The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  If Miri had succeeded in reaching Stephano, he should arrive in time to stop the fleet. Brother Barnaby and the rebels were planning to help her and Gythe and Sophia escape at that time.

  “What is wrong?” Sophia murmured; she, too, was now sitting up.

  “Perhaps nothing, Your Highness,” said Cecile. “Go back to sleep—”

  The drumming started, shattering, loud and insistent, pounding with anger, thundering defiance. The sound thudded inside Cecile, set her teeth on edge. Gythe paled, and Sophia screamed once, as though she had been struck a physical blow. She clutched her head and moaned, and Bandit, also awake now, barked and howled his protest.

  Gythe put her arms around Sophia to comfort her. Cecile ran to the cell door and began to bang on it.

  “Send for Brother Barnaby!” she pleaded. “The princess has fallen ill!”

  The key rattled in the lock. Startled, Cecile sprang back. The door opened, and Xavier walked in.

  He was wearing a cloak with the hood drawn up against the rain and he carried a lantern. He sent the light flashing around the cell and paused when the light found Sophia, huddled in Gythe’s arms. He gazed at the two a moment, then shifted the light to shine in Cecile’s face.

  “The girl is ill,” he said.

  “Yes, Naomh,” Cecile replied, recovering herself. She lifted her hand to block the bright light. “The drumming affects her. It is strangely loud tonight.”

  “The drums will be loud,” Xavier said, his voice grating. “Our enemies will hear the drums in every city and village and hamlet. They will hear us and shudder for they will hear our wrath.”

  He glanced around, shifting the light impatiently. “Where are you, monk?”

  “I am here, Naomh,” said Brother Barnaby.

  Cecile had not seen him in the darkness. He gazed steadily at her, his dark eyes shining in the light. He lowered his eyelids, hooding his eyes, warning her of trouble.

  “Go do whatever you do to help the young woman,” said Xavier. “In a few hours, it will be dawn,” he continued. “The girl must be well by then, for she and the other savant will stop the wizard storms. They will stop them so that my fleet can launch,” he added, his voice hardening.

  “The girls are not ready,” Cecile protested. “You said the invasion was scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “Our foe has come to Glasearrach,” Xavier said. He was burning cold, like wet fingers touching ice. “Bat riders reported seeing a fortress sail down from above, manned by an army.”

  Cecile struggled to keep her composure. Joy and hope surged, even as fear constricted her throat. Joy that Stephano’s plan had succeeded, hope that they would be rescued, and suffocating fear.

  “My people are fighting back, Naomh,” she said. “This cannot come as a surprise to you.”

  “Nor to you, Countess,” Xavier said softly.

  He lowered the lantern, as if he had wearied of holding it, and set it on the floor between them. The room grew very quiet. Bandit stopped barking and Sophia quit sobbing. Even the sound of the drumming faded away.

  “I suppose I have only myself to blame,” Xavier remarked. Folding his arms across his chest, he gazed thoughtfully into the light of the lantern. “I should have never tried this experiment with the savants or permitted the capture of prisoners. I should have foreseen that I was providing a means for your people to infiltrate our world. But what else could I do? I had to find a way to stop the storms.”

  He lapsed into silence, his head bowed. Cecile pitied him. Xavier was a weak man, like King Alaric, vacillating, lacking purpose of his own. He hated because he had been told it was his duty to hate. He had committed his life to seeking a revenge he had never wanted. His tragedy was that, unlike Alaric, Xavier was a good man grieving over the terrible deeds being done in his name, yet lacking the strength to put a stop to them.

  He raised his eyes and looked at Cecile. Perhaps he saw the pity in her eyes, for he frowned, seemed to plead for her understanding.

  “When I was young, Countess, I believed I could help my people to a better life. I was hopeful, full of plans. But I am Xavier. The hands of all the Xaviers before me reached out of the pit, seized hold of me, and dragged me down.”

  “It’s only a name,” said Cecile.

  He glowered in sudden anger, and glanced around the cell. “The red-haired Trundler woman. She was not abducted by rebels. The rebels helped her escape. Do not try to deny it. My brother suspected as much. He captured one of the rebels and made him confess. The Trundler woman sailed through the Breath, then led this army down here. You women arranged her escape between you.”

  “The idea was mine,” Cecile said swiftly. “Gythe and Sophia knew nothing. You should not blame them.”

  The lantern light held only the two of them. His world had contracted around him until all that was left was this circle of light surrounded by darkness. He eyed her, seeming now more puzzled than angry.

  “What can your people hope to do against my fleet? The fort has landed far from the docks. My ships are not within range of the cannons. This strategy does not make sense. Yet your people are not fools.”

  The image of a dragon loomed so large in Cecile’s mind that she was half afraid he would see it.

  “Lead your people to that better life, Naomh,” she said. “End this war.”

  “They won’t let me.” Xavier wasn’t talking about his people. He looked into the darkness that, for him, was crowded with ghosts; all the Xaviers, stretching back generations, pushing him toward his fate. His smile was bitter. “There is a reason I dressed my soldiers to look like fiends from Hell.”

  He picked up the lantern. The circle of light wobbled wildly and flashed around the cell until it fell on Gythe and Brother Barnaby and finally Sophia, who was holding Bandit with her hand over his muzzle. Xavier stared at them and then, shifting the light, he walked over to the prison door and indicated to the guards he was ready to come out.

  “I will launch the fleet ahead of schedule, as soon as it is light. Whatever this fort’s commander has planned, I will steal a march on him. Bring the two girls to the square at dawn. The countess will remain in prison, serve as hostage for their cooperation.”

  “I stay with Her Highness,” Cecile said, her voice grating.

  “You are my prisoner!” Xavier shouted, rounding on her. “The only reason I have not ordered your execution is because I need these two to stop the storms!”

  He paused, regaining control. “If the girls fail this time, my brother will use them in his blood magic ritual. I will not be able to stop him.”

  He slammed out the door, taking the lantern with him. She was aware, once more, of the relentless beating of the drums.

  Cecile sighed. What was done was done. Stephano was here on Glasearrach. She allowed herself to smile, in a moment of maternal joy and pride. Then, accustomed to keeping her feelings hidden, she wrapped up that joy and locked it away.

  “Xavier is launching the invasion fleet early, hoping to catch Stephano unprepared. You two have to stop the storms.” Cecile spoke to the young women in matter-of-fact tones. “You have to appear to be cooperating with Xavier, though in reality you will be clearing the skies for Stephano and his forces.”

  She turned to Brother Barnaby. “You must take word to the resistance that the plans have changed. They have to be ready to rescue Sophia and Gythe this morning, after they have calmed the storms.”

  “But what about you, Countess?” Sophia asked anxiously. “They have to rescue you, as well.”

  “Of course. They will have to do that, my dear,” said Cecile, smiling. “You must not worry about me.”

  The drumming continued, so loudly that the walls of the building seemed to pulse to the beat. Cecile could see the pain on Sophia’s face, in her trembling lips, in the lines on her forehead. She still suffered, but she made a valiant attempt to smile.

  Cecile fixed her gaze on Brother Barnaby, letting him know silently that her own fate was not as impor
tant as those of Sophia and Gythe.

  “I understand, my lady,” he said gravely.

  Sophia picked up Bandit, hugged him close, kissed him on his head, and then held him out to Brother Barnaby. “Take Bandit, please, Brother. Take him somewhere safe.”

  Bandit guessed what was happening and struggled to return to his mistress. Brother Barnaby spoke soothingly to him and Sophia promised him cakes on her return. Eventually Bandit calmed down and even tucked his nose into the monk’s arm. Cecile accompanied Brother Barnaby to the cell door.

  “I will find a way to free you, my lady,” said Brother Barnaby.

  “You and your friends must concentrate your efforts on saving Sophia and Gythe,” Cecile said, adding with a shrug, “I am accustomed to fending for myself.”

  “You are not alone, my lady,” said Brother Barnaby. “God is with you.”

  Cecile made no reply. The monk was a simple soul. He would be sad to learn that she had dismissed God long ago, as she would have dismissed an inept servant.

  * * *

  The drumming in the temple boomed and thundered, rivaling the sounds of the storms. Sometimes the drumming would stop, and the silence was dreadful, almost worse than the drumming. Brother Barnaby had told them the silence after the drumming was when they held the blood magic rites and sacrificed the victims.

  No one could go back to sleep. To take their minds off their fear, Cecile talked cheerfully of what they would do when they were back home.

  “I will take you to visit my château in the beautiful countryside of Marjolaine,” she said.

  She described the gardens and the fountains, the bedrooms, twelve turrets, and four hundred lead-paned windows.

  “The countess takes me every year, when my father goes for hunting season. I have my own room in one of the turrets,” said Sophia. “I can see ever so far, all the way to the mountains. The windows are tiny squares of glass that sparkle like diamonds in the sunlight. Bandit loves to visit. He barks at the swans…”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “I miss him.”

  “He will be fine,” Gythe signed. “We will introduce him to Doctor Ellington.”

  She gave herself whiskers and made her hands into cat claws. Sophia laughed. She had started translating for Gythe now that Miri was gone. Sophia began telling Gythe about the time Bandit had chased the Duchess of Waverly’s cat. Cecile had been waiting for dawn. Watching the darkness fade to dismal gray, she was not surprised to hear voices outside their cell, the strident tones of the Blood Mage.

  “It is time,” Sophia said, turning quite pale. She flung her arms around Cecile. “I don’t want to leave you here alone!”

  “Hush, my dear, I will be fine. You are not to worry about me,” Cecile said, smiling.

  “You and Bandit and my father and I will go to Marjolaine together, won’t we,” said Sophia, clinging to her. “As soon as we get back.”

  “As soon as you want, my dear,” said Cecile.

  She looked at Gythe, whose eyes were shimmering in the lantern light.

  “Take care of her!” Cecile said softly.

  Gythe nodded, biting her lip.

  The door opened to reveal the Blood Mage standing in the doorway. He was dressed in his crimson robes, and though he had washed his hands the odor of blood clung to him.

  “I am here for the savants,” he said. His lip curled slightly.

  Cecile hugged Sophia close. Reaching out to Gythe, she drew her into the embrace.

  “Give Stephano my love and a mother’s blessing,” said Cecile. “And a mother’s blessing to both of you, my dear ones.”

  “Make haste, you two!” the Blood Mage said impatiently. “Our saint wants you in the square by dawn!”

  “You must go,” said Cecile.

  Sophia clung to her, but Cecile gently freed herself. Gythe pulled Sophia away, and the Blood Mage stood aside to let them pass, the two young women holding fast to each other. When they reached the door, Sophia looked over her shoulder at Cecile. The countess smiled and pressed her fingers to her lips.

  The cell door shut behind them.

  Almost immediately, a flash of lightning lit the cell, followed by a low, roaring boom.

  Cecile sank to her knees and gripped the small gold ring. She remembered another prison cell, long ago. A last kiss, a final embrace.

  “Julian, watch over those I love,” Cecile said softly. “Guard and protect them, since I cannot. Be with our son. Be with me, my love. Give me strength.”

  She held the ring and conjured up his face, so like Stephano’s. She felt Julian’s presence, even seemed to feel the touch of his hand brush against her cheek.

  He was so close that when the voice spoke, she thought it was his.

  “My lady,” the voice whispered.

  Cecile looked up and gasped. “Brother Barnaby!”

  He reached down, helped her to her feet.

  “How did you get in?” she asked. “What about the guards?”

  “They are napping,” said Brother Barnaby.

  He held out a hooded cloak. Cecile stared at him, incredulous, then seized the cloak and hurriedly put it around her shoulders. Her hands were shaking so she had difficulty with the clasps.

  “Gythe and Sophia,” she said urgently.

  “I will take you to them, my lady,” said Brother Barnaby. He reached into his pouch and drew out a gun. “Mistress Miri sent you this.”

  Cecile recognized Stephano’s prized dragon pistol. She thrust the pistol into the waistband of her skirt and made certain the folds of her cloak covered it, then she and Brother Barnaby hurried out of the cell.

  The guards lay on the floor, slumbering peacefully to judge by their snoring. Brother Barnaby closed the cell door behind them, locked it, keeping the key. Once outside, he tossed the key over the wall surrounding the enclave. They heard it land with a plop in a puddle.

  “The only key to the cell. It will be some time before they find you missing,” he remarked.

  The rain fell in torrents. Purple lightning flared and the thunder shook the heavens. Dragons could not fly through this. Sophia and Gythe would have to stop the storm, as the saints had done so long ago.

  “I am sorry I had to interrupt you when you were praying, my lady,” said Brother Barnaby.

  “You did not interrupt my prayers, Brother,” said Cecile. “You came in answer to them.”

  33

  God must have important work for Father Jacob to do, otherwise I do not know how He puts up with him.

  —Sir Ander, letter to Cecile, Countess de Marjolaine

  The hour was long past midnight. Father Jacob and Sir Henry had reached the farmer’s house late in the afternoon, and the farmer and Sir Henry had carried the unconscious Mr. Sloan from the wagon into the farmer’s house. Alan had arrived with the Trundler healer, and under her ministrations, Mr. Sloan had briefly regained consciousness. He was disoriented and in considerable pain. He did not recognize Henry, though he did remember his own name, which the healer said was a good sign.

  She dosed the patient with a tincture made of skullcap, oats, St. John’s wort, and hot pepper, saying this would ease his pain and help the blood flow to his brain. She left them with orders to wake the patient every three hours, promising she would return in the morning.

  Father Jacob had been keeping watch by Mr. Sloan’s bedside. He must have fallen asleep in his chair, for he woke with a start, awakened by a strange sound. He waited to hear the sound again, hoping to identify it, but the house was quiet. He checked on his patient. Mr. Sloan slept peacefully.

  Father Jacob wondered about the sound. He was certain he had not dreamed it. He left the bedchamber, treading softly so as not to disturb Mr. Sloan, and stood in the hallway of the farmhouse, listening. He peeped in on Sir Ander, who was comfortably ensconced in a blanket in a chair by the kitchen fire, his legs stretched out, his feet on the hearth. He was deeply asleep.

  Alan Northrop was not here. He had ridden to the estate of the Earl of Br
ooking in quest of griffins. The farmer and his wife, son, and little daughter were all in bed. The house was quiet.

  Father Jacob shook his head and returned to his chair. Unable to fall asleep, he gazed down at Sir Henry Wallace lying on a straw mattress on the floor, and mused on the dichotomies of human nature.

  Sir Henry Wallace was the most powerful, dangerous, and feared man in Freya, maybe in the world. He had killed men by his own hand or issued orders that sent men to their deaths. Father Jacob marveled to see the cold, calculating, ruthless man meekly obeying the instructions of a humble Trundler healer, tending to Mr. Sloan’s needs with gentle care and refusing to leave his side. When Father Jacob had prayed for God to keep Mr. Sloan in His care, Sir Henry stood with bowed head.

  How does one judge such a man? Father Jacob wondered. He was thankful he didn’t have to.

  Mr. Sloan stirred in his sleep. He was breathing easier and some color had returned to his face. Father Jacob reached out to take the man’s pulse, but he stopped, his hand in midair. He heard the sound again, not so much with his ears as with his being. The drumming thrummed in his blood. His heart echoed it, mirrored it. He could feel it thumping in his head, shaking him to the core of his being.

  “Father, what is it? Is something wrong?” Sir Henry jumped from the mattress and sprang to the side of the bed, gazing anxiously at Mr. Sloan.

  Father Jacob didn’t answer. He sank back down in his chair.

  Sir Henry placed his hand on Mr. Sloan’s shoulder and gently shook him.

  “Mr. Sloan, Franklin. Wake up!”

  Mr. Sloan’s eyes fluttered open, he groaned and fully opened his eyes. He gazed at Sir Henry and blinked in confusion.

  “My lord?… What is … what is going on? Where am I?”

  “You recognize me, Mr. Sloan!” Sir Henry exclaimed, delighted.

  “Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord.” Mr. Sloan’s brow creased in puzzlement as he gazed in confusion at his surroundings. “Where am I, my lord? What happened?”

  “What do you remember?”

  Mr. Sloan frowned. “I seem to recall driving a carriage. We were chasing after Mistress Eiddwen, going down a hill. I fear that is all I can recollect, my lord.”