The Burning Sky

“You are probably thinking of someone else.” She extended her hand. “Here’s your pendant.”

“Thank you.” The prince shook his head, as if to clear it. He pointed at her clothes. “If you do not mind, we need to destroy them—I would prefer as little evidence of your mage origins lying about as possible. Same with the contents of the satchel. Is there anything you particularly wish to keep?”

A reminder that she wasn’t quite as safe as she would like to be. She didn’t know how the prince remained so calm. But she was grateful for his aplomb—it made her less afraid.

He motioned her to sit down and handed her the satchel. Master Haywood’s letter she set aside. Digging through the clothes, she found the pouch of coins she’d felt earlier—pure Cathay gold, acceptable tender in every mage realm.

“I think there is a false bottom,” she said, feeling along the linings, her fingers discerning the shape of something cylindrical.

The prince produced a spell that neatly removed the cover of the false bottom to reveal a hidden tube.

He astounded her—not so much the spell, though it was deft, but his demeanor. Had he been an orphan who’d had to fend for himself from the youngest age, perhaps she would not be surprised at his maturity and helpfulness. But his must have been the most privileged upbringing in all the Domain; yet here he was, always thinking one step ahead, always anticipating her needs.

“Thank you, sire,” she said.

Could he detect the admiration in her voice? She did, and it embarrassed her. Hurriedly she reached for the tube, which indeed contained her rolled-up birth chart—she recognized the elaborate painted night sky at the top of the scroll.

She put the letter, the pouch of coins, and the birth chart back into the satchel. He scooped up everything else. “May I ask why you called down the lightning today?”

I needed to keep my guardian employed and a roof over our heads.

“I was trying to correct a batch of light elixir. I found in my guardian’s copy of The Complete Potion a note that said a bolt of lightning could right any light elixir, no matter how badly tainted.”

He walked toward the fireplace, his arms full. “Who wrote that note?”

“I don’t know.”

He tossed her discards into the grate. “Extinguamini. Tollamini.”

Her things turned to dust. The dust rose in a column up the flue. The prince braced his elbow on the mantel and waited for all the evidence of destruction to depart. He was all long, elegant lines and—

She realized she was staring at him, in a way she could not remember ever looking at anyone else. Hastily she dropped her gaze.

“It is bizarre that anyone would counsel that,” he said. “Lightning plays no role in potion making. How old is that copy of The Complete Potion?”

“I’m not sure. My guardian always had it.”

He returned to the door of the laboratory, repeated the password, and went inside. “Mine is a first edition. It was published during the Millennium Year.”

The Millennium Year celebrated one thousand years of the House of Elberon—his house. It was currently Year of the Domain 1031, which meant the copy in Little Grind was at most thirty-one years old. She’d thought the book much older. “Do we need to find out who wrote the note, sire?”

We. Her use of the word further embarrassed her. She was assuming a great deal of common purpose with her sovereign.

“I doubt we would be able to, even if we tried,” said the prince. “Are you well enough to eat something?”

“I think so.” Her stomach had settled down and she was famished, having not touched a bite of the luncheon Mrs. Needles had brought her.

He poured her a cup of tea. “What is your name?”

It so surprised her that he did not already know that she forgot to thank him for the tea. “Seabourne, sire. Iolanthe Seabourne.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Miss Seabourne.”

“Long may Fortune uphold your banner, sire.”

That was what a subject said upon meeting the Master of the Domain. But perhaps she also ought to kneel. Most likely she should curtsy.

As if he read her thoughts, the prince said, “Do not worry about niceties. And no need to keep calling me ‘sire.’ We are not in the Domain, and no one will chastise us for not observing court etiquette.”

So . . . he is also gracious.

Enough. She didn’t even know what had happened to Master Haywood, and here she was, very close to hero-worshipping someone she’d barely met. “Thank you, sire—I mean, thank you. And may I impose upon you to tell me, Your Highness, what happened to my guardian after I left?”

“He is in the Inquisitor’s custody now,” said the prince, sitting down opposite her.

Even the pleasure of his nearness could not dilute her dismay. “So the Inquisitor did come?”

“Not even half a minute after you left.”

She clasped her hands together. That she was in real danger still shocked her.

“You have not touched your tea, Miss Seabourne. Cream or sugar?”

Usually she liked her tea full of sugar and cream, but such a rich beverage no longer appealed. She took a sip of the black tea. The prince pushed a plate of sandwiches in her direction.

“Eat. Hiding from the Inquisitor is hard work. You need to keep up your strength.”

She took a bite of the sandwich—it had an unexpectedly curried taste. “So the Inquisitor wants me.”

“More precisely, the Bane wants you.”

She recoiled. She couldn’t recall when or where she’d first learned of the Bane, whose official title was Lord High Commander of the Great Realm of New Atlantis. Unlike the Inquisitor, whom people did talk about, if in hushed whispers, regarding the Bane there was a conspicuous silence.

“What does the Bane want me for?”

“For your powers,” said the prince.

It was the most ridiculous thing anyone had ever said to her. “But the Bane is already the most powerful mage on earth.”

“And he would like to remain so—which is only possible with you,” said the prince. “You are crushing your sandwich, by the way.”

She willed her stiff fingers to unclench. “How? How do I have anything to do with the Bane remaining powerful?”

“Do you know how old he is?”

She shook her head and raised her teacup to her lips. She needed something to wash down the sandwich in her mouth, which had become a dry paste she couldn’t quite swallow.

“Close to two hundred. Possibly more.”

She stared at him, the tea forgotten. “Can anyone live that long?”

“Not by natural means. Agents of Atlantis watch all the realms under their control for unusually powerful elemental mages. When they locate such a mage, he or she is secretly shipped to Atlantis, never to be heard from again. I am ignorant of how exactly the Bane makes use of those elemental mages, but I do not doubt that he does make use of them.”

If she clutched her teacup any harder, the handle would break. She set it down. “What exactly is the definition of an unusually powerful elemental mage? I have no control over air.”

The prince leaned forward in his chair. “Are you sure? When was the last time you tried to manipulate air?”

She frowned: she couldn’t remember. “Someone tried to kill me by removing all the air from the end portal. If I had any affinity for air, I’d have stopped it, wouldn’t I?”

It became his turn to frown. “Were you not born on either the thirteenth or fourteenth of November 1866—I mean, Year of the Domain 1014?”

“No, I was born earlier, in September.”