The Maelstrom t-4 Read online

  “That is very generous of him,” said Ms. Richter. “What terms would he require?”

  “There are but three,” replied the demon. “Rowan shall swear everlasting fealty to Prusias. Rowan shall rebuild Gràvenmuir. And Rowan shall deliver both Elias Bram and the Hound’s sword to my king’s keeping.”

  “Just the sword?” wondered Ms. Richter. “Not its owner?”

  “The Hound himself is of no consequence,” said the ambassador, coldly eyeing Max. “The Atropos have already cut his thread and entered his name in the Grey Book. He is already dead. King Prusias requires only his blasphemous sword as the final proof of your allegiance.”

  Throughout this chilling interlude, Max betrayed no emotion. He had never heard of any Atropos or an ominous Grey Book, but it was clear that Ms. Richter had. Her self-control was excellent, but Max was sitting right beside her. At mention of the Atropos, her face lost some of its color.

  “What have you to say?” inquired Lord Naberius. “Will Rowan join with Prusias and help him bring peace to the realms?”

  “You have spoken plainly,” replied the Director, “so I will do the same. If Rowan had committed the treasons of which you speak, I might be more amenable to your terms. But these attacks you mention and Gràvenmuir’s destruction were committed without Rowan’s blessing or knowledge.”

  A long silence ensued while the ambassador circled slowly about the palanquin. His glittering amethyst eyes never left Ms. Richter’s. When at last he spoke, his throat flushed an angry crimson.

  “The Hound sits at your right hand and you have the impudence to deny Rowan’s treason!”

  “It is truth,” the Director replied, spreading her hands. “Almost two years ago, Max McDaniels left these shores, sailed to your lands, and lived quietly in the countryside. He might still be doing so had your king not found him and pressed him into service. Did Prusias not proclaim Max the Champion of Blys in his very own arena? If Blys’s own champion has attacked its ruler, it would seem an internal matter for your kingdom. It is hardly Rowan’s treason.”

  “What of David Menlo, then?” demanded the ambassador. “Do you deny that he orchestrated the events on Walpurgisnacht? Do you deny that he poisoned Astaroth?”

  “Another curious charge,” Ms. Richter observed. “David Menlo was expelled from this school for insubordination long before Walpurgisnacht. We reported this to Gràvenmuir and subsequently declared the Little Sorcerer an outlaw. Furthermore, David Menlo did not poison anyone. Astaroth willingly consumed the boy’s potions before his entire court after demonstrating their considerable danger. Tell me, ambassador, if I seize your blade, praise its edge, and cut my throat, should Rowan hold you responsible?”

  “You are cutting it now.”

  Ms. Richter looked up at the swaying head and laughed, brushing away the threat like a cobweb. “Come, sir,” she chided. “You’re taking this too personally! Emissaries must have thicker skins. You have made accusations and I am answering them. Let us turn to the issue of Gràvenmuir and its unexpected destruction by Elias Bram. Does Prusias intend to hold us answerable for the actions of a man we believed had died centuries ago, before Rowan was even founded?”

  The ambassador regained his composure, easing back onto his cushions and regarding Ms. Richter and the Red Branch with brooding malevolence.

  “You maintain Rowan’s innocence and disavow these criminals, and yet here they reside. We know they shelter and sup beneath this very roof. If Rowan were truly innocent in these affairs, Madam Director, you would have delivered these outlaws and outsiders as a token of good faith and allegiance. Why have you not done so?”

  “For the simple reason that the task is well beyond my power.” Ms. Richter shrugged. “Why doesn’t Prusias bring Yuga to heel? I hear she has devoured all of Holbrymn and is now drifting into Raikos.…”

  Max had heard tales of Patient Yuga. She had been a humble imp until her cleverness enabled her to escape her long servitude and become a being so dreadful that even the greatest demons now feared her. Yuga took the form of a massive storm that moved slowly over the lands, mindlessly devouring all in her path. While Prusias had sought to placate her with the vast duchy of Holbrymn, it sounded as though Yuga had already consumed all of her subjects and now desired more.

  “Yuga is not your concern,” hissed Naberius. “And you misunderstand your position. Prusias does not answer to Rowan; it is Rowan that answers to him.”

  “Would King Aamon agree?” inquired Ms. Richter. “Would Rashaverak or Queen Lilith? The other rulers might find it rather presumptuous for Prusias to claim Rowan as his vassal state. Our treaty was with Astaroth, not his servants or their kingdoms.”

  Naberius uncoiled once again. His heavy head reared up to gaze at them. “Prusias is Astaroth’s servant no longer. Astaroth was a fool. He allowed a mortal to deceive and weaken him before his nobles. None will follow him again. It is Prusias whom you should seek to please, Madam Director. Only Prusias is strong enough to impose harmony across the four kingdoms and ensure the peace we all desire.”

  “I hear the other kingdoms intend to resist this ‘imposition of harmony,’ ” remarked Ms. Richter. “Is it true that Dùn and Jakarün have formed an alliance, or am I misinformed?”

  “It makes no difference,” the demon sneered. “Prusias is strongest. The others will surrender or be crushed and their lands awarded to those who aided my king. Rowan could benefit if she is wise enough to reconcile with Blys and swear fealty. Despite your deflections, Madam Director, Prusias will hold Rowan accountable for whatever Prusias chooses. My king is giving you an opportunity to make amends before war is declared. I urge you to seize this chance, for he will suffer no cravens or neutrals once battle is joined. Rowan is either with him or against him.…”

  Ms. Richter nodded. “The choice is plain, but difficult. I must have time to consider Prusias’s offer and see if we can even procure the coin that he requires. Gràvenmuir we can rebuild, a sword we can surrender, but to deliver Elias Bram … I simply do not know.”

  Sinking back to the litter’s cushions, the ambassador slid beneath his samite covers like a glutted snake returning to its burrow.

  “You have my sympathies,” he observed. “You are unlucky in your subjects. If Bram or your Hound had any honor, they would relieve you of this burden and make the necessary sacrifices. Rowan has until the winter solstice to swear fealty and fulfill my lord’s demands. I will await your answer upon my ship. Until then, I leave you to your council and your Hound to the Atropos.…”

  The curtains closed as the malakhim raised the massive palanquin upon their shoulders. In their long black robes, they seemed to glide from Founder’s Hall. Max watched them go, his mind racing with Rowan’s dilemma and this unexpected threat from the mysterious Atropos. It was only when the great doors boomed shut that he remembered William Cooper and the Fool’s Perch. The chair was still empty.

  ~ 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.