The Burning Sky (15 page)

The boys laughed and booed.

“Full of ourselves, aren't we?” asked Rogers.

“My mother taught me false modesty is a sin,” she said, smirking.

Titus had cautioned her against making friends. But the sharp feeling in his heart was not concern, but a stab of envy. Even if his circumstances had allowed friends, he would not have had them so easily. There was something about him that discouraged contact, let alone intimacy.

“It is almost lights-out,” he said.

Cooper, always awed by Titus, immediately set down his cards. “Better get back to my room then.”

More reluctantly, Sutherland and Rogers followed.

As Titus closed the door behind them, she shuffled the cards. “You're very good at dispersing a party, Your Highness. Must have taken you years of practice.”

“Incorrect—I was born this talented. But you, it must have taken
you
years to perfect your act.”

“You refer to my innate and splendid charm?”

“Your charm is about as innate as my truthfulness.”

She gathered the deck in her right hand. The cards flew out of her fingers and landed neatly in the palm of her left hand. “Did you have something to tell me?”

He had not come with any particular purpose. But as her question fell, his answer sprang readily, as if he had been mulling it over for a while. “I have been reading about your guardian. He has not made your life easy.”

“His own life was made impossibly difficult because of me.”

“Relax—I do not question his character. I only want to let you know that you took very good care of him. You have a good heart.”

Her glance, when it came, was as cold as a mountain stream. “I took care of him because I love him—and because I can never do as much for him as he has done for me by taking me in and giving me a home. Your compliments will not earn you greater devotion from my part. I will do as much as the blood oath stipulates and nothing more.”

Clever girl. She made him feel almost transparent.

“Good night, Your Highness.”

Grand, too, dismissing him as if he were a subject of hers, instead of the other way around.

He vaulted the few feet that separated them, kissed her on the cheek, and, before she could quite react, vaulted back to his place by the door. “Good night, Fairfax.”

CHAPTER 12

THE PRINCE WAS MANIPULATING HER,
Iolanthe was sure. But to what goal? Did he think that telling her that she was infinitely precious to him, complimenting her on her good heart, or kissing her on the cheek would make her willingly embrace mortal danger for his sake?

Nothing would make her willingly embrace mortal danger for his sake.

But still she tossed and turned for a long time before she fell asleep, the imprint of his cool lips a burn upon her cheek.

The next morning her training plunged her into a story called “Batea and the Flood,” where she had a grueling time holding back a swollen river. More grueling yet was an afternoon division called Greek Testament. Master Haywood had never quite understood her trouble with ancient Greek, pointing out that it was not much more morphologically complex than Latin. But whereas Latin she found no more difficult to master than fire, Greek had always felt like lifting mountains.

By the time she returned to Mrs. Dawlish's house, she was ready to lie down for a few minutes in her room. But the prince wasn't done with her.

“Come with me.”

“We already trained for the day.”

“Today is a shorter day at school. On those days, you will have an afternoon session, too.”

She said nothing as she followed him into his room.

“I know you are tired.” He closed the door behind him and directed a keep-away charm at it. “But I also know you are strong—far stronger than you, or perhaps even I, can comprehend.”

She did not feel strong, only trapped.

“Always remember,” he said, as he placed his hand on the Crucible, “that someday your strength will overturn the world as we know it.”

 

They landed in a part of the Crucible she hadn't seen before: an apple orchard, the branches heavy with pink-and-white flowers, the air cool and sweet. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked toward the second sun, pale and barely there. She was peeved at the extra session and angry at everything else in her life, but she couldn't quite help her fascination with the Crucible. It made her feel as if she were on a different world altogether.

“What story are we in?”

“‘The Greedy Beekeeper.'”

No wonder the buzz of bees echoed in her ears. “What happens in it?”

“You will see.”

She did not like that answer.

Side by side they walked deeper into the orchard. At one point a boulder jutted up from the ground. The prince leaped lightly on top and held out a hand toward her. She ignored him and made her own way across.

“It is only courtesy on my part, Fairfax. You need not worry that taking my hand will bind you more inextricably to me.”

“Perhaps not in any magical manner. But with you, Your Highness, there's no such thing as simple courtesy. You extend a hand because you want something in return. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday you deem that your premeditated kindnesses will add up to something.”

His response was a slight smile and an admiring gaze. Calculated, all calculated, she reminded herself. All the same, warmth pooled deep inside her.

They came to a clearing in the orchard. She frowned. “Is that a beehive?”

The hive was the familiar round, tapered shape of a skep, but it was three stories tall and measured at least twenty feet across at its base.

“That is the beekeeper's house.”

He opened the door and ushered her in. The inside of the house, except for its shape, looked typical for a rustic dwelling: planked floors, unvarnished furniture, and honey-yellow curtains on the small windows.

He pushed a chest of drawers to the center of the house, set a chair on top of the chest, and climbed onto the chair to place something on a crossbeam.

“What's that?”

“A piece of paper with the exit password for the Crucible. It will not respond to a summons, but will obey a breeze.”

He leaped down and, with the
exstinctio
spell, destroyed all the furniture. “The beekeeper keeps his bees in old-fashioned skeps. To get to the honey, he kills the bees each time. The bees have finally had enough.”

“And?” She was beginning to be nervous.

“And I wish we had met under different circumstances.” He pressed his spare wand into her hand. “Good luck.”

He left. She stared at the door for a minute before glancing up at the crossbeam again. It was at least twelve feet in the air, too high for her to jump. He'd left nothing that could give her a lift. And since one couldn't vault in the Crucible, she'd have to do this either honestly or not at all.

She sighed, raised her face to the ceiling, and closed her eyes to concentrate.

Something wet and sticky splattered onto her face.

“What the—” She leaped back, her lids flying open.

A golden, viscous liquid dripped down from—everywhere. Every inch of the wall was now a honeycomb, each hexagon seeping honey.

Seeping turned into drizzling. Drizzling turned into pouring. Honey flowed down the wall. Thick ropes of it tumbled from the domed ceiling.

The only place that wasn't directly assaulted was the exact spot where he'd placed the password—the house had an opening at the very center of the roof, which served as a chimney.

Puddles gathered. She stepped around them for the door. But the door had disappeared behind six inches of hard wax. The windows, when she ripped away the curtains, were similarly inaccessible.

If honey continued to inundate the room, she'd be submerged.

She cursed him. Of course he would think of something so nefarious. She cursed some more and implored the air in the room to cooperate.
Please. Just this once.

The honey cascaded faster and faster, rising to her ankles, then to her knees, so thick she could barely move her feet. The aroma overwhelmed her, too sweet, too cloying. She stood under the beam for shelter. But still honey slimed her, plastering her hair to her head. She had to wipe it away from her brows so it wouldn't get into her eyes. Even the wand had become coated, at once gluey and slippery.

She wanted that password. How she wanted it. But air ignored her attempts to control it. Like shouting at the deaf, or waving her hands before the blind.

The honey was now waist-high. Her chest hurt with panic.

Perhaps she ought to move out from directly underneath the crossbeam. She'd be able to see the piece of paper, and perhaps that might help.

But when she tried to do so, she lost her footing avoiding a huge glob of honey falling toward her and listed sideways. Like a fly caught in tree sap, she couldn't right herself. She was sucked downward—a horrifying sensation.

It occurred to her that she could drown in honey—and that
this
was precisely the brink toward which he meant to push her.

She flailed and sank deeper into the honey. Her toes hit the floor. She gasped, struggled upright, and dug her wand out of the honey. “I'm going to break your wand hand,” she shouted. “And your skull, too.”

The honey had risen as high as her chest, the pressure heavy against her sternum. She panted. A dribble of honey fell into her mouth. She'd thought she liked honey, but now its taste turned her stomach.

She spat and tried again to concentrate. She had never needed to concentrate for any of the other elements: her dealings with them were as straightforward as breathing. Wrestling with air was like—well, wrestling with air, struggling with an entity that could not be seen, let alone pinned down.

The honey swelled ever higher. Past her lips, creeping toward her nose. She tried to push herself up, to float. But she couldn't kick her legs high enough to turn herself horizontal. Thrashing about—if her molasses-slow motion could be called thrashing—only pulled her deeper into the mire.

She could no longer breathe. Her lungs burned. Instinct forced her to open her mouth. Honey poured in. She coughed, the raw pain of honey going down her air pipe indescribable.

Only her hand was above the honey now. She waved her wand, livid and desperate. Had she done it? She could not open her eyes. Her lungs imploded.

The next moment all the honey was gone and she was surrounded by the clean weightlessness of air. She fell to the floor—the floor of the prince's room—and panted, filling her lungs with the ineffable sweetness of oxygen.

Rationally, she knew she had never, not for a moment, been in real danger. And therefore there was no reason for her to shake and gasp with the relief of survival.

Which only made her loathe him more.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Her arm shot out, wrapped around his ankles, and yanked. He went down hard, hitting his shoulder on the corner of the table. She leaped on top of him and took a swing at his face. He raised his arm in defense. Her fist connected with his forearm, a solid smash that jarred her entire person.

She swung her other fist. He blocked her again. She lifted her knee, intending to drive it somewhere debilitating.

The next thing she knew he'd heaved her off his person. She immediately relaunched herself at him. He'd just got to his feet; she knocked him back down.

“That is enough, Fairfax.”

“I will tell you when it's enough, you scum!” She slammed her elbow toward his teeth.

Foiled again.

She grunted in frustration and head-butted him. He caught her face in his hands. Since both his hands were busy, she finally landed a blow at his temple.

He winced—and retaliated by pulling her head down and kissing her.

Shock paralyzed her. The sensations were huge and electric, as if she had called a bolt of lightning upon her own head. He tasted angry, famished, and—

She leaped up, knocking over a chair. He remained on the floor, his eyes on her, eyes as hungry as his kiss. She swallowed. Her fist clenched, but she couldn't quite hit him again.

He rose to his feet with a grimace. “I know how you feel. I was in there last night, in honey above my head.”

She stared at him.

“Why do you look so surprised? I said I would experiment
with
you, not on you. Everything I try on you, I try on myself first.”

Of course she was shocked. The idea that anyone would voluntarily subject himself to such torture . . .

He was suddenly at the door, listening.

“What is it?”

“Mrs. Hancock. She is outside, talking to someone.”

A minute later—just enough time for him to do something about the cut at his temple and Iolanthe to right the fallen chair and a few other things knocked askew by their scuffle—a rap came on the door. The prince, with a tilt of his head, gestured for Iolanthe to open the door.

“Why me?”

“Because that is the nature of our friendship.”

She twisted her mouth and went.

Mrs. Hancock stood at the door, smiling. “Ah, Fairfax, I need to speak to you, too. I have a letter for you from your parents.”

It took Iolanthe a full second to grasp what Mrs. Hancock was saying. Fairfax's nonexistent parents had sent a letter.

With slightly numb fingers she accepted the envelope. The paper inside was faintly lavender in color and smelled of attar of rose. The words were written in a pretty hand.

 

My dearest Archer,

Ever since you left for school, Sissy has not been feeling well. She must have become accustomed to your presence at home during your convalescence.

Will you be so kind as to come home this Saturday after class? Sissy will be thrilled to see you. And I am sure that will make her feel herself again in no time.

Love,

Mother

 

“My parents want me to go home on Saturday,” Iolanthe said to no one in particular. Where was she supposed to go? And who was behind this letter?

“Yes, they also sent a letter to Mrs. Dawlish to that effect,” answered Mrs. Hancock. “You may take a short leave, if you wish.”

“Bother,” said Iolanthe. “Sissy was perfectly fine when I left. I'll bet she's only pretending.”

That seemed like something a boy of sixteen who'd been stuck home for three months with his little sister might say.

“Then stay here,” said the prince. “Besides, you are supposed to help me with my critical paper Saturday.”

He sounded enormously peevish.

“I'm afraid you won't have time Saturday for your critical paper, Your Highness,” said Mrs. Hancock. “The embassy has requested leave for you, too. There is a function they would like you to attend.”

“God's teeth, why do they insist on this charade? I rule nothing, isn't that punishment enough? Why must I attend their functions and be paraded around?”

“Come, prince, how terrible can it be?” Iolanthe said, playing the part of the affable friend. “There will be champagne and ladies.”

The prince released his bed and plunked himself down on it. “That shows how much
you
know, Fairfax.”

She knew he was playacting, but still she shot him an irate glance. Mrs. Hancock's sharp eyes took it all in—no doubt exactly as the prince intended.

Iolanthe mustered a smile for Mrs. Hancock. “I'm sure by tomorrow His Highness will be in a more receptive mood. Thank you for coming all the way to give me my letter, ma'am.”

“Oh, it was nothing at all, Fairfax. And good day to you too, Your Highness.”

After she left, neither of them spoke for a while.

Then the prince slowly let out a breath. “Saturday evening I meet with the Inquisitor.”