If the students looked young, Rowan’s remaining teachers looked ancient. A few were gathered atop Maggie’s steps, clutching their robes and cases as they gazed up at the raw and windy sky. They might have been a group of Oxford dons debating whether to fetch umbrellas before their evening stroll. How did the Director ever lure this group out of their retirement? With carrot and stick as she always did. Gabrielle Richter was a master.
Max decided he’d have a peek in her office. He walked down Rowan’s paths, passing wilted flowers, the marble fountain whose waters gave off an eerie mist, obscuring its cherubs and hippocampi. Despite the cold, the Manse looked cheerful enough. There it waited, solid and familiar, its ivy crisp with frost as smoke trickled from its chimneys.
Inside, a pair of First Years copied each other’s homework in a sitting room off the foyer. They didn’t notice Max, didn’t look up as he turned down the narrow hallway that led to the Director’s office.
As Max strode along, he took notice of the portraits lining the wall. He’d always found them mildly absurd. One would think important people sat around enduring mild indigestion. He stopped to appraise Ms. Richter’s.
It was just as unfortunate. A tastefully dull oil painting in a gilded frame whose subject sat at a desk with a sober, introspective expression. The portrait revealed nothing of the Director he knew. Max had never seen Ms. Richter sit that way much less wear such an insipid expression. No, she was frank and firm—occasionally intimidating—but she knew just when to soften a moment with a bit of levity. Max missed her. In some ways, Gabrielle Richter was the closest thing he had to a mother since his own had passed out of his life.
He slipped within her office, taking in its paneled walls, the maps, the elegant French doors that looked out upon the gardens. All the furniture was draped with canvas as though everything were being moved or put into storage. Desk, chairs, settee—everything was covered up but for a steaming coffeepot upon the desk. That isn’t right, thought Max. Where would anxious students be reprimanded for breaking curfew? Where would captured vyes sit while Mum threatened to eat them? A mistake had been made. Max would have to speak with someone.
He went out the French doors, crossing the patio and the orchard. Mourners stood by one of the sacred trees, gazing at a large apple made of gold. Max sympathized but did not stop. War was hard; more golden apples would decorate this orchard before it was finished. He couldn’t mourn everyone.
Max made his way to the Sanctuary, proceeding through its hedge gate to walk beneath an arched canopy of interlacing tree branches. Peering ahead, he was delighted to see that the Sanctuary was, as yet, untouched by winter. Its meadows were green and gold, its sky a pale blue with just a hint of cloud drifting over the mountains.
Emerging from the tunnel, Max saw the Warming Lodge, a low, timbered building overlooking a tranquil lagoon. Nolan would know what was happening with Richter’s office. Max made a beeline for its porch, his fingers brushing the tall grasses. Arriving at the porch, Max found Nolan’s fiddle lying on a rocking chair, but no sign of the man himself. The lodge’s door was locked. Max knocked.
Something most unsettling opened the door. A second glance revealed it to be Gregory Wyatt Nolan. He was dead, of course—had died during Prusias’s siege—but even death couldn’t keep the man from looking after Rowan’s charges. There was nothing hostile about his aspect, but the corpse couldn’t speak. It had no tongue and what little flesh remained on its bones was riddled with maggots. Max guessed that the shorn ribs had been his death wound, but the skull was also fractured.
What are those?
Max stared at Nolan’s teeth, for the man’s skull seemed to have extras—two entire rows of jagged, predatory incisors set into grooves above and below the normal allotment.
“Have you seen Ms. Richter?” he asked. “Someone’s packing up her office.”
Nolan’s corpse stood aside and pointed within. Max squeezed past him, entering the Warming Lodge where sunlight filtered lazily through the rafter windows. Entering the main room, he walked down the long aisle, passing stalls and terrariums populated by a menagerie of magical creatures. Max didn’t see Ms. Richter, but he did spot a familiar dark mound resting by the haystacks at the aisle’s end. He couldn’t blame YaYa. She’d earned the right to nap as often as she wished.
“Don’t wake her!” hissed a voice.
Max turned to see Scott McDaniels in one of the neighboring stalls. He was dressed in his burial suit. Unlike Nolan, he had not decayed. The man looked just the way Max remembered him and so tantalizingly real that Max almost went to him. But he restrained himself. Scott McDaniels was dead, just as Nolan was dead. He was no more real than the sunken goblin ship or those apprentices cheating on their homework. Max ignored him.
“Don’t!” Mr. McDaniels cried. “It’s not what you think!”
Max waved off his concerns. “It’s only YaYa,” he muttered, but his smile faded as he came closer. The ki-rin resembled a gargantuan black lioness with a broken horn atop her head. There was no gloss to this animal’s coat, and its fur was not black, but dark gray. The creature stirred as Max approached. A heavy head swiveled toward him.
It was the wolfhound.
Max had been dreaming of it since he was twelve. The monster was larger than a cart horse, with paws the size of dinner plates. As it rose, a bloodcurdling growl sounded in its throat. Max turned to leave.
But the clones had entered the Warming Lodge. They walked casually toward him down the aisle. The big one bore his spear and radiated an air of smug triumph. The gaunt, feral one radiated only death. Max stared at the weapon in the wild one’s hand. It looked to be no more than a chipped wedge of flint or ebony, but what pain it had caused! Max had never experienced anything like it. The blade didn’t merely cut flesh; it frayed something far deeper—one’s tether to eternity.
The clones broke into a trot. Max reached for the gae bolga, but it wasn’t there. Warm air tickled his neck. The wolfhound’s growl became a rough, throaty challenge.
“What are you about? Answer quick or I’ll gobble you up!”
Max turned just as the animal attacked. He caught it by the jaws, its teeth puncturing his flesh as he forced them away from his face. Staggering beneath its weight, Max was driven back toward the clones. The wolfhound’s breath was a furnace blast as it snapped and clawed, straining ever for his throat.
The clones were close. Max could hear their footfalls, the clink of armor. Dropping his shoulder, Max turned and hurled the wolfhound into the clones.
It howled as their weapons pierced its sides. Max backed away, watching spellbound as the clones fell upon the animal, stabbing deep into its writhing body. The Warming Lodge’s residents fell into a bleating, crying panic. Kicking the wolfhound over, the bigger clone raised his spear for the kill.
But the feral one held up his hand. His companion stopped, lowering his weapon reluctantly. Leering through a tangle of hair and broken teeth, the assassin approached Max and offered him the stone knife.
Max closed his fingers about its worn handle. He liked this blade. It was brittle and probably useless against armor, but it was hungry. And, unlike the gae bolga, this weapon wasn’t fickle. It craved Max’s blood, the wolfhound’s, even that of the clones. It had craved blood ever since Set scattered Osiris all over Egypt.
Hefting the knife, Max looked down to where the monster sprawled on the floor.
The wolfhound was gone.
It was Scathach who lay there, Scathach crumpled in a gasping heap while her life trickled away through her torn gray cloak.
Max screamed.
“Hush!” Scathach whispered, wrapping her arms about him and rocking him against her. “You’re just dreaming.”
Gasping, Max let his weight fall against her. For a long minute he just lay against her, his hands traveling over her back and shoulders, searching for the wounds he’d seen her suffer.
“Was it Failinis?” she asked gently. Max had told her about his recur
ring nightmares and it was her opinion that the wolfhound was Failinis, the very beast that sat before Lugh’s throne.
“It was the wolfhound,” Max panted. He didn’t want monsters to have names.
Sitting up, he held Scathach’s face in his hands. She smiled at him, looking beautiful if careworn.
“You look better,” she said. “The Fomorian’s magic has worked. I’ve been so worried.”
Max glanced down. He wasn’t wearing his own clothes, but a white linen robe. And he was no longer on the stone slab, but a down bed whose frame was made of twisted driftwood. He looked about the room, a small cavern of pale stone whose floor was strewn with rushes. Water was dripping outside. Through the walls, Max heard the faint crash of surf.
“How long have I been asleep?” he asked.
Scathach pushed the damp hair out of his eyes. “Three weeks,” she said. “Maybe longer. I lost track. It’s easy to lose track here.”
“Where’s the Fomorian?”
“Resting. He gave a great deal of himself to save you. It was many days before your wound would knit.”
Max opened his robe to see his side wrapped with a green silk bandage stitched with runes. Scathach stopped him from peeking beneath it.
“Meet your new best friend,” she said. “You must never take it off. The Fomorian says it will prevent the wound from opening.”
Nodding, Max eased off the bed and tried to stand. His legs trembled like a newborn foal’s. Clutching Scathach’s shoulder, he steadied himself.
“Your strength will return,” she assured him. “You haven’t been up for over a month. It’s natural to be shaky.”
“A month? You said three weeks!”
“Three weeks since the giant began to heal you,” she explained. “It’s been over a month since you were wounded. Once we arrived here, the faeries sang me to sleep and held us captive. We’re lucky David found us. We might have slept forever.”
Max frowned, trying to make sense of what Scathach was saying. “Wait,” he said. “David rescued us? How is that possible? He’s with Ms. Richter and the fleet. They must be two thousand miles from here!”
Taking his hand, Scathach led him back to the bed. “I think you should sit for a moment,” she said. “David has visited several times to check on you. He comes to us from Nether. I’ve had news from him. Important news.”
Max knew that expression. He had seen it many times before—on Scott McDaniels, policemen, mourners. To see it now on Scathach set every nerve on edge.
“Just tell me.”
“The fleet was intercepted. Prusias launched an attack using Workshop creatures. Bram destroyed them, but we suffered casualties. The Director was one.”
“Ms. Richter’s hurt?”
“She’s dead.”
Max could only nod and close his eyes. A moment later, he rose, steadied himself, and walked slowly about the room. “How?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Another nod.
“Who’s Director?”
“David.”
Max stopped pacing. If there was anything that could be salvaged from such a tragedy, this might be it. Some person, some brilliant and courageous person had the good sense to name David Menlo Director. David would doubt himself—he always doubted himself when thrust into the spotlight—but Max had more faith in David’s abilities than anyone else’s.
“Thank God.”
“There is some other good news,” said Scathach, trying to cheer him. “Cooper and Hazel are alive. David said Cooper’s going to be okay and is intent on his mission. Apparently, he’s even roped Toby into it.”
“Toby? Those two can’t work together. Cooper will murder him.”
“That’s what I thought, too, but then I imagine a smee might be very useful when infiltrating the Workshop and Prusias’s city.”
“David told you what Cooper’s mission was?”
“He did,” she replied. “He’s Director now. David knows everything about every DarkMatter operation. He even assigns the new ones.”
“I report to him,” said Max, somewhat amazed. “I report to my roommate. He’ll never let me live it down.”
“We both report to your roommate,” she pointed out. “And you should know he’s given us a new assignment. We’re to set out as soon as you’re able.”
“We already have a mission,” said Max. “We have to enlist the Fomorian.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why? He’d be an incredibly powerful ally.”
“Oh, I have no doubt of that,” said Scathach. “You should see the beaches. They’re littered with ships and demons. Prusias picked the wrong island to invade.”
“Exactly,” said Max. “That’s why we need him.”
“The Fomorian will fight to defend his island, but he won’t leave it.”
“Have you asked him?”
“I have.”
“And what did he say?”
Scathach shrugged. “That his place is here. Many faerie folk have taken refuge with him. They live under his protection.”
Max frowned. “Faeries. They take us prisoner and now they’re the reason the Fomorian won’t help us? Whose side are they on?”
“Their own,” Scathach replied. “To be fair, some have been trying to make amends. Some are proud and aloof but I can’t fault their generosity. They sacrificed a great deal of their blood and magic to aid you.”
“Sacrificed,” said Max, musing on the word. “And what about you? What did you have to sacrifice?”
Scathach looked away and gazed at the bandage wrapped about her forearm. “I don’t really know. A bit of strength, maybe. A bit of magic. Perhaps some years. I am changed, but I couldn’t say how.”
“I wish you hadn’t.”
Her eyes met his. “Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”
“I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
Taking his hands, she pulled him toward her. “I do know that,” she whispered. “Which is why my decision was no decision at all.”
The ensuing kiss was rudely interrupted by an excited lymrill. Streaking into the room, Nox bounded onto a bedpost and then onto her steward’s shoulders. Max staggered beneath her weight and toppled back onto the bed.
“Jeez, you’ve gotten heavy!” he exclaimed, tipping her onto his pillow. “What are they feeding you?”
“Gold,” said Scathach disapprovingly. “The faeries have plenty and like to bribe her with it. Nox has always been a diva, but now she’s a spoiled diva. Yesterday, she hissed when I tried to give her iron.”
“Nox,” said Max sternly. “Iron is good for you. Gold will make you soft.”
The lymrill did not seem to mind this prospect. With a cheeky mewl, she rubbed her back against the pillow and spread her claws to admire their golden tinge. Max poked her tummy, his fingers navigating the prickly quills to feel for extra padding. There was none. Nox was as solid as a tank—an even denser tank than she had been.
“She must weigh over a hundred pounds,” he marveled. “Nick never weighed this much and she’s not even half his size.”
“Not for long,” said Scathach, sitting and stroking the lymrill’s ruff. “They’ve also been feeding her from their table. The faeries say she’ll be the size of a lion.”
“Why are they being so nice to her?”
“Because she’s your charge,” Scathach said. “Evidently, nothing’s too good for a friend of the Faeregine.”
Faeregine. Max put aside his anxiety over a lion-sized lymrill to try and place the word. He’d definitely heard it before.
“That’s what the hags called Mina,” he recalled. “The faeries call her that, too?”
Scathach disentangled Nox’s claws from her bracelet. “Yes, they do. They practically worship Mina. They talk about her like she’s a god.”
“Mina’s human,” said Max decisively. He was unsure how he knew, but he was almost certain. “She’s not faerie.”
“The
faeries agree,” said Scathach. “They say whenever the Faeregine is reborn, it becomes whatever is threatened most. They say she’s returned this time as a human child.”
“What does the Fomorian say?”
“He doesn’t say much about her. He’s more interested in David.”
“He and David have a funny history. Did he tell you about it?”
“Not exactly,” said Scathach. “But the last time David visited, the Fomorian stared at him and said something like ‘Sorcerers are all the same. They steal your secrets and keep their own.’ He was really angry.”
Max frowned. “What did he mean by that? What secret was David keeping?”
“I don’t know. David tried to speak privately with him, but the Fomorian refused. What secret did David steal?”
“The Fomorian’s name,” Max replied. “Or really, the fact that he doesn’t have one. When we first came here, the giant said he’d help us if David could guess his name. But if David guessed wrong, the giant would take his head.”
“How did David figure it out?”
Max couldn’t help but grin at his memory of the occasion. “By looking at him! It was the craziest thing, Scathach. David just stared at the giant for hours like he was some sort of riddle. At dawn, he sat up and recited the Fomorian’s entire family tree. He’s the son of Elathan. Apparently Elathan was so ashamed of his child’s appearance he refused to give him a name.”
“Why doesn’t the giant just give himself a name?”
“He needs a truename,” Max clarified. “The Fomorian can’t fully live or die without one. He just continues to exist, age after age. David promised to give him one.”
“That’s so sad.”
“It is. I’m sorry to hear the Fomorian’s angry with David. I really thought those two understood each other. I wonder what David’s secret is.” Max hesitated. “I saw him when I was dreaming. He had two hands.”
Scathach raised an eyebrow. “You saw that in a dream?”
“And I saw Blys,” Max continued. “There were things on the walls and thousands of people streaming out of the city. And winter—winter’s everywhere, Scathach. Even in Zenuvia and at Rowan.”
The Red Winter Page 19