The Seventh Sigil Page 15

  “So these mantles will put us in danger,” said Sir Conal, hoping he had an excuse to remove it.

  “You will be in more danger without them,” Allie returned. She looked them up and down. “Everyone you meet Below will know you are not a Bottom Dweller. You are too well fed. I cannot leave the monastery now, not with everything that is going on, or I would travel with you. The mantles are enough to indicate you are under the protection of a high-ranking priestess. Come with me. I will take you to the Bhealach Ardaitheach.”

  “What does that mean?” Cecile whispered.

  “Ascending Way,” said Sir Conal.

  Whatever the Ascending Way was, it was located in the shrine, seemingly, for that was where Allie was taking them. People stared as they passed, some with mere curiosity, others openly hostile. No one said anything to their faces, although Sir Conal heard some comments and mutterings after they had passed. He tried to imagine what life would be like living at the bottom of the world. Allie had said he looked “too well fed.” Likely these men and women resented anyone living up here in the sunshine, even those who were supposedly on their side. Everyone in the monastery appeared to hold Sister Allie in high esteem however, some bowing, others touching their foreheads. Soldiers saluted.

  They arrived at the shrine to find the ceannasal posting soldiers at the gate and inside the shrine itself. He frowned at the sight of Cecile and Sir Conal.

  “Where are those two going?” he demanded, stopping them.

  “They are going to Saint Xavier,” Allie replied. She added haughtily, “On my authority.”

  “They are on their own, then,” said the ceannasal curtly. “I don’t have the men to guard them.”

  “They are aware of that, Commander,” said Allie with a touch of asperity. “Have you any more news about the rebel assault on the outpost?”

  “It wasn’t an assault,” returned the ceannasal bitterly. “These cowards don’t want to fight. They just want to kill. They struck in the night, murdered anyone they could find, set fire to a few buildings and vanished.”

  “So the outpost is still manned?”

  “Of course, it is,” said the ceannasal.

  “Do you really think the rebels could strike us here?” Allie asked, looking with amazement at the defensive preparations underway. “That seems hardly likely.”

  “I am taking no chances, Steward,” said the ceannasal.

  Sir Conal was leading the ponies and he looked about for a trail or a road. The name Allie used, Ascending Way, seemed an odd term, even among Trundlers. He could see nothing beyond the gray stone of the side of the mountain and he had no idea where he was supposed to go.

  “Where are we bound?” he asked Allie.

  “Inside the shrine,” she replied.

  “What do I do with the ponies?”

  “Bring them, of course. As I said, you will need them to make the descent.”

  Sir Conal and Cecile exchanged startled glances. The soldiers guarding the gate parted to permit them to pass. These soldiers were wearing the demonic-faced helms, prepared for battle. Sir Conal could not see their eyes, but he had the distinct impression their looks were not friendly. Crossing a tiny courtyard, they entered the shrine of Saint Dominick.

  The five-hundred-year-old shrine was constructed of marble blocks that must have cost the monks considerable toil to haul to this site. Built into the side of the mountain, the shrine was small, simple, and elegant in design. There had been six windows, three to a side, made of stained glass. Much of the glass was broken now and had not been replaced. A double door made of wood banded with iron was propped open. Above the door, carved into the stone, was the motto, I STAND WITH GOD. Below that was written, SAINT DOMINICK THE KEEPER. The words had been defaced with a hammer and chisel.

  A statue of the saint stood to one side of the shrine. The saint was holding the scripture in one hand. His other was extended in a warding manner, keeping the demons out of his church. Someone had knocked off the saint’s head and scrawled crude Trundler words all over his body.

  Sir Conal entered the shrine, only to find that Jean and Pierre were having nothing to do with it. The ponies balked in the doorway, shaking their heads and stamping their hooves. Cecile bribed them with dried apples, while Sir Conal pushed them from the rear and finally the ponies clattered over the doorstep.

  Sunlight streamed through the broken windows. A single aisle ran down the middle. Two rows of pews made of wood lined either side. An altar railing stood at the end of the aisle. The altar was gone, as was the stone wall behind it. The wall had been breached, blasted apart. Large chunks of broken stone and mortar marked where the wall had once stood. The wall had been constructed of several layers of both stone and brick, further reinforced by concrete, iron bars, and magical constructs.

  Sir Conal stared at the wall. The hair rose on his arms and neck and a cold shiver went up his back. Some inkling of the truth was starting to occur to him. He could feel Cecile shudder. Again they exchanged glances and he saw disbelief in her eyes.

  Beyond the remnants of the wall was a large cavern, illuminated by an eerie green light that shone from constructs carved into the walls. Armed soldiers guarded what appeared to be the entrance to an underground stairway. Green light flowed from the passage into the main chamber.

  “You said the journey was long,” Cecile said, a slight quaver in her voice. “How far must we travel?”

  And where are we going? Sir Conal wanted to ask, but he kept silent. He feared he already knew the answer.

  “The distance has never been measured, but I would guess it to be just under two hundred miles. With the ponies, the journey down the stairs should take you about six days. There are waypoints along the route where you can rest and find food and water for yourselves and your beasts. At the end of the Bhealach Ardaitheach is the outpost where you will take transport to the holy city of Dunlow, the residence of Saint Xavier.”

  “Thank you for your help, Steward Allie,” Cecile said. She was very pale, gazing in shock at the entrance.

  Allie mistook Cecile’s pallor for fear, for she added reassuringly, “This part of the journey will be safe enough. All who ascend the stair must be sanctioned by our saint. Despite what the ceannasal says, I do not believe the rebels would dare attempt an attack. Still, you should remain vigilant.”

  The soldiers watched in silence as Cecile and Sir Conal walked slowly through the cavern, leading Jean and Pierre. The ponies were nervous; not liking the darkness, the dank, damp smell of the cavern, or the strange green light. Allie accompanied them to the entrance. Looking inside, Sir Conal saw stairs carved out of rock that sloped down into darkness.

  Far, far down.

  The monks of Saint Dominick who had been posted in this monastery to keep out the Evil One and his demons had failed.

  “May Saint Xavier walk with you and keep you safe,” said Allie. “Here is the entrance to the Bhealach Ardaitheach.”

  “Enter the Gates of Hell,” said Sir Conal softly.

  9

  Prince Alaric Renaud attended the Academie Royal d’Equitation at age six until age fourteen when he obtained his commission in the navy as midshipman …

  —Excerpt from Baronetage of Rosia

  (Anonymous note written in the margin: The fact that King Alaric sent his sons away from home at an early age was the best thing that could have happened to them!)

  Stephano and Rodrigo returned home to find the nuns had departed. Benoit was out of bed and able to resume his duties around the house, which meant that he was once more seated in his comfortable chair by the kitchen fire. He was pleased beyond measure to see them, and even got out of his chair to tell them so. He was not, however, able to be of any assistance to them. Rodrigo was shocked to learn they would have to heat their own bathwater.

  “The physician warned me that I should not work too hard, sir,” said Benoit, returning to his chair with a pint of ale, which he maintained the doctor had prescribed.

&nb
sp; “I doubt there’ll be much danger of that,” Stephano said drily.

  He and Rodrigo attempted to fend for themselves that night. But after Rodrigo nearly scalded himself in the bath and Stephano broke one of the family serving bowls, Benoit rose from his chair in ire, demanding to know if they wanted to send him to an early grave. He restored order to the household, then returned to his chair. Stephano, watching Benoit, was truly concerned to see how slowly he moved and how he stopped repeatedly to catch his breath.

  That night Stephano said to Rodrigo, “We need to bring in someone to help him.”

  “He won’t like it,” said Rodrigo. “But we need to do something. I have severe burns on my posterior.”

  “I’ll think of something,” said Stephano.

  The next morning, as they fixed their own breakfast under Benoit’s supervision, Stephano made his suggestion.

  “I was thinking that I could hire the Widow Bellard to come cook and clean while you are on the mend.”

  Benoit frowned and shook his head. “I don’t like the idea of strangers mucking about the house, sir. Pawing through Master Rodrigo’s silk undergarments.”

  “The widow does our laundry. She’s already on intimate terms with Master Rodrigo’s undergarments,” Stephano said.

  “And consider this, Benoit,” Rodrigo added, “no one makes a beef pie like the Widow Bellard. Juicy and succulent with a soupçon of red wine and those little pearl onions…”

  “That is true, sir,” Benoit admitted.

  “She would be under your supervision,” Stephano said persuasively. “Receiving her orders from you.”

  “I will take on the widow under advisement, sir,” said Benoit.

  The Widow Bellard arrived that very morning. A good-natured woman, she cheerfully tolerated Benoit’s officious supervision, assuring him that she would handle Master Rodrigo’s silk undergarments as gently as she would a newborn babe. The two discovered a mutual love of gossip, which proved a blessing to Benoit, who had not been able to leave the house and was desperate to hear the latest news.

  “They say, Monsieur Benoit,” said the widow, “that the Freyans sabotaged the palace and it’s going to fall right out of the sky.”

  Stephano and Rodrigo were at that moment coming down the stairs, dressed in their finest, for they were on their way to the palace. They looked at each other in alarm. Thus far, word of the danger to the palace had been kept quiet.

  “Does Benoit know the truth?” Rodrigo asked in a whisper.

  Stephano shook his head. “D’argent kept it from him. Didn’t want to upset him.”

  Benoit was responding with a disdainful snort. “Stuff and nonsense. I am a frequent guest at the palace. The Countess de Marjolaine sent her personal physician to attend me.”

  “Did she now?” the widow stated, impressed.

  “If such a disaster were imminent, I would have been informed. The master himself would have told me. He takes me into his confidence on all matters of importance. Needs me to tell him what to do. He daren’t make a move without speaking to me.”

  Rodrigo had to put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Stephano grinned and shook his head.

  The widow was not to be talked out of her news. “I am quite certain this is true, Monsieur Benoit. My late husband—God rest him—has a nephew who is a metalsmith crafter. He works as an apprentice for the company who built the lift tanks in the palace and he heard it from his master, who was summoned to the palace to see if there was something he could do. I was at the butcher’s this morning and he had heard similar reports. People say Her Majesty and the princess have fled in terror, along with most of the gentlefolk.”

  Stephano looked grim. He turned to Rodrigo. “If word of this spreads through the city, God knows what will happen.” He took a step toward the kitchen. “I should say something to the widow, tell her it’s not true—”

  Rodrigo caught hold of his friend. “Thereby you will immediately confirm her worst fears. We can’t do anything. I’m surprised the secret lasted as long as it did, given the number of people who knew it.”

  The elegant wyvern-drawn carriage bearing the crest of the de Marjolaines, which D’argent had sent to pick them up, landed on the street outside Stephano’s house. Leaving Benoit and the widow to their gossip, Stephano and Rodrigo stepped into the carriage. Rodrigo was meeting with the engineers and Stephano had a meeting with the prince. Both men were in a solemn mood as they sat on the fine leather seats, gazing out the windows at the floating palace. The pink-tinged clouds and orange-golden mists of the Breath drifting past the walls created the illusion that the palace glided through the azure sky.

  “What are we going to tell Benoit about the palace?” Rodrigo asked after long minutes of silence.

  “The truth, I suppose,” said Stephano.

  “You should send him away from Evreux,” said Rodrigo. “Just in case it does crash. Send him to your estate.”

  Stephano smiled. “You know as well as I do, that cantankerous old man won’t leave.”

  Stephano had never before admired the marvel of the magic that kept the palace suspended above the shining lake. He had visited the palace only when his mother forced him to go and he had hated every moment, seeing only the ugliness, the intrigue and scandal, deception and lies.

  Now his mother was gone on a mysterious, dangerous mission, leaving a will that had named him her heir. The palace was a melancholy sight to him. He pictured the grand edifice falling from the sky, the devastation as it plunged into the lake, the horrific loss of life as the deep lake overflowed its banks and sent flood waters pouring into the city. His Majesty often claimed God held the Sunset Palace in His divine hand. If so, God’s grasp was feeble and shaky.

  As the carriage landed in the portico reserved for noble visitors, Stephano descended and looked out at the ships of the royal navy keeping guard. A dozen ships of the line, each with two full decks of cannons were on station above the palace, along with an equal number of frigates. A half dozen barges were loosely moored around the walls, ostensibly to haul supplies, but in reality to accommodate any last-minute evacuation. He could hear from every ship the ringing of the bells and the squeals of the bosun’s pipe calling the sailors to their morning chores.

  He was too early for his meeting with the prince, so Stephano accompanied Rodrigo to the lowest level of the palace where the engineers were working day and night to keep the palace afloat. Stephano had never been to this level and he gazed in awe and amazement at the cavernous chamber and sixteen massive lift tanks that ranged around the walls.

  “Do you think your bridging technique will work?” Stephano asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Rodrigo. “I won’t know until I inspect the damage.”

  “You realize the palace could fall down with us inside it,” Stephano said.

  “Precisely why I took champagne with my breakfast,” said Rodrigo with a smile.

  The chief engineer caught sight of them. Assuming they were two dissolute noblemen come to gawk and gape, he came charging over.

  “Gentlemen,” he said in a stern voice, “you have no business down here. I must ask you to leave—”

  “I am Monsieur Rodrigo de Villeneuve,” Rodrigo began, then was stopped by a sneeze.

  The engineers moving back and forth among the tanks were stirring up a considerable quantity of dust. Taking out a silk handkerchief, Rodrigo dabbed at his nose, adding in muffled tones, “You are Master Henri, I presume. I believe you have been told of my coming. I might possibly be of some help.”

  Master Henri was a large man with a full, black beard. His face was drawn and haggard, his clothes filthy from crawling about under the lift tanks. He eyed Rodrigo, wearing his fine court clothes and his best perfume, and scowled.

  “Thank you, sir, but we can do without your sort of help—”

  He was speaking to the dusty air. Rodrigo had walked past him. Going over to the first lift tank, he began asking questions of the engineers, wh
o were eyeing him uncertainly. Master Henri started after him with the grim look on his face of a man prepared to remove Rodrigo by bodily force. Stephano intercepted him.

  “Rigo is smarter than he looks,” Stephano said.

  “I heard that,” Rodrigo called.

  “Seriously, Chief, he knows what he is doing,” Stephano told the worried engineer.

  Master Henri eyed Stephano, who was wearing his Dragon Brigade uniform coat with the insignia marking him an officer, and was somewhat mollified.

  “Monsieur D’argent did vouch for him…” Master Henri walked over to the lift tank to confront Rodrigo. “What do you want to know, sir?”

  Rodrigo and Master Henri and the engineers began discussing sigils and constructs. They leaned close to stare at the paint on the tank, at least that was all Stephano saw. Crafters would see the glowing lines of the magic that were keeping the tank operational. Or, in this instance, the broken lines of constructs being destroyed by contramagic.

  “You are using the crystalline form of lift gas, the Tears of God, inside the tanks now?” Rodrigo asked.

  “Yes and that is all that is keeping the palace in the sky,” said Master Henri. “But those crystals require magic to work. We have not been able to stop the destruction of the constructs, and once they are completely gone…” He finished his sentence with a shrug and a heavy sigh.

  Rodrigo investigated the tank closely, even to the point of spreading his handkerchief and getting down on his knees, risking injury to his best pantaloons and silk stockings. He rose slowly to his feet, silent and thoughtful, and gave a bleak shake of his head.

  “What’s the matter?” Stephano asked. “Can’t you build a magical bridge like you did to save the boat?”

  “My dear fellow, a bridge that spans a river must be firmly anchored to both riverbanks,” said Rodrigo. “On the Hopper, magical constructs were in place on either side of the patches of destroyed magic. I was able to anchor the bridge to the parts of the magic that had not been affected. Here, there is so little magic I have nothing with which to work.”