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(D/* 7/18/2013)

I didn't get a whole lot out of the book, beyond a jumble of architectural terms and a feeling that when King Irenaeus wanted something done, he didn't set up a commission to do it. His version of the Cathedral had been built in about eighteen months, which told me either he'd used a lot of the Second Version, or he'd skimped on the materials. My money was on the latter, if a lightning strike had destroyed it.

In any event, my early morning report was on his desk, and my head was on my desk. Between Meadow and the monks, I was a little short on sleep, and the day was pretty warm. I awoke somewhat refreshed a little bit later and a bit hungry, though my appetite was somewhat spoiled by a note that I found next to me.

"I never wake a sleeping fur. -- R."

Evidently, the Marshal's appetite was unabated, and probably sharpened by a morning of having to deal with the Ministers of the Crown. As I slipped into his room, he was ladling out a second helping of what smelled like oyster stew into a bowl, accompanied by a bottle of chilled wine.

"Good afternoon, Your Highness. Errr, sorry about the..."

He grunted, and waved things off with a paw. "Might have been better, Corporal, if you'd planned your social activities better, but that's water under the bridge."

Sweet Fuma's brow, how'd he know?!

"Read your report. Sit down here and give it to me, orally, though. Want some impressions."

So I did, refreshed by a helping of plum crunch and cream that he provided (which was about a third of the size he took for himself). He wasn't so much interested by the Holy Recreation, but by the activity in the Old Chapel. He asked for details as to where I'd placed the wards there; I figured that they'd been deep enough inside so that you couldn't have triggered them off merely by trotting down the aisle, and in any event, a fur would have to have passed within my sight had he gone to the Vestry or the Choir.

Finishing off the last crumbs in his bowl, he dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, and tossed it onto the tray. Pushing it away, he turned to me.

"Spoke to my brother the King this morning. Naturally, he was worried about monks getting assaulted in the Cathedral, and he's going to issue an order to the Archbishop allowing for an investigation by me."

"Will that help, sir?"

The Prince pursed his lips. "Doubt it, Corporal. That lot over at the Cathedral has their own way of doing things, and I'm sure they don't want a whole lot of scrutiny from outsiders. Still, they disobey the Church's Sovereign Lord at their peril. Disobedience, of course, not being the same as evasion."

Sergeant Wing fluttered into the room, and announced the arrival of a King's Messenger. It turned out to be the same fennec that had run (with great success) my report on the eve of the battle at Mossford back to GHQ. He recognized me, and gave me a wink as he handed over a small wrapped bundle and two long tubes to the Marshal, who signed for them.

The next twenty minutes or so was swallowed up in clearing a space on a large table, which necessitated the removal of a large quantity of books and records (and, happily, the Marshal's spare spectacles). Once there was enough room, the Marshal unwrapped the bundle and extracted a series of very old books, which he set aside neatly. While he was opening up the tubes, I had a look at the books. On the flyleaf of each of them, there was an embossed crown, and a stamp indicating that the books were the property of the Royal Library.

"Feller who wrote that book you were quoting in your report would give his eye-teeth for those," Prince Roland noted. "Only two copies of each of those books in existence, and the other set is in the Archbishop's Library."

One of the books was, if you believed the title page, written by King Irenaeus himself. An Account of the Idolatry and Other Blasphemies at the Albric Tor Cathedral. Didn't leave much room for doubt where he stood. Strangely enough, though, he'd taken the trouble to document everything he'd destroyed pretty thoroughly, complete with illuminated illustrations. Voluntarily drawn, I wondered?

One of the tubes contained a large roll of very thin material, upon which was traced a plan of Irenaeus' Cathedral (the third). Of note was the fact that there were six names listed as the chief architect, and the first five were crossed out vigorously. The Marshal unrolled this, and placed weights upon the corners.

The second tube contained brand-new sheets of a similar thin material, of equal size. These were laid out side by side on the table, and also weighted down.

Two of the books contained diagrams of the present (fourth) iteration of the Cathedral, at various stages, and then there was Irenaeus' own diagram of what the second one had looked like.

What happened next fascinated me, for it was something I'd never seen before. The Marshal, after first vigorously cleaning his paws and drying them, ran his fingers over the diagrams, using principally his thumb and a fore-finger. He then ran his paw over a blank sheet, and the image of the diagram was transferred there. For Irenaeus' large plan, this required adjusting the drawing on the transferred page to make it fit.

After around an hour, a lot of which was taken up in careful adjustments to the size of the transferred drawings, His Highness had a small stack of drawings. He had me set up a sheet of glass on a stand, and behind this sheet of glass, he placed a sphere, which he had glow a brilliant yellow. Upon the glass, he placed the tracings of the Second, Third (Irenaeus) and Fourth (present) Cathedrals.

What became readily apparent was that much of the fabric of the Cathedral had changed over the centuries there'd been a temple there. Towers rose and fell, monuments were placed and vanished, the Choir had been expanded, the Narthex placed, and so forth. A lot of the buildings for the administration of the complex had been added over time, as well.

In fact, only three areas of the Cathedral were pretty much constant. The first was the Altar, which was constant only by its placement at the time of the Second Cathedral. The second was the Old Chapel, which had no decoration, or "idols," and thus had escaped Irenaeus' iconoclasm, and by luck had escaped the wreck of the Third Cathedral.

The third was the crypt, which I'd missed. The entrance to it was between just behind where the North Aisle and the Choir branched off, a little east (in front) of the Nave.

"Well, I guess that's why they call it the Old Chapel, sir. Suppose any part of it related to the original Temple?"

The Marshal grunted, and pulled on a pair of thin cotton gloves. From the bundle, he produced a wooden box, from which he extracted a very slim volume. This one was bound in some kind of hide I didn't recognize, and I certainly didn't recognize the script on the cover, other than the fact it was very ancient. It was bound together by a type of thong, which meant Prince Roland had to handle it very carefully.

The pages were rather delicate, both from age and what appeared to be scorch-marks along the edges. He paged through the volume slowly, which had the benefit of allowing me to look at the illustrations. They were a type of water-colour, and most of them depicted skunk-elves. There were no other species there. Interestingly, the only substantial building that was shown in the drawings appeared to be the Hall of Ancestors -- the design was very distinctive, and there was no mistaking the mountains in the background.

Eventually, he found what he was looking for, which was a striking painting. It showed a scene from an elf's point of view, looking down an alley of trees, which stretched high into the sky. In the foreground, there were a number of figures gathered around a pit; they appeared to be leaving offerings of some kind.

It was the background of the illustration that had both of us interested, and the Marshal had me fetch a large and heavy lens from one of his desk drawers. Held over that part of the water-colour, what it revealed was an arrangement of rocks that I immediately recognized.

It formed the altar as seen in the Old Chapel.

What was curious, though, was what the artist showed around those rocks. They were picked out by delicate tracings of what looked like steam or smoke.

"Fire, sir?"

The Marshal shook his head.

"No, Corporal. You've been in the Royal Gardens. What, other than plants, did you see that was odd there?"

I thought for a bit, putting down the lens. I then snapped my fingers.

"That hot spring, the one from which the King had me draw that hot water. The steam from it seemed to perk him up a good deal."

"A natural hot spring, Corporal. One of the reasons the Royal Gardens flourish the way they do. Albric Tor is in the middle of a mountainous area, and they tell me that there are a number of extinct volcanoes in the range. But here, again in Albric Tor, there are a number of hot springs and crevices in the rocks."

He eyed me. "Otherwise known as fumaroles."

I put the lens over the rocks in the background of the picture again. "Odd, though, Your Highness. I've not seen any smoke or steam in the Old Chapel; it's certainly not mentioned in that little popular guide I was reading last night. And it's not warmer than any other part of the Cathedral, at least as far as I can tell."

"I know, Corporal. I asked my brother about the Old Chapel. He's the one that told me about this book. It isn't catalogued in the Royal Library. It's apparently part of the personal possessions of the High King."

"Well, I suppose it is a priceless work of art, Your Highness."

"True enough. He was telling me, though, that I should read some of the text in the back...let's see."

I brought over a chair for the Marshal, and helped place his spectacles on his nose. He read very slowly over the pages, hesitating at times, as if trying to remember something, and then continuing.

"Ah. I see. One of the very earliest rulers of these lands, not long after the proto-kingdom was organized, caused this to be made. He wanted to document the beauty of his realm..."

He turned a few more pages, slowly, after translating in his mind the ancient script traced in silver upon the pages. Near the end, he frowned, pursed his lips and snapped at me to take dictation.

He read out, slowly, the following words:

"All of my realm, however, would be as nothing were it not for the grace and favour of the Lady, She who created this blessed land by her act of spraying the barren soil. My crown is but on loan from Her, and if I fail to heed Her sage wisdom, it can be snatched away from me, and my lands will vanish like the morning dew. It is thus that I have caused the place from which She extended Her blessing to be preserved and watched over by vigilant attendants. It has been said to me by those wise in Her ways, whose knowledge has been passed down from fathers and mothers to sons and daughters, that should the physical place of Her blessing be as neglected as her wisdom, She and Her goodness will forever depart our realm, seeking a more worthy home. I call upon those who come after me to exercise the same humility I have shown the Lady, and to remember forever Her blessings. Do this not for my sake, for I will be gone many generations, my bones as dust. Do this for your sake."

The Marshal closed the book, and placed it within its little wooden casket. Stripping off his cotton gloves, he walked back to his desk, and poured himself a large glass of wine. He sat for a while, with closed eyes, sipping.

Eventually, I couldn't help myself. "Your Highness? What are you going to do, now?"

Without even opening his eyes, he softly murmured. "Have someone visit the Old Chapel, tonight, for a bit of detailed examination and exploration. Know anyfur who will volunteer, Corporal?"

After re-reading the text dictated to me, I told him that indeed I did.