The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  “My visitor was a prescient I had known when I was a student here,” she continued. “He prophesied that my son would someday be lost—lost within the Sidh unless I was there to guide him home. The day was Midsummer and that very night a penumbral eclipse of the moon occurred. It is a most rare occurrence, my loves—a time when a gateway might be found to the Sidh. There was no time to lose! We made our way to Ireland, where he led me to a door on the banks of the river Boyne. For a time, I wavered—aware of the terrible pain I would cause. Dawn approached and the doorway began to fade. I went through. And there I have lived—within the Sidh, waiting for the day I would be needed. I have missed you more than I can say.”

  “And who is Deirdre Fallow?” asked Scott McDaniels.

  “I was Deirdre Fallow,” explained Mrs. McDaniels. “Until I left Rowan behind and would become your Bryn. Bryn was the life I chose, Scott—a life with you and away from all of this. I found happiness as Bryn McDaniels.”

  “So you never attended St. Mary’s?” asked Mr. McDaniels, looking confused.

  “No,” she said. “My new life required a new identity. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you know William Cooper, Mom?” asked Max, suddenly remembering Cooper’s strange reaction to the photograph.

  “Yes,” said his mother, sounding surprised. “He was a year ahead of me. We were sweethearts here, if you can believe it! He was a lovely person—serious, but lovely. They whisked him away to active service after graduation and we fell out of touch.”

  “He looked after us, you know,” said Max. “Dad and me and David and the others on our journey.”

  “And where is he now?” asked Mrs. McDaniels, smiling. “I’d like to see him again. William could always make me laugh!”

  “I don’t know, Mom,” said Max. “We lost him in Germany.”

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Throughout this drift in the conversation, Mr. McDaniels remained silent—a rounded block with a forward lean and a contemplative face. He abruptly stood up.

  “You must be hungry,” he said. “What can I get you?”

  “Oh, I’m not so hungry,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “Old age gobbles up the appetite.”

  She chuckled, but Max and his father did not.

  “No, no,” said Mr. McDaniels, wringing his hands. “How ’bout Belgian waffles? You used to love ’em and I’ll bet they didn’t have any in the Sheee—or whatever it’s called. You can’t say no to golden-brown waffles with fresh maple syrup!”

  “Okay,” said Mrs. McDaniels, smiling. “Breakfast in bed it is. I’ll be spoiled before long!”

  “Back in a jiffy,” said Scott McDaniels, kissing her on the forehead. He walked briskly from the room, visibly pleased to be of service. Once he disappeared outside the door, Max’s mother sighed.

  “The sweetest soul I’ve ever known,” she whispered. “How I’ve missed him.” She turned a pair of penetrating eyes upon her son. “I know who rules at Rodrubân, Max,” she said at last. “And I gather you now know his relationship to you?”

  Max nodded and stared at the quilt’s red stitching.

  “It’s awkward to discuss this, but I want you to know that I was never unfaithful to my husband,” she said. “Before you were born, Lugh came to me in my sleep and told me I would give birth to a marvelous boy. The boy would be a son of the Sidh—Céchulain reborn. Of course, I passed it off as a ridiculous dream.” Her eyes brightened. “You were such a beautiful baby! The nurses cooed and my heart nearly burst with pride to have such a fine son. And Scott! He rocked you back and forth while you squeezed his finger so tight it turned blue!”

  They laughed together and Max reached for the small, gnarled hand that lay atop the quilt. It was no more than a wedge of bone and gristle and papery skin. He patted the fragile thing as she spoke, aware that she had been weakening appreciably ever since they’d found the Book.

  “As you grew older, I knew it was no dream,” she continued. “It pained me to see you suffer so, always wrestling with that monstrous spark within you. You straddle two worlds, Max, mortal and immortal. I could feel the Old Magic growing—burning you from within and biding its time. Do you remember those terrible days?”

  “I do,” said Max quietly. “I could never sleep. And the headaches . . . I thought I would die.”

  “But you did not,” she said, shaking her head. “You managed as best you could. And now I must ask you to manage one more thing, if you can.”

  “Of course,” said Max, leaning forward. His mother’s voice was hushed and urgent.

  “Never tell Scott the circumstances behind your birth,” she whispered. “You’re all he has, Max! He has loved you as his son since before you were born. It would do no good to share such a secret.”

  Max hastily wiped away a tear.

  “I already made up my mind on all of that,” he said, summoning a smile. “My father lives at Rodrubân; my dad lives at Rowan.”

  His mother said nothing but squeezed his hand with all the strength she could muster.

  “You’re a fine young man,” she whispered.

  Several minutes later, Mr. McDaniels returned with a covered tray.

  “Voilà!” he said, setting the tray upon the bed. Upon a plate were four steaming waffles, a small pitcher of syrup, and a glass of fresh juice.

  “Dear me,” said Mrs. McDaniels, “I might die of shock. These aren’t, er . . .”

  “Burnt!” said Scott McDaniels triumphantly. “Yes, I know—I’ve learned a thing or two as well, my dear. Bob’s a heckuva teacher.”

  “How is Bob?” inquired Mrs. McDaniels. “I used to chat with him in the kitchens until that awful hag arrived. I can’t imagine she’s still here—tricked a First Year into a cooking pot! Poor thing thought it was all a funny game until he was floating in chicken broth and sliced carrots. Thank god Kraken arrived to put an end to it! Oh, what was her name?”

  “Her name is Mum and she can hear you!” bellowed the hag from just beyond the doors.

  “I should have said something,” said Mr. McDaniels, cutting his wife’s waffles into small bites. “You have visitors—lots of them, whenever you’re ready. Should I send them away?”

  “Absolutely not,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “I’d love to see them—Mum, too!”

  In came Bob and a scowling Mum. Following behind were Miss Awolowo, Mr. Vincenti, and Nolan, who held a sleek black bundle in his arms. The Director came last.

  “Deirdre Fallow,” exclaimed Nolan, stooping to kiss the top of her head. “When I heard the news I couldn’t believe it! Deirdre Fallow back after all these years and Max’s mother to boot! Who knew?”

  Everyone laughed and greeted her in a flurry of careful hugs and well-wishes. Nolan laid the dark bundle upon the quilt. It moved and Max saw it was a cat so black that tinges of midnight blue rippled through its fur. Luminous yellow eyes blinked as it stirred from sleep.

  “Isis!” exclaimed Mrs. McDaniels, reaching out a hand to stroke the cat’s fur. “I didn’t know if she . . .”

  “Was still kickin’?” asked Nolan with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Yes, indeed. Sleeps most days, though.”

  Isis turned her head and sniffed Max’s mother. A deep, contented purring sounded as the cat pawed and patted her way up the quilt, nestling her head beneath Mrs. McDaniels’s chin.

  “Isis was my charge, Max,” explained his mother, stroking the cat’s glossy fur. “I wasn’t sure if she was still alive, much less whether she’d remember me.”

  “Some things don’t change,” said Nolan, smiling.

  “And some things do!” declared Mum, elbowing past Nolan to peer closely at Max’s mother. “I’ll have you know I’m now a reformed hag and utterly indispensable to this establishment!” Mum suddenly abandoned her rant and sniffed casually along Mrs. McDaniels’s wrist. “Yes, yes, I remember you now,” she mumbled to herself. “Skinny girl with black hair; very suspicious—always watching. Should be served with a starchy side. Y
es, yes . . . hmmm,” she said, sniffing again. She eyed Max and seized his wrist suddenly, inhaling deeply. “How I never put the two of you together is beyond me!” she exclaimed. “Mother and son, sure as Bel and me are sisters. I ought to have my sniffer examined. . . .”

  With a massive hand, Bob gently tugged Mum away, reaching over her head to lay a bundle of roses on the bed.

  “Welcome home, Deirdre,” said Bob, patting the covered lump of her foot. “Bob has missed his little Fallow. Or should Bob call you Bryn?”

  Mrs. McDaniels glanced at Max and her husband.

  “Bryn,” she said decisively. “I am Bryn McDaniels now.”

  Max listened in fascination as the visiting faculty pulled up chairs and began to share a history of his mother he had never known. Apparently, she’d been an excellent student—winning Macon’s Quill for academic achievement with offers to join her pick of field offices. As proud as he was, it was strange for Max to imagine his mother walking the same paths, attending the same classes—even having some of the same instructors that he had.

  “Has Sir Alistair retired?” she asked, referring to Rowan’s expert on diplomacy and etiquette.

  “No,” said Miss Awolowo.

  Mrs. McDaniels said nothing but rolled her eyes, to the amusement of all.

  The conversation soon turned to questions of the Sidh. According to her account, Mrs. McDaniels had spent a good deal of time wandering about, learning the strange rules, laws, and customs of the place: which rivers were perilous, how to skirt the many marching armies, which kingdoms were to be avoided during certain months and moons. While sharing her stories, she perked up considerably, and Max felt a flutter of hope that perhaps the effects of the Sidh would fade and the accumulated years peel away like layers of paint to reveal the mother he remembered.

  A slow, sharp rapping sound snapped his attention back.

  Peter Varga stood in the doorway.

  He was thinner than when Max had last seen him, but his prescient eye still stared white and ghostly within its dark, lidded socket. The rest of his face was handsome, if sallow. Since the previous spring, he had been spending his days rehabilitating after the dreadful injuries he suffered from Marley Augur. Peter limped into the room, leaning heavily on a sturdy cane and dragging his right foot.

  Max bristled at the sight of him.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

  Peter glanced at Max’s mother, his eyes wandering over her gray hair and wrinkled skin.

  “I came to welcome Deirdre back,” he said quietly.

  “Her name is Bryn McDaniels,” said Max, “and she’s my mother and this is all because of you.”

  Peter winced at Max’s words. He opened his mouth to say something before shutting it once again.

  “Should I go?” he asked finally.

  “No,” said Mrs. McDaniels, beckoning him over. “You are not to blame, Peter. Your vision was correct—I was needed in the Sidh.”

  “What do you mean, he’s not to blame?” seethed Max. “He’s the reason you’re old! He’s the reason the witches want David! He’s probably the one helping Astaroth to get the Book!”

  “Max,” warned Ms. Richter, shaking her head.

  “But it’s true,” said Max, stabbing a finger at Peter. “Did David tell you, Director? We have another traitor! Someone with access to the Archives! A traitor planted that letter and talisman so we’d go fetch the Book for Astaroth!”

  “Max!” said Ms. Richter, demanding silence with a curt gesture.

  Max glanced at each of his parents. Then he shook off Nolan’s restraining hand and dashed toward the exit, letting the doors swing wildly behind him. As he rushed down the hallway, he passed a bewildered Hannah and her goslings as they waddled toward the healing ward.

  “Max, honey?” called Hannah, concerned. He did not stop to answer.

  Out of the Manse and into the bright morning he ran, almost knocking over some older students and an elderly couple walking their dog. He raced through the orchard and down the path to the Smithy, punching in the codes that would take him down to the Course.

  Once in the trophy room, Max glanced at Macon’s Quill and hurried onto the second elevator that descended to the scenario chambers. Several Sixth Years widened their eyes as he hurried in to join them before the doors could close. Max leaned against the brass railing and closed his eyes; the elevator still had the familiar smell of wood polish, sweat, and machine oil.

  “Er, what level do you want?” asked a tall South African boy.

  “Nine,” said Max quietly.

  “Seriously now,” said the boy with a nervous chuckle. Level Nine was never accessed; the button’s Roman numeral gleamed perfectly crisp and sharp compared to its worn and rounded neighbors.

  “Level Nine,” Max repeated, staring at the floor.

  “Be my guest,” said the Sixth Year, backing away from the panel.

  Max leaned over and pressed the button. A woman’s voice sounded from a speaker above them.

  “Voice authorization required.”

  “Max McDaniels,” he growled, stepping back to his spot.

  “Access granted.”

  The elevator rocketed straight down, accelerating to dizzying speeds until it stopped at Level Five. The Sixth Years hurried out, a jumble of whispers and sidelong glances.

  “Bye,” said Max, glancing up, but the older students just stared at him until the doors shut once again.

  Down and down he went, lost in his thoughts, until the elevator finally came to a halt. When the doors opened, Max found himself staring at a very rumpled-looking analyst. The man coughed and straightened his glasses, patting down his hair in a futile attempt to pretend he had not been sleeping.

  “Special Agent McDaniels?” the man said, nodding politely at Max.

  “Yeah,” said Max, blinking at the title. He glanced at the red mark on his wrist. “I guess so.”

  “I’m Jürgen Mosel,” said the man. “The analyst assigned to Level Nine. I’m honored to finally meet you and I apologize that I’m not more prepared. It’s just that . . . no one ever really comes down here.”

  Max glided past him, taking in a small octagonal room furnished with a desk, a computer monitor, and a couch whose cushions betrayed the fading imprint of the disheveled analyst.

  “Where’s the programming panel?” asked Max, gazing at the single silver door across from the elevator. There were none of the usual controls.

  “Nothing to program,” said Jürgen with a shrug. “Level Nine scenarios are randomly generated—you’re not to have any idea what to expect. I’m told objectives are revealed as you go. Before you enter that chamber, however, I’m required to warn you that—”

  Nodding dreamily through the unsettling disclaimers, Max focused instead on the rising tide of energy and emotions within him. When Jürgen had finished, Max opened the door a crack and gazed in silence upon a void. The emptiness before him was almost tangible, endless stretches of numbing blackness. He thrust his hand forward and watched it submerge in the abyss as though he’d plunged it into a tub of ink. Slipping inside, Max closed the door behind him. He felt his body pulled gently but irresistibly away until his fingers slipped from the doorknob and he drifted out into the void.

  Two hours later, Max emerged from the chamber to find the monitoring room filled with people. Jürgen had been relegated to an irrelevant seat on the couch, while members of the Red Branch spoke quietly to one another. Commander Vilyak was at the desk, peering intently at the computer screen. He tapped it several times and scowled.

  “You there,” he said, beckoning at Jürgen. “Something’s not working. The screen’s gone white.”

  While Jürgen fiddled with the computer, Vilyak rounded the desk to grip Max’s sweaty, shaking hand.

  “We came as soon as we heard,” he gushed. “Sneaking off to Level Nine without so much as an auxiliary? Ha! I knew you were worthy of the Red Branch.”

  Raising Ma
x’s brand high in the air for the others to see, Commander Vilyak quickly made introductions. Max tried to remember the nine names—six men, three women—but he was exhausted and mumbled through his hellos. Despite their different races and nationalities, they all shared a common calm demeanor. With one or two exceptions, most appeared to be middle-aged. All had lean, purposeful faces.

  “Have you fixed it yet?” called Vilyak to the analyst.

  “I don’t think there’s anything to fix, sir,” replied Jürgen.

  Vilyak frowned and rounded the desk to peer at the screen.

  “Of course there is,” he barked, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Before I could see, now I can’t!”

  “I understand, sir,” said Jürgen. “But nothing indicates any sort of malfunction. What you see—or don’t see—is what actually occurred in the scenario.”

  Max walked over and peered at the screen while Vilyak scrolled back impatiently. There was Max, in the center of a circular chamber. Within the scenario, he was blindfolded and his right arm had been bound behind him. He clutched a thick wooden baton while his final adversaries surrounded him. There were no monstrous or supernatural enemies in this scenario—Max’s opponents were the other members of the Red Branch, including Cooper. Vilyak slowed the images to a crawl as the assailants closed like a noose.

  Max blinked at the scene; even in slow motion, his image skipped across the screen. Knives flashed, but the baton smoothly parried them and then swung in a blur, cracking against ribs, knees, knuckles, and cheekbones with appalling accuracy. Weapons were knocked away and opponents crushed down to the floor, where they scrambled away to regroup and attack again. In the midst of all the activity was Max, a beautiful, harmonious whirl of motion and feints as he sensed his opponents’ positions and anticipated their every move.

  As the fight raged on, however, he had begun to tire. Max winced as he saw the replay of Cooper’s pommel crashing into the base of his neck. In the split second that his legs buckled, the others were upon him. As he was being borne to the ground, the image was suddenly lost in a flash of white light. Text appeared on the screen: