The Burning Sky tet-1

by Shelly Thomas

  “Where are we?”

  “Slough, a mile and a half north of Eton. That is the railway station.” He pointed at the long building. “You have a timetable in your bag and more than enough money to go anywhere. Take a steamer to the Americas if you want.”

  He was angry with her, but he was still helping her. Somehow that made a future without him even bleaker. Her heart was full of strange pains she could not begin to name.

  He turned her around. She now faced a squat two-story house. “That is an inn. You can buy your supper there and stay the night if you prefer to leave in the morning. Make sure you monitor what goes on outside and know the location of the rear exit.”

  “Thank you,” she said, not quite looking him in the eye.

  “And take this.”

  He pressed a wand into her hand.

  “But it’s yours.”

  “Of course not—it is an unmarked spare. I cannot have my wand in your possession when you are captured.”

  Not if, but when.

  She raised her head. But he’d already disappeared.

  The inn was small, but cheerfully lit and scrupulously clean. A fire blazed in the taproom. The aroma was of strong ale and hot stew.

  Mrs. Needles often railed against the evils of an empty stomach: it sapped warmth, drained courage, and decimated clear thinking. Iolanthe had been cold, confused, and disheartened when she pushed open the doors of the inn. But now, with her supper laid out on the table before her—chunks of beef and carrots swimming in gravy, slices of freshly baked bread with a huge mound of butter, and the promise of a pudding to come later—she felt slightly more herself.

  She had selected a table next to the window, within view of the back door, which led out to an alley. Upstairs a spare but decent room awaited her. And in front of her, the railway timetable. She had already circled the train—a very crude form of expedited highway, from what she could gather—she intended to take in the morning.

  She reached for a slice of bread and slathered it with butter. At his residence house, the prince would soon also be sitting down to supper. Would he think of her, as she thought of him? Or would he secretly rejoice, relieved not to have to take on the Bane?

  Master Haywood would be pleased that she’d wisely turned away from the prince’s extravagant schemes to concentrate on her own survival. She stared at the bread in her hand, glistening with melting butter, and wondered whether the food offered to Master Haywood in the Inquisitory was as palatable. And would the agents of Atlantis do anything for him when symptoms of merixida withdrawal began? Or would they simply let him suffer?

  “What are you thinking, you handsome lad?”

  Iolanthe jumped. But it was only the barmaid, smiling at her.

  Smiling flirtatiously.

  “Ah . . . a brimming mug of ale, served by the prettiest girl in the room?”

  The girl giggled. “I will fetch that ale for you.”

  Iolanthe stared at the barmaid’s retreating back, wondering how to keep her away. She couldn’t afford even the possibility of a situation where someone might find out she wasn’t such a handsome lad after all.

  The barmaid glanced over her shoulder and winked. Iolanthe hastily looked out the window. At home a hub of the expedited highways usually had more than one inn. Perhaps she’d see something else nearby.

  Across the street, high above the railway station, hovered two armored chariots. On the ground, a team of agents—easy to distinguish from the startled English pedestrians by their uniform tunics—fanned out from the station. Several of them headed directly for the inn.

  The fear that seized her made time itself stretch and dilate. The man reading a timetable under a streetlamp yawned, his mouth opening endlessly. The diner at the next table asked his mate to “Pass the salt,” each syllable as drawn out as pulled taffy. The mate, moving as if he were inside a vat of glue, set his fingers on a pewter dish with a small spoon inside and pushed it across.

  With a loud thump, a great tankard of ale was plunked down before Iolanthe, the froth high and spilling. She jerked and glanced up at the barmaid, who winked again meaningfully. “Anything else for you, sir?”

  Her illusion of freedom crumbled.

  She was not safe here. She was not safe anywhere. And she had no choices except between dying now or dying slightly later.

  She threw a handful of coins beside her largely untouched supper and ran for the back door.

  He was a bastard. Of course he was: he lied, cheated, and manipulated.

  She would not like him very much when she realized what he had done.

  It did not matter, Titus told himself. He did not walk this path for flowers and hugs. The only thing that mattered was that she should come back. The hollow feeling in his chest he ignored entirely.

  He turned on the light in Fairfax’s room and waited. A quarter hour passed. And there she was, her face pale, her eyes wild.

  “If you are looking for your hat, it is on the hook over there,” he said as casually as he could manage. “Pay me no mind; I am just here to forge a good-bye note from you.”

  She dropped her valise, pulled out the chair at her desk, and sank into it, her face buried in her hands.

  In the last few weeks of his mother’s life, she too had often sat like this, her face in her hands. Impatient with her anguish, he used to yank at her sleeve and demand that she play with him.

  After her death, for months he could think of nothing but whether she would have still decided on the same course of action had he been different, had he patted her on the back and stroked her hair and brought her cups of tea.

  He moved forward slowly, cautiously, as if the girl before him were a sleeping dragon.

  Against his better judgment, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

  She shook, as if caught in a nightmare.

  He had always considered himself cold-blooded. Sangfroid was a trait highly prized by the House of Elberon. His grandfather had especially insisted on it: one was permitted to lose one’s life, but never one’s detachment.

  Now, however, his detachment cracked. Somewhere inside him, he shook too, with the force of her fear, her confusion, and her vulnerability—an empathy that shocked him with its depth and enormity.

  He yanked back his hand.

  “They were there.” Her voice sounded ghostly, disembodied. “They were at the railway station. Two of those armored chariots in the air and—and agents were headed for the inn.”

  Of course they had been there. He had told Mrs. Hancock that if Atlantis really thought the girl was nearby, they should watch the rail stations, since she would not know Britain well enough to vault far.

  “Did you vault here directly from your dining table?”

  “No, from the alley behind. I hope I left enough coins for supper—I was in too much of a hurry.”

  “Now is hardly the time to worry about the innkeeper’s profit.”

  “I know.” She turned her face toward the ceiling and blinked rapidly. He was shocked to realize that she was on the verge of tears. “It’s stupid. Of everything that happened today, I don’t know why this is the one thing that—”

  She passed the base of her palm over her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  The thing to do now would be to pull her into his arms for a reassuring embrace, perhaps even to kiss her on her hair. Offer her the comfort she craved and convince her that she had made the right choice to return.

  He could not do it. If anything, he took a step back.

  She glanced up at him. “Can I still be Archer Fairfax?”

  He clasped his hands behind his back. “You understand what you are to give in return?”

  Her lips twisted. “Yes.”

  “I require an oath.”

  This took her aback. She exhaled slowly. “What do you want me to swear on?”

  “Let me clarify. I require a blood oath.”

  She was on her feet. “What?”

  “The only meaningful oath is one that can
be enforced. Your life is not the only one at stake here.”

  She trembled, but she met his gaze. “For a blood oath I want more. You will always tell me the truth. You will free my guardian. And we will make one and only one attempt on the Bane. Whether we succeed or fail, you will release me from this oath.”

  As if there would ever be a second attempt.

  “Granted,” he said.

  He found a plate, set it on the desk, and aimed his wand at the plate. “Flamma viridis.”

  A green flame flared. He opened his pocketknife, passed the blade through the fire, cut open the center of his left palm, and let three drops of blood fall on the flame. The fire crackled, turning a more brilliant emerald hue. He lowered the knife into the flame again and passed it to her. “Your turn.”

  She winced, but copied his action. The fire devoured her blood and turned the color of a midnight forest. He gripped her still bleeding hand with his and plunged their joined hands directly into the cold, cold flame.

  “Should either of us renege on the oath, this fire will spread in the veins of the oath breaker. It will not be so cool then.”

  The fire abruptly turned a brilliant white and burned. She hissed. He sucked in a breath against the scalding pain.

  Just as abruptly, the flame went out, leaving no trace of having ever been there. She pulled her hand back and examined it anxiously. But her skin was perfectly smooth and intact; even the self-inflicted wound at the center of her palm had disappeared.

  “A little taste of what awaits the oath breaker,” he said, perhaps unnecessarily.

  “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t—”

  Her voice trailed off.

  The curtains were securely drawn. From where she stood, she could not see out. Yet she stared at the window, disbelief in her eyes. Her denial made the hollow feeling in his chest return with a vengeance. She still wanted to believe he was better than this.

  But it was inevitable. She was too sharp, and he had been too hurried to be subtle.

  Her already pale face turned ashen, her jaw hardened, she scratched a nail down the center of her palm, where the cut had been.

  “You saw them in the sky, didn’t you, the armored chariots? That was why you told me about the stars, so that I’d be sure to look up and see them.”

  Her voice was unnaturally even. He thought of her thanking him for his honesty. She had to be thinking of the same thing, knowing that even as she spoke those words, he was already planning to betray her trust.

  He said nothing.

  “You couldn’t have had the decency to tell me that they were directly overhead and that I should wait a quarter hour before venturing out?”

  “Decency is not a virtue in a prince.”

  She laughed bitterly. “The house in London, is it really surrounded by agents of Atlantis?”

  He might have exaggerated the likelihood that Lady Wintervale would speak of her arrival to other Exiles. Lady’s Wintervale was inclined toward secrecy, not confessions.

  “Did you also have something to do with the armored chariots at Slough, the ones that sent me scrambling back to you?”

  He shrugged.

  She laughed again. “So what then, exactly, is the difference between you and Atlantis?”

  “I still gave you a choice. You came back here of your own will.”

  “No, I came back here because you cornered me. You played fast and loose with my life. You—”

  She fell back against the wall, her face contorted by pain.

  “Thinking of reneging on the oath already?” He could only imagine the agony that slashed through her.

  She looked as if she could scarcely breathe. Her voice was hoarse. “This cannot be a valid pact. Release me now!”

  “No.”

  Never.

  She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, they were full of cold fury. “What kind of person are you, to live without honor or integrity?”

  His nails dug into his palm. “Obviously, the kind chosen for what others are too decent to do.”

  He wanted to come across as flippant, but instead he sounded harsh and angry.

  She clenched her hand. “I liked you much, much better when I didn’t know you.”

  It did not matter. He had what he wanted from her. What she thought of him was henceforth irrelevant.

  He had to draw a deep breath before he could reply. “Your affection is not required in this endeavor, Fairfax, only your cooperation.”

  She stared at him. Suddenly she was right before him. Her fist struck him hard low in the abdomen.

  He grunted. The girl knew how to hurt someone.

  “You bastard,” she snarled.

  An irrelevant thought gripped him: he should have kissed her when he still had the chance.

  He straightened with some effort. “Supper is in half an hour, Fairfax. And next time, tell me something I do not already know.”

  CHAPTER 9

  EVERY THOUGHT BROUGHT AGONY.

  Iolanthe didn’t know when she collapsed on the floor, but it was as good a place as any to suffer.

  The pain was unlike any she’d ever known—messy and brutal, dirty, rusty blades scraping along her every nerve ending. She almost prayed for the clean blackness of suffocation.

  It took her a long, long time to find ways to think that did not renew the torture. It was painless to picture the prince’s eventual wife cuckolding him with every attendant in the castle. It was also all right to imagine his children detesting him. And most satisfying of all, it did not hurt to envision the entire population of Delamer spitting on his casket, for his funeral to turn into a farce and a riot.

  She didn’t need to be a historian to known that the House of Elberon had been in decline. No doubt he wanted to revive its fortunes and make his mark. No doubt he wanted to be the next great prince. She was but a pawn in his plan, just as for the Bane she was but a thing to be sucked dry and discarded.

  She felt raw and depleted, as if she’d come through a terrible illness. She almost could not believe that when she’d awakened this day, her biggest concern had been Rosie Oakbluff’s wedding. That seemed years ago, a different lifetime altogether.

  Holding on to the edge of the desk, she pulled herself upright.

  Somehow this was not too unknown a place, being barely on her feet while the world reeled around her. In fact, there was an eerie familiarity to it: each time Master Haywood had lost his post, she’d thought they’d come to an abyss from which they’d never emerge.

  Except this time, it really was the abyss, the end of life as she knew it.

  What should she do?

  As if to answer her question, her stomach grumbled—she’d been too nervous at tea and too distracted by her thoughts in the inn. She almost laughed. She was still alive, so she must eat—and downstairs supper awaited.

  This she was accustomed to: carrying on no matter what; making the best of a terrible situation.

  What else was there to do?

  Titus knocked on her door and received no answer.

  “You do not want supper?”

  Still no answer.

  He went down by himself. To his surprise, when he arrived outside the dining room, she was already there, deep in conversation with Wintervale. Or rather, Wintervale analyzed the strengths and weaknesses of rival houses’ cricket teams, and she listened attentively.

  Wintervale must have said something funny. She threw back her head and laughed. The sight stopped Titus cold: she was terrifyingly pretty. He did not understand how Wintervale could stand so close and not realize a thing.

  Wintervale continued talking. She gazed upon him with a frank appreciation. The urge came upon Titus to smash Wintervale into a china cabinet. It was difficult to believe that he’d known her only mere hours: she had already turned his life upside down.

  He approached them. She gave him a cursory nod before returning her attention to Wintervale. Kashkari arrived beside Titus, and they spent a min
ute talking of the liquefaction of oxygen, a new nonmage scientific achievement about which Kashkari had just read in the papers.

  The dining room’s door opened. With pushes and shoves, the boys entered, then settled themselves at two long tables, self-segregated by age. Mrs. Dawlish sat down at the head of the senior boys’ table, Mrs. Hancock, the junior boys’ table.

  “Will you say grace, Mrs. Hancock?” Mrs. Dawlish asked.

  At the mention of Mrs. Hancock’s name, Fairfax, across the table from Titus, tensed. Titus could see that she wanted to turn around and have a good look at Mrs. Hancock, but she was careful enough to imitate the other boys and bow her head instead.

  “Our Heavenly Father,” began Mrs. Hancock, “assist us in your boundless mercy as we embark on a new Half in this ancient and splendid school. Guide the boys to be industrious and fruitful in their studies. Keep them strong and healthy in body and mind. And may 1883 be the year you bless them at last with victories upon the cricket pitch—for Almighty Lord, you know how sorely we have been tried in Summer Halves past.”

  The boys groaned and snickered. Mrs. Dawlish, half smiling herself, shushed them.

  Fairfax raised her head, surprise written all over her face. Did she imagine that the agents of Atlantis could not be perfectly charming individuals? Mrs. Hancock was beloved in this house, almost more so than Mrs. Dawlish.

  “We give our thanks for the bounty of this meal, O Lord,” continued Mrs. Hancock. “For Mrs. Dawlish, our stalwart dame. Even for the boys, whom we love dearly but, if history is any indication, will wish to throttle with our bare hands before the week is out.”

  More laughter.

  “All the same we are overjoyed that all of our boys have returned safely to us, especially Fairfax. May he refrain from climbing trees this Half.”

  Fairfax’s hands tightened on the table. She bowed her head again, as if to hide her unease at being singled out by an enemy.

  “But above all other things may we attain the knowledge of thee, O Lord, and serve thee with every breath and every deed. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed the boys.