The Seventh Sigil Read online

  “We’re not shooting anyone, Alan,” said Henry impatiently. “Put your gun away. I know Monsieur Dubois. We may be enemies, but I believe there is mutual respect between us.”

  Dubois gave a little bobbing bow. “I respect you so much, Sir Henry, that I have flown by griffin-back all the way from the Citadel to speak to you.” His gaze shifted to the chalkboard. “But first, tell me about those most interesting constructs.”

  “First you tell me what they are,” Simon parried.

  “They are contramagic,” said Dubois.

  Henry gave a soft gasp. Alan lowered his pistol.

  “I thought so,” Simon said triumphantly. “How do you know?”

  “Because, as I said when I walked in, I have seen such constructs before, Monsieur Yates.”

  “Where?”

  “On a bomb,” said Dubois. “A bomb that very nearly killed me.”

  12

  All of us were born second sons, which means we had to make our own way in the world. I make certain to always thank my elder brother.

  —Sir Henry Wallace

  “You are speaking of the bomb that was meant to kill Father Jacob in Westfirth,” said Henry. “You and the Countess de Marjolaine were with him at the time, according to the report I received.”

  “Your intelligence is accurate, as always, my lord,” Dubois replied. “We were together in the library at Westfirth listening to Father Jacob tell us what he had learned about the Bottom Dwellers. A man we now know to have been a Bottom Dweller—a priest known as Brother Paul—threw the bomb into the room.” He pointed toward the fireplace. “It was as big as that coal scuttle. The constructs glowed a bright green. The Knight Protector, Sir Ander Martel, picked up the bomb and threw it out of the room into the hallway, where it exploded.”

  “Pardon me, Monsieur Dubois, but you must have seen the constructs on that bomb for only seconds,” said Simon.

  “A great many seconds too long, monsieur,” said Dubois gravely.

  “I can imagine,” said Simon. He pointed to the board. “But how can you be certain these constructs are the same constructs on the bomb?”

  “God has gifted me with an unusually accurate memory, Monsieur Yates,” said Dubois. “For example, if you were to blindfold me, I would be able to name in order all of these piles of documents on your desk and tell you what is written on the documents in my sight.”

  Simon cast a skeptical glance at Henry for confirmation.

  “Dubois’s talents are quite extraordinary,” Henry replied. “He came near to capturing me when I was trying to smuggle Alcazar out of Westfirth.”

  “You have the devil’s own luck, my lord,” said Dubois, shaking his head in admiration.

  Henry smiled. “If Dubois says these constructs are the same constructs as those on the bomb, you can trust his judgment.”

  “One question, Monsieur Yates, did you find blood at any of these sites?”

  “I did,” said Simon. “Blood magic used in conjunction with contramagic.”

  “Indeed,” said Dubois, looking pleased to have his suspicions confirmed. “The two make quite a potent combination.”

  “And that is why Eiddwen is here,” said Henry. “The Sorceress; the expert in murder, torture, and contramagic.”

  “So all this means the boulders are bombs like the one that almost blew up Dubois?” Alan looked from Dubois to Simon to Henry. “That makes no sense. Why would the Bottom Dwellers go to all this trouble to blow up some farmer’s pumpkin patch?”

  “Why indeed?” Simon muttered.

  He rolled his chair over to the map with the pins and the ribbon stretched between them and gazed at it with a look of great concentration.

  “But this is not the reason you have flown all this way in such haste, Dubois,” Henry said.

  “I believe it might be, my lord, though I had no idea of any of this when I started.” Dubois removed his hat and sat down in a chair. He passed his hand over his brow. “I am considerably fatigued. Perhaps a glass of wine?”

  “We could all use a drink,” said Alan firmly. “And I don’t mean wine. Where do you keep something stronger, Simon?”

  He did not answer. He was gazing at his map, his brow furrowed, muttering to himself.

  “He can’t hear you,” said Henry. “He’s miles away in Slopford. You will find a bottle of aquavit in the bottom drawer of the first file cabinet there to your left.”

  “I took the liberty of bringing sandwiches,” said Mr. Sloan. “I thought perhaps you gentlemen might be hungry.”

  “You anticipate my every want, Mr. Sloan,” said Henry. “Fetch the sandwiches.”

  “I strive to please, my lord.”

  Mr. Sloan went back downstairs and returned with a large basket containing sandwiches, cheese, apples, and walnuts, and several bottles of wine. Alan found the bottle of aquavit and glasses in a cabinet. Henry cleared space on the desk, and Mr. Sloan served the meal. Mr. Albright munched on a sandwich in his corner.

  While they were eating, Henry explained to Dubois how Simon had discovered the series of boulders with the strange markings and the deaths related to the use of blood magic. Dubois listened closely. He was obviously as puzzled as the rest of them. He declined the aquavit, but gratefully accepted a glass of wine. Having eaten little supper the previous night, Henry ate with a keen appetite. Mr. Sloan fixed a plate for Simon, but he remained focused on his map.

  When they had finished the meal, Mr. Sloan cleared away the plates but, at Alan’s insistence, left the bottle of aquavit on the table.

  “Now, Dubois, if you are feeling restored, tell us why you have come—”

  Henry was interrupted by a gasp from Simon.

  “Merciful God in heaven!” He shifted his chair around to face them. “Look at this!”

  They left their chairs to gather around the map table.

  “As you know,” Simon continued, “the city of Haever is built on a shelf that juts out from the continent, the reason we are blessed with such excellent harbors. Alan, slide that serving tray under the map. Good. Now I’ll adjust the map so you can see what I’m talking about. We will say the table is the continent of Freya. The part of the map on the serving tray is Haever.”

  Simon placed the map on the serving tray and ordered Alan to slide the tray out beyond the edge of the table.

  “Note the location of the boulders with the contramagic markings. They form a semicircle that extends from the north of the shelf at Glenham-by-the-Breath to the southern portion of the shelf at Dunham. The city of Haever is here, in the center. Please observe what happens when I simulate exploding all these boulders.”

  Simon spoke a few words. The pins caught fire, as did the ribbon connecting the pins. The fire spread to the parchment on which the map was drawn. Smoke filled the room. Mr. Sloan hastened to open a window.

  “For God’s sake, Simon,” Alan said, waving his hand above the map to dissipate the smoke. “Are you trying to asphyxiate us?”

  “Watch!” Simon said with grim urgency.

  As he spoke, the magical fire burned through the map and started to burn the serving tray. Alan dropped it with a curse. The tray and Haever and its environs fell to the floor.

  The five men stared in silence at the smoking remains of the map. The room was so quiet that one could hear the sounds of traffic drifting up from the street below. A breeze blew in the window, wafting away the smoke and ruffling some of the papers on Simon’s desk. Mr. Sloan quietly closed the window. Simon was the first to speak.

  “Let us say that each of these boulders is a bomb. As sappers bring down the wall of a fortress by placing bombs at intervals and then setting them off simultaneously, the Bottom Dwellers plan to blow up a portion of the continental shelf, sending Haever and its many thousand inhabitants—including our queen, her cabinet and ministers—plunging into the Breath.”

  “As we sent their island plunging into the Breath,” Dubois remarked in a soft voice.

  “Thus the Bottom Dw
ellers have their revenge,” said Simon. “The disruption in the Breath would be catastrophic. Storms would sweep the world, producing another Dark Age, one that might never end.”

  Alan recovered from his shock with the help of another glass of the potent liquor. “You’ve given us a good scare, Simon, but let’s be sensible. Contramagic or not, these fiends couldn’t possibly blow off a piece of a continent!”

  “They could do so in exactly the same way they destroyed the Crystal Market in Evreux,” said Henry. “Resonance. Several crafters reported hearing a drumming sound right before the collapse. Others talked about the crystal bricks shivering beneath their hands.”

  “Your intelligence is good, Sir Henry,” Dubois murmured. “I congratulate you.”

  “It’s a matter of geology,” Simon explained. “About forty years ago, miners digging for iron ore discovered a flaw in the bedrock, a fault that runs for several hundred miles along a north–south axis, approximately three hundred yards below the surface. Scientists examined the fault and determined it was stable. They advised, however, that the mines be closed, so as not to disturb it. The bombs are placed directly along the fault line.”

  “Eiddwen must have learned of this,” said Henry.

  “Of course. It was in all the papers,” said Simon, shrugging. “Let us say that the same contramagic used to bring down the Crystal Palace creates a harmonic wave that causes tremors around the fault line. The weight of the shelf would cause it to break off. Almost a third of Freya would slide into the Breath.”

  Alan was skeptical. “Henry, do you honestly believe this is possible?”

  “The fact that Eiddwen has traveled to Freya tends to support the theory,” said Henry. “She is here to set this in motion. The question is, how do we stop her?”

  “Simple,” said Alan. “We fire the Terrapin’s cannons at the damn boulders. Blow them up.”

  “That is your solution for every problem,” said Henry, exasperated. “Blow it up.”

  Simon interceded between the two men. “I’m afraid that isn’t the solution for this problem. We have no idea how contramagic behaves, especially when it’s combined with blood magic. Destroying the boulders might well set in motion the very destruction we seek to prevent. Note that the boulders do not yet extend to the very edge of the continent. Eiddwen and her troops are probably working on placing those devices right now.”

  “Then send in the army,” said Alan. “Hunt her down and shoot her.”

  “Killing her would alert the Bottom Dwellers to the fact that we have discovered their plot, and could make them decide to detonate the boulders they have in place. Even if the blast didn’t cause the shelf to break off, the resulting earthquakes would spread death and destruction throughout the land.”

  “So what do we do?” Alan demanded, exasperated. “Let her blow us all to kingdom come?”

  Dubois had remained so silent until now, Henry had forgotten him and was startled to hear him speak.

  “There is one person who has made a study of contramagic and blood magic and who understands Mistress Eiddwen and her tactics,” said Dubois. “You know of whom I speak, Sir Henry.”

  “We all know, and you can go to hell!” said Alan, his face flushing.

  “Be quiet, Alan,” said Henry. “You refer, of course, to Father Jacob, Monsieur Dubois.”

  “I do, my lord,” Dubois replied. He cast an uncertain glance at Alan, who had crossed his arms and was glowering at the rest of them. “Father Jacob is the reason I am here. He is being held in prison in the Citadel—”

  “The best place for him,” said Alan. “He should have been imprisoned years ago. Let him rot.”

  Ignoring Alan’s outburst, Dubois said, “We need Father Jacob, Sir Henry. We need his advice and his counsel, his unique skills and his knowledge of the enemy to stop this catastrophe. I have tried to persuade the grand bishop to release Father Jacob, but His Grace refuses. I fear, in fact, that he could order Father Jacob to be executed. His Grace is…” Dubois hesitated, then said softly, “His Grace is not well.”

  Henry regarded Dubois thoughtfully, trying to figure what the grand bishop’s agent was not saying. Henry Wallace had two major enemies in this world. One was King Alaric of Rosia and the other was Grand Bishop Montagne.

  “You came here to ask me to help free Father Jacob,” said Henry.

  Alan gave a mirthless laugh. “You’ve wasted a trip, my friend.”

  Dubois remained silent, his gaze on Henry.

  “Simon, what do you think?”

  “This man, Dubois, is right, Henry,” said Simon. “I’m sorry, Alan, but I’ve read your brother’s work and he’s brilliant. If I had my choice of any of the top scholars in the world to help us with this calamitous situation, I would choose Jacob Northrop.”

  “You can’t be serious about rescuing him, either of you,” said Alan, his voice rising as he spoke. He was shaking with rage. “Jacob is a goddamn traitor. He doesn’t give a damn about Freya and he is being held a goddamn prisoner in the goddamn dungeons of the goddamn Citadel! You have all lost your bloody, goddamn minds!”

  There was an embarrassed silence. Simon smiled and gave a little shrug. Dubois affected to be admiring the view out the window. Mr. Sloan coughed politely.

  “I forget that you are a fundamentalist, Mr. Sloan,” said Alan, calming down. “I beg your pardon for my language.”

  “You were in the grip of strong emotion, sir,” said Mr. Sloan. “I take that into consideration.”

  “Alan—” Henry began in a conciliatory tone.

  “Good God almighty, you’re going to do it,” Alan exclaimed in disbelief. “You’re planning to break into the Citadel, which no one in the entire history of mankind has ever done, to free that treacherous bastard.”

  “Indeed I am, Alan,” said Henry calmly. “And, what’s more, you are going to help me.”

  13

  Fort Ignacio was a marvel of modern magical engineering.

  —Father Antonius of the Arcanum

  While Sir Henry and his friends were plotting a jailbreak, Stephano traveled to the fortress on griffin-back. Not so long ago, he would have never been able to afford hiring a griffin for the journey. More intelligent than wyverns, with a much better temperament, griffins were swifter than wyverns, their flight smooth and even. They were strong and could fly long distances without stopping to rest or eat.

  Griffins were costly to maintain, however, because they worked on their own terms. They refused to be harnessed to any sort of conveyance. They detested being penned up in stables. Though they might deign to be put up in a stable for a night or two, they preferred to live in their own communities high in the mountains. A hostler who offered griffins for hire often kept a “runner,” a young griffin in training who lived on the premises and would carry word to his fellows in the mountains that their services were needed. Griffins accepted payment in cattle and swine.

  Long ago, in an ancient time, griffins and dragons had once gone to war, battling over territory and food. The battles had ceased when the dragons moved out of their caves into their own realms and became increasingly involved with humans. Like dragons, griffins had their own language, but unlike dragons, they refused to communicate with humans except on the most basic level. The relationship between griffins and dragons these days was one of wary tolerance.

  Stephano was keenly aware of this tense relationship when he drew near the fortress and saw his three wild dragon friends flying in slow, wide, sweeping circles above it. He wondered what the wild dragons thought of griffins, if they had ever encountered griffins on their island. He hoped the wild dragons did not view the griffins with hostility. Stephano had money now, but he didn’t want to have to pay for a dead or injured griffin.

  The wild dragons saw him immediately, but they seemed not to recognize him. The youngest one, Petard, flew to investigate the stranger approaching the fortress. When Stephano waved and shouted to him, Petard gave a loud answering hoot, turned a somersa
ult in midair, and dashed off to alert the others.

  The female dragon, Viola, flew to greet Stephano, accompanied by the large dragon, Verdi, with her scapegrace younger brother, Petard, trailing behind.

  Viola had been Stephano’s partner, the dragon he rode. The leader among the three, she was steady, brave, and he had thought that they had formed a bond … until the battle with the Bottom Dwellers at the refinery in Braffa, when Viola and the other dragons had refused to fight.

  Stephano had been angry until he had later learned why they had fled. Apparently, these young dragons had been sent by their elders to try to learn more about the Bottom Dwellers and the contramagic that was having such a devastating effect on them. After they left the battle, the three dragons had flown back to their home, but according to Dag, when they reached home, they’d found it destroyed. Their families were gone.

  Stephano had named Viola for the rare, beautiful purplish blue cast of her scales. She was thirty feet long, sleek and swift. Stephano could read her emotions from the tilt of her head on the long, graceful neck, and the expressive eyes that could be opened wide and gleaming with joy or hooded and dangerous.

  Viola’s head drooped, and she glanced at him sidelong, not directly. She circled, but didn’t come near. Stephano thought he understood how she felt: She had betrayed his trust and was ashamed and contrite.

  Verdi was watching Viola, matching her reactions. Stephano got the impression that Petard would have rushed to greet him, but when Viola cast the youngling a stern glance, Petard meekly fell into formation behind her. Stephano was relieved to note that none of the dragons seemed at all interested in the griffin he was riding.

  Stephano removed his helm and called to Viola and the others, keeping his tone deliberately joyful, letting them know he was glad to see them.

  With that, everything changed. Viola’s eyes shone, and the three wild dragons spread their wings and flew toward Stephano so fast that they alarmed the griffin. Screeching in warning, the beast went into a steep and unexpected dive that caused Stephano to nearly lose his grip on the reins … and his lunch. With his eyes smarting in the blasting wind, he yelled at the dragons to keep their distance and ordered the griffin to land.