Chapter 5 Will
Will
The road to St. Gallen wound through a landscape that belonged on a Christmas card.
Snow-dusted valleys gave way to evergreen forests, then opened again onto vistas of even greater beauty.
I watched it all slide past the window of Otto’s Mercedes and thought about the man who had died at the end of this road and the secrets he’d carried with him into the dark.
I wondered if he had found peace in those cloistered halls, or if every prayer had been haunted by the things he had done before. I wondered if the Order had ever truly let him go or if they had simply been waiting, patient as stone, for the right moment to reclaim what they considered theirs.
Thomas sat quietly beside me. He had barely spoken since we left Bern, his restless energy compressed into something tighter and more focused.
I knew that silence. It meant he was thinking, turning the problem over in his mind like a locksmith examining a mechanism, and searching for weaknesses that would make it yield.
The Baroness rode in the front seat beside Otto, her hair swept back from a face that revealed nothing. She had not visited the monastery since Aldric’s death, since her friend and source had been murdered. I could only imagine what this journey was costing her.
“We are getting close,” Otto announced, his usual chatter subdued. “Another five minutes.”
The road climbed one final rise, and the Abbey of St. Gallen appeared before us like something conjured from the medieval past. Ancient stone walls weathered by centuries of Alpine winters held twin towers that reached toward the sky.
The monastery complex sprawled across a snow-covered plateau, wrapped in an atmosphere so heavy with history that I could almost feel it pressing against my skin.
Otto brought the car to a stop outside the main gate.
A young monk in black robes stood waiting beneath the arched doorway, his breath fogging in the cold air, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles had gone white.
“He looks terrified,” Thomas murmured, too quietly for anyone else to hear.
“Can you blame him?” I replied.
As we climbed out of the car, the young monk scurried forward, his eyes darting between us with barely concealed anxiety.
“Baroness von Hohenberg.” His voice cracked on her name. “The Abbot is expecting you. If you will follow me?”
We followed him through the gate and into a world that time had forgotten. Cloistered walkways and stone corridors worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet were filled with the lingering scent of incense and candle wax. Our footsteps echoed against the ancient stones.
The young monk led us through a labyrinth of passages until we reached a heavy oak door carved with scenes from the life of Saint Gall. The monk knocked twice, waited for a muffled response, then pushed it open.
“The Baroness von Hohenberg and her companions, Father.”
Father Eberhard’s office was a study in austerity with whitewashed walls, a simple wooden desk, and a crucifix that dominated the space behind his chair. The Abbot himself matched his surroundings, appearing every bit as ancient as the stones of his beloved home.
“Baroness.” The Abbot rose to greet her, taking her offered hand in both of his. “Thank you for coming. I only wish the circumstances were different.”
“As do I, Father.” The Baroness’s voice was steady, but I heard the strain beneath it. “May I present my associates, Mr. Snead and Mr. Barker. They are helping me investigate Brother Aldric’s death.”
I had to resist the urge to gape. Without preparation or any discussion, the Baroness had plucked our code names from the operation in Rome out of thin air and used them as though they’d been given to us at birth.
Thomas stiffened beside me, probably thinking the same thing, but had the good sense to not let his surprise show.
The Abbot’s gaze swept over us.
I had been assessed by intelligence chiefs, military commanders, and men who held the power of life and death in their hands. Father Eberhard’s examination felt no less penetrating.
“Please, sit,” he said finally, gesturing toward a pair of chairs. “I will tell you what I can.”
We sat, but the Baroness remained standing.
“Tell me about that night, Father,” she said. “Everything you remember.”
Father Eberhard sighed. “Brother Aldric had been troubled in recent weeks. He spent long hours in the archives, longer than usual. He had received a correspondence that he refused to discuss.” The Abbot’s jaw tightened.
“I asked him once if something was wrong. He said only that he was pursuing a matter of conscience. I should have pressed harder, should have insisted he confide in me.”
“You could not have known,” the Baroness said quietly.
“Perhaps.” He didn’t sound convinced. “On the night he died, Brother Aldric retired to the archives after Compline, as was his habit. Brother Marcus found him the next morning. He had been dead for several hours.”
“How was he killed?” I asked.
The Abbot’s face paled. “A blade across the throat. A quick death, the doctor said. Merciful, if the vile thing can be called such.” He paused, his hands tightening on the arms of his chair.
“There was a card left on his chest. It appeared old and worn. It bore a symbol I did not recognize—a spearhead.”
“Was anything taken?” Thomas asked.
“Every drawer of his desk stood open and empty when I arrived. The manuscripts he had been working on, his personal correspondence, everything in his desk, it was all gone. Two of the drawers were locked and had been forced open.”
“And the hidden passage?” the Baroness asked. “The one the killers used to escape?”
The Abbot flinched. “You know about that?”
“I know a great deal, Father, more than I would like.”
He was quiet for a moment, then rose from his chair. “Come, I will show you.”
The archives were vast and silent, filled with the accumulated knowledge of centuries.
Shelves stretched toward vaulted ceilings, laden with manuscripts and ledgers and books bound in leather. Dust motes drifted in the pale light filtering through narrow windows. The air was chilly and still.
A section near the back had been cordoned off with rope. Beyond it, I could see the desk where Brother Aldric had spent his final hours.
“We have not touched anything,” Father Eberhard said quietly. “The police examined the scene. They spent perhaps an hour, took some photographs, and left. They ruled it a robbery gone wrong.”
“Convenient,” Thomas muttered.
The Abbot only nodded. “Brother Aldric had nothing worth stealing. He had no money or valuables, only his books and his prayers.” He shook his head. “I have lived in this monastery for forty years, and have seen a great deal of human folly and sin, but I have rarely seen a lie told so boldly.”
The Baroness ducked under the rope and approached the desk. Thomas and I followed.
The blood had been scrubbed away, but I could still see the shadow of it staining the stone floor. It was a dark reminder that would never fully fade.
The desk itself was in disarray, its drawers pulled open and papers scattered. Whoever had searched it had been thorough but not careful. They were looking for something specific, and they hadn’t worried about hiding their presence.
“Here,” the Baroness said, her voice tight.
She was kneeling beside the desk, her fingers tracing something carved into the wooden leg. I crouched beside her and looked.
A spearhead.
This one was crude and carved with what looked like a knife point. I didn’t think it was the work of the killers.
It was the work of the victim.
“He knew they were coming,” Thomas said, kneeling on the Baroness’s other side. “He left a message.”
“Or a warning.” The Baroness stood, her expression troubled. “He wanted someone to know who had killed him. He wanted me to know.”
Father Eberhard had remained outside the cordoned area, watching us with an expression of profound unease. “What did you find?”
The Baroness hesitated. I could see her weighing how much to reveal, how much this holy man needed to know about the unholy forces that had invaded his sanctuary.
“It is the mark of an old enemy,” she said finally. “One I had hoped was dead and buried.”
“An enemy of the Church?”
“An enemy of everything good, Father. That is all I can tell you.”
The Abbot crossed himself.
Thomas had moved away from the desk and was examining the walls with careful attention. After a moment, he stopped, his fingers resting on a section of stone that looked identical to every other in the room.
“Here,” he said. “There’s a seam.”
He pressed, and something clicked. A section of wall swung inward, revealing a narrow passage that disappeared into darkness.
“That is how they escaped,” Father Eberhard breathed. “We found it open the morning after. We had no idea it existed.”
Thomas produced a flashlight from his coat and shone it into the passage. The beam revealed rough stone walls, a floor thick with dust, and footprints—multiple sets, leading away into the blackness.
“It goes down,” I said. “Toward the valley, probably. I would guess it emerges somewhere in the forest.”
“A smuggler’s route,” the Baroness murmured. “Or a monk’s escape, in less enlightened times.” She turned to Father Eberhard. “You truly did not know of this passage?”
“None. Brother Aldric never mentioned it.” He paused. “He had been studying some of our oldest documents. Perhaps he found something.”
“Perhaps he did.” The Baroness’s voice was grim. “And perhaps that got him killed.”
I left Thomas to examine the passage and turned my attention to the desk.
The drawers had been indeed emptied, but I had learned long ago that people who searched in haste often missed things.
I ran my fingers along the underside of each drawer, checking for false bottoms, hidden compartments, or anything that might have escaped notice.
In the third drawer, I found it.
A small catch, barely perceptible, that released a thin panel at the back of the drawer. Behind it was a narrow space. In that space, a single sheet of paper, folded twice and pressed flat.
“Thomas. Baroness.”
They came to my side as I unfolded the paper. It was covered in cramped handwriting, the ink faded, the words hurried and uneven. It appeared to be the work of a man racing against time he knew he didn’t have.
Most of the letter was incomplete, covered in fragments of sentences, half-formed thoughts, and names I didn’t recognize, but near the bottom, circled twice in darker ink, were two phrases that made my blood run cold:
The Chamber Session. February 15th.
And below that, underlined three times:
They are coming for her. I must warn Isabella.
The Baroness made a sound, something between a gasp and a sob, and reached out to touch the paper with trembling fingers.
“He knew,” she whispered. “He knew they would come for me. He was trying to warn me.”
I felt Thomas’s hand on my shoulder, squeezing once.
“February 15th,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “That’s less than three weeks. The Chamber Session—do you know what that means?”
The Baroness shook her head slowly, but I saw something flicker in her eyes.
“I do not,” she said. “But I intend to find out.”
Father Eberhard had approached, his face pale with confusion and fear. “Baroness, what is happening? What have you found?”
She folded the paper carefully and slipped it into her coat. When she turned to face him, her expression had hardened into the armor of a woman who had spent her life fighting battles most people couldn’t imagine.
“Thank you for your help, Father. You have given us a great deal to work with.” She paused.
“I would ask you to keep this conversation private. Do not speak of it to anyone—not your brothers, not the police, not even the Church authorities. There are forces at work here that you do not understand, and your safety depends on your silence.”
“But—”
“Please, Father.” Her voice softened. “You must trust me. I am trying to protect you, as I tried to protect Aldric.”
The Abbot studied her for a long moment. Then slowly, he nodded. “I will pray for you, Baroness. And for whatever battle you are fighting.”
“Pray for us all, Father. We will need it.”
The drive back to Bern passed in silence.
The Baroness sat in the front seat again, staring out at mountains she had known all her life, her face unreadable.
Otto drove without speaking, his usual chatter silenced by some instinct that told him words were not wanted.
Thomas sat beside me in the back, his hand resting on my thigh.
They are coming for her, I thought. The Baroness is their next target.
Whatever the Order was planning, whatever “the Restoration” meant, she was at the center of it. They had killed her source to blind her. Now they were coming for her directly.
I understood now why she had fled to Paris, why she had come to us, of all people, when she had resources and agents and an entire intelligence apparatus at her disposal.
She was surrounded by enemies.
She didn’t know who to trust.
And somewhere in the back of her mind, she must have known—must have sensed—that she was running out of time.
Three weeks.
We had three weeks to figure out what they were planning and how to stop it.
I looked at Thomas, and I saw the same thoughts reflected there, the same fear, determination, and grim resolve.
Three weeks.
It wasn’t enough time.
But it was all we had.