“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.
Of the four people gathered around that fire, David Menlo was closest. He sat with his back resting comfortably against an ottoman while little Mina flicked marbles toward him across the floor. David glanced up at the group as they filed in. He was a blond boy of about sixteen, very small for his age, whose youthful face was offset by an expression of frank intelligence that made him seem much older. When his eyes met Max’s, they brightened with pleasure.
While David could convey volumes with a nod, Mina was more demonstrative. Shouting Max’s name, the seven-year-old barreled into him with an energy and exuberance he’d not have imagined possible when he’d stumbled upon her in Blys nearly two years ago. Then she’d been a mere wisp of a girl, an unwashed and half-starved creature gathering firewood for the farmhouse where she lived with fellow orphans and several adults. The adults had not been welcoming and soon sent Max on his way. It was only by chance that he returned and found that Mina had been left as an offering to placate a monster that lived in a nearby well. Max had slain the monster, but it was weeks before the traumatized child would even speak, much less smile. And it was months before Max realized that the quiet girl who shadowed his every step was a Mystic of uncommon ability.
In many ways, Mina owed her life to both of the boys. Max had rescued her from the well; David had rescued her from Prusias, smuggling the entire household to Rowan before the demon could harm them. While Mina’s former housemates now attended school with other refugees, her emerging magical talents required a different sort of education.
Apparently this education had already begun. Squirming out of Max’s arms, Mina showed him not only a missing tooth but also her magechain.
“Look at that,” said Max, cooing over the chain along with the departed incisor that had been set to dangle alongside minor feats in Firecraft, Herb Lore, and Illusion. “You’ll be Archmage in no time!”
“That’s what Uncle ’Lias says,” she crowed, her dark eyes flashing with delight. Spinning about on her stocking feet, she laughed and raced back to her seat, anxious to resume her game of marbles.
Until the mention of his name, the gray-robed figure by the fire had resembled one of his own statues, huge and unmoving. But now Elias Bram leaned forward in his wooden chair. His voice was deep, its accent tinged with a faint Irish lilt. “That won’t do, Mina,” he chided softly. “We have company and you must make your leg for the Director. There’s a good girl.”
As Mina stood and made a proper curtsy, Max regarded Bram. Even when sitting quietly in his chair, Elias Bram exuded a gargantuan presence. Max suspected that Bram could sit unannounced among a host of kings and queens and dominate the gathering without ever saying a word.
He was rangy and rawboned with a high forehead, darkly chiseled features, and a beard to match his mane of snarled gray hair. He was physically imposing and seemed to simmer with a quiet, almost feral intensity. Within his pale gray eyes, one sensed an unyielding sense of purpose and conviction. For Max, the combined effect of the man’s legend and individual presence was more than a little frightening. He had not felt anything like it since Astaroth. People would either devote their lives to such a person or seek to tear him limb from limb.
“The ambassador has gone,” said Ms. Richter, brushing a strand of silver hair from her eyes. “He’s returned to his ship to await our answer.”
“An ultimatum, I gather,” Bram muttered, rising to heat some water and retrieve some chairs from his study. When they had been seated, the Archmage stooped to address Mrs. Menlo, who had been sitting mute by the hearth stroking a calico cat. “Hear me, Emer,” Bram murmured, smoothing her gray-blond hair. “Your pa and little David have to speak of serious matters. Take Mina to the Sanctuary to visit our YaYa. There’s to be a Matching this morning and I know you’ll like to see it. I’ll come find you when we’re finished.”
David’s mother blinked and nodded and reached for a nearby shawl.
“Can Lila come?” she wondered, her voice lacking all inflection. She smiled distantly at her father’s response. “Let’s go, Mina,” she called, as though the girl were far away and not already retrieving their shoes. “Let’s visit YaYa and watch the Matching. It will be fun.”
The pair departed, with Mina clutching Mrs. Menlo’s hand as they tottered out, each wrapped in navy cloaks. Cleaning her paws, Lila gazed out the window and seemed to reconsider the excursion. Nudged by Bram, the cat mewed and darted out the door, vanishing with a churlish swish of her tail.
As the water heated, Bram rummaged through various cupboards and retrieved an array of chipped cups, mismatched saucers, and old spoons. He arranged them on a small folding table that doubled as a chessboard. Something about the scene struck Max as odd, and it took a moment for him to realize what it was.
“You’re not using any magic,” he remarked, louder perhaps than he’d intended. Any Second Year apprentice would have been tempted to heat the kettle with a flick of their fingers. Had a Fifth Year been present, there would have been no searching for saucers and cups; they would have flown from the cupboard and stood at attention. And yet here was history’s greatest sorcerer methodically setting out cups and plates like any ordinary host.
“The fire’s hot,” Bram rumbled. “The kettle’s good. The water will boil soon enough. Do you shave with the Morrígan’s blade?”
Max glanced down at the gae bolga. “Of course not.”
“Wise boy,” said Bram. “Simple jobs don’t require dangerous tools. You and David can finish up while the Director shares her news.”
David measured out the tea leaves before grinding coffee for himself. Strong black coffee was his vice of choice, and god help the librarian who tried to confiscate his beloved thermos when David ventured down into the Archives. One could almost trace his studies by the rings left on faded tomes and forbidden grimoires.
“How was Zenuvia?” he whispered, leaning a shoulder into Max.
“Hot,” Max muttered, reaching for the kettle. “But worth it, I think. I’ll tell you more later.”
Serving the drinks, the two boys sat next to each other on the hearth bench while their elders sat facing one another in the chairs. Despite Bram’s attempts to be cordial, Max could tell that Ms. Richter and Miss Boon were nervous.
“Thank you for the tea,” said Ms. Richter, stirring hers pensively. “And thank you for honoring my request not to interfere with this morning’s audience.…”
Bram nodded and sat quietly as the Director recounted the ambassador’s visit, the looming threat of war among the kingdoms, and Prusias’s ultimatum. When Ms. Richter indicated that Elias Bram was to be handed over as Prusias’s final condition, the man remained stoic. The only reaction he offered was a surprised grunt when he learned that Lord Naberius had been the envoy. When Ms. Richter finished, Bram tapped his knee.
“You have not t
old me all,” he remarked, his soft tone an invitation rather than accusation.
“No,” Ms. Richter confessed, sipping her tea. “I thought it better if we focus on the bigger picture.”
“Better to share everything now,” Bram suggested.
Glancing at Hazel, Ms. Richter detailed Cooper’s unexpected absence from the morning audience.
“And this is out of character?” inquired Bram.
“Very much so,” the Director sighed. “It may be coincidental and it may not. We’ve dispatched another member of the Red Branch to search for him. With any luck, they’ll both be back by nightfall.”
Bram nodded but still looked expectant. “Something else remains. You have saved it for last, Director, because it frightens you.”
Glancing gravely at Max, Ms. Richter cleared her throat. “Prusias has revived the Atropos. They have entered Max’s name into the Grey Book. That is why they are content to seize only his sword; they say he is already dead.…”
Bram’s chair creaked as the big man turned to gaze at Max. “The boy looks alive to me. He is strong and has no family. The Atropos will find him more difficult than most.”
“What are the Atropos?” asked Max, looking to the rest. “I’ve never even heard of them.”
“An ancient assassins’ guild,” answered Ms. Richter. “They take their name from one of the three Moirae—the Greek Fates. Clotho spun the threads of life, and Lachesis measured a length for each man, woman, and child. And when Atropos cut a mortal’s thread, that person’s life was ended.…”
Max laughed. “The Four Kingdoms are riddled with assassins and ‘dark brotherhoods,’ each claiming to be more secretive and deadly than the next. I’ve faced worse, Ms. Richter. Please don’t worry about me.”
“No, Max,” interjected Miss Boon urgently. “She’s absolutely right to be concerned. It’s been centuries since the Atropos were destroyed, and it’s a terrible development if they’ve been revived. At one time, to even mention their name might lead one to the gallows.”
Max’s smile faded. “Why was everyone so afraid of them?”
“They were fanatics,” she explained. “Fanatical in their desire to slay any whose name had been entered in their Grey Book. They believed that once a name had been recorded, that person had reached the end of his or her life. To live even a second longer was an affront to the Fates. Accordingly, the guild sent their target a message informing him that his time had come. If the person surrendered willingly, it was said his death was swift and painless.”
“What if he refused?” asked Max.
Miss Boon’s face darkened. “If the target refused the summons, the Atropos expanded the contract to include all of his blood relatives, born and unborn. In such a case, the contract might remain open for decades—even centuries—until the Atropos were satisfied that their original target had died along with all who shared his blood.”
“There are many horror stories,” Ms. Richter muttered, breaking the ensuing silence. “Fear of the Atropos skyrocketed when they closed several contracts centuries after the original target had been slain. By then, of course, there were hundreds of relatives and descendants who were living in distant lands and under different names. It did not matter. The Atropos did not rest until each had been hunted down. As you can imagine, many with noble blood lived in constant fear that some distant ancestor’s name was in the Grey Book and that it was only a matter of time before the Atropos came for them.”
“Why only those with noble blood?” Max wondered.
“To hire the guild was an exceedingly costly proposition,” explained Miss Boon. “Only the oldest families, greatest orders, and wealthiest merchants had such deep coffers. One did not contact the Atropos for personal revenge; one employed them to eliminate extremely powerful enemies and subvert nations. The Atropos themselves were brutal, but as their reputation grew, they rarely had to lift a finger. The terror they inspired led others to do their work for them. There are many sad accounts in which families turned on their own. Bodies were left at crossroads in the hope that the Atropos would be appeased. The merest suspicion that one’s name had been recorded in the Grey Book could trigger outright panic and murder.”
Max found it all too easy to imagine the nightmares that might unfold. Old Tom began to chime the Westminster Quarters. Outside, Max heard shouts and laughter. Rising, he walked to the nearest window and gazed down at the paths and gardens below. A group of Sixth Years was hurrying down the cobbled way that led to the Smithy. Their bright scarlet robes flapped behind them, a welcome contrast to the gloomy morning. His breath misted the diamond-shaped panes.
“What sort of person would even think to hire such an organization?” he muttered hoarsely.
“Many sorts,” lamented Ms. Richter, rising to refill cups and place more wood on the fire. “Early on, some viewed the Atropos as a useful tool—a check against those whose excesses had brought a just doom upon them. The Atropos were expensive, but they were effective and always honored their contracts. One did not need to worry about blackmail, betrayal, or the other hazards common to such dealings. The guild kept their patron’s identity as great a secret as their own. It was said that the Atropos did not always know who hired them; they required only a name and payment of their princely fees.”
Hanging the kettle back over the fire, Ms. Richter glanced at Max’s gilded scabbard.
“But any weapon so tempting and perilous will have unforeseen consequences,” she reflected. “It was inevitable the Atropos would eventually harm those whom their patron never intended. As noble houses intermarried and family trees intertwined, the dangers posed by the guild increased a hundredfold. Some unwittingly caused the deaths of their distant descendants. There are even tales of poor fools who paid for their own execution!”
“What?” Max exclaimed. “How could something like that happen?”
“Paternity is not always as described,” Bram remarked, his gaze rising to meet Max’s. “Trace the bloodlines of servants and stable boys and you’ll find that many lead to the local manor. And royal courts are justly famous for their intrigues. I could name kings who sired less than half their ‘royal brood.’ The Atropos do not care about surnames or cuckold’s horns; they care only about the blood in one’s veins. And if one has hired them to slay an enemy who turns out to be a distant relation …”
Max returned to sit by his roommate, who was staring somberly at the fire. “So what happened to them?” he asked. “How were the Atropos disbanded?”
“The threat they posed became intolerable,” replied Ms. Richter. “What had once been a useful tool had spiraled out of control. People stopped hiring them, but old contracts could not be canceled, nor could the guild be enticed to stop hunting the kin of those who had fled their death summons. For the Atropos, this aspect was sacred—divine retribution against those who had sought to cheat the Fates.
“Even the most powerful rulers lived in fear,” she continued. “But none dared take action until Charles V. The Holy Roman Emperor had been born in the Burgundian Low Countries, and when the Atropos were suspected of several murders in the region, Charles feared that his own house was next. He reached out to the other great powers—even the Ottomans—and despite their differences, they all agreed that the Atropos must be ended for the common good. These rulers united in a quiet campaign to identify and eliminate the guild. The tables were turned and the Atropos became the hunted. The Red Branch was involved.”
“I’m glad,” said Max.
“So were many others,” said Ms. Richter. “The Atropos were destroyed, but so was the emperor. Despite the Red Branch’s assurances, Charles could not quell his fear that some small faction of the guild had survived and would seek vengeance. Abdicating his titles, he retired to a monastery where he surrounded himself with hundreds of clocks.”
“Why clocks?” Max wondered. “Wouldn’t guards have served better?”
“He thought he was doomed,” muttered Miss Boon sadly. “The
ticking of the clocks reminded him a man’s life was short and ever dwindling. Whether the clocks gave him comfort or simply fed his fears, no one knows. He died within a few years.”
“The Atropos?” Max wondered, a chill creeping up his arms.
“No,” Bram snapped, his eyes flashing. “The man died of fear and gout. Let his folly be a lesson to you, Max McDaniels. The Atropos are formidable, but they are not the Fates, and fear was ever their greatest weapon. You and I will speak more of this, but other matters press. Director, you have told me of Prusias and his ultimatum, but what of Astaroth? Did Naberius mention him?”
“He did,” said Ms. Richter, glancing out the window as rain pattered on the glass. “He said that David had humiliated Astaroth before all and that none would follow him again. It would seem the demons scorn him and will no longer bend to his will.”
“Then they are fools,” said Bram quietly. “And we are fools if we share their beliefs. It is Astaroth who poses the true peril, not Prusias or any other ambitious demon among the kingdoms.”
“Six months have passed,” said Miss Boon quietly, “and we have heard and seen nothing of Astaroth.”
Bram shook his head. “That troubles me far more than grand displays of his power. What are six months to Astaroth, Director? Whether six months or six millennia, it is all the same to him. He is weakened, yes, but he still possesses the Book of Thoth, and while he has it, he still controls the strings. Astaroth may lie hidden and forgotten for a day or a century, but when he chooses to jerk those strings, the world will jump.”
“Why don’t his former servants and fellow demons share your fear?” asked Ms. Boon.
“Because they don’t truly understand him,” replied Bram gravely. “The daemona believe that Astaroth is one of their kind—an ancient spirit, cruel and clever. I suspect they are mistaken.”
The Archmage said nothing for some time. No one dared speak, but Max glanced at David, who hugged his knees and stared at his grandfather. Max guessed the two had already discussed this topic. The rain fell harder now, the drops drumming against the window while the first winds of winter swept past in sudden gales and moaned within the chimney.