The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “And some of those things involve plotting and an unhealthy number of blades,” Alton pointed out. “And a guitar, apparently. That's something you don't see every day. I don't see how you keep it from ruination while you're carrying it around in the elements.”

  Magic, of course, Dormael said in his mind.

  “Lots of wood oil and a very nice case,” was what he said aloud.

  The rest of the night passed with lighter conversation. Alton turned out to be an interesting fellow, and Dormael found that he was coming to like the man. They didn't speak of the girl dying in the room downstairs, but she loomed over the conversation like a dark cloud. Sometime in the small hours of the night, Dormael stumbled back to his lavish room and fell into a contented sleep.

  Shawna’s recovery went slowly in the following days, and she remained in an intermittent state of unconsciousness. Her wound had taken an infection, and with it being so close to her vitals it was unknown if she would fully recover. Alton had the local healer stop by daily to change her dressings, administer medicines, and check on her progress, but there was little she could do at this point. Dormael and Alton simply passed the time, hoping that the young woman would awaken and explain what had happened to her.

  Dormael visited her often, with the pretense of watching over her and playing a tune or two on his guitar to soothe her unconscious mind. In reality he was reaching out with his magic to coax the sickness from her. Healing abilities with magic, however, were not all that powerful. He bolstered her with his Kai and tried to lend her body the strength it would need to fight off the infection, but he was unsure that it was having a real effect on her. He could only hope, and keep trying.

  Mostly, he mulled over the reason his magic would react to her so strongly. It had never happened to him before, though he had heard stories of wizards whose magic reacted to ancient places of power in a similar fashion. In those cases, however, he had never heard of magic leading them to something. Magic had a certain sentience, a kind of resonance with the world. Sometimes different things could evoke a response from a wizard's Kai, but never in such a strong and unpredictable way.

  The more that Dormael mulled it over, the more he knew that he needed an outside opinion. The strange phenomenon had dimmed since the night he had found Shawna, but Dormael still felt it from time to time. He had come to this city in anticipation of meeting with his cousin and traveling to Tauravon, but those plans were clearly moot now. He had cast his lot in with Alton and Shawna, and now Dormael needed to see this thing through to the end.

  He didn't, however, need to do it alone.

  He left his rooms and found Alton in his study, poring over a ledger with a graying man who had a stiff, proper manner and a perpetual frown on his face. This new person was a study in contrast with Alton. Where Alton wore fine clothes with a casual disdain for fashion, this new man was buttoned up tight in a richly embroidered coat. His eyes turned and took in Dormael's appearance, moving from his long goatee down to his weathered boots, and he sniffed in disdain.

  “Lord Dersham,” Dormael said with a bow. “I didn’t know you were indisposed. I’ll come back later.”

  “Nonsense, Dormael. I was only seeing to a small matter of business. Durham,” he said, motioning to the man at his side, “this is Dormael, a new friend of mine from the Sevenlands. Dormael, I present the Baronet Durham Keeting of the Ferolan Logistics Consortium.”

  “My Lord, I didn’t know that you were currently keeping with savages,” Durham replied, holding a wrinkled hand to his nose. Dormael thought that gesture might have been some Cambrellian indication of disgust, but he wasn't sure.

  “Lord Durham—” Alton began, but Dormael cut him off with a wave of his hand.

  “It’s quite all right, Lord Alton,” Dormael said, using the man's honorific in front of his business associate. “It's common for sheep to be surprised by the sight of wolves.”

  “You would dare speak to me so, and in the presence of other nobility?” the baronet scoffed, growing red in the face. “I am quite inclined to demand satisfaction for this insult.”

  “That would be the last thing you'd be inclined to do,” Dormael said, showing the puffed-up baronet his teeth.

  “You are a guest in my home, Durham,” Alton grated, his voice going cold. “It is I who am in a position to demand satisfaction here. The only insult worth mentioning is the one you have offered to me by your attitude toward other guests in my home.”

  “Etiquette clearly demands—,” Durham started, but Alton cut him off.

  “I give two golden shits about your etiquette, Durham,” Alton said. His words were soft, measured, but no weaker for their volume.

  Durham regarded Alton with a mortified expression.

  “My Lord, you would throw your own reputation on the coals beside...beside one of them?”

  “I would see guests in my home treated with respect. Dormael is an honorable man. Can you say the same?”

  “You would question my honor?” Keeting said, puffing his chest out.

  “I would, and I am. If you take issue with that, then demand your satisfaction and leave my home. The next I see you will be on a dueling field—that is, if your old, wrinkled ass can still lift a dueling blade,” Alton said, staring daggers at Baronet Keeting.

  “As My Lord wishes,” Durham said, bowing with a stiff back. “The Logistics Consortium will hear of this. They may find it...problematic to store any goods that may have come out of unsavory alliances.” The man grabbed the ledger from Alton’s desk, and stalked out of the room with one last sneer for Dormael. When the door shut behind him, Dormael chuckled and shook his head.

  “That’s a good man you have there,” Dormael said, jabbing a thumb in the direction of the now departing Durham.

  “Durham is an unrepentant asshole, but the Logistics Consortium controls most of the storehouses in Ferolan. Doubtless he will try and cause me no end of irritation,” Alton sighed.

  “How so?” Dormael asked.

  “I run a shipping business, Dormael. I need their floorspace for goods in transit. I'll handle it, though. What did you want?”

  “I was wondering if I may ask a small favor of you. I was planning on meeting my cousin here before I found Shawna. We were going to head to Tauravon for the Solstice. That's obviously not going to happen now, but he may be able to help with our...situation,” Dormael said.

  “How so?” Alton asked.

  “He's a shrewd sort, and well-traveled. He should be on his way here anyway, since we had planned on meeting up. I was wondering if you'd mind allowing him to stay here.”

  “I suppose it couldn't hurt. Can we trust him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Does he play stones as well as you?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Then put him up in an inn. It’s despairing to lose so much in your own house,” Alton laughed. “I'll have Nan prepare a room. When is he supposed to be here?”

  “Today, most likely,” Dormael replied.

  Alton nodded and sat down at his desk, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

  “Very well. I'll be indisposed for most of the day, but call upon me this evening. I would like to meet your mysterious cousin.”

  “You’re most gracious, My Lord. Surely only the gods are as generous and saintly as My Lord Dersham,” Dormael said, bowing mockingly to Alton as he imitated the accent of Baronet Keeting.

  “Hopefully your cousin’s conversation may not be as grating on the ears as yours,” Alton shot back.

  Dormael laughed and walked out the door, leaving Alton to his business. He would have waited until nightfall to contact D’Jenn, but this was important, and he needed some insight. He made his way quickly to the room that Alton had given him, and moved to look out the window.

  With his face in the sun, Dormael closed his eyes and opened his Kai, feeling the torrent of the magic rush into him. He went through the process of separating his mind from his body with quick familiarity, feeli
ng an odd sliding sensation as the spell was completed. Once he felt himself floating in midair outside the window at which his body stood, he sent his mind flying out over the city of Ferolan.

  Dormael loved the sensation of mind-flight. It was one of the things he cherished about being a wizard. He flew low over the docks, slowing to take in the view of the ships rocking in the harbor. From his height, the masts looked like odd trees jutting up from the bay, and the city spread out beneath him in the cool winter sunlight. Though his body was standing in the window back at Alton’s manor, his mind was soaring northward over the rocky coast of Alderak. Dormael spread his phantom arms and did a few barrel rolls over the sea, but turned to follow the northern road as it wound away from the coastline. Playing around in the sky could wait.

  Dormael knew D'Jenn had to be somewhere close by. In his last communication, D'Jenn had said that he would be coming from the north. Dormael formed the image of his cousin in his mind and colored it with the sound of his magic—something Dormael knew well. He was closer to D'Jenn than most people on Eldath. His Kai sang through the air around him, and Dormael could hear something resonating farther up the road. He concentrated on that distant noise and sped in it's direction.

  He found his cousin trudging through the cold winter morning. D'Jenn was of a height with Dormael, and pale of skin. He had long auburn hair, though it was currently stuffed into the cowl of a black Sevenlander cloak. D'Jenn wore a heavier version of the cloak than Dormael did, and it had a mantle that flowed down over his shoulders that was embroidered with silver thread in swirling patterns.

  A rucksack was bobbing on D'Jenn's back as he walked along the packed dirt of the highland road, the wind tearing at the hem of his cloak. Scattered trees dotted the roadside, but not enough to stop the wind that roared in from the sea. Beneath the pack swung a Doomba—a traditional Sevenlander drum.

  Dormael lowered his consciousness to the ground in front of D’Jenn and formed the image of himself in his mind. Using his magic, he infused that image to make it substantial, producing the illusion of his body standing in the road before D’Jenn. As his mind took control of the illusory similacrum with a feeling akin to donning a jacket, he bowed and favored his cousin with a wry smile.

  “I thought I felt your song in the air,” D'Jenn smiled, dropping his packs at the side of the road. He balled his right fist over his heart and bowed to Dormael, who returned the gesture. He would have embraced his cousin, but his illusion was no more substantial than a gust of wind. “What evokes this little visit? You know I'll be there by evening. You've been playing again, haven't you?”

  “Playing?” Dormael scoffed. “I'm not playing. I don't just go out flying around for fun, you know. You know me better than that. This is serious.”

  “I do know you, and I’m sure you’ve been very seriously flying over the sea turning loops in mid-air,” D’Jenn laughed. “And since I know you so well, I'm also going to guess that you're already drunk.”

  “Not as of yet,” Dormael smiled, “but it’s early. There’s still time for that sort of thing.”

  “Aye, still time yet. So, are you ready for the Solstice celebration? It’s going to be a long trip. Have you bought me a horse?”

  “Ah…about that trip, D’Jenn—something has happened,” Dormael said. “There’s been a strange turn of events here, and I need your advice.”

  D'Jenn regarded him flatly with an ice-blue gaze in reply. Dormael felt the silence stretch out for a moment between them, and then D'Jenn turned toward his packs. He tromped over and found a seat on an overturned log by the side of the road, rummaging around in his voluminous dark cloak. After he produced a carved pipe made in the semblance of a serpent, he motioned for Dormael to sit next to him. Dormael obliged his cousin.

  “Dormael,” D'Jenn said in an all-suffering tone, “we've been planning this trip for over a season. I had to duck Victus for two weeks before leaving Ishamael. I know he had something he wanted me to look into, and I blew that off to come here. We both agreed to this.”

  “I know,” Dormael sighed.

  “You're the one who had the idea.”

  “Yes, I know,” Dormael repeated.

  “Just think of the spectacle, the food, the women—those were your words to me,” D'Jenn continued. “Let me guess what 'strange turn of events' means—you got arrested, didn't you?”

  “Why do you always assume that I've been arrested?”

  D'Jenn sighed dramatically, “Gods-damn it. Is it the city dungeons, or have you gotten yourself abducted by a street gang, or something? Can't you break yourself out?”

  “I wasn't arrested, D'Jenn,” Dormael said. “I didn't buy your damned horse, but that's another story. I need to ask you something. Has your magic ever just...awakened on its own? Has it...has it ever tried to show you something?”

  D'Jenn rocked back from Dormael's question and gave him a guarded look.

  “No. What are you talking about?”

  Dormael's guts tightened at the look D'Jenn gave him, but he gritted his teeth and launched into the story.

  “The night I arrived in Ferolan something happened to me. My magic just...came alive on its own. And when I say 'came alive', I mean that it woke up like a beehive hit with a rock. It was screaming at me, pulling at me. It led me to something.”

  “Led you to what, exactly?” D'Jenn asked, leaning toward his cousin. He puffed a slow trickle of smoke from his nose and narrowed his eyes at Dormael.

  “A girl. A wounded girl.”

  “A girl, Dormael?” D’Jenn repeated, raising his eyebrow. “Was she Blessed? Was she using magic?”

  “She's not Blessed,” Dormael shook his head. “She had something in her bags. I'm not sure what, but it...it sent my power into a frenzy, D'Jenn. I've never experienced anything like that before. Have you ever heard of something like this happening?”

  “No. I’ve read of similar cases at Ishamael from when the Conclave was studying infused artifacts, or excavating ruins. Nothing like what you're saying, though. What did the girl tell you? I imagine you've seen this thing she's carrying?” D’Jenn asked.

  “She's still unconscious. She's been fighting off an infection since I found her, and whatever magical thing she has is still in her saddlebags.”

  D'Jenn gave a slow nod.

  “And you've been hanging around, watching over her. Is she pretty?”

  “I suppose so. Why?”

  “No reason. Just something else I know about you.”

  “That's not the reason, D'Jenn. The magic, remember?”

  “Of course, the magic,” D'Jenn repeated in a sarcastic tone. “I'm sure it has nothing to do with a pretty face. Nothing at all like the tavern girl in Moravia with the overbearing boss, or the one in Mistfall whose husband never loved her. Nothing like those, I'm sure.”

  “I'm not really all that bad,” Dormael objected.

  “You're worse than a Sheran tragedy epic,” D'Jenn smiled. “Still. You're really going to ruin our trip for a girl? There will be thousands of skirts to chase in Tauravon, Dormael. You're being ridiculous. Take the infused thing, whatever it is, and get on with it. I want to be heading to Lesmira in the morning.”

  “I'm not just going to steal it, D'Jenn,” Dormael snorted. “Besides, you're not listening. D'Jenn, this thing—this magical item—it's not like anything I've felt before. You know I'm not some child in his First Four. I'm telling you, this is different. I wouldn't come to you with something stupid.”

  “That prescription against stealing doesn't apply to a Blessed exercising his duties,” D'Jenn grumbled. “If it was a fat old man that was in trouble, would this be such a pressing issue?”

  “Yes, gods-damn it. Don't you trust me?”

  “Against all the evidence my relationship with you has provided, I do,” D'Jenn sighed. “Fine. Tell me where you are.”

  “I’m staying with her kinsman, a man named Alton Dersham. He’s a good sort of fellow—and a rich sort, too. He’s prepared
a bed for you.”

  “Very well. I should be in the city by this evening. Hopefully we can take care of this soon and be off to Tauravon before the gods return to Eldath.” D’Jenn let out a chestful of air and spat to the side, turning an irritated look on Dormael.

  “Stop being so bitchy about it. You know we can't leave something like this behind us. If Victus—or the Mekai, for that matter—found out, we'd be punished for it,” Dormael smiled.

  “You'd be punished for it. This is your problem, I was just passing through on my way to Tauravon,” D'Jenn laughed. “Where does this Dersham make his home?”

  “The Merchant’s District, in Ferolan.”

  “I guess I'll be seeing you this evening, then,” D’Jenn said. “I hope to Eindor this doesn’t take all winter. I’d like to get up into the northlands here in Alderak and do some hunting this year. I've heard they actually have elk, and no Garthorin to chase you around the passes.”

  “Indeed, coz, indeed. We’ll get there, yet. In Ferolan, then?”

  “In Ferolan,” D’Jenn nodded.

  “And thanks, coz,” Dormael said. “You didn’t have to agree, and I’m glad you didn’t think I was going mad.”

  “Whether or not you’re going mad is yet to be seen, coz. I’ve always thought you were a little off in the head, if you know what I mean,” replied D’Jenn, smirking at Dormael’s illusory self. Dormael gave a brief laugh and waved once at his cousin, who waved back with only the slightest bit of irritation showing on his face.

  With that, Dormael’s form faded and he was flying once again over the trees back to that window where his body stood smiling into the sun. It would be good to have his cousin around to help with the mystery of Shawna, even if his vacation would have to be cut short. He could feel hunger growing in his body back in Ferolan, and he looked forward to returning and raiding the kitchens.

  He did, however, do a few barrel rolls on his way back.

  ***

  Alton reached down to the board and moved one of his pieces, blowing out a slow trickle of tobacco smoke as he straightened. He narrowed his eyes at Dormael and tried to school his features into stillness, but Dormael could see the anticipation in his expression. The waning sunlight coming through the window cast red shafts of light through the smoke hovering in the room, and Dormael peered through it at Alton's flat expression.