“But you’re Scatty’s twin, and she said she was two thousand five hundred and seventeen years old. How can you be ten thousand?”
“Scathach lies,” Aoife said simply. She shook her head. “She’s a terrible liar. You wouldn’t want to believe a single word she tells you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“I suppose Billy told you not to mention the tail?” Kukulkan said, sitting on a curved stone stool carved with hideous grinning faces. The brightly colored feathered tail coiled around his feet, the tip beating silently against the floor.
Niccolò Machiavelli sat back into an ornate hand-carved wooden throne, rested his elbows on its arms and brought the fingertips of both hands together before his face. A sense of calm settled over him, and the fact that they had not been killed immediately gave him reason to hope. Taking a slow deep breath, he composed himself before answering.
The Italian had been in situations like this before, when all that kept him from certain death were his wits and his skill with words. He had been an ambassador to the glittering courts of France and Spain, where a single wrong word or misplaced look could get a man killed. Later still, he had survived the deathly Papal court and the even more ruthless and dangerous world of the Borgias, where assassination and poisoning were commonplace. The Elder sitting opposite him, looking human in every respect—except for the tail and the solid black eyes—might be ten thousand and more years old, but Machiavelli had discovered that just about every being he had come across either in this world or in the nearby Shadowrealms, was driven by nearly the same needs and desires. Humani’s earliest myths were full of tales that revealed just how petty the gods could be. It was said that the gods had made man in their image. If so, then the humani had inherited all the faults and frailties of those same gods.
Kukulkan’s tail twitched as he waited for an answer.
Finally, Machiavelli smiled and said, “Billy may have suggested that I avoid the subject of the tail.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the American immortal close his eyes in dismay. “Though I have to say,” he added, “it is one of the finest tails I have ever seen.”
Billy the Kid’s eyes and mouth snapped open in horror. He had been standing behind the Italian’s right shoulder, facing the Elder, but now he slowly and carefully stepped aside. He’d been in enough shoot-outs to know that it was not a good idea to stand behind a target.
“And you have seen many tails?” the small man with the white beard said. His almost lipless mouth was a horizontal slash, and his solid black eyes fixed on Machiavelli’s face.
“Many, in both this world and the Shadowrealms. I have always had a fondness for beautiful things,” the Italian added. “I collected antiques for centuries, and for years one of my most prized possessions was an Abelam Yam Mask from Papua New Guinea. It was adorned with the most magnificent bird-of-paradise plumes.”
“A beautiful bird,” Kukulkan agreed.
“Though I do believe yours is the finer plumage,” Machiavelli added.
“If I thought you were attempting to flatter me, I would strike you dead on the spot.” The old man’s face shifted subtly.
Billy took another step away.
“You want to know whether I am lying?” Machiavelli asked.
Kukulkan tilted his head to one side, listening.
“Are your feathers more beautiful than the plumage of the bird-of-paradise?” Machiavelli asked.
“Why, of course,” the Elder agreed.
“So I was merely stating a fact. I have found that the truth is usually the simplest way,” the immortal said. “Fools lie, clever men stick to the truth.”
“Your master said you were … complex,” Kukulkan said after a long pause.
“I was unaware that you knew my master,” Machiavelli said. “Though I should not be surprised; I suppose most of the Elders know one another.”
“Not all,” Kukulkan answered. “I am still occasionally shocked when someone I have not heard of in millennia reappears in this Shadowrealm.” He turned his head to look out the enormous window that took up one wall. From this angle, with his strong chin and hooked nose, he resembled the faces on the stone statues Machiavelli had seen carved into temples across South America. “Your master and I are related,” Kukulkan said softly, glancing over at the Italian, “not by blood or family, but by bonds forged in struggle and adversity. I am honored to call him brother.”
“Can I ask how you know my master?”
“In the terrible days after the sundering of Danu Talis, the survivors took to the remnants of our once-great fleet of metal boats. For many days, we floated adrift on seas boiling with lava, the air foul and stinking with brimstone while the heavens rained burning coals and boiling water. When my ship struck a newly created lava reef and sank, I was the sole survivor. Against his crew’s wishes, your master turned his boat around just to rescue me, even though I was a different clan and caste. He shared his food and water with me, and when I despaired, he regaled with me tales of the World That Was and the World to Come. He taught me that out of the destruction of Danu Talis a new world would form—a world neither better nor worse than the one which had been destroyed. Your master changed me, made me realize the potential in this new humani race. We needed them, he said, in order to survive. I believed him.” Kukulkan rose to his feet and wandered around the room, the tail rasping along on the ground behind him. “I still do.”
Now that his eyes had adjusted to the gloom, Machiavelli could see that the huge room was filled with countless artifacts from the Aztec, Maya and Olmec cultures: stone carvings, etched squares of gold, elaborate jade masks and bejeweled black obsidian knives. Scattered among the antiques were pieces that were obviously Egyptian, some of them astonishingly similar to their Mayan counterparts.
The Elder’s fingers trailed over an Aztec sword—a length of jade inset with black volcanic glass. “I went west to the Land of Jungle and Mountain, while your master, Aten, continued on to the east and the Lands of the Middle Sea.” Kukulkan picked up a tiny carved scarab beetle and looked at it closely before returning it to its shelf. “We trained the humani, nudged them toward civilization. In time the humani came to worship us, though in different ways. And I was never happier.” Something must have shown on Machiavelli’s usually impassive face, because the Elder’s lips curved into a smile. “You are surprised that we are capable of happiness?” Kukulkan asked.
The immortal shook his head. “The Elders I have dealt with over the centuries showed rage, anger, jealousy. I never considered that they might enjoy some of the other emotions,” he admitted.
“Why?”
Machiavelli shrugged. “Because you are not human,” he suggested.
“There are some emotions that are common to all living creatures—from Elder to humani and even the beasts,” Kukulkan said. “Have you never watched a dog mourning its master, nor a herd of elephants honoring their dead? Surely you have seen the excitement a hound exhibits when its master returns?”
Machiavelli nodded.
“But it is true that as a race, the Elders are not entirely comfortable with some of the lighter emotions. Centuries of power and authority stripped us of much of our joy in life. We had everything and we wanted more. In those last years before the island sank, there was not much laughter. The Elders were cruel to their servants and to one another. We fought because we could; we waged wars for no reason other than we were bored.” Kukulkan looked quickly at Machiavelli. “I was as guilty as all the others. Aten changed that. He was the fiercest, bravest warrior I have ever encountered, and yet he was also the gentlest and kindest.” He saw the look of surprise on the Italian’s face. “You did not know this about your own master?”
“I met him twice face to face,” Machiavelli said, “and then only briefly. The second time he made me immortal. Although we’ve spoken often over the centuries, we’ve not met again.” He smiled. “And while I think I could call him many things, I would never describe him as gentle and
kind. He single-handedly destroyed an entire way of life in Egypt. He was so hated that almost every instance of his name was removed from the historical records.”
Kukulkan waved his hand dismissively. “I was there. He did—we did—what was necessary. We made Egypt great.” The Elder returned to his stone seat and silently faced Machiavelli. He was completely still, only the feathers on his tail shifting slightly in the warm breeze that wafted through the open door.
Machiavelli sat back in his chair and waited. He had infinite patience—he considered it one of his greatest strengths—so he knew he could outwait Kukulkan. Hasty words and hasty actions had destroyed many a plan. He wasn’t sure he entirely believed the Elder. Machiavelli had done his own research: when his master, Aten—who was also known as Akhenaten—had ruled Egypt, he had been such a tyrant that later generations would refer to him simply as the Enemy. Machiavelli also knew that Akhenaten’s son, Tutankhamen, had possessed a rare gold aura.
“What do I do with you, Italian?” the Elder said suddenly.
“Do with me?”
“Do you always answer a question with a question?”
“Do I?”
Kukulkan’s feathered tail twitched and tapped impatiently on the floor.
“Mac,” Billy whispered in alarm.
“Don’t call me Mac. I hate that.”
“Then don’t irritate the all-powerful Elder,” Billy muttered.
Kukulkan’s face and coal black eyes betrayed no expression, nor was there any emotion in his voice when he spoke. “I am unsure whether you are arrogant, stupid or very clever.”
“I am arrogant,” Machiavelli said with a smile. “I have always known that. But I am very clever, too. I am also valuable”—he waved his hand to include all the rare treasures in the room—“and I can see that you appreciate valuable things.”
Kukulkan’s head dipped in acknowledgment. “I do. And a valuable tool should not be hastily put aside.”
“I’ve been called a valuable tool before,” Machiavelli said.
“By your master?”
“Aten has called me that on several occasions,” Machiavelli agreed.
The Elder nodded in agreement. “Aten gave me many tools and many gifts,” Kukulkan continued. “He taught me how to live, how to respect and how to love. There is much that I owe my brother; I have always been in his debt. And although he has not asked that your life be spared, I believe I will spare it, as a gift to him. A debt must always be honored.”
Machiavelli bowed slightly. He swallowed a quick rush of anger. He knew he should be grateful that he was still alive, but something about the creature’s reasoning bothered him. It was something he’d put aside and think about later; he had a rule never to allow anger to cloud his judgment. “I am grateful,” he said simply.
“Me too,” said Billy.
“Who said anything about sparing you!” Kukulkan snapped.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Old friend,” Palamedes said carefully, “are you sure you want to go through with this?”
Saint-Germain nodded, his face the only lightness in the gloomy cab. “Of course I do.” They had been driving north for more than two hours. They’d left the M1 and the M25 far behind and were now driving down a series of twisting country lanes.
The Saracen Knight shifted uncomfortably in the front seat. The occasional streetlight washed across his face, turning his eyes to liquid orange. “My master is unpredictable,” he said eventually. “Dangerously so. His contempt for humani is absolute. He despises what they have done to the world he helped create.”
“He liked you well enough to make you immortal,” Saint-Germain said.
The big man grunted a bitter laugh. “My master does not like me. He made me immortal and condemned me to wander the Shadowrealms as punishment for an old, old crime.” He waved a hand in the air. “We will talk of it someday, but not today.” Palamedes turned off the road onto a narrow track. There were no streetlights, but the headlights picked out the gnarled trunks of ancient trees lining the road.
The faintest smell of burnt leaves filled the air, and Saint-Germain’s bright blue eyes briefly turned red. “You know we have met before, your master and I?”
“I know,” Palamedes said miserably. “He remembers. He is old now—old, old, old—but there are certain things he never forgets. And unfortunately, you are one of those.”
“Will I be able to bargain with him, do you think?” the Frenchman asked.
“You can try. Will Shakespeare and I will stand with you.”
“You do not have to do that,” Saint-Germain said quickly. “That could be dangerous. Possibly even deadly,” he added grimly.
“We will stand by your side,” the knight said. “You have stood with Will and me often enough, you have saved our lives on more than one occasion. What would we be if we abandoned you when you needed us?”
Saint-Germain leaned forward to squeeze Palamedes’ shoulder. “I am lucky to count you as a friend,” he said simply.
“You are more than a friend to me,” Palamedes answered. “My blood family is long dead. And when I lost my sweetheart to another man, I never thought I would have a family again. Then, one day, I realized that almost by accident, I was drawing a family around me, a new family: first Will, then you and my fellow knights. You are my family now. Once, I fought for my faith and my country; later, I fought for Arthur out of a sense of duty to him and loyalty to his cause. In all my years of battle, I never fought for one of my family. But tonight, I will stand by your side because you are my brother.”
The words took Saint-Germain’s breath away, and he suddenly felt his throat burning and tears prickling his eyes. It took him several moments before he knew his voice would be steady enough to reply. “I was an only child,” he said. “I always wanted a brother.”
“Well, now you have two.”
The cab swung into an empty car park, the sweeping headlights picking up a disheveled figure perched like a bird on a wooden picnic table. “Will,” Saint-Germain said delightedly. He pushed the door open even before the car had fully stopped and hopped out. Shakespeare stepped off the table and the two men looked at one another for a moment; then each bowed deeply—though the Bard’s bow was more restrained than Saint-Germain’s dramatic flourish.
Shakespeare’s pale eyes were troubled as he looked at his friend. “Welcome to Sherwood Forest.” He shivered and added, “I hate this place.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Welcome to Point Reyes,” Niten said.
Sophie and Josh looked out of the car windows. They could see nothing. Although there had been brilliant sunshine in Sausalito and for most of the journey up the 101 and the Sir Francis Drake Boulevard, tendrils of mist had started to appear shortly after they drove through Inverness. Then, with shocking suddenness, a thick opaque fog had rolled in off the sea, blanketing the landscape in salt-tinged clouds.
Josh hit the button that rolled down his window. The air that swept into the car was cold, but he put his head out and attempted to peer into the gloom.
“Close the window,” Aoife snapped. “I’m freezing.”
“You’re a ten-thousand-year-old vampire,” Sophie said with a grin, amused by the creature’s reaction. “You’re not supposed to feel the cold.”
“I hate this damp,” Aoife grumbled. “That’s why I’ve always preferred warm climates.”
Perenelle stirred. Nicholas was dozing with his head on her shoulder. “I thought your race were impervious to the weather.”
“Some might be,” Aoife said. “I’m not.” She held up her arm and pushed back her sleeve. Her pale flesh was dappled with goose bumps. “Why do you think Scathach and I left Scotland and never went back? We couldn’t stand the rain.”
Josh pulled his head in and hit the switch that raised the window. Beads of cold moisture sparkled in his hair. Looking at Niten, he pointed to the thick fog billowing against the windshield. “Don’t you think you should slow down?�
�� he said nervously. “I can’t even see the road—how can you tell where we’re going?”
Niten’s eyes didn’t move, but a trace of a smile curled his lips. “I do not need my eyes to tell me where I’m going.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Josh said. “Is it like some sort of ninja trick?”
Niten shot Josh a warning look. “Whatever you do, don’t mention—”
It was too late. In the backseat Aoife stirred. “Ninjas,” she spat. “Why is everyone obsessed with ninjas? They were never that good. And they were cowards, sneaking around in their black pajamas, stabbing their victims with poisoned darts. I hate ninjas—they have no honor.”
“Scathach said she tried training them, but they were never that good,” Sophie added.
“She should have stayed well away from them,” Aoife snapped. “They were her students until they thought they had learned all her secrets—then they tried to kill her.” She grunted a laugh. “That was a mistake,” she added grimly.
“What happened?” Josh asked, but Aoife had turned her face to the window, eyes blank and distant. He looked at the driver. “What happened?” he asked again. He was curious; he’d always thought ninjas were cool, and here was a chance to learn about them from someone who had actually seen and fought them.
“You do not want to know,” Niten murmured. “When Scathach was finished with them, Aoife insisted on hunting down the few survivors.” The small man pointed through the windshield, changing the subject. “What do you see?”
“Fog,” Josh said.
“Look again,” Niten urged.
Josh stared hard. Inches beyond the hood of the car, the road disappeared into a shifting wall of wet gray cloud. “There’s nothing to see,” he said finally, struggling to understand what the Japanese immortal was getting at.
“There is always something to see, if you only know how to look,” Niten suggested. He raised his head slightly, pointing with his chin. “Look on either side of the road, see how the fog shifts and coils; now look directly ahead and see how it moves.”
The Necromancer: The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel Page 12
