The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel #6) (37 page)

“From Ard-Greimne himself. You know he has spies everywhere.”

Aten dipped his head, as if deep in thought, but both he and Dagon knew the gesture was meant to thank the jailer for the information.

Ard-Greimne ran the huge prison and was responsible for
keeping order in the city and the country beyond. The ancient Elder controlled a force of anpu and Asterion constables, as well as some of the new hybrids—the boars, bears and cats coming out of Anubis’s laboratories. One of his proudest boasts was that no humani would ever patrol the streets of Danu Talis and that none would ever set foot on the gilded cobbles of the inner circles around the Elders’ homes.

The cell door clicked open and Aten stepped out.

“Follow me,” Dagon said. “And be careful; some of the slats on the bridge are broken. I’ve been meaning to replace them, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”

Aten fell into step behind Dagon. “I am about to be tossed into a volcano—a little singeing is nothing.”

Dagon was unsure whether Aten was mocking him. “Ard-Greimne wants to see you before you leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure he wants to gloat.” Aten’s voice was still light. “He never liked me, and the feeling was entirely mutual. It was no secret that I’ve been looking for his replacement.”

Dagon led the ruler across the bridge and then waited at his side while the anpu lifted it away from the searing lava. If the bridge was left in place too long, it would burn.

The guard opened the door and Aten followed Dagon through. Aten blinked as he stepped into the light, the pupils in his flat yellow eyes shifting into horizontal lines.

“There are many stairs,” Dagon apologized, looking up.

Aten followed his gaze and saw hundreds of narrow shallow steps soaring into the gloom.

“If this is to be my last walk, then I will enjoy every one,”
Aten answered, and the two—jailer and prisoner—started the long climb from beneath the prison to the jailhouse above.

“Halfway,” Dagon said a little while later.

Dagon seemed to be unaffected by the climb, but Aten could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He was also conscious of a low rumbling noise. At first he thought it was the lava, and then he realized it was coming from above. “What is that?” the Elder asked.

“It is the humani protesting outside,” Dagon said. “When I entered, the numbers had been swelling every moment. There were a thousand there earlier; now it might be eight thousand or maybe even ten thousand. The people are demanding your freedom.”

“And what does Ard-Greimne say?” Aten asked.

“He is prepared to send everything he has out to crush them. I believe he has instructed the guards to be brutal. He said he is going to teach the humani a lesson they will never forget.”

“I see.” It was clear to Aten what was happening. “He needs to get the protesters away from here so that the guards can take me to the pyramid.”

Dagon’s face showed no reaction. He pushed his goggles up onto his head, making it look as if he had two sets of eyes. “I understand Bastet and Anubis are awaiting your arrival there.”

Aten nodded “And I’m sure they do not want me to be late for my own funeral.”

Ard-Greimne waited at the top of the stairs.

He was a short, slender, rather ordinary-looking Elder. He bore only the vaguest marks of the Change—the hair on his head had fallen out, and his skull had elongated and stretched in a way that pulled all his features back along the sides of his face. Two threads of a red mustache hung below his nose and curled past the edges of his mouth, and his eyes were a startling green. He was dressed, as always, in an archaic rectangular robe that stretched from his neck to his feet but left his arms free. The style had gone out of fashion centuries ago.

“How the mighty have fallen,” he said, looking down on Aten. Ard-Greimne was short and incredibly sensitive about his height. He always wore shoes with lifts in them. When Aten didn’t respond, he tried again. “I said, how the mighty—”

“It wasn’t funny or even clever the first time you said it,” Aten said. “Nor is it original.”

The little man’s pale face squeezed into a semblance of a smile. “Brave words for a man about to die.”

“I am not dead yet,” Aten said.

“Oh, but you will be.”

Aten reached the top of the staircase and stepped past the Elder, emerging from the prison of Tartarus into a vast courtyard.

The shouts from outside the prison walls were a storm of sound, thrumming against the stones. “Aten … Aten … Aten …”

“Your people call for you,” Ard-Greimne mocked.

Directly in front of Aten were four long lines of
Ard-Greimne’s constables. Most were anpu or Asterion, but there were bulls and boars among their ranks as well. All wore black leather armor embossed with Ard-Greimne’s personal symbol, the ever-open always-watching eye. They were carrying clubs and whips, and a few had spears. There were even bowmen scattered among the group.

“I know you respect these humani …,” Ard-Greimne began.

“I do,” Aten answered before the short Elder could finish.

Ard-Greimne’s thin lips curled. “And that you consider them the successors of the Elders.”

“I do.”

“If you have that much respect for them, I want you to go up onto the walls and tell them to disperse peacefully.”

“Why would I do that?” Aten asked.

“Because if they do not, I will release the constables on them. I’ll put one hundred—no, two hundred archers on the walls and have them fire into the crowd. There will be panic. Then I will send out my men.”

“It would be a slaughter,” Aten whispered.

“Only a few hundred would die. We’ll not kill them all. We do want some to return home and spread the word. And it is always bad for business to kill all the slaves.”

“You want me to talk to the people?” Aten confirmed.

“Yes.”

“I’ll do it,” Aten said without hesitation.

“I thought you would refuse,” Ard-Greimne said, surprised.

Aten shook his head. “I will tell them what they must do.”

“B
race yourselves!” Prometheus shouted.

“I am never getting into a vimana again,” Shakespeare vowed. “If they don’t crash, they’re on fire. I can see why they went out of fashion.”

Rattling and banging, the vimana fell from the sky straight toward the great Pyramid of the Sun.

“We have to move quickly before they realize what we’re going to do,” Prometheus said. “So once we land, get out and take up positions on the steps. Let no one up onto the roof. Is that clear? No one.”

“Why?” Joan asked.

“I have no idea. But Abraham gave me very clear instructions about that.”

Joan nudged her husband with her foot. “Put the book away. I think you’re about to do some practical research for the finale of this musical piece.”

“What sort of research?” he asked.

“The crashing, screaming kind, I believe,” she answered.

“Armageddon,” Saint-Germain said as he climbed to his feet, bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m going to call this work ‘Armageddon,’ or maybe ‘Armageddon Rocks!’ With an exclamation point.”

“I didn’t need to be reminded of that just now,” Joan said gently.

“Not a good time?”

Joan pointed out the window, and Saint-Germain moved to look. He stood beside her, watching as the massive pyramid raced toward them. He put his arm around his wife and held her as the craft began to rattle apart. The engines were shrieking, the sound painfully loud, and every surface was vibrating.

Windows popped and shattered and a long strip of metal peeled away right under William Shakespeare’s seat, leaving his feet dangling in midair. Palamedes caught him and hauled him back just as his chair was torn off and sucked through the opening.

“Don’t say a word!” Palamedes warned.

The entire control panel in front of Prometheus began to crumble and crack, then melt into globules of liquid.

“It’s so noisy!” Will shouted, pressing both hands to his ears.

The engines stopped, and suddenly the only sound was the air whipping through the openings.

Will pulled his hands from his head and looked around. “I preferred it when it was noisy.”

Then the vimana hit the top of the pyramid in a scream of metal. It skidded across the structure’s polished flat surface, spinning in circles.

“We’re going to go over the edge at this rate,” Saint-Germain said calmly. He reached out through the shattered window and moved his fingers.
“Ignis,”
he whispered, and the air was touched with the odor of burnt leaves as a spiral of butterflies curled from his sleeve.

Intense white-hot flame washed over the surface of the pyramid, melting the gold surface, turning it sticky and tacky. The sliding, spinning vimana instantly slowed in a shower of gold droplets. Saint-Germain snapped his fingers and the gold turned solid once again, bringing the craft to a shuddering, creaking halt about three feet from the edge of the roof.

Will Shakespeare broke the long silence that followed. “Very impressive, Musician,” he said shakily. “I’ll make sure to thank you in my next play. In fact, I might even have to write you in.”

Saint-Germain grinned. “A hero?”

“Don’t you think villains are much more interesting?” Will asked. “They get all the best lines.”

Prometheus and Palamedes kicked out the sides of the craft and hopped out. The Saracen Knight held out his hand and helped Joan out, followed by Shakespeare and finally Saint-Germain. Prometheus put his shoulder to the ruined vimana and heaved. It resisted for a moment, and then, pulling chunks of solidified gold from the top of the pyramid, it went over the side. It sailed out in a shallow arc and hit the steps in an explosion of wood, metal and glass.

“That’ll be a surprise for someone down there,” Joan said as she peered after it. The steps stretched on forever, and the people far below were little more than specks.

“I doubt there’ll be anything left by the time it hits the bottom.” Saint-Germain smiled. “Dust, probably.”

Below them the rest of the vimana and the fliers were dropping out of the sky into the square, and faintly—very, very faintly—came the first sounds of battle.

“Go down a few steps and take your positions,” Prometheus instructed. “Let no one onto the roof. Will and Palamedes, you take the north side. Saint-Germain, can you take the west? Joan, the east is yours. I’ll guard the south.”

“How come you get the dangerous side?” Saint-Germain asked.

The big Elder smiled. “They’re all dangerous sides.”

The small group hugged one another quickly. Although nothing was said, they knew this could be the last time they ever saw one another again.

Saint-Germain kissed Joan before they parted. “I love you,” he said softly.

She nodded, slate-grey eyes shimmering behind tears.

“When all this is over, I suggest we go on a second honeymoon,” he said.

“I’d like that,” Joan smiled. “Hawaii is always nice at this time of year, and you do know I love it there.”

Saint-Germain shook his head. “We’re not going anywhere that has a volcano.”

“I love you,” she whispered, and turned away before they could see each other cry.

“Am I in your new play?” Palamedes asked Shakespeare as they began to descend the steps on the north side of the pyramid.

“Of course. I’m going to make you the hero.”

“I thought you said the villains have all the best lines,” the knight complained.

“They do.” Shakespeare winked. “But the heroes have the longest speeches.”

“Do you have a title yet?”

“A Midsummer Nightmare.”

Palamedes laughed. “It’s not a comedy, then?”

N
ot touching anyone, Scathach moved easily through the enormous chanting crowd gathered before the prison. She ran a practiced eye over the throng, gauging the numbers: ten thousand, perhaps, maybe even more. And not all were young, either. There were men and women of all ages gathered before the prison’s walls.

She listened to them talk nervously, excitedly.

They knew the dangers, but they were aware that this was the only chance they would ever have for freedom. If Aten died, then all hopes of a better future would die with him.

And they had a champion—a voice.

The stories had raced through the slums and backstreets of a raven-haired human who had mocked and chased off ten guards, or a hundred, or perhaps it was a thousand. She had turned a man into stone, or a beast, or she had shrunk him
and then squashed him underfoot. The people of Danu Talis had flocked to see the woman who had the powers of an Elder.

Scathach slipped to the front of the crowd and stopped as if she had run into a brick wall. She hadn’t known what—or who—was now leading the humans. But she would never, in all her ten thousand years, have expected to find herself facing Virginia Dare … and Dr. John Dee.

The two were standing in front of and a little apart from the crowd, heads bent close, deep in conversation, and Scathach could see the woman jabbing the English Magician in the chest with her finger as she made a point.