The Seventh Sigil Page 14

“The two of us are storming the fortress.”

  Sir Conal nodded complacently. “And how do the two of us accomplish that, my lady?”

  “We knock on the gate,” Cecile replied. “And demand entry.”

  * * *

  The trail leading up to the monastery was so narrow that Sir Conal and Cecile had to ride single-file. Sir Conal, mindful of the soldiers that would be keeping a watch on them, wanted to take the lead. Cecile refused, saying that their deception would be more believable if she took the lead.

  “They will see a woman and her male escort,” Cecile told him. “That reminds me, do not call me ‘my lady.’”

  “Very well, my lady—” Sir Conal caught himself, flushed and shook his head. “That won’t be easy. What should I call you?”

  “I will be Cecile. You will be Conal. As Eiddwen’s agents, we can be secretive about our backgrounds.”

  “You realize, my … um … You realize, Cecile, that if Eiddwen is in that fortress, she will be able to identify you as the Countess de Marjolaine. I doubt if she will give us a hearty welcome.”

  “We heard Eiddwen left the party.” Cecile frowned.

  “For all we know, she flew here.”

  Cecile’s color heightened, her lips pursed. Sir Conal had the impression she was not accustomed to people arguing with her.

  “I was merely pointing out the danger, Cecile,” he said. “Forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes.”

  Cecile relaxed. “I thank you, Conal. I am both forewarned and forearmed.” She gestured to the small gun he had given her, which she carried in her boot. “Let us proceed.”

  As they rode, Sir Conal kept watch on the monastery. He caught a glimpse of the sentry in the bell tower, a shadowy figure, barely visible. Too late to turn back. The sentry would have alerted the gate guard that someone was approaching.

  Sir Conal made certain the three pistols he carried were loaded, including and especially the one pistol that did not rely on magic, a gift from Sir Ander.

  The world had been blessedly unfamiliar with contramagic at that time. Contramagic could cause a pistol set with magical constructs to explode in one’s hand. Father Jacob’s foresight had led to Sir Ander ordering these pistols. The fact that Cecile had paid for them had come as a pleasant surprise to Sir Conal’s friend.

  Sir Conal knew the secret of Sir Ander’s love for Cecile de Marjolaine; a hopeless love that had driven him eventually to become a Knight Protector. Sir Conal had not quite understood. He was fond of women and had loved many of them in his lifetime. The idea of allowing one to break his heart was impossible to fathom.

  He understood a little better when he finally met Cecile de Marjolaine. She had graced the world for nearly fifty years, yet her beauty still took his breath away. He came to know her well during their journey and his admiration for her grew. He was not tempted to fall in love with her. He admired her courage, her intelligence, her fortitude, her determination and resolve. He could have gazed all the day long at her perfectly carved face, the rose-stained cheeks and marble-white skin. He would have laid down his life for her with never a qualm.

  But Sir Conal loved the living. And although Cecile de Marjolaine walked and talked and breathed, she was dead inside. She had died the day her beloved husband died. Like the pagan women of old, she was buried in his grave.

  Sir Conal watched the woman who rode ahead of him, her head high, never wavering, and thought to himself that he could not have asked for a braver, more courageous and trusted comrade.

  The gate stood open. The gate guard was backed by two soldiers, both of them wearing the leather armor decorated with knot work and strange-looking constructs. They were not wearing the demon-faced helms Sir Ander had described. They carried weapons—tubelike guns that shot green balls of magic-destroying fire. The weapons were on their backs, not in their hands. Although they were watchful and wary, they seemingly did not consider this woman and her escort a threat.

  Sir Conal had never seen one of the Bottom Dwellers, and although he had read the reports, he was amazed by the sight of these men with their sickly looking, pale complexions and large eyes. The reports said that they were sensitive to bright light, and even though the day was gray and overcast, one of the soldiers was wearing spectacles made of smoky colored glass.

  Cecile brought her horse to a halt and summoned Sir Conal imperiously to help her dismount. He climbed off his own pony and limped over to Cecile, leaning far more heavily on his cane than was necessary. He rested the cane against the flanks of the patient Pierre, reached up and helped Cecile to dismount, his hands clasping her around the waist. The two exchanged glances, all was going well so far.

  Cecile alighted on the ground. She did not thank him, but walked off, leaving him with the horses. She strode past the soldiers as if they weren’t there, her skirt swishing, her cloak billowing in the wind. The soldiers were so astonished that for a moment they didn’t react. Cecile was halfway into the courtyard beyond before the guards stopped her, ranging themselves in front of her.

  Sir Conal, leading the ponies, arrived in time to hear Cecile say angrily, “Let me pass. My business is urgent.”

  The guard said something in a foreign tongue. Cecile frowned at him, unable to understand. Sir Conal stared at the soldier in amazement. He did understand. The language the soldier was speaking was the Trundler of Sir Conal’s childhood. The man’s accent was heavy and the words were pronounced somewhat differently, but Sir Conal had no difficulty making out what the guard had said.

  He wondered if he should reveal that he knew the language. If people thought he could not understand them, they would be more apt to speak openly in front of him. Then he saw the guards were eyeing him curiously and he guessed what they were thinking. He had all the physical characteristics of a Trundler. Anyway, he wasn’t much good at lying.

  Limping forward, he said to Cecile, “The guard asks you to state your business.”

  “Tell him I am here to see Eiddwen,” said Cecile.

  Sir Conal complied, translating her words.

  “My father was a Trundler,” he added by way of explanation. “I was raised a Trundler. As were you, I gather.”

  The guard grunted and muttered something to his fellow, their voices low enough that Sir Conal could not make out what they said. He did not think it was complimentary, however, for their looks were not friendly.

  Cecile cast him a veiled glance of concern, wondering what was going on. She continued to play her part, however. Frowning, angry at being thwarted, she said in frozen tones, “I am one of Eiddwen’s agents. I know she came here. Tell this fool again that I have an urgent message for her.”

  Sir Conal translated. Their fate rested on the playing of this card—Eiddwen. Cecile was betting that Eiddwen was a person of importance, a person who garnered respect, perhaps even generated fear.

  The name did appear to have an effect on the guards. Sir Conal could hear something of what they said and they were both uneasy, uncertain how to react. As they were conferring, a woman who had been walking past the gate caught sight of them and stopped to watch.

  The guard conferred briefly with his comrade, then did what soldiers had done from time immemorial—handed this problem off to his superiors.

  “Fetch the ceannasal.”

  “He’s sent for the commander,” Sir Conal translated.

  The soldier wearing the smoky glasses left on the run. The woman continued to stare at them. She was wearing a russet-colored mantle over a plain gown. The soldier, passing by her, paused to make a hasty obeisance, touching his hand to his forehead.

  She is someone of importance, Sir Conal thought. He wondered if her sudden interest in them was good or bad.

  The guard permitted Cecile and Sir Conal to enter the gate, gesturing to a stone bench outside the tiny gatehouse and inviting them to be seated. Cecile remained standing with her arms crossed, her expression cold and forbidding. Sir Conal eased himself onto the bench with a sigh and looked cur
iously around the compound.

  The main building was across the unpaved courtyard and off to his right. He figured it must have served as a dortoir for the monks with cells for sleeping, rooms for study, and a common room. A new addition had been added to this building—additional housing. Soldiers and more men and women wearing mantles could be seen emerging from both buildings.

  The two wooden outbuildings must hold supplies and provide shelter for the animals. He could hear a cow lowing and caught a whiff of the pigsty.

  The shrine with the wrought-iron gates was about a half mile away. Now that he was closer, he could see that the shrine was built flat against the cliff. The shrine was tiny and yet numerous people kept entering, far more than would have fit into the small space. He could only conclude that the shrine must open up into a cave. He found this perplexing. Mankind had not worshipped in caves since the ancient days. He could not remember that Trundlers had ever worshipped in caves or anywhere else for that matter.

  The guard sent to fetch the officer was running toward the shrine, not the main buildings, and Sir Conal took note of a large numbers of soldiers gathered around the shrine’s entrance. They lounged about as though they were awaiting orders. The soldiers were heavily armed and appeared prepared for a fight.

  “Only two soldiers at the main gate,” Sir Conal said to himself. “Yet there must be twenty or more outside that shrine, along with their commander.”

  The woman with the russet mantle continued to linger nearby, keeping them under observation. Sir Conal glanced obliquely at the woman and then looked away. He wondered what Cecile made of this, but dared not ask. These men probably spoke only Trundler, but he didn’t want to risk it.

  Another soldier, presumably the ceannasal, emerged from the shrine to speak to the soldier from the gate. He seemed, by his body language, to be highly annoyed. At first he made a gesture of refusal and then he changed his mind and began walking rapidly toward the gate. He wore the same leather armor as the soldier, but the knot work was more elaborate, perhaps marking his rank. As he passed the woman, he gave her a swift salute. She gave a cool nod in return.

  The captain walked with long, impatient strides. Sir Conal was relieved to see the ceannasal appeared more angry at being interrupted in his work than concerned about their presence.

  The ceannasal walked straight up to Cecile. He was a young man, in his thirties. He must have been here for some time. His complexion was no longer dead white, but had gained some color from the sun. He flicked a glance at Sir Conal and, seeing the cane, dismissed him as a servant. The ceannasal did not introduce himself, but came straight to the point.

  “You have business with Sister Eiddwen.” The ceannasal spoke Rosian, though with such a heavy accent Sir Conal could barely understand him. “What business do you have with her?”

  “I hope you take no offense, sir, but my business with her is confidential.” Cecile was polite. Her manner made it clear that she considered him an underling. “My orders are strict. I am to report to no one except Eiddwen. If you know her, sir, you know that those who disobey her do so at their peril.”

  “I know her.” The ceannasal grunted.

  He glared at Cecile, not in anger, but in frustration, as if trying to figure out what to do with her.

  “Attendant Eiddwen is not here. She has been dispatched to Freya. I can send a messenger to her.”

  Cecile was distraught. “My information is highly secret. I can tell no one!”

  “Then I cannot help you.”

  The ceannasal turned on his heel and strode off, taking the guard in the smoky glasses with him.

  Cecile looked after him blankly, then angrily ordered Sir Conal to help her with the horse’s bridle. As the two bent to the task, she asked him in a whisper if he knew what was going on.

  “Something important, by the looks of it,” Sir Conal whispered back. “The commander has no time for the likes of us, that’s certain. Now what do we do? It seems we’ve reached a dead end.”

  “Perhaps not,” Cecile murmured.

  The woman in the russet mantle was coming forward to meet them. Cecile straightened up to find the woman at her shoulder.

  “I am Steward Allie,” the woman said. She spoke excellent Rosian with barely the trace of an accent. “I am one of the Leanai Scath, the Children of Shadow. I could not help overhearing your conversation with the commander. I know Attendant Eiddwen. Perhaps I can be of help.”

  Cecile introduced herself and Sir Conal, describing him as bodyguard and companion. He bowed as he regarded the woman curiously. She was of medium height, thin, middle-aged, and with an air of one who is accustomed to being obeyed.

  “I must speak to Eiddwen,” Cecile was saying, sounding desperate. “I am one of her agents. I was told to meet her here.”

  “Eiddwen was supposed to come to the monastery with the new savant, the princess of Rosia. Saint Xavier changed her orders, however, sending her on a mission to Freya. I apologize for the commander’s rudeness,” Allie added, sighing. “As you are aware, Fulmea the first is fast approaching. Our saint is attempting to prepare for the launch of the invasion fleet…”

  Invasion fleet! Sir Conal was rocked to the core of his being. He had difficulty arranging his face to look as if this news were old news. The words resounded in his head. The Bottom Dwellers were planning to launch an invasion fleet. Good God in heaven! He dragged his attention back to Allie with difficulty.

  “… and now word has come that the rebels have attacked the outpost guarding the foot of the Bhealach Ardaitheach. As you can imagine, our commander is under considerable strain. You said you have urgent news for Eiddwen?”

  Cecile had absorbed the information with cool aplomb and swiftly took advantage of it. “I have acquired knowledge regarding the invasion. I fear I can say no more. Could I ask what became of the young woman, the savant you mentioned? I heard rumors that Eiddwen’s companion, Lucello, was quite taken with her. Did he travel with Eiddwen or remain here with the savant?”

  Allie was disdainful. “I did hear that Lucello had formed a romantic attachment to the girl while they were in the royal palace. If so, he soon conquered it, for he traveled to Freya with Eiddwen. As for the princess, she was sent Below to Saint Xavier. He has great hopes for her, or so Eiddwen told me.”

  “Hopes in regard to what?” Cecile asked. “I must confess that I never understood…” She hesitated, embarrassed.

  “Our saint’s orders regarding female savants?” said Allie. “He read somewhere that savants have the magical ability to stop wizard storms.”

  “Indeed,” Cecile murmured. “I wondered.”

  “I am certain we hope that this is true,” Allie said, sounding skeptical.

  Cecile shot a swift glance at Sir Conal. This idea of savants stopping storms explained why Eiddwen had taken such care to keep Sophia alive and even why she had been permitted to keep Bandit. This saint needed Sophia’s cooperation.

  “Do you know Attendant Eiddwen well?” Allie asked.

  The question was couched in friendly tones, but Sir Conal sensed a trap. He shifted his hand slightly to be closer to his pistol.

  “I doubt if anyone truly knows Eiddwen well,” Cecile replied with a faint smile.

  Allie nodded in grave understanding. Sir Conal relaxed.

  “You speak a true word there,” she said. “I have known Eiddwen since she was a little child. Even then, she was withdrawn, solitary, remote. She was an orphan, you know, chosen by our saint for her talent in magic.”

  “He chose wisely,” Cecile said. “Speaking of our saint, I believe that since Eiddwen is not here, I should deliver my information to him. Where will I find him?”

  Sir Conal could not believe he had heard right. He gave a meaningful cough, warning she had gone too far. If Cecile understood, she ignored him.

  “Saint Xavier is Below,” Allie replied. “He was supposed to ascend to witness the downfall of his foes after the fleet launched. He is prevented from leavi
ng Glasearrach by the storms and the rebel attacks.”

  Allie regarded Cecile uncertainly. “Your information must be of the utmost importance for you to risk such a journey.”

  “I cannot overstate the value,” said Cecile earnestly. “My news could make the difference between defeat and victory.”

  She studied Allie intently, as if debating whether or not to trust her. Making up her mind, Cecile drew near to Allie. “I fear our invasion plans may have been discovered!”

  Allie drew back to stare at her in alarm. “Certainly Xavier must know! You will need your horses to make the journey. Fetch them, then meet me back here. I will make arrangements. You cannot travel in those clothes.”

  Allie hastened off, returning to the main building.

  Sir Conal and Cecile walked back to where the ponies were tethered.

  “We could ride off now and no one would stop us, my lady,” Sir Conal remarked. “The commander won’t waste the manpower to chase after us.”

  “You are right, Sir Conal,” said Cecile. “We could. But we won’t. Will we?”

  She regarded him with a slight smile.

  “No, my lady,” said Sir Conal, returning her smile. “We won’t.”

  Returning with their ponies and their dwindling supplies, they had to wait only a few moments before Allie came hurrying to meet them. She carried two mantles, one yellow gold and one a brownish green.

  “The gold denotes you as a steward, Cecile, and will gain you access to the saint. The green is worn by the warders. Your bodyguard should wear it.”

  The mantles were long, sleeveless, hooded cloaks made of coarse wool. Sir Conal had to turn the garment upside down before he located the arm holes.

  “You said the way is perilous, Mistress Allie,” said Sir Conal. He flexed his arms in discomfort. The mantle was tight through the shoulders and the wool against the back of his neck made his skin itch. “What perils do we face?”

  “The rebels have attacked military bases and outposts such as the one that guards the Bhealach Ardaitheach and they are targeting those of us who are members of the Leanai Scath, those closest to our saint.”