The Red Winter Read online

  “Can that counteract this weather?” she asked, glancing at his cane.

  David turned it over, examining it. The artifact had once belonged to Prusias and bore the demon’s famous love of wealth in its carved handle and bejeweled fittings. But its material value was infinitesimal compared to what was encased within: a page from the very Book of Thoth. Astaroth must have regretted his decision to favor his lieutenant with such gift. Prusias had not only rebelled, but also used the cane’s power in ways contrary to his lord’s wishes. Tapping it gently on the cabin floor, David gave a rueful smile.

  “I’m afraid there’s very little magic left in it. Prusias expended most of its power creating Gràvenmuir and preserving the Workshop’s technologies. There’s barely a flicker remaining.”

  Ms. Richter raised an eyebrow. “If the cane’s magic enables the Workshop’s technologies, would its demise nullify them?”

  There was little doubt Blys’s defenses would include many Workshop creations. One of the Director’s priorities during the voyage was developing strategies to deal with any mechanized horrors they might encounter. Again, David shook his head.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “I discussed that possibility with my grandfather and we arrived at the same conclusion. The cane has the power to create truenames but cannot remove or alter those that exist. Only the Book itself has that power. Besides, its page is nearly spent.”

  “I trust you’ll use its remaining power wisely.”

  “I intend to,” he said simply. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

  “Oh, get comfortable, Menlo—you’re not going anywhere for at least an hour.” Calling Thalia in, the Director asked the apprentice to retrieve the Workshop engineer and reschedule the others. “I want you to sit in on my meeting with Dr. Bechel,” she said to David. “He’s had exposure to some of the technologies that may be used in Blys’s defense.…”

  For the next two hours, David sat quietly in the Director’s cabin while Dr. Bechel detailed Workshop innovations such as frictionless walls and various munitions that made the sack of Blys seem wholly impossible. Even without advanced defenses, the siege of such a location represented an enormous undertaking. Ringed by mountains, the capital presented a single accessible face, rising in steep tiers that were guarded by mammoth walls and battlements. Each tier represented a new challenge, a distinct puzzle that must be solved before one could ascend to Prusias’s palace.

  Throughout these discussions, David’s mind shifted into an abstracted state. He rarely juggled just one thing and was now tossing various problems about, considering them from different angles, weighing risks and rewards, probabilities and payoffs with fluid, almost superhuman ease. His greatest challenge was filtering. Without rigorous housekeeping, his brain could become cluttered, if not buried, by extraneous data. “Paralysis by analysis” some liked to joke, but David knew the dangers were very real. He had met many scholars whose inability to abandon “interesting tidbits” left them parsing minutiae while bigger issues glided past, unexamined.

  Despite his extraordinary faculties and discipline, David Menlo was not a computer. He knew very well the human cost various operations might require. It was one thing to develop strategies and maneuver virtual chess pieces. It was quite another to recognize that the pawns and rooks represented real human beings, husbands and fathers, mothers and wives, sons and daughters. David had little patience with those who failed to grasp this and thus found Dr. Bechel’s complacency irritating. Jotting down several notes, he flicked his gaze from the engineer and turned it upon the windows.

  “David?”

  He blinked to find the Director staring at him expectantly.

  “Have you anything to add?” she asked.

  “Very little,” he replied, finishing his third coffee. “I disagree with some of Dr. Bechel’s assumptions, which I’ve noted for you here. I also believe we’ll need his expertise on hand if we can gain access to the control terminals in Phase Three. That operation’s too complex to rely on relayed instructions in the midst of a battle.”

  The engineer blanched. “B-but that would require me to be physically present,” he stammered. “I would be exposed to—”

  “An eighty percent casualty rate,” said David, coldly repeating the man’s cavalier forecast from earlier. “But those were just your preliminary calculations. Now that you’ll be taking part, I’m confident you’ll identify ways to reduce that number.”

  He smiled pleasantly; Ms. Richter did not. Rising, the Director asked Dr. Bechel to remain for a private conversation while she escorted David out.

  “Why must you terrify him?” she muttered once they were in the hallway.

  “It’s only sensible,” David insisted. “He needs to be there.”

  “We’ll be lucky if he doesn’t jump overboard,” she sighed, patting his arm. “Good night, Menlo.”

  Leaving the Director, David followed the long, low corridor that led down to the galley in hope of scrounging supper. The way was warm and cramped, the air saturated with the smells of wood and pitch and close-packed humanity. Threading through clusters of soldiers, he joined a line of people waiting to be served onion soup from great copper pots. Once his bowl was filled, he took a hunk of brown bread, dropped it in the cradled soup, and retreated from the din.

  On deck the night was almost crystalline, the stars present in dazzling abundance. They glittered in the cold air, obscured occasionally by the pitch of a mast or the billow of a sail. A trio of Mystics were sailing the galleon, one to call the wind, another to adjust its trim, and the last to steer their course. Their destination was growing ever closer. Within the week, the convoy would raise the former Rock of Gibraltar and slip through its strait into Prusias’s kingdom.

  All about the flagship, the fleet sailed in pristine formation. Witch-fires burned at every prow, three hundred bonfires whipping in the icy wind, illuminating figureheads of every description. Every available vessel had been conscripted into Rowan’s armada, from Prusias’s captured galleons to clippers, barques, sleek xebecs, and sturdy cogs. Each was crammed with men and matériel, each intent on taking the war to Prusias. It was an inspiring sight, as was the gathering on deck where many were singing along to a tune a soldier was playing on his fiddle.

  They appeared blissfully alive—souls fresh from one victory and off to win another. While new recruits often shared a naïve, almost pitiable eagerness for combat, these were not new recruits. Every man, woman, and youth aboard had seen their share of battle. Instead, they seemed to be savoring the joy and camaraderie born of the notion that they were on the march; they were on the attack after years of living in stunned and helpless fear. The wintry night seemed no more than a marvelous curiosity, an excuse to pass a flask and welcome its warmth in their bellies.

  Sipping his supper, David took a turn about the deck and let the chill sharpen his mind for the sleepless night ahead. When he headed below, he went straight to his cabin where he paused to trace a design upon the door with his finger. Its symbols gleamed like moonlit silver before fading at the final glyph. The spell worked subtly; anyone who approached the door would recall urgent business elsewhere and leave. The ward was of David’s own invention and he’d often used it when he craved uninterrupted study in the Archives.

  He had not even cracked Children of the Dawn when there was a knock at his door. Had he traced the sigil incorrectly? Swinging out of his hammock, he marched to the door and flung it open.

  Elias Bram stood outside.

  Sweeping past his grandson, Bram entered the cabin and stamped snow from his boots. David quickly shut the door.

  “This is unexpected, Grandfather,” said David. “Did anyone else see you?”

  “Of course not,” grunted the Archmage, tossing his cloak to dry by the little stove. “What have you to eat?”

  David’s beloved hoard of bread, cheese, and milk were gone in minutes. His grandfather seemed almost famished, as if he hadn’t bother
ed to eat or sleep in days. His gray hair was a windswept mane and his cheeks were hollow with hunger, but his dark eyes crackled with intensity. The towering man might have been some half-crazed prophet. Wolfing down the second cheese, Bram took up one of the coffee sacks.

  Anything but that.

  “I’d be happy to make you some,” David lied. Sniffing the sack, his grandfather merely tossed it down and plucked up Francis Bacon’s book on theorems. Skimming the first few pages, the Archmage chuckled. David reddened.

  “I know the theorems are wrong. I was just doing research.”

  “On what?” asked Bram. “And what could this pretender possibly have to teach you?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” David muttered. “You’ll tell me it’s a waste of time and ridicule my methods.”

  Bram tossed the heavy tome aside. “Nonsense. What are you researching?”

  “Mina.”

  “You’re wasting your time.”

  “And there we go …,” David sighed, boiling water to make the tea his grandfather would inevitably request.

  “Would you rather I lie?” inquired the Archmage, picking a stray bit of cheese from his tangled beard. “Candor’s a mark of respect. Coddling is for children.”

  Brushing the comment aside, David spoke in a measured voice. “Why is researching Mina a waste of time?”

  “She has not yet chosen to reveal who or what she is. If I do not know, I doubt you’ll find it in a book—particularly one by Francis Bacon. Incidentally, am I mentioned?”

  “You have your own chapter.”

  “And?”

  “Less than charitable,” said David. “He declares you a public danger.”

  “I did break his instruments,” Bram confessed. “The man was insufferable—holding court with his ‘theories’ and demanding the Solas elders hook me up to his contraptions. He was a charlatan. One can’t measure what’s forever changing. The Hound is proof of that.”

  “What do you mean?” asked David.

  “His abilities defy prediction. They don’t evolve—they erupt. Have you ever cast a spell on him?”

  “Of course not,” said David. “I combined our energies, but I’ve never bewitched him. He’s my friend.”

  “I’ve tried,” said the Archmage, unabashed. “Several times last year. He never noticed, I assure you, but the results were alarming.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” whispered the Archmage. “Granted, they were minor magics, but they had no effect whatsoever.”

  “So what?” said David, irritated by his grandfather’s ongoing suspicion of Max.

  Bram glanced sharply at him. “You’re far too bright for such a stupid remark. Mina adores him, but even she sees the risks.”

  David meditated a sharp retort, but thought better of it. “The same things have been said about you a thousand times over,” he sighed. “They have been said about me. They will be said about Mina.”

  Bram shook his head. “The Hound is different.”

  “His name is Max.”

  “For now. Rulers often take new ones.”

  David met his grandfather’s gaze. “He’s not a king. He’s not an emperor. He’s not a tyrant or a conqueror. He’s an Agent in the Red Branch—one who has risked his life time and again for me and for Rowan. I know him better than you do.”

  Bram’s eyes glittered. “Do you know he nearly summoned Astaroth?”

  David nearly dropped the kettle. “What are you talking about?”

  “During Prusias’s siege,” his grandfather continued. “Right before you possessed the dreadnoughts. Astaroth very nearly materialized.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Because I was following Astaroth. We were both in Nether, both shadow walking. Even at a distance, I could sense his excitement when Max called upon him. The Demon wants your friend, David. He sees vast possibilities there.”

  “As a tool?”

  “A vessel,” Bram corrected. “When you rescued me, Astaroth was diminished. Although he has the Book of Thoth, it cannot mend his being or make him stronger. His origins are in another world, another universe, and thus beyond the Book’s influence. But he can inhabit another’s body—particularly if that person is foolish enough to summon him.”

  “I’ve summoned Astaroth,” said David.

  His grandfather gestured at his stump. “I’m well aware.”

  David poured hot water into a china cup. “It must be nice to have all the answers. Are you here to turn me against my friend or is there another point to this visit?”

  Taking his tea, the Archmage stirred it thoughtfully. “You’re more sentimental than I’d have guessed.”

  David stiffened. “Another shortcoming, I suppose.”

  Bram’s voice softened. “No. You’re loyal. I suppose that comes from having a friend like the Hound—like Max. You’re not as lonely or angry as I was at your age.”

  “Didn’t you have any friends?”

  Bram laughed. “It’s hard to make friends when you won’t talk. I didn’t speak until I was eight. Did you know that?”

  “How would I?” said David wearily. “You never share anything about yourself, Grandfather. I only know what’s written in books or Solas’s histories.”

  Bram grunted. “That’s my fault. I’ve worked hard to hide my past, but I’m learning one can’t escape it. It always finds a way to surface. That past is why I’m here tonight.”

  Reaching into a worn leather satchel, the Archmage retrieved a human skull and laid it on a footlocker.

  “You’ve been in the ossuaries,” observed David.

  “Aye. But not tonight. The witches never robbed this tomb. They didn’t know about him.”

  David studied the skull. It was relatively small and missing several teeth, but otherwise unremarkable. “Let me guess. Yorick?”

  Bram smiled grimly. “A closer guess than you might imagine. This fellow enjoyed his Shakespeare, though he preferred Othello to Hamlet. You are looking at Robert Cecil, first Earl of Salisbury.”

  David recalled his history. “Adviser to Queen Elizabeth and King James.”

  “Yes,” said Bram. “He was also my patron. Would you believe I’m still afraid of him?”

  David had never seen the haunted, hunted look that now skulked in his grandfather’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  The Archmage studied his large, powerful hands. “My parents died in a fire when I was very young. I may have been at fault—I probably was. I had little control over my powers. We lived in Rotterdam and were very poor. When no relatives claimed me, a neighbor sold me to a ship, one of five bound for South America.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Not yet six. The sailors were kind enough. They taught me how to knot and splice and other aspects of the trade. But I was a peculiar boy. I never spoke and rarely smiled. When the other ships became lost and scattered, we tried to make for the Japans. When bad luck continued, the crew took me for a Jonah.”

  “They didn’t hurt you,” said David uneasily.

  “Not directly,” Bram said. “They set me adrift in the East China Sea with a little food and water. My fate would be in God’s hands.”

  David was appalled. “You were a child.”

  The Archmage shrugged. “It was nine days before my raft washed ashore near a fishing village. The people had never seen a European before. They thought I was a spirit—a kodama or kawako—who’d arrived in answer to their prayers.”

  The cabin was growing dark. David refilled his grandfather’s tea and lit another lantern that he hung from a hook in the ceiling. “What prayers were those?” he asked.

  “Deliverance,” answered Bram. “Men from the village had cut trees in a sacred forest. Soon after, a creature took up residence in their temple. The villagers believed the gods had sent it to punish them.”

  “What was it?”

  The Archmage gave a knowing smile. “A ki-rin.”

  David stared
. “YaYa?”

  “She was not yet known by that name,” said Bram. “The people called her Arashi—“storm” in their language—for she’d destroyed half the temple. Assuming I’d been sent to drive it away, the villagers brought me to its steps.”

  “Were you frightened?”

  Bram grunted. “Enchanted. I’d never seen a more magnificent creature. She rippled like black silk, bigger and more elegant than any animal I’d ever seen. It never occurred to me that she might trample or devour me. I walked right toward her.”

  “What did she do?”

  “Made straight for me,” recounted Bram. “It was quite a sight—a ten-foot ki-rin brandishing her horn and shooting steam from her nostrils. The villagers fled. But when she reached me, Arashi sprawled at my feet like a kitten. We had an understanding.”

  David laughed. “The villagers must have thought you were a god.”

  The Archmage raised his eyebrows. “Quite the opposite. One of them ran and informed the local lord, the daimyo, of what had happened. The daimyo feared I was a powerful oni, for what else could have cowed a ki-rin? He sent me on to Osaka where Tokugawa Ieyasu had imprisoned my former shipmates. The future shogun was an interesting man. He would not harm me, but neither would he permit me to remain in Japan. He ordered the Portuguese missionaries to send me home on one of their ships. The missionaries were displeased—they thought my feat was a mark of the Devil—but Tokugawa was too important a man to defy.”

  David mused on this. Tokugawa’s helmet was one of the artifacts Rowan used to honor students who exemplified particular virtues. He’d had no idea the connection had anything to do with his grandfather.

  “Did Arashi go with you?” he asked.

  “No,” said Bram. “She flew off like a thunderbolt shortly after we met. We wouldn’t see each other for years. I was stowed aboard a Portuguese ship and began the long journey back.”

  “Straight on to Lisbon.”

  Bram chuckled. “Alas, no. The Portuguese were at war with the Dutch and English. Our ship was attacked and taken. It was a terrible slaughter—the first real bloodshed I had seen. The privateers had a witch aboard their vessel, a weather worker. She sensed something unusual about me and claimed me as her share of the prize.”