The Seventh Sigil Read online

  Stephano viewed the glittering lights and wondered how long he would be forced to stay before he could escape and go back home. His enjoyment of the evening had been ruined. He had looked forward to proudly walking with Miri on his arm. His dreams dashed, he faced another tedious event, one in which he would be constantly looking at his watch.

  When their carriage rolled up to the front, he opened the door and jumped out, nearly bowling over the footman. He rudely brushed past the perfumed throng gathered in the entryway, pretending he did not hear the praise and congratulations that followed in his wake. He went immediately to the grand ballroom, leaving Rodrigo to bask in the smiles of the ladies, all of whom had missed him terribly.

  He waited impatiently to be announced. At the name of “Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen,” many people stopped talking and turned to regard with admiration the heroic leader of the Dragon Brigade. All Stephano saw was that the ballroom was hot and crowded.

  A quartet played from a balcony while people milled about, gathering in small groups, laughing and talking. He searched for his mother and found her talking to a short, rotund little man dressed all in black, looking very much like a clerk.

  “Stephano, I believe you know Monsieur Dubois,” said his mother.

  “Captain de Guichen, I am pleased to see you safely returned from your mission,” Dubois said, making his bobbing bow.

  “Monsieur Dubois, I understand I have you to thank for much of my good fortune,” said Stephano gratefully.

  His mother flashed him a warning look, but he knew better than to refer to his arrest.

  “A small favor,” said Dubois, gently waving his hand to brush it away. “I was glad to help. And now, if you will excuse me, Countess, I must go pay my respects to the archbishop.”

  Dubois made another bobbing bow and scurried off, looking more like a clerk than ever.

  “There you see the leader of the Church of the Breath,” Cecile commented.

  “What? Dubois?” Stephano asked, shocked.

  “Keep your voice down, my son,” said Cecile. “No one is supposed to know, of course. Grand Bishop Montagne suffered a severe apoplectic attack. He is confined to his bed in the Citadel and speaks to no one except Dubois. The Council of Bishops are quite beside themselves. Montagne cannot be removed while he still lives, and Dubois claims that all the decisions he is making come from the mouth of the grand bishop.”

  Cecile fanned herself and said with a wry smile, “If so, the grand bishop has gained a good deal of sense since his illness. He has repealed the edict that condemned the study of contramagic.”

  “Rodrigo will be glad to hear that. He’s writing a monograph on the subject.” Stephano sighed and lapsed into silence. Standing with his head bowed, his hands behind his back, he thought of Miri. She and Gythe had probably left by now. He would return to a cold, dreary, and empty house. A cold, drear, and empty life.

  “I am sorry, my dear,” Cecile said, gently touching his arm.

  She was elegant in a wine-colored silk dress, adorned with tiny red rosebuds and black lace; her neck was graced by a necklace of jet and diamonds. She was too thin and her hair had gone white, but she was still, Stephano thought, the most beautiful woman in the room.

  “How did you know? Did Miri tell you?”

  “Not in so many words,” said Cecile. “I came to know her well. Look around this room, Stephano. Ask yourself, would she be happy here?”

  Stephano looked about the room, at the glittering throng, gossiping, chattering, bowing and fawning and flattering. He tried to imagine Miri among them, afraid to sit down for fear her hooped skirt would fly up over her head. He had to smile, and came perilously close to crying.

  “She would much rather be on her boat, sailing free among the clouds,” Cecile continued with a little sigh.

  “You envy her,” he said.

  “I must admit, now that Her Highness is safe, I did enjoy my adventure,” said Cecile.

  “I was sorry to hear about the death of Sir Conal,” said Stephano.

  “He was a good friend, a brave man,” said Cecile. “He died as he would have wanted, fulfilling his vow, protecting his king. Her Highness and I both owe him a great debt.”

  Her fond gaze went to Princess Sophia, who was talking animatedly with a group of young men. Among them, Stephano was pleased to see, was Master Tutillo, now Lieutenant Tutillo. He had been given the honor of holding Bandit, who had been discovered stealing chicken wings from the buffet table.

  “You heard the queen dowager has left the palace,” Cecile said.

  “I heard that she and her children had a falling out,” said Stephano.

  “Sophia told her mother that she was not going to be married. She planned to attend university to study magic and if she did ever marry, she would marry for love. The dowager appealed to the king, and he concurred with his sister’s decision. The dowager burst into a flood of tears, told them both they were ungrateful children, packed up and took herself off to her summer palace.”

  Cecile pressed his hand and suddenly smiled at him. Her smile was warm, loving, as if she knew some wonderful secret.

  “What is it, Mother?” he asked. “Is my cravat crooked?”

  “You look very handsome. I am so proud of you, my son,” she answered. “Ah, there is the Travian ambassador. I promised I would speak with him.”

  She glided off in a rustle of silk and a faint fragrance of jasmine. Stephano stood by himself in a corner, fidgeting and tugging at his cravat. The room was stifling. Rodrigo had entered, surrounded by a bevy of women, and catching Stephano’s eye, he waved gaily and pointed him out. The women turned to look, smiling and whispering behind their fans. He was a hero now, celebrated in story and song, as the saying went.

  Stephano turned away, pretending to be fascinated by a vase of late summer roses. He wondered if he could slip away, leave the palace without being noticed. Feeling a presence at his shoulder, he turned from the roses to see D’argent, hovering.

  “I am glad you are safely returned, sir,” said D’argent.

  “I am glad to see you, D’argent.” Stephano regarded him with concern. D’argent was thin and haggard, his face worn with care. “Have you been unwell?”

  “I have found the last few months quite trying, sir,” said D’argent. “But I must not keep you. His Majesty asked me to find you. He would like to speak to you.”

  “Speak to me?” Stephano repeated, astonished. “Now?”

  “If you will accompany me, I will take you to him,” said D’argent.

  D’argent led Stephano to a room that had once been King Alaric’s office. A large window provided a magnificent view of the lights of Evreux, sparkling in the distance. Paintings of ships adorned the walls. In the place of honor above the desk was a painting of Renaud’s flagship.

  The king sat at his desk, going through some paperwork. He looked up when D’argent announced Stephano’s name and immediately rose to his feet.

  D’argent departed, closing the door behind him. Stephano bowed deeply, wondering why he had been summoned to the king’s presence. He stood in silence, waiting to be told. Renaud was not one for idle chitchat. He came straight to the point.

  “I have just been reading your report on the victory in Glasearrach, Captain,” said the king. “Amazing tale. You must tell me all the details.”

  “I would be glad to do so, Your Majesty,” said Stephano. “I fear I am keeping you from your party.”

  Renaud grimaced. “To tell you the truth, Captain, I would rather be standing on the deck of my ship enduring a broadside than attending one of these silly affairs.”

  Stephano didn’t know what to say. He murmured something unintelligible.

  “But I didn’t ask you to come listen to me grouse,” Renaud continued. “First I have news of the Dragon Brigade. The Council of Dragons has agreed that the Brigade will be reinstated, and it will be needed soon. The fiends still hold the refineries in Braffa and that blasted monastery whose na
me I can never remember.”

  “That is excellent news, Your Majesty!” Stephano said, pleased. He would have an excuse to leave Rosia, fly to battle with Dag and the dragons.

  “I am removing you from command, Captain,” Renaud went on. “Before you leave, you will recommend someone to be the Brigade’s new commander.”

  Stephano gasped. He had to struggle through his bitter disappointment to find his voice.

  “Have I done something to offend Your Majesty?”

  Renaud turned away without answering. “Come over here. I want your opinion on a matter.”

  Stephano didn’t want to give his opinion on anything. He wanted only to leave. He would have to stand and watch as the Dragon Brigade took to the air under the leadership of some other commander. He dared not insult the king, however, so he followed listlessly as Renaud led him to a chart table. Renaud unrolled a large map of Rosia and jabbed a finger on the map.

  “The duchy of Bourlet. I am much concerned about it. The region has been too long neglected. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Stephano stiffened, his facial muscles tight, careful to give no hint of his outrage. The reason the duchy of Bourlet had been long neglected was that King Alaric had done everything in his power to punish the people of Bourlet for supporting the Lost Rebellion.

  “Argonne is the largest city on Rosia’s southern coast,” Renaud went on, seeming not to notice. “Important port city, but the population is dwindling, businesses closing. The port’s defenses are outdated and falling to ruin.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” said Stephano coldly. His fists were clenched behind his back, nails digging into his flesh.

  “The long and short of it is, de Guichen,” said Renaud, turning to him. “I want you to take charge.”

  Stephano stared, confused. He wondered if they were back to discussing the Dragon Brigade. “I am sorry, Your Majesty, I don’t understand. Take charge of what?”

  Renaud gave a loud snort. “Hah! As my wife always tells me, I expect people to know what I am thinking. What I am thinking is this: de Guichen, I am conferring upon you the dukedom of Bourlet.”

  Stephano saw the lights in the room waver and the walls seem to expand and then shrink. The floor shifted beneath his feet, so that he had to rest his hand on the back of a nearby chair to steady himself.

  Renaud chuckled. “You look as if you’d been hit with a belaying pin, Captain.”

  “I feel as if I have been struck by a fireball, Your Majesty,” said Stephano dazedly. He drew in a deep breath. “Do I understand you correctly, sir? You are saying I am to be…”

  He couldn’t finish. The words were sacred, fraught with memories of friendship, memories of a great man.

  “The Duke of Bourlet,” said Renaud with a smile. His voice softened. “I am saying exactly that, de Guichen. I can think of no one who deserves the honor more.”

  Stephano didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t yet fathom that this was real. Renaud went on talking, perhaps realizing that Stephano needed time to adjust to this astonishing change in his life.

  Stephano caught a word here and there. Only later would he recall everything the king was saying.

  “The duke had no heirs, so the lands and revenues reverted to the crown upon the duke’s death. A small portion of the money went into the royal coffers, but there remains a considerable sum. Revenue from the tenants. Vast amount of farmland and forests. Three castles—the largest in Argonne…”

  The castle in Argonne. When Stephano heard that his breath caught. The castle was a magnificent structure, built on a cliff overlooking the city and the mists of the Breath. He and his father had visited many times. As a boy, Stephano had often imagined what it must be like to be a duke and live in such a grand and beautiful palace.

  “I suppose you will live in Argonne,” the king went on. “Restoring the castle will be good for the city, encourage growth. I will have all the proper paperwork drawn up later. Damn paperwork. Never ends.”

  Renaud stood looking at Stephano, who was still leaning on the chair. “Everything I have told you is confidential, de Guichen, mind you. Must wait for it to be official. Your mother is the only one who knows.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty…” Stephano faltered. He was still finding it hard to speak for his roiling emotions. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, and tell your red-haired Trundler friend that I have commissioned a new boat for her and her sister. I’m having it built in the shipyard in Westfirth if she’d like to go see it.”

  “That will please Mistress Miri immensely, Your Majesty,” said Stephano.

  “Good! Now I suppose we must return to that damn ball,” said Renaud. “My wife will have me keelhauled if I don’t dance with her.”

  Stephano never knew how he left the king’s presence or how he managed to find his way back to the ballroom. He seemed to float on the air, wrapped in a golden cloud. He had to take a quiet moment to compose himself before he felt he could face people.

  He sought out the chapel and got down on his knees, bowing his head, feelings of joy mingled with sorrow. He asked God to make him worthy of the memory of the duke and of his father; worthy of the trust the king had placed in him; worthy of the trust of the people who would look to him for wise rule.

  Once he felt that he could appear as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he made his way back to the ballroom. He searched for his mother, longing to share his elation, if only in an exchange of smiles and glances. Not watching where he was going, he bumped into a gentleman from behind. He was making his apologies when the man turned around.

  “Sir Henry!” Stephano exclaimed.

  He shook hands, honestly glad to see him.

  “Captain de Guichen,” said Sir Henry, smiling in turn. He leaned over to whisper, “Or should I say, Monsieur le Duc.”

  Stephano was astonished. “How did you know?”

  Sir Henry gave a sly smile, and Stephano remembered to whom he was talking.

  “I beg your pardon, sir. That was a foolish question. Speaking of spying, I am surprised to find you in Rosia. Isn’t there a warrant for your immediate arrest?”

  Sir Henry chuckled. “I am one of the party escorting Her Majesty, Queen Mary. I have been given diplomatic immunity. Which reminds me, I was just talking with your charming mother. The countess was telling me the tale of your victory, Captain. How you very nearly died.”

  “And she told me you nearly died saving Freya from Mistress Eiddwen’s plot to destroy your country,” said Stephano gravely.

  A shadow crossed Sir Henry’s face.

  “Indeed,” he said quietly. “That was a terrible experience, one I hope to God I am not asked to repeat. We survived, Freya survived, thanks to Father Jacob.”

  “My mother said that Captain Northrop lost his hand in the battle,” said Stephano. “The captain is a gallant foe. I trust he will be all right.”

  “Alan?” Sir Henry smiled at the thought of his friend. “He will be fine. Our friend Simon is working on fitting him with some sort of new mechanical hand he’s invented.”

  “I am glad to hear it. Speaking of Captain Northrop,” Stephano added with feigned innocence, “what news do you hear of Braffa, sir? The king told me the Bottom Dwellers still hold the refineries.”

  “I am sure I know nothing about Braffa, sir,” said Sir Henry. “We Freyans have no interest at all in the matter.”

  He winked at Stephano, who laughed.

  “Ah, I see Her Majesty looking for me,” said Sir Henry. “I must go attend her. My sincere congratulations, Captain. And my thanks for your brave service.”

  He paused, became thoughtful. “I find I am heartily sick of war, Captain.”

  Stephano was watching Sir Henry depart and thinking that he, too, was heartily sick of war, when he was engulfed in a bear hug of an embrace. He managed to extricate himself and turned to see Sir Ander and Father Jacob.

  “Congratulations, Stephano,” said Sir Ander. He regarded him with pride. “My gods
on, the Duke of Bourlet!”

  “Does everyone in this room know?” Stephano demanded, exasperated. He noticed that Sir Ander was walking with the aid of a cane. “The news is supposed to be confidential.”

  “We won’t breathe a word,” said Father Jacob, shaking Stephano’s hand.

  “I am glad to see you at liberty, Father. My mother said the charges of heresy were dropped,” said Stephano.

  “His Eminence, the grand bishop, has pardoned both Sir Ander and myself,” said Father Jacob.

  Stephano followed his gaze and saw him looking at Dubois. The little man was standing in a corner, almost eclipsed by a potted plant.

  “Not only that,” Sir Ander added. “The grand bishop offered Father Jacob a position in the university, teaching the new courses in contramagic. A safe life, one of ease and contentment. Of course, he turned it down.”

  “We are joining those traveling in the fortress back to Glasearrach. We are going Below to visit Brother Barnaby,” said Father Jacob.

  “I knew he had written to you,” said Stephano. “I was sorry I didn’t have much chance to see him while we were there. He was busy among the wounded.”

  “The rebels are trying to set up a new government, and Brother Barnaby has asked if I would lend my aid. He has found a new saint, it seems, Saint Xavier the Martyr. The fortress will be packed with supplies. The nations of the world have come together to pledge their help and support.”

  “Guilt is a wonderful thing,” Sir Ander remarked drily.

  “You are accompanying Father Jacob, I presume, Sir Ander,” said Stephano.

  “He insists upon it,” said Father Jacob, frowning at Sir Ander and his cane. “I told him there was no need. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “And I told him I took an oath,” said Sir Ander patiently. “God won’t let me off the hook.”

  They spent a few more moments together talking of the fortress. Father Jacob asked about Miri and Gythe.

  “They are both well, Father,” Stephano answered steadily. “They have gone to Westfirth to live with Miri’s uncle.”