The Maelstrom

by Henry H. Neff

  “Look at you!” she crowed, giving Max a sisterly hug. “All we hear is that you’re injured, knocking on death’s door, and you show up looking like Prince Charming. Shame on you! And, David, might I say you look very elegant with your cane. Dashing, even.”

  David beamed and stood on tiptoe to give Cynthia a shy kiss on the cheek. She blushed and he did the same, causing Max to raise an eyebrow. Resisting a strong temptation to comment, he instead leaned over to Sarah.

  “Thanks for the note,” he said. “I was afraid you’d be angry at me for … for what happened.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sarah, squeezing his hand. “Rolf’s death was not your fault. It’s not even Umbra’s. I blame the Atropos, and when I’m an Agent, I’m going to put them out of business. You mark my word. Lucia’s going to help me.”

  “Assolutamente!” declared the Italian beauty, her dark eyes fierce and resolute. Turning to Max, she leaned forward and kissed him in the distracted European fashion, a peck on each cheek, but her hands were clutching something boxy beneath her robes.

  “What is that?” asked Max, careful not to knock it.

  Lucia hissed at Max to be quiet while rearranging her robes and glancing about to see if anyone at the restaurant had noticed.

  “It’s Kettlemouth,” whispered Sarah, referring to Lucia’s charge, an enormous red bullfrog from a magical breed known as Nile Croakers. “He’s been sick and Lucia won’t go anywhere without him. She’s been sneaking him into classes, exams, the dormitory showers. You can imagine how that went over. I told her to leave him at home, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Max gave Sarah a knowing look. Lucia Cavallo was not only a paragon of Mediterranean beauty and a gifted Mystic, but she was also haughty, opinionated, and notoriously demanding of her friends. Fortunately, these less desirable qualities were offset by a deeply loyal and protective nature. Lucia might drive her friends to an early grave, but no one would weep harder at the funerals.

  Eyeing the crowded porch, Max gave a worried glance at Sarah.

  “What if he sings?” he whispered nervously. Kettlemouth was often drowsy and seldom made a peep, but on rare occasions he suddenly burst into song. These ballads were infused with a love enchantment so powerful they didn’t merely reduce the listener’s inhibitions but eliminated them altogether. A quiet library might suddenly turn into a madhouse of breathless smooching and stammering sonnets as every unspoken crush or budding attraction suddenly flared into full, unrestricted bloom. The Pot and Kettle was bursting to the gills; an untimely performance would be pandemonium.

  “Sing?” scoffed Lucia, wheeling on him. “My baby can hardly eat, much less sing! I knit him silly hats, I massage his toe pads, and still he just puffs his gorgeous cheeks and blinks.”

  “Didn’t he just kind of do that before?” Max wondered.

  Lucia almost erupted into a frenzy of Italian when Cynthia headed her off.

  “What does Nolan say?” she inquired delicately.

  “Oh, what does he know?” grumbled Lucia, patting the carrying case. “The dryads suggested some oysters to perk up my dumpling. We will see. Anyway, nothing is going to spoil my big surprise.”

  “You should just tell them,” said Sarah impatiently.

  “Over dinner,” demurred Lucia, rolling her eyes at an admiring Sixth Year.

  Fortunately, they did not have to wait very long for a table. Handing Kettlemouth to Cynthia, Lucia promptly knifed through the crowd to beg a word with the busy proprietor. Max saw her flash a singularly winning smile even as she pointed back to their party and at Max and David in particular. The gentleman nodded, a waiter was summoned, and the five were promptly whisked to a choice banquette in a candlelit corner. Many of their fellow diners eyed the party as they crossed the room. Some appeared awestruck, some discreetly curious, and still others looked vaguely hostile—as though the presence of Max and David boded ill. While Max was highly conscious of the stares, he was even more so of his ring. Its metal remained cool. Pushing it from his mind, he tried to relax and enjoy the company of his friends.

  “How did you manage this?” hissed Sarah, taking her seat. “I thought we’d wait forever.”

  “They are celebrities,” said Lucia, nodding at the boys while slipping Kettlemouth beneath the table. “Celebrities do not wait. I told the owner they would sign some menus.”

  “Marta will never forgive me,” sighed David, passing the bread.

  Lucia ordered for the group, perusing the menu with an authoritative air and inquiring about several dishes before making her final choices. Max did not recognize half of the selections. The only sticking point occurred when she flagged down the sommelier and requested a wine list.

  “But the young lady is not eighteen,” sniffed the sommelier, nodding at her viridian robes.

  “My parents always let me have wine,” she declared indignantly.

  “Perhaps the young lady should have brought her parents.”

  With an irritated wave, Lucia transformed her robes from viridian green to a blazing scarlet—a Sixth Year’s colors. “Is this better?” she asked, gesturing for the list. When he declined to hand it over, she sprouted a luxuriant mustache and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. Max almost spit out his roll.

  “An impressive addition, but alas I must say no,” replied the sommelier, smiling. “I will send over some sparkling cider … on the house.”

  “Puritans,” grumbled Lucia, returning both her robes and facial hair back to normal.

  “That’s quite a trick,” said David. “Are you specializing in Illusion?”

  “Firecraft,” replied Lucia, tapping the concentration of red stones and copper links among her magechain. “Illusion’s just a hobby.”

  “Well,” said David, raising a flute of cider, “you’re very good at it.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Max. “I’m only sorry Connor didn’t see his beloved Lucia with a handlebar mustache. How he’d have laughed!”

  “Well, if that’s not a sign to share your news, Lucia, I don’t know what is,” remarked Cynthia.

  “Okay, okay,” sighed Lucia. “Twist my foot, why don’t you?”

  “Arm,” said Sarah stiffly. “She’s twisting your arm. You’ve been speaking English for years, Lucia. I think you do that on purpose.”

  “So what if I do?” she said innocently. “Anyway, here is what Cynthia is twisting my leg about. I let you read it yourself. Some parts are for you. But not all!”

  She smiled in spite of herself, her cheeks turning rosy as she handed over a pouch of oiled silk containing folded sheets of thick parchment.

  My Lucia,

  Sending this letter is like wishing on a star. Each day I think of you and the life I left back at Rowan. Each day I think of our friends, grouchy Miss Boon, Old Tom’s chimes, and even—God forbid—my homework! Kyra must be cursing my name, and I don’t suspect my family thinks much of a son who sold his soul for a spot of land and a fancy title across the sea.

  That’s behind me now, but try as I might, I can’t forget about a certain long-lashed beauty who struck me dumb the first day I arrived at school. How’d she win my heart? Every way a girl could.

  Enlyll is what they call my little province. Lord is what they call me, although you may laugh to hear it. Down on the docks, they give me other titles—Baron, Master, Jester, and some other things that aren’t fit to print. Enlyll’s a coastal province, you see, and trade’s what keeps my subjects in food and wine, silks and servants. Rowan’s a fair place, but it’s got nothing on our golden hills and wineries, forests and orchards. Someday, I’ll show them to you.

  Enough of all that. I hope you’ll share this letter with David and Max and the rest of our friends. I miss the lot, particularly David and his way of always seeing things for what they are. Funny bloke—I’ve heard tales of him and Max all the way out here. Sounds like they pulled quite a job last April. They’ve got all of Blys stirred up. Saw Max fight an early match in Prusias’s games. Still can’t bel
ieve he was Bragha Rùn. You should have seen him, Lucia! If you ever read this, Max, I hope you know I actually commissioned a painting of Bragha Rùn after the tournament. Serves me right for trying to act all lordly. What a tosser—for a whole month there I am eating my breakfast beneath a life-sized oil painting of my new hero only to find out he’s actually my mate. I was red for a week. Sorry, but my shame demanded that I give you the boot from the castle. You’re hanging in one of the gardener cottages, where I hear you’re supervising the shears and doing a stellar job. Well done.

  I know Rowan’s in a bind these days and wish I could help, but I’m sworn to Prusias. Could be worse—his imp pretty much lets me alone so long as I meet my quotas and keep trade lively. No one looks to wee little Enlyll for soldiers—the braymas come here to relax, drink good wine, hold médims, and conduct some business. Happy to say the war hasn’t really touched me yet, but for Rashaverak’s ships prowling beyond the harbors. They’re trying to barricade, but he doesn’t have enough ships and his spies and sailors are a sorry lot. Don’t catch one in ten of my cutters and soon it’ll be one in twenty. They can kiss my behind—doubly so if they’re reading this letter. (Honestly, where’s your respect for privacy?)

  You know where to find me, Lucia. You say the word and I’ll send a ship. Your face could launch a thousand, but I don’t yet have that many. Give me a year or three and I just might. Anyway, that’s my attempt to dazzle you with some Homeric charm. Did it work? I bloody well hope so. Be sure to tell Morrow I remembered my Iliad; he’ll drop that pipe and turn a cartwheel.

  With love and an affection that burns really, really hot!

  Connor Lynch, Lord of Enlyll

  Max read the letter twice, grinning as he imagined his friend’s Dublin lilt bouncing over each word and syllable. When Connor had departed for Blys, he was in many ways a broken person, a boy whose naturally buoyant personality had been smothered by a sense of guilt and thoughts of vengeance against his captors during the Siege. But that was over two years ago, and it seemed that both time and a change of scenery had been wonderfully therapeutic. It was the old Connor that Max heard in the letter—the cocksure, mischievous boy with a mop of brown curls and an irrepressible spirit.

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Lucia, practically swooning.

  “Yes, it is,” said Max, leaning back as the waiter set a plate before him.

  “David,” growled Cynthia, waving her hand before his blank, glassy expression. “Don’t you think it’s wonderful, too?”

  “Sorry,” said David, blinking. “Yes … yes, it’s a wonderful letter. Very romantic and all that. But do you notice anything unusual about its beginning?”

  “What about it?” asked Lucia, snatching the papers away from Max. Her eyes raced across each line until she declared. “He loves me. It is beautiful!”

  “Yes,” said David, sniffing eagerly at a bowl of mussels. “I don’t doubt that’s true, but wouldn’t you say that the first few paragraphs are a little … stilted? The rest flows naturally, as though Connor were here talking to us, but the beginning seems off. And then the fourth paragraph begins ‘Enough of all that’ as though he were shifting to another topic entirely.”

  “Are you grading my magnificent letter?” inquired Lucia, clutching its sheets to her chest and looking outraged. “Are you marking him down for grammar?”

  “No,” replied David calmly. “On the contrary, I think Connor may have written an even more impressive letter than you suspect. May I see it again?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Lucia allowed Cynthia and Sarah to pry the letter away and slide it over to David. The sorcerer glanced at it for a mere instant before asking if anyone had a quill. Fortunately, the waiter obliged, bringing one to David along with a bottle of ink and a clean sheet of parchment.

  “Score one for the Pot and Kettle,” he murmured. “Marta would have tossed me a can of bacon grease.” Studying Lucia’s note once again, he quickly jotted down a seemingly random sequence of letters. “These are the first letters of each sentence in the first three paragraphs,” he announced. “If I group them by their respective paragraphs, they spell out three words.” The Little Sorcerer held up the paper so all could see.

  SEEK THE ELDERS

  Cynthia wrinkled her nose. “Who are the Elders?”

  “Vyes,” Max breathed, staring at the letter. “I met two Elder Vyes in Blys—Nix and Valya. They were good friends. They said the Elders hail from the original stock, direct descendants of Remus.”

  “You mean Remus … as in Romulus and Remus?” wondered Sarah. “The babies who nursed from a wolf?”

  “Not a wolf,” Max corrected. “A wild spirit in the guise of a wolf. The Elder Vyes go back a long time. The goblins steered clear of them. They can use magic. The ones I met were almost admitted to Rowan until the Potentials test revealed what they were.”

  “Pshaw!” scoffed Lucia. “How could a vye attend Rowan? And besides, my Connor would never have anything to do with such vile creatures.”

  “I don’t know, Lucia,” Max mused. “If you heard Nix and Valya talk about their lives on the run from Agents, you might think differently. In any case, not all vyes are evil. Nix and Valya certainly weren’t. And in his new life, Connor might have encountered quite a few.”

  “Why do you think Connor would want us to seek them?” whispered Cynthia, beckoning for the letter.

  “Perhaps he’s met some and thinks they can help us,” reflected David. “After all, I don’t think the vyes are happy that they’ve been pushed aside by the demons. Elder Vyes are an old legend at Rowan. During the eighteenth century, a group of Agents based in Prague argued that they existed in larger numbers than anyone imagined. They theorized that the Elders had started their own schools of magic and might have even infiltrated our ranks.”

  “So what came of those theories?” asked Sarah.

  “Nothing.” David shrugged, flagging down a waiter for coffee. “Some investigations, a few minor discoveries in Eastern Europe and central Asia, but nothing to suggest a population of real scale or significance. Maybe Connor’s found something.…”

  Max was going to respond when he noticed a number of hushed and urgent conversations taking place throughout the dining room. Several tables called for the maître d’, quickly settling their checks and gathering their things. In the corner, a faun was playing a sonata upon a grand piano, its soothing melodies strangely out of sync with the rushed and hurried departures.

  “What’s going on?” asked Cynthia, putting the letter aside.

  “I don’t know,” said Max, just as a waiter set down an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. “What’s this?”

  “The sommelier has finally come to his senses!” declared Lucia.

  “Compliments of the lady in red,” announced the waiter, popping the cork and pouring five crystal flutes. “She would like a word when Master McDaniels has a moment.”

  Scanning the room, Max spied a splash of scarlet and found that Madam Petra was leaning casually back and observing them.

  The smuggler was wearing an embroidered gown of brilliant red silk along with a creamy stole of arctic mink. Her hair was up and adorned with an obscenely large jewel she had not possessed when she’d arrived at Rowan. Her companion was a well-dressed portly man who exuded a jowly air of self-importance. Max recognized him at once; he had been a wealthy industrialist before Astaroth’s rise to power. Inclining her head, Madam Petra gave a knowing smile and raised her glass.

  “Who is that?” asked Lucia suspiciously.

  “I told you about her,” hissed Cynthia. “That’s Petra Kosa. She came back with Max and David.”

  “She’s very pretty,” Lucia said with the steely, subdued air of a competitor.

  Max slid out of his seat. “I’d better see what she wants.”

  Taking his champagne, he walked over to the table and gazed down at the smuggler, who smiled and sank down luxuriantly into her stole.

  “Max,” she cooed, “meet V
ictor. In our former lives, he was a somebody. I’m happy to say he still is. He’s been helping Katarina and me get settled after our harrowing arrival. Victor, this is Max McDaniels.”

  The man grunted, but his eyes never left Madam Petra.

  “I’m glad to see that you and David are keeping a cool head, my dear,” she observed. “It would seem the news has everyone else in a panic.”

  “What news?”

  The smuggler gave him a skeptical look over the rim of her wineglass.

  “You honestly don’t know?” she asked, sounding pleasantly surprised.

  The industrialist grimaced, swirling and staring at his port as though it held his fortune.

  “Prusias has won, boy,” he declared flatly. “Devoured Aamon and executed all of his officers. Rashaverak’s to surrender tomorrow. Lilith’s already sworn fealty.”

  Max glanced about the nearly empty restaurant. “So that means—”

  “War.”

  The word rolled off Madam Petra’s tongue like some dark prophecy. The industrialist stood and pulled out her chair. With a wistful smile, the smuggler stood and clinked glasses with Max.

  “Savor the champagne, my dear. You might not taste any for a very long time.”

  War was declared the next afternoon.

  No grand gestures accompanied the news. There were no crowds or trumpets or defiant proclamations. Hostilities were announced with no more than a letter. The Director delivered it herself to Lord Naberius’s ship, descending the cliffs alone and bracing herself against the ocean gales as she walked the long dock. One of the ambassador’s servants accepted the slim envelope and brought it inside. Within the hour, the sinister black xebec weighed anchor and sailed out of Rowan Harbor, navigating around Gràvenmuir’s treacherous remains.

  The rejection of Prusias’s demands triggered a firestorm of controversy. Many labeled the Director a fool; others questioned her authority to make such a monumental decision. She was skewered in the press and hanged in effigy by frightened mobs that marched upon the Manse demanding explanations. Ms. Richter met them on the steps and calmly explained that Rowan was a haven for free peoples and that it would fight for that freedom. Any who lacked the necessary courage or conviction to make such a stand was welcome to leave. The choice was theirs.