The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  Gythe ran to the boat. Miri kept the pistol aimed at the men.

  “Come back on board—”

  “Miri, stop!” Gythe pleaded. She pointed at the men and then placed her hand on her heart. “You are wrong. You don’t understand. They came to fetch me. I have agreed to go with them.”

  Miri slowly lowered the gun. She stared, bewildered, and then shook her head violently. Her red hair was as dark as blood in the moonlight. She dropped the pistol onto the deck and made a clumsy leap off the boat for the dock. Gythe caught hold of her and steadied her. Miri clung tightly to her, digging her nails into her arm.

  “You’re not going!” Miri said thickly. “I won’t let you!”

  Gythe shook her head and gently wrested her arm out of her sister’s grasp.

  “You can’t stop me. Our people need me. They need my magic. They need my songs,” Gythe signed, putting her fingers to her lips.

  “Then I’m coming with you,” said Miri.

  “We have no time to waste, Gythe,” said Patrick angrily. “Leave her.”

  “I’ll scream for the constables!” Miri said shakily. “I’ll wake up the city. Take me with you or I’ll scream bloody murder.”

  “Bring her, then, if she wants to go,” said one of the men impatiently. “Just be quick about it!”

  Miri took a step, staggered and fell. Gythe helped her walk to the horses, and one of the men lifted Miri into the saddle. She was limp, her head lolling, the drug taking hold again. The man called Patrick mounted, then pulled Gythe up to sit behind him. The men spurred their horses and galloped down the street.

  Gythe looked back at the Cloud Hopper. Poor Dag. He would wake up alone with no idea what had happened. She sighed, then turned away.

  They rode most of the night. Leaving Evreux, they struck out along an old rocky coastal road, now seldom used. Travelers preferred the new toll road that had been constructed to connect the capital to the northern provinces. Gythe jounced on the horse’s bony backside and soon came to envy her sister, who had fallen into a drugged sleep and was feeling no pain. They reached their destination as the sun’s light was just beginning to turn the sky gray. The men reined in their horses on a bluff overlooking the shoreline. Below was a small military encampment.

  A ship was moored there: one of the strangest looking sailing vessels Gythe had ever seen. The ship was half again as wide as a cargo vessel, with two full decks and a forward half deck. A double row of masts allowed for the heavy ship to carry six balloons—three main lift balloons and three smaller balloons for ballast. Open hatches provided access to the lower deck.

  A large number of people were gathered on the dock. Many were soldiers, wearing the demonic armor. Others were apparently prisoners, huddled together in a group apart from the soldiers, their hands bound.

  “That is the ship that will carry us Below,” Patrick said, helping Gythe dismount. “A troop transport.”

  Miri was awake now, staring around in bewilderment. She suddenly twisted, turning to search fearfully for Gythe. Catching sight of her sister, Miri half jumped and half fell out of the saddle and started to run to her.

  “Gythe! Don’t be a fool! Don’t let them take you!” Miri cried.

  “Keep her quiet!” Patrick cautioned.

  Gythe caught hold of her sister and put her fingers to Miri’s lips. Gythe pointed to the troops gathered on the shoreline beneath the rise.

  “They must not see us!” she signed.

  Miri stared at the soldiers in a daze, not seeming to comprehend. She looked back at her sister. “Where are we? Who are these men? What is going on?” Her voice rose with each sentence.

  Distressed, Gythe once more touched Miri’s lips, begging her to speak softly. Patrick watched this exchange, then came over to deal with the situation himself. Miri drew back, regarding him with cold hostility.

  “Go away! Leave us alone,” she told him.

  He ignored her and spoke to Gythe.

  “I will tell the guards you and your sister are savants. Xavier decreed that we are to round up savants, bring them Below. I think Brother Barnaby explained this to you.”

  “Brother Barnaby!” Miri sucked in an angry breath. “So you are running away to meet him! I might have known.”

  Gythe looked at her sister helplessly, not knowing how to explain.

  The other men were growing nervous.

  “Patrick, they’re starting to load the ship. We have to go.”

  “If these two are going to cause trouble, leave them,” another said angrily.

  “There is still time for you to change your mind, Gythe,” Patrick said. “I can give you one of the horses—”

  Miri seized Gythe’s hand. “We will go home. Won’t we, Gythe?”

  Gythe couldn’t move, unnerved by the sight of the ugly, strange-looking ship with its many balloons and double row of masts and the cries of the prisoners in chains. She was suddenly appalled, aghast at what she was doing. She wanted to hide her face in Miri’s skirt, as she had done when she was a child in trouble. She wanted to go home, wanted to feel safe and protected in her sister’s sheltering embrace.

  But she had promised Brother Barnaby she was coming. He had tried to dissuade her. When he had described the suffering of the people of Glasearrach, he had not meant for her to come help them. That had been her decision. Her people needed her. She could do something good with her life.

  On the dock below, the sailors were starting to prepare the ship for sailing, singing an old Trundler sea chantey.

  Oh, have you heard the news, me Johnny

  One more day

  We’re homeward bound tomorrow

  One more day

  The song was an old, old song, one sung for generations. Their songs were her songs: the songs she hummed to keep up her courage, the songs she had taught to Brother Barnaby when he was afraid and in pain. The songs bound her to her people. They needed her help. She had promised she would come.

  Gythe gave Miri a gentle kiss.

  “I must go. I am sorry,” she said, touching her heart.

  She withdrew her hand from Miri’s grasp and walked over to stand beside Patrick.

  Miri stood dumbstruck. She tried to speak, but her words clotted on her tongue. Gythe couldn’t bear to see the pain and she turned away.

  “Here, mistress,” said Patrick, handing the reins of his horse to Miri, “you can ride back—”

  “I won’t leave her,” Miri said, her voice trembling with her resolve. “You are my sister, Gythe. If you are determined to go, I want to go with you.”

  Patrick looked to Gythe. “It’s up to you, mistress.”

  “We are both coming,” Gythe signed, taking hold of Miri’s hand.

  Patrick cast a dark glance at Miri, apparently not pleased, but there wasn’t much he could do. He took a length of rope from his saddle and cut off two long pieces.

  “You and your sister must appear to be our prisoners.”

  Gythe held out her hands. Patrick tied the rope around her wrists, binding them tightly. He went over to Miri, who flushed in anger and was about to refuse, until she caught Gythe’s eye. Miri bit her lip and held out her hands.

  “Obey the guards,” Patrick instructed them. “If you cause trouble, the guards will beat you. I can’t do anything to help. I would be putting your lives and mine in danger. You understand?”

  Gythe indicated she did. Patrick lifted her onto the horse. He picked up Miri, seated her behind Gythe. Taking the reins, he led the horse down the hill toward the camp and the waiting ship. A soldier caught sight of them and hastened toward them, his weapon raised at the sight of the Patrick and his men who were still wearing their cloaks.

  Patrick drew aside his cloak, revealing his armor. The soldier lowered his weapon.

  “What is this?” the soldier asked, frowning. “More prisoners?”

  “Savants,” said Patrick. “By order of our blessed saint.”

  “Send them with the rest.”

  Th
e other prisoners were being loaded onto the boat. Patrick escorted Miri and Gythe to the gangplank that extended from the dock to the ship, spanning the Breath.

  “Where are they taking us, Gythe?” Miri asked as they crossed the gangplank. “Where is this ship bound?”

  Gythe looked down over the edge of the plank that spanned the emptiness between shore and ship. The mists of the Breath swirled and eddied in pale silken colors of orange and pink. Far below the mists the Breath thickened to gray fog, cold and blinding. Far below that lay the sunken island of Glasearrach.

  Gythe looked back at her sister.

  No need to say more.

  * * *

  Dag woke to blinding, eye-searing sunlight and a feeling that his head was stuffed with cotton wool. His mouth was so dry his throat hurt. After a few failed tries he managed to stand upright, bumping into the walls as though the boat was heaving and rocking.

  He couldn’t imagine what was wrong. He would have said he had the king of all hangovers, but he had drunk only two mugs of ale.

  “The countess buys only the best,” he muttered to himself.

  The boat bobbed gently with the morning breeze. Dag paused to steady himself before he attempted to climb the three stairs that led to the deck above. He navigated those and stumbled out into the sunlight.

  He squinched his eyes to see against the dazzling sun. The boat was still moored to the dock.

  Odd, he thought, Miri had wanted to sail with the dawn.

  “Miri,” he called, wincing as pain shot through his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t take my turn at watch. You should have wakened me—”

  He stopped talking and peered around. Miri should have been shouting at him, punching him in the arm, calling him a lazy slug and other things not so nice. The only sounds he heard were the voices of the workers on their way to the warehouses and shipyards.

  “Miri?”

  When Dag finally managed to open his eyes without squinting, he saw that he was the only one on deck, except for Doctor Ellington. The cat wound around Dag’s ankles and meowed loudly, announcing that it was past time someone fed him. Dag picked up the cat, so as not to step on him, and put him on his shoulder.

  Miri had been exhausted. Thinking that she had given up keeping watch and gone to bed, Dag went back down below. The corridor seemed pitch dark after the bright light above. Groaning with the pain in his head, he made his way along the corridor to the cabin where Gythe and Miri slept.

  The door was open, slightly swinging back and forth with movement of the boat. Dag looked inside. The bed was empty, the sheets rumpled, the blanket thrown about. A cold draft of fear ran through Dag’s veins, acting better than any elixir to clear his head. Miri hated an unmade bed worse than spiders.

  “Miri! Gythe!” Dag’s voice echoed through the boat.

  No one answered. The Doctor meowed loudly and jumped from Dag’s shoulder. The cat ran to the galley, where the smoked fish was kept. Dag followed, his fear catching in his throat. He looked into the galley, telling himself he would find Miri and Gythe there, though he knew perfectly well he wouldn’t.

  The galley was empty. The Doctor hopped onto the barrel of smoked fish. Dag took the hint and fed the cat, then searched the boat again. Miri and Gythe were gone. Going back on deck, he noticed what he should have noticed immediately. A pistol, lying on the deck near the rail.

  Dag examined the weapon. The pistol was loaded, but had not been fired. He knew now with a sick feeling in his gut that something terrible had happened to Miri and Gythe during the night.

  They’d been abducted. He’d been drugged. That was the reason for the pounding head and the fact that he had slept like a dead man.

  But who had taken them? Had the monks come during the night to arrest Gythe and Miri? That made no sense. How would the monks have managed to slip the drug into his ale? They were stealthy, not invisible! And why arrest the women and leave him?

  Dag thought back to the mysterious, shadowing pursuers who had followed them from Stephano’s house. He had assumed he had lost them, but perhaps he hadn’t. He searched the deck, thinking he might find another clue, and discovered a note.

  His name and Miri’s name were written on the front.

  Dag stared at it in wonder. He recognized the handwriting—Gythe’s childish scrawl. Few Trundlers could read or write. Miri, being a loremaster for her people, had taught herself to read and she had insisted her sister learn. The moment Miri would bring out the lesson books, Gythe would disappear. Miri had waged a constant battle trying to teach her sister and had finally given up. Gythe knew the rudiments of both reading and writing, but that was about all that could be said.

  With a shaking hand Dag picked up the note and opened it. He sat down, trying to puzzle out the message. Gythe had never bothered to learn punctuation.

  I hope the potion did no harm I have gone where I am needed you cannot follow so don’t try go to abby sant agnes you are needed pleese forgive me I luv you both not forgetting the Doctor and Stefano and Rigo luv Gythe

  He let the note slip through his fingers to the deck. He could make a pretty good guess as to what must have happened. Gythe had drugged both him and Miri in order to sneak off the boat during the night. Miri must have wakened, grabbed the pistol, and gone after Gythe.

  He lowered the gangplank and went out into the street to try to pick up their trail. He found signs that horses had waited out in front of the boat. He gazed up and down the street that was crowded with horse-drawn carriages, riders on horseback, horses pulling wagons. He gave a snort and returned dejectedly to the boat.

  Dag had to face the brutal truth. He couldn’t find them. He had no way of knowing where they were. If they were on horseback, they had a long head start. They could be anywhere in Rosia by now.

  He picked up the note, read it again and again.

  The Abbey of Saint Agnes. Gythe told him to go there. He “was needed.” Dag didn’t want to leave Evreux now, fearing he might miss Gythe and Miri if they came back. Then again, the Abbey was his only clue. Perhaps Gythe was traveling there and she wanted him to meet her. As for what had become of Miri, he had no idea. Hopefully she was with Gythe and they were both safe.

  Dag pulled up the gangplank and raised the sails. He shouted at a passerby, who obligingly cast off the ropes for him. Taking his place at the helm, Dag put his hands on the constructs, sending magical energy into the lift tanks and the balloon. He steered the Cloud Hopper down the channel and out into the Breath, heading southward toward the ill-fated Abbey of Saint Agnes.

  4

  Sleeping on the ground in the forest, I hear the growls and see the eyes of predators watching me from the darkness. I might as well be back in the palace.

  —Cecile Raphael, Countess de Marjolaine

  The Countess Cecile de Marjolaine was one of the wealthiest, most powerful people in all the courts of all the nations of the world. Her network of agents was second only to that of Sir Henry Wallace, spymaster of Freya. She was whispered to be the shadow ruler of Rosia. King Alaric generally did what she advised him to do. Those times he acted against her advice and willfully pursued his own course of action, he came to regret it.

  Cecile resided in a suite of elegant rooms in the royal palace given to her by the king. She lived in the palace eleven months out of the year, traveling to her family estate and spending one month in the summer there to manage her business affairs, meet with her steward and her tenants, and escape the heat of the city. At the age of fifty she was still considered one of the most beautiful women in Rosia. Her exquisite gowns were copied by women from Rosia to Travia, her hair was always perfectly coiffed, and her magnificent collection of jewelry was legendary.

  Cecile thought of all this as she sat in the post chaise traveling at breakneck speed along the highway, expecting at every moment that they would overturn. Her cloak was wet, mud spattered and travel worn. The plain, serviceable woolen gown she had chosen to wear was in need of a good scrubbing, as was its m
istress.

  She had not had time for a proper bath in the week since this journey had begun. She had been forced to bathe in the washbasins of the inns along the route, giving herself what her old nursemaid would have called “a lick and a promise.” Her hair was twisted into a braid, wound up, and pinned in the back beneath a wide-brimmed hat, a hat that was anything but fashionable, but well designed to protect from the elements. And her only jewelry was a plain gold band on her left hand.

  Her companion was a Knight Protector, Sir Conal O’Hairt. They rode in pursuit of a woman named Eiddwen, a practitioner of blood magic also known to the Arcanum as the “Sorceress”; her supposed nephew, the Conte Osinni, a murderer whose hands were steeped in blood; and Sophia, princess of Rosia, a fifteen-year-old girl who fancied herself in love.

  Cecile and Sir Conal had been following the three for what seemed an eternity of days and nights, shaken and jounced in the small, lightweight post chaise, the fastest conveyance for traveling overland.

  Cecile was both pleased and amazed that they were still on Eiddwen’s trail. She had been surprised to discover Eiddwen and her companions were making the journey by road when they could have traveled far more swiftly in a wyvern-drawn carriage. Sir Conal had pointed out that while wyvern flight would be faster, Eiddwen would have to stop every day to rest and feed the wyverns. Traveling overland permitted her to keep going day and night.

  That is precisely what Eiddwen had done. She and her companions stopped at posting inns used by the mail coaches only for short periods of time to eat and change horses. Cecile knew this because Sir Conal asked about their quarry at every tollgate and every posting inn. These stops slowed their own progress, but allowed them to keep track of the three.

  “I do not understand it. Eiddwen is making no effort to throw off pursuit,” Sir Conal had said after four days on the road. “She has taken the princess of Rosia, for God’s sake! She must know that the king would have the entire army out searching for her.”

  “Eiddwen warned the princess to tell no one. We are fortunate that Sophia disobeyed and wrote me of her plan to elope. I left a message for the king that his daughter is safely with me at my estate.” Cecile gave a bitter smile. “Even if His Majesty did find out about the elopement, Eiddwen knows he would not dare risk a public scandal by sending people to pursue the couple. He would hush the matter up and pray to God that Sophia returns honorably wed. And we must remember, Sir Conal, Eiddwen sabotaged the palace before she left. She expects to hear any moment that it has fallen from the sky.”