The Burning Sky

would follow me to my parlor.”

Titus braced a hand on the banister—she had caught him as he was going up the stairs. “What is it with you Atlanteans? Can you not see I have a pounding headache?”

He was not lying: the inside of his skull felt like a nonmage demolition,all crowbars and sledgehammers. He was also feeble from hunger, having had nothing more than a cup of tea since his Inquisition.

“I wouldn’t dream of disturbing Your Highness unless it was of vital importance,” said Mrs. Hancock serenely.

“Who wants to see me?”

“The Acting Inquisitor, sir.”

“Who the hell is the Acting Inquisitor?”

“His name is Baslan.”

Baslan was not usually referred to as Acting Inquisitor, but as vice-proconsul or something of the sort. Titus rubbed his temples. “Is the Master of the Domain not important enough for the Bane’s lackey now? I have to see the lackey’s lackey?”

“You are ever so gracious, Your Highness,” murmured Mrs. Hancock, as she reached out and straightened a frame of embroidered iris that had been knocked askew by a careless boy.

She led the way to an austere parlor of bare floor and unpadded chairs, and not a petal or stem of the printed flowers beloved by Mrs. Dawlish. Baslan’s spectral image—a piece of Atlantean magic that the Domain’s archmages had yet to duplicate—paced in Mrs. Hancock’s parlor, heedless of walls and furniture.

He snapped to at Titus’s entrance. Titus plopped himself into the nearest seat and shaded his eyes with his hand—the sunlight streaming in from Mrs. Hancock’s window burned like acid on his retinas. “What do you want?”

“I need an account of Your Highness’s actions last night inside the Inquisition chamber.”

A question that did not involve Miss Buttercup in any conceivable manner was not one Titus had expected. “My actions? Bleeding from all major orifices and suffering horrific damage to my vision, my hearing, and my cognitive abilities.”

“You seem remarkably healthy for all the inflictions you listed,” said Baslan.

Titus coughed. He turned his face to the side and spat blood all over Mrs. Hancock’s skirts—a good trick if he did say so himself. Mrs. Hancock squealed—at last a genuine reaction—and waved her wand madly to get rid of the stains.

He glared at Baslan. “What did you say?”

Baslan looked baffled. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“The Acting Inquisitor need not hesitate,” said Mrs. Hancock. “If His Highness doesn’t already know what happened, he will very soon.”

Baslan still wavered.

Titus made as if to rise. “You have wasted enough of my time.”

“The Inquisitor has been unconscious since last night.” Baslan’s voice was shrill. “I demand to know what you did to her.”

Titus knew that mind mages abhorred disruptions during a probe, but he’d had no idea a disruption could be that catastrophic. Or was it because what Fairfax had thought of as dainty light spheres had not been so dainty? What if one such light sphere falling from a great height would have given the Inquisitor a concussion even under normal circumstances?

“Her mind is gone?” he asked, knowing that was too good to be true.

“Her mind is not gone,” Baslan snarled. “She is only temporarily incapacitated.”

“That is too bad. It would have been justice from the Angels for all the minds she has destroyed.”

Baslan clenched his hand, restraining himself with difficulty. “You will tell me what you did to Madam Inquisitor.”

Titus looked at him aslant. “So that was the reason you sent Lady Callista to the castle last night. And here I thought she was at last beginning to care about my health.”

And that was why they had tried to prevent him from leaving. Not because they wanted to strip him of his canary, but because the physicians needed to know what had caused the Inquisitor’s unconsciousness before they could formulate a treatment.

He smirked and pulled out his wand, adorned with seven diamond-inlaid crowns along its length. “This is Validus, the wand that once belonged to Titus the Great. I know Atlanteans are culturally isolated and largely unaware of histories beyond their own, but I trust that you, Acting Inquisitor, must have heard of Titus the Great.”

Baslan’s lips thinned. “I am aware of who he was.”

“Titus the Great left behind a unified Domain. But to his family, he also left behind the Titus Benediction, a tremendous protection allied to the power of Validus, which would let no harm come to the heir of the House of Elberon.”

He tapped the wand twice against his palm. Mrs. Hancock rose to her feet, Baslan took a step backward, both staring at the light now emanating from the seven crowns.

“Yes, you behold one of the last of the blade wands. An unsheathed blade wand is one of the most powerful objects around. And Validus unsheathed invokes the Titus Benediction—which I did before I fell unconscious. After that, all the might the Inquisitor aimed at breaking me would have deflected onto herself.”

Baslan was still staring at Validus as Titus sheathed it. Titus pulled himself to his feet. With all the hauteur he could muster—not a great deal as he could scarcely remain upright—he sneered at the Atlanteans.

“And that is why you do not trifle with the Master of the Domain.”

Iolanthe put her arm around him as he was about to start up the stairs.

His reaction was a low growl. “I told you not to come back until I gave you the all clear.”

He was pale, and there were drops of blood on his sleeve. Even knowing the blood for the trick it was, her heart still flinched. “You might have needed help.”

“Did I not also tell you never to worry about me?”

Stupid, stubborn boy. “If I hadn’t interfered earlier, you’d be a drooling imbecile by now. So shut up and let me make my own decisions.”

He almost smiled. “That does not sound right. I am the brains of the operation. You are only supposed to provide the muscle.”

She wanted to touch his cheek, but did no such thing. “When there is enough muscle, it develops a mind of its own.”

Birmingham, the house captain, bounded down the stairs. “What’s the matter, Titus? You look like you are about to give up the ghost.”

It still jarred Iolanthe to hear the prince called by his name. She almost snarled at Birmingham to not be so familiar. “Bad oysters at the diplomatic reception,” she said instead.

Birmingham sucked in a breath. “Those can be deadly. You’d better hope the danger is past.”

“I think I am going to puke again,” the prince mumbled.

“Hurry. I’ll secure you a chamber pot.” She’d found one in the hotel. The prince had to explain to her what the object was for. The very idea of it. “Toodles, Birmingham.”

Once they were in his room, she borrowed his wand and flicked it. There came the unmistakable sound of someone dry-heaving.

The prince winced, though he looked impressed at the same time. “What was that?”

“Learned it from a pupil in Little Grind. This was how she convinced her mother not to give her turnips at supper anymore.” She set a sound circle and gave the wand back to him. “Now you lie down.”

“I need to see what intelligence Dalbert might have sent.”

“Lie down. I’ll do it for you.”

“I—”

“If Dalbert sends intelligence, I need to know how to receive it. Remember, you won’t always be here.”

You can live forever for me. The wistfulness in those words, the calm acceptance of what could not be changed. There was no glory for him in chasing after the impossible, no reward beyond a