The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  When the cleaning was finished, Miri sought out Brother Barnaby, who was wringing water from the rags and spreading them out to dry.

  “Brother, I need to speak to you,” Miri said.

  “Certainly, mistress,” said Brother Barnaby, giving her his full attention.

  “Did you tell Gythe to come here?” Miri asked, frowning. “Knowing she would be in danger?”

  Brother Barnaby shook his head. “The idea was her own, mistress. I tried to dissuade her from coming.” He gave a gentle smile. “Your sister is very determined.”

  “But how did you come to be here?”

  “I was taken prisoner at the battle of Westfirth. They captured many priests at that time. They brought us to the temple. They tortured us, asking for information about books written by the saints. At first, I didn’t know why. Now I believe they were searching for a way to end these storms.”

  He spoke calmly of his capture and torment, giving no hint of the pain and suffering he must have endured. His robes were torn in places and Miri could see weals left by the lash on his back, and ugly scars on his chest and arms.

  “What happened to the other priests?” Miri asked.

  “The Blood Mage took them,” said Brother Barnaby. “I presume they were sacrificed in a blood magic ritual.”

  “How did you survive?” Miri recalled something the Blood Mage had said. “You helped these fiends; the same demons who tortured you and murdered the innocent!”

  “They are not fiends, mistress,” said Brother Barnaby. “They are God’s children.”

  Miri snorted. “Go on with your story. What about Gythe?”

  Brother Barnaby held out his hand, palm up.

  “Do you remember when your sister inscribed that construct on my hand—the Trundler sign of friendship. It must have been magical, because when I was alone in the darkness of my cell, in pain and afraid, she sang to me. She sang the old Trundler songs to comfort me and to help me endure the pain. I began to sing with her to keep my spirits up. My captors heard me singing and I think they felt a kind of kinship to me. Most of these people are not evil. They have to make a living, support their families.”

  “By knocking down our buildings and murdering nuns,” said Miri.

  Brother Barnaby sighed. “Some are fanatics, that is true, consumed with hatred and rage. In a way, we have had our revenge. The prisoners from Above brought with them a virulent fever. It swept through the prison, striking down guards and prisoners alike. Their healers were at a loss, having never encountered such an illness. I was familiar with typhoid fever and able to treat those who had caught it.

  “When some of the Children of Shadow and temple soldiers fell ill with the fever, one of the guards I had treated told Xavier I could help, and he ordered my release from prison. I was treating one of the soldiers, Patrick, and he marveled that I could help my enemy. I told him of my beliefs, and he in turn told me about the resistance, how he and his comrades wanted to stop the war and raise their families in peace. He asked me to join their cause.

  “At first I refused. I am not a warrior. But then, when I was treating some of the drummers, I heard them describe the blood magic ceremony and Xavier’s plans for the world Above. He intends to plunge the nations into darkness and chaos as retribution for what we did to the people of Glasearrach.”

  Brother Barnaby looked away, his eyes dark and shadowed. “I knew I could never face Sir Ander or Father Jacob if I did nothing to try to stop Xavier and his evil brother.”

  “Who are these drummers?” Miri asked. “What do they do?”

  “They use blood magic to enhance the power of contramagic, then blazon the magic into the Breath so that its force destroys our magic and takes down buildings, as they did with the Crystal Market.”

  Miri was dubious. “People banging on drums. From down here. How is that possible?”

  “I’m sure Father Jacob could explain,” said Brother Barnaby. “I cannot. All I know is that the Blood Mage and his drummers celebrated when word came from their agents that the Crystal Market had fallen. When the invasion fleet sails, they plan to take down many more structures. The drummers boast of being able to destroy continents.”

  “Stephano must know about this!” Miri muttered.

  “I beg your pardon, mistress,” said Brother Barnaby. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Never mind. Patrick told me that when Xavier and his soldiers are gone, the rebels will attack the temple and other military posts throughout Glasearrach. The resistance needs Gythe to stop the storms so that the fleet can sail. But if the invasion fleet sails, Xavier will launch his war against our people,” Miri said, trying to puzzle this out. “The rebels must know this.”

  “The rebels do not care what happens to the world Above, mistress,” said Brother Barnaby somberly. “You can hardly blame them. They want to end the suffering of their people here Below.”

  “And if Gythe doesn’t stop the storms, the Blood Mage will butcher us,” Miri said, sighing.

  She looked at Gythe and Sophia, who were playing with Bandit, laughing at the antics of the little dog. The countess paced the floor, her troubled gaze often resting on Sophia. And in the morning … Xavier would come to test them.

  Miri made up her mind. “Gythe, Your Highness, put the dog down and come over here. Sit down on that pallet. Countess, please join us. Brother Barnaby, tell them what you told me.”

  “The guards could be watching us,” said Brother Barnaby. “They can observe us through that small window in the door. We should seem to be doing something, otherwise they will think we are conspiring.”

  “Which is what we are doing,” said Miri.

  “We can play a round game,” Cecile suggested. “How, Why, When, Where. One of us thinks of an object. The rest of you must ask questions to try to figure out what it is. You can only ask, ‘Why do you like it? When do you like it? Where do you like it? How do like it?’”

  Miri and Gythe exchanged glances. Gythe made a face.

  “We know this game,” said Miri. “Rigo made us play it when we were stuck on that island. Countess, you start.”

  Cecile said she was thinking of an object. The others asked questions and she responded. The asking of questions took a considerable amount of thought. During the intervals, Brother Barnaby told in a low voice all that he had told Miri.

  “I saw the invasion fleet,” said Miri softly. Aloud she said, “I guess the object is a bucket.”

  “Very good. Miri, it is your turn. I believe you have already thought of something,” Cecile added with a flicker of her eyelids.

  Miri smiled, taking her meaning. “I have!” she whispered. “Someone needs to warn Stephano about the invasion fleet and bring him to Dunlow to destroy it. Gythe and Sophia will stop the storms—”

  Gythe interrupted with strong gestures. “And you will go warn him?” She jabbed a finger at Miri. “You cannot sail through the wizard storms! It is too dangerous!”

  “That didn’t stop you from bringing us down here,” Miri retorted.

  Gythe’s hands fell to her lap, and her eyes welled with tears. She suddenly flung her arms around Miri in a fierce embrace. Miri held her close, thinking how hard it would be to sail away and leave her sister behind. In all their years, they had never been separated.

  “We are playing a game,” Brother Barnaby reminded them in warning tones. His eyes went to the prison door.

  “When do you like it, Miri?” Cecile asked loudly. She said in an undertone, “You can take Sophia with you.”

  Miri shook her head. “The risk to Her Highness would be too great. First I will have to escape from the temple, which will not be easy, and then I will be sailing the Breath in a small boat.”

  Miri knew the perils. No one better, for she had been sailing since she was tall enough to reach the helm. The odds of surviving a journey through the bone-chilling cold and fierce storms in a small boat were against her. She did not want to elaborate on the danger, however, for fear Gythe woul
d refuse to let her go and Brother Barnaby would refuse his help.

  “I would not want to be responsible for the life of Her Highness,” Miri concluded.

  “And yet, I believe the Sophia’s life will be in greater danger if she stays here. She will go with you,” said Cecile, softly but firmly. “Sir Conal will accompany you both.”

  The countess did not raise her voice. She had no need. She spoke calmly and evenly, in the tone of one accustomed to being obeyed. Miri understood how Stephano found it difficult, if not impossible, to oppose his mother.

  “Very well, my lady,” Miri said, daunted.

  “Bandit wants to know how you like it,” said Sophia loudly, holding up the little dog. Dropping her voice, she said, “I’m staying here. Miri says Gythe and I need to stop the storms.”

  “Your Highness,” said Cecile, “you must let me advise you in this matter. I know what is best for you.”

  “You are undoubtedly right, my lady,” said Sophia, flushing. “You risked your life to find me. But if I leave, they would have no reason to keep you alive.”

  “Your Highness is not to consider that,” said Cecile.

  “But I must! I have to! I don’t want to leave,” Sophia said earnestly. “I want to stay with Gythe. She says I am gifted in magic and she can teach me. My entire life has been a waste. I have never been of use to anyone. I can be of use now.”

  “Your Highness, you must not say things like that,” said Cecile.

  “But it is the truth, my lady. You cannot deny it,” said Sophia somberly. “I have been pampered and petted, dressed up like a doll, told to smile prettily and dance well. If it weren’t for you, Countess, I would not even know how to read and write. I don’t want to be sent away. I want to be useful. I want to help. You taught me that. You told me that as a member of the royal family, I have duties and responsibilities to my people.”

  Cecile regarded Sophia with mingled exasperation and fond pride. “I had no idea I was such a good teacher.” She reached out to take Sophia’s hand. “You had the courage and strength and wit to survive an ordeal that would have defeated many others. I am proud of you.”

  “Then I may stay?” Sophia asked.

  “You are a true princess of Rosia, my dear,” said Cecile, smiling. “You have made the decision to help your people. You do not need my permission.”

  “Then I am staying,” said Sophia.

  The sound of a key rattling in the lock brought the conversation to an abrupt halt. The door swung open.

  “Time to go, Brother,” said the guard.

  Miri glanced out the prison’s single window. She was startled to see that night had fallen, bringing a deeper darkness to this gray, dreary world.

  “I must leave now,” said Brother Barnaby. “I will return in the morning.”

  “Please ask Patrick about a boat,” Miri said softly.

  “I will,” said Brother Barnaby. He hesitated, then asked, “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Miri smiled. “You said yourself, Brother. We cannot let God fight this battle alone.”

  18

  The church was appalled when our predictions of disaster came true. They came to our prison to beg us to intercede with God to save them from themselves. We could not bear to see the suffering of the people.

  —Confessions of Saint Marie

  Cecile rarely slept much, and tonight Miri was too nervous to sleep. The two had spent the evening improving Miri’s plan and finding a way for Miri to escape the temple. Afterward, for the first night in many long and sleepless nights, Cecile went to bed with hope in her heart instead of dread. She fell asleep despite the loud cracks of thunder.

  Day dawned as usual without the sun. The guards gave them a meager breakfast of bread and dried meat. Cecile didn’t protest the small rations; she knew from her journey across Glasearrach that the guards themselves wouldn’t eat much better. At her insistence, the men brought fresh water for their ablutions.

  Sophia ate the bread and nibbled at the meat, then fed most of her share to Bandit, who relished the treat. Sophia was in markedly better spirits than the previous day. The women carried out the slop buckets and shook the pallets. Cecile dressed carefully in preparation for Xavier’s visit, arranging her hair and putting on her gold mantle. Then she paced, thinking, wondering, going over their plan in her mind, worrying about what might go wrong. At about midday, the guards opened the door, admitted Brother Barnaby, then left, closing the door behind themselves.

  “Xavier is coming,” he said, adding in an undertone, “He is not far behind me.”

  “What about the boat?” Miri asked.

  “I spoke to Patrick last night,” said Brother Barnaby. “He can obtain a boat, something similar to your houseboat. Trundlers use such boats to sail from Dunlow to the port towns on the coast, taking goods to market.”

  He started to add something, then fell silent.

  “What?” Miri demanded.

  “Patrick does not think your plan will succeed. Those from Below who have attempted to sail such small craft into the Breath have either been forced to return or have never returned at all.”

  “These people live their lives on the ground,” Miri said with a disdainful sniff. “What do they know about sailing the Breath? Tell me more about this boat. How much sail does she carry? How many lift tanks?”

  His eyes widened at these questions.

  “I don’t—”

  Cecile heard a commotion outside the door.

  “Hush!” she whispered. “Make ready!”

  The guards opened the door again, and Xavier entered.

  Cecile had not been certain what to expect: a madman, a despot, a fanatic. When she saw him, she realized he could not be so easily defined.

  Xavier looked to be in his early fifties with dark hair tinged with gray, like his brother’s. He wore it cut short, which looked good on him. He was of medium height and build. His eyes were large and gray; he had the pale complexion of all those living Below. He was clean shaven, though the shadow of his beard was blue against his white skin. He wore a sky blue mantle over breeches and a homespun shirt.

  He told the guards to leave him and they obeyed, withdrawing and shutting the door.

  As Xavier advanced to the middle of the room, he studied each of the women in turn. He seemed interested, not threatening. When his gaze shifted to Cecile, she was surprised. His gray eyes were shadowed, their light obscured by the shadow of some heavy burden.

  As she studied him more closely she noted that although he tried to appear austere and aloof, as befitted a ruler, the deep creases around his mouth spoke of bitter resignation, the lines around his eyes of disillusionment.

  “This man once believed in miracles,” Cecile said to herself. “He doesn’t anymore.”

  Cecile had lived in the Rosian royal court since the age of sixteen and she had visited the royal courts of other nations. Palace intrigue was the same the world over, and the court in Glasearrach was no different. Those who surrounded Xavier might term themselves warders, stewards, or attendants, but they were the same sycophants, flatterers, and obsequious liars who fawned over every ruler.

  Alaric believed the lies and basked in the flattery, but she sensed that Xavier saw through the lies to the ugly truth that lay beneath; he could trust no one and that grieved him.

  She met his gaze coolly and held it. At the sight of her gold mantle, he frowned slightly. He must be wondering about her, why had he never noticed her among his followers.

  Cecile wondered how to deal with this complex man. She wished she had more time to come to know him, especially since she dared not make a mistake in her judgment with the lives of people precious to her at stake. He seemed to be waiting for her to speak and she had no idea what to say. Fortunately Bandit chose that moment to break free of Sophia’s grasp. Barking madly, the dog made a dash at Xavier.

  He shifted his gaze from Cecile to the dog, though he didn’t really seem to see him. Here was a man whose tho
ughts turned inward, who had withdrawn into himself and shut the doors and bolted the windows.

  Gythe caught hold of the spaniel, who was not nearly as hard to grab as the Doctor when he was bent on mischief. She returned the dog to Sophia, who clasped her hand over Bandit’s muzzle and told him in frightened tones to be quiet.

  Xavier turned to Sophia and spoke to her in Rosian, which told Cecile he already knew something about her. His voice was deep and resonant, an orator’s voice, one accustomed to holding an audience in thrall.

  “The guards were ordered to give you special treatment, young woman. Why is that? Because you are a princess?”

  Sophia paled. She didn’t know how to respond.

  “Because she is a savant,” said Cecile. “You must know this, sir. You ordered Eiddwen to bring her here. As you ordered her to sabotage the Rosian royal palace.”

  Cecile saw a frown line in his forehead deepen. What she had suspected was true, then. He knew nothing of Eiddwen’s orders to sabotage the royal palace. The order had been given in his name.

  “And did she succeed?” Xavier asked, more out of curiosity than because he truly cared.

  “I pray not, sir,” said Cecile earnestly.

  “And who might you be, Steward?” He regarded her gravely. “I was told you came with an urgent message for me.”

  Cecile slightly smiled. “That was a ruse. I am not a steward, sir, as you must have already guessed. I stole this mantle at the monastery of Saint Dominick’s in order to speed my travels through Glasearrach. I am Lady Cecile de Marjolaine of the Rosian royal court. I came to find the princess. Her Royal Highness is my only care, my only concern.”

  Miri was staring at her in shock, Gythe in horror, and Sophia looked dismayed. All of them must be thinking that she had lost her mind, that by telling him the truth, she was placing all of them in danger.

  They didn’t understand. Cecile could tell by his questions and the way he looked at her that he already knew she was not who she claimed to be.

  A man accustomed to lies can find the truth refreshing. Xavier was interested.