“You are Neheb, son of Nectanebo.”
“I am Neheb,” said the boy in a soft voice that had not yet broken when he died.
“You have physical substance. Why is this?”
“I am not a shade.”
“What are you?”
“Unique.”
Max glanced at Bram. What on earth did it mean that Neheb was “unique”?
“Are you bound by the laws of summoning?” asked Bram, frowning.
“If they’re properly performed.”
“You will answer my questions truthfully, Neheb. If you do not, I will punish you. Did you murder your brothers?”
Neheb hesitated before giving a churlish nod.
“Did you place a curse upon your father’s house?”
The boy’s smile was chilling.
Bram folded his arms, his eyes boring into the youth. “Did you serve Astaroth?”
“I serve him still.”
“As his imp? As Mr. Sikes?”
“Yes.”
“How is this possible?”
“My master made Sikes from part of my spirit. Neheb was murdered. Sikes survives.”
“Why did he do this?”
“He loves me.”
“Astaroth is not capable of love.”
“You are wrong.”
“Is Sikes aware that I’ve summoned you?”
“Not yet.”
“When will he learn of it?”
“The instant you cease questioning me.”
As he translated this, the sorcerer closed his eyes and rubbed them. Max could not decide if it was merely weariness or concern that Astaroth had somehow outmaneuvered him. The boy was not a shade, but something “unique” and unexpected. The sorcerer’s questions suggested he was anxious to explore this further, but his strength was dwindling.
Wiping his brow, Max shook the sweat from his hand. The air in the tomb was unbearably hot and still. Outside, the shades’ whispering intensified.
“You are tethered to Sikes?” inquired Bram.
“At times.”
“Are you now?” asked Bram, peering at the boy.
“No.”
“Where does Astaroth come from?” he continued.
“Beyond.”
“Beyond what?”
“Anything you choose to name.”
“What are the Starving Gods?”
“I see you’ve spoken with Yaro. He was always foolish.”
“Answer my question. What are the Starving Gods?”
“Masters without form, thought, or mercy.”
“Why did Astaroth flee from them?”
“They are Masters without form, thought, or mercy.”
“What would they do to this world?”
“What they have done to all the others.”
“Does Astaroth have a truename?”
The boy squirmed uncomfortably in the sarcophagus.
“Does Astaroth have a truename?” repeated Bram sternly.
“Yes.”
“Do you know this truename?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he share such knowledge with you?”
“He trusts me.”
“Astaroth is not capable of trust.”
“My master is a mirror, Archmage. The reflection you see is your own.”
“What is Astaroth’s truename?”
Leaning back against the sarcophagus, Neheb drummed his fingers along its sides. He might have been taking a bath. “I will not say.”
“You must,” Bram snarled. “I will force it from you.”
“You will have to.”
Bram’s face darkened. Once again, he walked around the tomb, but this time he gave Neheb a wider berth as if worried the boy posed a physical danger. As the sorcerer began chanting in Latin, Neheb gave a strangled cry and writhed about in the sarcophagus, weeping and cursing his tormentor.
Despite Neheb’s crimes, Max found it excruciating to see such a young person suffer.
But the Archmage was unmoved. He continued his incantation, circling slowly and studying the boy’s face. Max needed no translation for what Neheb did next. Sobbing, he held up a hand in submission. Bram stopped at once and backed up against the tomb’s wall, clutching his injured hand and breathing heavily. It was hard to tell who was under greater strain.
Neheb eyed the Archmage with pure hatred before glancing at Max and then the doorway swimming with shades. Turning back to Bram, he muttered something disdainfully.
“What did he say?” asked Max.
Bram mopped his brow, exhaling slowly. “He will whisper the truename only to me. He refuses to speak within another’s hearing.”
“Then I’ll step outside,” said Max. “Don’t get close to him.”
The Archmage relayed this to Neheb, who sneered as he replied. Bram translated.
“You are mere filth. It is the shades that concern Neheb. If he speaks the truename aloud, they will hear it. He will whisper it only to me.”
“He’s lying.”
“He cannot lie,” said Bram. “If Neheb promises to whisper the name, he will. There is no time to debate.”
Neheb sat up straighter as Bram took a shaky step forward. He took a second, approaching almost within arm’s reach. Outside, the shades’ whispering had reached a fevered pitch.
When it was clear the boy would not budge, the Archmage took another unsteady step. Tartarus was winning this war. Bram looked as though he might collapse any instant. Leaning against the sarcophagus, the Archmage bent his ear to listen.
Neheb snarled and seized Bram by the neck, pulling him into the sarcophagus with such speed and violence the man was yanked out of his boots. Max sprang forward to catch hold of something, anything, but he was too late. The sarcophagus’s heavy alabaster lid was sliding swiftly over the opening, as though invisible hands were pushing it. Max caught only the briefest glimpse of a helpless Bram, crushed against his captor’s chest in a lover’s embrace. That captor was grinning, his pale features ecstatic with triumph.
The captor was Astaroth.
The sarcophagus slid shut.
Max shoved the heavy cover aside, but the sarcophagus was empty. Within, there was no Archmage, no Astaroth, not even a speck of Neheb’s dust. Max was alone in a hot, airless tomb. Outside, the shades were screaming, tittering insanely.
Bram’s worst fears were realized: Neheb had been a trap. But Max could not panic or ponder how Astaroth had set this snare. He had to get out, to escape Tartarus, and share what happened with David and Mina. He had no time or energy to do anything else. This was precisely why Bram had brought him—to report what happened in case he didn’t make it out of Tartarus. To do that, Max needed to make it out himself.
Staggering out the tomb’s door, he waded through the sea of shades. They crowded about him, trying to touch him, embrace him, envelop him. Each icy touch sapped a tiny bit of strength. Max was already weak. Hundreds or thousands of such touches might pose a serious problem.
“Get back,” Max snarled, puzzled at their change in behavior. Had the shades been luring them in and planning to attack all along? Had Astaroth’s appearance triggered the change? Or were they simply insane?
Despite his warning, they merely crowded closer, whispering, touching, pleading, weeping. Max swung the gae bolga about him in a wide arc. Its blade sliced cleanly through a dozen shades, severing them in two. They vanished with no more than a sigh.
This did not have the desired effect.
“The blade can end us!” hissed a shade.
Others realized this, too. Instead of fleeing from Max, thousands of shades were now straining to reach him. Their haunting cries filled the air.
“End me!”
“End me!”
“Give me peace!”
Max pressed on through a gauntlet of shades, slashing left and right in an effort to clear a path before they could touch him. Blistering air seared his lungs. He could manage only a lumbering, uneven trot as he rounded the
dark lake and backtracked toward the massive wall. Its door was the only entrance he knew of, and he had no time or energy to seek another. Besides, he had yet to see anything the gae bolga could not pierce. If it could not cut through the barrier, nothing could.
Gasping for breath, Max turned when he reached the hilltop. A scorching wind was blowing across Tartarus, rippling the black lakes and rustling the branches of its white, leafless trees. The wind came from the very hills where Max had sensed that watchful presence. Now that the intruder was weakened and trying to escape, the time had come to pounce.
A dark shadow was moving over the land. The shadow had no visible source, but an unmistakable malevolence radiated from it. Trees bent violently as it passed, as though something huge had skimmed above them at frightful speed. The shadow was coming straight toward Max.
He fled down the hill, holding the gae bolga like a bayonet to impale whatever shade was in his path. He staggered as another tremor shook the ground, nearly pitching forward into the dust, before catching himself and running on. The base of the ramp was only a hundred yards away. Max had to escape Tartarus. He had to get out and tell David what had happened. Astaroth had been stronger when Bram was his prisoner. Now that Astaroth had him once again, he might have enough power to open a gate to the Starving Gods. Imbolc was only two days away.…
Another tremor. This time Max did fall, tumbling head over heels in the hot, ashy dust. Trailing shades swarmed over him like a crazed mob. Max scrambled to his feet, ignoring their clinging touch, their desperate pleas, as he made for the ramp. The ground now shook with regular, concussive jolts.
Max staggered up the ramp. The doors were just ahead—no more than fifty yards. He would cut his way out, summon a ferryman, and climb out of this hellhole. He’d make his way back to the witches, back to the living!
A shadow fell over him.
Whirling about, Max brought his spear up just as an invisible force bludgeoned him. Even though he’d half parried the blow, he was flattened as if he’d been poleaxed. He lost his grip on the gae bolga, which clattered out of reach. Gazing up, a stunned Max lay on his back, seeing nothing but watery shafts of light and the misty sky. But something moved in his peripheral vision. Upon the cavern wall, a winged manlike shadow was rearing back to strike.
Max summoned the gae bolga to his outstretched hand. Catching the spear, he brought it up to parry the oncoming blow. This time he was ready and the gae bolga repelled its energy with an ear-piercing cry that sent the shades fleeing. His gargantuan foe struck again, pushing down this time with a persistent force as though he wanted to crush Max, break him, grind him into the very earth. The gae bolga screamed as it held the force at bay, its metal white-hot as electricity danced and writhed about it.
The weapon was not merely fending off the attack; it was absorbing its power. Energy poured into Max, flooding him like an empty vessel. As he grew stronger, prideful rage replaced his fear and desperation.
Max began to shine.
He noticed it from the corner of his eye, a flickering illumination that surrounded him. But it brightened steadily, growing so intense that it eclipsed even the colossal shadow on the cavern wall. His opponent tried to tug his fist or weapon away, but the gae bolga held on as though a magnetic force existed between them. Hissing bolts of blue-white energy ran down the spear’s length, flooding Max’s body.
As he regained his feet, Max could feel his enemy growing weaker. The being was immensely powerful, but like many powerful beings it did not relish an equal contest. It had expected to dominate a weakened opponent, not one that was fighting back and growing stronger at its expense. Uncertainty was beginning to taint the cold, sadistic pleasure Max had sensed only moments ago.
Another mind, another consciousness made contact with his. It was not unlike the telepathic conversation Max had had with the Morrígan, but this was far more primal, a nonverbal communication of desire and intent. The being no longer wished to fight. It wanted the intruder to leave Tartarus. It would even help him to do so if Max released his hold upon it.
The two reached an understanding.
Max wrenched the reluctant gae bolga away, breaking the connection between them. His radiance dimmed and he could once again see the colossal shadow on the cavern wall. The shadow looked to be clutching an injured hand and backing slowly away as its wings folded about it. As it did, Max sensed an unmistakable change in Tartarus. The atmosphere became less dense and even brightened perceptibly, as though a veil had been lifted. That was his cue. Raising the gae bolga high, Max struck it upon the ramp and vanished in a clap of thunder.
Max reappeared in the gardens surrounding Túr an Ghrian. Releasing the gae bolga, he sank to his hands and knees within a smoking crater. He was utterly spent, drained by the foray into Tartarus and his perilous escape. Closing his eyes, Max breathed deep and tried to regain his bearings. Snow flurries swirled about him, a sharp contrast from the hot, deathlike stillness of Tartarus. Gradually, he became aware that a crowd was gathering about him.
Blinking, Max raised his head to see a ring of astonished refugees, scholars, and several domovoi. One face was familiar and belonged to a trim fortyish man with sandy hair, a soot-stained face, and a look of deep concern. He dropped the box he was carrying and rushed forward.
“Max!” he exclaimed. “Are you all right?”
The man removed his heavy coat and draped it over Max’s shoulders, then crouched beside him. “Max, can you hear me? It’s Nigel.”
Nigel Bristow was the first person from Rowan that Max had ever met, the recruiter who’d administered his Potentials tests. Instead of going off to war, the kind and capable Englishman had stayed behind to help administer in the Director’s stead.
Peering anxiously into Max’s face, he repeated his question. “Can you hear me?”
Nodding, Max reached for the gae bolga and used the spear to push himself up. He almost fell over, but Nigel caught and steadied him. Max heard a sharp intake of breath as Nigel noticed his midsection.
“You’re bleeding. We have to get you to the healing ward.”
Reaching beneath his shirt, Max felt blood flowing freely. His wound had torn wide open.
“Take me up to Mina. Ember …”
“They’re not there,” said Nigel. “There was an earthquake, Max. A cataclysm. I don’t know what else to call it. Fortunately, almost everyone was in the Sanctuary when it struck.”
Gazing past the crowd, Max saw that part of Maggie’s roof had collapsed. Thick smoke billowed from her broken windows, sending a black haze into the dim red dawn. Right next door, Old Tom was a mess. Rowan’s grand old landmark had lost his clock tower, which had toppled over to smash upon the quad. Searchers were climbing atop the mounds of broken stone and tile, prodding with staffs and calling out for any who might be buried within. The scene was utterly surreal. Not twenty-four hours had passed since Max and Bram had set out for Tartarus.
Bram!
The image of Neheb pulling the Archmage into the sarcophagus flashed before him. Max gripped Nigel’s shoulder.
“Where’s David Menlo?”
“In Blys, I believe. Our forces came under attack. Astaroth appeared and—”
“Nigel, I need David and Mina. There’s no time to explain. Do you have a way of contacting them?”
“Yes.”
Max craned his neck at Túr an Ghrian. The soaring white spire did not appear to be damaged. This was not entirely surprising. Using Prusias’s cane, David had raised it from the Founder’s Stone the previous year. The tower had originally crowned Solas and had served as the abode of Ascendants and Archmages alike. As such, Túr an Ghrian was practically saturated with magic.
“I’m going to Mina’s chambers. Tell them to drop everything and come there.”
“But—”
“Right now.”
Leaning on the gae bolga, Max made for the steep, broad steps that led up to Túr an Ghrian’s entrance. The door was made of rowan wood and inscri
bed with silver runes that formed a circle around the ancient seal of Solas—a Celtic sun set within a quartered circle. When Max placed his hand upon it, the door allowed him to walk straight through the solid barrier and into a warm, bright vestibule ringed by seven hearths that were always kept burning. Two aged scholars and a domovoi with a forked beard were spread throughout the room, examining windows and walls, presumably checking for damage from the earthquake. They looked up, startled by Max’s sudden entry.
“Agent McDaniels,” said one of the scholars. “How can we …?”
His eyes fell upon the crimson trail Max was leaving on the inlaid floor.
“Open the door to Mina’s chambers,” Max panted, making for a tall archway across the room. Droplets of blood fell in a steady patter on the polished stone floor.
“Th-the Ascendant is not here,” stammered the other scholar.
“She’ll be here soon,” said Max. “Take me up there and send for a healer.”
The domovoi snapped into action, running ahead of Max to thrust an ornate key into an ancient lock and flinging open the door to reveal a sturdy wooden platform hovering within a vertical shaft. Helping Max onto it, the domovoi closed the door and barked a command in his own harsh language.
The platform began to levitate, accelerating until doorways passed by in a blur. Max closed his eyes and counted to take his mind off the dizzying ascent. Once he’d reached twenty-three, the platform slowed to a smooth and gradual stop. Unlocking the door, the domovoi pushed it open and led Max through a sitting room and into a small library with a spiral staircase at its center. As they climbed its steps, a portion of ceiling slid back to admit them to the summoning chamber at the tower’s pinnacle.
Once he’d helped Max up the steps and onto a chaise by the chamber’s scrying pool, the kindly domovoi fetched water and asked if he could bring him anything else.
“Just the healer,” said Max, easing back. “I’ll be all right until then. Thank you.”
As the domovoi scampered down the spiral staircase, Max pulled off his mail shirt and peeled off his blood-soaked bandage. A jagged red smile grinned up at him, eight inches across and oozing thick, dark blood. Cursing softly, Max scanned the circular chamber for something he might use as a compress. By one of the windows, he spied a cabinet whose shelves held various hoods and vestments that Ascendants donned for particular ceremonies. Grabbing a long embroidered stole, he wrapped it tightly around his midsection. While he was still trembling from his battle in Tartarus, his energy and adrenaline had receded to leave a fever in their wake. Mopping sweat from his brow, Max closed his eyes and leaned against the window’s cool glass. His disquiet went beyond his physical maladies. Max did not just feel wounded and sickly … he felt different.
The Red Winter Page 55