The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  “Eiddwen tossed some sort of magical bomb that spooked the horses, the carriage tipped over, you went flying into the river and hit your head on a rock, cracked your skull,” Sir Henry said. “You must drink more of this foul stuff.”

  He poured the tincture into a cup and handed it to Mr. Sloan, who grimaced at the smell, but drank it down. He then lay back weakly on the pillows.

  Sir Henry’s eyes grew moist and his expression softened. He reached out to clasp Mr. Sloan’s hand.

  “You gave me a bad few moments, Franklin,” said Sir Henry gruffly. “I feared I had lost you.”

  Mr. Sloan gave a faint smile. “I am sorry to have been the cause of such distress, my lord.”

  He closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep. Sir Henry stood gazing at him for long moments, then he brought out his handkerchief, blew his nose and, turning his back, walked over to look out the window. Lightning flared in the distance.

  “Still several hours to dawn.” Sir Henry consulted his watch. “Mr. Sloan appears to be making a good recovery, wouldn’t you say so, Father?”

  Father Jacob looked up. He was aware of Sir Henry and of Mr. Sloan, aware of what was happening around him. But he was more aware of the drumming. Voices floated on the surface, like leaves on dark and turgid water.

  “What is the date?” Father Jacob asked.

  Sir Henry glanced over his shoulder, startled. “The thirtieth of Soles. Why do you ask?”

  “A day early,” Father Jacob muttered, talking to himself. “And yet … the drums are beating. The storm is brewing. Xavier is on the move. But why now? Something must have happened … Ah, of course!”

  Father Jacob slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair. “Captain de Guichen! He has reached Glasearrach!”

  “What are you babbling about, Father?” Sir Henry asked irritably. “Keep your voice down. You will wake Mr. Sloan.”

  “Xavier is not going to wait until Fulmea the first to attack,” said Father Jacob. “He is launching the invasion fleet today. The arrival of Captain de Guichen’s fortress has forced his hand.”

  Sir Henry regarded him with surprise. “How the devil do you know this?”

  “Because I hear the drums,” Father Jacob said. “I have heard them before, but I didn’t know what they were, not until Miri told me. These are Xavier’s drums, the drums that shattered the Crystal Market.”

  A streak of purple lightning lit the sky. Sir Henry saw it and shook his head.

  “A storm is coming. What you heard was the thunder, Father.”

  Father Jacob left his chair and went to the window.

  “That is no ordinary storm. That is a wizard storm. The waves of contramagic are causing a disruption in the Breath. We have to leave! Now! We have to have those griffins!”

  Sir Henry raised an eyebrow. “It is three in the morning! You are not seriously proposing we knock at the earl’s door at this ungodly hour.”

  “If I hear the drums, so does Eiddwen,” said Father Jacob grimly. “She has to act today to set off the final bomb. She needs the contramagic generated by the drumming. The contramagic from Below is the fire that will light the fuse.”

  “I wish to God I understood what you were talking about, Father.”

  Father Jacob shrugged. “You either trust me or you don’t, Sir Henry. If you don’t, then we have all gone to a great deal of trouble for nothing.”

  “I trust you,” said Sir Henry. “More’s the pity.”

  Father Jacob hurried off to wake Sir Ander, while Sir Henry gathered up their equipment and went to rouse the farmer and his wife. Sir Henry did not like having to leave Mr. Sloan, but the farmer’s wife assured him she would care for him as though he were a member of the family.

  “Keep your coin, sir,” she said, when Sir Henry offered her money. “I would do the same for the poorest tramp on the highway.”

  Sir Henry gave her his grateful thanks. Father Jacob noted that when she wasn’t looking, Sir Henry slipped the money beneath her flour canister.

  When the farmer had fetched the wagon, Sir Ander took a seat up front and Sir Henry and Father Jacob sat in the wagon’s bed. Before they could leave, the farmer’s wife came hurrying out of the house, holding out a basket of food.

  “You’ll need something in your bellies if you’re going to be chasing miscreants,” she said.

  Father Jacob took charge of the basket, the farmer clucked to the horses and the wagon rolled off. The sky was a strange sight: sheets of purple lightning spread across dark clouds boiling up from Below, while the sky above them was calm, bright with stars and a three-quarter moon. The worst of the storm was probably hundreds of miles away, out beyond Khendrun Island, deep in the Breath. But the wind was picking up, blowing out of the east.

  Sir Henry passed round their equipment, which Mr. Sloan had carried in a leather satchel. Each man had a dark lantern, known as a bull’s-eye, which could be worn around the neck. He had brought along two extra pistols and the two rifles, wrapped in oilcloth. He offered Sir Ander a knife, but Sir Ander shook his head. He was wearing his sword. Father Jacob refused to accept any weapons.

  Sir Henry smiled. “I hope God shoots straight.”

  “I have trusted in His aim thus far,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander watched with concern as Sir Henry thrust the pistols into his belt. “Remember what the contramagic does to magical pistols.”

  “Not much I can do about that now,” said Sir Henry wryly.

  Sir Ander reached into his coat and drew out a pistol. “Take one of these. It works without magic. I had them specially made.”

  “Works without magic?” Sir Henry regarded the pistol with interest and some skepticism. “How?”

  Sir Ander smiled. “That’s my secret. And I’ll be asking for that pistol’s return when this is finished.”

  Father Jacob opened the basket to find oat cakes, grapes, and cheese wrapped in a cloth. He doled out the rations, sharing them with the farmer. The road ran through fields of wheat that rippled in the strengthening breeze. Father Jacob looked back to see the shadowy figure of the woman watching them, her arm around her little daughter.

  “If we fail, that mother and her family will be dead before nightfall,” Sir Henry remarked gravely. “Along with thousands of other women and children.”

  He sat hunched over, gazing at the flaring lightning. His expression grew grim, his face drawn, haggard. He tossed his bread aside, uneaten.

  “Are they somewhere safe?” Father Jacob asked.

  Sir Henry looked at him, startled.

  “Your wife and child,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Henry gazed out over the fields of wheat to the storm clouds and the flaring purple lightning.

  “They are safe for the moment. But if these fiends win, there will be no safe place anywhere.”

  Father Jacob sighed. He very much feared Sir Henry was right.

  * * *

  They arrived at the magnificent residence of Lord John Benedict, Earl of Brooking, long before any of the noble family or the servants were awake. Even in the darkness they could see the storm clouds were drawing nearer, creeping slowly inland. The wind carried the scent of rain.

  Sir Henry pulled the bell rope and banged loudly on the door. After several long moments, a bleary-eyed footman in his nightcap, carrying a lamp in one hand, opened the door and peered out. He stared at Sir Henry, too amazed to speak.

  “Is Captain Northrop a guest in this house?” Sir Henry demanded.

  “Yes, s-s-sir,” said the footman, stuttering.

  “I am Sir Henry Wallace,” said Sir Henry, handing the stupefied footman his card. “This is Reverend Northrop and Sir Ander Martel. We are friends of Captain Northrop’s. We must speak to the earl.”

  Shouldering past the footman, Sir Henry barged into the house with Father Jacob and Sir Ander following close behind.

  They entered a large foyer. The light of the footman’s lamp shone on marble floors adorned with the earl’s crest, a
griffin rampant over a blue-green river. The fragrance of fresh-cut flowers filled the room. At the far end, they could make out the gleaming wood railing of a spiral staircase.

  By this time, the butler had arrived, bristling with indignation.

  “Who are these gentlemen, Charles?” he said, addressing the footman.

  “He’s Sir Henry Wallace, Mr. Smyth,” said the footman in a loud whisper.

  At the mention of Sir Henry’s name, Mr. Smyth regarded him with a frozen look of disdain.

  “I must ask you to leave, Sir Henry. The earl is not in the habit of receiving guests at three of the clock—”

  “He’ll damn well receive me,” said Sir Henry shortly.

  Strolling over to the foot of the spiral staircase, he shouted Alan’s name in ringing tones, the sound reverberating through the house. The horrified butler protested volubly. Sir Henry responded by shouting again, this time even more loudly. They could hear doors opening and the people asking in sleepy, irritated voices what was going on.

  Alan appeared on a landing three floors above them. He must have been accustomed to such emergencies, for he was already dressed. He ran down the stairs, buttoning his jacket as he came.

  “Henry, what the devil are you doing here at this hour? Did something happen to Mr. Sloan? He’s not dead—”

  “No, no. He is recovering,” said Sir Henry.

  “Good news,” said Alan. He glanced at the angry butler and shook his head. “You should not have come, Henry. The earl doesn’t like you. He very nearly tossed me out on my ear when he found out you were with me. Only the lateness of the hour and the pleas of his very charming wife and daughters induced him to let me stay the night. Why are you here?”

  “We have reason to believe that Eiddwen will act today, not tomorrow,” said Sir Henry.

  “Today!” Alan stared at him. “How do you know that?”

  “I hear the drums beating,” Father Jacob said. “Captain de Guichen’s arrival has caused Xavier to advance his plans.”

  Alan gaped at him in astonishment, then rounded on Henry. “You woke the household because my brother hears beating drums? I swear to God, Henry, I think Jacob has put you under some sort of spell—”

  “You are a crafter, Alan,” said Father Jacob. “Listen. You can hear the drumming.”

  Alan turned away in disgust, only to stop. His body stiffened. He looked back at his brother in shock.

  “We need the griffins,” said Sir Henry urgently. “Did you present our case to the earl?”

  “I’m afraid it’s hopeless,” said Alan. “The beasts are not for sale at any price and the earl won’t even consider lending them, especially to you. When I mentioned your name, he called you, among other things, a ‘bounder’ and a ‘rogue.’”

  “Astute judge of character,” Sir Ander whispered in Father Jacob’s ear.

  Father Jacob frowned and shook his head. “This is not good. We need those griffins.”

  Sir Ander glanced up the stairs. “You can talk with the man yourself. Unless I am much mistaken, that must be the earl.”

  A man wearing a dressing gown descended the stairs, quivering with outraged dignity. Lord John Benedict was tall and well built, in his late forties, with dark hair. He was stern-faced, his cheeks flushed with anger. He had his right hand in his pocket.

  “Wallace, you reprobate!” the earl said, glowering. “What do you mean by invading my house? Get out at once. All of you!”

  “Watch him, Henry. He has a pistol,” Alan warned. “He isn’t afraid to use it.”

  “Damn right, I’m not afraid!” the earl said angrily. “I would consider shooting you, Wallace, to be a service to my country.”

  Sir Henry was losing patience. “We are on opposite sides when it comes to politics, Sir John, but we are both loyal subjects of Her Majesty. We are in pursuit of dangerous criminals. One of our wyverns went lame and we are in urgent need of transportation. We would like to borrow your griffins. I can pay you whatever you want—”

  “You could offer me the crown jewels and the answer is no,” said the earl. “I want you and your friends out of my house and off my land this instant.”

  “My lord, our need is very great—” Alan began.

  The earl cast him a scathing glance. “I am sorry to find you keep such low company, Captain Northrop. I once thought you a hero. You have dropped considerably in my estimation.”

  “I could commandeer the griffins in the queen’s name, my lord,” said Sir Henry.

  “You could try,” the earl snarled.

  He took the pistol from his pocket of his dressing gown and aimed it at Sir Henry; in response, Sir Ander and Alan both drew their pistols and aimed them at the earl. Father Jacob thrust himself between the antagonists.

  “Gentlemen, this is madness! Every second that passes brings us closer to disaster!” Father Jacob said urgently. “There is no time for a lengthy explanation, Sir John. Suffice it to say that the fate of Freya hangs in the balance—”

  The front door burst open. A man rushed inside with such haste, he nearly knocked over the butler. He ran straight to the earl, ignoring the drawn pistols or perhaps so agitated he didn’t even notice. He had a bloody gash on his head and he staggered where he stood, almost falling to his knees.

  “Sir John, we’ve been robbed!”

  “Robbed?” The earl stared at him. “Jenkins, pull yourself together. What do you mean, robbed?”

  Jenkins was trying to catch his breath and talk at the same time, his words coming in gasps. His face was pale beneath his tan, beaded with sweat mingling with the blood.

  “I flew here on griffin back, as fast as I could. Two of the griffins were stolen in the night!”

  The earl went a ghastly white, the flush of anger draining from his face. “Stolen … How?”

  “The thieves killed Richard and I think they took young Ralph, the groom with them. They clouted me over the head. When I came to myself, I found Richard murdered, his throat slashed, and blood everywhere.”

  Jenkins shuddered and his voice cracked. “A horrible sight, my lord. And Ralph’s gone missing, along with two of the griffins.”

  The earl was bewildered. “But … but … how could someone steal a griffin? The beast would fight, tear a thief apart!”

  “Blood magic,” said Father Jacob.

  The earl stared, baffled.

  “I believe your griffins were stolen by the very criminals we are tracking, my lord,” Father Jacob explained. “The woman is a sorcerer. She murdered the groom, then used his blood to cast a magical spell on the griffins, inducing them to obey her. She would cast her spell on either a fresh deer haunch she brought with her or perhaps even parts of the unfortunate man’s body and then feed that to—”

  “We understand, Father,” said Sir Ander hurriedly, seeing Jenkins on the verge of collapse. “No need to go into detail.”

  “But why would Eiddwen need to steal griffins?” Alan asked. “She has her carriage—”

  “Because Xavier’s sudden move took her by surprise,” Father Jacob said excitedly. “Think about it. After she set the bombs, Eiddwen would need a way to escape Freya before the bombs exploded. She probably planned to depart on one of the black ships. But Xavier upset her plans by launching his attack early. Like me, she can hear the drumming. Perhaps she can even feel the waves of contramagic. She knows she has to act now, but she has no way to contact the black ship, no way to escape this doomed continent. Thus she has to steal griffins.”

  “That makes sense,” Sir Henry conceded.

  “Not to me! What the devil are you talking about?” the earl demanded. “Someone called Eiddwen…” He paused, then said, frowning, “I know that name. She was companion to Lord Brobeaton’s mother. Damn fine-looking woman. She was here, in my house. I took her to see the griffins.”

  “Which is how she knew where to find them,” said Sir Henry.

  “I don’t believe it!” the earl said stoutly. “That handsome woman, stealing grif
fins and murdering people. Bosh!”

  “That handsome woman is responsible for countless murders, Sir John. I have reason to know,” said Father Jacob somberly. “These gentlemen and I have chased her across two continents. She is planning a devastating attack on Freya.”

  The earl snorted. “Tomfoolery! A woman attack Freya? Bosh! I don’t believe it.”

  “And yet your griffins are gone, my lord,” Sir Henry pointed out impatiently. “A groom has been abducted and another murdered.”

  The earl grumbled, eyeing Sir Henry distastefully. Then he asked in a gruff tone of voice, “Can you save my griffins, Wallace?”

  “I believe we can, my lord,” said Sir Henry. “But we will need griffins of our own to pursue the criminals.”

  “I suppose I have no choice,” said the earl ungraciously. “Jenkins, escort these men to the eyries.”

  He added, as they were starting to leave, “Save my griffins, Wallace, and I might change my opinion of you.”

  “How very kind of you, my lord,” said Sir Henry, his lip curling.

  Once they were on the porch and out of earshot, Alan declared, “Damn son of a bitch! I wish I had shot him! Never mind stopping Eiddwen from blowing us up or rescuing that poor devil of a groom. Just save his goddamn griffins.”

  “At least we got what we came for,” said Sir Henry. He clapped his hand on Alan’s shoulder. “I feared for a moment your notorious luck had failed us.”

  “Not so lucky for the grooms, poor devils,” Alan said, shaking his head.

  Jenkins hurried out to join them. “I’m going to fly on ahead, gentlemen, warn the griffins you’re coming. They are in such a state they are likely to attack strangers.”

  Jenkins mounted his griffin. The beast was clearly upset, gnashing its beak, tail lashing. The lion paws had gouged a large hole in the gravel drive.

  “You’ll find the eyries about half a mile to the north in that stand of oaks. You can see some of the griffins now. Go across the lawn and around the lake. On the other side is a path that will take you straight there.”

  Jenkins flew off, heading for the grove of trees.