The Immortal Heights (6 page)

Their last meeting had been downright antagonistic. Master Haywood had just lost his position at a third-tier lower academy for
taking bribes from students for better marks, forcing him to accept a position as a schoolmaster in one of the most remote villages of the Domain.

Iolanthe had been furious with him, but the moment memories of her secret life had come back, all her fury transferred to Lady Callista. When Lady Callista had come for her a few minutes after midnight, Iolanthe screamed and railed. She was going to go to Master Haywood that instant and tell him everything. She didn't care that his possession of the knowledge might threaten Lady Callista's position or her own safety. There were gray areas in life, but this was not one of them. What had been done to Master Haywood was heinous, and she would not allow another moment of it to pass unrectified.

Lady Callista had listened quietly, seeming to pay attention, but then, with Iolanthe in midsentence, she'd raised her wand.

That was the end of that meeting. The memories of Lady Callista, old and new, had returned to their vault deep in her mind, and Iolanthe had awakened the next morning, aching and upset, and had thought it was only because of her despair over Master Haywood and her increasing distress over her own future.

“Are you all right?” came Kashkari's soft voice.

She realized that she'd been staring at the ceiling of the cave. Something about the situation with Lady Callista bothered her—something besides her mother's callous treatment of Master Haywood. But she couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.

She sat up. “I'm fine. How long did I sleep?”

“About three hours.”

The cave, which opened to the west, was now filled with a golden light. She noticed the two-way notebook in Kashkari's lap. “Have you heard from Amara and your brother, by the way?”

“Yes, from both—they are safe and regrouping,” he answered—but did not meet her gaze.

Was it because he did not want to reveal his inner thoughts as he spoke of the one he loved and the one
she
loved? Or was it something else?

“What about Mrs. Hancock? Anything from her?” Mrs. Hancock, special envoy of Atlantis's Department of Overseas Administration stationed in Mrs. Dawlish's house, had turned out to be a staunch enemy of the Bane and their secret ally.

“Nothing from her. I hope she's all right.”

“I wonder if West has been discovered missing yet,” she said slowly.

West, a senior boy who bore an uncanny resemblance to the Bane, had been abducted from his resident house, setting off the chain of events that led to Titus and Iolanthe's abrupt departure from school.

“That we don't have to worry about, for now. Mrs. Hancock set up a number of otherwise spells. People at school believe him to be on extended leave. His family thinks he can't get away from school for various reasons.”

Kashkari still didn't look her in the eye. What was the matter with him?

He closed his notebook. “Do you know anything about the Commander's Palace?”

She supposed it was natural enough for him to be thinking about the Bane's stronghold, since it was their eventual destination. “Yes, a few things Titus told me.”

She related what she knew—the fortress's location in the uplands of Atlantis, the rings of defense that surrounded it, the wyverns and armored-chariot-carried colossal cockatrices that crisscrossed the air above, ever vigilant on behalf of the Bane's safety.

“And how did Titus learn everything?”

She brought up the rupture view that resulted from Titus's interrupted Inquisition and the spy Prince Gaius, Titus's grandfather, had sent into Atlantis many years ago.

“That's remarkable,” mused Kashkari. “Atlantis receives no diplomatic delegations on its own soil and issues no visitor visas. And I hear that floating fortresses guard the entire coastline, watching for any approaching intruders. How did this spy get in?”

“I don't know. I assume he snuck in somehow.”

As they would.

Kashkari nodded, seemingly deep in thought. Then he rose to his feet. “Shall we get going then?”

CHAPTER
6

TITUS
POSSESSED A ONE-TIME VAULTING
range of three hundred miles, a rare gift. But such a gift was not terribly useful unless the world was a network of nodes he had visited in person, each node less than three hundred miles apart from the next nearest connection point—vaulting was only accurate when the destination could be visualized from personal memory.

After he arrived at Eton, at age thirteen, he set out to create just such a network for himself. It started with a Sunday afternoon stroll to a railway station in nearby Windsor, and a ticket purchased for London. When he reached London, he walked about Paddington Station and some of the surrounding streets, then got on the underground and took himself to Euston Station and King's Cross, two other railway termini.

Once he knew all of London's major railway stations by heart, he would vault to one after lights-out and board a night train
somewhere, taking care that he did not accidentally go beyond his vaulting range. Soon he could materialize directly in rail stations in Bristol, Manchester, and Exeter—and take the train farther afield. It was not long before he vaulted handily to any major population center in Britain, plus a number of remote, scenic places.

With Britain under his belt, he set his sights on France, beginning with a night crossing from Dover. Once he reached Paris, the biggest railway hub in France and achievable in a single vault from Mrs. Dawlish's, the rest of France lay open to him.

Over the years he expanded this network to many corners of Europe that were readily accessible by rail, and some that were not. He had, however, never penetrated east of the Balkans. But this was where Alectus did him a favor.

Usually he was left alone on his school holidays to be looked after by Dalbert—Titus could be very unpleasant company. But each summer Alectus, Lady Callista, and Aramia went on a holiday abroad, and for that Alectus always insisted that he come along too—for the appearance of family unity, if nothing else.

Two summers ago they sailed the eastern Mediterranean on the crown yacht. Alectus delighted in calling at nonmage ports, pretending that they were the ruling family from the nonexistent principality of Saxe-Limburg. They visited the great pyramids at Giza—not the ones the nonmages flocked to see, but a series of six upside-down structures buried nearby that comprised an ancient translocator said to be able to, in its day, send a mage anywhere on earth. They even
took a smaller craft from the yacht and set sail from Cairo, one hundred miles up the Nile.

Thanks to that trip, Titus was able to vault, in two segments, from Luxor to the vicinity of Giza, then northwest to Alexandria. Two more vaults and he was in Tobruk, which lay directly south of the isle of Crete.

From Crete he hopped to Zakynthos, an island in the Ionian Sea, west of mainland Greece. One more hop and he was in the easternmost spot of continental Italy.

The back of his head was beginning to throb painfully; he had no choice but to stop for a while. The sun shone warmly on his face; gulls wheeled and dipped; a breeze made fish-scale patterns on the surface of the bright-blue sea. He sat on the rocky shore and drank the last of the tea Fairfax had made in the morning.

As it often happened, when he allowed his mind to wander a little, he thought of her future. She had never told him herself, but he knew, from the material Dalbert had collected on her a while ago, that she would like to attend the Conservatory of Magical Arts and Sciences.

The Conservatory had a lovely campus on the shoulder of the Serpentine Hills, overlooking the Right Hand of Titus and the ceaseless Atlantic beyond. He could see her walking along the flagstone paths between buildings, talking with her friends, perhaps making plans to gorge on ices later at Mrs. Hinderstone's sweets shop, which she had often visited as a little girl.

The summer before, he had sent Dalbert to Mrs. Hinderstone's, to obtain a selection of the tastes and textures she had adored during her years in Delamer. Dalbert, always one to go above and beyond the call of duty, had brought back not only baskets of foodstuffs and beverages, but also postcards that captured the shop from every angle: the small, round tables on the sidewalk under a white-and-blue-striped awning; Mrs. Hinderstone herself standing beside huge display cases full of bonbons and chocolates; the lunch menu on the wall, done in iridescent wand-writing, with a notice at the bottom that proudly declared,
We are happy to pack picnic baskets for two or two hundred—and our famous ices are guaranteed not to melt for at least eight hours
.

Titus rarely injected himself into these reveries. But now he saw himself walking into Mrs. Hinderstone's and asking for one of those picnic baskets. He could see Mrs. Hinderstone's round, smiling face as she took down the particulars of his order. He could feel the weight and coolness of the coins he handed over. And he could sense the curious gazes of the other patrons, at the presence of the Master of the Domain.

But where would he take Fairfax for their picnic? In the Labyrinthine Mountains, overlooking a slope of brilliant red poppies, on the deck of a sailboat anchored in a sheltered bay south of Delamer, or on the great lawn of the Conservatory of Magical Arts and Sciences itself, in the shade of a late-blooming starflower tree, as bells tolled the passage of leisurely hours?

His mind, so adept at processing danger and making split-second decisions, was incapacitated before this cornucopia of pleasurable options. He did not want to choose. He wanted only to wallow in the endless possibilities of such a future.

He did not need to die, whispered a small voice inside. It was too soon, too unnecessary. His mother's grand vision had proved, if not outright false, then highly misdirected. There was no Chosen One, no certain path. There was no obligation to do more—not on his part, at least, he who had already sacrificed his entire childhood.

While other boys played, he had toiled. When he was not taking lessons from his ancestors in the teaching cantos, he was fighting every creature with teeth and claws in the fairy tales. Instead of sunshine and fresh air, the scents of his youth were old books and the scorch of dragon fire.

He had lived so little. When was the last time he took a walk in the Labyrinthine Mountains for pleasure? No, when he had time to spare, he had instead run on those unforgiving slopes, to make sure he would be fast and nimble when the time came.

Had he ever taken a day just for himself?

He dragged his mind back, gasping with effort. There was a reason he only thought of her in that mythical future: when he included himself, this monstrous greed for life burst forth, willing to destroy everything in its path for one more day, one more hour, one more breath.

But it was too late to turn aside now, too late to embrace cowardice.

He swallowed a dose of vaulting aid, closed his eyes, and pictured Naples.

Naples. Rome. Florence. When he materialized in Florence, he experienced a sharp pain behind his eyes. Instead of sitting down somewhere and waiting for the discomfort to pass, however, he used his recovery time to acquire some nonmage clothes that were better suited to Europe than the Sahara Desert: essentially buying everything off a dress dummy on display. But then again, he was handy with tailoring spells, having had hundreds of hours of practice so he could make sure the clothes he had prepared would fit the elemental mage who would assume the identity of Archer Fairfax.

Fairfax.

When he thought of the future this time, there was only her on the picnic blanket on the great lawn of the Conservatory, a book on her knees, a half-eaten sandwich to the side. But she did not remain alone. A friend would come by and sit down, then another. Soon a sizable cluster had gathered around the picnic blanket, and she was surrounded by laughter and joie de vivre.

He closed his eyes again.

Genoa. Turin. Geneva. Dijon. Auxerre.

By the time he reached the bell tower of Auxerre's largest
cathedral, hunched over, his ears ringing, he knew he had taken one vault too far. This part of France was too densely populated for flying on a carpet, so he bought a coat—in sunny Italy he had underestimated the amount of clothes he needed—got on a train, and let himself be transported by nonmage technology, clickety-clacking the remaining distance to Paris under a gray, rainy sky.

Two hours later he exited Gare de l'Est in Paris and hired a hansom cab to take him to the sixteenth arrondissement. Streetlights flickered to life along the broad boulevards of the city. He stayed in the hansom until traffic degenerated into a logjam that did not budge in any direction, then got out and walked the rest of the way, shivering despite the coat.

The concierge at the apartment building where Fairfax's guardian lived smiled as she saw him.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.”

He had used the apartment earlier as an on-site laboratory, and had given her the impression that he was a friend of the family. He nodded. “
Bonsoir, madame
. Is Monsieur Franklin at home?”

“Yes,
monsieur
. Such a lovely gentleman. He will be glad to see you,
monsieur
.”

Horatio Haywood was indeed overjoyed as he opened the door. But his smile wavered when he realized that Titus had come alone.

“She is fine,” Titus said quickly. “May I come in?”

“Yes, of course. Do please forgive me, Your Highness.”

He was shown to the
salle de séjour
, with its enormous paintings of nonmages frolicking in the countryside. Haywood ran to the
kitchen and came back with a tea service and plates of puff pastry with savory fillings.

The man would probably have gone to the kitchen again to fetch more things, but Titus bade him take a seat and recounted what had happened since they were all last in a room together: the real story behind Wintervale's spectacular display of elemental power, their hasty departure from Eton, and their few but eventful days in the Sahara Desert.

“When I left earlier today she was safe and well, or at least as well as could be under the circumstances. And I trust that our friend is looking after her to the utmost of his considerable ability—although at any given moment she could be looking after him, for all we know. She is very good at keeping her friends alive and in one piece.”

“Fortune shield me,” murmured Haywood. “I was worried—I thought she would have come to see me again, but I never anticipated that so much could have happened.”

They were quiet for some time. “So you remember everything now?” asked Titus.

The older man nodded slowly. “Yes, sire.”

He would have been able to guess at Lady Callista's betrayal, judging by what they had learned the day they found him at Claridge's Hotel in London. But to be engulfed by a tide of memories, to remember the fervor of love that had driven him to lie, cheat, and steal for her only to be abandoned so completely—Titus could not imagine his anguish.

His regrets.

“I would like to ask you a question, if I may.”

“Certainly, sire.”

“I can piece together most of the story, even if the details are somewhat sketchy. But one part puzzles me. What is Commander Rainstone's role in all this?”

Commander Rainstone was the crown's chief security adviser. She had also, at one point, served under the late Princess Ariadne, Titus's mother.

“You said she introduced you to Lady Callista,” Titus went on. “I understand Commander Rainstone comes from a humble background. How did she and Lady Callista become friends?”

“Oh,” said Haywood, taken aback. “You didn't know, sire? Commander Rainstone and Lady Callista are half sisters.”

Iolanthe and Kashkari did not risk flying into Cairo, which had its share of mage Exiles. And where there was a substantial gathering of mage Exiles, there were informants and agents of Atlantis.

Nor did Kashkari want them to walk in each carrying a carpet. They had covered the distance from Luxor to Cairo on travel carpets, but they still had their battle carpets, which were much more substantial in thickness and could not be folded into tiny squares and shoved into pockets. He feared that even rolled up, those carpets might still signal their mage origins.

Instead he bought a donkey on the outskirts of the city and laid
their battle carpets across the donkey's back. He offered the donkey to Iolanthe, but she declined firmly: she'd much rather walk than wrestle with an unfamiliar beast.

So Kashkari rode and Iolanthe walked behind him, her face largely hidden beneath her keffiyeh. The buildings they passed were like none she had ever seen, with each story projecting farther out than the one immediately below. Two top-floor residents on opposite sides of a narrow street could almost embrace across what little distance remained between them.

Their destination was a clean and hospitable guest house. The proprietor embraced Kashkari and greeted him by name. Sweets and cups of coffee appeared as soon as they'd entered their room, followed by bowls of a delicious green soup and heaping plates of dolmas, which were grape leaves wrapped around a savory rice filling.