The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  Seething, Stephano gave the signal to break off the attack. He could do nothing except watch as the crippled black ship, trailing smoke, limped off for the safety of the mountains. Dag must have guessed why Stephano called them off, for he and Verdi turned back. Viola had to bark loudly and forcefully at Petard, who was happily pursuing the ship. At first Stephano didn’t think the young dragon was going to obey. Truth be told, he hoped he wouldn’t.

  Viola shouted something, and whatever threat she made worked, for Petard veered around. He was clearly outraged, demanding to know what was going on. Viola had only to indicate Haelgrund with a jerk of her head. The big dragon said something stern. Petard shrank, his mane flattened. He flew over and tried to hide behind Verdi.

  Stephano was too angry to speak, and Haelgrund understood. He kept darting sidelong glances at Stephano as they headed back toward land.

  “Who died?” Stephano asked at last.

  “The countess,” said Haelgrund. “She threw herself in front of the duke. Saved his life.”

  Stephano shot Haelgrund a grim glance.

  “I’m sorry, Stephano,” Haelgrund returned. “I don’t agree with the duke. You know I don’t. I said we should kill the bastards. He was adamant. He maintains you attacked these people without provocation when they had come to seek peace.”

  “Balls!” said Stephano furiously. “You saw the black ship making preparations to fire. This was an ambush!”

  “I told the duke, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s in a terrible state. He blames you for the death of the countess. You have to leave the dragon realms immediately. He will let the wild dragons stay here, since they were only obeying your commands.”

  Viola gave a snort that sent flame shooting out of her nostrils and curled her lip, showing her fangs.

  “The wild dragons are coming with us,” said Stephano.

  “I’m sorry, Captain,” Haelgrund said again and flew off.

  “I couldn’t understand what he was saying, sir,” said Dag, “but I’m guessing we’re not going to be reforming the Dragon Brigade.”

  “You guessed right,” said Stephano.

  He looked down at the body of the countess on the ground. The other dragons were gathered around the shattered, bloody corpse. They would burn her body, then gather her ashes and give her to the sky.

  “The duke be damned. We will pay our respects,” said Stephano. “She was my comrade.”

  He ordered Viola to swoop down low, flying over the body as he stood braced in the saddle and saluted. Dag did the same, and then Petard, his flight a little wobbly, flew overhead as well.

  The duke watched them, his mane bristling, but made no move to stop them. The countess had been a member of the Dragon Brigade and deserved the honor. The duke kept a baleful eye on them, however, making certain they flew off.

  “Where are we headed, sir?” Dag asked.

  “Back to the fortress,” said Stephano. “We have a war to wage.”

  15

  We are the light that will banish the darkness.

  —The Children of Flame

  Miri had always been the pilot of her life. She stood at the helm; she was the navigator. As she sailed the Cloud Hopper through the clear skies and the storms, so she had always guided her own destiny. But now, Miri was no longer at the helm. Gythe had taken over, and she and Miri were prisoners on board the Bottom Dwellers’ ship, sailing into darkness and fog and cold that struck through to the bone.

  The little sister who had always depended on her was steering their lives into the unknown. Miri knew Gythe had some plan in mind, but she refused to tell her.

  “The less you know, the better,” Gythe signed to her sister. “If we are captured, you can say truthfully you didn’t know anything.”

  “Captured!” Miri repeated, frightened. “Gythe! Tell me what is going on!”

  But Gythe would only shake her head, leaving Miri feeling helpless and, for the first time in her life, alone.

  Gythe affected being a prisoner herself, having made up a story about how she and Miri had been abducted. Miri kept up the pretense, afraid to do anything else. The Bottom Dwellers had taken three other prisoners besides Miri and Gythe, all of them women. They treated the prisoners harshly, keeping them locked in the hold and threatening them with beatings if they made trouble. Huddled together in the cold and the darkness, with barely enough food to keep them alive, the women were certainly not inclined to cause trouble.

  But while the Bottom Dwellers might threaten them, it was clear that they wanted to keep them alive. Their captors provided wool blankets and thick coats to protect against the cold, and though their rations were meager, Miri saw that the prisoners ate as well as their guards.

  “Why take these three women?” Miri asked, puzzled.

  “They are all savants,” Gythe replied.

  Miri would later learn during the voyage that one woman was a baker, who used her magical talent to make wondrous confections served at the royal palace. Another woman was studying to be a crafter-priest, and the third woman was a milliner who rarely used her extraordinary magical talent because she did not want to appear “different.”

  “Why do the Bottom Dwellers want savants?” Miri asked. “What does Brother Barnaby have to do with this? What is he doing down Below? I thought he was dead! I don’t understand.”

  Gythe would give her no answer, except to say, “The Bottom Dwellers will not harm us or the others. Tell them not to be afraid.”

  “Tell me not to be afraid,” Miri snapped.

  Gythe cast her a hurt look. Miri sighed deeply. “I wish you would trust me with your secret, Gythe.”

  Gythe clasped her sister by the hand and gave her a remorseful kiss on the cheek.

  “The secret is not mine to tell…”

  * * *

  Shut up in the hold belowdecks of the troop ship and unable to see outside, Miri lost track of the days. She spent most of her time wrapped up in a blanket, huddled together with Gythe, trying to keep warm as the ship sank down into the Breath. She knew the ship had broken through the chill, thick mists of the Breath when she heard the sailors cheering and calling out to each other that they would soon be home.

  The cheers did not last long, though. The ship sailed out of the Breath and into a wizard storm. Fierce winds and rain tossed around the large, heavy ship as if it were the little Cloud Hopper. Thunder cracked and roared. The prisoners were sick from the erratic motion, as were some of the soldiers and members of the crew, according to the sailor who brought them their daily ration of food and water.

  Having been born sailing the Breath, as the saying went, Miri and Gythe were not subject to the sickness that plagued the other prisoners. They made the women as comfortable as possible. Sick and miserable, the women lay on pallets and groaned, when they weren’t heaving into buckets. The hold reeked of the stench. One day, desperate for a breath of air that wasn’t tainted by the smell of vomit, Miri opened the door of the hold.

  The guard glared at her and ordered back her inside.

  Miri begged him: “I just want to let in some fresh air.”

  The guard seemed hesitant, but then he caught a whiff of the smell and relented.

  The door to the hold was at the bottom of a flight of stairs that ended in a closed hatch at the top. As she watched, one of the sailors pulled the hatch open to go into the hold. The fierce wind blew the hatch out of his hand, and rain pelting down through the open hatch drenched Miri. She didn’t move, but just wiped the water from her face and breathed in the rain-fresh air as she gazed, awestruck, at the flaring pink and purple lightning that swept across the sky.

  The sailor called to the guard to come help him. Miri, seeing they were absorbed in their work, sneaked out of the hold and climbed the stairs. Battered by the wind and rain, she peered up onto the deck.

  The ship was riding out the storm with only very small staysails to maintain steerage. Heavy weather lines had been added to the balloons to keep them from being s
wept away by the savage winds. Sailors staggered against the blasting rain, hanging onto thick lines stretched above the gunwales to keep from being blown overboard.

  Miri knew what it was like to be caught in a wizard storm, though she had never faced one of this magnitude. She watched the captain and the helmsman fighting to maintain control and despite herself felt sympathy for them.

  Hearing the guard yelling at her, Miri hurried back down the stairs. The sailor shut the hatch, cutting off her view and the flow of fresh air, and the guard angrily ordered her to go back into the hold. Miri did as she was told, and when she was back in the hold she found Gythe waiting for her.

  “A wizard storm,” Miri said. “Like the one that nearly sank us and the Sommerwind.”

  “Worse, much worse,” Gythe said, her hands trembling as she signed. “There is evil in this storm.”

  The ship rocked and lurched, knocking her to her knees and flinging Miri into a bulkhead. On the deck above, something fell with a loud crash. They heard feet pounding and commands being shouted.

  “Stay down,” Miri said, crouching. “Safer than trying to stand.”

  “Such storms were once very rare Below,” Gythe told her. “They happen constantly now, making life unbearable. That is why they want savants.”

  “To control the storms.” Miri shook her head. “It’s not possible.”

  Gythe gazed at her intently. “Yes, it is. You know it is.”

  “I know you sang a song and that other storm stopped.” Miri glared at Gythe, angry and frightened. “I know Rigo claimed you had something to do with it, but he never said what, and you never told me!”

  “Because you never asked!” Gythe’s hands flashed.

  She rose to her feet, bracing herself on the pitching deck by leaning against the bulkhead.

  “We will be landing soon. You must follow my lead, do whatever I do, even if you do not understand. Promise me.” Gythe put her hand on her heart.

  “Why should I trust you, when you won’t trust me?” Miri asked bitingly.

  Gythe gazed at her with unblinking calm and repeated, tapping her heart. “Promise.”

  “I don’t know you anymore, Gythe!” Miri said, bewildered. “Who are you?”

  “I am who I need to be. They are right. We abandoned them, but not anymore. Promise!”

  Gythe’s hand was a clenched fist over her heart.

  “I promise,” said Miri. “You know that.”

  Gythe gave a curt nod and left, going back to nurse their patients.

  Miri remained crouched, shivering in her wet clothes and wondering bleakly how this misery and terror was going to end.

  * * *

  Still battered by storm winds, the ship made a perilous landing that left everyone onboard bruised and shaken. The man named Patrick and the other soldiers took charge of the prisoners, once more binding their wrists. Miri saw Gythe and Patrick exchange glances, as the soldiers escorted the prisoners off the ship.

  “Where are we?” Miri asked.

  “You are at the bottom of the world,” Patrick replied. “The town is Port Gaotha Baile. We stand on the sunken island of Glasearrach.”

  Miri stood on the dock, gazing at her surroundings. She could not guess the hour. The sun was hidden by gray clouds. For the moment, the wizard storm had abated and only a light rain fell. But the cool air was thick with humidity, and she could see little through the gloom.

  Ships were ghostly in the fog, sails and yardarms appearing than vanishing. She could see vague outlines of low buildings and hear people passing by: the wheels of carts, the clopping of hooves. Voices were muffled and indistinct.

  I am standing on Glasearrach, Miri thought in disbelief.

  The doomed island and its inhabitants and the disaster that had befallen them had been a tale told over a bottle of Calvados as the last glimmers of day faded from the sky. Her cousins would sing the old songs about the Pirate King, a terror and a scourge to the rest of the world, but a hero to the Trundlers.

  “Stop gawking,” said Patrick, giving her a shove. “Get in the wagon before the storm breaks.”

  Gythe followed, tugging Miri along. Two wagons, drawn by two thick-necked, short, stout horses stood near the dock. The wagons were made of wood, closed against the elements, with a door and two small windows with wooden shutters.

  “Where are you taking us?” Miri demanded, stopping and refusing to move.

  “Get in the wagon,” Patrick said again, this time harshly. “You two will come with me.”

  Gythe flashed Miri a warning look and again put her hand on her heart, reminding her of her promise.

  The other three women stood huddled together, clasping hands, gazing around in fear and bewilderment. Miri at least knew where she was. These poor women didn’t know anything, for they couldn’t understand the language. Miri was going to go offer what comfort she could, but Patrick stopped her. Pointing to the other women, he told the guard to load them in the first wagon.

  “Why are you separating us?” Miri asked.

  “You ask too many questions,” Patrick said.

  Gythe tugged on Miri’s sleeve and gave her a reproachful look as she climbed inside the wagon. Miri heaved a sigh and followed. The interior was stark and plain with benches that ran along each side—a prison wagon.

  Patrick told the driver they were ready, then he entered the wagon and shut the door just as another wizard storm swooped down on them.

  The wind rose, howling. The rain came down in torrents. Lightning crackled and thunder roared. Patrick had left the window open to let in the air, and the rain was blowing inside. Miri slid across the bench and reached for the shutter to pull it closed. Outside the lightning was almost continuous, spreading in eerie, luminous sheets across the clouds.

  Without a word, Patrick roughly shoved her aside and slammed the shutter.

  “Stay put,” he said.

  Patrick closed the other shutter, leaving the interior of the wagon dark and stuffy. The wagon jounced over cobblestones for a time and then, judging by the sounds of the horses’ hooves splashing through mud, the paved road ended. Miri was desperate to know where they were being taken, what was going to happen to them. She had promised Gythe she would keep quiet, but she found the strain unendurable. She couldn’t sit docilely in a corner, hurtling through the darkness into the unknown. She blurted out the words before she could stop herself.

  “Please, Patrick, tell us where you are taking us.”

  To her surprise, he responded, “To the Temple of the Xaviers in the capital city of Dunlow. If you do what Xavier asks, you will not be harmed.”

  Miri was relieved to learn something, although she had no idea who this Xavier was or why they were going to a temple. Since Patrick seemed in a mood to talk now that they were alone, she pressed on.

  “What does this Xavier want with us?”

  “He needs savants to stop the storms.”

  “And what happens to us if we don’t?” Miri asked.

  “Xavier’s brother, the Blood Mage, has been killing the savants who failed, sacrificing them in ritual magic to aid the drummers.”

  Miri sucked in her breath in dismay and reached out to clutch at Gythe in the darkness. Gythe clasped her hand in reassurance.

  “Trust me,” Gythe seemed to say silently, pressing Miri’s hand warmly. “Have faith in me.”

  “I want to, Gythe,” Miri whispered. “But it is hard!”

  * * *

  The journey in the wagon was much like the journey in the ship: dark and uncomfortable. The lashing rain stopped eventually, blowing itself out as if the storm had given up in sheer exhaustion. When Patrick opened the window to let in fresh air, Miri looked out to see a watery sun flit among the clouds. The sun’s weak light cast a pale, gray illumination on a bleak, barren wilderness and the low green mountains that rose in the distance. The wagon pulled off what passed for a road and rolled to a stop.

  Patrick told them they could leave the wagon, walk about for
a bit. Miri rose stiffly, grateful for the break. She stepped outside to see the driver and the guard keeping watch, scanning the road, their weapons at the ready.

  “What are they watching for?” Miri asked. “Wild beasts?”

  “An attack by the resistance, the Leanai Lasair,” Patrick answered. “Our wagon bears the emblem of Saint Xavier, their sworn enemy. For your own well-being, do not venture far.”

  He walked off. Miri kept a watchful eye on him. When he passed by Gythe, the two exchanged glances. He raised his eyebrow and kept moving, going to confer with the driver. Gythe folded her arms and gazed out at yet another storm. Clouds gathered, cutting off the tops of the mountains.

  Patrick and the guard and the driver were talking together, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings, fearing a rebel attack. The horses, splashed with mud up to their withers, waited patiently. The sun was slowly being swallowed by the clouds.

  A sudden, startling thought came to Miri. She didn’t know if the thought was a comfort or increased her fear. She had not been able to see the markings on the wagon in the gloom. Miri studied the crest—an “X” for Xavier entwined in a series of seven knots, green against red.

  Leanai Lasair. Trundler for “Children of Flame.”

  Miri made her way through the mud to her sister, who was looking out over the landscape slowly dissolving in the rain.

  “Patrick is a member of the resistance, isn’t he?” Miri said softly. “He is one of the Children of Flame. And so are you. That is why you are here.”

  Gythe looked up into the sky. Lightning flickered on the fringes of the storm clouds.

  “They want to bring back their sun,” Gythe said, speaking with her hands. “I can help.”

  Miri felt a flood of relief and then smiled ruefully at herself. They were still in danger, but at least she was no longer stumbling about blindly.

  Gythe turned her gaze to Miri, placed her hand on Miri’s lips. “You must keep our secret.”

  “I will,” Miri promised. “And I will help, if I can.”