The Perilous Sea Page 13

  Her mind is not quite her own. Master Haywood had said that a long time ago, about the elderly mother of one of his colleagues. Iolanthe never thought that could apply to her, but it did. Her memory was riddled with holes.

  The prince peered at the timeline. “They are all compound events.”

  “What is a compound event?”

  “When my suppressed memory is allowed to surface, and then resuppressed, I remember the surfacing, I just do not remember what surfaced. But for you, every time your memories are allowed to surface, all the memories around the surfacing are also suppressed. So that you do not realize that there are things about yourself you cannot recall.”

  She examined the pattern of the resurfacing. “Every two years.”

  “Two years is at the very edge of the margin of safety.”

  So the memory keeper didn’t want to corrupt the health of her mind, but she also didn’t want Iolanthe to remember more often than she absolutely must. “The next time I will remember is in the middle of November, if the pattern holds.”

  “Your birthday.”

  Her birthday, during the meteor shower, which in the end had portended no greatness. The trickery by the memory keeper, the sacrifices on the part of Master Haywood—they were all ultimately meaningless.

  “They could have saved themselves a great deal of trouble,” she said, her tone harsh. “Master Haywood threw away his entire life.”

  The prince looked down, closed his mother’s diary, and said, “Let us go. The physician for Wintervale should arrive any moment now.”

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  CHAPTER ♦15

  The Sahara Desert

  THE ARMORED CHARIOTS WERE ADVANCING all too quickly.

  Despite the frigid night air, Titus perspired. Fairfax could not be vaulted. He would not manage to levitate her again so soon. Hiding inside the rock formation was not an option: at least half of the hunting ropes he had just diverted would come after them en masse. And there was not even enough sand underfoot in which to bury themselves, just a scant half inch that was no help whatsoever.

  He murmured a prayer and blind vaulted toward the west the western horizon, materializing halfway up a massive dune. Pointing his wand skyward, he sent up a silver-white flare that burst midair into an intricate pattern he could not recognize from where he stood.

  From there he blind vaulted northward, sending up another flare, in what he hoped would appear to be an answering signal to the first one, which only still hung in the air, but had expanded to remarkable dimensions, bright and huge against the starscape—a phoenix, its wings lifted high.

  A deep breath and it was back to the rock formation, to Fairfax’s defense, should the armored chariots prove unwilling to be diverted. The armored chariots, however, were gone, speeding toward the beacons, the second of which was also an enormous phoenix, flame-colored and warlike.

  They were no ordinary beacons, yet he had produced them without even thinking.

  He pushed back inside the tensile dome and fell to his knees. “I am beginning to think I do not want to know who I am, or who you are, if this is the sort of danger that keeps chasing us.”

  She slept on, unconscious of their peril. He rested his palm against her hair for a minute, glad for her safety.

  But there was never any rest for the weary. “Time to go on the run again, Sleeping Beauty.”

  She seemed to be moving. Lightly and easily, like a raft carried downstream by a wide, calm river. Or she could be floating on clouds, as one sometimes did in dreams.

  Every time she stopped, she was given water. At some of those occasions, she tried to wake up; other times she did not even possess the will for the attempt, drinking while she slept on.

  When she finally broke through again to consciousness, they seemed to be in a cave of some sort, dark, warm, and stuffy. She could not see him, but she could hear him beside her, his breaths deep and slow.

  She said a silent prayer for his well-being before heavy slumber towed her under again.

  The next time she woke up, she was in the same space, and it was bright enough for her to see that she was alone. The two water skins were both there. The one next to her had a mouthful of water; the other, not even a drop. Her eyes half-closed, she willed water from underground rivers and oasis lakes—or even moisture that clung to the underside of rocks—to flow to her. Several minutes passed before the first drop materialized. She filled his waterskin three quarters full before she became too exhausted, barely managing to cap the waterskin before it fell from her hand.

  The same dream came to her again, of floating sweetly down a tranquil river. She traveled the length of the Nile, or so it seemed, before she realized that she actually was floating, but on air, thanks to a levitating spell.

  It was dawn. Half of the sky had turned a fish-belly shade of translucence. To her left, at the very top of a mountainous dune, the sand was already the color of molten gold. Had they been on the move all night?

  When she’d first treated him, she had applied a liberal amount of topical analgesic. But its effect would have worn off quite a while ago, he would not have been able to reach every part of the wound by himself, and the granules would only be halfway effective without the topical remedy, calming the wound at the source.

  So he had to be in quite a bit of pain—from time to time he sucked in a breath, as if through clenched teeth. But he walked silently and steadily, pulling her along.

  She looked behind. Not a boot print to be seen anywhere—he had taken care to erase all traces of his trek.

  “You are awake,” he said, turning toward her.

  Dirt smudged his face. His eyes were sunken, his voice raspy, his lips badly cracked. She felt a shock of something that was not gratitude alone—something that almost approached tenderness.

  “Give me the waterskins now—I don’t know how long I can stay awake.”

  He pressed waterskins into her hand.

  “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “This is the second morning since we met.”

  So not quite yet forty-hours since they found themselves in the Sahara.

  “Is the coast clear?” They were not in Atlantean custody—that was always something worth celebrating.

  “No,” he said. “They are looking for us.”

  “Is that why we are abroad only at night?”

  “They search at night too. Last night there were soldiers on pegasi.”

  “Did they get close?”

  “Not too close. I found some incendiaries in your bag before we started and set them to go off at various times. The soldiers were mostly circling about those spots.”

  “I can’t believe I slept through it all.”

  “The panacea will keep you asleep as long as you are on the verge of dying.”

  Given that she was already feeling sleepy again, that was a sobering thought. The water globule had grown big enough, and she directed a stream to fill both the waterskins.

  He stopped. “I had better put us down for the day. We will be too visible in the daylight.”

  She capped the waterskins. “Did you find a cave yesterday?”

  “No, I used your tent. Pitched in the shadow of a sand dune, but it still got hot in the afternoon, when the sun came around. Today I want to see if I can move the tent around noon.”

  He formed the tent into the shape of a half tube and maneuvered her inside.

  “I can cover the tent with sand,” she said as he sealed the opening of the tent.

  “No, you shouldn’t exert yourself any more than necessary. Remember that you were dealt a near-fatal blow less than forty-eight hours ago.”

  “I’ll just see what I can do before I fall asleep again.”

  The flow of sand was rather sluggish, but she could hear it rising against the side of the tent. Titus applied a stream of anti-i
ntrusion

  spells, all of which aggressive, some to the level of viciousness.

  “You don’t actually expect us to be found under sand, do you?” she asked, alarmed.

  “I worry about sand wyverns.”

  “But the Sahara doesn’t have dragons.”

  “The deserts of central Asia do. If I were Atlantis, I would send for sand wyverns the moment I realized I needed to be looking for fugitives in a desert. They specialize in sniffing out prey that are hidden under layers of sand—or even rock. And they can burrow at terrifying speeds—so even if you were at full capacity, your ability to get us underground would be useless against them.”

  “That is assuming Atlantis would go through that sort of trouble for us.”

  He sighed. “I have a feeling they would. I have a very unpleasant feeling that we—or at least you—might actually be important.”

  This unnerved her. “I don’t want to be important.”

  “I have kept track of the armored chariots in pursuit, since each has a unique identification number. That first night itself, I counted twenty-three different ones. Now if we assume that the blood circle forms the center of a coordinate plane, and all the armored chariots I saw were searching one quadrant, that means almost a hundred armored chariots were out looking for us, very possibly more.” He looked at her. “Now you tell me whether we are important or not.”

  “Fortune shield me,” she murmured.

  “Exactly.”

  Sand had covered the entire tent. It was now still and dark inside. He called for mage light, which radiated cool and blue.

  He handed a waterskin. “Don’t forget to drink enough water. You are out in the elements as much as I am.”

  It was as she took her first swallow that she realized she was almost asleep again. She closed her eyes. “So what are we going to do?”

  “You sleep,” he said, his voice seeming to reach her from far away. “I will take care of everything.”

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  CHAPTER ♦16

  England

  THE PHYSICIAN WAS A QUACK, of course, but he was a distinguished looking quack who sprouted enough likely-sounding balderdash to convince Mrs. Dawlish that Wintervale would wake up rejuvenated—and soon.

  Mrs. Hancock, on the other hand, was not fooled. After the physician left, she cornered Titus in his room. “Your Highness, with all due respect, that man was a charlatan if I ever saw one.”

  “But the nurse who came with him is an Exile, and very much qualified in the medical arts,” Titus lied fluently.

  Mrs. Hancock frowned, possibly in an attempt to recall the nondescript nurse. “And what was her opinion?”

  “Same as what the quack told you, that Wintervale’s life is not in danger and that when he wakes up, within a few days, he should be fine.”

  Mrs. Hancock adjusted the perfectly starched cuffs of her blouse.

  “That is what panacea does, repairing the body while it sleeps. But what I am interested in, Your Highness, is the root cause of Wintervale’s condition.”

  “That the nurse was not able to determine.”

  “And you?” Her gaze was penetrating. “You do not know of it either?”

  Titus propped his feet up on his desk, knowing well such disrespect to furniture annoyed Mrs. Hancock. “This is what happened on Sunday. Wintervale arrived at Sutherland’s uncle’s house somewhere between half past two and quarter to three. He looked clammy and said he would not mind a nap. He napped until about teatime, when he took some plain toast, which caused him to vomit. Naturally, I suspected poisoning by Atlantis, so I gave him two antidotes.”

  Mrs. Hancock raised a brow. “Naturally you suspected poisoning by Atlantis, Your Highness?”

  “Given the suspicious manner of Baron Wintervale’s death, of course.”

  “Atlantis had nothing to do with Baron Wintervale’s death.”

  “No, no, of course Atlantis would not seek to strike at a leader of the January Uprising who was still young enough and ambitious enough to have a second go at rebellion someday.”

  Mrs. Hancock was silent for a moment. “I see Your Highness’s mind is made up. Please continue with your account.”

  “The antidotes made Wintervale’s vomiting worse, so I gave him a different remedy, which unfortunately contains bee venom as an ingredient, and Wintervale, unbeknownst to me, is highly allergic to bee venom. At that point he went into a seizure and I had no choice but to administer panacea.”

  Titus had deliberately painted a picture of incompetence. Much better to give the impression that his physicking had made Wintervale devastatingly ill than to let Mrs. Hancock suspect that something was truly the matter with Wintervale.

  And if she were to question Kashkari, the latter would probably tell her that Titus denied giving Wintervale anything with bee venom, but then it was not as if the Master of the Domain would admit such a stupid mistake on his part to a nonmage nobody.

  “I would advise that Your Highness not practice medicine on the boys of this house in the future,” Mrs. Hancock said wryly.

  Titus scowled. “Wintervale only received help because he is a second cousin. The other boys of this house are not worth the excellence of my remedies.”

  “Then Mrs. Dawlish and I must consider ourselves fortunate. We will keep a close eye on Wintervale.”

  Titus glared at her. “And why are you so interested in Wintervale all of a sudden? Are you not here just to report on me?”

  Mrs. Hancock was already at the door. She turned around a few degrees. “Oh, is that why I am here, Your Highness?”

  And then she was gone, leaving Titus to frown at that unexpected question.

  “You don’t suppose he has the African sleeping sickness, do you?” asked Cooper of Kashkari.

  They were in Wintervale’s room, which had been too full earlier for Cooper and Iolanthe to get in. But now of the earlier crowd, only Kashkari remained, doing his schoolwork on Wintervale’s crowded desk.

  “Mrs. Dawlish asked. The physician said no,” answered Kashkari.

  “Well, either way, it’s a magnificent feat of dozing,” said Cooper, leaning over Wintervale.

  Awake, Wintervale was on the fidgety side, a boy of tremendous energy who didn’t always know how to get rid of it. Asleep, he seemed calmer and more mature. Iolanthe gazed at him, willing him to be a different person when he woke up, a person to whom she dared entrust the life of the one she loved.

  Don’t you dare listen to what he says about his early death. Don’t you dare believe it and leave him behind.

  Cooper nudged her. “Shall we to our Greek homework?”

  She started. “Right-o. After you.”

  They went to her room and opened their books.

  “I envy the Greeks,” said Cooper. “They didn’t have to learn Greek—they already knew it.”

  “You are right—lucky them,” said Iolanthe. “God, I hate Greek so.”

  “But you are good at it.”

  “Only because you are terrible at it, so my mediocrity looks good by comparison.”

  Cooper tittered. “I know what you mean: you make me look like a decent card player.”

  Iolanthe laughed in spite of herself. She was hopeless at these nonmage card games.

  The prince opened her door and walked in. Her laughter fled. He looked at Cooper, who was predictably awestruck.

  She wondered whether Titus was making an extra effort for Cooper these days: he was always more aloof, more majestic whenever Cooper was around.

  The thought hurt, as if someone had stuck a needle into her heart.

  Within Titus having to say a thing, Cooper had gathered up his books and notes, bid him a rather breathless good-bye, and closed the door after himself.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, keeping any inflection out of her voice.

  “I need t
o speak to you.” He set a sound circle. “Mrs. Hancock was asking about Wintervale’s condition, and that made me remember I actually had a diagnostic tool in the laboratory.”

  From his pocket he took out something that looked like a mercury thermometer used by nonmages.

  A Kno-it-all gauge. “I thought nobody used these anymore.”

  “Because they do not offer an instant diagnosis, not because they are inaccurate.” He handed the gauge to Iolanthe. “I checked Wintervale just now.”

  Iolanthe held it up to the light. Instead of the tiny lines that marked degrees of Fahrenheit, the gauge had tiny dots with equally tiny words written next to them. As she rotated the triangular glass rod, lenses built into the rod magnified the letters and the readings.

  Heart function. Liver Function. Bone density. Muscle strength. So on and so forth, dozens and dozens of vital signs and metrics evaluated.

  She must have gone past fifty acceptable readings when she came to one that showed red. Gross Motor Skills. Not surprising, as Wintervale currently could not even get out of bed on his own.

  Almost to the end of the long list, another unacceptable reading. Mental Stability.

  Iolanthe squinted. But no, she had not misread. “Are you sure the gauge is properly calibrated?”

  “I tested on myself first. It was fine.”

  “But there is nothing wrong with Wintervale’s mental stability.” Wintervale might not possess an extraordinary mind, but he certainly had a sound one.

  “That is what I always thought.”

  “Maybe he was shocked by what he managed to do.” She certainly couldn’t get it out of her mind. All those powerful currents of water, spinning around that monstrous, ever-deepening eye. The Sea Wolf, so small in comparison, so helpless.

  Titus looked away. “His mother is not quite right. Not outright insane, at least not all the time. But you have had dealings with her. You know she can be unreliable.”