As Scathach opened the door, Max saw the maid looking somewhat pale. On a small tray, she bore a small envelope sealed with scarlet wax.
“What is that?” asked Lucia. “A note from Connor?”
“Forgive me,” said Eloise, stepping into the room. “But I was instructed to deliver it to the gentleman and await his reply.”
She brought the envelope to Max. Its seal was a thorn-twined rune.
“This is from Grael,” he said.
“Don’t touch it,” snapped Scathach. “It might be poisoned.”
“Poison’s a violation of médim,” said Max. “Besides, no demon of Grael’s status would use it—especially not on something with his seal. There’s no glory in killing with poison.”
“There’s plenty of glory in killing the Hound of Rowan,” said Scathach. “And we don’t know this letter came from Grael. It just has his seal.”
“Who gave this to you?” said Max to Eloise.
“The duke’s secretary,” replied the girl. “The white imp.”
Max could hardly forget him—he’d never seen an albino imp before. Taking a napkin from the cookie tray, he picked up the envelope and opened it using Scathach’s poignard. Sliding the paper out, he flipped it open and scanned its contents. They were admirably brief:
I command many legions.
This war can end by Yule.
A private word, if you please.
Safe conduct is assured.
Discretion is required.
Max showed it to Scathach, who raised her eyebrows.
“What is it?” asked Sarah.
“Grael wants to see me. In private.”
“You’re not actually thinking of going?” exclaimed Lucia.
“Of course I’m going,” said Max. “Grael’s rumored to want Prusias’s throne. I have to hear what he’s proposing.”
“But you’re not going alone,” said Scathach pointedly.
“We’ll all go,” Sarah volunteered bravely.
“No,” said Scathach. “You two stay here. If we’re not back in an hour, get out of the castle.” She looked at Eloise. “Are there secret ways out of here?”
Eloise shrugged. “All castles have secret ways.”
“Promise me you’ll get them out if something goes wrong,” said Scathach.
“Oui,” said Eloise earnestly. “I promise, mademoiselle.”
“We’re going with you,” Sarah insisted.
“You’re not,” declared Scathach flatly. “It’s a nice gesture, but that’s an order.”
Sarah looked incredulous. “Are you pulling rank?”
“Absolutely.”
“What gives you the right?” demanded Lucia.
Scathach pointed impatiently at her Red Branch tattoo.
“Please don’t argue,” said Max. “Sarah and Lucia, pack your stuff. Forget all the gifts and just take what you need. If the meeting with Grael turns ugly, you’ll need to get out of here.”
“Give me five minutes,” said Scathach, taking their room key and disappearing next door. Not three minutes had passed when she returned wearing her dark mail shirt and well-worn traveling clothes.
“I kind of liked that dress,” said Max ruefully.
“You’ll see it again,” said Scathach, leaning her spear against a table while she laced her boots. “But I’d rather be able to move than look pretty. Are you ready?”
It was a long walk to Lord Grael’s chambers, for the duke had been given a suite of rooms at the opposite end of the castle. To avoid watchful eyes or even a potential ambush, Eloise took Max and Scathach by an indirect route involving a secret passage and two narrow flights of servants’ stairs. With dawn rapidly approaching, the castle had grown quieter. From the great hall, Max could hear only the faint music of a belyaël as its owner played the lengthy, hauntingly beautiful piece that traditionally brought a médim to its close. When the music ended, so would any and all protections the gathering afforded its participants.
The belyaël was still playing, however, when they arrived at the private wing where Grael was staying. At the entry to its hallway, they encountered the white imp Max had seen in the ballroom. The duke’s secretary glared at Eloise.
“It took you long enough!” he hissed. “The médim is almost over and Lord Grael did not wish for its conclusion to alarm his visitors.”
“My most humble apologies,” said Eloise meekly. “I thought it best to take slower ways with fewer eyes.”
“No matter,” snapped the imp. “Take them in and be quick!”
Max stopped the girl before she could walk ahead. “You can leave, Eloise,” he said. If there was an ambush waiting, Max didn’t want her walking into it. “Don’t wait for us. We can find our way back.”
Max and Scathach continued past several rooms until they reached a pair of grand double doors at the end. They stood ever so slightly ajar. As Max reached to knock, the music in the great hall abruptly ceased.
With a kick of her boot, Scathach nudged both doors inward.
It took Max a moment to register the scene before him.
Lord Grael leaned back in a chair, his countenance frozen in a terrifying rictus as he stared blindly up at a chandelier. At first glance, Max thought the demon was dead, but he recalled that rakshasa turned to fiery smoke when they perished. Whatever was wrong with Grael, it probably had something to do with the translucent, pulsing organism affixed to his throat.
Behind the demon stood Lady Nico. To her right was Connor Lynch, looking as grim and sober as a judge.
The rest of the room’s occupants were vyes.
“Come in, Max,” said Connor calmly. “We haven’t much time.”
Max heard a gasp from behind them. Turning back to the hallway, he saw Lord Grael’s secretary crumpled on the floor. Eloise was crouching over him, checking for a pulse as she slipped a slim knife back into her apron. Her eyes met Max’s: young, frank, and purposeful. This little maid was no stranger to violence. Max turned back to Connor.
“Sarah and Lucia …”
“They’re safe,” said Lady Nico. “They ingested a sleeping draught and have been taken out of the castle along with your charges.”
“What’s going on?” Scathach demanded.
“A revolution,” replied Lady Nico. “Please come in. A rakshasa’s death is rather dramatic and it would be best if the door was closed.”
Max and Scathach entered, eyeing a group of dark, wolfish vyes that were cleaning their weapons by the bodies of Grael’s bodyguards and servants. Eloise followed, dragging Lord Grael’s secretary into the room and closing the door. The imp was still alive but would not be for much longer. From a wheeled trunk, the girl retrieved another pulsing, grapefruit-sized organism and set it upon the imp’s chest. Anemone-like tendrils sprouted from its glistening surface to probe the imp’s face. Hooking itself to the imp’s soft throat, the organism pulled itself up and over its chin as more tendrils sprouted to tunnel into the base of its subject’s skull. The imp’s body shuddered as though it received an electric jolt and the organism began to expand and contract like a luminescent bellows. Max was utterly repulsed.
“What is that?” he asked.
“A vampiric mnemonculus,” answered Lady Nico. “It’s leeching the imp’s memories, just as the other is stealing Lord Grael’s. No easy task to paralyze a demon of his stature.”
“So, he’s alive?” said Scathach, peering at the rakshasa.
“For now,” said Lady Nico coolly.
Max and Scathach entered, shutting the door behind them as the mnemonculi continued to perform their grisly duties. Vyes were straightening up the room and dragging Grael’s guards through a secret passage in the chamber’s far corner. The vyes were similar to others Max had seen but these were taller and had finer features than the norm. The ones that seemed to be in charge wore silver armbands, which might have indicated their rank. Max’s eyes returned to the mnemonculus at Grael’s throat. It was pulsing more rapidly.
�
��It’s almost finished,” Lady Nico observed. “Get Pascal.”
From a gilded box, a vye plucked a familiar, yamlike shape. It wriggled angrily and doubled back to seemingly (for it had no visible eyes) glare at its handler.
“Imbécile!” it roared in French. “I was sleeping. Put me back at once!”
The vye was unmoved. “You sleep enough. Time to work.”
The disgruntled creature was smaller than Toby and a slimy chartreuse rather than Toby’s mottled brown, but there was no mistaking the bulbous midsection, tapered ends, or pompous manner. The vye held the wriggling smee over Lord Grael.
“Okay, okay,” it grumbled impatiently. “I have him down.”
The vye tossed the smee high into the air. As it flipped end over end, the smee’s ignoble shape transformed into that of the regal and imposing rakshasa. With an acrobatic landing, Lord Grael’s doppelganger crouched over the original, peering closely at his motionless face. Max could not get over the smee’s transformation—even Grael’s finery and armor had been replicated to the last detail. For the time being, however, the smee’s voice remained unchanged.
“He’s coming to,” sniffed Pascal.
Lady Nico turned to Connor. “Are you prepared to do this? There can be no going back.”
The Irish boy nodded.
“Connor,” said Max. “What are you doing?”
But his friend didn’t answer as Lady Nico motioned to one of the vyes who brought forth a short bronze sword, not unlike a gladius. The blade was stained with age, its metal etched with ancient writing. Taking the handle, Connor hefted the weapon and glanced down at Lord Grael. He nodded to one of the vyes, who promptly took a firm grip of the pulsing mnemonculus. Raising the sword, Connor took a slow, deep breath.
“Now.”
With a squeal, the mnemonculus was snatched away. In one swift stroke, Connor beheaded the Duke of Malakos. There was a flash of light, a searing wave of heat, and the powerful demon melted away in a noxious, tumbling cascade of smoke and ash. When the smoke cleared, Max saw Connor’s sweat-begrimed face staring at the rakshasa’s empty armor. His hands were trembling.
“Well struck,” said Lady Nico, taking the sword and embracing him. Several other vyes followed suit. The last mussed Connor’s hair and the baron grinned in spite of himself.
“We’re in it now,” he muttered.
“What is all this?” Max demanded. “Was that letter from Grael or from you?”
“Grael,” said Lady Nico, handing the bronze sword to an attendant. “I am sorry you couldn’t have your chat, but we couldn’t allow the demon’s schemes to interfere with our own. We have our own uses for Grael and they don’t involve an alliance with Rowan.”
“So you know what he wrote,” said Scathach.
“Word for word,” said Lady Nico. “We can see everything that happens in this room. Why do you think it was given to him?”
“Connor—” said Max warningly.
His friend turned to him. “You have to trust me. We’re not working against Rowan. We’ve got the same enemy. Grael’s more valuable like this.”
Max glanced at Scathach, whose expression made her attitude clear.
Do you trust him?
Lady Nico turned to the other vyes. “Get Luis. Once he and Pascal are settled, we must be off.”
Luis, a purplish smee, was brought forth in the same wriggling and grumpy manner as Pascal. It was apparently his job to mimic Lord Grael’s secretary, for moments later, an albino imp stood before them wearing the identical gaudy couture as his now-deceased counterpart. To Max’s immense disgust, both smees began ingesting the squealing mnemonculi.
“This is going to take a while,” Pascal remarked, his voice now a perfect replica of the duke’s baritone. “Grael is thousands of years old. Lots of memories to absorb.”
“You don’t need to know everything right away,” said Connor. “Just enough to fool other guests into believing you’re him. Let Luis do the talking at first. The imp will have fewer memories. You know what to do?”
Lord Grael and his secretary looked insulted.
“We have been working on this for months,” retorted the imp. “We know the plan better than you do.”
“Good luck,” said Connor. “Max and Scathach, please come with us. There’ll soon be—”
“Fire!” cried a voice elsewhere in the castle. The call was quickly taken up, followed by a distant stampede of running feet.
“That’s our cue,” said Connor.
Eloise darted into the secret passage, trailed by several vyes and Lady Nico. Connor came over to Max and Scathach. Somehow, the Irish boy looked both weary and exhilarated.
“Come on,” he urged. “I know you’ve got questions, but you’ve got to trust me.”
“Where are Sarah and Lucia?”
“At the other end of this passage,” Connor assured him. “I promise.”
Even if Connor had changed, he couldn’t imagine him letting harm befall Lucia or Sarah. And unless Eloise was a remarkable actress, her affection for his friends was real. While Max didn’t enjoy dashing off into the unknown, they had to seize this chance. Their mission was to make contact with the Elder vyes and win them over to Rowan’s side. This was certainly the opportunity—even if it came of crashing their operation.
Max nodded at Connor, who looked relieved as he led them toward the secret passage. Its entrance had been cleverly disguised within an ornamental buttress in the room’s corner. Slipping past the vyes awaiting Nico by its entrance, they followed Connor into the cold, dark tunnel.
Despite torches burning at regular intervals, the passage was still very dim and uncomfortably narrow so that Max jostled against the damp walls. Even less comfortable was the fact that there were vyes ahead of them, vyes behind them, and very little room to turn around.
“So,” Max whispered, “all of that was an act. You’re not really a debauched playboy but a cold-blooded assassin?”
Connor glanced back with a devilish grin. “I’d like to think I’m both.”
Max thought he heard Scathach groan.
The passage soon joined a larger tunnel that was better lit as it extended in a gentle curve to the north or northeast. Here, the group broke into a trot that went on for several hundred yards until they arrived at a ladder that extended up toward a rusted trapdoor. Eloise climbed the ladder first and knocked urgently with the flat of her small hand.
The door opened to reveal a vulpine-looking vye who reached down to pull the girl up as the others clambered after. Max climbed swiftly up the rungs, emerging into a musty cellar lit by a single oil lamp. Several vyes awaited them there. One handed Connor a cloak.
“This is my gamekeeper’s lodge,” panted Connor, taking the cloak and putting it on. “We have horses outside and a long ride ahead of us. Your things are already in the sleds. Wear these and pull the hoods low.”
Two vyes handed Max and Scathach cloaks similar to Connor’s. As Scathach pulled hers about her, she seemed to blend in with a stack of barrels and jam jars behind her. Connor grinned.
“Pretty neat, eh? Better than standard camouflage.”
When all had their cloaks, the group filed upstairs—a score of vyes with silver armbands, Lady Nico, Eloise, Connor, Scathach, and Max. Max was almost certain the silver-armband vyes were an honor guard for Lady Nico, who must be a person of considerable importance. Out the cozy lodge they went into the frigid morning where the sun, a glowing sliver of red-orange, was peeking over the forest’s rim.
Mounts were outside, powerful horses clad in the same material as the party’s cloaks so that they were superbly camouflaged against the morning. Eight were hitched to covered sleds, but the others stood free, ears twitching as they grazed on nettles.
Eloise waded through the deep snow to pull back a sleigh’s blanket. Beneath it, Lucia, Sarah, Nox, and Kettlemouth were in a drugged but peaceful slumber.
“I had to give them a sleeping draught,” said the girl apologetically. �
��I had no time to explain, and Mistress Lucia was so angry. I didn’t think they would come.”
Max nodded. He was not happy, but he understood why she had taken the precaution. As he checked on his friends, he noted that the horses and sleds were resting easily on the snow’s icy crust while those on foot had to trudge through the deep powder.
“It’s the horseshoes,” Connor explained as a mounted vye led three bay stallions over to a tree stump. “Your mount won’t leave tracks for anyone to follow. Here, you ride Hob.”
Using the tree stump as a stool, Max gripped the pommel of Hob’s saddle and pulled himself up. From behind them, there were distant cries. Max turned his horse around to see dark smoke rising above the treetops.
“Not to worry,” said Connor, mounting his own horse and taking up the reins. “The fire at the castle is mostly show—just enough to create a little confusion, clog the road, and make me look like a victim.”
“So where are we going?” asked Scathach.
“Lady Nico’s lands,” said Connor. “We can talk there. I know you’ve got lots of questions.” With a rueful glance at his burning home, he followed Lady Nico as she spurred her mount into the woods.
They rode for hours, blending with the landscape and leaving no trail as Lady Nico led them over hills, through forests, and across icy streams. It was an exhilarating ride, if frigid. Snow was falling again and the flakes stung Max’s eyes as Hob forged ahead.
The long ride gave Max time to process what had just transpired. Lady Nico said a revolution was underway. A revolt by Harinean nobles against Prusias? Were Elder vyes the only ones involved? How did they intend to use Lord Grael’s doppelganger? Would the smees return to Prusias as assassins? As spies? And why had they required Connor to slay the rakshasa? Was that merely to prove his loyalty to the revolution or was there a deeper significance?
Max had a million questions and wished dearly that he could spend an hour with Connor to get candid answers. Would Connor provide them? We’re not working against Rowan, he had said. Connor identified with Lady Nico and the vyes—not with Rowan. Regardless of where Connor’s allegiance lay, Max’s objective was clear: to win the Elder vyes over to their cause.
The Red Winter Page 28