“Are you aware that Astaroth made a proposal to Max?” she asked pointedly.
“I am.”
“And are you aware of its particulars?”
“I think so.”
The Archmage betrayed no surprise or emotion as he answered Ms. Richter’s questions. His face was a mask of granite stoicism.
“Well,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m here to ask if you intend to harm this fine young man.”
Stoicism vanished. The Archmage’s eyes twinkled, as though her frankness amused him.
“I believe the question is whether or not he intends to harm me,” he replied.
“Of course he doesn’t,” snapped Ms. Richter. “This is nothing more than Astaroth’s attempt to sow dissension in our midst. Surely you can see that.”
Turning to Max, Bram calmly appraised him. “I see many things,” he reflected. “And I see not only Astaroth whispering in his ear, but also the Morrígan. The Hound is bound to that perilous blade and she is a part of it. The Morrígan lusts for war; she craves the blood of gods and kings, and she is very strong. Does Max possess the will to resist such powerful voices?”
Even as the Archmage spoke, Max recalled Astaroth’s plying words from the churchyard: He does not love you, Max McDaniels. You frighten him.… 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?
“I don’t know,” said Max quietly.
Ms. Richter grew pale, but Bram nodded his approval.
“It’s wise to admit as much,” he remarked. “Against such forces, fear and humility are better shields than hubris.”
“Astaroth said you’re afraid of me,” said Max. “He said that someday I will become stronger than you and that you would never allow that to happen.”
“Ah,” replied Bram, touching his fingertips together. “Astaroth’s wordplay is at work. As we know, he never lies, but he is very clever in how he presents his statements. He is only sharing those facts he chooses, and even these are carefully framed to shape their interpretation. Did Astaroth actually state that I would attack you?”
“No,” said Max, considering. “He said that you did not love me and that I frightened you. He had told me stories—awful stories—about your past. Then he asked me if I thought you would ever let the day come when I could threaten you.”
“That sounds like the Astaroth I know,” replied Bram, smiling grimly. “He states a truth or two, arranges a clever context, and leads his audience to draw conclusions that suit his purpose. If his listeners are not careful, they may later convince themselves that Astaroth put forth their own conclusions as established fact when really such things are no more than their own manipulated assumptions. He never lies, but he is the most devious being I know.”
“So you have no intention of harming Max,” Ms. Richter clarified.
“Do I intend to harm him?” replied Bram. “Of course not. Max McDaniels is a ‘fine young man’ to use your term, Director. But he is also quite a bit more than that, which you seem unable—or unwilling—to grasp. The Hound of Rowan does frighten me, and my younger self would never have endured such a threat to my person. Long ago, I would have taken matters into my own hands. However, I am now a bit older and wiser and understand that Rowan needs its Hound.”
“In the days ahead, Rowan will also need its Archmage,” replied Ms. Richter pointedly. “Why have you done nothing to aid us? When Prusias comes, can Rowan count on your help?”
“Tell me, Director,” mused Bram. “How many soldiers do you have to defend this land?”
“One hundred and eleven battalions,” she replied. “Some hundred and thirty thousand troops.”
“And how many Mystics scattered among that number?”
“Roughly two thousand,” she replied.
“Firecrafters, aeromancers, spiritwracks, phantasmals, enchanters …,” muttered Bram, ticking off various schools and specialties.
Ms. Richter nodded uncertainly.
“And how many creatures and spirits from the Sanctuary have pledged themselves to Rowan’s cause?” continued the Archmage.
“Eleven hundred, give or take a few,” she said.
“Centaurs, dryads, domovoi, Cheshirewulfs, fauns … even a roc and a reformed ogre, if I hear rightly.”
“Yes, but—”
“And of course there is my grandson and the Hound, and let us not forget little Mina. In this dire hour, Rowan boasts no less than three children of the Old Magic, along with a massive host to contest the armed might of Prusias. But tell me, Director, who is contesting the might of Astaroth?”
Ms. Richter said nothing.
“There is but one,” continued Bram grimly. “And as I’ve said before, I believe that Astaroth poses the greater danger. As long as he possesses the Book, it is not just Rowan’s sovereignty that hangs in the balance, but the fate of this very world. I do not have the power to destroy Prusias’s army, Director. Only the Book of Thoth is capable of such a feat. If your current forces are not enough to stave off Prusias, Rowan’s independence is ultimately doomed whether or not I come to your aid. Astaroth has made far less noise than Prusias, but he has not been idle. He is lurking, Director—watching and waiting for a chance to turn things in his favor. He and I are like two kings on a chessboard, locked in a stalemate. If I divert my focus and energies to oppose Prusias …” He shook his head as though the consequences were too terrible to contemplate.
Max leaned forward. “What is Astaroth?” he asked. “You said yourself that he isn’t really a demon, that he only masquerades as one. If that’s so, then what is he and where does he come from?”
“That remains a fundamental question,” said Bram, rising and brushing past them to sort through a stack of ancient parchments and manuscripts. “Astaroth has always tried to hide his past from me, but there have been glimpses, impressions that I gained while he was my prison. He is a profoundly alien entity. Most demons are corrupted stewards—spirits of Old Magic that rebelled against their given purpose. But Astaroth is far older than they are. I believe he comes from another universe altogether. I have been trying to discover his origins, how he came to be in this world and—most importantly—why he stays.”
The Archmage handed Max a small stone carving whose chips and cracks spoke to its ancient origins. Turning it over in his hands, Max gazed upon a grinning figure with its hands clasped together.
“What is this?” asked Max, finding the figurine oddly disturbing.
“That is Astaroth,” remarked Bram, staring at it. “It was made by the Olmec people thousands of years ago.” He handed Ms. Richter a piece of tortoise shell on which mysterious characters had been carved. “And this is from China. It was recorded by one of the emperor’s magicians and tells of a day when they tried to summon a river spirit to quell a flood, but something else appeared … a ‘Smiling Man’ who caused the waters to recede and showed them how to improve their plantings and their harvests. He was soon admitted to the royal court. The pharaohs told similar accounts; so did the Mesopotamians, the Nubians, and the Aborigines. Astaroth’s presence on this earth predates recorded history.”
“And so is that where the investigation ends?” asked Ms. Richter.
“No,” replied Bram. “Fortunately, there are means of digging further. In this regard, the witches hold the key. Rowan boasts its Archives, the Workshop has its museums, and the witch clans have their ossuaries.”
“What is an ossuary?” said Max.
“A place for keeping human remains,” answered Ms. Richter, studying the tortoise shell.
“Indeed,” said Bram, “grave robbing has long been practiced by various professions—physicians, artists, and, most infamously, necromancers. But the witches are the most prolific. Over the centuries, they have pried into coffins, crypts, burial mounds, tombs, and mausoleums of every kind and from every culture to amass their collections.”
“And what exactly are they collecting?�
� asked Max.
“Mostly dirt and dust,” said Bram, smiling, “bones if any remain; canopic jars and urns. What they find is not as important as who they find. The witches have been studiously collecting the remains of every mystic, shaman, and sorcerer they can get their hands on—the remains of anyone they believe has trafficked with the spirit world or possessed knowledge that they value. They have collected many thousands of specimens and organized them as meticulously as Rowan’s Archives.”
“But I thought the witches were all about the wild and living things,” said Max. “They worship nature. I’ve never heard they practiced necromancy.”
“They don’t,” said Bram. “At least, not necromancy as it’s usually defined. The witches are not interested in animating corpses to serve some dark purpose. They use the remains to communicate with the dead and gather wisdom from the past.
According to their beliefs, the practice is not a desecration but a great honor—the deceased’s counsel is sought and valued even after their spirit has left this world. The witches see themselves as communing with nature, not violating it.”
“How are the ossuaries aiding your pursuit of Astaroth?” pressed Ms. Richter.
“They allow me to communicate with shamans and spirit guides from many thousands of years ago—people who lived before any cultures kept written accounts,” explained the Archmage. “And some of the oldest recall a pale being that followed their tribes at a distance and watched them as they huddled by their fires. Many years might pass between its appearances, but its coming was always viewed as an evil omen. Whenever they saw the pale being, women were wont to miscarry, brothers quarreled, and the hunt became scarce. But there was one shaman in the far north who finally mustered the courage to approach it. He asked what it was and where it came from. He asked why it was bothering them and driving all the animals away. The shaman’s people meant it no harm. It should leave them alone.”
“What did it say?” asked Ms. Richter, spellbound.
“It pointed to the stars and tried to emulate the shaman’s speech, but struggled to do so. Abandoning the effort, it pointed again at the sky. The shaman decided that it was trying to show him where it came from. Interestingly, the shaman also sensed that it was afraid—not of him, but of something out among the heavens. The shaman smiled, named him Wanderer, and tried to indicate that he understood. The Wanderer mimicked his smile and then seized his hand. When the shaman shrieked and tried to flee, the being released him and simply walked away. The next morning, the tribe awoke to find dead caribou arranged and heaped about their camp. It seemed the Wanderer had left the animals, but the tribe would not touch the meat and never returned to that place. The unfortunate shaman grew ill and died within the month.”
Max found that he was holding his breath. He exhaled, his mind fixated on the primitive but eerie similarities between Astaroth and this ancient Wanderer of the shaman’s tale. He envisioned Astaroth’s ever-present, masklike smile and wondered if it was a sort of ingrained mannerism that stemmed from his early interactions with people: Humans do this to put other humans at ease and be welcomed. This thought made Astaroth seem even stranger and more alien to Max than before.
“What do you make of this?” asked Ms. Richter quietly.
“I still have much more to learn,” replied Bram. “But I do not doubt that this ‘Wanderer’ from the shaman’s account was Astaroth, as he is now known. And I do not doubt that the ‘Smiling Man’ and the Olmec carving are also him. It was not until the Middle Ages that he even assumed the identity of ‘Astaroth’ and that dreadful name began to appear in the scholars’ lists and grimoires. By that time, Astaroth had essentially become a ‘demon’ as we tend to think of them: He assumed their aura, he could be summoned, and, despite his great powers, he was bound by certain rules and strictures. Scholars believed that he was one of the greater corrupted stewards and fit him into their hierarchies. Even other demons took Astaroth for one of their kind and served him out of devotion or fear until his humiliation on Walpurgisnacht.”
Finishing his tea, Bram sat back down and gazed into the cup with a dark, melancholy air.
“And this strange being,” he muttered. “This imposter—this ‘Wanderer’—who has masqueraded for millennia as both demon and man possesses the Book of Thoth. Nothing—not even Rowan’s fate—is more important than recovering the Book and destroying Astaroth once and for all.”
Setting down her tea, Ms. Richter gave a nod and stood. “These revelations about Astaroth are disturbing,” she said. “A part of me—a childish part—wishes I’d never heard them. Thank you for your explanations. I suppose it was my greed. Despite all the forces we’ve arrayed against Prusias, Elias Bram is a mighty weapon and I wanted him in my arsenal. Now I understand.…”
“You are not driven by greed,” said Bram gently. “It is your love of Rowan and all who shelter here that drives you, Director. I admire you. You’re a far better leader than I ever was.”
She bowed appreciatively. “Well,” she said, “I’m overdue in Founder’s Hall. We will leave you to your labors, Archmage. Do I have your word that you will leave Max McDaniels to his?”
“You do,” he promised. “But we never even discussed why I originally sent for him.” Bram glanced beneath the door to make sure Mina wasn’t eavesdropping. “I know about the attack by the Atropos,” he said gravely. “A very ugly business, and I don’t want Mina to hear about it. It would upset her terribly. In any case, my own charge has asked my permission to serve Max for the time being.”
“YaYa?” said Max, confused.
The Archmage smiled. “It’s been many years since YaYa carried a rider into battle, but I don’t think you will be disappointed. The Enemy fears her, for good reason, and your soldiers may find greater heart and courage in her presence. Will you accept her service?”
Max nodded, speechless at this unexpected boon. When Bram opened the door, the study’s disorienting effect ceased and Max felt like his feet were planted firmly on the floor once again. In the common room, they found Emer dozing in her chair, Lila scratching at the door, and Mina stirring a large pot and peering at its contents with an anxious, irritated expression.
With a groan, the Archmage strode across the room and flung open the windows.
“It just needs more basil,” Mina assured him.
“No, it does not,” Bram declared. “It needs less garlic. Didn’t I tell you to follow a recipe?”
“I did follow a recipe!” shouted Mina, defiantly flinging the rest of the basil into the pot.
“Show it to me, then.”
“I threw it in the fire!”
“What have I told you about lying, child?”
“To get better at it!”
One week later, Max sat astride YaYa and surveyed the Trench Rats as his battalion stood at attention. While the afternoon sun may have caused the soldiers to squint, its rays also imparted a coppery gleam and pleasing uniformity to the rows of dented helms and mismatched armor. Max was grateful for that sun. He was grateful for the weather in general. On dark days when it was bitter cold, the troops could not stand still for long; they tended to fidget and stamp, appearing less like a crack battalion and more like kindergartners during an assembly. But not today, reflected Max proudly. Today they seemed content to stand at attention, bask in the warm breeze, and allow the sun to work its ennobling magic.
“I think they look every bit as good as the Wildwood Knights,” Max remarked, unable to contain himself. Standing taller in his stirrups, he cocked his head at the formations. “And those lines are pretty straight!”
Tweedy glanced up from his perch on a neighboring stool. “One cloud and the whole effect will be ruined,” he sniffed. “You think a bit of sunlight and boot polish is going to fool the Director? Ha! Look at her! She’s only drawing out this charade to punish me for my … my moral implosion!”
Looking out, Max spotted Ms. Richter trailed by a dozen aides and advisers as she inspected the companies a
nd platoons. As a rule, she did not allow commanders to accompany her during reviews; she liked to question the rank and file directly and believed that a superior’s presence stifled candor. At present, the Director was speaking earnestly with a young refugee whose longbow was as tall as its owner. In response to an apparent request, the archer slung her quiver off her shoulder and presented it to Ms. Richter.
Tweedy nearly fell off his stool. “Do you see that?” he exclaimed. “She’s inspecting their arrows! She knows!”
“I’ve already told you that she knows,” said Max wearily.
“Well, that’s it, then,” moaned the hare. “My reputation is officially ruined. The Director thinks I’m a degenerate. She probably lumps me in with that loose and saucy crowd at Cloubert’s, and why shouldn’t she? Evidently, I am the sort of hare who lurks about casinos and wharves giving significant looks to passersby in the hope that they’ll stop and say, ‘Hey there, old fellow, how’d you like to get your paws on some Zenuvian iron?’ ”
“I thought Madam Petra invited you into her sitting room and offered you tea?”
“Well, she did,” the hare admitted. “But I had to do lots of investigating before it came to that. Aside from sullying my own paws, you’re now drowning in debt to a person of questionable character. For all her charm—perhaps because of it—I do not trust that woman. She says she only took your property for collateral, but do you realize she’s probably already sold it for fifty times what you owe her?”
“We’ve been over this, too,” said Max. “Bartering was the only way to get the iron. I can’t do anything else with it, and she promised not to sell it for a year. I’ll get it back.”
“What was this treasure you bartered?” asked YaYa, shifting beneath him.
“My torque,” said Max, touching the bare space at his neck. “The Fomorian made it from Nick’s quills. Do you think I was wrong?”
“You used it in the hope of saving lives,” replied YaYa. “What better use is there?”
The Maelstrom Page 33