The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  “Aye, I think so,” Dormael replied, looking out over the wall and barely seeing the waves crashing into the cliff below them. “It will be a blind jump, though. I can't see a gods-damned thing in this rain.”

  “Hike up your underskirts, coz, risk is part of the job,” D’Jenn said, echoing Dormael’s words from earlier in the day. Dormael shrugged and shook his head.

  “True enough,” he replied.

  “I think the park is that way,” D’Jenn said, pointing ahead and to the right of them. “If we combine our power, I think we can float the girl between us.”

  “Alright, let’s get on with it, then. But if I land in the sea, I'll remind you every day of how it was your fault,” Dormael said.

  “Doubtless,” D'Jenn muttered.

  Dormael reached down and took one of Bethany's hands. The girl looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes, and he tried to put her at ease by giving her an encouraging nod. He felt ridiculous, but he had no idea how to act around children.

  “You may want to close your eyes, little one,” he said. “Close your eyes and hold on tight.”

  She nodded.

  “We go on three,” D'Jenn said. “One...two...three!”

  In unison, all three of them pushed off the parapet, sailing out into the dark night below them. Dormael felt D’Jenn’s spell take hold only a split second before his own, and the escapees began to float through the darkness as the rain hammered down upon them. Dormael held his breath as his stomach climbed into his chest.

  Bethany’s hand tightened upon his, and a quick glance showed the girl staring straight into the dark ahead of them. Shaken and scared though she must be, she was staring this fearful drop right in the teeth. A grim sort of satisfaction grew inside of Dormael at the sight, and he suddenly felt like hugging the tiny girl. Her bravery was endearing, considering the sort of terror she had probably escaped.

  Slowly, as if it was materializing from the rainy night itself, the park came into view. They had made the distance they needed with some to spare, and Dormael felt relieved that he wouldn't have to swim. Coming down between two large trees, the wizards and the escaped girl made a safe, soggy landing in the grass.

  Safe on the ground once again, Dormael let his magic sleep and turned to look up at the castle hundreds of links above them. He half expected a cry to sound through the night, but none came. The only noise was the chorus of whispering rain.

  He made to let go of Bethany's hand, but she held fast. Dormael was unsure of how to react, so he just allowed the little girl to hold on. Her tunic was beginning to soak through, and her hair was plastered to her head. Dormael reached down and, somewhat awkwardly, moved errant strands of soggy hair out of her face. D'Jenn raised an eyebrow at Dormael, but Dormael ignored him. Snickering through his nose, D'Jenn bent to speak to the youngling.

  “My name is D’Jenn, and this is Dormael,” he said, crouching down to her level. “We're pleased to meet you, Bethany.” The girl only nodded back and held onto their hands. She was no longer sobbing, but Dormael could tell that she was afraid of being left alone out in the cold.

  “Listen, young one,” Dormael said in as soothing a tone as he could, “we’re going to take you home to a friend of ours. Then we’ll get you in some warm clothes and you can have something to eat. Does that sound good?” Bethany nodded, tears welling up in her eyes again and the ghost of a smile trying to break onto her face. “Well then, let’s get going. We still have to stay quiet, though, alright?”

  The girl nodded her assent, and let the cousins lead her into the rain-drenched city.

  Ferolan was quiet, the rain keeping most people off the streets. They walked through dark alleyways, where tiny waterfalls poured from rooftops onto the street below. They sneaked across streets where the only light was from ruddy pools on the ground cast from the windows of busy inns. They jogged along the back streets of the Merchant’s District, headed straight for the rear entrance to Alton’s manor. The entire time Dormael felt as if someone would raise an alarm, but no one who had braved the storm paid them any mind. They made it to Alton's in short order, and without incident.

  Somewhere near the South Gate, Colonel Grant was probably being told by a nervous City Guardsman that he and Shawna had ridden in near midnight around a week ago, and headed into the city. He was probably giving the colonel a description of what Dormael looked like—long, braided goatee and all. Dormael wished he had hidden Shawna better on the way in, but there was no use fretting about it now. The truth was evident—they had to get out, and they had to do it soon.

  Coming to the rear gate of the Dersham manor's grounds, D’Jenn waved his hand at the bolted gate, which unlocked itself under his power. Looking around to make sure that they weren’t being seen, the wizards ushered Bethany through the gate, and closed it behind them. They hurried across the grounds to the back entrance and opened the door, slipping out of the rain with a collective sigh of relief.

  Lyssa—who appeared to have been passing by—saw them and rushed over to speak. She got almost all the way to Dormael when she spotted Bethany hiding behind him, no taller than his waist. Lyssa's eyes widened at the sight of her, beaten and wearing an overlarge tunic that was dripping onto the floor.

  “Oh, my dear!” she gasped. “What is your name?”

  Bethany looked up at Dormael. He nodded and gestured for her to speak.

  “Bethany,” she said in a small voice. The girl made to cower behind Dormael, but he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She paused at his touch, but did not duck from beneath it.

  “Oh, you’re soaked, you poor thing. Where did you come from?” Lyssa asked, bending down to get on Bethany's level.

  Bethany only shrugged in reply and tried to slink back behind Dormael. He squeezed her shoulder again and smiled at Lyssa. She held out her hands to the girl, and after another encouraging look from Dormael, Bethany took one of them.

  “Why don't you come with me? We'll get some warm food in you, and then perhaps a bath. Does that sound nice?” Lyssa asked.

  Bethany nodded.

  “Well, then. I think I've just the thing. The cooks made a roast this evening, and I think there's still some in the pot. How would you like to get dried off and have a big plate of that?” Lyssa smiled at Bethany, but the little one still looked reluctant. She glanced once again to Dormael, and Dormael shot her a wink.

  “Lyssa is a friend, little one. She'll take good care of you, I promise,” he said.

  “I think you'd better hurry and get to that roast before I eat the last of it,” D'Jenn smiled. “I'm famished, myself.”

  “Seconded,” Dormael nodded. He looked down at Bethany. “Shall we go eat, little princess?”

  A timid smile cracked the girl's lips—tiny, but there, nonetheless. Dormael felt a twinge of some unnamed feeling in his chest as it slid onto the girl's features, and he reached out and tousled her wet hair. She didn't shy from him, and he smiled even wider.

  Just then, Nan came bustling down the stairs.

  “Dormael, you and your cousin need to get upstairs now,” Nan said in a tone that brooked no arguments. There was something magical about an old woman's commands all on their own, and he found himself snapping to attention as if Nan was his own grandmother.

  “Ah...now, Nan? We're a little wet, a little hungry. Can't we change first?” he asked.

  “It's Lady Shawna,” Nan said. “She's awake!”

  No Use for Crying

  Shawna pushed herself from the wet grass, grunting with the effort. A bright welt was forming across the back of her right hand, angry and hurting in time with her heartbeat. She looked to the side—to where she had dropped the practice sword—and reached out to pick it up for the fifth time.

  “Is it necessary to be so gods-damned rough with her?” her father asked. Shawna turned her eyes to where he stood, bearded and glowering at the shorter, darker man who currently towered over her with a wooden sword of his own. “You're not training her for the battl
efield.”

  Shawna bristled at the comment, but she was too winded to protest.

  “I am training her to dance the blades, Baron Llewan. I will train her to my standard, or you may find another Master to see to her education. Perhaps knitting would be more to her liking?”

  “No,” Shawna managed to get out. She picked up the sword and rose on unsteady feet. “I can do this.”

  Master Severin eyed her with implacable gray eyes, a flat, sun-browned expression on his face.

  “It has not yet earned the right to speak as a person.” He lashed out faster than she could react, and smacked the practice sword from her hands with a contemptuous gesture. She stumbled back, but he lashed out a second time and landed a stinging blow along her right side, causing her to double over in pain. “Until it can keep from squealing like a beaten dog, it will not be treated as a person.”

  “Gods, man!” Shawna's father exclaimed.

  “Father...please,” Shawna gasped around the pain in her side.

  Master Severin eyed her for a moment, taking in her pitiful form.

  “It appears the girl wishes to continue.” He turned to her father. “Baron, if you have summoned me here on the basis of vanity, you are quite mistaken. I do not train pretty boys to wield pretty swords. I train Blademasters. It is a tradition generations old, and it will not be watered down for the likes of anyone, much less a country girl who wishes to play with her brother's things.”

  He came forward in a flash, wooden sword arcing down for a killing blow, but Shawna's frustration finally won out over her pain. She threw herself to the side—more awkwardly than she wanted to admit—and picked up her practice sword. She held it in shaking hands and took a low guard, watching the small Kerallian Master closely.

  “It has some fight in it after all,” Severin smiled. “This is your first lesson, girl. I am not your father's Master-at-arms. This will not be a pleasant experience for you.” He rushed forward, sword raised, and Shawna made to meet his blade with a parry. Severin, however, kicked her full in the stomach instead, sending her sprawling into the grass once again. She groaned in pain and tried to suck in a breath, but the kick had knocked the air right out of her.

  “Shawna,” her father said, “come on. We'll go inside and get you something to eat. I'll send this bastard away.”

  “No!” she grunted. She rolled over to her side, wincing as every muscle in her abdomen clenched in pain, and reached once again for her sword. “I...I won't give up.” She fought back to her feet and faced the slight sword master, raising her wooden blade to a low guard.

  Shawna's father regarded her with displeasure, but finally relented with a scowl.

  “Very well.” His eyes went to Severin, who stood with his practice sword behind his back. “Train her as you wish. But don't cripple her, or mar her face. She still has to marry some poor bastard someday.” He shot her one last guarded look, and stomped back toward the manor.

  Severin watched him go, silent as a monolith, and then turned back to Shawna. He was a short man, but wiry and strong, and only a fool would discount the danger he represented—as Shawna was discovering over and over again. He regarded her with a piercing, gray-eyed stare. Shawna felt more than a little ridiculous under that gaze.

  Finally, he nodded.

  “So. The pretty girl wants to be a Blademaster, does she?”

  “She does,” Shawna growled, growing more than a little tired of the way everyone was speaking over her.

  “She thinks she knows what this means,” his tone made it a statement more than a question.

  “Whatever it means,” she sighed.

  He regarded her for another long moment, his weathered face as still as a winter pond.

  “Very well. I will train you.”

  Her eyes perked up.

  “You will?”

  “Yes. This is your last chance to back out. Leave now, girl—you will not enjoy this, that I promise you.” His eyes sparkled, but she couldn't read anything in them.

  “I'm not going to quit!” she growled.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “We shall see. The first thing you're going to do is run.”

  “Run?” she echoed.

  “Yes. You will run thirty laps around your father's stables, or until you collapse. Whichever comes first.”

  “Now?! But you've already beaten me half to death!”

  “I've not even started to beat you,” Severin smiled. He whipped his sword at her again, and she was too tired to deflect it. Her own blade went flying into the grass, and his next blow landed on her leg with a fire that brought back memories of being whipped as a child.

  “Run!” he yelled, whipping her other leg with his sword.

  She squealed and took off, trying to escape the crazy little man and his wooden sword. She thought she heard him laughing from behind, but she couldn't be sure. She took off down toward the stables, and turned to see all the people of her father's staff gaping in bare astonishment.

  Behind them, her father's house was burning.

  ***

  Shawna blinked her eyes and rubbed at her forehead, disturbing the light sheen of sweat that had blossomed over her skin. She was covered in lavish blankets, and could smell the woodsmoke that told her—along with the comfortable heat in the room—that a fireplace was nearby. A bare ceiling hung above her. The bed felt suddenly cloying, and Shawna needed air on her skin.

  She tried to rise, but a fierce pain in her side forced her to lie back again with a grunt.

  “Oh! Oh, dear, don't get up, now—just lie back!”

  An old woman appeared above her, fussing over the blankets that covered her like a pile of soft earth.

  “Where am I?” Shawna asked, her voice cracking with disuse. Her head felt fuzzy, as if she'd spent all night drinking her father's firewine. A pang of loss stabbed deep into her heart at the thought of her father, but she pressed it down. She remembered the attack, and her mad flight. Charlotte had left them far behind, but she couldn't remember anything past that save for vague flashes of dream-like imagery.

  “You're in the home of your cousin, dear—Lord Dersham. Now, you just lie back and relax, I'm going to get you some food,” the old woman said. She bustled to the doorway and stuck her head out, barking like a military commander. “Lyssa! Lyssa, I need you in here now!”

  “I...I made it,” Shawna sighed. “Oh, bugger the gods, I made it.” Relief flooded into her like cool water.

  “Well, there's certainly no need for that kind of language, dear,” the old chamberlain smiled. “But yes, you're safe. Dormael brought you in around a week gone.”

  “A week?” Shawna asked. “I've been here for a week?”

  “A little longer, actually,” the maid muttered as another, younger girl ushered into the room. “Lyssa, get yourself downstairs and bring up some broth and water for the Lady Shawna—and some of that roast, too.” She turned back to Shawna. “I imagine you're famished, dear. Is there anything you want?”

  “Water,” Shawna grunted, poking at the painful wound in her side. “Maybe some firewine, or milk of the poppy.”

  “No milk of the poppy here, but we've got some firewine,” the older woman smiled. “Lyssa, can you bring that up, please?”

  “Of course, mistress,” the younger blonde said, bowing. She rushed from the room and Shawna tried once again to rise, but the old woman stopped her with a hand on the forehead.

  “Don't you move, now. You'll break open that wound again, and I'll not have that under my watch, dear. I'll prop you up, just give me a moment,” the old woman said, fussing at the pillows under Shawna's head.

  “What's your name?” Shawna asked, starting to clear the cobwebs from her mind.

  “I'm Nanathel Bellostra,” she smiled, “but everyone calls me Nan. Chamberlain to my Lord Dersham, if you please. It's an honor to finally speak to you, my Lady. We've all been biting our nails, waiting for you to wake.”

  “Nanathel
,” Shawna repeated, “a beautiful name.”

  “Aye, but don't go repeating it, Lady,” Nan smiled. “It might scare some of the staff to hear it.” After a moment of rearranging the pillows and moving Shawna about, the old woman had propped her back against a mountain of cushions and pulled the blankets up to cover Shawna's indecent parts. A quick check under the covers had shown her that she was wearing only a sheer nightdress.

  A sudden panic invaded Shawna's limbs. “My horse! Is Charlotte alright? And my things—where are they?”

  “Peace, Lady Shawna,” Nan smiled. “Your horse is fine—she's stabled here at the manor. Your belongings are in the armiore, just over there.” The chamberlain pointed at a standing closet opposite her bed, and she saw her swords propped against it. She imagined her saddlebags were inside. She let out a huge sigh of relief.

  “I have to speak to Alton,” Shawna said.

  “I know, Lady Shawna,” Nan nodded. “I'm going to retrieve him now. He's been most anxious since your arrival. All the lads have.”

  “The lads?”

  Nan smiled. “I'll let my Lord inform you. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Not right now, thank you,” Shawna said.

  “No thanks are necessary, dear,” Nan replied, offering Shawna a slight bow of the neck. The old woman bustled from the room, leaving Shawna alone.

  Shawna let out a slow breath, trying to ignore the dryness in her mouth. Her heart fluttered with nervous energy, but she tried to ignore that, too. She couldn't put a name to the way she felt. Her chest felt hollow, but that warred with the pain in her body and the muddiness in her head. The smell of the roaring fire reminded her of the way her family's home had smelled when she had last seen it. Shawna clamped down on a blooming storm of emotion, and swallowed a bout of sobbing that she could feel coming on.

  There’s no use crying now, she thought. Get yourself under control.

  Just when she had smoothed her emotions, Alton bustled into the room.

  “Shawna!” he breathed, rushing over to take one of her hands. He was different than the lanky boy she remembered. The Alton of her youth had been a mischievous and troublesome sort, awkward and always getting into one thing or another. The man that took her hand was different—poised, broad-shouldered, and much taller. He had grown into his frame, and she could tell by the way he regarded her that he had kept the compassionate streak that had so endeared him to her in their younger days.