“Seize him!” cried Napoleon.
Darcy ducked down as the guards reached for where he had been, scuttling backwards. He was free of the grip on his mind!
But there was no way out of the room. They would discover him in minutes simply by touch. He could not afford to wait for Velaudin’s signal to start the attack.
He had rehearsed it so often in his head that he could launch the illusions without effort, pulling on Pemberley’s strength and picturing Elizabeth’s face before him. And there they were, the sound of guns outside, created by his Talent. Smoke from gunfire that did not exist. Shouting, as if the palace was under attack. Almost effortless, after all his practice.
The guards ran to the windows.
“No, you fools! Block the doors! Find him with your hands.” Napoleon sounded furious, but Darcy dared not look in his direction. His eyes were dangerous.
Instead, he began the second part of the plan. Mist everywhere, especially around the guards, to confuse them.
Then the sound of gunfire disappeared. Desperate, Darcy cast it again, but nothing happened. What had gone wrong with his illusions? He tugged hard on the power of Pemberley – and found nothing.
It was gone. His link to Pemberley via Elizabeth had vanished, as if someone had cut it with a knife. Terror rose in him.
“There he is!” cried the emperor, pointing straight at Darcy. “Seize him!”
His invisibility had faded, too. Darcy broke into a cold sweat as he tried to grab the power in the air to plait it, but it slipped from his fingers.
Then he remembered the handkerchiefs Elizabeth had made him, the ones into which she had sewn her land Talent. He had tucked them inside his sleeves as she had told him to, though more because he had promised to do so than because he expected to need them, not when he had all of Pemberley to draw on. They were pressed against his arms. And yes, he could feel the magic in them!
He let Elizabeth’s power flow into his skin from the fabric she had labored over and tried again. Now his body faded from sight once again, and the gunfire sounds were back. But he had to be careful; the magic in the handkerchiefs was limited, and pulling energy from the air required a calmness of mind he had no hope of summoning.
A body pushed past him to the left. It was Velaudin, going to tackle Napoleon. At last! His cousin was there, too, winding the garrote around the emperor’s neck and squeezing.
Darcy thickened the mist until he could barely see them, hiding their attack from the guards. But something shifted, and the garrote was suddenly empty, the two assassins staring at each other in confusion. How could the emperor have vanished from their grasp? And he was not just invisible, as Darcy was, but completely gone.
And then another impossibility, as a falcon took wing, flying up towards the high ceiling, landing on the canopy above Napoleon’s throne.
A falcon?
There was no time to think. Darcy had to stop him, and quickly, with only the bit of magic he had left. He cast fire upwards, and the canopy exploded into flames.
Now the shouts became screams, as real smoke poured into the mist illusion. The fire spread to the painted walls, crackling fiercely. Thick smoke blanketed the room, blocking everything from view and making him cough.
There was nothing more he could do, and he would die if he stayed. He pushed his way into the crowd trying to escape from the room, people pressing against him on both sides as they tried to cram through the doorway.The sharp crack of glass shattering sounded behind him as he reached the doorway, coughing as the smoke filled his lungs.
Just as he went through, something bumped him in the back. Then a hand grabbed his coat, yanking him back. “Got him!” a soldier cried. He pushed down the woman in front of Darcy to make space to get a firmer grip. “Guards, over here!”
Desperately Darcy tried to pull away, but the soldier was determined, grappling to hold him. With the advantage of being able to see his opponent, Darcy lashed out with a punch to his chin that rocked him back and loosened his grip. But another man struck him from behind, making him stagger.
This was no time for fighting by the rules. Darcy kicked back at him, hitting with his elbows, his knees, whatever he could reach, throwing himself to first one side, then the another. But there was no place to go, and so much pressure from the escaping crowd. People screamed in terror.
A haughty aristocratic voice directly behind him snarled, “Out of my way this instant, damn you!”
The guards’ grip on Darcy slackened, as if by habit of obedience. He seized his moment and pulled away, ducking sideways into the mass of moving bodies. But they had caught him once already without being able to see him.
Then he realized that being invisible was no protection in this throng. That was how they had caught him, because it made him stand out as an apparently empty place in the otherwise solid swarm. He blew out through his lips to dismiss the spell, and his body popped back into view. In its place, he cast mist over the crowd, but it would not thicken.
He had exhausted the handkerchiefs. Now there was nothing but the crowd’s eagerness to escape to protect him from recognition.
He ducked his head as he forced his way through the chaotic rooms full of people yelling, down the grand stairway, pressed close with other bodies fleeing the flames. Out into the courtyard, where Napoleon’s triumphal arch gazed down at the shouting crowds as if in mockery.
People poured into the courtyard from every direction, drawn by the noise and the fire. Darcy had to elbow his way through them. This was a disaster. Once word got out that an English mage had been speaking to the emperor when the fire broke out, the mobs would be howling for English blood.
Finally he reached the Rue de Rivoli. As he crossed it, he glanced back at the palace. Fire was still pouring out the windows. A young man grabbed his arm, asking what had happened.
