“What does the Frankfurt Workshop have to do with it?” asked Max.
“They’re not Rowan,” said David, flicking the paper with his finger. “And I think that’s exactly why Bram would have left a piece of the puzzle with them. He obviously thought the Book of Thoth is dangerous—he’d want to ensure that no one person or group could get it by themselves. By scattering the means of reaching it, he’d ensure it could be obtained only through cooperation, and that’s likely only if the book’s really in danger. It’s pretty smart, actually—”
David cut his sentence short and stood up to gaze out the window as a dozen crows suddenly flew from the direction of the gate. The birds circled and wheeled before skimming over the grounds to perch on Maggie’s roof. Several moments later a team of four black horses emerged from the dark wood, pulling an ornate red coach. The coach eased its way across the gray landscape until it came to a stop near the fountain below them. The horses tossed their heads, rolled their eyes, and breathed great clouds of steam, but the gleaming carriage remained closed and shuttered.
“It’s like a jewelry box,” whispered David, pressing his nose to the glass.
Max saw someone hurry down the Manse’s front steps. It was Miss Boon, wrapped in a blue shawl and looking miserable. She stopped before the coach and gave a low, solemn bow. A red door promptly opened, and four hooded shapes slipped out to follow the young Mystics instructor inside. David turned from the window and stepped quickly down the hall.
“Now that they’re here, we’ll have to hurry,” he said. “Come with me.”
“Where?” asked Max.
“To the clock tower,” David replied, scurrying away. “There’s something I have to do, and I might not get the chance later.”
“But they’ll be coming to get us soon!” hissed Max.
“That’s why we have to hurry!” whispered David, disappearing around the corner.
Minutes later, Max understood why Miss Boon had looked so glum. It was a raw, wet morning, and he shivered as he stamped the morning dew off his slippers and braced himself against the gusts that swirled about Old Tom. Max and David stood on a fenced balcony just outside the clock’s face, obscuring its hands of weathered copper as they clutched the railing some 150 feet above the gray-green lawns below.
“What are we doing up here?” asked Max, his teeth chattering.
David ignored him and arched his back over the railing to squint up at the tower’s sharp-pitched roof.
“Can you give me a boost up there?” he asked.
Max craned his neck at the steep angle of the roof and its slick, wet shingles, then looked at his clumsy roommate. Even a mountain goat would have difficulty navigating that roof.
“Are you crazy?” he asked. “You’ll slip right off!”
“You’re probably right,” mused David. “Higher is better, but I guess this will have to do.”
“Do for what?” asked Max, pulling his blanket closer as a particularly furious gust came whipping in off the sea.
David did not answer him, but instead leaned far out over the balcony and raised a hand toward the ocean, whose gray waves crashed and sent high plumes of spray into the morning air. To Max’s surprise, his roommate began to sing a soft, lilting song.
It was not like any song Max had heard before. The words were strange, as were the notes that periodically dipped unexpectedly or jumped to another key altogether. Max ignored the wind that howled and raged about him. He felt warm and content, losing himself in the hypnotic song that tempted him to sleep and drift along with the world’s storms and currents until his body would unravel at last and become a bit of stone or sea.
A mist rose slowly from the ocean. Tatters of fog came sweeping over the cliffs to run like swift rivers along the walkways and gardens. Soon, a layer of mist, as soft and white as lamb’s wool, blanketed the grounds and treetops. By the time David’s voice trailed into silence, Max could hear that a crowd had awakened and gathered in front of Old Tom. As though shaken from a trance, David opened his eyes and suddenly raised his arms like a conductor. There was a low roar and the mist swirled clockwise, forming a great funnel at its center that expanded outward like the eye of a hurricane.
Max heard several startled shouts followed by the distant opening and closing of doors and windows. People had been gathering far below, but now they scattered as the mist was pushed out to the edges of the campus, rising higher and higher until it seemed Rowan had been uprooted and set within the clouds, hidden and secret from the world.
The sound of hard, hurried footsteps came from the tower’s stairwell; a moment later Miss Boon’s head burst into view. The young Mystics instructor was out of breath, her short brown hair clinging to her round face. She glanced at Max before narrowing her eyes at David.
“What have you done?” she asked sharply.
“I’ve hidden us,” said David wearily. “The old spells were fading. No enemies will be able to find us now—by map, by road, or by sea. Rowan has disappeared.”
Miss Boon stepped out onto the balcony and gazed out at the grounds and the towering dome of white mist that rose hundreds of feet into the air, filtering the rays of the morning sun that now peeped above the horizon like a sliver of gold.
“Go back down, David,” she sighed, wiping condensation from her glasses. “We’ll talk about this later. You too, Max. You’re both to dress in your formal uniforms and wait in your room until Cooper comes for you. You are to do nothing else until that happens. Lord knows how the witches will seek to profit by this!”
Max and David slinked back inside and crept down the stairs, past the clock’s gears and chimes, which smelled of oil and age. There was a large crowd gathered outside the steps.
“What did you do?” shouted one angry student.
“Make it go away!” called another.
“Make them go away!” screeched Anna Lundgren, stabbing a finger at Max.
“That’s quite enough,” commanded Miss Boon as she shepherded Max and David through the dense throng of bewildered students, scholars, and faculty. Max felt a tug on his sleeve and looked up to see a pretty girl with brown hair and freckles clutching a camera.
Max merely blinked at the unfamiliar girl before he was promptly swept along by Miss Boon and the curious crowd that closed in behind them. They were marched up the broad stairs and down the long hall to their room. Mr. McDaniels was waiting inside.
The knock came sooner than expected. Max answered the door, clean and scrubbed in his pressed Rowan uniform. David and Max’s father came up the steps to find Cooper standing in the doorway.
“It’s time,” said the Agent softly. “The Director requests that you say nothing at all during the proceedings. It is important that you agree to this. Can the Director have your word?”
“Some kind of nerve,” huffed Mr. McDaniels. “We’re supposed to sit still like church mice while a bunch of strangers and witches decide our fate?”
“That’s correct,” said Cooper with a stoic nod. “If you don’t like the terms, you can wait here and someone will inform you of the outcome.”
“No,” said David quickly. “We want to go—we can be quiet.”
“No matter what?” Cooper asked.
“No matter what,” replied Max.
Cooper led David and the McDanielses down many stairs, far below the Manse’s dining hall and kitchens, until they reached a long hallway lined with polished suits of armor from various ages and civilizations. Max was surprised to see government security personnel in black suits standing outside the door along with a handful of Rowan Agents. They stood aside and opened a gleaming wooden door as Cooper approached.
“Remember your promise,” Cooper warned as he ushered them inside.
Max felt his father’s comforting hand on his shoulder as he stood on the threshold of a large room with a high chandeliered ceiling and an enormous circular table of malachite at its center. Some two dozen people sat around the table and many more were seated in
chairs at the room’s periphery. All were staring at Max and David. Cooper led them to three seats along the far wall, in between Miss Boon and Nigel Bristow, the man who had recruited Max to Rowan. Max tried to return Nigel’s smile, but he felt numb inside as Ms. Richter stood to commence the proceedings. He soon learned that there were not only representatives of Rowan and the witches in attendance but also members of the Frankfurt Workshop and senior officials from a dozen governments.
“It has been nearly one thousand years since these three Orders have sat at table together,” began Ms. Richter, “and I am grateful to all who have come. This meeting is born of grave necessity, and I hope that today we might transcend old feuds and grievances and unite in common purpose to face the peril before us. From beyond the grave Elias Bram has warned us of this danger, and it is his Riddle that troubles me today—not his Oath, which has brought our sisters on such a long journey.”
An ancient witch in a black frock, her skin covered with those same strange symbols, rose to her feet. She was older than Dame Mala, with steel-gray hair and amethyst eyes that were now narrowed at Ms. Richter.
“What trickery is this?” demanded the witch in a hoarse voice, stabbing a ringed finger at the Director. “We are here for our rightful due and will not have our demands so lightly cast aside!”
“Very well, Dame Mako,” said Ms. Richter. “In order to move this council along to more pressing matters, I am prepared to state our position on the issue.”
Scott McDaniels squeezed his son’s forearm. Max held his breath and leaned forward to listen as the whole room grew still with a crackling air of expectation.
“Having consulted my advisors and having determined the legitimacy of Bram’s Oath, I do hereby honor his pledge and surrender Max McDaniels and David Menlo to the Witches of the Eastern Range.”
The room exploded in commotion.
“What?” Mr. McDaniels thundered, rocketing out of his chair. “Over my dead body!”
Mr. McDaniels was quickly intercepted by Mum, who abandoned her coffee cart to block his way with her short, squat body. She was joined by Nigel and Miss Boon, who managed to ease Max’s father back into his seat. The real commotion, however, was taking place beside Ms. Richter. Commander Vilyak had stood and was leaning close to the Director. His face was crimson, and his massive hands were balled into tight fists. Max could not hear what he was saying, but the Director was unmoved.
“Agents Cooper and Yamato, please remove Commander Vilyak from these proceedings.”
“You don’t have the authority to remove me!” spat Vilyak, smacking the table hard with his hand. “This is an outrage and an utter abuse of your position!”
“Thank you, Commander,” was Ms. Richter’s calm reply. “That will be all.”
Commander Vilyak glanced over his shoulder at Cooper and a female Agent who were standing behind him. Slowly, an icy calm came over him; his eyes became as flat and dead as a doll’s once more. He glanced at Max before turning to face Cooper, his comrade in the Red Branch. To Max, it seemed that a silent conversation was taking place between them. After several moments, Vilyak permitted himself to be led from the room. The door was closed, calm was restored, and for the first time the reality of Ms. Richter’s words dawned upon Max.
They were leaving Rowan.
Max glanced at the cluster of shrouded crones at the table. They whispered to one another with obvious pleasure, beaming at Max and David with sharp-toothed grins and something resembling motherly affection. Max’s father looked clammy and bloodless; even David looked shocked.
“I understand that this comes as a surprise to some,” said Ms. Richter, failing even to glance in Max and David’s direction. “And we are deeply grieved to say farewell to our students. While circumstance dictates that we sever their ties to this school, we hope and trust that Scott McDaniels will also be permitted to live among the witches with his son.”
“Of course,” said Dame Mako with an obliging nod toward Mr. McDaniels. “He will be received with honor.”
“Then they will be free to leave with you as early as tomorrow morning,” said Ms. Richter. “And now we must move on to more pressing business—the escalating evil that plagues the world now that Astaroth is free. . . .”
Max sat in stunned silence while ministers and senators shuffled papers and reported on troubles in their home countries. It was a grim recital of assassinations, plane crashes, train derailments, and crop failures. Angry mobs were gathering outside capital buildings; desperate refugees were stampeding toward the borders of the world’s wealthier nations. Power stations had succumbed to mysterious fires, and it was becoming clear that the Enemy had long been infiltrating a number of governments. The numbers were staggering: a billion people without electricity, two billion without access to television or radio. A short black man in a gray suit reported that more than sixty governments were on the verge of collapse, their countries facing civil war. Miss Kraken spoke Max’s mind when she interrupted an ample-bellied senator with a southern drawl.
“These reports can’t be correct,” she snapped. “As bad as things are, the newspapers haven’t reported anything even approaching these proportions of catastrophe!”
The senator glanced at his watch and cleared his throat. “For the past six weeks, all relevant television programs, newspaper reports, and radio broadcasts have been subject to government approval.”
“You’re censoring the facts?” asked Miss Kraken incredulously.
“We are acting in the best interests of our citizens,” replied the senator. “I’d remind you that the only reason we don’t have blood in the streets in this country is because we are keeping potential misinformation from causing outright panic.”
“We are doing the same,” added an official from Moscow. “There are terrible reports from the countryside. Terrible! No one needs to hear, much less see, such stories and images. An entire village near Lensk was wiped out two days ago. Monstrous shapes have been sighted in the woods—rumors of ogres and werewolves are rampant. Despite our best efforts to calm the public, we have a crisis. Farms and villages are emptying. The people are fleeing to the cities—cities with little electricity or food. And winter is coming. Things have not been so bad for Mother Russia since the Great War.”
Max squirmed in his seat as the tales of horror went on. His problems seemed tiny in light of all that was happening outside Rowan’s gates. Perhaps Bellagrog had been right—now seemed a good time to find a snug, hidden corner and wait out the squalls and storms of the world.
It was Jesper Rasmussen, the bald, skeletal spokesperson for the Frankfurt Workshop, who stood next. His voice was dry and metallic; a nearly colorless tongue flicked out periodically to wet his thin lips.
“Forgive my ignorance,” he said, “but it seems that we are attributing the present, ah, misfortunes to Astaroth. The Workshop still questions whether or not the Demon has returned, much less whether he is to blame for any of this. The current crises seem a bit sudden and dramatic for one known to spin his webs with slow patience.”
“And so he did, Dr. Rasmussen,” said Ms. Richter. “And so he was caught. Astaroth did indeed bide his time, but before his plans were complete, Elias Bram realized that a single mind and malice was orchestrating events to its satisfaction. Once Astaroth was revealed, we were able to frustrate some of his plots. Astaroth will have learned his lesson. He will move quickly if he is able.”
Dr. Rasmussen shook his head as Ms. Richter spoke.
“If he is able. That is no small consideration. We have no proof that the Demon is even capable of assuming a physical form.”
“Of that we do have proof,” interrupted Dame Mako, rapping a sharp nail on the table and drawing Rasmussen’s attention. “I have seen him.”
Stunned silence filled the room. Max heard the crack of Dame Mako’s fingers as she clasped her bony hands together in a supplicating gesture.
“He came to see us a fortnight ago,” said the witch. “Perhaps we
should have sent messages, but we thought it wiser to wait until Rowan proved true and honored Bram’s Oath. The Demon came to us when we were gathered by the council fires.”
“What did he want?” asked Ms. Richter softly. Her face was ashen and grave.
“He gave greetings,” said Dame Mako. “He reminded us that he had once honored our ancestors and wished to rekindle the truce that had existed between us. His servants brought many gifts—jewels and hides and oil for the winter.”
“I trust you did not accept them,” said Ms. Richter.
“Ha! We are not so rich as you,” laughed the witch. “Of course we took them! And we’ll take more, too, as long as it’s given freely and the Demon leaves us be!”
“He gives nothing freely,” said Ms. Richter. “To visit the esteemed witches is a long journey. Astaroth did not seek you merely to lavish gifts and praise.”
Dame Mako listened carefully to Ms. Richter’s words and consulted briefly with the wizened crones who had accompanied her. Her wild eyes burned brightly as she gazed from face to face among the assembled politicians, Agents, and Mystics.
“The Demon covets the book he sought long ago,” the witch rumbled. “The very book that Bram took from us and for which he delivered these Blessed Children to our keeping. He seeks the Book of Thoth.”
“And why should the Demon seek this book?” asked Dr. Rasmussen.
Dame Mako glared at the Workshop representative. “All things have a truename,” she rasped. “Every human, every bird and beast and flower, has such a name. This name is secret—it is what gives a thing shape and spirit and binds it to this world. According to legend, the Book of Thoth is a living record of all truenames since the world was birthed.”
Jesper Rasmussen scoffed loudly and snapped at Mum for more coffee.
“So it is a phone book? A list of all the truenames of history? Of what possible value is that?”
Dame Mako scowled at the tall, gaunt man who smirked from behind his steel spectacles.
The Second Siege Page 9