The Burning Sky (11 page)

She dropped her valise, pulled out the chair at her desk, and sank into it, her face buried in her hands. 

In the last few weeks of his mother's life, she too had often sat like this, her face in her hands. Impatient with her anguish, he used to yank at her sleeve and demand that she play with him.

After her death, for months he could think of nothing but whether she would have still decided on the same course of action had he been different, had he patted her on the back and stroked her hair and brought her cups of tea.

He moved forward slowly, cautiously, as if the girl before him were a sleeping dragon.

Against his better judgment, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

She shook, as if caught in a nightmare.

He had always considered himself cold-blooded. Sangfroid was a trait highly prized by the House of Elberon. His grandfather had especially insisted on it: one was permitted to lose one's life, but never one's detachment. 

Now, however, his detachment cracked. Somewhere inside him, he shook too, with the force of her fear, her confusion, and her vulnerability—an empathy that shocked him with its depth and enormity.

He yanked back his hand. 

“They were there.” Her voice sounded ghostly, disembodied. “They were at the railway station. Two of those armored chariots in the air and—and agents were headed for the inn.”

Of course they had been there. He had told Mrs. Hancock that if Atlantis really thought the girl was nearby, they should watch the rail stations, since she would not know Britain well enough to vault far.

“Did you vault here directly from your dining table?”

“No, from the alley behind. I hope I left enough coins for supper—I was in too much of a hurry.”

“Now is hardly the time to worry about the innkeeper's profit.”

“I know.” She turned her face toward the ceiling and blinked rapidly. He was shocked to realize that she was on the verge of tears. “It's stupid. Of everything that happened today, I don't know why this is the one thing that—”

She passed the base of her palm over her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

The thing to do now would be to pull her into his arms for a reassuring embrace, perhaps even to kiss her on her hair. Offer her the comfort she craved and convince her that she had made the right choice to return.

He could not do it. If anything, he took a step back.

She glanced up at him. “Can I still be Archer Fairfax?”

He clasped his hands behind his back. “You understand what you are to give in return?”

Her lips twisted. “Yes.”

“I require an oath.”

She exhaled slowly. “What do you want me to swear on?”

“Let me clarify. I require a blood oath.”
¹⁴

She was on her feet. “What?”

“The only meaningful oath is one that can be enforced. Your life is not the only one at stake here.”

She trembled, but she met his gaze. “For a blood oath I want more. You will always tell me the truth. You will free my guardian. And we will make one and only one attempt on the Bane. Whether we succeed or fail, you will release me from this oath.”

As if there would ever be a second attempt.

“Granted,” he said.

He found a plate, set it on the desk, and aimed his wand at the plate.
“Flamma viridis.”

A green flame flared. He opened his pocketknife, passed the blade through the fire, cut open the center of his left palm, and let three drops of blood fall on the flame. The fire crackled, turning a more brilliant emerald hue. He lowered the knife into the flame again and passed it to her. “Your turn.”

She winced, but copied his action. The fire devoured her blood and turned the color of a midnight forest. He gripped her still bleeding hand with his and plunged their joined hands directly into the cold, cold flame. 

“Should either of us renege on the oath, this fire will spread in the veins of the oath breaker. It will not be so cool then.”

The fire abruptly turned a brilliant white and burned. She hissed. He sucked in a breath against the scalding pain. 

Just as abruptly, the flame went out, leaving no trace of having ever been there. She pulled her hand back and examined it anxiously. But her skin was perfectly smooth and intact; even the self-inflicted wound at the center of her palm had disappeared.

“A little taste of what awaits the oath breaker,” he said, perhaps unnecessarily.

“You've thought of everything, haven't—”

Her voice trailed off.

The curtains were securely drawn. From where she stood, she could not see out. Yet she stared at the window, disbelief in her eyes. Her denial made the hollow feeling in his chest return with a vengeance. She still wanted to believe he was better than this.

But it was inevitable. She was too sharp, and he had been too hurried to be subtle.

Her already pale face turned ashen, her jaw hardened, she scratched a nail down the center of her palm, where the cut had been.

“You saw them in the sky, didn't you, the armored chariots? That was why you told me about the stars, so that I'd be sure to look up and see them.”

Her voice was unnaturally even. He thought of her thanking him for his honesty. She had to be thinking of the same thing, knowing that even as she spoke those words, he was already planning to betray her trust.

He said nothing.

“You couldn't have had the decency to tell me that they were out there and that I should wait a quarter hour before venturing out?”

“Decency is not a virtue in a prince.”

She laughed bitterly. “The house in London, is it really surrounded by agents of Atlantis?”

He might have exaggerated the likelihood that Lady Wintervale would speak of her arrival to other Exiles. Lady Wintervale was inclined toward secrecy, not confessions.

“Did you also have something to do with the armored chariots at Slough, the ones that sent me scrambling back to you?”

He shrugged.

She laughed again. “So what then, exactly, is the difference between you and Atlantis?”

“I still gave you a choice. You came back here of your own will.”

“No, I came back here because you cornered me. You played fast and loose with my life. You—”

She fell back against the wall, her face contorted by pain.

“Thinking of reneging on the oath already?” He could only imagine the agony that slashed through her.

She looked as if she could scarcely breathe. Her voice was hoarse. “This cannot be a valid pact. Release me now!”

“No.”

Never.

She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, they were full of cold fury. “What kind of person are you, to live without honor or integrity?”

His nails dug into his palm. “Obviously, the kind chosen for what others are too decent to do.”

He wanted to come across as flippant, but instead he sounded harsh and angry.

She clenched her hand. “I liked you much, much better when I didn't know you.”

It did not matter. He had what he wanted from her. What she thought of him was henceforth irrelevant.

He had to draw a deep breath before he could reply. “Your affection is not required in this endeavor, Fairfax, only your cooperation.”

She stared at him. Suddenly she was right before him. Her fist struck him hard low in the abdomen.

He grunted. The girl knew how to hurt someone.

“You bastard,” she snarled.

An irrelevant thought gripped him: he should have kissed her when he still had the chance.

He straightened with some effort. “Supper is in half an hour, Fairfax. And next time, tell me something I do not already know.”

CHAPTER 9

EVERY THOUGHT BROUGHT AGONY.

Iolanthe didn't know when she collapsed on the floor, but it was as good a place as any to suffer.

The pain was unlike any she'd ever known—messy and brutal, dirty, rusty blades scraping along her every nerve ending. She almost prayed for the clean blackness of suffocation.

It took her a long, long time to find ways to think that did not renew the torture. It was painless to picture the prince's eventual wife cuckolding him with every attendant in the castle. It was also all right to imagine his children detesting him. And most satisfying of all, it did not hurt to envision the entire population of Delamer spitting on his casket, for his funeral to turn into a farce and a riot.

She didn't need to be a historian to know that the House of Elberon had been in decline. No doubt he wanted to revive its fortunes and make his mark. No doubt he wanted to be the next great prince. She was but a pawn in his plan, just as for the Bane she was but a thing to be sucked dry and discarded.

She felt raw and depleted, as if she'd come through a terrible illness. She almost could not believe that when she'd awakened this day, her biggest concern had been Rosie Oakbluff's wedding. That seemed years ago, a different lifetime altogether.

Holding on to the edge of the desk, she pulled herself upright.

Somehow this was not too unknown a place, being barely on her feet while the world reeled around her. In fact, there was an eerie familiarity to it: each time Master Haywood had lost his post, she'd thought they'd come to an abyss from which they'd never emerge.

Except this time, it really was the abyss, the end of life as she knew it.

What should she do?

As if to answer her question, her stomach grumbled—she'd been too nervous at tea and too distracted by her thoughts in the inn. She almost laughed. She was still alive, so she must eat—and downstairs supper awaited.

This she was accustomed to: carrying on no matter what; making the best of a terrible situation.

What else was there to do?

 

Titus knocked on her door and received no answer.

“You do not want supper?”

Still no answer.

He went down by himself. To his surprise, when he arrived outside the dining room, she was already there, deep in conversation with Wintervale. Or rather, Wintervale analyzed the strengths and weaknesses of rival houses' cricket teams, and she listened attentively.

Wintervale must have said something funny. She threw back her head and laughed. The sight stopped Titus cold: she was terrifyingly pretty. He did not understand how Wintervale could stand so close and not realize a thing.

Wintervale continued talking. She gazed upon him with a frank appreciation. The urge came upon Titus to smash Wintervale into a china cabinet. It was difficult to believe that he had known her only mere hours: she had already turned his life upside down.

He approached them. She gave him a cursory nod before returning her attention to Wintervale. Kashkari arrived beside Titus, and they spent a minute talking of the liquefaction of oxygen, a new nonmage scientific achievement about which Kashkari had just read in the papers.

The dining room's door opened. With pushes and shoves, the boys entered, then settled themselves at two long tables, self-segregated by age. Mrs. Dawlish sat down at the head of the senior boys' table, Mrs. Hancock, the junior boys' table.

“Will you say grace, Mrs. Hancock?” Mrs. Dawlish asked.

At the mention of Mrs. Hancock's name, Fairfax, across the table from Titus, tensed. Titus could see that she wanted to turn around and have a good look at Mrs. Hancock, but she was careful enough to imitate the other boys and bow her head instead.

“Our Heavenly Father,” began Mrs. Hancock, “assist us in your boundless mercy as we embark on a new Half in this ancient and splendid school. Guide the boys to be industrious and fruitful in their studies. Keep them strong and healthy in body and mind. And may 1883 be the year you bless them at last with victories upon the cricket pitch—for Almighty Lord, you know how sorely we have been tried in Summer Halves past.”

The boys groaned and snickered. Mrs. Dawlish, half smiling herself, shushed them.

Fairfax raised her head, surprise written all over her face. Did she imagine that the agents of Atlantis could not be perfectly charming individuals? Mrs. Hancock was beloved in this house, almost more so than Mrs. Dawlish.

“We give our thanks for the bounty of this meal, O Lord,” continued Mrs. Hancock. “For Mrs. Dawlish, our stalwart dame. Even for the boys, whom we love dearly but, if history is any indication, will wish to throttle with our bare hands before the week is out.”

More laughter.

“All the same we are overjoyed that all of our boys have returned safely to us, especially Fairfax. May he refrain from climbing trees this Half.”

Fairfax's hands tightened on the table. She bowed her head again, as if to hide her unease at being singled out by an enemy.

“But above all other things may we attain the knowledge of thee, O Lord, and serve thee with every breath and every deed. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

“Amen,” echoed the boys.

Fried smelts, asparagus, and orange jelly were served—what must be strange food to Fairfax. She ate sparingly. Three minutes into supper, she dropped her napkin. She turned in her seat, picked up the napkin, and, as she straightened, finally glanced toward Mrs. Hancock.

Mrs. Hancock was, in Titus's opinion, a more attractive woman than she let on. She favored shapeless dresses in infinite varieties of dull brown and always kept her hair covered with a large white cap. But it was the buckteeth that really left a lasting impression—teeth that Titus did not believe to be naturally overlarge.

To his relief, Mrs. Hancock, speaking with a boy on her left, did not appear to notice Fairfax's attention. To his further relief, Fairfax did not stare long. In fact, did not stare at all. If Titus had not been specifically looking for it, he might not even have noticed that she had peeked at Mrs. Hancock.

Fairfax resumed her non-eating, chewing a spear of asparagus as if it were a piece of firewood.
Now
Mrs. Hancock turned—and gazed at the back of Fairfax's head.

Titus quickly looked down. His heart pounded. It was possible a woman would realize sooner that Fairfax was a girl. Did Mrs. Hancock already suspect something, or did she pay attention because Fairfax was nominally Titus's best friend and must be kept under close watch?

“Would you pass me the salt?” Wintervale asked Fairfax.

The saltcellar was right next to Fairfax, a small pewter dish. But dishes from any self-respecting kitchen in the Domain would already be seasoned just right for each person at the table. Unless she helped with the cooking, she would not even know what salt looked like.

But before he could act, she reached out with perfect assurance, took a pinch of salt to sprinkle on her fried smelt, and handed the saltcellar to Wintervale.

Titus stared at her in astonishment. The look she returned was one of pure contempt.

 

Soon she and Wintervale were again chin-deep in cricket talk. Titus managed to carry on a creditable conversation with Kashkari. But he could not concentrate, his awareness saturated with the sound of Fairfax and Wintervale relishing each other's company.

That, and the more-than-occasional looks Mrs. Hancock cast their way.

The cricket talk did not stop at the end of supper, but continued in Fairfax's room, a chat to which Titus was emphatically not invited.

He opened a cabinet next to his bed. Inside the cabinet was a late-model Hansen writing ball, a typewriter that resembled a mechanical porcupine, with keys arranged on a brass hemisphere. He loaded a sheet of paper into the semicylindrical frame beneath the hemisphere.

The keys began moving, driving the short pistons beneath them to form the words and sentences that made up Dalbert's daily report to Titus.

The report, partly in shorthand, partly in code, would have made no sense to Titus's schoolmates—or most mages, for that matter. But to Titus, a half page conveyed as much information as an entire English broadsheet.

Usually he was informed about the decisions of the government, but tonight there were no mentions of the regent or the prime minister. Instead Dalbert supplied what information he had gathered on Fairfax and her guardian.

Haywood had been born on the largest of the Siren Isles, a picturesque archipelago southwest of mainland Domain. His father had been the owner of a commercial fishing fleet, his mother a fishery conservation expert. The couple had three children: Helena, who died in childhood, Hyperion, who ran away from home at an early age, and at last Horatio, the high-achieving offspring to make any parent proud.

The records of his education were typical enough for a gifted and ambitious young man, culminating in his admission to the Conservatory, where his brilliance stood out even among a brilliant crowd. At the end of his third year, his parents passed away in rapid succession, and he began to run with a fast set. There were numerous minor infractions on his record, though his academic success remained undiminished.

The wildness came to an abrupt end when he assumed guardianship of an eleven-month-old baby named Iolanthe Seabourne. The little orphan had been under the care of an elderly great-great-aunt. When the old woman became ill, she had contacted the person named next in the late Seabournes' will to take charge of the girl.

Interestingly enough, the guardianship had not been without minor controversy. Another friend of the Seabournes' had stepped forward and claimed that before the child had been born, the Seabournes had asked to put her name in their will, as the one to care for their child in the unlikely event of their demise.

The will was brought out. Haywood's name was in it, hers was not, and that was the end of the matter.

Everything seemed fine for a while, but seven years ago, Haywood was caught match-fixing intercollegiate polo games. He was relegated to a position at the Institute of Archival Magic, where he plagiarized one of the better-known research papers in recent memory. After he lost
that
post, he found work teaching at a second-tier school. Still unchastened, he accepted bribes from pupils in exchange for better marks.

Outrageous actions on his part, yet the memory keeper had not intervened.

As for the girl, she was a registered Elemental Mage III, uncommon but still far less rare than an Elemental Mage IV, one who controlled all four elements. Judging by her academic record, she had no intention of becoming a street busker—the choice of many elemental mages these days, eating fire before tourists for a living.

And interestingly enough, the deeper Haywood got himself into trouble, the better her marks became and the more effusive the praise from her schoolmasters. A desirable trait, this, the ability to subsume fear and frustration into a singular focus.

His door opened, and in charged Wintervale.

Titus crumpled the report and threw it into the grate. “We do not knock anymore?”

Wintervale grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to the window. “What the hell are those?”

The armored chariots were still there, motionless in the night air.

“Atlantis's aerial vehicles. They have been there since before supper.”

“Why are they here?”

“I told you I met the Inquisitor today—must have run afoul of her,” said Titus. “Go ahead. Throw a rock at them and start your revolution.”

“I would if I could throw a rock that high. Aren't they worried about being seen?”

“Why should they be? If anything, the English will think the Germans are up to no good.”

Wintervale shook his head. “I'd better go check on my mother again.”

“Give her my best.”

Titus waited a minute, then left his room to knock on Fairfax's door. “Titus.”

“Come in,” she said, to his surprise.

She was in a long nightshirt, sitting barefoot on her bed, her back against the wall, playing with fire. The fire was in the form of a Chinese puzzle ball, one openwork sphere nestled inside another, and yet again another.

“You should not play with fire,” he said.

“Neither should you.” She did not look up. “I assume you are here to discuss freeing my guardian?”

Her voice was even. There was an almost preternatural calm about her, as if she knew precisely what she wanted to do with him.

When he was nowhere as certain what to do with her.

“Are you?” she pressed the point.

He had to remind himself that having sworn a blood oath to always tell the truth, he could no longer lie to her—at least not when asked a direct question.

“I came to get my spare wand back and to discuss your training. But we can talk about your guardian, too.”

She pulled the wand out from under her mattress and tossed it at him. “So let's talk about him.”

“I am going back to the Domain in a few days. While I am there, I will arrange a visit to the Inquisitory to see how he is getting along.”

“Why don't you order him released?”

She had asked the question to needle him. He had no such powers, not even if he were of age. “My influence over the Inquisitor is severely limited.”

“What can you do then?”

“I need to first see whether he is still in rescuable shape—he may or may not be, depending on what the Inquisitor has done to him.”

“What do you define as not being in rescuable shape?”

“If his mind has been completely destroyed, I will not run the risk of physically removing him from the Inquisitory. You will have to accept that you have lost him.”

“And if he is still all right?”

“Then I will need to plan—my goal has been to stay out of the Inquisitory, not to get in.”