Shelly Thomas - The Burning Sky

Baslan held up the Citadel’s copy of the Crucible. “What do you know about this book?”

“Oh, that. I play Big Bad Wolf to Little Red Riding Hood. She likes it rough, did you know? I did not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What else are you going to do with such a contraption? Of course Sleeping Beauty is probably prettier, but I am not going to fight dragons for any girl. And the chit who lives in the woods is agreeable enough, but those dwarfs in her cottage are perverts. They always want to watch.”

Baslan’s face turned splotchy. “Did you use such a book as a portal to get into the Citadel tonight and make away with Horatio Haywood?”

Titus laughed. “Listen to yourself, Baslan. Are you mad?”

Baslan’s throat worked. “As you are no doubt aware, Atlantis is seeking a young woman who can summon lightning. We encountered her tonight.”

“Why did you not take her into custody?”

“She was in this book. We want to know where she is now.”

“Still in there, obviously. Have you never heard of Helgira?”

“Who?”

Titus rolled his eyes. “Helgira the Merciless, one of the most famous mythological, folkloric characters known to magekind. Oh, I forgot, Atlanteans don’t know anything.”

Baslan clenched his teeth. “Atlanteans are not ignorant, but we do not pay attention to stories of lesser lands.”

“Well, then, how did you enjoy your encounter with Helgira?”

Baslan fumed, but had nothing else to ask Titus. Mrs. Hancock returned shortly with Trumper and Hogg, still mostly naked.

There followed a scene of great comedy, at least to Titus. Trumper and Hogg, half-frightened, half-opportunistic, neither quite noticing they were speaking to a phantom projection, accused Titus of not only abduction, but of innumerable acts of violence and perverse cruelty on their persons, and therefore providing incontrovertible evidence that if anyone had killed the Inquisitor, it could not have been Titus.

Mrs. Hancock returned once more, carrying an armload of books. “I have His Highness’s collection here, Inquisitor. Will you send a courier for them or shall I?”

Titus rose. “I will leave you two to discuss details. Good night, Inquisitor. Good night, Mrs. Hancock. And good night, Messrs. Trumper and Hogg—it was my pleasure .”

The no-vaulting zone was gone in the morning. And when the prince’s spymaster returned, reports flew out of the writing ball.

The Inquisitor was indeed dead. As was, apparently, the Bane—though no intelligence on whether he had been killed outright by Iolanthe’s lightning or by the subsequent fall. The double deaths caused both panic and rejoicing in the Citadel—which turned into ashen fear a short while later, as the Bane walked back into the Citadel looking younger and more vibrant for having been resurrected a third time.

Inquisitory personnel initially accused Lady Callista of tampering with evidence—the blood that came out of the Crucible had all been cleared away by the time they’d arrived. But she’d wept over how awful the blood looked on the floor, and all of a sudden everyone agreed that of course she had every right to keep her own home free of such upsetting sights.

The news that mattered most to Iolanthe, however, concerned the punishments that were to be meted out to the boys who’d left Mrs. Dawlish’s home that night: twenty lashes to Titus, five each to everyone else. What if she’d be required, as she’d heard rumored sometimes, to lower her trousers in the course of the punishment? She’d lasted this long; she did not want to be found out as a girl for such a silly reason.

But Titus came out of his punishment smiling. Birmingham not only didn’t require the removal of trousers, he didn’t even hit Titus—the lashes were given to a rug instead. In addition, Birmingham congratulated him warmly on making Trumper and Hogg into laughingstocks before the whole school.

Still Iolanthe practiced her memory and confusion charms. But her time with Birmingham turned out to be very pleasant. They had a cup of tea together and a lively chat on Homerian epics—something near and dear to Birmingham’s heart.

The rest of the term passed just as agreeably. The house cricket team did not win the school cup, but it contended for the first time in years. Wintervale made the roster for the school match against Harrow, which thrilled the entire house. Iolanthe, to the prince’s head-shaking amazement, won ten quid for writing the best Latin essay in the entire school. She promptly spent the money on ices and fancy cakes for everyone—and a very nice monogrammed shaving set for Kashkari, toward which the prince chipped in half of the cost.

The last Sunday before the end of Summer Half, Kashkari finally organized the tennis tournament he had been talking about for a while, in honor of Birmingham and a few other senior boys who were leaving to attend university.

There was one trophy for the junior boys and another for the senior boys. A group of Iolanthe’s friends watched the junior boys from her room. When it was time for the senior boys to compete, they left en masse, eager to defeat one another.

The prince was the last person remaining.

She tilted her head at the door. “Shall we?”

He closed the door and took out a plate from her cabinet. “Flamma nigra,” he said. A black flame crackled into being.

“What’s this?”

“Give me your hand.”

He plunged their combined hands into the black flame. The flame was the temperature of a sun-heated stone, licking at her skin with the playfulness of a puppy. After a few seconds it turned purple, then deep blue, then sky blue, then the pale blue of a vein seen through the skin. At last it turned transparent and dissipated.

She stared at her hand, then at him. “That was—that was the blood oath?”

He lowered his head, almost as if he were feeling shy. “Yes. You are free.”

“Do you understand what you have done?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

“How can I not? I have been thinking of nothing else for weeks. The enormity of it is still beyond my understanding.”

“Then why? Is it because we had made one attempt on the Bane’s life?”

That had been the terms of their agreement, one and only one attempt . But surely that didn’t count, since the Bane did not remain dead.

“That was part of it.”

“What’s the rest of it?”

He hesitated briefly. “The choice was made for me. I was never asked whether I was willing to walk this path. I do not want to take that choice from you—friends do not enslave friends. You should decide for yourself.”

Her eyes prickled with the beginning of tears. “What if I decide to take off on my own?”

He looked down for a moment. When he looked back again at her, this boy who had told her that he lived for her and her alone, his gaze was not without fear, but also not without hope. “That is your right.”

Below, boys were calling their names. Like a sleepwalker, she drifted to her open window. “We’ll be down this minute.”

Outside, everything looked the same, summer sky, summer grass, summer boys. Yet everything was different. Her life was her own once again, to do as she willed.

She turned around to the boy who had just become her truest friend in the world. “Do I need to decide now?”

“No,” he said. “Take your time.”

“Come on, Fairfax. You too, prince,” shouted Wintervale. “We are waiting for you to draw lots.”

“Coming!” she shouted back. Then, more softly, “We’d better go play some tennis.”

At the door, he laid a hand on her shoulder. “No matter what you decide, knowing you has been the greatest privilege of my life.”

She closed her own hand over his and blinked back tears. “Likewise, prince.”