The Burning Sky (24 page)

Iolanthe caught one of the blue flowers. “Are we still in the teaching cantos?”

The prince nodded. “In the practice cantos, every time you leave, it is as if you have never been there. But the Oracle will advise you only once in your lifetime, and until her story was moved to the teaching cantos, where there is continuity, my ancestors could never get any meaningful answers from her.”

“And she will only help you to help someone else, right?”

“Right—and she can see through you. When I pretended that I wanted to help the Bane remain in power, she laughed. When I said I wanted to protect my people, she laughed again. And when I asked how I could help you get to me, she told me to mind my own business, because you had no interest in my schemes.”

He could joke about it now, but she wondered how the Oracle's blunt, unhelpful answers must have struck him when he desperately needed guidance and assurance.

The path led them to a clearing. The Oracle, at the center of a clearing, was not a pond, as Iolanthe had thought, but a round pool six feet across built of fine, creamy marble. The water was as beautiful as the light elixir she'd made with her lightning.

“Lean over the edge and look at your reflection,” said the prince.

As she did so, the water ruffled. A pleasant, feminine voice greeted her. “Iolanthe Seabourne, welcome.”

Iolanthe drew back in surprise. “How do you know my name, Oracle?”

The water danced, as if laughing. “I wouldn't be any good if I didn't know who had come to ask for my help.”

“Then you also know why I have come.”

“But there is more than one person you wish to help.”

Iolanthe glanced behind her shoulder. The prince stood at the edge of the clearing, out of earshot.

“Think carefully. I can help you only once.”

She rubbed her thumb along the raised rim. “Then help me help the one who needs it the most.”

The pool stilled to an almost mirrorlike smoothness. Not a ripple distorted Iolanthe's reflection. All at once her reflection disappeared, as did the reflection of the cloudless sky above. The surface of the water turned ink dark and swelled like a rising tide.

The Oracle's voice turned deep, rough. “You will best help him by seeking aid from the faithful and bold. And from the scorpion.”

“What do you mean?” But of course, one was not supposed to ask oracles such questions.

The pool turned clear again. Water receded from the edge, hissing with steam. The marble beneath her hand, cool to the touch a minute ago, was now hot, as if it had been in the sun for hours.

“As for your guardian, he will not long remain in the custody of the Inquisitor,” said the Oracle, her voice low. “Good-bye, Iolanthe Seabourne.”

 

They had entered the Crucible sitting a respectable distance apart on the bed. But Titus opened his eyes to find her head on his shoulder, his hand holding hers on the cover of the book.

He did not immediately release her hand. He should, but somehow he remained exactly as he was. His breath came in shallow, almost ragged. Her hair brushed against his jaw, as if she were tilting her face to look at him.

A hot urge pulsed through his veins. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. If he counted to five, and she still did not move . . .

Four seconds. Five sec—

Her fingers tightened around his. But the next moment she was already rising and walking away. At the opposite wall, she turned around and crossed her feet insouciantly at the ankles, as if nothing had happened. Nothing
had
happened, but almost five seconds was an awfully long time to teeter on the brink.

He collected himself. “What did the Oracle say about your guardian?”

“That he won't be in the Inquisitory for much longer.”

“How will he escape?”

“Do oracles ever answer such questions?”

A loud knock came, not on his door, but hers. “You there, Fairfax?” asked Cooper. “I could use some help with my critical paper.”

“My flock bleats. I'd better shepherd.” She opened the door. “Cooper, old bloke. Have you missed me?”

Titus already missed her.

When she had left, he opened the Crucible to the illustration for “The Oracle of Still Waters.” Her face looked back at him from the surface of the pool. As he had hoped, the pond's ability to capture the likeness of anyone who looked into it was immune from the reach of the Irreproducible Charm.

Titus V had built the trick into the pond because he had wanted all the great and terrible mages who dwelled inside the Crucible to resemble him. Titus VII didn't even like to look at his own face in the mirror, but he was immensely grateful that his ancestor had been so silly.

Now he could work her likeness into any story of his choosing.

Now he could fight dragons for her.

And now he could kiss her again.

CHAPTER 19

PART OF A BRITISH BOY'S
education consisted of memorization. In repetition class, pupils recited the forty or so lines of Latin verse they had been assigned to memorize.

Titus seldom viewed anything through the same prism as his classmates did. But on this mind-numbing exercise, he and they were in agreement: it was a colossal misuse of time. To make matters worse, although a boy could leave as soon as he had said his lines, sprinting out of the classroom like a puppy that had been kenneled too long, he could not say those lines until he had been called upon to do so. And Frampton invariably kept Titus waiting until almost everyone else had gone.

On the day Titus first returned to class after a weeklong convalescence, however, Frampton called on him second, immediately after Cooper, who always provided a perfect recital to set the standard for the rest of the class.

Titus, who had come to rely on listening to the lines repeated dozens of times during class to memorize them, stumbled badly.

Frampton tsked. “Your Highness, you are shortly to assume the reins of an ancient and magnificent realm. Surely the thought ought to compel you to do better.”

This was new. Frampton might have delighted in making Titus cool his heels, but he had never been openly antagonistic.

“The success of my rule does not rely on my ability to recite obscure Latin verse,” Titus said coldly.

Frampton showed no sign of being humbled by the rebuke. “I speak not of the memorization and delivery of specific lines, but of the understanding of duty. From everything I have seen of you, young man, you have a poor grasp of obligation and responsibility.”

Next to him, Fairfax sucked in a breath. She was not alone. The entire class was riveted.

Titus made a show of examining his cuff links. “It is irrelevant what a lackey such as you thinks of my character.”

“Ah, but times change. Nowadays princes from thousand-year-old houses may very well find themselves without a throne,” said Frampton smoothly. “Next, Sutherland. Let's hope you've prepared better.”

Titus wasted no time in leaving. As soon as he was back in his room at Mrs. Dawlish's, he inserted a piece of paper under the writing ball. No new intelligence awaited him. Not very surprising—only three hours ago Dalbert had reported that there had been little change in the Inquisitor's condition.

But if the Inquisitor remained unconscious, why had Frampton gone on the offensive? Simply to remind Titus that he was now persona non grata in Atlantean circles for having incapacitated one of the Bane's most capable lieutenants?

He was jittery. More than a week after the Inquisition, he still had no idea how to interpret the rupture view of a skyful of wyverns and fire-spewing armored chariots. Fairfax's march to greatness had stalled since her breakthrough with air. The only concrete progress he could point to was an escape satchel that they had prepared and stowed in the abandoned barn.

They could not go on like this, at the mercy of events beyond their control. He had to find a way to neutralize the Inquisitor, exploit the rupture view, and spur Fairfax to firmer mastery over her powers.

He turned to his mother's diary, hoping for guidance. If there was a silver lining to the dark cloud of the Inquisition, it was that his faith in her had been fully restored. The threads of destiny wove mysteriously, but he had become convinced that Princess Ariadne, however briefly, had had her hand on the loom.

He lifted the pages carefully, one by one, feeling that peculiar tingle of anxiety in his stomach. It was not long before he came to a page that was not blank.

 

26 April, YD 1020

 

Exactly a year before her death.

 

A strange vision. I am not sure what to make of it.

Titus, looking much the same age as he does when he sees that distant phenomenon on a balcony, but wearing strange—nonmage?—clothes, is leaning out of the window of a small room. It is not a room I have ever seen at the castle, the Citadel, or the monastery, plain but for an odd flag on the wall—black and silver, with a dragon, a phoenix, a griffin, and a unicorn.

 

The made-up flag of Saxe-Limburg. As far as Titus knew, there was only one in existence.

 

It is evening, or perhaps night, quite dark outside. Titus turns back from the window, clearly incensed. “Bastards,” he swears. “They need their heads shoved up their—”

He freezes. Then rushes to take a book down from his shelf, a book in German by the name of
Lexikon der Klassischen Altertumskunde.

 

There was nothing else.

Titus read the entry two more times. He closed the diary. The disguisement spell resumed. The diary swelled in size, its plain leather cover metamorphosing into an illustration of an ancient Greek temple.

Beneath the picture, the words
Lexikon der Klassischen Altertumskunde
.

A Dictionary of Classical Antiquities
.

So one evening in the not-too-distant future, he would curse from his window, then rush to read the diary again. That knowledge, however, did little to extricate him from his current quagmire.

Three knocks in rapid succession—Fairfax, back from class.

“Come in.”

She closed the door and leaned against it, one foot on a door panel. She had learned to walk and stand with a cocky jut to her hips. He had to rein himself in so his gaze did not constantly stray to inappropriate places on her person.

“You all right?” she asked.

“No further news on the Inquisitor. But it does not mean they cannot tighten the noose in the meanwhile.” He tossed aside his uniform jacket and his waistcoat. “I have to go to rowing practice.”

A boy well enough to attend classes was well enough for sports. Fingers on the top button of his shirt, he waited for her to vacate his room.

She gazed at him as if she had not heard him, as if he were not headed out for a few hours on the river, but to some distant and perilous destination.

All about him the air seemed to shimmer.

Then, abruptly, she turned and opened the door. “Of course, you must get ready.”

 

Mrs. Hancock was in the corridor, making sure the boys were in bed for lights-out, when Titus placed one last piece of paper under the writing ball. The machine clacked. He waited impatiently for the keys to stop their pounding.

The report read:

 

The Inquisitor has yet to regain consciousness, but the latest intelligence has her responding better to stimuli. Atlantean physicians are optimistic she will continue to make headway. Baslan is rumored to have already scheduled a day of thanksgiving at the Inquisitory, so confident is he of his superior's imminent recovery.

 

He jumped at the knock on his door.

“Good night, Your Highness,” said Mrs. Hancock.

He barely managed not to snarl. “Good night.”

Of course the improvement in the Inquisitor's condition and Frampton's new belligerence were related. Of course.

He looked through his mother's diary again, but it was blank. He paced for a few minutes in his room, angry at himself for not knowing what to do. Then he was inside the Crucible, running down the path that led to the Oracle.

It was night. Dozens of lanterns, suspended from trees at the edge of the clearing, illuminated the pool.

“You again, Your Highness,” said the pool, none too pleased, as he showed himself. Flecks of golden light danced upon her darkened surface.

“Me again, Oracle.” He had visited her many times, but she had yet to give him any advice.

Her tone softened slightly. “At least you seem sincere—for once.”

“How can I keep her safe, my elemental mage?”

The pool turned silvery, as if an alchemist had transmuted water into mercury. “You must visit someone you have no wish to visit and go somewhere you have no wish to go.”

An Oracle's message remained cryptic until it was understood. “My gratitude, Oracle.”

The pool rippled. “And think no more on the exact hour of your death, prince. That moment must come to all mortals. When you will have done what you need to do, you will have lived long enough.”

 

In the distance, obscured by rising dust, an army of giants advanced, as if an entire mountain range was scudding across the plain. The ground beneath Iolanthe's feet shuddered. Boulders wobbled; pebbles hopped like so many drops of water on hot oil.

The wall that she had been building, from quarried blocks of granite originally intended for a temple, would have enabled the townspeople to attack the vulnerable soft spots atop the giants' skulls. But the wall was nowhere near completion.

The giants bellowed and banged enormous hammers against their shields. She'd already stuffed cotton into her ears, but the clangor still startled her. Ignoring the din as best she could, she focused her mind on the next block of granite. It didn't look particularly impressive in size, but it was five tons in weight. With the greatest difficulty, she'd managed to roll a three-ton block end over end to the base of the wall. But she couldn't even lift a corner of this block off the ground.

The prince had assigned her three stories. In one, she needed to produce a cyclone to protect a poor family's crops against a blizzard of locusts—but she could only come up with breezes. In another, she was to part the waters of a lake to rescue magelings who'd been stranded at the bottom in an ever-shrinking air bubble—had it been real, she'd have lost a great many magelings on her watch. And the wall—this was her sixth attempt at erecting the wall; she had yet to stop the giants.

Now when she woke up in the morning, the pain in her hands extended all the way to her elbows. She tried not to imagine what it would feel like when that same swollen sensation took over her entire body.

She kept on doggedly at her task until a giant hefted the very same granite block above his head and hurled it into the marketplace, setting off a long chain of screams.

She sighed. “And they lived happily ever after.”

No more giants. No more boulders. Instead of the deafening roar of battle, rain fell steadily and softly. She was back in the prince's room and—

His hand was clamped over hers on the Crucible. His head rested on his other arm, his face turned toward her, his eyes closed. In the gray, damp light, he looked as tired as she felt. And thin, his face all angles. Granted, his was a remarkable bone structure—chiseled, one might say—but no one so young should be careworn to the point of gauntness.

Without quite realizing what she was doing, she reached out and touched his cheek. The instant her fingertips came into contact with his skin, she snatched her hand back. He did not react at all. She licked her lower lip, reached out again, and traced a finger along his jaw.

When she drew her hand back this time, she saw a note by his elbow.

 

I am in the reading room.

 

The teaching cantos consisted of more than classrooms. On the ground floor it also had a large library, referred to as the reading room. He'd been spending every spare minute there.

She looked back at him, this beautiful and just slightly warped creature. “I don't care what the visions say,” she whispered, “I will not let you die. Not while I have a breath left.”

 

He was in the stacks, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, three books open before him in a semicircle, another dozen in a tall pile to the side.

Iolanthe picked up the book at the top of the pile. Her eyebrows nearly met her hairline at the title,
How to Kill a Mage at Five Miles: A Primer on Distance Spell-Casting
. “I've been wondering what you read in your leisure time.”

“A bit of light fare,” he said without looking up, “before I get back to
Magical Properties of a Still-Beating Heart
.”

She smiled down at the top of his head. “So what
are
you looking for?”

“Something that will let me put the Inquisitor into a permanent coma. She
will
awaken. She
will
put me under Inquisition again—without you by my side. My only hope is to find a way to attack while her mind is extended and vulnerable.”

How quickly she'd hardened—she barely blinked at his answer. “You'll be in the same room with her. How will
How to Kill a Mage at Five Miles
help?”

“I like reading it—something I cannot say for books dealing with mind magic. And that is a tongue-in-cheek title, by the way. Distance spell-casting is a perfectly legitimate target-hitting sport in many mage realms.”

“So the book doesn't teach you to kill?”

“It is like archery. If you strike someone at the right distance and speed, your arrow will kill, but that is not why English ladies enjoy it at their country house parties.” He took the book from her. “How was the wall, by the way?”

“Not built.”

He shook his head. “Not good. You must be able to take on the Bane, and I must be able to take on the Inquisitor.”

That, in a nutshell, was their problem. “I can go back in again after supper, but now I need to write my critical paper.”

“Can you write me one too? It does not have to be good.”

“I'll bet most other fugitives from Atlantis don't have to write two sets of critical papers.”

He smiled. “Thank you.”

Her heart slipped from its mooring, as it always did when he smiled. “Only this once. And you owe me.”

As she turned to leave, he said, “English household management magazines.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That is what I read in my leisure time.”

“You like household management?”

“I like the authoritative answers the magazines give. Dear Mrs. So-and-So, all you need to have hair that shines like the moon is to mix olive oil and spermaceti in a proportion of eight to one and apply liberally. Dear Miss So-and-So, no, you will not wish to serve soup at your wedding breakfast. One or two hot dishes if you must, the rest should be cold.”