The Maelstrom

~ 15 ~ The Wanderer

Assuming Umbra’s face and form once again, Scathach escorted Max home. They avoided the refugee camps, keeping to the dark woods until they reemerged along a garden path that wound behind Old Tom and led toward the Manse. Dozens of people were gathered near the Manse’s front steps. Some were armored and mounted on horseback; others wore Mystics’ robes and were positioned in a perimeter around the illuminated fountain.

“Here is where I leave you,” whispered Scathach. “Wish me good hunting.”

With a squeeze of Max’s hand, she backed away and faded, blending like a wraith into the landscape. Turning, Max stepped onto the path and beneath the bright halo of a streetlamp. He had not walked three steps before he was sighted.

“Halt!” cried a harsh voice by the fountain. “Hold where you are!”

Max stopped as three glowspheres converged, circling about him like three great spotlights. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.

“It’s me!” he yelled, taking a step forward. “Max McDaniels.”

“Stay put or you will be shot!”

Squinting, Max saw a dozen archers rise from positions upon the Manse roof, their silhouettes interspersed among the many chimneys.

“What’s Sarah Amankwe’s charge?” called the voice.

“A Cantonese Huang named Su,” Max yelled.

The glowspheres dimmed and zoomed back to their Mystic.

“Come inside, son,” called the voice, sounding anxious and relieved. “Hurry.”

Trotting ahead, Max saw that the speaker was Nolan. Max had never seen Nolan in armor or even carrying a weapon, and their effect was strangely unsettling on such an inherently peaceful, good-natured man. Nolan was smiling, but he also looked careworn and tired. His smile died when he saw Max’s clothes.

“Is that your blood?” he gasped.

“It is,” said Max. “But I’m okay.”

“My god,” muttered Nolan. “I’d heard the attack was bad, but I … I didn’t imagine anything like this. I don’t even see where all that blood came from.”

The man’s jaw dropped when Max drew a finger across his throat.

“There’s more to this than I want to know,” said Nolan, steering Max up the steps. “But I swear that if I ever get my hands on William Cooper …” His mouth tightened. “That man is in for a reckoning,” he said, pushing the doors inward. “If Grendel doesn’t make it, I won’t be able to talk any sense into YaYa. She’ll swallow Cooper whole.”

“Nolan,” said Max, “if anyone should want revenge, it’s me. But it wasn’t Cooper who attacked me—it was the demon controlling him. We can’t forget that. He needs our help, not our anger.”

Halting in the foyer, Nolan sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Of course you’re right. But to see Grendel like that and you covered in all that blood … I guess I’m just tired.”

“How is Grendel?”

“Hanging in,” replied Nolan. “He wasn’t poisoned, but that knife went awful deep. YaYa brought him back to the Warming Lodge. We’ll just have to wait and see, but I’m hopeful. Cheshirewulfs are tough as old tree roots. Anyway, the Director has been awful anxious for any word of you. Do you want me to tell her you’re okay, or do you want to tell her yourself?”

“I’ll go,” said Max. “Is she in her office or at Founder’s Hall?”

“The Director’s always in Founder’s these days,” replied Nolan. “C’mon, I’ll take you. We’ve tripled the guards on post, but I’ll sleep better if I’ve seen you there myself.”

Following the declaration of hostilities, Founder’s Hall had been transformed into Rowan’s war room. Almost every square foot of its vast space had been converted to some useful purpose. Upon its curving walls hung enormous maps, lists of regiments, crop inventories, architectural drawings, astronomical charts, and one vast section that was covered with sheets of Florentine spypaper. Despite the late hour, the hall was brightly lit and teeming with activity.

It was difficult to locate the Director amid the hundreds of people and creatures bustling about: Promethean Scholars, Mystics of various specialties, Agents, older students, innumerable domovoi, and a sandstone shedu boasting four unblinking faces. At last Max spotted her at the far end of the hall, leaning upon a table and conversing with an anxious-looking domovoi.

Most everyone was busily occupied, but as Nolan led Max through the hall, people began to notice not only his presence, but also his appearance. Conversations ceased, the silence spreading so conspicuously that the Director glanced up. When she spied Max, initial shock was replaced quickly by an expression of profound relief.

“This must wait, Zimm,” she remarked absently to the domovoi. “Question the lutins and scour the lower vaults. Zenuvian iron doesn’t just walk away.”

As the domovoi and Nolan took their leave, Ms. Richter came around the table to give Max a maternal hug and flick a stray leaf from his shoulder.

“Well,” she sighed, looking him over, “it’s been a long night and you’re a mess, but you’re here on your own two feet and that’s all that matters. I’d jump for joy if Directors were allowed to do such things. Let’s have a private chat.”

He followed her into an adjoining conference room and sat at a table while several apprentices quickly brought coffee, a basin of water, and a clean shirt to replace Max’s bloodstained horror. Sipping her coffee, Ms. Richter grimaced and set it down.

“Who would have imagined that a bawdy, incorrigible hag could be so irreplaceable?” she said. “For all of Mum’s foibles, she didn’t mistake sludge for coffee.” The Director chuckled. “My days are consumed by war—its awful scale and grandeur—and yet the littlest things make such a difference. Now, tell me what happened.…”

Max relayed what he could remember of Cooper’s attack—the ambush, Grendel’s intervention, and Umbra finally driving Cooper off and pulling Max from the fire. He did not mention Umbra’s true identity.

“And you’re certain it was William Cooper,” said the Director.

“Yes,” said Max. “The tent was smoky, but I saw him clearly enough.”

“I’m curious,” mused Ms. Richter, stirring her drink. “This Umbra is the same refugee who slew Rolf Luger. I find that very odd. Unless I’m mistaken, she has now sabotaged two assassination attempts, outdueled the commander of the Red Branch, and promptly healed a poisoned victim with a slit throat. That’s quite a girl. And yet you maintain that you know nothing else about her?”

“Um … yes?”

“Max McDaniels, you are the least competent liar I’ve ever encountered,” said Ms. Richter. “It’s a good thing, too, because you’re not terribly forthcoming. Who is this Umbra? And don’t you dare tell me she’s just some random refugee.”

Reddening, Max gave in and told Ms. Richter that Umbra was none other than Scathach who had crossed over from the Sidh to protect him. The Director raised her eyebrows.

“Well, well,” she muttered. “That is a surprise and a pleasant one. I’ll send word that she should be allowed access to the Manse and anywhere else you happen to be. If she’s your bodyguard, why wasn’t she in your tent to begin with?”

“I didn’t know that Umbra was really Scathach until tonight,” replied Max. “She was forbidden to reveal who she was. It’s … complicated.”

“I see,” said Ms. Richter, looking shrewdly at him but letting the matter drop. “Well, just so you know, we’ve got Ben Polk and some others searching for Cooper. I also hear that YaYa may join the hunt, so rest assured that we’re doing everything we can to track him down. While they’re hunting him, perhaps you can explain this.…”

Removing a sheet of spypaper from a folio, she pushed it across to Max. He glanced at its single line of bold black script.

Send the Hound to my chambers at midday.“Who’s that from?” he asked.

“Elias Bram,” replied Ms. Richter coolly. “Our illustrious Archmage rarely emerges from his chambers, ignores nearly all communication, and has contributed nothing to Rowan’s defense, and yet he suddenly wishes to speak with you. As Director, I want to know why.”

“I have no idea,” said Max.

“And here we go with another transparent fib …,” she observed with thinning patience.

“Well,” said Max. “I—I mean I have some idea. But I’ve already tried to go speak with him several times without any luck. He’s never there—or at least Mrs. Menlo never admits he’s home.”

“And why have you gone to speak with him?” asked Ms. Richter.

Max glanced at the Director, wilting under her penetrating gaze. At length, he sighed and drummed his fingers on the table. “Because Astaroth came to speak with me.”

“What?”

Max had never heard Ms. Richter exclaim in such a fashion or register such open shock upon her face. It was several seconds before she composed herself.

“When did this occur?” she asked quietly.

“The day before we declared war.”

“And what did he want?” she asked. Before Max could reply, she raised a finger in warning. “Do not omit anything. You will share every word of this conversation and then you will explain why you never reported it to me.”

Max did as he was told, repeating his conversation with Astaroth and the Demon’s offer to save Rowan in exchange for Bram’s murder. He also shared his subsequent discussion with David, including his roommate’s theory that Astaroth might also have told his grandfather about the proposal. By the time Max had finished, Ms. Richter looked ashen.

“And you never thought to share this with me?” she wondered, aghast.

“I almost didn’t even tell David,” Max replied sheepishly. “I wanted to forget about it … pretend it never happened.”

Ms. Richter closed her eyes and rubbed her temples in weary frustration.

“There are times I have to remind myself that you are still very young,” she murmured. “You are a young man at the epicenter of enormous happenings and may not always see things in their proper perspective.” Opening her eyes, she gazed at him. “Max, you cannot simply pretend that such monumental events ‘never happened.’ Did it ever occur to you that I might need to know about this? Do you understand that right now we are at war against a vastly superior force and may come under siege within a matter of days or weeks? You have been withholding information that could not just influence this war’s outcome, but absolutely determine it!”

“But you would never—”

“Sacrifice Elias Bram to save our realm and all of our people?” she interrupted testily. “To be perfectly honest, I’m not certain. I’d like to think I’d rise above such temptation, but as Director I still need to know our options. All of them! Even those that may be repellent. Aside from everything else, the fact that Bram might already know of Astaroth’s proposal puts you at enormous risk. Did you ever stop to consider that?”

“David did,” said Max heavily. “I’ve tried to meet with Bram, to explain and clear the air, but he was never at home.”

“I’m glad he wasn’t,” remarked Ms. Richter. “You should not meet with him alone. I will be at that meeting later today. We are going to clarify where Elias Bram stands on a number of topics, you not the least of them. Now, as long as I’m hearing confessions, are you certain there isn’t anything else you’d like to share?”

Max was mortified. “You mean like … impure thoughts?”

“No,” said Ms. Richter. “I was thinking more along the lines of Zenuvian iron. Your face assumed a rather knowing, hangdog expression when you overheard Zimm and I discussing it.”

“Oh,” said Max, flushing a deep scarlet. “I might have asked … er, ordered Tweedy to see if he could acquire some on the black market. My archers have only three arrows apiece.”

“Well,” said Ms. Richter, slipping the spypaper back into her folio, “I suppose I can’t fault a commander too badly for trying to get his troops what they need. If nothing else, it shows enterprise. I won’t have Zimm pursue the matter too strenuously, but next time let’s go through the proper channels. In any case, I’ve been thinking about your battalion.…”

As Max followed the Director back into the hall’s commotion, he saw that there were many people waiting to speak with her. She asked them to be patient as her eyes followed a distant glowsphere drifting toward the mosaic of spypaper. When it settled by a particular section, the sphere began to pulse.

“What’s happening?” asked Max.

“An intelligence update,” explained Ms. Richter, squinting. “From this distance, I couldn’t say whose report that is, but it’s from someone stationed in Blys. We’re getting news from all over—troop movements, naval estimates, Workshop rumors, counterintelligence, and everything else you can imagine. My hope is that there are names attached to this particular update. We suspect Prusias has several well-placed spies in the refugee camp, and we mean to ferret them out.…”

She trailed off as an apprentice hurried over and handed a transcription to the Director.

“Very good,” she murmured, scanning its contents with a decoding glass. Motioning for a nearby Agent, she showed him the names and offered a significant look. The man departed and Ms. Richter returned her attention to Max, leading him to stand before an enormous map of Greater Rowan that included not only the Old College, but also its outermost fortifications and all the lands in between.

Craning his neck, Max saw that it was marked with colorful labels that included the number, nickname, and standard for each of Rowan’s battalions and special regiments. There were hundreds of them. Some were old and storied companies—the Vanguard, the Wildwood Knights, the Bloodstone Circle—but others were new and the names they chose for themselves sounded more like street gangs or goblin tribes than military units. Among the many, Max spied Southgate Jackals, Tin Squires, Jawbreakers, Death Cheats, Rough and Tumbles.… His eyes drifted to the map’s northeast quadrant, where they settled upon the now-familiar standard of a black rat set against an ivory background.

“As I said, I’ve been thinking about your battalion,” said Ms. Richter. “How are your troops coming along? Tweedy’s reports are meticulous, but they read more like a purser’s list. I’d like to hear your candid assessment.”

“They’re improving,” Max allowed. “Some are very good fighters—tough, experienced. Others are totally new at this. They’re a work in progress.”

“Admirable. But can they hold that line?”

She pointed to a numbered trench set halfway between the outer curtain that protected Rowan’s outlying homesteads and the citadel walls that enclosed Old College as though it were a single massive keep. Three miles of open country and farmland separated the outer walls from the inner fortifications. The Trench Rats were one of the battalions responsible for defending that territory and preventing the Enemy from besieging Old College.

“That’s a critical stretch of ground,” she continued. “Your battalion’s close to Northgate and the sea. It’s conceivable that the Enemy could breach the cliff defenses and attack along your flank. I assigned it to the Trench Rats solely because of you, but in retrospect that might have been a mistake. I’m tempted to reassign it to a battalion that has more experience and Mystics support.”

“That’s your decision,” said Max. “But they’re a determined group. We’ll have more arrows, and don’t forget about Scathach. She’s worth a company by herself.”

Ms. Richter considered this. “Very well,” she said. “We’ll leave you there for now, but I’d like to see a demonstration of their readiness one week from today.”

“Can we have two?” pressed Max.

“One,” repeated the Director. “We may not have two weeks. One week to show me they’re ready or I’m reassigning them and you.”

“We’ll be ready,” said Max.

“I know you will,” she said. “Now go get some sleep. I will be waiting for you outside the Archmage’s chambers tomorrow at noon. Do not be late.”

Indeed, the Director was waiting outside the Archmage’s door at the appointed hour. But the Archmage did not answer when they knocked. Instead, David’s mother opened the door, looking sleepy and disheveled as Lila trailed at her skirts. Recognizing them, Emer smiled dimly and took Max by the hand, leading them past the stacks of books and maps.

“Is your father here?” asked Max. “He wanted to see me.”

The woman did not answer but merely shooed Lila away from a canister of tea leaves. Setting the kettle above the hearth, Emer sat in her rocking chair and the amiable cat settled in her lap.

“Is that Max?” called an excited voice from inside one of the bedrooms. Its door flew open and Mina came racing out, wearing an embroidered blue robe and clutching something against her chest. She came to a sudden halt when she saw the Director.

“I thought you were alone,” she murmured shyly.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Ms. Richter kindly. “What have you got there?”

Mina’s enthusiasm rekindled. “Sit down and I’ll show you!”

The little girl practically bulldozed them back onto the bench beneath the window. Once they were seated, she laughed gleefully and ordered Max to lean back and close his eyes. Once Max complied, he felt something warm being placed delicately on his chest.

“Mina, what is that?” he asked, as its surprising weight settled on him.

“Shhh,” she hissed, “just a minute.”

The weight was repositioned and Max felt something move and issue a tiny mewl. Reaching up, he touched something both soft and sharp, as though a million hairs were each tipped with a razor-sharp needle. Opening his eyes, Max looked down.

A baby lymrill was clinging to his chest.

It was no larger than a newborn kitten and yet the shockingly dense creature must have weighed more than Lila. Its quills were a glossy blue-black, but the claws that clung to Max’s tunic were red-gold and gleamed by the firelight. The animal peered at Max with a pair of coppery eyes just as Nick had done when he’d chosen Max to be his steward years before. Almost immediately, a lump formed in his throat.

“Why are you sad?” asked Mina, looking concerned.

“I’m not,” Max insisted, taking a deep breath. “It’s just that this is how I said goodbye to this little guy’s daddy. Does he have a name?”

“She is called Nox,” corrected Mina.

“The Goddess of Night,” said Ms. Richter. “A fitting name for such a beauty. But should she be away from her mother?”

“They don’t nurse anymore,” replied Mina, scooting between them on the bench. “Nox is a huntress now. She gets all the mice Lila’s too lazy to chase. Just yesterday, she killed a rat that was three times her size!”

“Just like Nick,” said Max, grinning as Nox nipped his finger and grazed his chin with her velvety muzzle.

“She likes you,” Mina observed. “And she doesn’t like anyone else but me. I think you should keep her.”

“I’d like that,” said Max, gently easing the lymrill’s claws away from his neck. “But I’m too busy these days to look after a charge. Nolan will match her with someone else—a younger student.”

“No, he won’t,” said Mina knowingly. “They’ve already tried. Her brothers and sisters have all been matched, but Nox wouldn’t choose anyone.”

“Perhaps she’s chosen you,” suggested Ms. Richter.

“No,” sighed Mina. “I love squirmy little Nox, but she’s not my charge. She’s meant to be with fierce Max. She’s Nick’s last gift.”

Max said nothing but cupped the little creature in his hands. Closing her eyes, Nox retracted her claws and lay on her back, so dark and glossy she might have been a scoop of volcanic glass. From beneath the study’s door, Max glimpsed a faint pulse of light, followed by the sound of heavy boots.

“The Archmage is home!” Mina whispered.

The door opened and Elias Bram walked into the room. His face was ruddy, his gray robes wet and fringed with melting snow as was his tangled beard and crown of curls. He looked like he’d just been out in a heavy blizzard, yet it hadn’t snowed at Rowan in days. Leaning down, he kissed Emer on the forehead and asked Mina what she would be preparing for supper.

“I’m going to make stew!” the girl declared, hopping up from the bench.

“Very good,” said Bram, removing his cloak and tossing it to dry by the fire. “But follow a recipe, child. No more experiments.”

At last the man’s piercing eyes fell on Max and Ms. Richter. He looked briefly from one to the other, as though he’d just registered their presence.

“You’re both here,” he observed. “Well and good. Come in.”

Pushing the door wide, the Archmage beckoned Max and Ms. Richter into his study, a long and cluttered room whose bookcases and tables were laden with manuscripts, odd bits of amber and stone, and what appeared to be the skeleton of a humpbacked homunculus. There were several chairs scattered about, but these, too, were piled high with books and papers. Clearing two of them off with an unceremonious grunt, Bram urged them to sit while he went back out to fetch the tea.

It was only when the Archmage returned and shut the door and settled into another chair that Max experienced the room’s strangeness. Once the door closed, he began to see double. It seemed as though his eyes registered more than a cluttered study, but also an alternate version whose planes were constantly folding and warping to form bizarre, almost incomprehensible spaces as though it were simultaneously collapsing and expanding. The effect was extremely disorienting, and there were instances when Max could have sworn that he was upside down. Apparently, Ms. Richter noticed it, too.

“I wasn’t aware you had configured this room,” she said.

“I haven’t,” replied Bram, gazing about with mild interest. “It’s merely trying to configure and I won’t it allow it to complete the process. This room is more useful to me if it’s dimensionally unstable. But I’m fairly certain Rowan’s Director hasn’t visited to discuss my living quarters. Would you like to tell me why you are here?”

“Are you aware that Astaroth made a proposal to Max?” she asked pointedly.

“I am.”

“And are you aware of its particulars?”

“I think so.”

The Archmage betrayed no surprise or emotion as he answered Ms. Richter’s questions. His face was a mask of granite stoicism.

“Well,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m here to ask if you intend to harm this fine young man.”

Stoicism vanished. The Archmage’s eyes twinkled, as though her frankness amused him.

“I believe the question is whether or not he intends to harm me,” he replied.

“Of course he doesn’t,” snapped Ms. Richter. “This is nothing more than Astaroth’s attempt to sow dissension in our midst. Surely you can see that.”

Turning to Max, Bram calmly appraised him. “I see many things,” he reflected. “And I see not only Astaroth whispering in his ear, but also the Morrígan. The Hound is bound to that perilous blade and she is a part of it. The Morrígan lusts for war; she craves the blood of gods and kings, and she is very strong. Does Max possess the will to resist such powerful voices?”

Even as the Archmage spoke, Max recalled Astaroth’s plying words from the churchyard: He does not love you, Max McDaniels. You frighten him.… 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?

“I don’t know,” said Max quietly.

Ms. Richter grew pale, but Bram nodded his approval.

“It’s wise to admit as much,” he remarked. “Against such forces, fear and humility are better shields than hubris.”

“Astaroth said you’re afraid of me,” said Max. “He said that someday I will become stronger than you and that you would never allow that to happen.”

“Ah,” replied Bram, touching his fingertips together. “Astaroth’s wordplay is at work. As we know, he never lies, but he is very clever in how he presents his statements. He is only sharing those facts he chooses, and even these are carefully framed to shape their interpretation. Did Astaroth actually state that I would attack you?”

“No,” said Max, considering. “He said that you did not love me and that I frightened you. He had told me stories—awful stories—about your past. Then he asked me if I thought you would ever let the day come when I could threaten you.”

“That sounds like the Astaroth I know,” replied Bram, smiling grimly. “He states a truth or two, arranges a clever context, and leads his audience to draw conclusions that suit his purpose. If his listeners are not careful, they may later convince themselves that Astaroth put forth their own conclusions as established fact when really such things are no more than their own manipulated assumptions. He never lies, but he is the most devious being I know.”

“So you have no intention of harming Max,” Ms. Richter clarified.

“Do I intend to harm him?” replied Bram. “Of course not. Max McDaniels is a ‘fine young man’ to use your term, Director. But he is also quite a bit more than that, which you seem unable—or unwilling—to grasp. The Hound of Rowan does frighten me, and my younger self would never have endured such a threat to my person. Long ago, I would have taken matters into my own hands. However, I am now a bit older and wiser and understand that Rowan needs its Hound.”

“In the days ahead, Rowan will also need its Archmage,” replied Ms. Richter pointedly. “Why have you done nothing to aid us? When Prusias comes, can Rowan count on your help?”

“Tell me, Director,” mused Bram. “How many soldiers do you have to defend this land?”

“One hundred and eleven battalions,” she replied. “Some hundred and thirty thousand troops.”

“And how many Mystics scattered among that number?”

“Roughly two thousand,” she replied.

“Firecrafters, aeromancers, spiritwracks, phantasmals, enchanters …,” muttered Bram, ticking off various schools and specialties.

Ms. Richter nodded uncertainly.

“And how many creatures and spirits from the Sanctuary have pledged themselves to Rowan’s cause?” continued the Archmage.

“Eleven hundred, give or take a few,” she said.

“Centaurs, dryads, domovoi, Cheshirewulfs, fauns … even a roc and a reformed ogre, if I hear rightly.”

“Yes, but—”

“And of course there is my grandson and the Hound, and let us not forget little Mina. In this dire hour, Rowan boasts no less than three children of the Old Magic, along with a massive host to contest the armed might of Prusias. But tell me, Director, who is contesting the might of Astaroth?”

Ms. Richter said nothing.

“There is but one,” continued Bram grimly. “And as I’ve said before, I believe that Astaroth poses the greater danger. As long as he possesses the Book, it is not just Rowan’s sovereignty that hangs in the balance, but the fate of this very world. I do not have the power to destroy Prusias’s army, Director. Only the Book of Thoth is capable of such a feat. If your current forces are not enough to stave off Prusias, Rowan’s independence is ultimately doomed whether or not I come to your aid. Astaroth has made far less noise than Prusias, but he has not been idle. He is lurking, Director—watching and waiting for a chance to turn things in his favor. He and I are like two kings on a chessboard, locked in a stalemate. If I divert my focus and energies to oppose Prusias …” He shook his head as though the consequences were too terrible to contemplate.

Max leaned forward. “What is Astaroth?” he asked. “You said yourself that he isn’t really a demon, that he only masquerades as one. If that’s so, then what is he and where does he come from?”

“That remains a fundamental question,” said Bram, rising and brushing past them to sort through a stack of ancient parchments and manuscripts. “Astaroth has always tried to hide his past from me, but there have been glimpses, impressions that I gained while he was my prison. He is a profoundly alien entity. Most demons are corrupted stewards—spirits of Old Magic that rebelled against their given purpose. But Astaroth is far older than they are. I believe he comes from another universe altogether. I have been trying to discover his origins, how he came to be in this world and—most importantly—why he stays.”

The Archmage handed Max a small stone carving whose chips and cracks spoke to its ancient origins. Turning it over in his hands, Max gazed upon a grinning figure with its hands clasped together.

“What is this?” asked Max, finding the figurine oddly disturbing.

“That is Astaroth,” remarked Bram, staring at it. “It was made by the Olmec people thousands of years ago.” He handed Ms. Richter a piece of tortoise shell on which mysterious characters had been carved. “And this is from China. It was recorded by one of the emperor’s magicians and tells of a day when they tried to summon a river spirit to quell a flood, but something else appeared … a ‘Smiling Man’ who caused the waters to recede and showed them how to improve their plantings and their harvests. He was soon admitted to the royal court. The pharaohs told similar accounts; so did the Mesopotamians, the Nubians, and the Aborigines. Astaroth’s presence on this earth predates recorded history.”

“And so is that where the investigation ends?” asked Ms. Richter.

“No,” replied Bram. “Fortunately, there are means of digging further. In this regard, the witches hold the key. Rowan boasts its Archives, the Workshop has its museums, and the witch clans have their ossuaries.”

“What is an ossuary?” said Max.

“A place for keeping human remains,” answered Ms. Richter, studying the tortoise shell.

“Indeed,” said Bram, “grave robbing has long been practiced by various professions—physicians, artists, and, most infamously, necromancers. But the witches are the most prolific. Over the centuries, they have pried into coffins, crypts, burial mounds, tombs, and mausoleums of every kind and from every culture to amass their collections.”

“And what exactly are they collecting?” asked Max.

“Mostly dirt and dust,” said Bram, smiling, “bones if any remain; canopic jars and urns. What they find is not as important as who they find. The witches have been studiously collecting the remains of every mystic, shaman, and sorcerer they can get their hands on—the remains of anyone they believe has trafficked with the spirit world or possessed knowledge that they value. They have collected many thousands of specimens and organized them as meticulously as Rowan’s Archives.”

“But I thought the witches were all about the wild and living things,” said Max. “They worship nature. I’ve never heard they practiced necromancy.”

“They don’t,” said Bram. “At least, not necromancy as it’s usually defined. The witches are not interested in animating corpses to serve some dark purpose. They use the remains to communicate with the dead and gather wisdom from the past.

According to their beliefs, the practice is not a desecration but a great honor—the deceased’s counsel is sought and valued even after their spirit has left this world. The witches see themselves as communing with nature, not violating it.”

“How are the ossuaries aiding your pursuit of Astaroth?” pressed Ms. Richter.

“They allow me to communicate with shamans and spirit guides from many thousands of years ago—people who lived before any cultures kept written accounts,” explained the Archmage. “And some of the oldest recall a pale being that followed their tribes at a distance and watched them as they huddled by their fires. Many years might pass between its appearances, but its coming was always viewed as an evil omen. Whenever they saw the pale being, women were wont to miscarry, brothers quarreled, and the hunt became scarce. But there was one shaman in the far north who finally mustered the courage to approach it. He asked what it was and where it came from. He asked why it was bothering them and driving all the animals away. The shaman’s people meant it no harm. It should leave them alone.”

“What did it say?” asked Ms. Richter, spellbound.

“It pointed to the stars and tried to emulate the shaman’s speech, but struggled to do so. Abandoning the effort, it pointed again at the sky. The shaman decided that it was trying to show him where it came from. Interestingly, the shaman also sensed that it was afraid—not of him, but of something out among the heavens. The shaman smiled, named him Wanderer, and tried to indicate that he understood. The Wanderer mimicked his smile and then seized his hand. When the shaman shrieked and tried to flee, the being released him and simply walked away. The next morning, the tribe awoke to find dead caribou arranged and heaped about their camp. It seemed the Wanderer had left the animals, but the tribe would not touch the meat and never returned to that place. The unfortunate shaman grew ill and died within the month.”

Max found that he was holding his breath. He exhaled, his mind fixated on the primitive but eerie similarities between Astaroth and this ancient Wanderer of the shaman’s tale. He envisioned Astaroth’s ever-present, masklike smile and wondered if it was a sort of ingrained mannerism that stemmed from his early interactions with people: Humans do this to put other humans at ease and be welcomed. This thought made Astaroth seem even stranger and more alien to Max than before.

“What do you make of this?” asked Ms. Richter quietly.

“I still have much more to learn,” replied Bram. “But I do not doubt that this ‘Wanderer’ from the shaman’s account was Astaroth, as he is now known. And I do not doubt that the ‘Smiling Man’ and the Olmec carving are also him. It was not until the Middle Ages that he even assumed the identity of ‘Astaroth’ and that dreadful name began to appear in the scholars’ lists and grimoires. By that time, Astaroth had essentially become a ‘demon’ as we tend to think of them: He assumed their aura, he could be summoned, and, despite his great powers, he was bound by certain rules and strictures. Scholars believed that he was one of the greater corrupted stewards and fit him into their hierarchies. Even other demons took Astaroth for one of their kind and served him out of devotion or fear until his humiliation on Walpurgisnacht.”

Finishing his tea, Bram sat back down and gazed into the cup with a dark, melancholy air.

“And this strange being,” he muttered. “This imposter—this ‘Wanderer’—who has masqueraded for millennia as both demon and man possesses the Book of Thoth. Nothing—not even Rowan’s fate—is more important than recovering the Book and destroying Astaroth once and for all.”

Setting down her tea, Ms. Richter gave a nod and stood. “These revelations about Astaroth are disturbing,” she said. “A part of me—a childish part—wishes I’d never heard them. Thank you for your explanations. I suppose it was my greed. Despite all the forces we’ve arrayed against Prusias, Elias Bram is a mighty weapon and I wanted him in my arsenal. Now I understand.…”

“You are not driven by greed,” said Bram gently. “It is your love of Rowan and all who shelter here that drives you, Director. I admire you. You’re a far better leader than I ever was.”

She bowed appreciatively. “Well,” she said, “I’m overdue in Founder’s Hall. We will leave you to your labors, Archmage. Do I have your word that you will leave Max McDaniels to his?”

“You do,” he promised. “But we never even discussed why I originally sent for him.” Bram glanced beneath the door to make sure Mina wasn’t eavesdropping. “I know about the attack by the Atropos,” he said gravely. “A very ugly business, and I don’t want Mina to hear about it. It would upset her terribly. In any case, my own charge has asked my permission to serve Max for the time being.”

“YaYa?” said Max, confused.

The Archmage smiled. “It’s been many years since YaYa carried a rider into battle, but I don’t think you will be disappointed. The Enemy fears her, for good reason, and your soldiers may find greater heart and courage in her presence. Will you accept her service?”

Max nodded, speechless at this unexpected boon. When Bram opened the door, the study’s disorienting effect ceased and Max felt like his feet were planted firmly on the floor once again. In the common room, they found Emer dozing in her chair, Lila scratching at the door, and Mina stirring a large pot and peering at its contents with an anxious, irritated expression.

With a groan, the Archmage strode across the room and flung open the windows.

“It just needs more basil,” Mina assured him.

“No, it does not,” Bram declared. “It needs less garlic. Didn’t I tell you to follow a recipe?”

“I did follow a recipe!” shouted Mina, defiantly flinging the rest of the basil into the pot.

“Show it to me, then.”

“I threw it in the fire!”

“What have I told you about lying, child?”

“To get better at it!”