by E. G. Foley
“Trust me. They can do it,” she said, sensing his doubt. “They are extremely intelligent.”
“Izzy, they’re animals!”
“They are pure, loving spirits! Such creatures will always help the cause of good.”
Well, that was a subject where Janos was out of his depth, so he kept his mouth shut.
Since the dolphins were still loitering around the boat, Izzy stretched her hand out over the water once more, sending her thoughts telepathically into the animals’ minds.
The dolphins clicked and squeaked and bobbed their heads as if they understood. A moment later, they dove through the waves with a splash of their tails and darted off into the deep.
Janos stared after them, frowning with uncertainty as Isabelle rose and turned around. “You’re sure about this?”
She nodded. “Trust me.”
He looked deep into her eyes and decided to give it a chance. “Very well. You should go below, just in case the threat is closer than it seems. Check in on Miss Helena—and tell the Gryphon to quit being a baby and get up here. I could use his eagle eyes to help keep watch.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, already heading for the hatch while he strode off down the deck.
“I’m going to let the captain know to rouse the crew and get ready to make sail. As soon as the rest of our party arrives, we head for the Villa di Palma. We need to get to the waypoint and return to Merlin Hall posthaste.”
CHAPTER 55
Treachery
Unbeknownst to Isabelle, she was right: the intense dread and horror she had sensed indeed came from one of her own kin. But it wasn’t Jake whose feelings she was sensing. If that were the case, she would only have felt utter boredom at the turtle ballet.
No, the terror she had tasted came not from her cousin, but her felonious uncle.
Waldrick was aghast, gripping the metal railing before him as he stared down at the army of Noxu warriors assembled in the vast onyx hall below, just behind the closed drawbridge.
Standing alone on an upper gallery with a view down into the huge space, he could not believe what he saw unfolding within the walls of the Black Fortress.
The half-troll barbarians were beating their shields and sending up a clamor of chants and battle-hungry yowls, some two hundred strong—the full regiment of the palace guards.
Whipping the tusked horde into a frenzy was none other than General Archeron Raige. The Dark Druids’ legendary military expert had arrived earlier today. Presently, Raige swaggered back and forth in front of his troops, the stump of a cigar hanging out of his lips as he rallied them for an apparent attack on Merlin Hall.
“No mercy, boys. Destroy everything in your path…”
Waldrick’s terror tripled upon hearing that. Dry-mouthed, he could feel his heart slamming like it might crack his ribs.
But if the legendary Archeron Raige wasn’t bad enough, alas, he wasn’t the only freak show to arrive here over the past few days. There were more.
Wyvern had been jumping the Fortress all over the globe in recent days, Waldrick had noticed. But he hadn’t thought much about it at the time, still shaken after finding his brother and the rest of the comatose Lightriders in that bizarre cavern in the base of the Black Fortress.
It was only this evening that Waldrick realized that something huge was about to happen.
He couldn’t decide which one of the new arrivals was most terrifying. He looked around slowly at them all, his heart in his throat.
Raige was pure brute force.
Duradel, by contrast, the blind oracle, was quiet and unnerving. When wood elves went bad, they joined their evil counterparts, an eerie folk known as the Drow.
Wyvern was speaking to the pale-haired prophet with his manticore by his side in a shadowy corner of the huge hall below, near the mechanisms for raising and lowering the drawbridge.
The mysterious dark elf seer wore a hooded black cloak that offered a glimpse of his moon-pale hair. Duradel gripped a staff covered in carvings and listened to Wyvern’s confidences with white, staring eyes.
Meanwhile, standing closer by, almost underneath Waldrick’s balcony, Fionnula twirled her wand idly in her fingers as she swapped beauty secrets with the ageless Red Queen. He could hear a little of the ladies’ conversation despite the Noxu clamor, thanks to the hall’s acoustics.
“I’m really looking forward to raiding that library of theirs,” the sea-witch was saying. “Their collection of grimoires is second to none.”
Viola Sangray nodded, but looked bored.
The vampire queen had glided in just tonight, as soon as it got dark, with an entourage of half a dozen elegant courtiers, male and female.
The other well-dressed vampires sauntered around restlessly here and there, sharpening their blades…and licking their fangs for the taste of blood.
Order blood.
Waldrick could not believe the Nephilim really meant to do this. Invade Merlin Hall? It was impossible. Madness.
It would never work. The Dark Druids would never win. They were all going to die—and Waldrick feared he would die alongside them, even though he’d barely had a choice in this.
But then, even worse was the thought of their plot succeeding.
Waldrick did his best to hide his horror at the prospect of evil finally and truly overcoming good, since he, too, was supposed to be a villain.
But he was petrified.
“Let’s just hope that stupid beaver gets his tunnel done on time,” the vampire queen said to the sea-witch. “What did Wyvern promise him, anyway?”
“The Proteus power and a seat on the Council ruling over all shapeshifters.”
“Really?” Viola let out a cynical laugh. “That’s all it took to corrupt an Elder of the Order?”
“It would seem so!” Fionnula laughed along with her fellow villainess.
But Waldrick’s eyes widened and his hammering pulse jolted with newfound horror. A traitor among the Elders?
It was unthinkable.
Well, that changed everything.
That meant these crazies might actually succeed! It was true, then. Evil might be on the verge of beating good this very night for once and for all.
But they can’t. They mustn’t, he thought, his stomach churning.
And yet there was no sign of Zolond being involved in all this. How could Wyvern undertake such a huge move without the Dark Master’s oversight?
Waldrick finally realized that Wyvern was doing all this as part of that mad goal he’d hinted at the first night the two of them met inside the Order prison.
The Nephilim actually meant to overthrow Zolond. And tonight, Wyvern was making his move.
Awed, Waldrick looked around with fresh eyes at what was going on. The handful of other Dark Druids who had recently arrived at the Black Fortress were apparently in on the coup.
One was madder than the next. Waldrick had at least enough sense to stay out of their way. One wrong move, and any one of them might kill him just for giggles. After all, he was of little use to this sinister lot without his pyrokinesis.
Moreover, now that Fionnula had attached herself to her precious Nathan, it wasn’t as though Waldrick could count on the sea-witch to defend him against her new friends.
No, after what he had seen in the basement, Waldrick now understood all too clearly that the opera diva had always been out for herself.
As for him, he knew what he had to do.
There was no way these loon-bats could take over Merlin Hall. He had to believe that the Elders would beat them back.
Surely.
Even his own ancient kinswoman, Aunt Ramona, had the ability to inflict massive damage when she roused herself in her fury. She didn’t like using magic, but when she resorted to it, he’d heard she was second only to Zolond himself.
But, for his part, Waldrick made a plan. A somewhat cowardly plan, he admitted, but sensible for once.
He decided with all his will that, sometime dur
ing the heat of battle, he would wait for his chance and run away.
He would defect to the other side.
Thanks to his sojourn in prison, Waldrick had had plenty of time to contemplate all his wrong choices and past misdeeds.
But now he knew for a fact that he was not actually a murderer. His brother was still alive, though only just barely.
That meant there was still time—and still hope—to fix what he had done.
Yes. When the battle came, he was going to find his moment and flee toward the enemy. Hands up, he’d surrender; they’d have to spare his life and take him prisoner.
He’d been a turncoat once; he could change sides again, could he not? He didn’t expect any sort of hero’s welcome from the Order, but they would spare his life. And he would not be tortured.
He would not be hunted for sport the way Raige would probably do to him if he hung around here. No one would suck his blood or use a spell to turn him into something unpleasant.
His mind was made up. He would defect and tell the Order everything he knew.
If he survived.
* * *
Meanwhile, beneath the moonlit pastures a mile away from Merlin Hall, almost outside the dome of protective spells, Badgerton dug with all his might. He threw the dirt carelessly aside as his sharp claws whipped through the soil. He stopped and yanked out stones, then kept on, his blistered paws whirring away with maniacal speed.
He knew he was doomed if he should be found out now. Also doomed if he should fail.
Just a few more feet…
Wyvern had said he wanted the tunnel tall enough for a man. This was not easy to accomplish, but few creatures were more determined than a badger once they had set their minds to something.
Focused on his task, Badgerton did not let himself think about what Wyvern meant to do with the tunnel.
What he might be bringing through.
That was no longer Badgerton’s concern. He had made his choice months ago. No, he was just the engineer. His rewards would be great—the Proteus power, a seat on the Council. Anything to save the skunkies from Wyvern’s horrid owl.
Thrusting these thoughts from his mind, sweat and grime coating his face, Badgerton just kept plowing grimly forward.
It was much too late to turn back now.
* * *
“Jilly-bean, I’m home! And I’ve brought the birthday girl with me.”
“Oh, Peter!” Ramona tut-tutted him while Dame Oriel laughed behind her.
The three of them headed into the Chancellor’s House, having just finished their duties at the palace.
“I told you not to make a fuss,” Ramona chided, though she couldn’t help smiling. “This is hardly the time for celebration, with all that’s going on.”
“Nonsense, young lady! It’s exactly what we need right now.” The cheery wizard held the door for both older women. “And shame on you for trying to hide it, anyway. A birthday must be celebrated—even if belatedly.”
“Especially a three hundred and thirty-third birthday,” Oriel chimed in, following Ramona into his handsome, wood-paneled foyer of the manor house. “I agree with you, Peter.”
“Of course you do, dear lady.” Peter tapped his temple. “Great minds. Just wait until you taste Jillian’s cooking. And people think she has no magical powers! Ha.”
Ramona chuckled at the smitten husband while Oriel took a deep inhalation.
“Oh, it smells wonderful in here!”
It did. Aromas danced on the air. The sweetness of a cake baking, the tempting tang of beef roasting, and the cozy scent of soup simmering on the stove mingled with the smell of wood logs crackling in the fireplace.
Magical meals were easy to conjure, but there was just something special about real home cooking.
The warmth of the Quince family home enveloped them as Sir Peter set the books under his arm aside on the deep windowsill, then took the ladies’ wraps and hung them on the coat tree by the door.
Ramona gave him an arch smile. “You know I only came because we have serious matters to discuss.”
Like their plan of attack on the upcoming clairvoyant interviews.
“Besides,” she added, “the dreaded occasion was nearly a fortnight ago.”
“Then we must delay the celebration no longer!” Sir Peter slipped off his usual black wizard’s robe and hung it on the coat tree as well.
It was rare to see him without it, but underneath was the casual but gentlemanly garb of a typical professor. He wore brown tweed trousers and a paisley vest of autumn colors over a tidy linen shirt with an ascot around his neck in a subdued shade of the mage’s hallmark color: orange.
“Welcome once more to our humble abode,” he said with a smile. He gestured to them to go ahead of him toward the stairs. “Can I invite you ladies up to the drawing room for an aperitif before dinner?”
“That sounds lovely,” Oriel said, her plum-colored hair burnished in the glow of the small chandelier overhead.
But Ramona eyed the ceiling skeptically. “There had better not be a surprise party up there.”
“Never!” Peter laughed and threw his arm around her bony shoulders. “As I promised you, nothing but a quiet celebratory dinner with friends. However, there will be cake,” he warned. “And possibly the singing of a certain tune.”
“Singing will not be necessary,” Ramona said sternly.
“But I have an excellent voice,” Peter said with a frown.
“I’m sure you do.”
“He does.” Oriel nodded.
“Nevertheless,” Ramona said. “Let’s keep the birthday silliness to a minimum, shall we?”
“Oh, very well.” Their host gave her a mock pout and lowered his arm from Ramona’s shoulders.
“Killjoy,” Oriel teased.
Ramona snorted. “Old age has made me cranky.”
“Shall we, ladies?” Sir Peter gestured toward the staircase that led up to the drawing room. “I’ll pour us our drinks, then check on my good lady wife and see if she needs any assistance in the kitchen.”
“You actually cook?” Oriel asked.
“When she lets me.” He took off his spectacles and polished them on his sleeve before putting them back on. “I’m always on cleanup duty afterwards. She doesn’t mind me using magic for that.”
“I daresay.” Ramona laughed.
“Must be nice.” Oriel sighed. “Lucky mages.”
Still chatting, they headed across the cozy foyer, when, suddenly, Jillian herself came rushing down the first-floor hallway in her apron.
“Hullo, darl—” Peter started, then he saw the look of panic on her face. “Jill?”
The prim blonde flew past Ramona and Oriel with barely a glance. Rushing over to her husband, she gripped his forearms with an air of desperation.
“Jilly, what’s wrong?” Peter asked, searching her face. “Did you burn the roast? Drop the cake? What is it? It’s all right. Tell me what’s the matter.”
With a stricken look, she opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. She began gesticulating frantically to her mouth and throat, and before Ramona’s eyes, the blood drained from Peter’s face.
He jolted back from his wife with a look of stunned accusation. “No.”
Oriel gasped and covered her mouth, realizing what it signified.
Ramona froze with shock.
Jillian Quince was the mole?
All three Elders just stood there staring at the young woman in horror.
“Oh, Jillian…! There must be some mistake.” Peter sounded like someone had just punched him in the stomach. He stared at his wife for a long, incredulous moment.
Oriel’s jaw hung open.
Watching the dean’s wife with hawklike intensity, Ramona reached for her wand, just in case.
Jillian stood motionless, looking around at them slowly with confusion.
Peter suddenly turned away. “Oh, Jillian, how could you?”
He sent Ramona a devastated look. Then rag
e filled his eyes. He spun back to his wife and roared, “How could you betray me?”
A terrified shriek would’ve torn from Jillian’s lips, but no sound came out on account of the silencing spell that Peter had personally created to expose the spy.
Jillian quickly pulled free of his hold on her arm, looking overwhelmed. Help me! she mouthed, giving him a wounded look.
The wizard shook his head bitterly. “You, of all people!” he cried. “Why?”
Ramona laid her hand firmly on his shoulder. “There’s no point in frightening her, Peter,” she said. “The spell has served its purpose.”
What spell? Jillian mouthed.
Ramona barely had the heart to answer. Even she would never have suspected that their mole might turn out to be the dean’s wife.
But perhaps it made sense.
As a non-magical person married to a wizard of great power, constantly surrounded by people with supernatural gifts, perhaps jealousy had gnawed away at Jillian until it had poisoned her heart and corrupted her judgment.
Oriel glanced from Jillian to Ramona and back again with a wide-eyed look.
Sir Peter suddenly pivoted and strode toward the stairs. “Forgive me, ladies. I…I require a moment to collect my thoughts. Then I’ll remove the spell, and this traitor can confess to her perfidy.”
Jillian’s eyes welled up with tears of disbelief. As Peter jogged up the creaking wooden steps, she stood there clutching her apron, looking bewildered and quite at a loss.
What is going on? she mouthed at the ladies.
Ramona stared coldly at her, insulted that the woman saw fit to keep up the act. Whom did she think she was fooling?
“When Ravyn Vambrace returned from the Black Fortress,” Ramona said, “she brought back information that the Dark Druids have a mole at Merlin Hall. Your husband performed a silencing spell that would stop the traitor from reporting to the enemy, exposing him or her by the loss of their voice.”
Jillian’s jaw dropped. She clutched her chest. Me?
“It would seem so,” Ramona said.
Jillian shook her head, earnest horror stamped on her face. She glanced toward the stairs, then ran after her husband.
