The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  With an imperious grunt, Archon dismissed the servant and uncorked the bottle of pungent wine. He poured two glasses, one for Max and one for himself. Apparently Volsu was to do without. Archon raised his glass and spoke.

  “My lord toasts your good health and commends your choice of a mate,” Volsu translated. “She is formidable.”

  Max blinked. “Er, thank you. Lady Isu seems like a fine wife.”

  Archon inclined his head and sipped his wine. Setting down his glass, he appraised Max thoughtfully before speaking.

  “What does Rowan want from the Raszna? I have heard rumors, but I want to hear from you,” said Volsu.

  He cuts right to it. David had recommended candor and thus far everything Max had seen of Archon seemed to support that approach.

  “Rowan wants friendship.”

  Archon shook his head and wagged a chiding finger. “Rowan wants allies,” said Volsu, interpreting. “Even if Prusias’s braymas abandon him, the demon can muster many more troops than those now marching toward his gates. Rowan is far from home and vastly outnumbered.”

  “Not if the Raszna and Rowan fight together,” said Max.

  Archon touched his fingertips together and spoke in a solemn tone. “For over two thousand years, your order has tormented Luperca’s sons and daughters,” Volsu translated. “You forced us to abandon our homeland, drove us down into the darkness, and hunted those who remained above. And now Rowan desires our help?”

  Max spread his hands. “I can’t undo the past. I will freely admit that I used to believe all vyes were the enemy, monsters intent on destroying humankind. It wasn’t until I met two Raszna that I began to learn otherwise.”

  Archon listened stoically. At Max’s mention of Raszna, he shook his head.

  “You refer to Nix and Valya,” said Volsu. “We are aware of your interactions with them. They are not Raszna.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Max, looking from one to the other. “I thought Raszna was your term for Elder vyes. Am I mistaken?”

  Speaking to Volsu, Archon gestured at a tapestry upon the far wall whose aged and intricate needlework depicted a family tree with three main branches. The Apocrypha scholar nodded. “His lordship thinks it wise to clarify who and what we are. Not all vyes are Elder and not all Elders are Raszna. Those who would be allies should know one another, should they not?”

  Those who would be allies. That sounded promising. It was certainly better than the Fomorian’s flat refusal. Max raised his glass. “I wholeheartedly agree.”

  Volsu stepped aside so that Max had a clear view of the tapestry. At its top were the familiar figures of the infants Romulus and Remus suckling from a wolf.

  “All vyes descend from Luperca, the goddess who nourished Romulus and Remus. All vyes honor her, for it was her gift that gave us life and brought us into being. What you call Elder vyes are the descendants of Remus. They are the mehrùn among our kind and have inherited Luperca’s wild magic.”

  “So Nix and Valya told me,” said Max.

  “Did they speak of the Raszna, Elohir, and Magyarün?”

  “No.”

  “They are tribes,” Volsu explained. “Factions that arose from a schism long ago. The Raszna focused on our communities, founding schools and developing our craft. The Elohir had no interest in such things. They were restless and nomadic, wanderers of the earth. Some settled among humans and lived their lives, but they became strangers to us and never studied at the great schools.”

  “Are Nix and Valya considered Elohir?” asked Max.

  Volsu nodded. “Yes. We have some contact with the Elohir and may lend each other assistance, but they are not Raszna.”

  “And what of the Magyarün?”

  When Max said the name, Archon’s face twisted into something dangerous.

  “The Magyarün are the cause of many woes,” said Volsu, translating his lord’s angry mutterings. “The Magyarün fell into darkness and preyed upon man. They are the ones responsible for infecting humans and creating the lesser vyes that have plagued mankind. Astaroth’s servants used the Magyarün and these lesser vyes to enable his return. The fools thought they would inherit the earth, but the demons scorn them. Few are braymas in the new order. Most slink about the demon cities—addicts and beggars until they’re called upon to fight for their new masters.” Archon paused and tapped a sharp nail upon the table. “One might say the demons use them like Rowan would use us.”

  Max set down his glass and met the vye’s piercing gaze. “We’re not asking you to fight for us. We’re asking you to fight with us. I will ride and fight with the Raszna myself.”

  Archon glanced sharply at Volsu and ordered the scholar to repeat what Max had said. This Volsu did, although he added some additional remarks that made Archon bristle.

  “Have I said something to offend?” asked Max.

  “No,” said Volsu, rather coolly. “Our lordship is intrigued by your statement. He is under the impression it touches upon a particularly controversial prophecy within our Apocrypha.”

  “What prophecy?”

  But Volsu was enduring another scolding from Archon. Apparently, the vye seemed to think his interpreter was overstepping his bounds. When Volsu spoke again, his tone was markedly more reserved.

  “I am to apologize for interjecting my opinion. I am to make you aware that I have only a scholarly interest in Apocrypha, that I am a skeptic who does not personally believe in Galia’s words. I am also to inform you that Archon is not a zealot nor the only Raszna to believe Rowan’s Hound could be our moschiach.”

  “What is a moschiach?” asked Max.

  “Messiah,” came the flat reply.

  Max said nothing. What did one say to something like that? He could almost feel the unblinking gazes of Archon and Volsu. At length, Archon spoke and directed Volsu to retrieve a box from a high shelf. The scholar obliged his master but made a disapproving grimace when ordered to open it. Inside, Max saw a stack of letters written by the same hand. To Max’s great surprise, many were on paper bearing Rowan’s seal.

  “My lord invites you to read them,” muttered Volsu, his grimace tightening. He clasped his hands behind his back as though restraining himself from further comment. Max took the topmost sheet.

  The consensus at Rowan is that Old Magic is reawakening. My scouts discovered an ulu and a lymrill this past month—two species long thought to be extinct. They’ve already been matched to new students whose tests hint at vast potential. Their names are David Menlo and Max McDaniels. Each was nearly intercepted by the Magyarün before coming here. Other Potentials have been abducted. The Director is furious. Finding them has become her top priority. Rowan’s Agents are on high alert for vyes. Those masquing at surface should go underground. The Red Branch is hunting.

  GWN

  When Max read the initials, his mouth went dry.

  “Gregory Wyatt Nolan,” he breathed.

  Archon sniffed, a twinge of sadness rippling across his proud features. Max reeled in disbelief.

  “Nolan was a vye?”

  “His birth name was Även,” answered Volsu. “His grandmother was Archon’s sister. All the Raszna mourned his death.”

  Max shook his head. It was inconceivable that Nolan was a vye. Vyes could be detected—there were proven tests and tricks to identify them. Nolan had graduated from Rowan, had lived there all his life. How on earth had he been able to do so without being discovered? The idea that Nolan had been a vye shocked Max more than learning David Menlo was a cambion. After all, there had always been something mysterious and supernatural about David. But Nolan? Rowan’s Head of Grounds had been at Rowan for decades. Every Rowan student, teacher, and charge regularly crossed his path. How could he possibly keep such a secret for so long? Could Nolan really have been a vye?

  The dream!

  Max’s spine tingled as he recalled his recent nightmare. In the dream, Nolan’s corpse had answered the Warming Lodge door—a corpse bearing a second set of canine teeth. He’
d chalked up Nolan’s strange appearance as one of those strange little details often found in dreams. But he had been wrong.

  “I can’t believe it,” he muttered absently. “How could he escape detection?”

  Volsu translated Max’s question and Archon’s response. “Passing as human is the first skill they master, for it is essential to survival. Även was uncommonly gifted—it’s why he was chosen to infiltrate Rowan. He was ten when he left Arcanum and went to live with a foster family. Your recruiters found him a few years later and he passed their tests. When Även graduated from Rowan, he dedicated his life to better understanding its people and caring for the creatures in its Sanctuary. His dream was always to secure peace between our peoples.”

  Archon shook his head sadly.

  “He loved Rowan.”

  Max felt profoundly conflicted. “He was a spy.”

  “An ugly word,” translated Volsu. “Även was tasked with learning more about those who had been our enemy. We never asked him to undermine Rowan or act against any who lived there. Even if we had, Även would have refused. He believed in the Apocrypha’s prophecy that a messiah from our enemies would lead us out of hiding. Även believed that messiah was you.”

  At Archon’s command, Volsu took a letter and placed it before Max.

  The Hound should have died tonight. William Cooper cut his throat. The Red Branch’s leader has been possessed and is now in service of the Atropos. I saw the Hound shortly after and the lad was unhurt—not a scratch. No mortal could have survived the wound he received. I cite this as further proof that he is, indeed, the moschiach foretold by the Prophet. We must invite him to Arcanum. Should Rowan survive the coming siege, I will endeavor to bring him myself. I believe he would come of his own accord. The Hound has a noble heart.

  As Max read the letter, he found himself mourning Nolan all over again. He dearly missed the man’s grin, his fiddle, and the relaxed, easy way he had with everyone, from YaYa to Ms. Richter to a frightened First Year. To Max’s embarrassment, a tear ran down his cheek and dropped with a soft patter upon the letter.

  “You cared for Även,” said Volsu, relaying Archon’s quiet observation.

  Exhaling slowly, Max put the letter aside. “Of course I did. He was my friend.”

  Looking up, Max saw that Archon’s expression had softened. Their eyes met and within the vye’s somber gaze, Max perceived understanding and even sympathy. And in that moment, Max knew that Archon’s misgivings had been put to rest. The vye might not trust Rowan, but he trusted Max—as Även had done.

  Volsu, however, was growing agitated. When Archon desired him to divulge an Apocryphal passage containing the Prophet’s words, the scholar demurred. While his first refusal was mild, the second saw him bare his teeth in a sudden snarl.

  Archon shot to his feet.

  Max would never have guessed the ancient vye could move so quickly. Archon loomed above the disobedient scholar, trembling with rage. Volsu’s snarl vanished. With a throaty whine, he averted his eyes and stared at the floor.

  “My lord asks your forgiveness,” Volsu translated quietly. “It is unacceptable that you were made to witness such behavior. Volsu shall be punished, but first he shall produce Galia’s prophecies and translate the passage concerning moschiach.”

  Like a whipped cur, the scholar slunk to a locked display and retrieved an ivory case with a glass top. Inside were seven tubes. Removing the seventh, Professor Volsu carefully slid its scroll free from its casing to reveal a parchment that had been torn and mended in several places. Scattered across its surface were small dark stains, as though it had been spattered with blood long ago. Pointing to a passage halfway down the scroll, Volsu began to translate the unfamiliar words and letters.

  “Do not despair, for Salvation is coming. In a time of war, one of our ancient enemies shall deliver us, a youth whose light shall be a beacon to those who would live free. The moschiach shall unite us and lead us against a common foe. His sacrifice shall heal the world and bring about an age of peace.”

  At first, Max said nothing. Like most prophecies, it was open to many interpretations.

  “When was that written?” he asked.

  “The late twelfth century,” replied Volsu. “Two hundred years after Solas drove us underground and Arcanum was founded. The prophet was a female named Galia. This was her final proclamation. Shortly thereafter, she was stoned to death in Amber Hall.”

  “Why was she killed?”

  Volsu’s eyes glittered. “Her people had been defeated, humiliated by an order determined to exterminate them. Insisting that the Raszna would someday embrace this enemy and follow him was not a popular notion.” The vye glanced sideways at Archon. “Even today, many would reject such a proposal.”

  Archon waved off Volsu’s warning as though such things were already well known to him. Max leaned forward. “I am not a scholar and I do not know what to make of prophets and apocrypha. But I know we have a common enemy. Surely it would be better to unite our efforts. We have the same objective.”

  “Volsu is correct,” said Archon. “Not all believe in the Apocrypha. Not all will believe you are the moschiach or easily forget the past. They will demand more than kind words and an old prophecy.”

  And so the negotiation begins, thought Max. He was grateful Archon was a pragmatist. It was clear the old vye wanted an alliance but needed Max’s help to craft a proposal his people could accept.

  “I have been empowered to offer the following,” said Max. “In exchange for the Raszna’s allegiance, Rowan offers not only peace, but also a share of any lands we might acquire when Prusias is defeated.”

  As Volsu translated, Archon’s face remained expressionless.

  “But we recognize that trust must be earned over time,” Max continued. “To this end, we propose an academic exchange. Raszna will have an opportunity to study at Rowan while our apprentices attend classes at Arcanum. The Director suspects we can learn much from one another and that our schools are the key to building familiarity and friendship.”

  This brought an approving grunt from Archon, who muttered something to Volsu. The Apocrypha scholar nodded and said something hastily in reply. He’s pushing for something, thought Max.

  “An exchange is a very good idea,” said Volsu. “But our scholars would also require access to your Archives.”

  Max had expected this. In his instructions, David had predicted the Raszna would demand this privilege. Rowan’s Archives made scholars drool even before Astaroth caused much of the world’s technology and printed matter to fade from existence. It was the greatest repository of history and magical knowledge on Earth.

  “That could be arranged,” Max allowed. “David Menlo could be very helpful in this regard. The Director has a passion for magical research and is a considerable practitioner.”

  Archon chuckled as Volsu translated. “You have a gift for understatement. Även said the boy is a prodigy and Bram’s own blood.”

  “He is,” said Max. “And when this war is over, our Director intends to indulge his passion and found a new school, a university where the greatest minds can collaborate on deeper mysteries. Since the Middle Ages, magical education has focused on learning old tricks. David Menlo intends to discover new ones and would like the Raszna’s help.”

  Volsu almost gasped. The opportunity to break new ground, to found a university, and collaborate with the likes of David Menlo went straight to the old scholar’s heart. He eagerly relayed this final provision to Archon, who clasped his hands and furrowed his brow in thought.

  “The world is changed,” said Max. “Old enemies must put aside their differences if they’re to survive. Rowan isn’t seeking a short-term alliance but a long-term partnership with the Raszna. I think our proposal reflects that.”

  Archon nodded and conversed quietly with Volsu before turning back to Max.

  “Your new Director has made an offer that merits serious consideration. Guarantees would be necessary, of course, a
long with suitable hostages and a council to settle disputes, but there is enough here to bring before the people. There is a special gathering tonight. I would like you to attend as my guests.”

  “Thank you,” said Max. “We would like that.”

  Archon held up a hand. “You may be challenged,” he said sharply. “Raszna do not follow those weaker than themselves. While everyone knows the Hound of Rowan’s reputation, in person he is very young and much smaller than some who will be present. War chiefs might be tempted to test you. If this happens, do not respond. Lady Nico or myself will intercede.”

  Max said he understood and Archon rose stiffly to escort him to the door. Outside, ten armored vyes were waiting to escort Max to Amber Hall. Each was armed with a saber and carried a heavy polearm.

  “Are so many guards necessary?” said Max.

  When Volsu translated, Archon gave a gruff laugh.

  “They are,” said Volsu. “Until you are safely returned to Lady Scathach, Archon’s loved ones remain at her mercy. It is a long walk to Amber Hall. Archon prefers not to tempt fate.”

  “Are you coming with us?”

  “No,” reported Volsu. “My lord has much to consider and to prepare before this evening’s gathering. He bids you farewell and leaves you to Lupo’s talkative company.”

  Lupo arrived a few seconds later, a young page who was rather short and scrawny. His fur was reddish and foxlike, and his robes were brown and rather plain compared to the sumptuous crimsons worn by Archon and the Raszna professors. He was not a particularly impressive specimen, but he was friendly and eager to show off his city during the walk to Amber Hall.

  “That’s the Masquing wing,” he said, pointing to an archway as they walked down a broad corridor. From within, Max could hear a teacher and the answering chorus of very young voices. “You can’t move on in school until you master it.”

  “So every Raszna can appear as human,” said Max.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have just one human shape or can you change it?”