“She has seven fingers on each hand!” he hissed, elbowing Nigel. “That’s unfair!”
Nigel shushed him as Prusias resumed.
“Your man has done you proud,” the demon observed. “We honor him for sharing his gift and sparing Rowan an unseemly showing. Now we shall see if Lady Akiko and her belyaël can match such a spirited performance.”
The hall grew silent once more as Lady Akiko closed her eyes and placed her hands in precise arrangement upon the instrument. Giving the belyaël a soft, collaborative tap, the demonness began to play.
The resulting music was not merely beautiful, but strangely hypnotic. Lady Akiko’s fingers were almost a blur along the belyaël strings. As she played, each hand’s dual thumbs deftly flicked beads up or down the many strings, altering their tension and imbuing the instrument with a range far beyond anything Max had ever heard. The piece was intensely moving, a rapid patter of notes interrupted by brusque chords and a simmering dissonance. Max’s hopes sank—the kitsune’s hands were blessed with seven fingers and each danced with superhuman dexterity. Nolan was a skillful amateur, but the demonness seemed born to this single purpose.
Lady Akiko had undoubtedly earned the victory, but Max still complained when Prusias announced his verdict.
“Of course he picked his team to win,” he griped to Nigel. “And how can you judge something like that? It’s totally subjective!”
The same could not be said for the rest of the médim. While there were other contests subject to Prusias’s judgment, the majority were coldly objective affairs that left no doubt as to the demons’ superiority. Natasha Kiraly—a swift runner and member of the Red Branch—was beaten badly in a race around the hall. Archery was utter humiliation as a demon lord named Vyndra shot three bull’s-eyes before Rowan’s Agent had even nocked his arrow.
Max practically writhed with frustration. Already there had been several matches he believed he could have won or made a better showing in than the competitors Ms. Richter chose. The médim was proving that the demons were not only stronger and faster, but also more skilled and cultured. Music, archery, fencing, poetry … the demons dominated them all, and their growing exultation was unbearable. As the losses accumulated, Max became mutinously silent.
“Hang in there,” Nigel whispered.
“By tradition, unarmed combat is the médim’s final contest,” said Prusias. “It is the oldest of all the contests and the primary sport of amann, the arts of blood. Who shall be Rowan’s champion?”
Even as Prusias said this, the demon turned and fixed his eyes upon Max.
“Ignore him,” said Nigel. “Cooper will handle this.”
Indeed William Cooper had already risen and was making his way toward the ring, removing his black cap to reveal the white scalp and its patchwork of pale yellow hair. Prusias cocked his head at the Agent’s approach.
“Madam Richter, is this truly Rowan’s champion?” inquired the demon. “I’d heard so many tales of Rowan’s little Hound, and yet he has skulked behind his elders throughout this entire médim.…”
Max almost leaped to his feet, but Nigel gripped his arm and pleaded with him to sit.
“Don’t take such obvious bait,” he warned. “Remember your promise.”
Max nodded, but his fingers twitched and trembled.
With a sigh, Prusias turned to address Lord Vyndra. “I had thought to put you forward once again, but I question whether the man is worthy. I leave the decision to you.”
The great rakshasa had been sitting stoically amid his lieutenants. He was a proud, fearsome-looking demon, resplendent in burnished mail that shone like coppery scales. Three eyes were set within his horned, tigerlike head, and each was gleaming as though a furnace blazed behind them. Rising, he came forward to tower over Cooper.
For several moments, the demon looked Cooper up and down. But then he stooped to look the Agent directly in the eye. Cooper bore this strange inspection for a full minute before Vyndra shook his head in disapproval.
“He is afraid,” declared the demon. “I will not meet him as an equal. Grahn can humble this pretender.”
Max seethed at the sight of Vyndra turning his back on the leader of the Red Branch. Between warriors there was no greater sign of disrespect. It was a grave insult, but Cooper merely stood quietly, his hands clasped before him.
Returning to his seat, the rakshasa gestured lazily at one of his lieutenants, a potbellied demon with tusks and four hairy arms that looked capable of ripping a man in two. Max gaped at the new challenger.
“Dear lord,” muttered Nigel as the creature practically leaped into the ring, howling with such fury that the hairs on Max’s neck stood on end. Cooper went about preparing himself, pulling off his shirt of nanomail, revealing a wiry, pale torso that was crisscrossed with scars. Grahn howled again as vyes removed his thick iron breastplate. Four muscled arms, each thicker than an ogre’s, began to shake and snatch at the air as though grasping and throttling an imaginary adversary.
“Nigel,” Max breathed. “I should be the one in there. Cooper shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Cooper can look after himself,” croaked Nigel, looking faint. “Do not interfere.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” snapped Nigel. “Now sit still and tell me what’s happening. I don’t think I can watch.…”
“The rules are simple,” said Prusias. “No weapons, no magic, no murder. Combat ceases upon the loser’s submission. When the bell sounds, let the amann begin.”
Many of the demons were now puffing eagerly from hookahs as Prusias took his seat. The air was thick with a smoky haze and the amber light from the braziers. Grahn howled again and paced a mere arm’s length from Cooper, whose hands were clasped while he stared at the rug at his feet. The man’s posture suggested a prisoner resigned to execution rather than a willing combatant.
The demon settled into a bristling crouch as though every muscle and nerve were coiling for a sudden, devastating assault. The hall became still and unbearably tense.
When the bell sounded, Grahn leaped.
Max had never seen Cooper move so fast. With a blurred sidestep, the Agent evaded the demon’s grasp and delivered an exquisitely timed blow to his temple. The resulting crack made the audience jump. Even Max had to swallow his cheer when he saw the result.
Grahn lay in an unmoving heap on the ground.
Had Cooper killed him?
For a moment, even the Agent seemed uncertain. Rounding on his heel, he shook the impact from his fingers and stared at his prostrate opponent. Grahn was splayed in an awkward heap, oblivious to his comrades, who were bellowing at him to get up. Vyndra watched the scene with cold disgust, but Prusias seemed genuinely amused.
“Do you submit, Grahn?” called Prusias in a mocking tone.
One of the demon’s arms twitched. Then another.
Max’s attention shifted to Cooper. While the Agent watched to see if Grahn would rise, he tentatively shook and flexed his fingers. Max groaned—he was sure the hand must be broken.
“What’s happening?” asked Nigel, his hands clapped over his eyes.
“Cooper knocked him flat,” replied Max. “But now he’s hanging back and letting the demon recover. Why doesn’t he just finish him?”
But the Agent did not press his advantage. To Rowan’s collective dismay, Grahn regained his senses and clambered to his feet. The left side of the demon’s face was swollen, his piggish eye sealed shut with caking blood. He tottered drunkenly, staring at Cooper all the while. Finally, Vyndra roared at the demon in their own language and Grahn gathered himself and went on the attack.
Once again, Cooper hit him with a blow that might have killed a lesser opponent. This time, however, Grahn managed to keep his feet and stagger through the punch to bear down upon Cooper.
Max heard Miss Boon’s shriek as the Agent was wrenched violently off the floor. Four arms encircled him, hugging him against Grahn’s chest as the demon howled and crushed
him like a rag doll.
“He’ll break his back,” muttered Max, horrified.
“He submits!” cried Miss Boon. “He submits!”
“The combatant must submit,” Prusias reminded her, his eyes fixed on the contest.
Again and again, Grahn shook Cooper in sudden, horrifically violent fits. The Agent’s body had gone limp, and Grahn cackled.
“Does the little man surrender? Does he submit, or does his skin go up on Grahn’s pretty wall?”
When it appeared the Agent would speak, the demon ceased the throttling. But Cooper merely grinned while blood ran down his nose. Tightening its grip, the demon howled and wrenched him up again.
“SUBMIT, WILLIAM!” cried Miss Boon, her voice hysterical.
Time slowed to an excruciating crawl. Max could not bear to watch. Cooper would never submit—he had far too much pride. Max bolted to his feet, determined to intervene.
But even as he did so, Prusias spoke.
“That is enough, Grahn.”
The demon abruptly ceased, but swiveled his savage head toward Prusias in disbelief.
“Yes, that is enough,” reiterated Prusias calmly. “The man is unconscious and cannot submit. No deaths will mar this médim.”
Howling, Grahn tossed Cooper’s body aside. The Agent’s body crashed into one of the braziers, where he lay still. Miss Boon rushed to his side.
“A pity,” Prusias observed, gazing at Max. “A pity that your man was hurt while Rowan’s champion cowered in the shadows.”
It was too much to bear. His face burning with shame, Max wriggled free of Nigel’s grip and bolted to his feet. He knew he was making a spectacle of himself. He knew he was disobeying orders. But he did not care. It was bad enough that Rowan had meekly signed a treaty and been humiliated throughout the médim. But seeing Cooper beaten to a pulp while he sat idly by was too much by far.
He stormed across the hall toward the doors where the silent, masked standard bearers stood. They stood aside to let him pass. Once outside, Max ran from the embassy as though the Furies themselves pursued him.
~6~
QUILLS AND SCROLLS
Dashing between Maggie and Old Tom, Max followed a serpentine path into the dark woods that skirted the northern edge of Rowan’s campus. Panting, he pushed onward, intent on putting as much distance as he could between himself and the shameful médim at Gràvenmuir. The image of Cooper lying motionless haunted him, and he found he was in no mood to join his classmates at the bonfire. He ran faster.
Soon Max found himself in unfamiliar territory. He had never wandered this far north of the academic quad. He registered a distinct change in the air, as though the atmosphere were charged with something wild and elemental. Sweat cooled upon his skin as he slowed to a jog and glanced sharply around his surroundings. He was seemingly adrift in a sea of trees—gargantuan trees that appeared as though they’d been planted during a forgotten, primordial age. Their trunks were laden with moss that dampened the air and created an eerie sort of amphitheater. Max stopped to listen.
The silence was conspicuous. No calling bird, no scurrying creature disturbed the pervading stillness. Max became aware of his heart thudding within his chest. Breathing deeply to steady himself, Max took in a heavy scent of damp earth, wild herbs, and fallen leaves. The trees were so dense where he stood that he felt he’d stumbled into a thicket of deepest midnight. For several moments, he simply stood and breathed and listened, content to be just another inhabitant of the forest. In such darkness, Max could not see his wrist or the Red Branch tattoo that marked him.
He wandered deeper into the woods, far from any path he had ever walked or even seen on a Rowan map. Eventually Max came to a clearing, and he looked up to see a mammoth oak, standing alone amid a moat of dense undergrowth. From the deep recesses of the tree’s leaves came occasional flickers of light, like a crown of winking stars along its branches.
As Max approached, these lights abruptly disappeared and all was quiet, but he could feel the presence of life—vibrant, watchful life—all around him. The forest was listening, and he felt very much the intruder.
Conjuring an orb of blue flame in his palm, Max peered about the clearing, leaning against the ancient oak tree.
“The fire burns me.”
Max jumped at the voice—a deep, female voice that spoke in Greek. As quick as a wink, he snuffed the illuminating flame and glanced around the towering trees to find the speaker. He needn’t look far. The oak tree shuddered, and a face emerged from the craggy patterns in its bark. A pair of beautiful eyes blinked at him, wet and shining.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” replied Max. “I was just … looking.”
“I know,” replied the spirit, not unkindly. “But we fear fire, and it is not welcome here.”
“I’m sorry,” said Max, squinting to better see the visage, which seemed to shift and ripple within the trunk, as though the oak were molten. A wild, willowy form stepped forth from the tree, and Max found himself staring at a dark woman with almond eyes, nettled hair, and glistening, reticulated skin that blended with the leaves and branches.
“Who are you?” breathed Max.
“I am a dryad,” replied the wild spirit. She tilted her head and stared at Max, her expression curious. “My name I keep. And what are you?”
“I’m a human,” explained Max. “A student at Rowan.”
“A student, perhaps,” mused the dryad. “But you are no human. I see stars upon your brow. Are you a spirit-child? Are you a demon?”
“I don’t know what I am,” Max replied in a hoarse, empty voice.
“How strange not to know,” replied the spirit. “I have only just awakened, and yet I know myself.”
“What do you mean, ‘awakened’?” asked Max.
“I have been asleep,” she explained. “The dryads have long been slumbering deep down among the world’s roots. But many are waking again. We have been recalled to life by the Great God.”
“What Great God?” Max inquired.
“The Great God who called to me and said my truename,” replied the dryad.
“Not Astaroth …,” said Max. His mood darkened with this new evidence that the Demon had been very busy with the Book of Thoth and the secrets it contained.
“Yes,” said the dryad, blinking slowly. “That was his name. I heard him whisper it unto me.… But is it wise to so boldly speak the name of the Creator?”
“Astaroth is not the Creator!” snapped Max. “He’s a demon playing God!”
At this outburst, the dryad retreated several steps until her body had merged smoothly with the tree trunk. Her emotions seemed to totter between anger and confusion.
“What else would I call the one who breathed the life spark into me?” she hissed. “Who are you to proclaim knowledge of the Creator? You who do not even know what you are! I am a dryad. The one who gave me life is Astaroth! And Astaroth has returned to make the world beautiful and whole.”
“No,” said Max wearily. “The Demon has fooled you.”
Long seconds passed while the dryad considered this.
“Perhaps I am foolish,” she said. “Few pass this way, and I have need of a friend to explain this strange new age to which I have awakened. When last I walked, hags and their ilk feared the humans, yet tonight I have seen hags bear a man aloft as though he were the Great God!”
Max frowned at this unexpected image. A cold, sinking sensation began to pool in his stomach.
“You saw hags?” he confirmed slowly. “Hags carrying a man into the woods?”
“Yes,” said the dryad. “I thought it was a festival, for the hags sang and danced, and the man seemed most excited. He wriggled like a fish and made the most peculiar shrieks.”
“Oh no,” said Max. “Was he a thin man? Hairless?”
“I believe so,” replied the dryad.
“Where did they take him? Tell me quickly!”
The dryad pointed northeast, and Max was off, running through the woo
ds, as swift as a deer. He called thanks to the dryad and promised to return someday.
As Max’s search led him back toward the coast, the forest gave way to a night sky that roiled with great, pearly clouds. The surf roared from below the chalky cliffs as Max threaded through the tall fir trees that dotted the coast, searching for any sign of the hags and their abducted quarry.
At last he found a sign, but it did not bode well. Some hundred yards ahead, a dilapidated cabin stood in a clearing of packed earth. Within that clearing, a cooking fire was heating an enormous black cauldron and casting eerie shadows upon the clearing as the haglings leaped and danced in a merry circle around it. Mum was inside the circle, tasting the broth and bouncing in time to Bellagrog’s singing. Keeping to the shadows, Max crept closer and was able to hear the hag’s rough, tuneful voice as it rose above the crashing surf.
“Cut a potato, make it two.
Add some carrots, some celery, too.
One pinch of salt, a dash will do.
Let’s make a Ras-mus-sen stew!
He slipped us once, but now he’s caught.
We told him we’d forget him not.
Stoke that fire, heat that pot.
Revenge is a dish that’s best served hot!”
Linking their arms together, Mum and Bellagrog clinked their wineglasses and struck up the song again. They cackled as one of the haglings lobbed a potato into the cauldron, sending up a splash. Max was revolted by the thought of Jesper Rasmussen cubed into mouthfuls and stewing in the pot. Crouching against the tree, he pondered his options.
If Max reported the hags, the entire Shrope family might be exiled from Rowan. While he did not much care if Bellagrog or the ferocious haglings were sent away, he cared very much about Mum. Mum was a hag, yes, but she was his hag. Bob’s, too.