He nodded confidently. “I sent three berserkers.” He grinned.
“Three for two children. That’s overkill, don’t you think?”
Anubis shrugged. “I wanted to be sure.”
Bastet nodded happily. “Good. Keep thinking like that and you’ll make a great ruler. And Aten?”
“On the way. Ard-Greimne said there were humani protesting outside the prison. He just needs to clear them away first.”
“I like him. He is brutal and efficient,” Bastet said. “I’m sure we will find a role for him in the days to come.”
Anubis noted her use of the word we but said nothing. He had plans to rule Danu Talis his way … and they did not include his mother.
Tiny Janus strode to the center of the circle. The Change had altered the Elder terribly, and he now had four completely different faces, each one capable of moving and talking independently of the other. Usually he kept them covered under a black glass helmet and revealed only one face at a time to the world, but today he had left off the covering. While horrible to behold, his particular Change meant he could face all four sides of the chamber at once. Raising a miniature silver triangle, he struck it with a gold hammer. The pure sound cut through the room, instantly silencing all conversations.
“Elders of Danu Talis,” he announced. “Please be seated for this, the first Grand Session in lo these many years.”
There was a hum of movement as everyone began to move into their rows. In some places seats had been removed to accommodate the Elders’ mutated forms.
Janus struck the triangle again. “This is a great and terrible day. A day when we come to choose the next ruler of this city, and a day when we stand in judgment over one of our own.”
Elders continued to wind through the aisles, making their way to their seats. Anubis followed Bastet down through the rows, nodding and smiling as he went. He had many friends here—well, not so much friends, more like allies, really. And in the entire room, there were probably no more than a handful who supported Aten and the humani, but they were powerful Elders and not to be lightly dismissed.
Janus struck the triangle for a third time. “However, I believe this may be the greatest day in the history of Danu Talis.”
Bastet twisted her head at an unnatural angle to look back at her son. “I bet Isis and Osiris paid him to say that.” She smiled nastily at the four-faced Elder and slid into her seat in the front row.
Anubis took up a position beside her. He nudged his mother. The two seats directly opposite belonged to Isis and Osiris, but only Isis sat there. “Where’s Osiris?” he asked, completely forgetting that his voice carried clearly across the room.
“He has gone to bring us the twins of legend,” Isis said loudly, her voice ringing through the room.
All the gathered Elders sat forward at her words and the vast chamber grew deathly silent.
“Yes, they are here. The rightful rulers of Danu Talis have come home.” Isis was turning to face the doors when suddenly they burst open and a wild-eyed Osiris appeared. “They’re gone!” he shouted, his voice thundering. “There’s blood everywhere!”
“Oh, shame,” Bastet purred.
“Sad,” Anubis agreed. “A tragic loss.”
“There are three dead berserkers in the old museum.”
Bastet gripped her son’s arm again and her nails punctured deep enough to scrape bone as the room erupted with shouts and questions.
A grizzled and scarred anpu ran through the open doors and pushed past Osiris. The room fell deathly silent. None of the beasts or hybrids were allowed inside the Council Chamber. And this one had touched an Elder.
“Defend yourselves,” the anpu barked. “We are under attack! Humani from the skies.”
As the room dissolved into chaos, Bastet turned to Anubis. “I did not know they could talk,” she said.
“Neither did I,” he muttered. “They never spoke to me.”
And then the entire pyramid began to tremble.
“Earthquake,” Bastet breathed. “Oh, can this day get any worse?”
From across the room, Isis and Osiris both turned and looked at her, and their smiles were identical. “Oh yes,” they breathed. “Much worse.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
On a tiny island surrounded by bubbling lava, Aten, the Lord of Danu Talis, sat in a cage, waiting to be called to execution.
He was exhausted, burnt and scarred from splashing lava, his robes dotted with singe holes. He was also conscious that the lava was rising, the bubbles getting larger and more regular. The air, already thick with sulfur, was becoming less breathable by the moment. If they didn’t come to kill him soon, they’d find him dead of asphyxiation. And he was guessing that neither his mother nor brother would be too pleased about that.
On the other side of the lava pool, a rectangle of white light appeared as a door opened. Three huge anpu pushed the bridge into place, and then Dagon, the jailer, hurried forward, the protective goggles he wore making his face even more fishlike. Two of the huge guards accompanied him, while the third remained at the door. Even if a prisoner did manage to overpower the guards, he would never get back across the bridge before the guard at the door had slipped through it and locked it from the other side.
Dagon refused to look him in the eye as he fiddled with the complicated lock. “It is time, Lord Aten.”
“I know.”
“The guards have instructions to kill you if you try to escape.”
“I will not try, Dagon. Where would I go? What would I do? I am where I am supposed to be.”
The jailer bubbled a grim laugh. “Why, Lord Aten, anyone would think you allowed yourself to be caught.” He looked up suddenly. “Oh,” he whispered, as realization dawned. Dagon stepped closer to the bars and lowered his voice. “The humani call for you, Lord Aten. They are protesting outside the jail. There have been disturbances all across the city.” He lowered his voice even more to a breathy whisper. “There are rumors that even now a great army is marching to rescue you.”
“Whose army?” the Elder asked lightly.
“The Goddess with Three Faces has sent Huitzilopochtli to save you.”
“And where did you hear that?”
“From Ard-Greimne himself. You know he has spies everywhere.”
Aten dipped his head, as if deep in thought, but both he and Dagon knew the gesture was meant to thank the jailer for the information.
Ard-Greimne ran the huge prison and was responsible for keeping order in the city and the country beyond. The ancient Elder controlled a force of anpu and Asterion constables, as well as some of the new hybrids—the boars, bears and cats coming out of Anubis’s laboratories. One of his proudest boasts was that no humani would ever patrol the streets of Danu Talis and that none would ever set foot on the gilded cobbles of the inner circles around the Elders’ homes.
The cell door clicked open and Aten stepped out.
“Follow me,” Dagon said. “And be careful; some of the slats on the bridge are broken. I’ve been meaning to replace them, but I haven’t gotten around to it.”
Aten fell into step behind Dagon. “I am about to be tossed into a volcano—a little singeing is nothing.”
Dagon was unsure whether Aten was mocking him. “Ard-Greimne wants to see you before you leave.”
“Oh, I’m sure he wants to gloat.” Aten’s voice was still light. “He never liked me, and the feeling was entirely mutual. It was no secret that I’ve been looking for his replacement.”
Dagon led the ruler across the bridge and then waited at his side while the anpu lifted it away from the searing lava. If the bridge was left in place too long, it would burn.
The guard opened the door and Aten followed Dagon through. Aten blinked as he stepped into the light, the pupils in his flat yellow eyes shifting into horizontal lines.
“There are many stairs,” Dagon apologized, looking up.
Aten followed his gaze and saw hundreds of narrow shallow steps soaring in
to the gloom.
“If this is to be my last walk, then I will enjoy every one,” Aten answered, and the two—jailer and prisoner—started the long climb from beneath the prison to the jailhouse above.
“Halfway,” Dagon said a little while later.
Dagon seemed to be unaffected by the climb, but Aten could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He was also conscious of a low rumbling noise. At first he thought it was the lava, and then he realized it was coming from above. “What is that?” the Elder asked.
“It is the humani protesting outside,” Dagon said. “When I entered, the numbers had been swelling every moment. There were a thousand there earlier; now it might be eight thousand or maybe even ten thousand. The people are demanding your freedom.”
“And what does Ard-Greimne say?” Aten asked.
“He is prepared to send everything he has out to crush them. I believe he has instructed the guards to be brutal. He said he is going to teach the humani a lesson they will never forget.”
“I see.” It was clear to Aten what was happening. “He needs to get the protesters away from here so that the guards can take me to the pyramid.”
Dagon’s face showed no reaction. He pushed his goggles up onto his head, making it look as if he had two sets of eyes. “I understand Bastet and Anubis are awaiting your arrival there.”
Aten nodded “And I’m sure they do not want me to be late for my own funeral.”
Ard-Greimne waited at the top of the stairs.
He was a short, slender, rather ordinary-looking Elder. He bore only the vaguest marks of the Change—the hair on his head had fallen out, and his skull had elongated and stretched in a way that pulled all his features back along the sides of his face. Two threads of a red mustache hung below his nose and curled past the edges of his mouth, and his eyes were a startling green. He was dressed, as always, in an archaic rectangular robe that stretched from his neck to his feet but left his arms free. The style had gone out of fashion centuries ago.
“How the mighty have fallen,” he said, looking down on Aten. Ard-Greimne was short and incredibly sensitive about his height. He always wore shoes with lifts in them. When Aten didn’t respond, he tried again. “I said, how the mighty—”
“It wasn’t funny or even clever the first time you said it,” Aten said. “Nor is it original.”
The little man’s pale face squeezed into a semblance of a smile. “Brave words for a man about to die.”
“I am not dead yet,” Aten said.
“Oh, but you will be.”
Aten reached the top of the staircase and stepped past the Elder, emerging from the prison of Tartarus into a vast courtyard.
The shouts from outside the prison walls were a storm of sound, thrumming against the stones. “Aten … Aten … Aten …”
“Your people call for you,” Ard-Greimne mocked.
Directly in front of Aten were four long lines of Ard-Greimne’s constables. Most were anpu or Asterion, but there were bulls and boars among their ranks as well. All wore black leather armor embossed with Ard-Greimne’s personal symbol, the ever-open always-watching eye. They were carrying clubs and whips, and a few had spears. There were even bowmen scattered among the group.
“I know you respect these humani …,” Ard-Greimne began.
“I do,” Aten answered before the short Elder could finish.
Ard-Greimne’s thin lips curled. “And that you consider them the successors of the Elders.”
“I do.”
“If you have that much respect for them, I want you to go up onto the walls and tell them to disperse peacefully.”
“Why would I do that?” Aten asked.
“Because if they do not, I will release the constables on them. I’ll put one hundred—no, two hundred archers on the walls and have them fire into the crowd. There will be panic. Then I will send out my men.”
“It would be a slaughter,” Aten whispered.
“Only a few hundred would die. We’ll not kill them all. We do want some to return home and spread the word. And it is always bad for business to kill all the slaves.”
“You want me to talk to the people?” Aten confirmed.
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it,” Aten said without hesitation.
“I thought you would refuse,” Ard-Greimne said, surprised.
Aten shook his head. “I will tell them what they must do.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
“Brace yourselves!” Prometheus shouted.
“I am never getting into a vimana again,” Shakespeare vowed. “If they don’t crash, they’re on fire. I can see why they went out of fashion.”
Rattling and banging, the vimana fell from the sky straight toward the great Pyramid of the Sun.
“We have to move quickly before they realize what we’re going to do,” Prometheus said. “So once we land, get out and take up positions on the steps. Let no one up onto the roof. Is that clear? No one.”
“Why?” Joan asked.
“I have no idea. But Abraham gave me very clear instructions about that.”
Joan nudged her husband with her foot. “Put the book away. I think you’re about to do some practical research for the finale of this musical piece.”
“What sort of research?” he asked.
“The crashing, screaming kind, I believe,” she answered.
“Armageddon,” Saint-Germain said as he climbed to his feet, bright blue eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m going to call this work ‘Armageddon,’ or maybe ‘Armageddon Rocks!’ With an exclamation point.”
“I didn’t need to be reminded of that just now,” Joan said gently.
“Not a good time?”
Joan pointed out the window, and Saint-Germain moved to look. He stood beside her, watching as the massive pyramid raced toward them. He put his arm around his wife and held her as the craft began to rattle apart. The engines were shrieking, the sound painfully loud, and every surface was vibrating.
Windows popped and shattered and a long strip of metal peeled away right under William Shakespeare’s seat, leaving his feet dangling in midair. Palamedes caught him and hauled him back just as his chair was torn off and sucked through the opening.
“Don’t say a word!” Palamedes warned.
The entire control panel in front of Prometheus began to crumble and crack, then melt into globules of liquid.
“It’s so noisy!” Will shouted, pressing both hands to his ears.
The engines stopped, and suddenly the only sound was the air whipping through the openings.
Will pulled his hands from his head and looked around. “I preferred it when it was noisy.”
Then the vimana hit the top of the pyramid in a scream of metal. It skidded across the structure’s polished flat surface, spinning in circles.
“We’re going to go over the edge at this rate,” Saint-Germain said calmly. He reached out through the shattered window and moved his fingers. “Ignis,” he whispered, and the air was touched with the odor of burnt leaves as a spiral of butterflies curled from his sleeve.
Intense white-hot flame washed over the surface of the pyramid, melting the gold surface, turning it sticky and tacky. The sliding, spinning vimana instantly slowed in a shower of gold droplets. Saint-Germain snapped his fingers and the gold turned solid once again, bringing the craft to a shuddering, creaking halt about three feet from the edge of the roof.
Will Shakespeare broke the long silence that followed. “Very impressive, Musician,” he said shakily. “I’ll make sure to thank you in my next play. In fact, I might even have to write you in.”
Saint-Germain grinned. “A hero?”
“Don’t you think villains are much more interesting?” Will asked. “They get all the best lines.”
Prometheus and Palamedes kicked out the sides of the craft and hopped out. The Saracen Knight held out his hand and helped Joan out, followed by Shakespeare and finally Saint-Germain. Prometheus put his shoulder to the ruined v
imana and heaved. It resisted for a moment, and then, pulling chunks of solidified gold from the top of the pyramid, it went over the side. It sailed out in a shallow arc and hit the steps in an explosion of wood, metal and glass.
“That’ll be a surprise for someone down there,” Joan said as she peered after it. The steps stretched on forever, and the people far below were little more than specks.
“I doubt there’ll be anything left by the time it hits the bottom.” Saint-Germain smiled. “Dust, probably.”
Below them the rest of the vimana and the fliers were dropping out of the sky into the square, and faintly—very, very faintly—came the first sounds of battle.
“Go down a few steps and take your positions,” Prometheus instructed. “Let no one onto the roof. Will and Palamedes, you take the north side. Saint-Germain, can you take the west? Joan, the east is yours. I’ll guard the south.”
“How come you get the dangerous side?” Saint-Germain asked.
The big Elder smiled. “They’re all dangerous sides.”
The small group hugged one another quickly. Although nothing was said, they knew this could be the last time they ever saw one another again.
Saint-Germain kissed Joan before they parted. “I love you,” he said softly.
She nodded, slate-grey eyes shimmering behind tears.
“When all this is over, I suggest we go on a second honeymoon,” he said.
“I’d like that,” Joan smiled. “Hawaii is always nice at this time of year, and you do know I love it there.”
Saint-Germain shook his head. “We’re not going anywhere that has a volcano.”
“I love you,” she whispered, and turned away before they could see each other cry.
“Am I in your new play?” Palamedes asked Shakespeare as they began to descend the steps on the north side of the pyramid.
“Of course. I’m going to make you the hero.”
“I thought you said the villains have all the best lines,” the knight complained.
“They do.” Shakespeare winked. “But the heroes have the longest speeches.”
06 The Enchantress Page 29