The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  He also found a water skin filled with tepid water. He hauled his finds out of the yacht, then walked over to where Rodrigo was sitting and handed him the water skin, figuring he’d tell him about the unappetizing-looking food later.

  Rodrigo took several sips of water and seemed to feel better. Some color returned to his face.

  “Do you feel up to walking? We have about two hours before dark,” Stephano said.

  “I’m ready,” said Rodrigo, rising a little unsteadily to his feet. He cast a gloomy look about. “There are certainly a lot of trees.”

  “I think that’s why they call it a forest,” said Stephano.

  He and Rodrigo set off, gauging their direction by the sun that every so often would break through the clouds. Their progress was slow, for they had to make their way through the dense undergrowth, climbing over fallen logs, pushing through brush and bushes. Both of them were soon bruised, battered, and exhausted.

  Stephano called a halt when they reached a small stream. Rodrigo built a fire, using his magic to light the kindling.

  “Reminds me of being marooned on that damn island,” he remarked.

  He eyed the food with a shudder and said he wasn’t hungry. Stephano persuaded him to eat something, to keep up their strength. They huddled near the fire, for as the sun went down, the night was growing cold.

  “How far do you think we are from Eudaine?” Rodrigo asked. “How long will it take us to get there?”

  “I don’t know,” said Stephano. “Several days? Maybe a week.”

  “What if we keep walking and walking and we never find our way out?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Stephano.

  Rodrigo pressed him. “You’re certain?”

  “Mostly certain,” said Stephano with a smile.

  Rodrigo sighed.

  The woods were now dark outside the circle of the firelight, filled with shadows and strange night noises. Stephano banked the fire. They wrapped themselves in the blankets and tried to burrow down among the leaves.

  “Keep talking,” said Rodrigo. “Whenever I close my eyes, I see that poor monk’s face. What do you think our friends are doing now?”

  Dag, Miri, and Gythe had been in the alley outside Stephano’s house, waiting for him and Rodrigo, who had walked into their kitchen and straight into an ambush. Their friends had watched, helpless to save them, as the monks took them away.

  “They will all be sitting around the kitchen table,” said Stephano. “Dag will be forming schemes to break us out of the Citadel. Miri will be fuming, sweeping, cleaning like she always does when she’s upset. Gythe will be trying to keep the Doctor from licking the butter and Benoit will be telling them how he could have fought off the monks single-handed if it hadn’t been for his lumbago.”

  Stephano smiled at the thought of the crotchety old steward.

  “Maybe our friends will come looking for us…,” said Rodrigo with a tinge of hope in his voice.

  Stephano had to squelch it.

  “They won’t try to find us, Rigo. Because no one knows we’re lost.”

  2

  I must confess that studying what I am forbidden to study gives me a delightful thrill of wickedness.

  —Rodrigo de Villeneuve, journal

  Miri was fuming, as Stephano had pictured her, bustling about, unpacking trunks, taking out Rodrigo’s collection of books and stacking them on the table. She folded Stephano’s baldric and carried it upstairs to his room, along with his dragon pistol and his father’s sword. She was very pale when she returned.

  Gythe knelt on the hearth, toasting bread over the fire. Dag sat at the table, drinking a mug of ale. Benoit was in his chair by the fire, muttering imprecations on the head of the grand bishop. The cat, Doctor Ellington, was perched on a chair, considering a raid on the butter, which sat temptingly on the edge of the table.

  None of them had spoken in a long time, and the silence was tense. When Miri slammed a book down on the table; the sudden noise caused all of them to jump, and sent the cat fleeing to the pantry.

  Miri rounded on Dag and fixed him with a scathing glance. “You have to do something, not just sit here swilling beer while Stephano and Rigo are being carried off to prison!”

  “We have been over this, Miri,” Dag said carefully, setting down his mug. “Just what would you have me do?”

  Miri glared at him, still fuming.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “You’re the military man. Come up with a plan.”

  Dag cupped his hands around his mug and stared morosely into the dissolving foam. “We have to face the facts, Miri. There’s nothing to be done. Where they’ve gone, we can’t follow.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Miri snapped. She took the last of the books out of the trunk and began stacking them on the floor. “We’ve been in lots of tough situations before and we’ve never let one of them defeat us.”

  Dag raised an eyebrow. “Sir Henry left us marooned on an island.”

  “But we got off the island!” Miri said triumphantly. “We never gave up the fight. You’ve given up before this fight has even started!”

  Dag was silent. Miri eyed him, exasperated, then went back to her work. She needed to keep busy. Having removed all of Rodrigo’s books from the trunks, she began pulling out his shirts with the thought of washing them. She straightened and sniffed the air.

  “Do you smell smoke?”

  Miri turned to look at Gythe. Her sister was staring into the flames, her thoughts a world away. The bread at the end of the toasting fork was blazing merrily.

  “Mercy’s sakes, Gythe!” Miri gasped. “You’re supposed to be toasting the bread, not burning down the house!”

  Gythe opened her blue eyes wide. She thrust the flaming lump of bread into the ashes in the grate, putting out the fire. Giving Miri a small smile of apology, she went to the pantry to cut more bread.

  Miri stood with her hands on her hips, staring after her. “What is wrong with that girl? She’s up in the clouds somewhere.”

  “Same thing’s wrong with her that’s wrong with the rest of us,” Dag muttered. “She’s upset about Stephano and Rigo.”

  “I think it’s more than that.” Miri took out one of Rodrigo’s shirts, frowned at it. The lace was starting to come off the cuff. She set it to one side for mending. “Here’s an idea. We go to the king and plead with him for their release.”

  “First, the king didn’t arrest them. The Church did that,” said Dag. “Second, the king has no love for Stephano. His Majesty would be just as glad to let him rot. Third, we’re two Trundlers and a mercenary. We couldn’t get anywhere near the palace, much less gain an audience with the king. If his mother were here, she could help. But she isn’t.”

  “It’s just like the countess to disappear when we need her. Where is she?” Miri demanded in frustration. “Did Stephano know?”

  Dag shook his head. “He didn’t want to talk about it. Did you ask Benoit? He visits the palace and talks to her on a regular basis. Perhaps she told him something about where she was going.”

  Miri looked over at the elderly retainer. He sat slumped over, his head in his hands. He seemed very old, pale, and woebegone.

  Miri shook her head. “This has been a shock to the poor man.”

  Leaving her work, she went to Benoit and rested her hand gently on his shoulder.

  “Do you know anything about the Countess de Marjolaine?” she asked gently. “Where she could have gone? We need her to help Stephano.”

  “I tried to go to the palace to see her a few days ago when the monks first came,” Benoit said in a shaky voice. “They caught me sneaking out. There’s nothing we can do. Nothing.”

  He groaned and closed his eyes and sat back in his chair. Miri studied him closely. Benoit was advanced in years, though his exact age was hard to determine. He had served Stephano’s father, Julian de Guichen, and after his death, he had served Stephano. Benoit always claimed to be suffering from some complaint or
other, generally whenever there was any work to be done. The old man could be spry enough when he chose—only a few hours ago he’d come running into the alley to tell them the terrible news about Rodrigo and Stephano.

  Miri was worried about him. This time, Benoit did not appear to be malingering. His usually ruddy complexion was gray and sallow and his breathing was raspy. When she put her hand to his forehead his skin was clammy. She felt his pulse and looked over at Dag, her brows drawn together in consternation.

  “What’s wrong?” Dag asked softly.

  “I think it’s his heart!” she whispered.

  Dag rose to his feet in alarm.

  “Benoit, you don’t look well,” Miri said in coaxing tones. “Dag is going to help you to bed.”

  “I’m fine, truly!” Benoit said in feeble protest. “I’m just a bit short of breath. A glass of the master’s brandy…”

  “I’ll bring you some brandy and a potion I want you to drink,” said Miri. “Now go along with Dag.”

  “Maybe I will lie down … just for a bit,” said Benoit, allowing Dag to assist him. “I need to be rested when the master and Monsieur Rodrigo return.”

  Dag helped the old man to his bedroom, which was on the ground floor across the hallway from the kitchen.

  “Gythe, put the kettle on,” Miri ordered.

  Gythe did not move. She was sitting in a trancelike state, once more staring at the flames.

  “Gythe!” Miri shouted.

  Gythe started and dropped the toasting fork.

  “Where’s the bread? You’ve been toasting nothing but the fork! What is the matter with you?” Miri demanded.

  Gythe shook her head and shrugged.

  Miri gave up the argument. “Benoit’s having problems with his heart. I’m going to fix him a potion and I need hot water. I want you to put the kettle on.”

  “Is he all right?” Gythe asked worriedly, her hands forming the words she could not speak.

  “I hope so.” Miri eyed the trunks that Dag had hauled into the kitchen. “Now where did I pack my herbs?”

  Gythe filled the kettle. Miri located the trunk in which she had packed her herb jars wrapped for safekeeping in some of Rodrigo’s handkerchiefs.

  “Maybe it’s a good thing Rigo’s not here,” Dag observed on his return. “If he knew you’d used his precious handkerchiefs to wrap up your jars, he’d be the one having heart palpitations.”

  Miri tried to smile, but without success. Dag regarded her with concern.

  “I’m sorry, Miri. Honestly, I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of some way to help our friends. They’re being taken to the dungeons in the Citadel! No one ever escapes from that terrible place. I don’t see a way.”

  Miri tossed one of the handkerchiefs onto the laundry pile and began taking out her jars, arranging them on the kitchen counter. Each jar was neatly labeled. Finding the one marked FOXGLOVE, she carefully measured out a small portion. Gythe hung the kettle over the flames.

  “We’ll rescue them,” said Miri, waiting for the water to boil.

  Dag shook his head in exasperation. “Miri, they’re not in the city jail. We’d need an army and even then—”

  “Then we’ll get an army!” said Miri tersely.

  They waited in uncomfortable silence for the water to boil. Gythe brought over the kettle and poured the steaming water into a mug. Miri added the foxglove and other herbs and stirred them as she sang below her breath. It was an old, old song, handed down from one Trundler healer to another. Perhaps the song was magic, as Rodrigo had once theorized. Miri didn’t know. All she cared about was that her healing potions worked. When her song reached the end, the potion was finished. She handed the mug to Gythe with orders that Benoit was to drink it all. He could wash it down with a bit of brandy if he liked.

  Dag wrinkled his nose at the smell. “He won’t drink it.”

  “Gythe will see to it. If anyone can get that cantankerous old man to take his medicine, she can,” said Miri, wiping her hands on her apron. “And now I’ll heat up more water to start the laundry. Will you haul the tub in for me? It’s in the backyard. What are you doing? Let go of me!”

  Ignoring her protests, Dag marched her forcibly to a chair next to his.

  “Sit down. That’s an order. You’re exhausted. And you need to eat something.”

  “The laundry—”

  “Will wait,” said Dag. “Working yourself to death isn’t going to help Stephano and Rigo.”

  Sitting felt good. She hadn’t realized how tired she was.

  “I’ll rest, but only for a moment.”

  Dag sliced what was left of the bread. Miri began to sort through Rodrigo’s books that were stacked on the table, thinking she could put them into some sort of order. Most of them had to do with magic and were so complicated she got a headache just reading the titles. One extremely thick volume was Magic and Metaphysics, Existence, Objects and their Properties, Space and Time, Cause and Effect, and Possibility. Another was Magical Epistemology. Finding one well-worn book that had no title stamped on the cover, Miri opened it, curious. The book was apparently Rodrigo’s journal, for the pages were filled with his flamboyant handwriting and diagrams. He had written the title on the first page, even going so far as to embellish it was fanciful drawings. Miri stared at the title and felt her throat constrict.

  “Dag, you need to see this,” she said.

  Hearing her altered tone, he looked up from his work.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  In answer, Miri shoved the book across the table. Dag picked it up, opened it to the first page. He shook his head, then flipped through the pages. His expression grew grim.

  “Good thing the monks didn’t find this!”

  “What do we do with it?”

  “Burn it,” said Dag dourly. “And then bury the ashes.”

  He shoved the book back to her.

  “But … there’s a wealth of knowledge in here,” said Miri, turning the pages. “Knowledge that is valuable.”

  “Knowledge that will get Rigo burned at the stake,” Dag retorted. “If we don’t burn it, we should at least hide it. You never know. The monks might come back—”

  He was interrupted by the sound of wyverns screeching, the clatter and thud of carriage wheels landing on the pavement, and the voice of the coachman shouting at the wyverns. The noise came from directly outside the house. Someone knocked on the door and rang the bell. Dag reached for his pistols.

  “Hide that damn book!” he ordered.

  “Where?”

  Miri looked around the kitchen. Finally, in desperation, she dashed into the larder and shoved the book into the flour barrel.

  “Go to Benoit’s bedroom,” Dag told her. He loaded a pistol and handed it to her. “Stay with him and Gythe.”

  Miri started toward the hall on the run. The knocking continued and was now accompanied by a voice.

  “Stephano, open the door!”

  Miri caught her breath in relief. She knew that voice.

  “It’s D’argent!” she called. “What should I do?”

  Dag lowered his pistol, but didn’t put it away. “Find out what he wants.”

  Miri ran to the entry hall. She had never met the countess’s man of affairs, but he had often visited Stephano and she knew him by sight. Despite being friends with Stephano for many years, no one else in the Cadre of the Lost had ever met D’argent, though they had all heard of him. Whenever D’argent came to the house, he brought a message from Stephano’s mother and since her messages were generally not welcome, Stephano would meet with D’argent privately, if he chose to meet with him at all. He and Stephano and Rodrigo met upstairs in the parlor, leaving his friends downstairs in the kitchen. As Stephano had often explained, he wasn’t ashamed of his friends; he was ashamed of his mother. Miri went to the front door and peered out the peephole.

  D’argent wore a dark cloak. He carried a leather satchel in one hand, while he held on to his hat with the other. The
rain had stopped for the moment, but the wind was brisk. The driver stood by the carriage door. The wyverns were snapping at each other.

  Miri unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

  “Monsieur D’argent…”

  D’argent stared at her, startled and confused.

  “I am sorry, madame. I was expecting Benoit. Is Stephano here?”

  Miri hesitated, then she opened the door wide and invited D’argent inside. As he entered, looking uncertain, Miri stared intently up and down the street. The rain clouds hung low in the sky. The evening was gray and dismal. No one was out in this weather. The street was empty. She shut the door and locked it and turned back to D’argent, standing in the entry hall.

  D’argent touched his tricorn hat. “You have the advantage of me, madame. I do not believe we have met.”

  “I am Miri, sir. Miri McPike.”

  D’argent smiled. “One of the Cadre of the Lost. Stephano speaks of you often. I need to talk to him and Rodrigo on a matter of some urgency—”

  He noticed suddenly that she was carrying a pistol.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “You better come with me, sir,” said Miri. “I would take you to the parlor, but there’s no fire. We’re sitting in the kitchen. If you don’t mind—”

  “I will join you there,” said D’argent.

  “Are you certain, sir? I could light a fire…”

  “Please, do not trouble yourself,” said D’argent. “Something is wrong. Stephano is expecting me. Where is he? What has happened?”

  “It’s a long story, sir. Let me take your cloak and hat. I’ll put them by the fire to dry out. Shall I take that?” She indicated the satchel.

  “No, thank you, madame.”

  D’argent kept hold of the satchel and followed Miri to the kitchen.

  “This is Dag Thorgrimson,” said Miri, performing the introductions.

  “I feel I know you, Sergeant Thorgrimson,” said D’argent, advancing to shake hands.

  “I feel I know you, too, sir,” said Dag, frowning.