The Fiend and the Forge

  “Why don’t you just take a picture?” Max snapped.

  The man blinked, as though Max’s question had jolted him from deep contemplation. Strolling closer, he rested his hands upon his knees and leaned forward until his thin, impassive face hovered only inches away.

  “And why would I do that?” the man whispered. “I can see you whenever I want.”

  Straightening, the man offered a curious smile and then walked briskly away to rejoin his colleagues. Max felt a reflexive surge of anger as he watched them go; he despised the Workshop and its smug representatives. Still, it was a peculiar comment. Max had never seen the man before and was unlikely to do so again. While he puzzled over this, it suddenly dawned on him that these very representatives were from outside. The Workshop was based in Europe. Surely they would know the status of various governments and cities; they would know what was happening in the wide world beyond.

  “Hey!” called Max, running after them. “Hold on.”

  He caught up to them as they were climbing the Manse’s broad steps. Rasmussen tried to hurry the group inside, but they had already stopped and turned in response to Max’s breathless call.

  “How is the rest of the world?” Max asked. “What’s going on in Boston? Or Berlin? Or Paris!”

  He was met with silence. Clearing his throat, Rasmussen glanced at his colleagues. An olive-skinned woman in a pale gray suit shook her head, and Rasmussen’s thin lips tightened.

  “Max, do yourself a favor and forget about Paris,” he said softly. “It’s forgetting about you.…”

  Before Max could ask another question, Rasmussen had turned away and the adults continued inside. Following after, Max watched them cross the foyer and funnel into the hallway leading toward Ms. Richter’s office.

  With a sigh, Max tossed his rag from one hand to the other, nodding hello to an elderly couple as he made his way back to the field of shells. As he approached the nautilus, he saw that a man and woman were sitting near its base.

  “We were wondering if you’d come back,” chuckled the man.

  Nigel Bristow and his wife were sitting with the goslings. While Mrs. Bristow soothed the panic-stricken birds, the sandy-haired recruiter wagged a chiding finger.

  “God help you, Max, if Hannah learns you left her darlings unattended.”

  “Oh!” said Max, reddening. He hurried over to the wicker basket where the couple had arranged the goslings upon a mound of folded laundry. Max made a quick head count and breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, Nigel,” he said. “I was only gone a couple of minutes.”

  “And presumably that was long enough for this irascible fellow to give himself a phosphorescent makeover.” The middle-aged man sighed and scooped Honk up into his hands.

  “No, he did that while I was here,” explained Max. Despite Max’s hasty cleaning, the gosling was still glowing, the oil’s effect even more apparent in the fading daylight.

  Nigel and his wife exchanged bemused glances.

  “The Workshop is on campus!” said Max, changing the subject. “Here visiting Rasmussen. That’s why I left—to see if they had any news of the outside world.”

  “There will be many visitors over the next few days, Max,” said Nigel, frowning. “I assumed you knew this.”

  “Don’t tell me the witches are coming, too,” moaned Max, but Nigel shook his head.

  “No,” he said. “Not the witches. After all that happened last year, the witches are forbidden on these grounds. Are you certain Ms. Richter hasn’t spoken to you? I know she had been intending to.”

  “Nobody tells me anything,” said Max. “According to Bellagrog, things are on a need-to-know basis, and apparently I don’t need to know.”

  Nigel looked thoughtfully at Max. Placing Honk back in the basket, he turned to his wife. “Emily, would you take these little ones back to Hannah’s nest? Max and I need to have a chat.”

  Once Max had promised to put on a sweater and pay a visit to the Bristow’s cottage, Emily kissed her husband, hefted the basket, and strode off with a swish of her skirt.

  All around Max and Nigel, people were beginning to gather up their things—saws, hammers, spades—as the smell of cooking wafted across the grounds. Max and Nigel strolled against the tide of hungry workers, out toward the windy bluff that overlooked the Atlantic. As they approached, Max saw a lone figure kneeling at the base of a marble statue.

  The statue, like countless other decorations and even buildings, was a new addition to Rowan’s campus. With all the activity of the preceding months, Max had not yet stopped to look at it. The statue was of a man, tall and bearded, standing upon a rough pedestal of black granite. Despite the majesty of cold marble and the figure’s scholarly robes, the subject had a feral, unkempt appearance. His hair was tangled, his beard was uncombed, and his strong hands seemed almost to rend his book rather than cradle it. Max thought he looked like Poseidon, as huge and wild as the sea.

  “It’s beautiful, Greta,” said Nigel, stopping to appreciate the looming work. The kneeling woman did not turn, but kept her attention on the pedestal’s bronze plaque. Her navy blue robes told Max that she was a Mystic of middling rank. Her hands betrayed her age, but the bronze plaque revealed nothing. It was blank.

  “Is that you, Nigel?” croaked the Mystic.

  “It is,” he said, “but don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Nonsense,” said the old woman, consulting her notes. “He’s almost finished.…”

  The Mystic spread her fingers and whispered beseeching words of transformation. The bronze began to churn and bubble, and as the sun’s final rays sank into the west, elegant letters were raised in the thick metal. Leaning closer, Max saw a familiar name emerge.

  ELIAS BRAM

  1598–1649

  With a grunt, the Mystic rose slowly to her feet and stood on tiptoe to pat the statue’s foot. Gathering up her things, she nodded a polite hello to Nigel and Max and came to stand by them so she could appraise her gleaming creation in its entirety. She gave a sudden cackle, a gleeful fit of artistic satisfaction.

  “Handsome devil, isn’t he?” she said, winking at them. Bidding the pair good night, the old Mystic hobbled back toward the Manse, taking one of the garden paths and swinging her lantern like a girl.

  Once the woman had gone, Nigel looked at Max with a decidedly boyish, mischievous expression. “Last one up’s a sorry loser!” he exclaimed, and dashed toward the statue in an attempt to heave himself onto the massive base.

  Max did not join Nigel in this game but merely watched. He admired the man’s determination, but it was a mortifying spectacle. There were pitiful leaps, hoarse curses, and several agonizing moments when Nigel’s meager arms failed him at the pivotal instant. Eventually, Nigel simply clung to the granite, occasionally kicking his legs like a dying frog.

  “Would you like a hand?” Max offered.

  “If you insist,” gasped Nigel.

  Knitting his fingers together, Max boosted him up. Seconds later, the two were seated on the far side of the statue, their backs resting against the stone drapery of Bram’s robes. Breathing heavily, Nigel fished for a handkerchief and mopped his brow.

  “Ah.” He exhaled, scanning the tranquil sea. “A bit trickier than I’d imagined, but we’re up and I was first! You may have youth and vigor, Max, but it will never be a match for age and treachery!”

  “Please,” said Max, rolling his eyes. “But, Nigel, should we be sitting on this thing? I mean, Greta just finished it.”

  “What stuff!” scoffed Nigel, refolding his handkerchief. “I’m disappointed in you, Max. Every student should know that statues are meant for sitting. If we’re to endure their terrible old faces leering at us, the least they can do is offer shade or a comfortable perch.”

  Max grinned. “Should we write our names on it?” he asked, twisting to examine the spotless marble.

  “A noble impulse,” said Nigel. “But for the moment, we shall stick to sitting.”

 
Settling in against the cold stone, Max folded his arms for warmth. The moon was rising. It was nearly full, its pale light shining on a lone seagull skimming over the ocean’s swell. As if reading Max’s thoughts, Nigel spoke in his warm English tenor:

  “The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;

  She shines on thieves on the garden wall,

  On streets and fields and harbour quays,

  And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” said Max. “But I can’t remember when.”

  “It’s from a nursery rhyme by Robert Louis Stevenson,” said Nigel. “One of my favorites.”

  “My mother used to read that to me,” said Max. “Or at least I think she did.” He searched memories of his old house in Chicago and those quiet evenings when he was burrowed in his bed. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  “Yes, well, I’ll be reading it to many a young one,” said Nigel.

  “What do you mean?” asked Max. Nigel and Emily Bristow had no children.

  “Career change, Max,” said Nigel. “I’m sorry to say my recruiting days are over. I’m going to be a teacher. Given how things stand, it looks as though the refugees will be permanent residents here, and thus Emily and I have volunteered for one of the kindergarten classes.”

  “But if you’re doing that,” Max wondered aloud, “who will be testing Potentials?”

  Nigel smiled, but there was an unmistakable tinge of sadness in his eyes. “No one, Max,” he replied. “No one will be recruiting or testing Potentials. Those days have passed. We lost the war and must live by Astaroth’s rules.”

  Max sat in confused silence. Of course, he knew they had lost; none knew better. But he hadn’t considered all of the implications. Rowan had spent the past six months furiously rebuilding, and it had been Max’s assumption—his expectation—that they would resume the great struggle against Astaroth when they were able.

  “And what are those rules?” he asked quietly.

  “Oh, I’ve only been told the ones pertinent to me,” said Nigel. “No more recruiting; no leaving Rowan until our borders are finalized and we’re given permission. That’s why it’s important that someone speak to you before …”

  Nigel appeared nervous, tapping his fingers against his knee and glancing at his watch.

  “I can’t imagine what you went through last spring,” he said at last. “A boy your age having to fight alone. It is because of you that Rowan has even had the opportunity to rebuild. We owe you a debt we can never repay.”

  “Nigel,” laughed Max. “Out with it, already! What are you getting at?”

  Swatting irritably at an insect, Nigel took a deep breath. His words were slow and deliberate. “Max, there will be a contingent of demons arriving here tomorrow—”

  “What?” exclaimed Max, sitting up.

  “Let me finish,” Nigel pleaded, his voice calm and taut. “This is precisely why I wanted to speak with you. Max, I love you like a son. But you have a terrible temper, and tomorrow is not the time for it.”

  Max glared at Nigel. Wary of illustrating the man’s point, he slowly willed himself to stillness.

  Nigel nodded appreciatively and continued. “The demons will be arriving tomorrow, led by one of Astaroth’s lieutenants—one called Prusias. They are coming as a token of goodwill—”

  Max could not resist a scornful laugh.

  “As a token of goodwill,” repeated Nigel, ignoring the interruption. “And to formalize the ongoing terms of our arrangement. They have promised to treat us with respect, and we have done likewise. Do you understand me, Max? This is how peace is made.”

  Silence ensued, and the two sat while the waves lapped at the beach below. Max was angry—he found the idea of hosting demons insufferably repugnant—but he was curious, too. It seemed tomorrow would bring answers to many of his questions. He pondered this until Nigel blurted something that Max did not catch.

  “What?” Max asked.

  “Emily and I are going to have a baby,” repeated Nigel. He spoke more slowly this time, but the words still tumbled out. “In March. You’re one of the first to know.”

  “Congratulations,” said Max, unsure what else to say. It was an unexpected shift in their conversation.

  “Yes, well, it changes one’s outlook on life and one’s priorities,” said Nigel. “Like any parent, I want my child to have the best chance she can have—a chance to make her own way and survive in the new way of things.”

  “So you’re having a girl?” asked Max.

  “Well, we don’t know yet, of course,” said Nigel, smiling. “But Emily has her hunches. Can you imagine a baby in our house, Max? It will be such a precious thing! Emily is beside herself, and I … well, I didn’t know if we’d ever be so lucky.”

  Nigel’s appeal resonated more powerfully than anything Ms. Richter could have said. Max’s initial interpretation had been wrong; this was not a cowardly plea for meek compliance but the protective instinct of an expectant father.

  “I’ll behave myself,” said Max solemnly.

  “Thank you,” replied Nigel, allowing himself to exhale. He patted Max’s hand before peering casually over the edge of the pedestal. “You know, I’ve never really been one for heights.…”

  “Nigel, we’re six feet off the ground.”

  “Yes, well, there’s the precipice, too,” he argued, gesturing impatiently at the nearby bluff. “A fellow could trip and roll right off the edge. They’d probably never even find the body.”

  Max thought it would take quite a determined roll to traverse the twenty feet of flat, manicured lawn. Hopping down from the statue, he turned and offered a hand to his friend.

  “Not that you need it,” said Max.

  “Quite right.” Nigel sniffed. “It’s simply a civilized courtesy.”

  “How did you ever pass physical training?” asked Max.

  “Never underestimate the power of a well-chosen bribe.”

  Once Nigel was deposited safely on the ground, the two rounded the statue and gazed upon the Manse once again. All of its windows were alight, a remarkably cheery sight considering the smoldering hulk it had been months before.

  “Ah,” said Nigel. “Supper beckons, and you shall marvel at the bizarre combinations Emily’s eating these days. Pork chops and chocolate; ice cream with mustard. You’d think we’re having a hag.”

  “You go on ahead,” said Max. “I’m going to stay for a bit.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Nigel. “The ‘Bottomless Pit’ passing up a meal!”

  “I’ll come in soon,” said Max. “Just ask my dad to put something aside for me.”

  “Will do,” Nigel promised. “I’m glad we had this talk, Max.”

  Max nodded and waved good night. As Nigel’s footsteps faded, Max realized that the campus was still, and he became intensely conscious of the crashing surf, the creaking trees, and the dry leaves that skittered across the flagstone paths. He glanced at Old Tom, its gables, walls, and tower still cloaked in secrecy. Sighing, Max thrust his hands deep in his pockets and turned to face the statue once again.

  The marble planes of Bram’s face were sharp, the set of his jaw defiant. It occurred to Max that he knew only the broadest strokes of the man’s history: the Last Ascendant who sacrificed himself at the Siege of Solas. Rowan’s teachers spoke of Bram with such reverence that Max thought of him not as a man, but as an idea whose abstract benevolence was akin to St. Nick or the tooth fairy.

  The figure before him did not look benevolent, however. He looked dangerous. Max was aware that his roommate, David Menlo, believed Bram to be the greatest Sorcerer in human history. While Bram’s powers may have been vast, they had not been enough to keep him from Astaroth’s reach. When Solas fell, the Demon had spent his remaining energies consuming him.

  Max felt an unexpected surge of affection for the stern visage. He thumped the pedestal with his fist and glanced up at the towering figure.

  “I’ll bet you
wouldn’t welcome a demon to your door,” he whispered.

  The statue stared stoically ahead, and Max sighed. The marble positively gleamed in the clear evening, and Max rocked back on his heels to stare at the moon. It had risen nearly to its zenith and seemed to hover directly above the campus, shining a spotlight on Rowan and its quaint little doings.

  “The moon has a face, indeed.”

  ~2~

  AN EMPTY BED

  When Max finally returned to the Manse, it was well past midnight. He was not alone as he wound slowly through the orchard; a lymrill accompanied him. While Max mused on demons, his charge bounded ahead, thrusting its broad snout into the dewy underbrush.

  The lymrill’s gait was peculiar on flat ground, akin to a badger’s rolling waddle. Its powerful hindquarters and enormous claws suggested that it made its home in trees or rocky burrows. Although it could not speak like some other charges, the lymrill was an intelligent creature that communicated by means of its mewling calls, bushy tail, and coppery quills. A sharp ridge of these quills lined its back, serving not only as a daunting defense, but also as a telltale indicator of mood. At the moment, they were not smoothed into a lustrous, tranquil coat but had flared in bristling protest. Max saw their points glinting beneath a street-lamp as the animal prowled impatiently.

  “You wanted to come, Nick, so don’t whine,” said Max.

  Nick mewled and began digging his claws into a nearby flower bed.

  “Stop!” hissed Max, shielding himself from a shower of dirt and stems. “Those were just planted!”

  Soil was churned and flowers flew until Max succumbed and fished a metal bar from his pocket.

  “Last one,” he said, offering the small ingot on his palm. The lymrill abruptly ceased his mischief and padded close so that he could retrieve the treat as gently as a spaniel. Nick’s otterlike face relaxed into a more agreeable expression, and his whiskers trembled with pleasure as he settled back on his haunches and swallowed the bar down.