16
THE PRINCE’S HEAD THUDDED AGAINST the floor.
Iolanthe cried, a hoarse chirp.
She’d been flabbergasted by the Inquisitor’s revelations. Then terrified—what if the prince gave her up? Then pain had burst upon her, as if someone wielded a firebrand inside her skull. She’d convulsed, her wings twitching uselessly.
He remembered to take her out of his overrobe before he fell.
Until then, she’d thought that she was the only one who suffered, that he’d been wrong about the Inquisitor being unable to affect the minds of birds and reptiles. But as his knees gave out before her, she realized that she was not the Inquisitor’s target, he was.
He was being tortured and she, perhaps because of the bond of the blood oath, shared his agony.
The sight of his hands clawing mindlessly at the marble floors—the way a man buried alive clawed the lid of the coffin—momentarily loosened the hold the pain had on her: he was in far worse shape than she was.
His glazed eyes frightened her. She’d never believed that he of all people, exquisitely controlled and perfectly prepared, could be so vulnerable.
Not only vulnerable: helpless.
Unless she helped him.
But she wasn’t strong enough to disturb the foundation of the Inquisitory or even the walls of the Inquisition Chamber. And were she to unleash either fire or water, it would be obvious an elemental magic was at work.
Could she poke out the Inquisitor’s eyes with her beak? The very thought made her gag. It was also impractical. She could get off the ground, but she couldn’t fly fast or straight, which made her useless as a weapon.
She looked about desperately. A chandelier hung from a wrought-iron chain overhead. It had four branches, each holding a porcelain light sphere on a shallow cup.
An anti-shatter spell had been invented for glass, but not for porcelain. If she swung the chandelier, the light spheres would roll out—and plummet thirty feet to crash where the Inquisitor sat.
But she must not create too strong a gust, or the Inquisitor would immediately suspect the presence of an elemental mage.
Too strong a gust—she who couldn’t even float a piece of paper.
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.