“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.
Father Jacob’s voice resonated through the sanctuary.
“Eternal rest grant to them…”
The sun shone through the broken glass. Sir Ander felt its warmth ease the chill that seemed to have struck to his heart. Outside, he could hear birdsong, making up for the lack of music, for the sister who had played the organ was dead. The song of the birds, accompanying the words of the mass, comforted Sir Ander. Simple souls, the birds gave no thought to Heaven or Hell. They sang for joy because the sun shone.
He brought his mind back to the service and was kneeling to pray when, to his immense astonishment, he caught sight of a man also seated at the very back, in a pew a few rows over. The man was short and nondescript. Dressed in a plainly made traveling cloak well-splashed with mud, he looked like a clerk on holiday. He was on his knees, his hands clasped, as Father Jacob prayed for the souls of the dead.
Sir Ander dared not interrupt the sacred sermon by calling attention to this stranger who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. He cast a glance at Father Jacob, to see if he was aware of the stranger. If so, the priest gave no sign. Sir Ander wondered how the man had slipped past the dragon, who was apparently keeping such careful watch. The Knight Protector clapped his hand on his dragon pistol and kept his gaze fixed on the interloper. If the man noticed, he gave no indication. He sat listening to the service reverently.
The moment the service ended, Sir Ander bounded to his feet, crossed over to the pew, and seized hold of the man by the arm. He searched him for weapons and pulled an odd-looking gun from a leather holster. The man offered no resistance, but smiled placidly at the knight.
“Who are you, sir?” Sir Ander demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“Sir Ander Martel,” said the man. “I am glad to see the Knight Protectors take their vows seriously. My commendations.”
“I take my duty seriously, sir, as you will find out to your sorrow if you do not answer my questions,” Sir Ander said grimly.
“His name is Dubois,” said Father Jacob, walking down the aisle. “He is the bishop’s agent, Sir Ander. One might say we are on the same side.” He regarded Dubois with a slight smile and added, “Or one might not.”
Sir Ander released Dubois reluctantly and handed back his weapon. Dubois tucked the gun into its holster.
“All of us are on the side of the angels,” Dubois said gravely. He cast Father Jacob a keen glance. “I would very much appreciate a moment of your time, Father.”
“I rather suspected you might,” said Father Jacob wryly.
The two walked off toward a shadowy alcove. Seeing Sir Ander moving to accompany them, Dubois stopped and said politely, “You are not needed for the moment, Sir Ander. Your charge is safe with me.”
“I am here to ensure the safety of you both,” said Sir Ander gravely. “We have reason to believe that whoever committed these atrocities may still be in the area.”
Dubois appeared rather disconcerted by this statement. He looked around uneasily, as though suspecting murderers hiding beneath the pews.
“My time is short,” said Father Jacob irascibly. “As I am certain your time is as well, Dubois.” He glanced at the mud-stained cloak. “My guess is that you are hot on the trail of someone. Sir Henry Wallace, perhaps?”
Dubois gave a great start of astonishment. Then he smiled and twirled his hat in his hands. “You do like to have your little jests, don’t you, Father? But since you bring up the topic yourself, you won’t mind my asking if you have seen any signs that might lead you to think Henry Wallace had anything to do with this terrible tragedy?”
Father Jacob regarded Dubois with narrowed eyes. He did not immediately answer, but asked his own question.
“Do you have reason to think he does?”
Dubois gave a little cough. The two stood staring intently at one another.
Like a pair of duelists, Sir Ander thought.
“No,” Father Jacob said at last. “I have not.”
“Do you have any idea where Sir Henry Wallace might be?” Dubois asked.
“The last time I saw Henry Wallace was some twenty years ago. He was firing a gun at me at the time in an attempt to kill me. Needless to say, we do not keep in touch,” Father Jacob answered gravely.
Dubois inclined his head, then put on his hat. “That is all I needed to know. I should warn you, Father, and you, Sir Ander, that I have reason to believe Sir Henry Wallace is in Rosia. You should be on your guard.”
“Thank you for your concern, Dubois, but since I have nothing to do with the Royal Armory, I doubt if Wallace would be much interested in me.”
Dubois again looked startled, then he wagged his finger. “Ah, Father Jacob, you are a caution. You will have your little jest. And now, I must be going. God be with you, gentlemen, and speed your holy work to find those who committed this unholy crime.”
Dubois gave a bobbing bow and took his leave, looking more like a clerk than ever, Sir Ander thought, as he escorted him out of the cathedral. Sir Ander kept an eye on Dubois until he exited the gate, where a wyvern-drawn carriage was waiting for him. The shadow of wings passed overhead. Hroal was also keeping an eye on Dubois.
He waited until the carriage had taken to the skies, then walked back inside the cathedral. He found Father Jacob standing with his head bent, deep in thought.
“You think Wallace is behind this, Father?” Sir Ander asked.
Father Jacob shook his head. “Henry Wallace may be many things and most of them bad, but he is first, last, and always a Freyan patriot. He has worked all his life to one end and that is for Freya to rule the seven continents. He has no motive. The slaughter of these poor women has nothing to do with politics.”
Sir Ander shook his head. “Still, I don’t like the fact that Wallace is in Rosia.”
“The man is up to some mischief, you may be certain,” said Father Jacob. “But let us leave Wallace to Dubois. We must lay to rest the blood of the martyrs.”
Master Albert, Brother Barnaby, Father Jacob, and Sir Ander each picked up the buckets of bloodstained water and carried them to the back of the cathedral. Brother Paul led them to the entrance to the catacombs-a long row of stone stairs that had been cut into the ground, leading down to a wrought-iron gate.
Beyond the gate, the dead slept in silent darkness.
The gate was not locked and, though the hinges were rusted, it opened easily enough. Brother Paul brought two lanterns. Guided by their light, they entered the catacombs.
Dating back hundreds of years, the catacombs had likely been constructed at the same time as the abbey, built far below ground level. The men entered a long corridor with an arched ceiling made entirely of bricks. Magical constructs would have been placed on the bricks to keep the catacombs dry and preserve the structural integrity. When the magic constructs started to fade, crafter priests would have renewed them.
Many bodies, shrouded in white linen, had been placed in niches in the walls. Due to space considerations, only high-ranking members of the Church had been buried in tombs. During the Dark Time, the abbey had been abandoned and there had been no more burials. When the world emerged from the Dark Time, burial customs and practices had changed. The idea of placing bodies out in the open covered only by a shroud was considered
