Yet he must, or he would have lived his entire life in vain.
CHAPTER 
21
UPON THE PLAYING FIELDS, A cricket game was in full progress, penned in by a crowd nine deep. West, the future captain of the school team, struck a ball directly out of bounds, giving his club six runs. The spectators roared with approval.
“Johnny, you must introduce me to West,” a girl to the right of Titus said to her brother. “You simply must.”
“But I’ve never been within a hundred feet of him,” protested Johnny, a portly junior boy.
“Johnny, my dear,” said his stern-looking mother, “is that all the enterprise you possess? If your sister wishes to meet West, then you will endeavor to make it happen.”
Fourth of June was Eton’s biggest annual fete, a daylong celebration marked by speeches in the morning, a cricket game in the afternoon, a procession of boats in the evening, and a display of fireworks at night, the whole heavily attended by Old Etonians and the families of current pupils.
Titus had forgotten what a horde of sisters and mothers always descended, inundating the school in a tide of pastel. Ruffles, ribbons, bustled skirts abounded. Thousands of silk-flower-trimmed hats bobbed and joggled. The air was heavy with perfumes of rose and lilies.
Such femininity struck him as exaggerated, almost caricature-ish. These days, a girl was most beautiful to him in short hair, a uniform, and a derby set at a rakish angle.
He scanned the mob. Fairfax had not returned. She had banded together with Kashkari and Wintervale, who also had no family in attendance, for a picnic. Titus could have joined them, but he did not.
He and Fairfax had not exactly been avoiding each other. They spoke daily concerning news from the Domain, her training, and his search for a spell to permanently incapacitate the Inquisitor. But their interaction had become formal, structured, questions that changed little from day to day, and answers that varied even less.
It was probably for the best.
But he could not help wishing otherwise. All the more so since Dalbert was on leave—his dying mother wished him to accompany her to a spiritual retreat on Ondine Island, near her place of birth. Without Dalbert’s daily reports, Titus felt as if he stood blindfolded in a minefield.
At least the last bit of news Dalbert reported before he left had been the most welcome yet: the Inquisitor had been transported to Atlantis, likely due to further deterioration of her condition.
A commotion behind Titus made him turn around. A group of men were pushing through the crowd, much to the consternation of those being shoved out of the way. To his displeasure, Titus recognized the coat of arms on the livery of the men coming toward him as the invented heraldry of Saxe-Limburg, his fictional place of origin. Behind the men came Greencomb, Alectus’s secretary, dressed in a nonmage suit.
“Your Highness.” Greencomb bowed. “The regent and Lady Callista humbly beg the honor of your presence.”
“They are
“Indeed. It is a day for family, sire.”
Alectus and Lady Callista had never attended previous Fourths of June. Titus frowned. This was exactly the sort of land mine that blew up in one’s face when one gave leave to one’s indispensable spymaster. What new devilry was Lady Callista plotting?
Greencomb indicated a large white canopy that had been erected at the edge of the field. With the attendants parting the crowd before him, Titus headed toward the canopy, Greencomb trailing behind.
Murmurs went through the gathering. He had never been the center of attention at Eton, but now boys who had known him for years were taking second and third looks.
The occupants of the canopy came into view. There was Alectus, looking as eager and useless as ever. Lady Callista, to his left, was gathering a crowd of gawkers. And to Alectus’s right—
Stood the Inquisitor.
Like everyone else, she had been wrangled into nonmage clothes. Tiered, gathered silk skirt over a large bustle, a feathered hat, and a fringed parasol, all in black. She looked ridiculous but perfectly healthy.
Their eyes met. She smiled, the smile of a predator ready to pounce. She had recovered. She knew that he had enjoyed the help of an elemental mage. And she had come to put him under Inquisition again.
Fear strangled him. But his feet continued to carry him forward. He was the heir of the House of Elberon and he did
The regent had brought a retinue of twenty, and the Inquisitor almost as many minions. Whispered questions passed among the spectators concerning Titus’s origin and true rank. He would have laughed at “Is he the next Kaiser?” if his innards were not knotted tighter than a noose.
As he approached, the regent and the Inquisitor bowed, Lady Callista curtsied. Titus inclined his head. The murmurs of the spectators climbed half an octave. They had expected that he would be paying obeisance, not the other way around.
“Words cannot express my delight,” he said. “Will you be leaving soon?”
That hushed the crowd. Into the silence came Cooper’s loud stage whisper. “What did I always tell you, Rogers? He isn’t a piddling prince. He’s a
Lady Callista laughed softly, as if Titus had said something funny. “Your Highness, indeed, all too soon we will be leaving. So we must enjoy to the fullest what time we have together. The regent and I—and I am sure the Inquisitor too—are eager to meet your friends.”
Only then did Titus notice Nettle Oakbluff amidst the Inquisitor’s minions. She scanned the gathering with the wild-eyed greediness of a gold rusher, ready to find the one nugget that would lead to riches and glory. Next to her was Horatio Haywood, wan and unsteady on his feet.
Titus broke into a cold sweat. The Inquisitor had realized that he must keep Iolanthe Seabourne nearby. The Irreproducible Charm prevented her image from being drawn and disseminated. But it could not prevent her from being recognized by those who knew her.
Thank goodness she was away at her picnic with Kashkari and Wintervale.
Would that distance be enough to keep her safe?
“We have been provided a list of all your known associates, sire,” said Lady Callista, smiling. “We are determined to greet them all.”
Iolanthe and Wintervale lay on a small knoll by the Thames. Kashkari had been with them earlier, but had left for a walk.
Fat, fluffy clouds drifted across a perfect blue sky. The river shushed and soughed against its banks. Warm sunlight fell gently upon Iolanthe’s skin.
She opened her eyes, grimacing. She must have fallen asleep. And even after such a short nap, her hands—her entire arms, in fact—hurt. She tried to tell herself that it was a good thing—more pain probably implied a more fierce struggle between her potential and what remained of the otherwise spell. But it was taking too long, and her mastery over air was still questionable.
“Damn it,” exclaimed Wintervale, startling her.
“What’s the matter?”
He sat up. “Remember what Kashkari said about the tennis tournament?”
“That today is the perfect weather for bouncing a vulcanized rubber ball on grass?”
“That and he wants to hold it next Sunday,” said Wintervale gloomily. “I forgot I have to take a short leave that day.”
Iolanthe’s foot twitched—boys usually only took leaves to visit their families. “I thought your mother was in Baden-Baden.”
“No, she came back last week. I didn’t say anything about it—idiots like Cooper won’t understand why she chooses to remain home on the Fourth of June.”
“Oh,” she said.
“You don’t have to look so alarmed, Fairfax,” said Wintervale, looking a little put out. “Most of the time she is
