The Maelstrom

~ 5 ~ Laqueus Diaboli

Bedlam followed Rolf’s death, a crush of bodies as refugees rushed forward to see what had happened. Agents arrived within minutes, forcing the crowds back and questioning Max and the rest. Sarah had been inconsolable, weeping over Rolf’s body as one Agent led the Second Years away. She’d screamed at Umbra, vowing revenge, but the refugee girl didn’t appear to have heard her. She simply stood by, leaning on her bloodstained spear and gazing stoically at the boy she had slain.

Word arrived swiftly from the Manse; Max was to report immediately. He knew Ms. Richter’s concern. The scene at the sparring pit was too frenzied and chaotic; there might be more assassins lurking in the mob. Leaving Sarah in the care of another Agent, Max hurried away through the crowd, pushing and jostling through their ranks until he was free of them.

Miss Boon was waiting in the Manse’s foyer. She was composed but had clearly been crying. Rolf’s death no doubt hit her hard; he had been an uncommonly talented and industrious student. But it occurred to Max that she had another reason to grieve; the appearance of Cooper’s notorious dagger was a clear sign that the man was either dead or in mortal peril.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m okay,” he said. “I take it you heard about the knife?”

Miss Boon nodded before gesturing weakly at his face and clothes. Wiping his cheek, Max felt that it was sticky. Glancing down, he now realized that his shirt was spattered with Rolf’s blood. “Go clean yourself up,” she said heavily. “We’ll be waiting for you in the Archmage’s chambers. Would you like a guard?”

Max shook his head. “Rolf was my friend and he meant to kill me. Why should I trust a random guard? For all I know, you’re one of the Atropos, Miss Boon.”

She nodded sadly. “We’ll be waiting for you. David says time is important. Be quick and be vigilant.”

Heading to the dormitories, Max ducked into the bathroom. It was nearly empty. The only occupants were the dozing domovoi attendant and a First Year who nearly swallowed his toothbrush when he registered Max’s gruesome appearance. Max gnored him, turning on one of the silvery faucets and scrubbing roughly at his hands and face until they were clean. Peeling off his shirt and jacket, he stuffed them into a waste-basket.

Back in his room, Max dressed quickly. He pulled on a gray doublet of quilted cotton before donning a hauberk of black steel rings. Over this he slipped the simple tunic of the Red Branch and a leather baldric to which he belted the gae bolga. Max’s enemies might be able to infiltrate Rowan, but they would not find him unarmored or unprepared.

Ten minutes later he stood before the Archmage’s door. The Director herself answered his knock.

“There are only friends here,” she said, sensing his wariness.

“How do I know that?”

“David has made certain.”

Looking past her, Max saw his roommate sitting by the fire in Bram’s chair. Their eyes met and David gave a small, reassuring smile. Stepping past Ms. Richter, Max walked inside.

There were others within, but Max hardly noticed them. His attention was fixed on Rolf’s corpse, which lay upon a long table in the middle of the common room. The boy’s neck had been cleaned and bandaged and someone had had the decency to place coppers on his eyelids. But whether due to rigor mortis or careless oversight, Rolf’s mouth remained open—frozen on the threshold of a scream. It was several seconds before Max realized that the body was lying within a summoning circle.

In the dark room, the hexagram glowed faintly orange, as though embers simmered beneath the floorboards. Glancing about, Max realized that all of the room’s rugs and clutter had been cleared away to reveal many such circles upon the floor. Some were large with complex symbols and runes about their periphery while others were small and simple. While each was etched with a jeweler’s skill upon the hardwood floor, only Rolf’s was glowing.

Max looked to the room’s other inhabitants. Bram was absent, but Mina was on the floor near Mrs. Menlo, who was rocking in her favorite chair and stroking Lila. Miss Boon sat on a long bench beneath three frosted windows. At her feet blinked a pair of feral yellow eyes.

“What is that?” exclaimed Max.

“Don’t be frightened,” said Miss Boon. “Grendel is Cooper’s charge.”

The rest of the creature’s body seemed to materialize from thin air. At first glance, Grendel looked like an ash-gray panther. As the creature rose and approached, however, Max saw that his snout and ears were more wolflike, while his coat was dappled with a tiger’s camouflaging bands. With each breath, Grendel’s body faded into his surroundings so that he nearly disappeared. Only the eyes remained, fierce and predatory. Growling deep in his throat, the animal circled Max, gliding once against him before padding back to settle at Miss Boon’s feet.

“So that’s a Cheshirewulf,” Max muttered. He’d read about them but had never seen one before. The creatures were very rare and dreaded by superstitious farmers and foresters in the north. It was said that they could smell blood from miles away and that no homestead was safe if one wandered into the vicinity. Like many magical creatures, Cheshirewulfs had been hunted to near extinction. Cooper had never mentioned Grendel before, and Max imagined that the creature probably lived deep in the Sanctuary among other wild charges whose stewards had died or no longer looked after them. “What’s he doing here?”

“He showed up yesterday,” replied Miss Boon, stroking the animal’s scruff. “We rarely see Grendel, but when William went missing … It’s as though he knew.” Her voice broke and she checked herself.

“We’re hoping Grendel can help,” explained Ms. Richter. “Some doing of the Enemy has rendered scrying ineffective. If we cannot find Agents Cooper and Polk using magical means, we must use more conventional methods. The bond between charge and steward is very strong, and Cheshirewulfs are legendary trackers. Perhaps Grendel can succeed where we have failed.”

Max nodded before glancing back at Rolf’s body. “Has anyone told his family yet?” he asked quietly. “I think they live near Wyndle Farm.”

“Nigel’s already on his way,” replied Ms. Richter. “We must work quickly. They will naturally want to see the body and I would not keep it from them. But we must have answers.”

“What are you planning to do?” asked Max uneasily. “Some sort of autopsy?”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” David declared, rising from his chair. “Not a physical autopsy but a spiritual one. I doubt Rolf was any kind of traitor; in fact, I doubt he was acting of his own will at all. The Atropos often used possession as a tool for assassinations. I think Rolf was the unfortunate vessel they chose. But we need to be certain, and we need to know if there are others in our midst.”

“How are you going to do that?” Max wondered.

“Laqueus Diaboli,” replied David, directing Mina to get up and choose a beaker from among a dozen standing upon the chessboard. “That would serve,” he remarked, glancing at her selection. “But I think the iron and antimony mixture might prove better.” The girl retrieved a different vial filled with metallic powder and brought it to David, but he shook his head. “I trust you to do it.”

With unblinking concentration, Mina set to pouring the beaker’s fine grains so that they filled up the circle about the hexagram’s perimeter. Once David was satisfied with her progress, he returned his attention to Max.

“Laqueus Diaboli is a very old trick,” he explained. “A sort of reverse exorcism that most scholars have forgotten. Instead of driving an evil spirit out of Rolf’s body, we’re going to try and snare it back in. When a spirit possesses a human, they’re like a parasite attaching their own life force to their victim’s. It takes time for that connection to fade entirely, and it’s likely that some remnant of that spirit’s essence is still bound to Rolf’s soul.”

“But hasn’t his soul already gone?” asked Max.

“I don’t think so,” David replied sadly, regarding the deceased. “A soul—particularly a young one—often stays with its body for some time. Some take hours or even days to realize that their body has died. My hope is that Rolf’s soul or some part of it is still inside. If a spirit did possess him, we might be able to reel it back. That will do, Mina.…”

Having finished her task, the girl took Mrs. Menlo’s hand and quietly led her into the guest bedroom and closed the door.

Once David heard its bolt slide into place, he continued. “Even before Astaroth’s edicts, most Mystics considered summoning taboo,” he said. “It’s often associated with necromancy and black magic of the worst sort. I know that none of you have much experience with calling spirits, much less the sort of demon that might come tonight. I need to prepare you for some things.”

At David’s direction, Max took a seat next to Ms. Richter and Miss Boon. Grendel was breathing heavily, growling low with each exhale.

“It may be that nothing happens,” David mused, leaning over the circle to sprinkle its interior with a fine talc. “There’s always the slim possibility that Rolf Luger was working with the Atropos of his own volition. There’s also the chance that his soul departed swiftly. In either case, no spirit will answer our summons. But if one does …” Setting down the powder, he placed white candles about the circle’s perimeter. At his command, they kindled into flame—seven golden lights that shone like stars about the circle’s ruddy glow. “The demon will try to conceal its presence,” continued the sorcerer. “Once discovered, it will lie; it will seek to deceive us until we discover its name.

The summoner normally has this information—it’s the usual way of calling upon a spirit. Since we’re using another means to summon it, we’ll have to extract its name. Until we do, it will seek to mislead and manipulate us. The demon cannot physically leave the circle, but you must ignore whatever it says. Its words will be designed to hurt us, to turn us against one another and play upon whatever fears it can divine. Do not listen or speak to it. Let me do the talking. The demon will give six false names before it reveals the true one.…”

Placing incense within an ancient-looking thurible, David began slowly walking counterclockwise around the circle. A thin yellow smoke trickled from the censer, filling the air with a sulfurous fug. The boy spoke evenly in Latin, saying each phrase forward and backward until he moved on to the next. Three times he walked around the corpse, never pausing or gazing at the body. David’s attention was rigidly fixed on the circle. It was growing brighter.

When he’d finished, David seated himself by the fireplace and calmly struck a silver church bell. Its pure note reverberated in the room before fading slowly, reluctantly to silence. Max watched the circle intently, but nothing happened. The minutes ticked by. Outside, Max heard Old Tom chime ten o’clock. There were calls and laughter from the paths below and the patter of footsteps as students raced to reach the Manse before curfew. When the final chime sounded, the campus grew quiet once more.

More minutes ticked by and Max began to grow restless. His gaze wandered about the room, taking in the maps and a small Rembrandt hanging above an armillary sphere. Max knew that Bram and the Dutch artist had been close friends. Astaroth’s very prison had been a Rembrandt. It seemed like ages ago that Max’s own blood had enabled Astaroth to escape its confines.

He would never forget the Demon’s prim smile, so ancient and knowing. Shifting his position, Max’s eyes wandered along the walls and nooks, skimming the books and rugs that had been moved aside to reveal the summoning circles. His gaze paused at the mirror hanging between Bram’s study and the bedroom. Max’s heart skipped a beat.

Rolf’s reflection shone in the mirror.

The dead boy was staring at them from its depths, his face as white as alabaster. Max bolted upright.

“What is it?” hissed Miss Boon.

“The mirror!” he gasped. “Rolf—”

Sitting forward, David gestured furiously for them to be silent. Glancing at Rolf’s corpse, Max saw that it was still lying on the table, its arms neatly folded. Sitting back, Max tried to calm himself. He was sweating now; the room’s silence and the mounting tension were nearly unbearable. Closing his eyes, Max counted to sixty. Opening them, he peered at the mirror. It showed nothing more than the reflections of Ms. Richter, Miss Boon, and himself sitting in a row beneath the moonlit windows.

Grendel began to growl. The Cheshirewulf bared its teeth in a jagged grimace as the animal’s ears pricked forward. One by one, the candles began to gutter, as though a breeze was eddying about Rolf’s body. From the corner of his eye, Max saw David point a finger at the circle.

A footprint had appeared upon the talc—a hideous, four-pronged print that might have belonged to a man-sized bird of prey. A second footprint appeared, slow and cautious, as though whatever was in the circle was creeping about its perimeter. David stood.

“We know you are here. Reveal yourself.”

Nothing happened.

“Tempus volat hora fugit—time flies, the hour flees,” David said testily, seizing the talc shaker and striding over to the circle. Throwing its remaining contents into the air, he stepped back as the cloud of particles plumed and settled around the invisible demon, revealing a glimpse of its silhouette. For an instant Max could perceive a tall and horned shape, hunched and gangling with arms that nearly reached the floor. There was a hiss as it realized what David had done. A second later it vanished.

Rolf’s body gave a spasm, as though receiving an electric jolt. To Max’s horror, the corpse sat up, the coppers falling from its eyes as it swung its legs off the table. Grimacing, the corpse eased onto unsteady legs and examined the circle’s inscriptions. It spoke in a chilling chorus of intertwining voices, young and old, male and female.

“Coddle, hobble, gobble the codding kiddie,” it muttered, stooping to peer at a sigil. “We’ll gorge upon his bell, book, and candlezzzz.…” Three times, the demon repeated the strange verse, ending each with a gurgling, flylike buzzing. When it appeared satisfied by the circle’s merits, it turned to David.

“What dost thou want, sickly spawn of moon and womb and mandrake?”

“Mortui vivos docent. The dead must teach the living,” remarked David with a wry smile. “But first, tell me your name.”

The demon laughed, its voices jingling like change from within Rolf’s bandaged throat.

“Flee to your grandsire’s shadow,” it tittered. “ ‘Cower all the moanday, tearsday, wailsday, thumpsday, frightday, shatterday till the fear of the Law!’ ”

Walking over to his table, David struck the silver bell again. Its note rang out in the dark room, clear and true. With a moan, the corpse clapped its hands over its ears and shuffled to the circle’s farthest point.

“Apparently, you know who I am,” said David. “So I’m going to forgo the niceties. I will have your name and you will answer my questions or I’ll have you bound within a pig of iron and cast to the bottom of the sea. Salt and iron for all eternity, demon. Most unpleasant. So tell me your name and answer my questions and perhaps we’ll let you make amends.”

“I am Namalya,” replied the corpse, speaking in a woman’s voice. “And I am punished unjustly. Even now the poor boy’s family is searching for the body of their son. How they wail and cry and gnash their teeth! They shall curse your name forever, David Menlo. You desecrate the dead!”

The sorcerer was unmoved.

“My friend was desecrated when you possessed him. And you lie. Namalya is not your name.” Pivoting upon his heel, David made to strike the bell. With a hiss, Rolf’s corpse rushed forward, stopping only at the circle’s edge. Its voice became a deafening baritone.

“I AM MOLOCH!” it bellowed. “Great Moloch, swollen with the blood of innocents!”

When the corpse’s eyes went white and blank, David actually laughed.

“This is not my first summoning,” he said, shaking his head wearily. “Do you think to frighten us with carnival tricks? You are small in power but great in mischief. Your actions have caused my friend’s death. I will have your name and the truth or I will break you.”

The corpse swiveled its head toward Max and spoke in Rolf’s own voice, as though the boy’s vocal cords had not been severed by Umbra’s spear. “It is you who are to blame for my death. If you had only surrendered to the Atropos, none of this would have happened. What will you tell my mother, Max? Will you tell her that I had to die so you might live?”

In his heart, Max knew there was truth in the demon’s words. He had not struck the blow that killed Rolf Luger, but he might as well have. His classmate was dead because of him. His grief must have shown, for the demon smiled and turned its attention to Miss Boon.

“We have your man,” he sniggered. “He cries out for a merciful death, but we shall not give it to him. Have you ever seen someone on the rack? Your man is strong, but no one is that strong.…”

Miss Boon remained silent, but her hands were shaking, worrying at the ends of her sleeves.

“You can help him,” the demon hissed. “This son of the Sidh is all that stands between you and the one you desire. All your life, you feared that you’d never experience love, Hazel Benson Boon. You thought your books would make you happy, but there you sit with a hollow heart in a scholar’s robes. Do not throw away your only chance at happiness.…”

“David,” warned Ms. Richter. “I think you must silence him.”

“You have nothing to fear, Gabrielle Richter,” cackled the demon, flicking his eyes to her. “I know better than to think I can move one so cold as you. After Rowan recruited you away from your nothing life in that nothing town, you never went back, did you? Naturally, you were ashamed of your father’s drinking and the way decent folk scorned your mother. A pity they died in that fire before you got a chance to say goodbye. I’m sure you were the last thing on their minds, beautiful and brilliant Gabrielle who went off to a something life in a something town and never looked back. I’m sure they’d be proud. I know you must be.…”

“Are you going to silence this thing, or must I?” Ms. Richter snapped, glaring at David. Her voice was steel, but Max saw that her eyes were bright with tears. Reaching over, he took her hand. She gripped it fiercely and took Miss Boon’s in turn. David appeared unmoved by her plea. Within the circle, Rolf’s corpse had climbed back atop the table where it sat idly dangling its legs and leering at them.

“Your name,” David commanded, thoughtfully examining the bell. “I won’t ask nicely again.”

“We shall have each of you,” the demon hissed, speaking with many voices. “Koukerros for all and for all a good night!”

“As you will,” said David, marching swiftly toward the circle.

The corpse’s smile faded. “H-haven’t you forgotten your little bell?”

“You had your chance.” David pointed at the circle. “Sol Invictus.”

Unconquerable sun. It had been the motto of Solas, the ancient school of magic that Astaroth had broken long ago. As soon as David said the words, the powder that Mina had sprinkled about the circle burst into purple-blue flames. With a shriek, Rolf’s corpse flipped over onto the table, screeching and scrabbling madly at the wood as though the circle’s flames were coursing through every bone and nerve.

“Graeling!” it screamed in a little girl’s voice. “I am called Graeling!”

“A lie,” replied David, folding his arms.

The demon moaned and writhed, its eyes going black. When next it spoke, Max realized that Graeling’s voice had been stripped from the chorus. So had the voices of Moloch and Namalya. The corpse spun around, staring at David as though every vein and capillary would burst.

“I am Legion,” it panted, hugging itself and rocking while the circle’s flames blazed with sparking, phosphorescent intensity. “Legion with a thousand faces, a million faces …”

The sorcerer shook his head and the demon sobbed pitiably. The rest of the names came quickly. When David declared them false, the corresponding voice was stripped away. Soon, only one voice remained—the wheezing rasp of an old man.

“Ghöllah is my name. What is it you wish to know?”

The flames died away, retreating into the floor so that they shimmered like violet coals within the etched designs. Max sat forward.

“Are there other assassins at Rowan?” inquired David.

“Of course.”

“Who are they?”

“I do not know.” The corpse grinned maliciously at Max. “I was summoned and I served. I may have failed, but the Atropos will not. The son of the Sidh will not escape them.”

“Where are William Cooper and Ben Polk?” asked David.

“I do not know.” The demon shrugged. “My summoner only gave me the scarred man’s knife.”

Miss Boon stood. “S-so you never saw William on the rack,” she stammered. “It was just a lie.”

“If you like,” the demon chuckled. “I’ve seen the rack.”

“Why did they arm you with William Cooper’s blade?” asked David.

“It is the kris of Mpu Gandring,” replied the demon. “Its blade is accursed. My masters fear no ordinary weapon can slay the Sidh prince.”

David paused at this. Several seconds passed before he spoke. “Do the Atropos know Max’s geis?” he asked softly.

“No,” replied the demon. “But they are searching, scrying, lying, pining for it. They care not whether they slay the Hound of Rowan or he slays himself. They care only that he dies.”

“What were the terms of your service to the Atropos?” asked David.

“Nothing fancy,” the demon tittered. “Ghöllah was to get close to Sidh boy and murder him. If Ghöllah succeeds, he is free. If he fails, he must report back.”

“Where specifically?”

“A grotto,” the demon hissed. “A grotto in the sea cliffs north of Rowan’s outer walls. A day’s ride. Last question, vile sorcerer, before our bargain is fulfilled.”

“Certainly,” said David. “Can you detect if another being is possessed?”

“Of course we know our own,” the demon scoffed. “Mortal flesh is a flimsy cloak.”

“Excellent,” said David, walking over to a bookcase and opening a carved wooden box upon its topmost shelf. Fishing inside, he selected a silver ring. Rolf’s corpse watched him, its eyes dark and mistrustful. When the sorcerer returned, the demon hissed and retreated to the table’s edge.

“You shall warn my friend of peril,” said David, holding up the ring. “For seven years, you shall inhabit this and warm its metal to a scald whenever you detect your own kind nearby. You shall serve faithfully and true. In seven years, your service shall end and you will be free to go. I give you Solomon’s Pledge. The choice is yours, Ghöllah—you can wear silver for seven years or a pig of iron for all eternity.”

“But my service to the Atropos is not complete,” the demon reflected. “I must report my failure.”

“You may report your failure in seven years.”

The corpse shook its head as though weighing all options and liking none.

“They are a dangerous enemy, Sorcerer.”

“So am I.”

“Very well,” the demon sighed. “I agree to your terms, curse you. Seven years, not a second longer.”

David tossed the ring inside the circle. Snatching it out of the air, the corpse stared at the object upon its palm with a look of unmitigated loathing. With an awful snarl, it closed its fist about the ring and toppled over, lifeless once again. The simmering flames about the circle died away so that only the seven candles remained, merry and golden.

“An ugly business,” mused David wearily. “But it is finished.” Stooping, he blew out the candles and knocked gently on the bedroom door. The door unbolted and Mina slipped out alone. “There is a ring in the body’s hand,” said David. “Give it to our Max and tell him what it is.”

If the corpse frightened Mina, the girl did not let it show. Without a hint of squeamishness, she retrieved the ring from Rolf’s clenched fist and turned it over in her fingers.

“There is a demon in this ring,” she declared, half turning to David. The boy nodded and gestured for her to go on. “His name is … Ghöllah. And he promises to warn fierce Max if there are others about. Seven years he will serve and he has vowed revenge against you.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” said David, smiling.

“She can tell all that from merely handling it?” wondered Miss Boon.

“Of course I can,” said Mina, coming over to Max. “It cannot keep secrets from me.”

Max thanked her, studying the ring as she placed it on his finger.

David turned to Ms. Richter. “Are there any others from the Red Branch still at Rowan?”

“Xiùmĕi and Matheus are still here,” she replied. “And Peter Varga returned two days ago.”

“What of the Vanguard or the Minstrels?” he inquired, referring to other elite cadres of Agents. There were several such groups at Rowan. They were not as skilled or exclusive as the Red Branch, but each had their own specialties.

“Fifteen,” she said. “Perhaps twenty.”

“Good,” said David. “I would send them along with the Cheshirewulf to the area Ghöllah described. I don’t know if they’ll find Cooper and Ben Polk, but it’s a starting point. Even if the Atropos have moved, Grendel should be on the scent.”

The Cheshirewulf twitched and growled at the mention of his name.

“I’m going, too,” said Miss Boon, rising.

“Hazel,” said Ms. Richter, “best to leave this—”

“No, Director!” flashed the young teacher. “If they could have possessed William by now, they would have sent him for Max instead of using Rolf. William’s too strong-willed to give in easily, but if they’re torturing him …”

Ms. Richter relented. “I’ll give the order,” she sighed. “We’ll put Xiùmĕi in charge. She has the most experience with this sort of thing. Take Grendel and prepare yourself for a journey. I would pack for at least a week.”

“My students—”

“Will be fine,” Ms. Richter assured her. “We’ll see to your classes; you see to William.”

The two women embraced. With a parting glance at Rolf’s body, Miss Boon hurried out of Bram’s chambers with Grendel at her side. When the door closed, the Director turned to the two boys. Her face was grave.

“There’s something else,” she said softly. “War has broken out. I had word earlier this evening. Aamon has declared war on Prusias. His armies are marching on Blys from the east. Rashaverak is attacking from the south. Given this development and the events this evening, I want you to leave for Blys at once—before Prusias can blockade our shores. Make contact with the Workshop through the one we discussed, David. The Workshop would be a valuable ally in the days ahead, and perhaps the war will give them an opportunity to break free from Prusias’s grasp. Even if they refuse to join us, we need intelligence. We need to know how Prusias intends to use their technologies should the war come to Rowan. Sir Alistair has already prepared a dossier for you.”

“Alistair Wesley?” Max exclaimed, remembering his old etiquette instructor. He had long regarded the departed teacher as a vain and patronizing fop. The man had accepted Prusias’s offer of land and titles and abandoned Rowan two years earlier. “Isn’t he an earl or something, lording it up in Blys?”

“Sir Alistair is one of our finest intelligence operatives,” replied Ms. Richter firmly. “And he accepted that awful mission at my request, so please show some respect.”

“How have you been in contact with him?” asked David. “I thought scrying was impossible.”

“Laqueus Diaboli isn’t the only old trick in use tonight,” observed the Director. “We’ve been communicating with Alistair using Florentine spypaper the domovoi discovered in the Archives.”

“Ah,” said David, understanding at once. “I should like to see some.”

“There is some in your dossier,” said Ms. Richter. “It contains all of Alistair’s recommendations regarding the Workshop, along with my comments and notes. Do not write upon the sheets unless you wish the contents to be transcribed back to those in Sir Alistair’s keeping. That could be very dangerous.”

“Understood,” said David, taking a portfolio from the Director. He gazed about his grandfather’s room, absorbing each detail as though he might not see it again. “What will you do with the body?” he asked.

“The moomenhovens will prepare Rolf for burial and we will arrange a service,” Ms. Richter sighed. “Sarah and the Second Years are with Miss Awolowo. As to the refugees, we shall have to see what to do with them.…”

“They didn’t do anything wrong,” said Max quickly. “Ajax and the rest … they’re valuable. They’ve seen a lot more than Rowan’s students and they’re tougher for it. The girl who killed Rolf … Umbra. Her strike was faster than anything I’ve seen since the Arena. We shouldn’t overlook these people, Ms. Richter. There’s real trouble brewing unless we break down the barriers between us.”

“I’ll look into it,” she promised. “Now you must be off. I feel better knowing that you have that ring, but be vigilant, Max. You must be wary of everyone you meet. Both of you.”

“Don’t worry about us,” said Max.

“We’ll be back well before the solstice,” said David, blushing as Ms. Richter embraced them and kissed each boy on the cheek. “Please consider the additional defenses I recommended. Tell Mina or my grandfather to help if the builders or Mystics are overtaxed.”

“Your grandfather doesn’t often do as he’s told,” said Ms. Richter, tapping her chin. “I don’t suppose you know where he is or what he’s doing.”

“I don’t ask and he doesn’t tell,” said David. He laughed. “Secrecy’s a family trait, I guess. Will you look in on Mina and my mother while we’re away? Ms. Kraken can instruct her in transmutation in my absence. She’s been anxious to learn, but I’ve had her focused on other things. Which reminds me …”

Producing a key from his pocket, David went over to a writing desk. Unlocking a small box, he retrieved a polished teardrop of lapis lazuli. Mina could hardly stand still as Max unfastened her magechain so that her teacher could thread the stone upon it.

“For identifying the ring,” said David. “Be a good girl while I’m gone. And stay out of my trove.”

Mina stiffened.

“I know that you’ve been at it, you little thief,” David chided, mussing her hair. “Breaking into my chest, trying on charms of every rank and putting on fashion shows for my mother. For shame, Mina.”

“A thief wouldn’t put them back,” retorted the girl, polishing her newly won stone and peering up at him affectionately. “Be safe, wise David and fierce Max. I will miss you.” Hugging them both farewell, the girl hurried off to her bedroom, stopping only to close Rolf’s eyes and place the coppers back atop the lids.

“What a strange child,” muttered the Director when the door had closed. “I don’t know whether she’s our savior or … something else.” She turned to Max. “You still have the Ormenheid?”

“Not on me,” replied Max. “But she’s in my room.”

“How fast do you think that ship can sail to Blys?” asked Ms. Richter. “We have only five weeks until Lord Naberius will expect an answer.”

“When David was aboard, I think she averaged sixteen knots,” he said, doing the math in his head. “Two weeks. Maybe a little longer.”

David shook his head. “Don’t fret, Ms. Richter,” he said, stuffing the portfolio into his enchanted pack. “Unless something goes very wrong, we’ll be in Blys by dawn.”

Pleasantly ignoring the Director’s shock and subsequent questions, David bade her farewell and whisked Max from the room. A minute later, the boys were cutting swiftly across Bacon Library.

“And how are we going to be in Blys by dawn?” Max hissed.

But David did not reply as they wove through tables and study carrels packed with students poring over manuscripts or staring into space and mouthing the words to various incantations. There were midterms this week. Exams seemed an absurd notion with Rowan tottering at the edge of war, but Max knew that Old College would have to be nearly overrun before Ms. Richter would cancel classes. Max was about to press David further when he caught the indignant eye of a Highland hare glaring at them from the librarian’s desk. Swallowing his question, he hurried after David and the two boys disappeared down a narrow stairwell beyond the stacks.

“We’re going to take my tunnel,” David explained, standing aside as a phalanx of anxious-looking First Years trudged past. “No seats in Bacon,” he warned them. “Try Archimedes—it’s usually less crowded.”

As the students moaned and reversed course, David slipped by them. Max followed but eyed each warily until he realized his ring had not grown warm.

“The tunnel will get us fairly close to your old farmhouse and Broadbrim Mountain,” David continued. “From there, it’s a two-week journey overland to Piter’s Folly.”

“What the heck is Piter’s Folly?” asked Max.

“It’s all in the dossier,” said David, patting his pack and continuing down the stairs. “Do you need anything from outside our room? Anything from the Red Branch vault?”

Max shook his head. He’d already borrowed a longsword from the Red Branch’s treasury as a less dangerous alternative to the gae bolga. The temptations he’d experienced earlier when he’d unsheathed the Morrígan blade had confirmed his lurking fears. He simply could not trust himself with the gae bolga in his hand and with friends nearby. The blade was a living thing that hungered for blood; it did not care whose so long as it drank deep. It must be a weapon of last resort.

“Do you have any money on you?” asked David as they approached the dormitory levels.

“A few lunes and coppers.”

“That should be enough,” remarked David, descending yet another flight of stairs until they were below the ground floor.

“Is the tunnel down here?” Max wondered. “We haven’t packed yet.”

“The tunnel’s in our room,” David explained. “We need to recruit someone first, and he’s usually playing cards right about now. What time is it?”

“A little past midnight.”

“Good,” David chuckled. “Things will be in full swing.”

Leaving the staircase, David hurried down a narrow, curving hallway of rough stone. Max had not spent much time in the Manse’s underground levels—he was not even sure how many there were. It was plainly evident that nonhuman creatures lived down here. The corridor had a barnlike smell, an aroma of sawdust, wet grass, and warm fur. Torchlight flickered on many doors of different shapes and sizes—oval doors with brass moldings, square panels with centered rings, and narrow porticos whose blue pillars were marked with elegant runes and inelegant graffiti. David went to the nearest and knocked.

The door cracked open, allowing cigar smoke to trickle out into the hallway. Max heard music within, the tinkling of glasses, and raucous laughter. “The games are full, gentlemen,” said a brusque voice with a French accent. The door promptly shut in the sorcerer’s face. Narrowing his eyes, David knocked again.

“We want the smee.”

The door swung open. As smoke plumed into the hallway, Max looked down and saw a raffish red-capped lutin puffing on a miniature cigar. Flicking ash from his velvet lapel, the elfin creature gazed back into the hazy room and gave a derisive snort.

“You are welcome to him. I will even waive admission.”

Ducking beneath the archway, Max followed David into a small casino in which dozens of patrons were playing games of chance or quaffing drinks at a travertine bar. Lutins were notorious gamblers, but Max saw a host of other creatures in attendance. A pair of satyrs had joined several lutins at a poker table while a jostling throng of domovoi was crowded around the craps table, shouting, stamping, and pleading with every roll of the dice. Max heard the smee’s theatrical baritone well before he saw him.

“Let’s paint it red, Lady Fortune!”

They found the yamlike creature sitting beneath a potted palm, where he was propped on a striped chaise and sipping rum punch through a long straw. Although he had no visible eyes, the smee was avidly following the action at a roulette wheel via a mirror angled above the table. The ball skittered across a blur of numbers, bouncing along until the wheel finally slowed and it settled into a numbered pocket. Several players cheered. The smee drooped like a soggy croissant and sipped dejectedly at his drink.

“One left, Toby,” called a pretty faun at the table. She was apparently placing the limbless smee’s bets on his behalf. “What you want to do?”

“That’s your gratuity,” he sulked before suddenly perking up. “Unless! Unlessss the lady cares to let it ride on a romantic journey of chance and excitement?”

Rolling her eyes, the faun slipped the chip within her purse and checked her makeup.

“The game is rigged!” roared the smee, knocking over his drink with an angry butt of his dusky head. The glass tottered off the table and shattered. “Scoundrels one and all, you’d cheat a hero of his … of his …” He trailed off, apparently at a loss.

“I believe the word he’s searching for is dignity?” sniffed a lutin, sorting his pile of chips.

“Wealth,” suggested another.

“Impossible,” put in a third. “He’s never had either.” As the table erupted in laughter, the smee slid farther down his pillow.

“Done to death by slanderous tongue was the Hero that here lies,” he murmured.

“I thought that must be a hero,” remarked Max, pulling up a chair.

The smee nearly rolled off the chaise with shock. “Max!” he cried, catching himself and straightening. “David! What are you two doing here?”

“Looking for you,” replied David. “We’ve got a secret mission and could use your help. What do you say, Toby? ‘Once more into the breach, dear friends’?”

The smee flipped about to address the nonplussed faun. “Did you hear that, succubus?” he cried. “Rowan’s greatest champions have come requesting my aid. They need me! Find someone else to endure your frivolous poppycock and threadbare ‘epiphanies.’ I have important work to do.…”

As Max carried him out of the speakeasy, Toby preened like a sultan, swooning with pride and an excess of rum. By the time they’d reached the observatory, however, the smee’s mood had sobered.

“Are we setting out right away?” he wondered, watching as Max and David stuffed clothes, bedrolls, and cooking gear into their packs. “Perhaps we should discuss strategy. I mean … I don’t even know what the mission is about!”

“We’ll tell you when we get there,” Max muttered, buckling the longsword opposite the gae bolga.

“And where is ‘there’ precisely?” inquired the smee delicately.

“Blys,” answered David, deftly fastening his pack with his only hand.

“But … but there are rumors of war in Blys,” exclaimed Toby. “Isn’t that … dangerous?”

“It’s not a vacation,” Max quipped, throwing another pair of woolly socks into his pack; in the wilderness, one could never have enough woolly socks. He slipped a warm black cloak over his shoulders, fastening it with the ivory brooch Scathach had given him in the Sidh.

“Do you have Ormenheid?” asked David, plucking a small glass vial from a shelf and slipping it into his belt pouch. Max nodded and patted his pocket where the dvergars’ marvelous vessel had shrunk down to the size of a matchbox. When set upon the water and given the proper command, the miniature would expand into a Viking longship that could navigate and sail itself against wind, wave, and tide.

“On second thought,” reflected Toby, “perhaps I overindulged this evening. My head isn’t quite right. I’m feeling downright tipsy. Call me a scalawag, gentlemen, but I think I’d best sleep it off.…”

“Sorry, Toby,” said Max, plucking up the smee by one end. “This will have to do.” He unceremoniously dunked the creature into a nearby pitcher of water. “Better?”

“Invigorated,” groused the smee. “And now I will ask you to kindly put me down and never to grab me by that particular part of my anatomy again.”

Horrified, Max promptly dropped the smee onto its pillow.

David cleared his throat. “If you’re ready, we’ll be off.”

“So where is the tunnel?” asked Max.

“The same place you tried two years ago,” said David, smiling. “But this time, my nosy friend, you’ll have the password.…”

Max reddened, remembering back to the time when he’d suspected David was going mad. He’d known David was leaving Rowan through some secret passage in their room and had been determined to follow. He’d discovered that David’s bed served as some sort of gateway, but the password had foiled him and he never made his way through.

Carrying the indignant smee, Max followed his roommate along the ledge on the observatory’s upper level toward David’s bed. Drawing aside its moon-stitched curtains, David unveiled a sleigh bed, half buried beneath unwashed coffee mugs, innumerable manuscripts, half a moldy sandwich, and some sort of grimacing iguana preserved in spirits of wine.

“Here we are,” he said, oblivious to the mess as he sat near the headboard and swept some papers aside to clear a place for Max. As they had before, the grains in the wood began to swirl about, dancing in and out of focus as they rearranged themselves.

“Take my hand, Max,” David commanded. “Hold it tightly and keep a firm grip on Toby.”

Max did so, staring at the headboard with breathless anticipation as the grains formed a familiar pattern.

Password?

Max’s roommate said nothing. He merely gazed up at the glass-domed ceiling and the stars beyond while the seconds ticked by.

“David,” Max hissed. “It’s asking you for the password.”

“Shhh,” replied the little sorcerer, still staring up at the stars.

Confused, Max followed his friend’s eyes up to the heavens. A new constellation was forming in the dome, its contours illuminated by slender threads of golden light that connected its stars. A moment later, Max was gazing at an enormous sea creature, its form outlined against the infinite space beyond. At last David spoke.

“Cetus.”

A painful jolt accompanied a flash, followed by a spinning blur of lights that brought bile to Max’s throat. Instinctively, he shut his eyes.

When he opened them, he was in Blys.