Michael Scott - The Necromancer

Nicholas shook his head and laughed. His chuckle came from deep in his chest and sounded wet and wheezy. “Saint-Germain stole fire from the Elder. Whatever you do, try not to mention his name. Prometheus hates him. In fact, I think most of the Elders hate Saint-Germain. He has a gift for irritating people.”

Saint-Germain raised both hands and spread his fingers wide. Each fingertip popped alight, flickering with varicolored flames. In the dancing firelight, the immortal’s face was savage. “Don’t threaten me, Green Man,” he snarled, his accent pronounced. “I will burn this forest to the ground without a second thought.”

Tammuz drew back, reflected light running liquid across the silver mask, making it look as if the carved leaves were trembling in a breeze.

The dryads, their drawn bows nocked with black-tipped arrows, looked at the Green Man, awaiting his instructions.

Tammuz hesitated and Saint-Germain immediately stepped forward. He had pushed up his sleeves, exposing his butterfly tattoos. The flames from his fingertips made their wings appear to beat softly. “I came here to bargain with you, Lord Tammuz, maybe even plead with you. Most certainly not to threaten you. But you know what I am capable of, so don’t push me.” He paused and added with an icy smile, “Remember what happened to your precious forest in Russia in 1908.”

“Go-go now.” The Green Man waved his arm and the dryads disappeared back into the forest, the hamadryads melting back into the trees.

Ptelea was the last to leave. “My lord, I am sorry, I did not-”

“This has nothing to do with you,” Tammuz boomed. “I blame these two,” he said, pointing to Shakespeare and Palamedes, “and especially you, Sir Knight.”

Palamedes straightened and a shimmer of his green aura flickered briefly in the air. “We came to talk,” he said, “to support our brother’s petition, nothing more. And,” he added slowly, “I was expecting to be listened to, not treated in this shabby manner and threatened. Saint-Germain is my friend-more than my friend, he is my brother-in-arms-and he is under my protection. Threaten him and you threaten me.”

Even through the silver mask, the Green Man’s shock was clear. His voice gave his surprise away. “How dare you speak to me like that! Have you gone mad, Palamedes? Has this magician ensorceled you? Have you any idea just who your friend is? Do you know what he has done?”

“I do not. Nor do I care. We’re not here to talk about that.”

“Perhaps you should be. Look at him now…” The Elder waved his hands toward Saint-Germain. “Threatening me. Threatening my forest, my creatures. Bringing cursed fire into the heart of my realm.” He stretched out a silver-gloved hand. “He may be beyond my reach, but you are not. All I have to do is lay my hand upon you. I gave you immortality; I can remove it with but a single touch.”

William Shakespeare stepped out from behind Palamedes to stand between the knight and the Elder. “But you are not my master; you have no power over me.” Shakespeare’s glasses slipped down his nose and he looked over the top of the black frames. His smile was ugly. “And I doubt you have any idea what I can do to you.” The Bard leaned forward. “Anger me and I will teach you the true magic of words… and believe me, sirrah, when I am through with you, you will wish that Saint-Germain had burned down your precious forest.”

For a long moment the only sound in the night was the soft crackling of the flames at Saint-Germain’s fingertips. A globule of fire dripped from his thumb and splashed to the ground. Leaves crisped and curled and the air suddenly filled with the odor of burning. “Whoops.” The French immortal smiled as he stubbed out the sparks with the toe of his boot.

The Green Man had retreated almost to the center of the glade. He stopped when his back hit the white pillar, the edges of his metal mask singing off the stone. Raising his head, he looked beyond the Bard at the French immortal. “If I give you what you want, will you go and leave me in peace?” he asked.

Saint-Germain grinned triumphantly. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” He closed his hands into fists and extinguished the flames to colored smoke.

“Tell me, then. What do you want?”

“My wife, Joan, and Scathach have become trapped in the past. If it is beyond your powers to draw them forward to this time, then I would like you to send me back to my wife.” Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Will Shakespeare, who was standing closest to him. The Bard passed it over to Palamedes, who approached the Elder. Tammuz stretched out his hand and the knight carefully held the envelope over the silver glove, taking care not to touch the Elder. He let it drop into the Green Man’s hand and stepped back.

“Joan and Scathach activated the ancient leygate outside Lutetia,” Saint-Germain continued. “It should have taken them across the world, to the West Coast of America, but they never arrived. When I investigated, I found a curious substance on the Point Zero stone.”

The Elder tilted his head down and peered into the envelope. It was half filled with gray powder.

“I did some alchemical tests,” Saint-Germain said. “I found traces of ground-up mammoth bones from the Pleistocene era and the remnants of an Attraction spell. It stinks of that serpent, Machiavelli.”

“And you believe your wife and the Shadow have been pulled back into the past?”

“Into the Pleistocene era,” the immortal specified.

“I have no power over the time lines; I cannot call them back to the present.”

Saint-Germain nodded quickly. “I suspected that. But you do have a little control over time. I know time runs differently in the Shadowrealms. A day there could be a week, a month, a year here. I know you have sent your immortal humani knights into the Shadowrealms and ensured that they are not affected by the time differences. So you must know something about time?”

“I learned a little from Chronos,” Tammuz admitted.

“Could you send me back?” Saint-Germain asked eagerly.

The Green Man raised his head, light running off his silver mask. “I could. That is certainly within my powers.” Tilting the envelope, he poured some of the powder into his left hand. It hissed, then sizzled where it touched the silver glove, and gauzy gray smoke gathered in the Elder’s palm, slowly forming into a ball. “But if I send you to the past, it is a one-way journey: there is no return. Only Chronos, the Master of Time, could bring you back again.” The Green Man chuckled. “And he’s not going to do that; he hates you even more than I do.”

Shakespeare turned to look at Saint-Germain and winked. “Bold, bad man. Does everyone hate you?”

“Just about.” The immortal sounded almost pleased. “It’s a gift.”

The ball of smoke continued to gather in Tammuz’s silver glove. “Once you go back, you will be trapped there for all eternity.” The Elder looked closely at the Frenchman. “Why do you want to do this?” he asked curiously. “Why is this woman so important to you?”

Saint-Germain blinked in surprise. “Have you ever loved anyone?” he asked.

“Yes,” Tammuz said cautiously, “I had a consort once, Inanna…”

“But did you love her? Truly love her?”

The Green Man remained silent.

“Did she mean more to you than life itself?” Saint-Germain persisted.

“They do not love that do not show their love,” Shakespeare murmured very softly.

The French immortal stepped closer to the Elder. “I love my Jeanne,” he said simply. “I must go to her.”

“Even though it will cost you everything?” Tammuz persisted, as if the idea was incomprehensible.