The Burning Sky tet-1

by Shelly Thomas

Run! bellowed her voice of self-preservation. Vault somewhere. Anywhere. Get away.

  But what would happen to him if she ran? Should his closest chum disappear from the face of the earth just as witnesses arrived to identify Iolanthe Seabourne, even Prince Alectus might be able to put two and two together. It would be back to the Inquisitory with him. And this time, there would be no one to intervene when the Inquisitor began cutting through his mind.

  Unless—

  No. The very idea was insane.

  But she had to. She had no other choice. There was no one else to help her.

  “Ahhh!” she cried, and cupped her abdomen with both hands.

  “What is it?” said the boys simultaneously.

  “My stomach. I shouldn’t have had that ginger beer. I’ll bet that hag made it out of ditch water.”

  “Run for the lavatory,” Birmingham advised. “When ginger beer turns on you, it turns on you hard.”

  “Want me to come with you?” Cooper asked cheerfully.

  “And do what? Wipe my arse? You are the prince’s personal envoy, so you’ve got to personally take my message to him. Tell him I’ll be along as soon as I’ve had my rendezvous with the crapper.”

  She started running before she’d finished speaking.

  Only to barrel into Trumper and Hogg a minute later, blocking her way.

  “Oh, look who doesn’t have any friends or cricket bats today?” said Trumper.

  Hogg sneered, smashing one fist against the palm of his other hand. “You can kiss your pretty face good-bye, Fairfax. After we’re done with you today, you’ll look like chopped liver.”

  She swore—and punched Trumper in the stomach. He howled. Hogg threw himself at her and closed his arm around her throat in a chokehold. She rammed her elbow into his kidney. He yelped in pain and stumbled back. To Trumper, again joining the fray, she delivered a knee to the groin. Trumper emitted a high-pitched shriek and collapsed in a heap.

  She ran again and ducked into an empty alley between two houses. Hands braced against the rough brick wall behind her back, she vaulted.

  Only to open her eyes and find that she hadn’t moved an inch.

  Her destination was within her vaulting range. There was no reason she should have failed. She tried again. And again. And again.

  To no avail.

  Atlantis had turned the entire school into a no-vaulting zone.

  CHAPTER 22

  IOLANTHE SPRINTED.

  If Kashkari had been telling the truth—and she had no reason to doubt him—then Atlantis had not only established a no-vaulting zone, but also made sure that one would not be able to simply walk out.

  But not all no-vaulting zones were created equal. Permanent ones, like the one the prince had established in his room, took tremendous time and effort. A completely new, and most likely temporary, no-vaulting zone sometimes had areas of incomplete denial that could be exploited—or so she’d recently learned in the teaching cantos.

  She did not stop until she was before the wardrobe in Wintervale’s room. Paired portals, unless specifically allowed, did not work inside a no-vaulting zone. When one was inside and the other out, however, they were sometimes overlooked by a first-iteration no-vaulting zone, especially one that covered such a huge area.

  She opened the wardrobe, pushed Wintervale’s coats aside, squeezed in. and closed the door. But when she opened the door again, she was still in Wintervale’s room at Mrs. Dawlish’s.

  Her fingertips shook.

  Unless . . . unless the portal had a password. Most didn’t: the magic undergirding portals and that which governed the use of passwords were not terribly compatible. But the prince had definitely used one for the bathtub portals connecting the castle to the monastery.

  But how was she to find out the password now? The prince was out of reach. And were she to set out to search for Wintervale, there was every chance she’d be seen and brought to the Inquisitor before she could come back and use the portal.

  She perspired—it was dark and stuffy inside the wardrobe. Her lungs felt as if they were about to collapse. Her hands, braced on either side of her person, barely kept her upright.

  Like a bright flare at night, the Oracle’s counsel came to her. You will best help him by seeking aid from the faithful and bold. She’d thought of those words daily, and never had they made any sense.

  Now they did.

  “Fidus et audax,” she said, Latin for “faithful and bold.”

  And this time, when she opened the door of the wardrobe, she was in Wintervale’s house in London.

  Iolanthe stepped down. The dark-blue wallpaper and the rich Oriental carpet both looked unfamiliar—she’d remembered very little of the decor. The space behind the wardrobe, where the prince had shoved her when Wintervale came at his mother’s summons, was tiny. She and the prince must have been pressed together like a pair of shirts going through a clothes wringer.

  But the window and its deep ledge looked exactly right—except she’d thought it faced the street, when in fact it overlooked a small garden in the rear of the house.

  The corridor outside was thickly carpeted, the walls covered in a pale-gold silk. There were several other bedrooms on the floor, but they were all empty.

  “Lee, is that you?” came a feminine voice behind her. “What is the matter? Why are you home?”

  The madwoman. Wintervale kept insisting she was only sometimes mad. Iolanthe prayed that today was one of her more lucid days.

  She slowly turned around, her hands held up, palms out. Wintervale’s mother was in another tightly cinched English dress. And for all that she’d spent the spring in a spa town, she did not appear rejuvenated: her eyes were sunken, her cheeks hollow, her skin as thin and fragile as eggshells.

  The moment she realized it was not her son standing before her, however, her gaze turned feral. She pointed her wand at Iolanthe. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “I am the one you swore a blood oath to protect, from the moment you saw me” Iolanthe pushed the words past her rapidly closing throat. “Last time I was here, you tried to kill me. This time, you will help me.”

  The corner of the madwoman’s eye twitched. “I said I was asked to swear a blood oath.” She laughed softly, the sound of nightmares. “I never said I did.”

  Titus prayed.

  He had meant for her to flee, and judging by what Cooper said, she had run for it. But had she gone far enough? He wanted her halfway around the world by the time the Inquisitor broke him.

  The Inquisitor would break him. For all her days in a coma, she seemed to be haler than ever. Her eyes were sharp, her complexion glowing, her attention as focused as a beam of light that had passed through a magnifying glass.

  Mrs. Hancock arrived with the staff from Mrs. Dawlish’s house: cooks, maids, laundresses, and charwomen. Much to the complaints of those standing in the queue, they leapfrogged to the head of the line.

  The Inquisitor leaned forward with anticipation.

  Of course a girl living in Mrs. Dawlish’s house was going to be subject to more suspicion than a boy. And several of the maids and laundresses were about the right age.

  It so happened that a kitchen maid had the day off to visit a sick sister in London. The Inquisitor was displeased. “We asked for all the members of the staff to be accounted for.”

  “They were as of last evening, Madam Inquisitor,” said Mrs. Hancock calmly. “But the girl received a telegram early this morning, and Mrs. Dawlish, my superior, gave her leave without first consulting me. Rest assured she will return in good time.”

  Mrs. Hancock herded Mrs. Dawlish’s staff away. Cooper shouted, “There he comes, our Fairfax, fresh from the powder room, as promised.”

  What? Titus felt as if he had been whipped. Why?

  From the edge of the crowd, Fairfax made her jaunty way toward him, head held high, hat set at a dashing angle, whistling.

  Whistling. Had she lost her mind? Run, you fool. And do not look back.<
br />
  Guilt overwhelmed him: she had come because of the blood oath. There could be no other explanation. He prayed again—desperate, jumbled prayers—for the multitudes to close ranks and keep her out. Instead, she sliced effortlessly through the horde, like a clipper on an open ocean.

  You are the stupidest girl in the world.

  Mrs. Oakbluff stared at her. Haywood stared at her. The Inquisitor stared at them. The least twitch of recognition . . .

  She continued to advance, prettier than all the silk-clad sisters. It was a wonder she had managed to pass herself off as a boy for so long; she would not fool them another minute.

  Perhaps she did not intend to. Perhaps she meant to pit her powers against the Inquisitor’s here and now. She would not stand a chance. Among the Inquisitor’s minions were battle-hardened elemental mages with far greater experience than she.

  She only stopped when she reached Greencomb the secretary. A second later Greencomb announced, “Mr. Archer Fairfax.”

  Fairfax stepped before her greatest enemies and bowed.

  Titus’s disbelief reached an excruciating peak. How was it possible that she had not yet been yanked away? What was going on? Yet he dared not glance at either Oakbluff or Haywood, for fear of giving himself away.

  “I understand you are His Highness’s faithful companion, Mr. Fairfax,” said Lady Callista.

  She had already smiled long and hard this day. Her expression had become stiff, and tinged with fatigue.

  “I am a frequent beneficiary of His Highness’s largesse,” said Fairfax. “It seems only fitting that when he requires companionship, I am there to provide it.”

  Lady Callista’s eyes widened ever so slightly at Fairfax’s neutral statement on their friendship.

  Fairfax bowed again and prepared to yield her place to the next person in line.

  “Who are your parents?” asked the Inquisitor, who had not spoken to any of the boys presented so far.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Roland Fairfax of Bechuanaland, ma’am.”

  “Where in Bechuanaland, precisely?”

  “A hundred twenty miles outside Kuruman. Have you been to Bechuanaland, ma’am?”

  “No,” said the Inquisitor. “But should the opportunity arise, I will be sure to call on your parents.”

  Titus felt as if a giant spider was crawling down his spine. If the Inquisitor were to mount a personal investigation, then Titus’s thin veil of deception would not stand a chance.

  Fairfax’s sangfroid did not falter. “They will be honored to receive you, ma’am.”

  “We shall see,” said the Inquisitor.

  Fairfax bowed one more time and walked away.

  Safe for now.

  As Iolanthe left, she dared a glance in Master Haywood’s direction. He looked dazed and exhausted, and it took everything in her not to throw the scene into chaos and make away with him.

  Mrs. Dawlish’s house was deserted. But Wintervale’s mother was in his room, standing before his desk, writing something.

  It had been a frozen moment of horror in Wintervale’s house as Iolanthe realized her mistake. Then Wintervale’s mother had said, I won’t try to murder you again. What help do you need?

  Iolanthe had been stunned. But there had been no time to ask questions. She’d hurriedly explained her needs, brought Wintervale’s mother to Mrs. Dawlish’s house, and sent her off with a description of the two mages at whom she should aim a barrage of invalidating spells, so that as Iolanthe stood before Master Haywood and Mrs. Nettle, they would neither be able to access old memories, nor gain new ones while under the spell.

  She knocked very softly. Wintervale’s mother turned around. “It’s you.”

  “Thank you for helping me,” Iolanthe said. And please don’t lose your sanity now.

  “I had better go,” said the not-quite-so-mad woman. “Forgive me. And please do not mind what I said earlier—his choices are not your fault.”

  “Whose choices?”

  But Wintervale’s mother was already stepping into the wardrobe, a piece of paper in hand. When Iolanthe opened the wardrobe again, it was empty except for a note on the inside of the door.

  Dear Lee, I am blocking this portal for now, until I find a more secure means for you to access the house. Love, Mother.

  As it turned out, Fairfax was not the last boy from Mrs. Dawlish’s house to be brought before the Inquisitor, nor the second to last. A junior boy had slipped away to buy tobacco in town. A boy in his final year was found in a compromising position with a maid in the headmaster’s household—and dragged back for his inspection.

  But even after all the boys had been accounted for, the wait continued as the absent kitchen maid remained absent. Lady Callista had come prepared with snow-white linen and a picnic grand enough for a state banquet. Titus touched nothing, not even a drop of water.

  At six o’clock, he rose to join the other rowers for the procession of boats that was to take place at half past. A company of the Inquisitor’s lackeys followed him, jogging along the bank, never letting him leave their sight.

  Upstream, the boats were pulled ashore, and the rowers tucked into a special supper. Titus forced himself to eat, so as to appear unconcerned before his minders. Afterward, the rowers took to the boats again to row back downstream. Upon their return, the fireworks would begin.

  Night had fallen. The trees along both banks of the river had been lit with miniature candles; the water glittered with their reflections. It would have been a pretty sight had he been in the mood to appreciate it.

  Halfway down the river he realized that the mages who had shadowed him were gone. He veered between a bone-melting relief and a stark suspicion that this was the beginning of some new trickery.

  Only when he saw that the white canopy had also disappeared did he allow himself to exhale. If the Inquisitor had planned to take him in tonight, she’d have waited for him.

  Pushing past the throngs of spectators gathered for the fireworks, he headed back to Mrs. Dawlish’s.

  Fairfax was not in her room—the entire floor was empty. But she did leave him a note on her desk. Off to the fireworks. The boys insist.

  He returned to his own room, set the kettle to boil, pulled out a tin of biscuits from his cabinet, and slumped down on his bed.

  For now, he was safe. But the next Inquisition would happen sooner or later. To protect Fairfax, he must go on the run. The only question was whether she would be safer coming with him or staying behind at Eton.

  The kettle boiled. He looked into his cupboard for his favorite leaf, grown in the mist-covered mountains of the West Ponives, a mage realm in the Arabian Sea—and remembered that he had already finished his store. On an ordinary day, he would have settled for a bit of Fairfax’s Earl Grey. But tonight he wanted—needed—the comfort of the familiar before he made decisions that would affect what remained of his life.

  He went to Fairfax’s room to vault to his laboratory—and could not. His shock was almost as great as what she must have felt when he tossed her into Ice Lake. Going into the empty house officers’ lounge, he tried again—and again found himself in the same spot. He ran downstairs into the street—and still could not vault.

  This was Atlantis’s doing. It went without saying that if he managed to find the boundary of this no-vaulting zone, he would find it heavily guarded. And his flying carpet had been packed away as part of Fairfax’s survival kit, now beyond his reach.

  He took a deep breath and told himself he had no need to lose hope. There was always the wardrobe in Wintervale’s room.

  But when he opened the door of the wardrobe, he saw a note pasted on the inside. Dear Lee, I am blocking this portal for now, until I find a more secure means for you to access the house. Love, Mother.

  His last option, ripped from him. He stumbled back into his room, numb with panic.

  Distantly there came the sound of fireworks exploding and enthusiastic cheering. Like a sleepwalker, he drifted to his window, only to see Trumper and H
ogg on the grass, each with a brick in hand, getting ready to throw them at his and Fairfax’s window.

  His anger boiling over, he slashed his wand in the air. They promptly fell over. He clenched his hand, willing himself not to do anything else. In his current state of mind, he might maim them permanently.

  He turned around. “Bastards. They need their heads shoved up their—”

  He froze. It was exactly what he had said in his mother’s vision. He hurried to his copy of Lexikon der Klassischen Altertumskunde. In his hands it turned back to Princess Ariadne’s diary. Almost immediately he located the rest of the entry.

  It is evening, or perhaps night, quite dark outside. Titus turns back from the window, clearly incensed. “Bastards,” he swears. “They need their heads shoved up their—”

  He freezes. Then rushes to take a book down from his shelf, a book by the name of Lexikon der Klassischen Altertumskunde.

  Everything blurred.

  When I could make out clear images again, I was no longer looking at the same small room, but at the library of the Citadel. Is it the same evening? I cannot be sure. Titus appears again, this time in a gray, hooded tunic, moving stealthily through the stacks. (Someday he will be the Master of the Domain. Why the furtiveness in his own palace?)

  Again everything dissolves—to coalesce once more into the interior of the Citadel’s library. Many more mages are present, most of them soldiers in Atlantean uniform—how far the fortunes of the House of Elberon will have fallen—surrounding what looks to be a body on the floor. Alectus and Callista are there too.

  “I can’t believe it,” Callista murmurs.

  Alectus looks as if he’d lost his own sister. “The Inquisitor, dead. It is not possible. It is not possible.”

  Did this mean if Titus took himself to the Citadel tonight, it would somehow result in the Inquisitor’s death? The prospect was dizzying.

  What had the Oracle said? You must visit someone you’ve no wish to visit and go somewhere you’ve no wish to go.

  To go to the Citadel, he would have to pass through Black Bastion, Helgira’s fortress.

  My visions are usually not so disjointed. At this point I am not sure whether this is one vision or three separate ones. I will record them as one for now and hope for clarification later.