The Maelstrom

~ 11 ~ Reckonings

Tap, tap, tap … tap, tap, tap. The sounds formed a soft, rhythmic melody that cut through the fog in Max’s mind. There were other sounds, too: the squeak of a chair, the crystalline notes of metal striking glass, but always the soft tap, tap, tap returned. Max imagined they were tiny miners, sounding out spaces with their little hammers and digging deep into the earth.

Wherever he was, it was light. And warm. His whole body was swaddled in warmth, in a smooth coverlet that tickled against his chin. He stirred. A bandage crinkled and there was a low throb of pain throughout his side. Max groaned. To his right, another squeak of a chair followed by a soft swish of fabric. Max felt a welcome coolness upon his forehead, the tender dabbing of a damp cloth tinged with a sweet-smelling herb. Moments later, the melody returned.

Tap, tap, tap … tap, tap, tap …

It was the aroma of coffee that finally woke him. It wafted over, strangely out of place amid the smells of linens and soap and herbs. Opening his eyes a crack, Max glimpsed the blurry form of David Menlo sitting in a bedside chair and sipping from a mug. Slowly, the image came into focus. David was studying the top paper from a pile upon his lap. His brow was furrowed and he rocked slightly as was his tendency when deep in thought. Max made to speak, but his throat was too dry and he merely grunted.

Glancing up, David urged Max to lie still.

“Rest easy,” he said gently. “Your injuries were severe. But they’re healing now. The moomenhovens are taking good care of you.”

Raising his head, Max saw that he was in Rowan’s main healing ward. One of the moomenhovens was sitting in a rocking chair by a table laden with roots and herbs, glass jars, and ceramic bowls. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman was patiently grinding ingredients for medicines, swishing her cow’s tail in time with the soft tapping of the pestle in the mortar.

“The others—” croaked Max.

“The others are fine,” David assured him. “The Kosas have settled into an apartment in the township, and Toby’s crowing about his heroics at the roulette tables. Of course, Madam Petra’s already demanding better accommodations, but everyone’s safe and on the mend. As for me, my wounds are healing nicely. Some scars and I’ll be using a cane for a few weeks, but I’ve had much worse.”

“I owe you my life,” Max muttered hoarsely.

David instantly dismissed such sentimentality. “And I owe you mine many times over. If you hadn’t pushed yourself beyond the brink, we’d all be in Yuga’s belly. It was a near thing and we scraped by thanks to you, so let’s not speak of debts and honor. I think you and I are well past keeping score.”

Max smiled weakly and gazed up at the ceiling where sunlight was streaming through gauzy white curtains. “How long have I been here?” he asked.

“Six days,” David replied. “At first, the healers despaired of saving you, but I assured them that you’re just about unbreakable.”

Max glanced down at his sling and the many bandages covering his person. “Could have fooled me.”

“On the contrary,” retorted David. “Do you have any idea how much damage you withstood? The clones’ weapons were coated with Workshop poisons. Very nasty stuff. What we finally leeched from your system was enough to kill hundreds of men, Max. You suffered thirteen wounds, a broken shoulder, a fractured skull, a lacerated kidney, and I’ll still wager that you recover within the week. Unbreakable, indeed.”

Memories seeped in of the battle in the courtyard, the panic of being hunted and trapped.

“The Atropos have your compass,” Max rasped. “The one Cooper used to find me in Prusias’s dungeons.”

David’s smile faded. “I suspected as much. They were on our heels too quickly for it to be mere coincidence. With any luck, Yuga has consumed it and them. But it was very careless of me to permit that compass to fall into enemy hands. I should have had Cooper destroy it once it served its purpose.”

“Did Miss Boon and Grendel find him?” asked Max, trying to sit up.

Looking down, David took another sip and set his coffee on the nightstand. “They did,” he replied cautiously. “The Cheshirewulf tracked him to an Atropos hideout north along the coast. There was a battle … some casualties. Fortunately, Miss Boon’s unharmed and they managed to rescue Ben Polk. But the Atropos still have Cooper. Miss Boon’s been taking it very hard.”

“But he’s still alive, then,” said Max, relieved.

“Yes,” said David. “But …”

Max grew wary. Ignoring his throbbing shoulder, he propped his back against the headboard. David’s uncharacteristic loss for words was strangely unnerving. The sorcerer abandoned several explanations before settling on something simple and direct.

“Things started well,” he began. “Apparently, we surprised them and Grendel had cornered the leader when Miss Boon and the others rushed in. We were winning and winning handily until the Atropos set Cooper loose.”

“I don’t understand,” said Max, puzzled. “Cooper fought for them?”

“Yes,” said David quietly. “He’d been confined in some chamber. When they let him out, the tide turned. Xiùmĕi is dead. Matheus is badly wounded. He’s over there—behind that curtain near Ben Polk. Fortunately, Agent Polk is coming around. We’re hoping he can give us more information about the Atropos and what they’ve done to Cooper, but it doesn’t look good. Miss Boon’s devastated—says Cooper’s not really human anymore. Every outpost and sentry has been informed. We won’t let him get close to you.”

Max said nothing for some time. Cooper killed Xiùmĕi? She had been the oldest member of the Red Branch, a wizened woman who had survived countless battles and world wars only to fall at the hands of her own captain. Max would miss her toothless grin and irreverent humor. Sorrow aside, there were practical matters to consider: The Red Branch was growing thin. Only seven of the twelve were now in commission and war was coming. Poor Miss Boon. He grieved for his old Mystics teacher. Hazel Boon was not the sort who loved quickly or easily, but she had loved William Cooper.

Sitting up, Max gazed about the infirmary at the many beds and patients. Some he recognized, Agents wounded on other missions. Others were hidden behind curtains. Max watched a moomenhoven pull a curtain aside and glimpsed a man whose skin had been burned away. He was suspended by a system of silken nets and pulleys, blinking stoically while the healer applied some salve.

Despite such grisly sights, the ward was peaceful. It was clean and quiet, sunlight streaming through the high windows as the moomenhovens made their rounds and tended the wounded with herbs and draughts and shy little smiles.

“Patching us up for the war,” Max reflected.

Sipping his coffee, David smiled. “Cynical already. You are getting better.”

“What about the pinlegs?” Max wondered, turning around. “Where is it?”

“Down in the Archives. The scholars are studying it, as is Peter Varga. We’re hoping he might be able to use his prescience to foresee its full capabilities. I’m giving it some attention, too.” He patted the documents on his lap.

“What have you figured out?”

“Let’s see, let’s see,” David muttered, lowering his voice and glancing at the topmost papers where Max glimpsed diagrams of the creature and the various runes and markings that were found on its case. “Strange little creature. It’s some sort of genetically engineered centipede, but it has mechanical elements fused to the organic—sensors, transmitters, cloaking devices. On its own, it’d be a neat little spy or assassin, but that’s not what’s got everyone worried. It’s these.…”

David held up one of the sheets of paper on which several intricate diagrams had been drawn. Max saw that each was purposefully left incomplete, lest it inadvertently trigger some sort of unintended consequence.

“These inscriptions were almost invisible,” said David, scooting his chair closer. “They’ve been etched onto the pinlegs’ segments in lines so fine we almost missed them entirely.”

“Summoning circles,” Max breathed, squinting at the diagrams.

“That’s right,” David confirmed. “But we don’t know for what kind of spirit. I’ve never seen anything like these diagrams before. They don’t make any sense.”

“What’s so weird about them?”

“In some ways, a proper summoning is like a math equation; you’re specifying particular terms and operations according to established principles. One of those principles is that the thing you’re summoning is … a thing. It is whole. It is a complete being—with a truename and a spirit or soul. But these diagrams imply a different sort of operation. They’re designed to call half a being.”

“Half of what?”

“I don’t know,” remarked David, frowning and staring at the diagram. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out. But I don’t like the idea that the pinlegs could be tethered to something else—something it can summon at a moment’s notice. We don’t yet know what it is, but we know the Workshop and Prusias believe it will tip the balance in their favor.”

Max remembered back to the vyes he’d overheard by the lake. He told David of their dread of “scuttlers” and what might happen when they’re set loose.

“Do you remember those strange lights in the skies above Raikos?” said Max. “And that sound … like air-raid horns followed by earthquakes and tremors. We didn’t see or hear anything like that when we floated over Prusias’s army. I’ll bet Prusias unleashed the pinlegs when we were holed up in that palace. I’ll bet those lights and tremors were made by whatever they summoned.”

David nodded and jotted several notes in the paper’s margins. “I was too out of it,” he lamented. “Did you actually see anything?”

“No,” replied Max. “The horizon was filled with fire and smoke and lights flashing across the sky. The entire palace shook. Whatever made those sounds and tremors must have been huge.”

“And arrived instantaneously,” added David. “That’s the real worry. If Prusias can have these pinlegs instantly call in some sort of monstrous cavalry, his army’s nigh invincible. He must have found a way around the energy requirements.”

“What do you mean?” asked Max.

“Teleportation requires an ungodly amount of energy,” said David. “Even I can’t teleport on my own. I can only do it if I find a wormhole or construct a tunnel from our room, and those take me months to craft. But summoning achieves much the same effect as teleportation—it instantly transports a being vast distances to a specified place. It just uses a different, more efficient means.”

“Am I going to get a headache?” Max moaned. “Why do I always get a headache when I talk to you and Mina about these things?”

“No headaches,” David promised. “This is a simpler concept. In teleportation, the caster has to do all the work himself. He has to metaphysically transport a large mass over a vast distance in a tiny period of time. That requires colossal sums of energy.

But in summoning, you’re simply teleporting the being’s soul. A soul by itself has almost zero mass and thus the process requires only a tiny fraction of the energy.”

“But then how does a summoner also transport the body if that’s so hard?” asked Max.

“He doesn’t,” replied David. “The soul does. You see, the bond between a soul and its body is very strong—atomically strong. They do not like being separated. During a summoning, the connection between the two has not been fundamentally broken, but it has been stretched almost infinitely thin—like the thinnest, strongest rubber band you can imagine. While the soul is anchored in place by the summoning circle, the body is free to move. And move it does! They reunite almost instantly. But in this scenario, the energy was provided by the bond between soul and body—not the summoner.”

“But why would the pinlegs want to summon half of something’s body?” Max asked.

“Why indeed …,” mused David, gazing out the window. He reposed in silence for several minutes, staring off into space with a blank, abstracted expression. At last the sorcerer blinked and clucked his tongue. Glancing at Max, he rose from his chair and bowed. “ ‘Some people without possessing genius have a remarkable power of stimulating it.’ ”

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“Forgive me,” said David, smiling. “A quip from Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The truth is that you’ve just given me a very good idea—one I need to investigate right away. I’ll look in on you later. Ms. Richter’s posted guards to the ward entrance, the gae bolga’s beneath your pillow, and you have your ring. Pay attention to it, Max. I don’t want to frighten you, but the Atropos may be close. Until I return, here are some letters that have been piling up. They’ve already been screened for anything insidious.

You might have your enemies, but it also seems that a few people care about you. Shocking, I know. I promised Mina she could look in after supper, so steel yourself for some highly intelligent and periodically trying company.”

“You’re good practice,” Max retorted, accepting a stack of letters and bidding David farewell. Taking up a slim wooden cane, David hobbled out of the ward with his mug and papers stuffed into the crook of his free arm. He resembled an absent-minded professor late for a lecture.

Max glanced at the letters and notes. They were in a small pile, an array of paper sizes and colors and handwriting. The first was from Hannah.

Max! The minute I heard you were home and hurt, the goslings and I came to see you. They wouldn’t let us in, if you can believe it. Some officious boob suggested we might be assassins. Ha! You poor honey—I hope you’re getting better and that the moomenhovens are taking proper care of you. One of them is transcribing this letter for me, and if she doesn’t write down every single word, I’m going to show her the business end of my beak. Oh, I guess she really is writing everything down. Good. Where was I? Oh! Honk misses you terribly. He’s a sweet little thing, but he really needs a strong male influence in his life or he becomes unmanageable. Unmanageable! There’s a new gander strutting about the pond and I have to get my bosom feathers tufted. Hmm … “bosom” isn’t really spelled like you think it would be. Anyway, here’s a big smooch from the wee ones and me. SMOOCH! —HannahSmiling, Max laid the letter aside and opened others from Nigel Bristow, Cynthia Gilley, Mr. Vincenti, and Nolan, and a brusque note from Tweedy that a manuscript on siege warfare was “shamelessly overdue” from the Bacon Library. Max promptly incinerated this reminder and turned to a letter from Sarah Amankwe. Events had transpired so swiftly the night of Rolf’s death that he had never had a chance to check on her. Unfolding the stationery, he gazed at his classmate’s graceful script.

Dear Max,The rumor is that you’re in the healing wards, but access is restricted and I can’t visit. You and David had already left on some secret mission, but Ms. Richter came and spoke to me the night that Rolf died. She said that he’d been possessed and that Umbra actually saved your life. That’s some comfort, I suppose, but it was still a terrible thing. I miss Rolf very much. His funeral was tasteful—Monsieur Renard and some of the other teachers spoke. They talked about what a fine student he was … capable and considerate … always willing to help. Ajax, Umbra, and the others wanted to attend, but I asked them to stay away. I know it’s not their fault, but I didn’t think Rolf’s family would have wanted them there. I’ve been training with them like you suggested and have to admit that it’s made me better. Umbra’s speed and technique are like nothing I’ve ever seen. She sparred against one of the Vanguard Agents and it wasn’t even close. They have her training some of our own students now. I’m trying hard not to hate her. Come find me when you’re up and about. Some say the Enemy will be coming for us soon. I’m going to be ready.Love, Sarah

“Poor thing,” he muttered, folding the letter and placing it atop the others. There was one remaining—a brown envelope containing a folded sheet of faded stationery. The writing was cramped and jittery, and Max had to read each line twice to decipher it.

Dear Max,They tell me that this letter may not be welcome and that you may likely toss it aside. I will consider myself fortunate if you read through to the end. My name is Byron Morrow and I once taught you humanities here at Rowan Academy. I am retired now and live in a cottage near the Sanctuary dunes—any teacher can tell you where it is should you choose to visit. I would like that.I am writing because my health is declining and I’m afraid I will not see the spring. At such moments, one wants to reflect upon their life, about the person they ultimately became … the decisions they have made. While I remember my Elaine and my son, Arthur, I fear that my recall is not what it was. The nurses tell me that many people have such holes in their memories. They assure me that it’s a common problem in this new age, but I can’t help but feel a little silly.You’re probably aware of this, but did you know that you’re a living hero? I have often seen you at a distance and wanted to introduce myself to the great Hound of Rowan, but my caretakers never allowed it. One day I insisted (I can be stubborn) and they informed me that I had once betrayed you. It took some doing to get the whole story, but they claimed that I had given information to the Enemy that put you and many other children at risk. Of course, I told them they were mistaken. But they insist that it is so, and I can’t argue back with any facts or certainty. It has been a difficult thing to bear.This is not the first time I have tried to write you. I don’t know entirely what to say or how to express myself properly. If what the nurses say is true, then I am so very sorry. I am sorry for everything. I would prefer to tell you in person, but I do not know if I will have that chance. Time and your own feelings may preclude such a meeting. In any case, I’m not certain that I’d deserve it.I’ve never been the religious sort—never been certain of what to expect once my time comes to an end. But as that day approaches, I find myself rooting selfishly for reincarnation. Life is such a wondrously complex and tricky game. The notion that one might have another go and make amends is wildly tempting for anyone who’s made such mistakes as I have. I don’t know if such a magnificent thing really exists, but if it does, I hope our paths will cross again. I will do better by you.With respect and admiration, Byron Morrow Instructor of Humanities, retired

Max glanced at the letter’s date and found that it had been written some three weeks ago. Calling over the nearest moomenhoven, he pointed to Mr. Morrow’s name.

“Do you know this man?” he asked.

The healer squinted at the letter and nodded.

“Is he still alive?”

All moomenhovens were mutes, but no words were necessary. With a sympathetic smile, she shook her head and reached with a soft hand to take Max’s pulse. He waited patiently until she had finished, clutching the letter as Old Tom chimed three o’clock. Once she had taken his temperature and checked his bandages, the healer set a glass of water by his bedside before returning to her mixtures. Sipping the water, Max read the letter again, refolded it, and gazed distractedly across the room. The afternoon light was streaming through the high windows, forming shapes and rectangles that shimmered on the folds of a faded tapestry. Max watched the rectangles grow dimmer as the afternoon waned. Soon, the moomenhovens padded about the ward, lighting its candles and lanterns.

The letters were stacked on the nightstand and Max was drowsing to the familiar tap, tap, tap when the pattern was broken by the patter of excited footsteps and the soft swish of a robe. Very gently, a hand took hold of Max’s. It was small and hot and wonderfully full of life.

For three straight evenings, Mina visited Max after she’d finished supper. Sitting by his bedside, she tinkered with her magechain and chattered about the doings at Rowan since he’d been away. There was a great deal to share, and Mina endeavored to relay it all in eager, breathless, disjointed accounts that might have lasted all night if the moomenhovens did not see her off once Old Tom struck ten o’clock.

Did Max know that Mina had added eleven masteries to her chain?

Did Max know that Emma Bristow had been scolded for riding Nigel’s piglet, Lucy?

Did Max know that Claudia and the others had painted Bob’s cabin yellow?

Did Max know that Circe had given birth to seven baby lymrills?

This last statement brought Max’s drifting thoughts to a screeching halt.

“What did you say?” he asked, halting Mina in midpirouette. Grinning, she hopped up onto the bed and plucked at a stray thread on her sleeve.

“Circe had babies,” she repeated. “Seven little lymrills all squirmy and warm. They’re smaller than my hand, but their claws are sharp! There are two coppery ones and a goldeny-yellow one, three silvers, and one that’s so black you can hardly see her until she opens her eyes. They’re so precious! Circe won’t hardly let anyone touch them, but she lets me! I remember your stories of Nick, but I never thought I’d get to hold a real lymrill!”

“Maybe one will choose you to be its steward,” Max mused thoughtfully.

“I would like that—a lymrill of my very own. But that is not to be. Did I not tell you that my charge is coming, Max? When the gulls cry out and the waters run red, he’ll rise from the sea to find me.”

“And when will that be, Mina?” asked Max, disturbed by her manner.

But the girl would not reply and merely turned her attention to the torque about his neck.

“That’s from a lymrill, isn’t it?” she asked, running her fingers over the coppery metal. “That’s from your Nick. I can tell.”

“It is,” said Max, slipping it off and letting her handle it. “His final gift.”

“It’s unbreakable,” she said, as though divining its properties at a touch. “A Fomorian made this for you. I can hear his song in the metal. What was he like?”

“The Fomorian? Well, he was as big as a house and he had ram’s horns and several eyes and he was very strong and old and … sad. He’s been living a long time, Mina, and I think he’s been very lonely on his isle and in his caves beneath the sea.”

“We could invite him to live here,” she declared. “Then he wouldn’t be alone.”

“You are very thoughtful,” said Max, letting her scoot next to him. “But I don’t think he would come. The Fomorian belongs to another age. He’s like a living fossil and follows older laws and customs than we do. It could be dangerous to have someone like him at Rowan.”

“But he made this for you,” she remarked, turning the gleaming torque over. “And your sword.”

“Reluctantly,” Max replied. “David almost lost his head in the bargain. Speaking of which, how is he?”

“Busy,” she replied a bit sullenly. “He’s working with Agent Varga and studying that crawly pinlegs. They both use canes, you know. I followed after them with a stick of my own to play Three Blind Mice, but David told me it was bad manners and wouldn’t let me past the runeglass.” She sighed. “I’ve had to take my lessons with Ms. Kraken. She’s always cross and she smells like an old lady.”

“She is an old lady,” Max pointed out, “and that’s not very nice. But what about the Archmage? I thought he was giving you lessons.”

“Uncle ’Lias is worse than you and David,” she pouted. “Much worse. Always running off, disappearing in a blink and reappearing in the middle of the night. He makes such a racket when he returns—clomping in his boots, lighting lanterns, and digging through old books. It scares Lila half to death. But by the time she peeks out the door, he’s already gone. She thinks his room is haunted.”

“What’s the Archmage doing?” asked Max.

The girl leaned close. “Hunting for Astaroth,” she whispered with something like real delight. “Always hunting, never sleeping. I should not like to be the Demon. When Uncle ’Lias gets an idea in his head, he doesn’t let go. He’s wild like you and wise like David.”

“Has he had a look at the pinlegs?” Max wondered.

“No,” she replied. “He says it’s our job to save Rowan. He must save everything else.”

“You know, Mina,” sighed Max, “I don’t entirely know what to make of our Archmage.”

Old Tom struck ten o’clock. Placing the torque around Max’s neck, the little girl grinned. “He says the same thing about you.”

With a farewell kiss, Mina scooted off the bed and scampered out of the room, waving farewell to the healers and dashing past the door wardens.

The moomenhovens released Max the following morning. Four of them had gathered around his bed to unwrap his bandages. Curious faces peered, unblinking, at the many wounds, pausing now and again to give shocked and covert glances at one another. One consulted a chart, jotting furious notes while her sister healers poked and prodded and gauged to see if any of their tests caused Max any discomfort. They did not. The tests were nearly complete when one of the kindly creatures gestured at a scar on Max’s face, a thin pale line that ran from cheekbone to chin. It was the only scar that remained, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect specimen of health, strength, and vitality.

“I got that years ago,” Max explained.

What he did not explain was that he’d received the wound from Scathach, the warrior maiden who lived in the Sidh and who had instructed Max in the greatest arts of combat. He had been slacking late one afternoon on the battlements of Lugh’s castle when she had whipped her blade across his face in a sudden, stinging reprimand. The scar had never faded. Whenever Max looked into a mirror, he saw the thin white line and remembered beautiful, deadly Scathach. He wondered if she ever thought of him.

The moomenhovens brought Max his clothes, cleaned and folded. Rips had been sewn, boots cleaned and polished, and even the hauberk’s rings had been repaired so that no tear or rent showed when he held it up to the window. Dressed, Max thanked the healers for their kind care and buckled on the gae bolga when he turned to look at his fellow patients.

There were at least fifty other beds in the main ward, and each was occupied with an Agent or Mystic who had been wounded in the line of duty. To Max’s knowledge, none had been released during his stay. He imagined each must be badly injured.

For the rest of the morning, he walked down the line of beds and visited quietly with those who were awake. He knew relatively few of the patients, but they all knew him. Those who could manage it sat up or shook his hand with whatever vigor they could muster. Max smiled, looked into each face, and tried not to stare at the appalling wounds that each had suffered. It was such a strange realization that they would look to one so young for strength or assurance, but the fact was undeniable.

“I didn’t think you’d make it,” croaked one aged Mystic through her bandages. “This whole place was in a panic when they brought you through here. You should have seen yourself, child. So bloody, so broken. And here you are … tall and straight as a sapling. You give me hope, boy. Not for me, but for Rowan. They’ll never break us while we have our Hound. Sol Invictus.”

He had many such conversations. Some wanted only to meet him and hear a bit of encouragement. Others wanted to share their stories. Throughout the morning, Max listened to tales of smuggling weapons, infiltrating witch camps, sabotaging Prusias’s shipyards.… The scope of Rowan’s espionage and intelligence operations was enormous, and Max soon realized that his and David’s efforts were but one slender thread in a complex web of activities. Some initiatives were grand and others were small, but all were engineered to slowly, methodically tip the scales in Rowan’s favor. Whether recruiting well-placed informants, intercepting critical shipments, or sowing false information to mislead the Enemy, Rowan was already fighting a secret war with everything she had.

It was past noon when finally Max left the healing ward. He strode out of one of the Manse’s side doors, inhaling the scent of evergreens and wood smoke as he gazed out over the Old College and the academic quad. It was cold, but the sky was blue with thin, nacreous clouds drifting above. The pathways were shoveled and glistening, the walkways crowded with students hurrying off to lunch or some final class. Max smiled to see garlands of holly strung about the streetlamps.

Purchasing some minced pies from a vendor’s cart, Max walked along the shoveled walkways toward Maggie. Wolfing down the warm pastries, he nodded hello to passersby but was ever mindful of his ring. When would it grow hot, he wondered. When would the Atropos make another attempt?

It was wearing to view everyone with suspicion, to maintain constant vigilance even among one’s friends. Aside from the physical toll, a state of perpetual caution cast a miserable pall on life.

You’re not going to tiptoe about in a state of constant fear, Max. Live or don’t live.

He had resolved to live when the sight of an approaching figure made him question his decision. Julie Teller was coming up the path. She had not yet seen Max but was listening attentively to her companion, a slight man of about twenty with curling blond hair, a fringe of beard, and ink-stained fingers. Max thought about veering off onto a side path or even turning around when Julie’s brown eyes flicked up and met his own. Max felt his cheeks flush scarlet.

“Hi, Julie.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, gaping at him as though he were a ghost. Brushing a strand of auburn hair from her eyes, she walked calmly forward.

“Why, it’s you,” she observed wryly, clutching her companion’s arm. “Celia said you were here—at Rowan, I mean. But then one hears so many rumors about Max McDaniels. I never know when you’re here or away keeping us safe or ‘finding yourself’ or whatever it is you do.”

The barb found its intended target and burrowed deep. Julie’s tone was cool and reserved, but her eyes had grown very bright. Her bottom lip was trembling, but every other aspect was poised for confrontation.

Max cleared his throat. “It’s nice to see you,” he said. “I’ll be going.”

“Of course you will,” she said tightly. “That’s what you do.”

Max stopped in midstride. Julie gazed back at him, angry and defiant, her eyes now brimming over with tears. The young man leaned close and whispered to her.

“C’mon, Julie,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”

“This is Thomas Polk,” she announced, her eyes never leaving Max’s. “We’ve been dating for over a year and we’re engaged to be married.”

A pause. Max only hoped his shock wasn’t painfully apparent. “Congratulations,” he said. “Your parents must be very happy.”

“Not really,” said Julie casually. “They think nineteen’s too young for marriage. But they’ll get over it. Ultimately I think they’re just thrilled that I’m not dating you.”

“Julie,” said Thomas, tugging at her arm. “You’re getting upset. We should go.”

“I’m not upset!” she declared hotly, pulling away. “I’m running into an old friend and filling him in on all my exciting news. What’s your exciting news, Max? Been off killing things for the Red Branch? Maybe Thomas can run a piece on your adventures. His family owns the Tattler. They’re always looking for good stories.”

“Maybe some other time.”

“Ha!” she laughed, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “Some other time? And when will that be, I wonder? See you in a few years, Max. If you’re still alive, perhaps you can meet our children.”

“Julie!” exclaimed Thomas, glancing nervously at Max. “That’s a terrible thing to—”

“It’s okay,” said Max quietly, holding up his hand. “I had it coming. Congratulations on your engagement, Thomas. Congratulations to you both.”

Max left the pair behind, staring at his boots and listening to the wind in the trees, the distant drum of cold surf crashing on the beach. He walked past Old Tom and Maggie, glancing momentarily at the broken cliffs where Gràvenmuir had stood. The ocean was gray and dotted with whitecaps and the sails of merchant ships. The harbormaster’s bell rang and he watched as a goblin carrack from Svalbard eased past the watchtower. The ship looked as stout and weathered as an old boot, pushing through the icy water and giving the Blyssian xebec a wide berth as it steered toward one of the loading docks.

The ambassador’s ship had not moved since its arrival. It was still moored in the harbor, tethered to the main pier by heavy ropes. Smoke drifted lazily from open hatches and stovepipes. The witch had disappeared from the deck, but the pillar of witch-fire remained near the prow. Max imagined the ambassador coiled behind runeglass in some luxuriant cabin, waiting for Rowan’s reply to his king’s demands. The solstice was just a few days away. Prusias would have his answer soon.

As he stared out at the xebec, Max tried to take Julie’s words and consign them to some safe place within his heart or mind. But they resisted. It was not that she’d said anything unjust or unfair; he knew he deserved what she’d said and more besides. It was her hardness that lingered, the hurt and disdain that surfaced as soon as she’d seen him. His Julie had been playful and mischievous, a vibrant and loving soul who was always seeking some new adventure. The sad truth was that this new Julie seemed diminished. It was not a physical decline—she was still as beautiful as ever—but her inner radiance had dimmed. Life and circumstance had worn down her youth and sapped something in her essence, some spark of fundamental optimism or joy. Max hoped that it was merely surprise and righteous anger at running into an ex-boyfriend, but that was a lie. The painful truth was that he had sensed the change before she ever laid eyes on him.

Turning, he left the bluff and its broad view of the harbor and the wide world beyond. At his back were Prusias’s armies; ahead loomed Maggie and the pinlegs deep down in its Archives. Max gazed up at the venerable gray building with her shale roof and squat chimneys puffing white smoke into the wintry air. With a sigh, Max kicked a stone and trotted up the path to her door.

It was a long walk down to the Archives, a twenty-minute descent down winding staircases that plunged deep into the earth. The trip always reminded Max that much of Rowan was alive. Old Magic had created the school, and something of these wild, primal origins still pulsed within the hollowed stone and arches. As Max descended, the walls became damp and almost seemed to aspirate as breezes from below sent the torches sputtering. Visiting the Archives felt like climbing down into the ribbed belly of a whale or dragon.

Where the stairs ended, they opened upon a tall vestibule whose double doors were guarded by a pair of shedu. At first glance, the enormous creatures looked like mere statues of man-headed bulls with great stony wings. But the eyes blinked and followed Max as he approached.

“Max McDaniels requesting access to the Archives,” he said, holding up his Red Branch tattoo.

The creatures stared implacably at the tattoo and at his face with fire-opal eyes. Shedu were bred to guard, to detect deceptions and illusions of all kinds. They were so effective that Max was not entirely surprised to hear an indignant sniffle behind him.

“You’re looking very well.”

Max turned to see Toby sitting dejectedly on a small bench that had been placed for visitors.

“How long have you been here?” asked Max.

“Oh, a day or so,” replied the smee glumly. “I tried to follow David down here—to help with the analysis. I tried to change into one of the scholars, but it was no go. I forgot about the ban. Instead of becoming a scholar, I just turned fire red like I was … like I was relieving myself. Well, the shedu slammed the doors and threatened to squish me like I’m just some common busybody!”

“Hard to believe,” replied Max. He turned back to the guardians. “Would it be all right if he comes in with me? He was involved in a DarkMatter operation for the Director.”

The stolid shedu glanced doubtfully at one another, but at last the massive doors opened.

“I told you I was someone important!” roared Toby, twisting about to glare at each as Max carried him through the great archway.

“How on earth did you make it down here?” whispered Max once they were inside. “There must be a thousand steps.”

“Twelve hundred,” grumbled the smee. “And each a grueling humiliation … inching to the edge of each stair and flipping myself over like some acrobatic gourd. There should be a slide!”

“Shhh!” whispered Max as several scholars glanced up irritably from their tables.

“Well, I want to be able to change shapes at Rowan!” hissed Toby. “They should lift that silly prohibition. Promise me you’ll put in a word with the Director.”

“Okay,” said Max. “But keep your voice down. You have to be quiet down here—it’s like a big library.”

Indeed, the Archives were like a library, but one that was larger than any cathedral. It was a vast, arched space with many levels where millions upon millions of manuscripts were housed behind archival glass. Vaults were spaced along the main level, gargantuan steel doors set into the stone and protected with various runes and spells. One of these belonged to the Red Branch and housed their greatest treasures, but some belonged to different orders, including the Vanguard, the Minstrels, the Promethean Scholars, the Bloodstone Circle, and many other esoteric groups from Rowan’s early days. Light was provided by witch-fire lanterns and from pale shafts of daylight that filtered through translucent stone high above. Despite the crowded tables on the main level, the atmosphere was quiet and this reverential hush—even more than the space’s grandeur—reinforced the impression that one was in a holy setting, a temple of sacred antiquity.

A domovoi directed them to David, who was hunkered down in one of several top-secret laboratories housed in a restricted wing. Cupping Toby, Max walked past many windows behind which Mystics were peering at various objects or even creatures suspended within glass orbs that held swirling vapors or shimmering lights of every color. He stopped at one, peering at an evil-looking creature that turned about in its orb, glaring at its captors. At Max’s knock, one of the Mystics glanced up, did a double take, and hurried over to open the door.

“Hi,” said Max. “Sorry to bother you, but is that a Stygian crow?”

“A very nasty one,” confirmed the Mystic, a graying middle-aged woman wearing glasses. “We captured a sortie from one of Prusias’s detachments.”

“What are you doing with it?” asked Max as the creature gave a furious shriek that shot flames from its membranous blowholes.

“Testing its sensitivity to various concentrations of Blood Petals and Zenuvian iron,” replied the Mystic. “Most promising.”

Max nodded and took another gander at the hideous creature before leaving the Mystic to her work. David’s laboratory was at the end of the corridor, conspicuous among the rest with its circular iron door set into a wall of smoky runeglass. Max knocked.

Miss Boon answered, looking tired and careworn.

“Max,” she said, embracing him. “What a wonderful surprise to have you up and about so soon.”

“Is that really him?” rasped a voice within the chamber. It was a heavy, Balkan accent and belonged to a man who had played a strange but instrumental role in Max’s life.

Stepping across the threshold, Max saw Peter Varga sitting on the edge of a chair and leaning forward on his cane. His black hair was now flecked with gray, but his face was less gaunt and harrowed than it had been when Max first saw him on a train in Chicago. Then, the man had been an outcast from Rowan—hunted and pursued for making unauthorized overtures to the witches and the Workshop. Having rescued Max from Marley Augur’s crypt, Varga had earned his way back into Rowan’s good graces, but it had come at a terrible price. Marley Augur’s hammer had broken his back and he’d never fully recovered. Even now, he refused a wheelchair and relied instead upon a cane to get about with ungainly, stumbling steps that invited inconsiderate stares.

Few stared for very long, however. Peter Varga’s most arresting trait was not his injury, but his eye. While one was green and unremarkable, the other was entirely white and possessed a ghostly, sentient quality that seemed to latch on and study its subjects with chilling intensity. No one lingered long under the eye’s prescient gaze, and it, combined with the man’s lurching gait and notoriety, made him a popular subject for rumor and gossip. Even after Cooper invited him to join the Red Branch, few people trusted Peter Varga and many shunned his company.

Max was among these, but his feelings had nothing to do with the man’s appearance. When it came to Peter, Max’s feelings were confused and deeply personal. Agent Varga had once protected Max and saved his life, but his prescience played a role in the disappearance and untimely death of Max’s mother. Gratitude, guilt, and anger were difficult feelings to reconcile, and Max did not try. Since his mother’s passing, he simply ignored Peter Varga and rebuffed every attempt at friendship.

But he could not ignore him now. Pushing up from his chair, Peter hobbled toward him, smiling faintly as he took Max in. He stopped several feet away, uncertain whether a handshake would be welcome. It was an awkward moment. Max thought of Byron Morrow’s letter and the sad absence of any closure or reconciliation.

“I envy your powers of recovery,” said Peter, shaking the proffered hand appreciatively. “David said your wounds were very serious. At least they were not in vain.”

The man gestured toward a large, levitating orb of runeglass in which the pinlegs was scuttling about like a hamster running on a wheel. As the orb turned, its inscriptions changed, ranging from the most basic Solomon Seal to intricate pentacles involving hundreds of tiny runes and sigils. Every so often, there was a spark and the pinlegs jumped to avoid a particular rune or section of an inscription. When this happened, enchanted quills recorded the details upon a huge roll of parchment like a sort of seismograph. Several sheets had been torn away and hung upon the far wall, where David was appraising them, studying the dense symbols and patterns like an astronomer trying to identify one particular star among the infinite heavens.

Sipping his coffee, the sorcerer spoke in a weary voice. “Did Mina charm you into bringing her? She’s been trying to sneak in.”

“No,” said Max. “But Toby’s here. He was waiting in the vestibule.”

“Toby,” chided David, his pale eyes never leaving the patterns. “What did I say?”

“You said this was top secret,” recounted Toby, uncoiling as Max set him upon a table.

“Exactly,” said David.

“But I helped you acquire the awful thing!” the smee protested. “I—I’m part of the team!”

“You are part of the team,” David assured him. “But you’re also an inveterate gambler who is willing to do or say just about anything to impress your audience. For example, did you not boast to a certain faun how your timely actions saved us above Piter’s Folly?”

“I don’t recall,” sniffed the smee.

“I do,” said David calmly. “It was three nights ago in Cloubert’s casino. You were at the roulette table and were already down four lunes and eleven coppers.”

“H-how do you know that?” sputtered Toby nervously.

“I bribed that faun to inform on you.” David shrugged. “A single lune was all it took for her to report everything you’d said throughout the evening. She didn’t even know—or care—who I was or why I wanted the information.”

A beat of mortified silence as the smee swelled up with indignation. “That was an unconscionable assault upon my privacy!”

“Very true,” David confessed. “It is also an invaluable reminder to you that we are on the threshold of war. Rowan welcomes refugees and new arrivals every day. Most are simply seeking shelter, but there are doubtless many spies and saboteurs among them—even in Cloubert’s. We cannot trust you with confidential information if you’re going to blab secrets to every faun that catches your eye at the roulette table. The stakes are too high.”

The smee drooped. “You’re right,” he sighed. “I’ve been indiscreet. I will be silent, David.”

“Very good,” said David, turning to join them. He smiled at Max, but there were deep circles beneath his eyes and he was still wearing the clothes from his visit to the healing ward. Limping toward the sphere, he stopped to peer in on the pinlegs and tap the orb with his finger. As soon as he did so, the pinlegs whipped about and attacked the very spot, its legs and pincers scrabbling madly for a hold on the enchanted glass. Venom dribbled from its mandibles, and for just an instant, Max caught faint flashes of red designs on the creature’s segmented body. When David stopped touching the sphere, the creature returned to its mindless, undulating trek.

“Did you see it?” he asked, turning to them.

“The symbols,” put in Max. “They flashed red when it attacked.”

“That’s right,” said David. “The pinlegs is trying to arm itself. Miss Boon has gotten the thing to cycle through its operation settings. There’s a whole range: dormant, stealth, even the fairly terrifying seek-and-destroy mode you’ve just witnessed. On this setting, it will attack anything that comes near it, and this is the mode we’ve been trying to study.”

“What’s the flash designed to do?” asked Max.

“It’s to summon something,” answered Miss Boon. “We believe the intermittent flash indicates that it’s not working properly. In this mode, the pinlegs is trying very hard to establish some sort of connection, but the connection is failing almost instantly. Madam Petra said this one was not ‘paired.’ We have several theories on what that might mean, but we also think some trigger component is missing from this specimen. Perhaps another symbol or inscription is required to complete the cycle and let the creature sustain the necessary elements for a proper summoning.”

“And so that’s why the runeglass is cycling through inscriptions,” said Max. “You’re trying to identify what the proper symbol is. You’re cracking a safe.”

“Trying to,” said David. “But the Workshop’s people are very smart. There’s a lot of cryptography at play, and while we’re trying to optimize the testing, it’s very slow going. Theoretically, it could take years to play out the permutations. I’m trying to accelerate things, but we’re hoping Peter has a breakthrough.”

“What David means is that we’re trying to cheat,” Varga chuckled. “I’ve been trying to concentrate on Prusias’s army and see if I can glean any information about these creatures or what they summon. I get glimpses, but they’re hazy. Little more than impressions.”

“What can you make out?” asked Max.

“Not enough,” muttered Varga, closing his eyes. “I can hear the pinlegs scuttling all around. There’s light and sound. So much sound! At first it’s like thunder, but then there are horns—they grow louder and louder. It’s hard to endure them. The earth shakes. I’m looking up, but something’s blotting out the sky. I can’t see it clearly, but it’s huge. And then darkness.” The man opened his eyes and cleared his throat. “There’s death in those visions.”

“And we’d like to avoid it,” remarked Miss Boon. “The plan is to deconstruct this thing’s operations and find a way to sabotage them if we ever encounter them on our shores. We’re not there yet, but we’re hopeful that some of Sir Alistair’s intelligence will yield another prize. He’s identified several of the Workshop engineers who worked on the pinlegs project. Only two live above ground, and Agent Kiraly’s tracked one to his estate outside Prusias’s capital. We hope to have him shortly.”

Max nodded his approval. Natasha Kiraly was also in the Red Branch, an exceedingly capable Agent whose stealth and swiftness were legendary. If the target was accessible, Max had no doubt she’d get him.

“One of my tunnels is near that location,” said David. “Agent Kiraly’s using spypaper to communicate with Ms. Richter each day. Once we confirm she has the target, we’ll give her the tunnel location and I’ll go retrieve them. With any luck, we’ll soon have a valuable prisoner.”

“But won’t the Workshop know he’s gone missing?” asked Max.

“We plan to install a replacement,” replied Varga. “To delay suspicion.”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Toby. “Who’s the decoy?”

All eyes turned to the smee.

“B-but, I’m injured,” he protested. “My latissimus nub—”

“Will be fine,” interjected David. “You won’t have to do anything strenuous. You just have to pretend to be an elderly man who’s fighting a cold. The engineer’s a widower, semiretired with no children or regular visitors. With any luck, you can lounge in bed, putter about the grounds, and just keep up appearances. The malakhim were watching him, but apparently they’ve been reassigned now that the project is complete and the war has begun.”

“And if I do this, I presume the unseemly ban on my shape-shifting would be lifted?”

“You presume correctly.”

“Well, then. I’m your smee!”

“But what about the war?” asked Max. “What’s the latest news from Blys?”

Rubbing at her eyes, Miss Boon poured more coffee from a silver carafe. “Lots of news,” she sighed. “Almost all of it bad. The Director’s office is practically covered with spypaper and updates from contacts all over the kingdoms. Prusias is now running roughshod over Aamon and Rashaverak. His initial losses drew their armies well within his borders and he is now grinding them to dust. He’s already won major victories in Raikos, Acheral, Lebrím … all the major duchies. His ships have cut off Rashaverak’s retreat, and we hear Queen Lilith is already making secret overtures for a treaty. Wherever the pinlegs have gone, victory has followed.”

“So what does Ms. Richter intend to do?” asked Max quietly. “Solstice is a few days away. Prusias’s emissary will demand his answer.”

“I don’t know precisely,” said the teacher. “The Director’s exceedingly busy these days and it’s not easy to get a word. I won’t speak for her, but I highly doubt we’re studying pinlegs and kidnapping Workshop engineers because she intends to surrender.”

Max smiled and looked around the room, at his friends and the pinlegs crawling about the spinning sphere. More symbols, more flickers, and the quills copied down the outcomes. As daunting as the prospects seemed, it was a comfort to know that there were so many capable people scattered about the globe doing everything in their power to keep Rowan free.

“Is there anything I can do here?” he asked. “My handwriting’s awful, but I can jot down symbols if you like.”

“Very kind, but unnecessary,” replied Peter. “I’m confident the Director will have many things for you to do, but for now it’s best if you rest and recover.”

“I’ll head back up, then,” said Max. “Are you coming, Toby?”

“Staying. I need to study up on this Workshop chap—marinate in the character, so to speak. Tell that domovoi at the reference desk to bring me a ham sandwich and a pot of warmed honey. My tonsils are a wee bit tingly.”

Ignoring the smee’s demands, Max turned to Miss Boon. “Could I have a word with you outside?”

The teacher followed him out into the dim corridor. When she closed the door, Max cleared his throat, uncertain of just how to begin.

“I heard about Cooper,” he said. “The raid … the casualties. I heard he was involved and I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I know how much he means to you.”

Closing her eyes, Miss Boon simply stood quietly with fingers clasped. She looked almost like a chastened schoolgirl awaiting a reprimand. Tears ran down her cheeks while she struggled to control her emotions. Max feared he’d made a terrible mistake until she finally exhaled.

“Bless you,” she said, removing her glasses and wiping her eyes. “No one wants to talk about what happened—they just tiptoe around it or concoct euphemisms like ‘unfortunate outcomes’ and ‘compromised assets.’ Thank you for having the courage to speak plainly and acknowledge my feelings. It means the world to me, Max.”

She gave a sad smile and looked at him, no longer a teacher but simply a person in pain.

“Do you know what breaks my heart?” she said. “To most, William comes across as such a hard man—so grim and sinister. A professional killer. I called him that once when we were aboard the Erasmus. Do you remember?”

Max nodded.

“You’d never have known it then,” she continued. “But that little gibe wounded him. He knew that’s how people saw him—a scar-faced brute and nothing more. Rowan’s attack dog. For years, I think he even believed it—he withdrew into himself and became the role. But there is such nobility in that man,” she said, shaking her head. “There is such warmth and love. And what have the Atropos done? They’ve stripped it all away and turned him into the very monster he feared he was.…”

“What can I do?” asked Max, feeling helpless.

She blinked. Her mismatched irises returned to focus squarely on him. “Nothing,” she said sharply. “You are to do nothing, Max McDaniels. You are not to go looking for him. He is no doubt looking for you, and we’re expending many resources to ensure that William Cooper—or whatever he has become—stays far away from your person. Do you understand me?”

“But—”

“No,” she snapped. “I love very few people on this planet and I’m not going to lose them all to the Atropos. Grendel is on the hunt again and the Cheshirewulf is better equipped to track his steward than anyone else. If we need your help, we’ll ask for it.”

“Fair enough,” said Max, anxious to change the subject. “Are you teaching again?”

“Just two classes.” She sniffed. “Third and Fourth Year Mystics. I’d like to say my personal life hasn’t affected my work, but those students just took the hardest exam I’ve ever written.”

“Well,” said Max, “just grade it on a curve.”

She glared at him, simultaneously shocked and appalled. “Do you honestly believe in such ridiculous measures?”

Max winced, feeling as though he’d violated some academic commandment. He made to speak, but she raised an authoritative finger and began pacing.

“Tell me,” she demanded. “Are we to lower our standards and applaud a student’s mediocre efforts because it’s simply less mediocre than his or her peers? On the same basis, shall we admit an Agent to the Red Branch because he can do three whole sit-ups while his fellows only managed two? Are these the utterly absurd standards that you would impose upon the world’s greatest school of magic? Well, I submit to you that …”

With a hasty bow, Max retreated.

He left the Archives, climbing up the many steps and passing a handful of winded scholars along the way. Emerging from Maggie’s front doors, he beheld a campus that was settling into late afternoon. Above, the sky was azure; to the west was a thin band of orange as the sun dipped behind the Manse and the hedge woods of the Sanctuary. The air was colder and a light snow was blowing in off the ocean.

Wrapping his cloak about him, Max walked through the woods behind the academic buildings, winding his way among the birches and oaks, conscious of the distant shouts and ring of steel from the refugee camp. But he drifted away from the noise, content to let his boots sink through the crusted snow and let the smell of pine tickle his nose.

At last he came to the clearing where Rose Chapel stood.

The sun had set and the snow was falling harder now. The chapel was conspicuous in the darkness, an elegant building of white stone whose open doors spilled warm yellow light onto the graveyard’s headstones. Poking his head inside, Max saw an elderly chaplain and several domovoi laying out prayer books for the Sunday service. The chaplain spied Max in the doorway, lingering at the threshold.

“Can I help you?”

Max cleared his throat. “Would it be all right if I sat in here awhile?”

“Of course,” said the chaplain, gesturing toward the pews.

Max slid into the nearest row, leaning back and staring up at the ceiling. It had been two years since Scott McDaniels’s death. The funeral had been held here; Max could still picture the man who raised him lying in a coffin by the altar. This very chaplain had spoken. Max wondered if the chaplain knew who he was. He almost certainly did, but at least he had the decency to let Max be—not to preach or pry but to simply let him sit in this quiet space of wood and glass and stone.

When they’d finished with their work, the domovoi filed out. The chaplain followed behind, stopping only to set a lantern by Max’s feet.

“Stay as long as you like,” he said. “No need to lock up.”

Max lingered for another hour, savoring the silence and the warm glow of the yuletide candles set within the alcoves and windows. At last he rose and left the chapel, closing the door gently behind him and gazing out into the dark churchyard. Snow was still falling, the flakes settling softly onto the gravestones.

Holding the lantern, Max walked the rows of the dead, shining its light upon each headstone until he found the one for Scott McDaniels. It was a modest slab of pale granite with the proper letters and numbers chiseled into the hard stone. Kneeling, Max brushed away the snow and wiped away the bits of dirt and grass that had accumulated upon the foundation.

Rolf’s grave was easier to find. There were still flowers propped against the headstone, half-frozen roses and lilies left over from the funeral. As Max arranged them, he found a medal buried in their midst—an award the boy had won in Mr. Vincenti’s class. Polishing its surface, Max hung it around the headstone so that it dangled next to Rolf’s name.

There were no flowers at Byron Morrow’s grave. It was a small plot near the woods that ran along the churchyard’s boundary. He’d been buried next to his wife, Elaine. Her headstone was weathered, the corners worn smooth by many rains and winters. But Mr. Morrow’s was new, its edges clean and sharp as Max knelt to brush the snow away.

He had just finished when he noticed that someone was watching him.

The figure was standing in the woods, just beyond the lantern’s light. It did not move, but there was something unsettling and sinister about its quiet surveillance. Drawing the gae bolga, Max hoisted up the lantern.

“Who is that?” he hissed. “Show yourself!”

The figure glided smoothly forward, emerging from the dark wood so that the lantern shone full upon his white and smiling face.

It was Astaroth.