The Necromancer (23 page)

Josh shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense—she must have used her powers on Alcatraz.”

Almost as if she felt his gaze, Perenelle raised her head to look at Josh, her eyes dark smudges against the pale oval of her face. She smiled, but it looked forced, artificial. “You’re awake,” she called to Sophie, and then turned to Josh. “And you must be hungry.”

“Famished,” he said lightly. “I don’t suppose you brought any food?”

“There’s food aplenty, but you cannot eat just yet,” Perenelle answered. She was close enough now that the wan light from the table lamp in the room behind the twins washed her face in a yellow glow, turning the whites of her eyes the color of lemons.

“Prometheus has agreed to train you in the Magic of Fire.”

Josh blinked in surprise. “I’m going to learn Fire magic now?”

“Right now.” Nicholas nodded. “It will nicely complement your Water magic.”

“Could we do it after dinner?” he asked, feeling his stomach grumble.

Nicholas looked at Josh closely. “It’s never a good idea to learn an Elemental Magic on a full stomach.”

“But Saint-Germain taught Sophie Fire magic after dinner,” Josh pointed out, almost petulantly. His sister might not need food, but he hadn’t eaten all day.

Perenelle’s smile vanished from her face, turning it hard. “You are not your sister; she is infinitely more powerful than you will ever be, Josh. She can do things that would be impossible for you.”

“And of course, you have your own skills,” Nicholas said to Josh hastily, glaring at his wife.

Josh looked at the couple, confused and surprised about what they’d just said. “I thought we were equal,” he said eventually.

Perenelle looked as if she was about to reply, but Josh saw Nicholas catch her hand, squeezing it and silencing her. “You are twins,” he said, “but you have never been equals—you each have your strengths and weaknesses. It is the combination of your strengths, one canceling out the other’s weakness, which makes you special.”

“The two that are one, the one that is all,” Perenelle finished.

Nicholas squinted at Josh, his pale eyes looking somewhat unfocused. “You could eat now if you wish, but by the time you’ve finished, Prometheus might have changed his mind.” He smiled and asked lightly. “So, Josh, Fire magic or food?”

“What’s it to be?” Perenelle demanded, but there was no humor in her voice.

Josh looked from the Sorceress to the Alchemyst. Something had happened between them. He’d seen his parents like this on occasion when they were arguing. They would be polite but brittle with one another and would lash out at anyone who irritated them. He wondered what the immortals had been arguing about. And at the back of his mind, he kept remembering that when Perenelle had trained with the Witch of Endor, she’d used her maiden name. She hadn’t admitted she was the Alchemyst’s wife. “Fire magic,” he said quietly.

The Alchemyst nodded in agreement. “Fire magic it is.”

“I thought Prometheus said he would never train anyone again,” Sophie said.

“The Elder had a change of heart,” Perenelle answered, looking at the girl as she spoke.

“Prometheus will always do the right thing,” Sophie said quietly, and Josh was startled to hear just a hint of the Witch’s accent in her voice. Then she turned to look at Josh. “Are you ready?”

He nodded. “I think so.…”

“Come on, then, let’s go.”

The Alchemyst shook his head. “The Elder just wants Josh,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “He said that he doesn’t want to see you again.”

Sophie looked surprised. A feeling of extraordinary sadness washed over her.

“I think you frighten him,” Perenelle added.

Nicholas looked at Josh. “The Elder has agreed to train you. This is quite an honor; it’s been a long time since Prometheus had a student.”

“I thought Saint-Germain learned Fire magic from him,” Josh said.

Nicholas shook his head and laughed. His chuckle came from deep in his chest and sounded wet and wheezy. “Saint-Germain stole fire from the Elder. Whatever you do, try not to mention his name. Prometheus hates him. In fact, I think most of the Elders hate Saint-Germain. He has a gift for irritating people.”

S
aint-Germain raised both hands and spread his fingers wide. Each fingertip popped alight, flickering with varicolored flames. In the dancing firelight, the immortal’s face was savage. “Don’t threaten me, Green Man,” he snarled, his accent pronounced. “I will burn this forest to the ground without a second thought.”

Tammuz drew back, reflected light running liquid across the silver mask, making it look as if the carved leaves were trembling in a breeze.

The dryads, their drawn bows nocked with black-tipped arrows, looked at the Green Man, awaiting his instructions.

Tammuz hesitated and Saint-Germain immediately stepped forward. He had pushed up his sleeves, exposing his butterfly tattoos. The flames from his fingertips made their wings appear to beat softly. “I came here to bargain with you, Lord Tammuz, maybe even plead with you. Most certainly not to threaten you. But you know what I am capable of, so don’t push me.” He paused and added with an icy smile, “Remember what happened to your precious forest in Russia in 1908.”

“Go—go now.” The Green Man waved his arm and the dryads disappeared back into the forest, the hamadryads melting back into the trees.

Ptelea was the last to leave. “My lord, I am sorry, I did not—”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Tammuz boomed. “I blame these two,” he said, pointing to Shakespeare and Palamedes, “and especially you, Sir Knight.”

Palamedes straightened and a shimmer of his green aura flickered briefly in the air. “We came to talk,” he said, “to support our brother’s petition, nothing more. And,” he added slowly, “I was expecting to be listened to, not treated in this shabby manner and threatened. Saint-Germain is my friend—more than my friend, he is my brother-in-arms—and he is under my protection. Threaten him and you threaten me.”

Even through the silver mask, the Green Man’s shock was clear. His voice gave his surprise away. “How dare you speak to me like that! Have you gone mad, Palamedes? Has this magician ensorceled you? Have you any idea just who your friend is? Do you know what he has done?”

“I do not. Nor do I care. We’re not here to talk about that.”

“Perhaps you should be. Look at him now.…” The Elder waved his hands toward Saint-Germain. “Threatening me. Threatening my forest, my creatures. Bringing cursed fire into the heart of my realm.” He stretched out a silver-gloved hand. “He may be beyond my reach, but you are not. All I have to do is lay my hand upon you. I gave you immortality; I can remove it with but a single touch.”

William Shakespeare stepped out from behind Palamedes to stand between the knight and the Elder. “But you are not my master; you have no power over me.” Shakespeare’s glasses slipped down his nose and he looked over the top of the black frames. His smile was ugly. “And I doubt you have any idea what I can do to you.” The Bard leaned forward. “Anger me and I will teach you the true magic of words … and believe me, sirrah, when I am through with you, you will wish that Saint-Germain had burned down your precious forest.”

For a long moment the only sound in the night was the soft crackling of the flames at Saint-Germain’s fingertips. A globule of fire dripped from his thumb and splashed to the ground. Leaves crisped and curled and the air suddenly filled with the odor of burning. “Whoops.” The French immortal smiled as he stubbed out the sparks with the toe of his boot.

The Green Man had retreated almost to the center of the glade. He stopped when his back hit the white pillar, the edges of his metal mask singing off the stone. Raising his head, he looked beyond the Bard at the French immortal. “If I give you what you want, will you go and leave me in peace?” he asked.

Saint-Germain grinned triumphantly. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” He closed his hands into fists and extinguished the flames to colored smoke.

“Tell me, then. What do you want?”

“My wife, Joan, and Scathach have become trapped in the past. If it is beyond your powers to draw them forward to this time, then I would like you to send me back to my wife.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Will Shakespeare, who was standing closest to him. The Bard passed it over to Palamedes, who approached the Elder. Tammuz stretched out his hand and the knight carefully held the envelope over the silver glove, taking care not to touch the Elder. He let it drop into the Green Man’s hand and stepped back.

“Joan and Scathach activated the ancient leygate outside Lutetia,” Saint-Germain continued. “It should have taken them across the world, to the West Coast of America, but they never arrived. When I investigated, I found a curious substance on the Point Zero stone.”

The Elder tilted his head down and peered into the envelope. It was half filled with gray powder.

“I did some alchemical tests,” Saint-Germain said. “I found traces of ground-up mammoth bones from the Pleistocene era and the remnants of an Attraction spell. It stinks of that serpent, Machiavelli.”

“And you believe your wife and the Shadow have been pulled back into the past?”

“Into the Pleistocene era,” the immortal specified.

“I have no power over the time lines; I cannot call them back to the present.”

Saint-Germain nodded quickly. “I suspected that. But you do have a little control over time. I know time runs differently in the Shadowrealms. A day there could be a week, a month, a year here. I know you have sent your immortal humani knights into the Shadowrealms and ensured that they are not affected by the time differences. So you must know something about time?”

“I learned a little from Chronos,” Tammuz admitted.

“Could you send me back?” Saint-Germain asked eagerly.

The Green Man raised his head, light running off his silver mask. “I could. That is certainly within my powers.” Tilting the envelope, he poured some of the powder into his left hand. It hissed, then sizzled where it touched the silver glove, and gauzy gray smoke gathered in the Elder’s palm, slowly forming into a ball. “But if I send you to the past, it is a one-way journey: there is no return. Only Chronos, the Master of Time, could bring you back again.” The Green Man chuckled. “And he’s not going to do that; he hates you even more than I do.”

Shakespeare turned to look at Saint-Germain and winked. “Bold, bad man. Does everyone hate you?”

“Just about.” The immortal sounded almost pleased. “It’s a gift.”

The ball of smoke continued to gather in Tammuz’s silver glove. “Once you go back, you will be trapped there for all eternity.” The Elder looked closely at the Frenchman. “Why do you want to do this?” he asked curiously. “Why is this woman so important to you?”

Saint-Germain blinked in surprise. “Have you ever loved anyone?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tammuz said cautiously, “I had a consort once, Inanna.…”

“But did you love her? Truly love her?”

The Green Man remained silent.

“Did she mean more to you than life itself?” Saint-Germain persisted.

“They do not love that do not show their love,” Shakespeare murmured very softly.

The French immortal stepped closer to the Elder. “I love my Jeanne,” he said simply. “I must go to her.”

“Even though it will cost you everything?” Tammuz persisted, as if the idea was incomprehensible.

“Yes. Without Joan, everything I have is worthless.”

“Even your immortality?”

“Especially my immortality.” Gone were the banter and the jokes. This was a Saint-Germain whom neither Shakespeare nor Palamedes had ever seen before. “I love her,” he said.

The Green Man stared at the sphere of smoke in the palm of his hand. The globe had turned pale, almost transparent in places. He added a little more of the gray powder from the envelope and watched as it swirled through the ball like snowflakes.

“I was never sure that the humani were the rightful inheritors of this planet,” Tammuz said suddenly. “When Danu Talis sank, some of my race choose to create Shadowrealms; others decided to live on this earth. We became kings and princes. Some were even worshipped as gods, and a few took on the role of teachers, claiming that the humani possessed attributes that would make them great. And love and loyalty were counted among the greatest of those attributes. Love and loyalty.” He shook his head slightly. “Perhaps if my race had possessed a little more of both, we would still rule this earth,” he said with a sigh. “Now, you say your wife is lost in the Pleistocene era …”

The globe cradled in his palm turned clear.

And suddenly the three immortals could see Joan of Arc and Scathach within it. The two women were standing at the bank of a river, swords drawn, facing off against an unseen opponent.

Saint-Germain gasped. “Jeanne …”

“But something is amiss.…” The Green Man’s voice echoed and his eyes blazed, illuminating his silver helmet with emerald light. His voice rose as the image within the orb spun … and revealed that the women were facing a hooded man. The figure moved and the Elder and the immortals saw the semicircle of metal that took the place of his left hand. “No! Not him. That is not possible …,” Tammuz breathed in horror.

Saint-Germain was also shocked by what he was seeing. “The hook-handed man.” His voice was thick with emotion. “But that is impossible,” he said, echoing the Elder’s words.

“You both know this creature?” Palamedes demanded, looking from Saint-Germain to the Elder.

“I know him.” The Green Man’s voice was shaking. “I saw him ten thousand years ago. He was there when Danu Talis fell.” His voice cracked. “He destroyed my world. I was sure he had perished with the island. If I had known he was still alive,” he added savagely, “I would have hunted him down and slain him.”

“Saint-Germain—who is this?” Palamedes demanded, peering into the globe.

“I stole fire from Prometheus,” he whispered, “but this is the creature who taught me its secrets.”

“What is he—Elder, Next Generation, immortal or humani?” Palamedes demanded.