The Red Winter Read online

  “A prize,” repeated David, saddened by the very notion. “You were handed about like a parcel of goods.”

  “Aye,” said Bram. “But my whole life had been one long drift upon strange currents—it was what I knew. As it happened, the witch worked for the East India Company. She brought me back to London, where she lived with her husband.”

  “Were you treated well?”

  “Wonderfully. They’d lost their only child to illness and had a mind to raise me as their own. Her husband was a playwright—not very successful, but happy in his work. Some of my fondest memories occurred in that little house. It was where I first found the courage to speak.”

  “What did you say?”

  Bram’s eyes twinkled. “The meter is wrong. The playwright was reading a new verse aloud and I saw fit to chime in. You see? I’ve always been a critic.”

  David stifled a laugh. “Did he appreciate it as much as I do?”

  “More. He gave me an apple and promised a surprise later in the week.”

  “What was it?”

  “A trip to the theater. Shakespeare’s latest play was being performed at King James’s court in Whitehall. The playwright’s wife secured an invitation through her connections at the Company. We were to spend the night in style—a celebration of our first year as a family.” Finishing his tea, the Archmage placed the cup back on its saucer. “But the evening took a turn.”

  “What happened?”

  Bram gave a pained smile. “Robert Cecil happened. He was considered the cleverest man in the kingdom. It was said Lord Cecil knew everything that happened in London—a human spider whose webs hummed with secrets. He was also a man of diverse interests, and when he appeared onstage in the role of Iago, the entire court applauded. At the time I was puzzled—the actor was just a small, rather humpbacked man. But later I understood. People were afraid of him.”

  Rising, Bram peered out a window at the dark sea and dull red skies.

  “There was a reception after,” he continued. “As you can imagine, I kept to its fringe. My guardians were nobodies, our presence suffered only as a concession to the Company. I didn’t mind. The spectacle of Whitehall, of lords and ladies and actors, was quite enough for me. I had no idea what the looks and sniggers meant. But they all stopped when he approached.”

  Turning from the window, the Archmage stared at the skull upon the chest.

  “I remember as though it were yesterday: the crowd parting, Lord Cecil beaming as he made his way toward us. ‘Who is this boy?’ he cried. ‘Who is this wonderful boy who appreciates the theater?’ I hardly mustered the courage to whisper my name. Lord Cecil was enchanted by my shyness and invited me to spend the winter at his estate in Hertfordshire. There were actors and artists in residence—I could learn the trade from the very best while escaping the dirt and dreariness of London. Wouldn’t my parents like that?”

  Bram shook his head as he repeated the phrase. “He might as well have drawn a blade. My guardians stammered regrets and apologies, but their excuses were batted aside with laughs and smiles. I was being abducted in plain view.”

  “That’s awful,” David murmured. “Couldn’t you say or do anything?”

  Bram shrugged. “I was numb. And as you said yourself, I’d been handed about like a parcel of goods my entire life. This was just another ship, another raft, another current. I left that night.”

  “And your guardians … they just let you go?”

  The Archmage picked up the skull, turning it over in his hands as though it were a peddler’s curio. “They couldn’t have done anything. Robert Cecil was fast becoming the most powerful man in England. He was going to get his way. For their trouble, my guardians could have gold or the gallows. They chose gold. I don’t blame them.”

  “So he took you to the country,” David said, a thousand horrific scenarios unfolding in his imagination.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Bram said. “He never laid a hand on me. No, he was interested in becoming my teacher in the mystic arts. He had a far keener perception of magical energy than Robert Cecil’s cousin.”

  David blinked. “Who was Robert Cecil’s cousin?”

  Setting down the skull, the Archmage picked up the very book he’d been ridiculing earlier. “A fellow named Sir Francis Bacon.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Small world.”

  David was far less amazed by this coincidence than the series of revelations concerning his grandfather’s childhood. His mind was processing rapidly, as it always did. If the witches scoured the world to gather the remains of those who used magic, why weren’t Robert Cecil’s remains in their ossuaries? It was unlikely that they’d have overlooked such a high-profile person. The other possibility was that Robert Cecil had no magical gifts—none of the spark that made human beings witches, Mystics, or mehrùn, as the demons called them.

  “How could Robert Cecil be your teacher if he wasn’t magical?” David asked.

  Bram inclined his head at David’s deductive powers. “I do enjoy watching your mind work. As you surmised, Robert Cecil was not, in fact, my first teacher. That title belongs to Astaroth.”

  David’s mouth went dry. “Astaroth was your first teacher?”

  “He was. I didn’t know that at the time, of course. I had no idea Lord Cecil was possessed, much less possessed by a being so powerful and insidious.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “The following year,” said Bram. “I must confess my time at Theobalds House was not unpleasant. The house was a palace, its gardens and grounds fit for the royal family. I was given access to books, to tutors. Busy as he was, my patron found time to personally instruct me in Mystics. I never had a finer teacher. Not even at Solas.”

  “You never suspected anything was amiss?”

  “Don’t mistake me,” said Bram. “It was a very strange household. Visitors came at all hours—troupes of actors and mummers, dignitaries and scholars. Not all came by the front door. More than once I saw shadows or heard whispers whose origins eluded me. I was not allowed outside on certain evenings and parts of the estate were absolutely forbidden. Everything had a reasonable explanation, of course, and I didn’t ask too many questions. As a boy who had lost many homes, I had no wish to lose another. Particularly one where I lived so well and had a teacher who assured me that I was special and had vast potential. I was complicit in my own deception. Not for the last time, alas.”

  The ship’s bell rang out and boots padded by the cabin door as the crew and officers of the first watch went to their stations. The seas were growing rougher. The witch-fires of vessels in their wake were bobbing with the flagship’s pitch. Beneath the hanging lantern, the Archmage resembled one of his own statues, a brooding collection of planes and shadow.

  “But I could not always deceive myself,” Bram muttered. “Late one night, a feeling of dread overcame me. I awoke, gasping and gazing about the dark room to find Lord Cecil present. He was in the corner, sitting in a chair and staring at me with an expression that chilled me to the marrow. I addressed him, but he did not answer. Whatever was looking at me was not Robert Cecil. I was too frightened to call out for the servants, so there I sat, huddled and mute, wishing I was dreaming and realizing that I wasn’t. At dawn, his lordship suddenly blinked and left the room.”

  “He wasn’t merely sleepwalking?” David asked.

  “Oh no. Robert Cecil wasn’t present until that moment. Something else had been watching me, something utterly alien. I believe that was my first real glimpse of Astaroth—of what he truly is beneath his layers of grinning flesh and pleasantries. I knew then I could not stay.”

  “Did you leave right away?”

  “Shortly thereafter,” said Bram. “The Gunpowder Plot had just taken place. Catholic conspirators had nearly blown up King James and parliament. The country was in an uproar and Lord Salisbury—for Robert Cecil had been given yet another title—was busy advising the frightened king and consolidating his pow
er. Some whispered that Lord Salisbury had orchestrated the plot himself for just that purpose. In any case, King James became a frequent guest at Theobalds. He was there the night of the storm.”

  The Archmage began pacing.

  “I was abed when it began. Such a storm! I’d never experienced anything like it in England. The entire palace shook from its fury. The windows in my room were rattling in their panes. When one shattered, I ran out to find a servant. But the house seemed deserted. I wandered about, at last coming to the wing where King James was staying. His guards were asleep in the hallway. The king’s door was open. A light was flickering and dancing within. I couldn’t help myself. I stepped past the sleeping guards and peered inside.”

  “What did you see?”

  “King James,” said Bram. “Unconscious, wreathed in witch-fire, and hovering high in the air. Lord Salisbury was beneath him, his arms outstretched as he chanted in a tongue unknown to me. My patron was not alone—his mummers lined the walls. I’d not been watching a minute when one of them turned and saw someone spying through the door. Even as it came toward me, someone seized my arm.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the servants. A maid named Francis Cobb. She was a plain woman; one hardly noticed when she was about. I noticed her then, however, for she tossed me right over her shoulder and fled straight out of the palace. When we reached the high gates, she sprang over them like a deer and ran all the way to London.”

  “That was quite a maid.”

  The Archmage winked. “A Red Branch maid. We were soaked when we reached a house in the Strand. Miss Cobb wasted no time. She was taking me away, taking me to a place where I would be safe from people like Lord Salisbury. A place where there were others like me. We left before dawn and slipped down the Thames in a little boat bound for Ireland.”

  “She took you to Solas,” breathed David.

  Bram’s eyes shone. “I wish you could have seen it. There was nothing to rival Solas when its veil was lifted and one beheld its cliffs and spires. When we finally reached the great gates, I found something waiting for me there, running wild on the gusts and green turf. A ki-rin I had known.”

  David gazed at his grandfather, almost embarrassed by his wariness. “Why are you telling me all this now? You’ve never mentioned any of this before.”

  Sitting, the Archmage took David’s hand and held it between his own. He practically simmered with intensity. “The past is the key to our salvation. It is the key to defeating Astaroth, for understanding what he is and what he intends to do. To unearth his past, I must unearth my own, painful as that might be. I am not invincible, David. Should I fall, you may have to continue in my footsteps. You cannot do so if I keep secrets from you.”

  David looked into that hard, forbidding face. “How can I help?”

  The Archmage nodded toward the skull. “By questioning Robert Cecil. It cannot be me. Our history might interfere.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Why he originally summoned Astaroth. When Astaroth took possession of him. When Astaroth left. No detail is unimportant. You’ll have to call upon his shade—I doubt there’s a soul to summon.”

  David nodded. He had assumed as much. If Lord Salisbury had struck a bargain with Astaroth, the price had almost certainly been his soul. Those who died without their souls could still be recalled from their remains, but what answered was merely an echo, a wisp of spiritual static sponged from their bones. Shades could only share what they had known in life—and only if they were willing since the summoner had limited means to induce their cooperation.

  While David did not normally use magic for mundane tasks, he did so now. With a wave of his hand, he pushed books and furniture aside to clear a space upon the floor while Bram sat down on a locker in the corner.

  Pacing slowly about the room, David traced a circle in the air. A golden circle some five feet in diameter appeared on the cabin floor. Closing his eyes, he began to hum, his finger now drawing symbols of power: the rune of air, the sign of seekers, the mark of balance, the gray crossroads. They appeared at various locations within the circle, glowing glyphs that gave the room a greenish cast. Only one requirement remained.

  Taking the skull, David placed it in the circle’s center. There it sat, almost daring him to ask a question. Bram sat motionless in the shadows while David paced about the circle’s perimeter, gazing at the skull and speaking in a quiet voice.

  “I call upon the shade of Robert Cecil, Earl of Salisbury, adviser to Tudors and Stuarts, and dead these many years. I require service for your sins. Answer and find forgiveness. Answer and find peace.”

  The voice that answered was so faint and wavering, it might have been a breath of air. David nearly cursed the revelers on deck—their fiddling and laughter made it impossible to hear. From the corner, his grandfather made a subtle gesture with his hand. Instantly, the room was silent as a vault.

  “Who calls me?” sighed the faint voice.

  “My name is David Menlo. Four hundred years have passed since you perished from the earth. I need your help.”

  “Why should I help you?”

  “To atone for your sins,” replied David. “I know what you did, Robert Cecil. I know who you summoned.”

  “You know nothing.”

  David had little patience for these games. He paced about the circle, gazing imperiously at the skull and the faint halo of dust blowing and swirling about its crown. “I know you are Robert Cecil. I know that you summoned a spirit named Astaroth using an inscription you undoubtedly found in the Book of Abramelin. I know that you entered into a bargain with him, that he possessed you, made your house a nest of evil, and bewitched King James. You betrayed humanity, Lord Salisbury—now is your chance to aid it.”

  A long pause followed. There was a flicker within the circle, a subtle rippling in the air as a dim shape crouched over the skull. “I did it for my country. I knew not how things might go astray. The Demon tricked me!”

  “You are not alone,” said David in a more sympathetic tone. “He has deceived many before and since. Tell me what you did, Lord Salisbury. Tell me everything. Together, perhaps we can mend it. When did you summon Astaroth?”

  “The year of the Armada,” whispered the voice. “The greatest fleet in history was going to invade. But its ships were turned away. I saved England.”

  “I’d always heard it was Drake,” remarked David.

  Within the circle, there was almost a hiss. “Drake was a common pirate. The Armada was destroyed by storms. Storms that I summoned.”

  “Storms that Astaroth summoned,” said David pointedly.

  “They were my doing. I paid for them, body and soul.”

  “As you wish,” said David indifferently. “Who taught you how to summon Astaroth? Unless I am mistaken, you are no Mystic.”

  “My cousin studied such matters,” the shade whispered. “He used to talk of arcane rites and forbidden books—a German manuscript containing Egyptian secrets. There were spirits one could call, he insisted. Spirits that would do whatever you wished if you followed the rites and paid their price. When the Armada set sail, he told me what to do.”

  As the interview progressed, David imagined his grandfather must be disappointed. The nobleman’s deal with Astaroth was rather standard. In exchange for destroying the Spanish Armada, Astaroth required his immortal soul. This provided little insight. Even more grating was the fact that Salisbury had no memory of the periods when Astaroth possessed him. He did not even recall acting in Othello, much less bewitching King James.

  Still, David coaxed the shade’s meager information with skill and patience. It was tedious work. Even as a shade, Cecil’s vanity found ways to surface and it often tried to steer the conversation toward burnishing his legacy. David didn’t have the heart to tell him that few living humans even remembered England, much less its long-dead ministers.

  Plunging ahead, David nudged the interview toward its conclusion. “When was your last
interaction with Astaroth?”

  “Soon after the Gunpowder Plot,” answered the shade. “His imp told me my services would no longer be required. We would meet again at my death.”

  David raised an eyebrow. “Mr. Sikes told you this? Not Astaroth himself?”

  “Not Sikes—the other one. That’s when I knew I was out of favor.”

  David stopped midstride. Bram leaned forward, an eager gleam in his dark eyes.

  “What other one?” David pressed. “Another imp?”

  The shade gave a fluid, languorous turn about the skull. “Yaro,” it answered. “ ‘Rhymes with sorrow.’ That was his little joke. I preferred dealing with Sikes.”

  A flash of lightning interrupted David’s next question. Glancing out the cabin windows, he saw a second bolt lance down from the sky to strike the seas beside a trailing galleon. An instant later, the massive ship began to roll, twisting up and out of the water as though it were a breaching whale. Bram shot to his feet.

  David was so stunned he could merely state the obvious.

  “We’re under attack.”

  BOOM!

  The flagship ground to a shuddering halt, its timbers groaning as the ship pitched forward. David slammed into the bulkhead, striking his head as the cabin windows shattered.

  The small talk surrounding Prusias became even smaller. As the minutes ticked past, polite inquiries about a neighbor’s lands and subjects dwindled to awkward observations about the weather, the condition of the roads, and the pitiable drabness of the Workshop humans.

  The King of Blys glared at the fool next to him, a lord from Vrusk whose lands contained mountains of iron ore. It was the only reason the fop was suffered to live, much less attend the viewing. Glancing about the impromptu command center, Prusias wondered if this gathering had been wise.