The Red Winter Read online

  Far to the south, David Menlo was lying languidly in a hammock slung aboard a war galleon, the flagship of Rowan’s fleet. The ship had once belonged to Prusias but was captured during the demon’s siege. Now it sailed toward Blys to wage war upon its former owner.

  It was an enormous vessel whose size and opulence afforded luxuries that were not commonly found upon a man-of-war. Every officer had their own cabin and David’s was a gleaming space of teak and brass with three round windows framing sky and sea. He enjoyed the view and the warmth radiating from a pot-bellied stove, but his chief delight was a small cooler stowed within a bench beneath the windows. This housed his coffee beans, a jug of milk, two mild cheeses, and a loaf of bread. With such a wealth of provisions, he need not leave his cabin for another day or two. That was treasure indeed, for what David wanted more than anything was a bit of privacy.

  After all, he despised crowds and the warship was teeming with sailors, soldiers, passengers, and livestock. And it had never been David’s choice or intention to accompany the main force to Blys. His original plan had been to remain at Rowan where he could continue Mina’s instruction, assist the Archmage, and support the war effort from afar. But Ms. Richter had requested his presence aboard the flagship and she was the Director. While he had been known to flout orders with polite indifference, he was reluctant to do so during wartime. Not only would it undermine the Director’s authority, but he also knew his presence would bolster the fleet’s morale. There was the unpleasant fact that his skills might be needed. As someone who had sunk many ships, he knew just how vulnerable they could be.

  The convoy comprised over three hundred vessels and one hundred thousand troops, not to mention siege equipment, supplies, and other necessities of war. It would never do to lose them. And while there were many skilled Mystics and aeromancers sprinkled through the fleet, there was only one David Menlo.

  For all his formidable reputation, David was not an imposing figure. At first glance, strangers knew that Max McDaniels was somebody—his presence and physicality commanded instant attention. He was like a lion padding into a drawing room. But David required more careful study. At seventeen, he was barely five feet, skinnier than children half his age, and so pale that some assumed he’d wandered off from a hospital bed.

  When strangers noticed his right hand—or, more precisely, its unsettling absence—their uneasiness multiplied. Where the hand should have been was only a stump of puckered skin that he often scratched, as though the wound itched or he needed to confirm his loss. Astaroth had taken it from David years earlier. Caressing David’s hand, the Demon had spoken in a soothing voice before deciding to take it as punishment. With a sudden snap, Astaroth’s smiling jaws had clamped upon his wrist. David recalled an appalling pressure, a searing pain, and then … nothing. His hand had been severed, devoured before he could even register what had happened.

  David still had nightmares about the incident. He had nightmares about many things, but he never shared them with anyone. He was by nature a private person, but the war had intensified the trait to almost comic secrecy. He often kept his whereabouts unknown, communicated in unbreakable ciphers, and was apt to lie—ably and cheerfully—about any number of subjects. These might include social niceties (David didn’t really care about others’ new outfits or haircuts) but often extended to more important topics such as his family history and the true extent of his prodigious abilities. A superlative card player, David Menlo kept his cards hidden and an ace in reserve.

  And while David liked to keep secrets, he loved to uncover them. This was hardly unusual among Mystics; a stubborn curiosity was necessary to studies of the arcane. But David’s interest in secrets went well beyond scholarly diligence. It bordered on obsession. And his current obsession was not Prusias, or even Astaroth. It was Mina.

  No one had spent more time with Mina since her arrival at Rowan. David designed her curriculum, supervised her lessons, and he—along with his mother and grandfather—served as the girl’s de facto family. And yet, despite this intimacy, Mina was a puzzle that David had not been able to solve. She remained an utter mystery.

  During their first meeting, he had hardly noticed her. She was merely one of many orphans living under Max’s protection at a farmhouse in Blys. When David learned Prusias had imprisoned Max, he spirited the entire household to Rowan before the demon’s servants could harm them. At first glance, he observed nothing unusual about her—she was just another frightened child hiding in a musty cellar.

  David had smuggled the orphans to Rowan using one of his many tunnels—wormholes he’d created to connect his bedroom to various locations around the world. As teleportation often triggers a powerful nausea, most of the children became ill when they suddenly vanished from Blys only to reappear on a rumpled sleigh bed thousands of miles away. While David tried to calm the confused and sick, he had noticed that the youngest child—an unassuming dark-eyed wisp—was studying the bed itself.

  Unlike her retching or wailing companions, the girl had not appeared sick or frightened. Instead, she looked interested—intrigued by the bed and the surrounding observatory. Touching her fingertips lightly to the headboard, she gazed up at the dome’s twinkling constellations and gave a tiny, knowing smile.

  She knows how to work the tunnel!

  A second later, David dismissed the notion as absurd. There was no way the girl could have perceived the tunnel’s opening, much less divined its password. But still … David knew that smile. He was often guilty of it himself. And just as he began to revisit the possibility, a very young and delighted whisper sounded in his head.

  “Your magic is beautiful.”

  Two days passed before David had a chance to visit privately with her. His preparations for Walpurgisnacht were reaching their climax and he was intensely busy, but felt compelled to seek the child out. He’d already been expelled from Rowan for insubordination, but he still felt an attachment to the school. His own curiosity aside, Ms. Richter needed to know if there was a Potential—or something much more—among this little band of refugees. The girl was obviously sensitive to magic and skilled at veiling her own, but until that afternoon, David had no conception of her power and strangeness.

  He had taken her for a walk in the Sanctuary along the edge of a wood that bordered a broad stretch of sand dunes. The two conversed telepathically, but David noticed that the girl continued to cloak her aura.

  “What is your name?”

  “Mina.”

  “That’s a name you let others call you. What do you call yourself?”

  The girl merely curled her small hand around his.

  “The patterns of your magic,” she remarked. “They are alive. They are original. You make them by seeing and feeling and knowing. You have much to teach me.”

  David had stopped and gazed down at her, trying to decide if what he felt was elation or fear. No Mystic would have spoken like she had. Their language betrayed more rigid concepts, proven principles and formulae. This girl’s grasp of magic seemed instinctive and artistic—almost like a sorcerer’s. Until that afternoon, David had believed he was the only one. He decided to test her.

  “Can you speak with animals?”

  “If I like.”

  “Do they obey you?”

  “If I wish.”

  “Show me.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Mina had frowned. “You didn’t like it when Max and Connor said the Solas spell on these dunes. It made you angry.”

  David abruptly released her hand. The incident had occurred during his first year at Rowan. Unless Max had told her the story, there was no way she could have known such a thing.

  “Can you read my mind?”

  “Not unless I’m touching you.”

  “Never do that again.”

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist learning what you are.”

  “And have you?”

  She nodded. “Your heritage is very—”


  “Secret!” snapped David. “No one must know.”

  “I’ll tell no one,” she promised. “Did they know what you were in the Sidh?”

  Again, David tried to hide his shock. It was clear that Mina’s glimpse of his line went farther than Elias Bram. The thought of another person—another sorcerer!—being privy to such knowledge made him feel profoundly vulnerable. He had experienced an unsettling impulse to destroy the girl on the spot. Thankfully, the feeling passed and he merely shook his head.

  “I was a stranger there and I met none with your gift. Do you know what Max is?”

  Mina’s eyes shone. “Wild Max is the great Sidh prince. When I needed a champion, he came.”

  Her obvious affection for his friend had touched David. Even so, every statement she made implied something new and unsettling.

  “Mina, did you call him to that farmhouse?”

  The girl gave a shy, almost apologetic nod. “I was too little to defend myself from that monster. I prayed for someone strong but I did not know who might answer.”

  “I see,” said David, masking his astonishment. “Mina, I have one more question and then I must go. It’s unlikely I will return to Rowan or that we will meet again. But if I do return, I would like for you to become my student. Is that something that would interest you?”

  The child had simply beamed.

  Of course, David’s Walpurgisnacht operation had been a brilliant success. He not only returned to Rowan, but he also did so with his long-imprisoned grandfather, the sorcerer Elias Bram. The Archmage was much more experienced and powerful than his grandson, but even he wasn’t certain what to make of Mina.

  That she was of the Old Magic was obvious, but there was an oddness to her that stymied classification. It was simple enough to trace Max’s frightful power—he was a living demigod, the son of Lugh Lamfhada. The Old Magic in David’s family was of a different flavor and vintage, but it, too, branched from the divine. But Mina’s power … where did it come from?

  David recalled Prusias’s horror when she appeared upon the battlefield.

  “What are you?” he had shrieked. “What are you called?”

  But Mina had not answered. Instead, she had raised her tiny hand, shattered his seven crowns, and sent the demon fleeing back across the sea. At the time, David—like everyone else—had been startled by her sudden manifestation and stunned by what followed. With all the activity following the siege, it was some time before he could revisit the incredible sequence at length. Again and again, he returned to Prusias’s questions: What are you? What are you called?

  David believed Mina had allowed the demon a glimpse of her true self. And whatever that glimpse was, it had terrified a thousand-foot, seven-headed serpent. Following this extraordinary display, Rowan’s council declared Mina the first Ascendant since Elias Bram. Each day hundreds of hopeful souls gathered at the base of Túr an Ghrian, hoping to see the wondrous child and her charge, the first true dragon in centuries. Since her arrival, Mina had accumulated many followers and titles, but David still did not know where she came from or what she called herself.

  What was she?

  He’d consulted numerous sources, hoping one might yield some insight. His assistant, a tireless domovoi named Jakob Quills, had packed the most promising tomes for his voyage. They were nearby, stacked between footlockers: Cuvier’s register of mystical prodigies; Lady Blackwell’s Midgard Sparks: Old Magic among Humankind; Francis Bacon’s absurdly inaccurate theorems to approximate a being’s spiritual energy … David’s pale eyes wandered down the titles until it arrived at a cracked leather volume: Children of the Dawn. Feeling lazy, he rocked the hammock back and forth, hoping its sway would bring the book within reach. His fingertips had just brushed the spine when there was a knock upon the cabin door.

  “Come in,” he grunted, stretching in vain.

  As the door opened, a curt “Good afternoon” was cut short by a horrified gasp. Glancing up, David saw a Highlands hare covering his eyes with a clipboard.

  “Hello, Tweedy.”

  “Dear God, boy!” exclaimed the animal. “Where are your clothes?”

  “Oh,” said David, looking down. “I’d forgotten. It’s very meditative to sit in a hammock naked. You should try it sometime.”

  The reply was delivered in a terse, disapproving brogue.

  “I can assure the young gentleman that no member of the Highlands Burrfoots ever spent his afternoons lounging about a hammock contemplating his privates.”

  “I wasn’t contemplating my privates,” snapped David irritably. “I was thinking about something very important.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt,” scoffed Tweedy, cleaning his spectacles. “But perhaps the gentleman will be so good as to abandon his ‘meditations’ and accompany me to the Director’s cabin. And while he would undoubtedly prefer to parade his bare bottom en route, perhaps he will be so good as to dress like a decent, God-fearing sorcerer.”

  The hare waited while David, flushed and indignant, rummaged about for underclothes, a clean robe, and his cane. Their walk to the Director’s cabin was punctuated by the hare’s voluble reflections on the hierarchy of needs, Isaac Newton’s celebrated chastity, and favorite quotations from the McGuffey Reader. Mercifully, these came to a halt when they reached the Director’s door.

  Ms. Richter’s quarters were a series of connected, curving cabins along the stern’s uppermost deck. Several people were sitting in the waiting room: two Mystics, an Agent from an elite cadre called the Bloodstone Circle, and a senior Workshop engineer who had defected to Rowan. Somewhere within, a somewhat exasperated-sounding Ms. Richter could be heard instructing a young assistant.

  “Offer them drinks, Thalia,” she sighed. “You should be able to handle scheduling hiccups on your own. I need to speak with David first. No, no, not one of those—the last was corked. Try one from the second row.…”

  “Mr. Menlo has arrived, Director!” called Tweedy, standing on tiptoe.

  “Send him back.”

  “Shall I accompany him?”

  “Er, no thank you, Tweedy. Perhaps you could help Thalia serve the wine.”

  The hare drooped until an anxious-looking apprentice shuffled into the waiting room, staring fixedly at the bottle and glasses on her tray. As Tweedy leaped into action (“Handsomely, girl!”), David slipped past the apprentice, steadied himself against the ship’s roll, and staggered ahead to the inner office.

  He found Ms. Richter hunched over a bolted-down table that was covered with sheets of Florentine spypaper. Some of the parchments were dull and faded, others positively alive as words and drawings appeared mysteriously upon their surface. The authors were not ghosts, but living people who were transmitting messages from all over the world. At the Director’s urging, David took a seat in one of the bolted chairs.

  “Quite the weather we’re having,” she muttered, skimming one of the sheets.

  David suppressed a sigh at the cliché. “The last sunset was very pretty.”

  Brushing away a silver strand of hair, the Director’s bright, inquisitive eye met his own. “When was the last time you were on deck?”

  “A day,” David confessed somewhat sheepishly. “Maybe two?”

  Securing the papers beneath several books, Ms. Richter stepped to one of the windows and pushed it open. A gust of frigid air came whipping into the cabin. Grimacing, David drew his robes about him as Ms. Richter yanked the window shut.

  “A few more degrees and we’ll be getting snow,” she observed. “Midsummer flurries would be exceedingly strange at Rowan, much less this far south. This can’t be natural.”

  “No,” said David, coming over to inspect traces of frost about the window’s edges. Releasing the latch, he pushed it open and let the cold air swirl about him. Closing his eyes, his mind drifted along with the wind until he could almost hear its vibrations, the subtle song of magic in its current. Gripping his cane, he murmured aloud, casting his voice into the wind as a fisherman might cast
a lure into the waves.

  “This is no mere spell,” he said quietly.

  “If it’s not a spell, then what is it?” asked Ms. Richter.

  David gazed out at the scarlet sky and the cold cobalt sea. “It’s the Earth itself. She’s slipping into winter. Her song is changing … the Book of Thoth is recomposing its score.”

  “Astaroth is doing this?”

  He nodded.

  “Why do you believe he would do such a thing?”

  David pulled the window shut. “Maybe to remind us that he can.”

  “How severe could it get?”

  “No idea. This could just be an early winter or another Ice Age.”

  Sitting at her desk, Ms. Richter rubbed her temples, glanced at a map of Prusias’s capital, and sighed. “One thing at a time, Gabrielle,” she muttered to herself. “Have you heard any news from your grandfather?”

  “No.” David did not enjoy lying to the Director, but prudence required it. The less that was said of Elias Bram’s activities, the better. When it came to hunting Astaroth, David was his grandfather’s only confidant, but even he only knew bits and pieces of the Archmage’s doings.

  Ms. Richter looked skeptical but resigned herself to his silence. “Do you think Mina is capable of counteracting this weather?” she asked.

  “You’re thinking of the crops,” said David, knowing the Director’s pragmatic mind would gravitate toward food shortages and a hundred other problems that would cascade from the unseasonal cold. She nodded.

  “Unless Mina can hold this winter at bay, I’m going to order rationing.”

  “I would. Mina might be capable of controlling the weather for some vicinity but at tremendous cost. We left her behind to defend Rowan in our absence. I doubt she can do both. Order the rationing and see if existing crops can be harvested or replanted in the Sanctuary. It might not be affected.”