The Seventh Sigil Page 45

  “Sir, helm not responding!” the helmsman reported.

  The magic was no longer flowing from the helm to the air screws or—most important—to the tanks that contained the lift crystals. The fortress was in free fall. He pictured the building plummeting to the ground, splitting apart. The gunpowder stored in the powder magazine would explode. There would be nothing left.

  “I thought God or science or that seventh something was supposed to protect the magic!” Stephano said.

  “My dear fellow, if an arbusque blows off your head, a soothing balm will be of little help. I would guess that over time—”

  “Stephano!” Miri cried from the porthole. “We’re coming down in the wrong place. We’re going to crash into the city! Come look!”

  A brief respite in the rain allowed Stephano to see rows of buildings crowded together, homes and businesses that would be smashed when the fortress plowed into them. They would kill hundreds of innocents, including, perhaps, the families of those very resistance fighters who had agreed to join with them.

  “Crash into the city…,” Rodrigo was muttering to himself. “Crash land … Stephano! This fortress has made a crash landing and survived!”

  “By God, you’re right. Master Tutillo, fetch Lieutenant Thorgrimson! At once!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The midshipman ran out the door and almost collided with Dag, who was coming in. He caught hold of the young man, steadied him, and then thrust him to one side.

  “What’s happening, sir? I’ve got wounded—”

  “The magic is failing,” said Stephano. “We’re off course and coming down too fast.”

  The fortress gave another lurch.

  “Dag, you were in the fortress when the magic failed and it sank. What did Father Antonius do to save it, to keep it from crashing?”

  “He did … magic,” said Dag helplessly.

  “Illustrative, but not helpful,” Rodrigo growled.

  Dag glared at him. “I’m not a bloody crafter!”

  “Where was he?” Rodrigo asked suddenly. “Where did he work his magic?”

  “Wait! Let me think … The helm! Father Antonius did something to the magic at the helm…”

  “Of course,” Rodrigo said, mulling this over. “The magic of the helm is likely to fail first, because it is far less complicated than the magic on the lift tanks, which would take some time to fail—”

  “Can you fix it?” Stephano asked through gritted teeth.

  “Maybe,” said Rodrigo.

  The helmsman moved aside to allow Rodrigo to take over the helm. Rigo studied the constructs inscribed on the brass.

  “I understand the concept,” said Rodrigo. “But I don’t know how the helm works. Which constructs operate the air screws and which the lift tanks?”

  The helmsman pointed them out, explaining briefly how the constructs worked. Rodrigo gave a terse nod and began to move his hands over the brass helm, muttering under his breath.

  Miri left the window to watch. Stephano glanced around and saw Master Tutillo white faced and shivering, but trying very hard to be brave. He clapped his hand comfortingly on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Go to the chief gunnery officer,” Stephano said. “Tell him to make certain the cannons are secure and report back to me.”

  Master Tutillo managed to form the words, “Yes, sir” through fear-tightened lips and then ran off.

  “I needed to give him something to do,” Stephano said. “Keep his mind off his fear.”

  “Good thought, sir,” said Dag. He gave a wry smile. “Could you give me something to do?”

  Rodrigo moved his hands rapidly over the constructs. Finally, he paused, head cocked, as though listening. Miri gazed down at the helm, her hand pressed over her mouth. She gasped and flashed a relieved look at Stephano.

  “Rigo’s done it!”

  “Helm answering, sir!” The helmsman returned to work, mopping sweat from his brow despite the chill in the air.

  “Air screws and lift tanks both operating,” the helmsman reported.

  “Good work, Rigo!” Stephano said, regarding his friend with admiration.

  Rodrigo shook his head. “My repair is only temporary. The contramagic will keep eating away at the constructs on the lines and when those fail…” He didn’t finish the sentence. “Suffice it to say, we need to find a place to land and soon!”

  Miri returned to the porthole. “We’ve flown past the city, but I’m not sure where we are. All I can see beneath us are trees and either a large ravine or a river.”

  “Keep searching for landmarks,” Stephano said tersely.

  “I am!” Miri retorted, glowering at him.

  Stephano wisely refrained from saying anything else; in the relative silence, he realized that the wind was lessening, the thunder had gone from a roar to a growl, and the rain had changed from torrents to a drizzle. The wizard storm was moving away, drifting off over the foothills.

  “I know where we are!” Miri cried, pointing. “That’s our destination, Mount Gabhar Cloch.”

  “What sort of name is that for a mountain?” Rodrigo whispered. “Sounds like a disease.”

  Stephano shot him a warning glance and went to the porthole to see for himself. The jagged peaks of the mountain were visible, black against a flaring sheet of purple lightning.

  “We’re way off course. The mountain is east of us,” said Miri grimly. “It should be to the west. Our landing site is probably thirty miles that direction, on the far side of the mountain.”

  They all looked at Rodrigo.

  “We’ll never make it that far.”

  As if to confirm their fears, the helmsman reported, “Starting to sink, sir.”

  “We’re near where the Trundlers dock their boats,” Miri said, gazing out the porthole. “That’s an open field. We could land there— Oh, no…”

  Miri had stopped talking and was staring out, her face pressed against the glass.

  “What’s gone wrong now?” Stephano asked.

  “Bat riders.” Miri turned to face Stephano. “Two of them.”

  “Did they see us?”

  “They changed course and flew off in haste,” said Miri. “If I had to guess, I would say they saw us.”

  “We’d be pretty hard to miss,” Rodrigo remarked.

  “So much for the element of surprise,” said Stephano grimly.

  “Maybe not, sir,” said Dag. “If they did see the fortress, they probably didn’t see the dragons.”

  Dag had a point. Stephano sprang to the porthole and, craning his neck, looked into the sky. Rain spattered on the window, and the mountain was shrouded in the gloom, visible only when the occasional bolt of lightning flared. He saw no sign of the dragons. If he couldn’t see them, the odds were good that the bat riders had not seen them either.

  Of course, there was always the possibility the dragons had not survived the flight through the Breath, but he couldn’t let himself think about that. He had more urgent problems.

  “Still descending, sir,” said the helmsman.

  “There’s open ground ahead,” Miri told the man. “Four points off the port bow. Can we make it that far?”

  The helmsman made the adjustment and the air screws nudged the fortress along. The movement was agonizingly slow, or so it seemed to Stephano.

  Miri watched out the porthole, urging the fortress to keep going. “A little farther … just a little farther…”

  The fortress crept ahead. Dark clouds clustered thick around the top of the mountain. If the dragons had survived, they might be there, hidden from view.

  Rodrigo returned to the helm and looked at the constructs.

  “How is the magic holding up?” Stephano asked.

  Rodrigo shook his head. “Faltering.”

  “We’re almost there,” Miri said.

  “Slow our rate of descent,” Stephano ordered.

  “I’m trying, sir,” said the helmsman.

  As the ground rose up to meet them, S
tephano could see a few scraggly trees lining what he could now tell was a deep ravine. The rest of the land was open field.

  “What sort of ground is it?” Stephano asked Miri.

  If they landed in a swamp, the fortress might sink like the proverbial rock.

  “The Trundlers dock their boats here because the area is solid bedrock.” Miri glanced at Stephano in concern. “But we’re coming down too fast.”

  “Trying to adjust the air screws, sir,” said the helmsman. “They’re still not responding.”

  As he swore beneath his breath, Rodrigo bent over the helm. His long, delicate fingers danced, almost as if he was playing one of his silent concertos that he occasionally performed on tabletops in the absence of a piano. When he looked up, his face was pale and his hair was falling into his eyes.

  “That’s done it!”

  Their rate of descent slowed and the air screws shifted. Instead of pushing the fortress, they were creating a cushion of air. The fortress wobbled a moment, floating on the cushion. The helmsman decreased the power, and Stephano could hear the air screws slow down.

  The fortress landed with a grinding thud, as the base scraped across the rock. After rocking for a few tense moments, the fortress finally settled.

  Stephano could hear scattered cheers from the men. Miri sighed in relief. She brushed the sweat-damp curls out of her face and smiled at him.

  “Welcome to Glasearrach,” she said.

  Stephano drew near her, their shoulders touching. He gazed out the window into the damp misty air and the realization struck him that his plan had succeeded. They were on the sunken island of Glasearrach.

  Dag had vanished, having gone to give the command to run out the guns, while Rodrigo and the helmsman discussed the magic, neither sounding very happy. He could feel more than hear the gun ports creaking open and the rumble of the cannons moving into position.

  But he stopped thinking about those things to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw the dragons spiraling down out of the Breath, flying in formation toward the mountain. Haelgrund would be keeping an eye on the fortress, and he must be wondering why they had landed so far from their original site.

  A sudden worrying thought occurred to Stephano.

  “Rigo, dragons are made of magic, so to speak. What effect will the contramagic have on them?”

  Rodrigo waved him to silence. He had left the helm and was down on his hands and knees, squinting at the wall. The matter must be serious, given that Rodrigo was risking serious damage to his trousers.

  Stephano made a mental note to bring up the matter of the dragons later. He had the feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer anyway.

  He looked back toward the mountain. The peak was still shrouded in clouds that shifted and roiled uneasily. One of the dragons had perched on an outcropping of rock, wings folded at its sides. Haelgrund had stationed a lookout.

  Stephano was still watching the dragons when he became aware that Miri was trying to slip away.

  He caught hold of her. “You can’t leave the fortress. It’s too dangerous.”

  “I have to set sail now, Stephano,” said Miri. “Before there’s another storm.”

  “Xavier could know we’re here—”

  “All the more reason for me to go,” said Miri. “I can find out what he plans.”

  “The magic on the helm will be damaged, like ours. You should let Rigo look—”

  “The helm has Gythe’s magic to protect it,” said Miri.

  She faced him, her lips tight and her green eyes narrowed. Stephano knew that look well. The only way he could stop her would be to lock her in the storage room with the cat. And then he’d have to tie her up.

  “Take this,” said Stephano. He held out the dragon pistol.

  Miri’s eyes opened wide. “Your pistol … No, Stephano, I couldn’t…”

  “Take it. I like to think part of me will be with you, watching over you.”

  Miri flushed deeply. Taking the pistol, she thrust it into the waistband of her skirt, then kissed him on the cheek and left the bridge, just as Master Tutillo returned. He bounded through the door with his usual energy, apparently fully recovered.

  “Surgeon’s report, sir. One man in the infirmary with a broken arm and another with a cracked skull.”

  Stephano gave an absent nod. His thoughts were on Miri. He looked out the porthole, down onto the dock below. He could see her in her oilskin coat, climbing on board the Cloud Hopper. Sailors stood by, ready to cast off the lines. Master Tutillo continued with his report.

  “Lieutenant Thorgrimson says the fort suffered some minor damage—cracks in the walls and ceilings. And one of the cannons broke loose, but the men are securing it now. Oh, and I’m to tell you that the powder magazine is dry. No water leaked in.”

  “Thank you. My compliments to the lieutenant. I will be making my inspection shortly.”

  Master Tutillo saluted and ran off.

  He saw Miri raise the Cloud Hopper’s sails, and the sailors cast off the lines. Miri grabbed them, coiled them up, and laid them on the deck. She hurried to the helm sending lift gas to fill the balloon. The sails caught the wind, as the Cloud Hopper floated off the dock.

  Stephano could see Miri at the helm, waving good-bye, her red hair a bright beacon in the bleak gray land. He waved back, although he knew she couldn’t see him, and watched as the sturdy little Trundler houseboat sailed into the mists and was lost to sight.

  “So what do you think of Glasearrach?” asked Rodrigo, coming up behind him.

  Stephano gazed out at the desolation: the windswept, rain-soaked ground, empty and lifeless; the roiling clouds trailing ugly tendrils. In the distance, purple flickers of lightning presaged another storm.

  “Not much,” Stephano grunted. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because the magic is failing and there is no way to stop it,” said Rodrigo. He added with a shrug, “In other words, we may as well get used to this place. We can’t leave.”

  32

  God has abandoned me, Julian. You are dead and my heart dies with you. I cling to life for the sake of our son, who must grow up thinking me cold and heartless, for fear our enemies will destroy him.

  —Countess Cecile de Marjolaine, diary

  Cecile sat with her back against the wall, on her pallet in the prison cell, listening to the soft breathing of Gythe and Sophia. The hour was past midnight, and they were both asleep. But Cecile remained awake, gazing into the flickering light of a small oil lantern she had placed in a corner of the cell to comfort Sophia, who was frightened of the dark.

  The princess huddled beneath the blanket, her arm around Bandit. The drumming had started at noon and with it came a wizard storm. When the drumming eventually stopped, several hours later, the storm stopped, as well. The night was quiet. The pounding of the drums had made Sophia ill; her headaches so bad she was screaming and writhing in pain. The guards had sent for Brother Barnaby.

  He had treated her with soothing words and a cooling poultice. Cecile was not certain which helped the most, the brother’s gentle touch or his herbs. Sophia had finally fallen into a restful sleep.

  Gythe slept on a pallet near Sophia. Her sleep was peaceful. She even smiled, as though dreaming of something pleasant. Cecile envied her.

  She was not able to find rest. Sleep was more disturbing than being awake. When she was awake, she could discipline her thoughts, keep fear caged. Sleep unlocked the door to worry and fear. Not for herself. She had survived two assassination attempts and thwarted efforts by the queen and others to have her exiled or even beheaded. She spent her store of fear on those she loved: Sophia and Gythe, Miri and Stephano, the gentle Brother Barnaby. Even Bandit.

  Days had passed since Miri’s escape, and Cecile’s plan had succeeded. She had been able to persuade Xavier that she and the girls were innocent, that they had known nothing of Miri’s activities. Their argument was helped by the fact that Gythe and Sophia had been the first savants to show they could con
trol the storm with their magic, if only for a short time. Twice more, Xavier had asked them to work their magic on the wizard storms. Twice more Gythe and Sophia had slowed the wind and stopped the rain, though again, only for a short time.

  Xavier had been pleased that his theory was proven right. According to Brother Barnaby, however, the Blood Mage had not been impressed. He had observed the Blood Mage, standing with his drummers, watching with a hungry expression as Gythe and Sophia quieted the thunder claps and tamed the lightning.

  According to rebel spies, the Blood Mage was said to have told his drummers, “When these young women fail to stop the storms and his fleet is forced to remain on the ground, Xavier will know that his theory about savants is wrong and this foolish experiment will end.”

  Sophia flinched and shuddered in her sleep. Cecile pulled the meager blankets up over the princess’s thin shoulders and smoothed her tangled hair. Her movement disturbed Bandit, who opened one eye, regarded her with drowsy displeasure, and then rolled over on his back and closed his eyes again.

  Cecile fell asleep sitting up, only to wake with a start, jolted from her doze by the sound of a trumpet blaring, tinny and flat sounding in the rain. After a few moments, she heard voices coming from outside the prison walls. She wondered at first if it was morning. The cell was dark, however, except for the glow of the lantern. The voices continued, loud and excited, and the trumpet continued to blare. Uneasy, she hurried to the window.

  The temple was ablaze with light. The drummers were running from the dortoir, some of them hastily flinging on their cloaks against the rain. The voices she had heard belonged to soldiers hurrying past the prison, heading for their posts.

  Gythe sat up, clutching the blanket to her chest.

  “What is going on?” she signed.

  “The drummers are being summoned to the temple,” Cecile replied. “Something is happening.”

  “The invasion?” Gythe asked, making a sign of a soldier firing a weapon.

  “Too early,” said Cecile, frowning. “The fleet is not supposed to launch until tomorrow.”