The Sorceress by Michael Scott
“Two hundred and more years …”
“And in all that time have you ever wished for immortality?” she asked.
“I have never thought of it,” the ghost said slowly. “There were times I wished I were still alive. On days when the fog rolls in across the bay, or the wind whips spray into the air, I have wished for a physical body to experience the sensations. But I am not sure I would like to be immortal.”
“Immortality is a curse,” Perenelle said firmly. “It is heartbreaking. You cannot afford to get close to people. Our very presence is a danger to them. Dee has leveled entire cities in his attempts to capture us, has caused fire and famine, even earthquakes as he sought to stop us. And so Nicholas and I have spent our lives running, hiding, skulking in the shadows.”
“You did not want to run?” the ghost asked.
“We should have stopped and fought,” Perenelle said, nodding. Leaning her forearms on the wooden rail, she looked down over the landing dock. The air shimmered, and for an instant, she caught a fleeting glimpse of countless figures in the costumes and uniforms of the past, crowding the docks. The Sorceress focused and the ghosts of Alcatraz disappeared. “We should have fought. We could have stopped Dee. We had an opportunity in New Mexico in 1945, and twenty years earlier, in 1923, in Tokyo, he was at our mercy, weakened almost to the point of death following the earthquake he’d caused.”
“Why didn’t you?” de Ayala wondered aloud.
Perenelle examined the backs of her hands, looking at the new wrinkles and the tracery of lines that ran across once-smooth flesh. The blue-green veins of age were now clearly visible beneath her skin; they had not been there yesterday. “Because Nicholas said that we would then be no better than Dee and his kind.”
“And you did not agree?”
“Did you ever hear of an Italian called Niccolò Machiavelli?” Perenelle asked.
“I have not.”
“A brilliant mind, cunning, ruthless, and now, sadly—and surprisingly—working for the Dark Elders,” the Sorceress said. “But many years ago, he said something like, if you have to injure someone, then make it so severe that his vengeance need not be feared.”
“He does not sound like anice person,” de Ayala said.
“He’s not. But he’s right. Three centuries ago, the immortal human Temujin offered to imprison Dee in some distant Shadowrealm for eternity. We should have accepted that offer.”
“And you wanted to?” de Ayala asked.
“Yes, I was in favor of imprisoning him in Temujin’s Mongol Empire Shadowrealm.”
“But your husband said no?”
“Nicholas said we were tasked with protecting the Codex and finding the prophesied twins, not with warring with the Dark Elders. But I’ll not deny, it would have been easier without Dee always after us. We had an opportunity in Tokyo to strip Dee of his powers, his memory, possibly even his immortality. He would have been no threat to us. We should have done that.”
“But would it have stopped the Dark Elders?” the ghost asked.
Perenelle took a moment to consider. “It would have inconvenienced them, slowed them down a little, but no, it would not have stopped them.”
“Would you both have been able to disappear completely?”
Perenelle’s smile was bitter. “Probably not. No matter where we had ended up, there would have come a time when we would have had to move on. Sooner or later, we always move.” She sighed. “We had already been too long in San Francisco. Even the woman who owns the coffee shop across from our bookshop had started to comment on my unlined skin.” Perenelle laughed. “No doubt she thinks I’m getting Botox injections.” She held both hands up in front of her and examined them critically. “I wonder what she would say if she could see me now?”
“Is this woman a friend?” de Ayala asked quickly. “Would she be able to help?”
“She is an acquaintance, not a friend. And she is human. Trying to explain even the tiniest part of this to her would be impossible,” Perenelle said, “so no, I’ll not ask her. It would only put her in danger.”
“Think, madame, think: there must be someone you can call upon for help,” de Ayala insisted desperately. “What about an Elder friendly to your cause, an immortal who is not allied to the Dark Elders? Give me a name. Let me go find them. You are strong and powerful, but even you cannot stand against the sphinx, the Old Man of the Sea and the monsters in the cells on your own. And whoever sent the flies this morning will be sure to try something else, something even more deadly.”
“I know that,” Perenelle said glumly. The Sorceress stared at the Nereids bobbing in the sea and allowed her thoughts to wander. There must be immortals in San Francisco—in fact, she knew there were; earlier that day she had actually caught a fleeting impression of a young-looking dead-eyed boy staring at her. He’d been using a scrying bowl to watch her. The Sorceress’s lips curled in a smile; he’d not be using that bowl again. There was something about him, though, something feral and deadly about the way he moved and watched her that reminded her of …
“There is someone,” she said suddenly. “She has lived here for decades; I’ll wager she knows every Next Generation and Elder in the city. She will know whom we can trust.”
“Let me go to this person,” de Ayala said. “I can tell her where you are.”
“Oh, she’s not in San Francisco right now.” Perenelle smiled. “But it matters not.”
The ghost looked puzzled. “Then how are you going to contact her?”
“I will scry.”
“Whom will you call?” the ghost asked, curious.
“The Warrior Maid: Scathach the Shadow.”
he scarred and battered taxicab drove down Millbank past the Houses of Parliament and stopped at a traffic light and immediately, a wild-haired shaggy-bearded tramp wrapped in layers of clothing pushed away from the black metal railing and hurried over to the car. Dipping a squeegee in a blue plastic bucket, he slapped it across the cab’s cracked windshield and dragged it back and forth in three quick movements, expertly scraping away mud and the clotted dust of the Wild Hunt. Palamedes rolled down the window and passed the old man a two-pound coin. “Seems we’re both working late tonight, old man. You’re keeping well?”
“Warm and dry and food in my belly, Pally. What more could I ask for? Nothing, really. Except maybe a dog. I’d like a dog.” His voice rose and fell in a curious singsong rhythm. The tramp sniffed loudly, nose wrinkling in disgust. “Whoa! Something smells. I think you might have driven over something. Bet it’s stuck to the underside of the car. Best get it scraped off, otherwise you’ll not get too many fares.” He laughed, liquid gurgling in his chest. He blinked nearsightedly, suddenly realizing that there were passengers in the back of the cab. “Whoops, didn’t see them there.” He leaned closer to Palamedes and said in a hoarse but clearly audible whisper, “Guess they’ve no sense of smell.”
“Oh, they know what it is, all right,” Palamedes said lightly. The signal changed to green and he checked the rearview mirror, but there was nothing behind them and he remained at the intersection, car idling. “It’s the remnants of the Wild Hunt. Or at least, those that didn’t get out of my way quickly enough.”
“The Wild Hunt, eh?” The tramp rubbed his thumb over the side mirror, scraping away grit and bringing it to his mouth. A pink tongue poked out from the knotted beard, tasting it. “You’ve got a little Hittite there, mixed with a Roman and a touch of Magyar.” He spat it away. “Does that horned monstrosity still think he’s master of the hunt?”
“He is.”
“Never liked him,” the tramp said shortly. “How is he?”
“On fire, the last time I saw him.”
The tramp ran his hand across the scarred front driver’s-side door. “That’s not going to buff out.” He grinned and winked. “I know a good scrap yard, might get a couple of spare doors there.”
“The yard is no more,” Palamedes said quietly. “Cernunnos and the Wild Hunt paid i
“He’s all bluster; he’ll do nothing,” the man chuckled, then turned suddenly serious. “He’s frightened of me, you know.”
“The English Magician, Dee, is with him,” Palamedes added.
The tramp’s surprisingly perfect teeth appeared in a spectacular smile. “And he’s terrified of me.” Then the smile faded. “But he’s also stupid enough not to know that.” Shoving the squeegee into the bucket, he padded back over to the railing and stuck his supplies behind a bush. “Hard to get a good squeegee nowadays,” he said, returning to the car. “Takes ages to get them broke in.” He pulled open the back door and peered inside. “Now, what have we here?”
The interior light had clicked on when the tramp opened the door, bringing Josh blinking awake, squinting, shielding his eyes. He sat up, startled to find a ragged and filthy-looking homeless person climbing into the car. “What’s going on? Who … who are you?” he mumbled.
The tramp turned astonishingly blue eyes on the boy, then frowned. “I’m … I’m …” He looked at Sophie. “Do you know who I am?” When she shook her head, he turned to the shadowy figure of the Alchemyst. “You look like a man of learning. Who is it I am again?” he demanded.
“You are Gilgamesh the King,” Nicholas Flamel said gently. “You are the oldest immortal in the world.”
The tramp squeezed in between Sophie and Josh, smiling delightedly. “That’s who I am.” He sighed. “I am the King.”
The light turned green and the cab pulled away. Behind them, Big Ben chimed midnight.
rightened, aching and exhausted, Sophie tried her best to edge away from the tramp. He had squeezed in between the twins and she could feel a chill damp seeping from his bundled overcoats into her jeans and across her left arm. On his opposite side she noticed her brother also inch away, and from the corner of her eye, she could see that Nicholas had pressed himself back into the shadows. She watched as he raised his right hand and let it casually rest across his mouth, covering the lower half of his face, and she got the feeling that he was trying to hide from the old man.
“Oh, but this will not do.” Gilgamesh pushed himself up and flopped down into the small pull-down seat directly facing them. “Now I can see you properly.” He clapped his hands lightly. “So what have we here?”
Sodium streetlights and the passing headlights of other cars briefly illuminated the interior of the cab. Tilting her head to one side, Sophie focused on the homeless man, her enhanced senses taking in every detail. Surely this couldn’t be the person they had come to London to see, the immortal called Gilgamesh, the oldest human on the planet. Nicholas had called him a king, Palamedes had said he was insane; he looked neither, just a harmless old vagrant wearing too many clothes and in need of a haircut and beard trim. But if the last few days had taught her anything, it was that no one was what they seemed.
“Well, this is pleasant,” Gilgamesh said, folding his hands in his lap. He smiled happily. He spoke English with a trace of an indefinable accent, vaguely Middle Eastern. “I always say you never know when you wake in the morning how the day will end. I like that: keeps you young.”
“And how old are you?” Josh immediately asked.
“Old,” Gilgamesh said simply, and grinned. “Older than I look, but not as old as I feel.”
Random images flickered into Sophie’s head. These were the Witch’s memories. Joan of Arc had taught her how to ignore them and dismiss the constant buzzing voices and noises she heard in her head, but this time Sophie deliberately let her guard down ….
Gilgamesh, ageless and unchanging.
Gilgamesh, standing tall and proud, a ruler, in the costumes of a dozen ages and as many civilizations: Sumerian and Akkadian, Babylonian, Egyptian, Greek and Roman, and then the fur and leather of Gaul and Britain.
Gilgamesh the warrior, leading Celts and Vikings, Rus and Huns into battle against men and monsters.
Gilgamesh the teacher, in the plain white robes of a priest, oak and mistletoe in his hands.
Sophie’s eyes blinked silver and she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “You are the Ancient of Days.”
Gilgamesh drew in a quick breath. “It has been a long time since anyone called me that,” he said very slowly. “Who told you that?” There was a note almost of fear in his voice.
The girl shook her head. “I just knew.”
Josh smiled. “Are you as old as the pyramids?”
“Older, much, much older,” Gilgamesh said happily.
“The king’s age is measured in millennia and not centuries,” Palamedes offered from the front of the car.
Sophie guessed that Gilgamesh wasn’t much taller than Josh, but his thickly bundled clothing—coats worn on top of coats, multiple fleeces, T-shirts and hooded sweatshirts—bulked him out, and his mass of wild hair and ragged beard made him look like an old man. Eyeing him closely, trying to see beyond the hair, Sophie discovered that he reminded her of her father, with his high forehead, long straight nose and bright blue eyes peering out of a deeply tanned face. She thought he looked like he was around the same age, too: midforties.
They passed a brightly lit store. It illuminated the interior of the cab in bright yellow-white light, and Sophie also realized that what she’d first taken for dirty and stained patches on the king’s bundled clothes were odd symbols and lines of script written onto the cloth in what appeared to be black felt-tip marker. Squinting, she recognized what looked like cuneiform and Egyptian hieroglyphics, and what she had first assumed were tears or pulls in the fabric were long thick jagged stitches that looked almost like early writing. She was sure she had seen ancient clay tablets in her parents’ study with similar scratches on them.
Sophie was conscious that the old man was looking at her and her brother, bright blue eyes flickering from her face to Josh’s and back again, frown lines on his forehead and on either side of his nose deepening as he concentrated. And even before he spoke, she knew what he was going to say.
“I know you.”
Sophie glanced at her brother. The Horned God had said exactly the same words. Josh caught the look, squeezed his lips tightly shut and shook his head slightly; it was a signal they’d used many times when they were growing up. He was telling her to say nothing. “Where did we meet?” he asked.
Gilgamesh put his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. He brought his palms together, fingers straight, and then pressed the two index fingers against the cleft beneath his nose and stared at them. “We met a long time ago,” he said finally, “when I was young, young, young.” Then his blue eyes clouded. “No, that’s not right. I saw you fight and fall ….” His voice caught and suddenly his eyes shone with tears. His voice turned raw with pain. “I saw you both die.”
Sophie and Josh looked at one another, startled, but Flamel moved in the shadows, forestalling their questions. “The king’s memory is often faulty,” he said quickly. “Do not believe everything he says.” He made it sound like a warning.
“You saw us die?” Sophie asked, ignoring Flamel. Gilgamesh’s words had awakened gossamer threads of memories, but even as she tried to focus on them, they slipped away and faded.
“The skies bled tears of fire. Oceans boiled and the earth was rent asunder …,” Gilgamesh said in a lost whisper.
“When was this?” Josh asked quickly, eager for more information.
“In that time before time, the time before history.”
“Nothing the king says can be taken as accurate,” Flamel said coldly, voice loud in the suddenly silent cab. His French accent had thickened, as it did when he was under pressure. “I’m not sure the human brain is designed to hold and store something like ten millennia’s worth of knowledge. His Majesty often gets confused.”
Sophie reached
“Most people laugh when they say that,” Gilgamesh said. “But not you. Why is that?”
Josh grinned. “In the last couple of days, I’ve been Awakened by a buried legend, ridden on the back of a dragon and fought the Horned God. I’ve been to a Shadowrealm and seen a tree as big as the world. I’ve watched men change into wolves and dogs, seen a woman with the head of a cat … or maybe it was a cat with the body of a woman. So, to be honest, a ten-thousand-year-old man isn’t really that strange. And actually, you’re probably the most normal-looking of all the people we’ve met. No offense,” he added quickly.
“None taken.” Gilgamesh nodded. “I may be ten thousand and more years old.” Then his voice altered, suddenly sounding tired. “Or I may be just a confused old fool. Lots of people have called me that. Though they’re all dead.” He grinned, then twisted in the seat and tapped on the glass partition. “Where are we going, Pally?”
The Saracen Knight was a vague shape in the gloom. “Well, first we wanted to see you …”
Gilgamesh smiled happily.
“… and then I want to get these people off the island. I’m taking them to the Henge.”
“The Henge?” the tramp asked, frowning. “Do I know it?”
“Stonehenge,” Flamel said from the shadows. “You should; you helped build it.”
Gilgamesh’s bright blue eyes turned cloudy. He squinted toward the Alchemyst, peering into the gloom. “Did I? I don’t remember.”