Alonso stared at the smoking remains chained to the six stakes. His fingers tightened harder on the amulet in his palm.
The leader came forward and nodded to his brethren. Upon this silent order, they stripped Ibarra from Alonso’s side and dragged him forward. The leader carried a thick book in his arms, gilded in gold. Alonso easily recognized the accursed tome. The full title—Malleus Maleficarum, Maleficas, & earum h?resim, ut phramea potentissima conterens—translated as “The Hammer of Witches which destroys Witches and their heresy as with a two-edged sword.” The book was composed over a century ago, a bible for hunting down, identifying, and punishing witches. Already the book was falling out of favor by the papacy, even among those in the Inquisition.
But it grew even stronger within the cabal of the Crucibulum.
Alonso stood steadfast. What else could he do? He was a lone junior inquisitor against a dozen of the ancient Crucibulum.
As Ibarra was marched toward his death, the sect’s leader dogged each step. The man whispered fervently in the priest’s ear. Alonso heard mention of the word nóminas.
So Ibarra was correct in his fear.
Alonso imagined the Crucibulum’s leader must be delivering threats or offering promises of salvation, if only Ibarra would reveal the truth about his amulet.
Fearing attention might turn toward him, as he’d been alone with Ibarra, Alonso retreated from the square. His last sight of Ibarra was as the priest was chained to the trunk of chestnut atop the pile of wood. Ibarra caught his eye and gave the smallest nod of his head.
Keep it from them.
Alonso swore to do so as he turned his back. He hurried toward where his horse was stabled. Before he had taken more than a few steps, Ibarra’s raised voice shouted to the heavens.
“BURN US ALL! IT MATTERS NOT. SAINT COLUMBA PROPHESIED HER COMING. THE WITCH WHO WILL CARRY ON HER LEGACY. THE WITCH WHO WILL CRACK THE CRUCIBLE AND PURIFY THE WORLD!”
Alonso stumbled at such a declaration. No wonder the Crucibulum sought to silence the cult of Columba, and more important, burn to ash any proof of such a claim. He tightened his grip on the talisman in his hand. True or not, the world was slowly changing—forsaking Torquemada’s ways, letting copies of the Malleus Maleficarum molder into dust—but before that happened, he foresaw more bloodshed and flames, the final convulsions of a dying age.
Once far enough away, Alonso risked studying Ibarra’s nóminas. He opened his hand. Shocked at what he saw, he almost dropped the treasure. It was a finger, raggedly torn from some hand. The edges looked burned, but otherwise, it was perfectly preserved. He knew one of the signs of sainthood was when the relics of such holy figures proved incorruptible, remaining untouched by decay or rot.
Did he hold such a relic in his hand?
He stopped to study it closer, discovering words inked into the flesh.
Sanctus Maleficarum.
He translated the Latin.
Saint of Witches.
So it was indeed a nóminas, an amulet with the name of a saint written upon it. But his inspection exposed a greater revelation. The finger was not a holy relic—a piece of a saint’s flesh—but something even more incredible.
Breathless with wonder, he turned the object over and over. While the flesh appeared real, it was not. The skin was flexible but cold. The torn end revealed a clockwork mechanism of thin wires and gleaming metal bones. It was a simulacrum, a mechanical homunculus of a finger.
Alonso had heard stories of gifts presented to kings and queens, intricate fabrications that mimicked movements of the body. Sixty years ago, the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V was presented with a clockwork figure of a monk, designed by the Spanish-Italian engineer and artisan Juanelo Turriano. The doll could raise and lower a wooden cross, bringing the crucifix to its lips, which moved in silent prayer, while its head nodded and its eyes moved.
Am I holding a piece of such an artifice?
If so, what was its significance? How did it tie to the cult of Saint Columba?
With no answer, he continued toward the stables. Ibarra had left him one additional clue to this mystery: the source of the talisman, where it had been found.
“The Orabidea River,” he mumbled with a furrowed brow.
Every Inquisitor in the region knew of that river. It flowed from a cave called Sorginen Leizea, the cave of witches. Many a witch’s sabbath was held at that site. The Orabidea River had an equally dark history. It was sometimes called Infernuko erreka, or “Hell’s Stream,” as it was rumored to flow from the bowels of Hell into this world.
He shuddered in dread. If Ibarra had spoken the truth, the amulet in his hand had been discovered at the river’s source.
In other words, at the very gates of hell itself.
He balked about pursuing this matter any further and considered tossing the amulet away—then an agonized scream rose behind him, echoing up to the stars.
Ibarra . . .
He firmed his grip on the nóminas.
The priest had died to keep this secret.
I must not forsake this burden.
Even if it meant crossing through the gates of Hell, he would know the truth.
Present Day
December 21, 10:18 P.M. WET
Coimbra, Portugal
The coven awaited her.
Charlotte Carson hurried across the breadth of the darkened university library. Her rushed footsteps echoed off the marble floor to the bricked roof of the two-story medieval gallery. All around, ornate shelves housed books dating as far back as the twelfth century. With the vast space lit by only a handful of sconces, she gaped at the shadowy climb of ladders, at the elaborate gilded woodwork.
Constructed in the early eighteenth century, the Biblioteca Joanina remained a perfectly preserved gem of Baroque architecture and design, the true historic center of the University of Coimbra. And like any treasure house, it was a veritable vault, with walls two feet thick and massive doors of solid teak that sealed the space. The purposeful design maintained the interior at a steady sixty-five degrees, no matter the season, along with a constant low humidity.
Perfect for preserving the integrity of ancient books . . .
But such conservation efforts were not limited to the library’s architecture.
Charlotte ducked as a bat whisked past her head and shot into the upper gallery. Unheard but felt, its ultrasonic whistle shivered the small hairs on the back of her neck. For centuries, a colony of bats had made the library its home. They were steadfast allies in the fight to preserve the work stored here. Each night, they consumed insects that might have otherwise feasted on the vast bounty of old leather and yellowed parchment.
Of course, sharing this vault with such devoted hunters required certain precautions. She ran a finger along the leather blankets that covered the tables. The caretakers draped them each evening after they closed the building to shield the wooden surfaces from the bats’ droppings.
Still, as she stared up at the glide of winged shadows against the brick vaults, she felt a stir of superstitious dread—along with a modicum of amusement.
What’s a gathering of witches without bats?
Even this night had been specially chosen. The weeklong scientific symposium had ended today. By tomorrow, the participants would be heading home, spreading to the far corners of the globe to spend the holidays with friends and family. But tonight, countless bonfires would light the city, accompanied by the merriment of various musical festivals, all to celebrate the winter solstice, the longest night of the year.
She checked her watch, knowing she was running late. She still wore the same semiformal outfit from the holiday party at the embassy: a loose black skirt that brushed her ankles and a short coat over a blue blouse. Her hair was styled to her scalp. It had gone prematurely silver and remained short and sparse after the course of chemo nine months ago. Afterward, she didn’t bother with dyes or extensions. Having survived the brutalities and humiliations of cancer, vanity seemed a foolish frivolity. She no longer had the patience for it.
Not that she had much free time anyway.
She frowned at her watch.
Only four minutes to go.
She pictured the sun on the other side of the world as it crested toward the Tropic of Capricorn. When the sun balanced at that latitude, it would mark the moment of the true solstice, when winter inevitably tilted toward summer, when darkness gave way to light.
The perfect time for this demonstration.
A proof of concept.
“Fiat lux,” she whispered.
Let there be light.
Ahead, a brighter glow illuminated an archway that opened to a spiral staircase leading to the library’s lower regions. This topmost level was called the Noble Floor, due to its beauty and history. Directly below, the Intermediate Floor remained the sole domain of librarians, where they stored a bulk of the rarest books for safekeeping.
But Charlotte’s destination lay one story deeper.