The Seventh Sigil Read online

  “Leave it,” said Sir Ander. “He might eat it later.”

  The monk nodded and was about to depart when Father Jacob called out to her.

  “I want to speak to the grand bishop. Tell him the matter is urgent.”

  The monk bowed and left. Father Jacob stood up and began to pace restlessly back and forth, treading on the chalk drawings of constructs.

  “You should eat something,” Sir Ander advised. “Oatmeal with honey today. Yours will be cold, but that’s your own fault.”

  Father Jacob stopped to stare at the food tray as if he was just now aware of its existence. He sat down, picked up a spoon, dropped it, and stood up to pace again.

  “Were you awake all night?” Sir Ander asked.

  “Yes,” said Father Jacob.

  “Doing what?”

  Father Jacob shook his head.

  Sir Ander shrugged, poured water into the bowl, stripped off his shirt, and prepared to take a sponge bath. Later, at his insistence, the monk would come to shave him. Although he was a prisoner and perhaps would be for the rest of his life, Sir Ander was not going to give way to slovenliness.

  “Why do want to talk to the grand bishop?” Sir Ander tried again.

  Father Jacob had stopped walking and was now engaged in staring intently at the floor.

  Sir Ander put on his shirt and began to button it.

  “Jacob, you’re not eating, you’re not sleeping. I know the signs. You’ve discovered something or solved something or developed some new theory. It will give me a splitting headache, but you can tell me about it.”

  Father Jacob motioned Sir Ander to come as near as he could, given that their cells were across an aisle from each other.

  “I am of two minds whether to tell you or not, Ander,” said Father Jacob. His tone and his mien were unusually grave. “The knowledge is dangerous. Yet I admit to you freely that I am out of my depth. I would value your advice.”

  “You know that you can tell me anything,” said Sir Ander, deeply moved and now deeply troubled. “Particularly if you believe you are in danger. You can trust me to hold your confidence as sacred.”

  “Thank you, Sir Ander.” Father Jacob drew in a deep breath and let it out with the words in a kind of sigh. “I have identified the seventh sigil that controls the workings of magic and contramagic. I know what it is.”

  Sir Ander was startled and alarmed. The priest was swimming in deep and dangerous spiritual waters. Sir Ander wasn’t certain he wanted to plunge into that dark sea, and yet he was protector and, more than that, friend.

  “What is it, Father?” Sir Ander asked steadily.

  “The seventh sigil is God,” said Father Jacob.

  Sir Ander gaped in shock and disbelief. He could not think clearly. He felt the waters closing over his head.

  Now that he had shared his burden, Father Jacob felt better. Pulling out his chair, he sat down, tied a napkin around his neck and began to eat oatmeal. Sir Ander, on the other hand, thought that he might never eat again.

  “Are you certain, Father? There can be no mistake?”

  “None,” said Father Jacob calmly. “I conducted the experiment last night. The question is now: Do I tell the grand bishop?”

  “No,” Sir Ander’s voice grated.

  “I know you do not like him, Sir Ander, but Montagne is a good man. He is trying to do his best by God and the church. He was not the one who made the decisions that have brought us to the brink of disaster. He was given this terrible secret and told to guard it and that is what he has done.”

  “He may not have made decisions in the past, Father, but his decisions in the present have cost people their lives,” said Sir Ander severely.

  “He did the best he could,” said Father Jacob. “Poor man. I pity him. He was placed in an untenable situation. In his place, I might have done the same.”

  “No, you wouldn’t,” said Sir Ander. “You have faith in God. You would make the truth known and let people wrestle with it and trust God to sort things out. Montagne claims he has faith in God, but he has faith only in himself and now that he’s lost control, he can’t deal with the result. If you tell him, he will tie you to the stake and start the fire.”

  “There is a great deal of truth in what you say, my friend,” said Father Jacob. “Still…”

  He shook his head and ate oatmeal.

  Sir Ander sat on his cot and watched the priest eat. He had a great many questions, but he waited until Father Jacob finished his breakfast, took off the napkin, and pushed away the empty bowl.

  “You said this knowledge is dangerous, Father. Why? The idea that God is the seventh sigil is … is natural. Now that I think about it, it seems right. Earth, air, fire, water, life, death, God.”

  Father Jacob gave a pleased smile. “You are a wise man, Sir Ander. When our forebears heard God’s voice and began to pay heed to what He said, they developed powerful magicks using all seven sigils and their opposites.”

  “I wonder what happened?” Sir Ander mused. “How the seventh sigil came to be lost.”

  “Mankind happened,” said Father Jacob grimly. “We will never know, of course, but it is easy to speculate. Some power-hungry soul discovered that by separating out contramagic and removing God from the equation he gained the ability to destroy his neighbors. Small wonder contramagic came to be viewed as a tool of the Evil One.”

  Sir Ander regarded his friend with admiration and deep concern. Father Jacob had solved an ancient spiritual mystery and made an amazing scientific discovery. Yet he was not elated. He looked weary, careworn, and filled with sorrow, unutterable sorrow.

  “What will you do, Jacob?” Sir Ander asked.

  The priest sat in his chair with his elbows on the desk, his head leaning on his hands, his fingers rubbing his creased forehead.

  “God help me, my friend,” said Father Jacob, sighing. “I have been asking myself that question all night. The grand bishop said I would end up destroying the church that I love. He may be right.”

  Sir Ander pictured what would happen when people began to understand that for centuries the church had lied to them. What would they do when it was proven that contramagic was not evil, that it could be used in positive, constructive ways to make existing magic even more powerful, as powerful as the magic of dragons? King Alaric would most certainly use this as an excuse to wrest the control of magic away from the Church. And that would be just the beginning of the Church’s problems.

  But with God at its center, could anyone ever truly control magic?

  Father Jacob spoke the knight’s thoughts aloud. “In time, we will use this newfound power to create untold wonders. But the Church as we know it will fall. People will seek God in the magic, not in the pulpit.”

  “The prospect is frightening,” said Sir Ander.

  “All change is frightening,” said Father Jacob. He sighed deeply. “This assumes, of course, that mankind survives the coming storm. If the Bottom Dwellers are victorious, they will silence God’s voice and drag us into their darkness. That is why I must warn the grand bishop.”

  “So much for asking my advice,” Sir Ander remarked, with a sigh and a faint smile.

  The door to the cell block opened and the master entered.

  “The grand bishop refuses to speak to me,” said Father Jacob.

  The master nodded in confirmation.

  “Then I must talk with the provost,” said Father Jacob urgently. “Father Phillipe will hear me.”

  The master was an older man, lean and spare, made of skin and gristle and bone. His iron-gray hair was parted in the center and fell to his back, framing his lean, angular face. He never betrayed emotion, and he remained silent, but his silence seemed to speak. Sir Ander rose from his cot and walked over to the cell door.

  “I know Father Phillipe to be a just man,” said Sir Ander. “He would come if you told him the matter was of the utmost urgency.”

  “Provost Phillipe is in his dwelling under guard,” said the
master. “He has been removed from his office by the grand bishop, pending review by the Council.”

  Father Jacob’s shoulders sagged. He sank back down in the chair.

  “I give up,” he said.

  “This is monstrous!” Sir Ander exclaimed, outraged. “The grand bishop doesn’t have the authority to imprison the provost! You know that, Master! How can you obey his commands?”

  “The master has taken a vow to God, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob. “He has sworn an oath, the same as you.”

  Sir Ander realized Father Jacob was right, but he was still upset. He muttered an apology and began to restlessly pace his cell, trying to walk off his anger and frustration.

  As the master turned to leave Sir Ander watched him heading for the prison block door—a door that would shut on them and on the truth.

  Sir Ander strode to his cell door, grabbed hold of the bars and called out, “The seventh sigil is God!”

  “He knows, Sir Ander,” said Father Jacob softly. “He was with me in the night.”

  The master paused with his hand on the latch. He turned to look directly at Father Jacob. Neither man spoke. They gazed steadily at each other. The master opened the door, walked out, and shut and locked the door behind him.

  Sir Ander slammed his fist into the iron bars and swore. He pulled back his hand and began to massage his bruised knuckles. Father Jacob picked up a sheaf of paper, dipped his pen in the inkwell, and began to write. After a while, Sir Ander noticed that the female monk had not come to pick up the dishes. He wondered if anyone would ever come again.

  “The grand bishop has arrested the provost,” he said, shaking his head. “Montagne’s lost his mind. What are you doing?”

  “Making notes on my discovery,” said Father Jacob.

  “You realize they’ll probably burn them,” said Sir Ander bitterly.

  “Probably,” Father Jacob agreed, as he continued to write.

  * * *

  The following morning, Sir Henry Wallace and Captain Alan Northrop—in the guise of Mr. North, gentleman’s gentleman—arrived at the Citadel of the Voice. They were accompanied by Monsieur Dubois, who had sent word ahead by swift courier that he was coming to the Citadel and bringing with him an envoy from Queen Mary of Freya under a guarantee of safe passage. Dubois was careful not to mention the name of the envoy. If there was one man in this world Montagne disliked and distrusted more than Father Jacob Northrop, that man was Sir Henry Wallace.

  Dubois had no fear of being turned away. Even in the midst of the ongoing crisis, Montagne would wonder what this sudden and unexpected visit might portend.

  The griffins landed in the stable yard of the carriage house. The lay brothers who tended the stables came running to take control of the beasts, treating the griffins politely and inviting them to rest in lodgings specially designed to accommodate them.

  The three men dismounted, stiff and grimacing after the long ride. They had stopped at an inn during the night to allow Dubois’s courier time to deliver his message, and to rest their mounts, but had been up and riding again before dawn.

  The monks of Saint Klee came to search them and their belongings to make certain that they were not carrying any weapons into the Citadel. Finding nothing, they said that Sir Henry and his servant were free to go.

  Sir Henry gazed around at the fortress mountain in awe and admiration.

  “I have never been to the Citadel, though I have seen it often enough in my nightmares,” he said to Dubois. “I always feared I would someday languish in a cell here.”

  “Until they hanged you,” said Dubois mildly.

  Sir Henry chuckled.

  “Your luggage, my lord,” said Alan in servile tones, struggling to carry three valises. “The brothers kindly offered to take them to the guesthouse, but I said we preferred to carry them ourselves. If that is quite agreeable to you, my lord?”

  “Don’t overdo it,” Sir Henry muttered.

  Alan wasn’t paying attention. He had noticed two sisters walking past, coming from the carriage house, peeping around their wimples at the handsome man. Alan swept off his hat and made a humble bow. The sisters smiled graciously; the younger of the two giggled.

  “Good God, Alan, must you flirt with every woman you see—even nuns?” Sir Henry demanded.

  “All women are fish in my sea,” said Alan, watching the nuns depart.

  The younger one sneaked another look back at him and blushed when he winked at her. She hurried away.

  Dubois took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. He was starting to wonder if bringing along Captain Northrop had been the best idea.

  “What is the plan, monsieur?” Sir Henry leaned over to ask Dubois in a low voice as they affected to admire the view.

  “We will go to our rooms and change. You and I will meet with the grand bishop,” said Dubois. “During that time Captain Northrop can assemble the weapons and reconnoiter. You have the map I have drawn for you, sir?”

  “I do, monsieur,” Alan replied with a bow, neatly catching his hat as it fell off his head.

  Dubois sighed as he picked up his valise and reminded himself that if it came to fighting, he undoubtedly would be very glad to have Captain Northrop on his side. He also thought to himself, sadly, that he now truly understood what it meant when someone was termed a “loose cannon.”

  Alan carried his valise, as well as Sir Henry’s. The three men started the long walk up the side of the mountain.

  “Perhaps Captain Northrop could be a little more circumspect,” Dubois hinted.

  “He’s right, Alan,” said Sir Henry. “We are here on a mission that could very well get us all hanged. None of your daredevil antics.”

  “Yes, my lord. No, my lord,” Alan said meekly. “I endeavor to please, my lord.”

  He winked at Dubois, who felt his heart sink.

  * * *

  The tension and unrest that existed among the Citadel’s inhabitants was still palpable. The Council of Bishops had been thrown into turmoil. Nothing like this had ever happened before. They had called upon legal scholars to try to determine if Montagne had the authority to disband their body. No two could agree. They couldn’t talk to him directly. The grand bishop stated he would remain in the Citadel due to concerns for his safety, then refused to allow the bishops to enter the Citadel out of concerns for their safety.

  Priests and nuns cast curious glances at Dubois and his guests. They knew Dubois to be an agent of the grand bishop, but no one recognized Sir Henry or Captain Northrop. They must be wondering uneasily if Dubois was bringing more trouble.

  Dubois wondered that himself. He had wrestled with his conscience. He was, after all, about to break just about every law—secular and religious—on the books. Dubois had come to terms with his better angels. He was saving Montagne from his own desperate act and, by doing so, he was saving the Church to which he had devoted his life. Dubois was not so arrogant as to claim that he was saving God, but the thought lurked in the back of his mind.

  As they walked, Dubois noted Sir Henry’s swift, sharp gaze darting here and there, taking note of every detail, particularly the Citadel’s defenses. Sir Henry observed Dubois observing him and gave a wry smile.

  “You realize, monsieur, that you have let the wolf into the sheepfold. Should our two nations ever go to war, I will put this day to good use.”

  “I considered that, my lord,” Dubois replied. “If we are defeated by the Bottom Dwellers, our two nations will struggle to simply survive. If we should be victorious, I doubt we will either of us have much appetite for war.”

  “Mankind always has an appetite for war, monsieur,” said Sir Henry drily. He paused, then said softly, “I used to have such an appetite myself. With the birth of my son, however, my attitude has changed. I would like him to grow up in a world at peace.”

  Dubois was skeptical.

  “That is no doubt why you built the armored gunboat with the magically enhanced steel, my lord. To see to it that peace
is kept … by force.”

  Sir Henry laughed and slapped Dubois on the shoulder, nearly sending him reeling into a hedge.

  “I like you, Dubois. If you ever grow weary of serving the grand bishop, you must come work for me. Even in a world at peace, I wouldn’t mind tweaking Alaric’s nose on occasion.”

  “If His Majesty survives,” said Dubois, shaking his head.

  Sir Henry cast him a sharp glance. “What news of the palace?”

  “I received a letter from Monsieur D’argent. He reports that Monsieur de Villeneuve is managing to keep the lift tanks in operation long enough for engineers to slowly lower the palace to the ground, away from the lake.”

  “What is Alaric telling the populace? He must find some excuse. He certainly cannot reveal the truth.”

  Dubois thought back to what D’argent had written:

  God knows what His Majesty is thinking. The people can see the palace sinking lower each day, and are growing nervous. Rumors are flying. The king needs to tell them something. Not the truth, certainly, but he could find some plausible excuse for lowering the palace. He will not discuss the matter, however, not even with his son.

  Prince Renaud can do nothing with his father. He has asked me several times to send word to the countess, saying that His Majesty needs her. I keep putting him off with various excuses, but Renaud is no fool. He knows something is wrong. As to the countess, I have heard nothing from her since her last letter. I fear that I will never hear from her again.

  “His Majesty is considering what to tell the populace,” said Dubois. “The matter must be handled delicately.”

  “He will find it rather late to be delicate when the palace is sitting in the middle of a cow pasture,” Sir Henry remarked.

  Dubois shrugged and made no comment. He cast a wary glance over his shoulder at Captain Northrop, who was following several steps behind them, as befitted a gentleman’s gentleman. The captain was smiling to himself, a dark and devious smile that gave Dubois cold chills.