Max glanced at the letters and notes. They were in a small pile, an array of paper sizes and colors and handwriting. The first was from Hannah.
Max! The minute I heard you were home and hurt, the goslings and I came to see you. They wouldn’t let us in, if you can believe it. Some officious boob suggested we might be assassins. Ha! You poor honey—I hope you’re getting better and that the moomenhovens are taking proper care of you. One of them is transcribing this letter for me, and if she doesn’t write down every single word, I’m going to show her the business end of my beak. Oh, I guess she really is writing everything down. Good. Where was I? Oh! Honk misses you terribly. He’s a sweet little thing, but he really needs a strong male influence in his life or he becomes unmanageable. Unmanageable! There’s a new gander strutting about the pond and I have to get my bosom feathers tufted. Hmm … “bosom” isn’t really spelled like you think it would be. Anyway, here’s a big smooch from the wee ones and me. SMOOCH! —Hannah
Smiling, Max laid the letter aside and opened others from Nigel Bristow, Cynthia Gilley, Mr. Vincenti, and Nolan, and a brusque note from Tweedy that a manuscript on siege warfare was “shamelessly overdue” from the Bacon Library. Max promptly incinerated this reminder and turned to a letter from Sarah Amankwe. Events had transpired so swiftly the night of Rolf’s death that he had never had a chance to check on her. Unfolding the stationery, he gazed at his classmate’s graceful script.
Dear Max,
The rumor is that you’re in the healing wards, but access is restricted and I can’t visit. You and David had already left on some secret mission, but Ms. Richter came and spoke to me the night that Rolf died. She said that he’d been possessed and that Umbra actually saved your life. That’s some comfort, I suppose, but it was still a terrible thing. I miss Rolf very much. His funeral was tasteful—Monsieur Renard and some of the other teachers spoke. They talked about what a fine student he was … capable and considerate … always willing to help. Ajax, Umbra, and the others wanted to attend, but I asked them to stay away. I know it’s not their fault, but I didn’t think Rolf’s family would have wanted them there. I’ve been training with them like you suggested and have to admit that it’s made me better. Umbra’s speed and technique are like nothing I’ve ever seen. She sparred against one of the Vanguard Agents and it wasn’t even close. They have her training some of our own students now. I’m trying hard not to hate her. Come find me when you’re up and about. Some say the Enemy will be coming for us soon. I’m going to be ready.
Love,
Sarah
“Poor thing,” he muttered, folding the letter and placing it atop the others. There was one remaining—a brown envelope containing a folded sheet of faded stationery. The writing was cramped and jittery, and Max had to read each line twice to decipher it.
Dear Max,
They tell me that this letter may not be welcome and that you may likely toss it aside. I will consider myself fortunate if you read through to the end. My name is Byron Morrow and I once taught you humanities here at Rowan Academy. I am retired now and live in a cottage near the Sanctuary dunes—any teacher can tell you where it is should you choose to visit. I would like that.
I am writing because my health is declining and I’m afraid I will not see the spring. At such moments, one wants to reflect upon their life, about the person they ultimately became … the decisions they have made. While I remember my Elaine and my son, Arthur, I fear that my recall is not what it was. The nurses tell me that many people have such holes in their memories. They assure me that it’s a common problem in this new age, but I can’t help but feel a little silly.
You’re probably aware of this, but did you know that you’re a living hero? I have often seen you at a distance and wanted to introduce myself to the great Hound of Rowan, but my caretakers never allowed it. One day I insisted (I can be stubborn) and they informed me that I had once betrayed you. It took some doing to get the whole story, but they claimed that I had given information to the Enemy that put you and many other children at risk. Of course, I told them they were mistaken. But they insist that it is so, and I can’t argue back with any facts or certainty. It has been a difficult thing to bear.
This is not the first time I have tried to write you. I don’t know entirely what to say or how to express myself properly. If what the nurses say is true, then I am so very sorry. I am sorry for everything. I would prefer to tell you in person, but I do not know if I will have that chance. Time and your own feelings may preclude such a meeting. In any case, I’m not certain that I’d deserve it.
I’ve never been the religious sort—never been certain of what to expect once my time comes to an end. But as that day approaches, I find myself rooting selfishly for reincarnation. Life is such a wondrously complex and tricky game. The notion that one might have another go and make amends is wildly tempting for anyone who’s made such mistakes as I have. I don’t know if such a magnificent thing really exists, but if it does, I hope our paths will cross again. I will do better by you.
With respect and admiration,
Byron Morrow
Instructor of Humanities, retired
Max glanced at the letter’s date and found that it had been written some three weeks ago. Calling over the nearest moomenhoven, he pointed to Mr. Morrow’s name.
“Do you know this man?” he asked.
The healer squinted at the letter and nodded.
“Is he still alive?”
All moomenhovens were mutes, but no words were necessary. With a sympathetic smile, she shook her head and reached with a soft hand to take Max’s pulse. He waited patiently until she had finished, clutching the letter as Old Tom chimed three o’clock. Once she had taken his temperature and checked his bandages, the healer set a glass of water by his bedside before returning to her mixtures. Sipping the water, Max read the letter again, refolded it, and gazed distractedly across the room. The afternoon light was streaming through the high windows, forming shapes and rectangles that shimmered on the folds of a faded tapestry. Max watched the rectangles grow dimmer as the afternoon waned. Soon, the moomenhovens padded about the ward, lighting its candles and lanterns.
The letters were stacked on the nightstand and Max was drowsing to the familiar tap, tap, tap when the pattern was broken by the patter of excited footsteps and the soft swish of a robe. Very gently, a hand took hold of Max’s. It was small and hot and wonderfully full of life.
For three straight evenings, Mina visited Max after she’d finished supper. Sitting by his bedside, she tinkered with her magechain and chattered about the doings at Rowan since he’d been away. There was a great deal to share, and Mina endeavored to relay it all in eager, breathless, disjointed accounts that might have lasted all night if the moomenhovens did not see her off once Old Tom struck ten o’clock.
Did Max know that Mina had added eleven masteries to her chain?
Did Max know that Emma Bristow had been scolded for riding Nigel’s piglet, Lucy?
Did Max know that Claudia and the others had painted Bob’s cabin yellow?
Did Max know that Circe had given birth to seven baby lymrills?
This last statement brought Max’s drifting thoughts to a screeching halt.
“What did you say?” he asked, halting Mina in midpirouette. Grinning, she hopped up onto the bed and plucked at a stray thread on her sleeve.
“Circe had babies,” she repeated. “Seven little lymrills all squirmy and warm. They’re smaller than my hand, but their claws are sharp! There are two coppery ones and a goldeny-yellow one, three silvers, and one that’s so black you can hardly see her until she opens her eyes. They’re so precious! Circe won’t hardly let anyone touch them, but she lets me! I remember your stories of Nick, but I never thought I’d get to hold a real lymrill!”
“Maybe one will choose you to be its steward,” Max mused thoughtfully.
“I would like that—a lymrill of my very own. But that is not to be. Did I not tell you that my c
harge is coming, Max? When the gulls cry out and the waters run red, he’ll rise from the sea to find me.”
“And when will that be, Mina?” asked Max, disturbed by her manner.
But the girl would not reply and merely turned her attention to the torque about his neck.
“That’s from a lymrill, isn’t it?” she asked, running her fingers over the coppery metal. “That’s from your Nick. I can tell.”
“It is,” said Max, slipping it off and letting her handle it. “His final gift.”
“It’s unbreakable,” she said, as though divining its properties at a touch. “A Fomorian made this for you. I can hear his song in the metal. What was he like?”
“The Fomorian? Well, he was as big as a house and he had ram’s horns and several eyes and he was very strong and old and … sad. He’s been living a long time, Mina, and I think he’s been very lonely on his isle and in his caves beneath the sea.”
“We could invite him to live here,” she declared. “Then he wouldn’t be alone.”
“You are very thoughtful,” said Max, letting her scoot next to him. “But I don’t think he would come. The Fomorian belongs to another age. He’s like a living fossil and follows older laws and customs than we do. It could be dangerous to have someone like him at Rowan.”
“But he made this for you,” she remarked, turning the gleaming torque over. “And your sword.”
“Reluctantly,” Max replied. “David almost lost his head in the bargain. Speaking of which, how is he?”
“Busy,” she replied a bit sullenly. “He’s working with Agent Varga and studying that crawly pinlegs. They both use canes, you know. I followed after them with a stick of my own to play Three Blind Mice, but David told me it was bad manners and wouldn’t let me past the runeglass.” She sighed. “I’ve had to take my lessons with Ms. Kraken. She’s always cross and she smells like an old lady.”
“She is an old lady,” Max pointed out, “and that’s not very nice. But what about the Archmage? I thought he was giving you lessons.”
“Uncle ’Lias is worse than you and David,” she pouted. “Much worse. Always running off, disappearing in a blink and reappearing in the middle of the night. He makes such a racket when he returns—clomping in his boots, lighting lanterns, and digging through old books. It scares Lila half to death. But by the time she peeks out the door, he’s already gone. She thinks his room is haunted.”
“What’s the Archmage doing?” asked Max.
The girl leaned close. “Hunting for Astaroth,” she whispered with something like real delight. “Always hunting, never sleeping. I should not like to be the Demon. When Uncle ’Lias gets an idea in his head, he doesn’t let go. He’s wild like you and wise like David.”
“Has he had a look at the pinlegs?” Max wondered.
“No,” she replied. “He says it’s our job to save Rowan. He must save everything else.”
“You know, Mina,” sighed Max, “I don’t entirely know what to make of our Archmage.”
Old Tom struck ten o’clock. Placing the torque around Max’s neck, the little girl grinned. “He says the same thing about you.”
With a farewell kiss, Mina scooted off the bed and scampered out of the room, waving farewell to the healers and dashing past the door wardens.
The moomenhovens released Max the following morning. Four of them had gathered around his bed to unwrap his bandages. Curious faces peered, unblinking, at the many wounds, pausing now and again to give shocked and covert glances at one another. One consulted a chart, jotting furious notes while her sister healers poked and prodded and gauged to see if any of their tests caused Max any discomfort. They did not. The tests were nearly complete when one of the kindly creatures gestured at a scar on Max’s face, a thin pale line that ran from cheekbone to chin. It was the only scar that remained, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect specimen of health, strength, and vitality.
“I got that years ago,” Max explained.
What he did not explain was that he’d received the wound from Scathach, the warrior maiden who lived in the Sidh and who had instructed Max in the greatest arts of combat. He had been slacking late one afternoon on the battlements of Lugh’s castle when she had whipped her blade across his face in a sudden, stinging reprimand. The scar had never faded. Whenever Max looked into a mirror, he saw the thin white line and remembered beautiful, deadly Scathach. He wondered if she ever thought of him.
The moomenhovens brought Max his clothes, cleaned and folded. Rips had been sewn, boots cleaned and polished, and even the hauberk’s rings had been repaired so that no tear or rent showed when he held it up to the window. Dressed, Max thanked the healers for their kind care and buckled on the gae bolga when he turned to look at his fellow patients.
There were at least fifty other beds in the main ward, and each was occupied with an Agent or Mystic who had been wounded in the line of duty. To Max’s knowledge, none had been released during his stay. He imagined each must be badly injured.
For the rest of the morning, he walked down the line of beds and visited quietly with those who were awake. He knew relatively few of the patients, but they all knew him. Those who could manage it sat up or shook his hand with whatever vigor they could muster. Max smiled, looked into each face, and tried not to stare at the appalling wounds that each had suffered. It was such a strange realization that they would look to one so young for strength or assurance, but the fact was undeniable.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” croaked one aged Mystic through her bandages. “This whole place was in a panic when they brought you through here. You should have seen yourself, child. So bloody, so broken. And here you are … tall and straight as a sapling. You give me hope, boy. Not for me, but for Rowan. They’ll never break us while we have our Hound. Sol Invictus.”
He had many such conversations. Some wanted only to meet him and hear a bit of encouragement. Others wanted to share their stories. Throughout the morning, Max listened to tales of smuggling weapons, infiltrating witch camps, sabotaging Prusias’s shipyards.… The scope of Rowan’s espionage and intelligence operations was enormous, and Max soon realized that his and David’s efforts were but one slender thread in a complex web of activities. Some initiatives were grand and others were small, but all were engineered to slowly, methodically tip the scales in Rowan’s favor. Whether recruiting well-placed informants, intercepting critical shipments, or sowing false information to mislead the Enemy, Rowan was already fighting a secret war with everything she had.
It was past noon when finally Max left the healing ward. He strode out of one of the Manse’s side doors, inhaling the scent of evergreens and wood smoke as he gazed out over the Old College and the academic quad. It was cold, but the sky was blue with thin, nacreous clouds drifting above. The pathways were shoveled and glistening, the walkways crowded with students hurrying off to lunch or some final class. Max smiled to see garlands of holly strung about the streetlamps.
Purchasing some minced pies from a vendor’s cart, Max walked along the shoveled walkways toward Maggie. Wolfing down the warm pastries, he nodded hello to passersby but was ever mindful of his ring. When would it grow hot, he wondered. When would the Atropos make another attempt?
It was wearing to view everyone with suspicion, to maintain constant vigilance even among one’s friends. Aside from the physical toll, a state of perpetual caution cast a miserable pall on life.
You’re not going to tiptoe about in a state of constant fear, Max. Live or don’t live.
He had resolved to live when the sight of an approaching figure made him question his decision. Julie Teller was coming up the path. She had not yet seen Max but was listening attentively to her companion, a slight man of about twenty with curling blond hair, a fringe of beard, and ink-stained fingers. Max thought about veering off onto a side path or even turning around when Julie’s brown eyes flicked up and met his own. Max felt his cheeks flush scarlet.
“Hi, Julie.”
 
; She stopped dead in her tracks, gaping at him as though he were a ghost. Brushing a strand of auburn hair from her eyes, she walked calmly forward.
“Why, it’s you,” she observed wryly, clutching her companion’s arm. “Celia said you were here—at Rowan, I mean. But then one hears so many rumors about Max McDaniels. I never know when you’re here or away keeping us safe or ‘finding yourself’ or whatever it is you do.”
The barb found its intended target and burrowed deep. Julie’s tone was cool and reserved, but her eyes had grown very bright. Her bottom lip was trembling, but every other aspect was poised for confrontation.
Max cleared his throat. “It’s nice to see you,” he said. “I’ll be going.”
“Of course you will,” she said tightly. “That’s what you do.”
Max stopped in midstride. Julie gazed back at him, angry and defiant, her eyes now brimming over with tears. The young man leaned close and whispered to her.
“C’mon, Julie,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
“This is Thomas Polk,” she announced, her eyes never leaving Max’s. “We’ve been dating for over a year and we’re engaged to be married.”
A pause. Max only hoped his shock wasn’t painfully apparent. “Congratulations,” he said. “Your parents must be very happy.”
“Not really,” said Julie casually. “They think nineteen’s too young for marriage. But they’ll get over it. Ultimately I think they’re just thrilled that I’m not dating you.”
“Julie,” said Thomas, tugging at her arm. “You’re getting upset. We should go.”
“I’m not upset!” she declared hotly, pulling away. “I’m running into an old friend and filling him in on all my exciting news. What’s your exciting news, Max? Been off killing things for the Red Branch? Maybe Thomas can run a piece on your adventures. His family owns the Tattler. They’re always looking for good stories.”
“Maybe some other time.”