The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

Again, her companion translated.

  The woman folded her hands in front of her and gazed expectantly at the captain. He turned to one of his soldiers.

  “Fetch Warder Roarke,” he ordered.

  The captain had forgotten Patrick and his prisoners and Patrick made no move to remind him. He stayed by the wall, keenly observing the two visitors, probably hoping to discover their business.

  They did not have to wait long. The soldier returned, accompanied by a man wearing a green mantle. He was of middle height, with the same pale complexion as the others Miri had seen in the city, but his face was rounder and he generally appeared better fed. He regarded the newcomers with suspicion.

  “I am Warder Roarke. Who are you? I was not told to expect visitors.”

  “I am Steward Cecile and this is Warder Conal, my bodyguard. I come at the behest of Attendant Eiddwen,” said the woman. “I am her agent. I bring an urgent message to our saint.”

  Warder Conal was going to translate, but apparently this needed no translation. At the name Eiddwen, the warder immediately became more respectful.

  “What is the message?” Warder Roarke asked. “I can take it.”

  Steward Cecile cast him a cool glance. “I am to deliver it to our saint in person.”

  Warder Roarke glanced sidelong at the captain, who gave a nod.

  “You and your bodyguard are most welcome, Steward,” Warder Roarke said. “I am sorry I had to question you. I hope you will not take offense. The rebels would like nothing better than to try to defile this sacred precinct—”

  “I understand, Warder,” Steward Cecile replied graciously. “The outpost at Bhealach Ardaitheach was attacked by rebels shortly after our arrival. We were fortunate to have escaped with our lives.”

  She and her bodyguard entered the gate, accompanied by Warder Roarke. Miri was intrigued. The name Eiddwen was of Trundler origin, meaning “blessed, holy.”

  “Who is this Eiddwen?” she asked Patrick in whisper.

  “Pray you never know,” Patrick answered grimly.

  Once the steward and her companion had entered the gate, he led Miri and Gythe forward. The captain waved them on through.

  The Temple of Xavier was a long, low building with only one story. The walls were constructed of rough-hewn blocks of granite. The roof was formed of timber beams fitted together. The temple had no windows. Double bronze doors provided admittance. Soldiers at these doors scrutinized them closely before permitting them to enter the temple. Once inside, Patrick took a torch from a basket and lit it. The bronze doors closed behind them, leaving them in darkness so thick the flaming torch did little to light it.

  Miri gagged and put her hand over her nose and mouth.

  “What is that stench?” she asked, her voice muffled.

  “Blood,” said Patrick dispassionately. “The drummers perform the blood magic rituals in the drumming circle in the center of the temple. My brother was one of their sacrifices. He was only twelve. The soldiers took him from our house. ‘In the holy name of Xavier,’ they said. We could do nothing to stop them.”

  “Oh, my God!” Miri whispered, horrified.

  Gythe pulled back, shaking her head, refusing to enter.

  “We have to go this way,” said Patrick. “The building where the savants are housed is in the back of the enclave. We must pass through the temple to reach it. Do not worry. We will not enter the place where the drummers sit. No one is permitted to enter that chamber except the drummers and the Blood Mage.”

  Miri took hold of Gythe’s hand, keeping close to her. They looked inside the chamber. Now that her eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness, she could see long rows of benches. A single candle burned on an altar. The chamber was empty. No one about. The only sound was the rain drumming on the roof.

  “The drummers are not dealing death today,” said Patrick.

  They entered a narrow corridor that ran alongside. Portraits hung on the walls. Each portrait had beneath it a small altar lighted by a wick floating in a bowl of oil. The portraits were painted by different artists and were of varying quality. Some were new, others old and faded.

  “The family of Meehans,” said Patrick. “Beginning with Xavier the First.”

  He paused before an old, old painting of a young man in priest’s robes. The young man’s head was shaved in the tonsure. He might have been about eighteen. His face was earnest, intense, devout. He held a book in his hand marked with seven sigils. Miri recognized six of them, the ancient sigils of earth, air, fire, water, life, death. She had never seen the seventh and wondered what it was.

  “He was both our savior and the one who caused our downfall,” said Patrick, gazing at the portrait. “He and his friends discovered contramagic. The seventh sigil.”

  “What is the seventh sigil?” Miri asked curiously.

  “Despair,” said Patrick. “So Xavier taught our people.”

  “Despair?” Miri repeated, startled.

  Earth, air, fire, water, life, death all bound by the seventh sigil: despair. Joy, hope, happiness erased. In the end, only despair. Miri was appalled. She glanced at Gythe, who was gazing at the seventh sigil with a frown. She gave a little shake of her head.

  Patrick moved on to another portrait, hanging opposite that of the young priest.

  “His brother, Ian,” said Patrick. “The Pirate King.”

  Ian Meehan, the infamous Pirate King. His face bore the same intensity of expression as his brother’s. But whereas Xavier’s eyes glowed with devotion, his brother Ian’s eyes blazed with arrogance and ferocity.

  “Our songs still tell of him,” said Miri. “He is a hero to our people.”

  “A hero who imprisoned his brother, Xavier, and tortured him until he revealed the secrets of contramagic,” Patrick said caustically. “Ian used those secrets to build the first contramagic weapons that set ships ablaze, killed countless numbers, and led the nations to sink our island in order to destroy him.”

  Miri glanced at Gythe. Her cheeks burned. One of her favorite songs lauded the triumphs of the Pirate King.

  “What happened to him?” Miri asked.

  “No one knows. Some say he died fighting. Others say he basely fled,” Patrick replied. “No one ever heard of him after the sinking. In desperation, the survivors turned to his brother, Xavier, to lead them. His family has ruled ever since. Now we have Saint Xavier the Fourteenth.”

  His lip curled as he spoke.

  “Why ‘saint’?” Miri asked curiously. “Our people do not follow the teachings of any church.”

  “The grandfather of our current Xavier proclaimed himself a saint, saying he would lead our people out of hell to the light Above. There was once light down here,” Patrick added in softer tones. “Glasearrach was not hell. Not until the Xaviers made it so.”

  They walked on down the silent corridor, passing generations of Xaviers keeping watch with their painted eyes on the blood-tinged darkness. Miri began to understand her sister, why Gythe felt the need to help these people.

  “When do the rebels plan to strike?” she asked.

  “When the invasion fleet sails. Xavier and the Blood Mage will leave with them. We plan to strike then.”

  Patrick stared at her intently, his eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

  “The ships cannot sail until the storms stop.”

  “That is why I have come,” said Gythe.

  “What if the fleet didn’t set sail?” Miri asked.

  Patrick and Gythe looked at her, startled. Miri flushed. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

  “I mean—what if the fleet and Xavier and this Blood Mage were destroyed before they could sail? What if you had an ally to fight with you?”

  Patrick gave a disdainful snort. “What if horses could fly through the air?”

  But Gythe knew what Miri was thinking. “Stephano!” She signed eagerly. “Dag’s fortress!”

  Patrick stared at them, frowning. “I don’t understand.”

  “It wou
ld take too long to explain,” said Miri. “And there are too many problems. I don’t think it would work.”

  But the idea lingered in her mind.

  They continued down the hall, leaving the painted Xaviers behind. A door stood at the end. Patrick started to open it, only to find it jerked out of his hand.

  Their driver entered in a gust of wind and rain. The wind slammed the door shut behind him. He came to a halt on seeing Patrick. The driver cast an alarmed glance at Miri and Gythe.

  “Haven’t you delivered them yet? You should make haste. The Blood Mage is in the prison.”

  Patrick looked alarmed. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Those two newcomers,” he answered. “They were arguing with Warder Roarke. He sent for the Blood Mage.”

  He hurried off down the corridor.

  “Make haste!” Patrick said.

  He yanked open the door. The wind slammed Miri in the face.

  But at least the air is fresh, she thought gratefully. She drew in a deep breath to rid her nostrils of the sickening scent of blood.

  The door opened onto a yard that gave evidence of having once been grass-covered and pleasant. Now it had become a sea of mud washing up against the walls of outbuildings that ranged around the enclave. Lights shone in many of the windows of the largest building and Miri could see people moving about inside. No one was outside in the storm. The yard was empty except for themselves.

  “The drummers live there,” said Patrick, indicating the large building as he hurried them along.

  The rain was once more coming down in torrents, falling in cascades off the flat roof. The lightning was blinding. Thunder boomed constantly. Patrick indicated a small building that looked like a storehouse.

  “That is where they house the savants. Keep your mouths shut and let me do the talking.”

  The building was made of cement with a thatched roof. The few windows were barred and shuttered. They ran toward it, squelching and slipping in the mud.

  Patrick pounded on the door and shouted his name. A soldier opened the door partway, to keep out the rain. They squeezed inside, entering a poorly lit guard room that was crowded with people: two soldiers, a tall man dressed in lurid crimson robes, the woman in the golden mantle, and the man with the cane. Miri had forgotten their names.

  The room was small. Eight of them were a tight fit. The man in the crimson robes cast an annoyed glance at the newcomers.

  “Why are you here, soldier?”

  “I am delivering two savants, Blood Mage,” said Patrick in respectful tones.

  The Blood Mage made an impatient gesture. “I will deal with you later. Go stand in that corner and wait.”

  Patrick crowded Miri and Gythe into a corner, warning them with a glance to keep silent. Pressed against the wall, Miri peeped out from around Patrick’s shoulder.

  The Blood Mage was tall, thin, with dark hair that was starting to gray at the temples. His face was gaunt, narrow, and disfigured, covered with strange-looking scars that crisscrossed his skin like spider webs. Miri realized, after a horrified moment, that these scars were magical constructs, deliberately cut into his flesh. His large eyes burned with a fanatic passion, frightening in its intensity. Miri felt Gythe’s hand clasp hers.

  “The savants we have thus far received have not had any effect on the storms. My brother was not pleased,” the Blood Mage was saying.

  “What happened to them? Where are they?” the woman in the gold mantle asked.

  “Our saint honored them by giving them to me. I permitted them to sacrifice their lives in the aid of our cause,” the Blood Mage responded.

  Miri shivered. Gythe pressed close to her. The woman compressed her lips, as though keeping a grip on some strong emotion. A frown line creased her forehead.

  “You are aware that Eiddwen sent one of the savants as a personal gift to the saint,” she said sternly. “A very special young woman. I trust she has not been sacrificed. Eiddwen would not be pleased.”

  The eyes of the Blood Mage flickered.

  “That would be the young woman with the dog. You can report to Mistress Eiddwen that we have treated her well. Even to the extent of allowing her to keep her pet.”

  “I am relieved to hear that,” said the woman.

  “I regret to say, however, that she has been ill,” the Blood Mage added.

  “Ill? What is wrong with her?”

  “She has terrible headaches, so bad she cannot lift her head from her pillow. I brought in a healer to tend to her.”

  “Is she inside this cell? Open the door,” said the woman. “I want to see for myself.”

  The Blood Mage appeared to consider, then relented.

  “Do as she asks.”

  The guard took a key from a hook on the wall and unlocked the door. Miri could not see from where she was standing, wedged in behind Patrick. But she could smell the misery that had been inside the room: the stench of fear, sickness, and slop pails. She heard what sounded like a dog’s yelp, hurriedly smothered.

  “This is a disgrace,” said the woman angrily. “The room is filthy. No wonder the girl is sick. Where is the healer? I want to speak to him.”

  The Blood Mage raised his voice and called sharply, “Brother Barnaby!”

  “Barnaby!” Miri gave a soft gasp. She turned to stare at Gythe, who avoided her gaze.

  Miri muttered beneath her breath and, giving Patrick an impatient shove, managed to maneuver her way around him so that she could see.

  A chamber, once used for storage, had been turned into a holding cell for the savants. A lantern burning at the far end of the room lit the interior. The room was a mess. Straw pallets were strewn about the floor. Someone had draped cloth over lengths of string tied to hooks in the ceiling like curtains, to provide a semblance of privacy. Most of these had been torn down.

  “What happened here?” the Blood Mage asked the soldier.

  “There was a struggle, Sorcerer,” the soldier replied. “The last group of savants. When it came time to take them to the temple…”

  He did not finish the sentence. Miri wondered if those savants had been the three women with them on the ship. Due to the delay with the wagon, she and Gythe had arrived late. Since they were not here, she guessed, heartsick, that they had been murdered.

  The dog yelped again. The sound came from the far corner of the room, behind one of the few blankets that was still left hanging. Miri assumed that this must be the girl in question, the special savant.

  “Brother Barnaby,” the Blood Mage repeated, impatiently.

  “I am sorry, Sorcerer,” said Brother Barnaby, drawing the blanket aside. “I did not hear you the first time.”

  Miri stared, appalled. Brother Barnaby had changed so much that if the Blood Mage had not spoken his name, she would not have recognized him. The young monk was emaciated. His robes hung from his shoulders. His ebony skin had gone gray, his face was thin and pinched. He came forward, walking slowly, his head down, his eyes lowered. He kept his hands folded in the tattered sleeves of his tattered brown robe.

  “Who is this man?” the woman asked.

  “A monk we captured during the attack on Westfirth,” the Blood Mage replied. “I generally sacrifice the priests of the false god of those Above. I find their blood is quite powerful. My brother asked me to spare this one. He is skilled in healing. When the girl fell ill, I summoned him to help.”

  Brother Barnaby came to stand meekly before them.

  “The steward has questions about the girl, Brother,” said the Blood Mage.

  “She was suffering from an extremely painful headache,” Brother Barnaby replied. “I applied a cooling poultice. She is sleeping now.”

  He briefly raised his eyes and fixed the woman with an intense gaze. The woman met his gaze, steadfast, unwavering.

  “I would like to speak to her,” said the woman. “I will report her condition to Eiddwen.”

  Brother Barnaby looked to the Blood Mage for permission. He nodded.
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  “I will take you to her,” Brother Barnaby said.

  The woman in gold entered the room. The man with the limp followed behind. The Blood Mage stood in the doorway, watching them, his expression thoughtful. He spoke to the soldier in a low voice.

  “They may stay as long as they want. When they leave, I want them followed.”

  “Yes, Sorcerer,” the soldier said obediently.

  The Blood Mage departed, going out into the storm. The soldier cast a disgruntled glance at his companion.

  “I don’t like it. Spying on friends of Attendant Eiddwen. We’ll be the ones to catch hell if she finds out.”

  He turned around and saw Patrick, standing with Miri and Gythe.

  “New arrivals,” said Patrick, reminding him.

  The soldier gestured. “Take them inside the cell.”

  Once inside the chamber, Miri felt the darkness and the walls close in around her.

  “What is going to happen to us?” she asked in dread.

  “That depends on Gythe,” Patrick replied. “If you need to get a message to me, Brother Barnaby knows how.”

  “He is one of us,” Gythe signed.

  Brother Barnaby—part of the resistance? Miri looked at the monk, who was guiding the steward and her companion among the scattered pallets. They moved slowly, due to the man’s limp.

  The soldier slammed the door. A key turned in the lock. Miri gazed fearfully around the dark and dismal room. “It stinks of death,” she said.

  Gythe tugged on her sister’s hand and pointed toward the sick girl.

  “Perhaps you can help her.”

  “She has Brother Barnaby,” Miri snapped. “Tell me again that you didn’t come here because of him, Gythe. Tell me that finding him here is a remarkable coincidence.”

  “Whatever I say, you won’t believe me!” Gythe gestured angrily.

  She picked her way among the pallets and went to join Brother Barnaby and the others. Miri hesitated, but not for long. She needed something to do, something else to think about beside the fact that she was locked up in prison.

  Miri could not see the patient, only a rumpled blanket and a lump underneath it. Suddenly a dog’s head popped out. He began barking in excitement. A girl, frail and slender, threw off the blanket and tried frantically to hush him.