The Maelstrom

  “I been in the Kingdoms,” he said, a grim smile on his face as he leaned on a battered broadsword. “Ain’t no ‘tap-tap-I-scored-a-point’ nonsense there. You’d be in a vye’s belly, sweets. Now get outta my pit.”

  He spat, the gob landing inches from Sarah’s boot.

  Max walked across the pit.

  “Careful, Ajax,” warned one of the boy’s companions. “He’s in the Red Branch.”

  “Red Branch?” the spitter scoffed. “I hear two of them’s gone missing. Nothing so special about them—not even this one. Shoot, I just watched ’im fight. He’s good, but rumor’s always better than the real thing, isn’t it? Umbra’d have his teeth for a necklace. And if he don’t get outta my pit, she will.”

  As Ajax said this, a dark figure stepped to the edge of the pit and looked down at Max. Umbra wore leather armor sewn together from mismatched pieces she’d evidently scavenged or stolen. She clutched an infantry spear whose nicked, oiled blade gleamed razor-sharp in the firelight. Thick, wild tangles of black hair hung about her head, shadowing her features until she brushed it aside to reveal the tanned skin and chiseled features of an Inuit girl. Umbra was no older than Max. Her black eyes stared at him, hard as iron.

  Max met and held her gaze before flicking his attention back to Ajax.

  “No one’s taking my teeth,” he said quietly. “And you’ve got ten seconds to tell me what the problem is before I take yours.”

  Tension saturated the air, that almost tangible, sickly calm that often preceded a fight. Rolf hurried around the pit toward Ajax and the other refugees.

  “Everyone relax,” he pleaded. “This is stupid—we’re all on the same side!”

  “Sure we are,” Ajax jeered. “That’s why you’re wearing new boots but I can almost see my toes. Shut your mouth before you get the beating of your life. Think your little pupils will look up to you then, Blondie?”

  Rolf stopped in midstride and looked imploringly at Max and Sarah.

  “I’m still waiting,” said Max calmly.

  Ajax glared at him. “Two years ago, a brayma took the last of my sisters,” he said. “Thought it was all over, but then someone told me ’bout this place. So I cut loose and clawed my way here—eight thousand miles through two kingdoms. And what’s my welcome? I get to sleep in a tent and gobble down slop while you feast like lords in your marble Manse. Shoot, I can handle that. But what I can’t goddamn stomach is the idea that I gotta step aside for a bunch of bookworm sissies whenever they decide to go slumming. I’ll be dead and buried ’fore I let that happen. We ain’t just dregs and driftwood.”

  Ajax’s expression was defiant. By the time he’d finished, he was breathing hard, exhaling frosty gusts that scattered on the breeze. Max smiled.

  “Sarah … meet your new training partner.”

  “What?” she exclaimed. “I don’t need him!”

  “He is exactly what you need,” Max said, climbing out of the sparring pit. Walking around the pit’s perimeter, he approached the refugees. When Umbra stepped in front of Ajax, Max stopped and held up his hands.

  “What you say is fair,” he acknowledged. “It’s not right that you’re living this way and have to step aside for us whenever we please. Rowan can do better and will. Its students have a lot to learn from you, Ajax. If I can get you better food and equipment, will you and your friends help train our students?”

  The boy blinked. Anger gave way to confused surprise. Ajax glanced at his comrades, who offered noncommittal shrugs.

  “Sure,” he grunted, turning back to Max. “I guess we could do that. Once you make good.”

  “I’ll make good—you have my word. I’m Max McDaniels.”

  Ajax’s dour, battle-scarred face broke out in a rogue’s grin.

  “Hell,” he laughed, “we know who you are. Looks like you’re off the hook, Umbra.”

  With an almost imperceptible nod, Umbra stood aside. The conflict averted, Max called over Sarah, Rolf, and the Second Years while Ajax introduced him to the rest of his motley troop. However, even as Sarah and the others came up behind him, Max sensed that something was amiss with Umbra. The girl had never relaxed her grip on her spear; her dark, inscrutable eyes remained fixed on him with unsettling intensity. She reminded Max of a viper, coiled and lethal. He casually shifted his hand to the pommel of the gae bolga. Behind him, Rolf laughed.

  “Everyone friends now?” he inquired, clasping Max’s shoulder.

  In a blur, Umbra struck.

  Her spear caught Rolf squarely in the throat, its impact so sudden and savage that he barely gasped. Max knew his friend was dead even before he staggered back and collapsed into his students. The Second Years didn’t even seem to realize what had happened until they saw the blood. Then they screamed.

  Max had already drawn his sword. The gae bolga hummed greedily, its blade vibrating like a tuning fork, tasting the air for the first time since Walpurgisnacht. Umbra retreated a step, but her fierce eyes never left Max.

  “He meant you harm.”

  She spoke these words with such calm conviction that Max held his attack. The girl was either utterly insane or … Backing slowly beyond the lethal reach of her spear, he glanced down at Rolf. The boy’s eyes were already blank; his lips were parted on the verge of a scream that had never come. His entire throat was an open wound that gleamed wet and black in the moonlight.

  But it was not this gruesome spectacle that made Max’s blood run cold. It was the cruel-looking knife that Rolf clutched in his right hand. Max had seen its wavy blade many times before. The knife belonged to William Cooper.

  Bedlam followed Rolf’s death, a crush of bodies as refugees rushed forward to see what had happened. Agents arrived within minutes, forcing the crowds back and questioning Max and the rest. Sarah had been inconsolable, weeping over Rolf’s body as one Agent led the Second Years away. She’d screamed at Umbra, vowing revenge, but the refugee girl didn’t appear to have heard her. She simply stood by, leaning on her bloodstained spear and gazing stoically at the boy she had slain.

  Word arrived swiftly from the Manse; Max was to report immediately. He knew Ms. Richter’s concern. The scene at the sparring pit was too frenzied and chaotic; there might be more assassins lurking in the mob. Leaving Sarah in the care of another Agent, Max hurried away through the crowd, pushing and jostling through their ranks until he was free of them.

  Miss Boon was waiting in the Manse’s foyer. She was composed but had clearly been crying. Rolf’s death no doubt hit her hard; he had been an uncommonly talented and industrious student. But it occurred to Max that she had another reason to grieve; the appearance of Cooper’s notorious dagger was a clear sign that the man was either dead or in mortal peril.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “I take it you heard about the knife?”

  Miss Boon nodded before gesturing weakly at his face and clothes. Wiping his cheek, Max felt that it was sticky. Glancing down, he now realized that his shirt was spattered with Rolf’s blood. “Go clean yourself up,” she said heavily. “We’ll be waiting for you in the Archmage’s chambers. Would you like a guard?”

  Max shook his head. “Rolf was my friend and he meant to kill me. Why should I trust a random guard? For all I know, you’re one of the Atropos, Miss Boon.”

  She nodded sadly. “We’ll be waiting for you. David says time is important. Be quick and be vigilant.”

  Heading to the dormitories, Max ducked into the bathroom. It was nearly empty. The only occupants were the dozing domovoi attendant and a First Year who nearly swallowed his toothbrush when he registered Max’s gruesome appearance. Max gnored him, turning on one of the silvery faucets and scrubbing roughly at his hands and face until they were clean. Peeling off his shirt and jacket, he stuffed them into a waste-basket.

  Back in his room, Max dressed quickly. He pulled on a gray doublet of quilted cotton before donning a hauberk of black steel rings. Over this he slipped the simple tunic of
the Red Branch and a leather baldric to which he belted the gae bolga. Max’s enemies might be able to infiltrate Rowan, but they would not find him unarmored or unprepared.

  Ten minutes later he stood before the Archmage’s door. The Director herself answered his knock.

  “There are only friends here,” she said, sensing his wariness.

  “How do I know that?”

  “David has made certain.”

  Looking past her, Max saw his roommate sitting by the fire in Bram’s chair. Their eyes met and David gave a small, reassuring smile. Stepping past Ms. Richter, Max walked inside.

  There were others within, but Max hardly noticed them. His attention was fixed on Rolf’s corpse, which lay upon a long table in the middle of the common room. The boy’s neck had been cleaned and bandaged and someone had had the decency to place coppers on his eyelids. But whether due to rigor mortis or careless oversight, Rolf’s mouth remained open—frozen on the threshold of a scream. It was several seconds before Max realized that the body was lying within a summoning circle.

  In the dark room, the hexagram glowed faintly orange, as though embers simmered beneath the floorboards. Glancing about, Max realized that all of the room’s rugs and clutter had been cleared away to reveal many such circles upon the floor. Some were large with complex symbols and runes about their periphery while others were small and simple. While each was etched with a jeweler’s skill upon the hardwood floor, only Rolf’s was glowing.

  Max looked to the room’s other inhabitants. Bram was absent, but Mina was on the floor near Mrs. Menlo, who was rocking in her favorite chair and stroking Lila. Miss Boon sat on a long bench beneath three frosted windows. At her feet blinked a pair of feral yellow eyes.

  “What is that?” exclaimed Max.

  “Don’t be frightened,” said Miss Boon. “Grendel is Cooper’s charge.”

  The rest of the creature’s body seemed to materialize from thin air. At first glance, Grendel looked like an ash-gray panther. As the creature rose and approached, however, Max saw that his snout and ears were more wolflike, while his coat was dappled with a tiger’s camouflaging bands. With each breath, Grendel’s body faded into his surroundings so that he nearly disappeared. Only the eyes remained, fierce and predatory. Growling deep in his throat, the animal circled Max, gliding once against him before padding back to settle at Miss Boon’s feet.

  “So that’s a Cheshirewulf,” Max muttered. He’d read about them but had never seen one before. The creatures were very rare and dreaded by superstitious farmers and foresters in the north. It was said that they could smell blood from miles away and that no homestead was safe if one wandered into the vicinity. Like many magical creatures, Cheshirewulfs had been hunted to near extinction. Cooper had never mentioned Grendel before, and Max imagined that the creature probably lived deep in the Sanctuary among other wild charges whose stewards had died or no longer looked after them. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He showed up yesterday,” replied Miss Boon, stroking the animal’s scruff. “We rarely see Grendel, but when William went missing … It’s as though he knew.” Her voice broke and she checked herself.

  “We’re hoping Grendel can help,” explained Ms. Richter. “Some doing of the Enemy has rendered scrying ineffective. If we cannot find Agents Cooper and Polk using magical means, we must use more conventional methods. The bond between charge and steward is very strong, and Cheshirewulfs are legendary trackers. Perhaps Grendel can succeed where we have failed.”

  Max nodded before glancing back at Rolf’s body. “Has anyone told his family yet?” he asked quietly. “I think they live near Wyndle Farm.”

  “Nigel’s already on his way,” replied Ms. Richter. “We must work quickly. They will naturally want to see the body and I would not keep it from them. But we must have answers.”

  “What are you planning to do?” asked Max uneasily. “Some sort of autopsy?”

  “That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” David declared, rising from his chair. “Not a physical autopsy but a spiritual one. I doubt Rolf was any kind of traitor; in fact, I doubt he was acting of his own will at all. The Atropos often used possession as a tool for assassinations. I think Rolf was the unfortunate vessel they chose. But we need to be certain, and we need to know if there are others in our midst.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Max wondered.

  “Laqueus Diaboli,” replied David, directing Mina to get up and choose a beaker from among a dozen standing upon the chessboard. “That would serve,” he remarked, glancing at her selection. “But I think the iron and antimony mixture might prove better.” The girl retrieved a different vial filled with metallic powder and brought it to David, but he shook his head. “I trust you to do it.”

  With unblinking concentration, Mina set to pouring the beaker’s fine grains so that they filled up the circle about the hexagram’s perimeter. Once David was satisfied with her progress, he returned his attention to Max.

  “Laqueus Diaboli is a very old trick,” he explained. “A sort of reverse exorcism that most scholars have forgotten. Instead of driving an evil spirit out of Rolf’s body, we’re going to try and snare it back in. When a spirit possesses a human, they’re like a parasite attaching their own life force to their victim’s. It takes time for that connection to fade entirely, and it’s likely that some remnant of that spirit’s essence is still bound to Rolf’s soul.”

  “But hasn’t his soul already gone?” asked Max.

  “I don’t think so,” David replied sadly, regarding the deceased. “A soul—particularly a young one—often stays with its body for some time. Some take hours or even days to realize that their body has died. My hope is that Rolf’s soul or some part of it is still inside. If a spirit did possess him, we might be able to reel it back. That will do, Mina.…”

  Having finished her task, the girl took Mrs. Menlo’s hand and quietly led her into the guest bedroom and closed the door.

  Once David heard its bolt slide into place, he continued. “Even before Astaroth’s edicts, most Mystics considered summoning taboo,” he said. “It’s often associated with necromancy and black magic of the worst sort. I know that none of you have much experience with calling spirits, much less the sort of demon that might come tonight. I need to prepare you for some things.”

  At David’s direction, Max took a seat next to Ms. Richter and Miss Boon. Grendel was breathing heavily, growling low with each exhale.

  “It may be that nothing happens,” David mused, leaning over the circle to sprinkle its interior with a fine talc. “There’s always the slim possibility that Rolf Luger was working with the Atropos of his own volition. There’s also the chance that his soul departed swiftly. In either case, no spirit will answer our summons. But if one does …” Setting down the powder, he placed white candles about the circle’s perimeter. At his command, they kindled into flame—seven golden lights that shone like stars about the circle’s ruddy glow. “The demon will try to conceal its presence,” continued the sorcerer. “Once discovered, it will lie; it will seek to deceive us until we discover its name.

  The summoner normally has this information—it’s the usual way of calling upon a spirit. Since we’re using another means to summon it, we’ll have to extract its name. Until we do, it will seek to mislead and manipulate us. The demon cannot physically leave the circle, but you must ignore whatever it says. Its words will be designed to hurt us, to turn us against one another and play upon whatever fears it can divine. Do not listen or speak to it. Let me do the talking. The demon will give six false names before it reveals the true one.…”

  Placing incense within an ancient-looking thurible, David began slowly walking counterclockwise around the circle. A thin yellow smoke trickled from the censer, filling the air with a sulfurous fug. The boy spoke evenly in Latin, saying each phrase forward and backward until he moved on to the next. Three times he walked around the corpse, never pausing or gazing at the body. David’s attention was rigidl
y fixed on the circle. It was growing brighter.

  When he’d finished, David seated himself by the fireplace and calmly struck a silver church bell. Its pure note reverberated in the room before fading slowly, reluctantly to silence. Max watched the circle intently, but nothing happened. The minutes ticked by. Outside, Max heard Old Tom chime ten o’clock. There were calls and laughter from the paths below and the patter of footsteps as students raced to reach the Manse before curfew. When the final chime sounded, the campus grew quiet once more.

  More minutes ticked by and Max began to grow restless. His gaze wandered about the room, taking in the maps and a small Rembrandt hanging above an armillary sphere. Max knew that Bram and the Dutch artist had been close friends. Astaroth’s very prison had been a Rembrandt. It seemed like ages ago that Max’s own blood had enabled Astaroth to escape its confines.

  He would never forget the Demon’s prim smile, so ancient and knowing. Shifting his position, Max’s eyes wandered along the walls and nooks, skimming the books and rugs that had been moved aside to reveal the summoning circles. His gaze paused at the mirror hanging between Bram’s study and the bedroom. Max’s heart skipped a beat.

  Rolf’s reflection shone in the mirror.

  The dead boy was staring at them from its depths, his face as white as alabaster. Max bolted upright.

  “What is it?” hissed Miss Boon.

  “The mirror!” he gasped. “Rolf—”

  Sitting forward, David gestured furiously for them to be silent. Glancing at Rolf’s corpse, Max saw that it was still lying on the table, its arms neatly folded. Sitting back, Max tried to calm himself. He was sweating now; the room’s silence and the mounting tension were nearly unbearable. Closing his eyes, Max counted to sixty. Opening them, he peered at the mirror. It showed nothing more than the reflections of Ms. Richter, Miss Boon, and himself sitting in a row beneath the moonlit windows.