The Maelstrom

~ 12 ~ A Watcher in the Wood

Max stared, disbelieving, as the Demon came forward. The last time Max had seen Astaroth, he had been radiant and white—a luminous image of terrible power. Now his raiment was less glorious, more subdued. He wore a simple black robe and leaned upon the very staff he’d been carrying when he pursued Max and David in the Sidh. The Demon’s face was the same—a gleaming white mask of patrician, almost genderless beauty framed by smooth black hair that hung past his shoulders. His fathomless black eyes crinkled into cheerful slits as he spoke in his honeyed tenor.

“Now it is the time of nightThat the graves, all gaping wide,Every one lets forth his spriteIn the church-way paths to glide.“Are we communing with the dead?” he inquired pleasantly.

“I’m imagining this,” Max murmured, watching the Demon’s image grow translucent and flicker in the lantern light. “You’re not here—you’re skulking, lurking, hiding from Bram. You’re just some mischievous spirit, some watcher in the woods.”

The Demon gave a knowing smile. “I’m the watcher in all the woods,” he replied softly. “And I am here. Not in the flesh, alas, but then I can’t risk getting close to that awful blade. What a crime to craft such a weapon. You will never be free of it. You’ve made a bargain with the Morrígan, my boy, and blood is the only coin she takes.”

Frowning at the gae bolga, the Demon’s expression became thoughtful, almost melancholy.

“Dismiss your silly thoughts of violence,” he said. “When I’m in this form, we cannot harm one another. I’ve merely come to talk with you, Max, to appeal to your good senses and save you from the path you’re on.”

“Of course,” said Max scornfully. “You’re here to save me.”

“Yes, I am,” replied Astaroth. He gazed about the churchyard and the falling snow and sighed. “You and David and all the rest have done such foolish things,” he lamented. “It tries even my patience. I resurrect this beautiful world, give you a veritable Eden scrubbed clean of mankind’s mistakes, and you’re determined to throw it all away.”

Max’s face darkened. “This is your Eden? A world of war and death and fear?”

“Tut-tut,” Astaroth chided. “Where is your vision? I suppose it’s not entirely your fault—it’s the human in you. But try to have some perspective. We’re merely baby steps into a grand project, but already the old cities and governments and even memories are gone, cleared away so that a new and better world can take their place. Will death and heartbreak accompany such massive upheaval? Of course they will. When a farmer tills his fields, the ants must scatter or perish. But very soon, new life is created. The land and the ants are better for it.”

“Tell that to everyone who lost their families and their freedom.”

Astaroth sighed. He glided past to examine the headstones, stooping to read aloud several names of the deceased and how long each had lived. The Demon raised a slender eyebrow.

“Has it ever occurred to you that humans are dreadful at governing themselves?” he said. “Their lives are short but their appetites are large. It’s an almost comic recipe for greed and discontent. Most care nothing for future generations of their own kind, much less other beings and creatures. The rare specimens who strive to live in peaceful balance are quickly exploited or conquered by those who do not. They are punished for their virtue while the rest of the species cultivates and rewards its very worst traits. Moral man and immoral society, indeed!”

Chuckling, Astaroth shook his head.

“If humans are such a cancer, why not simply destroy them?” Max mused. “You have the Book of Thoth. You could strike humans from the record, make everyone fade away like everything else you’ve changed.”

With a shrug, the Demon rose and turned from the headstone.

“It is tempting,” he confessed. “It would be dishonest to pretend I have not weighed such a measure—a chance to wipe the slate clean and begin things anew, refashion the species and purge it of its lesser qualities. But I have not yet given up hope for humans. Within them exist the divine and the profane. Did you know that Isaac Newton published his Principia in the very year a sailor slaughtered the last dodo bird?”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is this. The genius who produced Principia is worth saving; the lout who bludgeoned the last of a helpless species is not. Such baffling extremes exist within mankind. Forgive me, Max, but such extremes exist within you. It’s why you intrigue me. And while it is periodically tempting to obliterate humans, I entertain the hope that they can be taught to nurture and embrace their better nature. It won’t happen overnight, but I’m optimistic that within a few centuries, we might see real progress. Perhaps we’ll see the same with you.”

“So we’re all just living in your little garden,” Max scoffed. “Some pruning here, some planting there, and wondrous things will grow.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” teased the Demon.

“People want to make decisions for themselves.”

“Oh, I know they do,” the Demon purred. “They’re just not any good at it. How could they be when they lack the necessary vision, wisdom, or patience? You curse my name, but the painful truth is that mankind was already teetering on self-destruction. Would you prefer a nuclear holocaust, laboratory plague, or technological singularity to my ascendancy? You shed tears for the fallen, but my intervention has saved humanity. A benevolent dictator is best, as Plato himself realized.”

“If you’re so wise and benevolent, why did the demons turn against you?”

“Because they’re as greedy and shortsighted as the humans. I believed that Prusias and others would be content with what I’d given them. I was mistaken. I shall not make such an error again; Prusias will learn the error of his ways.”

“What are you waiting for?” Max laughed. “His armies are rampaging all over Blys. Go punish him. Or have you grown too weak?”

The Demon’s smile waned. “Let us understand one another. This is not about strength or my capacity to impose my will. I can destroy almost anything upon this planet the moment I choose. Shall I incinerate the earth’s atmosphere? What if I melt down the ice caps or turn every drop of water into dust? The Book of Thoth gives me that power. If my ambition was merely to crush my enemies and rule as a tyrant, I could do so. That is Prusias’s aim, not mine. Any brute can become a tyrant if he stumbles into enough power. That holds little interest for me.”

“So what does interest you?”

The Demon gazed up at the stars. “Creation,” he murmured. “To bring forth something whole and lasting from something diseased and broken. To design and build something that has never existed. I am older than you imagine, Max McDaniels, and I have seen countless worlds. None rival this for its beauty or sheer possibilities. In a few thousand years—a mere heartbeat of the cosmos—this could be paradise.”

“Not if Prusias destroys it,” remarked Max. “Why don’t you stop him?”

“There’s elegance in economy,” replied Astaroth. “Why should I expend the energy to humble Prusias when he will do the job for me? Even if he conquers the other kingdoms and little Rowan, Prusias and the Workshop have broken Nature’s laws and birthed horrors that will inevitably spiral out of control. When that happens, whatever survivors remain will beg for my return. Really, I should be grateful—nothing could illustrate my value more than greedy, savage Prusias. Does the prospect of his invasion frighten you?”

“I’d rather fight Prusias than bow to you.”

“Touché,” replied the Demon. “That’s the very choice man has always faced—the king on the hill or the wolf at the door. A just king will protect you from the wolf, but he demands loyalty and service. You can choose to face the wolf alone, of course, but that is a risky proposition. And we’re not even talking about a wolf, are we? We’re talking about a Great Red Dragon.…” The Demon gave him a sharp look. “When Prusias comes, do you think Elias Bram will save you?”

When Max did not reply, Astaroth laughed soundlessly.

“Your silence speaks volumes. Already you sense what I know. The Archmage cares little for Rowan or its people. His real concern is hunting me and achieving vengeance. He may cite grand causes and ideology, but it’s really just his ego. It always has been. Look no further than how Elias won the hand of the lovely Brigit. Do you know that laughable myth?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised,” replied Astaroth. “It was very popular once upon a time. You see, Brigit and Elias were hardly childhood sweethearts. In fact, her father had already given his blessing to another suitor and did not approve a match to the brazen young sorcerer. But Elias was exceedingly stubborn and far too dangerous to simply dismiss out of hand. When Bram proclaimed that he would meet whatever demands Brigit’s father cared to set, the shrewd patriarch saw his chance. He devised a list of tasks so perilous that few believed Bram would even survive, much less fulfill them. Of course, they were mistaken. The Archmage not only completed the tasks and won his bride, but he also multiplied his fame in the bargain. Who could resist the story of the smitten sorcerer defying death time and again to win the hand of his truelove? The bards ate it up with a spoon and spread the tale to every shore.…” The Demon paused and tapped his chin. “Can you tell me what’s missing from the minstrels’ songs?”

“Brigit’s former suitor,” said Max, frowning.

Astaroth inclined his head. “Like myself, you have an instinct for justice,” he remarked. “What indeed happened to her betrothed? The bards never delved into such details because I daresay it complicates things. It just might make you consider your Archmage in a less flattering light. As you know, Brigit honored her father’s oath and married Elias Bram. But was she happy with this turn of events? Did she ever grow to love the arrogant young Archmage? Only she could say. Some have surmised that she was not pining for Bram when she waded into the sea but rather for this former suitor … the man she was supposed to marry.”

Max cleared his throat. “Well, what happened to him? The other suitor, I mean.”

“Sad stuff,” sighed the Demon. “Ironically, this fellow had been Bram’s closest companion. And despite this man’s many virtues, Elias still dominated and outshone him in every conceivable way. There was nothing the poor boy could have or achieve that Bram could not take or surpass. However, that all changed when this friend found love. Until that day, Bram had no interest or use for such sentiments, but nevertheless it galled him that this associate—this inferior—should possess something that he did not. And thus the spiteful Archmage resolved not only to take a wife, but also to take the very woman with whom his friend was smitten.”

“That’s terrible,” Max said.

“Yes, it is,” concurred Astaroth. “But you must understand that winning was never enough for Elias Bram; others also had to lose. And so you see, the famous tale of Bram’s heroic courtship is actually one of history’s great betrayals. Shall I tell you the name of Brigit’s suitor or can you guess?”

“Marley,” concluded Max stiffly. “It was Marley Augur, wasn’t it?”

“Correct,” Astaroth hissed. “You’ve always thought of Marley as a villain and a traitor, but aren’t those labels better suited for Bram? Be very careful of trusting Rowan’s fate to the Archmage, Hound. One might say that those who know him best, love him least.”

It was an uncomfortable revelation and Max wondered if David knew these allegations about his grandfather. Max did not doubt that they were true. For one, Astaroth never lied. For another, Max had also read some of Bram’s own papers and had to admit that nothing the Demon said ran counter to the tone or tenor in the writings. Elias Bram had been an arrogant young man; he had been consumed with his own achievements and advancement. And then there was Marley Augur … the blacksmith’s loathing of Bram, his desire for revenge, had staved off death itself and turned him into a revenant. The hatred was real and its origins were deep.

Still, Max gave a bitter laugh. “Should we look to you, then?” he wondered. “Will ‘the Great God’ come to Rowan’s aid when Prusias storms our gates?”

The Demon’s smile vanished and he glided almost within arm’s reach, hovering like a phantom.

“You have but to ask,” he whispered solemnly. “You have but to ask and I will come to you. Do you remember how to call me? ‘Noble Astaroth, pray favor thy petitioner with wisdom from under hill, beyond the stars, and beneath the deepest sea.’ Utter these words, Max McDaniels, and you shall have an ally in your hour of need.”

“How generous,” Max observed. “And what would you expect in return?”

“One minor service,” replied the Demon.

“And what would that be?”

“You must slay Elias Bram.”

Max smiled in disbelief before simply shaking his head.

“Don’t assume my motives are purely selfish,” Astaroth cautioned, leaning close. “It may be in your interest to destroy the Archmage.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He does not love you, Max McDaniels. You frighten him. You are a demigod and your lineage is very great. The Archmage’s powers are in full bloom, but yours are in mere infancy. Bram knows there will be a day when he cannot stand against you. Given the man’s past, do you really believe he will let that day come?”

Once he’d posed the question, the Demon stopped and awaited a response. Max gave a rueful smile.

“Your words are always poison.”

The Demon sighed and leaned upon his staff. “Truth is a bitter draught, but the wise man swallows it. Consider what I’ve said, Max. Sleep on it. Should the wolf come scratching at your door, know that you have an ally in waiting. Speak the proper words and we have a contract. Speak the proper words and I will aid you.”

“That will never happen.”

“As you will,” replied Astaroth softly. “But never is a long time and Rowan’s hour draws near.”

As Astaroth spoke these words, Old Tom struck ten o’clock. The notes rang clear and cold as the Demon backed slowly into the woods. And as he did, his ghostly form seemed to fade and dissipate. At last it unraveled into a wisp of vapor that scattered on the wind.

Following this strange and unsettling proposal, Max returned to the Manse. Once there, he retired to his room and remained there for two days. He did not share news of the Demon’s visit with anyone. A part of his consciousness—a hopeful sliver—wanted to believe that he had imagined the whole affair. Besides, what was he to say—that Astaroth was willing to save them in exchange for Elias Bram’s murder? Such an awful temptation might bitterly divide Rowan’s leadership when unity was needed.

Max regretted the conversation extremely. The Demon’s offer was an immense burden upon a mind and conscience already laden to capacity. He brooded over the many facets of their discussion, pacing about his room and gazing up at the starlit dome. While Astaroth never lied, he was often selective about what he shared and was perfectly willing for others to draw their own conclusions. He rarely relied on direct confrontation or brute force; his were more subtle schemes of leverage and manipulation. The Demon was notorious for moving allies and enemies about like chess pieces. Max did not fool himself that he could divine Astaroth’s grander game, but he did not have to be a pawn.

When in doubt, keep things simple.

He had no sooner resolved to speak with David when his roommate entered the observatory carrying Toby.

“Here you are,” said David, sounding distracted. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” said Max. “What’s up?”

“We’ve heard from Natasha Kiraly,” replied David, heading toward his bed. “She has the Workshop engineer and is waiting at the safe house. We’re going to make the switch.”

“Farewell, friend Max!” cried Toby. “As I set forth into peril, I do so with a full heart and no regrets. Was it Tennyson who once said—”

“Yes, it was,” snapped David, silencing the melodramatic smee. Sitting on his bed, he touched the headboard and glanced up at the stars. When Andromeda appeared, he muttered the constellation’s name and the pair promptly vanished.

Walking over, Max stared at the bed as though expecting it to perform another trick. But it disappointed him. Uneventful minutes passed until he grew bored and went down to the lower level to make a fire. Spreading a blanket upon his lap, he sat and gazed into the crackling hearth.

Twenty minutes passed before David reappeared. Max saw him rounding the upper story’s ledge and leading a confused-looking man by a slender, glowing cord. The engineer blinked and gazed about, his silvery hair standing straight up as though he had been electrocuted.

“I’d have been back sooner, but Toby needed to ‘get into character,’ ” sighed David. “Let me take Dr. Bechel down to Miss Boon and I’ll be back. Our guest won’t have anything useful to say until the effects of the passive fetter wear off.” He paused and looked attentively at Max. “Are you all right?”

“We need to talk.”

“Give me an hour and I’m yours.”

David made good on his promise. Before the clock struck six, he eased into the armchair across from Max and kicked off his shoes.

“Ah,” he sighed, wiggling his toes. “Much better. Now, what’s the matter?”

“Astaroth visited me,” replied Max. “Two days ago, by Rose Chapel.”

David raised his eyebrows but said nothing as Max relayed every detail he could recall. When he had finished, David gave a bemused smile.

“Well, I have to applaud his generosity,” he reflected. “That’s a far better proposal than the one Prusias made. In exchange for one life, we save thousands and our realm besides. We don’t even have to surrender the gae bolga or suffer another embassy on our lands. It’s very tempting.” The sorcerer chuckled.

“David, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He shrugged. “Or at least half serious. I may despise Astaroth, but I pity him, too.”

Max glanced at David’s wrist, the puckered stump where the Demon had bitten off his hand.

“Why would you of all people pity him?”

“Your conversation with him was very telling,” said David, rubbing his eyes. “To reiterate Astaroth’s point, he still holds all the cards. With the Book of Thoth, he can destroy this world—wipe the slate clean anytime he chooses and yet he doesn’t! Instead, he visits you and makes a personal appeal. Why should he do such a thing?”

“To use me as a weapon against your grandfather,” Max brooded, staring at the fire.

“Possibly,” David allowed. “That’s undoubtedly part of his objective, but I think there’s more. Astaroth could have stated those terms far more directly. Instead he tried very hard to justify himself to you, to convince you that he’s not a mere tyrant or mass murderer. He tried to persuade you that his vision is grand and worthwhile—that it will benefit all once it reaches fruition.”

Max nodded, uncertain where his roommate was going.

“But why should he remotely care whether you or anyone else approves?” laughed David. “Why should Astaroth entertain any objections or resistance when he has the means to obliterate them?”

“I have no idea.”

“Perhaps I do,” mused David, tapping the armrest. “Astaroth doesn’t want power for its own sake—he finds that juvenile and crude. And despite his stated interest in creation, we know that creation alone doesn’t satisfy him. After all, he already possesses the means to destroy or create almost anything he wishes. Strange as it sounds, I think what he really craves is consent … consent and admiration. Astaroth believes in his vision, and he desperately wants us to believe as well. And to love him for it.”

“Well, at least he’s insecure,” Max quipped. “That’s a comfort.”

“Cold comfort,” remarked David, shaking his head. “I far prefer an enemy like Prusias. He’s cunning, brutal, and greedy, but he’s also pragmatic. Prusias wants what he wants, and he’ll gladly bash you over the head until you give it to him. The King of Blys is content with slaves, but Astaroth demands followers.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, there’s a big one. A tyrant like Prusias doesn’t really care why you obey him; he only cares that you obey. But Astaroth is a fanatic. He wants true believers who share his ideals. Fanatics are scary, Max. Ultimately, they’d rather burn the board than let someone else win the game.”

“Astaroth said the same things about your grandfather,” Max reflected.

“He’s not wrong,” said David. “Astaroth and my grandfather have more in common than they’d probably care to admit. The Archmage may be family, but I harbor no illusions about him—I know he is a dangerous man. And given this, I think you should tell him about Astaroth’s offer. It will be best coming from you.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” said Max sheepishly. “I don’t want him to be suspicious of me.”

“It’s your choice,” said David. “But have you considered that my grandfather may already know about the Demon’s proposal? In fact, I would guess that Astaroth has already told him.”

Max had been tapping the profile of a raven engraved upon the gae bolga’s scabbard. He stopped and glanced at David, who was eyeing him thoughtfully.

“Why would Astaroth warn the very person he’s trying to kill?”

“Because he’s a strategist,” David replied. “Astaroth knows the chances of you acting upon his offer are slim—it’s simply not your nature to murder someone in cold blood, no matter what the reward. Now, if you do and say nothing about it—as is likely—Astaroth has not gained anything by making the offer. But if my grandfather also knows about the proposal, many more possibilities unfold. At a minimum, the prospect of your treachery is a considerable distraction to the Archmage. In the best case, the information triggers a violent confrontation between the two of you. So long as Elias Bram knows about the offer, Astaroth is guaranteed an outcome with some value. It’s basic game theory. And so I think you should tell my grandfather, Max. The more forthcoming you are, the less suspicious he will be.”

“I don’t see why Astaroth doesn’t just do the job himself,” said Max. “If he wants Bram dead so badly, I would think he could do it whenever he wishes.”

“Not with the Book,” said David mildly. “In this world, the Book of Thoth has no power over my grandfather or anyone else in my family. If it did, Astaroth would have destroyed me long ago.”

“But why can’t it affect you?” asked Max.

“There are three basic requirements for the Book of Thoth to have power over something,” David explained. “First, the Book’s pages must contain the thing’s truename. Second, the Book must be in the same world where that truename originated. And finally, the thing itself must also be in the world where it’s truename originated. For example, do you remember Folly and Hubris, those birds I created in the Sidh?”

Max nodded.

“Well,” said David, “the Book has no power over them while they’re in this world. If we were to take them and the Book back to the Sidh, we could do whatever we wished—modify them, make them the size of ostriches, or negate their existence altogether. But while they’re in this world, the Book has no power over them. The same holds true for my grandfather and thus for my mother and me.”

Max considered this and arrived at a bizarre conclusion. “So … Elias Bram is from another world?” he gasped.

“Technically, yes,” said David, smiling at Max’s astonishment. “You can pick your jaw up off the floor. Elias Bram was born in this world, but he no longer has his original truename. Long ago, he gave himself a new one.”

“How did he manage that?”

“As you know, he once possessed the Book himself. Before he hid it in the Sidh, he studied its pages and realized just how powerful it could be. It disturbed him that someone could control, change, or even destroy him using his truename. My grandfather is not the sort to leave himself so vulnerable and thus he removed his own truename from the Book.”

“But wouldn’t he cease to exist if he did something like that?” Max wondered.

“I’ll spare you the alternate-universe theories, but yes—if he had removed his own name in this world, he would have effectively destroyed himself. Instead, he used the Book to create another tiny world—no more than an extradimensional pocket. And once inside this new world, he gave himself a new truename, one that tied his origins to this little place of his own creation. Once he had achieved this, he removed his former truename from the Book of Thoth. Because of these precautions, he is effectively beyond the Book’s reach. Since my mother’s and my truenames stem partially from him, we inherit this immunity. The Book can only manipulate those whose origins are tied wholly to one world. That is why you are also immune from its direct control—your truename has roots in this world and the Sidh. If Astaroth wants to destroy us, he’ll have to do the job himself … or get others to do it for him.”

“Which is why he’s bribing me to turn on your grandfather,” Max concluded.

“Precisely. Max McDaniels might be able to destroy Elias Bram with the gae bolga, but the Book cannot. And at the moment, I don’t believe Astaroth can either.”

“You think Walpurgisnacht weakened him?”

“I do,” said David with evident satisfaction. “Alas, he’s not weak enough for someone like me to tackle him, but I believe Astaroth is legitimately afraid of my grandfather. I think he is waiting … biding his time for the wars to play out and to see who survives. He is nothing if not patient.”

Max stood, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Stretching, he walked to a washbasin to splash some water on his face.

“Thanks for listening,” he said. “I do feel better—it’s no good to keep a secret like that, and I’m glad to hear there are some things beyond the Book’s reach.” He glanced at the fire. “Should we throw on another log or do you want to get something to eat?”

“I’m meeting Cynthia, Sarah, and Lucia for dinner,” replied David. “They’ve just finished up exams. Why don’t you join us?”

“Okay,” said Max, rubbing uncertainly at his sandpapery chin. “We can go to the Hanged Man. It’s nice and quiet in there.”

“Normally I would be in full agreement,” sighed David. “But Lucia laughed me down when I proposed it. Apparently the Pot and Kettle’s the place to be.”

Judging by its overflowing crowd, the Pot and Kettle was indeed the place to be. It was located on a corner of the township’s main avenue in a handsome building of pale stone with a wraparound porch and sky-blue shutters. The porch was already teeming with people when Max and David arrived, bundled up students and teachers and wealthier refugees enjoying hot cider or a pipe while waiting for their tables. As they stepped onto the porch, Max thumbed his ring. The metal’s coolness was reassuring, a reminder that no evil spirits or possessed servants of the Atropos were lurking nearby. David craned vainly about to find their friends among the crowd.

Max saw them almost immediately. The three girls were standing on the porch near a far pillar, a trio of viridian robes as they laughed and sipped their ciders. Cynthia Gilley was the tallest of the three, a round-faced English girl with reddish-brown hair and a friendly, earnest bearing. Spying Max, she grinned and waved them over.

“Look at you!” she crowed, giving Max a sisterly hug. “All we hear is that you’re injured, knocking on death’s door, and you show up looking like Prince Charming. Shame on you! And, David, might I say you look very elegant with your cane. Dashing, even.”

David beamed and stood on tiptoe to give Cynthia a shy kiss on the cheek. She blushed and he did the same, causing Max to raise an eyebrow. Resisting a strong temptation to comment, he instead leaned over to Sarah.

“Thanks for the note,” he said. “I was afraid you’d be angry at me for … for what happened.”

“Nonsense,” said Sarah, squeezing his hand. “Rolf’s death was not your fault. It’s not even Umbra’s. I blame the Atropos, and when I’m an Agent, I’m going to put them out of business. You mark my word. Lucia’s going to help me.”

“Assolutamente!” declared the Italian beauty, her dark eyes fierce and resolute. Turning to Max, she leaned forward and kissed him in the distracted European fashion, a peck on each cheek, but her hands were clutching something boxy beneath her robes.

“What is that?” asked Max, careful not to knock it.

Lucia hissed at Max to be quiet while rearranging her robes and glancing about to see if anyone at the restaurant had noticed.

“It’s Kettlemouth,” whispered Sarah, referring to Lucia’s charge, an enormous red bullfrog from a magical breed known as Nile Croakers. “He’s been sick and Lucia won’t go anywhere without him. She’s been sneaking him into classes, exams, the dormitory showers. You can imagine how that went over. I told her to leave him at home, but she wouldn’t listen.”

Max gave Sarah a knowing look. Lucia Cavallo was not only a paragon of Mediterranean beauty and a gifted Mystic, but she was also haughty, opinionated, and notoriously demanding of her friends. Fortunately, these less desirable qualities were offset by a deeply loyal and protective nature. Lucia might drive her friends to an early grave, but no one would weep harder at the funerals.

Eyeing the crowded porch, Max gave a worried glance at Sarah.

“What if he sings?” he whispered nervously. Kettlemouth was often drowsy and seldom made a peep, but on rare occasions he suddenly burst into song. These ballads were infused with a love enchantment so powerful they didn’t merely reduce the listener’s inhibitions but eliminated them altogether. A quiet library might suddenly turn into a madhouse of breathless smooching and stammering sonnets as every unspoken crush or budding attraction suddenly flared into full, unrestricted bloom. The Pot and Kettle was bursting to the gills; an untimely performance would be pandemonium.

“Sing?” scoffed Lucia, wheeling on him. “My baby can hardly eat, much less sing! I knit him silly hats, I massage his toe pads, and still he just puffs his gorgeous cheeks and blinks.”

“Didn’t he just kind of do that before?” Max wondered.

Lucia almost erupted into a frenzy of Italian when Cynthia headed her off.

“What does Nolan say?” she inquired delicately.

“Oh, what does he know?” grumbled Lucia, patting the carrying case. “The dryads suggested some oysters to perk up my dumpling. We will see. Anyway, nothing is going to spoil my big surprise.”

“You should just tell them,” said Sarah impatiently.

“Over dinner,” demurred Lucia, rolling her eyes at an admiring Sixth Year.

Fortunately, they did not have to wait very long for a table. Handing Kettlemouth to Cynthia, Lucia promptly knifed through the crowd to beg a word with the busy proprietor. Max saw her flash a singularly winning smile even as she pointed back to their party and at Max and David in particular. The gentleman nodded, a waiter was summoned, and the five were promptly whisked to a choice banquette in a candlelit corner. Many of their fellow diners eyed the party as they crossed the room. Some appeared awestruck, some discreetly curious, and still others looked vaguely hostile—as though the presence of Max and David boded ill. While Max was highly conscious of the stares, he was even more so of his ring. Its metal remained cool. Pushing it from his mind, he tried to relax and enjoy the company of his friends.

“How did you manage this?” hissed Sarah, taking her seat. “I thought we’d wait forever.”

“They are celebrities,” said Lucia, nodding at the boys while slipping Kettlemouth beneath the table. “Celebrities do not wait. I told the owner they would sign some menus.”

“Marta will never forgive me,” sighed David, passing the bread.

Lucia ordered for the group, perusing the menu with an authoritative air and inquiring about several dishes before making her final choices. Max did not recognize half of the selections. The only sticking point occurred when she flagged down the sommelier and requested a wine list.

“But the young lady is not eighteen,” sniffed the sommelier, nodding at her viridian robes.

“My parents always let me have wine,” she declared indignantly.

“Perhaps the young lady should have brought her parents.”

With an irritated wave, Lucia transformed her robes from viridian green to a blazing scarlet—a Sixth Year’s colors. “Is this better?” she asked, gesturing for the list. When he declined to hand it over, she sprouted a luxuriant mustache and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. Max almost spit out his roll.

“An impressive addition, but alas I must say no,” replied the sommelier, smiling. “I will send over some sparkling cider … on the house.”

“Puritans,” grumbled Lucia, returning both her robes and facial hair back to normal.

“That’s quite a trick,” said David. “Are you specializing in Illusion?”

“Firecraft,” replied Lucia, tapping the concentration of red stones and copper links among her magechain. “Illusion’s just a hobby.”

“Well,” said David, raising a flute of cider, “you’re very good at it.”

“Hear, hear,” said Max. “I’m only sorry Connor didn’t see his beloved Lucia with a handlebar mustache. How he’d have laughed!”

“Well, if that’s not a sign to share your news, Lucia, I don’t know what is,” remarked Cynthia.

“Okay, okay,” sighed Lucia. “Twist my foot, why don’t you?”

“Arm,” said Sarah stiffly. “She’s twisting your arm. You’ve been speaking English for years, Lucia. I think you do that on purpose.”

“So what if I do?” she said innocently. “Anyway, here is what Cynthia is twisting my leg about. I let you read it yourself. Some parts are for you. But not all!”

She smiled in spite of herself, her cheeks turning rosy as she handed over a pouch of oiled silk containing folded sheets of thick parchment.

My Lucia,Sending this letter is like wishing on a star. Each day I think of you and the life I left back at Rowan. Each day I think of our friends, grouchy Miss Boon, Old Tom’s chimes, and even—God forbid—my homework! Kyra must be cursing my name, and I don’t suspect my family thinks much of a son who sold his soul for a spot of land and a fancy title across the sea.That’s behind me now, but try as I might, I can’t forget about a certain long-lashed beauty who struck me dumb the first day I arrived at school. How’d she win my heart? Every way a girl could.Enlyll is what they call my little province. Lord is what they call me, although you may laugh to hear it. Down on the docks, they give me other titles—Baron, Master, Jester, and some other things that aren’t fit to print. Enlyll’s a coastal province, you see, and trade’s what keeps my subjects in food and wine, silks and servants. Rowan’s a fair place, but it’s got nothing on our golden hills and wineries, forests and orchards. Someday, I’ll show them to you.Enough of all that. I hope you’ll share this letter with David and Max and the rest of our friends. I miss the lot, particularly David and his way of always seeing things for what they are. Funny bloke—I’ve heard tales of him and Max all the way out here. Sounds like they pulled quite a job last April. They’ve got all of Blys stirred up. Saw Max fight an early match in Prusias’s games. Still can’t believe he was Bragha Rùn. You should have seen him, Lucia! If you ever read this, Max, I hope you know I actually commissioned a painting of Bragha Rùn after the tournament. Serves me right for trying to act all lordly. What a tosser—for a whole month there I am eating my breakfast beneath a life-sized oil painting of my new hero only to find out he’s actually my mate. I was red for a week. Sorry, but my shame demanded that I give you the boot from the castle. You’re hanging in one of the gardener cottages, where I hear you’re supervising the shears and doing a stellar job. Well done.I know Rowan’s in a bind these days and wish I could help, but I’m sworn to Prusias. Could be worse—his imp pretty much lets me alone so long as I meet my quotas and keep trade lively. No one looks to wee little Enlyll for soldiers—the braymas come here to relax, drink good wine, hold médims, and conduct some business. Happy to say the war hasn’t really touched me yet, but for Rashaverak’s ships prowling beyond the harbors. They’re trying to barricade, but he doesn’t have enough ships and his spies and sailors are a sorry lot. Don’t catch one in ten of my cutters and soon it’ll be one in twenty. They can kiss my behind—doubly so if they’re reading this letter. (Honestly, where’s your respect for privacy?)You know where to find me, Lucia. You say the word and I’ll send a ship. Your face could launch a thousand, but I don’t yet have that many. Give me a year or three and I just might. Anyway, that’s my attempt to dazzle you with some Homeric charm. Did it work? I bloody well hope so. Be sure to tell Morrow I remembered my Iliad; he’ll drop that pipe and turn a cartwheel.With love and an affection that burns really, really hot! Connor Lynch, Lord of Enlyll

Max read the letter twice, grinning as he imagined his friend’s Dublin lilt bouncing over each word and syllable. When Connor had departed for Blys, he was in many ways a broken person, a boy whose naturally buoyant personality had been smothered by a sense of guilt and thoughts of vengeance against his captors during the Siege. But that was over two years ago, and it seemed that both time and a change of scenery had been wonderfully therapeutic. It was the old Connor that Max heard in the letter—the cocksure, mischievous boy with a mop of brown curls and an irrepressible spirit.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Lucia, practically swooning.

“Yes, it is,” said Max, leaning back as the waiter set a plate before him.

“David,” growled Cynthia, waving her hand before his blank, glassy expression. “Don’t you think it’s wonderful, too?”

“Sorry,” said David, blinking. “Yes … yes, it’s a wonderful letter. Very romantic and all that. But do you notice anything unusual about its beginning?”

“What about it?” asked Lucia, snatching the papers away from Max. Her eyes raced across each line until she declared. “He loves me. It is beautiful!”

“Yes,” said David, sniffing eagerly at a bowl of mussels. “I don’t doubt that’s true, but wouldn’t you say that the first few paragraphs are a little … stilted? The rest flows naturally, as though Connor were here talking to us, but the beginning seems off. And then the fourth paragraph begins ‘Enough of all that’ as though he were shifting to another topic entirely.”

“Are you grading my magnificent letter?” inquired Lucia, clutching its sheets to her chest and looking outraged. “Are you marking him down for grammar?”

“No,” replied David calmly. “On the contrary, I think Connor may have written an even more impressive letter than you suspect. May I see it again?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Lucia allowed Cynthia and Sarah to pry the letter away and slide it over to David. The sorcerer glanced at it for a mere instant before asking if anyone had a quill. Fortunately, the waiter obliged, bringing one to David along with a bottle of ink and a clean sheet of parchment.

“Score one for the Pot and Kettle,” he murmured. “Marta would have tossed me a can of bacon grease.” Studying Lucia’s note once again, he quickly jotted down a seemingly random sequence of letters. “These are the first letters of each sentence in the first three paragraphs,” he announced. “If I group them by their respective paragraphs, they spell out three words.” The Little Sorcerer held up the paper so all could see.

SEEK THE ELDERS

Cynthia wrinkled her nose. “Who are the Elders?”

“Vyes,” Max breathed, staring at the letter. “I met two Elder Vyes in Blys—Nix and Valya. They were good friends. They said the Elders hail from the original stock, direct descendants of Remus.”

“You mean Remus … as in Romulus and Remus?” wondered Sarah. “The babies who nursed from a wolf?”

“Not a wolf,” Max corrected. “A wild spirit in the guise of a wolf. The Elder Vyes go back a long time. The goblins steered clear of them. They can use magic. The ones I met were almost admitted to Rowan until the Potentials test revealed what they were.”

“Pshaw!” scoffed Lucia. “How could a vye attend Rowan? And besides, my Connor would never have anything to do with such vile creatures.”

“I don’t know, Lucia,” Max mused. “If you heard Nix and Valya talk about their lives on the run from Agents, you might think differently. In any case, not all vyes are evil. Nix and Valya certainly weren’t. And in his new life, Connor might have encountered quite a few.”

“Why do you think Connor would want us to seek them?” whispered Cynthia, beckoning for the letter.

“Perhaps he’s met some and thinks they can help us,” reflected David. “After all, I don’t think the vyes are happy that they’ve been pushed aside by the demons. Elder Vyes are an old legend at Rowan. During the eighteenth century, a group of Agents based in Prague argued that they existed in larger numbers than anyone imagined. They theorized that the Elders had started their own schools of magic and might have even infiltrated our ranks.”

“So what came of those theories?” asked Sarah.

“Nothing.” David shrugged, flagging down a waiter for coffee. “Some investigations, a few minor discoveries in Eastern Europe and central Asia, but nothing to suggest a population of real scale or significance. Maybe Connor’s found something.…”

Max was going to respond when he noticed a number of hushed and urgent conversations taking place throughout the dining room. Several tables called for the maître d’, quickly settling their checks and gathering their things. In the corner, a faun was playing a sonata upon a grand piano, its soothing melodies strangely out of sync with the rushed and hurried departures.

“What’s going on?” asked Cynthia, putting the letter aside.

“I don’t know,” said Max, just as a waiter set down an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. “What’s this?”

“The sommelier has finally come to his senses!” declared Lucia.

“Compliments of the lady in red,” announced the waiter, popping the cork and pouring five crystal flutes. “She would like a word when Master McDaniels has a moment.”

Scanning the room, Max spied a splash of scarlet and found that Madam Petra was leaning casually back and observing them.

The smuggler was wearing an embroidered gown of brilliant red silk along with a creamy stole of arctic mink. Her hair was up and adorned with an obscenely large jewel she had not possessed when she’d arrived at Rowan. Her companion was a well-dressed portly man who exuded a jowly air of self-importance. Max recognized him at once; he had been a wealthy industrialist before Astaroth’s rise to power. Inclining her head, Madam Petra gave a knowing smile and raised her glass.

“Who is that?” asked Lucia suspiciously.

“I told you about her,” hissed Cynthia. “That’s Petra Kosa. She came back with Max and David.”

“She’s very pretty,” Lucia said with the steely, subdued air of a competitor.

Max slid out of his seat. “I’d better see what she wants.”

Taking his champagne, he walked over to the table and gazed down at the smuggler, who smiled and sank down luxuriantly into her stole.

“Max,” she cooed, “meet Victor. In our former lives, he was a somebody. I’m happy to say he still is. He’s been helping Katarina and me get settled after our harrowing arrival. Victor, this is Max McDaniels.”

The man grunted, but his eyes never left Madam Petra.

“I’m glad to see that you and David are keeping a cool head, my dear,” she observed. “It would seem the news has everyone else in a panic.”

“What news?”

The smuggler gave him a skeptical look over the rim of her wineglass.

“You honestly don’t know?” she asked, sounding pleasantly surprised.

The industrialist grimaced, swirling and staring at his port as though it held his fortune.

“Prusias has won, boy,” he declared flatly. “Devoured Aamon and executed all of his officers. Rashaverak’s to surrender tomorrow. Lilith’s already sworn fealty.”

Max glanced about the nearly empty restaurant. “So that means—”

“War.”

The word rolled off Madam Petra’s tongue like some dark prophecy. The industrialist stood and pulled out her chair. With a wistful smile, the smuggler stood and clinked glasses with Max.

“Savor the champagne, my dear. You might not taste any for a very long time.”