“Not only the structure,” Father Jacob said. “The very nature of the magic.”
Sir Ander listened, appalled. The two were discussing magic as if they were standing in a school room, and all the while, their world was about to explode. He wanted to leap to his feet, shake sense into Father Jacob, throttle Eiddwen. Sir Ander had all he could do, however, to keep breathing.
“The seventh sigil transforms contramagic so that it is now as God intended it to be,” Father Jacob continued in a scholarly tone. “Contramagic becomes magic’s opposite, a mirror image that strengthens, does not corrupt.”
“Clever, as I said,” Eiddwen remarked. “But your holy tinkerings won’t work.”
She spread her bloodstained hands over the magical constructs and began to chant, her voice low and harsh. The contramagic blazed, shining brighter and brighter.
Father Jacob kept his hand on the seventh sigil. The blue fire burned steadily, never wavering. The blue glow continued to spread, pure and shining.
Eiddwen ran her hands over her contramagic constructs, refining, mending, repairing. When the two met, the magic sparked and flared. Magic crackled, blazing like a raging fire. Contramagic flamed. The warring magicks soared to heaven, dimming the lightning and drowning out the thunder.
Father Jacob and Eiddwen dwindled, as though the powerful magicks were consuming them. Sir Ander squinted against the awful radiance, trying to see as tears ran down his cheeks.
The green magical light began to slowly diminish and flicker out, and the blue light grew stronger, spreading across the boulder, splashing over it, mingling with the blood, reminding Sir Ander of the water that had cleansed the altar of the blood of the martyred nuns.
Eiddwen gave a shrill cry of disbelief that devolved into rage. She was a shadow against the gleaming light, a body without substance. She clutched at her constructs, trying to strengthen them. She beat her hands on the rock until they bled, then used her own blood to spur the contramagic. Sometimes she was rewarded with a spurt of green flame, but that quickly died. The green light continued to drain, flowing out of the constructs, leaving them empty, nothing but lines etched in a rock.
The seventh sigil glimmered in the darkness. Father Jacob stood near it, and the radiant blue light shone on his face, weary, haggard, at peace. Thunder rumbled, but distantly. The rain stopped. The wizard storm was moving on, out into the Breath.
Sir Ander was about to thank God.
Eiddwen tore his prayer from his lips.
He didn’t understand the words she used, but he didn’t need to; they crawled into his brain like maggots, burrowing and twisting. Her chanting sounded with the beating of the drums, growing louder and louder, trying to drown out the voice of God.
Eiddwen picked up the butcher’s knife that had fallen from Lucello’s hand. Her fingers curled around the handle. Chanting the words of the spell, she bent over Sir Ander and plunged the knife into the gaping wound in his hip.
White hot pain lanced through him, and he screamed, writhing in agony.
“Sir Ander!” Father Jacob cried and started toward him.
“Don’t take another step, Father. If you do, your knight dies.”
Eiddwen raised her knife, wet with his blood, and pressed the tip to his throat.
Through the searing pain, Sir Ander realized dimly that she was using his agony and his fear to enhance her blood magic and he was helpless to stop her. She gazed down at him, her lips parted, drinking in his torment.
Bending close, she spoke softly into his ear, her words emphasized by each beat of the drums. “You would have spent your last drop of blood for him. How ironic that now, Protector, your blood will end his life.”
She rose to her feet, the blood dripping from her hand, and flung his blood on Father Jacob. Each droplet of blood swiftly melded together, forging a chain of green fire. The magical constructs on the priest’s cassock blazed blue, countering the contramagic spell. The links of the chain began to break. But, as Sir Ander saw in growing fear, with every beat of the drums from Below, the blue constructs started to fade.
Eiddwen patiently watched and waited, holding the bloody knife in her hand. The last blue construct flickered out.
“Cast another spell, Father,” Sir Ander managed to gasp through clenched teeth. “Keep fighting!”
A trickle of blood ran from the priest’s nose. He winced in pain and dabbed at the blood with his hand.
He has no more spells to cast, Sir Ander realized in despair.
Eiddwen walked toward the priest, slowly, deliberately. If she was expecting to feed off his fear, she must have been disappointed. Father Jacob stood calm, unafraid. Blood ran out of his ear and more blood from his nose. He wiped it away with his sleeve. Glancing at Sir Ander, he gave a rueful smile.
“I never seem to have a handkerchief…”
“Father…” Sir Ander choked on his grief and fear.
The knife gleamed a fiery red. Eiddwen threw herself at Father Jacob, striking wildly, hitting him in the face, slashing at his arms, at his chest, at any part of him she could reach. He tried in vain to defend himself. His face was bloody, his breathing ragged. He staggered and nearly fell.
Sir Ander gritted his teeth, gathered what strength he had left. He dug his hands into the mud and dragged his body over the ground, swallowing the moans of agony each movement cost him. He thrust out his hand, grabbed hold of Eiddwen’s ankle, and yanked her off her feet. She fell to her knees in the mud.
Father Jacob staggered and sagged against the boulder. “It is over.”
Eiddwen’s head bowed. She did not look up. Her hand closed around the knife’s hilt.
Father Jacob cried out in horror and sprang to stop her. He was too late. Eiddwen plunged the knife into her stomach. She gasped, groaned, then slumped down, her body curling around the blade.
Father Jacob swiftly knelt beside her, to see if he could save her.
“Don’t trust her, Father!” Sir Ander warned. “Let her be!”
Of course, Father Jacob paid no heed. She was one of God’s children.
He gently shifted Eiddwen, but there was nothing to be done. She moaned as he touched her. The blade was buried deep in her belly. Her hands clutched the handle.
She looked up at Father Jacob and smiled.
“Xavier gave me my name,” she whispered, wrenched with the pain. “My name means ‘holy.’”
Her stiffening lips began to chant. She uncurled her blood-clotted fingers from the knife and placed her bloody palm on Father Jacob’s chest.
She cast her final spell, using her own blood, her own torment. A bright and hideous red glow spread from her hand over the priest’s breast. Father Jacob’s face turned deathly pale and he shuddered in pain and gasped, fighting to breathe. The thudding drums became the thudding of the priest’s heart, wild and spasmodic, lurching and heaving.
Eiddwen’s hand clenched in agony. She cried out, stiffened, and died. The red glow died with her. Her hand went limp and fell lifelessly into the mud. Her lifeless eyes remained fixed on Father Jacob and there was a smile on her lips.
He clutched his chest and sagged to the ground. Reaching into his rain-soaked, blood-drenched cassock, he drew out a book, a slender volume, the Confessions of Saint Marie. Sighing deeply, as though he could finally take his ease after a long day’s work, he clasped the book, closed his eyes and lay still, his hand resting on his breast, over his heart.
A faint blue glow shone from beneath his fingers.
“Father…,” Sir Ander called frantically. “Jacob! God in heaven, don’t let him die!”
Sir Ander felt a pulse in his friend’s neck, thin and weak. He needed help.
“Henry! Are you there?”
All he heard was the beating of the drums. Sir Ander gritted his teeth. The pounding thudded in his head as if he would never be rid of it. He tried again.
“Alan! Alan Northrop!”
No answer.
The wind was starting to rise, as ano
ther wizard storm massed on the horizon. Purple lightning streaked from cloud to cloud, followed by distant thunder.
He looked back at Father Jacob. His skin was cold and clammy, his breathing ragged. He was dying. Sir Ander rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder, holding fast to him, as though he could keep him from leaving.
The drums raged Below, beating out the cadence of war. Somewhere down there, Stephano and his dragons were fighting to stave off endless night, deafening silence.
Sir Ander was wet and shivering. He could no longer feel pain, only a bitter cold. He shifted his body in an effort to offer what shelter he could give, protect Father Jacob from the coming storm.
35
The drums—the voice of our rage—will drown out the voice of their God and forever silence Him.
—Ian Meehan, the Blood Mage, to his followers
The men in Fort Ignacio remained on alert throughout the night. Stephano doubled the watch and mounted the battlements himself. The enemy had seen them sailing down out of the sky. Logic dictated Xavier must know by now that he had to contend with an invasion force from Above. The question was: What would he do? Would he attack the fortress? Would he continue with his plans to launch his invasion fleet? Would he do both? Given the severity of the wizard storms, could he do either?
Which begged the question, what could Stephano do? The answer was: nothing. Miri had warned him the storms were ferocious, unlike any storm he had ever encountered. Even then, Stephano had not been prepared for the reality: the driving rain, the lashing winds, the fierce lightning and heart-stopping thunder. Dragons could not fly in such weather, and ships could not sail. He and his enemy could only hunker down and wait while a wrathful God pounded on them both.
To add to his worries, Miri had sailed off in the Cloud Hopper, hoping to make contact with the rebels and to hear some news of Gythe and his mother. Miri had not returned. She was somewhere out there, alone.
The wizard storms had abated for the moment. The darkness was thick and smothering, the air wet and heavy. He wished the night would end, though he was not certain he wished for day to begin.
“What time do you have?” he asked Dag.
The two stood huddled near the wall of the fallen guard tower, trying to find a modicum of shelter from the wind. The rain drizzled down, running off his tricorn in rivulets. He wore a cloak, but it was soaked through. He was so wet, he didn’t notice anymore.
“About five minutes from when you asked me the last time, sir,” Dag replied. “I looked at my watch before I came outdoors. It was thirty past two then. Must be getting close to three.”
“Miri should be back by now,” said Stephano.
At the sound of feet splashing through the puddles, he and Dag both turned.
“Who’s there?” Dag called in a low voice.
“Tutillo, sir,” Master Tutillo returned softly.
The midshipman emerged out of the rain, keeping one hand on the wall of the battlement as he groped his way through the darkness. Stephano had given the order that there were to be no lights and no noise. If someone saw something, he was to pass the word.
“Lookouts sighted the running lights of a boat, sir, coming this way,” he reported in a smothered voice. “The boat gave the correct signal. It’s the Cloud Hopper, sir.”
“Thank God!” Stephano breathed.
He and Dag entered the fort, heading for the stairs that led down to the dock.
“I could go on ahead, sir, see if I can help,” Master Tutillo offered.
Stephano gave him permission and he dashed off, tumbling down the stairs at breakneck speed. Dag carried a dark lantern and, once they were inside the fortress, they used its light to navigate the corridors.
“He’s a good lad,” said Stephano. “I admire his energy.”
“He’ll make a good officer,” said Dag. “He wants to be a dragon rider.”
“In a Brigade that doesn’t exist,” said Stephano.
“The prince thinks well of you, sir,” said Dag. “He might persuade the king to reinstate it.”
Stephano shook his head. He was in a gloomy mood. This place was oppressive.
“We may not have a king, or even a country anymore. Who knows what is happening while we’re down here? We could find chunks of Freya falling on our heads. You go to the bridge. I’ll join you there.”
Arriving at the dock, he stood in the rain waiting for Miri. He ordered the men to shine a beacon light to guide her in, flashing it on and off at intervals. The Cloud Hopper looked like a ghost ship gliding through the night, dark and silent. When she landed on the dock, the men were waiting, running to secure the boat.
“Don’t tie it down,” Miri called to them. “I’m not staying long.”
Wearing her oilskin coat and hat, she was making final adjustments at the helm. She didn’t lower the gangplank so Stephano had to pull himself up and over the rail to board. As he did, he heard what sounded like muffled barking.
“Do I hear a dog?” he asked, puzzled.
“In the storage closet,” said Miri.
“Why is there a dog in the storage closet?” Stephano was mystified.
“I’ll explain in a minute.”
They stood in the light cast by a lantern mounted above the helm. Miri had removed her hat. The light glistened on her wet oilskin coat, set fire to her red hair and shone in her eyes. He loved her so much his heart ached.
“Are you listening to me?” Miri demanded. “I don’t have much time. I have to be back before dawn. I’ve talked to Brother Barnaby. He’s been in contact with your mother. Xavier knows we are here.”
“I figured as much,” said Stephano. “It’s not every day a fortress drops out of the sky and lands in your backyard. What is he going to do? How is my mother? How is Gythe?”
“Fine, for the moment. According to Brother Barnaby, Xavier has accelerated his plans. He is going to launch his invasion fleet today, this very morning. Not tomorrow. As we planned. Can you be ready?”
“We’ll have to be,” Stephano said grimly. “Tell me about Gythe and my mother. Are they all right?”
“Xavier has told Gythe and Sophia they have to stop the storms. If they fail, he’s threatened to give them to the Blood Mage, who will kill them. But don’t worry! The rebels and I are going to free them.”
“How?” he asked.
“We don’t know yet,” said Miri. Seeing his expression darken, she added tersely, “Now don’t you look at me like that, Stephano! While I’m here, Patrick and his friends are making plans to save them. I came to warn you about the fleet. Oh, and to deliver the dog. He belongs to the princess. I brought him here for safekeeping. I’ll go fetch him.”
She left the helm, heading below.
“Miri, wait—”
But she was gone, descending down into the living area of the Cloud Hopper.
Stephano paced the dock in the rain. He longed to go back with Miri to rescue Gythe and his mother and the princess. He had to face the fact that he had a far more important mission—as his mother would have been the first to remind him. He had to stop the fleet, put an end to this war.
Miri emerged carrying a drenched, scruffy, and extremely miserable spaniel.
“His name is Bandit,” said Miri, handing him to Stephano.
“What am I supposed to do with him?” Stephano asked helplessly.
The dog squirmed in his arms and tried to bite him.
“I’ll take charge of him, sir,” Master Tutillo offered. “I like dogs.”
Stephano handed Bandit over the rail to Master Tutillo, who stroked the dog’s head. “He looks hungry. Where should I put him, Captain?”
“The safest place would be in the storage room with the cat.”
“The Doctor will probably claw out his eyes,” Miri predicted darkly. “It would be just like that cat to fight with the royal dog.”
Miri stood close to Stephano and looked at him with fixed intensity. “You have to trust me,” she said. “You have yo
ur job to do and I have mine.”
He couldn’t say everything that was in his heart, not standing on board the Cloud Hopper in the rain with magic failing and all his carefully laid plans in ruins. He took her in his arms and held her tight.
“Thank you, Stephano,” said Miri. “I won’t fail you!”
“You never could,” he said.
They held on to each other for another moment, then Miri pulled away and told the men to let loose of the ropes. Waving at Stephano as the Cloud Hopper took to the air, she pressed her fingers to her lips in a kiss. As the boat disappeared into the night, Stephano watched until he could no longer see her and even then he waited another moment before he went back into the fortress.
Once there, he took out his watch. According to Miri, he had about two hours until dawn.
Stephano climbed the stairs that led to the bridge. He found Dag gazing out the window through the spyglass. When Stephano relayed what Miri had told him, Dag nodded, his attention focused on something out the window.
“Miri’s information was right. You should see this, sir.” Dag handed the spyglass to Stephano. “Over that way. Straight ahead.”
“What I am supposed to be looking for?” Stephano raised his spyglass, searching the blackness. At first he couldn’t see anything and then lightning flared. He saw the ships of the invasion fleet silhouetted against the brilliance. He watched a moment, waiting for another lightning strike, then lowered the spyglass.
“They’re inflating the balloons.”
“Yes, sir. Looks like the fleet is making ready to set sail.”
“But they can’t!” Rodrigo protested.
Stephano turned to see his friend hunched in the doorway, yawning over a cup of tea and looking very ragged. His hair straggled over his face. He had not shaved and he was wearing his shirt inside out. His eyes were red and bleary.
“It’s too soon!” Rodrigo continued. “Tomorrow is the first of Fulmea. They’re not sailing until tomorrow. I have until tomorrow to work on the magic!”
“What are you doing awake?” Stephano asked. “It’s not morning.”
“Those fornicating drums!” Rodrigo groaned. He staggered over to the helmsman chair and slumped down. “Pound, pound, pound in my head. All the fornicating night. Pardon my language.”
The Seventh Sigil (Dragon Brigade Series) Page 50