The Maelstrom

~ 19 ~ Túr an Ghrian

Three weeks had passed when Max and Scathach met for a walk one morning beyond Northgate. His broken shin had healed in a matter of days, but Max had not returned to this place since the night of Rowan’s victory. He could hardly believe the transformation that was under way. The toppled walls and towers had been cleared away; the blood-churned fields had been tilled and smoothed. Scaffolding surrounded new tower sites and the cool April air was rich with the smell of wet soil, new turf, and budding branches. Max smiled at the sound of saws and hammers, the whinny of horses, and the chirping of innumerable birds as spring chased away the last remnants of winter.

But these were not the most notable changes to the landscape. That distinction belonged to the thousands of small white obelisks spaced in perfect rows. Now and again, he simply stopped to gaze at them, overwhelmed by their simple beauty and the sacrifice that each represented.

“People are calling it Hound’s Trench,” said Scathach, gesturing at the chasm just beyond them, the very chasm Max had made.

He stared at the great gorge, at its blackened edges and raw, jagged contours. Nothing would ever grow there; that part of the earth was dead forever.

Max shook his head. “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” he muttered. “It’s an ugly name, an ugly thing. I wish the gravestones weren’t so close to it. They shouldn’t be near anything like that.”

“I don’t see it that way,” replied Scathach, taking his arm. “These people drew a line in the sand, sharpened their swords, and kept a terrible foe at bay. Not one enemy set foot in Old College. Centuries from now, people will visit these graves, see that chasm, and know that heroes are buried here.”

Far too many heroes, thought Max. For the rest of the morning, they walked along the rows and looked at the names the Mystics had carved in clean white granite. Most were strangers, but now and again Max came upon a name he recognized. And, of course, there were some that brought him to a solemn halt. These names were not a surprise—he’d already heard of their passing and mourned them—but it was a strange jolt to see them etched with such terrible, beautiful permanence. Whenever Max came upon one, he touched the obelisk and spoke their name aloud: John Buckley, Rowan Academy, Sixth Year; Jesse Chu, Rowan Academy, Fifth Year; Laurence M. Renard, Senior Instructor; Annika Kraken, Department Chair of Mystics.…

Each sounded a different note in his soul. Max was almost surprised to find how deeply Ms. Kraken’s death had moved him. Apparently, she had cast such a powerful spell beyond Southgate that it destroyed her along with many of the Enemy and their battering ram. Max recalled the huge explosion he had glimpsed in that vicinity while YaYa was galloping over the sea. He wondered if that had been Ms. Kraken’s doing. She had always seemed such a cranky old shrew, the kind of teacher students dreaded to encounter in a hallway much less an exam room. But the woman had also been an institution, an academic rite of passage that had challenged and galvanized Rowan students for over sixty years. The school would not be the same without her.

But it was not Ms. Kraken’s memorial that brought a tear to Max’s eye. It was another set at the far end of a row near the sea and the beginnings of a flowerbed. The earth around the marker was trampled and its obelisk was far dirtier than most. Max smiled to see the varied prints in the grass and the unmistakable mark of a muddy paw above the man’s name.

GREGORY WYATT NOLAN HEAD OF GROUNDS

Max did not know the details of Nolan’s death. He didn’t want to. It was enough to know that the man had volunteered to serve along the outer walls and that he had died while doing so. Nolan had spent much of his life looking after Rowan’s weakest, most vulnerable creatures. Most often these had been charges, but sometimes they were students, too. The man had a talent for putting others at ease and making them feel welcome. There simply weren’t enough people like that in the world.

Whenever Max stopped at a grave, Scathach stood aside and let him be. It was a greater gift than she could have known. Max had borne the hopes and expectations of so many people for so long that he had become self-conscious and almost terrified of disappointing anyone. With Scathach, he did not have to mask his feelings or explain them. He could simply experience them and know that she was there.

They were not the only people visiting the gravestones. Hundreds of others were paying their respects. Some were larger groups and families, but often it was a solitary figure walking slowly along a row, consulting their little map and peering at the names.

Walking back toward the remains of Northgate, Max and Scathach passed near one small figure kneeling by a grave and talking quietly to himself. Max’s heart sank as the boy glanced up and their eyes met.

“Hello, Jack.”

The boy stood abruptly, brushing grass from his knees and removing his woolen cap.

“I didn’t steal it,” he mumbled. “I was giving it back to her.”

Max was at a loss until he glimpsed the pearly disk in the boy’s hand. It was the very piece of maridian heartglass Max had given to Tam. Looking past Jack, Max saw the girl’s name etched on the gravestone.

TAM TRENCH RATS BATTALION 2ND COMPANY, 3RD PLATOON

“Did she have a last name?” Max wondered. “She must have,” said Jack, blinking at the inscription. “But I don’t know what it was. She never told me.”

“Tam was your good friend, wasn’t she?”

The boy could not reply. He merely closed his eyes and sobbed.

“I know you want to give that back to her,” Scathach said gently. “But I think you should keep that glass and remember Tam whenever you look at it. What do you think?”

“It was her favorite thing in the world,” Jack sniffled.

“Then I’m sure she’d want you to have it.”

The boy considered Scathach’s words while turning the pearly glass over in his hands. “I won’t keep it forever,” he concluded. “When I’m old, I’ll give it to someone young and tell them all about her.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” said Max. “Do you want to walk back with us or stay out here?”

Jack stayed behind, sitting back down on the damp earth and touching Tam’s name with the heartglass. When they had walked out of earshot, Max shook his head.

“Did you see that medal on his chest?” he asked.

“I did,” said Scathach, gazing out at the sea.

“A bad bargain,” Max remarked. “Swapping a friend for a medal.”

“Such things happen in war.”

“I told them I’d see them after,” he muttered, recalling his words to Tam and Jack as they’d huddled in Trench Nineteen. “What a stupid thing to promise.”

Scathach took his hand. “War breaks many things,” she sighed. “It can break bodies and hearts. It can break promises, too. But it can’t break spirits, Max—not if those who are fighting believe in their cause. Jack may grieve for a long time, but I don’t think war has broken his spirit. And I know it never broke Tam’s. That girl was very strong and she knew what she was about.”

Trench Nineteen had been filled in with earth and smoothed flat. All that remained was a discolored seam along the ground, and even that was disappearing as workers laid out stakes and twine to mark the gardens that would come. Ms. Richter had declared that all the land between the citadel and the outer walls would be transformed into groves and orchards to honor the fallen. Even with the aid of dryads and druids, it would take many years for such an undertaking to reach fruition, but once it was completed, it would be the greatest garden on earth.

Trench Nineteen was gone, but a monument had been erected for its battalion. There were memorials for every Rowan battalion at the places where they had fought. One could see them here and there across the grounds or at the base of walls and towers, larger white obelisks set upon blocks of rose granite. Each memorial flew its battalion’s flag and bore the names of the fallen around its base. Max gazed at the Trench Rats’ standard flapping in the wind. He counted four hundred and eighty-seven names inscribed beneath it. When he murmured the number aloud, Scathach spoke up.

“I’m no mathematician, but I believe that means there are over seven hundred names not inscribed on that stone.”

“It’s still too many,” said Max.

“How many more would there be if you hadn’t trained them, or fought with them, or acquired that iron on their behalf? Your losses were half that of the other trench battalions. They were volunteers, Max. Their deaths are sad, but they are not tragic. Look at me.”

He did so, studying the sharp planes of her face and the shining gray eyes that studied him in turn.

“You are no stranger to war,” she said. “You are grieving, but there is something else bothering you. What is it?”

Max nodded and quietly told Scathach how close he had been to summoning Astaroth.

“I’m glad you did not,” she remarked. “A blood debt is ugly business and you must not play the Demon’s game. There is a reason he chose you for such a thing, my love. I do not know what it is, but it was no accident. You must be wary of his words.”

“I am,” said Max, bowing his head. “But there are times, Scathach, when words don’t matter to me. There are times when I could turn the entire world into that dead black chasm. It scares me.”

“It should,” said Scathach sagely. “Some people are born great, but no one is born good. That is a choice they must make for themselves. You were born greater than others. Your choices will be harder and you are not infallible. I know … I’ve read your poems.”

Max grinned and pressed his forehead against hers. She kissed him as Old Tom chimed eleven o’clock. When it had finished, she smiled and gazed for a moment at her shadow on the grass.

“Come,” she said. “We have honored the dead. It’s time to honor the living.”

Max would have known the healing ward blindfolded. He knew the number of steps down its hallway and the acoustics of its high ceilings and archways, but most of all he knew the smells. The air in the ward was always warm and faintly scented with the aromas of hearths and oils and innumerable herbs that were laid on tables and patiently mortared into medicines.

The ward was crowded, but it was easy to find the bed they sought. It was in the back, separated from the others and walled off with panels of runeglass whose sigils gave off a soft white glow. Walking quietly to it, Max and Scathach slipped between a slender gap in the panels to gaze at William Cooper.

The man was fast asleep, lying peacefully beneath a white blanket stitched with Rowan’s seal. Miss Boon was also there, snoring lightly in a bedside chair and half mumbling some sentence from the tome that was slipping from her fingers. Stepping lightly forward, Max took the book from her hands and laid it on a table. Cracking open her eyes, Miss Boon sat up abruptly.

“I must have dozed off,” she said, blinking and looking about. “Forgive the mess.”

She gestured absently at several coffee mugs and plates of half-nibbled sandwiches.

“David’s had a bad influence on you,” Max teased, offering the other chair to Scathach. “How’s our guy?”

“Remarkable,” she declared, taking Cooper’s hand. “He opened his eyes for the first time last night. And whenever I read aloud to him, he groans. It must be therapeutic. It’s very nice of you two to visit, but do be careful, Max—you’re about to step on Grendel.”

Glancing down, Max spied the Cheshirewulf lying at the foot of Cooper’s bed. The animal was almost wholly translucent as it dozed, only appearing now and again when it exhaled. There was something standing atop its head, however, perched like an Egyptian plover upon a crocodile. Looking closer, Max saw that it was indeed a bird, a brightly colored kingfisher with mismatched eyes.

“And who is this?” he wondered.

“That’s my charge, Aberdeen,” explained Miss Boon, laying her wrist on Cooper’s forehead. “I was afraid Grendel would eat her, but they get along famously! She chirps; he growls. It’s very charming.”

Stepping carefully past the two, Max stood over Cooper’s bed and looked down at him. The wound from YaYa’s horn had closed and the pentacles upon his skin had faded away entirely. His head had been shaved, but already there were scattered patches of short blond stubble. The man’s countless scars, boxer’s nose, and grisly burns would have appalled many a stranger, but Max merely smiled. William Cooper looked precisely as he should.

Miss Boon reached for the book on the nightstand. “If you two don’t mind, I’ll continue reading him some Middlemarch,” she said. “It’s just so hefty and satisfying.”

Tossing slightly, Cooper groaned as if having a nightmare.

“Quick,” said Max. “Start reading!”

Mistaking his urgency for a shared love of George Eliot, Miss Boon quickly found her place. “ ‘Here and there, a cygnet is reared uneasily among the ducklings in the brown pond, and never finds the living stream in fellowship with its own oary-footed kind.…’ ”

Gasping, Cooper suddenly opened his pale blue eyes.

“William!” cried Miss Boon, flinging the book aside and taking his hand.

The man grimaced as he struggled to sit up.

“Prop some pillows behind him and give me a hand,” ordered Miss Boon, tossing one to Max and helping Cooper lean back against the headboard.

For a few seconds, Cooper merely looked at them, his eyes going from Miss Boon to Max and then to Scathach, who was sitting quietly by the runeglass.

“I know you,” the Agent muttered in his flat Cockney accent.

“We haven’t officially met. I’m Scathach.”

Cooper nodded slowly, as though emerging from a very long and horrid dream. He glanced up at Max. “I cut you,” he muttered, his inflection teetering between question and statement.

“I’m fine,” said Max. “Scathach came to my rescue.”

“And Grendel …,” continued Cooper, horrified.

“Grendel is lying at the foot of the bed,” said Miss Boon. “Aberdeen is keeping him company.”

Cooper blinked at the ensuing, unseen chirp.

“Xiùmĕi,” he whispered, staring at his hands. “I killed her.”

“No, you did not,” said Miss Boon firmly. “The Atropos killed Xiùmĕi, not you.”

At the mention of the Atropos’s name, Cooper sat straight up and stared at Max. “There are clones,” he said. “Clones of you. And they’re working for the Atropos. The leader gave them my compass … the one that points toward you.”

“I’ve met those clones,” replied Max grimly. “David buried them under half a palace near Bholevna. They’re probably dead.”

“Don’t you believe it till you’ve seen the bodies,” muttered Cooper darkly.

“That’s what I keep telling him,” said Scathach pointedly.

“You,” said Cooper, turning to her once again. “Who taught you how to fight like that? You fight just like Max.”

Scathach shook her head and smiled. “I beg to differ,” she replied. “Max fights just like me.”

The Agent stared at her, nodding ever so slightly as he came to understand. “You’re from the Sidh.”

“I was,” she replied. “I live at Rowan now. You might even say I report to you.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Cooper, frowning.

Pulling back her sleeve, Scathach displayed a small red tattoo on her wrist.

“You’re in the Red Branch?” exclaimed its commander.

“The Red Branch needed a replacement for Xiùmeĕi,” Max explained. “Ms. Richter was confident that you’d find Scathach qualified and appointed her in your absence.”

“Shoot,” muttered Cooper, sinking back against his pillow. “From what I’ve seen, Scathach should be running the damn show.”

The man sat quiet for several minutes, periodically gazing at his visitors as though still skeptical that the entire episode was not a dream. At length, he cleared his throat and nodded up at Max. “Gotta question for you,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Would you consider being my best man?”

Max was taken aback. He glanced at Miss Boon, whose jaw had come unhinged.

“And what do you need a best man for, William?” she interjected.

“Because I’m getting married,” replied Cooper matter-of-factly.

Miss Boon’s eyebrows nearly shot off her forehead. “My God, he’s still possessed,” she said. Leaning forward, she stroked Cooper’s hand and spoke to him as though he were a very sweet and dense child. “William, who exactly are you marrying?”

The man’s pale, ruined features broke into a grin as he kissed her hand. “I’m marrying you, Hazel.”

The teacher flushed fire red. “W-well,” she stammered, blinking rapidly. “I’m hardly an expert, but aren’t you supposed to ask me first?”

“But I have,” explained Cooper, placing her hand over his heart. “In here, I’ve asked you a thousand times. And you almost always said yes.”

The woman’s glasses promptly fogged. “I shall have to consider it,” she replied, primly wiping their lenses. “But it might be prudent for Max to clear his calendar should he be needed to serve in that capacity.”

“I’m all for prudence,” said Max, smiling. “In any case, we should probably get going.”

“Yes,” said Miss Boon, rising and smoothing her robes. “Yes, you should. It’s going to be an absolutely historic afternoon, and the Director would never forgive me if I kept you. You should both go at once. No need for ceremony.”

They had almost escaped when Max heard Cooper call his name. He stopped and turned to see the Agent pointing decisively at Middlemarch.

“Take that with you.”

At nearly four o’clock that afternoon, Max stood beneath the arched, interlacing canopy of branches that formed the Sanctuary tunnel. He wanted to watch the crowds gathering in the orchard and all along the garden paths to the Manse, but he could not take his eyes off Tweedy. The Highland hare was a nervous wreck, pacing back and forth and addressing his clipboard as though it were his personal assistant. When David sneezed, Tweedy gave a start and snarled his medals on his shawl.

“Look what you made me do!” he grumbled, untangling them.

“Sorry,” sighed David.

“Well, come on,” said the hare, beckoning impatiently. “Let me have a look at you.”

“You have looked me over eight times,” growled David. “I look fine.”

“A sneeze can wreak havoc on the fringe,” said Tweedy knowingly. He stood on tiptoe to examine the silver mantle over David’s navy robes.

“This entire outfit is a sham,” David declared, flapping his sleeves throughout the hare’s careful inspection. “These are instructor’s robes. The school expelled me over a year ago. I should just wear my regular clothes.”

“You will not,” gasped Tweedy, outraged. “I’ll not have you looking like some penniless friar for the greatest moment in Rowan’s history! Do you have any idea what’s about to transpire?”

“I do,” said Max drily. “You’ve made us recite the program twenty times.”

“That is because practice makes perfect,” retorted the hare, hopping over to reinspect Max’s dress. When he could find no fault in the armor’s gleam, the tunic’s drape, or the boots’ polish, he stabbed a paw at Max’s spear. “And remember that you are to keep that blade sheathed, McDaniels! We don’t want an untimely scream to spoil the ceremony and cause a general panic. It is because I pay attention to these details that the Director—”

“—trusts you with matters of highest importance.”

Tweedy’s whiskers twitched as the boys finished his sentence.

“You two can stand there grinning like imbeciles, but this is no laughing matter. Oh, why can’t you be more like Mina?” he moaned. “She’s quiet and well mannered and—dear me—she looks like an absolute angel!”

“Thank you, Tweedy,” called Mina, peering down from atop YaYa.

“Don’t lean, child,” pleaded the hare. “Your robes must remain just so. Now, take a deep breath, all of you, and wait for the signal.”

When Old Tom finally began to chime the hour, Tweedy held up a paw and counted the beats.

“And one … and two … and three … and now.”

Thrusting out his chest, Tweedy led them out of the leafy tunnel and into the sunshine. Max blinked at both the sun and the enormous crowds. He and David were walking on either side of YaYa, each holding one end of a golden sash that was draped over the ki-rin’s shoulders. Mina was perched atop the saddle, looking uncharacteristically clean and scrubbed in white silk robes trimmed in silver lace. Tweedy had tried to explain that a magechain was not a proper accessory for an Ascendant’s robes, but the girl had refused to part with it. It glittered around her neck, resplendent but for its lumpish centerpiece; a wax-dipped acorn crudely wrapped with copper wire. Apparently teleportation was such a rare ability that there was no official gemstone or token to commemorate it. David had improvised. Privately, Max thought he should have commissioned the dvergar.

But Mina’s magechain was not her most interesting accessory. That honor belonged to a thick golden rope that was coiled around the girl’s arm from her shoulder to her wrist. As they proceeded through Rowan’s orchard, Max occasionally gazed up at it.

And it gazed back at him.

The golden rope was a dragon.

After the battle, Mina had found him amid the carnage on the beach, resembling a muddy eel, half choked with sand and seaweed. According to David’s account, the girl had identified it as a dragon right away, but he had been skeptical. No true dragons had existed for a thousand years, and even those comparatively meager specimens were more like spiny serpents and scaly bats than the godlike creatures of antiquity. The ancient dragons had been of the Old Magic, wild spirits of terrible power.

But when Mina washed the creature in the bloody shallows, David spied a glint of gold and tiny claws folded flat against its snakelike body. When the creature arched back and revealed whiskerlike spines along its chin, all doubts evaporated. It was indeed a dragon. Only time would reveal its kind or purpose. Mina had not seemed to care. Once it coiled about her arm, she named him Ember and announced that he was her charge.

As intriguing as Mina’s dragon might be, most eyes were on the girl herself. Thousands of people lined the paths through Old College and many were straining to get even a glimpse of the wondrous child who had appeared before Prusias, broken his seven crowns, and sent him fleeing over the sea.

In truth, the assembly’s numbers and proximity made Max more than a little nervous. He disliked crowds ever since the Atropos had targeted him, but it was not his own safety that concerned him: it was Mina’s. A cultlike fervor was starting to gather around the girl. Some had taken to calling her St. Mina and people of various faiths were starting to project their own beliefs and prophecies upon her. Max had experienced some of this himself, but it had never reached such a groundswell of intensity or zeal. Once the Promethean Scholars had declared Mina the first Ascendant since Elias Bram, even some of Rowan’s senior faculty seemed to regard the girl as a holy object.

Max could not regard her in this light. For all her astounding and mysterious power, she would always be his little Mina—a girl who liked to play marbles and cook inedible stews and explore tidal pools after a rain. When she grinned down at him, he returned it and dearly hoped that some part of her would remain free from the incredible hopes and expectations settling on her shoulders.

A king’s crown is heavy. An Ascendant’s robes are heavier still.

Bram never wore those robes and, indeed, never even answered to the title on those rare occasions when an awestruck scholar had the opportunity to address him. David said his grandfather had given up both long ago and had advised Mina to do the same when he’d heard of the pronouncement. But in this, as in many things, Mina was stubborn and took her own counsel.

Max had looked for Bram, but he never saw the Archmage during their slow procession through Old College. He had not even seen him since Prusias’s attack. When pressed, David would only say that his grandfather was “gathering himself” and that Max might not see him again for a very long time.

The Archmage might have been absent, but Ms. Richter and just about every other member of Rowan’s leadership were gathered at the cliffs nearest the spot where Gràvenmuir had once stood. As they rounded the Manse’s pluming fountain and proceeded toward the Director, Max recognized some familiar faces.

Nigel Bristow waved and cheered with his wife and daughter. So did the Tellers and even Thomas Polk and others who had returned to Rowan from the inland settlements. The goose Hannah had to chase down Honk after the willful gosling went tottering after them. Madam Petra was gazing down from a prime perch atop Old Tom’s steps, as were many of Max’s former classmates. But the greatest joy Max felt was when he saw Bob standing near the front with Sarah, Cynthia, and Lucia. His helmet and cudgel had been put away. Bob wore a cook’s apron once again and his favorite blue-striped shirt. When Max passed by, the ogre bowed his head.

The Promethean Scholars stood behind the Director, as did the senior faculty and several leaders from the refugees. The Red Branch flanked the Director and Max’s focus quickly zeroed in on Scathach. She returned his smile and quietly urged him to pay attention as YaYa came to a halt before Ms. Richter.

At Tweedy’s coughing cue, Max leaned the gae bolga against YaYa’s saddle and lifted Mina off the ki-rin’s back. Setting her carefully on the ground, he took up the spear once again and led YaYa to stand beside Scathach and face the thousands before them.

Just David and Mina stood before the Director now. Each was holding something. Mina’s object was clutched and hidden by both hands, but David was leaning upon a very powerful and familiar item.

It was Prusias’s cane—the very prop that contained a page from the Book of Thoth. Whenever the demon was in his serpent form, the artifact was embedded in one of the crowns that had shattered. Once Mina discovered her charge, David had gone looking for the cane and found it wedged among the briny rocks along the shore.

When Ms. Richter addressed the crowd, her voice also issued from hovering glowspheres stationed about the Old College and all of Greater Rowan. She spoke of honor and sacrifice, the appalling losses, and the great victory that had been achieved. Max listened dutifully, his gaze straying occasionally to Scathach or the gargantuan war galleons anchored in and about Rowan Harbor. There were twenty of them, twenty crimson galleons that were far larger and more formidable than any ships Rowan possessed. Once Prusias’s army had been destroyed, Rowan had captured and claimed the vessels as they tried to escape with mere skeleton crews.

“But that victory is not complete,” continued Ms. Richter, reclaiming Max’s attention. “We have turned back Prusias, but he is not yet defeated. He sailed to these shores with but a fraction of his forces and he will not underestimate us again. And thus, Rowan must ask more of you. I must ask more of you as we pursue this enemy to his own gates and stamp out this threat once and for all. If we do not, if we succumb to debate and delay, then his armies will surely return with greater wrath and numbers. This is not the end of the war; it is the beginning.”

Ms. Richter smiled ruefully and acknowledged the crowd’s stunned silence.

“My message today is bittersweet,” she confessed. “I know that many of you had hoped to put the sorrows and toil of war behind you. Many of you had looked forward to a quiet life in which you could enjoy our hard-earned freedom and independence. Nobody wants that more for you than I. But we are not there yet. In the coming weeks and months, Rowan may call upon you once again. And I know that you will answer.

“But Rowan will not call upon you alone. We have not merely turned back an enemy; we have gained credibility. Those who could not aid us or feared to do so may now feel otherwise. We will seek their help. We will ask others to strengthen our cause and share our sacrifice. But let me be clear: Rowan is no longer desperate for aid or charity. We are no longer a quaking country hoping to escape the notice of its neighbors. The founders of this school were refugees themselves. They, too, fled an enemy to these shores and sought to rebuild and regain their former strength and dignity. For over four centuries, Rowan has engaged proudly in this struggle. But Rowan has also always dwelled in the shadow of her predecessors; she has been a mere echo of a grander, more storied past. Those days are over.

“Today, Rowan enters a new phase of existence—one that embraces the best of her legacy even as she rises up to break new ground. There have been many schools of magic, but Solas was the finest mankind has ever known and its high tower was a symbol for all that could be achieved. Solas may be gone, but Túr an Ghrian shall rise again.”

Following this statement, the Director and scholars and everyone else moved away from David and Mina so that the two were left alone in a broad circle. Max and everyone else watched nervously as Mina approached the cliffs, her Ascendant’s robes trailing her upon the grass. Those who were close enough and at a proper vantage might have seen that the girl was holding a small, charred rock. Given a closer look, some Rowan students might have recognized it as the Founder’s Stone. Normally, the object was hovering behind glass—one of Rowan’s six great treasures. But now it was resting in Mina’s cupped hands as she walked toward the cliffs’ farthest point opposite the Manse. Kissing the stone, she laid it carefully on the ground and walked back to David.

When Rowan’s sorcerer touched his cane to the ground, Max shivered as Old Magic saturated the air and caused it to shimmer. The earth shook and the crowds surged back as a great tower grew around the stone, rising up from the very cliffs where Gràvenmuir had been thrown into the sea. Higher and higher it rose, until the gulls that circled around its gleaming spire were distant white specks. And as the dust settled and the afternoon light turned its pale stone to gold, Ms. Richter announced that Túr an Ghrian—the Tower of the Sun—stood once more.

Back in the Observatory, Max exhaled and sat in his armchair, staring up at the dome’s slowly wheeling constellations. He was no longer wearing ceremonial armor but the simple uniform of the Red Branch and some well-worn boots. From the upper level, he heard a sudden rip of fabric followed by a startled oath. The second tear was more pronounced, as was the swearing. The third tear was longest of all, but no cursing accompanied it. Instead, both halves of David’s ceremonial robes were tossed over the railing. With a sidelong glance, Max watched them float down like two silken streamers.

“Don’t you have to return those?” he called.

“I won’t!” yelled his roommate, now flinging down a starchy shirt and a pair of black socks.

Glancing up, Max saw Rowan’s sorcerer—the very prodigy who had raised Túr an Ghrian—standing at the railing in his underwear. The boy’s face was even paler than usual.

“How much time do we have?”

“They said they’d be here at seven,” replied Max.

With a groan, David disappeared. Two minutes later, he stood at the railing wearing leggings and a blue tunic. Max shook his head.

“You look like a page boy. And those leggings keep no secrets.”

Mortified, David vanished again. He appeared three more times at the railing, but each outfit was even worse than the last. When there was a knock at the door, David gasped and drew the curtain around his bed.

“Keep them busy!” he yelled. “I just need a few minutes.”

Trotting up the stairs, Max opened the door and invited Scathach and Cynthia in. They both looked lovely: Scathach wearing a dark gray dress with a silver belt and Cynthia in her viridian robes with a white daisy in her hair.

“David needs a moment,” said Max, giving them a significant look and leading them downstairs.

“Take your time,” called Cynthia, scrutinizing the remains of David’s robe on the floor. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the celebration dinner?”

“Oh no,” wheezed David, evidently straining. “Those formal things are always so stuffy. And you’ll love the Hanged Man! Marta’s been cooking all day to get things ready. Have you ever had sweetbreads? I haven’t, but Marta’s a genius at desserts.”

Cynthia turned pale.

“Hello, Scathach!” called David pleasantly.

“Hello,” she replied, walking around the lower level and gazing about. She stopped at a runeglass case and peered closely at it. “Is this one of those pinlegs Max told me about?”

“Yes,” said David. “I spent so much time with it, I thought I’d hold on to it as a keepsake. I call him Chester. He just seems like a Chester.”

Scathach raised an eyebrow at Chester’s gleaming carapace, lethal pincers, and weakly undulating legs. “And so how did you manage to take control of those dreadnoughts?”

David finally emerged from behind his curtain, having opted for a wooly brown robe from the hamper. He beamed at Cynthia, who smiled weakly and said something about him looking “very comfortable.”

“Oh, Marta doesn’t stand on ceremony,” he replied, standing on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. “Anyway, Scathach, it was really pretty straightforward once I realized that the dreadnoughts had a fatal flaw. The spirits that controlled them were not only relatively weak, but they were also damaged. I no longer required their truenames to unlock them; I just needed enough power to kick down the doors. And Max helped provide it.”

“Fascinating,” said Scathach. “So was that Workshop engineer of any use?”

“Not so much. We could never really unravel all of Chester’s defenses. But in the end it didn’t really matter. Dr. Bechel doesn’t even begrudge the fact that we kidnapped him. In fact, he doesn’t even want to go back home.…”

David trailed off as Max shot him a horrified glance. The boys were silent for several moments before David begged the ladies to make themselves at home. Dinner would have to wait for an hour—maybe two—but he was confident that Marta could adjust. Running up the stairs, David abruptly abandoned their guests and vanished behind his bed curtain.

An hour later, he returned with an outraged smee.

Toby was literally trembling with indignation, twisting about in the sorcerer’s hands to lambast him in a thunderous baritone.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be forgotten for over a month!” he roared. “To be left shuffling about a house in Blys, masquerading as some crusty engineer while all of Rowan is celebrating in your absence? Well, I can assure you that you’re going to pay for this! The meter’s been running, my friend, and when I factor in the overtime …”

The apoplectic smee was set upon a pillow by the fire, where he continued to seethe and gasp. But at last Toby sighed and fell still. Uncurling his body, he raised his yamlike head to gaze around at the rest of his audience. Pausing at Scathach, the smee cleared his throat and inched forward.

“Who are you, and why haven’t we met before?”