The Sorceress

by Michael Scott

  Perenelle nodded in agreement, eyes clouding in sorrow. “I would have gone to find Nicholas.”

  The perfect teeth that the ghost sailor had never possessed in life flashed in a grin. “Come, madame, come: I think there is something you should see.” He turned and floated back down the stairs. Perenelle hesitated; she trusted de Ayala, but ghosts were not the brightest creatures and were easily fooled. And then, thinly and faintly, Perenelle caught the scent of mint—little more than a suggestion—on the damp salty air. Without a second’s hesitation, the Sorceress followed the ghost into the shadows.

  icholas Flamel sat in front of the two matching LCD computer screens. William Shakespeare sat on his left while Josh hovered over their shoulders, trying to keep as far away from the English immortal as possible and breathe only through his mouth. When Shakespeare moved, he trailed an odor in his wake, but when he sat still, the stink gathered around him in a thick cloud. Palamedes and Sophie had gone outside to feed the dogs.

  “Trust me; it is quite simple,” Shakespeare explained patiently, eyes huge behind his glasses, “the merest variation of the scrying spell Dee taught me over four hundred years ago.”

  “Should I mention at this point that the computer is turned off?” Josh interjected, suddenly realizing what apparently no one else had. “Only the screens are on.”

  “But we only need the screens,” Shakespeare said enigmatically. He looked at the Alchemyst. “Dee always used a reflective surface for scrying ….”

  “Scrying?” Josh frowned. He’d heard Flamel use the same word. “What do you mean?”

  “From the ancient French word deserter,” Shakespeare murmured, “meaning ‘to proclaim’ or ‘to show.’ In Dee’s case, it meant ‘to reveal.’ When I was with him, he carried a mirror everywhere.”

  Flamel nodded. “His famous ‘shew-stone,’ or magical lens. I’ve read about it.”

  “He demonstrated it to Queen Elizabeth herself at his home at Mortlake,” Shakespeare said. “She was so terrified by what she saw that she ran from the house and never returned. The doctor could look into the lens and focus in on people and places across the world.”

  Flamel nodded. “I’ve often wondered what it was.”

  “That sounds like TV,” Josh said quickly. And then he realized he was talking about something in the seventeenth century.

  “Yes, very like television, but without a camera at the other end to transmit the picture. It was a scrap of Elder technology,” Shakespeare added, “a gift from his master. I believe it was an organic lens activated by the power of his aura.”

  “Whatever happened to it?” Flamel wondered aloud.

  Shakespeare smiled, tight-lipped. “I stole it from him the night I ran away. I had a mind to keep it for myself and mayhap even use it against him. But then I realized that if it linked Dee to his master, it probably linked his master to me. I dropped it in the Thames at Southwark, close to where we later built the Globe Theatre.”

  “I wonder if it’s still there,” Flamel muttered.

  “No doubt it is lost beneath centuries of silt and mud. But never mind that; Dee could—and did—use any highly polished surface to scry—mirrors, windows, glass, polished crystals—but then he discovered that liquids worked better. By applying his aura to a liquid, he could alter its properties, turn it reflective and use it to look at people and places from across the globe or from other times and places. With enough time and preparation, he could even look into the closest Shadowrealms. He could also use it to see through the eyes of animals or birds. They became his spies.”

  “He is astonishing,” Flamel agreed, shaking his head in wonder. “If only he’d chosen to work with us, against the Dark Elders.”

  “The doctor usually used pure springwater, though I have known him to use snow, ice, wine or even beer. Any liquid will do.” Leaning forward, Shakespeare tapped the black plastic frame around the computer screen. “And what do we have here … but liquid crystal?”

  The Alchemyst’s pale eyes widened and he nodded slowly. From under the neck of his T-shirt, he pulled the tiny pair of pince-nez he wore around his neck on a string and popped them onto his nose. “Of course,” he whispered. “And the properties of liquid crystal can be altered by applying an electrical or a magnetic charge. That changes the orientation of the crystals.” He snapped his fingers and a tiny green spark no bigger than a pinprick appeared on his index finger. The foul-smelling hut was touched by the sharp fragrance of mint, and a curling smokelike pattern immediately rolled down both screens. Flamel moved his finger and both screens flashed white, then green, then abruptly turned into dull mirrors that reflected his face, framed by Shakespeare and Josh. “I would never have thought of that. That’s genius!”

  “Thank you,” Shakespeare muttered, sounding a little embarrassed by the praise, blotches of color on his pale cheeks.

  “What will you use as a mirror on the other end?” Flamel asked.

  “Spiderweb,” the Bard said, surprisingly. “I’ve found that whether it be in a palace or a hovel, there are always spiderwebs. The threads are always sticky with liquid, and they make excellent magical mirrors.”

  Flamel nodded again, obviously impressed.

  “Now all we need is something that links you to Madame Perenelle.”

  Nicholas peeled off the heavy silver bracelet that wrapped around his right wrist. “Perenelle made this for me herself,” he explained, laying it on the table. “A little more than a century ago, a masked bounty hunter chased us across America. His guns were loaded with silver bullets. I think he thought us werewolves.”

  “Werewolves and silver bullets!” Shakespeare coughed a quick laugh and shook his head. “Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

  “I thought silver bullets worked against werewolves,” Josh said, “but I’m guessing not?”

  “No,” Flamel said. “I’ve always preferred vinegar.”

  “Or lemon,” Shakespeare said, “and pepper is a very reasonable alternative.” He saw Josh’s puzzled look and added, “Spray it on them or throw it into their eyes and nose. They will stop and sneeze and that will give you time to escape.”

  “Vinegar, lemon and pepper,” Josh muttered. “I’ll remember to add them to my werewolf-hunting kit. And if I don’t find any werewolves, I can always make a salad,” Josh said sarcastically.

  Shakespeare shook his head. “No, no, you would need a good olive oil for a salad,” he said seriously, “and olive oil is ineffective against any of the Wereclans.”

  “Though very useful against bruxa and strega,” Flamel murmured absently as he created swirling fractal-like patterns on the two LCD screens.

  “I was not aware of that,” Shakespeare said. “And how would one use—”

  “What happened to the bounty hunter?” Josh interrupted, frustrated, trying to bring the conversation back on track.

  “Oh, Perenelle ended up rescuing him from a tribe of Oh-mah.”

  “Oh-mah?” Josh and Shakespeare asked together.

  “Sasquatch … Saskehavis,” Flamel said, and for an instant, an image of a tall, primitive-looking, powerfully built human appeared on the screen. It was covered in long reddish hair and carried a huge club made from a gnarled tree root. “Big Foot,” he added.

  “Big Foot. Of course.” Josh shook his head. “So you’re saying there are Big Foot—Big Feet—in America?”

  “Of course,” Flamel said dismissively. “When Perenelle rescued the bounty hunter from the Oh-mah,” he continued, stroking the bracelet, “he presented her with his silver bullets as a gift.” A green spark crawled across the metal. “I watched her melt down the silver bullets with her aura and shape each link ….” The scent of mint filled the hut again. Picking up the bracelet, the Alchemyst closed his fist around the metal band. “She always said that a little of her was in this bracelet.”

  And abruptly both LCD screens blinked and the trio found they were looking at Perenelle Flamel.

  ven without de Ayala to
guide her, the smell of mint would have drawn Perenelle deeper into the cells. Crisp and clean, it blanketed the stench of the decaying building and the ever-present tang of salt. There was another scent in Alcatraz now: the zoolike stench of too many animals crowded together.

  De Ayala stopped before the entrance to a cell and drifted to one side, revealing a huge intricate spiderweb filling the opening. The circular web glistened with trembling liquid droplets. The odor of mint was strongest here.

  “Nicholas?” Perenelle whispered, puzzled. It was the distinctive deliciously familiar scent of her husband’s aura … but what was it doing here? She tried to peer beyond the web, into the cell. “Nicholas?” she whispered again.

  Abruptly, each individual droplet in the web shimmered and coalesced. The spider web turned briefly reflective, so that it was as if she were looking into a huge mirror, and then it faded and darkened, revealing the intricate pattern beneath. A crackling green thread curled across each delicate strand and she distinctly heard Nicholas’s voice—“She always said that a little of her was in this bracelet”—the instant before the web came to glowing life again and three astonished-looking faces appeared out of the gloom, staring at her.

  “Nicholas!” Perenelle’s voice was a ragged whisper. She fought hard to keep her aura from blazing. This was impossible—but then, that was the world she lived in. Instinctively, she knew this was a form of scrying, using the liquid on the spiderweb as a viewing source … and she also knew that her husband should not have been able to do this; he’d never mastered this particular art. But Nicholas was always surprising her, even after more than six hundred years of marriage. “Nicholas,” she whispered. “It is you!”

  “Perenelle! Oh, Perenelle!”

  The joy in Nicholas’s voice took her breath away. The Sorceress blinked back tears, then focused hard on her husband, examining him critically. The lines on his forehead had deepened, and there were new wrinkles around his eyes and nose, the bags under his eyes were bruise black and his hair was silvered, but it didn’t matter: he was alive. She felt something shudder and relax inside her. The sphinx had taunted her that Nicholas was doomed; the Morrigan had said the Nidhogg was loose in Paris. Perenelle had been almost afraid to even think about Nicholas and what might have happened to him. But here he was: looking older, certainly; tired, definitely; but very much alive!

  The boy, Josh, was there also, just behind Nicholas. He too looked tired. His forehead was smudged and his hair wild, but otherwise he seemed well. She could see no sign of Sophie. And where was Scathach? Perenelle kept her face expressionless as she shifted her gaze to the man sitting beside her husband. He was vaguely familiar.

  “I’ve missed you,” Nicholas said. He lifted his right hand, fingers spread wide. Half a world away, Perenelle unconsciously mimicked the gesture, her fingers matching his. She was careful not to touch the spider web, conscious that she might break the connection.

  “You are unharmed?” Nicholas’s voice was little more than the tiniest whisper, and his image flickered as the web undulated in the breeze that blew in from the open door at the other end of the corridor.

  “I am unharmed and well,” she said. “Quickly, Perry, there is not much time. Where are you?”

  “I’m not far from home; I am on Alcatraz. And you?”

  “Farther afield than you, I’m afraid. I am in London.”

  “London! The Morrigan told me you were in Paris.” Nicholas smiled. “Ah, but that was yesterday; today we are in London, but not for long, if I can help it. Can you leave the island?”

  “Unfortunately not.” She smiled sadly. “This is Dee’s island. There is a sphinx loose in the prison corridors, the cells are full of monsters and the seas are guarded by Nereids.”

  “Stay safe: I will come for you,” Nicholas said firmly.

  Perenelle nodded. She had absolutely no doubt that the Alchemyst would try to get to her; whether he would arrive in time was another matter. “I know you will.” They had lived together for so long and, for most of the last century, in such relative comfort and obscurity, and with so little contact with Elders or Next Generation, that she sometimes forgot that his knowledge was incalculable. “Have you a plan?”

  “In Paris, I retrieved our old map of the world’s ley lines,” he said quickly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “There is a line somewhere on Salisbury Plain that will take us directly to Mount Tamalpais. We’ll head there when …” He hesitated.

  Perenelle caught the hesitation and felt a surge of alarm. “When? What are you up to, Nicholas?”

  “There’s something I have to do in London first,” he said. “Someone I want the children to meet.”

  She immediately thought of a dozen names, none of them good. “Who?”

  “Gilgamesh.” Perenelle opened her mouth to protest, but the stony look on her husband’s face stopped her. His eyes flashed and his head moved almost imperceptibly toward Josh. “I’m going to ask him to teach the children the Magic of Water.”

  “Gilgamesh,” she repeated, “the King.” Forcing a smile to her lips, she added, “Give him my regards.”

  “I’ll do that.” Flamel nodded. “I’m sure he’ll remember you. And I’m hoping he will direct us to the ley line that will take us home,” he added.

  “Tell me quickly, Nicholas: is all well? Are the children safe?”

  “Yes. The twins are here with me,” Nicholas said. “Both have been Awakened, and Sophie has received both the Magic of Air and the Magic of Fire. Unfortunately, Josh has not yet received any training.”

  Perenelle was watching Josh as her husband spoke. Even without the wavering image, she sensed, rather than saw, his disappointment.

  “There is much to tell you,” Flamel continued.

  “Obviously. But Nicholas, you are forgetting your manners,” Perenelle chided him. “You have not introduced me to …” Recognition dawned even as she was about to ask the question. “Is that Master Shakespeare?”

  The man next to Nicholas bowed as deeply as he could from his sitting position. “Your humble servant, madam.”

  Perenelle remained silent. She felt the twinge in her shoulder where she’d been shot in the attack following Shakespeare’s betrayal, but unlike Nicholas, she had never held any grudge against the boy. She knew how dangerously persuasive Dee could be. Finally, she inclined her head. “Master Will. You are looking well.”

  “Thank you, madam. Almost four hundred years ago, I wrote a line in your honor—‘Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety’—it seems that line still holds true. You are as beautiful as ever.” He drew in a quick shuddering breath. “I owe you an apology, madam. Because of what I did, you were nearly slain. I made a mistake.”

  “You chose the wrong side, Will.”

  “I know that, madam.” The sadness in the immortal’s voice was almost palpable.

  “But you did not make a mistake: surely the mistake would have been remaining on that side?” she asked lightly.

  The Bard smiled and bowed his head, silently thanking her.

  “Perry, I have wronged Mr. Shakespeare. He is no friend to the Magician.” Nicholas waved his hand. “And he has made this communication possible.”

  Perenelle bowed. “Thank you, Will. I cannot tell you how grateful I am to see Nicholas safe and well.”

  Color touched Shakespeare’s cheeks and flowed up over his balding head. “It is my pleasure, madam.”

  “And you, Josh. How are you?”

  The boy nodded. “Good, I guess. Really good.”

  “And Sophie?”

  “Great. She learned Fire and Air. You should have seen what we did to the gargoyles at Notre Dame.”

  Perenelle turned her green eyes on her husband, and her eyebrows rose in a silent question.

  “As I said, much to tell you.” The Alchemyst leaned forward. He started off speaking in English but slipped into the French of his youth. “We were trapped, surrounded, facing the Guardians of the City. The boy f
ed the girl’s aura with his own—silver and gold together. Their power was incredible: they defeated the combined magic of Dee and Machiavelli. Perenelle, we have them: finally, we have the twins of legend!”

  The spiderweb rippled as a sudden foul gust blew down the corridor. Nicholas’s image dissolved into a million tiny faces, each one reflected in the droplets on the web. Then the drops flowed back together again and the reflective surface reappeared.

  “Madame …,” de Ayala whispered urgently, “something approaches.”

  “Nicholas,” Perenelle said quickly. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll get to you as fast as I can,” the Alchemyst responded.

  “I know you will. Just be careful, Nicholas. I can see age upon your face.”

  “Perry, a last word of advice, please,” Nicholas added. “Mr. Shakespeare thinks that we need to stand and fight. But we are in the heart of Dee’s London and desperately outnumbered. What do you think we should do?”

  “Oh, Nicholas,” Perenelle said softly in the forgotten Breton dialect of her long-lost youth. Something subtle happened to the bones and angles of her face, turning them hard. Her green eyes took on a glasslike appearance, and she reverted to English. “There is a time to run and a time to stand and face the enemy. Nicholas, often have I urged you to stop and fight. You have half a millennium of alchemical knowledge to use against Dee and his Dark Elders. But you’ve always told me you couldn’t—you were waiting to find the twins. Well, now you have them. And you’ve told me they are powerful. Use them. Strike a blow at the heart of Dee’s empire, let him see that we are not entirely defenseless. It’s time, Nicholas, time to stand and fight.”

  The Alchemyst nodded. “And you. Can you stay safe until I get to you?”

  Perenelle had just started to nod when the horror leapt through the spider web, teeth and claws extended toward her face.