The Immortal Heights (30 page)

With West's arm around her, Iolanthe wept.

Escorted by Dalbert, West returned to England the next morning. The Kashkari brothers took their leave of Iolanthe in the afternoon. They'd been moving about openly in Delamer, under the guise of rebels freshly arrived to discuss the situation with the Master of the Domain. But now it was time for them to head back.

She embraced both the brothers. “Look after yourselves.”

“You too, Fairfax,” said Kashkari. “And before we go, this is for you.”

She accepted the handsome mahogany box. “For me?”

Kashkari nodded. For the first time in a very long time, there seemed to be a hint of mirth in his eyes.

She opened the box and burst out laughing. At the end of Summer Half, to thank Kashkari for the help he had given the prince and herself on the night of the Fourth of June, they had bought him a very fine monogrammed shaving set.

And now Kashkari had returned the favor and Iolanthe held in her hands a monogrammed shaving set with ivory handles and gold
accents that would have made Archer Fairfax levitate with manly pride.

They were still laughing as they embraced each other again.

After the brothers were gone, Iolanthe looked at the shaving set for a long time, lifting each individual item and feeling its weight and shape, rubbing her fingers against the embossed initials on the top of the shaving brush.

And wished fiercely for the well-being and happiness of these remarkable young men.

When Titus returned to the villa that night, Fairfax was stretched out on a long sofa in the solarium, her eyes closed. As he approached her, he saw his mother's diary lying open on a side table, an entry plainly visible.

His chest tightened. What did he need to know now?

On top of the diary entry was a note from Fairfax.
Found this. Thought you would like to see it. For once, it's good news.

26 April, YD 1021

The day his mother died.

For years I have prayed for a vision that I actually want to see. It happened today, a brief, intense minute. In that vision, I saw my son embraced by his father, both moved beyond words.

My face is wet with tears. I have no time to write down greater details, for Father has already arrived in the castle, and the appointed hour of my death is only minutes away.

At least now I can tell my son, not all will be lost.

Not all will be lost.

He read the entry a few more times, wiping away the tears at the corners of his eyes. After he closed the diary, he saw that he had read only half of Fairfax's note. The other half said,
I am in the Queen of Seasons' summer villa
.

The season inside the Crucible reflected that outside, except when the story itself overrode external weather conditions. At the Queen of Seasons' summer villa, it was always summer, always airy and lovely.

Lanterns hung from the trees. Fireflies twinkled among leafy branches. She sat on the stone balustrade overlooking the lake, gazing up at the stars. He climbed onto the balustrade and sat down next to her. She placed her arm around him and kissed him on his temple. “Happy?”

“Yes.”

Her hand grazed his arm. “I'm about to make you happier yet.”

His pulse accelerated. “I do not see how that is possible.”

She placed something in his palm, something light and incredibly soft. A rose petal. “Look around.”

He must have been blind—or only had eyes for her. Now he
noticed that there were rose petals everywhere, along the path, on the smoothly clipped lawn, to either side of them on the balustrade, and even floating on the lake below.

He laughed. “When you change your mind, you change it hard.”

“Wait until you see the tonnage of petals inside. You'll be filled with awe.”

He leaped off the balustrade and set her on the ground too. “Awe is my default position when it comes to you, lightning-wielder. Now let us see if I am man enough to stay put when faced with an avalanche of rose petals.”

She laughed too. Hand in hand they walked into the villa, kissing as they closed the door.

EPILOGUE

THE SCENT OF BUTTER AND
vanilla enveloped Iolanthe the moment she entered Mrs. Hinderstone's sweets shop. The bright, trim establishment was one of Iolanthe's favorite places in Delamer. It served intriguing ices in summer, a very satisfying cup of hot chocolate in winter, and a quality selection of pastries every day of the year—and that was before one even came to the display cases of colorful confections made on the premises.

“Good morning, my dear,” said Mrs. Hinderstone, beaming. She stood next to the till. Above the till, hanging from the ceiling, was a sign that read
Books on the dark arts may be found in the cellar, free of charge. And should you locate the cellar, kindly feed the phantom behemoth inside. Regards, E. Constantinos.

Before Mrs. Hinderstone had taken over the premises, the place had been a bookshop run by none other than the Master of the Domain's paternal grandfather—though no one knew it then, not
even the prince himself. Mrs. Hinderstone had kept some of the books, a rather large collection for her customers to browse through as they waited for their orders or drank their morning tea. And she had kept most of the bookshop's signs, including one that said
I would rather read than eat
. Iolanthe had immediately liked Mrs. Hinderstone for her self-deprecating sense of humor.

“Good morning,” Iolanthe returned the greeting. “How are you?”

“I've been waiting for you to come in to tell you this. I've had so many potions and elixirs for my elbow over the years, but that draught of yours—it's a miracle! I can't thank you enough.”

“All right!” Iolanthe smiled—she did very much enjoy being helpful. “Nothing feels as good as not hurting anywhere, does it?”

“Tell me about it. The usual for you today?”

“Yes, please.”

“A chocolate croissant and a cup of café au lait for Miss Hilland,” Mrs. Hinderstone said to her helpers behind the counter. She turned back to Iolanthe. “You are always up so early on Saturdays. Don't you go out and have fun Friday nights?”

“Oh, I do. Last night I went to an aerial polo game with my friends. The Conservatory's team won, so we celebrated by singing in the quadrangle, loudly and badly, until two in the morning.”

Her throat was still slightly scratchy—it had been a riotous good time.

“But it's barely seven.” The shop had just opened and was without its usual crowd, since it was so early.

“It's the only time of the week I have a chance at my favorite seat,” said Iolanthe.

She had no idea why she always woke up the same time on Saturday as she did on school days. She never set her alarm on Friday nights, but every Saturday morning she opened her eyes as the sun rose.

One of Mrs. Hinderstone's helpers brought Iolanthe's coffee and croissant. Iolanthe opened her wallet.

“Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Hinderstone. “That is on the house.”

Iolanthe thanked Mrs. Hinderstone and took her tray to the small table by the window. The shop sat on the corner of Hyacinth Street and University Avenue, across from the Conservatory's famous statue garden. Mages came from all over the city for their early morning walk, and one never knew who one might see.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Hinderstone herself came to refill Iolanthe's cup. “You know, miss, Iolanthe Seabourne used to come here as a child. If you don't mind my saying it, you look a bit like her.”

“Why would I mind? Please, do compare me to the great heroine of the Last Great Rebellion.”

They both chortled.

In fact, Mrs. Hinderstone was not the first to comment on Iolanthe Hilland's resemblance to Iolanthe Seabourne. Her second year at the conservatory, she had taken a class from a big, flame-haired professor named Hippolyta Eventide, and Professor Eventide
had made a similar observation. But Iolanthe didn't mention it to Mrs. Hinderstone. That would be bragging.

Mrs. Hinderstone set down her coffeepot on the table. “And guess who came into my shop two days ago? His Highness!”

Iolanthe could not suppress a half squeal.

It was no secret that the Master of the Domain visited Mrs. Hinderstone's from time to time—one of the reasons that her place was so popular. But Iolanthe had never had the good fortune of running into him here.

“Yes, he did, and placed an order for a picnic basket to be delivered to the Citadel today.”

She had no idea the prince picnicked. She thought he worked all the time—and maybe occasionally went for a long walk in the Labyrinthine Mountains.

“And you know what? After I took down his order, I kept thinking of you. He named everything on the menu that you like—summer salad, pâté sandwich, spinach quiche, and pinemelon ice.”

“My goodness.” That could easily have been a picnic basket she ordered for herself.

“You have met him, haven't you?”

“Once. At my graduation.”

The prince had come to give out awards to the Conservatory's top graduates and hosted a reception for them afterward.

“Isn't he a very fine young man?”

“I for one am glad he is the Master of the Domain.”

He had been very courteous to everyone present, even though Iolanthe could sense that he did not enjoy such occasions that required him to make small talk.

“We have not had one so worthy of that title in a while,” Mrs. Hinderstone said decisively.

On Iolanthe's way out, Mrs. Hinderstone presented her with a large, beautiful box of chocolates, a thank-you gift. The chocolates attracted several friendly comments as she walked across the great lawn of the Conservatory.

On the far side of the great lawn, which was otherwise free of any arboreal species, stood a magnificent starflower tree, which the prince had planted in memory of his partner, the great elemental mage. On mild, sunny days, Iolanthe often spread open a blanket under the shade of the tree, to study or to share a scoop of pinemelon ice with her friends.

She reached home a few minutes before eight o'clock. Soon after she'd arrived in Delamer from the remote Midsouth March, she had been told of an opportunity to look after a professor's house while the latter did his research abroad. She'd applied for the position, never thinking it would come to her. But it had. And for living in this lovely house, all she had to do was to make sure that it stayed clean and well maintained.

Almost a bit too much luck for a very ordinary girl from the middle of nowhere.

She entered the rather modest-looking front door of the house,
set Mrs. Hinderstone's present on an occasion table, and walked to the balcony at the back. The Conservatory of Magical Arts and Sciences sat on the hip of the Serpentine Hills. From the balcony, she had a spectacular view of the capital city, all the way to the dramatic coastline. She stood for almost ten minutes, gazing at the Right Hand of Titus, upon the ring finger of which sat the Citadel, the prince's official residence in the capital city.

With a sigh, she headed back inside to fetch the thick stack of laboratory reports sitting on her desk, waiting to be dealt with. As she walked out again, her gaze fell upon the portrait that had been taken at her graduation, of the Master of the Domain handing over her certificate and her medal of excellence.

She halted in her tracks.

The portrait had been moved from her nightstand to her desk, then to the top of the bookshelves, and at last to the back of a cabinet with all kinds of knickknacks inside. Still it distracted her. Still it made her stop whatever she was doing to stare. And remember.

And wish.

Stupid. It was so stupid it was humiliating. Girls all over the Domain were in love with the prince—at the annual coronation day parade they fainted by the score along Palace Avenue. Understandably enough—he was an attractive young man in a position of tremendous power, and the hero of the Last Great Rebellion, no less. But they were starry-eyed adolescents and Iolanthe was a woman of twenty-three in the last year of her postgraduate work. She taught
advanced practicals to first- and second-year Conservatory students. And for heaven's sake, she was sensible and disciplined enough to grade their laboratory reports bright and early on a Saturday morning!

And yet it persisted, this somewhat unhealthy fixation on the prince. She didn't go to coronation day parades; she didn't buy memorabilia affixed with his likeness; and she never made a fool of herself in front of the Citadel waving a
Will you marry me?
sign—she didn't even go anywhere near the Citadel, if she could help it.

But his least doings mattered to her. She studied his schedule as published by the Citadel, followed media coverage of the ceremonial events he attended, and parsed the language of his statements and speeches for his true assessment of the state of the Domain.

It was complicated enough, the realm's transition to democracy from a millennium of autocratic rule followed by years of foreign occupation. On his twenty-first birthday, he had also made the unprecedented move to acknowledge his Sihar heritage.

The next month, as debate raged among her fellow students, with one of them declaring, “The Master of the Domain is the exception that proves the rule,” she had stood up and asked, even as her palms perspired, “How many exceptions must there be, before you realize that the rule is only in your head? That you would never wish for yourself to be judged the way you judge the Sihar?”

That night she had sat down and written the prince a long,
impassioned letter. To her surprise, within days she had received a two-page reply in his own hand. When they had met at the graduation gala, he had immediately said, “You are the one who sent me the beautiful letter, are you not?”

They had conversed for all of three minutes. Afterward, she couldn't recall what they had said to each other. All she carried with her was a sensation of phenomenal intensity, the way he'd looked at her, the way he'd spoken to her, the way he'd taken her hand briefly before she'd had to yield her place in the reception line—as if she mattered more than the entirety of the Domain and it would cost him half his soul to let her go.

That was the first and last time she had seen him in person. Other people ran into him, but life seemed to have no plans to bring them together again. She could only watch from afar as he went about his grand destiny.

Truly it was madness, to look upon this distant icon and think that if only they could meet, they would be the closest of friends. He might be an exceptional man, but he was not a friendly one, and she was sure that in private he must be quite difficult in many ways. All the same, day in, day out, year in, year out, he remained the secret undercurrent of her life.

She realized that she had taken the instant portrait out of the cabinet and was tracing her finger along the edge of his charcoal-gray overrobe. This new generation of instant portraits captured the
texture of fabrics, so that she felt the elaborately embroidered band that trimmed the hem, the silk threads smooth and evenly oriented beneath her finger.

Muttering an obscenity under her breath, she marched into the study and shoved the instant portrait onto the very top of the shelves inside a small closet.

Ninety minutes later, she had finished with all the reports. She made herself a cup of tea and took out some papers that she had to read for her own classes.

But she was restless. Instead of reading the papers, she left them on top of her desk and approached the window. It had started to rain, but she could still see the Citadel in the distance.

She shook her head. She must stop obsessing over him. What could she hope to happen even if she met him again? No more than another couple of minutes of his time. If he had wanted to know her better, he could have done it two years ago—he knew her name and her university; everything else he could have found out, if he had wanted to.

If he had
wanted
to.

That he hadn't contacted her subsequently was ample evidence that he had no such desires, that all the longing on her part was entirely unrequited: hard truths she must force herself to accept, however unhappily.

A rattle inside the small closet brought her out of her reverie. She glanced at the door of the closet, confounded and faintly alarmed.
Surely there could not be an intruder in this house: she had done the security spells—and she was quite good at those.

All the same, she pulled her wand from her pocket and silently called for a shield. The closet door opened and out stepped none other than the Master of the Domain himself, a grin on his face, looking gloriously young and gloriously happy.

Iolanthe was thunderstruck. Fortune shield her, had she begun to hallucinate? The prince, though always flawlessly courteous in public, was said to be aloof and solemn by nature, not given to mirth or merriment.

That she'd conjured a smiling version of him had to be proof that she was out of her mind. Right?

“Oh,” he said, as he took in her shock and dismay. He cleared his throat and his expression became more serious. “I apologize. I am early again.”

She was not hallucinating. It really was him, the Master of the Domain, standing not even ten paces away. And what did he mean that he was early again? Early
again
—when had he been early before?

“Sire,” she said unsteadily. She should bow. Or curtsy. Or was curtsying too old-fashioned these days?

“No, do not bow,” he said, as if he'd heard her thoughts. Then, after a moment, “How are your studies?”

“They are—fine. Going very well.”

She couldn't stop gawking at him. His black hair was a little longer than it had been in the official portrait. He wore a simple fawn
tunic over a pair of dark-gray trousers and wore it well—the tunic draped beautifully over his lean, spare frame.

“Did you have fun at the match last night?” he asked, smiling a little again.

How did he know she had gone to a sporting event? And why was he gazing upon her exactly as she would want him to, with tremendous admiration and something that approached downright covetousness?