Far easier pledged than done, Sir Ander gloomily reflected as he removed the cuirass, marked with the emblem of the Knight Protectors, and enhanced with magical constructs, his helm and other accouterments before placing them in the yacht’s built-in storage locker. He kept his armor and his weapons close to hand. One never knew, when traveling with Father Jacob, when they would be needed.

Sir Ander flung himself down in a chair and tried to sleep, without success. Whenever he started to drift off into slumber, lulled by the gentle swaying of the airborne yacht, he saw again the horrific scenes of last night’s bloody debacle in the town of Capione and was jolted back into unpleasant wakefulness.

Sir Ander looked with envy and some bitterness at his companion, Father Jacob, who was sleeping quite soundly. The priest slept in the same position always, lying on his back, his hands resting on his chest, fingers clasped, his body completely relaxed.

Never mind that eleven soldiers had lost their lives last night, half a city block had been destroyed, and months of careful planning had literally gone up in flames. Never mind that the yacht, specially designed for a priest of the Arcanum, was now speeding through the night in reply to an urgent summons from the grand bishop. Father Jacob could still sleep soundly and even, to add insult to injury, snore.

“The mind is the ruler, the body is the subject,” Father Jacob often said. “When the mind tells the body it is time for sleep, the body should obey. The inability to fall asleep when and where you desire means your body is tyrannizing your mind; something I never permit.”

Sir Ander shifted about on the chair, trying to find a more comfortable position. He could have made up the yacht’s other bed, which was now a bench, but Sir Ander disliked lying down when the yacht was airborne. The swaying motion always made him feel slightly queasy.

He thrust out his long legs and settled himself in the chair, chin on his chest, and gave up the fight for sleep. He was once more in the flames and smoke of the battle last night, a battle they thought they had won, only to discover that even with all their careful plans, their quarry, a man known to his deluded followers as the Warlock, had managed to escape....

The soldiers set a guard over the room and sent word to Sir Ander and Father Jacob that they had found the Warlock and that he was dead. No one went near the corpse. Father Jacob had warned the soldiers that if they found their way into the Warlock’s inner sanctum, they were to be careful not to touch anything—an order the soldiers were happy to obey.

The room was below ground level; the walls and floor lined with stone. Two rows of thick wooden pillars supported a vaulted stone ceiling. On the pillars were sigils of warding and protection. Brass lamps shed a dim light throughout the room. Small cells had been built in the middle of each wall. Iron bars enclosed each cell, leaving just room enough for a person to stand. Each contained the body of one of the coven’s many victims. All of them had died horribly, in some depraved manner.

Sir Ander was not a crafter. He did not have a magical bone in his body, as the saying went. Yet he was able to feel the dark magic in that room hiss and sputter like the fuse of a bomb. Bodies of the Warlock’s allies lay on the floor, some torn apart by bullets, others burned to death, victims of their own black magic gone awry. All the victims were young, none of them above twenty years of age. Sir Ander had seen death in many gruesome forms on the field of battle, but the horror of this sight, as he entered the room, made his stomach roil.

“God save us!” whispered a voice at his elbow.

The knight turned to find Brother Barnaby standing at his side. Sir Ander was startled. He had not realized Brother Barnaby had tagged along after them. The young monk was always so quiet and self-effacing, one tended to forget he was around.

Barely in his twenties himself, Brother Barnaby was slight of build, with intelligent brown eyes and a fine-boned face. His skin was the onyx color of those who dwell in the Galiar region, east of Argonne. His hair was blue-black, shaved in the tonsure. Despite his appearance, he was strong and capable, far stronger than he looked.

Sir Ander regarded the young monk with concern.

“Brother Barnaby, you should not be a witness to this sad scene. Go wait for us back at our lodgings.”

“I have a letter for Father Jacob, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, clutching a folded and sealed document. “It just arrived, forwarded to the Father from the Arcanum. And I have a message from one of the Bishop’s Own, who flew to Capione on griffin-back and needs to speak to Father Jacob most urgently.”

“The letter and the Bishop’s Own can both wait until we have finished here,” said Sir Ander, trying to find a way to keep Brother Barnaby from entering the horror-filled room. “Go tell the guardsman that Father Jacob will attend him shortly.”

“I already told him, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, sticking doggedly to Sir Ander. The monk smiled faintly. “You should know by now, sir, that you can’t get rid of me that easily. Father Jacob might need me.”

Sir Ander opened his mouth and shut it again. He knew he would be wasting his breath. Brother Barnaby was dedicated, body and soul, to Father Jacob. Sir Ander would not be able to remove the young monk, short of picking him up and carrying him out the door.

“Very well,” said Sir Ander testily. “But keep close to me and don’t touch anything!”

Brother Barnaby nodded and silently accompanied Sir Ander as the knight entered the bloodstained room. The cavernous chamber had no windows and was as shadowed as the hearts of those who had once inhabited it, or so Sir Ander thought. The soldiers ordered to guard the room were carrying torches, but even their flaring light could not lift the darkness that seemed to settle on the soul.

The soldiers pointed the way to the corpse. Sir Ander had brought a lantern fueled by a glowing magical sigil and by its light they located Father Jacob, on his knees on the floor of a small antechamber off the main room. Brother Barnaby stood gazing on the awful scene, his brown eyes moist with sorrow and wide with shock. Sir Ander looked very grim.

Father Jacob held his own lantern, magically enhanced to give off an extremely bright glow. He had placed the lantern on the floor near the corpse and was kneeling in the blood, studying the corpse with such intensity that he did not hear the footsteps of his comrades.

He sniffed at the cold lips and studied with minute care the victim’s robes. He peered at the soles of the boots and the hands clenched to fists in the agony of the death throes. He was careful not to touch the body, Sir Ander noted.

The knight looked down sternly at the corpse of the young man.

It is a sin to be pleased at the death of any man, Sir Ander thought, particularly one so young. He could not help but feel intensely relieved that this evil young man was dead, his reign of terror ended.

Sir Ander squatted down beside the body. “No trace of blood. How did he die? Poison?”

Father Jacob did not answer. He was frowning, lost in his reflections. Sir Ander, accustomed to the priest’s ways, patiently repeated the question.

Father Jacob roused himself and said abruptly, “Something damn odd about this.” His voice was deep and resonating and although Father Jacob had lived in Rosia twenty-five years, his Freyan accent was still pronounced.

Sir Ander repeated his question a third time, and, since he finally had the priest’s attention, he added in rebuking tones, “Brother Barnaby is here. He came to see you.”

“I have a letter for you from Master Albert Savoraun, Father,” said Brother Barnaby. “And the grand bishop sent a messenger saying he has urgent need of you.”

Father Jacob snorted and with that snort dismissed the letter and the grand bishop. The priest continued to study the corpse.

Father Jacob Northrup was in his early forties. His brownish hair, shaved in the traditional tonsure, was starting to go gray. He was clean-shaven, of medium height, though he seemed taller to most people, perhaps because he was muscular and well built. He had been a prize-winning pugilist in his youth and was still fond of the sport. He wore the black cassock that marked a member of the Arcanum and a black, stiff hat made of felt. He would have been termed handsome, for he had a strong jawline and fine nose, but for his eyes, which were gray-green in color and glittered with an intensity most people found disturbing.

“When Father Jacob looks at you, he sees you—sees all of you, whether you want him to or not,” Sir Ander often said.

Father Jacob’s face was marked with the trials of his life; deep lines marred his brow, wrinkles webbed his eyes. He was thin-lipped, and when he smiled, the smile could be either charming or a prelude to doom.

“Father, you should send Brother Barnaby away,” said Sir Andrew.

“And why should I do that?” Father Jacob asked irritably.

“Because there is no need for this young monk to have to witness such carnage. Bad enough we should have to see it ourselves. I’ll have nightmares for a week and I’ve seen men blown apart by cannonballs and never flinched. But this . . . They were so young . . .”

Father Jacob glanced about the room, then returned his frowning gaze to the corpse. Sir Ander sighed and gave up. He knew from long experience that when Father Jacob looked at this room, he did not see the tragic ruin of young lives or think of the terror and pain these young ones must have endured. To Father Jacob’s analytical mind, the dead youths were nothing more than factors in an equation he had been given the task of solving. And right now, judging by his furrowed brow and tight lips, he was not having much success.

“I’m missing something,” Father Jacob said, frowning in perplexity and frustration. “Missing something. . . .”

He pushed himself to his feet and stood with his head lowered, deep in thought. When a soldier came up and seemed about to interrupt the priest in this work, both Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby hurriedly intervened.

“ ‘How did he die?’ ” Father Jacob muttered. “You have a knack, Sir Ander, for hitting the very center of the target. ‘How did he die?’ A most intriguing question.”

He bent back to examine the corpse and Sir Ander, who was growing stiff from squatting, stood up. His knees made popping sounds and he grimaced. He was fifty years old and though he was in excellent condition physically, he was at the age where his bones were starting to creak.

“So very young. So very sad,” said Brother Barnaby. Murmuring the prayer for the dead, he reached down his hand to shut the staring eyes.

“Don’t touch!” Father Jacob cried, striking the monk’s hand with such force that Brother Barnaby stumbled and nearly fell. The young monk shrank back in dismay.

“Really, Father, there was no need to hit him!” Sir Ander began angrily.

Father Jacob looked up at the soldier who had arrived with a question.

“Get your men out of here,” Father Jacob ordered. “And take Brother Barnaby with you!”

“Sir, our captain’s dead,” the soldier began. “I’m not sure—”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn who’s dead!” Father Jacob shouted. “Get your men out of here! Set a guard on the door. Don’t let anyone in.”

The alarmed soldier hastened off to convey the priest’s command. The troops obeyed with alacrity, all of them thankful to leave that chamber of horrors. Since the door had been blown apart and battered down, the soldiers took up their positions in the hallway outside. In his haste, the soldier had forgotten about Brother Barnaby, who had retreated to the shadows, hoping Father Jacob would not notice he was still around.

The monk’s efforts failed.

Father Jacob glowered. “Brother Barnaby, I said you were to leave.”

“I will leave when you leave, Father,” Brother Barnaby said quietly.

Father Jacob muttered something, then motioned with his hand. “If you insist on staying, Brother, walk over to that wall and stand there and do not move! Sir Ander, remain near. I may need your services.”

Father Jacob knelt on the floor beside the corpse, being careful not to touch it. He passed his hand over the young man’s chest and spoke words that were harsh and ugly, the language of dark magic, sounding like a screeching bat, a cawing crow. His face, mild and benign, twisted and contorted. Brother Barnaby shuddered and looked away. Sir Ander felt the hair prickle the back of his neck. His gut tightened. He placed his hand on his sword’s hilt, ready for whatever might come.

Father Jacob continued to pass his hand back and forth over the dead man’s chest and then he stopped. He made a gesture of summoning and spoke a word of command.

A viper reared up from where it had been lying coiled beneath the robes on the corpse’s chest. The snake’s hooded head faced Father Jacob. The viper’s tongue flicked out of its mouth. The snake hissed at Father Jacob and seemed to want to strike, but the priest held it in thrall with his magic. The viper’s head swayed back and forth, its slit eyes fixed on Father Jacob.

“You must cut off the head, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob coolly. “Quickly, man! I cannot hold sway over it much longer.”

Sir Ander swallowed his inborn revulsion of all things that slithered on the ground and drew his broadsword from the scabbard slowly, trying not to make a sound that might cause the viper to attack. He held his sword in his hand, estimating the stroke.

“You’re too close to the snake. I don’t want to cut off two heads instead of one,” said Sir Ander softly.

“I don’t dare move,” said Father Jacob. “If I do, I will break the spell that is holding the viper in thrall.”

Sir Ander drew in a deep breath. “Then when I swing, you must pull your head back. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” said Father Jacob.

Brother Barnaby was softly praying.

“Put a prayer in God’s ear for me, Brother,” said Sir Ander and, using a backhanded stroke, he swept the blade through the air.

Father Jacob lunged sideways. The blade whistled past him and sliced through the viper, severing the snake’s head from the body. The head flew off onto the floor. The snake’s body fell, twitching, on top of the corpse.

“A Tissius viper,” said Father Jacob, eyeing the snake with interest. “Comes from the Kharun Dir Desert. Highly poisonous. Brother Barnaby, could you find me a sack? I should like to take the corpse back to the yacht to study—”

Sir Ander coughed and jerked his head.

Father Jacob looked up at Brother Barnaby. The young man leaned against the wall, shivering. Father Jacob’s expression softened.

“I am sorry you had to witness this, Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob with a sigh. “And I am sorry I struck you. But if you had touched the corpse, the viper would have bitten you. Death would have been inevitable and most painful.”

“I understand, Father.” Brother Barnaby gulped. He looked ill, but he stood steadfast. “Please do not apologize. I will find a sack—”

“Thank you, Brother, but never mind,” said Father Jacob in regretful tones. “I wouldn’t have time to dissect it anyway.”

Sir Ander drew his handkerchief and carefully wiped his blade. He thrust his broadsword back into the scabbard and tossed the handkerchief in disgust onto the floor.

“Why did the Warlock plant the snake on himself?” asked Sir Ander. “Just to have the sadistic pleasure of knowing that he could still kill after death?”

Father Jacob was staring with perplexity at the corpse. “I’m not certain that was the reason. From what I know of him, the Warlock, though young, is highly intelligent. His actions are always purposeful. Reason and logic guide him.”

He looked more closely at the corpse, then he said urgently, “Tell the soldiers to start searching the area.”

“What are they searching for?” Sir Ander asked, puzzled.

“For the Warlock, of course,” Father Jacob snapped impatiently.

Sir Ander had no idea what the priest was talking about—the Warlock was dead on the floor. But Sir Ander had been with Father Jacob for ten years and he knew that questioning him now would only further aggravate him. He trusted the priest implicitly and although the Warlock was most certainly dead, he went to tell the soldiers to conduct a thorough search of the building and the surrounding area for the Warlock.

The soldiers looked at Sir Ander as though he was crazy, but he was a Knight Protector and they were bound to obey. They walked off slowly, muttering among themselves. They wanted to leave this place, go back to pick up their dead. Sir Ander didn’t blame them. A mug of cold ale in some noisy tavern where people were carefree and laughing seemed like Heaven to him about now.

“They’re searching for him,” Sir Ander said on his return. “Though they have no idea why.”

“They won’t find him,” Father Jacob remarked, talking to himself more than his companions. “He had his escape route all planned. A brilliant young man. He could have done great things in this world. For such a mind to be corrupted . . .”

Brother Barnaby was bewildered. “I don’t understand, Father,” he said hesitantly. “Isn’t this dead man the Warlock?”

In answer, Father Jacob placed his hand on the young man’s cheek and, with a sudden jerk, ripped off the blond mustache. Brother Barnaby flinched and gasped in shock.

“It’s not real, Brother. Spirit gum,” Father Jacob said succinctly, holding up the mustache. “The sort used by actors.”

He tore off the blond beard, then twitched aside the collar of the red robes to reveal the breasts, bound in strips of flannel, of a young woman.

Brother Barnaby hurriedly averted his eyes. The young monk took his vow of celibacy seriously. Sir Ander drew closer to get a better look, then he remembered the snake and kept his distance.

“Oh, it’s quite safe now,” Father Jacob said. “The poor child will not hurt anyone anymore.”

“She can’t be more than fifteen!” Sir Ander knelt down to gaze with pity at the youthful face. He sighed and said quietly, “Elaina Devroux.”

“Yes,” said Father Jacob. “Sad news for the viscount and his lady wife.”

“He murdered her and then disguised the body so that we would think it was him,” Sir Ander said grimly.

“He did not murder the girl, though one might say Elaina Devroux perished the day she fell victim to him and his cult,” said Father Jacob. “Note the expression on her face. The young woman died in a drug-induced state. The juice of the poppy, if I’m not mistaken. She dressed with care, even to binding her breasts to make herself appear flat-chested. She put on men’s boots, which are too big for her.”

He looked at the rigid, pale face with its strange and terrible smile. “The beard and mustache are made of real human hair and were applied by someone who knew his business. Such a disguise required careful planning and forethought. She must have agreed at the outset to sacrifice herself for the Warlock should that become necessary. The Warlock was her lover. She ran away from home, to go to him and to the opium he fed her.”

“How do you know she was taking opium?” Sir Ander asked.

“When her parents first found her, wandering aimlessly about the city, they thought her ravings were the result of ‘demonic possession.’ In truth, the seizures were brought about by the removal of the drug to which she had become addicted. I have seen the same behavior among patients in the infirmary who were given opium in honey for the pain of broken limbs. In some instances, when the opium is taken away, these patients appear to have been seized by demons.”

The priest drew back Elaina’s robes and pointed to two small marks on the young girl’s neck.

“That is how she died. When the Warlock placed the viper on her chest and covered it with her robes, she knew that it must eventually bite her.”

“But why would she do such thing?” Brother Barnaby asked, his voice soft with dismay.

“To give the man she adored the opportunity to escape, of course,” said Father Jacob. “He needed time to evade our pursuit and this poor child provided it.”

“He escapes, leaving her and everyone else in his cult to die. I hope he rots in Hell!” Sir Ander said savagely. “He was warned in advance of our coming.”

“Yes,” Father Jacob said and he added bitterly, in sudden anger, “As if we needed more proof than the fact that I walked into his trap and now eleven men are dead!”

“But who could have warned him? No one knew except you and me and the viscount . . .”

Sir Ander saw the grim look on the priest’s face. “The viscount? You can’t be serious! Why warn the very person he wanted us to catch? His soldiers were the ones who died in the assault.”

“I doubt that he meant to,” said Father Jacob. “We will probably find he has a servant in the pay of the Warlock.”

The priest rose to his feet and dusted off his hands. “We are not dealing with a lunatic, Sir Ander. We are dealing with a young man who is operating with a purpose, a young man with someone even more intelligent behind him.”

“You are talking about the Sorceress. But what purpose can there possibly be in torturing and murdering people? Other than”—Sir Ander glanced askance at Brother Barnaby and lowered his voice—“for sadistic sexual pleasure . . .”

“That is part of it, certainly,” said Father Jacob. He glanced about at the room, at the corpses in the alcoves. “But I believe it has more to do with the terror these gruesome crimes generate among the populace. Unlike most criminals, who seek to hide their crimes, this young man performs his openly. He wants people to know what he is doing. This entire part of the country has been in a state of panic for weeks, what with the discovery of mutilated bodies in farmers’ fields and a missing viscount’s daughter. All designed to awaken public interest and outrage and draw attention to the Warlock. Even my arrival feeds into this frenzy.”

“But why?” Sir Ander asked, bewildered. “To what end?”

“I very much fear, my friend, that the Warlock wants me to look at him because he does not want me looking at something else.”

Father Jacob stood for long moments lost in thought, then he roused himself.

“Well, we have done all we can here.” Father Jacob glanced at Brother Barnaby and his voice softened. “I believe you should say the prayer for the dead, Brother.”

Sir Ander and Father Jacob bowed their heads and folded their hands as Brother Barnaby, his face soft with sorrow and compassion, knelt down to close the staring eyes and say a prayer for all the souls lost and wandering in darkness....

“Would you mind if I join you, Brother?” he asked the monk.

“I would like the company, sir,” said Brother Barnaby, pleased.

The driver’s station on the Retribution was located in the front of the yacht and, of necessity, was partially open to the elements. The black-lacquered hull enclosed the cabin and storage rooms and supported a small mast and a ballast balloon. Wings swept back from the curve of the prow, running the length of the twenty-foot hull. Small airscrews were mounted at the rear of each wing, close to the hull. Polished brass rails ran along the roof of the cabin. Brass lanterns, mounted every four feet, and brass hardware for the doors and windows completed the yacht’s regal look. The symbol of the Arcanum: a crossed sword and a staff over which burns a flame set on a quartered black-and-gold shield, was painted on both sides of the hull.

Brother Barnaby took pride in the yacht. He saw to it that the brass was always polished to a high sheen, though Father Jacob maintained caustically that polishing the brass every day was a waste of time.

Sir Ander joined the monk at the driver’s seat and settled himself on the bench behind the windscreen.

Brother Barnaby glanced at him. “Do you mind if we talk of what happened this night, sir?”

The night air was refreshing, and Sir Ander breathed deeply. The two wyverns, barely seen in the darkness, moved their wings in tandem. Brother Barnaby held the reins loosely. The gentle monk had a way with animals. He had picked and trained the wyverns himself. Wyverns were notoriously illtempered and recalcitrant, but these wyverns, guided by Brother Barnaby, were submissive and eager to please.

Sir Ander watched as the monk reached out to touch a small brass helm located to his right. The helm was set with magical constructs that glowed with a golden radiance. As his fingers touched a sigil within one particular construct, correcting a list to starboard, the color shifted red.

“What would you like to talk about, Brother?” Sir Ander asked, though he already knew.

“I do not like to talk so much as I feel the need,” said Brother Barnaby. He looked at the ballast balloon above them and frowned slightly. His fingers slid across the control panel and touched several sigils that adjusted the yacht’s trim to compensate for the slight cross breeze.

Sir Ander regarded the young monk with concern. “I feared what you witnessed tonight would upset you, Brother. Father Jacob was remiss in allowing you to come with us.”

“I needed to see, sir,” said Brother Barnaby. “As Father Jacob says, ‘if we are to fight evil, we must look it in the face, no matter how dreadful the aspect.’ ”

Sir Ander shook his head. He knew he would see the mutilated corpses in his nightmares for the rest of his life. He would have spared any man that sight, but particularly Brother Barnaby.

The young monk was a foundling. The monks of the Order of Saint Anton had discovered the babe wrapped in a blanket, left on the doorstep on a warm summer’s night. They had taken in the child and raised him.

Brother Barnaby had grown up believing himself to be a child of God. He had been nurtured and loved by the monks, who had soon discovered the child had a talent for magical healing and a way with animals. They had taught him to read and write and cipher and how to use the magic that was God’s gift. When Barnaby was older, he had studied the lore of herbs and medicines and had become adept at tending to the ills and hurts of beasts and men.

Then one day when he was sixteen years old, as he had been placing his offering of candles on the altar, Brother Barnaby’s patron saint—Saint Castigan, guardian of children and animals—had appeared to him in a vision.

“Serve this man,” said the saint. He had held his hand over the head of a man dressed in a black cassock denoting him to be a member of the Order of the Arcanum.

Brother Barnaby had never doubted that vision. He had told the abbot he was leaving to find the man revealed to him by Saint Castigan. The monks of the abbey had been upset and disturbed. The abbot had tried to dissuade the young man. He could hardly argue against Saint Castigan, however, and he had at last given Brother Barnaby permission to leave. The abbot had perhaps been well aware that if he had not given his permission, the determined young monk would have left anyway.

Brother Barnaby had walked the three hundred miles to the Citadel of the Voice, where the select few priests admitted into the Arcanum lived and worked. He had arrived at the gates barefoot and in rags, half-starved, thin and weary, but joyful. He had said simply he was here on orders from Saint Castigan to serve a man whose name he did not know. The young monk then provided them with the description of the man in his vision.

The Provost of the Arcanum had immediately recognized Father Jacob Northrup and summoned him at once. When Father Jacob had entered the office, Brother Barnaby smiled in recognition, though they had never before met.

“Saint Castigan sent me to serve you, Father. He said you needed me.”

“Why would the saint say that?” Father Jacob had asked, regarding the young man with interest.

“I have no idea, Father,” Brother Barnaby had replied humbly. “All I know is that I am here and I will serve you and the saint most faithfully.”

The Provost had been dubious about accepting this obviously cloistered and naïve young man into the Arcanum and would have sent the young monk back to his abbey, but Father Jacob had found Brother Barnaby “fascinating” and insisted on keeping him, much to the dismay of Sir Ander.

“I need a scribe, after all,” Father Jacob had argued. “This Barnaby is a true innocent.”

“He is, indeed,” Sir Ander had said sternly. “You cannot take on this young man because you want to study his brain, Jacob. Such an innocent young person should not be exposed to the evil you and I see on a daily basis.”

“Brother Barnaby is stronger than you think, my friend,” Father Jacob had said. “And he has a mission to fulfill in this life. I do not know what that mission is, nor does he. But Saint Castigan knows and the saint and I both believe Barnaby will find his purpose traveling with us, not sheltered behind the walls of some reclusive monastery.”

And so, here was Brother Barnaby, driving the wyverns and trying to make sense of the senseless.

“This young man led his followers to their deaths. He drove them to commit terrible acts and then urged them to sacrifice themselves, while he himself escaped. What horrible force drives him, Sir Ander? Why did he do it?”

“That is not an easy question to answer,” said Sir Ander. “I’m not sure I want to try to understand. Father Jacob believes the Warlock obeys a master, or rather a mistress, an older woman who schooled him.”

“The one known as the Sorceress.”

“Yes. We know very little about her or this so-called Warlock except that he preys on young people. He lures sons and daughters of peasants and of nobles to his cult. Any youth who is lonely, unhappy, and desperate falls easy victim to the Warlock’s charms and blandishments. Once he has them in his clutches, he uses opiates and the lusts of the body (I beg your pardon for speaking of such things, Brother) to keep them.”

“I find myself at odds . . .” Brother Barnaby gazed into the darkness, fumbling for the right words. “If you and Father Jacob had found this young man, Sir Ander, you would have killed him, wouldn’t you?”

“As God is my witness, yes,” said Sir Ander in grim tones. “I would have put a bullet in his skull without hesitation.”

“But he is only seventeen. Just a boy!”

“He stopped being a boy when he stabbed his first victim,” said Sir Ander. “This ‘boy’ deliberately placed that viper on the breast of a young girl, knowing she would die.”

“He has turned to evil,” said Brother Barnaby sadly. “But perhaps that was not his fault. Perhaps he is also a victim of this sorceress. He might be counseled, reclaimed . . .”

“You feel pangs of conscience when I swat a fly, Brother,” said Sir Ander, placing his hand on the monk’s arm. “Take comfort in the fact that we are not likely to confront him again, either him or his dark mistress. We now have more important matters to consider it seems.”

“The summons from the grand bishop about the poor nuns of Saint Agnes,” said Brother Barnaby somberly. “I have prayed for them this night.”

The guardsman on griffin-back had delivered a letter from the grand bishop that told of the massacre at the Abbey of Saint Agnes, ordering Father Jacob to drop whatever he was doing and report to the Bishop’s Palace at once.

Father Jacob had planned to spend the next day searching for clues, hoping to pick up the trail of the young Warlock. A man of single-minded purpose, Father Jacob was not happy to receive the bishop’s summons.

“Some other member of my Order must go,” Father Jacob had said brusquely.

“The bishop asked for you specifically, Father,” the rider had said. “He said you were the best.”

Sir Ander had waited confidently for Father Jacob to say no, he wasn’t leaving his investigation until it was finished. Father Jacob never had difficulty saying “no” to anyone, be it king or commoner or grand bishop.

Father Jacob had startled his friend. “Tell the bishop we will make all haste.”

Father Jacob was, in Sir Ander’s opinion, the wisest, most intelligent man the knight had ever known. Among all the priests of the Order of the Arcanum, Father Jacob was the best. The trouble was—he knew it, which often made him very difficult to live with.

Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby were startled by a sudden shout coming from inside the yacht.

“What a fool I have been! What a bloody, stupid fool! Where is that letter?” Father Jacob yelled.

“What is the matter, Father?” Brother Barnaby called out anxiously, trying to divide his attention between the control panel and the wyverns and the priest. “Do you need me?”

“He’s fine,” Sir Ander said irritably. “After all, he had a good night’s sleep.”

“Where is that letter?” Father Jacob demanded again.

“On the table,” Sir Ander returned, opening the hatch and pointing. “You’re looking straight at it!”

“You moved it,” Father Jacob said, grumbling. He dragged out a chair, sat down, and picked up the letter.

“Must be an odd sort of letter,” said Sir Ander to Brother Barnaby. “He’s casting a magical spell on it.”

As Rodrigo had cast a spell on the ashes of the letter in Alcazar’s fireplace, Father Jacob was casting a similar spell on this letter. But whereas Rodrigo had drawn sigils and lines connecting them and then physically connected the sigils and lines, using the magical energy within his own body to produce the magic, Father Jacob merely passed his hand over the letter. A shimmering light began to shine from the page.

Father Jacob Northrop was a savant: one of those rare persons who, as the saying went, “was born of magic.” As there are some people who can arrive at the answer of a complicated mathematical equation without going through the steps of adding, subtracting, multiplying, or dividing, Father Jacob could work magic without the need for all the intervening steps leading to the end result.

Father Jacob looked up from the letter.

“What was the name of that abbey where all those nuns were killed?”

“Saint Agnes, Father.”

“That’s what I thought. Come in here for a moment. I need to speak to you.”

Sir Ander left Brother Barnaby and climbed back through the hatch, inside the yacht. Father Jacob was sitting at the table, the letter in his hand. The magic he had cast on it still glowed faintly.

“This letter is from our friend, Master Albert Savoraun. You remember him? He worked with us on the affair of the naval cutter, Defiant. Master Albert has recently been made head of the Maritime Guild chapter in Westfirth.”

“Good for him,” said Ander heartily.

“That is not what is important,” Father Jacob said impatiently. “What is important is that he needed to review the records of the guild and discovered that they were not in the guildhall. Following a great fire that had destroyed parts of the city, the records were moved for safekeeping to a nearby abbey. The Abbey of Saint Agnes . . .”

“I’ll be damned!” said Sir Ander, startled into alertness. “That’s a strange coincidence.”

“You know I do not believe in coincidence,” said Father Jacob. He referred again to the letter. “Master Albert writes: ‘I found the information in the abbey to be of the utmost importance. I cannot stress its value. So important I dare not write it.’ ”

“Not even in a letter that requires a knowledge of magic to read?” Sir Ander asked with a smile.

The letter was seven pages long and, on the surface, contained mostly news of the antics of Master Albert’s ten children. The true contents of the letter had been written with a magical cipher that required a magical counter cipher to read.

“Apparently not,” said Father Jacob. He indicated the date on the top of the letter. “Master Albert wrote this letter a fortnight ago. The letter was addressed to the Arcanum, the Citadel of the Voice where we normally reside. The Provost received it there and forwarded it to me in Capione, which is why it took so long to reach me. And now we hear from the grand bishop that this very abbey has been attacked and the nuns who lived there murdered.”

Father Jacob sat pondering. “How far are we from the Bishop’s Palace in Evreux?”

Sir Ander consulted his pocket watch. “We have been flying for about ten hours now. I would say we were within an hour of arrival.”

“You and Brother Barnaby have been awake all night. You should both try to get some sleep,” said Father Jacob. He stood up, walked to the hatch, and flung it open. “I will drive, Brother Barnaby.”

Brother Barnaby looked at the priest in alarm.

“Uh, no, Father, that’s not necessary. I’m not at all tired.”

The monk cast a pleading gaze at Sir Ander, begging him not to let Father Jacob drive. The wyverns did not like Father Jacob. There was no telling what the beasts might do if the priest took the reins.

“I’m not sleepy,” said Sir Ander, stifling another yawn. “Come, Father Jacob. I will let you beat me in a game of dominoes.”

Father Jacob’s eyes brightened. His one weakness was an avid passion for dominoes. He drew a magical sigil on the letter from Master Albert, spoke a word and the letter was instantly consumed in a flash of blue fire. Not a trace of the letter remained, not even the ashes.

Sir Ander sneezed and irritably waved away the smoke. Father Jacob brought out his cherished set of ivory dominoes in their hand-carved rosewood case. The two sat down to their game. On the driver’s seat, Brother Barnaby closed the hatch and sighed in relief.

Sir Ander dumped out the dominoes. Father Jacob turned them upside down to hide the pips. Sir Ander began to stir them around.

“Too bad you didn’t receive this letter earlier,” said Sir Ander.

“I was meant not to receive it,” said Father Jacob.

Sir Ander stopped stirring to stare. “What?”

“As I suspected, the Warlock was a diversion, my friend,” said Father Jacob. He picked up a domino, but he did not play it. He tapped it on the table. “Poor Lady Elaina. The viscount was frantic to recover his child. Of course, he would insist on having me investigate. I went. Master Albert’s letter missed me. And now the nuns of Saint Agnes are dead.”

“But why?” Sir Ander asked. “What has one to do with the other?”

He turned over the domino.

“You’ve drawn a blank. How very fitting,” said Father Jacob. “Until I know more, that is your answer.”