The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  The two monks on guard duty saw two of their fellows running toward them. Fearing an emergency, they opened the gate. Alan and Henry arrived breathless.

  “Intruders … Library of the Forbidden…,” Alan gasped. “We fear they may come here next. Try to free the prisoners!”

  “Is all well?” Henry demanded.

  Before the monk could answer, Alan and Henry put the blowguns to their lips and blew fine, dustlike powder into the faces of the two monks. He knew from experience that the blinding powder would first hit their eyes, making them feel as if their eyeballs were being pierced by tiny hot needles, then fly down their throats.

  Both monks fell to their knees, rubbing their streaming eyes, gasping and coughing.

  “Go!” Alan said. “To your left!”

  Alan and Henry ran through the prison and dashed outside, heading for the small building where the prisoners were housed. Bursting through the door, they entered the darkened room and found a monk praying at the shrine. As he turned his head to look, Alan raised his second blowgun and fired a stone pellet. He hit the monk in the forehead, right above the nose. The monk fell to the floor and did not move.

  “Good shot. I’m impressed,” said Henry.

  Alan shrugged. “I’ve been practicing.”

  Henry pulled out the keys and sorted through them hurriedly. Simon had painted a mark on each to tell them apart. While he tried to find the right key in the dim light of a candle burning on the altar, Alan was down on his knees, examining the lock, gazing intently at the magical constructs.

  “I can see them,” he reported softly. “I hope Simon’s friend the burglar was right about this deconstruction technique—”

  He touched the lock with his fingers and murmured a few words. Henry kept an eye on the door. “Hurry, Alan—”

  “Done!” Alan said softly. “It worked. I will have to remember that spell.”

  Henry paused a moment to look around. He and Alan had moved fast and in complete silence. He doubted if anyone had heard or seen anything, but he needed to make sure. The cell where the prisoners slept was quiet. No glimmer of light shone from beneath the locked door.

  “Ready,” he whispered.

  Alan kicked open the door and jumped inside the dark cell with the cry, “God save Queen Mary!”

  Startled, the monk on guard duty leaped from his stool, trying to see the intruder as spells crackled from the man’s fingertips. Alan dashed into the room, allowing Henry to blow the blinding powder into the monk’s face. When the monk reeled, rubbing his eyes, Alan knocked him to the floor, unconscious.

  Light gleamed. Henry turned to see Sir Ander, holding a lantern, standing at the door to his cell, ready to go. Father Jacob, on the other hand, was shuffling through papers, tossing some and stuffing others in the breast of his cassock.

  “Bloody hell,” Alan swore, “what are you doing?”

  “Gathering up my research…,” Father Jacob said calmly.

  “Father, we talked about this—” said Sir Ander.

  “You go ahead, Sir Ander,” Father Jacob replied, perusing a paper. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Alan fixed Sir Ander with a grim look. “You either get him out of here or he can stay and rot.”

  “I’ll deal with him.” Sir Ander started to open his cell door. Red fire flared and he snatched back his fingers with a curse.

  “Damn it, Jacob! You were supposed to remove the magic constructs on the locks!”

  Father Jacob looked up from his work.

  “Oh, yes, sorry.” He fixed his gaze on the lock and the red fire flickered out. “There you go.”

  He went back to his papers. Sir Ander touched the cell door gingerly, and when nothing happened, he opened it and went to Father Jacob’s cell.

  “Father, you need to unlock your own door.”

  Father Jacob looked up vaguely. “I opened it weeks ago. There. I’m ready.”

  Finished with his papers, Father Jacob gave his cell door a push. The lock snapped and the door swung open.

  “We can leave now,” he said to Sir Ander, who was staring at him in blank astonishment.

  Henry had taken up a post at the door leading to the cells, keeping watch for more monks. He thought he had caught a glimpse of movement and stared hard into the night. He didn’t see anything, but he didn’t like it.

  “I suggest you hurry, gentlemen,” Henry said coolly.

  Alan came up beside him. He looked and sounded disgusted.

  “Give me your other blowgun, the one you haven’t fired.”

  “Changed your mind about shooting Jacob?” Henry asked.

  “No, but I will if I have to stay around him much longer,” Alan replied. “You deal with him.”

  Henry handed over the blowgun. Alan moved quietly through the room, heading for the entrance. Once there, he looked back and motioned.

  “All clear! Hurry up!”

  Sir Ander went first, followed by Father Jacob. Henry came last, carefully shutting the door to the cell block behind him.

  Hearing Alan swear, Henry turned to see Father Jacob kneeling beside the monk Alan had hit with the stone pellet. The priest had his hand on the monk’s neck, feeling his pulse.

  “He’s not dead, as I feared. Only stunned.”

  “If I wanted him dead, Jacob, he’d be dead,” said Alan, his voice grating. He gazed grimly at his brother

  Father Jacob glanced around. He very slightly smiled. “I understand. I am grateful, Alan.”

  “You can be grateful later. Now move!”

  Father Jacob stood up. Henry started toward the door.

  “Wait,” said Sir Ander. “Someone’s here.”

  Henry froze. Alan whipped around, lifting the blowgun to his lips. He drew in a breath, then let it out in a shocked gasp as the blowgun disintegrated in a shower of glittering red sparks.

  A man moved out of the darkness, emerging into the light cast by the candle on the altar.

  “Master,” said Father Jacob. He made a respectful bow.

  Alan was swearing softly, shaking his burned fingers. His hand stole into the pocket where he kept the blinding powder. Henry went to his volatile friend and clasped hold of him firmly.

  “Let Jacob handle this,” he said in warning tones.

  Alan’s swearing trailed off. He looked sullen and very grim.

  Sir Ander moved to stand protectively in front of Father Jacob.

  “He means me no harm, my friend,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander reluctantly stepped aside.

  The master stood calmly, hands folded in front of him. No one moved or spoke. Henry knew they were in trouble, yet oddly, he was neither worried nor fearful. This monk could have dropped every one of them without breaking into a sweat. Henry kept one hand on his friend and watched, intrigued.

  “Where are you going, Father?” the master asked.

  “I am traveling to Freya,” said Father Jacob. “With my brother, Captain Northrop, and Sir Henry Wallace.”

  Alan drew in a seething breath. “That treacherous—”

  Henry dug his fingers into his friend’s arm. “Shut up!”

  “Alan and Sir Henry believe that the woman known as the Sorceress is plotting with the Bottom Dwellers to destroy their country. Sir Ander and I have faced her before. They need our help.”

  The master nodded, his face impassive, expressionless.

  “I have spent many days in prayer, Father Jacob. God spoke to me. My way is clear.”

  In the silence, Henry could hear each man softly breathing. He could hear his own heart beat.

  “For too long we have imprisoned truth, Father,” said the master. “The lies must end.”

  Father Jacob shook his head. “Master, I never wanted this. I will go back to my cell. I will stay there for the rest of my life—”

  “We are the ones who have silenced God’s voice. Go to Freya, Father,” said the master. “Stop the evil, if you can. God go with you and your comrades.”

&nb
sp; The master remained standing by the altar. The light of the candle wavered in a slight breeze blowing gently through the open door.

  “I’ll be damned! He’s letting us go!” Alan whispered.

  “Keep still,” said Henry. “We’re not out of this yet.”

  Father Jacob stood dejectedly in the middle of the room with his head bowed and his shoulders slumped. Sir Ander was beside him talking to him, softly and urgently. At last Father Jacob heaved a deep sigh and began to walk toward the door. Sir Ander kept close to his side.

  “What’s happening?” Alan asked in a whisper. “Do you know?”

  “I have a good idea,” said Henry.

  They continued out the entrance, across the courtyard, and through the prison gate. The monks who had inhaled the powder were still recovering, rubbing their streaming eyes and coughing so much that they couldn’t stand.

  Leaving the prison, the four of them, with Alan in the lead and Sir Ander bringing up the rear, took the winding path that led to the carriage house. Henry found himself beside Father Jacob.

  The priest seemed overcome by grief, hardly watching where he was going. When once he stumbled, Sir Henry put out a hand to steady him.

  “Thank you for agreeing to help us, Father. For saving a country and its people who sent you into exile, and two men who once tried to kill you.”

  “That was in the past, Sir Henry,” said Father Jacob quietly. “As the scriptures say, ‘Forgive, as you hope to be forgiven.’”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Henry remarked wryly.

  Father Jacob smiled, but only barely, then appeared to sink once more into his sorrow-laden thoughts.

  “Jacob,” said Henry softly, leaning close to whisper. “What did you do?”

  “I have destroyed the Church that I love,” said Father Jacob.

  24

  I bear the guilt of ages.

  —Ferdinand Montagne, Grand Bishop of Rosia

  But what else could I have done? Father Jacob asked himself.

  The words sounded familiar and he realized he had asked that same question before, when he had fled his homeland, leaving behind his father, in prison for his son’s crime, and a younger brother who vowed to kill him.

  “What else could I have done?” he repeated. “I had to go where God led me.”

  “Where Montagne led you,” said Sir Ander.

  “What?” Father Jacob asked, stopping to stare at his friend.

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Sir Ander. “Montagne chose you of all the other priests in the Arcanum to investigate the attack on the cutter, Defiant. He chose you to go to the Abbey of Saint Agnes. In his heart, the grand bishop wanted you to find the truth he could never reveal.”

  Father Jacob looked up into the heavens, at the myriad stars, the wonders of God’s universe.

  “You are right, my friend. And in his soul, he dreaded it.”

  * * *

  The four men found Dubois waiting for them at the carriage house, with five griffins saddled and ready. He must have sent the lay brothers back to their beds, because he was alone. Unlike wyverns, who would have been in a screeching, clawing brawl by now, the proud and noble griffins waited patiently, cleaning their beaks with their claws, preening their feathers, and talking softly.

  Dubois hurried to meet them. He opened his mouth, but whatever he had been going to say was drowned out by the sudden clamor of bells sounding from the towers and echoing throughout the Citadel.

  The griffins bounded to their feet, looking around, curious as to the uproar.

  “That bastard monk betrayed us!” Alan said angrily.

  “The alarm is not for us,” said Father Jacob.

  “Who is it for, then?” Alan demanded.

  Father Jacob did not answer. He had noticed only four griffins were saddled and ready to carry passengers. Dubois had persuaded the fifth griffin to serve as a “pack horse.” The griffin was carrying a small trunk strapped onto its back.

  “What is in the trunk?” Father Jacob asked.

  “The master sent that for you, Father,” said Dubois. “He said you would know what it contained.”

  “The writings of the saints,” said Father Jacob. “Taken from the Library of the Forbidden. Montagne did not sanction this, did he, monsieur?”

  “You should be on your way, Father,” Dubois said.

  Henry and Alan were busy checking the harnesses and the saddles to make certain they were securely strapped on. Donning their flight helms, they mounted the griffins and waited impatiently for Sir Ander and Father Jacob. The knight was inspecting Father Jacob’s saddle, knowing well that he would never think to do so.

  “Sir Ander, I believe these belong to you.”

  Dubois held out Sir Ander’s dragon pistol and the two pistols he’d had specially made that were plain, unadorned, and did not require the use of magic.

  Sir Ander took them. He was pleased, but obviously perplexed. “The monks locked those in storage, Dubois. How did you come by them?”

  “The master,” said Dubois. “He said you would need them.”

  Father Jacob cast a sharp glance at Dubois.

  “I see four griffins saddled and five riders.”

  “I am not leaving, Father,” said Dubois. “My loyalty is to the grand bishop. His Eminence will need me.”

  “You are a good man, Monsieur Dubois,” said Father Jacob. “And a faithful friend.”

  “Go with God, Father,” said Dubois.

  Sir Ander hustled Father Jacob to his griffin and assisted the priest, then climbed into the saddle of his own mount. Alan gave the command to fly. The griffins sprang off with their powerful lion hind legs, spread their eagle wings, and soared swiftly up and over the inland sea.

  As they circled, gaining altitude. Father Jacob looked down on the Citadel’s walls that shone with a faint radiance in the moonlight. A single, solitary light was lit in the window of the grand bishop’s residence.

  Montagne was awake and could hear the bells. He must know what was coming; perhaps he had always known. A good man, he must suffer for a crime he had not committed.

  “God have mercy,” Father Jacob said to the air rushing beneath the griffin’s wings.

  He would never return to the Citadel. No matter what happened, he could never go back. Once again, he was leaving a home, and a family he loved.

  And again, he was leaving it in ruins.

  * * *

  Dubois watched the griffins, the wings black against the stars, until they were lost to view. The stable hands had been wakened by the alarm and were quaking in their boots, fearing they would be blamed for aiding criminals to escape. Dubois calmed them.

  “Where are the monks of Saint Klee?” he asked. “If those gentlemen had been criminals, the monks would have been pursuing them. As you see, they are not.”

  The stable hands had to admit his reasoning was sound. He again sent them back to their beds and began the long climb up the mountain.

  By now, nearly every person in the Citadel was awake, wondering what was going on. Dubois encountered bleary-eyed priests and nuns, wandering about in their nightclothes. Seeing Dubois, they hurried over to him, asking questions. He lowered his head and pretended he did not hear.

  He passed the house of the provost. Lights flared from every window, turning night into day. Members of the Arcanum, summoned from their beds, would be leaving the Citadel with secret orders calling the Council of Bishops into emergency session. That meant sending messengers to Travia and Estara and every other country where the Church had a presence. Given the nature of the crisis, the provost would also send an urgent message to the archbishop of the Freyan church. He, too, would be affected.

  Dubois headed for the residence of the grand bishop. A single light shone in the stained-glass window of the small chapel attached to the house.

  Dubois found the master and the provost conferring in the darkness in front of the house. Monks of Saint Klee stood some distance away. Dubois kept to the s
hadows, listening.

  “I do not like what we are doing this night, Master,” the provost was arguing. “Montagne has made mistakes. He should never have tried to silence Father Jacob. I told the grand bishop the Church could weather the storm that would break when the truth became known. Montagne spoke truly when he said the decision was not his. This secret had been given to him, passed down from one grand bishop to the next. He was trying to save the Church.”

  “He was trying to save himself,” said the master.

  Provost Phillipe sighed deeply, an aggrieved sigh as for the death of someone dearly loved. He glanced uncertainly at the lighted window. “I do not like the thought of barging in there and placing him under arrest. He has not been well.”

  Dubois slipped out of the shadows.

  “I believe I can be of help, gentlemen.”

  “You are Dubois,” said the Master. “The grand bishop’s agent.”

  “And his friend,” said Dubois gently. “Let me speak to him.”

  The provost regarded him in thoughtful silence.

  “Very well. Come with us.”

  The master and Provost Phillipe entered the house, Dubois following a few discreet paces behind. Inside, the hall was dark; only starlight, shining through the windows, lit their way. The master carried a lantern, but he did not light it. The still, quiet darkness seemed more suitable. Noisy, bright day would come soon enough.

  The chapel was small, intimate. The master silently opened the door. Dubois looked inside to see two rows of well-polished pews and a shrine to Saint Marie. A marble statue of the saint stood in a niche in the wall, behind an altar. A single candle burned on the altar. The candlelight playing on her face made the marble seem alive.

  She should feel vindicated, Dubois thought.

  But the saint’s stone face seemed sorrowful.

  Montagne was on his knees before the altar with his back to them, his arms resting on the altar rail, his hands clasped in prayer. When they entered, a shudder passed through his large, heavy frame. He did not turn or lift his head.

  Provost Phillipe paused, embarrassed, uncertain what to do, not wanting to disturb a man at prayer. The master took a step forward. The provost stopped him. “The responsibility is mine.”