Michael Scott - The Magician

“No one knows who Dee’s Elder is, whom he serves,” Perenelle said thoughtfully. “Nicholas spent decades vainly trying to discover who, ultimately, controls the Magician.”

“Someone old,” Areop-Enap said. “As old as me, or even older. One of the Great Elders, perhaps.” All of the spider Elder’s eyes blinked. “But it cannot be; none of them survived the Fall of Danu Talis.”

“You did.”

“I’m not one of the Great Elders,” Areop-Enap said simply.

They reached the end of the tunnel and de Ayala winked into existence directly before them. He had been a ghost for centuries and had seen wonders and monsters, but he had never seen anything like Areop-Enap, and the sight of the enormous creature shocked him speechless.

“Juan,” Perenelle said gently. “Talk to me.”

“The Crow Goddess is here,” he said finally. “She is almost directly above us, perched on top of the water tower like a huge vulture. She’s waiting for you to climb out. She had an argument with the sphinx,” the ghost added. “The sphinx said that the Elders had given you to her; the Morrigan claimed that Dee said you were hers.”

“So nice to be in demand,” Perenelle said, looking up the length of the shaft into the darkness. She glanced sidelong at Areop-Enap. “I wonder if she knows you’re here.”

“Unlikely,” Old Spider said. “Dee would have no reason for telling her, and with so many magical and mythical creatures on the island, she’ll not be able to pick out my aura.”

Perenelle’s lips twisted in a quick smile that lit up her face. “Shall we surprise her?”

J osh Newman stopped and swallowed hard. Any moment now, he was going to throw up. Although it was cool and damp underground, he was sweating, his hair plastered to his skull, his shirt lying icy and clinging along the length of his spine. He had gone beyond frightened, past terrified and straight to petrified.

Descending into the sewers had been bad enough. Dee had wrenched the manhole cover out of the ground without any effort, and they’d jerked back as a plume of filthy, foul-smelling gas vented into the street. When it had drifted away, Dee had slipped into the opening, followed a moment later by Josh and finally Machiavelli. They’d climbed down a short metal ladder and ended up standing in a tunnel that was so narrow they had to march single file and so low that only Dee could walk upright. The tunnel dipped, and Josh gasped as ice-cold water suddenly flooded his sneakers. The smell was appalling, and he desperately tried not to think about what he might be wading through.

The rotten-egg stink of sulfur briefly masked the smells in the sewer as Dee created a globe of cold blue-white light. It hovered and danced in the air about twelve inches in front of the Magician, painting the interior of the narrow arched tunnel in stark ashen light and deep impenetrable shadows. As they sloshed forward, Josh could hear things moving and glimpsed sparkling points of red light shifting in the blackness. He hoped they were only rats.

“I don’t…,” Josh began, his voice echoing distortedly in the narrow tunnel. “I really don’t like small spaces.”

“Neither do I,” Machiavelli added tightly. “I spent a little time in prison, a long time ago. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“Was it as bad as this?” Josh asked shakily.

“Worse.” Machiavelli was walking behind Josh and he leaned forward to add, “Try and stay calm. This is just a maintenance tunnel; we’ll get into the proper sewers in a few moments.”

Josh took a deep breath and gagged on the smell. He had to remember to breathe only through his mouth. “And how is that going to help?” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“The sewers of Paris are mirrors of the streets above,” Machiavelli explained, his breath warm against Josh’s ear. “The bigger sewers are fifteen feet high.”

Machiavelli was correct; moments later they came out of the cramped and claustrophobic service tunnel into a tall arched sewer wide enough to drive a car through. The high brick walls were brightly lit and lined with black pipes of various thicknesses. Somewhere in the distance, water splashed and gurgled.

Josh felt the claustrophobia ease a little. Sophie sometimes got scared in wide-open spaces; he was afraid of tightly enclosed spots. Agoraphobia and claustrophobia. He took a deep breath; the air was still tainted with effluent, but at least it was breathable. He lifted the front of his black T-shirt to cover his face and breathed in: it stank. When he got out of here- if he got out of here-he’d have to burn everything, including the fancy designer jeans Saint-Germain had given him. He quickly dropped the shirt, realizing that he’d nearly exposed the bag he wore on the cord around his neck containing the pages from the Codex. No matter what happened now, he was determined that he wasn’t going to give up the pages to Dee, not until he was sure-very, very, very sure-that the Magician’s motives were honest.

“Where are we?” he wondered aloud, looking back at Machiavelli. Dee had walked out into the center of the sewer, the solid white ball now spinning just above the palm of his outstretched hand.

The tall Italian glanced around. “I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “There are about twenty-one hundred kilometers of sewers-around thirteen hundred miles,” he amended, seeing the blank look on Josh’s face. “But don’t worry, we’ll not get lost. Most have their own street signs.”

“Street signs in the sewers?”

“The sewers of Paris are one of the great wonders of this city.” Machiavelli smiled.

“Come!” Dee’s voice cracked out, echoing in the chamber.

“Do you know where we’re going?” Josh asked quietly. He knew from experience that he needed to keep distracted; once he started thinking about the narrowness of the tunnels and the weight of the earth above him, his claustrophobia would reduce him to a wreck.

“We’re going down, into the deepest, oldest part of the catacombs. You’re going to be Awakened.”

“Do you know who we’re going to see?”

Machiavelli’s usually impassive face twitched in a grimace. “Yes. By reputation only. I’ve never seen it.” He lowered his voice to little more than a whisper and caught Josh’s sleeve, pulling him back. “It’s not too late to turn back,” he said.

Josh blinked in surprise. “Dee wouldn’t like that.”

“Probably not,” Machiavelli agreed with a wry smile.

Josh was puzzled. Dee had said Machiavelli wasn’t his friend, and it had been obvious that the two men didn’t agree. “But I thought you and Dee were on the same side.”

“We are both in the service of the Elders, it is true…but I have never approved of the English Magician and his methods.”

Ahead of them, Dee turned into a smaller tunnel and stopped before a narrow metal door that was secured by a thick padlock. He pinched through the hasp of the metal lock with fingernails that stank of foul yellow power and pulled open the door. “Hurry,” he called back impatiently.

“This…this person we’re going to see,” Josh said slowly, “can they really Awaken my powers?”

“I have no doubt about it,” Machiavelli said softly. “Is the Awakening so important to you?” he asked, and Josh was aware that Machiavelli was watching him closely.

“My sister was Awakened-my twin sister,” he explained slowly. “I want…I need to have my powers Awakened so we’re alike again.” He looked at the tall white-haired man. “Does that make sense?”

Machiavelli nodded, his face an unreadable mask. “But is that the only reason, Josh?”

The boy looked at him for a long moment before he turned away. Machiavelli was right; it wasn’t the only reason. When he’d held Clarent, he’d briefly experienced a hint of what it must be like to have Awakened senses. For a few moments, he’d felt truly alive, he’d felt complete…and more than anything else, he wanted to experience that feeling again.