After finally obtaining a good night’s sleep, Sir Ander wakened in a somber state of mind, thinking sorrowfully of the murder of a hundred innocent souls and wondering about the evil that had committed such a heinous crime. He should have been relieved to find Father Jacob in a cheerful mood, for life with the priest when he was in a good humor was far more comfortable than when Father Jacob was on a rampage. But the priest’s good mood clashed with Sir Ander’s, who found himself resenting the Father’s smile and hearty “good morning.”

Ander dipped the shaving razor in the water basin and then held it poised, waiting for the rocking motion of the yacht to steady enough that he didn’t have to worry about cutting his own throat.

“Whose nose did you bloody last night?”

Father Jacob looked up, startled. Then, glancing at his split knuckles, he began to laugh—loud, booming laughter that apparently startled the wyverns, for the yacht took a sudden lurch. Sir Ander braced his leg against his foot locker.

“You will be pleased to know that I did not take out my frustrations on some poor innocent fisherman,” said Father Jacob, slicing cold roast beef and eating it off the edge of the knife. “Quite the contrary, I was almost swept up in a press gang.”

The yacht was relatively steady, and Sir Ander scraped at his jaw quickly.

Father Jacob looked quite pleased with himself. “Some naval vessel must have come up short-handed. A lieutenant was rounding up the local fishermen to ‘offer’ them a life in the navy, which meant that he was sending them back to his ship in legs irons and handcuffs.”

“Didn’t you tell him who you were?”

“And miss out on a grand brawl?” Father Jacob grinned and ate beef with enthusiasm. “Instead of bloodying a fisherman’s nose, I bloodied the lieutenant’s and then took to my heels.”

Sir Ander grunted and, when the swaying eased again, he swiftly completed his shaving. He mopped his face with a towel.

“Well, I’m glad the fight has improved your mood.”

Father Jacob was indignant. “What do you mean, improved my mood? I am always in the best of humors, despite the fact that my patience is constantly tried to the limit by dunderheads like the grand bishop, who insists on trying to keep political plates spinning in the air while his world is literally crashing down around his ears.”

“His Eminence doesn’t have much choice,” said Sir Ander. He put on his dress uniform, consisting of a long coat in the dark red of the Knight Protectors, white trousers, white stockings, and polished black knee-high boots.

Father Jacob only grunted. His gaze grew abstracted. He chewed thoughtfully on a hunk of beef and said suddenly, “Do you know what strikes me as odd about this atrocity we’ve been sent to investigate?”

“I have no idea,” said Sir Ander, finally sitting down to breakfast. “Has Brother Barnaby eaten anything?”

“I offered to drive while he ate, but he said he wasn’t hungry.”

“God forgive the good monk the sin of lying,” Sir Ander said to himself, inwardly smiling. Aloud he remarked, “What do you find odd?”

“Dubois,” said Father Jacob.

“Dubois? Who is Dubois?” Sir Ander asked, startled.

“A remarkable man. One might say, a very remarkable man. He has a mind like a rat terrier. Once he sinks his teeth into the meat of a problem, he never lets go. Dubois is the bishop’s most valued agent. Dubois is to the bishop what the Countess de Marjolaine is to His Majesty.”

Sir Ander felt his face grow warm at the mention of the countess, warmth radiating perhaps from the letters in his breast pocket. He hoped Father Jacob wouldn’t notice. Fortunately, Father Jacob was engaged in holding a loaf of bread on the table in an attempt to slice it without slicing his fingers.

“The bishop mentioned Dubois’ name as Brother Barnaby and I were in his office.”

“He mentioned it to you?”

“Well, no,” said Father Jacob. “He was talking to the monsignor—”

“—and you were eavesdropping.”

Father Jacob smiled slightly and shrugged. “Dubois and I worked together many years ago, before your time. He was low in the ranks then, but he has since advanced to become the bishop’s right hand, his ears and, in some cases, his brain. Dubois sent a note to the bishop wanting to know about something happening in the Royal Armory. And it has something to do with Henry Wallace.”

“Wallace?” Sir Ander was alarmed. “He’s not still after you, is he?”

“I’m sure Sir Henry would be extremely pleased to hear of my demise,” said Father Jacob cheerfully. “But, no, I don’t think the man is pursuing me. Not after all these years. He has moved on to more important matters.”

“Something happening at the Royal Armory?” Sir Ander looked exasperated. “We’re investigating the tragic murder of one hundred nuns. What could the Royal Armory possibly have to do with that?”

“Nothing that I can fathom,” said Father Jacob. “And that’s what I find odd.”

“You’ve lost me,” said Sir Ander.

“The grand bishop calls upon Dubois to deal with matters which are of the utmost importance,” said Father Jacob. “One would think a hundred murdered nuns would fall into that category. And, yet, Dubois is poking about the Royal Armory. Although if Wallace is involved . . .”

Father Jacob fell into a musing silence.

Sir Ander eyed the priest, saw he was drifting off course. Sir Ander forked cold beef on a slice of bread and said sternly, “What could be more important than this terrible attack on the abbey?”

“Something happening at the Royal Armory apparently,” said Father Jacob in thoughtful tones. “I can’t help but wonder what. Ah, well.” He shrugged. “No sense wasting time worrying about it.”

He says that, Sir Ander thought, but I know better. This Dubois fellow isn’t the only terrier who doesn’t know when to let go. Though Father Jacob might be considered more like a bulldog in that respect.

“I read through this report the bishop gave me on the abbey. The report from the unknown Brother Paul.” Father Jacob shoved over a sheet of paper covered with close, jagged handwriting. “Read that. I want your opinion.”

Sir Ander smoothed out the paper. Whoever Brother Paul was, he had obviously written the report in a state of great agitation—portions were scratched out, notes had been scrawled in the margins. Sir Ander had considerable difficulty deciphering the brother’s hysterical penmanship. Fortunately, the report wasn’t long.

“I pray to God we find the bastards responsible for these atrocities!” Sir Ander said grimly when he had finished reading. “One survivor, and that poor young woman driven out of her wits by the horror.”

“Out of her wits.” Father Jacob raised an eyebrow. “You believe she is crazy?”

“Don’t you?” Sir Ander gestured to the report with a bit of bread. “She talks about demons riding on the backs of gigantic bats with glowing eyes of fire . . .”

“Brother Paul doesn’t think she is crazy. I quote: ‘Demonic legions of Aertheum the Fallen attacked the nuns in response to their godly work.’ Demons ‘hurling balls of glowing green flame’ . . .”

Father Jacob tapped his knife on the table. “Does that put you in mind of something? A certain cutter, maybe?”

Sir Ander stopped with the bread halfway to his mouth. “The Defiant? The cutter was attacked by a ship armed with a weapon that fired a green flame, but those were pirates, not fiends riding giant bats.”

“His Eminence noted the connection. That’s why he sent for me to investigate.”

“But, still, giant bats?” Sir Ander appealed to reason.

“The nun said one thing that I found particularly instructive. See if you come to the same conclusion.”

Sir Ander read back through the report and shook his head. “I don’t know what—”

“‘The demon yelped . . .’” Father Jacob repeated the words with relish, seeming to savor them.

Sir Ander looked blank. “I don’t understand. What is so important about that?”

“You don’t find it interesting? Ah, well, perhaps I’m jumping at shadows,” said Father Jacob. “No use speculating. I look forward to talking with our sole witness. According to Brother Paul, the nun’s injuries were not severe.”

“Injuries to her body, maybe,” said Sir Ander gravely.

“We are coming up on the abbey, Father,” Brother Barnaby relayed from the driver’s seat. “You can see the two spires of the cathedral. And”—Brother Barnaby caught his breath—“there’s a dragon, Father! Flying over the abbey!”

Sir Ander bolted a last bite of bread and beef and hastened to join Father Jacob, who had gone out the hatch to sit with Brother Barnaby.

Below the yacht the land was wild and untamed—jagged hills covered with brush and scrub trees from which rose strange and grotesque rock formations. The sun sparkled on streams and glinted off a river winding back and forth upon itself through hollows and ravines.

The abbey had been constructed centuries ago on a large promontory that jutted out into the Breath. The twin spires of the cathedral stood in lonely, haughty isolation, dominating and defying the wilderness.

The Abbey of Saint Agnes was ancient; its history murky. The decision to build their abbey in this remote part of Rosia had been made by an order of monks who had vowed to shun the world, spend their days and nights in worship. The early buildings had consisted of a single large, crude wooden structure where the monks slept and a small and humble church. The monks built a high stone wall around their compound and lived their lives behind it.

The monks did not venture into the world, but they could not escape it. The world came to them. King Alfonso the Third, who ruled over eight hundred years ago, was involved in secret and delicate negotiations with the foreign minister of Travia. Surrounded by spies in the royal court, the king contacted the Prince-Abbot of the Abbey of Saint Castigan, as it was known then, to ask if he could meet the minister at the abbey. The prince-abbot reluctantly agreed. The meeting was successful, and both His Majesty and the minister gave substantial donations to the order by way of thanks.

Word went round among the princes of all nations that if they wanted a secure place for any type of secret liaison or assignation, they could find safe haven in the Abbey of Saint Castigan. Kings and nobles who visited the abbey made donations to the abbey’s coffers. The order spent their wealth on building a beautiful cathedral, a dortoir, a comfortable guesthouse with stables for wyverns, griffins, and horses and carriages, and docks for airships.

When the Dark Time fell, bringing catastrophic upheaval to the seven continents, princes, kings, and nobles were caught up in the daily struggle to keep their people alive from one day to the next. The Breath churned and boiled and was far too dangerous to travel. All trade between nations and continents ceased. The Abbey of Saint Castigan was forgotten.

When the world finally emerged from darkness, Rosia basked in the sunshine of wealth and power. The grand bishop came across old records from the Abbey of Saint Castigan and wondered why nothing had been heard from the monks for many long years. He sent representatives to the abbey and found it empty, abandoned. They could find no trace of the monks, no records left behind to indicate what had happened. There did not appear to have been any sort of catastrophe. All had been left in order: beds made, dishes washed, treasure coffers—still full—safely locked.

No one ever learned the fate of the monks, though there were many theories. The most logical of these was that the monks, near starvation, had been forced to take to their airships and sail into the stormy Breath, where they had perished. The Abbey of Saint Castigan was given to an order of nuns, who rededicated it to Saint Agnes. The nuns lived quietly in far more reduced circumstances than the monks. No more wealthy nobles came to the abbey. The nuns’ visitors tended to be of a humbler nature.

Every night, the nuns would climb the spiraling stairs to hang lights in the twin spires to guide ships sailing the Breath. Oftentimes occupants of these ships and boats—sailors and Trundlers—sought shelter at the abbey’s docks, which were located in an inlet several miles distant from the abbey’s walls. The nuns would give the sailors food and water and tend to any illnesses or injuries they suffered. In addition, scholars would sometimes come to the abbey to do research in the famed library. Among these was Master Albert Savoraun, who lived in the nearby city of Westfirth.

Master Albert Savoraun had traveled to the abbey to track down old records of the Maritime Guild. Some guildmaster had decided the records would be safer behind the abbey walls than in the guildhall in Westfirth. Given that the guildhall had twice in its history been destroyed by fire, this decision had undoubtedly been a wise one.

The guild owned a ship and several yachts, all of which were used to conduct guild business. Albert had sailed himself in one of the small yachts to the abbey. While going through the library, he had found something there that had astonished him greatly. Thinking Father Jacob Northrop would find this discovery interesting, Albert had sent a letter to the Arcanum.

Albert had been in the vicinity of the abbey the night the attack took place. Sleeping aboard his yacht, he had been awakened by what he had thought was lightning. He believed a storm was coming, and he had gone out to make certain his yacht was securely tied down. Once he was outside, he realized that the eerie green light did not emanate from a storm, but was flaring around the abbey. He could smell smoke in the air and he saw, to his consternation, that the lights in the cathedral’s spires had gone dark.

Alarmed, Albert dressed swiftly and, taking up his lantern, hastened to the abbey to see if he could help. During his walk, which took him about half an hour, he watched the green flashes of fire diminish and then cease altogether. The smoke grew thicker; he could see plumes roiling above the abbey walls, blotting out the stars. He could not hear any sounds, no screams or voices calling or shouting as one would expect to hear if the nuns were battling the fires.

The odd silence struck fear into Albert’s heart, and he began to wish he’d brought his musket. His fears were realized. He found the abbey’s gates shattered. He entered cautiously, only to come upon a scene of such nightmarish destruction that the veteran sailor who had witnessed ship battles—blood running from the scuppers—was overwhelmed with horror and blacked out.

He was roused by the priest who had been the nuns’ confessor. Brother Paul was a hermit who resided in a rude shack in the wilderness about five miles from the abbey. He had seen the green fire and come to see what was going on. Together, the two men entered the compound and began to search for survivors.

They had found one—a young nun who had escaped detection by hiding beneath a pew.

Brother Paul had insisted, quite rightly, that word of the attack should be immediately sent to the grand bishop. He had urged Master Albert to carry the message to the abbot in Westfirth to be dispatched to Evreux by swift courier. Albert agreed the message needed to be sent, but he was loath to go himself. He had seen much to trouble him about this attack. Trusting that Father Jacob was already on his way, Albert did not want to leave the abbey unguarded.

He had been trying to figure some way out of this dilemma when he was startled to hear a loud voice, coming down from the sky. Albert looked up to see two dragons circling overhead. His nerves were raw, his mind unsettled and the thought came to him that the dragons had committed this atrocity. Then one of the dragons, landing ponderously among the scrub trees, had introduced himself as Sergeant Hroalfrig, formerly of the Dragon Brigade.

“Now retired,” Hroalfrig said.

He and the other dragon, his brother Droalfrig, also a former soldier, raised sheep and goats on a wretched piece of land provided to them by the Crown in return for their military service. They had seen the smoke and had come to find out what had happened. The nuns, it appeared, had been good to the dragons and the brothers were both appalled and angered by what had occurred.

Albert had enlisted the aid of the dragons to keep watch over the abbey. The dragons had sailed to Westfirth, carrying Brother Paul’s account, and had then returned to the abbey to await the arrival of Father Jacob.

One of the dragon brothers was now flying in large, slow, dignified circles above the abbey, keeping watch.

The sight of the dragon, who weighed six thousand pounds and measured seventy feet from nose to tail, with a wingspan of over one hundred and forty feet, alarmed the Retribution’s wyverns. They began to shriek and flail about in their traces, giving Brother Barnaby all he could do to try to soothe them and maintain control.

The sight of the black yacht likewise alarmed the other dragon, who came flying over ponderously to take a look. The Church emblem on the yacht reassured the dragon, who dipped his wings in salute. Seeing that he was upsetting the wyverns, the dragon flew off to resume his patrol.

“There are the docks. Should we land there, Father?” Brother Barnaby asked.

“Too far away from the abbey. I need to be close by.”

“We need to put down quickly somewhere,” said Brother Barnaby, who was continuing to have a difficult time with the wyverns.

Sir Ander pointed to a small patch of grassland outside the abbey walls. He handled the helm, adjusting the yacht’s buoyancy and trim, as Brother Barnaby continued to assure the wyverns that the dragon was not going to harm them. He brought the yacht down safely. Master Savoraun, who had been watching for their arrival, hurried to meet them.

“Albert Savoraun! It’s good to see you, my friend,” said Father Jacob, reaching out his hand to his longtime friend.

Sir Ander gripped Master Albert’s hand. “I suppose I should call you Guildmaster Albert now. Congratulations. You have done well for yourself.”

“Thank you, Father. It’s good to see you, though I wish it were under better circumstances,” said Albert. He was haggard and pale, his eyes bloodshot. He turned to Sir Ander. “You are looking well, sir.”

“A little grayer than the last time we met, but otherwise in good health, thanks be to God,” said Sir Ander.

“We’re all grayer, sir,” said Albert and he ran his hand over his thinning hair. “I’ve added a good many gray hairs over this, I can assure you.”

Albert Savoraun was in his mid-thirties, with the weather-beaten face of a lifelong sailor. He was short, with a stocky build and a take-charge attitude. Born into a family of seafaring crafters in Rosia, he had been brought up in his trade and served on board his first ship as apprentice to his father at the age of thirteen.

“I’ve never seen anything like this, Father,” said Albert. “And I hope I never do again.”

Father Jacob introduced Brother Barnaby, who was still concerned for his wyverns.

“Is there a place where I can stable them?” he asked anxiously. “The dragon makes them nervous. So long as they can’t see him, they’ll feel safe.”

“The stables are still standing,” said Albert. “I have no idea why the fiends didn’t burn them, too. Maybe they were spared because they were far from the main compound. You can’t see them from here. They’re on the west side of the abbey, outside the walls—three large stone buildings. You can house your wyverns there, Brother.”

Brother Barnaby refused all offers of assistance, saying apologetically that the wyverns were in such a state he did not trust them around anyone. Sir Ander maneuvered the yacht into position, placing the back of the yacht against the abbey’s walls, with the front facing west, looking out across a flat expanse of windswept granite into the swirling mists of the Breath beyond. A low wall had been built at the cliff’s edge, serving to keep people from falling over the precipice.

“I’ve never seen any place so lonely and forgotten,” Sir Ander remarked, shaking his head.

Brother Barnaby unharnessed the wyverns and led them to the stables, leaving Father Jacob and Sir Ander to talk to Master Albert. Their desolate surroundings and the sad nature of their business oppressed their spirits and made idle conversation difficult. Father Jacob did not want to discuss the tragedy until he had seen the site for himself. He asked Albert about his numerous children back in Westfirth. Albert cheered at the thought and began to talk about his brood. His oldest son, age fourteen, was already serving with the navy as an Apprentice Craftsman.

When the wyverns had been housed and calmed, fed and watered, Brother Barnaby came to join them, carrying his portable writing desk which he had brought from the yacht.

“Would you like to rest after your journey, Father?” Albert asked.

Father Jacob shook his head. “We should view the site while there is still plenty of daylight.”

“In that case, you will need these.” Albert produced several handkerchiefs.

“Ah, yes,” said Father Jacob.

He took one of the handkerchiefs for himself and offered the others to Sir Ander and Brother Barnaby. The young monk looked confused.

“The stench,” said Father Jacob gently.

Brother Barnaby accepted the handkerchief and tucked it into the belt of his plain brown monk’s robes. Sir Ander, looking grim, signaled that he didn’t need one.

They walked around the outside of the abbey, the wind whipping them and blowing sand in their eyes. They could not see anything beyond the abbey’s high stone wall except the twin spires of the cathedral soaring to Heaven.

As they walked, the dragon’s shadow flowed over them. The dragon dipped his wings, gave a wheezing cough. The dragon’s advanced age was apparent in the color of his scales. Once shining blue-green in his youth, the scales were now a dull greenish gray. His beard was hoary, but his eyes were still fierce and proud.

“That’s Sergeant Hroalfrig,” said Albert, seeing Father Jacob’s interested gaze closely observing the dragon. “Formerly of the Dragon Brigade. He and his twin brother, who was also a member of the Brigade, live on a small farm some twenty miles inland. When they heard of the tragedy, they flew here to offer their help.”

Master Albert gave a wry smile. “Neither of the old boys can stay up in the air too long, so they take turns flying patrol.”

He was silent a moment, brooding, then said abruptly,

“I’m glad you were able to come with such speed, Father. Brother Paul has been insisting on burying the dead. After what I saw, I knew I had to keep everything just as it was until you could see for yourself.”

“You mean, the dead have not been given proper burial, sir?” Brother Barnaby was shocked.

“I’m sorry to say, Brother, that there is not that much left to bury,” said Albert.

Brother Barnaby’s dark complexion paled and he murmured a prayer beneath his breath.

“Please relate your story, Albert,” said Father Jacob briskly. “I’d like to hear it before we enter the walls.”

“The night of the attack,” Albert began. “I was asleep—”

Father Jacob interrupted. “Everything in the proper order, please. A fortnight before the attack, you sent me a letter coded in magic saying you had found something of interest in the abbey. What was it?”

Albert was impatient. “That’s of little consequence in view of this tragedy, Father.”

“I will be the judge of that,” said Father Jacob mildly.

Albert paused to mop his forehead with his coat sleeve. The sun shone brightly. No clouds drifted in the sky, save the misty haze of the Breath on the horizon. The day was going to be a hot one.

“Guild members have long complained that they couldn’t get access to guild records, which had been stored in the abbey for safekeeping. That included the guild charter and bylaws, membership rolls and legal documents and such like. I proposed that we have the records brought back to the guildhall and have copies made.

“When I arrived at the abbey, I asked the nuns where the guild records were kept. They weren’t much help. Poor women. They lived in poverty. It was all they could do to keep body and soul together. When they weren’t praying, they were tending to their crops and their livestock. They told me the records were likely in the library, which was in the cathedral. Brother Paul had the key. He used the library as his office when he was visiting the abbey.”

“He was the nuns’ confessor and priest, but he would not reside at the abbey, of course,” said Father Jacob. “That would not be seemly.”

“He’s a strange one, is Brother Paul. He wouldn’t reside at the abbey, seemly or not. He’s a hermit, lives in the wilderness somewhere.”

“Where was he when the abbey was attacked?”

“He was in his dwelling, asleep. The attack happened long after he’d left for the night.”

Father Jacob nodded. “Well, for the moment, we can dispense with Brother Paul. What did you discover in the abbey library that you thought I would find interesting?”

Master Albert paused to look around, which Sir Ander thought an odd precaution, considering the fact that they, Brother Barnaby, and Brother Paul were likely the only in a hundred-mile radius.

“Brother Paul’s office consisted of little more than a stool and a desk where he did his writing. He paid scant attention to the books in the library. He has weak eyes and finds it difficult to read for long periods of time. He had no idea where the guild records were located. He told me I could ‘rummage around.’

“As it turns out there was no need to ‘rummage.’ The library is well-ordered, with church records in one place, theological texts in another, books on crafting in yet another and so on. I found the guild records easily enough, and I put them aside. Since no one minded my being there, I poked around some more and ended up in the section where there were books on crafting.”

Albert gave a rueful smile. “As you know, Father, I’ve always regretted that I was never able to study the art properly. My father didn’t hold with reading about magic in school. He taught me crafting as he had learned it from his father who had it from his father and so on. I’ve always been interested in finding out more on the subject and here I was, surrounded by books on crafting. I was like a kid in a bakery.

“I roved among the stacks and came across an entire section given to seafaring magic. The books were on the very top shelf. I had to fetch a ladder to reach them. I was taking out one of the books when I noticed a wooden chest on top of the bookcase. The chest was tucked well back from the edge, so it hadn’t been visible from below.

“The chest was heavy, covered with dirt and cobwebs. I managed to haul it down, though I nearly fell off the ladder in the process. I set it on the floor and dusted it off as best I could. The chest was magic-locked and cost me considerable effort to open it.

“Inside were five slim volumes, all bound in leather with no title on the covers. I opened the first one to a frontispiece, very elaborate art, which appeared to be have been drawn by the author, consisting of his name and title all done in fancy lettering. The name was: Cividae. The year was 721 GF (Grand Founding).”

“Interesting,” said Father Jacob.

“Why? Who was this Cividae?” asked Sir Ander.

“Prince-Abbot of this abbey during the war with the Pirate King and the subsequent descent into the Dark Time,” said Father Jacob. “The Abbey of Saint Agnes was then known as the Abbey of Saint Castigan—Brother Barnaby’s patron saint.”

Brother Barnaby smiled and shifted the writing desk he was carrying to a more comfortable position. They had rounded the north corner of the wall. The front gate faced south, so they had a considerable way to walk before they reached it.

“The reason you sent for me was something you found in the prince-abbot’s journals, or so I’m guessing,” said Father Jacob.

“Yes, Father. The journals were written in the old Church language, Rosaelig. I couldn’t read a lot of it. But one word kept appearing over and over—a name, as if this prince-abbot were writing about this person.”

“And this name was—”

“Dennis, Father.”

“Dennis!” Sir Ander exclaimed, taken aback. “You don’t mean . . . Saint Dennis?”

“Of course, he does,” said Father Jacob. His tone was cool, but his eyes gleamed with suppressed excitement. “We have long known that after Saint Dennis left his home in Travis, he traveled to Rosia. We always wondered where he went. It makes sense that he would have come here to this reclusive place to pursue his studies of magic in solitude.”

“I found another word I could read, Father. A word that wasn’t written in Rosaelig and was easy to spot, because the writer consistently underlined it. I was rocked back on my heels so to speak when I saw this word, Father. I went all over gooseflesh. Here.” Albert reached into his coat and brought out a small piece of paper. “I was so struck by it that I used my magic to lift the word off the paper and set it down on another sheet. I dared not write it in the letter.”

He opened the paper and held it out. Sir Ander and Father Jacob and Brother Barnaby gathered around, gazing down at the word that was written in a neat and precise hand and, as Albert had said, had been underlined.

Sir Ander looked at the word, then looked at Father Jacob. The knight’s expression was dark. Brother Barnaby looked at the word and involuntarily moved back a step and raised his hand to ward off evil.

“ ‘Contramagic.’ ” Father Jacob read the word in a murmur, scarcely heard. “Yes, it was wise you did not write this down, Master Albert. You could be tried for heresy.”

He drew in a deep breath, then let it slowly sigh out. “I must see this journal, Albert.”

“I wish you could, Father,” said Albert in an unhappy tone. “At the moment that’s not possible. The journal disappeared.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared?’ ” Father Jacob asked sharply. “Was it lost in the attack? Destroyed?”

“No, Father. The journal wasn’t in the abbey when it was attacked. The theft occurred long before the attack, the day after I sent the letter to you. I was alarmed by what I had found. If anyone knew I was reading about such forbidden knowledge I would be arrested. I removed the journal from the library to my yacht. I asked permission of the abbess first, of course. I told her and I told Brother Paul that I was interested in the abbey’s history, about Saint Dennis and the fact that he’d spent time here . . .”

Father Jacob frowned and shook his head. “That was a mistake, Albert.”

“I did not tell anyone about this . . . word, Father!” Albert looked haggard. “I’ve been terrified to even think it, much less speak it!”

“You mentioned nothing about contramagic,” Father Jacob said, thoughtful. “Only Saint Dennis. What did the abbess say?”

“She had worries enough of her own and wasn’t the least bit interested in Saint Dennis. She readily gave me permission to study the journal, provided that I returned the volume when I was finished.”

“Brother Paul?”

“He said only that my time in this world would be better spent in doing good works than in reading about them. I translated part of the journal that day, then my eyes gave out and I needed a break. I had found a trout stream not far from here and I decided to go catch my dinner. I left the door to my room key-locked and magic-locked and magic-sealed and a protective spell on the journals. When I came back, the lock on the door had not been tampered with. The magic-lock had not been broken. The magic seal remained intact. The journal was gone.”

Father Jacob frowned. “If it were any other crafter, I would say you had been careless in your spell-casting. But I know your work, Albert, and I know you. You are one of the best. Obviously it was stolen.”

Albert gave a sigh of relief. “I am glad you trust me, Father. I was afraid you would think I had been negligent.”

“But who would steal it?” Sir Ander demanded. “The nuns? This Brother Paul? They were the only people around. Why would they steal a book that had been in their own library for centuries?”

“Because they didn’t know it was there,” said Father Jacob. “Because someone knew or suspected that the blessed Saint Dennis was here seeking forbidden knowledge.”

Brother Barnaby was distressed. “You cannot believe Saint Dennis was a heretic, Father.”

“Of course, not. He was seeking the truth. And knowledge should not be forbidden, Brother,” said Father Jacob, his brows coming together, his fist clenching. “No grand bishop, no king, no authority in the world has the right to dictate what we think, to prevent us from studying, from learning, from discovering!”

Brother Barnaby shrank back, dismayed by the priest’s passion. Sir Ander drew him to one side.

“You touched a sore spot, Brother. I’m sorry. I should have warned you.”

“He’s very angry with me, I fear,” said Brother Barnaby unhappily.

“Not with you, Brother,” Sir Ander sighed and repeated quietly, “Not with you.”

Father Jacob had lapsed into deep thought, his brow furrowed, his head bowed, his hands clasped behind his back. When Albert started to speak to him, Sir Ander shook his head, warning him to keep silent. Father Jacob walked on, preoccupied, absorbed, until at last they arrived at the broken remains of the gates of the Abbey of Saint Agnes.

Father Jacob raised his eyes at last. He looked at the twin spires, pointing to Heaven.

“God, grant us courage. What happened here at the Abbey of Saint Agnes could forever change our world.”