When the chaos had died down a little, she looked around for Master Haywood. He was flat on the floor among the wreckage, bleeding from a head wound. She rushed to his side.
“Are you all right, Master Haywood? Can you hear me?”
His eyelids fluttered open. He looked at her, his gaze unfocused.
“It’s me, Iolanthe. Are you all right?”
“Why are you still here?” he shouted, struggling to his feet. “Get in the trunk! Get in!”
He grabbed the satchel from her and tossed it into the trunk. She took a deep breath and hauled herself over the trunk’s high sides. He pulled on the lid. She held it open with the palm of her hand. “Wait, aren’t you coming w—”
He crumpled to the floor.
“Master Haywood!”
Through the chalky air, a matronly figure advanced. Mrs. Oakbluff waved her wand. Master Haywood’s inert body went flying, landing with a thud in the next room and missing being impaled upon a broken beam by mere inches.
Mrs. Oakbluff came at Iolanthe.
Where had they vaulted?
The village was not big, but it still had some forty, fifty dwellings of varying sizes. The villagers stopped what they were doing to gawk at Marble, her shadow gliding on rooftops and cobbled streets like a harbinger of doom.
The prince assessed the situation. Were he the father or the guardian—who obviously understood the implications of what the girl had done—would he have already gone on the run? Unlikely. He would want to return to their home nearby, where he had a bag packed for just such an emergency and a swift means to safety.
But where was home?
The prince had zoomed past the small house that sat apart from the rest of the village when a movement caught his eye. He turned his head, hoping it was the man and the girl rematerializing. Only one mage, however, stood before the house—not the long-haired girl, but a squat woman.
Disappointed, he continued his search. Only to see, a minute later, the same house shaking violently before collapsing on itself.
He reined Marble as close to a full stop as he dared and vaulted for the now crooked front steps of the house.
“What are you doing?” Iolanthe wanted to shout in indignation, but her voice was barely above a whimper.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Mrs. Oakbluff smiled, but her square face was without its usual rustic goodwill. “Did you know I once worked in demolition?”
“You destroyed our house because I damaged the flagpole?”
“No, because you resisted arrest. And I need the credit for your arrest, young lady—I’ve been in this wretched place too long.”
Credit for her arrest, not Master Haywood’s. Mrs. Oakbluff, soon-to-be in-law of Atlantis’s staunchest collaborators in all of Midsouth March, clearly believed seizing Iolanthe would bring her special rewards.
The fear that had been welling up in Iolanthe suddenly boiled over. She yanked on the lid of the trunk, but it refused to lower.
“Oh, no, I’m not letting you go so easily,” said Mrs. Oakbluff.
She raised her wand toward Iolanthe. Without thinking, Iolanthe reacted. A wall of fire roared toward Mrs. Oakbluff.
The prince first secured the house with an impassable circle to keep out other intruders. The front door still stood more or less intact, but the wall around it had crumbled. He stepped over the debris strewn across the vestibule, and barely had time to duck as a tongue of fire roared in his direction.
But the fire did not reach him. Instead it pivoted midair and shot back where it had come from. He followed it toward the back of the house and stopped in his tracks.
A dozen trails of hissing, crackling flames, vicious as serpents, attacked the housebreaker, who frantically shouted shielding charms. The girl, now covered in plaster dust, stood in a tall trunk, her arms waving, her face a scowl of concentration.
Some of the housebreaker’s shielding charms took. Behind their barricade, she pointed her wand at the girl.
The prince raised his own wand. The housebreaker fell to the broken floor. The girl gawked at him a moment, raised both hands, and pushed them out. Fire hurtled toward him.
“Esto praesidium!” The air before him hardened to take the brunt of the fire. “Recall your flames. I am not here to harm you.”
“Then leave.”
With a turn of her wrists, the wall of flame reconfigured into a battering ram.
Good thing he had fought so many dragons. “Aura circumvallet.”
Air closed around the fire. She waved her hands, trying to make her fire obey her, but it remained contained.
She snapped her finger to call forth more fire.
“Omnis ignis unus,” he murmured. All fire is one fire.
The new burst of flame she wanted materialized inside the prison he had already made.
He approached the trunk. Sunlight slanted through the broken walls into the room, sparkling where it caught particles of plaster in the air. One particular ray lit a thin streak of blood at her temple.
She yanked at the trunk lid. He set his own hand against it. “I am not here to harm you,” he repeated. “Come with me. I will get you to safety.”
She glowered. “Come with you? I don’t even know who . . .”
Her voice trailed off; her head jerked with recognition. He was Titus VII, the Master of the Domain. His profile adorned the coins of the realm. His portraits hung in schools and public buildings—even though he was not yet of age and would not rule in his own right for another seventeen months.
“Your Highness, forgive my discourtesy.” Her hand loosened its grip on the trunk’s lid; her gaze, however, remained on guard. “Are you here at Atlantis’s behest?”
So she knew from which quarter danger came. “No,” he answered. “The Inquisitor would have to step over my dead body to get to you.”
The girl swallowed. “The Inquisitor wants me?”
“Badly.”
“Why?”
“I will tell you later. We need to go.”
“Where?”
He appreciated her wariness: better wary than naive. But this was no time for detailed answers. Each passing second diminished their chances of getting out unseen.
“The mountains, for now. Tomorrow I will take you out of the Domain.”
“But I can’t leave my guardian behind. He—”
Too late. Overhead Marble emitted a high, keening call: she had sighted the Inquisitor. He untwisted the pendant he wore around his neck and pressed its lower half into her hand.
“I will find you. Now go.”
“But what about Master—”
He pushed her down and slammed the trunk shut.
The moment the trunk closed, its bottom dropped out from underneath Iolanthe. She fell into utter darkness, flailing.
CHAPTER
THERE WAS NO TIME TO bring down Marble. Titus had two choices: he could let the Inquisitor see Marble, catch her, and realize that Titus’s personal steed was loose in the vicinity; or he could vault onto the beast, with the latter in midflight.
It was stupid to vault onto a moving object. It was suicidal when the moving object was two hundred feet in the air. But if his presence was to be deduced no matter what, then he preferred to be caught flying, which would allow him to claim that he had never set foot on the ground.
He sighted Marble, sucked in a deep breath, and vaulted where he hoped she would be.
He rematerialized in thin air, with nothing under him. His heart stopped. A fraction of a second later, he crashed onto something hard—Marble’s back. Relief tore through him. But there was no time to indulge in the shaking exhaustion of having cheated death. He was too far aft. Shouting at Marble to keep steady, he scrambled forward along her smooth spine, even as he pointed his wand at the house to erase the impassable circle.
Already there had been a cluster of villagers gathered outside the circle, discussing among themselves whether they ought to go in. The removal of the circle lifted all such inhibitions. The villagers rushed into the house.