The grounds housed three cathedrals, each dedicated to a different saint; motherhouses for four orders of monks, two orders of nuns, and three military orders; an elementary school for children skilled in magic, and a University with dormitories to house the students.

The Grand Bishop’s Palace was the largest structure and the oldest in the Conclave. All the other buildings had been erected down through the centuries, radiating out from the Grand Bishop’s Palace, which stood in the center as the sun of the small world—as was right and proper in the eyes of God and the grand bishop.

The cathedrals and other structures had been built at different periods of time with each architect attempting to outdo his predecessors and thus there was no consistency of style. One cathedral had graceful spires. Another featured a vast dome. The third was adorned with minarets, while the University had tried to outdo them all by erecting spires and minarets above a vast dome.

The Conclave’s sacred grounds were always busy. By day, the gates were thrown open so that people could attend services in one of the grand cathedrals. University students played croquet on the green lawns or studied in the gardens. Monks and nuns and priests, abbots and abbesses, answered the bells that called them to their prayers. At night, the common people were shooed out, the gates closed. Those who required admittance had to enter through a single gate where they came under the scrutiny of a porter and the Grand Bishop’s Own, as his soldiers were called.

The skies above the Conclave of the Divine were also patrolled by the Grand Bishop’s Own. Flying on the backs of griffins, the soldiers guarded the walls and the Breath, permitting only those who could prove they had business in the Conclave to enter.

The glistening black yacht, Retribution, with its striking, ornamental brass work was met by three of the Bishop’s Own, who flew to meet it. Upon speaking to Brother Barnaby and noting the symbols of the Arcanum painted in gold on the side, the soldiers immediately escorted the yacht to the main courtyard.

Brother Barnaby decreased the magical energy flowing into the Retribution’s lift tanks, a process called “cooling,” and landed the vessel. Once on the ground, the wyverns hissed and snapped at the griffins, which were well trained and held themselves aloof from such inferior animals, though the griffins did take care to keep clear of the wyvern’s sharp fangs and claws. Brother Barnaby soothed his wyverns and praised them and made certain they were given space in the stables and fed and watered. Once settled, the wyverns tucked their heads under their wings to rest.

“If it is agreeable to you, Father,” said Sir Ander, while they were waiting for Brother Barnaby to return from the stables, “I will forgo meeting with His Excellency.”

“A wise move,” said Father Jacob.

Grand Bishop Montagne disliked Sir Ander Martel and the feeling was mutual, an animosity that dated back to the Lost Rebellion, the name given to the fight waged against the king by the Duke de Bourlet. Sir Ander had remained true to the Crown, but he had made no secret of the fact that he thought King Alaric and Bishop Montagne had both conspired to drive the Duke de Bourlet to rebel. The grand bishop had attempted to block Sir Ander’s acceptance into the Knight Protectors, but Sir Ander had an influential friend at court—the Countess de Marjolaine. She had seen to it that Sir Ander was made a Knight Protector. The grand bishop had taken his revenge by assigning Sir Ander to protect a member of the Arcanum, one of the most dangerous assignments for members of the Order.

“I will pay my respects to my commander and see if those pistols I ordered from the Royal Armory have been delivered,” said Sir Ander. “Shall we meet at noon for dinner in the dining hall of the Knight Protectors? Will you be finished with your meeting with the grand bishop by then?”

“Dear God, I hope so!” said Father Jacob. “Ah, and here is Brother Barnaby, armed for battle with his lap desk, pen and ink, and other mighty weapons.”

Brother Barnaby looked slightly startled at this and glanced down at the lap desk, a hinged wooden box containing the tools he needed for recording notes of the meeting. He had no idea what Father Jacob meant, but Brother Barnaby had grown accustomed to the priest’s odd way of speaking, so he only smiled in response and fell into step beside him. The priest and the monk followed the path leading to the Bishop’s Palace, bidding good-bye to Sir Ander, who trod another path that would take him to the motherhouse of the Knight Protectors.

Although the day was early and the gates had not yet been opened to the public, people were coming and going through the courtyard surrounding the Bishop’s Palace. Morning prayers, a light meal to break the night’s fast, and then off to do the Lord’s work.

Father Jacob walked among the crowd with a well-measured pace, his hands behind his back, his keen eyes taking in each and every person he encountered, much to that person’s consternation. The black cassock of the Arcanum struck guilty fear into even the most innocent hearts, causing each individual to secretly run over his or her catalog of sins.

Nuns in their white habits and wimples saw the black cassock and made graceful reverence to Father Jacob, then glanced at each other with round eyes as they hurried past him. Monks in their plain brown robes, priests in their more colorful garb, eyed Father Jacob askance and kept their heads averted and stayed out of his way, fearing lest his eye fall on them.

Brother Barnaby was always offended by this rude treatment of the priest. Father Jacob did not mind. Instead, he even toyed with people by suddenly stopping and fixing his gray-green eyes on them. His victims would grow pale and shrink, some would even break into a sweat. Father Jacob would then give them a cheery greeting and go on his way, chuckling to himself. Brother Barnaby thought he would never completely understand Father Jacob.

They passed through several gates, were questioned (briefly) by the gate guards, and finally gained entry to the palace. A young priest who acted as escort led them through the echoing halls of the palace, down corridors adorned with tapestries and paintings and life-sized marble statues depicting the saints and various episodes in their lives. Brother Barnaby had been to the Conclave of the Divine before, but never to the palace. He was awed by the magnificence and enthralled by the works of art. His steps lagged. He gazed about in wonder and sometimes, forgetting himself, he would come to a halt to gaze in rapture at a mural on the wall.

Father Jacob did not chide the monk or try to hasten him. The priest would stop, rocking on his heels, patiently waiting. Their escort, however, was extremely annoyed. He would hasten back to speak sternly to Father Jacob, reminding him that the grand bishop’s time was valuable.

“God works in wondrous ways, Father,” said Brother Barnaby in a low voice to Father Jacob as they walked the corridors of white marble, surrounded by saints and angels. “Yesterday, seeing the terrible work evil men do, I was cast down in despair. Today I see the work created by men blessed of God and I am filled with hope.”

Father Jacob smiled. Sir Ander had feared that Brother Barnaby would be wounded, his serenity disturbed, his gentle and kindly disposition destroyed by his exposure to the dark caverns, cruel wastelands and stinking swamps of the human mind. But as Sir Ander wore a cuirass enhanced with magical constructs when going into a potentially dangerous situation, Brother Barnaby went into battle accoutered in armor far stronger than the strongest, magically enhanced steel. He was armed with his faith.

Father Jacob had accepted Brother Barnaby as scribe and assistant for one reason—he was intrigued by the young man’s claim to have been led to him by the command of Saint Castigan. Father Jacob was intensely interested in the study of mankind and while he did not quite add Brother Barnaby to his collection of specimens, as he might have added a rare sort of beetle, he did look forward to studying a young man driven by such intense faith.

To Father Jacob’s credit, he would have immediately returned Brother Barnaby to his monastery if he had thought any harm could come to the young man. But as Father Jacob had told Sir Ander, “Brother Barnaby’s faith in God is not like water in a glass that will spill if the glass is broken. His faith will not evaporate or leak out through a crack. Brother Barnaby’s faith is the air he draws into his lungs and the blood that pulses in his veins and the quiet beating of his heart. His soul does not exist separate and apart from his body. His soul is his body and his body is his soul. You need have no fear for Brother Barnaby.”

The young monk did not blame God for the evil in the world. Nor did he rail against God or demand accountability. He often asked questions of Father Jacob, not because he doubted God, but for help in understanding.

“We imperfect creatures are constantly striving for perfection,” Brother Barnaby said, as they traversed the hall. “I’ve been thinking, Father. Perhaps men and women succumb to evil because they seek to achieve perfection too easily, without having to work to attain it. They give up the struggle and thus fall into the pit.”

“And how do we help such people?” Father Jacob asked.

Brother Barnaby considered this question. “Some priests would say we should stand on the rim of the pit and preach to those who have fallen. But I believe the only way to help them is to climb down into the pit and put our arms around them and lift them out.”

“You are a wise man, Brother,” said Father Jacob gravely.

Brother Barnaby was quite startled by this compliment and retreated into shy, if pleased, silence.

When Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby reached the offices of the grand bishop, they were ushered into the antechamber—a large room, beautifully decorated with more famous works of art. The ceiling was high and had been painted to depict the Breath with its twilight-orange-and-pink mists and white clouds, the sun, moon, and stars. The parquet wooden floor was covered with a sumptuous carpet into which the foot sank most pleasantly. Although the large room was occupied by many priests, seated at desks or busy at various tasks, the antechamber was so intensely quiet that Brother Barnaby tried to hush the sound of his breathing.

“Is that the grand bishop?” he whispered to Father Jacob.

Brother Barnaby was referring to a man dressed in a scarlet cassock bound with a broad golden sash and a white stole about his shoulders.

“That is the monsignor,” said Father Jacob, speaking loudly. The sudden intrusive sound caused all the priests to snap their heads up and glare at him in rebuke. “The monsignor serves His Eminence in much the same capacity as you serve me, Brother Barnaby.”

Having seen all he cared to see, Father Jacob strode rapidly forward, his black cassock swishing about his ankles. The priests followed his progression through the room with their eyes. The monsignor, seeing and hearing him, rose hurriedly from his desk.

“Father Jacob Northrop,” Father Jacob boomed and he added, unnecessarily, since the black cassock proclaimed him, “of the Arcanum.”

“His Eminence left instructions for you to be immediately admitted upon your arrival,” said the monsignor. “If you would accompany me . . .”

The monsignor placed his hands on the handles of a pair of double doors, beautifully and intricately carved of wood, and was about to open them when he saw Brother Barnaby.

The monsignor gave a delicate cough. “Your servant may wait for you here, Father Jacob,” he said. “He will be well cared for, of that you may be certain.”

“Brother Barnaby is not my servant,” said Father Jacob, his brows coming together in a frown. He latched onto Brother Barnaby’s arm. “He is my amanuensis and, as such, he goes everywhere with me.”

Brother Barnaby clasped the lap desk in both hands and lowered his eyes in embarrassment. “I don’t mind, Father.”

“I do,” said Father Jacob sternly, keeping fast hold of the monk.

The monsignor took a moment to consider, then said, “Very well.” He opened the doors and announced, “Father Jacob Northrop and . . . er . . . Brother Barnaby.”

Grand Bishop Ferdinand Montagne motioned for them both to enter. He was seated at his desk, frowning over a small piece of paper which had been delivered last evening, but which the bishop had only received this morning.

“Please be seated, Father Jacob and Brother . . .”

The grand bishop had not caught Barnaby’s name. He dispensed with formalities by waving his hand at two chairs placed directly opposite his desk.

“If you will both excuse me one moment.”

The grand bishop motioned the monsignor to approach the desk and handed him a note. They both spoke in low tones, their voices soft. Father Jacob watched and listened with interest.

“Dubois sent this last night,” said the grand bishop softly. “He wrote it in haste. Can you make out what it says?”

The monsignor read the note. “‘ Find out what happened at the Royal Armory.’ ”

“That’s what I thought it said. Do you know what he means?”

“No, Your Eminence, I am afraid I have no idea.”

“Then do what it says. Find out.”

The monsignor nodded, bowed and, taking the note, left the room.

The bishop gave a sigh and ran his hand over his head. “Affairs of state,” he said by way of apology. “We always seem to find ourselves entangled in such matters, though most unwillingly.”

He sat down in his chair and looked directly at Father Jacob.

“How are you, Father Jacob? It has been some time since we last met.”

“I am well, Your Eminence. And you?”

“Not good, Father. Not good.” The grand bishop placed his hand on his stomach. “Dyspepsia. It seems that nothing I eat agrees with me. The pain and discomfort I experience is most debilitating.”

“If I might presume to suggest something, Your Eminence. . . .” Brother Barnaby spoke up meekly.

The bishop looked at him, startled.

“Brother Barnaby is known for his healing skills,” said Father Jacob. “You would do well to listen to him, Your Eminence.”

“If your Eminence would mix ground gentian root with hot tea, drink this three times daily, eat only the blandest foods, and abstain from wine for at least a week, I believe you will show improvement.”

The grand bishop raised an eyebrow. “And you say this gentian root works, Brother?”

“I have had much success with it in the past, Your Eminence.”

The grand bishop rang a bell and a priest appeared in the doorway. “Bring me hot tea mixed with ground gentian root,” the bishop ordered.

The priest appeared slightly startled at the request, but he hastened to fill it.

“Now,” said the grand bishop with a heavy sigh, “we must discuss this terrible business.”

“At the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” said Father Jacob.

“The abbey and elsewhere,” said the grand bishop.

Father Jacob raised an eyebrow, then he glanced at Brother Barnaby and nodded. The young monk placed the lap desk he had been carrying on his knees, opened it, and drew out pen and paper and a small bottle of ink. He set the ink in a hole in the desk that kept the bottle stable, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and made ready to write.

The grand bishop frowned. “Is this man intending to take notes on what we say?”

“With the permission of Your Eminence, of course,” said Father Jacob. “I find—”

“You do not have my permission! What I am about to tell you is of a highly volatile nature! If anyone were to find out—”

“Your Eminence can rest easy,” said Father Jacob in soothing tones. “Brother Barnaby writes the notes in a special code I devised. He and I are the only ones who can read it. I will show Your Eminence what he has written before we leave and if you can decipher a word of it, I will destroy the notes immediately.

He added gravely, “These notes are critical to my work, Your Eminence. I would be laboring at an extreme disadvantage without them.”

“Why even bother to seek my permission,” the bishop grumbled. “Oh, very well. But I will look at these notes before you leave.”

Montagne wasn’t happy, but he was desperate. He rose to his feet and began to pace restlessly back and forth behind the desk as he talked.

“You know my secret, Father Jacob. The secret that keeps me awake at night and eats holes in my stomach.”

“The secret that magic in the world, the Breath of God, is being destroyed,” said Father Jacob.

Brother Barnaby looked up, astonished. Father Jacob glanced at him and nodded slightly. Brother Barnaby’s pen scratched across the paper.

“Recently, the situation has grown more dire,” said the bishop. “Magical constructs have begun breaking down at an alarming rate. I am hearing reports from crafters that they require more and more time to maintain the existing constructs.”

The bishop stopped in his pacing, stood frowning down at the carpet, then suddenly lifted his head and turned to face Father Jacob directly.

“To put it bluntly, Jacob, magic is failing! It is failing in all parts of Rosia, and now I have received a report of the same occurring in Freya. Magical sigils are weakening at an alarming rate. The Church has managed to stave off panic by telling people that the magic is cyclical, that every few hundred years the magic wanes as the moon wanes and waxes. We maintain that we are in a part of the cycle where the magic is weak and that it will eventually come back.”

“You do realize that what you are saying is bullshit, Your Eminence,” said Father Jacob crudely.

Brother Barnaby raised his head and blinked his eyes.

“Pardon my language, Eminence,” Father Jacob continued, “but magic is not ‘cyclical.’”

“I know that,” the grand bishop said irritably. He extended his hands in pleading. “But what else can we say? That the magic is dying? That the Breath is being sucked out of our world? That God is gasping for air? Do we tell the populace that some day soon their houses will collapse? Their airships will drop out of the skies? Do we tell them that some of the continents are starting to sink and that doomsday may not be long in coming? Do we tell them this?”

Father Jacob was silent, grave. The only sound in the room was Barnaby’s pen crawling across the paper and, occasionally, the tinkling sound of the nib touching the rim of the inkwell as he refreshed his ink.

“Well?” said the bishop shortly. “What do you have to say, Father?”

“That what I predicted eight years ago is now come to pass,” said Father Jacob.

“Damn it, Jacob!” the grand bishop swore angrily and struck the desk with his clenched fist. “How can you be so goddamn cool about this? I know that I blaspheme, but if the blessed Saint Dennis himself were standing here, I have no doubt he would say the same!”

“I assume this has something to do with the massacre at the Abbey of Saint Agnes,” said Father Jacob. “Since that is why you sent for me.”

The bishop sighed deeply, ran his hand through his hair, belched, grimaced, and lowered himself back down in his chair.

“It does, but there is more you must know before I tell you. A few weeks ago, a watchtower collapsed. The tower was old, but the crafter mason who maintained the magical constructs that strengthened the stonework has sworn on the sacred writings of the Four Saints that the constructs were in perfect condition. Twenty soldiers were inside the structure when it fell. All of them were killed.”

Brother Barnaby said a prayer for the dead beneath his breath as he made the notation.

“Was this reported to the Arcanum?” asked Father Jacob.

“Of course,” said the bishop. “I asked for you, but I was told you were working to put an end to this evil young man who calls himself the Warlock. A most inconvenient time for you to be away!”

Father Jacob’s lips tightened. “Yes, wasn’t it,” he said grimly. “I trust you sent Church crafters to investigate.”

“My personal secretary, the monsignor, led the group,” said the bishop. “He is a very talented crafter. The tower had been reduced to a heap of rubble. Much of the stonework on the ground was still intact. The monsignor was going to study the magical sigils on the stones, but he found that there were no magical sigils. The magic had been utterly destroyed.”

Brother Barnaby gasped. “No sigils! But that is not possible!”

Catching Father Jacob’s stern glance, the young monk ducked his head and went back to his recording.

“Not a single magical sigil left in the whole damn tower,” said the grand bishop. “The monsignor and our crafters went over every single, solitary stone they could find. One would expect to see weakened sigils, broken sigils. The monsignor said, and I quote his words, ‘It was as if someone had taken a rag and wiped away the magic.’”

“As happened with the cutter Defiant,” said Father Jacob.

“I reread your report—” the bishop began.

“Did you, Your Eminence?” Father Jacob said with a glint in his eye. “I was told my report had been burned as heresy, expunged from the records.”

“We always keep copies, Father Jacob,” said the bishop and he added sourly, “As you know perfectly well. So don’t be so damn sanctimonious.”

Montagne jumped to his feet with such suddenness that he knocked over the chair. His choleric face was red with anger. “I was wrong, Jacob, and you were right! Does that make you happy? Do you take pleasure in that?”

“No, Your Eminence,” said Father Jacob quietly. “Given the terrible consequences of my predictions that magic throughout the world would fail, I have been praying that I was the one who would be in the wrong.”

He reached out his hand to stop Brother Barnaby’s pen. “You needn’t record any of that.”

Brother Barnaby nodded and scratched out what he had been writing. The bishop started to sit down, only to realize he didn’t have a chair. Brother Barnaby laid down his desk, jumped to his feet, walked over to the chair, and picked it up. The grand bishop muttered his thanks and resumed his seat. Brother Barnaby went back to his note-taking.

The bishop resumed. “I reread your report, Father Jacob, as I said, but I would like to hear from you directly about the incidents related to the Defiant.”

Father Jacob was silent a moment, collecting his thoughts, then began to relate the story. “Eight years ago, several merchant ships sailing the Breath near the Bay of Faighn outside Westfirth reported that they had come under attack by pirates. The pirates would pose as a merchant vessel lost in the Breath seeking directions. The pirates would sail their ship over to the other merchant ship to exchange information. Once close by, the pirates would use canister rounds to sweep the deck and then board the helpless victim, rob the merchant of anything of value, then leave the survivors adrift in the Breath. The navy was alerted to this threat and sent the cutter RNS Defiant to the area.

“The Defiant arrived to find a merchant ship under attack. The Defiant sailed in to stop the attack and capture the pirates. The Defiant was a twomasted floating warship with sixteen twelve-pound cannons and a crew of one hundred men. The pirate vessel was a modified merchant vessel with eight six pounders. The pirates were outgunned and outmanned. I later spoke to the captain of the Defiant, who told me he assumed the pirates would attempt to flee.

“To the captain’s immense surprise, the pirate vessel turned to attack the cutter. The captain said he and his officers actually laughed, for the pirate vessel was taking aim at them with what appeared to be a small cannon mounted on the ship’s forecastle. The captain told me it ‘looked like a child’s popgun.’

“The pirates fired. A beam of eerie-looking green light shot from the small cannon aimed directly at the brass panel on which the Defiant’s starboard control constructs were inscribed. The green light disrupted the magic, causing the helmsman to lose control of the ship. The Defiant still managed to go about, when a second blast of green light hit the ship, this one aimed at her larboard cannons. Several of the cannons exploded, killing their gun crews and blasting holes in the hull.

“Fortunately, the Defiant was close to shore when the attack occurred, or she would have undoubtedly sunk into the Breath with all hands lost. As it was, the cutter managed to limp to shore, where a land-based army patrol came aboard to help protect the wounded vessel.

“Then something unusual happened. Or perhaps I should say, something more unusual. The pirate ship sailed close to the Defiant, but did not attack. The pirates had their spyglasses trained on the disabled ship. The captain told me: ‘It was damn strange. Looked to me as if they wanted to see close-up the destruction they had caused.’ The army patrol started firing at them and the pirate ship sailed off, vanishing into the mists.

“Word of the attack reached a nearby garrison. They sent an urgent message to the Westfirth Crafters’ Guild saying they needed a Master Crafter to restore the magical constructs and make the Defiant airworthy as quickly as possible. The crafter, Master Albert Savoraun, boarded the cutter to inspect the damage. He was astounded by what he found and, as required by law, Master Albert immediately reported his findings to the Arcanum. Your Eminence sent me to investigate.”

They were interrupted by a priest, who returned with the stomachic recommended by Brother Barnaby. He made up the concoction. The grand bishop drank the tea, grimacing at the bitter taste. Suddenly the bishop’s stomach rumbled mightily and he gave a great belch. An expression of relief crossed his face. He cast Brother Barnaby a look of gratitude and told Father Jacob to continue.

“The captain of the Defiant and her crew had already been transported back to their base. Shocked by his discovery, Master Savoraun asked the garrison to place a guard on the cutter. He was waiting for me when I arrived, in company with Sir Ander Martel.”

Father Jacob paused, then said, “Before I go into detail about what I found, I need to know how much Your Eminence knows about ships of the air.”

“I know that through the blessing of God, my yacht sails the Breath,” said the bishop. “I leave the workings of the vessel to the captain.”

“Then, Your Eminence, I will digress a moment to explain that when an airship is built, crafters spend months putting the magical constructs into place. Magic embedded in an airship ranges from complex constructs that strengthen the wooden hull to the smaller, more delicate interlaced magical constructs on the brass helm that allow the helmsman to steer the ship through the Breath.

“Magic is in every part of the ship: the wooden planks of the hull, the metal of the cannons, the lines and pulleys of the rigging. Once set, the magical constructs will slowly degrade over time, which is why, when an airship is in dry dock, naval crafters come on board to maintain them.

“Now, Your Eminence, here is what is important to understand. Even if the constructs, which are made up of sigils, degrade to the point where they break down completely, the magic leaves behind what are known as ‘burn marks.’ Since the sigils have been burned into the wood or onto the metal, a crafter reading these burn marks can detect the imprint of the sigils and restore them.

“On the Defiant, wherever the green light struck the ship, the magic had been obliterated. Nothing was left of it. No burn marks. No sigils. No constructs. Nothing.”

Father Jacob lowered his voice and said softly, “It was as if the magic had never been.”

“As the good monk here says, that is impossible,” said the bishop. “God’s work cannot be destroyed.”

“In this case God’s work was wiped out. And apparently also in the case of the watchtower and the Abbey of Saint Agnes or you would not have sent for me.”

The grand bishop muttered something that was unintelligible and motioned irritably for Father Jacob to continue. He did so, with a sigh.

“When I returned to the Arcanum, I spoke to the priest who is the foremost authority on constructs in the world. As you may recall, Your Eminence, Father Antonius was the person responsible for sinking an Estaran floating fortress during the war. He did so by manipulating the hundreds of constructs set into its stonework. I asked Father Antonius to try to replicate what we found on the Defiant. He said what you said, Your Eminence, no crafter—not even the blessed Saints themselves—could destroy God’s work. ‘It is impossible,’ he said, ‘to obliterate a magical construct.’ Yet, Your Eminence, the impossible was done. I saw it for myself.”

Father Jacob ceased talking so that Brother Barnaby could catch up. He wrote, then laid down his pen to indicate he was finished. The room was so silent that the ticking of the clock was quite loud, reminding them all that time was slipping past.

At length the bishop stirred. “Which was, unfortunately, precisely what the monsignor found in the tower. The impossible had come to pass. The magic had been obliterated. Witnesses to the collapse described a bright green glow that illuminated the building and then the tower fell down.”

“Whoever is behind this has made their weapons more powerful,” said Father Jacob. His voice hardened. “Not surprising. They’ve had eight years to work undeterred.”

The bishop heard the note of rebuke and glowered. “Meaning we should have massed a force and sent our armies to attack Freya. You know why I didn’t recommend that, and His Majesty, for once, agreed with me. An unprovoked attack on Freya would have meant war and we are not prepared for war. We . . .” The grand bishop shook his head and then clamped his lips together.

“The real reason was that you didn’t believe me when I told you that this green beam was capable of destroying magic,” said Father Jacob.

The bishop didn’t respond.

Father Jacob regarded the man for a moment, then said quietly, “I take that back. You believed me, but you didn’t trust me. Because I am Freyan.”

The bishop rose to his feet again. He strode over to the sideboard and was about to pour himself some wine. Brother Barnaby gave a gentle cough and shook his head. The bishop, sighing, resorted to water.

“His Majesty and I thought Freya was behind these attacks,” the bishop said gravely. “We are being forced to reconsider that position. You see, Jacob, the tower that collapsed was in Freya.”

“Good God!” Father Jacob exclaimed, caught by surprise.

“The Archbishop of Kerringdon of the Freyan Church has not communicated with us in years, but he was concerned enough by what his crafters discovered that he asked for our help—not directly, of course, but through discreet channels.”

“The inimitable Dubois?” Father Jacob asked.

The grand bishop glared. “Do you know all my secrets?”

He walked back to the desk, but he did not sit down. He stood frowning at it. “I know now I owe you an apology, Father Jacob. But since you are a man of logic, I am sure you can agree that I did have some reason to doubt your loyalty. That said, I prove my faith in you by entrusting you with this secret which, if it leaked out, could bring down the Church.”

“I concede that you owe me an apology,” said Father Jacob coolly. “However, let us move on. If the Freyans are not the ones who have developed this weapon, then who? No other nation has the capability or the resources to develop such destructive power. You are certain it is not Freya?”

“I wasn’t. Until now.”

“The attack on the abbey,” Father Jacob said.

The bishop laid his hand on a slender document that was rolled, bound, and sealed. “I have here the report of the attack written by the monk who was assigned as the nuns’ confessor. Brother Paul was absent the night of the attack. He did not live at the abbey, but in a small hermitage some miles away. He wrote an account of what he found on his return.”

Father Jacob interrupted. “I trust I will be able to speak to this Brother Paul?”

“Of course. He has been told to prepare for your arrival. The abbey—or what is left of it—is under guard. Nothing has been disturbed.”

The bishop handed over the document. He glanced at the clock. “I have another appointment, Father. If you have any questions . . .” He paused, then said with some bitterness, “I don’t have the answers. God be with you.”

Father Jacob understood that this discussion was at an end. He said a word to Brother Barnaby, who scribbled a final note and then began to pack up his writing desk.

“Your Eminence asked to see my notes.” Brother Barnaby handed over what he had written.

The bishop glanced at the page. “It looks like a chicken with inky feet has walked across the paper.”

“Precisely,” said Father Jacob.

The bishop shrugged and handed back the notes. Brother Barnaby carefully placed the sheets in the writing desk, along with the pen and the ink. Closing the desk, he indicated he was ready. Father Jacob rose to his feet.

“I would very much like to speak to the monsignor about the Freyan tower collapse.”

“That will not be necessary,” said the bishop curtly. “I told you everything. Please send a detailed report on the abbey as soon as you have concluded your investigation.”

Father Jacob was not pleased. He could do nothing, however, except bow and leave the room. Once in the antechamber, he cast a swift glance about, hoping to be able to talk to the monsignor.

“I could look for him, Father,” said Brother Barnaby.

“Useless. The bishop will see to it that the man is stashed away someplace where I cannot lay my hands on him,” said Father Jacob irately. He rounded on their escort. “Leave us! I know the way perfectly well.”

Father Jacob strode off. Brother Barnaby cast the escort a glance of apology for the father’s rude behavior, then hurried after him. Father Jacob stalked rapidly through the Bishop’s Palace, anger trailing in his wake like the flaming tail of a comet.

Brother Barnaby clutched his lap desk to his chest and, being shorter than Father Jacob, was forced to run to keep up.