“Yes. It had to do with that book of yours, the Metaphysics of Magic: How Magic relates to Being, Knowing, Substance, Cause, Identity, Time, and Space. Our professor was expounding upon it and making a complete pig’s breakfast of it. When I pointed out where he had gone wrong in his thinking-if one wants to call it thinking-he ordered me to leave and never darken the door of his classroom again.”
“And were you right?” Father Jacob asked, his lip twitching.
“Oh, yes,” said Rodrigo. “That is what galled him.”
“De Villeneuve,” Father Jacob repeated the name thoughtfully. “I seem to recollect hearing something about an incident involving you and the grand bishop’s miter…”
“The man has no sense of humor,” said Rodrigo.
Father Jacob smiled. “I must go see how Brother Barnaby fares with his patient. But I look forward to hearing your views on the Metaphysics of Magic.”
He gave a friendly nod and was going below when Rodrigo said airily, “Or perhaps you and I could talk about a new theory I was thinking of writing about. I plan to call it, The Metaphysics of Green Fire Destroying Magic.”
Father Jacob stopped walking and turned to look back at Rodrigo.
“You know, Monsieur, that such a thing is not possible. Magic is the Breath of God and cannot be destroyed. You are talking heresy,” said Father Jacob.
The priest’s manner was not threatening. His voice was calm and his eyes mild, yet Stephano felt the danger, like lightning in the air. The hair rose on his arms, a shiver went down his spine. Rodrigo heard the danger. He glanced at Stephano, looked away, kept quiet.
“I trust, however,” Father Jacob continued, “you were jesting. You are known for your sense of humor, I believe.”
“No one takes Rigo seriously, Father,” Stephano assured him.
“That’s true,” said Rodrigo, gulping.
Father Jacob smiled. “I would have given a great deal to see the grand bishop’s miter go sailing about the dining room.”
He proceeded down below.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, Father,” Stephano called after him.
He turned to Rodrigo, who was gazing after the priest with a certain amount of awe.
“What a terrible old man! I know exactly how people feel when they encounter a basilisk. Those eyes of his froze my feet to the deck.”
“Too bad he didn’t freeze your tongue!” Stephano said furiously. “Soul of discretion, my ass! I don’t know what you were talking about, but I’m guessing that if we weren’t going to be put under Seal before, we sure as Hell are now. I have to go. Just keep that mouth of yours shut!”
Rodrigo gave a doleful nod. Stephano dashed down the stairs to find Father Jacobs staring at a smeared puddle of blood on the floor. Stephano was sweating, and he realized he was still wearing his heavy flight coat. He took it off and tossed it on a crate.
“That blood belongs to a demon,” said Stephano, hoping to turn the subject away from Rodrigo. “I believe this particularly demon led the attack.”
“How do you know that?” Father Jacob asked curiously.
“He wore some type of knotlike device on his armor, and he was using whistles to direct the troops. He tried to board our boat. We think he was after Gythe. I shot him, but he didn’t die. Rigo killed him.”
“I don’t suppose there’s a body I could examine,” asked Father Jacob eagerly.
“Not anymore,” said Stephano. “The body was incinerated by the same green fire that destroyed our magic. Dag said it appeared to be generated by the armor the demons wore.”
“An interesting theory your friend, Villeneuve, has advanced,” said Father Jacob, staring fixedly at the blood. “Green fire destroying the magic.”
Stephano wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Relax, Captain,” said Father Jacob. “I am not such ‘a terrible man’ as your friend seems to think. Where is the young woman who is ill?”
“Gythe’s quarters are this way, Father,” Stephano said.
As they continued down the passageway, Stephano heard Gythe’s voice, singing softly. A chill went through him. She was singing a nursery rhyme. He found Dag standing in the doorway of the room where the sisters slept. His hands and face and uniform were black with gunpowder residue and red with blood, some of it his own. Doctor Ellington was curled up on Dag’s shoulder. Seeing the priest, Dag whipped off his hat and ducked his head, muttering something no one could hear. He flattened himself against a bulkhead, allowing Father Jacob to squeeze past him.
“A very handsome cat,” said Father Jacob, pausing to regard the Doctor, who was regarding the priest with slit-eyed dislike. The cat’s hackles rose, he sank his claws into the padding on the coat. “What is the name?”
Dag hastily reached up his hand to try to soothe the ruffled cat. “Doctor Ellington, Father.”
“Doctor Ellington,” Father Jacob repeated in admiring tones. He wisely made no move to pet the Doctor. “Interesting name. There’s a story involved, I’ll wager. I look forward to hearing it.”
Stephano and Dag exchanged grim glances. The priest sounded as though he intended to stick around for awhile.
Father Jacob entered the room with silent and measured tread. Stephano went in after him. The cabin was crowded. Despite having removed his coat, he was still sweating.
Gythe sat huddled in a corner, her knees drawn up to her chest, playing with some of Doctor Ellington’s yarn, twining the strands around her fingers to form a Cat’s Cradle and singing to herself in a high, shrill voice.
Brother Barnaby knelt down in front of her. “May I play your game with you?”
Gythe looked at him and laughed and held out her hands with the yarn twined around them to him.
Brother Barnaby took hold of yarn that was in the shape of the Cat’s Cradle, tugged at the crossed strings, and pulled them out from the center. He twined the yarn around his fingers to form the Soldier’s Bed. Gythe clapped her hands and then took hold of the yarn and plucked it off and held up the configuration known as the Candle.
Miri sat on the bed. Her face was drawn and strained with fear. Intent upon Gythe, she hadn’t heard Father Jacob enter. The priest kept his distance, silently watching, assessing.
“At least Gythe is conscious,” said Stephano.
“The moment the good Brother put his hands on her, she stopped twitching and moaning,” said Dag. “She relaxed and woke up and smiled. But when Miri tried to talk to her, she climbed out of bed and ran to sit in the corner.”
Miri heard them talking and looked around. Seeing the priest, she rose to her feet and stretched out her hand.
“Papa Jake!” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re here. Thank God!”
Stephano stared in astonishment. He dimly remembered hearing Miri talk about a priest who defied Church law by administering sacraments to the Trundlers. The nomadic people had been declared apostates, after openly rebelling against the Church centuries ago, following the deliberate sinking of their island homeland. Some wondered why the Trundlers wanted the blessing of a God in which they didn’t believe, but though they may have renounced their faith, they had retained a superstitious trust in the sacraments, especially those that marked passages in life such as baptisms, marriages, and the last rites.
A priest known affectionately as Papa Jake often visited the Trundlers to perform the rites. He was one of the few priests welcome among them, for he did not preach at them or harangue them or threaten them with hellfire and brimstone if they didn’t change their wicked ways.
Father Jacob greeted Miri in her own language, speaking soothing words of comfort. When she began to cry, he embraced her, patting her on the back until her sobs lessened and she grew quiet. Miri blinked her shimmering eyes and looked up at him.
“I am so glad you are here, Papa,” she said. Her clothes were stained and torn; her face smeared with tears and gunpowder. “You must say a prayer for Gythe. Give her your blessing.”
“We will all pray together,” said Father Jacob.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, including Dag and Stephano, and knelt on the scorched planks where the demon had died. Miri sank down beside him, her hands clasped, her disheveled hair falling about her shoulders. Dag
