The Immortal Heights (27 page)

“Let's put the wyverns down. Wyvern riders seem to do that regularly enough—we shouldn't attract too much attention.”

They landed in the dark hollow of a ridge near but not at the top of the rim, on the outside of the caldera, and led the wyverns back into the Crucible. The meadow was again in an uproar, with
Skytower already at its edge. They left in a hurry, taking a brass key someone had dropped in the grass, to keep the Crucible “open.”

Behind Iolanthe, Kashkari limped. She turned around. “You all right?”

“A little more time and I'll be good as new.”

She braced her arm around his middle; he did not refuse her help. They stuck to the shadows as much as possible as they climbed to the brim of the dead volcano, looking around constantly.

The ascent was steep, but not particularly treacherous; no loose stones or little depressions perfect for spraining ankles. In fact, near the top, the land flattened noticeably. Even with Kashkari leaning on her, they made good time.

As the terrain underfoot began to tilt the other way, they crouched down next to a boulder—more to shield themselves from the nearest guard tower than anything else—and looked down upon the Bane's redoubt.

It was much, much bigger than she had anticipated. Even against this grand natural setting, the palatial fortress, on its own hill at the very center of the caldera, dominated by its sheer aggressiveness. She had imagined it would be foursquare like Black Bastion, but there was something maritime about the architecture of the Commander's Palace. Its walls seemed to meet at angles sharper than ninety degrees, its roofs looked like unfurled sails, and both its northern and southern extremities jutted out like a ship's prow.

Kashkari swore. “No wyverns land on or near the actual
palace—if we try to approach that way, we will be immediately marked as suspicious. Carpets will be a dead giveaway. We can't vault and we can't walk across the floor of the caldera past all those rings of defense. How the hell do we get in?”

Iolanthe took a deep breath. Her heart pounded and her hands shook, but it was as if the quantity of fear and anguish that had washed through her this night had somehow anesthetized her.

“We'll get in exactly as you foresaw in your dream,” she replied with something that was almost equanimity. “How would you like to be the first mate of Skytower?”

Kashkari stared at her, probably thinking back to his prophetic dream.
I was in the air again, on a huge terrace or platform that floated forward.
“Skytower? I was standing on
Skytower
?”

“I don't know,” Iolanthe answered. “But now you will.”

When they had last gone into the Crucible to hide, some part of her mind had noticed the silhouette of Skytower. If she were to stand at the front of the command deck, she would not see the great rock formation below, in the shape of an upside-down peak, but would think herself on a floating platform.

And that was good enough for her.

Kashkari's jaw clenched. “Well, let's go take over Skytower.”

Which was a far easier task than otherwise, given that now the Enchantress of Skytower and her second-in-command looked exactly like Iolanthe and Kashkari, respectively, after the modifications
Iolanthe had made to the illustration that accompanied the story, affixing their own likenesses, captured by the Oracle's pool, onto the characters' faces.

A short time later, they stood on Skytower's command deck, their crew of bloodthirsty marauders waiting for orders. But how did one take a tower the size of a mountain out of the Crucible?

By its steering helm, Kashkari recommended. The handling of the helm wasn't usually the second-in-command's task, but no one was going to deny him the use of it, especially not when the mistress of Skytower herself accompanied him, her hand on his arm.

“And they lived happily ever after,” she said.

The night sky in the Crucible was replaced by the far brighter night sky above the Commander's Palace, which looked a good deal less impressive when viewed from the lofty vantage point of Skytower.

They had succeeded—they had taken out the entire Skytower.

The sudden appearance of this colossus stunned the Atlanteans. The wyvern riders gaped from their mounts; two armored chariots almost flew smack into Skytower; and cries of alarm and dismay echoed from below, from the guard towers and the rings of defenses.

Kashkari summoned his carpet. They had laid the Crucible carefully atop a battle carpet, so they could retrieve it immediately: anything brought out from the book would evanesce if it moved more than a short distance away.

Iolanthe caught both the carpet and the book.

“Where's the helmswoman?” asked Kashkari. “She can—”

He cried out and fell against the helm. Skytower rammed directly into the side of the caldera. The entire structure shuddered. The crew shouted. Iolanthe grabbed on to the railing.

Kashkari screamed. Skytower skidded starboard, its enormous base now scraping and scoring the inside slope of the caldera.

She pried him off the helm. “What's the matter? What's going on?”

He bent over, his fingers digging into her forearm. “Pain. Everywhere.”

She gasped. “You are still connected to Titus via a blood oath, aren't you? You are feeling
his
pain. The Bane—the—”

If the Bane was torturing Titus, then he already knew Amara was not the elemental mage he wanted. What had happened to
her
?

She grabbed the helmswoman normally in charge of Skytower's navigation. “You see that building down there? Plow it flat.
Flat.
I want to see deep into its bowels.”

Pain racked Titus. His internal organs were raked over burning coal, his sinews shredded apart.

“You interfering little snot,” snarled the Bane. “You think you can keep me from what I want? I always get what I want.”

Titus could not speak. He could not even scream. The pain ratcheted tighter and tighter. He was blind with agony.

He barely felt the shudder in the floor beneath him. The sound,
like enormous millstones grinding together, only vaguely registered. But the next second his pain stopped. He collapsed to the floor of the containment cell, gasping.

The Bane stood listening. Titus could hear nothing—they were too far into the center of the hill on which the Commander's Palace stood. Which made the noise from a moment ago all the more remarkable. What had happened?

“Is Iolanthe Seabourne behind this?” demanded the Bane.

“I do not know.” But he certainly did not think it was beyond her. What had she done? Caused an actual earthquake?

The entire palace lurched, again and again, as if its levels were being sheared off one by one. The jolts went straight to Titus's stomach. He clenched his teeth against repeated surges of nausea. Yet another hit. The ceiling of the crypt cracked. Stone and plaster rained down; dozens of wood carvings thudded to the floor.

The sounds changed, from those of brutal impact to something almost like a needle scratch, if the needle was the length of a street. Titus sucked in a breath.
Skytower.
Its great rock formation had a blunt end, but one of Skytower's secrets was that it could extrude a huge spike from that blunt end. And the helmswoman who piloted Skytower was said to be an artist with that spike, and could carve her name on a piece of stone no bigger than the seat of a chair.

It must be Fairfax. She had found a way, as she always did. He was on his feet, his face pressed against the wall of the containment cell, his fist pounding.
Come on, Fairfax. Come on!

Something that resembled a wasp's stinger, if the wasp was the size of a phantom behemoth, tore through the ceiling near the southern wall of the crypt. He gasped. Beyond the shredded ceiling was the sky itself—Fairfax and Kashkari had managed to bulldoze the Commander's Palace.

In that jagged band of the harshly lit night sky, Atlantean forces were madly maneuvering. Titus tried to recall what he could of Skytower's crew. Did they have enough mage power to hold the wyvern battalion, the armored-chariot-carried colossal cockatrices, and all the other soldiers and war machines the Bane had at his disposal?

He glanced at the Bane, expecting to see the latter's face twisted with rage. Instead, the Bane was smiling. Titus's nascent hopes turned to ash. Why was the Bane delighted? What were his plans?

Wildly he looked about. Then he saw it, the round, transparent base of the other containment cell, gliding toward the opening in the ceiling. That very moment Kashkari and Fairfax streaked in on their carpets. Before Titus could shout in warning, they passed directly over the base of the cell.

Instantly the walls of the cell closed about them.

CHAPTER
23

AS FAIRFAX'S AND KASHKARI'S CARPETS
struck the invisible barrier, they cried out and fell in a heap.

“No! No!” Titus screamed.

It could not be. They had not demolished the Commander's Palace to be caught like rats in a trap.

The Bane laughed. “Why, thank you, my dear Fairfax, for taking the trouble to deliver yourself to me.”

Titus fell back against the far wall of his own containment dome, his hands over his face. Not this. Not this bitter, senseless end. Not after everything they had gone through, all the sacrifices that had been made, and all the lives that had been irrevocably lost.

Inside the other containment cell, Fairfax was getting up. “You all right, Kashkari?”

Kashkari was slower to rise to his feet. “I'm fine,” he said, wincing.

Fairfax's gaze landed on Titus. She raised her hand and rested it against the wall of her cell. “Your Highness.”

Titus could only shake his head, trying not to break down and weep openly.

“Where is Durga Devi?” she asked.

From her spot, the pillar upon which the Bane had dashed Amara blocked the line of sight to where the latter lay.

“She is here.”

“Is she . . .”

“I do not know.”

Her containment cell glided across the floor toward the Bane. Kashkari gave a cry as they rounded the pillar and he saw Amara's crumpled form. Fairfax's throat moved at the sight of her own face on that too-still body.

The din of battle rose to a deafening pitch outside—the defenders of the Commander's Palace were throwing themselves upon the marauders of Skytower. But Titus scarcely heard anything, his attention fixed on Fairfax. There was a smear of dirt on her face and bits of rock dust in her hair, and he was reminded of the day they first met, seven months and forever ago.

The cell stopped six feet from the Bane. At last she looked upon the monster himself. She did not appear afraid, only weary beyond words.

“My dear, dear Fairfax,” murmured the Bane.

“My lord High Commander,” replied Fairfax, in her low, rich,
slightly gravelly voice. “Or is it Palaemon Zephyrus? No, I forgot. Your real name is Pyrrhos Plouton, you nasty old man.”

The Bane's good humor apparently could not be dampened by a few barbed words. “About to be an even nastier, even older man, thanks to you.”

“You will not have me,” she said flatly. “Nor will this cell hold me.”

“This cell is built to be strong enough for me.”

“I thought so,” she said. “Step behind me, please, Kashkari.”

A bolt of lightning left her hands and struck the wall of the containment cell, which lit up and crackled. The Bane's expression changed. He had built the cell to be strong enough for him—but he was not capable of lightning.

Suddenly Titus felt the Bane's wand at his temple.

“Stop or the boy dies,” snarled the Bane.

“Keep going!” Titus shouted. “It does not matter if I die. Finish
him
!”

Fairfax hesitated.

“Do not think. Do as I say!” he shouted louder, even as his voice turned hoarse. “Break free now!”

A pain like ice gored him in the stomach. He fell down. Ice turned into fire, charring all his nerve endings.

“Be a good girl,” came the Bane's honeyed voice, “and he won't suffer any more.”

“No . . .” The possibility that she might listen to the Bane horrified Titus. “No . . .”

Her jaw worked. An agony like having his spine ripped out skewered through him. He convulsed, but he kept his eyes on her, willing her to hold firm. Her hands shook. Her whole person shook.

The Bane lifted his wand. Titus braced himself for worse. The Bane half dropped his hand, raised it again, and slid it to the side. Titus blinked, so confused and taken aback he only faintly noticed that he was no longer in pain.

The Bane waved his wand about like the conductor of an orchestra. A sneer twisted his lips, an expression of sheer disdain. Yet as Titus watched, that disdain turned into consternation. Then, outright anger.

The next second the walls of the containment cells disappeared. The Bane knelt down and lifted Titus. “Get off that base,” he said to Fairfax and Kashkari, both flabbergasted. “I can't keep him away for long.”

No, not the Bane. This was Titus's father, and Titus was looking into the kind, beautiful eyes that his mother had loved. “Father. Father!”

“You look just like your mother,” said his father, hugging him tight. “You look just like Ariadne.”

He kissed Titus on the forehead. “Someone stun me right now and put a spell shield around me. The Bane can't use me if I'm unconscious.”

Fairfax and Kashkari raised their wands. But whereas Kashkari fulfilled Titus's father's request, Fairfax lifted a chunk of
stone and sent it flying toward—

West, who was just sitting up on his platform. He promptly tipped over and fell onto the floor.

“Good thinking!” cried Kashkari.

With Titus's father unconscious, the Bane had turned to West. But now, with his last spare out of commission . . . Fairfax, Kashkari, and Titus looked at one another: faced with a clear path to the Bane's sarcophagus, they were at a loss over what to do.

A wall of flames roared their way.

The Bane's original body might not have fingers left to grip a wand, or even a tongue for speaking the words of an incantation, but his mind was perfectly functional. And the mind was all that was needed to power feats of elemental magic.

While Kashkari and Titus shouted for shields, Iolanthe raised her hands and pushed back against the fire. “Keep an eye on West and your father,” she cried. “Keep them safe.”

It had amazed her to hear Titus calling the Bane's current body “father.” But it all made sense. Now if only they could defeat the Bane and get out of here.

She lifted one of the stone platforms and sent it crashing toward the sarcophagus, and then another—the best way to keep everyone safe was to keep the Bane busy defending his original body. She advanced. The fire he had summoned she kept sweeping toward
him. “Do you enjoy being toasty, my lord High Commander?”

The third platform she smashed into the sarcophagus fractured the lid. With a wave of her hand, the split halves of the lid went flying.

“The ceiling!” Kashkari shouted.

Cracks zigzagged across the ceiling. Enormous slabs of stone fell. Iolanthe redirected the tonnage of debris toward a far wall of the crypt. The next moment, half of everything she'd just put away came zooming back, headed for Titus. With a yell she propelled the slabs off course.

Titus cried out. She screamed too, fearful he had been hurt, only to see that with all her efforts concentrated on keeping him safe, the Bane had managed to hurl a slab into Titus's father.

With a sinking heart she lifted up the slab. More fire erupted, a conflagration that engulfed the entire crypt. She hefted the fire upward, so that those who lay on the floor—Amara, West, and Titus's father—would be spared from the flames.

“We must keep advancing!” Titus called.

“The longer he stalls us, the more likely the mages of Skytower will be overwhelmed and he will be rescued,” said Kashkari almost at the same time.

Iolanthe gritted her teeth and punched a lane through the fire. Titus and Kashkari marched on either side of her, applying shields. The pieces of decor had caught fire and were smoking mightily. The
air shimmered with heat from the flames. The Bane's sarcophagus seemed to warp and wriggle.

More fire. More flying rocks. Despite the shields, she felt the skin on her cheeks blister, a scalding pain. Grunting with the effort, she again hoisted the flames a few inches higher, not wanting those on the floor to suffer.

Ten feet. Five feet. Three feet. They leaped onto the dais and stood over the now lidless sarcophagus. But all Iolanthe could see of the interior was a milky fog.

Kashkari prodded the tip of his wand against the fog. The wand was stopped by an invisible shield. Titus was already trying various incantations.

“Should I shatter the rest of the sarcophagus too?” Iolanthe asked.

“You can,” said Kashkari. “But I doubt it'll help. I think the sarcophagus is just decoration—this inside shield is what truly protects him.”

But how did they break through this shield, which the Bane must have spent decades, if not centuries, perfecting?

And they must do it soon. Outside the roar of wyverns was deafening. The stink of colossal cockatrices had already reached her nostrils. And the crew of Skytower were calling for her. “We have to get out of here, Skipper!” “Skipper, we can't hold them off for much longer!”

Had they come so far to be thwarted by a
shield
?

Titus and Kashkari whispered fiercely, trying spell after spell. She and the unseen Bane wrestled with each other via their command of the elements, locked in a stalemate. Sweat dripped down her face, an indescribable pain where it rolled past the blisters on her cheeks. Cries from the Atlanteans outside were becoming more aggressive, more triumphant. Soon armored chariots would crash through and it would be too late.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of West crawling across the rubble-strewn floor of the crypt. Her heart very nearly leaped out of her rib cage: the Bane had retaken command of West's body. But when he raised his face and met her gaze, there was no malice in his eyes, only a great determination—it was just West, who had regained consciousness.

He inched along, dragging an injured leg behind him, making for Titus's father. When he reached the latter, he lifted one of the man's hands and pointed at the sarcophagus.
Of course
. The Bane's original body needed to be cared for, and who better to handle the task than his current body? It wasn't any spell or incantation that Titus and Kashkari could think of that would rescind the shield, but the touch of the current body.

“Stand back,” she ordered Titus and Kashkari.

She aimed a bolt of lightning directly at the shield, then another, and yet another—not to damage the shield, but to keep the Bane
worried and jumpy, focused only on Iolanthe's doings. And as she did that, she poked Titus in the side and indicated West with a tilt of her head.

Titus, after a similar initial moment of dread, understood. He leaped off the dais and brought his unconscious father the rest of the way to the sarcophagus. With Kashkari's help, they lifted him high enough to place his hand on the shield.

The milky fog cleared.

Iolanthe knew the Bane's original body had to be completely mutilated. Even so, she gagged. She didn't know how anyone could be so butchered and still be alive. The body had nothing below the waist. Both arms were gone. Ears, nose, lips, teeth—none remained. Only one eye stared out at her, with loathing, fear, and a covetousness that was a hundred times more vile than any disfigurement.

Titus and Kashkari, too, stared, staggered and repelled.

“Come on. Put it out of its misery!” shouted West.

She glanced toward Titus—he looked as paralyzed as she felt.

“What about you, Kashkari?” begged West.

A muscle near Kashkari's jaw leaped. He lifted his wand and pointed it at the Bane. As had happened with the ogre in the Crucible, the Bane's head disconnected from his body with an audible pop and a spurt of blood that sent all three of them scrambling backward.

They waited for a moment. For so long the Bane's every footstep
had made the entire mage world quake. Iolanthe half expected the floor of the caldera to collapse in a cataclysmic convulsion and bury them under millions of tons of volcanic rock. But except for the spurt of blood, the Bane's death was as ordinary as anyone else's.

Kashkari dropped to his knees and retched. She hurried to him and dug out a remedy from her bag. Once he'd swallowed the remedy, she wrapped her arm around his shoulders and raised her waterskin to his lips.

Two feet from them Titus knelt next to his father, holding the latter's wrist in his hand with a grim expression. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, kissed his father on the forehead, and leaped off the dais.

Kashkari got up too. Most of the elemental fire had cleared, but many decorative pieces made of wood were still burning. Through the haze of smoke he tore across the rubble-strewn expanse of the crypt, his feet pounding on the mosaic of the great maelstrom of Atlantis. At his approach, Titus, who was already at Amara's side, looked up and shook his head.

Iolanthe covered her eyes. Kashkari's prophetic dream had come true, down to its every last detail.

A hand shook her by the shoulder. “We have to go. Now.”

Titus. They embraced briefly, then busied themselves getting everyone onto carpets, Amara with Kashkari, Titus's father with him, and West with Iolanthe.

The ruins of the Commander's Palace burned. The scene above was greater chaos than any she had seen on the meadow of Sleeping Beauty's castle: wyverns shrieking, armored chariots careening, swords and maces from Skytower whirling about the fortress, a tornado of weaponry.