A concentrated blast of air that wouldn’t be felt at floor level. And all in one go, so that by the time the Inquisitor noticed anything awry, Iolanthe would have already accomplished the deed.

Could she do it?

A shard of pain slashed through her left eye. She shuddered. The prince jerked on the floor. He clamped his hands on either side of his ears. Blood oozed out from between his fingers.

The sight shocked Iolanthe senseless. She must get him out of here.

She tried to clear her mind, to concentrate until she was nothing but a singular purpose. But doubt retained its stubborn hold. She had never managed it, whispered a soft voice. She couldn’t even when she was drowning in honey. What made her think she could now?

The honey had been make-believe. But this was real. His sanity was at stake. She might accuse him of lunacy, but she would peck the Inquisitor’s eyes out before she’d let the woman destroy his mind.

Iolanthe blocked out everything else and allowed herself only to remember what it felt like when she manipulated fire—or lightning. That absolute conviction. That bone-deep sense of connection.

Uncertainty still licked at the edges of her mind.

Time was running out. The Inquisitor rose, her menace a thing that choked the air from Iolanthe’s lungs.

Iolanthe closed her eyes. Do it. Now. And do it exactly as I will you.

A seemingly endless silence followed her command.

How dare you defy me? Do it NOW.

There came a dull sound of impact, followed by several sharp crashes and an unearthly shriek. Then all of a sudden, silence. Iolanthe opened her eyes. The Inquisition Chamber was bright as day, the floor aglow with spilled light elixir, its luminance no longer dampened by the opacity of the porcelain spheres.

Doors burst open. Mages rushed in.

“Your Excellency!” shouted the Inquisitor’s minions.

“Your Highness!” cried Lowridge.

The prince lay crumpled on the floor. Blood smeared his face, his collar, and the floor beneath his head.

Iolanthe barely avoided being trampled as she hopped toward him. She flapped her largely useless wings, bumped into one guard’s calf, and then shot under another guard’s groin to land, badly, on the prince’s shoulder.

The captain of the guard checked the prince’s pulse, his face grim with worry.

“Is he still alive, sir?” asked one of the guards.

“He is,” said the captain. “We must get him to safety without delay.”

But Baslan barred the way. “I demand an account of what happened to Madam Inquisitor.”

Iolanthe noticed for the first time that the Inquisitor, like the prince, was on the floor. Anxious minions surrounded her. Iolanthe couldn’t see her face, but she seemed as unconscious as he.

The captain rose to his full height and towered over Baslan. “How dare you ask what happened to the Inquisitor? What has she done to our prince? If you do not remove yourself from my path this instant, I will consider this a provocation of war and act accordingly.”

Iolanthe couldn’t breathe. She’d been frantic with fear for the possibility of irreversible damage the Inquisitor might have caused the prince; it had not even occurred to her what a diplomatic nightmare she’d brought on by interrupting the Inquisition.

Baslan wavered.

But Captain Lowridge did not. With two of the guards’ ceremonial spears and his own cape, he concocted a makeshift stretcher. The guards placed the prince onto the stretcher and marched out of the Inquisition chamber behind their captain.

The chariot was still in the courtyard. Captain Lowridge carefully deposited the prince’s limp person on the floor of the chariot and took the reins himself. Atlantean soldiers blocked the exit. Iolanthe’s wings twitched. If it came to that, did she dare bring down another bolt of lightning?

“Make way for the Master of the Domain.” Captain Lowridge’s voice was a rumble that seemed to carry for miles. “Or you will have declared war on him. And none of you will ever see Atlantis again.”

The soldiers looked at one another. Finally, one shuffled a step to the side, and the rest followed. A sergeant opened the triple gates. Captain Lowridge sped the chariot outside, his guards behind on their mounts.

They cleared the boundaries of the Inquisitory in no time. Captain Lowridge whistled. At his command, the pegasi spread their wings and the chariot became airborne.

“The Citadel,” he shouted at his subordinates.

“No,” said the prince. Iolanthe started. She thought him unconscious still. “Not the Citadel. The castle.”

His eyes remained shut, his voice was low and weak, but he was most certainly lucid.

“Yes, sire,” answered the captain. He repeated the prince’s order. “We make for the castle without delay.”

“Canary,” muttered the prince.

Iolanthe hopped onto his bloodstained palm. His hand closed about her. Another time she’d have protested the hold as too tight, but now she was only fiercely glad he had enough strength left to grip her so.

They raced for the expedited airway, the night traffic over Delamer yielding to the princely standard flying over the chariot. The kick of acceleration told Iolanthe they had left Delamer. She was never so happy to be almost asphyxiated. The prince grunted in pain as they were spewed out the other end.

She rubbed her head against the edge of his palm. Almost to safety—they would be all right.

“Your Highness, if you would,” said the captain, once they were above the Labyrinthine Mountains.

The prince drew his wand and feebly muttered something. To the southeast a flare shot up in the sky, illuminating the highest towers of the castle.

“Thank you, sire.”

The captain steered toward the direction of the flare. Iolanthe had forgotten that with the arrhythmic shifting of the mountains, even those who lived in the castle must look for it each time they left and came back.

The prince asked to be let off at the landing arch at the top of the castle, rather than in the courtyard. He allowed the captain to help him out of the chariot and leaned on the latter to walk.

His valet, his attendants, and a horde of pages ran up. They pressed in around him. He ordered them to leave him alone, sounding peevish in that way he did so well.

“Stand back, you idiots. I cannot breathe.”

“The court physician is on his way,” said an attendant.

“Send him away.”

“But sire—”

“Send him away or I will send you away. I will not have people say I needed to be patched up after a mere conversation with that gorgon.”

But of course he needed to be patched up. He’d bled so much—and from his ears.

Nevertheless the prince prevailed. He barred the majority of the crowd outside the doors of his apartment. Most of the rest were allowed no farther than the anteroom.

The court physician, who had disregarded his wishes and come all the same, was not only denied entrance to the prince’s bedchamber, but also awarded a tirade.

“Do you dare insinuate that I cannot talk to the Inquisitor for ten minutes without needing medical attention? What kind of a weakling do you take me for? I am the bloody heir of the bloody House of Elberon. I do not need a know-it-all sawbones after a chitchat with that Atlantean witch.”

Even the valet was given the boot after he helped the prince take off his overrobe. “Go.”

“But sire, at least allow me to clean you.”

“Who do you think cleans me when I am at school? I am not one of those old-time princes who cannot wipe their own arses. Leave.”

The valet protested. The prince pushed him out of the bedchamber and shut the door in his face.

He swayed, caught himself on a small fruit tree that grew in a glazed pot, staggered into the water closet, and vomited.

Iolanthe chirped unhappily where she’d been left—just outside the closed door of the water closet. Faucets ran. Sounds of splashes came. The prince emerged ashen, but with most of the blood on his face washed off.