The girl stared at him, both cautious and curious.
“I understand why you’d retrieve my sword,” Max mused. “But I don’t get why you’d bother with the brooch. All that commotion, an assassin on the run, and yet you run back into a burning tent to find it?”
Closing her eyes, Umbra bowed her head in silent self-reproach.
“Only one person would do such a thing,” Max continued.
“And who’s that?” she muttered, her voice quiet and forlorn.
“The one who gave it to me.”
Smiling bitterly, the girl raised her head and met his gaze.
“Greetings, Scathach.”
Even as Max spoke the name, Umbra’s appearance began to change. She grew taller, her features shifting in the moonlight to reveal a young woman with pale skin, raven hair, and eyes that gleamed like gray pearls.
Brushing past him, she climbed the caravan steps. “Come in out of the wind.”
Lighting a lantern, Scathach hung it from a chain. The caravan must have belonged to a fortune-teller once, for upon the walls were faded images of towers and chariots, hermits and hierophants, matched lovers and a fool hanging upside down at the gallows. The caravan was old, but it was snug and neat with a small bed and tiny table with a single chair. Offering the chair to Max, Scathach reached for a towel and wiped the grime from her face. All the while, she stared at her shadow as though it were grimly fascinating.
“You’re a long way from the Sidh,” said Max.
She nodded, absently handing him the towel and sitting on the edge of the bed as though wrestling with a host of conflicting emotions. At length, she simply shook her head and stared at the worn red rug.
“I came here for you,” she said, smiling sadly. “Lugh first sent me after your father was murdered. When you sailed to Blys, I followed. It took me a year to catch up. When I finally found you in Prusias’s Arena, you were cloaked in a metal skin and a demon’s mask, but it made no difference. Bragha Rùn fought just like my Max; he had the same style and genius. I’d have known it was you just by listening.”
“I remember,” Max breathed, recalling his bloody contest with Myrmidon. “I was nearly finished when I saw you in the stands. You inspired me to get up. And I remember the woman in a black veil at my father’s funeral. She slipped away before I ever saw her face. Why didn’t you just come to me directly?”
“I was forbidden to speak to you,” she replied. “But I could not help myself at the funeral. You were so broken, Max. I had to touch you, embrace you, and remind you who you are. Lugh was angry. He was angrier still that I let you see me in the Arena.”
“Why?”
“You are the son of Lugh the Long-Handed,” she answered, gazing at him. “You are a prince of the Sidh. But I am not a princess. I was born a mortal, and it is only by the High King’s grace that my spirit was ferried to his lands and I was blessed with the life eternal. My lord believes I disobeyed him because my interest in you is personal. He would never approve of such a match. As punishment, he banished me from Rodrubân for one year. But even as I went into exile, I heard disturbing rumors, whispers that the Atropos had risen anew and that your name had been written in the Grey Book. I returned to Rodrubân and petitioned the High King to let me protect and watch over you as best I could. He agreed, but insisted on one condition.”
“What is it?” asked Max.
Scathach stood from the bed and walked toward her shadow, gazing at it as though it were a stranger trapped within the painted planks.
“The condition was simple,” she said, her fingertips touching the shadow’s. “If you ever discovered my identity and addressed me by name, I would forsake eternal life. This has happened and I am mortal once again.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” said Max, standing up. “You didn’t mean to reveal your identity. You didn’t do anything wrong!”
She gave a rueful smile. “It does not matter. The rules are the rules, and this shadow says I have broken them.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My name means ‘shadow’ in my native tongue,” Scathach explained. “When I was reborn, the High King declared that I had left the mortal world behind and must therefore relinquish a part of my mortal identity. My name puzzled him; he thought it was strange—even unlucky—for one person to possess two shadows. Thus he offered me this choice: I could keep my name or my shadow, but not both. I chose to keep my name, and from that moment I cast no shadow … until now.”
She turned and examined Max’s stunned and downcast face.
“Do not grieve for me,” she said sternly. “I knew the risks and accepted them.”
“But it’s just a brooch,” said Max, aghast. He pulled it from his pocket, tempted to break the thing in two.
Scathach smiled. “Do you really believe I’d delay pursuing that assassin just to recover some bauble? The High King himself made that brooch for you, and it is very special.” Coming over to him, Scathach took the ivory ornament and held it on her palm as though it were an exquisite, even living thing. With a finger, she traced its Celtic sun.
“It is not an easy task to travel between this world and the Sidh,” she remarked. “There are few paths and their gateways are rarely open. Many years may pass before one appears, and even then its presence is fleeting, a precious hour or two before it fades.”
“My mother used one,” said Max, remembering. “She left us without even saying goodbye. When I found her again, she said she’d had no time for explanations; the gateway was her only chance to help me in the future.”
“She was right,” said Scathach. “For most, the gateways are the only way to cross from one realm to the other. But other means do exist. The Kestrel was one. This brooch is another. It is very precious, Max, for it can open a gateway to Rodrubân. Should you receive your death wound, this will spirit you to the Sidh and the halls of your father.”
Max’s face darkened. “The Sidh is not my home,” he muttered. “And Lugh is not my father. He barely even acknowledged me when I came to Rodrubân. I’m just his offspring, Scathach, not his son. And my mother was nothing more to him than a broodmare. You’re the only one from the Sidh who has ever tried to help me, and how does the ‘High King’ reward you? He takes your immortality away!”
“I understand your anger,” said Scathach gently, setting the brooch down and taking Max’s hands. “But the Sidh is your home. The old gods keep their own counsel, Max. Their minds can be hard to fathom and they do not always show affection as mortals do. But the High King does love you in his way. He has done more for you than you guess.”
“Not as much as you,” said Max bitterly. “You’ve sacrificed everything.”
Scathach’s eyes flashed. “I’ve sacrificed nothing!” she said proudly, releasing his hands and pacing about. “I regret only the foolish way I broke my bargain, not the bargain itself. Am I to mourn my mortality? What is death to me? A warrior craves honor and excellence, not a measure of mild years. Those who cringe at death are half dead themselves; they forever keep to the shallows of life!”
Following this outburst, Scathach fell silent. She was breathing hard and looking more fierce and beautiful than Max had ever seen her. He was deeply moved and went to kiss her, but she backed away like a skittish foal.
“Don’t,” she warned.
“But why not?” asked Max, blinking. “I—I thought you had feelings for me.”
“I do,” said Scathach, closing her eyes as though the confession pained her. “But I saw you. I saw that girl come to your tent tonight and the two of you holding hands. She kissed you. You embraced her. And I will never surrender my dignity, not even for you.”
“But you don’t know what it is you saw,” Max pleaded. “Julie and I, we’re not together. She loved me once and I tried to love her back, but my heart was someplace else. Julie’s getting married, Scathach—she’s leaving Rowan. She only came to say goodbye.”
Anger and indignation faded slowly from th
e warrior maiden’s face. She looked away. “You say your heart was elsewhere,” she murmured. “Where was it?”
“It was with you!”
A tear ran down Scathach’s cheek. Exhaling, she took Max’s hands once again and contemplated him with a look of such open, sincere affection that no words were needed.
“It’s not easy for me to love or trust,” she said at length. “You must be patient with me. I have trained many great warriors, and to a man, they were fierce and strong. They were also haughty, brutal, and selfish. It was never enough that I taught them the feats that made them legendary. They wanted more, expected more as though I were some awestruck girl from their homelands. Many knocked at my door and I turned each away, but I learned a bitter lesson in the bargain.”
“What was that?”
“The proudest men are the least secure,” she replied. “And many are apt to turn private failures into public boasts. Some of the warriors returned to their comrades and kingdoms and claimed many things. When I first heard the stories, I was furious. I named them liars, but no one cared. Eventually, I stopped caring, too. The stories were told and the damage was done. I thought my heart had closed forever.
“And then you came to Rodrubân,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “And you were a revelation. You had all of Cúchulain’s skill and beauty, but not his arrogance. Loving people raised you, Max, and I am forever grateful for their influence. You might have become something else entirely. You were not the first hero I trained, but you were the first gentleman.”
Reaching for the brooch, she fastened it to his tunic.
“And this gentleman should return to the Manse,” she sighed. “It is late and many worried people must be looking for you. You should report back. Sarah and Ajax can lead the battalion today.”
Max’s mind raced back to training and formations and twelve hundred rough-and-ready troops. “I shouldn’t be leading the battalion,” he reflected. “You should. You have more experience than I do.”
“No,” said Scathach decisively. “The soldiers know me as Umbra. They respect me—even fear me—but you are the Hound of Rowan. They believe in you and that’s far more important than any tactics. Can you imagine their faith now that they’ve seen you rise up from such a wound?”
“Then maybe I should appoint Umbra to be my official bodyguard,” said Max, half teasing. “She’d have to stay by me at all times. It would be her job.”
“Umbra would like that very much,” replied Scathach, smiling. “But it’s best if she remains your unofficial bodyguard. That makes her a far less predictable obstacle for the Atropos, and we need every edge we can get. Tonight’s attack frightened me. That assassin was far better than the last—better than any I’ve ever encountered.”
“That assassin is the commander of the Red Branch.”
“That would explain it,” muttered Scathach. “Max, that man is very dangerous. I have never failed to track or overtake an enemy before tonight. He’s not just skilled, he’s also smart. The timing of his attack was too perfect to be a fluke.”
“What do you mean?”
“I sensed danger tonight,” she replied. “I saw nothing, but the woods were too quiet. After you dismissed the lieutenants, I circled back and kept watch from the forest. When Julie came to see you, I followed.”
“To protect me, I’m sure,” said Max.
“No. It was to spy,” admitted Scathach, unabashed. “In any case, when that girl kissed you, it wounded me. I was angry—I almost threw a pinecone—but I kept still and out of sight. When you returned to your tent, I followed and kept watch from outside. Eventually, my emotions got the best of me. I kept picturing you embracing that girl, kissing her. I grew spiteful and left. Fortunately, I regained my senses and returned, but you were already under attack. I’ll never forgive myself for leaving my watch.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Max reassuringly. “The timing was coincidence.”
“You don’t believe that any more than I do,” laughed Scathach bitterly. “The fact is that when I was watching you, the assassin was watching me. And when the opportunity arose, he struck. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”
“Not a miracle,” said Max. “Grendel told me danger was near. And so did this.” He showed her David’s ring and explained its properties.
“That provides a warning, but it is not a shield,” she remarked. “You cannot trust your safety to it alone. I was foolish to leave you, but you were foolish to leave yourself so vulnerable. Until I find and kill that man—”
“No!” Max exclaimed. “He is my friend, Scathach. I owe him my life.”
“He seems eager to take it.”
Shaking his head, Max paced despondently. “You don’t understand,” he sighed. “Cooper’s a good man … he … he’s not in his right mind.”
Scathach would have none of it. “He is possessed,” she asserted firmly. “You see your friend, but he does not see you. He only sees what the Atropos have told him to kill. And I won’t allow that to happen. I will capture him if I can, but I’ll take no foolish risks to do so.”
“You might not have to do anything,” said Max, considering. He told Scathach about stewards and charges and the sacred bond between them. “Cooper violated his oath tonight,” he reflected. “As you said yourself, the rules are the rules. I’ve never seen YaYa so upset. She’s not so young anymore, but I wouldn’t want her coming after me.”
“Nor would I,” said Scathach. “Ki-rin were messengers from the gods themselves. It would never do to provoke one.”
“So try not to worry,” said Max, pulling her toward him. “Cooper may be hunting me, but he’ll have an angry ki-rin hunting him. In the meantime, I have my ring and the fearsome Umbra watching my back. I like those odds.”
Scathach tried to smile, but it faltered. “I won’t rest until he’s taken,” she said gravely. “And you must promise me you’ll always keep Lugh’s brooch with you. You must never take it off.”
“Never?” asked Max, flashing a mischievous grin.
Rolling her eyes, Scathach took up her spear and pointed to the door. “The only thing worse than a haughty hero is one who thinks he’s funny.”
Assuming Umbra’s face and form once again, Scathach escorted Max home. They avoided the refugee camps, keeping to the dark woods until they reemerged along a garden path that wound behind Old Tom and led toward the Manse. Dozens of people were gathered near the Manse’s front steps. Some were armored and mounted on horseback; others wore Mystics’ robes and were positioned in a perimeter around the illuminated fountain.
“Here is where I leave you,” whispered Scathach. “Wish me good hunting.”
With a squeeze of Max’s hand, she backed away and faded, blending like a wraith into the landscape. Turning, Max stepped onto the path and beneath the bright halo of a streetlamp. He had not walked three steps before he was sighted.
“Halt!” cried a harsh voice by the fountain. “Hold where you are!”
Max stopped as three glowspheres converged, circling about him like three great spotlights. He raised his hand to shield his eyes from the glare.
“It’s me!” he yelled, taking a step forward. “Max McDaniels.”
“Stay put or you will be shot!”
Squinting, Max saw a dozen archers rise from positions upon the Manse roof, their silhouettes interspersed among the many chimneys.
“What’s Sarah Amankwe’s charge?” called the voice.
“A Cantonese Huang named Su,” Max yelled.
The glowspheres dimmed and zoomed back to their Mystic.
“Come inside, son,” called the voice, sounding anxious and relieved. “Hurry.”
Trotting ahead, Max saw that the speaker was Nolan. Max had never seen Nolan in armor or even carrying a weapon, and their effect was strangely unsettling on such an inherently peaceful, good-natured man. Nolan was smiling, but he also looked careworn and tired. His smile died when he saw Max’s clothes.
“Is tha
t your blood?” he gasped.
“It is,” said Max. “But I’m okay.”
“My god,” muttered Nolan. “I’d heard the attack was bad, but I … I didn’t imagine anything like this. I don’t even see where all that blood came from.”
The man’s jaw dropped when Max drew a finger across his throat.
“There’s more to this than I want to know,” said Nolan, steering Max up the steps. “But I swear that if I ever get my hands on William Cooper …” His mouth tightened. “That man is in for a reckoning,” he said, pushing the doors inward. “If Grendel doesn’t make it, I won’t be able to talk any sense into YaYa. She’ll swallow Cooper whole.”
“Nolan,” said Max, “if anyone should want revenge, it’s me. But it wasn’t Cooper who attacked me—it was the demon controlling him. We can’t forget that. He needs our help, not our anger.”
Halting in the foyer, Nolan sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. “You’re right,” he admitted. “Of course you’re right. But to see Grendel like that and you covered in all that blood … I guess I’m just tired.”
“How is Grendel?”
“Hanging in,” replied Nolan. “He wasn’t poisoned, but that knife went awful deep. YaYa brought him back to the Warming Lodge. We’ll just have to wait and see, but I’m hopeful. Cheshirewulfs are tough as old tree roots. Anyway, the Director has been awful anxious for any word of you. Do you want me to tell her you’re okay, or do you want to tell her yourself?”
“I’ll go,” said Max. “Is she in her office or at Founder’s Hall?”
“The Director’s always in Founder’s these days,” replied Nolan. “C’mon, I’ll take you. We’ve tripled the guards on post, but I’ll sleep better if I’ve seen you there myself.”
Following the declaration of hostilities, Founder’s Hall had been transformed into Rowan’s war room. Almost every square foot of its vast space had been converted to some useful purpose. Upon its curving walls hung enormous maps, lists of regiments, crop inventories, architectural drawings, astronomical charts, and one vast section that was covered with sheets of Florentine spypaper. Despite the late hour, the hall was brightly lit and teeming with activity.
The Maelstrom Page 31