The Promethean Scholars stood behind the Director, as did the senior faculty and several leaders from the refugees. The Red Branch flanked the Director and Max’s focus quickly zeroed in on Scathach. She returned his smile and quietly urged him to pay attention as YaYa came to a halt before Ms. Richter.
At Tweedy’s coughing cue, Max leaned the gae bolga against YaYa’s saddle and lifted Mina off the ki-rin’s back. Setting her carefully on the ground, he took up the spear once again and led YaYa to stand beside Scathach and face the thousands before them.
Just David and Mina stood before the Director now. Each was holding something. Mina’s object was clutched and hidden by both hands, but David was leaning upon a very powerful and familiar item.
It was Prusias’s cane—the very prop that contained a page from the Book of Thoth. Whenever the demon was in his serpent form, the artifact was embedded in one of the crowns that had shattered. Once Mina discovered her charge, David had gone looking for the cane and found it wedged among the briny rocks along the shore.
When Ms. Richter addressed the crowd, her voice also issued from hovering glowspheres stationed about the Old College and all of Greater Rowan. She spoke of honor and sacrifice, the appalling losses, and the great victory that had been achieved. Max listened dutifully, his gaze straying occasionally to Scathach or the gargantuan war galleons anchored in and about Rowan Harbor. There were twenty of them, twenty crimson galleons that were far larger and more formidable than any ships Rowan possessed. Once Prusias’s army had been destroyed, Rowan had captured and claimed the vessels as they tried to escape with mere skeleton crews.
“But that victory is not complete,” continued Ms. Richter, reclaiming Max’s attention. “We have turned back Prusias, but he is not yet defeated. He sailed to these shores with but a fraction of his forces and he will not underestimate us again. And thus, Rowan must ask more of you. I must ask more of you as we pursue this enemy to his own gates and stamp out this threat once and for all. If we do not, if we succumb to debate and delay, then his armies will surely return with greater wrath and numbers. This is not the end of the war; it is the beginning.”
Ms. Richter smiled ruefully and acknowledged the crowd’s stunned silence.
“My message today is bittersweet,” she confessed. “I know that many of you had hoped to put the sorrows and toil of war behind you. Many of you had looked forward to a quiet life in which you could enjoy our hard-earned freedom and independence. Nobody wants that more for you than I. But we are not there yet. In the coming weeks and months, Rowan may call upon you once again. And I know that you will answer.
“But Rowan will not call upon you alone. We have not merely turned back an enemy; we have gained credibility. Those who could not aid us or feared to do so may now feel otherwise. We will seek their help. We will ask others to strengthen our cause and share our sacrifice. But let me be clear: Rowan is no longer desperate for aid or charity. We are no longer a quaking country hoping to escape the notice of its neighbors. The founders of this school were refugees themselves. They, too, fled an enemy to these shores and sought to rebuild and regain their former strength and dignity. For over four centuries, Rowan has engaged proudly in this struggle. But Rowan has also always dwelled in the shadow of her predecessors; she has been a mere echo of a grander, more storied past. Those days are over.
“Today, Rowan enters a new phase of existence—one that embraces the best of her legacy even as she rises up to break new ground. There have been many schools of magic, but Solas was the finest mankind has ever known and its high tower was a symbol for all that could be achieved. Solas may be gone, but Túr an Ghrian shall rise again.”
Following this statement, the Director and scholars and everyone else moved away from David and Mina so that the two were left alone in a broad circle. Max and everyone else watched nervously as Mina approached the cliffs, her Ascendant’s robes trailing her upon the grass. Those who were close enough and at a proper vantage might have seen that the girl was holding a small, charred rock. Given a closer look, some Rowan students might have recognized it as the Founder’s Stone. Normally, the object was hovering behind glass—one of Rowan’s six great treasures. But now it was resting in Mina’s cupped hands as she walked toward the cliffs’ farthest point opposite the Manse. Kissing the stone, she laid it carefully on the ground and walked back to David.
When Rowan’s sorcerer touched his cane to the ground, Max shivered as Old Magic saturated the air and caused it to shimmer. The earth shook and the crowds surged back as a great tower grew around the stone, rising up from the very cliffs where Gràvenmuir had been thrown into the sea. Higher and higher it rose, until the gulls that circled around its gleaming spire were distant white specks. And as the dust settled and the afternoon light turned its pale stone to gold, Ms. Richter announced that Túr an Ghrian—the Tower of the Sun—stood once more.
Back in the Observatory, Max exhaled and sat in his armchair, staring up at the dome’s slowly wheeling constellations. He was no longer wearing ceremonial armor but the simple uniform of the Red Branch and some well-worn boots. From the upper level, he heard a sudden rip of fabric followed by a startled oath. The second tear was more pronounced, as was the swearing. The third tear was longest of all, but no cursing accompanied it. Instead, both halves of David’s ceremonial robes were tossed over the railing. With a sidelong glance, Max watched them float down like two silken streamers.
“Don’t you have to return those?” he called.
“I won’t!” yelled his roommate, now flinging down a starchy shirt and a pair of black socks.
Glancing up, Max saw Rowan’s sorcerer—the very prodigy who had raised Túr an Ghrian—standing at the railing in his underwear. The boy’s face was even paler than usual.
“How much time do we have?”
“They said they’d be here at seven,” replied Max.
With a groan, David disappeared. Two minutes later, he stood at the railing wearing leggings and a blue tunic. Max shook his head.
“You look like a page boy. And those leggings keep no secrets.”
Mortified, David vanished again. He appeared three more times at the railing, but each outfit was even worse than the last. When there was a knock at the door, David gasped and drew the curtain around his bed.
“Keep them busy!” he yelled. “I just need a few minutes.”
Trotting up the stairs, Max opened the door and invited Scathach and Cynthia in. They both looked lovely: Scathach wearing a dark gray dress with a silver belt and Cynthia in her viridian robes with a white daisy in her hair.
“David needs a moment,” said Max, giving them a significant look and leading them downstairs.
“Take your time,” called Cynthia, scrutinizing the remains of David’s robe on the floor. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the celebration dinner?”
“Oh no,” wheezed David, evidently straining. “Those formal things are always so stuffy. And you’ll love the Hanged Man! Marta’s been cooking all day to get things ready. Have you ever had sweetbreads? I haven’t, but Marta’s a genius at desserts.”
Cynthia turned pale.
“Hello, Scathach!” called David pleasantly.
“Hello,” she replied, walking around the lower level and gazing about. She stopped at a runeglass case and peered closely at it. “Is this one of those pinlegs Max told me about?”
“Yes,” said David. “I spent so much time with it, I thought I’d hold on to it as a keepsake. I call him Chester. He just seems like a Chester.”
Scathach raised an eyebrow at Chester’s gleaming carapace, lethal pincers, and weakly undulating legs. “And so how did you manage to take control of those dreadnoughts?”
David finally emerged from behind his curtain, having opted for a wooly brown robe from the hamper. He beamed at Cynthia, who smiled weakly and said something about him looking “very comfortable.”
“Oh, Marta doesn’t stand on ceremony,” he replied, standing on tipt
oe to kiss her cheek. “Anyway, Scathach, it was really pretty straightforward once I realized that the dreadnoughts had a fatal flaw. The spirits that controlled them were not only relatively weak, but they were also damaged. I no longer required their truenames to unlock them; I just needed enough power to kick down the doors. And Max helped provide it.”
“Fascinating,” said Scathach. “So was that Workshop engineer of any use?”
“Not so much. We could never really unravel all of Chester’s defenses. But in the end it didn’t really matter. Dr. Bechel doesn’t even begrudge the fact that we kidnapped him. In fact, he doesn’t even want to go back home.…”
David trailed off as Max shot him a horrified glance. The boys were silent for several moments before David begged the ladies to make themselves at home. Dinner would have to wait for an hour—maybe two—but he was confident that Marta could adjust. Running up the stairs, David abruptly abandoned their guests and vanished behind his bed curtain.
An hour later, he returned with an outraged smee.
Toby was literally trembling with indignation, twisting about in the sorcerer’s hands to lambast him in a thunderous baritone.
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be forgotten for over a month!” he roared. “To be left shuffling about a house in Blys, masquerading as some crusty engineer while all of Rowan is celebrating in your absence? Well, I can assure you that you’re going to pay for this! The meter’s been running, my friend, and when I factor in the overtime …”
The apoplectic smee was set upon a pillow by the fire, where he continued to seethe and gasp. But at last Toby sighed and fell still. Uncurling his body, he raised his yamlike head to gaze around at the rest of his audience. Pausing at Scathach, the smee cleared his throat and inched forward.
“Who are you, and why haven’t we met before?”
A month later, the Ormenheid lay rolling on the shallows of Rowan Harbor. Compared to Prusias’s war galleons, the Viking ship looked no bigger than a dinghy. While she might have been less imposing, she had her own special gifts. Even as the sun broke the horizon, her dragon prow faced east, her sail magically unfurled, and her oars dipped down into the waters.
Max thought she cut a very noble figure under the mackerel sky, her timbers creaking as the sea lapped his boots with shell and foam. Sloshing past him through the swells, Cooper climbed aboard and beckoned for the others to start passing along the many barrels, sacks, and crates stacked neatly on the beach.
“This is quite the honeymoon,” mused Miss Boon, glancing at her wedding band before heaving a sack of flour into Scathach’s waiting arms. With an indifferent shrug, Scathach swung the flour along the line to Sarah, who passed it to Lucia, who handed it to Max, who tossed it up to Cooper.
Despite the grunts and occasional griping, the loading of the ship was going smoothly until Lucia dropped one of the crates.
“Eek!” she cried. “There’s something moving in there. Lots of things!”
“Sorry!” said Max, stooping quickly to retrieve the crate.
“What is that?” Lucia demanded. “It better not be anything dangerous!” She gestured protectively toward Kettlemouth as the oblivious bullfrog dozed in a converted birdcage.
“No, nothing dangerous,” said Max, trotting off with the crate on his shoulder.
Several more boxes went down the line without incident before Lucia dropped another.
“What could be in that one?” she wondered. “It’s so heavy!”
“My fault,” said Max, promptly scooping it up. “I didn’t mean for anyone else to carry it. Sorry—should have marked it.”
Lucia seemed content to merely glare and grumble until the smee offered some suggestions.
“You’ve got to use your legs, young lady!” cried Toby. “My God, you’re just flailing about like a broken scarecrow. Bend those knees! How can such a dashing filly be so—”
“Not another word, you!” roared Lucia, wheeling on him. “If you’re not going to help, then you just be quiet. I don’t have to take orders from some lazy, strutting peacock!”
But indeed, Toby was a peacock.
The smee had indulged in many forms since the Director lifted his ban. There had been magnificent tigers, square-jawed knights, and golden stallions, but of late the smee had favored the shape of an iridescent blue peacock that was prone to highly dramatic displays of his tail whenever he believed its sudden appearance might be to his advantage. It rarely had the desired effect, and this occasion proved no exception.
“I was only trying to help,” he sulked, having weathered a storm of Italian obscenities.
“Then grab a crate,” huffed Lucia.
“But I didn’t come down here to work,” he replied. “I just came to see you off! You know, bon voyage and so forth.”
“Are you going to miss us, Toby?” teased Max, lugging a crate to Cooper.
“Let’s see,” mused the smee. “If ‘missing you’ means carefree evenings at Cloubert’s while Lady Luck whisks me off to fame and fortune, then I suppose I’ll miss you a great deal. Ha!”
While the smee reveled in his wit, Max caught sight of a large figure making its way carefully down the many stairs from Rowan’s cliffs. Washing his hands in the sea, Max left the others and trotted to where the steps met the rocky beach.
Bob was breathing heavily when he reached the bottom. Setting down his bundle, the ogre reached for a handkerchief and wiped his glistening brow. Catching his breath, he craned his head up at the high cliffs and shook his head. “Too many steps.”
“You didn’t have to see us off,” said Max. “It’s so early.”
With a shrug, the ogre refolded the handkerchief and gazed out at the Ormenheid floating beneath the pale peach sky.
“Pretty ship,” he grunted. “Bob wonders if you have room for one more.”
“You mean that isn’t a care package to see us off?”
Looking down, Bob blinked at the enormous pack that was overflowing with cooking pans and ogre-sized clothing. Laughter rumbled in his chest.
“No, malyenki,” he said. “These things are not for you. It is time for Bob to go get his little Mum. Soon he will be too old for such journeys and she has been away long enough. It is time she comes home where she belongs.”
“Well, I think we can help you,” said Max, grinning. “We’re taking Sarah and Lucia to search out Connor Lynch in Blys. Once they’re off, we’ll be heading north. We’ll pass right near Shrope Hovel.”
“Where are you going in the north?” asked the ogre.
“The Isle of Man.”
“A Fomorian lives there,” rumbled Bob. “They are dangerous.”
“That’s why we’re going.”
The ogre digested this and gazed back at the Ormenheid. “Do you think the others will mind?” he asked tentatively.
“Doesn’t matter if they do.” Max shrugged, hefting up Bob’s pack and trudging toward the water. “She’s my ship and I’m captain. If anyone complains, I’ll make them cut the jibs and swab the sheets.”
“Bob does not think malyenki knows how to sail.”
Of course, everyone was delighted to welcome Bob aboard. Swinging his leg easily over the gunwale, the ogre settled in to wring out his socks while the others stowed the rest of their gear and prepared to set sail. When Max gave the command, the Ormenheid’s oars began to scull gently through the water as the breeze stretched her sail taut. She moved smoothly through the harbor, skimming past Gràvenmuir’s dark remains.
Once they were headed for open waters, Max walked back to the stern and gazed up at the cliffs, where he thought David and Mina might be watching from high atop Túr an Ghrian. The tower dwarfed everything around it, a slender white spire whose summit stood a thousand feet over the sea. Max was enjoying its majesty when a large splash brought him whipping about.
A porpoise had leaped over the gunwale.
“What’s an adventure without a smee!” it cried.
Landing heavily, the
porpoise slid across the slippery deck until it came to rest against Bob’s foot. When no one spoke, Toby changed back into his native form and gazed about dejectedly.
“You just left,” he sniffed. “You never even asked me if I wanted to go. And then this big galoot comes along and it’s all ‘welcome aboard’ and ‘let me help you with that’!”
Plucking up the smee by one twisty end, Bob began dabbing him gently with a towel.
“What happened to Cloubert’s?” asked Max, sitting down by Scathach. “I thought you were on a big lucky streak.”
“I lied.”
Max opened a nearby crate. “You’re more than welcome to stay, Toby, but you might have to catch your own food. We didn’t pack for a smee.”
“Well, what’s in that box?” demanded the smee, pointing with his head. “I’ll bet there’s plenty of grub in there!”
“There is. But I’m not certain you’d like it.”
Reaching inside the crate, Max selected an iron ingot and laid it on the deck. Something in his pocket stirred, and Max brought it forth. He held it on his palm: a glossy black lump that soon stretched and mewled and cracked a coppery eye.
“Is … is that what I think it is?” asked the smee.
Max smiled. “Her name is Nox, and she’s my charge.”
“You never asked me to be your charge,” the smee observed coldly.
“But you’re not a charge, you’re a spy,” said Max, stroking the lymrill’s quills. “An infiltration specialist, a master of ruse de guerre …”
“Quite right,” snorted Toby, promptly ordering Bob to set him upon the sunny deck.
Once placed, the smee stretched, flipped onto his tummy, and launched into an unabridged recitation of his many adventures, intrigues, and scandals. After all, the voyage was long, his audience captive, and the smee most forthcoming.
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE/GLOSSARY
This guide is to help readers pronounce some of the more challenging names and terms found in the Tapestry. Many of the words are of Irish origin, while others are simply the author’s own creations. Some nuances have been sacrificed in the name of simplicity, and this should not be interpreted as a scholarly work on Irish pronunciation.
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