The Second Siege

by Henry H. Neff

  SCENARIO COMPLETED

  OVERALL SCORE: 92

  “How can it be a ninety-two?” asked Vilyak. “He was overcome.”

  “Er . . . I beg your pardon, sir,” said Jürgen, calling up another screen and directing the Commander’s attention to the readout. “But Max is the only one who survived.”

  Vilyak blinked and read the report, his eyes darting rapidly across the screen.

  “Extraordinary,” he muttered, rewinding the recording to study the lethal patterns and arcs of Max’s movements. “What style is that you’re using? It’s not ours.”

  “It doesn’t have a name,” said Max. Scathach had no use for such things.

  “And what happened here?” Vilyak asked as the moment arrived when the screen went white.

  “I don’t remember,” said Max truthfully.

  Vilyak glanced sharply at him, his black eyes disbelieving.

  “Well,” he said, sighing and tapping the blank screen, “perhaps in time you’ll share your secrets, eh? But we have not come solely to applaud your performance, Max. There is an important meeting you must attend. They are waiting for us to begin now.”

  Several hundred attendees had convened in Maggie, crowded upon the many benches of a large Mystics classroom. Entering behind Vilyak, Max saw many of the older faculty and scholars seated, looking rather curious and uneasy as they chatted quietly amongst one another. Among them were dozens of unfamiliar Agents and Mystics, recent arrivals from Rowan’s fallen field offices. Max spied Rasmussen sitting at the far end of the first bench. The man’s eyes widened in apparent surprise before offering Max a sly, knowing smile. Ignoring him, Max took a seat among the other members of the Red Branch. Vilyak strode to the lectern.

  “Thank you for waiting,” he said. “Before we begin, I must ask that each of you sign this document that I will circulate. It is a Binding Scroll. Upon signing it, you will be unable to share any aspect of this meeting, its attendees, or its content to any external party until the deed is done. It is for your protection as well as my own. Are we agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said the other participants. Max watched a long cream-colored scroll snake its way swiftly through the crowd, passed from hand to hand as each attendee signed under the watchful gaze of the Red Branch. When the scroll came to Max, he hesitated a moment, wondering what sort of meeting could possibly require such secrecy. He glanced about for the faculty he knew well; none were in attendance. The supervising Agent placed the pen in his hand and gazed at him impassively. Max was about to sign when there was a knock on the door.

  “It is the boy,” said Vilyak. “Let him in.”

  Another Red Branch member strode to the door and opened it. Max could not see who was there, but heard an exclamation of surprise—of joy even. The attendees leaned forward to glimpse whoever had arrived. Footsteps sounded. Max gaped as Connor Lynch strode confidently into the room, giving a jaunty salute to Vilyak before taking a seat on the first bench.

  Another figure walked into the room, accompanied by the Red Branch Agent.

  It was Cooper.

  Max scribbled his name and passed the scroll to the next person as Cooper walked forward and exchanged quiet words with Vilyak, who embraced him like a son. Making his way through the attendees, Cooper took a moment to scrawl his name on the scroll before taking a seat next to Max. The Agent turned his ruined face to look full upon him. Many scars, some very fresh, twisted into the hint of a smile.

  “Cooper!” Max whispered, beaming. He was bursting with a hundred questions.

  The Agent patted Max on the shoulder and put a finger to his lips as Vilyak began to speak.

  “Well, this is a most auspicious beginning,” said Vilyak, rolling up the scroll once the signatures were complete. His gaze flitted from face to face; his authoritative voice filled the lecture hall.

  “I will speak plainly—I know no other way. I’ve asked each of you here to discuss the current crisis of leadership that plagues Rowan and is driving her toward ruin. While we all acknowledge that Gabrielle Richter is a fine woman with many excellent qualities, the fact remains that her policies and decisions as Director have thrust us to the brink of catastrophe. Since her mishandling of the witches, we operate under threat of a curse, have driven the witches to Astaroth’s camp, abandoned the field offices, and failed the Workshop in their hour of need. We now stand alone—a crippled, hidden harbor for refugees—while all outside falls under Astaroth’s sway. The one bit of recent hope is the acquisition of the Book of Origins, achieved through the heroic efforts of Agent McDaniels, who has replaced Antonio de Lorca among the Red Branch. With the addition of this bargaining chip, a moment of truth has arrived when those who love Rowan must act on her behalf. You are here because I know you to be patriots who recognize that our first loyalty must be to Rowan and not to any one individual. It is time for decisive action.”

  “Hear, hear,” called several people.

  An elderly Mystic raised her voice. “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

  “Three things,” replied Commander Vilyak. “The first and most immediate is the deposal of Gabrielle Richter as Director. We do not have time for the ordinary protocols, and thus I propose that the Founder’s Ring be taken by whatever means necessary and that she be confined to the Hollows forthwith.”

  “That’s treason!” gasped an elderly woman who taught in the Languages department.

  Max glanced in shock at Cooper, but the Agent merely stared stonily ahead.

  “Second,” continued Vilyak, barreling through the woman’s protests, which continued until her neighbors hushed her, “that I take possession of the Founder’s Ring and resume leadership as Director, invested with all necessary authority to command and negotiate on Rowan’s behalf.

  “And finally,” he concluded, “that we meet with the witches, the Workshop, and Astaroth’s emissaries to negotiate an agreement that is satisfactory to all. Even before we had the Book in our possession, I have been assured that our proposal would meet with a favorable reception.”

  Max leaned forward to glimpse Rasmussen, who sat with his hands folded on his lap, nodding as Vilyak spoke. One of the other Agents, a bearded Scot with a fringe of red hair, spoke up.

  “And what is this proposal?”

  “It is simple,” said Vilyak. “In exchange for its allegiance, Rowan shall be left alone, free to administer its own domain without interference from Astaroth. This domain will comprise all of New England and New York State. We will accept refugees from other regions as our capacity allows, giving strict preference to those with needed skills. Current inhabitants who do not meet our requirements will be deported.”

  “Deported where, exactly?” asked the Languages instructor.

  “That is not yet determined,” said Vilyak coolly, registering the questioner with a glance. “Rest assured, they will be looked after. Where was I? Oh yes—Jesper Rasmussen is to be reinstated in charge of the Frankfurt Workshop, and together we will pursue a policy of closer cooperation. Meanwhile, we will eliminate the threat of a curse by placating the witches and honoring a portion of their old agreement with Elias Bram. David Menlo will be given unto them, as he should have been last autumn.”

  Max had opened his mouth to protest when he felt Cooper’s hard fingers dig into his hand. The Agent’s jaw tightened and he gave a barely imperceptible shake of his head; Max was to keep silent.

  “And what of the Book?” asked an anxious scholar.

  “The Book will stay with Rowan,” said Vilyak proudly. “The threat of its power will ensure that Astaroth honors our agreement. Its secrets will help us to rebuild our strength; we will not only persevere but, in time, achieve the might and glory of our forebears.”

  “Negotiating with Astaroth?” muttered a willowy Mystic. “This sounds like surrender! It goes against everything we stand for!”

  “What we stand for, Miss Chen, is the continued survival of the human race,” said Vilyak, tapping his finger against the lecter
n. “I am ensuring that survival. And I take issue with your use of the term surrender. Those who surrender neither expand their territory nor dictate the terms of their peace and autonomous rule. That is what I intend to do. Perhaps you would prefer that we continue with this foolish charade of fractured resistance until we have squandered all basis for meaningful negotiations? Is this what you are proposing, Miss Chen?”

  The woman shook her head and glanced meekly at those around her. Vilyak sighed and rested his hands on the lectern.

  “My friends, I do not pretend that we would choose this unhappy course of events. But each of us has been taught that effective decision making requires an objective assessment of the situation. This is not the time for heroic stands or idealistic posturing; this is a time for survival. I urge you to consider carefully what I have said. I require your answer by tomorrow morning.”

  An ancient-looking Mystic in navy robes spoke up.

  “It seems to me that a very important detail is missing from your proposal,” he said. “How do you intend to depose the Director? She is most formidable and has the support of many.”

  Commander Vilyak smiled at the question.

  “Leave that to the Red Branch.”

  18

  THE DAWN SKIFF

  Max and Cooper walked out together, lingering behind the others and pausing on Maggie’s cold stone steps to watch smoke trickling from the Manse’s many chimneys.

  “This is terrible, Cooper,” said Max. “We have to warn Ms. Richter.”

  “You can’t,” said Cooper quietly. “The Binding Scroll won’t permit it.”

  “There must be a way,” insisted Max.

  “You’re to do nothing that endangers you or David,” said Cooper coldly. “Never forget the order I gave you: you are to protect David Menlo and keep him alive at all costs.”

  “David and I got the Book,” said Max. “The DarkMatter operation is over.”

  Cooper shook his head and pulled his coat closer about him.

  “The order stands.”

  Old Tom rang the noon chimes, startling a pair of crows into flight. People streamed toward the Manse, where lunch would be served in the dining hall. Max watched them go: parents, grandparents, students, and siblings filing toward the broad stone steps. He glanced hopelessly toward the sea, which was a hazy gray beyond David’s veil where seagulls called like ghosts.

  “What are we going to do, Cooper?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said the Agent. “I’ll know more when I get my instructions. In the meantime, you’re to do nothing that suggests disloyalty to Vilyak. It could be very dangerous to you and your family.”

  “My mother’s here, you know,” said Max. “David and I found her in the Sidh. Actually, she found us.”

  “I heard,” said Cooper, his voice softening.

  “She said you two used to be sweethearts,” said Max.

  “That was a long time ago,” said Cooper quietly.

  “I’m going to see her now,” said Max. “Will you come?”

  The Agent hesitated, touching his fingertips to the many scars and patches of taut skin that marred his once-handsome face.

  “I will.”

  Mrs. McDaniels and Isis were dozing when Max and Cooper entered the healing ward. The visitors had departed, leaving Peter Varga and Mr. McDaniels in quiet conversation. Upon seeing Cooper, Mr. McDaniels dropped his soup spoon. He stood quickly and crossed to the door to shake the Agent’s hand.

  “William Cooper!” he sputtered. “When did you . . . ? How did you . . .?”

  “Just now, and very carefully,” replied the Agent. “It’s good to see you again, Scott.”

  “Is that William?” called Bryn McDaniels from the bed. Max’s spirits sank at the sound of her voice; it had weakened to little more than a sigh.

  “It is,” said Cooper, removing his cap and clutching it between his fingers. He approached tentatively, stopping several feet away.

  “Come closer so I can see you,” croaked Mrs. McDaniels, stroking Isis’s sleek coat.

  Cooper cleared his throat and kneeled by the bedside.

  “There you are,” she said, her eyes searching the ruins of Cooper’s face. “I am so happy to see you, William. I want to thank you for protecting my boys.”

  “It was my honor, Deirdre,” said Cooper, letting her touch his scars and the taut patches of shiny skin.

  “Long time,” said Bryn McDaniels.

  “Twenty-five years,” said Cooper.

  “Much longer than that,” said Mrs. McDaniels with a twinkle as she glanced at her frail hands. “Where is my son?”

  “I’m here, Mom,” said Max, walking round to take his father’s seat.

  “Good,” she said, turning slowly to look at him. “Sit with me for a bit, Max. Your father was reading me my Tennyson before I dozed off like a silly girl. Maybe he’ll read some more?”

  “Of course,” said Mr. McDaniels, sitting on the edge of a cot and plucking up a book covered with worn brown leather. He put on his reading glasses and thumbed through the yellowed pages, stopping at a sliver of green ribbon. As he read, his deep, soothing voice conjured images of myrrh thickets and Arabian nights and the sorrowful Lady of Shalott, while Max held his mother’s hand and Cooper kneeled at her side. Peter Varga sat in silence, his fingers knitted atop his cane while the poems wove their magic. Max watched the black gloss of Isis’s fur rise and fall in a steady rhythm while the hour passed, measured in faint ticks by the clock on the mantel.

  Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

  Death closes all: but something ere the end,

  Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

  Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

  The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

  The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

  Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

  ’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

  Push off, and sitting well in order smite

  The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

  To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

  Of all the western stars, until I die.

  It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

  It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

  And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

  Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

  We are not now that strength which in old days

  Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;

  One equal temper of heroic hearts,

  Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

  To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

  Max felt a tiny pressure, an infinitesimal squeeze from his mother’s hand as the poem ended. He glanced at her face. Bryn McDaniels lay in tranquil repose, her eyes closed in a gentle smile while she clutched her charge to her breast. Isis had stopped breathing and Max knew, in an instant of agonizing clarity, that both had passed. Removing his mother’s hand from his own, he kissed it and laid it gently on the quilt.

  “She’s gone,” he said.

  “Hmmm?” asked his father, licking his thumb and turning the page.

  “She’s gone, Dad,” said Max.

  Cooper stood and made way for Max’s father. Scott McDaniels bent close, gently feeling for her pulse while he smoothed a few stray hairs from her forehead. Carefully sliding Tennyson’s poems beneath her arm, he turned to them. His eyes were filled with tears, but he managed a smile.

  “I—I want to thank you for being here at the end,” he stammered. “I’m so happy that my Bryn was able to pass in a soft bed surrounded by people she loved. To even see her again . . . well, it’s more than I’d hoped for these past few years.”

  Peter Varga and Cooper stood to pay their respects to Max and his father. Before leaving, Cooper paused in the doorway and looked upon Bryn McDaniels one last time. His eyes flicked to Max and the Agent touched two fingers to his forehead in a farewell
salute.

  Scott McDaniels hugged his son tight and whispered that Max should go. Max nodded and walked quietly to the door. His father sat heavily at the foot of the bed while the Moomenhovens busied themselves with bandages and bowls of camphor oil.

  David was in their room when Max entered, sitting cross-legged on his bed with the Book of Origins.

  “That man was just here looking for you,” said David.

  “Who?” asked Max, shutting the door.

  “Vilyak,” said David. “Where have you been?”

  “With my mom,” Max whispered. “She died just now.”

  David closed the Book and looked at Max, his small face looking very adult as he studied Max with an expression of concern and sympathy.

  “I’m so sorry, Max.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” asked David.

  “No,” said Max, making his way toward his end of the room, where his sleigh bed was waiting. On the comforter was the folded tapestry that held the shards of Cúchulain’s spear. Max moved it to the foot of the bed and removed Lorca’s shirt of nanomail. Climbing between the sheets, Max pulled the covers to his chin, gazed up at the constellations, and assured himself that one more star now flickered bright among them.

  A knock woke Max from sleep. He glanced at his watch; it was almost dinnertime. He heard David’s footsteps patter to the door.

  “If it’s Vilyak, tell him I’m not here,” called Max, pulling his pillow over his head.

  David opened the door and Max could hear him speaking quietly with someone in the hallway. His roommate closed it once again and walked softly to Max’s side of the room.

  “It’s Connor and the others,” he said. “They brought you dinner. Should I send them away?”

  “No,” said Max, sitting up. He climbed from his bed and padded downstairs to throw on a sweater. Splashing water on his face, he looked hard at himself in the mirror before walking back upstairs to open the door. Connor stood outside with Sarah, Cynthia, and Lucia.