Do not go to Apollonia II for recipes unless you intend to pluck eyes out of live animals. Titus IV—I know, shocking—has a number of very reliable recipes.—Aglaia.
Aglaia has adapted Titus IV’s recipes to more modern tools and processing methods.—Gaius.
“So this is how you have been educated in subtle magic, by your ancestors.”
“Many of whom were capable mages, though only a few are also good teachers.”
The gallery turned. And turned again. She stopped paying attention to the individual doors and studied the boy next to her. He looked slightly less ravaged, though he still walked hesitantly, as if worried about his balance.
And everything would only become more difficult.
This was why he wanted her to love him, because love was the only force that could compel him onto this path—and hold him to it.
There came a prickling sensation in her heart, a weight with thorns.
They were approaching the stairs again. The last two doors belonged to Prince Gaius and Prince Titus VII, respectively. “Your mother doesn’t have a place here?”
“She was never on the throne. Only a ruling prince or princess is allotted a spot in the teaching cantos.”
Prince Gaius’s door, a gigantic block of basalt thickly studded with fist-sized rubies, bore an unmistakable resemblance to that of Titus III’s—except everything had been done on a showier scale. On his plaque, he listed one of his areas of expertise as Atlantis. “Have you spent much time here?”
The prince cast an icy look at his grandfather’s door. “I do not call on him.”
Sometimes he was sixteen years old. And sometimes he was a thousand, as cold and proud as the dynasty that had spawned him.
She tapped on the door of his classroom. “And what do you teach?”
Next to Prince Gaius’s, his door was almost laughably plain—and looked exactly the same as the door to his room in Mrs. Dawlish’s house. “I teach survival—for you. When I am gone, this is where you will come if you still have questions.”
Suddenly she understood the dread in her heart. If the prophecy of his death had been properly interpreted, it would mean he had very little time left. A year, perhaps. A year and half at best. How would it feel to push open that door, knowing he was gone, to speak with “a record and a likeness” of him?
She made herself say something sensible. “Would you mind if I asked your grandfather a few questions—in case he knew something about Atlantis that could help us free Master Haywood?”
“Go ahead. Although—”
“What is it?”
He didn’t quite look at her. “I think you should first consult the Oracle of Still Waters.”
A flagstone-paved path led out from behind the pink marble palace, flanked on either side by tall, stately trees with bark that was almost silky to the touch. Pale-blue flowers drifted down from the boughs, twirling like tiny umbrellas.
Iolanthe caught one of the blue flowers. “Are we still in the teaching cantos?”
The prince nodded. “In the practice cantos, every time you leave, it is as if you have never been there. But the Oracle will advise you only once in your lifetime, and until her story was moved to the teaching cantos, where there is continuity, my ancestors could never get any meaningful answers from her.”
“And she will only help you to help someone else, right?”
“Right—and she can see through you. When I pretended that I want to help the Bane remain in power, she laughed. When I said I wanted to protect my people, she laughed again. And when I asked how I could help you get to me, she told me to mind my own business, because you had no interest in my schemes.”
He could joke about it now, but she wondered how the Oracle’s blunt, unhelpful answers must have struck him when he desperately needed guidance and assurance.
The path led them to a clearing. The Oracle, at the center of a clearing, was not a pond, as Iolanthe had thought, but a round pool six foot across built of fine, creamy marble. The water was as beautiful as the light elixir she’d made with her lightning.
“Lean over the edge and look at your reflection,” said the prince.
As she did so, the water ruffled. A pleasant, feminine voice greeted her. “Iolanthe Seabourne, welcome.”
Iolanthe drew back in surprise. “How do you know my name, Oracle?”
The water danced, as if laughing. “I wouldn’t be any good if I didn’t know who had come to ask for my help.”
“Then you also know why I have come.”
“But there is more than one person you wish to help.”
Iolanthe glanced behind her shoulder. The prince stood at the edge of the clearing, out of earshot.
“Think carefully. I can help you only once.”
She rubbed her thumb along the raised rim. “Then help me help the one who needs it the most.”
The pool stilled to an almost mirrorlike smoothness. Not a ripple distorted Iolanthe’s reflection. All at once her reflection disappeared, as did the reflection of the cloudless sky above. The surface of the water turned ink dark and swelled like a rising tide.
The Oracle’s voice turned deep, rough. “You will best help him by seeking aid from the faithful and bold. And from the scorpion.”
“What do you mean?” But of course, one was not supposed to ask oracles such questions.
The pool turned clear again. Water receded from the edge, hissing with steam. The marble beneath her hand, cool to the touch a minute ago, was now hot, as if it had been in the sun for hours.
“As for your guardian, he will not long remain in the custody of the Inquisitor,” said the Oracle, her voice low. “Good-bye, Iolanthe Seabourne.”
They had entered the Crucible sitting a respectable distance apart on the bed. But Titus opened his eyes to find her head on his shoulder, his hand holding hers on the cover of the book.
He did not immediately release her hand. He should, but somehow he remained exactly as he was. His breath came in shallow, almost ragged. Her hair brushed against his jaw, as if she were tilting her face to look at him.
A hot urge pulsed through his veins. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. If he counted to five, and she still did not move . . .
Four seconds. Five sec—
Her fingers tightened around his. But the next moment she was already rising and walking away. At the opposite wall, she turned around and crossed her feet insouciantly at the ankles, as if nothing had happened. Nothing had happened, but almost five seconds was an awfully long time to teeter on the brink.
He collected himself. “What did the Oracle say about your guardian?”
“That he won’t be in the Inquisitory for much longer.”
“How will he escape?”
“Do oracles ever answer such questions?”
A loud knock came, not on his door, but hers. “You there, Fairfax?” asked Cooper. “I could use some help with my critical paper.”
“My flock bleats. I’d better shepherd.” She opened the door. “Cooper, old bloke. Have you missed me?”
Titus already missed her.
When she had left, he opened the Crucible to the illustration for “The Oracle of Still Waters.” Her face looked back at him from the surface of the pool. As he had hoped, the pond’s ability to capture the likeness of anyone who looked into it was immune from the reach of the Irreproducible Charm.
Titus VI had built the trick into the pond because he had wanted all the great and terrible mages who dwelled inside the Crucible to resemble him. Titus VII didn’t even like to look at his own face in the mirror, but he was immensely grateful that his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather had been so silly.
Now he could work her likeness into any story of his choosing.
Now he could fight dragons for her.
And now he could kiss her again.
CHAPTER
PART OF A BRITISH BOY’S education consisted of memorization. In repetition class, pupils had to recite the forty of so lines of Latin verse they had been assigned to memorize.