The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  “Would you come with us?” asked Max. “Would you come and fight for Rowan?”

  Tossing the bones upon the fire, the giant shook his shaggy head. “To me, there is little difference between Prusias and Rowan. Both have come to my shores; both have hunted me. I care not who wins, only that I am left alone.”

  “I saw the beach,” Max said. “Do you really think Prusias is going to leave you alone? If Rowan’s defeated, Prusias will crush his remaining enemies. And when he does, he’ll come back with enough force that you cannot resist him again.”

  “And what of Rowan?” asked the giant. “What will happen if Rowan wins and becomes a great power on earth? Do you think your scholars will let me be? No, they will seek to leech whatever wisdom and secrets I possess. As they have always done.”

  “I don’t know what happened in the past,” said Max. “But I believe things could be different. David speaks for Rowan now and he’s your friend. I’m sure he’d honor whatever arrangements you wished.”

  The Fomorian gave a scornful laugh. “That one is a trickster. I have given the little sorcerer much thought since you first visited me. He was courteous and kind. He promised to give me a name but he never will. He is false. They are all false.”

  “I don’t understand. What did he do to you?”

  “He deceived me. Do you know his lineage?”

  “He’s Elias Bram’s grandson.”

  “Aye,” said the Fomorian. “He is. And that line is very great. Bram is descended from Fionn mac Cumhaill, one of Ireland’s great heroes. Fionn was descended from Nuada Silverhand, who was king before Lugh.”

  Max gazed at the giant. “David also has kin among the Tuatha Dé Danaan?”

  “He did once. But Nuada is no more. He died at Magh Tuireadh. Your line and David’s intersect in many ways, but your blood is purer. Your sire is Lugh Lamfhada. Many generations separate the sorcerer from Nuada. Still, his mother hails from Fionn mac Cumhaill and Elias Bram. A proud heritage, or so I’d once believed.”

  “I still don’t understand,” said Max. “What is there to be ashamed of?”

  The Fomorian’s face darkened. “A father’s blood will tell. The sorcerer deceived us both. He is a demon.”

  Max actually laughed. “David can’t be a demon!” He held up his hand to show the giant a silver ring upon his finger, a gift from David when they learned the Atropos were using possession to control those close to Max. “This grows hot whenever a demon is close by. It’s never even grown warm around David.”

  “That means nothing,” said the giant. “If the sorcerer could veil his true nature from me, he can hide it from whatever spirit is bound within that trinket.”

  Max considered this, the blood petals, and a hundred other explanations and possibilities. Weighing all of this against the person he knew, Max came to a simple conclusion. “So what?”

  “He is a demon,” repeated the giant, emphasizing the word as if Max hadn’t heard him.

  “So his father was a demon. I guess that makes him a half-demon or whatever they’re called. So what? David isn’t evil.”

  “Blood will tell.”

  “Has your blood told?” Max asked. “Your father was cruel and shallow. He didn’t even give you a name. He was a monster but you’re not. You’re not cruel or shallow. At least I don’t think so. You chose to be something better. So has David.”

  “He hid what he is,” muttered the giant darkly.

  “I’m starting to see why.”

  The giant said nothing, but stared into the flames. Max sat for several minutes, meditating on these latest revelations and letting the fire’s warmth sink into his bones. At length, he stood.

  “Would you tell me my geasa?” he asked.

  The Fomorian considered him gravely. “You still wish to know?”

  “Yes.”

  The giant nodded. “Very well. These are the bonds that were placed upon you at your birth: The Hound may not refuse a dying wish or knowingly slay his kindred. If you break either geis, your life is forfeit. Do you understand?”

  Max nodded, committing the words to memory. “I’m pursued by assassins that share my blood. Would they count as kindred?”

  “If they share your blood.”

  Max frowned. “But I’ve already slain one. Why didn’t that geis take effect?”

  The Fomorian considered. “Did you know he was your kin when you struck the blow?”

  Max recalled his battle with the clone in Prusias’s Arena. He’d only known his armored, faceless opponent as Myrmidon. It was not until the match was finished that he learned whom he’d been fighting.

  “No,” he said. “I guess not. But the others … I know who they are. Are you saying that if I slay them, I also slay myself?”

  The giant’s response was not comforting. “A geis is often inconvenient,” he said. “Perhaps your friends can deal with these foes.”

  Max wasn’t certain he had any friends who could deal with the clones. Cooper already tried and was thoroughly overmatched. This could turn out to be a serious problem. But for now, he wanted to check on Scathach and Nox and get some rest.

  “We’ll leave tomorrow,” he said. “Thank you for helping me.”

  The giant inclined his head. “Go in peace, Hound. I do not expect we will meet again.”

  “Maybe not,” said Max. “But I want you to think about one thing before I go.”

  The Fomorian gazed down at him.

  “You’ve lived a long time,” said Max. “In all those years, how many people have understood you, offered you their friendship, and vowed to give you what you value most? Because that’s what David Menlo did. Whether you choose to help him is up to you, but he deserves your respect.”

  The Fomorian said nothing. Max walked across the vast cavern, his eyes trained upon his long shadow. Stopping at the archway to Scathach’s room, he turned back to bid the Fomorian farewell.

  But the giant was gone. Only the fire remained, its smoke winding up and out a hole in the ceiling.

  The next morning, Scathach had no recollection of their hike or meeting the Morrígan. Max did not tell her of it or of his conversation with the giant. They woke early, prodded Nox into reluctant motion, and breakfasted alone in the great cavern. There was no sign of the giant, but supplies had been left for them—barrels of fresh water, salted fish, smoked venison, and tart green apples. There were also warm sealskins and furs, for the weather was only getting colder.

  As they checked their gear and coaxed Nox into trying a herring, Scathach shared their new objective. “We’re to make for Enlyll.”

  Max made a face. “Enlyll’s five hundred miles west of Prusias. Why doesn’t David want us joining Rowan’s army?”

  “I think he wants us to recruit an army.”

  “Enlyll’s just a little barony,” said Max. “If it could supply many troops, Ms. Richter would have sent experienced Agents there, not Sarah and Lucia. Technically, Connor’s one of Prusias’s braymas but I can’t imagine he has that much influence.”

  “How long has it been since you’ve seen him?”

  “Almost three years. Connor left the same day Mum did.”

  “Well,” said Scathach, “apparently Connor’s made some new friends. David said he’d send us all the details using spypaper. Once we sail beyond sight of the Fomorian’s island, it should work again.”

  “Elder vyes,” Max mused. “That’s what he’s sending us after. Two lived near the farmhouse where I first met Mina. Nix and Valya were kind, but they weren’t soldiers. Not even remotely. Unless David knows something we don’t, we might fail at two missions.”

  “David wouldn’t send us to Enlyll if it wasn’t important.”

  Anxious as Max was to join up with Rowan’s main force, he had to agree. Still, he wasn’t thrilled with this new assignment. He hadn’t been chosen for the Red Branch because he was Rowan’s best spy or diplomat. Max was a fighter and Blys, not Enlyll, was where the fighting would be. Rowan’s fleet was p
robably just making landfall.

  Still, Scathach was right. David weighed his options so carefully it was likely the operation’s success depended on Max’s and Scathach’s direct involvement. He supposed they would know more once they had sailed beyond the Fomorian’s influence and the spypaper could work once again.

  While he’d prefer to rejoin Rowan’s army, it would be good to see Sarah and Lucia and enjoy a reunion with Connor Lynch. Max had changed a great deal in the past three years. He imagined Connor must have, too.

  By midmorning, they had activated Ormenheid, which rose and fell on the cold gray shallows. The wind was already blowing in frigid gales and Nox huddled beneath sealskins by the prow where she fixed her steward with a sour stare. The lymrill was trading gold coins and warm, leisurely days for an open boat on wintry seas. She was less than pleased.

  When Max secured the last of the barrels, he thumped Ormenheid’s salt-crusted masthead. “Leita Enlyll,” he murmured. The enchanted ship pushed forward through water, its prow carving a path between two wrecked ships.

  While Scathach lit a fire, Max gazed back at the isle, hoping for a final glimpse of the Fomorian. But there was no sign of the giant upon the bluffs or beach. There was only a small dark figure that watched them depart. She stood motionless on the cold sand while her ravens wheeled about the dull red sky. A lady in black.

  He had not planned to land on the island of Sicily. Nor had he intended to take shelter on the former African coast the previous week. He’d originally planned to sail the fleet close to Blys—to Rome, as it was called on the old maps—but he was learning that weather outranked any general and could make a mockery of even the best-laid plans. If it did not improve, they would have to find some way across the strait and finish the journey on foot—over five hundred miles of hilly terrain in enemy territory.

  And this weather showed no sign of improving. It was not merely the cold—a cold that sheathed the ships in ice—but the wind and snow as well. The former came screaming at all hours and from all directions, bending and even snapping masts with the fury of a hurricane. While the snow was less ferocious, it was a constant, unyielding nuisance. Visibility was nonexistent, the entire world a billowing wall of white beneath a dull red pall of sky. Early August in the Mediterranean and they might have been in Antarctica.

  At least the tent was warm, thought David. There were braziers and carpets and, while the roof sagged from the snow, it served to insulate it from the cold and wind. Reaching for his coffee, David glanced at a particular sheet of spypaper he kept close by. To his immense delight, ink spots blossomed on the page to form words written in a strong, familiar hand.

  Aboard Ormenheid. Fomorian won’t come. Bound for Enlyll. Send operation details when you can. Very sorry to hear about Ms. Richter, but happy they chose you to replace her. You’ll do great. Don’t get a big head.

  Max

  p.s. The Fomorian told me your “secret.”

  If it’s true, I don’t care.

  The news about the Fomorian was disappointing but hardly a surprise. Smoothing the parchment, David erased its contents and prepared to compose a reply. As he dipped the pen, a voice sounded from behind him.

  “Are you writing in your diary again?”

  The amused English accent belonged to one Cynthia Gilley, David’s girlfriend and former classmate. Setting down his pen, he turned to see her round, cheerful face looking deceptively innocent at the table where she was sorting mounds of reports and correspondence.

  “I don’t keep a diary,” he insisted. “I keep a journal. The Director is required to. And I’m not writing in my journal but replying to Max. He and Scathach have set sail.”

  “To rendezvous with Sarah and Lucia?”

  “That’s classified. You’re not even supposed to know what Sarah and Lucia are doing.”

  “But I do know what they’re doing. Incidentally, they’re having a lot of fun.”

  “Shhh!” said David, eyeing the tent’s entrance. “Wait, how would you know they’re having a lot of fun?”

  Cynthia shrugged. “Lucia stole some spypaper before they left. We send each other notes.”

  David pursed his lips. “She shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t be doing that. Tell her to destroy it.”

  “When has anyone been able to tell Lucia anything?”

  David paused. Cynthia had a point. Lucia Cavallo was notoriously strong-willed. Besides, he doubted real harm would come of it. From Sarah’s official reports, it sounded as if the time they’d spent in Enlyll had been predominately social. They’d heard rumors of Elder vyes and potentially seen one leaving Connor’s castle, but there hadn’t been anything resembling an introduction, much less discussions. But if such talks could take place—if Ms. Richter’s files had been accurate—what allies they might be!

  While Lucia’s notes to Cynthia were probably harmless, one couldn’t be too careful. The last thing David needed was to be accused of lax security when so many were already critical of his appointment as Director. Some were skeptical that one so young could handle the office. Others found it highly suspicious that he had emerged from Prusias’s attack with the Director’s title and a mysteriously restored hand. Whispers had started and many made their way to him. David Menlo had orchestrated the attack. David Menlo is in league with Prusias. David Menlo is in league with Astaroth!

  There would always be critics and conspiracy theorists, he reminded himself. Still, he needed to win people over and manage things intelligently. Now was certainly not the time to reveal he was a cambion. Such news might trigger an outright coup. The Fomorian’s reaction to David’s secret had been a painful, albeit valuable reminder that not everyone would be as accepting as Miss Awolowo, Max, and Cynthia. Someday, David would reveal his true lineage. But first he had a war to win.

  “Tell Lucia to tear up the paper,” he sighed. “I hope you haven’t shared anything about the army’s movements or situation.”

  “Oh no. We really just talk about Connor.”

  “Oh?” said David. “How are he and Lucia getting along?”

  Connor Lynch’s obsession with Lucia had been an open secret since their very first year at Rowan. In many ways, they were a perfect match: Lucia enjoyed dismissing her many suitors while Connor relished the chase.

  “Mixed,” Cynthia replied. “I think Lucia was expecting to find the same old Connor from Third Year. But he isn’t anymore, is he? He’s a young man, the ruler of a barony, and—if Lucia’s to be believed—a bit of a playboy.”

  “Connor’s always been kind of wild,” David reflected. “He mooned a café when we were First Years. Most playboys probably start out mooning cafés.”

  Cynthia filed a stack of papers. “Well, he’s moved on from mooning cafés. Now he hosts big parties and spends his days hunting. There are lots of humans on his lands and apparently quite a few girls. Pretty girls. Girls who are more than a little interested in ‘his lordship.’ ”

  “Maybe Lucia doesn’t like having competition.”

  “Maybe,” said Cynthia, pulling her red hair back in a ponytail. “But Connor certainly led her on in that letter, didn’t he? He made it sound like he’s been pining away for her—and only her. Maybe the letter was just to sneak us a message about the Elder vyes. He didn’t mention he’d found other shoulders to cry on.”

  “Is he dating these other girls?”

  “Define ‘dating,’ ” said Cynthia dryly.

  As a shy and introverted newcomer to these topics, David was quietly amazed by Connor’s life. Dating multiple girls? Did people do such things? Could people do such things? While it was tempting to let his imagination wander, David realized he was on dangerous ground. He affected a look of polite indifference.

  “Sounds complicated.”

  “Ha!” Cynthia laughed. “You can say that twice. Lucia says if she gets another dirty look from one of Connor’s admirers, she’ll curse the lot into swine. Him too.”

  David frowned. “Sarah hasn’
t mentioned any of this in her reports.”

  “Sarah’s too busy snogging with Markus.”

  David put down his pen, inwardly amazed. Sarah Amankwe was a Nigerian classmate whose intelligence, athleticism, and reliability had her on track to be a top Agent. While he knew Lucia would be distracted with Connor, David assumed Sarah would be spending every minute trying to make contact with Elder vyes. Apparently, he’d been wrong. “Who’s Markus?”

  “One of the captains in Connor’s trading fleet,” said Cynthia. “But it sounds to me like he spends more time raiding than trading.”

  “Sounds like he’s a pirate.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think she’s just having fun. They’re two girls off on an adventure. Right now they’re all excited to attend a médim Connor is hosting in a few weeks. Sounds a little scary to me.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Especially if Connor’s hosting. There are strict rules around médim that govern what’s permitted and what’s not. Violence involving anything except certain rituals is strictly forbidden. It’ll be more like attending a ball where the guests are mostly spirits.”

  “Well, now I’m a little jealous,” said Cynthia. “They’ll get to wear fancy dresses and dance with pirates and braymas and spirits. Lucia will wear green, you know. She looks amazing in green. I kind of hate her when she wears green …”

  “Me too,” said David, only half listening. He was staring at his spypaper, considering whether to insist that Max and Scathach should travel overland. Ormenheid was a wondrous vessel—an artifact of the true Old Magic—but even she might not be a match for this weather. The image of that small, open craft navigating thirty-foot seas made David queasy. He sent a brief message to that effect, promising more details on their mission but recommending that they seek shelter and travel by land if the weather did not relent.

  It was certainly not relenting where he was. Each day, David walked out to stare at the stretch of water separating their impromptu settlement from the mainland. It was not far, a mere afternoon sail in pleasant weather. But the unnatural fury of those seas and wind was shocking. It was everything the aeromancers and Mystics could do to shield the coves where the ships were moored. Rowan had one more stretch of water to cross before they could make landfall and march on Blys. But to protect the fleet during its final dash across this murderous strait would be beyond the aeromancers’ powers. It would be beyond his powers, too. The Archmage might be able to manage it, but he had vanished since destroying Prusias’s monsters. David presumed his grandfather was recovering at Rowan or some other refuge, but his status and whereabouts remained a mystery. No, Elias Bram could not bail them out of this. David reflected on Lord Salisbury’s tale of the Spanish Armada and how it was weather, not Sir Francis Drake, that ultimately proved its doom.