The Enchantress (The Secrets of the Immortal Nicholas Flamel)

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 every where.”
    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 into 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