“In the Witchpeaks,” said Max, ducking a branch as they walked through the class trees of Rowan’s orchard.
“Aye,” said Bram. “Living men are not admitted to their holiest places. Normally, I would have been turned away or forced to use trickery. But the witches were unsettled and granted me an audience. As it happened, I was not the first visitor to inquire about the Book of Thoth. In fact, the first petitioner was still present.”
“Astaroth?”
The Archmage shook his head. “A blue-skinned imp. As evil as he was courteous.”
“Mr. Sikes?”
Bram inclined his head. “Astaroth’s servant had offered the clan a vast fortune of gold and jewels, but the witches care little for such treasures and they feared this imp and his master. While they had never fully studied or understood the Book, the witches knew it held great power and were divided as to what they should do. I convinced them it would be disastrous to let Astaroth have it and suicide to keep it now that the Demon knew it was in their possession.”
“And they trusted you?”
Bram gave an amused grunt. “Trust the Archmage? Not exactly. There was little love between Solas and the witches. But they trusted me more than Sikes. The imp was too ingratiating, too evasive of their questions. They did not believe his account of the Book’s purpose or how his master intended to use it. Ultimately, they relinquished it to me, but only after I’d agreed to their price. They demanded—”
“Three children of the Old Magic,” said Max tersely. “I know. I was one of them.”
“David too,” Bram mused. “And Mina, I suppose. Yes, the witches’ price was high, but there was no question of paying it. After all, the Book of Thoth now belonged to me.…”
The Archmage sighed. Even now, Max could see him contemplate what might have been.
“In my youth, I’d have used it freely,” Bram confessed. “But my mistakes—as Archmage, husband, and father—taught me a great deal. And time away from Solas had been good for me. I’d developed a clearer understanding of who I was, the good and the bad. Until a man knows his flaws, he cannot know himself. I could not keep or study the Book.”
“Did you ever look at it?” Max asked.
The sorcerer’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile. “Once. Just long enough to give myself a new truename so that the Book could not be used against me. To dare anything more would have been my ruin, perhaps the ruin of everything. I do not possess David’s gift for restraint. No, I knew I could not be trusted with it. The Book of Thoth had to be hidden, and quickly, for Astaroth would come for it. Indeed, I’d barely left the Witchpeaks when he overtook me.”
The Archmage’s eyes darkened at the memory. “I have a long history with Astaroth,” he muttered. “History that goes back to my childhood. David can tell you more if you’re curious. Despite our long acquaintance, we’d never fought one another—not directly. But we did that day upon the steppes. It was everything I could do to escape, to flee across the world with Astaroth on my heels.”
“Where did you go?” asked Max.
Bram looked at Max keenly. “The Isle of Man. I knew Astaroth would hesitate to trespass on the Fomorian’s territory. The giant did not welcome me, but he perceived my lineage and was willing to listen. I begged him to take the Book, to keep it safe, but he feared its power as much as I did. Instead, we decided to hide it in another world. Combining our strength, we opened a path to the Sidh, and I crossed over to petition the High King.”
“Lugh Lamfhada,” said Max.
The Archmage nodded. “Like you, I have walked the road to Rodrubân and heard its warden’s challenge. I have crossed the Hero’s Bridge and feasted in Summervyne. And I have bowed before your father. As I said, we have much in common.”
Max stopped. The man’s mention of Rodrubân, of its bridge and warden struck his heart a blow. That warden had been Scathach—his Scathach, whose lifeless body was lying deep in the Workshop. His mouth went dry. He found himself staring at the Sanctuary just ahead, at the double doors set within a snow-speckled wall.
“I am sorry,” said Bram gently. “David told me of your loss. She was a valiant woman.”
Max acknowledged this with a nod, but it took him a moment to compose himself. When he found his voice, it was rough and raw. “Tell me about your audience with my fath—with Lugh.”
“He wanted to hear both sides,” Bram replied, walking with Max to the Sanctuary doors. When he tugged one of them open, Max felt warm air that smelled of leaves and soil and growing things. He had almost forgotten such wonderful smells existed.
“What do you mean both sides?” he asked, breathing deeply.
Once they passed within, Bram pulled the door shut and removed his heavy cloak. “Astaroth had also found a way to the Sidh,” he explained. “The Wanderer has no rival when it comes to traveling between worlds. He followed me there and reached Rodrubân shortly after I did. We were both brought before the High King. I asked Lugh to take the Book, and Astaroth demanded he surrender it.”
As they walked through the Sanctuary’s tunnel of interlacing trees, Max pictured a radiant Lugh Lamfhada sitting upon his throne while a younger Bram and an ageless Astaroth petitioned the sun god.
“The audience must have gone well,” said Max. “Lugh found in your favor.”
“He did,” said Bram. “But not before shaming me before his court. I am a distant descendant of Nuada Silverhand, who was king even before Lugh. As such, I should have been welcomed in the Sidh. But my betrayal of Marley, my exile from Solas—these actions and many others had tarnished my reputation. Lugh said I was unworthy of my gifts and had brought shame upon my ancestors. I could never visit the Sidh again. Immortality was denied me.”
“That’s a pretty hard sentence,” said Max.
“Hard but fair,” said Bram. “At least I was wholly truthful before the High King. Astaroth was not so wise.”
Max glanced at the sorcerer. “Astaroth lied? I thought he was forbidden to. I thought that was his geis.”
“It is,” said Bram. “But only since his audience with Lugh. Astaroth’s deceits about his identity and the Book’s true nature so angered your father that he cast him from Rodrubân and imposed a geis. Astaroth could never lie again.”
“Lugh has that kind of power?”
“A great god in his own realm?” said Bram. “Most certainly. From that day forward, Astaroth could not lie without destroying himself. I think that’s one reason he has always wished to possess you. Aside from enhancing his power, corrupting Lugh’s son would be gratifying.”
The pair was reaching the end of the tunnel, where it opened upon the vast enclosure of Rowan’s Sanctuary. Ahead, Max could see the expanding township and the Warming Lodge at the edge of a reed-fringed lagoon. The only visible snow was high up in the mountains.
“So, what happened after you left the Book with Lugh?”
Bram shrugged. “I returned to this world, temporarily triumphant. But Astaroth was enraged. He swore to devour me, destroy Solas, and acquire the Book. I suppose I must commend him—he made good on his promises.”
The two walked the cobbled lane along the township’s edge. Most of the people they saw were refugees too young, old, or infirm to fight in the war. Almost all wore clothes that were stained or muddied from working in the fields. Indeed, as he gazed about, Max saw that the vast plains had been converted for agriculture—a colorful jigsaw of tilled soil and numerous crops. The rest of the world might have frozen, but Mina and Ember’s magic had converted the Sanctuary into a colossal greenhouse. Even with this vital food supply, Rowan’s forces had nearly starved on their glacial march toward Blys. Breathing deep, Max shaded his eyes and scanned some nearby trees.
“What are you looking for?” asked Bram.
“Nox. I sent her back with Cynthia when the Raszna made camp with Rowan. I didn’t want her hurt in the siege. She wasn’t very happy with me.”
Bram pointed to some foothills a mile or two away. “Ya
Ya and I saw the lymrills by that outcropping two nights ago.”
“How did she look?”
The Archmage chuckled. “Like the largest lymrill that has ever walked the earth. Cuffed her siblings about like kittens.”
Max could not help but smile. “Faeries are to blame. They fattened her up.”
“Faerie magic would explain it,” said Bram. “You must be hungry yourself, for you’ve been three days in Ember’s care. I know a place—middling food, but we’ll be able to eat without being disturbed. David is particularly fond of it.”
Max nearly winced. “The Hanged Man?”
“You’ve heard of it, then,” said Bram, leading him past charming bakeries and cafes until they left the township entirely and arrived at a shack of pine boards that had been built around the trunk of a sickly ash tree. There was no sign, merely a hanging scarecrow now reduced to a pair of dangling overalls. The shack’s greasy windows were dark, its animal pen empty.
“Are you sure it’s still open?” asked Max, more than happy to go elsewhere.
“Yes, yes,” said Bram. “I was here only yesterday.” Finding the door locked, he rapped it sharply.
A moan sounded from within, followed by the scrape of a chair and a heavy thump as though someone had walked into a table. Max heard a curse, a fumbling at the locks and then …
“Hi, Marta. Nice to see you again.”
The Hanged Man’s proprietor blinked at Max’s greeting. She was a thickset, ginger-haired woman with an undershot jaw and a cringe-inducing scar across her pallid face. Recognition dawned at last.
“I know you,” she murmured. “Little Davey’s friend. You bought up my bread.”
“I did,” said Max. “We were hoping to have some now.”
“No bread,” she sighed. “Got five eggs, some taters, an apple what seen better days, and some butter ’bout to turn. Everything’s been goin’ to the front, ain’t it? Surprised a big boy like you ain’t off fighting, but I guess we can’t all be heroes.” Her piggish eyes drifted to the Archmage, lingering on his taloned hands and feathered beard. “Guess you’ll be growing a tail next. Well, come in, you two.”
Whistling to herself, Marta led them inside, heaved a dozing cat off a corner table, and wiped it down with a questionable-looking rag.
“S’pose you’ll be wantin’ tea,” she said to Bram. “And you?”
“Coffee,” said Max.
“Right,” she said, kicking out a chair for each of them. “So what can I get you boys?”
Bram sat. “Five eggs, potatoes, and some privacy.”
“What about the apple?” she asked, pointing to a wrinkled spheroid.
“We’ll pass.”
With a grumble, Marta shuffled away to light the stove and make amends with the sulking cat. Sitting down, Max ran a hand over the table’s rough planks. “It’s good to be back. Not here exactly, but Rowan. I’ve missed it.”
“Savor it while you can,” said Bram. “If we do not stop Astaroth, I fear this world will not see another year. It might not see another week. Imbolc is only a few days away.”
Max knew the holiday, had attended its festival during his time in the Sidh. It was a day for feasting and celebrating the upcoming spring.
“You think Astaroth’s going to try something on Imbolc?”
Bram nodded. “He’s visited the skies above Ymir on all the old holy days—when the walls between worlds are thinnest. His next chance will come on Imbolc. We cannot give him that opportunity.”
“If he’s failed before, why would he succeed this time?”
“He’s getting stronger,” said Bram simply. “He’s had two years to recover from Walpurgisnacht and absorb the strange energies of Nether. Each attempt I’ve witnessed is more potent than its predecessor. He will break through soon—either to open a way for his Starving Gods or call them to him.”
“So, what is it you need from me?” asked Max. “What is this puzzle piece you were talking about?”
Marta brought their drinks, along with milk and lumps of something approximating sugar. Sniffing the milk, Bram pushed it away and spooned some sugar into his tea. Upon sipping it, he promptly heaped more. “Has David shared anything of my investigations? Has he told you of Lord Salisbury or Yaro?”
“No,” said Max. “Since I arrived with the Raszna, we haven’t had much chance to talk privately. Everything was focused on the war.”
“Well, it’s time I took you into my confidence,” said Bram. “It’s time you heard of Yaro, Neheb, and Tartarus.”
Over the next hour, Bram shared his discoveries about Astaroth’s past and origins. Max learned about Yaro, the imp who had preceded Mr. Sikes—the imp who’d served Astaroth when the Demon was known as Allu and Taluman, Bankou and Phyrael. Max followed along intently, but the most startling revelation concerned Mr. Sikes.
“He was human?” Max exclaimed, nearly spilling his coffee.
Bram conceded the last few potatoes. “Yes. And this Neheb was not just any human, but the youngest son of a pharaoh. I’ve been trying very hard to find Neheb’s resting place, but it has been difficult. Astaroth served Neheb’s father as a royal magician and took the boy as his pupil. According to spirits I’ve questioned, the boy soon became withdrawn and spiteful. He chafed that he was youngest—that three older brothers stood between himself and ruling all of Egypt. And so, late one moonless night, he murdered his brothers in their sleep and pretended to have escaped. He accused one of his father’s advisers of the crime—a magister who’d never trusted the pharaoh’s new magician.”
“So, Neheb got away with it?” said Max, hating Mr. Sikes even more.
Bram shook his head. “Justice caught up with him. A cat had witnessed the murders and began following the boy wherever he went. Others joined it. Soon hundreds were gathering outside Neheb’s chambers and trailing him wherever he went—arching their backs and hissing. Cats were held sacred in Ancient Egypt and thus many viewed their behavior as divine judgment against the surviving prince.
When the pharaoh questioned his son, the boy confessed, but not before invoking a curse upon his family. If Neheb could not rule as pharaoh, then no son of Egypt should ever rule in his stead. And indeed, the Persians soon overran Egypt and his father was forced to flee. True to Neheb’s curse, his father was the last Egyptian pharaoh.”
“What happened to Neheb?”
“Crimes against the pharaoh were punished by death,” said Bram. “But crimes against one’s family were considered crimes against the gods themselves. Since Neheb was guilty of both, his end was particularly unpleasant. While Astaroth rescued the youth’s spirit and transformed him into an imp, what remained of Neheb’s body was sealed in four urns that were buried in separate, unhallowed tombs. Ancient spells were laid upon these urns. Without all four, I cannot speak with Neheb’s shade.”
“Do you have them all?” asked Max.
“Three,” said Bram. “Only recently have I learned the location of the fourth. Evidently, the witches brought it long ago to their ossuaries. When they tried to commune with Neheb’s partial remains, they triggered a powerful curse that destroyed those present. The witches made no more attempts. Neheb’s remains were consigned to a vault far below the deepest ossuaries, a vault whose location is known only to the Umadahm.”
“Who’s Umadahm?” asked Max. “I thought Dame Mako spoke for the witches.”
“There are many leaders among the clans, but only one Umadahm,” said Bram. “She is groomed from childhood for the position and inherits the title when her predecessor dies. The Umadahm presides over the ossuaries and has final say on spiritual matters. She alone knows the location of this secret vault they call Tartarus.”
Max knew his Greek mythology. Tartarus was where the wicked were punished—particularly those who had committed crimes against the gods. “Even if you can raise Neheb’s shade, what do you hope to learn from him?”
Bram folded his arms. “Astaroth’s truename. If I learn that, I can des
troy him. Yaro swore that Neheb knew it.”
“But what if he was lying?”
The sorcerer shook his head. “David questioned Yaro with the Seal of Solomon. No spirit can lie to the ring’s bearer. Yaro shared what he believed to be the truth. The only way to learn if it was the truth is to question Neheb himself.”
“So what do you need from me?” asked Max.
“I expect Tartarus to be very dangerous,” said Bram darkly. “The witches did not build it themselves. They came upon its doors long ago after digging too deeply in the mountains. No witch has ever gone inside, for they believe only the dead may enter. Whenever they find remains that are accursed, they leave them outside Tartarus’s doors. When they return, these offerings are gone. I am asking you to accompany me there.”
Max was almost disappointed. “I didn’t think Elias Bram needed bodyguards.”
“I don’t. What I require is a witness. Neheb may be a trap or he may be the key to defeating Astaroth. I intend to find out which and cannot risk that knowledge being lost should something happen to me. I need a companion who is qualified to enter Tartarus and strong enough to escape should things go badly. You are the only person who fits that description.”
“You said the witches don’t believe the living could pass its doors.”
Bram leaned back against his chair and drummed his taloned fingers on the table. “Even if they are correct, you have just broken your geis, your name is in the Grey Book, and you are the son of Lugh Lamfhada.”
“What about you, then?”
Bram chuckled. “Astaroth devoured my flesh hundreds of years ago and my orchard apple turned to gold. I highly doubt either of us will register as living mortals.”
The Red Winter Page 51