The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  Shawna rose from the bow, her back stiffening. “I suppose.”

  “I tried calling on the two of you at the Conclave the last time I was in Ishamael,” Seylia said, turning her back on Shawna and settling into a chair between Dormael and D'Jenn. “You were gone, though, predictably. I don't know why I even continue trying to be friends with you.”

  “Because we always have the best stories for you, and Dormael has decided to pay for your drinks from now until the gods return,” D'Jenn said.

  Dormael opened his mouth to argue, but stopped himself. He did end up paying her bill, most of the time. He settled for giving his cousin a dark look, which D'Jenn ignored.

  “You forgot how much I love the two of you, though you treat me so horribly. All these years and you've never deigned to take me on one of your grand adventures,” Seylia smiled. “One day you're going to take me to Tauravon. I so want to see the Great River City.”

  Dormael snorted. “Our 'grand adventures' never take us to places like that. You should have seen the last place we left. Beautiful town. The mud was the most pleasant brown color, and it came right up to your knees.”

  “Come now, it couldn’t have been all that bad,” Seylia said, favoring Shawna with a considering glance. “I doubt a girl as pretty as this one came out of some mud-soaked hovel. Really, Dormael, you’ve got to stop picking up so many strays.”

  Shawna’s face reddened, and Dormael winced.

  “I didn’t pick her up, Seylia,” Dormael said, giving her a flat look.

  “I’m not a cat,” Shawna clipped. She offered her hand over her cold, green eyes. “Baroness Shawna Llewan.”

  Seylia took her hand, meeting Shawna’s gaze.

  “I’m so pleased,” she smiled. “You can call me Seylia, dear—we’re all friends, here.”

  “Of course.” Shawna regarded the woman with cold glare, but said nothing else. Dormael was surprised. Earlier in the winter, she might have demanded some respect because of her bloodline. Now, she remained silent.

  “Seylia,” D’Jenn said, breaking the tension. “Why don’t you fill us in on what’s been happening? We’ve been in the east for some time.”

  Both sets of eyes went to D’Jenn, but he stared them down with a blank expression.

  “Well, where to start?” Seylia said, leaning back in her chair and pulling a knee to her chest. “The Rashardians have been restless. Apparently there has been fighting between warring factions out in the waste.”

  “Rashardians fighting each other?” D'Jenn asked.

  “That's what the rumors say, though I haven't asked much about it. For all I care, the Rashardians can kill each other until the gods return,” she said. “There has been some raiding into Tasha-Mal, and I think an attack on the Bastion. Those happen all the time, though, and the raids come up and down the coast like the seasons.”

  “The Rashardians raid the Sevenlands?” Shawna asked.

  “For as long as there have been Rashardians and Sevenlanders,” Dormael nodded. “Longer, probably.”

  “I thought Rashardia hadn't been to war in ages,” Shawna said.

  “Officially,” D'Jenn nodded. “But Rashardians have ever been our enemies. Our oldest stories involve tales of them raiding into the southlands, taking slaves and slaughtering entire villages.”

  “Killing Rashardians is every Sevenlander's favorite sport,” Seylia said, rolling her eyes. “Unless you're talking about the northerners—Teptians, Farra-Jerrans, and Duadans. Those idiots, however, like to take trips into the Gathan Mountains searching for the Garthorin. If anything, they're even worse than the southerners.”

  “Garthorin?” Shawna asked. “Are those stories true, then? The Gathan Mountains are full of man-eating monsters?”

  Bethany, who had been laying her head on Shawna's side, perked an eye open at the mention of the Garthorin. Dormael wondered how often she pretended to be asleep, listening to their conversations. How much would she understand?

  “True enough, depending on what kind of stories you've heard,” D'Jenn nodded, bringing Dormael's attention back to the conversation.

  “Not much, just the sort of things you might expect. Stories about people being eaten alive by beasts in the forms of men,” Shawna said, giving D'Jenn a surprised look. “I would have expected you to tell me those stories were just as ridiculous as the tales about wizards.”

  “In this case, it sounds about right,” Dormael said. “The Garthorin are not men—we know that much about them. There are accounts in the Conclave libraries of expeditions sent into the Gathan Mountains, and the sorts of things that they encountered. Chilling.”

  “So they're beasts, then?” Shawna asked.

  “Something like that,” D'Jenn nodded. “No one knows where they came from, but they've been there as long as most can remember. A long time ago, a magical barrier was erected to keep them confined to the mountains. Every now and then one of them will try and come down out of the passes, but they cannot pass the barrier. The magic kills them outright, leaving their corpse to mark the boundary.”

  “I've heard that Teptian children make a game of hunting for the corpses,” Seylia said. “It doesn't always work out for them. More than a few have disappeared.”

  “Does this magical boundary not protect them? Keep the children from passing into the territory of these...things?” Shawna asked.

  “It's not a physical wall,” D'Jenn replied, shaking his head. “It's an invisible boundary, and people can pass back and forth with no effect. You wouldn't even know when you'd stepped across it.”

  “And the children go hunting for these things?” Shawna asked, an incredulous look on her face.

  “Teptians are all crazy that way. They believe that the only way to honor the gods is to beat each other half to death, or die in some glorious fight,” Dormael said.

  “This coming from the man whose brother fights in the Gladiator's Ring?” Seylia asked.

  “My brother is a perfect example of insanity,” Dormael smiled. “The Teptians have been made to fight their entire lives. My brother is a Gamerit—he knows better.”

  “I'm not following any of this,” Shawna sighed.

  “Oh, don't worry, dear. You'll learn eventually, I'm sure,” Seylia said, grinning at Shawna like an errant child. Shawna gave the woman a look that was more grimace than smile.

  “Tept is in the northwestern Sevenlands,” D'Jenn said, passing out a new round of drinks as the serving girl deposited them on the table. “They've always been a strange people, even into antiquity. Every Solstice, they believe the gods must be honored with blood sacrifice.”

  “That sounds archaic,” Shawna said, her lip curling in disgust.

  “Maybe, but the bastards volunteer for the pleasure,” Dormael added. “They fight to the death in a huge spectacle. The more skilled the fighter, the greater the glory. Those who are killed are worshiped at their gravesites like demigods.”

  “And your brother does this?” Shawna asked. “Fights to be killed for the honor of the gods?”

  “No,” Dormael laughed. “Those are just the religious festivals, and only Teptians subscribe to that old belief.”

  “I think they just like to fight,” Seylia sighed, twirling one of her blonde locks around a finger.

  “There are, however, games of sport held in Tept every year,” D'Jenn said. “Warriors from anywhere can come and compete, and the prizes can be substantial. Those bouts are usually to the yield, or defeat, rather than the death.”

  “Usually?” Shawna asked.

  “Sometimes accidents happen,” Dormael said, “and sometimes two fighters agree to fight to the death for personal reasons. It doesn't happen often, but it does happen.”

  “I see. So, your brother competes in these games, then?” Shawna asked.

  “He does,” Dormael said. “In fact, he's been the Champion for two years running.”

  “Is that so?” Shawna said, raising an eyebrow.

  “It is,” D'Jenn nodded.
“Allen is as skilled as they come. I'd be interested in seeing the two of you spar, actually.”

  “Can women compete in these games?” Shawna asked.

  “Certainly,” Dormael nodded.

  “Even a pretty foreign girl like yourself,” Seylia said.

  Shawna turned an empty smile on Seylia. “A pretty foreign Blademaster—don't forget that part, dear.”

  “Is that so? How wonderful for you,” Seylia sighed, looking Shawna up and down with something of a dismissive air. She rose with a smile and tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I've got to return to the stage before the innkeep decides to keep part of my fee.” She bent over and gave Dormael a warm kiss on the cheek, lingering a spare moment longer than was proper. “Don't disappear on me,” she said.

  With that, she sauntered away back toward the stage.

  “Now I know why the two of you have no idea how to talk to proper ladies,” Shawna said as Seylia started to play again. “You don't know any grown women.”

  “You'll have to ignore Seylia,” D'Jenn said, taking another pull from his cup. “She likes to stir things up. It's like a reflex for her.”

  “I've reflexes of my own,” Shawna said, rolling her eyes in Seylia's direction.

  “She's not so bad, once you get to know her,” Dormael said.

  “How do you know her?” Shawna asked, giving Dormael a look he couldn't quite discern.

  “Seylia is famous in certain circles,” Dormael said. “She's got her ears to the ground about a lot things. We met a few years ago while I was on a mission.”

  “She's highly sought after for her talents,” D'Jenn added. “She gets invited to perform at a lot of parties, and makes a lot of friends. Seylia's unmarried, independently wealthy...she's something of a personality.”

  “I'm sure it's her talents and personality that get her through life, alright,” Shawna said. “And I'm sure that's the only reason the two of you are so friendly, too.” She gave Dormael a meaningful look and shook her head, gesturing in Seylia's direction.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” Dormael said.

  “I'm not an idiot, Dormael. I saw her trying to eat your face earlier,” Shawna said, shaking her head. “Just when I was beginning to think you weren't all that bad, you prove me wrong.”

  Dormael laughed. “Do you think I'm the only man that she treats that way?”

  “Do you think that makes it any better?” she shot back.

  “Better? Better than what?”

  “Just better, Dormael. You know what I mean.”

  “I surely don't.”

  “Then you're an idiot,” she sighed.

  “Idiot? All I've done all day is take a long walk, and tried to be pleasant. I didn't know I was being judged by some obscure, womanly standard.”

  “Womanly?” she laughed.

  “Yes, womanly,” he said. “You can change that out with 'irrational' if you like.”

  “You're on dangerous ground, Dormael Harlun.”

  “I apparently have been all day, through no fault of my own. I don't see why I should stop now,” he said.

  What in the Six Hells was she so damned angry about?

  Shawna laughed to herself, though the smile on her face was forced. She downed the rest of her drink, and started to gather up her things. She roused Bethany from beside her, and rose to leave. Dormael looked at her as if she was crazy.

  “It's been a long voyage,” she said. “We've been stuffed in a boat together for too long. I'm going to go soak in a bath somewhere more quiet than this.”

  Dormael looked pointedly at the windows, where afternoon light still shone in through the glass.

  “Might be a good idea,” he said.

  She gave him another dangerous look. “I'll see the two of you at first light. Come along, Bethany.”

  With that, Shawna stalked toward the stairs in the back of the common room, dragging a silent Bethany behind her. Dormael watched her go, feeling an odd bit of guilt squirming around in his chest. Why was the woman taking her anger at Seylia out on him?

  “So,” D'Jenn said as Shawna disappeared, “all that time the two of you were laid up because of your injuries, this is what was going on.”

  “There was nothing going on,” Dormael grumbled.

  “Of course, because you've always done such a good job of controlling yourself around women before. What was I thinking?” D'Jenn laughed.

  “It's nothing like that, D'Jenn,” Dormael said. “We've talked a lot, sure, but there's never been any flirtation. She's always scolding me about the way I am with women—that's all this was. She just went overboard this time.”

  D'Jenn narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “Dormael—she's an eastern girl. You know what that means—she's been kept chaste, so that her father could marry her off to some noble lordling one day. You can't treat her the same way you treat barmaids and Sevenlander women. She's not as...worldly.”

  Dormael sighed. “I haven't been trying to treat her any sort of way but friendly, D'Jenn. Soothword. I don't know where this is coming from.”

  D'Jenn just shook his head and went back to his drink.

  Seylia began to pluck something somber on her guitar, and the ambiance in the room calmed to a low murmur. Dormael ordered another round of drinks from the serving girl, and settled against the back of his chair, letting the alcohol warm his limbs. Lanterns were struck as the twilight came on, and patrons began to pack the empty spaces available.

  “Did the Administrator have anything to say?” D'Jenn asked. The serving girl brought them a tray of trenchers, meat, and various cooked vegetables, which interrupted Dormael's reply. Once the food was settled, Dormael asked the girl to make sure that Shawna got something to eat. He was feeling a bit more guilty about their argument now that he'd had time to brood over it.

  I’m probably just drunk.

  “He mentioned something, actually,” Dormael said as the girl dodged back into the crowd. “He said that there's been some talk about Galanians imprisoning Sevenlanders, maybe searching out Conclave agents within its borders. Wizards have been heading for Ishamael in droves. He said that by the time we make it back to the Conclave, it will be packed with wizards.”

  “Imprisoning our agents?” D'Jenn asked, his brow furrowing in thought. “Maybe he means local informants, or something. The only agents we'd have in Galania would either be Philosophers, or Warlocks, and I couldn't imagine either just letting themselves be taken like that.”

  “To be fair, he said rounding up Sevenlanders, and possibly looking for our agents,” Dormael said. “Then the bastard tried to pump me for information. When I told him I didn't know anything, I'm fairly sure he thought I was lying.”

  “Every wizard thinks the Warlocks keep grand secrets from them, like we're an all-knowing secret society,” D'Jenn laughed, shaking his head. “How disappointed they would be to know the truth.”

  “Something about it doesn't make sense,” Dormael said.

  “One would think that the Galanian Empire would have enemies closer to home to worry about, rather than rounding up Sevenlanders in the first place,” D'Jenn said.

  “The Administrator said that there's a lot of grumbling about the Mekai, and his lack of response,” Dormael added, taking a drink from his mug. “Sounds ominous.”

  “There's always grumbling about one thing or another,” D'Jenn said, waving a dismissive hand. “What do people expect him to do, marshal the Conclave for war? Since the use of magic in warfare has been forbidden for hundreds of years, grumbling is useless. It will blow over.”

  “You're probably right,” Dormael sighed, leaning back in his seat. “It could be a good thing, having everyone back at the Conclave. We might run into some old friends. It's been awhile since I've seen a lot of the people we went through the Crucible with.”

  The Crucible was a Warlock's final test, the culmination of their training. It always involved being pitted against a pair of more experienced wizards in some extreme situation,
like an escape, or a chase. Violence, intrigue, stealth, and cunning were all needed to pass the Crucible. A Warlock's peer group was always small, even amongst wizards. Classes ended up growing close to one another.

  “It would be good to see a few of them,” D'Jenn nodded. “Though some can keep their distance, as far as I'm concerned.”

  “Hopefully they're all still alive,” Dormael smiled.

  “Indeed,” D'Jenn replied, the ale having blushed his pale cheeks. He raised his mug and clanked it hard into Dormael's, spilling a bit of his ale. “Here's to the hope that they're all still breathing.”

  “To the slim hope,” Dormael answered, taking a long pull. He hadn't seen most of them since the day they had earned their status as full wizards, and Warlocks. Warlocks were dispatched in pairs when they worked with company at all, and organized into a very loose hierarchy. D'Jenn and Dormael worked so well together, having grown up practically brothers, that the deacon of their order had paired them up without a second thought.

  “What are you brooding on now, magus?” Seylia asked, plopping down in the seat between the two of them. She winked at Dormael, and gave him a challenging smile.

  Dormael banished the thoughts of his comrades back at the Conclave, and returned the expression with one of his own.

  “The state of my drink.”

  “And what's the state of it, then?” she said.

  Dormael drained his cup in a single, long gulp.

  “Empty,” he said, slamming it on the table.

  “Well, then, we should remedy that with something that packs a real punch,” she smiled. “No more of this foamy stuff for you. Time for something that will burn a hole in your stomach.”

  Dormael laughed, but felt his stomach protest at the thought. “Seylia, we've been at sea for nearly half a season.”

  “Have you, now?” she replied, cupping his face in her hand. “Did you lose your manhood somewhere along the way?” D'Jenn laughed at her comments, but she turned an evil eye on him, too. “Don't think you're getting off without one, either, O Angry One.”

  “I'm the angry one?” D'Jenn asked.

  Seylia gestured the serving girl over to the table. “Are you denying it?”