The Seventh Sigil

by Margaret Weis

  “Got to … stop that bleeding,” Henry muttered.

  Which meant he had to move, when even breathing hurt.

  The worst of his pain was on his right side. Gritting his teeth, he raised his head to observe the damage. The right side of his coat hung in charred tatters, where it wasn’t burned away altogether. What was left of his shirt and weskit was plastered to his body with blood.

  He blessed the magical constructs Simon and Mr. Sloan’s friend, the magically talented seamstress, had placed on his clothes. They had undoubtedly saved him from a face-to-face meeting with his creator. Henry managed to move his left hand, reach in and gingerly touch the wound. He felt burnt flesh and warm blood and, when he touched his ribs, searing pain.

  He fell back, letting the pain subside, then thrust his left hand inside the breast of his coat, fumbling about until he managed to draw a small vial from an inner pocket. He pulled out the cork with his teeth, shuddering at the pain, and tossed the liquid inside the vial down his throat. He waited for it to take effect.

  The elixir was a concoction of Simon’s. He had offered to explain what was in it, but since it involved illegal experimenting with corpses, Henry didn’t want to know. He waited until he felt the elixir’s desired effect start to work in his body. The foul-tasting stuff also had undesired effects, but those would come later.

  Henry felt a hot flush run through his body and then a surge of energy. The pain subsided from a shrieking howl to a gasping whimper, but he knew better than to try to stand. He could crawl, and that was enough. Blinking rainwater out of his eyes, he hauled himself over the rain-swept ground until he managed to reach Alan’s side. Once there, he collapsed from the pain, but hung on to consciousness with grim determination.

  Alan was in bad shape. Splintered edges of the broken bones in his arm protruded through the skin, and what remained of his right hand was attached by only a strip of flesh. Blood poured from the wound, taking his life with it.

  Henry needed a strip of cloth and a stick to make a tourniquet. The strip of cloth was easy. He had only to rip up what was left of his shirt. The stick was a different matter. The only trees in this godforsaken part of the world were too far away for him to reach. Then he remembered he had a knife in his boot. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he struggled to reach it and finally got hold of it.

  Alan’s skin was cold to the touch. If he had a pulse Henry couldn’t find it. The fact that the blood was warm and oozing was a good sign that he was still alive.

  He tied the cloth around Alan’s arm, knotted it over the hilt of the knife, and twisted. When he deemed it was tight enough, he tied the ends of the tourniquet around the knife to keep it from loosening. Then Henry rolled over on his back as the pain crashed down on him.

  He cried out for help, but no one answered, and he forced himself to face harsh reality. No one was coming to help because no one knew they were here. No one would even find their bodies. His wife and little son would never know what had happened to him. He hoped she would know that he was thinking of them at the end.

  He passed out again.

  When he woke, the rain had stopped. The wizard storm had moved out into the Breath. By the distant rumbling of thunder, another storm was on the way. The first of many in an age of endless storms, endless darkness. He looked at Alan.

  No change. The tourniquet was holding. The bleeding had more or less stopped. He was alive, but he wouldn’t be for much longer. Not unless they could get him some place warm and dry.

  Henry smiled bitterly and said into the silence, “And that’s not bloody likely.”

  From behind him came a gentle cough. “Perhaps I might be of service, my lord.”

  Henry closed his eyes. A shudder ran through his body. He feared he might be hallucinating. Simon had warned that could be a side effect of the adrenaline.

  “Tell me you are real, Mr. Sloan!” Henry said brokenly.

  He stretched out his hand.

  A strong, firm hand closed over his.

  “I am very real, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  Henry clung to Mr. Sloan’s hand. He couldn’t speak for long moments. When he did, his voice was choked. “How did you find us, Mr. Sloan? How did you get here? Angel wings?”

  “I trust those are in my future, my lord. I flew here on griffin-back. I regained consciousness not long after you left. The farmer’s wife told me where you had gone, and she provided me with a horse. I rode to the earl’s to find that his griffins had all safely returned. I persuaded them to bring me to the location where they had left you.”

  Mr. Sloan took off his heavy coat and, ignoring Henry’s feeble protests, tucked it around him. “If you can hold on a little longer, my lord, the earl’s wife is coming behind me with a carriage.”

  “The earl’s wife?” Henry was confused. “Sir John Benedict’s wife?”

  “Yes, my lord. That would be Lady Elaine. Her husband forbade her to come to your aid, but the lady is quite spirited and told him he was a silly ass, if you will forgive the expression. She was deeply concerned about Captain Northrop. It seems he made quite a favorable impression on her.”

  Henry started to laugh, caught his breath with a gasp and held very tightly to Mr. Sloan until the pain had eased. He looked worriedly at Alan, who had not regained consciousness. He lay unmoving, wrapped in a saddle blanket taken from the griffin.

  “How is he, Mr. Sloan?”

  “Touch and go, my lord. I fear he will lose the hand.”

  “Better than his life,” said Henry.

  “Indeed, my lord.”

  “How are you, Mr. Sloan?” Henry asked, remembering his friend’s own injury. Talking hurt, and his words came in gasps. But talking was less painful than the dreadful silence. “Should you be riding griffins and gallivanting about the countryside with a cracked skull?”

  “I have a slight headache, my lord. Nothing to speak of.”

  Henry eyed him grimly. Mr. Sloan was dressed only in his shirtsleeves and weskit and those were soaking wet from riding here through the driving rain. His head was still bandaged and there was fresh blood from the head wound. His face was pale and drawn.

  “I think you are a damn liar, Mr. Sloan. I should sack you immediately.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan.

  “What’s become of Father Jacob?” Henry struggled to sit up, trying to see. “We haven’t all fallen into the Breath, so I assume he managed to stop Eiddwen?”

  “Mistress Eiddwen is dead, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, pushing him gently back down. “Father Jacob was grievously hurt in the battle, as was Sir Ander. I did what I could to help, but the sooner they receive the ministrations of a healer, the better.”

  “And Simon? I saw the Contraption go down.”

  “Mr. Yates and Mr. Albright suffered bumps and bruises, but they are otherwise unhurt. Mr. Albright is attempting to repair the vehicle under Mr. Yates’s direction. Prior to my arrival they were planning to fly off to seek help. You should rest, my lord.”

  Henry was shivering with the cold. Mr. Sloan drew the coat more closely around him, but given that he was lying on cold, wet stone, the coat wasn’t much help. Henry turned his head so he could keep an eye on Alan. Father Jacob and Sir Ander both badly hurt! They had managed to stop Eiddwen, but it might have been at a grievous cost. And that didn’t mean they had stopped the Bottom Dwellers. They might have won the battle, only to lose the war.

  He must have dozed off, for he woke to the sound of wyverns shrieking and the clattering, harness-jingling thud of a carriage landing on the ground.

  “Ah, that will be her ladyship,” said Mr. Sloan. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I will go meet her, explain what needs to be done.”

  “Of course, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry weakly.

  He heard Mr. Sloan conferring with Lady Elaine, who spoke in brisk, no-nonsense tones. The two talked briefly, then Mr. Sloan returned.

  “She has arrived in a coach-and-four, my lord, with enough room to ca
rry litters. The man who tends the griffins is following with another conveyance. They are going to take you back to the earl’s estate. Lady Elaine sent for physicians to meet us there.”

  “Tell her to transport Alan first. I can wait,” said Henry.

  “I have taken the liberty of doing so. Drink this, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan. “Lady Elaine brought it, along with blankets and other supplies. She is a woman of considerable foresight.”

  “Wonder how she came to marry the earl,” Henry muttered.

  Mr. Sloan held a flask to Henry’s lips. He swallowed a sweet syrupy drink and felt soothing warmth spread through him. Lady Elaine brought two servants bearing a litter over to Alan. She was a tall woman with big bones, fair skin, and hair the color of ripe wheat. Henry was reminded of the paintings he had seen of the queens of the Sunlit Empire.

  She apparently had some knowledge of the healing arts, for she adjusted Alan’s tourniquet, gently wrapped his mangled hand and arm and supervised the servants as they lifted him onto the litter. She escorted Alan to her carriage, telling Mr. Sloan to wait with Henry.

  He next saw her accompanying a litter bearing Father Jacob, with her servants following, carrying Sir Ander. The lady’s carriage departed, and another carriage landed almost immediately.

  By this time, Mr. Sloan had removed Henry’s wet clothing and wrapped him in blankets with magically heated stones placed at his feet for warmth. He remained with him, kneeling on the wet ground.

  “The men are coming with the litter, my lord. I am afraid you will find the journey to be quite painful—”

  Mr. Sloan suddenly stopped talking. He sat back on his heels, his head cocked, listening.

  “What is it, Mr. Sloan?” asked Henry, alarmed.

  “The drumming, my lord. I no longer hear it.”

  “The devil you say!” Henry looked at him with intense interest.

  “I believe the drumming has stopped, my lord. The wizard storms have stopped, as well. You can see sunlight off to the east, shining beneath that bank of clouds.”

  Mr. Sloan gently shifted him so that he could see. The clouds were drifting away, being blown apart by the Breath. God’s Breath, if one believed in that sort of thing.

  The servants appeared, carrying the litter, which they laid down on the ground next to Henry. Mr. Sloan fussed over him, giving them instructions, tucking the blanket around Henry more securely

  “Do you know what that sunlight means, Mr. Sloan?” Henry asked with a catch in his voice. “It means that Captain de Guichen and his dragons have been victorious.”

  “God be praised, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan solemnly.

  Henry smiled. “Don’t be too quick to praise Him. We shall probably have to go to war against the gallant captain and his Dragon Brigade sometime in the future. They will be formidable foes, Mr. Sloan.”

  “I trust you are not planning to rush off to war any time soon, my lord,” said Mr. Sloan, keeping a close eye on the litter bearers. “I was thinking that if you have no further instructions for me, I could go fetch Lady Anne. I am certain she would want to be with you.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry.

  His voice thick with emotion, he couldn’t say anything else. He gripped Mr. Sloan’s hand to express his gratitude and then braced himself for the pain he knew would come when the men lifted him onto the litter and carried him to the carriage.

  The men picked up Henry and bore him slowly to the waiting carriage. The pain was shattering, but the poppy syrup took off the edge. Mr. Sloan stayed close to his side.

  The sun burst out brightly. He could see the light shining on the boulder. No longer a bomb, it was now nothing more than a large rock. He noticed activity around it and realized that the inimitable Mr. Sloan had thought to organize a burial detail to deal with the bodies of Eiddwen and the Warlock. Men were wrapping the corpses in tarps, to be hauled away, burned, and forgotten.

  Henry felt himself starting to grow sleepy. When he woke, he would look up to see his Mouse, smiling down on him. She would cry over him and tend to him, refusing to leave his side. He pictured himself in his convalescence, resting in an overstuffed chair with his feet propped up, while Anne read to him and fluffed the pillows and fed him beef soup and chamomile tea.

  Captain de Guichen and his damned Dragon Brigade. They had done it.

  Henry smiled and drifted off.

  War could wait.

  47

  If only I could talk …

  —Doctor Ellington, the cat

  King Alaric was dead. Long live the king.

  Alaric died a hero, defending his people from an attack by the Bottom Dwellers, who sent four black ships to destroy Evreux. Refusing to heed the pleas of his son to remain in the palace, King Alaric and the Knight Protectors sailed in the ship of his youngest son, Prince Alessandro, a naval captain. The Bottom Dwellers captured and boarded his ship.

  The king met his end fighting valiantly alongside his crew and his Knight Protectors who gave their lives in a vain effort to save him. Among those who died was Sir Conal O’Hairt, whose body was found lying beside Alaric’s.

  The battle ended when a flight of dragons, led by the Duke and Duchess of Talwin, came to fight alongside their former allies. The dragons destroyed the black ships of the Bottom Dwellers, saving Rosia, although they were too late to save the king. His son, Alessandro, survived, though he was grievously wounded.

  King Alaric was entombed in the family vault in the cathedral. King Alaric II, known to most as Renaud, ascended the throne upon the death of his father in a brief and solemn ceremony. The people of Evreux had suffered grievous losses and he had to tell them that Rosia and the other nations of the world were still in danger. During the ceremony, he announced publicly, for the first time, that his father had sent the famed Dragon Brigade to stop a fleet of black ships. The king and the world waited in dread to hear news of them.

  A fortnight following the battle of Evreux, a young dragon landed on the palace grounds. He had braved the perils of flying through the Breath to carry a letter from Captain Stephano de Guichen, announcing that the Dragon Brigade had been victorious. A private letter, for Renaud alone, told him that his sister, Sophia, and the Countess de Marjolaine were safe.

  Bells rang out in the cities and towns and villages of Rosia and, as the news spread, in every church in Freya, Travia, and Estara and Guundar, and all the other nations of the world, united for once, if not for long.

  A month later, the Fortress of the Dragon, as Stephano had renamed it, flanked by the members of Dragon Brigade, rose out of the mists of the Breath and landed on Rosian soil. The new king was there to greet them, to embrace his sister and do honor to the men and women and dragons who had fought so valiantly.

  King Renaud announced that he would wait to hold the coronation until after the official period of mourning for the former king had ended. He named a date six months from then, and gave Stephano, Rodrigo, Dag, Miri, and Gythe each a personal invitation to attend the coronation and the coronation ball that would follow. He issued another invitation to Lord Haelgrund and all the dragons, thanking them for their service and expressing his hope that the dragon duchies would once more consider themselves a part of Rosia.

  He left Stephano in command of the fort until it could be repaired and refitted for its eventual return to Glasearrach—not to wage war, but to bring much needed supplies to ease the suffering of the people.

  Rodrigo and Gythe repaired the fort’s magic, with Rodrigo spending much of his time studying contramagic and the seventh sigil and making notes in his journal.

  Dag was in charge of repairs to the walls and replacing the cannons, while Doctor Ellington, having vanquished the annoying spaniel, Bandit, proudly roamed the fort, the victor.

  Miri nursed Stephano until he was able to return to duty. After that, she volunteered to lead the crew responsible for the grim task of cleaning the halls of blood and gore. Cleaning meant more to her than scrubbing away all traces of th
e battle. She sang under her breath as she worked, and burned bundles of dried sage and lavender to cleanse the fort of evil. Everyone felt their spirits rise, except Rodrigo, who complained that the smoke made him sneeze.

  Cecile spent time with Stephano during his illness and recovery, answering all his questions, telling him the truth about her love affair with his father and the circumstances surrounding his birth, why she gave up her child, and why she had returned to court to become the king’s lover.

  Stephano was able to express his gratitude to his mother, now that he understood—or tried to understand—how she had used her power and influence to protect and benefit him. If he had hoped his mother would express regret and remorse for the past, he was disappointed.

  Cecile made no apologies. She had done what she needed to do for him, for herself, and for her country. When he expressed his hope that she could now retire to live a peaceful life at her estate, he was disappointed in that, as well. At the request of the new king and the urging of Princess Sophia, Cecile was planning to return to the royal court, prepared to go back to her duties as His Majesty’s adviser.

  “And spymaster,” Stephano grumbled.

  “I cannot ride to battle on a dragon, my dear,” his mother responded.

  In one way, she pleased him greatly. She was warm in her praise of Miri and gave her blessing to Stephano for his marriage, although her response was guarded.

  “I want you to think, Stephano. You are asking her to live your way of life,” his mother said. “You plan to live in your château and ask her to take over the duties of lady of the manor.”

  “Yes, of course,” Stephano replied.

  “How would you feel if it were the other way around?”

  “You mean if I ran off to become a Trundler?” Stephano laughed.

  His mother did not find it amusing. She regarded him gravely. Stephano decided that his mother was being pretentious and he walked away before he could say something he would regret.