The Immortal Heights

by Sherry Thomas

  “Later that day I confronted Callista. But she didn’t know what I was talking about either—her own memories were suppressed too. I left completely frustrated: I couldn’t help him, nor could I find help for him. So I pulled away from Horatio, feeling that our friendship simply wasn’t strong enough to withstand what he had done and who he had become.”

  Fairfax slid her fingers along the edge of the table. “And were the two of you ever . . . more than just friends?”

  Titus remembered the picture Fairfax had shown him of Haywood and Commander Rainstone from many years ago—they had seemed completely taken with each other.

  Commander Rainstone shook her head. “No, we were very, very good friends, but never more than friends. The one I loved was . . .”

  She looked down at her hands before her gaze came to Titus. “The one I loved was Her Highness, sire, your mother.”6

  Iolanthe and Titus didn’t even go to bed, but fell asleep on long sofas in the solarium. At some point she became aware that Titus was speaking to her.

  “. . . approved of the transfer of power. I have to go. I love you.”

  She made some sounds. They were probably a series of mm-mms, but she felt he would know that she told him she loved him with a ferocity that would frighten most wyverns.

  When she woke up again, it was afternoon and a steady shower fell outside. She walked out onto the covered balcony and sucked in a breath: the great bell tower of the Conservatory, less than half a mile away! And the red roofs of the colleges, soaring above the tree line. And if she squinted really hard, she could even convince herself she was looking at the flow of colorful umbrellas on University Avenue.

  “I see you are up, Miss Seabourne,” came Dalbert’s voice.

  She spun around. “Oh, Master Dalbert, I know you have no time to spare. But would you happen to have a lackey you can send out for a copy of last May’s upper-academy entrance examination?”

  Dalbert smiled. “Consider it done. In the meanwhile, I have a visitor waiting for you.”

  “Who is it?” Who else knew that she was here?

  “Master Kashkari,” answered Dalbert. “Master Vasudev Kashkari.”

  She exclaimed softly. “When did he arrive?”

  “About half an hour ago.”

  Dalbert conducted her to the reception room, where Vasudev Kashkari was waiting. The family resemblance was obvious—the brothers had the same build, same dark, expressive eyes, and same elegant mouth. Yet the difference immediately struck her; there was a great gentleness to the elder brother. The younger brother, for all his impeccable manners, was driven. But Vasudev Kashkari was the kind to smile and laugh easily.

  Or at least he must have been once.

  They shook hands.

  “Please have a seat,” she said. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “The honor is mine. You have accomplished what mages have been aspiring to for generations.”

  “Not without help. Not without the sacrifice of many.” She already had tears in her eyes. “We could never have done it without Durga Devi.”

  “I went to see her just now,” he said softly. “I was told that she looked like you, but still it was . . . it was something of a shock.”

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t look upon her face one last time.”

  “I already did that before she left the desert. She told me exactly what she meant to do.”

  “So you knew she was a mutable?”

  He smiled slightly. “I have never told anyone this story—her mutability was something we had to keep a secret—but I fell in love with her when she looked very different.”

  “Oh,” said Iolanthe.

  “You know that mutables can take anyone’s form when they are children, but can only change form once when they are full grown?”

  She nodded.

  “We met during a time when she probably should have stopped assuming the appearances of others. But she was reluctant to give up the freedom not to be stared at everywhere she went. So I first saw her as her cousin Shulini.”7

  Iolanthe had met Shulini, who was a pleasant-looking young woman, but hardly a beauty of Amara’s stature. “What a story that must have been. I wish . . . I wish I’d had the chance to know her better.”

  “You saw how she conducted herself under the most extreme of conditions. In a way, you couldn’t have known her any better than that. But yes, I wish you had met her under different circumstances, when she was simply a warm, wonderful person to be around.”

  Iolanthe’s eyes once again welled with tears. “Did you . . . did you ever ask her not to do this? Not to go on a venture from which she would not return?”

  He looked outside the window for a moment, at the rain that was still steadily falling. She noticed for the first time that he wore Amara’s troth band around his wrist.

  “I wanted to,” he said softly. “I wanted very much to beg her not to leave. But she was more than the woman I loved; she was a fighter. And one does not hold back a fighter when the battle is on the line.”

  This man might not have personally ended the Bane’s existence, but he was no less remarkable than his brother.

  She reached out and took his hands in hers. “She was the bravest mage I have ever met. You and she both have my eternal gratitude.”

  Vasudev Kashkari gazed upon her a moment. “And you ours. Never forget that.”

  The story of the Bane’s death was released that evening. Iolanthe read it in her copy of The Delamer Observer, fascinated even though she already knew everything. The article, which occupied nearly the entirety of the paper, ended with,

  For their safety and the safety of their families, all who played important roles in these remarkable events have not been mentioned by name. To their extraordinary courage and sacrifice we owe our undying gratitude.

  For the next forty-eight hours, the entire city was wild with celebration. And then came the state funeral. Dalbert had secured Iolanthe and West an empty reception room at Titus the Great Memorial Museum, next to the cathedral. They arrived as the sun was setting, the windows of the cathedral ablaze in the dying light of the day. An enormous crush of mages, quiet, sober, and all dressed in white, thronged the length of Palace Avenue.

  West’s fractured leg had already healed. He could have gone back to England, but he’d wished to attend the funeral. While they waited for the procession to start, they chatted about his plans, hers, and all the marvelous things he had seen in the Domain. Then she said, “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “You were quite interested in the prince, at the beginning of last—no, this Half. It used to make me a bit suspicious. I wondered whether you weren’t an Atlantean spy—but you aren’t. So why did you have so many questions about His Highness?”

  A little color came into West’s face. “I first saw him on the Fourth of June, when his family set up court underneath that huge white canopy. He was beautiful and angry. And, well . . .” West shrugged. “I thought of him all summer.”

  Iolanthe rested her fingers against her lips. “I never guessed in that direction.”

  “Promise me you won’t tell him.”

  She was about to reassure him that Titus would hardly change his opinion of West because of something like this, when she realized that it was simply the request of a proud young man who preferred to keep his unrequited love to himself. “I promise.”

  As the first stars appeared in the sky, the hundreds of torches that had been placed along Palace Avenue burst into flames. The ethereal notes of the Seraphim Prayer rose, almost inaudible at first, then growing stronger, more impassioned. The funeral procession started from the Citadel, the biers that bore the departed not drawn by pegasus, or even phoenix, but carried on the shoulders of mages.

  The crowd joined in the prayer, hundreds of thousands of voices raised together. “Do you leave as a ship sailing out of harbor? Do you return as rain to the earth? Will I guide you in the Beyond, if I hold aloft the
brightest light here on earth?”

  Five biers arrived at the plaza before the cathedral: Amara, Wintervale, Titus Constantinos, Mrs. Hancock, and Master Haywood—these last two represented by lifelike wooden statues. The Master of the Domain was one of the bearers of his father’s bier, the Kashkari brothers for Amara, Lady Wintervale for her son, and Commander Rainstone for Mrs. Hancock. Iolanthe was touched to see Dalbert as a bearer for Master Haywood.

  The departed were set on their pyres. The prayer rose to a crescendo, then faded into complete silence. The Master of the Domain, solemn and compelling, addressed the crowd. “Before you lie courage, perseverance, kindness, friendship, and love. Before you lie men and women who could have chosen otherwise, who could have inured themselves to the injustices of the world, rather than giving their lives to change it. Tonight we honor them. Tonight we also honor all who have gone before and paved the way, the ones we remember and the ones we have forgotten.

  “But nothing is lost in Eternity. A moment of grace resonates forever, as does an act of valor. So honor the dead—and live in grace and valor.”

  One by one he lit the pyres. The flames leaped higher and higher, whipping, crackling. A child’s voice, as clear and bright as the Angels’ clarion, rose with the opening notes of the Adamantine aria, “For what is the Void but the beginning of Light? What is Light but the end of Fear? And what am I, but Light given form? What am I, but the beginning of Eternity?”

  With West’s arm around her, Iolanthe wept.

  Escorted by Dalbert, West returned to England the next morning. The Kashkari brothers took their leave of Iolanthe in the afternoon. They’d been moving about openly in Delamer, under the guise of rebels freshly arrived to discuss the situation with the Master of the Domain. But now it was time for them to head back.

  She embraced both the brothers. “Look after yourselves.”

  “You too, Fairfax,” said Kashkari. “And before we go, this is for you.”

  She accepted the handsome mahogany box. “For me?”

  Kashkari nodded. For the first time in a very long time, there seemed to be a hint of mirth in his eyes.

  She opened the box and burst out laughing. At the end of Summer Half, to thank Kashkari for the help he had given the prince and herself on the night of the Fourth of June, they had bought him a very fine monogrammed shaving set.

  And now Kashkari had returned the favor and Iolanthe held in her hands a monogrammed shaving set with ivory handles and gold accents that would have made Archer Fairfax levitate with manly pride.

  They were still laughing as they embraced each other again.

  After the brothers were gone, Iolanthe looked at the shaving set for a long time, lifting each individual item and feeling its weight and shape, rubbing her fingers against the embossed initials on the top of the shaving brush.

  And wished fiercely for the well-being and happiness of these remarkable young men.

  When Titus returned to the villa that night, Fairfax was stretched out on a long sofa in the solarium, her eyes closed. As he approached her, he saw his mother’s diary lying open on a side table, an entry plainly visible.

  His chest tightened. What did he need to know now?

  On top of the diary entry was a note from Fairfax. Found this. Thought you would like to see it. For once, it’s good news.

  26 April, YD 1021

  The day his mother died.

  For years I have prayed for a vision that I actually want to see. It happened today, a brief, intense minute. In that vision, I saw my son embraced by his father, both moved beyond words.

  My face is wet with tears. I have no time to write down greater details, for Father has already arrived in the castle, and the appointed hour of my death is only minutes away.

  At least now I can tell my son, not all will be lost.

  Not all will be lost.

  He read the entry a few more times, wiping away the tears at the corners of his eyes. After he closed the diary, he saw that he had read only half of Fairfax’s note. The other half said, I am in the Queen of Seasons’ summer villa.

  The season inside the Crucible reflected that outside, except when the story itself overrode external weather conditions. At the Queen of Seasons’ summer villa, it was always summer, always airy and lovely.

  Lanterns hung from the trees. Fireflies twinkled among leafy branches. She sat on the stone balustrade overlooking the lake, gazing up at the stars. He climbed onto the balustrade and sat down next to her. She placed her arm around him and kissed him on his temple. “Happy?”

  “Yes.”

  Her hand grazed his arm. “I’m about to make you happier yet.”

  His pulse accelerated. “I do not see how that is possible.”

  She placed something in his palm, something light and incredibly soft. A rose petal. “Look around.”

  He must have been blind—or only had eyes for her. Now he noticed that there were rose petals everywhere, along the path, on the smoothly clipped lawn, to either side of them on the balustrade, and even floating on the lake below.

  He laughed. “When you change your mind, you change it hard.”

  “Wait until you see the tonnage of petals inside. You’ll be filled with awe.”

  He leaped off the balustrade and set her on the ground too. “Awe is my default position when it comes to you, lightning-wielder. Now let us see if I am man enough to stay put when faced with an avalanche of rose petals.”

  She laughed too. Hand in hand they walked into the villa, kissing as they closed the door.

  EPILOGUE

  THE SCENT OF BUTTER AND vanilla enveloped Iolanthe the moment she entered Mrs. Hinderstone’s sweets shop. The bright, trim establishment was one of Iolanthe’s favorite places in Delamer. It served intriguing ices in summer, a very satisfying cup of hot chocolate in winter, and a quality selection of pastries every day of the year—and that was before one even came to the display cases of colorful confections made on the premises.

  “Good morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Hinderstone, beaming. She stood next to the till. Above the till, hanging from the ceiling, was a sign that read Books on the dark arts may be found in the cellar, free of charge. And should you locate the cellar, kindly feed the phantom behemoth inside. Regards, E. Constantinos.

  Before Mrs. Hinderstone had taken over the premises, the place had been a bookshop run by none other than the Master of the Domain’s paternal grandfather—though no one knew it then, not even the prince himself. Mrs. Hinderstone had kept some of the books, a rather large collection for her customers to browse through as they waited for their orders or drank their morning tea. And she had kept most of the bookshop’s signs, including one that said I would rather read than eat. Iolanthe had immediately liked Mrs. Hinderstone for her self-deprecating sense of humor.

  “Good morning,” Iolanthe returned the greeting. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to come in to tell you this. I’ve had so many potions and elixirs for my elbow over the years, but that draught of yours—it’s a miracle! I can’t thank you enough.”

  “All right!” Iolanthe smiled—she did very much enjoy being helpful. “Nothing feels as good as not hurting anywhere, does it?”

  “Tell me about it. The usual for you today?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “A chocolate croissant and a cup of café au lait for Miss Hilland,” Mrs. Hinderstone said to her helpers behind the counter. She turned back to Iolanthe. “You are always up so early on Saturdays. Don’t you go out and have fun Friday nights?”

  “Oh, I do. Last night I went to an aerial polo game with my friends. The Conservatory’s team won, so we celebrated by singing in the quadrangle, loudly and badly, until two in the morning.”

  Her throat was still slightly scratchy—it had been a riotous good time.

  “But it’s barely seven.” The shop had just opened and was without its usual crowd, since it was so early.

  “It’s the only time of the week
I have a chance at my favorite seat,” said Iolanthe.

  She had no idea why she always woke up the same time on Saturday as she did on school days. She never set her alarm on Friday nights, but every Saturday morning she opened her eyes as the sun rose.

  One of Mrs. Hinderstone’s helpers brought Iolanthe’s coffee and croissant. Iolanthe opened her wallet.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Hinderstone. “That is on the house.”

  Iolanthe thanked Mrs. Hinderstone and took her tray to the small table by the window. The shop sat on the corner of Hyacinth Street and University Avenue, across from the Conservatory’s famous statue garden. Mages came from all over the city for their early morning walk, and one never knew who one might see.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Hinderstone herself came to refill Iolanthe’s cup. “You know, miss, Iolanthe Seabourne used to come here as a child. If you don’t mind my saying it, you look a bit like her.”

  “Why would I mind? Please, do compare me to the great heroine of the Last Great Rebellion.”

  They both chortled.

  In fact, Mrs. Hinderstone was not the first to comment on Iolanthe Hilland’s resemblance to Iolanthe Seabourne. Her second year at the conservatory, she had taken a class from a big, flame-haired professor named Hippolyta Eventide, and Professor Eventide had made a similar observation. But Iolanthe didn’t mention it to Mrs. Hinderstone. That would be bragging.

  Mrs. Hinderstone set down her coffeepot on the table. “And guess who came into my shop two days ago? His Highness!”

  Iolanthe could not suppress a half squeal.

  It was no secret that the Master of the Domain visited Mrs. Hinderstone’s from time to time—one of the reasons that her place was so popular. But Iolanthe had never had the good fortune of running into him here.

  “Yes, he did, and placed an order for a picnic basket to be delivered to the Citadel today.”