The Seven Signs: Three Book Collection

by D. W. Hawkins

  It took every bit of discipline D’Jenn had not to shoot from the ground and go for his throat.

  “And what happens when someone else discovers your scheme?” D’Jenn said. “What is Victus going to do? Kill the Mekai? Take the Conclave by force? I followed your trail with ease, brother. Someone else will, too, upon a day.”

  Mataez smiled. “We both know he’s smarter than that. What was it, anyway? Something got your hackles up, got you picking at threads.”

  “Victus lied to me,” D’Jenn said. “Plain as anything, right on his face. Didn’t take long to find something once I was curious. There were a lot of Warlocks dead. The son of a Kansil came back to life. Too many strange occurrences to be coincidental.”

  “Kitamin fucking Jurillic,” Mataez sighed. “The deacon told me what you said.”

  “Sloppy work, that.”

  “I told the deacon it was a bad idea, that he needed to find some other way to get leverage over that bitch Nyra,” Mataez said. “Last thing I wanted to do was stomp around the desert looking for Rashardian slavers. Nasty work. Jarek, though—he wanted to go. Practically begged for Deacon Victus to send the two of us. The Mals and their stupid ideas about blood debts and glory. They’re all crazy. Smoke too much of that Shaman’s Leaf.”

  Jarek Suriah was another Warlock of their generation. He was a giant man, and like Mataez said, overly concerned with blood debts and other mysterious customs of his people, the Tasha-Mal. The Mals held tighter to their nomadic roots than did the other tribes of the Sevenlands.

  “So that was your work,” D’Jenn said, grunting as he shifted his position against the tree.

  “The rescue was our work, not the planning,” Mataez said, scowling off into the trees. “Kitamin was a broken creature. They’d cut off his hands, D’Jenn. They’d done it to a whole clutch of children, too—and not all of them Sevenlander children. Most of them were Rashardian. How could those bastards do nasty shit like that to their own people?”

  “Who can say?”

  “It’s people like them, D’Jenn, that deserve our wrath,” Mataez growled. “That’s why I’m following the old man, you hear? The chance to give those people what their actions have earned.”

  “I can’t fault you for wanting to kill them,” D’Jenn said. “What I can fault you for, though, is the murder of all our friends. Our family. As far as I’m concerned, you’re all guilty. You’ll all get what you deserve soon enough.”

  “Tall words from someone so close to death.”

  D’Jenn smiled. “Even so. You’ve taken a step down a path, brother. It only leads to one place. You’re going to die a very painful death, and when you do, I want you to remember that I told you it was coming. The gods will see to it.”

  “The gods?” Mataez laughed. “I think you’ve bled too much, D’Jenn. You’re speaking nonsense.”

  “We all have our opinions,” D’Jenn said. He grimaced, and shifted against the tree. “Let’s get this thing started, shall we? Do you have any water?”

  Mataez gave him another blank look, then unhooked a waterskin from his belt and threw it over. D’Jenn picked it up and opened it, taking a long pull. It was nice and cool, but tasted of leather. He had been hoping that Mataez would come closer, maybe reach down to offer him the waterskin, but the man was too smart to give D’Jenn any chances.

  “Tell my family I died well,” D’Jenn said. “You can give me that much.”

  “I will,” Mataez sighed. “I wish this was different, brother. I really do.”

  “Fuck yourself,” D’Jenn laughed. “Help me up. At least let me die on my feet like a man.”

  “Throw your belt knife away first,” Mataez said. “I love you like a brother. Doesn’t mean I trust you.”

  D’Jenn smiled and nodded his head, as if acknowledging a touch in a contest. He switched the waterskin over to his right hand, grunting as he shifted his back against the tree. He fumbled at his belt with his left hand, pulling the knife out and showing it to Mataez. He made a show of flipping it over onto the back of his palm, then back into his hand. Finally, he tossed it into the underbrush and out of sight.

  While Mataez was watching the knife, D’Jenn pushed the Widow’s Eye he’d palmed in his right hand through the top of the waterskin, crushing it as it dropped inside. His finger started burning immediately, though he hadn’t gotten much of the juice on it. The pain was right on the verge of tolerable.

  Gods, this is stupid.

  It didn’t matter. Mataez had hung back, kept his distance. He’d left D’Jenn with little choice.

  “Do you want to help me walk back to the river?” D’Jenn asked. “At least I can die with a view.”

  “And give you half the night to think of a way to kill me?” Mataez laughed. “No, brother. I’m sorry. It has to be here. Are you ready?”

  “I’m ready, damn you,” D’Jenn said. “Come on.”

  He extended his hand, grimacing as if it pained him to move. Mataez nodded, and moved forward to help him stand. D’Jenn put the waterskin to his lips and tilted it back as Mataez took his hand. He let the poison into his mouth as he made his feet, filling it with the deadly sweet solution. He met Mataez’s eyes, and the two of them shared a sad smile for the barest space of a moment.

  Then, he spat the poison right in the smug bastard’s eyes.

  Mataez pushed him away on reflex, making a disgusted sound. D’Jenn’s back hit the trunk of the tree, but his body wasn’t as broken as he’d been pretending. He knew he only had a moment to act, so he sprung off the tree and back into Mataez. D’Jenn fumbled for the axe at Mataez’s belt as he was trying to wipe his face clean, and ripped it free. Mataez turned to fight, but just at that moment, the poison went to work.

  D’Jenn’s mouth became a burning pit of agony. Mataez screamed. The world went blurry with pain, and it was all D’Jenn could do to keep his mind from succumbing. He felt the axe haft in his hands as he started to scream along with Mataez, and struck out with a blind attack. He thought he felt something connect, but his vision was going. He felt the dirt hit his knees, then his face. He tried to claw his way toward the creek, but he knew there was no way he could make it. The pain spread to his face, to his throat. He was having trouble breathing.

  The world went white with anguish, and Mataez’s howling chased D’Jenn into darkness.

  Tamasis

  Dormael led the party north.

  They kept to the woods where they could, taking advantage of the cover the trees provided. Dormael watched the sky, flinching at every bird-shadow that passed overhead. Any one of them could have been a Warlock. Dormael kept his Kai open so he could listen for hostile magic, but the only songs he detected were those of Lilliane, Lacelle, and Bethany. The day was as still as a killer waiting in ambush.

  Allen rode ahead of the party, scouting the way forward. He was the one who best knew the way to Billingshold, where they were planning on hiring themselves out as mercenaries. He left marks on trees to alert Dormael to dangers, or changes in direction. Shawna kept counsel with Lilliane and Lacelle, and Bethany followed them around like a puppy. Dormael was often left to brood in solitude.

  His eyes returned frequently to the west, where he could feel D’Jenn’s coin in the distance. The magical pulse hadn’t changed since the previous night, and Dormael could feel it fading into the distance with each passing hour. It filled him with gnawing worry, but he pushed down on the urge to take to the skies and look for his cousin. Hurtling into an unknown situation would be the height of folly—though the knowledge of the fact did nothing to assuage his concerns.

  Lacelle, after asking for Dormael’s approval, had Bethany doing magical exercises in the saddle. She taught the girl how to mute the sound of her power, explained several basic elements of magical theory, and even had her carrying rocks with her Kai while she rode. Bethany started with a single stone, then moved to multiple stones as the day wore on. While she held the rocks in the air beside her, Lacelle made the girl answer que
stions. The rocks dropped with frequency, but Dormael could tell that Bethany was growing stronger.

  When night fell, everyone sat around the fire making idle conversation. Dormael packed a pipe and moved to the edge of the camp to enjoy it. He stared to the west, and ruminated on the events of the past weeks. After he’d exhausted all the avenues of quiet thought he cared to entertain, he relaxed against a tree and listened to the conversation his friends were having.

  “Burps have nothing to do with dishonesty, I assure you,” Lacelle said amidst a low buzz of laughter.

  “Bethany, don’t listen to them,” Allen said. “Who are you going to trust? A bunch of wizards—whom we both know are subtle and secretive—or your uncle? Have I lied to you yet? Think back to the first day we met. You know I’m always honest about these things.”

  “I don’t know,” Bethany laughed.

  “Name one time I’ve lied to you—just one.”

  “You said that you punched a bear so hard that it apologized for trying to eat you.”

  “And that’s true!”

  “No it’s not,” she replied.

  “Are you calling me a liar, girl?” Allen said. “You can’t just call a man a liar like that, little pig. Now we’ve got to have a duel.”

  “We have to fight?” Bethany said.

  “Aye, we have to fight,” Allen laughed. “Or, you could take back those accusations you made against my character, and admit that I’m right about the bear, and about burping.”

  “He is not right about burping, Bethany,” Lacelle put in.

  “It’s true—burps come from lies hiding in your belly,” Allen said. “The more someone burps, the bigger the liar they are.”

  “Where do you think of these things?” Shawna said.

  “Bethany, listen,” Allen said, “you can believe these women—and, Bethany, if you learn one thing from your good uncle Allen, learn that you can never, not for a single instant, trust anything a woman says—or you can believe your family. Choose wisely, girl. Choose wisely.”

  “I believe them,” Bethany said.

  “Betrayal!” Allen laughed. “You’ve earned this one, girl. Teach you to go against your family—”

  There was the sound of a scuffle, and then Bethany’s wild laughter. Dormael smiled and looked over his shoulder to find Allen throwing mock punches at the girl, and Bethany fending them off with quick little slaps. They sparred for a few moments, and Allen let Bethany slip away.

  “He’s not right about any of that, especially the thing about women,” Shawna said, holding an arm open for Bethany as the girl scampered over. “But that’s alright. You know whom to trust.” Shawna put an arm around the child, who stuck out her tongue at Allen from the relative safety of Shawna’s company. Allen held up a fist and made an angry face at the girl, who only laughed in return.

  “Keep it up, girl, and no more stories for you,” he said.

  “That’s not fair!”

  “That’s not fair!” Allen repeated, mocking the sound of Bethany’s voice. They descended into a contest to see who could make the ugliest face at one another before settling down. Dormael laughed to himself, and turned back to stare into the night.

  “Why don’t you tell me a story?” he heard Bethany say.

  “Me?” Lacelle answered. Dormael’s ears perked up.

  “I bet you know lots of things,” Bethany said. “You’re a deacon, right?”

  “I was,” Lacelle answered.

  “Well, do you know any stories?”

  “I…well, I suppose so.”

  “I want to know where the Warlocks came from,” Bethany said. “Do you know that story?”

  Dormael sat up.

  “Why do you want to hear that story, dear?” Lacelle asked.

  “Well…because my father is one,” Bethany said, going a little quiet. “I’m one, too—or, I will be one day, I think.”

  Dormael turned and caught Bethany’s eye. He gave her a wink to let her know that he’d heard, and nodded his head in encouragement. It was likely that none of them would ever see the Conclave again, but Dormael didn’t feel like having that conversation with her just yet. Lacelle watched the exchange with an opaque expression, but smiled when Bethany turned back to her.

  “Very well, dear,” Lacelle said. “If you want to know the story of the first Warlocks, I suppose I can tell you that.” Lacelle caught Dormael’s eyes for a moment, though Dormael could read nothing in her expression. Doubtless, the woman had her own opinion on the matter, but was playing nice for Bethany’s benefit.

  Dormael’s own thoughts had turned to Bethany here and there. Watching her adapt to life on the road was heartening, but his mind of late had been full of doubts where the girl was concerned. Part of him knew that she deserved a real family—a mother and father to look after her, fields in which to run and play. Was he selfish to keep her with him? Was the life he had given her, one of constant danger and movement, the best thing for her? Could she be happy with it?

  “Where to begin?” Lacelle said, shifting her seat until she was comfortable. “Do you remember last night, when we spoke of Indalvian, the Founder of the Conclave?”

  Bethany nodded. “The Steele of the Founder—I remember.”

  “Very good,” Lacelle said, the hint of a smile crossing her face. “Let’s start there—at the beginning of the Conclave. Things were different then, you understand.”

  “How?” Bethany asked.

  “If you’ll listen, I’ll tell you,” Lacelle said, softening her words with a smile. “Before the Conclave was founded, wizards had never gathered together in one place. Sevenlanders—who were called Vendonians then—didn’t hate wizards, but they feared them. Some people believed that wizards were descended from the gods, and that’s where their magic came from. Some even worshiped them in little cults out in the wilderness. During the First Great War, Vendonian society was changed forever, and the wizards were forced to become part of it. The people were forced to accept them.”

  “What do you mean it was changed forever?” Bethany asked.

  “That’s a complicated question,” Lacelle replied. “For one, there was no concept of the Sevenlands. There were different kingdoms and city-states, all loosely related by culture. The invasion shattered the old ways, forced the various tribes to unite. Wizards were burned from their homes right along with everyone else, and had to fight along with everyone else. Little is known of it, truth be told, but it was during this time of upheaval that the Conclave was founded by Indalvian.”

  “What’s upheaval?” Bethany asked.

  “Strife, dear,” Allen said. “Turmoil.”

  “Once Indalvian founded the Conclave, he summoned all wizards who would come to join him in Ishamael. The citizens began to talk about the wizards flooding into the city, and they grew frightened. There was unrest, and the leaders amongst the tribes were concerned. Indalvian had to do something to fix it,” Lacelle said.

  “What were they afraid of?” Bethany asked.

  “Being ruled, of course,” Lacelle said. “A leader with the power of magic at his disposal is a frightful thing, even if that leader is a good person. Many were afraid that Indalvian meant to seize power, and set up an empire ruled by wizards. Think, dear—if you weren’t a wizard, and had no power, how would you like to be ruled by a small group of people who lived three or four times as long as you did, and had power beyond your capabilities? It’s not an invalid concern.”

  “It’s actually written into Cambrellian law,” Shawna put in. “My father had me study it as a child. Sorcery is punishable by death. The whole justification for it is the fear of wizards having too much power.”

  “Death?” Bethany asked. “But we used magic in Cambrell.”

  “You have to be caught first, little one,” Dormael called from where he lay. “Why don’t we let the deacon finish her tale?”

  “Alright,” Bethany muttered.

  “So, to assuage the fears of the people, Indalvian met with
what would later become the Council of Seven—the Chieftains of the various tribes. They hammered out an agreement, and enshrined it into law across all the Vendonian states. It was actually one of the first laws written that applied to the entirety of the Vendonian confederation, which later became the Sevenlands. It is one of the oldest decrees in our culture, and the cornerstone of magical practice in the west.”

  “What did it say?” Bethany asked.

  Lacelle smiled, then turned a considering look on Dormael. “You haven’t taught her the Wizard’s Covenant?”

  “I’ve been busy enough just trying to keep her alive,” he muttered in reply. “You’re right, though—I should have.”

  “No matter,” Lacelle said, waving a hand. “I’ll explain it. First, the Covenant says that wizards can never hold political power in Sevenlander society. They cannot be Patrons of their families, Clan Leaders, or Kansils. Second, wizards are forbidden from joining armies even at the lowest rank, or using their powers to support an army. Third, they are forbidden from using their power to harm non-magical people, except in self-defense.”

  “Never?” Bethany asked. “That sounds unfair to me.”

  “There are some special cases where it is justified,” Lacelle said, glancing for the barest moment at Dormael. “But only the Warlocks are given that privilege, and they have specific mandates by which they operate—or they’re supposed to.”

  “So the Warlocks were founded so they could break the laws?” Bethany asked, confusion on her face.

  “No, dear,” Dormael said. “Just listen—the story isn’t over yet.”

  “There were others that felt the Covenant was unfair,” Lacelle went on. “In those days, wizards were fiercely independent. They chafed at being commanded so, and many felt that the Covenant was either unnecessary, or illegitimate. It created tension within the newly-formed Conclave. Many wizards felt threatened by it.”

  “Why?” Bethany asked.

  “Because behind every law is a man holding a sword, little pig,” Allen said.