The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  “Well, that was fun,” said David, “but Cooper’s waiting for us. You were supposed to shower, by the way.”

  “I was hungry,” Max protested, his gaze lingering on a plate of crispy bacon. David merely hummed and strolled up the Manse’s winding steps.

  “What?” said Max, following after his roommate. “You stay up half the night with Cooper after you, and with nothing to eat!”

  Cooper stood waiting in the foyer. He escorted the two boys to the Manse’s top floor, taking an unfamiliar hallway and hurrying them past gilded portraits and a series of African masks until they arrived at a dark door of polished wood.

  “The witch is just inside,” Cooper said quietly. “She is not permitted within ten feet of you. She’s aware of this. I will take the chair closest to her—the two of you are to sit by the Director.”

  “Cooper,” piped up David, “this sounds dangerous. Are you sure we should go in there?”

  To Max it appeared that Cooper’s hard features softened for just a moment. The Agent knelt down and looked David in the eye.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said with calm assurance. “Nothing will happen to you, eh?”

  Cooper patted David on the shoulder before revealing a wavy-bladed knife of rusty, reddish metal. Max had never seen it before. The weapon exuded an unwholesome aura; its discolored blade suggested a particularly loathsome history. Max’s instinct was to step away from the knife, but David looked positively green and wobbly.

  “It’ll be fine, David,” whispered Max, steadying his roommate.

  David smiled weakly, but he took a second glance at the knife as Cooper slipped it into his sleeve.

  “Let’s see what the old witch wants,” said Cooper, rapping softly on the door.

  The door swung inward and Cooper led the boys into a dark, windowless room arched with carved beams and lit only by oil lamps that cast a warm, golden glow over the room’s occupants. Director Richter was seated at the head of a granite table engraved with the Rowan seal and set with crystal goblets and a decanter of red wine. Miss Kraken, Rowan’s hunched and snappish head of Mystics, sat on her right. Max said hello to them but focused quickly on the strange, wizened thing studying him from the far end of the table.

  “Boys,” said Ms. Richter, “excuse the low light; it is on account of our guest, who is more comfortable in such surroundings. I’d like to introduce Dame Mala.”

  The witch smiled and bowed her head low in greeting. In the dim setting, her skin initially appeared scarred, like Cooper’s, but Max soon realized he was looking not at scars but at tattoos. Every visible inch of her body—her face, her ears, the tops of her fingers—was marked with small hieroglyphs and symbols arranged in neat little patterns and shapes before they disappeared into the folds of her plain black robes. Her braided white hair was as thin as corn silk and her sagging face had an air of polite expectancy as she took a small sip of wine. Pale green eyes glanced at Cooper as he claimed the seat next to her, lingering longest on his sleeve. The smile never left her face, however, and her interest returned quickly to Max and David as they took seats alongside Ms. Richter.

  “Dame Mala is one of our distant kin from the East,” explained Ms. Richter, brushing a stray strand of silver hair from her brow. “It has been several centuries since we’ve had contact with the witches, but they are old friends and we are honored by their visit.”

  The witch raised her glass in gratitude.

  “Yes,” said Ms. Richter, offering a tight smile in return. “You see, students, Dame Mala’s arrival this morning was most unexpected. Apparently, during his travels, our own Peter Varga visited the witches to enlist their aid in finding the children who were kidnapped last year. He mentioned the two of you and . . . our guest arrived on our doorstep, to our great surprise and delight. Perhaps now that you are here she will share the broader purpose of her visit.”

  Dame Mala beamed, revealing small yellowed teeth that had been filed to points. Beads and necklaces of semiprecious stones clicked and clacked as she stood and bowed low before them.

  “You are very gracious, Director,” she said in a throaty tenor. “And I, in turn, extend greetings on behalf of my sisters to honor our kindred who crossed the sea long ago. It is only fitting that the young should be the sparks to rekindle old friendships and bridge the differences between us. We have waited a long time to see these two.”

  “Ms. Richter . . . ,” whispered Max.

  The Director held up a finger to silence him. The witch turned quickly from Ms. Richter to fix her piercing green eyes on Max.

  “Which of the Blessed Children is this?” she asked.

  “Dame Mala, this is Max McDaniels. He is—”

  “The Hound,” breathed the witch, widening her eyes and leaning forward. Cooper shifted slightly in his seat. “Forgive me, for only now do my old eyes see the light upon his brow. Rath dé ort, Cúchulain. Saol fada chugat.”

  Max fidgeted uncomfortably as the witch touched her forehead briefly to the table and took her seat once again. She made a hasty sign before continuing.

  “Now that Astaroth walks upon this earth, the great School of Rowan will have dire need of its Hound. To honor our past allegiance, my sisters have instructed me to press only half our rights. The Hound of Rowan may stay with you. The witches demand only the young Sorcerer, so gifted in our arts.”

  “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?” interrupted Miss Kraken sharply, glaring at Dame Mala. “Who are the witches to show up on our doorstep and demand anything, much less one of our students, for God’s sake?”

  “Annika,” said Ms. Richter with a warning tone.

  Miss Kraken bristled to the point of bursting, but swallowed another comment. Dame Mala appeared confused.

  “Have I said something that displeases you?” the witch asked, her eyes darting from face to face.

  “Dame Mala,” said Ms. Richter, “forgive our ignorance, but what exactly are you demanding? Surely you do not mean to leave this school with David Menlo. . . .”

  The witch nodded and smiled at David, who gave a funny gurgle and slumped low in his chair.

  “What on earth would convince you that we would permit such a thing?” asked Ms. Richter calmly.

  “It is our right,” said Dame Mala, her smile dissolving into a look of angry indignation.

  David was speechless, slumping lower until only his eyes were visible above the table’s rim.

  “Ms. Richter,” hissed Max, “you’re not going to send David away with . . . with this witch, are you?”

  “Of course not,” said Ms. Richter with a sharp glance. “On what basis would the witches possibly make such an absurd claim?”

  Dame Mala frowned as she traced the top edge of the Rowan seal with a sharp-nailed finger.

  “There is nothing absurd about our claim,” said Dame Mala slowly, her eyes glittering, “and we have waited nearly four hundred years to make it. Perhaps your memories are fading, but even the youngest witch knows of Bram’s Oath and the hiding of the Book of Origins.”

  “The Book of Origins,” repeated Ms. Richter, appearing to search her memory. “You’re referring to the Book of Thoth?”

  “Indeed,” confirmed the witch. “It was said that Astaroth himself coveted the book, that he had devoted long study to acquiring the secrets that would permit him to use it. Bram took the perilous thing and hid it beyond the Demon’s reach.”

  Ms. Richter frowned and glanced at Miss Kraken.

  “That’s impossible,” scoffed Miss Kraken with a definitive shake of her head. “That book was destroyed thousands of years ago.”

  “It was not destroyed,” whispered the witch. “Over five hundred years ago, the witches took it from Prince Neferkaptah’s resting place and left a false relic in its stead. We sought in vain to divine its secrets. Word of the ruse, however, seeped out into the world and our treasure eventually attracted interested parties. Astaroth’s messengers sought us in the mountains; great rewards were p
romised should we surrender the book or give information regarding its true whereabouts. We considered their offers—after all, they were generous, and the book had proven beyond our understanding. But Bram came, too, and it was his proposal that we accepted.”

  Max thought of Elias Bram, the last Ascendant who had fallen during the Siege of Solas, buying time so that a few survivors might escape aboard the Kestrel. While Bram was revered at Rowan, something about Dame Mala’s tone made Max’s spirits sink. He looked at David, whose eyes had taken on the detached, glassy look they often did when he was thinking deeply.

  “And what was Bram’s offer?” asked Ms. Richter, her voice very soft and serious.

  The witch met Ms. Richter’s gaze and narrowed her eyes, tapping the table for emphasis.

  “That any child of your people blessed by the Old Magic should be surrendered to the care and keeping of the witches. Three we may claim and thus it is written. Two such children sit here before me and yet I claim only the young Sorcerer. If I may say, Director, you should be grateful for our generosity. We recognize that you did not strike this accord and that it must grieve you to bid farewell to so bright a pupil. Thus, at this time, we take only one as a token of our respect . . . . I urge you not to make us reconsider.”

  “Ms. Richter,” whispered Max, incredulous at the long pause that followed, “you’re not actually considering this, are you? You’re not going to let her take David away!”

  Ms. Richter glanced sharply at Max before returning her attention to Dame Mala.

  “Of course not,” she said. “Many proofs would have to be submitted before we would attribute even a grain of truth to this claim, much less honor it. I know nothing of such a pact—do you, Annika?”

  “I’ve come across nothing remotely resembling this in all my years of access to the Archives,” said Miss Kraken proudly. “The very idea that Bram would bargain away children is preposterous—it violates everything he stood for! Trading children for books? Nonsense! Where is this Book of Origins for which we supposedly mortgaged our future?”

  “We do not know,” said Dame Mala with cool reserve. “The fate of the book was Bram’s concern, not ours. Our concern is payment and the fulfillment of our contract.”

  “If we refuse?” asked Ms. Richter.

  “You will not,” replied Dame Mala. “To refuse is to ensure the fall of Rowan. Astaroth is here, Director Richter—Rowan’s efforts and vigilance failed us all and the very heavens point to the Demon’s return. Rowan will need all of her old allies to survive the coming storm. Now is not the time for foolish pride.”

  Ms. Richter stood and folded her arms.

  “I do not think it is foolish pride, Dame Mala, to remind you that the survival of your sisterhood has been secured by the very efforts and vigilance you critique. Through our charity, the witches have been hidden from the cities and machines and are permitted to live with the modern age at bay. These courtesies can be discontinued. Should the witches threaten Rowan or its interests, I can promise an outcome so swift and severe that it will shock even the greatest pessimists among you.”

  The witch’s face darkened. She opened her mouth and shut it again, glancing briefly at Cooper, who sat unmoving and returned her gaze with unflinching calm. A small clock ticked off long seconds. The room became unbearably still; the threat of violence hung suspended in the air.

  “It is regrettable that you should speak thus in front of these young ones,” said Dame Mala at last, clasping her hands together and exhaling deeply. “I am well aware there are many men and many weapons at your disposal, Director. We do not flatter ourselves that the witches could wage open war with Rowan; indeed, that is the last thing we would wish. It is you who speak in threats; I speak only of honor and agreements. Be warned, Director, that to deny our righteous claim is to violate the terms of Bram’s Oath and thus bring a curse upon yourselves that would be the ruin of this school and all who dwell here. The pact is bound in Old Magic—signed in Bram’s own blood and utterly irrefutable.”

  “If it’s written in Bram’s blood, you must have the document,” said Ms. Richter coldly. “I wish to see it and whoever truly speaks for the witches. It is not you, Dame Mala—you’ve merely been sent to deliver a message, and your task is now finished. It’s time you returned home.”

  Dame Mala drained the rest of her wine and rose to her feet.

  “You are my hostess and you have asked me to leave. I will go. But my sisters will come, Director, and they will bring all the proofs you require. And when they depart, these Blessed Children—both of these children—will go with them.”

  “Not while I’m Director,” said Ms. Richter quietly, motioning for Cooper to escort the old woman out. The witch paused in the doorway; her fearsome visage might have been plucked from the carven masks that lined the hall outside. She gave Ms. Richter a secret, knowing smile.

  “Directors are replaceable, Ms. Richter, as your predecessor knows all too well. You should know that Peter Varga is not the only son of Rowan to cross the mountains and seek our aid.” She turned to Max and David. “Look for us in one month’s time, children. A new home awaits you.”

  With a parting bow the witch was gone.

  2

  MILD-MANNERED MR. SIKES

  Max and David conversed in quiet voices, seated opposite each other on the lower level of their magnificent room. Beyond the glass-domed ceiling, the sky deepened to indigo, revealing a brilliant field of stars. Periodically, constellations appeared among the heavens, their faint contours composed of slender golden threads that soon faded away. David watched the Great Bear wink out of sight and dipped his head to scribble several notes in a worn leather journal he’d taken to carrying over the summer.

  “We won’t have to live with the witches,” Max concluded, squinting at David’s small, practically illegible writing. “Ms. Richter won’t permit it—you saw how angry she got.”

  “I don’t think it’s her decision to make,” said David softly, with a shake of his head. A casual flick of his fingers ignited several candles and an oil lamp. “That witch wasn’t lying. I think it’s likely they have some sort of legitimate claim.”

  “So what?” scoffed Max. “You can’t just sign away someone’s life hundreds of years before they’re even born! That’s not fair.”

  David raised an eyebrow and smiled.

  “I don’t think ‘fair’ factors into it. The very idea that people should have a say over where and how they live is a fairly new one. Elias Bram must have been desperate to make that deal, though. That Book of Thoth or Origins or whatever it’s called must be important—”

  A loud, impatient knock sounded at the door.

  “Hold that thought,” said Max, trudging up the stairs to see who it was. Max’s father, Scott McDaniels, stood panting outside, his plump frame leaning against the doorway. Normally cheery and bright-eyed, Mr. McDaniels’ round features were now pale and curdling with concern.

  “I came as soon as I heard,” he croaked, pausing to kiss Max on top of the head before squeezing past into the room. “Been apple picking for tomorrow’s desserts. Is David here?”

  “Down here, Mr. McDaniels,” called David from below.

  “Good, good,” said Mr. McDaniels, closing the door behind him and ushering Max below to where they joined David at the table. “What is all this baloney about a witch and promises? Ms. Richter told me something, but it all sounded like gobbledygook. She was joking, right?”

  “She’s not joking, Dad,” said Max. “The witch said that there was some agreement made a long time ago—that David and I are supposed to go live with them.”

  “That can’t be right,” said Mr. McDaniels, worrying away his fingernails. “Ms. Richter said they live far away—in the Himalayas or someplace! How would those witches even know who you are, much less where to find you?”

  Max winced.

  “They heard about us from Peter—he visited them last year and mentioned us. I think the fact that he was i
n contact with them may be why he was in trouble to begin with.”

  “Peter’s responsible?” asked Mr. McDaniels. Originally known to Max as “Ronin,” Peter Varga was an outcast Agent who had rescued Max on more than one occasion. His spine broken by Marley Augur’s hideous hammer, Peter had been rehabilitating at Rowan and was often kept company by Mr. McDaniels, who pushed him along in a wheelchair so he could look out over the Atlantic.

  “Well,” said Max quickly, “I don’t know if he’s responsible. I mean, he didn’t make the oath.”

  “But he’s the reason that witch knew to come here and look for you!” fumed Max’s father, his initial shock quickly turning to anger.

  “Don’t get upset, Mr. McDaniels,” said David meekly. “If Ms. Richter didn’t know about Bram’s Oath, I think it’s safe to say Peter didn’t, either. Besides, Max isn’t going to have to go anywhere.”

  “He’s not?” asked Mr. McDaniels, the purple draining from his face. “How do you know?”

  “Because I’ll be difficult,” said David simply. “If someone has to go, it’ll be me. If they want me to cooperate, they’ll have to let Max stay here.”

  Mr. McDaniels blinked twice and took a long, quivering breath while he fumbled through his apron’s pocket for a handkerchief.

  “David,” said Max, dumbfounded by his roommate’s offer, “there’s no way—”

  Max was drowned out by an enormous honk as Mr. McDaniels blew his nose. David was suddenly swept up and crushed against Mr. McDaniels’s padded side, his pale face disappearing into an enormous tartan armpit.

  “David Menlo,” cried Mr. McDaniels, rocking the small boy back and forth, “I don’t know what to say! That’s so very good of you—ridiculous, but I’ll never forget it as long as I live!”

  “Grrrglpppp!” came David’s muffled voice.

  “Say again?” asked Mr. McDaniels, wiping his round, teary cheeks with the back of his hand.

  “Dad, I don’t think he can breathe,” said Max, pointing to David’s hand, which flopped about like a fish in a vain attempt to free his head.