The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  “What does it mean, sir?” Marie asked, reading over his shoulder.

  “I think it means that Eiddwen has traveled to Freya and that I should warn Sir Henry Wallace to be on the watch for her,” said D’argent.

  “Freya’s the enemy, sir!” said Marie, sniffing.

  “They were the enemy,” said D’argent.

  He read the next item on the list: seven pairs of leather gloves. He searched for every seventh word in the first seven paragraphs.

  “Princess, demons, monastery, saint, Dominick, Oscadia.”

  Marie frowned. “Are you sure you have that right, sir?”

  D’argent counted again and came out with the same result. “It would seem the princess and demons have something to do with a monastery of Saint Dominick in the Oscadia Mountains.”

  “I never heard of a Saint Dominick,” said Marie.

  “Neither have I,” said D’argent. “Given the vast number of saints in the calendar, however, that is not surprising. But … a monastery of all places!”

  “Perhaps her ladyship has taken refuge there,” Marie suggested.

  “Perhaps … I will do what I can to find out. When do you start on your journey?”

  “This afternoon, sir,” said Marie. “I don’t feel right about leaving. I don’t mind the danger. I want to be here, in case there should be any news of her ladyship.”

  “I understand, Marie,” said D’argent. “But we have said publicly that the countess and the princess have traveled to the family estate. People would think it strange that her lady’s maid is not in attendance. They might start asking questions.”

  “I told my friends that I was staying behind to supervise the packing. There was a lot to pack, since the countess didn’t know when she would return … if ever…”

  Marie had to stop to wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to give way like this.”

  “We need to be strong, Marie, and put up a bold front,” said D’argent. “Act as if nothing is wrong.”

  “I know, sir,” said Marie with a faint smile. “I generally do my crying at night when no one can see me. You will let me know if there is news, sir?”

  “You have my word,” said D’argent.

  After Marie left, D’argent read and reread the letter, wondering if there was some clue he had missed. He was deep in thought when the door opened and Prince Renaud walked in. Startled by the sudden intrusion, D’argent jumped to his feet, hurriedly shoving Cecile’s letter beneath a stack of papers dealing with accounts.

  “Your Highness…”

  “For the pardons,” said Prince Renaud, holding out two letters. “One for Captain de Guichen and one for Monsieur Rodrigo de Villeneuve.”

  He stopped, staring about the room that was simple yet elegant, and beautiful, with understated colors of lavender and blue, and pale wood panels carved with delicate curves. The room was faintly fragranced with perfume. The prince suddenly seemed to realize he had committed a most serious breach of etiquette.

  “Sorry for barging in like that,” Prince Renaud said, frowning. “Rude of me. Should have knocked. Keep forgetting I’m not back on my ship.”

  “I apologize for the fact that the servants were not on hand to greet—”

  “Quite,” Prince Renaud interrupted. “I need to have a word with you in private, D’argent. I need you to carry a private message to Captain de Guichen. I did not approve of my father’s decision to disband the Dragon Brigade. The noble dragons are furious with us and they have a right to be. They refused to see the delegation my father sent to try to restore relations. My hope is that when Captain de Guichen returns, he will meet with the noble dragons. He has friends among them who might be willing to overlook the past and aid us in this time of crisis.”

  “I am sure he will be honored, Your Highness—”

  “I like his idea for taking the fight to the enemy,” Renaud continued. “I have dispatched work crews to the fortress to start repairs. I trust Captain de Guichen will not take that amiss.”

  “I am certain—”

  “Good.” Prince Renaud handed over the letters and left the room as abruptly as he had entered.

  D’argent locked up Cecile’s correspondence in a box with special magical constructs to deter spies. Tucking the pardons into an interior pocket of his coat, he grabbed his hat and his cloak and left the palace, ordering his carriage driver to take him to the inn known as Canard à Trois Pattes, the “three-legged duck,” where Dubois had taken lodgings.

  He found Dubois pacing the inn’s stable yard. D’argent jumped from the carriage. He handed Dubois the pardons, which Dubois shoved into a leather dispatch bag.

  “I have a message for Stephano from the prince,” said D’argent. “To be given in person, not in writing.”

  He related his conversation with Prince Renaud.

  “Well, well, well,” was Dubois’s murmured remark.

  “One thing more,” said D’argent.

  He took hold of Dubois’s elbow and steered him to the far end of the stable yard, out of the way of the bustle of arriving guests, out of earshot of the servants.

  “I received a letter from the countess,” D’argent said, speaking in an undertone though it was doubtful if anyone could have overheard him, since a carriage had rolled into the yard, disgorging a matronly female with five shrill-voiced and giggling young women. “She is on the trail of the princess’s abductors. She writes that Eiddwen has traveled to Freya. The countess says we should send a warning to Sir Henry Wallace.”

  Dubois looked so astonished his eyebrows seemed likely to fly off his head. “A message to Sir Henry.” He muttered something about, “Strange bedfellows.”

  “In addition,” D’argent continued, “the countess mentioned a monastery called Saint Dominick’s in the Oscadia Mountains. Have you heard of it?”

  “Never. Are you certain? Saint Dominick?”

  “That was the name,” said D’argent. “I don’t know what it means. All I know is that this monastery has some connection with the princess and ‘demons.’ I am assuming she means Bottom Dwellers. Her Grace would not have mentioned it otherwise.”

  “A monastery. Odd, isn’t it,” Dubois said after a moment’s contemplation.

  “Damn odd,” said D’argent. “It’s all damn odd. Godspeed, monsieur. A safe journey. I wish there was something His Majesty could do for Father Jacob.”

  Dubois gave a deep sigh. “There is nothing. A sad business.”

  “Have you found out anything more about the charges against him?”

  Dubois shrugged, which either meant he couldn’t say, he wouldn’t say, or he didn’t know. With a vague smile and a bobbing bow, he took his leave.

  D’argent returned to his carriage, climbed inside and told the driver to take him back to the palace. He wondered, as he went, how Stephano and Prince Renaud would get along. He hoped they might actually like each other.

  * * *

  Back at the inn, Dubois wrote a letter addressed to one of his agents in Freya. Inside the first letter was another letter addressed to Henry Wallace, Naval Club. He gave his agent instructions to destroy the first letter and deliver the second to the Naval Club. Dubois was taking precautions. Although the countries were not at war, it would never do for him to be caught corresponding directly with the Freyan spymaster. Yet he had to warn Sir Henry that Eiddwen was traveling to his country. Since the woman had already tried once to assassinate Wallace, Dubois could rest assured that he would take the threat seriously.

  Dubois pondered, wrote a few more lines and posted the letter within a letter. After that, he hastened to the stables where the griffin he had hired was saddled and waiting.

  Dubois climbed on the back of the griffin. The beast’s handler assisted Dubois in settling himself in the small saddle where he would ride behind the handler. He did not like traveling by griffin-back, and did so only when he considered the matter one of utmost urgency.

  He donned the helm, similar to that wo
rn by dragon riders, though lighter in weight, since this helm was made of leather rather than steel. Then he wrapped himself in his cloak, and indicated he was ready in the same tone a man might have used prior to mounting the scaffold.

  The griffin’s handler strapped Dubois into the saddle, an extremely uncomfortable affair placed over the lion body’s bony hind end. Then the handler shouted to the griffin. Dubois gripped the reins. As the beast spread its wings Dubois closed his eyes. He hated this part.

  The griffin bounded off the ground, seeming to leap straight up, inspiring Dubois to cling with all his strength to the saddle. Although he was strapped in, he was certain he was going to fall. He didn’t open his eyes again until he felt the griffin level off.

  Many riders found the speed of griffin flight exhilarating and thrilling. Dubois instead found it stomach-churning and terrifying. He hunched his shoulders against the blasting wind and commended himself to God.

  The journey from Evreux to the Citadel took a day and a half on griffin-back, with a stop overnight in Eudaine to change griffins. Dubois dismounted, hobbled about a bit to restore the circulation to his legs, and immediately mounted a fresh griffin. Dubois arrived at the Citadel just as the sun was setting.

  As the griffin brought them close to the Citadel, they flew near one of the guard towers, to allow the guardian monks of Saint Klee to identify the visitor. Dubois raised his helm so that they could see his face. The monk on duty appeared to give them more than usual attention. At last the monk raised his hand in permission. The griffin landed in the large open area at the base of the mountain fastness that was the Citadel

  Immediately on his arrival, Dubois sent a message to the grand bishop, requesting an audience. He then began to wend his way up the stairs that had been carved out of the side of the mountain until he reached the guest halls, located near the summit.

  The Citadel was comprised of a great many buildings, from the magnificent cathedral at the top of the mountain to the stables and wharves and warehouses at the bottom. The Citadel was a self-contained community, with a hospital, a library and the infamous Library of the Forbidden, dortoirs for the priests and nuns who lived and worked in the Citadel, the chapter house, halls for dining and for study, quarters for the lay brothers and sisters who acted as servants, and the house of the provost, located near the cathedral.

  The various structures occupied the different levels, all connected by a series of stairways and ramps and surrounded by protective walls and guard towers. Gardens and courtyards adorned the grounds and provided areas where the inhabitants could rest and relax.

  As Dubois ascended the stairs and strolled past the gardens, he cast sharp, curious glances at those he met and saw immediately that something was amiss. Dubois had been in the Citadel many times, but few ever paid much attention to him, mainly because he took great care not to garner attention. Still, they were welcoming, always giving him a cheerful greeting, a friendly nod.

  This time, no one greeted him or even looked at him. People were deep in whispered conversation, their heads together, their expressions grave or troubled. No one was working in the gardens or strolling the ramparts, despite the fact that the summer evening was warm, with a splendid sunset to admire. If people met, they huddled together, spoke a few moments, then walked on, expressions grim.

  Dubois was intrigued. The Citadel had recently come under attack by the Bottom Dwellers, leaving several buildings badly damaged; some people had been wounded and a few were killed. The attack had happened weeks ago, however, and the priests and nuns of the Arcanum were not the sort of men and women to go about bewailing their fate. They left tragedy and loss in God’s capable hands and carried on with business.

  Dubois guessed this upset had something to do with Father Jacob. He needed to talk to someone, find out what was going on before he met with the grand bishop. He saw many people he recognized, but no one he trusted.

  Walking past the hospital, he caught sight of a short-statured nun walking rapidly, with a brisk and no-nonsense air about her. Dubois was elated. He could not have asked for a better informant. Sister Elizabeth was the surgeon who had operated on Father Jacob. She was one of the few people in the Arcanum who actually liked the irascible priest.

  She walked with her lips tight, her brows knitted. Dubois accosted her, hat in hand.

  “Sister Elizabeth, forgive me…”

  “Eh?” Sister Elizabeth stopped, startled to find him in her path. She lifted her gaze to his face. Her frown increased. “I know you. You work for the grand bishop.”

  She skirted around him. Dubois hurried after her.

  “My name is Dubois, Sister. I have heard a rumor that Father Jacob has been arrested. Is this true? Can you tell me under what circumstances?”

  “Ask your friend the grand bishop,” said Sister Elizabeth, glowering.

  Dubois could move more quickly than people gave his pudgy body credit for and he managed to dodge around her and place himself squarely in front of her, forcing her to stop or run over him.

  Still holding his hat in his hand, Dubois said softly, “I am a friend to Father Jacob, Sister. I know you to be his friend, as well. Possibly I can help. I need to know what is going on.”

  Sister Elizabeth regarded him intently. Dubois met her gaze with openness and frankness. She pursed her lips, then gave a little snort.

  “You best be careful going about saying you are Father Jacob’s friend. That could get you arrested.” She eyed him again. “You don’t know what has happened?”

  “I arrived only this past hour,” said Dubois. “I have not yet spoken with the grand bishop. I would like to help Father Jacob if I can. I believe his work to be of immense importance.”

  Sister Elizabeth stood silent, her hands folded in the sleeves of her black habit. The wind ruffled the wimple around her face.

  “You are limping, monsieur,” she said suddenly.

  Dubois followed her gaze to see two monks of Saint Klee approaching. He understood and immediately started to groan and rub his calves.

  “Muscle cramps,” Sister Elizabeth added. “I can help you find ease. Where are you bound?”

  “I have rooms in the guest hall, Sister.”

  “I will walk with you.”

  The monks of Saint Klee passed by, neither of them glancing at Dubois. As he and Sister Elizabeth walked to the guesthouse, he could see signs of the recent attack. The smell of burning lingered in the air. He noticed repair work had been started. The guesthouse had been on the fringes of the battle and had suffered little damage. Some tiles were being replaced on the roof and ruined trees had been replanted. No one was at work today, however. Usually bustling with activity, the guesthouse was empty, silent.

  “The grand bishop asked all our guests to leave,” said Sister Elizabeth, answering Dubois’s unspoken question. “He told them the Citadel might come under attack again and that remaining here was dangerous. I am surprised you were permitted to land.”

  She eyed him curiously, clearly wondering why he was here.

  “Will the Citadel be attacked?” Dubois asked, changing the subject.

  “God Himself is the only one who knows. I suppose it is possible,” said Sister Elizabeth. “But that is not the true reason he ordered the guests to depart.”

  Dubois did not think it was. She led him into a courtyard with benches beneath shade trees and an ornamental fish pond filled with darting orange fish. Sister Elizabeth sat down on a bench, put her hands on her knees, and faced him.

  “The grand bishop ordered the provost removed from office. The provost is, to all intents and purposes, under arrest,” she said. “Montagne has taken sole control of the Church.”

  Dubois was not easily astonished. He knew the depths to which humans could sink, and the heights they could attain. He had viewed the remains of the murdered nuns at the Abbey of Saint Agnes. He had witnessed the fall of the Crystal Market, seen the gutters running red with blood. He had thought that nothing in life could shock h
im and yet, at this astounding news, he felt the need to sit down.

  He stared at her dumbfounded.

  “You didn’t know any of this,” Sister Elizabeth said.

  “I … I did not,” Dubois murmured, shaken. “I heard only that Father Jacob had been arrested. Was his arrest the cause of the rupture?”

  Sister Elizabeth glanced around to make certain no one was near. “One day, not long after the attack, the provost and the grand bishop were alone in the provost’s office. Their voices were raised in anger. Walls are thin. The provost’s staff heard everything. The provost said he would not be a party to Father Jacob’s imprisonment. The grand bishop said he would have the provost removed from office. The provost countered that he could be removed only by a vote of the Council of Bishops. The grand bishop countered by disbanding the Council.”

  “He can’t do that,” said Dubois.

  “Who is going to stop him?” Sister Elizabeth returned.

  Dubois had no answer to that. “What has happened to Father Jacob? What are the charges against him?”

  “During the attack on the Citadel, he broke the rule and entered the Library of the Forbidden,” said Sister Elizabeth. “No one knows what happened in the Library except the monks of Saint Klee, and they’re not talking. Father Jacob and Sir Ander fled the Citadel during the attack. They were apprehended in the dragon duchies and brought to the Citadel under guard by the monks of Saint Klee. After that, Father Jacob and Sir Ander both vanished.”

  “They would be in the prison, wouldn’t they?” Dubois asked, startled.

  “One would think so,” said Sister Elizabeth darkly. “As Father Jacob’s physician, I demanded to examine him. I said I needed to make certain he is not suffering any lingering effects from his head injury. I was not permitted to see him. After that I talked to one of the lay brothers who takes meals to the prisoners. He said that neither Father Jacob nor Sir Ander are in any of the prison cells.”

  Dubois frowned.

  Sister Elizabeth tapped him on the knee.