“Father!” Sir Ander called. “Wait for me!”
Father Jacob turned to see his friend coming around the corner of the wall. He waited for him to join him and noted that he was alone.
“What did you do with Master Albert and Brother Barnaby?”
“Albert went back to his yacht. He was falling asleep on his feet. Brother Barnaby is with his wyverns. He says something is still bothering them. He thinks it’s the presence of the dragons. He asked if he could spend the night in the stables. I gave him permission. I hope that’s all right. It means I’ll have to do the cooking.”
“Fortunately, I have little appetite,” said Father Jacob. “How did your talk with the dragons go?”
“You were right, Father. The brothers had been flying close to the abbey that night. They usually eat the goats they raise themselves, but every so often they develop a taste for venison. In essence, they were poaching. The deer they were hunting happened to be on the abbey’s land. That’s why they didn’t want to say anything.”
“I am certain the grand bishop can spare a few,” said Father Jacob dryly. “I hope they know we will not turn them in.”
“I assured them we would keep quiet. And you were also right. They did see the attackers,” said Sir Ander.
“Excellent news!” Father Jacob exclaimed, excited. “Dragons are creatures of good common sense and practical turn of mind. They do not believe in our God or in our Heaven or our Hell. No demons or giant bats for them. What did they see?”
“Demons,” said Sir Ander. “Riding giant bats.”
Father Jacob heaved a sigh.
Chapter Eighteen
God’s voice pours forth the Song of Magic. Man has learned to create constructs some liken to a symphony. But what if that symphony were written in a minor key? What dread voice would sing the counter notes?
– On the Nature of Magic by Saint Dennis
THE BENCHLIKE BED IN THE YACHT SEEMED UNUSUALLY comfortable to Sir Ander, or perhaps he was just uncommonly weary. Brother Barnaby’s chicken stew, cooked in a kettle over an open fire, lay pleasantly on the stomach. Sir Ander and Father Jacob had not been forced to rely on the knight’s cooking after all, though his cooking wasn’t bad, as far as he was concerned. He liked boiled beans and salt pork. Brother Barnaby had fixed supper, then returned to the stables to be with his wyverns, which remained uneasy. The dragons did not fly at night, but took turns resting in a nearby field in case they should be needed.
Sir Ander stretched out on the wooden plank bed with its goose down mattress, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply. It was good just to lie still and let the sad events of the day sift through his mind, like sand between the fingers. He listened with drowsy amusement to Father Jacob fidgeting and rolling about restlessly.
“Your body tyrannizing your mind?” Sir Ander asked.
“There is nothing wrong with my mental discipline. Something is bothering me, that’s all,” said Father Jacob irritably.
Sir Ander smiled in the darkness and, rolling onto his side, he dragged the blanket over his head and fell asleep.
He was awakened by an explosive shout from Father Jacob. Whenever Sir Ander accompanied the father on a dangerous investigation (and most of the investigations performed by members of the Arcanum fell into that category), he slept in his trousers and shirt, his boots by the side of the bed, one of his pistols within easy reach beneath his pillow.
Sir Ander was instantly awake, his hand sliding beneath the pillow to take hold of the gun. “What? What is it?”
Light flared, magical light that half-blinded him. He had a glimpse of Father Jacob’s face, eager and excited, bent over a “glow worm”-a type of lantern whose light came from magical sigils embedded inside the glass panels. When he could see, Sir Ander found Father Jacob buttoning his long black greatcoat over the black cassock.
“You’ll need your coat, as well,” said Father Jacob. “The night air has a definite nip to it.”
Sir Ander yawned. “What time is it?”
“Near midnight. I’m sorry to wake you, but this is important.”
Sir Ander sighed and swung his feet out of bed. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the abbey. Bring the pickax.”
Sir Ander stared. “What for?”
“I’m not sure yet,” said Father Jacob. “We’ll need a shovel, as well.”
“The ax and shovel are in the storage compartment in the rear.” Sir Ander thrust his feet into the boots, struggled into his coat, tucked his pistol into the inner pocket, buckled on his sword belt, ran his hand through his hair, thought about wearing a hat and decided against it, and yawned again.
Father Jacob snapped his fingers and another glow worm lantern burst into light. Leaving one lantern for Sir Ander, Father Jacob opened the door and went out. Sir Ander could hear him rummaging about in the storage compartment. Picturing the havoc the impatient priest was causing in his search, Sir Ander grabbed the lantern and hastened outside.
He found the pickax and shovel and picked up the other tools the priest had hurled onto the grass. Father Jacob did not wait but headed for the abbey. Sir Ander could see the bright white light of the glow worm swinging back and forth from the priest’s hand.
He hefted the pickax and shovel and followed. The night was clear, the mists of the Breath shredded to wisps and tatters by a chill wind coming down from the distant mountains. Stars crusted the sky. A sliver of moon glimmered palely on the horizon.
The two dragon brothers, slumbering in the field, were bulky black hulks against the starlight. One slept on his side, like a horse, his legs stretched out, his head on the grass. The other slept on his belly, legs tucked beneath him, his neck curled about his feet, his head almost touching his tail which was wrapped around his hind legs.
“So why haul me out of my warm bed?” Sir Ander asked.
Father Jacob made an impatient gesture for him to be quiet and kept walking. Sir Ander was accustomed to the priest’s sudden after-dark escapades and he said nothing more, knowing he would be wasting his breath. He spent the time trying to goad his sleep-fogged mind into wakefulness.
Father Jacob did not enter the cathedral, as Sir Ander had expected, but went swiftly around to the back. Sir Ander thought now he knew where they were going and why. When they came to the gate that led into the catacombs, he called a halt.
“It’s the dripping water, isn’t it?”
“The sound of the water kept nagging at me. That’s the reason I couldn’t sleep,” said Father Jacob. “Then I figured out why.”
He thrust open the gate and walked inside. Sir Ander remained standing at the entrance. He threw the pickax and shovel on the ground.
“I’m not going to desecrate a tomb, Father,” Sir Ander said.
Father Jacob scowled, displeased.
Sir Ander faced the irate priest calmly and shook his head. “Not for you or the Arcanum.”
Father Jacob stood silently regarding his friend for a moment, then he bent down to retrieve the ax and the shovel.
“I know you will think I am being irrational, Ander,” Father Jacob said earnestly, “but I believe the murdered nuns are trying to tell me something. Keep watch. See that I’m not disturbed.”
He entered the catacombs alone. Sir Ander watched the light of the glow worm until it disappeared into the darkness. He stood outside in the whipping wind, pulling his coat collar up around his ears and wishing he’d worn his hat. After several moments, he heard the faint sounds of a pickax ringing against stone. Sir Ander could stand it no longer. He entered the catacombs.
Sir Ander did not believe in ghosts, but he conceded that there were far more pleasant places to take a midnight stroll than a dark burial chamber. The white-shrouded figures shone with an eerie pallor in the lantern
