The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

The Second Year Mystics instructor was Mr. Tavares, a short man with a gray-streaked beard and thick, square glasses. He stood before some thirty students, who were clustered along the lecture hall’s bottom rows studiously copying a diagram on a dusty blackboard. The room smelled heavily of incense and wet boots; its walls were etched with strange symbols that thrummed and simmered with quiet energy. Max saw a hand wave from the back row; Cynthia, Lucia, and Sarah beckoned them over.

  Mr. Tavares glanced up at Max, causing the other students to crane their necks and stare at him. Clearing his throat, the man hastily resumed.

  “Now that you’ve copied Solomon’s Circle, can anyone tell me what it’s for?”

  Rolf Luger shot his hand in the air.

  “Protection against elemental spirits, greater imps, and minor demons. Duration is short—only one hour—but the summoner is not required to maintain eye contact with the summoned being.”

  “Very good, Mr. Luger,” said the teacher curtly. “And why might one wish to summon one of the aforementioned spirits?”

  “Any number of reasons,” said a girl with black braids. “To send messages, acquire information, or bind it within an item to enhance its properties.”

  “Sounds lovely,” said the instructor. “What’s the downside?”

  Connor raised his hand.

  “A spirit can sometimes possess the one who summoned it. Using a summoned spirit for evil purposes increases the likelihood of such an outcome. Sloppy inscriptions and hasty contracts can also result in bad, bad things. Famous examples of misguided summonings include Dr. Faustus, Madam Lurie, and the Mad Dey of Oran.”

  Max frowned and thought of David in the healing ward. He wondered why David had failed to summon Astaroth and consequently been punished; it had seemed there was nothing beyond David’s reach. He raised his hand; the teacher looked at him in surprise.

  “Yes, Mr. McDaniels?”

  “What does it take to summon a major spirit?” he asked. “A Spirit Perilous?”

  “Hmmm,” replied the teacher, tugging thoughtfully at his beard. “Where did you hear that old term? I don’t think anyone’s tried for some time. They were called Spirits Perilous for good reason, however. The last person I can think of to do something like that would have been Elias Bram, and then only those at the weaker end of the spectrum.”

  “But why?” asked Max, ignoring the many eyes upon him. “I mean, if the incantations and instructions are there, why wouldn’t someone be able to do it?”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Tavares, “you’ve missed quite a bit this term, McDaniels. Perhaps one of your classmates can answer your question.”

  “The incantation only contacts the spirit,” explained Cynthia patiently. “It’s the power of the summoner that ultimately compels the spirit to come. If it’s not compelled—”

  Connor jumped in, interrupting Cynthia.

  “If it ain’t compelled, the spirit might show and clip the sorry blaggard or just let the poor chancer be. Most spirits won’t bother with a thick summons since they’re blow-ins to these parts and makin’ a show can tie their knickers in a bunch.”

  Giggles ensued; Mr. Tavares sighed and tapped his foot while a grin spread across Connor’s mischievous features.

  “In English, please, Mr. Lynch.”

  “Of course,” said Connor, sitting up and clearing his throat. “Most spirits are not native to this world, sir, and thus won’t bother punishing an ill-advised summons, as the required manifestation might cause considerable pain and distress.”

  More giggles.

  “Thank you, Mr. Lynch,” replied the apparently unflappable Mr. Tavares, who moved on to efficient dismissals of properly summoned spirits.

  Max had many more questions but kept them bottled up while he borrowed paper and a pen from Cynthia. With careful strokes, he copied the diagram on the board.

  By the end of the afternoon, Max had borrowed a great deal of paper. Second Year classes were significantly more challenging than those of the previous year. In a matter of weeks, it seemed Max had fallen far, far behind his peers on everything ranging from geometry and chemistry to ancient civilizations and poetry. Throughout the afternoon, he tried to pay attention, but he often found his gaze drifting to the floorboards where, deep below, Bram’s mysterious Key was stowed, subject no doubt to the unblinking scrutiny of hunched, whispering scholars. He pictured its silver curves and intricate system of smooth-swinging rings, a masterly bit of craftsmanship. Puzzling over the sort of lock it might fit, Max played Bram’s Riddle over and over in his mind.

  Connor walked alongside him, whistling softly as they meandered past gas lamps that began to glow in the deepening dusk to light the icy walkways. Snow drifted down, slow and steady, like tiny stars falling from the firmament.

  “Christmas is coming,” said Connor suddenly.

  “Hmmm?” said Max, startled from his thoughts.

  “Christmas,” repeated Connor, kicking snow from the base of a lamppost. “It makes me glad, is all—eggnog and songs and twinkling lights. Stupid, I know, but it’s true.”

  “No,” said Max slowly, “it’s not stupid at all. What do you want for Christmas?”

  “A kiss from Lucia,” said Connor, laughing. “Without the help of her stupid frog!”

  Max laughed, and it suddenly seemed as though all the hopelessness and despair and sorrow were lifted from his heart. He breathed deep, letting the cold air tingle his nose. Tilting back his head, he gazed up at the evening sky and its faint stars. He felt a sudden urge to rise high, high among them.

  “And what do you want, Max? What can jolly old Saint Nick bring you?”

  Max thought of his mother and Cooper and Astaroth’s white face and its malevolent smile. He thought of the silver sphere in the Archives and the hidden Book of Thoth.

  “Answers,” said Max.

  “You know I can help you with that,” said Connor, lowering his voice as they passed several teachers on the Manse’s front steps. The great doors, resplendent with their deep carvings, were now hung with silver bells that jingled as Max pulled them open. The two boys ducked into the warm foyer, where there was light and noise and the promise of dinner.

  Later that evening, while Max flipped through his notes on summoning, he registered a peculiar pause in the ticking of David’s clock, as though the silent interval between ticks had been stretched a fraction longer. He glanced up at his roommate’s dresser, its drawers still half-open from the night they had been forced to leave at gunpoint. It was a sharp reminder of David’s absence, and Max stood to close them, one by one, sweeping the surface free of dust. Turning back to the table, he found himself staring into the pale yellow eyes of Mr. Sikes.

  “Good evening, Master McDaniels,” purred the imp, bowing low.

  “How did you get in here?” asked Max, narrowing his eyes.

  “You called me,” said the imp simply, polishing its small gold pocket watch.

  “No, I didn’t,” said Max.

  “With apologies, I must beg to differ,” replied the imp. “You were thinking of poor Master Menlo and your adventures in the Workshop and whether Agent Cooper knows the fate of your mother. Those are many burdens for one so young. It’s only natural that you would wish for a companion who might listen to your troubles, and thus . . . here I am.”

  “I’ve got lots of people to talk to,” snapped Max defensively.

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” said the imp. “But surely you don’t mean your poor father. I can’t imagine you would wish to inform him that Agent Cooper—a man he has trusted with his life—might be concealing information about his long-lost love.”

  “No,” said Max, frowning. “I would never—”

  “And surely not my own esteemed Master Lynch,” interrupted the imp, guessing Max’s next choice. “The master has many fine qualities, but I think we’d agree that discretion is—how shall we put it?—a ‘development opportunity’?”

  Max sighed and nodded in agreement. Mr. Sikes pac
ed about the tabletop, tapping his chin as he considered other possibilities that were quickly discarded.

  “Ms. Richter!” exclaimed Max, a note of triumph in his voice.

  The imp nodded politely, but Max could sense its disappointment. He reddened.

  “An excellent thought,” intoned Mr. Sikes unconvincingly, “but I might have a number of reservations, not the least of which is that the Director has a full plate herself and might find her patience sorely tested if asked to put the world’s concerns aside for the wants of a thirteen-year-old boy. And we must face the unpleasant truth, Max, that she has never really confided in you. . . .”

  “Yes, she has,” said Max defensively. “Last year—she showed me top secret maps and everything.”

  “She showed you?” asked Mr. Sikes slowly. “Or she showed David Menlo?”

  Max fell silent and considered the imp’s words. It was true that Ms. Richter often solicited David’s opinion while Max was relegated to the role of silent spectator. His frustration must have registered with Mr. Sikes, for the imp quickly moved on.

  “It’s no matter,” he said. “Besides, if we are agreed that Agent Cooper is concealing information about your mother, it only follows that the Director would be part of the cover-up.” Mr. Sikes’s voice became soft with sympathy as he studied the pain evident on Max’s face. “Don’t put all your faith in adults, Max—no adult ever really listens to a child. It’s not their nature.”

  Max sat at the table and drummed his fingers.

  “If no one ever listens to a child, why should you listen to me?” he suddenly snapped.

  “Ah,” said Mr. Sikes, “I said that no adult—no human adult—ever really listens to a child. But I am an imp. It is my nature to listen, young Max. It is what I do—I listen and serve.”

  “You can’t do anything for me,” muttered Max.

  “Really?” asked Mr. Sikes, his eyes burning bright at the challenge. “What if I told you that I could save your life this very evening?”

  “You think I’m going to die tonight?” asked Max, straightening.

  “I’m quite sure of it,” replied Mr. Sikes with a solemn nod. “Unless you listen to me . . .”

  “Go on,” said Max, unnerved by the calm assuredness in the little creature.

  “You plan to try where David failed and summon Astaroth,” continued the imp. “The summoning will be imperfect, but the demon will come of his own free will. And when he does, he will kill you, Max McDaniels. He will slay you where you stand and run wild through this school. Do you not think he is hoping for this very opportunity?”

  “But how do you know this?” asked Max quietly.

  “Max,” sighed the imp. “The evidence is before me: a young man with difficult questions, hasty notes on summoning, and the seductive promise of a Spirit Perilous who knows many secrets and is bound to speak the truth. Do my instincts fail me?”

  “No,” said Max heavily, glancing at his scribbled notes with shame.

  “Put embarrassment aside,” said Mr. Sikes with an understanding smile. “It was a noble impulse, if dangerous. If I may, let me steer you from such a course and put our immediate energies into Mr. Menlo’s recovery.”

  Mr. Sikes procured a cup of cocoa, and Max sipped it quietly while the imp drew close and spoke of moons and runes and mandrake.

  For several weeks, Max sat at David’s side and administered the slow healing spell he had crafted with Mr. Sikes. He kept to himself for much of that time, attending classes sporadically and focusing almost all of his attention on the slim ribbon of silk on which he inked one rune after another while standing under the moonlight atop Old Tom. The ink was a noxious blend of foul ingredients that Max prepared by hand under the watchful tutelage of Mr. Sikes. Each morning Max tied the ribbon about David’s injured arm, and each evening he removed it once again and added to its potency high above the campus. The Moomenhovens paid little attention to Max on his visits, concerned as they were with David’s condition, which had not improved despite their very best efforts.

  One evening, when Max went to remove the ribbon following the Yuletide feast, he found Bob seated at David’s bedside. The reformed Russian ogre had made it a habit to visit the comatose boy and read to him, his basso voice rolling slowly through the ward like the comforting call of a distant foghorn. Max did not want to interrupt and took a seat in a worn chair while the lanky ogre peered through his monocle in the amber lamplight. Bob tried sounding out a difficult word, a growl of annoyance vibrating deep in his throat.

  “What does this say?” he finally asked Max, frowning and flipping the book around.

  “Wenceslas,” yawned Max, glancing at the old book of carols.

  “Oh,” said Bob, studiously finding his place once again on the page.

  There was a soft rustle of sheets and David sat up, blinking curiously at the feeding tube inserted in his arm and the ribbon tied about the protective wrap.

  “Cinnamon toast,” he blurted. “Do you think I could have some?”

  “David,” said Max, sitting straight up in his chair.

  Bob dropped the book; the ogre’s toothless mouth fell open. He leaned close to David and patted the smiling boy’s cheek with his tough, leathery hand.

  “Toast? Bob will make all the cinnamon toast you can eat!”

  With a clap, Bob lurched to his feet and strode over to a Moomenhoven, who was dozing beneath a woolly throw and a plate of goodies squirreled from the feast. The plump creature opened an eye and followed Bob’s long, pointing finger toward David, who was now wriggling his legs and examining his hospital pajamas. Springing up from the chair, the Moomenhoven fumbled for a thermometer and hurried over.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the wrong kind,” said David gently, pointing at the silvery probe.

  The Moomenhoven blushed furiously and scurried off to find another.

  “How do you feel?” asked Max.

  David glanced at the space where his right hand used to be.

  “I’m okay,” he said after a moment. “I needed some time to recover. That spell almost finished me, you know.” David smiled and began fiddling with the wrap on his hand. Round and round he spun his finger clockwise until the material and Max’s ribbon both fell away, revealing a smooth, shiny stump.

  “Not much to look at,” he murmured, taking the proper thermometer from the hovering, apologetic Moomenhoven. He thanked her and promised to take his temperature momentarily.

  “Does it hurt?” asked Max.

  “No,” said David. “But my body still thinks it’s there . . . I can feel my fingers itching.” He sighed and cupped the puckered skin with his remaining hand. “What’s been happening here?”

  “A lot,” said Max. “Cooper’s gone; he stayed behind to clear the way for us. I don’t know what happened to him, but it didn’t look good. I tried to find his apple in the orchard, but it isn’t there. A Sixth Year told me once you’re assigned to DarkMatter operations, they remove your apple—so no one else knows whether you’re dead or alive.” Max frowned and wondered which of the many orchard apples belonged to his mother.

  “Rasmussen’s here,” Max went on. “He’s taken up a room in the south wing near my dad’s. You can see him sometimes sulking in his window or hear him yelling for his meals. I wish Cooper were here to shut him up—”

  David hugged his knees and cut him off.

  “Bram’s Key—the Book of Origins. That’s all that matters.”

  Max glowered at David.

  “Cooper—”

  “Did what he was trained to do,” interrupted David. “No one was more focused on our objective than Cooper, Max. He would want us to finish the job. Where’s the Key now?”

  “In the Archives,” replied Max heavily. “I talked to Miss Boon last night—they still don’t know what it’s for.”

  David nodded. “Any sign of the witches?”

  “No. No one shows up here but refugees and whatever Agents have escaped from the field offices,”
said Max darkly. “Richter’s spent most of our resources bringing people here. Vilyak’s furious—says she’s responsible for the fall of half our field offices. He’s called for a vote of no confidence. Vilyak wants to be Director.”

  “Not while Bob is here,” growled the ogre, towering over them. He bore a silver tray piled high with warm, buttery cinnamon toast. This he set on David’s lap before easing himself into a seat. David began devouring the toast, speaking with a full mouth.

  “Did you tell anyone—”

  “Not yet,” said Bob with a wink. “Little one needs rest, not visitors.”

  “Bob, please don’t tell anyone I’ve woken up until tomorrow,” David pleaded.

  The ogre frowned.

  “Is it mischief that you make?” he asked cautiously.

  “No,” said David. “I just need a bit of time without everyone pestering me. The first thing they’ll do is stick me down with the scholars studying that sphere.”

  “But I thought you said that’s all that matters,” said Max.

  “It is,” said David, glancing sharply at him. “But the answers we need aren’t in the Archives. . . .”

  The ogre shook his head and pushed up from his seat.

  “The less Bob knows, the better. I tell the Director at breakfast tomorrow.”

  David thanked Bob and watched the ogre lumber out, ducking beneath the archway and letting the doors swing shut behind him. Then his eyes returned to Max; his whispered words were urgent.

  “Do you have my pack?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” said Max cautiously. “It’s in our room.”

  “Good,” said David. “Fill it with enough clothes for both of us—enough for a long time. Bring your spear and the shirt Señor Lorca gave you and meet me on the main path between the orchard and the Smithy. Will you do it?”

  “Of course,” said Max, his weariness evaporating. He felt a sudden urgency to consult with Mr. Sikes. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” said David. “But I’ll know soon enough. Just meet me on the path!”

  David dutifully slipped the thermometer beneath his tongue as Max hurried from the room.