The Seventh Sigil Page 51

  “What are you doing awake?” Stephano asked. “It’s not morning.”

  “Those fornicating drums!” Rodrigo groaned. He staggered over to the helmsman chair and slumped down. “Pound, pound, pound in my head. All the fornicating night. Pardon my language.”

  “Drums?” Stephano glanced at Dag, who shook his head. “I don’t hear any drums.”

  “Because you are both magically benighted, which makes you fortunate. These are the drums Miri was telling us about. Made of human skin from the victims of blood magic rituals. They are the source of the contramagic that is destroying us.”

  “Drums,” said Stephano skeptically.

  Rodrigo regarded him with frowning exasperation. “I have explained this to you before.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Stephano did remember Rodrigo talking about resonance, synchronous vibrations, prolongations of sound, reflections from surfaces, and harmonics. He also remembered dozing off.

  “If you could refresh my memory,” Stephano suggested.

  Rodrigo gave him an aggrieved look. “You were snoring.”

  “Rigo, it’s important. I have an idea. Just a brief explanation. Leave out the part about the glass harmonicas.”

  Rodrigo sighed deeply. “As you recall, music has always been an integral part of Trundler magic. Miri sings when she is concocting her ointments, for example. Gythe sings when she casts her protections spells. These people have taken that to a new and frightening level. The drums are imbued with constructs that cause them to resonate with contramagic. As the drummers beat the drums, they are pouring power into the contramagic. The drumming provides a way to gather all that raw power into one coherent wave. The use of blood magic allows for the collection of an even greater amount of power.”

  He stopped to rub his eyes and take a sip of tea.

  “One drummer begins and as more join in they synchronize until they are all in perfect unison. The drummers sit on a wooden platform splashed with blood that acts like a soundboard on a pianoforte. Enhanced by blood magic, the board projects the wave of contramagic outward. These waves of base contramagic are breaking apart our magic down here and also the magic above.”

  “So if we could stop these drummers, we stop the effects of the contramagic,” said Stephano. He hurried over to the chart table and pointed to a place on the crude map of the city he had drawn from Miri’s directions. “The drummers are here, in the temple. The temple complex is located here, on the outskirts of the city.”

  “What are you thinking, sir?” Dag asked. “We can’t attack the temple. We have to stop the fleet.”

  “Maybe we can do both,” said Stephano, more ideas forming in his head.

  “What about Miri and Gythe and the princess?” Dag asked. “According to Miri, they will be in the temple square trying to stop the storms.”

  “Miri and the rebels are going to rescue them,” said Stephano. His mind boiled over with plans. “I need to talk to Lord Haelgrund. Dag, wake the brigade piper. Rigo, I’m glad you’re here. I want you to inspect the magic on the cannons—”

  “You want me to inspect cannons?” Rodrigo repeated, appalled. “My dear fellow, you usually won’t let me within ten feet of a pistol.”

  “I need you to examine the magic. Tell me if it is failing—”

  “I can tell you that now,” Rodrigo said grimly. “The magic is failing. And there is another problem. Have you considered how the contramagic will affect the dragons?”

  “I was going to ask you about that…” said Stephano. He could see by his friend’s expression that the answer wasn’t good.

  “According to Father Jacob, dragons have both magic and contramagic in their systems, holding them in balance with what you might think of as a natural form of the seventh sigil. The contramagic is having an effect on the dragons Above, but that is mainly with the young. Down here, the dragons will essentially be bombarded with contramagic, which will upset the balance.”

  “And the result would be…,” said Stephano impatiently.

  “I’m not certain exactly what will happen because I am not a dragon. You would need to ask them. I would imagine, however, that after a time, they will start to feel weak, lethargic, short of breath.”

  “How long will that take?” Stephano asked abruptly.

  “There are so many variables—”

  Stephano had been looking at the map. Now he rounded on his friend. “How long, damn it, Rigo? How long before the dragons and ourselves and every bloody thing in the fortress starts to fall apart?”

  “Lower your voice, sir,” Dag advised.

  Stephano forced himself to calm down.

  “I’m sorry, Rigo. I didn’t mean to yell at you. It’s not your fault. Do I have an hour, six hours, a day, a month…”

  “Twelve hours,” Rodrigo answered. “That’s a guess.”

  “Thank you,” said Stephano. “That should give us time. I want you in the gun rooms. You need to show the gunnery crafters how to fix the magic that reinforces the iron. And if they can’t fix it, how long they can fire before the barrels overheat.”

  “You realize I know nothing at all about cannons,” said Rodrigo. “That I never wanted to know anything about cannons.”

  “You do remember that you volunteered to come with us,” said Stephano, resting his hand on Rodrigo’s shoulder. “As our master crafter.”

  “I know,” Rodrigo replied glumly, as he was leaving. “I’m admitting myself into the Asylum of Saint Charenton the moment we are home.”

  Outside the pipes began to skirl, playing “The Jolly Beggarman,” the battle march of the Brigade. The music always stirred the blood. Stephano felt his heartbeat quicken. His confidence returned. Fear and doubt did not leave, but they backed off, gave him room to maneuver.

  Stephano watched out the window, waiting to see Lord Haelgrund. Black against a backdrop of lightning, the dragon came flying out from the mountain caves where the dragons had taken shelter.

  “He’s not going to be happy when he hears my plan,” Stephano remarked.

  “Why not, sir?” Dag asked.

  “It involves Hroal and Droal.”

  Lord Haelgrund and the other noble dragons had been trained to fight. The common dragons had been trained to work: lift heavy cannons into place, clear boulders from landing fields. Stephano would need that very engineering skill and knowledge for his plan to work and he blessed his decision to bring them over Lord Haelgrund’s objections.

  Lord Haelgrund landed on the ground outside the fortress and settled down to wait. On the cliffs above, another dragon stood watch. Stephano changed into the uniform coat of the Dragon Brigade, put on his hat and cloak, and hurried out, hoping to be able to finish explaining his plans to the dragon before the next wizard storm struck.

  He looked at his watch. One hour until dawn.

  36

  Hope that we will be rescued has fallen into despair and despair, I fear, will sink into hatred.

  —Xavier I

  Cecile and Brother Barnaby joined the throng of people entering the temple by way of the back door. Drummers pushed past them, putting on their blood-red robes, carrying their drums, hastening to the amphitheater to swell the ranks of those already at work. Soldiers jostled them, running to their posts, weapons in hand.

  The atmosphere was tense. The walls themselves seemed to vibrate in and out to the deafening throb of the drumming. Cecile had the eerie impression that the temple was a living thing, with the drums the beating heart.

  Torches mounted on sconces in the walls cast pools of light on the floor, leaving the rest of the corridor in shadow. Cecile kept to the shadows and pulled the hood of her steward’s golden cloak over her face. Not that her precautions mattered. People were far too worried and apprehensive about this sudden alarm and what it might portend to notice a steward and a monk.

  Cecile’s main concern was to reach the temple square before Gythe and Sophia started working their magic, and then somehow find a way to let them kn
ow she was there. Brother Barnaby had to make contact with the resistance who would be waiting for them in the plaza. On their way to the Temple he told Cecile about his meeting with Miri.

  “She is going to carry word to Stephano about the change in plans. And I gave her Bandit to take back to the fortress.”

  “Have you spoken with the rebels?” Cecile asked.

  “I spoke to Patrick, my lady. The resistance has been thrown into confusion by Xavier’s sudden change in plans.”

  “Will they help us?”

  “Miri promised she would be there,” Brother Barnaby said. “As for the Resistance, they have much do, my lady, and few people to spare. They planned to time their attacks on Xavier’s forts all over the island to coincide with the launching of the fleet. The members of the resistance who are here now have to carry word to our people throughout Glasearrach.”

  What this meant was that Cecile couldn’t count on the rebels for help. She was on her own with a monk who had vowed that he would not kill. While she honored Brother Barnaby for his faith and his courage, she did not see how he would be of much use to her in a fight.

  People pressed around her. The stench of blood and fear and sweat was suffocating. She longed to break free of the crowd, yet she had to keep hold of Brother Barnaby’s arm to avoid being separated and losing each other.

  They were nearing the front of the temple. Cecile could see a glimmer of gray light and she caught a breath of fresh air. Before she and Brother Barnaby could reach the exit, several drummers swarmed around them, backing them into a wall. Cecile tried to find a way through the drummers, afraid that the ceremony would start, but she and Brother Barnaby were trapped.

  One of the drummers pulled open a door behind her. A blaze of light flooded out into the darkened hallway. Looking inside, she could see drummers milling about the room, finding their places. Suddenly, a man’s agonized scream rose from somewhere in the center of the room and echoed through the hall.

  “My God, what is happening?” Cecile said, gasping.

  “One of the sacrifices being put to death,” Brother Barnaby said softly. “That chamber is the Croi na Xavier. The Heart of Xavier. Look inside and you will see what we are fighting to end.”

  The large circular room had a high ceiling and wood-paneled walls polished to a rich glow. Carved stone buttresses met directly above the center of a wooden platform that was raised about four feet off the floor. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the columns were covered with glowing constructs, some green and some red. Drummers sat cross-legged on the platform beating the drums with either their hands or with sticks, while others stood around an altar in the center and the bloody corpse that lay spread across it.

  Blood mages were draining his blood, carrying it off in small bowls to pour on the drums, on the platform, and the stone floor below, feeding the magic.

  Suddenly, by some unseen, unheard signal, the drumming stopped. The silence was almost worse, for it was thick with the echoes and the smell. From inside the room came another terrible, gurgling scream, then the sound of the drummers beating softly on their drums in approval. Cecile shuddered.

  Brother Barnaby clasped her hand. “God is with us, my lady,” he said firmly.

  “Even in this dark and evil place?” Cecile asked.

  “Especially in this place,” said Brother Barnaby.

  He smiled at her in reassurance. He had been tortured in this building, perhaps in this very chamber. He had avoided becoming one of the sacrifices by proving himself more valuable as a healer than as a victim. His suffering must have been unendurable and yet, he had not only found the strength to survive, he had forgiven his tormentors and helped to mend them.

  “I envy you, Brother,” Cecile said. “I envy your faith.”

  He cast her a surprised glance. “But when I entered the prison, you were praying.”

  “I do not pray to God,” said Cecile.

  She saw his gaze go to her left hand, to the golden ring she wore. She placed her hand over it, drawing strength from the touch.

  “You turn to love for strength, my lady,” said Brother Barnaby with a quiet smile. “I turn to God. There is no difference. Ah, we may leave now.”

  The drummers had moved out of their way and into the drumming chamber. Someone closed the door and Brother Barnaby and Cecile hastened to the exit. A contingent of armed guards stood blocking the door. Cecile was afraid they would not let them pass, but apparently the soldiers were posted at the entrance to the temple to keep people from entering, not leaving.

  One of the soldiers recognized Brother Barnaby and greeted him in a friendly manner.

  “A momentous day, Brother,” he said.

  “Indeed it is,” Brother Barnaby agreed. “Steward Cecile and I would like to be part of this historic occasion. Are we permitted to go out onto the square?”

  “Of course! Our saint wants all to witness his triumph.”

  The soldier opened the door. Cecile looked outside and gasped in dismay.

  The temple square was packed with people. Word had apparently spread among the residents of Dunlow that this day their saint was going to stop the destructive wizard storms and launch the invasion of the world Above. It seemed the entire population had turned out in the gray dawn. Cecile could not see the center of the plaza for the mass of bodies, nor could she see Xavier, Gythe, or Sophia. She had no idea how they would ever reach them.

  “Stay close to me, my lady,” said Brother Barnaby with a calm certainty she could not understand.

  As he led her into the crowd she realized that this crowd was unusually quiet, and also that there were no children. Only adults. Everyone stood in the rain, waiting with grim faces in grim silence.

  “People are expecting trouble,” Cecile said softly.

  Brother Barnaby glanced at her and nodded. “That is why they left the children at home.”

  The beating of the drums increased to its former intensity, thudding in Cecile’s head, a vibrant pounding that made it hard even to think. Rain soaked her cloak. The wind was rising, threatening to blow off her hood. A wizard storm was brewing.

  She kept her head down and took firm hold of Brother Barnaby’s arm as he began again to move through the crowd. Everyone was facing the square, craning their heads to see, standing on tiptoe, their backs to them. Brother Barnaby pushed through the press of people, tapping them on the shoulder with his hand to draw their attention, offering murmured explanations and apologies.

  “Pardon, let us pass,” he said over and over. “Please let us pass.”

  People turned their heads, some startled or frowning in annoyance until they saw it was him. Then they smiled and moved aside. More than that, they quietly sent the word to those ahead to make way. Cecile followed in his wake, keeping fast hold of him. As she passed, she heard whispered comments.

  “That is Brother Barnaby. He delivered my wife’s baby … He nursed me through a fever … He gave my child a balm for the pain…”

  Many wished him well as he passed. Some reached out to touch him, as if for luck. He seemed to recognize them all, addressing many of them by name, but always moving, and keeping her in tow. Cecile regarded the young monk with newfound respect. Brought here a prisoner, he had given love for hatred, hope for fear.

  As more and more people made way for them, they moved steadily toward the center of the square. Trying to find Sophia and Gythe, Cecile did not realize that Brother Barnaby had stopped to talk to a woman in a heavy cloak until she nearly bumped into him. The two held a brief conversation, then Brother Barnaby walked quickly on.

  “Our friends are here,” he said to her softly. “Those wearing green. Miri is with them.”

  Glancing around, Cecile saw a man wearing a drab green cloak, a woman with a light green kerchief around her neck, another man in a green slouch hat. None of them looked her way, but Cecile sensed they were aware of her and her companion.

  “Where is Miri?”

  “She is here, among the crowd
,” said Brother Barnaby. “She left the Cloud Hopper waiting on the outskirts of town. But there is a problem. The Blood Mage feared the rebels would attack, and has placed Gythe and Sophia under armed guard.”

  She could finally see the center of the square. Xavier stood on a crude stage with his brother, the Blood Mage, behind him, his crimson robes a lurid splash against the gray, dreary morning. At least twenty soldiers in demonic armor and carrying long guns formed a ring of steel around the base of the stage. They faced the crowd, weapons raised, while bat riders circled in the air overhead.

  Almost lost to view, Gythe and Sophia, looking very small and forlorn, huddled together behind Xavier.

  Cecile was sick with despair. “What can we do, Brother? How can we save them?”

  “I do not know,” said Brother Barnaby. “We did not expect this.”

  Xavier stepped to the edge of the stage and raised his hands, calling for silence.

  “My friends,” he said. “Thank you for coming.”

  He spoke in the Trundler language. Cecile had learned a fair number of words from Sir Conal on their journey, and she had learned more Trundler during her recent captivity, so she could follow his speech, which was simple and direct.

  “At last, the wronged people of this doomed island will have their revenge!”

  He described how his agents were planning to destroy Freya and bring down the king of Rosia; how they had captured the refineries in Braffa and brought economic ruin to the trade cartels of Travia; how the coast of Estara was in flames.

  “Those nations that came together to slaughter our children are now weeping over their own dead sons and daughters. Our drummers are beating out mayhem, destroying magic, causing buildings to crumble and nations to fall. Wizard storms will light their skies with fire and fill the air with the thunder. No ship will dare to set sail. They will know what it is to live in darkness!”

  He stopped, expecting the crowd’s enthusiastic response.

  But the crowd was silent. Instead of showering him in adulation, their utter silence was a bitter rebuke.