The Sorceress by Michael Scott
“Of course.” He started nodding. He suddenly knew what the Magician was about to ask. “Let me contact them,” he said quickly. “I’ll inform them that the terrorists who attacked Paris are now in London. I am sure the British authorities will move swiftly to close the airports and train stations.”
“We need roadblocks and checkpoints, too.”
“That should be possible.” Machiavelli chuckled. “I will make that call now.”
Dee coughed slightly. “I am in your debt.”
“I know that.” Machiavelli grinned.
“Let me ask a final favor, then,” Dee said. “Could you delay informing our Elders of my location? Give me this one last day to find the Alchemyst.”
Machiavelli hesitated; then he said, “I’ll not tell your Elder,” he said, “and you know me to be a man of my word.”
“I do.”
“You have one final day,” the Italian began, but Dee had already hung up. Machiavelli sat back and tapped the phone against his lips. Then he started to dial a number. He had promised the Magician that he would not inform his Elder; but Machiavelli’s own Elder master would certainly want to know.
In London, bands of orange and pink shot through with purples and blacks appeared on the horizon. The Magician stared hard at the sky, his gray eyes picking up the colors, watching them intently while his tea grew cold in his hands. He knew that if he did not find the Alchemyst and the twins, then this could be the last sunrise he would ever see.
nce the sun had set, temperatures had fallen quickly, and the breeze whipping in off San Francisco Bay was cold and salty. From her position in the watchtower over the wharf, Perenelle peered down on the island. Although she was wearing bundles of clothing and had gathered all the blankets from the cells to wrap around her, she was still freezing. Her fingers and toes were so numb she had lost all feeling in them, and she’d actually bitten down hard on a moldy blanket to keep her teeth from chattering.
She dared not use her aura to warm up—the sphinx had freed itself from its icy tomb and was prowling the island.
Perenelle had been standing before Areop-Enap’s cocoon looking for any sign of movement when she had smelled the distinctive scent of the creature on the salt air, a rancid mixture of snake and lion and musty feathers. A heartbeat later, de Ayala had blinked into existence before her.
“I know,” she said before he could speak. “Is all in readiness?”
“Yes,” the ghost said shortly. “But we tried this before …”
Perenelle’s smile was brilliant. “The sphinx are powerful and terrifying … but not terribly bright.” She wrapped a blanket more tightly around her shoulders and shivered with the chill. “Where is it now?”
“Moving through the shell of the Warden’s House. A hint of your odor must remain there. No offense intended, madame,” he added quickly.
“None taken. That’s one of the reasons I’ve chosen to stay outdoors tonight. I’m hoping that the gusting wind will blow away any scent.”
“It is a good plan,” de Ayala agreed.
“And how does the creature look?” the Sorceress wondered out loud. She patted Areop-Enap’s thick cocoon, then turned and hurried away.
The ghost smiled delightedly. “Unhappy.”
The sphinx lifted a huge paw and put it down carefully, wincing as the most extraordinary sensation—pain—shot up her leg. She had not been injured in three centuries. Any wound would heal, cuts and bruises would quickly fade, but the memory of her injured pride would never go away.
She had been bested. By a humani.
Throwing back her slender neck, she breathed deeply and a long black forked tongue protruded from humanlike lips. The tongue flickered, tasting the air. And there it was: a hint, the merest suggestion of a humani. But this building was roofless and open to the elements, constantly scoured by the sea breezes, and the trace was very faint. The female humani had been here. The creature padded over to a window. Right here, but not recently. A forked tongue tasted the bricks. She had rested her hand here. The head turned toward the huge opening in the wall. And then the humani had gone out into the night.
The sphinx’s beautiful human face creased in a frown. Folding tattered eagle’s wings tightly against her body, she pushed through the ruined house and out into the cool night.
She could not sense the humani’s aura. Nor could she smell her flesh.
And yet the Sorceress had to be on the island; she could not have escaped. The sphinx had seen the Nereids in the water and had smelled the fishy odor of the Old Man of the Sea lingering on the air. She had spotted the Crow Goddess perched like a hideous weathervane on top of the lighthouse, and though the sphinx had called out to her in a variety of languages, including the lost language of Danu Talis, the creature had not responded. The sphinx was unconcerned; some of the Next Generation, like herself, preferred the night; others walked in the sunlight. The Crow Goddess had probably been sleeping.
Despite her bulk, the sphinx moved swiftly down to the wharf, claws clicking on the stones. And here she caught the faintest wisp of the odor of a humani, the smell of salt and meat.
And then she saw her.
A movement, a shadow, a hint of long hair and a flowing dress.
With a terrifying screech of triumph, the sphinx set off after the woman. This time she would not escape.
From her high vantage point in the watchtower, Perenelle watched the sphinx race off after the ghost of a long-dead warden’s wife.
The merest suggestion of de Ayala’s face appeared out of the night, little more than a shimmering disturbance in the air. “The ghosts of Alcatraz are in place. They will lead the sphinx away to the far end of the island and keep it busy down there for the rest of the night. Rest now, madame; sleep if you can. Who knows what the morrow will bring?”
here are you taking us?” Nicholas asked softly. “Why have we left the main road?”
“Trouble,” Palamedes said quietly. He tilted the rearview mirror to peer into the back of the cab.
Only the Alchemyst was awake. The twins were slumped forward, held in place by seat belts, while Gilgamesh was curled up on the floor, twitching and mumbling in Sumerian. Nicholas looked at the Saracen Knight’s deep brown eyes in the mirror.
“I knew something was wrong when traffic was so heavy,” the knight continued. “Then I thought there might have been an accident.” They were taking seemingly random turns, heading down narrow country lanes, lush green hedgerows battering against the side of the car. “All the main roads are blocked; police are searching every car.”
“Dee,” Flamel whispered. Unclipping his seat belt, he slipped into the jump seat just behind the driver, twisting around to look through the glass partition at the knight. “We have to get to Stonehenge,” he said. “That is our only way out of this country.”
“There are other leygates. I could take you to Holyhead in Wales, and you could get the ferry to Ireland. Newgrange is still active,” Palamedes suggested.
“No one knows where Newgrange comes out,” Nicholas said firmly. “And the ley line on Salisbury will take me just north of San Francisco.”
The knight turned down a road marked PRIVATE and stopped before a five-barred wooden gate. Leaving the engine running, he climbed out of the car and unlatched it. Flamel joined him, and together the two men pushed it open. A rutted track led down to a ramshackle wooden barn. “I know the owner,” Palamedes said shortly. “We’ll hide up here until everything calms down.”
Flamel reached out and caught Palamedes’ arm. There was a sudden odor of cloves and the Alchemyst jerked his fingers away as the knight’s flesh turned hard and metallic. “We need to get to Stonehenge.” The Alchemyst gestured toward the road they’d left. “We can’t be more than a couple of miles away.”
“We’re close enough,” Palamedes agreed. “Why the rush, Alchemyst?”
“I’ve got to get back to Perenelle.” He stepped in front of the knight, forcing him to stop. “Look at me, Sa
The knight sighed and then nodded. “Let’s get into the barn and wake the twins and Gilgamesh. He agreed to train them in the Magic of Water. If he remembers and if he does it, then we’ll press on to Stonehenge. I’m sure I can work out a route with the GPS.” He reached out and caught Flamel’s arm. “Remember, Nicholas. Once he starts the process, the twins’ auras will blaze up, and then everyone—and everything—will know where they are.”
t 10:20 a.m., five minutes later than its scheduled departure time, the Air France Boeing 747 lifted off from Charles de Gaulle airport, bound for San Francisco.
Niccolò Machiavelli settled into his seat and adjusted his watch nine hours back to 1:20 a.m., Pacific Standard Time. Then he reclined his seat, laced his fingers together on his stomach, closed his eyes and enjoyed the rare luxury of being uncontactable. For the next eleven hours and fifteen minutes, no one would be able to phone, e-mail or fax him. Whatever crisis arose, someone else would have to handle it. A smile formed on his mouth: this was like a mini-vacation, and it had been a long time—more than two centuries, in fact—since he’d had a proper rest. His last holiday, in Egypt in 1798, had been ruined when Napoléon had invaded. Machiavelli’s smile faded as he shook his head slightly. He had masterminded Napoléon’s plan for a “federation of free peoples” and the Code Napoléon, and if the Corsican had only continued to listen to him, France would have ruled all Europe, North Africa and the Middle East. Machiavelli had even drawn up plans for an invasion of America via sea and down through Canada.
“Something to drink, monsieur?”
Machiavelli opened his eyes to find a bored-looking flight attendant smiling down at him. He shook his head. “Thank you. No. And please do not disturb me again for the duration of the flight.”
The woman nodded. “Would you like to be awakened for lunch or dinner?”
“No, thank you. I am on a special diet,” he said.
“If you had let us know in advance, we could have organized an appropriate meal ….”
Machiavelli held up a long-fingered hand. “I am perfectly fine. Thank you,” he said firmly, eyes moving off the woman’s face, dismissing her.
“I will let the others know.” The attendant moved away to check on the three other passengers in the l’Espace Affaires cabin. The rich smell of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked bread filled the air, and the Italian closed his eyes and tried to remember what real food—fresh food—tasted like. One of the side effects of the gift of immortality was the diminishing of appetite. Immortal humans still needed to eat, but only for fuel and energy. Most food, unless it was highly spiced or sickly sweet, was tasteless. He wondered if Flamel, who had become immortal by his own hand rather than by an Elder’s, suffered the same side effect.
And thinking of Nicholas made him focus on Perenelle.
Dee’s Elder had been quite clear: “Do not attempt to capture or imprison Perenelle. Do not talk to her, bargain with her or reason with her. Kill her on sight. The Sorceress is infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst.”
Machiavelli had trained himself to become a master of both verbal and body language. He knew when people were lying; he could read it in their eyes, the tiny movements of their clenching hands, twitching fingers and tapping feet. Even if he could not see them, several lifetimes of listening to emperors, kings, princes, politicians and thieves had taught him that it was often not what people said, but what they did not say that revealed the truth.
Dee’s Elders had warned that the Sorceress was infinitely more dangerous than the Alchemyst. They had not indicated exactly how … but they had revealed that they were frightened of her. And why was that? he wondered. She was an immortal human: powerful, yes; dangerous, certainly; but why should she frighten the Elders?
Tilting his head, Machiavelli looked through the oval window. The 747 had risen above the clouds into a spectacularly blue sky, and he allowed his thoughts to wander, remembering the leaders he had served and manipulated down through the ages. Unlike Dee, who had come to fame as Queen Elizabeth’s personal and very public advisor, he had always operated behind the scenes, dropping hints, making suggestions, allowing others to take the credit for his ideas. It was always better—safer—to be overlooked. There was an old Celtic saying he was particularly fond of: It is better to exist unknown to the law. He’d always imagined that Perenelle was a little like him, happy to stay in the background and allow her husband to take all the credit. Everyone in Europe knew the name Nicholas Flamel. Few were even aware of Perenelle’s existence. The Italian nodded unconsciously; she was the power behind the man.
Machiavelli had kept a file on the Flamels for centuries. The earliest notes were on parchment with beautifully illuminated drawings; then had come thick handmade paper with pen-and-ink sketches and later still, paper with tinted photographs. The most recent files were digital, with high-resolution photographs and video. He had retained all his earlier notes on the Alchemyst and his wife, but they had also been scanned and imported into his encrypted database. There was frustratingly little information on Nicholas, and very, very little devoted to the Sorceress. So much about her was unknown. There was even a suggestion in a fourteenth-century French report that she had been a widow when she had married Nicholas. And when the Alchemyst had died, he had left everything in his will to Perenelle’s nephew, a man called Perrier. Machiavelli suspected—though he had no evidence to back up his supposition—that Perrier might be a child from her first marriage. Perrier took possession of all the Alchemyst’s papers and belongings … and simply vanished from history. Centuries later, a couple claiming to be the descendents of Perrier’s family appeared in Paris, where they were promptly arrested by Cardinal Richelieu. The Cardinal had been forced to release them when he realized that they knew nothing about their famous ancestor and possessed none of his books and writings.
Perenelle was a mystery.
Machiavelli had spent a fortune paying spies, librarians, historians and researchers to look into the mysterious woman, but even they had found astonishingly little on her. And when he had fought her face to face in Sicily in 1669, he had discovered then that she had access to extraordinary—almost elemental—power. Drawing upon more than a century of learning, he had battled her using a combination of magical and alchemical spells from around the globe. She had countered them all with a bewildering display of sorcery. By evening, he had been exhausted, his aura dangerously depleted, but Perenelle had still looked fresh and composed. If Mount Etna had not erupted and ended the battle, he was convinced she would have destroyed him, or caused his aura to spontaneously combust and consume his body. It was only later that he’d realized that the energies they had both released had probably caused the volcano to erupt.
Niccolò Machiavelli settled a soft wool blanket up around his shoulders and hit the switch that gently converted his comfortable seat into a six-foot-long bed. Lying back, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He would think about the problem of the Sorceress for the next few hours, but one thing was already crystal clear: Perenelle frightened the Dark Elders. And people were usually afraid only of those who could destroy them. One final thought hovered at the edge of his consciousness: who—or what—was Perenelle Flamel?
he cab hit a pothole and the jolt woke the twins. “Sorry,” Palamedes called back cheerfully.
Moving stiffly, arms and necks aching, Josh and Sophie both stretched out. Josh automatically ran his hand through the bird’s nest of his hair, yawning widely as he squinted out the window, blinking in the sunlight. “This is Stonehenge?” he asked, peering out at the field of tall grass speckled with wildflowers. Then re
“Everything is under control,” Palamedes said from the front. “There are police checkpoints on the main road. We’ve just taken a little detour.”
Sophie hit a button and the power window whined down, flooding the car with the scent of grass. She sneezed, and as her sinuses cleared, she realized that she could pick out the scents of individual wildflowers. Leaning her head out the window, she turned her face to the sun and the cloudless blue sky. When she opened her eyes, a red admiral butterfly danced past her face. “Where are we?” she asked Nicholas.
“I’ve no idea,” he admitted quietly. “Palamedes knows this place. Somewhere close to Stonehenge.”
The car rocked again and Gilgamesh came slowly, noisily awake. Lying on the floor, he yawned hugely and stretched, then sat bolt upright and looked out the window, squinting in the bright light. “I haven’t been out to the country for a while,” he said happily. He looked at the twins and frowned. “Hello.”
“Hi,” Josh and Sophie said simultaneously.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look alike enough to be twins?” he continued, sitting cross-legged on the floor. He blinked and frowned. “You are twins,” he said slowly. “You are the twins of legend. Why aren’t you called the legendary twins?” he asked suddenly.
They looked at one another and shook their heads, confused.
Gilgamesh tilted his head to look up at the Alchemyst and his expression soured. “You I know. You I will never forget.” He turned back to the twins. “He tried to kill me, you know that?” He frowned. “But you do know that, you were there.”
They shook their heads. “We weren’t there,” Sophie said gently.