by the same ruinous green fire that had melted the stone. Father Jacob recalled what he had said to Sir Ander about the hatred that had driven these attackers to destroy what they could have stolen for gain. The candlesticks alone were easily worth fifty gold rosuns. Whoever attacked the abbey did not raid it out of greed. They came for something far more important than gold.
“I am going to the library,” said Father Jacob. “Let me know if anyone finds Master Albert-Ah, speak of the man and here he is! Albert, where have you been? You have been gone for hours. I was growing worried. Now that you are here, when will I be able to speak to this nun who survived? I have a great many questions. It is more important now than ever that I talk to her…”
Albert stood in the door that led into the sanctuary. His face was flushed and he was breathing hard, so hard he had to wait a moment to catch his breath before he could respond.
“As to that, Father, I fear you will never be able to talk to her this side of Heaven. The woman is dead.”
The echoes of his voice reverberated off the walls, sounding hollow in the empty chamber.
“Dead?” said Father Jacob, regarding Albert intently. “You said her injuries were not severe.”
“The injuries to her body were not serious,” said Master Albert with a sigh. “But those of the mind could not be cured, seemingly. She took her own life, Father. She threw herself off the cliff.”
Brother Barnaby gave an exclamation of pity and grief.
Father Jacob was very thoughtful. With an abrupt gesture he motioned Albert to accompany him into a hallway.
“Tell me what happened,” he said when he and Albert were alone.
“I went to find Brother Paul. When I reached the infirmary, the monk was in a terrible state. He said that his patient had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Weary himself from watching over her, he dozed off. When he woke, she was gone. He asked me to help him find her.
“Her trail was easy enough to follow. She had taken no care to hide it. We came across her tracks on the path leading up the cliff. They led to the edge of the cliff. No footprints led back. Brother Paul and I searched for her body on the rocks below-” He shook his head.
“Damn and blast it to Hell and back!” Father Jacob swore, causing Albert to stare at him in astonishment. “Poor child. May God grant her ease.”
He sighed deeply, his brow furrowed. Whatever he was thinking, he did not share. “Show me the way to the library.”
Albert escorted the priest through a door that opened into a narrow corridor leading to the other areas of the cathedral. They passed schoolrooms, the office of the abbess, a communal room where the nuns ate their meals, the kitchen, and eventually arrived at the library.
They had no need to open the door. It lay splintered on the floor. Father Jacob stepped over the shambles and paused to survey the damage. Shelves had been knocked down, their contents strewn about. The floor was covered, ankle-deep in some places, with papers and parchments and books.
“A real mess,” Albert said unhappily. He started to right a bookshelf.
“Please, Albert, have I taught you nothing?” Father Jacob said sharply. “Don’t touch anything. Go stand by the door and don’t move. You told me that the library was well-organized. Church records in one place-”
“Over there, Father,” said Albert, pointing.
Father Jacob waded through the piles of books and papers, careful to disturb as little as possible.
“To your right were the books on theology,” Albert continued. “That bookcase, the one on the floor, held hymnals and sheet music.”
“I see, yes.”
Father Jacob took note of some of the titles of the books, then roamed on. One of the shelves was still standing, though all its contents had been pulled down and scattered about. He happened to come upon one of the few spots on the floor not carpeted with books or paper and saw what he had expected to see: bloody paw prints, the same that had left marks on the ground outside and tracked blood through the sanctuary.
Father Jacob carefully shifted a pile of books and found more paw prints. He straightened and looked around, but he was not looking at his surroundings. He was seeing, in his mind, the attack.
“The demons-we will call them that, for the time being-flew over the walls as the nuns were leaving the sanctuary. Probably they had been lying in ambush. They left the bats they were riding to kill the women outside and entered the sanctuary, where they tortured and murdered the women they found inside. Some of the demons remained behind to defile the cathedral and drag away the bodies, which they fed to their bats. The rest came here, to the library. The true reason for the attack. They spent their time searching…”
“Searching for what, Father?” Albert asked.
“The writings of the blessed Saint Dennis,” Father Jacob said, sitting down on a toppled bookcase and gazing about. “The books mentioned in the prince-abbot’s journal.”
Albert gave a horrified gasp. “Are you saying, Father, that this. .. this terrible tragedy happened because of me? Because I found that journal? But I don’t understand! If all the demons wanted was to search the library, why murder the nuns?”
“Hatred and rage, for one reason. But there is another. Picture this: two men stage a fight on a busy city street. A crowd gathers. While people are watching the fake fight, a third man picks their pockets.”
Albert was bewildered. “I’m sorry, Father, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The term is ‘misdirection.’ We are meant to focus our attention on the murder of the nuns and not on the fact that the demons were truly here to search for the books written by the saint. Fortunately, the demons made two mistakes that led me to look in the right direction.”
“Mistakes…” said Albert weakly.
“The first was the theft of the journal,” Father Jacob went on. “The demons had to steal it, you see, because they needed clues as to where the prince-abbot might have hidden the work of the saint.”
“But who stole it, Father? There were only the nuns and Brother Paul and myself-”
Father Jacob gave a wry smile. “Think about it. That makes one hundred and two people, not counting you, Alfred, and maybe more. The abbess might have mentioned the information in a report to the grand bishop, for example. Or she could have told any number of sisters over dinner, perhaps. They could have told any Trundlers who had stopped to seek refuge with the nuns. Brother Paul might have mentioned it to any sailors whose ships docked here. And so on.”
“I don’t think the nuns would have talked about it-”
“Ah, but you don’t know for certain! As for the theft, you were gone from your yacht at least an hour, probably longer. Trout fishing is a leisurely sport. There are unscrupulous crafters who make their living by thieving. A talented thief could have entered the yacht, removed the magical spells, stolen the journal, replaced the spells. ..”
“It’s all my fault, then.” Albert stood with his arms crossed, leaning back dejectedly against the wall. Father Jacob stood up and made his way back through the mess, stepping carefully over the piles of books, trying not to dislodge anything.
“Do not take the blame upon yourself, my friend,” said Father Jacob gently. “All you did was find a journal.”
“I know what you say makes sense, Father,” said Albert. “Still, I can’t help but wish my eyes had been gouged out before I ever saw that thing. What do demons want with writings of the saints?”
“ ‘Know thy enemy,’ says the wise man,” said Father Jacob. “You mentioned Saint Dennis and that was enough to pique someone’s interest. The thieves broke in, read the journal, and found that one single word: contramagic. That was why they stole it.”
“I know it is forbidden by the Church to even speak that word, Father, but can you tell me why demons would
