The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  “Brigit’s former suitor,” said Max, frowning.

  Astaroth inclined his head. “Like myself, you have an instinct for justice,” he remarked. “What indeed happened to her betrothed? The bards never delved into such details because I daresay it complicates things. It just might make you consider your Archmage in a less flattering light. As you know, Brigit honored her father’s oath and married Elias Bram. But was she happy with this turn of events? Did she ever grow to love the arrogant young Archmage? Only she could say. Some have surmised that she was not pining for Bram when she waded into the sea but rather for this former suitor … the man she was supposed to marry.”

  Max cleared his throat. “Well, what happened to him? The other suitor, I mean.”

  “Sad stuff,” sighed the Demon. “Ironically, this fellow had been Bram’s closest companion. And despite this man’s many virtues, Elias still dominated and outshone him in every conceivable way. There was nothing the poor boy could have or achieve that Bram could not take or surpass. However, that all changed when this friend found love. Until that day, Bram had no interest or use for such sentiments, but nevertheless it galled him that this associate—this inferior—should possess something that he did not. And thus the spiteful Archmage resolved not only to take a wife, but also to take the very woman with whom his friend was smitten.”

  “That’s terrible,” Max said.

  “Yes, it is,” concurred Astaroth. “But you must understand that winning was never enough for Elias Bram; others also had to lose. And so you see, the famous tale of Bram’s heroic courtship is actually one of history’s great betrayals. Shall I tell you the name of Brigit’s suitor or can you guess?”

  “Marley,” concluded Max stiffly. “It was Marley Augur, wasn’t it?”

  “Correct,” Astaroth hissed. “You’ve always thought of Marley as a villain and a traitor, but aren’t those labels better suited for Bram? Be very careful of trusting Rowan’s fate to the Archmage, Hound. One might say that those who know him best, love him least.”

  It was an uncomfortable revelation and Max wondered if David knew these allegations about his grandfather. Max did not doubt that they were true. For one, Astaroth never lied. For another, Max had also read some of Bram’s own papers and had to admit that nothing the Demon said ran counter to the tone or tenor in the writings. Elias Bram had been an arrogant young man; he had been consumed with his own achievements and advancement. And then there was Marley Augur … the blacksmith’s loathing of Bram, his desire for revenge, had staved off death itself and turned him into a revenant. The hatred was real and its origins were deep.

  Still, Max gave a bitter laugh. “Should we look to you, then?” he wondered. “Will ‘the Great God’ come to Rowan’s aid when Prusias storms our gates?”

  The Demon’s smile vanished and he glided almost within arm’s reach, hovering like a phantom.

  “You have but to ask,” he whispered solemnly. “You have but to ask and I will come to you. Do you remember how to call me? ‘Noble Astaroth, pray favor thy petitioner with wisdom from under hill, beyond the stars, and beneath the deepest sea.’ Utter these words, Max McDaniels, and you shall have an ally in your hour of need.”

  “How generous,” Max observed. “And what would you expect in return?”

  “One minor service,” replied the Demon.

  “And what would that be?”

  “You must slay Elias Bram.”

  Max smiled in disbelief before simply shaking his head.

  “Don’t assume my motives are purely selfish,” Astaroth cautioned, leaning close. “It may be in your interest to destroy the Archmage.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “He does not love you, Max McDaniels. You frighten him. You are a demigod and your lineage is very great. The Archmage’s powers are in full bloom, but yours are in mere infancy. Bram knows there will be a day when he cannot stand against you. Given the man’s past, do you really believe he will let that day come?”

  Once he’d posed the question, the Demon stopped and awaited a response. Max gave a rueful smile.

  “Your words are always poison.”

  The Demon sighed and leaned upon his staff. “Truth is a bitter draught, but the wise man swallows it. Consider what I’ve said, Max. Sleep on it. Should the wolf come scratching at your door, know that you have an ally in waiting. Speak the proper words and we have a contract. Speak the proper words and I will aid you.”

  “That will never happen.”

  “As you will,” replied Astaroth softly. “But never is a long time and Rowan’s hour draws near.”

  As Astaroth spoke these words, Old Tom struck ten o’clock. The notes rang clear and cold as the Demon backed slowly into the woods. And as he did, his ghostly form seemed to fade and dissipate. At last it unraveled into a wisp of vapor that scattered on the wind.

  Following this strange and unsettling proposal, Max returned to the Manse. Once there, he retired to his room and remained there for two days. He did not share news of the Demon’s visit with anyone. A part of his consciousness—a hopeful sliver—wanted to believe that he had imagined the whole affair. Besides, what was he to say—that Astaroth was willing to save them in exchange for Elias Bram’s murder? Such an awful temptation might bitterly divide Rowan’s leadership when unity was needed.

  Max regretted the conversation extremely. The Demon’s offer was an immense burden upon a mind and conscience already laden to capacity. He brooded over the many facets of their discussion, pacing about his room and gazing up at the starlit dome. While Astaroth never lied, he was often selective about what he shared and was perfectly willing for others to draw their own conclusions. He rarely relied on direct confrontation or brute force; his were more subtle schemes of leverage and manipulation. The Demon was notorious for moving allies and enemies about like chess pieces. Max did not fool himself that he could divine Astaroth’s grander game, but he did not have to be a pawn.

  When in doubt, keep things simple.

  He had no sooner resolved to speak with David when his roommate entered the observatory carrying Toby.

  “Here you are,” said David, sounding distracted. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine,” said Max. “What’s up?”

  “We’ve heard from Natasha Kiraly,” replied David, heading toward his bed. “She has the Workshop engineer and is waiting at the safe house. We’re going to make the switch.”

  “Farewell, friend Max!” cried Toby. “As I set forth into peril, I do so with a full heart and no regrets. Was it Tennyson who once said—”

  “Yes, it was,” snapped David, silencing the melodramatic smee. Sitting on his bed, he touched the headboard and glanced up at the stars. When Andromeda appeared, he muttered the constellation’s name and the pair promptly vanished.

  Walking over, Max stared at the bed as though expecting it to perform another trick. But it disappointed him. Uneventful minutes passed until he grew bored and went down to the lower level to make a fire. Spreading a blanket upon his lap, he sat and gazed into the crackling hearth.

  Twenty minutes passed before David reappeared. Max saw him rounding the upper story’s ledge and leading a confused-looking man by a slender, glowing cord. The engineer blinked and gazed about, his silvery hair standing straight up as though he had been electrocuted.

  “I’d have been back sooner, but Toby needed to ‘get into character,’ ” sighed David. “Let me take Dr. Bechel down to Miss Boon and I’ll be back. Our guest won’t have anything useful to say until the effects of the passive fetter wear off.” He paused and looked attentively at Max. “Are you all right?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Give me an hour and I’m yours.”

  David made good on his promise. Before the clock struck six, he eased into the armchair across from Max and kicked off his shoes.

  “Ah,” he sighed, wiggling his toes. “Much better. Now, what’s the matter?”

  “Astaroth visited me,�
� replied Max. “Two days ago, by Rose Chapel.”

  David raised his eyebrows but said nothing as Max relayed every detail he could recall. When he had finished, David gave a bemused smile.

  “Well, I have to applaud his generosity,” he reflected. “That’s a far better proposal than the one Prusias made. In exchange for one life, we save thousands and our realm besides. We don’t even have to surrender the gae bolga or suffer another embassy on our lands. It’s very tempting.” The sorcerer chuckled.

  “David, I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.” He shrugged. “Or at least half serious. I may despise Astaroth, but I pity him, too.”

  Max glanced at David’s wrist, the puckered stump where the Demon had bitten off his hand.

  “Why would you of all people pity him?”

  “Your conversation with him was very telling,” said David, rubbing his eyes. “To reiterate Astaroth’s point, he still holds all the cards. With the Book of Thoth, he can destroy this world—wipe the slate clean anytime he chooses and yet he doesn’t! Instead, he visits you and makes a personal appeal. Why should he do such a thing?”

  “To use me as a weapon against your grandfather,” Max brooded, staring at the fire.

  “Possibly,” David allowed. “That’s undoubtedly part of his objective, but I think there’s more. Astaroth could have stated those terms far more directly. Instead he tried very hard to justify himself to you, to convince you that he’s not a mere tyrant or mass murderer. He tried to persuade you that his vision is grand and worthwhile—that it will benefit all once it reaches fruition.”

  Max nodded, uncertain where his roommate was going.

  “But why should he remotely care whether you or anyone else approves?” laughed David. “Why should Astaroth entertain any objections or resistance when he has the means to obliterate them?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Perhaps I do,” mused David, tapping the armrest. “Astaroth doesn’t want power for its own sake—he finds that juvenile and crude. And despite his stated interest in creation, we know that creation alone doesn’t satisfy him. After all, he already possesses the means to destroy or create almost anything he wishes. Strange as it sounds, I think what he really craves is consent … consent and admiration. Astaroth believes in his vision, and he desperately wants us to believe as well. And to love him for it.”

  “Well, at least he’s insecure,” Max quipped. “That’s a comfort.”

  “Cold comfort,” remarked David, shaking his head. “I far prefer an enemy like Prusias. He’s cunning, brutal, and greedy, but he’s also pragmatic. Prusias wants what he wants, and he’ll gladly bash you over the head until you give it to him. The King of Blys is content with slaves, but Astaroth demands followers.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Oh, there’s a big one. A tyrant like Prusias doesn’t really care why you obey him; he only cares that you obey. But Astaroth is a fanatic. He wants true believers who share his ideals. Fanatics are scary, Max. Ultimately, they’d rather burn the board than let someone else win the game.”

  “Astaroth said the same things about your grandfather,” Max reflected.

  “He’s not wrong,” said David. “Astaroth and my grandfather have more in common than they’d probably care to admit. The Archmage may be family, but I harbor no illusions about him—I know he is a dangerous man. And given this, I think you should tell him about Astaroth’s offer. It will be best coming from you.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” said Max sheepishly. “I don’t want him to be suspicious of me.”

  “It’s your choice,” said David. “But have you considered that my grandfather may already know about the Demon’s proposal? In fact, I would guess that Astaroth has already told him.”

  Max had been tapping the profile of a raven engraved upon the gae bolga’s scabbard. He stopped and glanced at David, who was eyeing him thoughtfully.

  “Why would Astaroth warn the very person he’s trying to kill?”

  “Because he’s a strategist,” David replied. “Astaroth knows the chances of you acting upon his offer are slim—it’s simply not your nature to murder someone in cold blood, no matter what the reward. Now, if you do and say nothing about it—as is likely—Astaroth has not gained anything by making the offer. But if my grandfather also knows about the proposal, many more possibilities unfold. At a minimum, the prospect of your treachery is a considerable distraction to the Archmage. In the best case, the information triggers a violent confrontation between the two of you. So long as Elias Bram knows about the offer, Astaroth is guaranteed an outcome with some value. It’s basic game theory. And so I think you should tell my grandfather, Max. The more forthcoming you are, the less suspicious he will be.”

  “I don’t see why Astaroth doesn’t just do the job himself,” said Max. “If he wants Bram dead so badly, I would think he could do it whenever he wishes.”

  “Not with the Book,” said David mildly. “In this world, the Book of Thoth has no power over my grandfather or anyone else in my family. If it did, Astaroth would have destroyed me long ago.”

  “But why can’t it affect you?” asked Max.

  “There are three basic requirements for the Book of Thoth to have power over something,” David explained. “First, the Book’s pages must contain the thing’s truename. Second, the Book must be in the same world where that truename originated. And finally, the thing itself must also be in the world where it’s truename originated. For example, do you remember Folly and Hubris, those birds I created in the Sidh?”

  Max nodded.

  “Well,” said David, “the Book has no power over them while they’re in this world. If we were to take them and the Book back to the Sidh, we could do whatever we wished—modify them, make them the size of ostriches, or negate their existence altogether. But while they’re in this world, the Book has no power over them. The same holds true for my grandfather and thus for my mother and me.”

  Max considered this and arrived at a bizarre conclusion. “So … Elias Bram is from another world?” he gasped.

  “Technically, yes,” said David, smiling at Max’s astonishment. “You can pick your jaw up off the floor. Elias Bram was born in this world, but he no longer has his original truename. Long ago, he gave himself a new one.”

  “How did he manage that?”

  “As you know, he once possessed the Book himself. Before he hid it in the Sidh, he studied its pages and realized just how powerful it could be. It disturbed him that someone could control, change, or even destroy him using his truename. My grandfather is not the sort to leave himself so vulnerable and thus he removed his own truename from the Book.”

  “But wouldn’t he cease to exist if he did something like that?” Max wondered.

  “I’ll spare you the alternate-universe theories, but yes—if he had removed his own name in this world, he would have effectively destroyed himself. Instead, he used the Book to create another tiny world—no more than an extradimensional pocket. And once inside this new world, he gave himself a new truename, one that tied his origins to this little place of his own creation. Once he had achieved this, he removed his former truename from the Book of Thoth. Because of these precautions, he is effectively beyond the Book’s reach. Since my mother’s and my truenames stem partially from him, we inherit this immunity. The Book can only manipulate those whose origins are tied wholly to one world. That is why you are also immune from its direct control—your truename has roots in this world and the Sidh. If Astaroth wants to destroy us, he’ll have to do the job himself … or get others to do it for him.”

  “Which is why he’s bribing me to turn on your grandfather,” Max concluded.

  “Precisely. Max McDaniels might be able to destroy Elias Bram with the gae bolga, but the Book cannot. And at the moment, I don’t believe Astaroth can either.”

  “You think Walpurgisnacht weakened him?”

  “I do,” said David with evident sati
sfaction. “Alas, he’s not weak enough for someone like me to tackle him, but I believe Astaroth is legitimately afraid of my grandfather. I think he is waiting … biding his time for the wars to play out and to see who survives. He is nothing if not patient.”

  Max stood, feeling as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Stretching, he walked to a washbasin to splash some water on his face.

  “Thanks for listening,” he said. “I do feel better—it’s no good to keep a secret like that, and I’m glad to hear there are some things beyond the Book’s reach.” He glanced at the fire. “Should we throw on another log or do you want to get something to eat?”

  “I’m meeting Cynthia, Sarah, and Lucia for dinner,” replied David. “They’ve just finished up exams. Why don’t you join us?”

  “Okay,” said Max, rubbing uncertainly at his sandpapery chin. “We can go to the Hanged Man. It’s nice and quiet in there.”

  “Normally I would be in full agreement,” sighed David. “But Lucia laughed me down when I proposed it. Apparently the Pot and Kettle’s the place to be.”

  Judging by its overflowing crowd, the Pot and Kettle was indeed the place to be. It was located on a corner of the township’s main avenue in a handsome building of pale stone with a wraparound porch and sky-blue shutters. The porch was already teeming with people when Max and David arrived, bundled up students and teachers and wealthier refugees enjoying hot cider or a pipe while waiting for their tables. As they stepped onto the porch, Max thumbed his ring. The metal’s coolness was reassuring, a reminder that no evil spirits or possessed servants of the Atropos were lurking nearby. David craned vainly about to find their friends among the crowd.

  Max saw them almost immediately. The three girls were standing on the porch near a far pillar, a trio of viridian robes as they laughed and sipped their ciders. Cynthia Gilley was the tallest of the three, a round-faced English girl with reddish-brown hair and a friendly, earnest bearing. Spying Max, she grinned and waved them over.