He reached out his hand and gave the brass plate a gingerly poke with the tip of his finger. Nothing happened. It didn’t burn him or jolt him. He poked it again and again it just lay there. He picked up the plate and turned it over and found more sigils on the underside. He examined these and could make nothing of them. He turned his attention to the crystal, studying it with the eye of one who had noted that Lady Katrina De Burg’s famous diamond necklace, reputedly worth a king’s ransom, was actually paste, starting a scandal that had rocked the royal court. Rodrigo raised his eyebrows.
“A diamond! Not a very good diamond,” he remarked to himself. “Poor clarity and color. But a diamond nonetheless.”
“What’s that you’ve got?” Dag asked curiously.
“I believe I have found some sort of fiendish frippery,” said Rodrigo. “A Hellish bijou. A demonic diamond.”
He held the brass plate out to Dag, who examined it with interest.
“This appears to be some sort of grenade,” said Dag.
Rodrigo backed nervously away. “How could you possibly know that?”
“I got a good, close look at those cannonlike weapons the fiends were using.” Dag ran his hand over his singed head. “A little too close. Singed off half my hair. I saw one of the fiends load something that gleamed like brass and was about this shape and size into the back of the cannon. My guess is that the crystal—”
“It’s a diamond,” Rodrigo pointed out.
“The diamond holds some sort of magical charge that sets off the green fire like the spark that ignites the gunpowder that fires a bullet. The sigils on the brass medallion surrounding the diamond might be there to focus the fire or protect the diamond or to keep the green fire from melting the cannon or all of that together.”
Rodrigo came to take another look at the strange plate.
Dag shrugged. “You would know more about that than I do. Magic is in your line not mine.”
“True,” said Rodrigo, “except that I’ve never seen sigils like these.”
“Aren’t sigils sigils?” Dag asked.
“My dear linguistically deprived friend, is the Guundaran language the same as Rosian? Is Freyan the same as Estaran? Sigils form the language of magic and as far as I knew, there was only one language. Even Gythe’s Trundler magic uses the same sigils, just arranges them in different patterns. Apparently I and thousands of magical scholars down through the ages have been wrong. The language of these sigils is completely unknown to me.”
Rodrigo drew cautiously nearer to stare intently at what he was mentally terming the “green grenade.” He made no move to touch it, however.
Dag noted this reluctance and was disturbed. “Do you think it’s likely to go off? If so, we should get rid of the damn thing.”
“Are you mad?” Rodrigo snatched the brass plate out of the big man’s reach. “This demonic grenade of ours could be highly valuable. It might tell us more about the crafter who made it, for example.”
“More about the Fallen One?” Dag scowled and shook his head. “Who wants to know more about that? I say we throw it overboard, send it back to Hell where it came from.”
“Do you really think we were attacked by the spawn of Aertheum,” Rodrigo asked. “Fiends from Hell? I find that hard to believe.”
“That’s because you don’t believe,” said Dag sternly.
Rodrigo opened his mouth and then shut it again. Before the duel with the young Estaran, Rodrigo would have made a glib and lighthearted answer. He had been doing some soul-searching since then and, while not yet ready to embrace the idea of an omnipotent, omniscient Master of the Universe, Rodrigo had acquired new respect for those who did. He thought about his father, perhaps dead by an assassin’s bullet . . .
You don’t know if that is true yet, Rodrigo told himself for the hundredth time. The news could be rumor, speculation. Don’t go borrowing trouble.
“I must admit,” Rodrigo said with a shiver, “the sight of that fiend walking around with half his body blown off is difficult to explain rationally.”
Dag gave a grave nod. “I saw these demons suffer deadly wounds and get back up and keep fighting. I saw them hurt Gythe without touching her. I saw their corpses vanish in a flash of green flame. I saw their orange glowing eyes. I’m not a scholar like you and Stephano. I can’t explain what I saw. But I know I saw it.”
Rodrigo had been standing all this time holding the grenade in his hand. A startled expression suddenly crossed his face.
“What?” asked Dag, who had been eyeing the grenade uneasily.
“I can feel the magic, like a buzzing bee in my palm,” said Rodrigo. “It must be residual magic. I need to study this.” He started to go below, then stopped and turned. “Unless you need me on deck?”
“Go below and take that infernal thing with you!” said Dag, scowling. “I’ll need you when we dock, but that won’t be for awhile. I’ll call you.”
Rodrigo opened the hatch and was going down the stairs as Miri was coming up.
“How’s Gythe?” he asked.
“No change,” said Miri. “Could you stay with her? I feel so helpless. I need . . . I need to be doing something.”
Rodrigo entered the cabin and startled Doctor Ellington. The cat leaped up, hackles raised.
“It’s only me,” said Rodrigo.
The Doctor glared at Rodrigo in annoyance, and curled up again by Gythe’s head. She was still unconscious, but Rodrigo saw there had been a change, albeit a subtle one. She had more color in her face. Her breathing was easier. She was clearly better now that the attacks had stopped. But she remained unconscious. He called her name softly and patted her hand. All attempts to rouse her failed.
Rodrigo drew up a chair near to the bed and sat down. He was reminded of the last time he had kept watch at his friend’s bedside, eighteen years ago, when he and Benoit had rescued the badly wounded Stephano from the battlefield of the failed rebellion. Rodrigo had stayed with his friend throughout the night, listening to Stephano’s feverish ravings, fearing he was going to die.
Rodrigo looked at the object in his hand—a brass dessert plate with a diamond in the center. Dag had said this was what created the green fire. Rodrigo looked at Gythe and pondered.
Miri climbed up onto the deck and came over to stand beside Dag.
“I’ll take over,” she said.
“Are you sure?” he asked, regarding her with concern. “If you want to stay with Gythe—”
“No. I can’t do anything for her,” said Miri brokenly. “This way at least I feel like I’m doing something to help.”
She put her hands to the helm felt the Cloud Hopper respond to her touch. The walls of the abbey were in view. She and Dag both stared in dismay at the wreckage done to the cathedral, the broken windows, the rising smoke.
“The demons attacked the abbey!” Miri said. “The last I saw of Stephano, he and that dragon were flying in that direction.”
“The demons are gone,” said Dag reassuringly. “Likely Stephano and that dragon of his drove them off. We’ll find him there, safe and sound, and we’ll find help for Gythe there, too. You’ll see.”
Miri nodded, unable to speak for the choking sensation in her throat. She could not take her hands from the helm, so she rested her head against Dag’s broad shoulder. She felt his warmth, his body, solid, firm, and stalwart.
“You are a comfort to me, Dag,” she said softly.
Dag wanted to put his arms around her and hold her to him tightly forever, but he kept his arms stiffly at his sides. He loved Miri with a love that was vast as the vault of Heaven above and as deep as the fathomless depths of the Breath below. He meant to keep his love to himself, never, never to tell her.
He had her friendship, her sisterly affection, and that was enough. More than he deserved. He stood rigid, trying to keep from trembling at her touch.
He didn’t succeed. Miri felt his body quiver. She saw his jaw clench, his hands balled to fists.
Dag, y
ou’re in charge . . . Stephano had told him.
No, sir, Dag had answered.
Miri did not know what had happened to him. All she knew was that she loved him. She was almost certain he loved her. She could tell him she loved him and she knew quite well what would happen. She would never see him again. She had to wait for him to heal.
The two stood at helm of the Cloud Hopper, close together and so far apart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Julian often said the bravest thing he ever saw a man do was to turn and walk away from his own true love, as Ander walked away from Cecile, calling it an act so selfless, God himself must have wept. And then sixteen years later, Julian asked Ander to walk away from his own true friend. I am not sure about God, but I wept for us all.
—Rudolpho Benoit,
Steward to the de Guichen family
STEPHANO RELOADED HIS DRAGON PISTOL and stood guard over the stable yard while the young monk, who said his name was Brother Barnaby, tended to the wounds of the knight and the other monk. The battle was over, at least for the moment. The bodies of the demons had been magically consumed by some sort of unholy green fire, much to the dismay of Brother Barnaby. Stephano had to drag the young monk away from one of the blazing corpses.
“What is happening? Some of them are still alive,” Barnaby said. “I might have been able to save them.”
“Nothing you can do for them now,” said Stephano.
“I can at least pray for them,” said Brother Barnaby.
The other monk, Brother Paul, sat huddled in the grass, his robes torn, his back a bloody pulp from being whipped, his face battered. Brother Barnaby had a deep cut on one arm, a split lip, a bruise on his temple, and the marks of the scourge on his back. Stephano recalled what Droalfrig had told him about the horrible deaths of the nuns. He remembered Gythe, screaming in pain.
Stephano shook his head. “These fiends murdered innocent women. They beat Brother Paul and tortured you. Why are you praying for them?”
Brother Barnaby seemed astonished at the question. “We are all God’s creatures, sir.”
“Not if they are lost souls, Brother,” said Stephano.
“Do we abandon the little child lost in the forest, sir,” asked Brother Barnaby gently. “Or do we expend all our energy trying to reclaim her.”
Stephano knew better than to be trapped in some sort of religious tangle, especially one to which he had no answer. He left the monk to his prayers and his healing and made a thorough search of the stables and the stable yard, looking for demon stragglers or stray bats.
Satisfied that none of the enemy was still lurking about, Stephano went to check on the dragon brothers, Hroalfrig and Droalfrig. They had defeated their foes and were now resting in a nearby field. Hroal was bleeding from a deep gash in his chest. Dragons had remarkable powers of healing, however, and he would soon recover. The dragons were concerned about him and the others. Stephano assured the two brothers that all was well, at least for the time being. He thanked them both for their valiant service and asked if they could remain on guard. Droalfrig, looking pleased, flicked a wing in salute.
Stephano returned from his reconnaissance to find Brother Barnaby trying to examine Sir Ander’s head injury. The knight waved away the monk’s attention.
“A bump on the head, nothing more. My own damn fault. I should have been wearing my helm. We need to get back to Father Jacob,” Sir Ander said impatiently. “He’s been injured.”
“I will go to him immediately,” said Brother Barnaby, then he faltered, “But there is Brother Paul—”
“Do not let me deter you,” said the monk. He had managed to rise and was standing, though somewhat unsteadily. “You should go to Father Jacob. He needs you, Brother. I am in God’s care.”
“Bring Brother Paul along,” said Sir Ander, chafing at the delay.
“An excellent idea,” said Barnaby, relieved. “Come along, Brother. I have medicines at the Retribution to treat your wounds.”
Brother Paul at first demurred, protesting he did not want to be a burden, but he was too weak to put up much of an argument. He went on ahead with Brother Barnaby, leaving Sir Ander and Stephano to follow along behind, pistols reloaded and ready to fire.
The two men walked for a time in silence, both at a loss to know what to say to each other. Stephano had never met his godfather and Sir Ander had met Stephano only once and that when he was barely a week old. Stephano was confused and embarrassed. His feelings toward his godfather were complicated, not easy to sort out. He and the knight had carried on a correspondence through the years, exchanging letters that were warm on Sir Ander’s part and stiff and formal on Stephano’s.
Sir Ander had been Julian’s closest friend. Both Stephano’s father and his mother had always spoken well of the knight. His mother’s praise of Sir Ander was more damning than helpful, however. Stephano had never been able to forgive Sir Ander for his continued close friendship with the countess and for the fact that the knight had sided with the king during the rebellion that had cost Julian de Guichen his life.
At the end, facing execution, Julian had counseled his son to turn to his godfather if he ever needed anything. Stephano had refused to listen. Angry and grieving and bitter, Stephano was convinced Sir Ander had betrayed and abandoned his father. Stephano had torn up Sir Ander’s letter of condolence and then burned it to ashes. He would have destroyed the dragon pistol that had been his godfather’s gift, but he hadn’t been able to find it. Benoit, as it turned out, had hidden it away, restoring it years later, when Stephano had been granted his commission in the Dragon Brigade.
He was old enough then to admire the craftsmanship, recognize the quality, the value of such a gift. But when he looked at it, he saw only the man who had turned his back on his father.
“Put it back,” Stephano had said. “I don’t want it. Sir Ander betrayed my father.”
“He did no such thing,” Benoit had told him. “Your father wrote to him, urged him not to take up arms against his country. I know. I carried the letter to him myself.”
“But why would my father do that?” Stephano had asked, not believing. He eyed Benoit. “And how do you know what my father wrote?”
“Because I read the letter, of course,” Benoit had replied. “Keep the gun, you young fool. It was your father’s wish you should have it.”
Stephano had kept the dragon pistol. He often thought about what Benoit had said, wondered if it was true. Sir Ander had patiently continued to write to his godson over the years, giving the young man counsel as befitted a godfather, urging him to find solace in faith and relating stories about his father in the days of their youth, stories that spoke of his father’s courage and honor.
Stephano came to value the correspondence, though his own responses tended to be cool and impersonal. He even went so far as to take Sir Ander’s ’s advice and make a somewhat shaky peace with God. He never spoke of this to anyone.
As they walked together, the two soldiers unconsciously fell into cadence, strides equal and matching. When the silence grew uncomfortable, both men felt driven to speak and both spoke at once. Both looked even more uncomfortable.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Stephano, with a stiff bow. “Please continue.”
“I was only going to say that you are very like your father,” said Sir Ander and he added, with a smile, “Though you have your mother’s eyes.”
Stephano’s brow furrowed and the eyes that were like his mother’s eyes hardened and went steely gray, making the resemblance even stronger.
“I understand, sir, that you are a friend of my mother’s,” said Stephano in frozen tones.
“I have that honor,” Sir Ander replied gravely.
He was reloading the dragon pistol as he walked. Stephano looked at the knight’s pistol, then looked at his own, a gift from his godfather, a gift he had come to cherish. He was ashamed of his churlish response, but excused it by reminding himself he had good reason to be angry at thi
s man.
““I held you in my arms the day you were baptized.” Sir Anders was saying. “You screamed bloody murder the entire time and lashed out with your little fists at the priest when he flicked the holy water in your face. Julian burst out laughing. He said it showed you had fighting spirit. The poor priest was so shocked, your father had to donate a pair of silver candlesticks to the saint to make reparation.”
Stephano gave a grudging half smile. “Benoit often tells that story, particularly when he wants to embarrass me.”
“Benoit!” Sir Ander turned to face him. “Is that old man still alive?” When Stephano nodded, the knight added in softer tones, “I am glad to know it.”
Stephano cast sidelong glances at his godfather as they walked together, noting with approval his military stance, his firm and muscular body, his strong jaw and forthright appearance. Stephano was disposed to like the man, but there was that one lingering doubt. He was brooding on this and only half-listening to Sir Ander saying something about being astonished to see a soldier come to his aid, riding a dragon.
“But, of course, you served in the famed Dragon Brigade. Julian wrote to me of the first time he put you on dragon back. You were three, I believe. He held you on the saddle in front of him as the dragon soared through the air. You were not the least bit afraid, he told me. He was so proud of you.”
Stephano remembered that moment, one of his earliest recollections. He remembered that he had been afraid until he felt his father’s strong arm encircle him. He remembered his father calling to the dragon that they were ready and the beast taking to the air and the wind rushing past his face and the thrill and elation of leaving the ground and flying to the skies. His heart constricted with pain as he lowered his head and made no answer.
They reached the wicket in the wall, and their conversation came to an end. Thus far, they had not seen any demons or their bats, but no one knew what might be waiting for them on the other side of the high wall. Musket held at the ready, Sir Ander entered the gate first, while Stephano remained guarding the two monks.
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