The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  “One of my followers … what was his name … Paul, I believe … He was a spy, posed as a monk. He worked as a courier for the grand bishop. Did you know him?”

  Cecile shook her head. “The grand bishop and I are not on the best of terms, sir.”

  “I am properly addressed as Naomh,” Xavier said. “That is Trundler for ‘saint.’”

  Cecile curtsied. “I am properly addressed as Countess or my lady.”

  Xavier almost smiled. His deep-set eyes flickered.

  “Paul reported that the Princess Sophia was extraordinarily sensitive. He said she heard drumbeats that gave her debilitating headaches. Is that true, my lady?”

  “I will let Her Highness tell you herself,” Cecile replied.

  “I can feel the drumbeats inside me, N-Naomh,” said Sophia, faltering over the Trundler word. “The drums pound in my head and my heart. The pain burns like fire.”

  He was about to say something more when Gythe advanced, making emphatic gesture with her hands and pointing to herself. Xavier stared at her perplexedly.

  “What is she doing?”

  “She asks to speak to you, Naomh,” said Miri, coming forward to stand with Gythe.

  “Why doesn’t she talk then if she has something to say?” Xavier asked with a flash of annoyance.

  “My sister cannot speak, Naomh,” said Miri. “She has not spoken since she was a child. She is a savant, like the princess, and myself. She knows what causes the headaches.”

  Gythe’s hands moved.

  “She says the same contramagic that creates the wizard storms affects those who are sensitive to magic, causing them pain.”

  Xavier seized on one word. “Contramagic! How does she know about contramagic? The study of such magic is forbidden.”

  “How we know is not important,” said Miri. “But with such knowledge, Gythe and the princess and I can stop the wizard storms.”

  “No savants before you have been able to stop them,” said Xavier, frowning.

  “That is because they did not truly understand the connection between magic and contramagic,” said Miri.

  “You two are Trundlers,” Xavier said abruptly.

  “We are,” said Miri, lifting her head with pride. “I am Miri and this is Gythe. We are members of the McPike clan.”

  “You might well have cousins down here,” said Xavier. His eyes grew shadowed. “We expected our cousins Above to come to our rescue. We cried out to them, but they did not come.”

  Gythe touched her ears and shook her head. “They could not hear you.”

  “They heard us,” said Xavier grimly. “They wanted us to sink out of their knowledge.” And with that, he fell silent.

  Miri’s eyes burned with anger, and she was about to speak, but Cecile flashed her a warning glance, so she was quiet, biting her lip.

  “I have been Above many times,” said Xavier at last. “My father took me when I was a young man. I remember standing in the sunshine for the first time. I couldn’t see very well; the light hurt my eyes. I wept to see the sunlight. I wept to think of how many hundreds of years we have lived in darkness. I wanted to bring my people to this land of light.”

  “Why are you attacking us?” Cecile asked softly, wondering, not accusing. “Why start a war? You could have come in peace.”

  “And what sort of welcome would we have received, Countess?” Xavier asked. He eyed her shrewdly. “The last time our people came to your world in peace, they were murdered.”

  Cecile had no answer. She twisted the gold ring on her finger.

  “We practice contramagic,” Xavier continued. “We know many ugly truths about the church. At the very least we would be an embarrassment to your bishop and your king. At the worst, a serious threat. War between our worlds was inevitable. We decided to strike the first blow, that is all.”

  “Murdering innocent nuns,” Miri said, glowering.

  “How many innocents died when our island was sunk?” Xavier returned angrily.

  Cecile hastily intervened, trying to keep everyone calm. “You want to bring your people into the light, Naomh. But if you are victorious, you will destroy the light. Centuries ago, the contramagic that sank your island plunged the world into the Dark Ages. The drumming, if it continues, will have the same effect.”

  For a moment, discussing the war, Xavier had been passionate, engaged. But now, he retreated back into himself again. He glanced at the window. The morning was dark with rain.

  “You already know that,” Cecile said in sudden understanding.

  “When I was young, I thrilled to hear the drumbeat.” Xavier spoke in a low tone, perhaps more to himself than to them. “My brother and I were eager to witness the blood magic ritual. My brother was enthralled, but I was horrified by the blood and the screams of the dying. My father told me those who were sacrificed went to their deaths willingly, proud to be chosen.”

  He looked up, his eyes shadowed, haunted. “Now, I hear the screams and I know my father was lying.”

  “Then stop it,” said Miri.

  “I cannot. I am Xavier.” He looked at Cecile, to see if she understood.

  Cecile shook her head. If she did, she wanted to hear his thinking.

  “I represent all the Xaviers who came before me, who dreamed of the day we would avenge ourselves on those who left us here to die in the darkness. Sometimes I feel their hands,” he added softly, “pushing me from behind, shoving me forward. This is their dream, the dream of my people.”

  His voice hardened. “I will not abandon it.”

  The thought came to Cecile that ironically, Xavier and his foe, Grand Bishop Montagne, were very much alike: both were impelled by the same forces from the past to take actions that might destroy what they fought to save.

  “I have business I must conduct this day,” Xavier said briskly, breaking in on her musings. “You savants will work your magic tomorrow.”

  Miri cast Cecile an alarmed glance. Tomorrow would be too soon. They would not be ready, either to stop the storm or to arrange Miri’s escape.

  “We have only just arrived,” Cecile said. “We are tired. The princess is not well—”

  “Tomorrow,” said Xavier, his voice grating. He started to leave, then turned around. “The man who escorted you, Countess, the warder with the limp. Where is he?”

  Cecile shrugged. “I have no idea. I lied to his commander, told him I was a steward. He gave the warder orders to bring me safely here. Once he had discharged his duty, he left.”

  Xavier gazed at her long and steadily, then turned on his heel and walked to the door. Rapping on it, he called out that he was ready to leave. The door opened, and as he started to walk through it, he glanced over his shoulder at Cecile. His expression darkened. He seemed puzzled, perhaps wondering why he had revealed so much of himself.

  Cecile knew the reason, even if he did not. “We are fellow prisoners,” she murmured.

  He left without another word. When the guards had shut the door again, nobody spoke.

  “What a strange man,” said Miri, breaking the silence. “Not what I expected.”

  “I don’t understand him,” said Sophia. “He is a king, like my father. He could stop the killing if he really wanted to. ‘I am Xavier.’ What does that mean?”

  “He is a king, but he is a desperate king,” said Cecile. “His rule is crumbling. He knows he has lost the trust of the people. He needs this war to restore the faith of his followers not only in himself, but in those Xaviers who came before him. He must justify their terrible deeds. He is desperate and that makes him dangerous.”

  She turned to Brother Barnaby.

  “I am afraid for Sir Conal. Xavier knows he is not truly a warder, any more than I am a steward. He will send men searching for him. What will happen to him, Brother? Can you and the rebels protect him?”

  Brother Barnaby shook his head, troubled. “We can hide Sir Conal for a short time, but as long as he remains here, he is at risk. He should sail back to Rosia with
Mistress Miri.”

  “I’m not sailing anywhere yet,” Miri pointed out. “Can Patrick have the boat ready by tomorrow?”

  “He will have to,” said Brother Barnaby.

  “I feel very stupid,” said Sophia, blushing. “How can I use magic to stop a storm? I’ve never practiced magic.”

  Gythe and Brother Barnaby gazed at her in silent shock.

  “Is this true, my lady?” Miri asked, dismayed. “Her Highness has never used her magic?”

  “I am afraid it is,” Cecile replied. “She and I studied the history of magic, of course, and I taught her how to form constructs. But the practical use of magic is not considered proper work for a princess.”

  “My mama said it would frighten away a husband,” said Sophia. Going to Cecile, she put her arm around her and laid her head on her shoulder. “I don’t want a husband. If we ever get back home, I never want to leave.”

  Cecile held her close and comforted her. Miri muttered something in the Trundler language and ran her hand distractedly through her red curls.

  “What are we going to do?” Miri demanded. “Gythe and Sophia must show they can stop the storms, even if only for a little while, or Xavier will give them to the Blood Mage. And we need them to divert the attention of the guards so that I can escape.”

  “Unless…” Cecile paused to consider her idea.

  “Unless what, my lady?” Miri asked.

  “Unless your escape diverts attention from Sophia and Gythe,” said Cecile.

  She explained her plan. Miri listened and approved.

  “I think it could work.” Her gaze went to Gythe. “But now I’m not certain I should leave.”

  Gythe knew what her sister was thinking, for she began speaking, her hands flashing, excited, enthusiastic.

  Brother Barnaby translated. “Gythe says you must not worry. She can work the magic. She will teach Sophia.”

  “She has so much to learn,” Miri said in worried tones.

  Brother Barnaby smiled reassuringly. “Sophia says she has never used her magic. I believe she has, although she might not know it. She could hear the drumming even when she was in the palace. She can hear Gythe’s voice in her mind and Gythe can hear hers.”

  Miri was still not convinced. “Gythe, when you stopped the storm that was threatening to sink the Cloud Hopper, you said you didn’t know how your magic worked. How can you teach Sophia what to do if you don’t know what you did?”

  Gythe laughed, but when she saw Miri’s somber expression, she stopped.

  “I know now,” she signed.

  Spreading her arms, she lifted her face, smiling joyously, as though she could see far beyond the prison walls. Blue sparkles of magic danced in the air and she began to whirl around and around like a child playing in the rain. Miri didn’t understand, but then she had never understood Gythe. She had, though, come to trust her.

  “I have the feeling you are all trying to get rid of me,” Miri said, but she smiled as she said it. “Brother Barnaby, tell Patrick to have the boat ready tomorrow. And you can tell Sir Conal he can come with me—if he dares.”

  Gythe clapped her hands and then sat down to talk animatedly with Sophia using a combination of signs and sharing their words in their minds. Miri stood some distance away, watching her sister with pride and affection. Brother Barnaby bade them farewell, saying he had to leave them to help Patrick with the arrangements for tomorrow.

  “I will walk with you, Brother, if I may,” said Cecile. “I need to speak to you about Sir Conal.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  “I have a task for you regarding him, Brother.”

  “I will be glad to help in any way I can, my lady,” Brother Barnaby replied.

  “Sir Conal will not want to leave me, no matter the risk to himself. You must persuade him to go with Mistress Miri. Tell him this mission is of the greatest importance to me.”

  Brother Barnaby was dubious. “Sir Conal is a Knight Protector and if he is like Sir Ander, my lady, he views his duty as given to him by God. I am not certain I can persuade him.”

  “And yet, you must do so, Brother. Sir Conal has knowledge of Xavier’s military, of the disposition of forces, armaments and the like. Stephano will need such information.”

  “Sir Conal does seem a sensible man,” said Brother Barnaby, as they reached the door. “I will carry your message. God bless and keep you, my lady.”

  He knocked on the door and the guards let him out. Cecile, hearing laughter, turned to see Gythe and Sophia playing cat’s cradle. She walked over to watch them, regarding them in wonder.

  “I thought they were working on the magic,” she said to Miri.

  “They are, my lady,” said Miri. “Watch.”

  Gythe had tied the ends of a piece of string together with a square knot. She hooked the string over her thumbs and then her little fingers, thrust the middle finger of one hand into the loop, as the middle finger of the other hand pulled the string to form yet another loop. She began to work the string deftly to form the “cradle,” singing softly as she worked.

  Sophia watched, fascinated.

  “What must I do?” she asked.

  “Place your fingers here and here, pinch, and you can lift the string from Gythe’s hands onto yours,” said Miri.

  Sophia did as she was told, taking hold of the “cradle” and transferring it to her own hands. She laughed in delight.

  “Now, Your Highness,” said Miri, “I want you to picture the strings as magical constructs.”

  Gythe sang again, and the cradle began to take on a faint blue glow. Sophia stared, entranced. Gythe took the string from Sophia’s hands and formed a more intricate net. She nodded at Sophia and sang more loudly, urging Sophia to join in the song, which was about a dog who chased a cat who chased a bird who chased a rat and so on.

  “This is for you, Bandit,” said Sophia, laughing and starting to sing.

  Gythe dropped the string. The blue glowing constructs remained in the air, twined around her hands. Sophia gingerly reached out, touched them, and gasped as she found she was able to manipulate them. The blue glow strengthened, shining brightly.

  The tangle of constructs grew, flaring with bright blue light. Bandit watched the blue glow from a safe distance, his head tilting to one side, then the other.

  And then the drumming began.

  The drumbeats were slow and irregular at first until the drummers fell into the rhythm. The beating of the drums, coming from the temple, grew louder and louder.

  Sophia gave a piercing scream and bent double, clasping her head in her hands and moaning. Gythe dropped the magic. The blue glowing constructs vanished. Bandit gave a piteous howl.

  Miri hurried to the princess. “Your Highness, what can I do help you? What does Brother Barnaby do?”

  “The potion!” Sophia moaned and fumbled for something beneath her pillow.

  She drew out a glass vial with a cork stopper. Her hands shook so violently she could not open it. Gythe took the vial, popped out the cork and sniffed. She wrinkled her nose and handed the vial to Miri.

  “Laudanum,” said Miri, smelling the bitter odor. “Opium laced with alcohol. Brother Barnaby did not give you that.”

  Sophia was distressed. She lowered her eyes.

  “Eiddwen gave her the potion,” said Cecile in grim understanding. “That is how she pretended to help her. She drugged her.”

  Miri poured the contents into one of the slop pails.

  The drumming stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but the silence that followed was almost worse than the beating of the drums. Cecile could hear the rain dripping off the roof of the prison, the low rumble of receding thunder, the grumble of another storm lying in wait on the horizon.

  Gythe began to sing again. Sophia brightened, her pain eased. She had a good ear for music. Cecile thought back with a pang to the many times they had played duets together and wondered if those sweet, peaceful hours would ever come again.

  Sophi
a’s voice was light and thin. Bandit had no taste for music, apparently, for he started to growl, and Sophia laughed at him. Gythe jumped up and held out her hands to Sophia. The two began to whirl around the room as Bandit chased after them, barking wildly.

  Miri and Cecile stood together, watching the young women dance, their hands clasped tightly, twirling until they made each other dizzy.

  “I have so many misgivings about leaving,” said Miri.

  “I know you do,” said Cecile.

  “What if I fail? What if I die or I’m captured? What will become of Gythe?”

  “I will care for her as though she were my own sister,” said Cecile. “Do not doubt yourself, Miri. You are courageous and resourceful. I know now why Stephano is in love with you.”

  Miri blushed crimson and flashed a startled look at Cecile.

  “Did he … did he say that, my lady?”

  “My son does not confide in me,” Cecile replied. “But a mother knows these things.”

  Miri recovered herself. The crimson faded. “You don’t have to worry, my lady. I would never marry Stephano. He is the son of a knight and a countess, and I am a Trundler’s daughter.”

  Cecile reached out to brush Miri’s red curls off her face, then gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek.

  “I would be proud and glad to call you my daughter.”

  19

  Our prayers calmed the storms to some extent, but we could not fully assuage God’s wrath. Until mankind learns wisdom, I fear eons will pass before harmony can be restored to the song of the universe.

  —Confessions of Saint Marie

  The women were too nervous to eat that morning, much to the delight of the guards, who had a second breakfast. Brother Barnaby arrived early on the pretense of treating Sophia for her headaches.

  “Patrick has a small houseboat which he thinks might survive the journey through the Breath.”

  Miri heard the emphasis on the word “might,” but pretended she didn’t.

  “Patrick has made the journey through the Breath many times,” Brother Barnaby continued. “He fears—”

  Miri fixed him with a warning glance. Brother Barnaby took the hint and said no more. Gythe, though, heard the unspoken words and looked sorrowfully at Miri. Even though Gythe had urged Miri to go, Miri knew her sister was afraid for her.