The Maelstrom

~ 2 ~ Archmage

Following Lord Naberius’s departure, Founder’s Hall became a hive of hushed and anxious conversations. Ms. Richter cut these short, thanking all for their attendance and reminding them that the winter solstice was still six weeks away. Theirs was a pressing deadline, she acknowledged, but sufficient to gather additional intelligence and make an informed decision. Once she dismissed the attendees, many offered their support and assured the Director that she had done well. She thanked them and promised to follow up with each for their advice and counsel. When Miss Boon filed past, Ms. Richter asked her to remain behind.

The teacher nodded and glanced anxiously at the empty seat where Cooper should have been.

“It’s okay, Miss Boon,” Max assured her. “Cooper will be back soon.”

“Oh, it’s not that,” she muttered irritably, dabbing at her face with a sleeve. “Of course William’s fine. I know he’s fine. He probably got stuck with some incompetent of the Harbor Guard. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Max waved off the ambassador’s dark pronouncements. “If I had a shiny lune for every time I’ve been threatened …,” he quipped. When this failed to elicit even the hint of a smile, Max merely shrugged. “Just because Prusias says I’m a dead man doesn’t make it so.”

Miss Boon nodded appreciatively, but her apparent worry remained.

The hall had almost emptied when Ms. Richter called Ben Polk over.

“I know you’re busy,” she said, “but I would appreciate it if you would track down Agent Cooper. It’s not like him to miss something like this. He has been helping the coastal settlements see to their defenses and was at Sphinx Point just yesterday.”

Ben Polk touched two fingers to his forehead and spoke in a voice so eerily flat and distant that he might have been daydreaming. “I’ll have him home by evenfall, Director. And then I’m off for Dùn, ’less you need me for anything else round here.…”

Max felt a chill as those unblinking glassy eyes wandered over him and settled on his sword. He knew that if the Director ordered Ben Polk to acquire the gae bolga, the Agent would instantly do his utmost. The prospect that such a task might require him to take Max’s life or surrender his own would be of no consequence. A killer like Ben Polk had no time for hesitation, doubts, or morality. If he’d ever possessed such things, they’d been cast aside a long time ago. Ms. Richter caught the man’s suggestion at once.

“No,” she replied firmly. “Once you’ve accounted for Agent Cooper, we need you in Dùn. The goblin carrack Mungröl sails on Sunday. The goblins might be slower, but that ship’s made for rough seas.”

As Agent Polk departed, a flock of apprentices and gnomish domovoi arrived to straighten up Founder’s Hall. Ms. Richter took one of the domovoi aside, pointing out the flagstones the palanquin had cracked. “I’d like these replaced as soon as possible,” she said. “And let’s channel some fresh air in here. I want all evidence of that visitor scoured from this place. What a foul messenger. What a foul message!” She added this last reflection in an undertone before her attention snapped back to Max and Miss Boon. Stopping a passing apprentice, she drained a cup of coffee from the boy’s tray and then beckoned the others to follow as she strode from the hall.

She chose one of the Manse’s less trafficked staircases, leading them up the marble steps while the sprawling mansion hummed and echoed with the din of a new school day. Footsteps drummed and doors opened and slammed shut, accompanied by shouts and laughter from the dormitory wings. A disheveled Second Year came racing down the staircase, carrying far too many books and chomping maniacally upon a slice of ham. Upon glimpsing the Director, the boy gave a prepubescent yelp and spun awkwardly to avoid hitting her. Books and breakfast went flying as the boy crashed into Miss Boon, flinging his arms about her waist to break his fall. Both parties were mortified. Stammering incoherent apologies, the student stooped to gather up his things and braced for the inevitable tirade. He was saved by the stampede that soon followed.

More students came dashing down the narrow staircase, a blur of scrubbed faces, books, and wet hair that clung to cowls of gray, blue, and brown wool. Bidding the Director a startled good day, they swarmed past their unfortunate classmate and continued to chatter about the latest gossip, homework, and exams. Max watched them go, more than a little envious as they dashed off to study composition, divination, or whatever else occupied their busy schedules. His former classmates would be diving into their second hour of Advanced Conjuration, each resplendent in their silver magechains and a Fifth Year’s fine viridian robes.

By the time they’d reached the third floor, the flood of students had thinned to a handful of stragglers, woefully late and destined for mucking out the Sanctuary stables or patrolling the raw and windy coast. Winding their way through a maze of corridors, the three finally passed the Bacon Library and veered down a disused hallway to a suite of old classrooms. Those classrooms had been converted into an apartment that was now occupied by a living, breathing dead man.

Was Elias Bram dead? In truth, Max did not know. To label the man undead seemed wrong. Undead evoked ghouls and wights and revenants—creatures with rotting flesh and spectral eyes and a ravenous hatred of the living.

But while Elias Bram did not fit this description, he neither fit conventional definitions for the living. For one, Bram’s sacred apple had turned to gold, which was only supposed to occur upon one’s death. For another, it was common knowledge that Astaroth had devoured the man centuries ago. But what if the Demon had kept some vital spark of Bram intact? Astaroth had spoken of past victims “contributing to his essence,” but Max assumed he’d been speaking metaphorically. If Elias Bram’s living spirit had persevered all this time, Max was not certain how to classify him.

Regardless of whether Bram was living or dead, Max still regarded him with a mixture of superstitious awe and fear. The man’s legend loomed over everything at Rowan. Even the lowliest apprentice could recite basic facts about his life. He was revered as something of a saint and a demigod—a being whose name, likeness, and history were woven into the surroundings and daily life. For Rowan students, Elias Bram was Sir Isaac Newton, Hercules, and Merlin rolled into one.

For Mystics, however, Bram was Stradivari—a virtuoso of magic whose results could not be duplicated by later generations despite every effort to divine his methods. Even Bram’s most mundane ledgers and notes were treasured documents, meticulously preserved and jealously guarded by scholars who spent lifetimes scrutinizing them in the hope of some veiled cipher or insight. It was not just his magic that was a mystery, but also the man himself. How had a shipwrecked orphan come to claim Solas’s Gwydion Chair of Mystics by the age of twenty? It defied explanation.

If a book held the answers, many might have followed in Bram’s footsteps. But to Max’s knowledge, there had only been one. And that remarkable being was Max’s very own roommate and closest companion, the mysterious David Menlo. Like Elias Bram, David was a true sorcerer, a prodigy whose genius with magic often allowed him to bypass the ancient formulae and incantations that were a Mystic’s tools in trade. Once, Miss Boon had remarked—with a tinge of professional envy—that David’s talents were like a composer simply improvising an entire symphony. Ever since David’s power became apparent, the scholars sought to analyze him with the same fervor with which they studied Bram’s papers. As it happened, the connection between the two was closer than any had imagined: David Menlo was Elias Bram’s grandson.

David’s initial claim that Bram was his grandfather was met with skepticism. After all, David Menlo was only a teenager while Elias Bram had died during the seventeenth century. The only possible link between David and Bram was through the Archmage’s wife and daughter, who had fled Astaroth’s forces and sailed west with the refugees who would found Rowan.

The pair had arrived safely in America, but Elias Bram’s wife, Brigit, had died shortly thereafter. According to the histories, Elias had promised his wife that he would rejoin her in the new land. Day after day, Brigit Bram stood on Rowan’s rocky beach and gazed into the east, awaiting a husband who was not coming. Legend had it that one evening she took up her lantern and simply waded into the sea until the waves closed over her. Her body had never been found, but some insisted that her passing coincided with the appearance of a large rock off Rowan’s shore. Romantics claimed that its silhouette resembled a woman staring out to sea and named it Brigit’s Vigil.

Little was known of Bram’s daughter. Her name was Emer and the historians rarely mentioned her. From the few accounts, it seemed that Emer was a sickly, simpleminded child who had been shunned by the community even before she’d been orphaned. There was no indication that Emer had ever studied at Solas or Rowan, and all mention of her ceased after her mother’s passing. As there was no gravestone bearing her name or any documentation of her death, the scholars concluded that the unfortunate girl had been driven away or left to fend for herself in the wild.

Where Emer went or how she managed to survive, Max did not know. But by now it was clear that the Old Magic was in her. For one, she was now centuries old and yet looked no more than forty. For another, she had given birth to David, whose own ties to the Old Magic were plainly evident. Miss Boon theorized that Bram’s unfortunate daughter had inherited all of the Archmage’s power and none of his constitution. As most mortals were far too fragile a vessel for the Old Magic, the teacher surmised that its energies had overwhelmed Emer’s mind just as they had overtaxed David’s body. For Max, this seemed as logical an explanation as any.

When they finally reached the ironbound door, Miss Boon cleared her throat. “Are you certain anyone’s here?” she hissed. “He’s often away, you know.”

The sound of a child’s laughter answered the question. Drawing herself up, Ms. Richter knocked. A moment later the door was opened by a wizened domovoi with blue-tinted spectacles pulling an empty cart. He peered up at them, his lumpish face grinning amiably.

“Jacob!” exclaimed Ms. Richter, sounding surprised and somewhat relieved. “Here I was expecting Elias Bram and instead I find the estimable Jacob Quills. What brings you up from the Archives?”

The creature bowed and touched a bristly knuckle to his forehead. “I’ve been seeing to the Archmage’s books, Director,” he replied. “Our lord’s been catching up on what he’s missed, and three centuries makes for a crowded nightstand.” With a chuckle, the domovoi stood aside to let them enter before slipping out the door, pulling his wobbly cart.

Bram’s quarters comprised several old classrooms that had been modified into an apartment with a large common area, two small bedrooms, a snug study, and an old-fashioned privy. The walls were cream-colored plaster whose only adornment were the latest maps of Rowan’s territory and the Four Kingdoms. Turkish rugs had been strewn upon the floor, although they were barely visible beneath stacks of books, unrolled scrolls, and loose-leaf parchments. Bay windows faced south and west, but they offered little light on such a damp and gloomy morning. To compensate, several lanterns had been lit in the common room and a small fire flickered in the fieldstone hearth.

Of the four people gathered around that fire, David Menlo was closest. He sat with his back resting comfortably against an ottoman while little Mina flicked marbles toward him across the floor. David glanced up at the group as they filed in. He was a blond boy of about sixteen, very small for his age, whose youthful face was offset by an expression of frank intelligence that made him seem much older. When his eyes met Max’s, they brightened with pleasure.

While David could convey volumes with a nod, Mina was more demonstrative. Shouting Max’s name, the seven-year-old barreled into him with an energy and exuberance he’d not have imagined possible when he’d stumbled upon her in Blys nearly two years ago. Then she’d been a mere wisp of a girl, an unwashed and half-starved creature gathering firewood for the farmhouse where she lived with fellow orphans and several adults. The adults had not been welcoming and soon sent Max on his way. It was only by chance that he returned and found that Mina had been left as an offering to placate a monster that lived in a nearby well. Max had slain the monster, but it was weeks before the traumatized child would even speak, much less smile. And it was months before Max realized that the quiet girl who shadowed his every step was a Mystic of uncommon ability.

In many ways, Mina owed her life to both of the boys. Max had rescued her from the well; David had rescued her from Prusias, smuggling the entire household to Rowan before the demon could harm them. While Mina’s former housemates now attended school with other refugees, her emerging magical talents required a different sort of education.

Apparently this education had already begun. Squirming out of Max’s arms, Mina showed him not only a missing tooth but also her magechain.

“Look at that,” said Max, cooing over the chain along with the departed incisor that had been set to dangle alongside minor feats in Firecraft, Herb Lore, and Illusion. “You’ll be Archmage in no time!”

“That’s what Uncle ’Lias says,” she crowed, her dark eyes flashing with delight. Spinning about on her stocking feet, she laughed and raced back to her seat, anxious to resume her game of marbles.

Until the mention of his name, the gray-robed figure by the fire had resembled one of his own statues, huge and unmoving. But now Elias Bram leaned forward in his wooden chair. His voice was deep, its accent tinged with a faint Irish lilt. “That won’t do, Mina,” he chided softly. “We have company and you must make your leg for the Director. There’s a good girl.”

As Mina stood and made a proper curtsy, Max regarded Bram. Even when sitting quietly in his chair, Elias Bram exuded a gargantuan presence. Max suspected that Bram could sit unannounced among a host of kings and queens and dominate the gathering without ever saying a word.

He was rangy and rawboned with a high forehead, darkly chiseled features, and a beard to match his mane of snarled gray hair. He was physically imposing and seemed to simmer with a quiet, almost feral intensity. Within his pale gray eyes, one sensed an unyielding sense of purpose and conviction. For Max, the combined effect of the man’s legend and individual presence was more than a little frightening. He had not felt anything like it since Astaroth. People would either devote their lives to such a person or seek to tear him limb from limb.

“The ambassador has gone,” said Ms. Richter, brushing a strand of silver hair from her eyes. “He’s returned to his ship to await our answer.”

“An ultimatum, I gather,” Bram muttered, rising to heat some water and retrieve some chairs from his study. When they had been seated, the Archmage stooped to address Mrs. Menlo, who had been sitting mute by the hearth stroking a calico cat. “Hear me, Emer,” Bram murmured, smoothing her gray-blond hair. “Your pa and little David have to speak of serious matters. Take Mina to the Sanctuary to visit our YaYa. There’s to be a Matching this morning and I know you’ll like to see it. I’ll come find you when we’re finished.”

David’s mother blinked and nodded and reached for a nearby shawl.

“Can Lila come?” she wondered, her voice lacking all inflection. She smiled distantly at her father’s response. “Let’s go, Mina,” she called, as though the girl were far away and not already retrieving their shoes. “Let’s visit YaYa and watch the Matching. It will be fun.”

The pair departed, with Mina clutching Mrs. Menlo’s hand as they tottered out, each wrapped in navy cloaks. Cleaning her paws, Lila gazed out the window and seemed to reconsider the excursion. Nudged by Bram, the cat mewed and darted out the door, vanishing with a churlish swish of her tail.

As the water heated, Bram rummaged through various cupboards and retrieved an array of chipped cups, mismatched saucers, and old spoons. He arranged them on a small folding table that doubled as a chessboard. Something about the scene struck Max as odd, and it took a moment for him to realize what it was.

“You’re not using any magic,” he remarked, louder perhaps than he’d intended. Any Second Year apprentice would have been tempted to heat the kettle with a flick of their fingers. Had a Fifth Year been present, there would have been no searching for saucers and cups; they would have flown from the cupboard and stood at attention. And yet here was history’s greatest sorcerer methodically setting out cups and plates like any ordinary host.

“The fire’s hot,” Bram rumbled. “The kettle’s good. The water will boil soon enough. Do you shave with the Morrígan’s blade?”

Max glanced down at the gae bolga. “Of course not.”

“Wise boy,” said Bram. “Simple jobs don’t require dangerous tools. You and David can finish up while the Director shares her news.”

David measured out the tea leaves before grinding coffee for himself. Strong black coffee was his vice of choice, and god help the librarian who tried to confiscate his beloved thermos when David ventured down into the Archives. One could almost trace his studies by the rings left on faded tomes and forbidden grimoires.

“How was Zenuvia?” he whispered, leaning a shoulder into Max.

“Hot,” Max muttered, reaching for the kettle. “But worth it, I think. I’ll tell you more later.”

Serving the drinks, the two boys sat next to each other on the hearth bench while their elders sat facing one another in the chairs. Despite Bram’s attempts to be cordial, Max could tell that Ms. Richter and Miss Boon were nervous.

“Thank you for the tea,” said Ms. Richter, stirring hers pensively. “And thank you for honoring my request not to interfere with this morning’s audience.…”

Bram nodded and sat quietly as the Director recounted the ambassador’s visit, the looming threat of war among the kingdoms, and Prusias’s ultimatum. When Ms. Richter indicated that Elias Bram was to be handed over as Prusias’s final condition, the man remained stoic. The only reaction he offered was a surprised grunt when he learned that Lord Naberius had been the envoy. When Ms. Richter finished, Bram tapped his knee.

“You have not told me all,” he remarked, his soft tone an invitation rather than accusation.

“No,” Ms. Richter confessed, sipping her tea. “I thought it better if we focus on the bigger picture.”

“Better to share everything now,” Bram suggested.

Glancing at Hazel, Ms. Richter detailed Cooper’s unexpected absence from the morning audience.

“And this is out of character?” inquired Bram.

“Very much so,” the Director sighed. “It may be coincidental and it may not. We’ve dispatched another member of the Red Branch to search for him. With any luck, they’ll both be back by nightfall.”

Bram nodded but still looked expectant. “Something else remains. You have saved it for last, Director, because it frightens you.”

Glancing gravely at Max, Ms. Richter cleared her throat. “Prusias has revived the Atropos. They have entered Max’s name into the Grey Book. That is why they are content to seize only his sword; they say he is already dead.…”

Bram’s chair creaked as the big man turned to gaze at Max. “The boy looks alive to me. He is strong and has no family. The Atropos will find him more difficult than most.”

“What are the Atropos?” asked Max, looking to the rest. “I’ve never even heard of them.”

“An ancient assassins’ guild,” answered Ms. Richter. “They take their name from one of the three Moirae—the Greek Fates. Clotho spun the threads of life, and Lachesis measured a length for each man, woman, and child. And when Atropos cut a mortal’s thread, that person’s life was ended.…”

Max laughed. “The Four Kingdoms are riddled with assassins and ‘dark brotherhoods,’ each claiming to be more secretive and deadly than the next. I’ve faced worse, Ms. Richter. Please don’t worry about me.”

“No, Max,” interjected Miss Boon urgently. “She’s absolutely right to be concerned. It’s been centuries since the Atropos were destroyed, and it’s a terrible development if they’ve been revived. At one time, to even mention their name might lead one to the gallows.”

Max’s smile faded. “Why was everyone so afraid of them?”

“They were fanatics,” she explained. “Fanatical in their desire to slay any whose name had been entered in their Grey Book. They believed that once a name had been recorded, that person had reached the end of his or her life. To live even a second longer was an affront to the Fates. Accordingly, the guild sent their target a message informing him that his time had come. If the person surrendered willingly, it was said his death was swift and painless.”

“What if he refused?” asked Max.

Miss Boon’s face darkened. “If the target refused the summons, the Atropos expanded the contract to include all of his blood relatives, born and unborn. In such a case, the contract might remain open for decades—even centuries—until the Atropos were satisfied that their original target had died along with all who shared his blood.”

“There are many horror stories,” Ms. Richter muttered, breaking the ensuing silence. “Fear of the Atropos skyrocketed when they closed several contracts centuries after the original target had been slain. By then, of course, there were hundreds of relatives and descendants who were living in distant lands and under different names. It did not matter. The Atropos did not rest until each had been hunted down. As you can imagine, many with noble blood lived in constant fear that some distant ancestor’s name was in the Grey Book and that it was only a matter of time before the Atropos came for them.”

“Why only those with noble blood?” Max wondered.

“To hire the guild was an exceedingly costly proposition,” explained Miss Boon. “Only the oldest families, greatest orders, and wealthiest merchants had such deep coffers. One did not contact the Atropos for personal revenge; one employed them to eliminate extremely powerful enemies and subvert nations. The Atropos themselves were brutal, but as their reputation grew, they rarely had to lift a finger. The terror they inspired led others to do their work for them. There are many sad accounts in which families turned on their own. Bodies were left at crossroads in the hope that the Atropos would be appeased. The merest suspicion that one’s name had been recorded in the Grey Book could trigger outright panic and murder.”

Max found it all too easy to imagine the nightmares that might unfold. Old Tom began to chime the Westminster Quarters. Outside, Max heard shouts and laughter. Rising, he walked to the nearest window and gazed down at the paths and gardens below. A group of Sixth Years was hurrying down the cobbled way that led to the Smithy. Their bright scarlet robes flapped behind them, a welcome contrast to the gloomy morning. His breath misted the diamond-shaped panes.

“What sort of person would even think to hire such an organization?” he muttered hoarsely.

“Many sorts,” lamented Ms. Richter, rising to refill cups and place more wood on the fire. “Early on, some viewed the Atropos as a useful tool—a check against those whose excesses had brought a just doom upon them. The Atropos were expensive, but they were effective and always honored their contracts. One did not need to worry about blackmail, betrayal, or the other hazards common to such dealings. The guild kept their patron’s identity as great a secret as their own. It was said that the Atropos did not always know who hired them; they required only a name and payment of their princely fees.”

Hanging the kettle back over the fire, Ms. Richter glanced at Max’s gilded scabbard.

“But any weapon so tempting and perilous will have unforeseen consequences,” she reflected. “It was inevitable the Atropos would eventually harm those whom their patron never intended. As noble houses intermarried and family trees intertwined, the dangers posed by the guild increased a hundredfold. Some unwittingly caused the deaths of their distant descendants. There are even tales of poor fools who paid for their own execution!”

“What?” Max exclaimed. “How could something like that happen?”

“Paternity is not always as described,” Bram remarked, his gaze rising to meet Max’s. “Trace the bloodlines of servants and stable boys and you’ll find that many lead to the local manor. And royal courts are justly famous for their intrigues. I could name kings who sired less than half their ‘royal brood.’ The Atropos do not care about surnames or cuckold’s horns; they care only about the blood in one’s veins. And if one has hired them to slay an enemy who turns out to be a distant relation …”

Max returned to sit by his roommate, who was staring somberly at the fire. “So what happened to them?” he asked. “How were the Atropos disbanded?”

“The threat they posed became intolerable,” replied Ms. Richter. “What had once been a useful tool had spiraled out of control. People stopped hiring them, but old contracts could not be canceled, nor could the guild be enticed to stop hunting the kin of those who had fled their death summons. For the Atropos, this aspect was sacred—divine retribution against those who had sought to cheat the Fates.

“Even the most powerful rulers lived in fear,” she continued. “But none dared take action until Charles V. The Holy Roman Emperor had been born in the Burgundian Low Countries, and when the Atropos were suspected of several murders in the region, Charles feared that his own house was next. He reached out to the other great powers—even the Ottomans—and despite their differences, they all agreed that the Atropos must be ended for the common good. These rulers united in a quiet campaign to identify and eliminate the guild. The tables were turned and the Atropos became the hunted. The Red Branch was involved.”

“I’m glad,” said Max.

“So were many others,” said Ms. Richter. “The Atropos were destroyed, but so was the emperor. Despite the Red Branch’s assurances, Charles could not quell his fear that some small faction of the guild had survived and would seek vengeance. Abdicating his titles, he retired to a monastery where he surrounded himself with hundreds of clocks.”

“Why clocks?” Max wondered. “Wouldn’t guards have served better?”

“He thought he was doomed,” muttered Miss Boon sadly. “The ticking of the clocks reminded him a man’s life was short and ever dwindling. Whether the clocks gave him comfort or simply fed his fears, no one knows. He died within a few years.”

“The Atropos?” Max wondered, a chill creeping up his arms.

“No,” Bram snapped, his eyes flashing. “The man died of fear and gout. Let his folly be a lesson to you, Max McDaniels. The Atropos are formidable, but they are not the Fates, and fear was ever their greatest weapon. You and I will speak more of this, but other matters press. Director, you have told me of Prusias and his ultimatum, but what of Astaroth? Did Naberius mention him?”

“He did,” said Ms. Richter, glancing out the window as rain pattered on the glass. “He said that David had humiliated Astaroth before all and that none would follow him again. It would seem the demons scorn him and will no longer bend to his will.”

“Then they are fools,” said Bram quietly. “And we are fools if we share their beliefs. It is Astaroth who poses the true peril, not Prusias or any other ambitious demon among the kingdoms.”

“Six months have passed,” said Miss Boon quietly, “and we have heard and seen nothing of Astaroth.”

Bram shook his head. “That troubles me far more than grand displays of his power. What are six months to Astaroth, Director? Whether six months or six millennia, it is all the same to him. He is weakened, yes, but he still possesses the Book of Thoth, and while he has it, he still controls the strings. Astaroth may lie hidden and forgotten for a day or a century, but when he chooses to jerk those strings, the world will jump.”

“Why don’t his former servants and fellow demons share your fear?” asked Ms. Boon.

“Because they don’t truly understand him,” replied Bram gravely. “The daemona believe that Astaroth is one of their kind—an ancient spirit, cruel and clever. I suspect they are mistaken.”

The Archmage said nothing for some time. No one dared speak, but Max glanced at David, who hugged his knees and stared at his grandfather. Max guessed the two had already discussed this topic. The rain fell harder now, the drops drumming against the window while the first winds of winter swept past in sudden gales and moaned within the chimney.

Bram cleared his throat. “I believe Astaroth is something else entirely,” he muttered. “He has masqueraded as a demon for ages and fooled them, but I suspect that Astaroth is something far older and stranger than Prusias or any of his ilk.”

“How do you know this?” asked Ms. Richter quietly.

“He was my prison for many years,” explained Bram, studying his hands. “I have glimpsed what lies beneath that grinning mask, and it is no demon. Astaroth is no corrupted steward or wild spirit from the first days—he is not from this world or any other within our little universe. Prusias and the others are deadly enemies, but their motives and desires are clear. We can understand Prusias’s greed and lust for power—we know what he covets, and this makes him far less terrifying than one so alien as Astaroth. My liberation has weakened this outsider, but he is still lurking about—unaccounted for and still possessing the Book. Prusias may menace the world’s kingdoms, but Astaroth is a threat to the world itself.…”

As the man lapsed into silence, the logs cracked and a plume of sparks momentarily brightened the darkening room. Indeed it was dark, Max reflected—too murky for midday and far too dismal to discuss such disturbing matters. Reaching past David, he put another log upon the fire and rose to light several more candles. Watching the flames catch upon the wicks, Max reflected upon Bram’s assertion that Astaroth was no demon but something else. It was a disturbing revelation, but it also echoed and reinforced Max’s own hazy misgivings. Other than Bram, Max had spent more time with Astaroth than anyone at Rowan, and there were occasions when he had stared into those merry, black eyes and sensed naught but the void behind them. Prusias could be a bloodthirsty tyrant, but his sensibilities and tastes were far more human. Max was reluctant to admit it, but there had been moments when he’d actually enjoyed the demon’s humor and energetic company. He had never enjoyed Astaroth’s. No matter how courtly or chivalrous Astaroth’s manners may have been, his grinning white face had always seemed an impenetrable mask.

“You claim that Astaroth is the greater threat and I believe you,” said Ms. Richter solemnly. “But you also say that he may lurk for a thousand years and take no action. That is too abstract a problem for our present dilemma. Rowan is threatened now, Archmage. Due to your actions, we have six short weeks to make amends with Prusias or gird for war.”

At this hint of reproach, Bram’s expression hardened into a stone mask. Seconds ticked by slowly. When he finally spoke, the man’s voice was quiet but unyielding.

“I have put you in a hard place,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps I should have consulted you before casting that abomination into the sea. In my outrage, I may have cost Rowan a few days to prepare her defenses. For that I apologize. But let me be clear, Director … Gràvenmuir was doomed the moment I saw her. And despite this farce of an overture, Prusias has no intention of sparing Rowan. That was plain when he set the Morrígan blade and my person as conditions for peace. These are the only weapons he fears. If Rowan is foolish enough to weaken herself and surrender these things for a demon’s promise, Prusias will merely laugh and launch his ships.” The Archmage rested his elbows upon his knees and gazed gravely at the Director. “Prusias is coming for Rowan, Gabrielle Richter. The only questions are how soon and whether or not he succeeds.”

Ms. Richter’s cup clattered in its saucer as she set it down.

“I’m well aware of this,” she retorted stiffly. “But we do appreciate you clarifying the key points. I suppose it’s my responsibility as a leader to swallow my pride and glean whatever other insights our exalted Archmage has to offer. He has started a war and has now been kind enough to admit as much. Perhaps he might also suggest a way to win.”

A ghost of a smile flickered in Bram’s pale eyes. He inclined his head. “Well said, Director. But I think it best if I concentrate my energies on Astaroth and leave the defense of Rowan to you and your counselors. I would not wish others to think that the ‘exalted Archmage’ has superseded your authority. And if it’s strategy you desire, my grandson can serve you better than I.”

At Ms. Richter’s invitation, David unfolded from his perch and began to pace back and forth like he often did while deep in thought.

“Prusias has millions; we have thousands,” he mused. “Even if he engages the bulk of his forces against the other kingdoms, he could still dispatch an army to Rowan much larger than anything we can muster. We must do everything we can to delay that outcome for as long as possible—stall negotiations with Naberius, sabotage shipyards in Blys, disrupt his trade, and incite his enemies to attack him.”

“Very sensible,” remarked Ms. Richter smartly. “Many of these initiatives are already in place. In fact, I believe Max has news to report from Zenuvia?”

“I do,” said Max, shoving aside thoughts of Astaroth and the Atropos. “Traveling along its coasts, I heard a very consistent message among the smugglers. It could be false intelligence, of course, but I don’t think so. The rumor is that Lilith opposes Prusias but will not join with Aamon or Rashaverak until battle has begun. Her reasoning is clear enough—given the distance between Zenuvia and Blys, it’s unlikely that Prusias would attack her with a force of any real size until he’s defeated the alliance between the other kingdoms. Should that happen, the queen could claim she never opposed him and sue for better terms. If Aamon and Rashaverak are winning, however, Lilith can join the fray and tip the balance at a critical moment. In either case, she limits her risk and may even be able to seize her allies’ kingdoms should the war cripple them.”

Ms. Richter nodded her approval. “What of our agreements with the Khoreshi smugglers? Are they still in place?”

“For the moment,” Max reported. “But they’re opportunists. Since Gràvenmuir, they’ve charged us triple market prices plus hazard freight and compensation for any lost ships. If Rowan goes to war, we should expect those costs to multiply tenfold.”

“Are those prices worth it?” she inquired, arching an eyebrow.

Max considered this. “I think so. As David says, if and when Prusias attacks, we’re likely to face a force much larger than our own. In addition, our own Agents and Mystics will be spread very thin; the majority of our army will consist of refugees who have little to no training. We need that iron ore from the Zenuvian mines. For some reason it’s far more effective on the demons and other spirits. I’ve brought a raw sample to share with dvergar. Perhaps they can replicate its properties. If we can equip the refugees with such weapons, they become much more valuable.”

Ms. Richter made a note within a slim notebook. “And what of the nonhumans? Are any of the goblins and vyes open to discussions?”

“Unclear at this stage.” Max shrugged. “The greedier goblin clans might be, but the language barrier is difficult and I didn’t trust my contact. In any case, the bribes they demanded at every stage were enormous, and I’d already spent most of my funds on the smugglers. As for the vyes, from what I could gather, they’re not content in the new order—they feel they’ve been cheated and supplanted by the demons. But they’re too wary to discuss anything openly. They’re afraid that everyone is a demon in disguise, probing for potential traitors. We’ll have to keep trying.”

Ms. Richter flicked her eyes to David, who had been listening intently. “What do you make of Max’s report?”

“It’s good information,” he commented, “and we should certainly acquire as much of the iron as we can. But I can’t help but focus on Prusias. Something’s wrong … something’s off.”

Bram raised his head at this and gazed at his grandson.

“Grandfather,” said David, “you have summoned Prusias before. Have you ever summoned the other monarchs?”

“Aamon,” replied Bram, touching his fingertips together and searching his memory. “Aamon knows many old secrets, but I’ve not called the others. What troubles you?”

“Prusias’s confidence,” replied David. “He knows you are here. He knows Max has reforged the Morrígan’s blade, and he knows the other monarchs are likely to unite against him. But despite this, he gloats like he’s already won.”

“Prusias always bullies,” grunted Max, recalling his own unpleasant history with the demon.

“Yes,” said David. “But this seems different. I think Prusias has a trick up his sleeve.”

“The cane?” inquired Miss Boon. The magic that created Gràvenmuir had come from Prusias’s cane, and David had long suspected that it contained a page from the Book of Thoth.

“I don’t think so,” replied David, rubbing the stump where his right hand had once been. “He’s had that for some time. His latest tone sounds like there’s been a new development, something that will ensure victory.…”

“The Workshop,” breathed Max. “Prusias has been protecting and sponsoring them even after Astaroth banished modern technologies. I rode pod tubes up to the Arena.”

“That’s precisely my worry,” David confessed. “We no longer have modern technologies, but the Workshop does. And Prusias has the Workshop.…”

Max’s hopes dwindled. What use were iron-tipped arrows against guns or tanks? The others seemed to share his apprehensions.

At length, Bram spoke. “It is a long time since I had dealings with the Workshop,” he reflected. “But when last I did, they broke their neutrality and helped me safeguard the Book of Thoth. Their first love was always their machines, but perhaps we can convince them to aid us again.”

“The Workshop did nothing to resist Astaroth,” observed Miss Boon bitterly. “As long as Prusias is the one ensuring that their technologies do not fade, I can’t imagine that they’ll join us. Why would they risk their machines or their lives on such a risky prospect?”

“That’s probably true,” said David. “But we should at least reestablish contact through all possible channels. If nothing else, we might gain insight into what they’re doing. At this stage, information and intelligence is everything. Rowan has to win the war of spies before it can win a war of weapons.…”

As David continued to discuss spy networks, sabotage, and civil defense, Max found that Elias Bram was staring at him. The appraisal was trancelike and unblinking, reminding Max of when another had gazed at him years earlier on a train bound for Chicago. Of course, trains and Chicago no longer existed; Astaroth had used the Book of Thoth to refashion the world and strip away much that mankind had built or invented. Among the humans who survived Astaroth’s rise to power, few could even recall their former way of life—their memories of such things had faded. But some who’d been gifted with magic could recall the past with varying degrees of clarity. Max remembered everything, including that fateful day when a stranger’s dead white eye had locked on to him.

“Stop looking at me,” he growled, stalking back over to the window. The rain had ceased and the walkways shone slick and wet, their puddles reflecting the gray skies. The others ceased their conversation and turned to see what was the disturbance.

“I must have a word with Max,” Bram announced, rising abruptly from his chair. “I’ll leave you three to your discussions while the boy accompanies me to the Sanctuary. It’s time Emer came home and Mina has her lessons.”

“We’ll go with you,” offered Miss Boon, her unease and suspicion evident.

“I don’t intend to spirit away your Hound, Hazel Boon,” Bram chuckled. “I just need a private word with him, assuming the lad can forgive my manners.”

Max nodded, his irritation giving way to curiosity.

“Whatever you have to say to Max you can say in front of us,” said Ms. Richter.

“I’m afraid I can’t,” replied the Archmage curtly. “Good day to you both. David will see you out.” Taking up a heavy mantle from a stand by the door, Bram swept it over his shoulders and held the door open for Max.

The famous pair took a shortcut across Bacon Library, ignoring the curious stares from a score of students hunched over their books and manuscripts. Exiting the Manse through a pair of French doors, they braced themselves as the November gales whipped past them. Max envied the Archmage’s heavy cloak.

It was ten minutes of brisk, silent walking until they’d traversed the orchards and wound around the stables and Smithy to reach the stone wall that separated Old College (as the original campus was now known) from Rowan’s Sanctuary. A stout oaken door was set into the wall, some twelve feet tall and six feet wide and traced with fine golden runes. It was propped open to reveal an arching canopy of interlacing trunks and twisting branches, a shadowy green tunnel through the dense sea of trees beyond.

Once inside the tunnel, the Archmage removed his mantle and stamped the mud and water from his boots. The air within the hedge was always distinctive—the earthy smell of foliage and an eddying of warm and cool currents akin to where a river meets the sea. Peering far ahead, Max glimpsed bright sunlight at the tunnel’s end. There was not always much difference between the weather in the Old College and the Sanctuary, but today it was pronounced. Max was happy to leave the oppressive damp behind.

“So what is it that you need to tell me?” asked Max.

“When we’re through,” said Bram, gesturing ahead.

The path was no longer paved and their footsteps made little noise. As they walked, Max became increasingly aware of how intensely alive the surrounding forest really was. The overhanging branches and surrounding trees was a symphony of chirrups and squawks and the patter of little feet scurrying through the underbrush. As they walked, he listened to these sounds and thought of Ms. Richter and the many difficult choices before her.

“How is Mina doing?” he wondered, just as they emerged into the clearing. “I didn’t know you were giving her lessons yourself. Is she really so special?”

“She is,” Bram replied, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “I had foreseen three children of the Old Magic, but I hardly suspected that you would coexist. And yet here you are.”

“And it’s a wonder we’re here and not with the witches,” Max remarked sharply. He recalled all too well the bargain Elias Bram had once struck to acquire the Book of Thoth. In return for the artifact, the Archmage had promised the witches three children of the Old Magic. Centuries later, when the witches had learned of Max and David, they had tried to collect a portion of their rightful prize. Rowan denied their claim and ultimately triggered the very curse that helped enable Astaroth’s victory. In the aftermath, Rowan and the witches had reached an unsteady truce, but great hostility and mistrust remained.

“That was a hard bargain,” Bram reflected solemnly. “But I’d strike it again.”

“Even now?” asked Max. “Even knowing that your own grandson is one of the three?”

“Yes,” he replied firmly. “Better that my family, my blood, should bear these burdens.”

“And why is that?” snapped Max.

The Archmage stopped and turned to stare Max squarely in the eye. His voice was deadly quiet. “Because we can.”

“David’s already sacrificed plenty.”

“He has more to give,” remarked Bram stoically. “And so do I. And so do you, Max McDaniels. That is why I wished to speak with you about the Atropos.”

Placing a hand on Max’s shoulder, Bram guided him through the large settlement that had sprouted up just inside the Sanctuary. Even since Max had last seen it, the township had grown considerably. Hundreds of buildings now rose in shingled clusters around cobblestone lanes crowded with wagons and carts and a host of people and creatures. At last count, some four thousand residents now lived in the township proper, a sizable number but still a manageable sum and significantly less than the towns and villages that were forming throughout the wider realm. While the settlements outside the Sanctuary and the Old College were predominately human, Rowan Township boasted a more diverse population that included snobbish fauns, willowy dryads, mischievous lutins, and solemn dvergar with braided beards. Though a distinct minority, these creatures and others could be spied amid the crush of humans, carts, and livestock that milled about the streets and storefronts.

As in Bacon Library, the sight of Max McDaniels and Elias Bram walking together elicited a great many stares. As they strolled across the cobblestones and central plaza, they encountered hesitant smiles, some doffed caps, and even a toothless crone who fell to her knees and begged for a blessing from the Archmage. But there were wary looks, too, and mutterings in their wake as the pair passed by. Few had ever seen Elias Bram and never with Max McDaniels. To find the pair together and in close counsel could only bode ill.

Bram’s counsel did not begin until they’d left the township behind, their fingertips nearly brushing the tall grasses and wildflowers that carpeted a broad plain fringed by forested mountains and dotted by pillars of dark rock. When they were approaching the Warming Lodge, the Archmage stopped.

“The Matching must be over,” he observed, nodding toward the building and its shimmering lagoon. “Let’s hope each creature found a steward and each child a charge. YaYa was hopeful.”

Max reflected wistfully back to the day when a wonderfully rare and mischievous lymrill had chosen him to be his keeper. It seemed ages ago. Nick was gone now, having surrendered his life, claws, and quills to strengthen the Morrígan’s blade. Max had yet to fill the void in his heart. YaYa herself had suggested that he take another charge, but Max had refused any matching. There was only one Nick and Max had lost him. He would not lose another.

“Has Mina been matched?” he inquired.

“No charge has chosen her,” replied Bram. “But when the match is right, one will. So many things are moving that it is hard to keep track of little Mina as closely as we should. I had thought to ask you to look after her, but this business with the Atropos has ruined those plans. I must find the girl a new guardian.”

“I can look after Mina,” Max protested. “I’ve been doing it since I met her.”

“No,” said Bram. “It is better that the Enemy know nothing about her until she’s older. You would only bring scrutiny. David and I will keep her under close watch, to see to her lessons and her safety. At the present moment, it is your safety that concerns me. I wished to speak with you privately because the others left out an important detail regarding the Atropos. Perhaps this was mere coincidence, but I cannot take the chance.”

“And what was the detail?” asked Max.

“Those targeted by the Atropos were rarely slain by strangers,” observed Bram sadly. “The guild was talented at infiltration, and their members could be found in the most secret and select societies. They were very successful at using others to do their work through threats, trickery, and even spiritual possession. There were skilled summoners and spiritwracks among their ranks. Many of their victims were slain by a trusted friend whose mind and body were not their own.”

“So what are you saying?” asked Max. “That I can’t trust Ms. Richter or Miss Boon?”

“No,” said Bram, staring hard at him. “I’m saying that you cannot trust anyone. Trust is a luxury you can no longer afford, Max McDaniels. When they come for you, they will not come as a stranger in the shadows. The Atropos will be someone you know.”