distasteful. The Abbey of Saint Agnes, like many other churches, established a cemetery where the sisters were laid to rest. The abbesses were entombed in the cemetery’s mausoleum.
The catacombs were not forgotten. Once a year, the abbess and the sisters entered to pay their respects to the dead in a reverent ceremony, saying prayers and placing flowers on the tomb of the first abbess.
The men walked single file in respectful silence through the narrow corridors. They found the abbess’ tomb-a large and elaborately carved marble sarcophagus-in a large niche covered with dust and remnants of dead flowers. The effigy of a woman graced the top of the sarcophagus; her stone face seemed grave, sorrowful.
“She grieves,” said Brother Barnaby softly.
Beyond, the corridor grew narrower. Dimly seen in the lantern light were the tombs that dated back to the time of the prince-abbot. The men placed the buckets on the floor, gathered around the tomb, and bowed their heads.
Father Jacob led them in prayer, then Brother Barnaby slowly and reverently lifted a bucket and poured the water stained with the blood of the martyrs onto the stone floor around the tomb. The red-stained water slid over the bricks that had been worn smooth by time and seeped down through the cracks. One by one, each man said a soft prayer, then poured the water around the tomb. Brother Barnaby placed the bucket carrying the remains on the altar.
Their sad task accomplished, the men stood a moment in silence, broken by Brother Paul saying softly, “The martyrs shine with glory, safe in the arms of God.”
Brother Paul turned to leave. Albert, carrying one of the lanterns, accompanied him. Sir Ander was about to go with the other two, when Father Jacob softly called his name. Turning, Sir Ander saw the priest standing beside the tomb, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back.
“I feel the need to remain here a moment,” said Father Jacob. He shot Sir Ander a glittering glance from out of the corner of his eye.
Sir Ander tensed and slipped his hand inside his coat, to the pocket where he kept his stowaway pistol.
“Leave the lantern with Sir Ander and go with the others, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob. “I know your wyverns will be hungry.”
Brother Barnaby’s face brightened at the mention of his beloved wyverns, then constricted with concern. “You are right, Father. Poor things. They must be starving. I have neglected them. I will go to them at once.”
Brother Barnaby handed over the lantern, then hurried off.
Sir Ander played the light on the stone walls, sending it jabbing into dark niches. “He is safely gone. What is wrong?”
“I hear something,” Father Jacob said, cocking his head.
Sir Ander cocked the pistol’s hammer and listened.
“I don’t hear anything,” he said after a moment.
“You must!” said Father Jacob testily. “Unless you’ve gone deaf.”
“Nothing but dripping water…”
“That’s it!” Father Jacob exclaimed. “The sound of dripping water!”
Sir Ander sighed wearily, let down the hammer and slid the pistol back into his pocket. “Is that all?”
“Why do we hear the sound of dripping?” Father Jacob stood staring at the bricks. “Don’t you find that curious?”
“It’s late, Father. We still have work to do. You need to interview Brother Paul and the dragon brothers.”
Father Jacob shook his head turned away. They walked back down the narrow corridor and emerged into the bright sunlight, blinking their eyes. Sir Ander checked his pocket watch and was surprised to see that it was almost four of the clock in the afternoon. The day had been long in some respects and passed by far too swiftly in others.
“I have decided on second thought that you should go talk to the two dragons,” said Father Jacob. “They are more likely to be open with you-a fellow soldier-than with me.”
“What do you want me to ask them?”
“I want to know the truth about what they saw the night of the attack.”
“But they weren’t even here at the time,” Sir Ander said, puzzled. “They live twenty miles away. They couldn’t have seen anything.”
“I think they were here. I think they did see something,” said Father Jacob. “Something that scared them enough to volunteer for patrol duty.”
“If you say so,” said Sir Ander. “I’ll go speak to them now.”
“And I will talk to Brother Paul.”
Father Jacob started to walk away, then paused and turned to stare, frowning, into the darkness of the catacombs.
“Why is the water dripping?” he muttered.
Father Jacob spent the next two hours in a most unsatisfactory interview with Brother Paul. He came out of the meeting thinking he might as well have spent ten minutes. Brother Paul was of little help. He knew that Albert had found a journal and had taken it back to his yacht. That was apparently all he knew or even cared about. Brother Paul had not read the journal.
“Reading is very difficult for me, due to my poor eyesight, Father,” he said.
Brother Paul wasn’t the least bit interested in the writing of a prince-abbot or the fact that Saint Dennis had spent time here.
“The words of God are the only words that have meaning,” said Brother Paul.
As for the person who could have stolen the journal, “I have prayed for the thief’s soul,” said Brother Paul.
Father Jacob asked the monk about the night of the attack. Brother Paul had been sequestered in his dwelling in the wilderness. Weary from his day’s work helping the nuns by working in the fields, he had fallen into a sound sleep. The first he knew of the attack was when he had been awakened by flashes of green fire in the sky.
Regarding the young woman, the sole survivor, he said he had found her in a pitiful state. She had been in the sanctuary when the demons entered. One of them struck her. She fell to the floor, stunned, and waited to die. The demons surged past her and she realized they assumed she was already dead. He had recorded in his report to the grand bishop everything she had said to him. He had nothing to add.
“According to what you wrote,” said Father Jacob, referring to the report, “the nun said that when the demons were smashing the windows, one of the demons was hit by shards of glass and ‘the demon yelped.’ Do you remember that?”
“I am afraid I don’t, Father,” said Brother Paul. “I was shaken by the terrible events of that night as you might expect.”
“Yet you were able to write this report…”
“It was my duty, Father,” said Brother Paul simply. “God guided my hand.”
He blamed himself for the young woman’s death. “I had not slept in many nights and I dozed off. When I woke up, she was gone.”
Father Jacob continued probing and prodding, but Brother Paul never wavered in his account. He did not grow confused, frustrated, or angry. He answered every question readily, patiently. At the end of the interview, he thanked Father Jacob.
“I want to do everything I can to help,” said Brother Paul.
He declined an offer to partake of their evening meal and spend the night with them.
“You realize, Brother, that you could be in danger,” Father Jacob warned. “It would be safer for you to remain here with us.”
“God is my sword and my shield, Father,” said Brother Paul as he departed. “He protects me.”
Twilight tinged the mists of the Breath pinkish red, reminding Father Jacob of the bloodstained water in the buckets. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly through the fading light, leaving the abbey compound, heading for the yacht and an early bedtime. He planned to spend tomorrow sorting through the mess in the library.
One of the dragons was back on patrol in the skies. In the distance, Father Jacob could see the sails and ballast balloons painted with the Rosian flag of the naval cutter as she took up a station out in the Breath.
