light. The dark eye holes in the skulls seemed to be watching him. The sounds of the pickax grew louder. He came upon Father Jacob raising the ax over his head, prepared to bring it down. He was not attacking the tomb-to Sir Ander’s vast relief. The priest was chopping up the floor beneath the tomb.
The floor was lined with bricks, as were the walls and the arched ceiling, making it difficult to determine where the brick floor left off and the wall began. The bricks beneath the tomb were still wet and glistening from the bloody water they had poured around it.
Father Jacob brought the ax down so near his boot that Sir Ander winced.
“Here, Father, I’ll do that,” he said, hurrying forward. “You’re liable to cut off your foot.”
Sir Ander took hold of the pickax. “I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me why we are down here in the middle of the night breaking up bricks.”
“There’s your answer,” said Father Jacob in satisfaction. “Look.”
He held the lantern over the portion of the broken brick floor. Sir Ander peered down and for a moment saw nothing except cracked and broken pieces of brick. Father Jacob pushed aside some of the rubble, then thrust his hand into the opening. His hand disappeared up to the middle of his forearm.
Sir Ander stared down into the hole.
“All right, Father, I’m baffled. How did you know there was a false floor?”
“I heard the water dripping,” said Father Jacob triumphantly. “Water poured onto bricks set into the ground might drain through the rock and could make a dripping sound. I didn’t pay much attention at first. But then the water kept dripping. You can hear it still dripping even now.”
Sir Ander listened and, sure enough, he could hear, very faintly, a drip and then another, like raindrops falling from the eaves after a summer shower plopping monotonously into the grass.
“And look at this!” Father Jacob spoke a word and passed his hand over the bricks. They began to shine, though very, very faintly. “These are laced with magical sigils. Masonry sigils, designed to give added strength. The sigils are very old. There is almost nothing left of them now.”
Father Jacob rose and walked over to a different portion of the floor and did the same thing, passing his hand over the floor. No light shone.
“These bricks have no sigils. They did not need extra strengthening. If you were to look beneath them, you would find dirt.”
Father Jacob pointed to the base of the tomb. “When you slide your fingers in here, you can feel the bricks crumbling. That’s where the water seeped through and made the dripping sound. The blood of the martyrs. The nuns trying to tell me something.”
Sir Ander shivered in the darkness. “But why reinforce bricks used in a floor?”
“Because if you are down below, these bricks are no longer the floor. They are the ceiling.”
“Of course.” Sir Ander grunted. “I’m still half asleep. So you’ve found a chamber hidden beneath the tomb. What do you think it is? The abbey treasure vault? The monks were said to have amassed great wealth.”
“Enlarge the opening,” said Father Jacob. “Enough for us to shine our lights down there.”
Sir Ander went to work and had soon chopped open a large hole. He and Father Jacob lay on their bellies, flat on the ground, and lowered their glow worm lanterns into the hole as far as their arms would reach.
In a child’s tale, Sir Ander reflected, we would be rewarded with the sight of our lights gleaming off stacks of gold and piles of rubies and diamonds and emeralds.
But this wasn’t a child’s tale. This was Father Jacob. What they found appeared to be a classroom. The light from their lanterns illuminated a rectangular-shaped chamber, containing four writing desks and a large wooden table that was empty save for six leather-bound books stacked neatly one atop the other. Book shelves lined two of the four walls. They were empty, as well. The other two walls were made of slate planed flat and smooth. Floor, books, table, desks, and walls were all covered with thick dust. Sir Ander could see rivulets of water running through the dust on the floor from where it had dripped from the ceiling.
“Damned odd place to build a classroom,” said Sir Ander.
“Not if you are working on a project that will forever change the Church and its teachings,” said Father Jacob. “You would want to work somewhere in private. And if you are a prince-abbot and you desperately need to hide something, what better place.”
Sir Ander let out his breath in a soundless whistle. He stood up, took hold of the pickax and began to enlarge the hole. The floor of the class room was about ten feet beneath them, a short drop. Father Jacob was about to jump for it, when Sir Ander took hold of him.
“Perhaps someday humans will devise the ability to fly like birds, Father, but we have not managed to do so at present. Once we are down there, we will need a way to get out.”
“Ever practical,” said Father Jacob. “You will find rope in the stables.”
“I don’t like the thought of leaving you here alone.”
“I’m not alone,” said Father Jacob. “The nuns brought me here. They will keep me company.”
Sir Ander gave up the argument. He left the catacombs and made his way to the wyvern stables. Brother Barnaby was fast asleep in one of the stalls, lying on a blanket spread over straw. The two wyverns were as near him as they could crowd. One had his head draped over the monk’s legs. The wyverns woke when Sir Ander entered, raised their heads, and glared at him balefully. So long as he didn’t come near, they were quiet. He found a coil of rope and left. Brother Barnaby never stirred. Looking back, Sir Ander saw the wyverns still watching him.
He carried the rope into the catacombs and fastened it around the tomb. He felt a twinge of guilt, and hoped the abbess wouldn’t take offense. Father Jacob cast a magical spell on the rope to make certain it held secure. He lowered himself first. Sir Ander sent down the lanterns, then descend.
Father Jacob went straight to the books. He held out his hands, murmured some words, and gave a satisfied nod. “As I thought. Cividae cast spells of protection on them. Very powerful spells. He was a good crafter, our prince-abbot. It will take time to dismantle them.”
Father Jacob set to work, moving and shifting and plucking at sigils and constructs, which was tantamount to dismantling a cobweb strand by silken strand. Sir Ander walked around the room, flashing his light on the writing desks. Brushing away the dust, he looked at the ink splotches and found initials carved in each desk: D, C, M, M.
“So they were all here,” Father Jacob murmured, awestruck. “The Four Blessed Saints: Saint Dennis, Saint Charles, Saint Michael, and Saint Marie.”
“And an ‘X,’ ” said Sir Ander, pointing to a fifth desk that had been shoved into a corner.
“X,” said Father Jacob, frowning in puzzlement. “Why would there be a desk marked with X?”
“X marks the spot,” said Sir Ander. “Perhaps this desk has something hidden in it?”
“Perhaps,” said Father Jacob, though he didn’t sound convinced.
Sir Ander studied the desk with the X, but couldn’t find any hidden drawers or secret nooks. He shrugged and turned away. Another thought had occurred to him.
“This was a monastery not a nunnery back then,” said Sir Ander. “How did Saint Marie manage to live in an abbey inhabited solely by men?”
“Marie was reputed to have been such a brilliant crafter that she was granted permission to attend the University at a time when only male students were accepted,” said Father Jacob. “Popular myth has it that she dressed in men’s robes and shaved her head in a tonsure in order to fit in. Perhaps the myth was true.”
Sir Ander could well imagine her three friends and colleagues sneaking her into the abbey, especially if the prince-abbot was aware of the deception. But if the X was for Marie then who did the other M represent?
Looking at the desks, Sir Ander had the strange impression that time had gone backward. If the four saints had walked through that door, he would not have been much surprised. He could see the four so clearly, each sitting at these very desks, working in comradely silence or gathered around the long table discussing their research.
When he found himself almost seeming to hear their voices, he shook the fancies out of his head and muttered, “I’ve got to get some sleep!”
He inspected the slate walls and was surprised to find chalk markings-diagrams of what he assumed were magical constructs. He was about to mention these to Father Jacob. The priest was deeply engrossed in his work and Sir Ander decided not to interrupt him. Thinking he’d leave the father to his work and see what lay beyond this curious room, Sir Ander went over to the door, opened it, and gasped.
