The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series)

by Margaret Weis

  He advanced a few hesitant steps.

  “Eminence,” he said softly, “I regret—I deeply regret—having to take this action. I ask you to step down as head of the Church until the Council of Bishops can be assembled. Please do not make this difficult—”

  The grand bishop made a strange and inhuman sound, a strangled gargle, a rattling in his throat. If there were words in that sound, they were not understandable. He did not rise, nor did he turn to look at them. Provost Phillipe seemed at a loss.

  “I will speak to him,” said Dubois.

  He walked slowly down the aisle. Coming to Montagne’s side, Dubois said softly, “Your Eminence, if you come quietly, we can spare you the indignity of an arrest.”

  Montagne did not move. Dubois felt chilled. Something was wrong. He hurried around the altar rail to view Montagne in the candlelight.

  Dubois gasped in shock.

  The left side of Montagne’s face was horribly contorted, mouth twisted, eyelid drooping. Spittle drooled from the sagging lip. He struggled again to speak and again made the terrible, inarticulate sound.

  “Eminence!” Dubois cried. “What is wrong?”

  Montagne tried to stand up. His left leg collapsed under him and he toppled sideways. Crashing to the floor, he lay on the carpet. His jaw worked, his body twitched.

  “He has suffered an apoplectic fit!” Dubois said. “Send for the physicians!”

  The master disappeared while Provost Phillipe remained, standing in the aisle, his hand on the back of one of the pews.

  “Can I do something to help him?”

  Dubois shook his head. “I think only God can help him now.”

  He knelt beside the stricken man. Montagne still had his faculties. He reached out a trembling hand. Dubois clasped Montagne’s hand in his own.

  “I am here, Eminence, by your side.”

  As Montagne gripped Dubois’s hand with a desperate, crushing strength, he fought to speak, his jaw working and his teeth clicking. His body shook with the effort. He managed, through sheer force of will, to blurt out two intelligible words.

  “Save … her!”

  He lifted his eyes. Dubois followed his gaze to the statue of Saint Marie.

  “Save her. Save the Church,” said Dubois.

  Montagne gave a feeble nod and his head sagged to the floor. As he closed his eyes, tears welled from beneath his lids and rolled down his cheeks, falling into the corners of his quivering mouth. He held fast to Dubois’s hand.

  “I will, Eminence,” said Dubois softly. “I will.”

  25

  We are not here because we are meant to be here, but because we choose to be here.

  —Stephano de Guichen

  Stephano stood on the ruins of a guard tower on the upper level of the fortress, looking down with satisfaction and relief at the work that had been completed on the massive structure.

  There had been a time when he didn’t think his plan would work. Whatever could go wrong, had gone wrong. The weather turned cold, gray, and rainy, making working conditions miserable. For some reason no one could explain, Dag discovered that twenty barrels that were supposed to contain gunpowder were filled instead with flour. The thought of what might have happened if Dag hadn’t checked sent a chill through him.

  The worst incident occurred when they had tried to hoist one of the cannons into place. A line broke, sending the three-ton cannon crashing down on top of a section of wall. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the wall had to be completely rebuilt. And Stephano was still looking for a battle crafter, someone who could maintain the magical constructs in the walls, repair and replace any that were damaged by contramagic attack.

  Dag had highly recommended his friend, the battle crafter Father Antonius, who was now working for the Arcanum. Stephano sent a request to Prince Renaud, who sent an urgent request by special courier to Provost Phillipe. But the prince’s courier was not even permitted to land at the Citadel. Some sort of crisis had arisen there, and the crown did not meddle in matters of the Church. His Highness promised to send one of his own battle crafters from the royal fleet, but the person had not yet arrived.

  Apart from lacking a crafter, the work on the fortress was almost complete. The weather had cleared and the sun was shining; better yet, the mists of the Breath were tranquil. The three wild dragons and the old dragon brothers, Hroal and Droal, circled in the bright blue sky above the fortress. As Stephano watched, Viola swooped over to inspect a wyvern-drawn pinnace that was approaching the fortress. She did not come too close, for fear of sending the wyverns into a panic. She must have decided all was well, apparently, for she permitted the pinnace to land.

  Stephano hoped the pinnace was carrying the battle crafter and another barrel of the crystal form of the lift gas which was due to arrive today. If all went well, he would be ready to leave on schedule in two days’ time.

  The thought made Stephano’s flesh tingle with excitement, even as his stomach tightened. He planned to sail the fortress into the bone-freezing cold and dense fog of the Breath, with only a general idea of where he was going and no idea what he would find when they got there. And no Dragon Brigade.

  He had not heard a word from Lord Haelgrund. Stephano had nursed a secret hope that even after the debacle in the dragon realms, the Duke of Talwin might relent and permit the dragons to join the fight. That hope now seemed to be gone.

  Other worries still darkened his outlook: he could find out nothing about Miri and Gythe; and no one could tell him anything about his mother’s fate.

  He was thinking of his absent friends when he heard footfalls running up the stone stairs. He turned to see a breathless midshipman, a young man of about fourteen. He’d only recently received his naval commission and was extraordinarily proud and extremely eager.

  “Lieutenant Dag sends his compliments and requests that you please come at once, Captain,” said Master Tutillo, saluting. “He’s in the officer’s mess.”

  Fearing yet another disaster, Stephano left in haste. The stairs led down from the ruins of the guard tower to a large open area that extended around the interior of the dome-shaped fortress known simply as the Ring. In the center of the Ring, in the safest part of the fortress, stood a round chamber with thick stone walls that housed both the armory and the powder magazine, well protected from enemy fire. He walked quickly past the kitchen and main mess hall and into the smaller officers’ mess.

  Stephano arrived to find Dag in company with a stranger wrapped in a long traveling coat, his face hidden by his hat.

  “I’m here,” said Stephano. “What’s the emergency?”

  “This,” said Dag in grim tones.

  The stranger whisked off his hat and held out his arms.

  “My dear fellow,” said Rodrigo. “Your problems are solved! I have arrived!”

  “Rigo!” Stephano hurried to shake his friend’s hand. “When did you get here?”

  “Only a few moments ago. His Highness sent me in his own pinnace. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

  “I saw the pinnace,” said Stephano. “Did you bring the extra crystals for the lift tanks?”

  “They are being unloaded now, sir,” said Dag.

  “Excellent! What happened to the palace, Rigo? I take it since you are here in one piece it didn’t fall out of the sky.”

  “Matters were touch and go there for a time,” said Rodrigo somberly. “I was able to repair the magic on the damaged lift tanks long enough to bring the castle safely to the ground. The last twenty feet were a bit harrowing. We were operating on only two lift tanks at the end. We missed landing in the lake by just a few feet. The palace suffered considerable damage—cracked walls, paintings falling, et cetera. D’argent says that your mother’s rooms survived relatively unscathed.”

  “Has D’argent heard anything from my mother?”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Rodrigo. “Any news of Gythe and Miri?”

  Stephano shook his head. “How’s Benoit?”


  “Luxuriating in ill health. He sits in his chair all day long gossiping with the housekeeper. If you ask him to do anything, he puts his hand on his chest, heaves a sigh and says he feels a flutter and he requires a brandy to cure it. He sends his regards, by the way.”

  Stephano smiled. “That old man will outlive us all. So what is happening in Evreux? What are people saying?”

  “Everyone was upset by the fall of the palace, naturally. Rumors spread that the king was dead. The prince put out a statement trying to calm the situation, saying that the palace had been lowered to the ground for routine maintenance. Alaric made an appearance, waving from his balcony. The prince handles all the day-to-day business. His Majesty came to visit us in the lift tank room. Told us we were doing well and to carry on. The poor man looks quite ill.”

  Rigo fanned himself with his hat. “I’m famished. Any chance of something to eat? Or must I wait for dinner?”

  “I have some biscuits and sherry in my quarters,” said Stephano. “I hope you can stay to see us off—”

  “But that is my good news,” Rodrigo interrupted brightly. “I’m coming with you! I heard you were in need of a battle crafter and here I am!”

  Stephano cast an alarmed glance at Dag.

  “It’s official, sir,” said Dag drily. “He brought the order from the prince.”

  Their battle crafter was attired in a lemon-yellow coat over a pale green shirt, green silk scarf tied in a large bow, green gloves, and shiny black boots. Rodrigo smiled and hummed a little tune as he glanced about the mess hall with the air of one who was thinking how he would redecorate.

  Stephano ran his hand through his hair. “Rigo, it’s out of the question. You don’t know anything about battle magic…”

  “I knew you would say that,” Rodrigo stated triumphantly. “I told His Highness, ‘Stephano will tell me “It’s out of the question.”’ Answer me this: Who saved your lives at Braffa? I did. Who figured out a way to get us off that island? I did. Who kept the palace from crashing to the ground? I did—”

  “This is a lot different, Rigo,” Dag interrupted impatiently. “We’re sailing into battle.”

  “I am perfectly aware of what you are doing,” Rodrigo said in lofty tones. “That is why I am here. Admit it. There isn’t a battle crafter in existence who knows as much about contramagic as I do.”

  “He’s right,” said Stephano, looking at Dag. “Not even Father Antonius would know anything about contramagic.”

  “Maybe so, sir,” Dag said reluctantly. He cast an agonized glance at the lemon-yellow coat. “But still—”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Rodrigo. “How many mason crafters do you have? I will need all of them. They will have to do exactly as I say, obey my commands to the sigil. Perhaps you should make me an officer. Generalissimo? I’ve always fancied that.”

  “You would outrank me,” said Stephano, smiling. “And you would be in the Estaran army. How about master crafter?”

  “I suppose that will have to do.” Rodrigo sighed in disappointment, then cheered up at the sight of two strong sailors struggling to carry a large, heavy trunk. “My wardrobe has arrived! Where should I tell these lads to take my luggage?”

  Stephano told them to take the trunk to his own quarters until he could figure out where to stash Rodrigo.

  “Shall we have that sherry now?” Rodrigo asked, glancing around. “Don’t you find it dark and stuffy in here? Why don’t you open a window?”

  While Stephano explained that the windows were sealed because the fort would be descending into the Breath, Dag said he would go check on the lift crystals. He departed, muttering to himself in Guundaran with Doctor Ellington at his heels, for Dag did not permit the cat to ride on his shoulder when he was in uniform. The Doctor had been miffed at first, but had gradually grown accustomed to exploring on his own, especially as no one ever scooped him up and stuck him in a storage closet.

  Stephano was taking Rodrigo back to his quarters when they were interrupted by Verdi’s trumpeting call sounding a warning. Within moments, Master Tutillo appeared in the doorway. He cast a startled glance at the lemon-yellow coat and forgot what he had come to say.

  “What are the dragons hooting about, Master Tutillo?” Stephano asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Master Tutillo tore his gaze away from Rodrigo. “Ship sighted in the Breath. Not one of ours.”

  “Rigo, I have to go take care of this. This lad will take you to my quarters. The sherry is on the sideboard. Help yourself. Master Tutillo, meet Monsieur de Villeneuve, our battle crafter. Please make him comfortable.”

  The young midshipman’s eyes widened in wonder. He set off down the corridor, accompanied by Rodrigo, who was fanning himself with his hat and asking if there wasn’t some way to pump in fresh air.

  Stephano emerged from the dark, cool interior of the fortress into the sunlight. Verdi, Petard, and Viola circled above, a formidable show of force. Three of the sailors he had posted on lookout stood gazing intently into the mists of the Breath through spyglasses.

  “I saw a ship out there, Captain,” one repeated. “About five hundred yards away.”

  “What sort of ship?”

  “Strange-looking vessel, sir. It was there for a moment, then disappeared in the mist. I thought my eyes were playing tricks, but then I saw it again. It was sailing straight for us.”

  Stephano looked skyward. Verdi, too, had seen the ship, and that was why he had sounded the alarm. Sailors were already running to man the swivel guns.

  “Hold your fire!” Stephano ordered. “No one fires except on my command.”

  The fortress was located in a remote area far from the major shipping lanes. Given the storms of the past few days, however, the ship could be a merchant vessel, blown off course. Or it might be a supply ship, though most of the supplies had been delivered by now.

  “You say it was sailing this way,” said Stephano.

  “Yes, Captain. It was out there, near that buoy.”

  The buoy was there to warn ships they were nearing the coast. Stephano raised his spyglass and looked where the sentry had indicated. He couldn’t see a thing for the swirling mist. He swept the area and still nothing. Lowering the spyglass, he looked up at the dragons.

  Verdi and Petard were hanging almost motionless in the air. Viola left them and flew into the mists to investigate.

  Dag joined him, coming on the run. “I heard the alarm. What’s out there, sir?”

  “No way of knowing,” said Stephano.

  Suddenly several sailors shouted and pointed. Viola dove down low, her wings cutting wide swaths in the mists that boiled out behind her. The vessel came into view, rising up out of the mists not ten yards from the main dock.

  “Hold your fire!” Dag roared.

  The vessel was indeed strange looking, similar in size to a Trundler houseboat, but with high, rounded gunnels, an enclosed bridge, tiny portholes and a short, thick mast. The boat carried no weapons that Stephano could see. As he watched, a woman came out on deck and waved what appeared to be a white flag. When Stephano looked closer, he saw she was actually waving white pantaloons, such as Trundler women wear. The pantaloons fluttered in the wind.

  Viola roared a greeting, and Verdi and Petard came streaking toward the boat.

  Stephano gasped. “Miri!”

  “Good God, sir!” said Dag at the same time. “It’s Miri!”

  He and Dag left the gun emplacement on the run. Hurrying back inside the fort, they pounded along the corridor, burst through the main gate and out onto the dock.

  Stephano could see Miri clearly now. She was wrapped in an oilskin coat and her wet red curls were plastered to her head. She waved to him and smiled.

  “Who’s that fellow with her?” Dag asked, frowning. “And where’s Gythe?”

  A man stood on the prow, waiting to throw out one of the mooring lines to the sailors on the dock. Stephano stared, frowning, wondering who this man was and why he was sailing with Miri
. The boat drew nearer and Stephano forgot about the stranger. Never stopping to think that if he missed his landing he would fall into the Breath, he leaped from the dock to the deck and took Miri into his arms.

  He held her tight, pressing her to his breast. Miri, startled, stiffened at first. Then she seemed to crumple.

  “Oh, Stephano! I’m so glad to see you!” she cried brokenly.

  She held him fast in her embrace and they stood for long moments, just holding each other, with no need for more talking. Each felt their love too deep and too large for words. Stephano tilted back Miri’s wet head and kissed her.

  “Marry me,” he said. “I love you. I have always loved you. Even when I said I didn’t, I did.”

  Miri returned his kiss tenderly, then nestled in his arms.

  “I love you, too, Stephano,” she said softly. “But I can’t think of anything now except Gythe and your mother—”

  “My mother!” Stephano gasped.

  “And the princess—”

  “Princess? What princess?” Stephano demanded, bewildered.

  “Princess Sophia of Rosia. Your mother came to find her.”

  “Came where? Where is my mother, Miri? Where is Gythe? Why isn’t she with you? Where have you been?”

  “Glasearrach,” said Miri wearily. “It’s a long story.”

  Stephano was speechless with astonishment. Her answer raised so many more questions, he couldn’t think which one to ask first.

  “We’re sailing in a wee bit too close, Mistress Miri,” called the man with the limp.

  Miri looked, gasped.

  “Let go of me, Stephano! We’re about to crash into the dock!”

  Stephano let go, his hands falling to his sides, nerveless. Miri adjusted the boat’s speed, the houseboat veered off just in time, and came floating to a landing. Miri shouted at Stephano to make himself useful and throw out a line. He and the unknown man worked together. Dag and the sailors on the dock caught the lines and secured them.

  “Where’s Gythe?” Dag bellowed.

  “She’s safe!” Miri shouted back. “Once I get off this boat and change into some dry clothes, I’ll explain everything.”