The Perilous Sea Page 11

  So it was true, then. The cause of Baron Wintervale’s death had been given as a catastrophic failure of the heart, but rumor had circulated for years that he had died of an execution curse ordered by Atlantis.

  He must have been dead for hours, given how muted the red dot had become. By the time Lee returns with Rosemary Alhambra and a competent physician, the dot—and its twin on the other temple—would have disappeared altogether.

  Pleione’s gaze turns hard. She grips his lifeless hand. “Perhaps the Angels will have mercy. But I will not. I will not forget and I will not forgive.”

  And then she collapses again upon him and weeps.

  My vision ended there. I came out to see Titus playing by himself, tracing a small twig on the surface of the fishpond.

  I rushed over and hugged him tight. This surprised him, but he let me go on hugging him for a long time.

  I had wondered why, in my vision of Baroness Sorren’s funeral, it had been so sparsely attended. Granted she is more admired than beloved, but she commands such extraordinary respect that I had always found the emptiness of her funeral both upsetting and ominous.

  Now I understood.

  This uprising of ours is going to fail. Few will dare to come and pay their last respects to Baroness Sorren because she will have been executed by Atlantis. And Baron Wintervale, while he might escape in the meanwhile, before long he too will succumb to Atlantis’s vengeance.

  And me, what about me? Should our effort collapse, would the secret of my involvement be revealed? If so, what would be the consequences?

  “Want to come feed the fishies with me, Mama?” Titus asked.

  I kissed the top of his head, my sweet, wonderful child. “Yes, darling.

  Let’s do something together.”

  While we still could.

  Titus remembered that afternoon. They had not only fed the fish, but played several games of siege and gone for a long walk in the mountains. He had felt quite giddy—it was not often that he was the recipient of his mother’s undivided attention. But beneath his pleasure, there had been a sense of unease. That somehow it could all be taken away from him.

  It had been, only weeks later.

  And now again, everything that mattered to him had been wrenched away.

  Nothing and no one will take you away from me, Fairfax had said.

  Nothing and no one, except the heavy hand of destiny itself.

  It seemed to Iolanthe that she did not sleep a wink, yet in the morning she suddenly jerked awake. It was pitch-dark outside. She called for a bit of fire so she could see the time. Ten minutes to five.

  The irony. This was the time she had woken up daily in the last Half. Bleary-eyed, she would throw on some clothes and go to Titus’s room, where he would already have a cup of tea waiting for her. A few sips and it was into the Crucible, to train her to the limits of her endurance.

  As they waited for the completion of the new entrance to the laboratory—he no longer dared to keep the Crucible at school—training had not yet started for this half. But she had known it would be even more arduous. Because they had won a battle and not the war. Because the road was long yet.

  And now their paths had diverged and hers had run smack into a wall.

  She swung her legs over the side of her cot and dropped her face into her hands. How to stop being the Chosen One? How to return to an ordinary life when she had come wholeheartedly to believe that she was the very fulcrum upon which the levers of destiny pivoted?

  She washed, dressed, made herself a cup of tea, and sat down at her table to memorize the Latin verses that had been assigned in class, all the while feeling like an actor onstage, performing a choreographed sequence of actions.

  I live for you, and you alone.

  I am so glad it is you. I cannot possibly face this task with anyone else.

  How easily did such fervent declarations lose all their meaning, like the green leaves of summer turning brittle and lifeless with the onset of winter. He had loved her because she was the most integral part of his mission. Now that she was no longer, out she went like yesterday’s newspaper.

  She could not breathe for the agony in her chest.

  And the terrible thing was, her heart—and her mind—understood that she had been discarded, but her body didn’t. Her sinews and bones longed to be inside the Crucible, battling dragons, monsters, and dark mages. She couldn’t stop her fingers from tapping restlessly against the edge of her table. And every other minute she sprang up from her chair to pace in the room that had become a prison.

  It seemed dawn would never come and none of the boys would ever stir from sleep. She leaped in pure relief as she heard footsteps and a knock somewhere down the hall. But hesitation came over her as she gripped the door handle. What if it was Titus?

  She yanked open the door all the same.

  It was Mrs. Dawlish and her second in command, Mrs. Hancock, who also happened to be a special envoy of Atlantis’s Department of Overseas Administration.

  Kashkari’s door opened at the same moment.

  “Morning, Kashkari. Morning, Fairfax,” said Mrs. Dawlish, smiling. “You two are up early.”

  “Those lines don’t memorize themselves,” Iolanthe replied, injecting into her voice a brightness she did not feel. “And good morning to you, too, ma’am. Morning, Mrs. Hancock.”

  “I heard from the night watchman that Wintervale had to be carried into the house when you came back last night.” Mrs. Dawlish shook her head. “Exactly what wholesome activities were you boys up to at Sutherland’s uncle’s place?”

  “Swimming in frigid waters all day and singing hymns around the hearth all evening, ma’am,” said Iolanthe.

  “Really?” Mrs. Hancock countered with a raised brow. “Is that so, Kashkari?”

  “Close enough.” Kashkari came out into the corridor, in his white tunic and pajama trousers. “But Wintervale didn’t come to us until yesterday afternoon. Something he ate on the journey disagreed with him.”

  Mrs. Hancock opened Wintervale’s door, entered, and turned on the gas lamp on the wall. Mrs. Dawlish went in after her. Kashkari and Iolanthe exchanged a glance and followed suit.

  Wintervale slept, deeply and peacefully. Mrs. Hancock had to shake him several times before he opened one eye. “You.”

  Then he was back asleep.

  Mrs. Hancock shook him again. “Wintervale, are you all right?”

  Wintervale grunted.

  Mrs. Hancock turned to Iolanthe and Kashkari. “That’s an odd kind of abdominal ailment, isn’t it?”

  “He was in a bad way last night, puking his guts out,” Kashkari answered. “The prince gave him some medicine prepared by the court physician of the . . . the . . .”

  “The principality of Saxe-Limburg,” Mrs. Dawlish said helpfully.

  “Right, thank you, ma’am. I imagine the medicine was probably mostly opium and Wintervale is just sleeping it off.”

  “And I imagine Herr Doktor von Schnurbin would not be pleased that you are openly discussing the secret ingredients in his most excellent remedies,” came the prince’s voice from the door.

  Iolanthe felt asphyxiated. For as long as she remained at Eton, she would have to play the part of Titus’s friend. But now there was no foundation left for their friendship: their shared destiny had been their great bond; without it, she was but a mistake he had made somewhere along the way.

  “Good morning, Your Highness,” said Mrs. Dawlish. “I don’t doubt your remedies have done Wintervale a world of good, but he needs to be seen by a physician.”

  Iolanthe glanced at Mrs. Hancock. Mrs. Hancock knew who Wintervale was. She probably also knew that Lady Wintervale would never consent to such a thing as his being seen by a nonmage physician. But Mrs. Hancock seemed quite content to let Mrs. Dawlish take charge.

  “Better send a cable to his mother then,” said the prince. “She will dispatch their private physician—the Wintervales are very selective in their choice of doctors.
And have one of the charwomen sit with him, in case he needs something.”

  Mrs. Dawlish did not take exception to his imperious tone, but she was quite firm in her own response. “That private physician had better come by tomorrow, at the latest. We are responsible for Wintervale’s welfare while he is under our roof and such things cannot wait. Now you boys get ready for early school.”

  Mrs. Dawlish and Mrs. Hancock left. Kashkari yawned and returned to his own room.

  “Fairfax,” said the prince.

  She ignored him, walked past him to her own door, and closed it.

  A faint light was beginning to come through the curtain. She grabbed a tin of biscuits and walked to the window. Another day was dawning. A vapor-like fog undulated close to the ground, but the sky was clear, and soon a rising sun would shed a reddish-gold tint upon the tops of the trees.

  The same copse of trees from which she had gazed wistfully at the window of this room, just before she had left the prince, because she had wanted nothing to do with his mad ambitions.

  She squinted. Were there people in those trees or were her eyes playing a trick on her? She opened the window and leaned out, but now she could see only trunks, branches, and leaves that largely still clung to the memories of summer, with only a few turning yellow and crimson here and there.

  When she was small, every October Master Haywood would take her to see the autumn colors in Upper Marin March, where September and October tended to be clear and sunny. They would stay at a lodge on a lake and wake up each day to the splendor of an entire slope of flame and copper foliage reflected in mirror-bright waters.

  Master Haywood.

  Master Haywood.

  She thought of him all the time, of course, but in a wistful way, as astronomers longed for the stars they could not reach. But Master Haywood was not separated from her by the vastness of time and space; he was only hidden away.

  Guilt charged through her. If she had wanted it badly enough, she would have unearthed some useful information by now. Except she, convinced of her greater purpose, had not taken a single step toward locating him.

  She marched out of her room and knocked on the prince’s door.

  “Fairfax!” The glimmer of cautious hope in his eyes made her lungs hurt. He reached forward as if to touch her, but stopped himself. “Please, come in.”

  She stepped inside.

  “Some tea?”

  “No, thank you. I wanted to ask you if the new entrance to the laboratory is ready.”

  “It will be by this afternoon.”

  “Is it all right with you if I make use of it? I need to look up some things in the reading room.”

  “Yes, of course. You are more than welcome to it. Anytime.”

  “That is very kind of you, Your Highness. Thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure.”

  She returned to her room and leaned for a minute against the door.

  So this was what it had come to, this stilted courtesy, like that of a divorced couple who must still deal with each other.

  With she being the one who hadn’t found anyone else, of course.

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  CHAPTER ♦13

  The Sahara Desert

  TITUS SPUN AROUND, FEAR LIKE a dagger in his lungs. He was about four miles out from the blood circle. Here the true sandstorm raged and visibility was less than three feet. A blessing, as they could have no better protection from pursuers. But he could not possibly find her, if she had moved as little as—

  A hand gripped him around the ankle. His wand was pointed and a savage assault spell about to leave his lips when he realized it was her. She was alive and had hidden herself under a layer of sand.

  He crouched down, took her by the arm, and pulled her out.

  She was barely conscious and he could see smears of blood around her lips, but she managed to open her eyes. “You all right?”

  Before he could answer, she vomited a stream of blood into the sand.

  He could hardly breathe for the panic that erupted inside him. If the panacea could not keep her alive, then no power he possessed would help.

  He cupped her face. “Go to sleep. Go to sleep and you will be fine.”

  Her eyes closed and she dropped off.

  There was no point doing anything except take shelter. From one of the larger pockets on the outside of her satchel Titus unearthed a tent that had been folded down to a tight square. As flying sand struck it, the material of the tent changed from a nondescript green to the exact same color and opacity as the sand—a camouflage tent. Even better, it could be pitched in a number of shapes, some of them quite passable imitations of natural formations. He settled on one that looked like a gentle undulation of the land, maneuvered Fairfax inside, crawled in after her, and sealed the tent from within.

  His back again felt as if it were on fire. He took more pain remedies and allowed himself to nap for a bit, jerking awake every time there came the noise of sand against metal—an armored chariot in the vicinity—then dozing off again as the danger receded.

  When he woke up for good, he ate half a nutrition cube, and made a thorough study of the contents of her bag. Besides the well-stocked pharmacy, she had just about everything a fugitive could conceivably need, among them a raft, heat sheets, hunting ropes, and reins that could be made to fit wyverns, perytons, and assorted other winged steeds.

  Each item came with an explanation on its use written on paper as thin as onion skin yet as strong as canvas. Overly detailed explanations, as if the writer had expected the satchel to end up in the hands of someone much less capable than Fairfax.

  It was when he progressed to the smallest compartment of the satchel that his brows rose high enough to graze his hairline.

  Atlantean civilian wands, 2.

  Angel keys, 6.

  Destination disruptor for Delamer East International Hub, Translocator 4.

  Atlantean civilian wands were state issued, each one numbered and registered, used as a means of personal identification. Penalties for reporting theft, loss, or accidental destruction were high, to discourage any Atlantean from owning duplicates.

  But duplicates still cropped up periodically on the black market. On the other hand, angel keys, so called because there were no doors they could not open, were far rarer and almost prohibitively expensive. And a destination disruptor tailored to a specific translocator—that could not have been obtained from the black market even if one had a fortune to spend.

  Did Fairfax intended to travel to Atlantis by illegal means and, once there, pass herself off as an Atlantean and . . . open doors she had no business opening?

  He took her hand. Her pulse throbbed, slow and steady.

  The cessation of the sandstorm was as abrupt as that of a summer storm: inundation one moment, clear skies the next. He let go of her hand and listened for a good minute at the opening of the tent before going outside to investigate.

  Stars were out, bright and innumerable. He squinted, looking for dark moving spots in the sky—without flying sands hitting them and giving away their locations, armored chariots could be descending right above him and he might not know. But for now, no danger loomed above.

  Their options were remarkably few. She was in no shape to be vaulted—in her current condition, vaulting ten feet could kill her. They had no vehicles and no beasts of burden. Staying in place was out of the question: they were too still too close to the blood circle. The farther away they were, the less likely Atlantis would be to find them.

  He made ready to walk.

  The wind was sharp as icicles. Temperatures had plunged; Titus’s nose and cheeks were numb with cold.

  His lightweight tunic, however, kept him warm. The hood of the tunic p
rotected the back of his neck and the top of his head; his hands he kept inside the sleeves, only reaching out occasionally to check Fairfax’s pulse.

  She floated in the air alongside him, her hands tucked in to her own sleeves, most of her head covered by a scarf he had found, and a heat sheet wrapped over her trousers and boots, which were not made of mage material. Around her middle was a hunting rope, mooring her to him.

  She slept peacefully.

  Every minute or so he pointed his wand behind himself to delete his footprints from the sand. Every half minute or so he scanned the sky with a far-seeing spell. He was headed southwest. The first squadron of armored chariots he spied flew at top speed toward the northeast, away from them. The next squadron was more inconveniently placed several miles to the south. While not exactly in his path, there was a chance that they might circle around and pass overhead.

  He had been walking for about three hours when he spied tors erupting from the ground, like pillars of a ruined palace. He veered toward it. Fairfax was already beginning to sink again, the levitation spell wearing off. The night was moonless, but the mass of stars overhead gave the air a faint luminosity; in the pitch-black shadows of the rock pillars, it would be safe for him to put her down and rest for a few minutes.

  Soon his boots no longer sank inches with every step. But his calves protested with a different sort of strain—the land was rising, slowly but unmistakably. And the rock pillars, which from a distance had seemed remarkably straight and uniform, upclose resolved into zigzagging, windblown shapes, some with boulder-like tops that balanced precariously on their sand-worn stems.

  Fairfax now floated no higher than his knees, the hem of her tunic occasionally brushing against the ground. He wanted her to stay airborne until they were inside the rock formation. But she was sinking too fast to last the rest of the distance. He untied the hunting rope that connected them and set her down.

  Her temperature was fine—no hypothermia setting in. Her pulse was also fine, slow but steady. When he coaxed her awake to drink some water, she smiled at him before returning to sleep.

  Did she dream? Her breathing was deep and regular. No frowns or fluttering of the eyelids marred the tranquility of her features, almost invisible except for a slight sheen on her cheek and the ridge of her nose. She did not remotely look like a rebel who wanted to topple empires. He would have guessed her to be an upper academy student, the sort whose competence and dedication would annoy her classmates, were it not for her willingness to help them prepare for their examinations.