Barrycarrick, Ireland
The abandoned monastery lay in ruins atop a craggy hilltop overlooking a small rural village that looked reasonably quaint and cozy if you liked that sort of thing. Ezekiel would have preferred some place hipper and more exciting, but what were you going to do—magical relics tended to be hidden in the middle of nowhere, and this desolate locale certainly fit the bill. Crumbling stone walls and tombstones littered the damp, grassy landscape. Dawn was still a few hours away in this part of the world, so the ruins were dark and cold and dank. Flashlight beams supplemented a meager amount of moonlight.
“Wow.” Stone eyed the glorified rubble as though it were the Taj Mahal. “You can still see remnants of the old cathedral and refectories and such. And look at that authentic High Cross over there, still standing after centuries.” He gestured at a distinctly Celtic stone monument and whistled appreciatively. “Just imagine how this place must have looked back in the Dark Ages, when it was still an active monastic community, attracting devout scholars and scribes from all over. It’s been said that Irish monks helped save Western civilization by preserving and copying countless books and manuscripts that might otherwise have been lost after the fall of Rome.…”
“Whatever, mate,” Ezekiel said, unimpressed. Boring old ruins and statues were Stone’s thing. Ezekiel just wanted to find the Pot and get back to someplace that actually had indoor plumbing, nightlife, and pizza. Two trips to Ireland, he thought, and we still haven’t come anywhere near an actual city.
Baird surveyed their surroundings. “No sign of Serpents.” She glanced up at the cloudy night sky. “Or rainbows, unfortunately. Are we sure this is the right place?”
“It’s our best bet.” Stone indicated the sleeping village below, which was located in the Midlands of Ireland. “After picking Bridget’s brain regarding her family history, I did some homework back at the Library. It took some digging, but not only is Ballycarrick the ancestral birthplace of Bridget’s ancestors, but these ruins are indeed associated with Saint Patrick, who is said to have founded this monastery back in the fifth century. Indeed, legend has it that this is where he baptized an early Irish chieftain who was one of the very first O’Neills.”
Turning around, Stone pointed out the arched stone doorway the Librarians had just stepped through to reach the ruins. The door was all that remained of a collapsed gatehouse at the southwest fringe of the site. A robed figure bearing a shamrock was carved above the doorway, a stone halo circling his tonsured head.
“That’s Patrick up there,” Stone said. “You can tell by the shamrock, which he used to explain the concept of the Holy Trinity to the pagan Irish. Three leafs, but one flower—get it?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Ezekiel said, “but doesn’t pretty much every church, cemetery, pond, or wishing well in Ireland claim a connection to Saint Pat? Kind of like ‘George Washington Slept Here’ back in the States?”
“To a degree,” Stone conceded, “but if you put Bridget, the inscription on the gold coin, and Saint Patrick together, this is where you wind up. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”
“Nope,” Ezekiel said. “Just trying to keep us honest, as funny as that sounds coming from me.”
“Somebody has to play devil’s advocate,” Cassandra said. “Might as well be your turn.” A bulging backpack held some special gear she’d brought along from the Annex. She sighed as she gazed out over the extensive ruins, which covered several acres at least. “But where do you think the Pot is?”
Good question, Ezekiel thought. Looking around, he spied a slew of crumbling and collapsed structures left over from the monastery’s medieval heyday, before centuries of war and invasions had reduced the place to rubble. In some cases, a single standing wall or archway was all that was left of what used to be a storehouse or a library or a chapel or whatever else your average old-school monastery needed. A gutted cathedral had long ago lost its roof and was now just a decrepit stone shell. A field of weathered tombstones and slabs marked the final resting places of generations of monks, who had shed their earthly woes well before Ezekiel’s native Australia was colonized by convicts back in the day. A cylindrical watchtower loomed over the site, but Ezekiel doubted that anybody was on the lookout for would-be pillagers anymore.
From the sorry state of the ruins, the monastery had been well and thoroughly sacked a long, long time ago. Anything worth stealing had been carried off by Vikings or whomever … except, perhaps, for a certain pot of gold?
“You got me,” Ezekiel replied to Cassandra. “There’s way too many places to hide or bury an old pot. I don’t even know where to start looking.”
“The tower,” Stone said confidently, striding forward. “Irish fortifications of that sort are often traditionally referred to as ‘rocks,’ as in the Rock of Cashel or the Rock of Dunamase. That particular tower? Known hereabouts as the Rock of Ballycarrick.”
Baird made the connection. “I arise today through the strength of heaven … through the firmness of rock.”
“Bingo. A ‘rock’ climbing to heaven at a religious site founded by Saint Patrick.” Stone led the way toward the tower. “Plus, round towers like this were specifically built to protect priceless relics and manuscripts from raiders. They’re where the monks would hide their most valuable treasures in the event of an attack.”
“Valuable treasures,” Ezekiel echoed. “Like maybe a very special pot of gold?”
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Stone said, “although I still wish we knew what makes this Pot so special.”
“First things first,” Baird said. “Jenkins is hitting the books to figure that out, but job one is getting the Pot before Grady can lead Max and the Brotherhood to it. We can figure out why they want it later, hopefully.”
Cassandra peered up at the tower, which looked to be about a hundred feet tall. “Still seems like an awfully big place to search. I assume we’re talking a secret compartment or a hidden passageway, with maybe a death trap or two?”
“Probably,” Stone said. “The outer walls are at least a meter thick, which gives you plenty of room to hide a pot, and who knows what could be buried in the foundation?”
“You don’t say?” Grinning, Ezekiel rubbed his palms together. “Hidden treasure vaults waiting to be cracked? Things are definitely looking up.”
They arrived at the base of the tower, where a series of well-worn stone steps led up to the open front entrance, which was located more than ten feet above the ground. The Librarians paused at the bottom of the steps.
“Why so high up?” Ezekiel asked.
“Couple of reasons,” Stone explained. “Structurally, you put the opening higher up in order to avoid weakening the foundation of the tower. Defensively, it made it harder for raiders to gain access since—”
Ezekiel kicked himself for giving Stone another opportunity to lecture on old-timey architecture. At this rate, they’d never find the Pot.
“Just watch me gain access,” he interrupted as he darted up the steps into the murky interior of the tower, which was missing its roof as well. He’d expected to find more steps inside the tower, but instead he found himself at the bottom of a tall circular shaft that reminded him of an abandoned missile silo he’d broken into a few years ago during his short-lived career with MI6. The tower was just a big empty tube.
“Seriously?” he said as the others joined him inside the tower. “There’s no way up?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Stone said. “The original wooden floors have either burned or rotted away sometime over the centuries. And instead of stairs, Irish round towers typically had wooden ladders that could be drawn up to foil invaders. In fact, come to think of it…”
Stone’s eyes lit up. Ezekiel could practically see a lightbulb flashing above his friend’s tousled head. Stone dashed out of the tower and back down the steps, which now had his full attention. The other Librarians scurried to keep up.
“What is it?” Baird asked.
“These steps,” Stone said. “They’re all wrong. They shouldn’t be here. You entered a round tower like this via a wooden ladder that could be drawn up in emergencies, just like inside. Having actual stone steps defeats the purpose … unless maybe they serve an entirely different purpose?”
Ezekiel saw where Stone was going with this. “That inscription again. Rising, blah, blah, through the firmness of rock.” He nodded at the apparently incongruous steps. “How else do you rise on this rock except by these firm stone steps? As written in Olde Irish on the side of a coin from the Pot.”
An exciting possibility occurred to Ezekiel. He trotted up and down the steps, tapping on each step one by one while listening carefully to the sounds of his footsteps. Not that one, not this one, maybe the next one.…
Baird looked on in puzzlement. “Are you … tap-dancing?”
“Sssh!” He held a finger to his lips. “A little quiet, if you don’t mind. A maestro is at work.”
A hint of an echo reached Ezekiel’s ears as he stomped on the topmost step, right before the tower’s entrance. He got down and placed his ear against the cold, rough stone, wishing that he had thought to bring a stethoscope. He held out an open palm.
“A rock, please?”
“You got it.” Stone secured a fist-sized stone from the general debris and ran it up to Ezekiel. “You find something?”
“Was there ever any doubt?” He rapped the rock against the top step and was greeted by a definite echo. “You hear that? There’s a hollow compartment under this step.”
“Good work, Jones,” Baird said. “So how do we open it?”
“Working on that.” Ezekiel felt around the step, probing for the camouflaged switch that had to be hiding there. Finding secret latches was second nature to him at this point. No doubt there were ancient counterweights just waiting to be triggered. “Any moment now…”
Expert fingers explored every edge, corner, and crack, but came up empty, much to his growing frustration. He was Ezekiel Jones; no old monk or leprechaun could outsmart him. If he could crack the state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line vault back at the Brotherhood’s mansion, he could surely beat a secret hatchway built long before lasers, motion detectors, and biometrics changed the game.
But …
“Having trouble?” Stone asked.
“A little,” Ezekiel admitted in embarrassment. “There must be some way to open this thing, but I can’t find it.” He tugged on the heavy stone step, resorting to brute strength, but the bloody thing didn’t budge. Giving up for the moment, he rose to his feet. “I don’t suppose anybody packed a jackhammer?”
“’Fraid not.” Baird stepped back from the steps. “Maybe this isn’t the end of the rainbow, after all?”
“We’ll see about that.” Cassandra shrugged off her backpack and started fishing around in its contents. “It occurred to me earlier that there may be another way to interpret that bit about the end of the rainbow. A rainbow is basically the visible spectrum from red to violet, right? So you can argue that, scientifically, the very end of the rainbow is the violet … or maybe ultraviolet?”
She removed a portable black-light projector from the backpack. “I borrowed this from Jenkins’s workshop back at the Annex. It’s not a jackhammer, but maybe if we bring the end of the rainbow to the rock of heaven…?”
Ezekiel hurried down the steps to get out of the way as, flicking a switch, Cassandra turned on the projector and directed it toward the top step. A cool purple radiance lit up the stone. Ezekiel held his breath, not entirely sure what he was waiting for. A secret hatch to open? A hidden message to be revealed?
But nothing happened.
“Oh, well,” Ezekiel said. “It was worth a try, I guess.”
“Hang on,” Stone said. “Anything hidden on the top of the stone would have been worn away by the tread of centuries, but what about the front of the step?”
“Let me see.” Cassandra tilted the projector downward so that the light fell upon the vertical face of the step instead. She gasped out loud as an embossed four-leaf clover was revealed, as well as lines of scratch marks that Ezekiel now recognized as ogham. Cassandra beamed along with her beam. “Oh my goodness, it worked! It’s the end of the rainbow!”
“Talk about thinking outside the box,” Baird said. “Give that magic brain of yours a star.”
“I don’t get it,” Ezekiel said, pouting just a little. “How come I didn’t feel any of that with my fingers?”
“Magic?” Baird guessed. She turned to Stone. “What’s written there?”
Stone peered at the newly exposed clue. It took him only a minute to translate the ogham into English.
“‘Luck will bring you treasure,’” he read aloud.
“All right!” Ezekiel said. “That’s my kind of fortune cookie. A four-leaf clover equals luck, so maybe we just press here.…”
Darting back up the steps, he reached for the carved clover, but Stone chased after him and grabbed him from behind before Ezekiel could touch the glowing step. He seized Ezekiel’s outstretched arm.
“Not so fast, man,” Stone cautioned. “You know the drill. We got to watch out for booby traps and stuff. You want to bring this whole tower down on top of us?”
Ezekiel considered the tons of ancient masonry looming over them.
“Good point, mate.” He withdrew his hand. “You’re the expert on this Dark Ages stuff. What do you suggest?”
Stone let go of Ezekiel. He scratched his chin as he pondered the problem.
“Let’s see. Traditionally, the four leaves of the clover stand for Faith, Hope, Love, and Luck, in that order. So if Luck will bring us fortune…”
“Got it.” Ezekiel approached the step more cautiously. “Mind if I do the honors?”
“Knock yourself out, pal.”
Taking a deep breath, Ezekiel reached forward and pressed the fourth leaf, which sank into the stone with a satisfying click. Ancient gears creaked back to life as the top of the step slid beneath the inner floor of the tower to reveal a hidden cubbyhole.
And the Pot.
A large bronze pot rested in the niche. Celtic art adorned the exterior of the empty pot, which was big enough to hold a king’s ransom in gold—in theory. Ezekiel noticed at once that something was missing.
“Hey!” he said. “Where’s the gold?”