Michael Scott - The Sorceress

The Magician had spent centuries collecting the Swords of Power. He had three of the four, and he'd just come frustratingly close to adding Clarent to his collection. Neither Elders nor Next Generation were immune to the lure of the Swords. It was said that Mars Ultor had worn both Excalibur and Clarent in matched scabbards across his back. He had been the champion of the humani before he'd carried the twin blades; afterward he became a monster. And if the two swords had corrupted the Elder, then what chance had an untrained humani boy? Every time the boy held it, every time he touched the hilt, it drew him deeper under its control. And so long as he carried it, Dee would always be able to find him. iccolo Machiavelli sat back in his chair and focused on the largest of the high-definition LCD screens on the wall before him. He was watching the English satellite news service Sky News. The two a.m. headlines showed an aerial shot of a fire raging through an industrial area. The line of text crawling across the bottom of the screen announced that the fire was in a car yard in North London. Machiavelli had seen enough castle fortifications in his time to recognize the design, even though this one was made of cars rather than slabs of stone. The black outline of a moat was still clearly visible, gray smoke curling from it.

Machiavelli grinned as he reached for the remote control and brought up the volume. That particular location sounded familiar. On a separate screen he activated his encrypted database of Elders, Next Generation and immortals and typed in the location in North London. Two names immediately popped up: Palamedes, the Saracen Knight, and the Bard, William Shakespeare.

Machiavelli scanned both files: Shakespeare had been Dee's apprentice for years, until he'd suddenly turned against the Magician. He was immortal, though how he'd become so was a mystery, since he was associated with no known Elder. Palamedes was an enigma. A warrior-prince of Babylon, he'd fought with Arthur and had been there at the end, when the king had been killed. Again, there was no record of who had made him immortal, and traditionally the Saracen Knight had remained neutral in the wars between the Elders and the Dark Elders.

Machiavelli had never met either immortal, though he had known about them for generations and had longed to meet the Bard. Machiavelli had always wondered how and when and where Shakespeare and Palamedes had originally met. According to his files, their first recorded meeting was in London in the nineteenth century, but Machiavelli suspected they'd known one another a long time before that; there was some evidence to suggest that the Bard had originally written the part of Othello for Palamedes early in the seventeenth century. Shakespeare had turned up in London sometime in the middle of the nineteenth century as a ragpicker, a dealer in secondhand clothing. At least sixty barefoot urchins worked for him, sleeping in the attic of his warehouse on the docks, then going out during the day to scour the city for cast-off clothing and rags. There was a police report on file that the warehouse was suspected of storing stolen goods, and it had been raided at least twice. The Saracen Knight had been in London at the same time, earning his living as an actor in theaters in the West End. He specialized in monologues from Shakespeare's plays.

Machiavelli examined a grainy photograph of the man identified as William Shakespeare. Taken with a telephoto lens, it showed a rather ordinary-looking man dressed in stained blue overalls, bending over the engine of a car, a scattering of tools and car parts by his feet. Two dogs were visible in the background, and the photography had given both dogs red eyes. The second photograph was higher resolution. It showed a huge dark-skinned man leaning against the side of a gleaming London taxi, drinking tea from a white paper cup. The wheel of the London Eye was just visible in the background.

A male reporter's voice filled the room. "… raging for the past two hours in this car yard. At this time, no bodies have been removed from the scene, and officers do not expect to find any. Officials have expressed concern because of the huge amount of combustible material in the area, and firemen are using breathing apparatuses to enter the yard. There is a fear that if the stacked tires start to burn, they will release noxious gases. There is some consolation, however, that in this run-down part of London, most of the houses are abandoned and derelict…"

Machiavelli hit the Mute button. Leaning back in his leather chair, he ran his hands over his close-cropped white hair, hearing it rasp in the silence. So, had Dee killed the Alchemyst and captured the twins?

The reporter appeared on-screen holding a handful of what looked like flint arrowheads, and Machiavelli almost fell off the chair in his haste to turn on the sound.

"… and bizarrely found hundreds of what look like flint arrowheads." The camera panned around and showed broken arrows and spears scattered all over the ground. Machiavelli recognized the stubby lengths of crossbow bolts.

Well, if Dee had captured the twins, it hadn't been without a fight.

Machiavelli's cell phone buzzed, startling him. Pulling it out of his inner pocket, he stared at the screen, immediately recognizing the overlong number and impossible area code. He took a deep breath before answering. "Yes?"

"Dee has failed." Machiavelli's Elder's voice was little more than a thready whisper. He spoke in Late Egyptian, the language used in the New Kingdom over three thousand years ago.

Machiavelli responded in the formal Italian of his youth. "I'm watching the news. I see there's a fire in London; I know that location is associated with two neutral immortals. I assume there is some connection to the two events."

"Flamel and the twins were there. They escaped."

"It looks like the location was defended; the television report is showing evidence of a fight-arrows, spears and crossbow bolts. Perhaps we should have given the English Magician more resources," Machiavelli suggested carefully.

"Bastet was there."

Machiavelli kept his face impassive; he despised the cat-headed goddess but knew she was close to his Elder master.

"And Cernunnos was tasked with helping the Magician."

Machiavelli came slowly to his feet. "The Archon?" he asked, struggling to keep the shock out of his voice.

"And the Archon brought the Wild Hunt. I did not authorize this; none of us did. We do not want the Archons back in this world."

"Who did?"

"The others," the voice said shortly. "Dee's masters and their supporters. This could work to our advantage; now that the Magician has failed, they must order his destruction."

Machiavelli placed the phone on the table and hit the Speaker button. Straightening his suit jacket, he folded his arms across his chest and looked at the wall of television and computer screens. Most of the news channels had started to show video of the fire in North London. "Dee is no fool, he must know that he is in danger."

"He does."

Machiavelli placed himself in Dee's position, wondering what he would do if the roles were reversed. "He knows he has to capture the twins and those pages," he said decisively. "It is the only way to get back into his Elders' good graces. He will be desperate. And desperate men do stupid things."

The reporter was talking to an excitable bearded man, who was holding up one of the spearheads and waving it around.

"What do you want me to do?" Machiavelli asked.

"Is there any way you can help us locate Flamel and the twins in England before Dee does?"

"I do not see how…," Machiavelli began.

"Why is Flamel in London? Why risk bringing the twins into the heart of Dee's empire? We know he is trying to train the twins. So, who-amongst the Elders, Next Generation or immortals-could he be planning on meeting?"