The Burning Sky

by Shelly Thomas

  Her heart was still pounding.

  She took her hand off the Crucible. “It’s a dangerous book.”

  “You do not know the half of it,” said the prince. “At least you seem better now.”

  She felt more or less normal. “So if I survive the convulsions, dying in the Crucible has no other effect?”

  “What do you think about wyverns?”

  The moment he said the word, her hands shook. She braced them against the edge of the desk, but the shaking only transferred to her arms.

  “That is the effect of dying in the Crucible. I have never gone back to Black Bastion. The mere thought of Helgira still makes me”—he took a deep breath—“well, incoherent, to say the least.”

  She chewed the inside of her cheek. “I’m going back in.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t be afraid of wyverns. I can’t go into hysteria in front of the Commander’s Palace.”

  “At least wait until tomorrow.”

  “I’m not going to be less afraid tomorrow.” She touched his hand. “Will you come and help me?”

  I can’t be weak when the time comes. I can’t let you fall.

  “Of course.” He sighed. “Of course I will help you.”

  She stood with her hand on the ominously heavy doors of the great hall, the prince by her side. Behind them the colossal cockatrices bellowed impotently. Inside awaited the wyverns that had slaughtered her only minutes ago.

  He laid his hand over hers. “They would have already smelled us. Wyverns are fast and crafty. They do not need to wait between breaths of fire. And as you already know, the ones in there are not chained.”

  She nodded.

  “We go in on the count of three.”

  She nodded again, scarcely able to breathe.

  “One, two, three.”

  He blasted open the doors. She shot a starburst of flames that illuminated every corner of the great hall, depriving the wyverns of shadows in which to hide.

  They fought back to back. She paid only remote attention to what he did, her mind bent on controlling the dragons’ fire. The wyverns spewed without cease, but their fires were less hot. The corporeal shield in which the prince had encased her further reduced the heat.

  It still hurt. But the sensation was more like the abrasion of rough stones than the stab of red-hot knives. She welcomed the pain—if she hurt, then she was still alive.

  At last she managed to direct one wyvern’s flame to attack the other. The scorched wyvern screeched and returned the favor. As the dragons became bogged down in their own feud, the prince grabbed her hand. They ran up the grand staircase, throwing shields behind their shoulders, and pushed shut the blessedly fortified doors that led to the gallery.

  She panted with her hands on her knees. It was not an unqualified victory, but at least she’d no longer be irrationally terrified of wyverns—only rationally afraid.

  “Are there any more dangers in the castle?”

  “No, that is it.” He reached for her. “Now we can go back.”

  She backed away. “Since I’m already here, I might as well take a look at Sleeping Beauty.”

  Even the elation of victory could not quite dispel the acidness of jealousy.

  “No!”

  For a boy who had so much self-control, he was practically shouting.

  “Why not?”

  Did he flush? It was hard to tell. They were both hot from the heat of the battle. “My castle, my rules,” he declared flatly.

  She flattened her lips. “Fine.”

  Tension drained from his shoulders. She exploited his moment of inattention and ran, throwing up a wall of fire behind her.

  “Stop!”

  He swore. She dashed halfway down the long portrait gallery and up the next flight of stairs, three marble steps at a time.

  She was being stupid, of course. But she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to see the girl he used to kiss before she came along. And did he stop at kissing? Or did he do a great deal more to that pretty, grateful, pliant girl?

  The stairs led to a gilded landing—the gold barely visible under the dust—which opened into a ballroom with moth-eaten velvet curtains. A row of maids, polishing cloths still in hand, dreamed peacefully.

  This was where the fancy dress ball to celebrate Sleeping Beauty’s coming-of-age would have taken place.

  Past a room in which a wig master snored gently on a great pile of hair, and another room that contained dozens of dressmaker’s dummies, each sporting a different costume, she sprinted up the stairs.

  The castle was endlessly vertical. Cobwebbed corridors, windows falling off their hinges, paintings grimy with age. She ran past them all, headed ever higher.

  A door burst open. Before she could recoil in alarm, the prince barreled out and tackled her. They fell onto a thick rug, sending up a cloud of dust. She shoved at him.

  “No,” he said, his eyes adamant.

  She meant to heave him out of her way. For having another girl—however fictional—before her. For not living forever. And for taking away her freedom in making her fall in love after all.

  Except, somehow, her fingers spread over his face. Her thumb traced the rise of his dirt-smeared cheekbone, smudged a drop of sweat trickling past his temple, then down to press into the corner of his lips, chapped from the heat of dragon flame.

  So little time. They had so little time left.

  Pulling him toward her, she kissed him. He turned stone still with shock. She pushed her hands into his hair and kissed him more fervently.

  Suddenly he was kissing her back, with a hunger that both thrilled and frightened her.

  And just as suddenly they were back in his room, sitting on two sides of his desk, touching nowhere.

  “We cannot,” he said quietly. “I had thought love would bind us together in one purpose. I was wrong. The situation is more complicated than that. You must leave me behind at some point, when I am of no more use. And that is not a decision to be made or unmade under the influence of unnecessary emotions.”

  Unnecessary emotions.

  Heat prickled her cheeks and the shells of her ears. Her windpipe burned, if someone had shoved a torch down her throat.

  The utter humiliation of it, to be rejected like this, all in the name of the Mission . . .

  But even worse was the absolute certainty in his voice. He lived his life counting down toward its end. She might as well have fallen in love with someone on his deathbed.

  “Please,” she heard herself speak past the lump in her throat, “don’t be so melodramatic. Don’t confuse a simple kiss with eternal adoration. I am surrounded by handsome boys—have you not noticed how gorgeous Kashkari is?—but you are the only one I can kiss without getting into trouble.

  “Besides, have you forgotten that you are my captor? I can never love you when I’m not free. That you think I could only shows how little understanding you have of love.” She rose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to be in my room before lights-out.”

  The colossus cockatrices roared uselessly outside. The wyverns had been contained in a corner of the great hall. Titus made the long, long climb to the garret of the castle, his footsteps heavy with fatigue and dejection.

  Sleeping Beauty was deep in her slumber. He sank onto one knee and cupped her cheeks with his hands.

  Very gently, he bent his head and kissed her.

  She opened her eyes; they were the color of midnight. Her hair, too, was pure shadow.

  He knew the texture of her hair, because he had once cut it himself. He knew the taste of her lips because he had kissed her—and as of today, been kissed by her.

  “Iolanthe,” he murmured.

  She smiled. “You know my name.”

  “Yes, I know your name.” And here, inside the Crucible, was the only place where he dared to call her—to even think of her—by that name.

  “I have missed you,” she whispered, her arms rising to entwine around his shoulders. “Kiss me
again.”

  He had changed her dialogue just before he entered the Crucible. These were the precise words he wanted to hear. But they echoed hollowly against the walls of the garret, meaningless sounds that neither soothed nor reassured.

  “Ignore what I said earlier, when I was annoyed,” she went on, her fingers combing through his hair.

  But he couldn’t. He knew how much time she spent with Kashkari—they were always walking to or from cricket practice together. And how stupid of him to suppose that she could forget, even for a moment, that she was here against her will.

  “And they lived happily ever after,” he said.

  Now he was back in his empty room. He rose from his chair and laid a hand upon the wall between his room and hers, as if that could propel his thoughts across everything that separated them and make her understand that it was not her kiss that frightened him, but his own reaction to it.

  Because if he loved her, he would never be able to push her into mortal danger.

  Yet he must, or he would have lived his entire life in vain.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  .....................................................................

  CHAPTER 21

  UPON THE PLAYING FIELDS, A cricket game was in full progress, penned in by a crowd nine deep. West, the future captain of the school team, struck a ball directly out of bounds, giving his club six runs. The spectators roared with approval.

  “Johnny, you must introduce me to West,” a girl to the right of Titus said to her brother. “You simply must.”

  “But I’ve never been within a hundred feet of him,” protested Johnny, a portly junior boy.

  “Johnny, my dear,” said his stern-looking mother, “is that all the enterprise you possess? If your sister wishes to meet West, then you will endeavor to make it happen.”

  Fourth of June was Eton’s biggest annual fete, a daylong celebration marked by speeches in the morning, a cricket game in the afternoon, a procession of boats in the evening, and a display of fireworks at night, the whole heavily attended by Old Etonians and the families of current pupils.

  Titus had forgotten what a horde of sisters and mothers always descended, inundating the school in a tide of pastel. Ruffles, ribbons, bustled skirts abounded. Thousands of silk-flower-trimmed hats bobbed and joggled. The air was heavy with perfumes of rose and lilies.

  Such femininity struck him as exaggerated, almost caricature-ish. These days, a girl was most beautiful to him in short hair, a uniform, and a derby set at a rakish angle.

  He scanned the mob. Fairfax had not returned. She had banded together with Kashkari and Wintervale, who also had no family in attendance, for a picnic. Titus could have joined them, but he did not.

  He and Fairfax had not exactly been avoiding each other. They spoke daily concerning news from the Domain, her training, and his search for a spell to permanently incapacitate the Inquisitor. But their interaction had become formal, structured, questions that changed little from day to day, and answers that varied even less.

  It was probably for the best.

  But he could not help wishing otherwise. All the more so since Dalbert was on leave—his dying mother wished him to accompany her to a spiritual retreat on Ondine Island, near her place of birth. Without Dalbert’s daily reports, Titus felt as if he stood blindfolded in a minefield.

  At least the last bit of news Dalbert reported before he left had been the most welcome yet: the Inquisitor had been transported to Atlantis, likely due to further deterioration of her condition.

  A commotion behind Titus made him turn around. A group of men were pushing through the crowd, much to the consternation of those being shoved out of the way. To his displeasure, Titus recognized the coat of arms on the livery of the men coming toward him as the invented heraldry of Saxe-Limburg, his fictional place of origin. Behind the men came Greencomb, Alectus’s secretary, dressed in a nonmage suit.

  “Your Highness.” Greencomb bowed. “The regent and Lady Callista humbly beg the honor of your presence.”

  “They are here?”

  “Indeed. It is a day for family, sire.”

  Alectus and Lady Callista had never attended previous Fourths of June. Titus frowned. This was exactly the sort of land mine that blew up in one’s face when one gave leave to one’s indispensable spymaster. What new devilry was Lady Callista plotting?

  Greencomb indicated a large white canopy that had been erected at the edge of the field. With the attendants parting the crowd before him, Titus headed toward the canopy, Greencomb trailing behind.

  Murmurs went through the gathering. He had never been the center of attention at Eton, but now boys who had known him for years were taking second and third looks.

  The occupants of the canopy came into view. There was Alectus, looking as eager and useless as ever. Lady Callista, to his left, was gathering a crowd of gawkers. And to Alectus’s right—

  Stood the Inquisitor.

  Like everyone else, she had been wrangled into nonmage clothes. Tiered, gathered silk skirt over a large bustle, a feathered hat, and a fringed parasol, all in black. She looked ridiculous but perfectly healthy.

  Their eyes met. She smiled, the smile of a predator ready to pounce. She had recovered. She knew that he had enjoyed the help of an elemental mage. And she had come to put him under Inquisition again.

  Fear strangled him. But his feet continued to carry him forward. He was the heir of the House of Elberon and he did not lose his composure in public.

  The regent had brought a retinue of twenty, and the Inquisitor almost as many minions. Whispered questions passed among the spectators concerning Titus’s origin and true rank. He would have laughed at “Is he the next Kaiser?” if his innards were not knotted tighter than a noose.

  As he approached, the regent and the Inquisitor bowed, Lady Callista curtsied. Titus inclined his head. The murmurs of the spectators climbed half an octave. They had expected that he would be paying obeisance, not the other way around.

  “Words cannot express my delight,” he said. “Will you be leaving soon?”

  That hushed the crowd. Into the silence came Cooper’s loud stage whisper. “What did I always tell you, Rogers? He isn’t a piddling prince. He’s a grand prince.”

  Lady Callista laughed softly, as if Titus had said something funny. “Your Highness, indeed, all too soon we will be leaving. So we must enjoy to the fullest what time we have together. The regent and I—and I am sure the Inquisitor too—are eager to meet your friends.”

  Only then did Titus notice Nettle Oakbluff amidst the Inquisitor’s minions. She scanned the gathering with the wild-eyed greediness of a gold rusher, ready to find the one nugget that would lead to riches and glory. Next to her was Horatio Haywood, wan and unsteady on his feet.

  Titus broke into a cold sweat. The Inquisitor had realized that he must keep Iolanthe Seabourne nearby. The Irreproducible Charm prevented her image from being drawn and disseminated. But it could not prevent her from being recognized by those who knew her.

  Thank goodness she was away at her picnic with Kashkari and Wintervale.

  Would that distance be enough to keep her safe?

  “We have been provided a list of all your known associates, sire,” said Lady Callista, smiling. “We are determined to greet them all.”

  Iolanthe and Wintervale lay on a small knoll by the Thames. Kashkari had been with them earlier, but had left for a walk.

  Fat, fluffy clouds drifted across a perfect blue sky. The river shushed and soughed against its banks. Warm sunlight fell gently upon Iolanthe’s skin.

  She opened her eyes, grimacing. She must have fallen asleep. And even after such a short nap, her hands—her entire arms, in fact—hurt. She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing—more pain probably implied a more fierce struggle between her potential and what remained of the otherwise spell. But it was taking too long, and her mastery over air was still questi
onable.

  “Damn it,” exclaimed Wintervale, startling her.

  “What’s the matter?”

  He sat up. “Remember what Kashkari said about the tennis tournament?”

  “That today is the perfect weather for bouncing a vulcanized rubber ball on grass?”

  “That and he wants to hold it next Sunday,” said Wintervale gloomily. “I forgot I have to take a short leave that day.”

  Iolanthe’s foot twitched—boys usually only took leaves to visit their families. “I thought your mother was in Baden-Baden.”

  “No, she came back last week. I didn’t say anything about it—idiots like Cooper won’t understand why she chooses to remain home on the Fourth of June.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “You don’t have to look so alarmed, Fairfax,” said Wintervale, looking a little put out. “Most of the time she is all right. In fact, she—already back, Kashkari? You didn’t go far.”

  Kashkari sat down between them. “The strangest thing happened. I hadn’t gone five minutes before someone appeared out of nowhere and said that I’d stepped out of school boundaries and I’d best turn back. I walked north a couple of minutes, then turned west again; a different person popped up to tell me I couldn’t pass.”

  Iolanthe frowned. The resident houses relied on a number of daily checks to make sure boys weren’t absent without leave, but nobody patrolled Eton’s ill-defined boundaries.

  “That’s ridiculous,” huffed Wintervale. “This is a school, not a prison.”

  “Gentlemen! You have been summoned.”

  They started at Sutherland’s booming voice. He had not come alone; with him was Birmingham, their house captain.

  “I’ve never seen such pomp and circumstance in my life,” complained Birmingham, a broad nineteen-year-old with a well-developed mustache. “Frampton made me come personally, in case Sutherland isn’t enough of a messenger to fetch you three.”

  “Fetch us to what?” asked Kashkari.

  “To the traveling court of Saxe-Limburg,” answered Sutherland. “I always thought Titus was one of those princes with an acre to rule. Guess I was wrong.”