Harine was one of the wealthier regions in Prusias’s kingdom. Comprising most of what had once been France, it nestled between Lebrím to the west and Blys to the east. Enlyll was a small but prosperous barony situated on Harine’s southern coast, an area greatly favored by the rich long before Astaroth came to power. At the moment, however, its beautiful beaches were gray, the grapevines were frozen, and the harbors were empty.
Under normal circumstances, the road to Baron Lynch’s estate would have been broad enough for two carriages to pass one another. But a heavy snowfall had complicated matters. The long drive had been shoveled, but the snow still rose in steep banks on either side, threatening to bury the tall lamps whose staggered brilliance served to brighten an otherwise dark and dreary evening.
Given the snow and the fact that many carriages were already parked along the drive, Baron Lynch’s bundled and harried servants were forced to direct traffic and clear lanes for those who were coming or going. Max and Scathach were among the latecomers.
It had been over six weeks since they’d set out from the Isle of Man. Ten days had been spent aboard Ormenheid as the longboat battled the elements. Valiant as she was, the boat had been caked in ice and her sail was in tatters when they finally despaired of reaching Enlyll by sea and ordered her into the Bay of Biscay. Although Ormenheid had been leaking and battered, Max knew she would also repair herself—even as she sat in his pocket.
The journey overland had been slow but far less harrowing. On the first leg, they’d had a guide—the very same faun that had escorted Sarah and Lucia to Enlyll. While Fenluc was amiable and intimately acquainted with the region, his routes through the backcountry necessitated long, cold treks through deep snow and thick brambles. Without David’s latest orders, they might still be slogging through the hilly Harinean forests.
The message had come ten days ago, shortly after Rowan’s forces made successful landfall on Blys’s mainland.
September 5
Dear Max,
An opportunity has arisen. It might be dangerous, but I believe the risks are worth it. Our forces have landed and seized Kathvha, a duchy along the King’s Highway some three hundred miles south of Blys. When we occupied the town, Peter Varga came across a piece of propaganda—a flier boasting that “Max McDaniels, the notorious Hound of Rowan, has been slain by King Prusias’s handpicked assassins.” Naturally, Peter saw the possibilities and brought it to my attention.
Connor Lynch is hosting a médim later this month. Sarah and Lucia have procured a guest list and it includes a number of braymas and dignitaries who could be very valuable. While I know you had intended to visit Enlyll in secret, a public appearance by the “deceased” Hound of Rowan could be very valuable. Prusias will look either incompetent or untrustworthy: either serves our purpose. Your attendance would also send a clear message that Rowan has arrived as a world power. After all, our forces are now advancing on Prusias even as our representatives openly attend a médim within his borders. I think such a gesture could help make inroads with potential allies.
Whether or not to attend is up to you and Scathach. Regardless, your primary objective remains the same: to open a dialogue with the Elder vyes and bring them over to our side. Classified reports suggest their abilities and numbers may be considerably greater than I’d assumed. If your observations support this, you’re authorized to negotiate everything I mentioned in the last letter. Candor will be key—don’t gloss over our history with them.
Should you decide to make a public appearance, it’s critical you make a strong impression. Spare no expense when it comes to your dress or transport—you will be functioning as our official ambassadors. Rowan has secret accounts you can draw upon at Thaler’s or Gilderbach’s. Branches of each bank can be found in Almuir, the largest city you will pass en route to Enlyll. You should be able to buy whatever clothes and transportation you require. Bribes go a long way in Almuir and its residents couldn’t care less about Prusias’s war. Don’t pinch pennies.
Sol Invictus,
David
p.s. Cynthia insists I say hello from her. Hello.
Max and Scathach both agreed with David’s recommendation. Leaving the snowy hills and forests behind, they had made for Almuir. They spent less than a day in that bustling city but still managed to spend an extraordinary amount of Rowan’s money. When they departed Almuir, they did so in a royal blue carriage pulled by a team of spirited chestnuts that champed and snorted in the wintry air.
“Stop doing that,” Scathach muttered as they waited yet again for their carriage to be waved ahead.
Max glanced sharply at her. “Doing what?”
“Fretting about your shoes.”
“How did you know that?” he asked, amazed.
“You keep looking to make sure you haven’t scuffed them.”
Max glanced at them—boots of supple black calfskin polished to a subtle and uniform gleam. “I can’t help it,” he confessed. “They cost a month’s wages.”
“This carriage cost ten years’ wages,” she pointed out, running a manicured hand over its leather and polished sandalwood. “You have to forget it. If you look self-conscious, it will spoil the whole effect. Pretend you’re back at Rodrubân.”
Max grunted. “You want me to muck out stables?”
Scathach playfully kicked his perfect boot. “No. Pretend you’re attending one of the festivals. You were dressed up at those and didn’t seem self-conscious.”
“That’s what you think,” said Scathach, smiling. “Forget about the clothes and the carriage and all of that. They’ll do their job and we’ll do ours.”
“And what’s our job again?” he quipped, licking his thumb and trying to wipe away the scuff her shoes had left.
Scathach checked her makeup in an obscenely expensive folding mirror. “To be that couple.”
“The couple everyone despises?”
Leaning across the seat, she kissed him. “The couple everyone’s talking about.”
Borrowing her mirror, Max glanced at his new haircut and the thin white scar on his cheek. Scathach promptly snatched it away.
“No looking in mirrors,” she declared.
“Why not?” said Max. “You do.”
Scathach shrugged and slipped the case back in her clutch. “I’m a woman. There’s nothing worse than a man aware of his own good looks. Cynthia told me it’s one of the reasons she fell for David. He’s not self-conscious in the least.”
“David’s worn bathrobes to class.”
“And now he’s the Director,” Scathach muttered, peering out the window to see if the traffic jam was relenting. “There must be three hundred carriages. Probably twice as many guests, and most owe their allegiance to Prusias. I know médim have rules prohibiting bloodshed, but we can’t let our guard down.”
Max glanced at the gae bolga. The short sword was safely in its sheath, lying on the seat next to a dozing Nox. While violence was prohibited at médim, guests would still be armed. For many demons, their weapons were marks of rank and would be displayed in prominent fashion. While it was tempting to do the same, Max and Scathach had decided a more subtle statement would be better. The gae bolga would hang at Max’s side, attached to the baldric he wore beneath his tapered red justacorps. Max chose the color as a subtle reminder to those at the médim that he was Bragha Rùn—the “Red Death,” as so many had cheered on his way to victory in Prusias’s Arena. The long coat would permit a teasing glimpse of the legendary blade, but no more. Underneath his shirt and waistcoat, he wore his nanomail and the Fomorian’s sash. The wound’s dull ache was constant, but thus far the giant’s spell had kept it from opening.
“These days everyone looks like an enemy,” said Max. “The gae bolga can fit under my coat, but what are you going to do? You can’t walk around with that at a party.” He gestured to Scathach’s nicked and oiled spear.
“No,” Scathach sighed. “I suppose she’ll have to sit this one out. Spears and pearls don’t really go together. But never fear.” From her pack, she produced a slender poignard whose gray sheath was inlaid with a Celtic sun in mother-of-pearl. “A gift from the shield maidens when I was made captain.”
She smiled, but Max caught a glimmer of sadness as she fastened the dagger to a strap about her calf. He couldn’t blame her. When Scathach left the Sidh, she’d surrendered more than immortality—she’d given up her home and friends. Some wounds could not be mended, not entirely.
The carriage made a sudden lurch as the road opened up. When they’d gone another forty or fifty yards, they rounded a copse of snow-speckled trees and climbed the final rise to Connor’s manor.
Max leaned over Nox to see Connor’s house coming into view now, a castle in the Renaissance style that stood atop a promontory commanding a view of the inlet far below. Its doors were flung open and its windows blazed with light so that its gables and towers shone pale and golden against the dirty red sky. Pavilions dotted lawns milling with figures human and otherwise. When they reached the circular drive, a human footman in a light blue coat opened the carriage door and bowed.
“Welcome to Enlyll, Your Excellencies,” he said in French. “With whom do I have the pleasure to speak?”
“Scathach and Max McDaniels of Rowan.”
The prim footman blinked and switched to heavily accented English.
“Honored,” he said. “We had word that you would be joining us. My name is Anton. Lord Lynch is looking forward to seeing you. While I am sorry to report the rituals have already taken place, the festivities will continue until dawn. Will you be staying with us?”
“We will,” said Max.
“Very good,” said the footman. “We’ll have your things brought to your room. You’re to stay in the same wing as Mademoiselles Lucia and Sarah. I understand you all know each other.”
“We do.”
Anton gestured for a pair of boys to remove the luggage from the carriage. “You are most welcome here, of course, but the situation is a trifle delicate. Do you wish to be announced or would you prefer a less conspicuous entrance?”
“An announcement,” said Max. “Can the lymrill wander or should she remain in our room?”
Anton shrugged. “Whatever she prefers,” he said. “The baron prefers a casual household. There are very few rules here.”
Despite her freedom, Nox preferred to remain with Max and Scathach and followed the pair as Anton led them around a marble fountain toward a flight of broad steps that led to the front doors. Max’s warning ring burned so hot that he removed it and slipped it in his coat pocket. There was little point in being told demons were near when a dozen were in plain view, loitering outside by the fountain where they sipped wine and exhaled tobacco smoke in great curling plumes. One of them—a tall, owl-eyed demon with deep blue skin and an ibex’s curling horns—gestured carelessly with one of his six arms as he conversed with a fox-faced kitsune. The arm was grotesquely fractured, the bone pressing visibly against the skin.
“Did he compete in the amann?” asked Scathach, referring to the “arts of blood,” a traditional médim contest.
“That he did,” said Anton. “It was held yesterday. I’m sorry you missed it. Count Rhugal made a valiant showing.”
“Who won?” asked Max.
Anton lowered his voice. “Lord Grael.”
Max looked sharply at Anton. Grael was a very powerful demon who ruled one of Blys’s ten grand duchies. What would Grael be doing here? His domain was Malakos, not Harine. It was unusual that so powerful a demon would bother attending a médim hosted by a minor brayma in a rival’s territory. Anton gave them a discreet but significant look as he escorted them up the steps.
“We’ve had some unexpected …”
Anton did not finish this sentence, however, for as they entered the marbled foyer, a number of heads—human and otherwise—turned to appraise the new arrivals. Clearing his throat, Anton struck a small chime on a nearby stand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Monsieur Max McDaniels and Mademoiselle Scathach of Rowan.”
Silence. At least it was silent in the foyer. From the ballroom, Max could hear music and laughter, but those guests standing about the foyer’s floor or lingering on its double staircase merely stared in open, unfeigned astonishment. As Max and Scathach bowed, an imp darted out of the room, nearly colliding with someone who was coming to see the new arrivals.
“There he is!” cried Connor Lynch, brushing the imp aside. “Max McDaniels—it’s been too bloody long!”
That it had. Max could not help but break into a broad grin as Connor came toward them, spreading his arms wide and splashing red wine over the rim of his goblet. He almost staggered into Max, crushing him in a brotherly embrace and nearly spilling his drink on Scathach’s dress.
“My God,” he laughed. “It’s been what—almost three years?”
Connor’s Dublin accent had thickened since leaving Rowan and indeed so had he. His chest was broader, his cheerful face rounder, and even his chestnut hair had expanded into a wild, Dionysian crown of tangled curls. His bright blue eyes were somewhat glassy with drink, but still possessed their old mischievous glint.
“Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” Connor laughed, turning to the other guests.
“Well,” said Max, “don’t believe everything you hear.”
“Rowan is at war with our king!” barked a brash, one-eyed oni from the lower steps. “Why do they find welcome here?”
Connor merely laughed and turned his back on the demon. “I’m not welcoming Rowan. I’m greeting an old friend. And if you’re such a loyal subject, Gnoshi, why are your soldiers still at home?”
Guests chuckled as the oni glowered. Connor turned his attention to Scathach.
“Connor Lynch,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand.
“Scathach,” she replied.
“A lady of consequence, I see,” muttered Connor, noting the Red Branch tattoo on her wrist. “Would you give your host the honor of a dance?”
Max rolled his eyes. “That didn’t take long.”
Connor flashed a rogue’s grin. “I don’t see a ring, brother. And I’ll be dead and buried before I pass up a chance to dance with a girl this pretty.”
“One dance,” Scathach agreed.
“Or two!” Connor cackled, pulling her through the crowd.
Lucia is going to murder him, thought Max, following after with Nox padding at his side. Following their stay with the Fomorian, the lymrill had undergone a growth spurt and was now the size of a large house cat, a house cat that fancied herself a tigress, for as Nox waddled forward, she thrust out her powerful chest and returned every stare with an air of defiance.
Most eyes, however, were on Max. Their attitudes and reactions were almost as varied as the races in attendance. Some were hostile, but many were simply shocked, curious, or even awed. There were whispers and anxious glances. Aside from believing him dead, many people here had probably seen him fight in Prusias’s Arena, or even at Rowan. When Max’s blood was up—when the Old Magic drummed in his ears—he became something else, something divine and indomitable. It seemed many were having a hard time reconciling the terrifying tales of Rowan’s berserker with the youth now making his way through their midst.
A pasty, corpulent demon wearing a long bejeweled coat and an embroidered fez intercepted Max before he could get through the archway leading to the ballroom.
“The Hound of Rowan,” he gushed. “We’ve never been introduced, but I had the pleasure of watching Bragha Rùn in Prusias’s Arena. What a performer! You made me piles of money until the grylmhoch. There, I’m afraid I had to bet against you.”
“I would have bet against me, too,” said Max pleasantly. “You’re Coros, I believe.”
The demon’s toadlike face flushed with pleasure at being recognized. In fact, the only reason Max knew him was because Toby had impersonated the merchant years before when they’d snuck past Mad’raast, a gargantuan demon that once guarded the Strait of Gibraltar.
“I am indeed,” the demon simpered. “Is this your first médim?”
“No. I attended one at Gràvenmuir before Bram cast it into the sea.”
“All this violence,” groaned Coros, shaking his head ruefully. “I long for the day when things have settled down. The war is ruining me!”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Max, not believing a word. In addition to being Blys’s largest trader of silks and spices, Coros was allegedly its biggest smuggler and owned hundreds of human slaves. He had no wish to converse with such a revolting character, but he knew others were listening. “With luck, the war will be over soon.”
“I hear Rowan’s forces have landed on the mainland,” said Coros.
“That’s the rumor,” said Max, accepting a glass of wine from a servant.
“Curious that you’re not with its army,” observed the merchant, his tone an invitation for Max to supply the missing details.
“Is it?” said Max. “I thought the surprise was that I’m not dead. This is the second time Prusias has started that ugly rumor.”
Coros and several others chuckled. The merchant’s piggish eyes fell upon Nox.
“What a magnificent creature,” he cooed. “Is that a lymrill?”
“It is.”
“Remarkable,” exclaimed the demon. “Do you know have any idea what that animal would fetch on the open market?”
“I’m glad I don’t,” said Max genially. “I’d be tempted to sell her whenever she eats my shoes. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Coros, but please excuse me a moment. I’m neglecting my date and our host is not.”
More smiles from the watchful onlookers. Hopefully, word of their arrival was spreading.
“Honored,” said Coros, raising his glass. “To peace.”
Max raised his glass to Coros and those around him. Guests parted as he and Nox continued on, passing under a sculpted arch to enter a great hall that was serving as the main ballroom. The space was enormous, a study in pink marble whose columns supported not only a frescoed ceiling, but also ornate balustrades where guests could retreat from the din and survey the festivities below. Gazing up, Max scanned the revelers and found a pair of familiar faces: Sarah and Lucia.
The girls were pointing to a slender staircase behind a low stage where musicians—humans, satyrs, and kitsune—were playing a galliard. Nox followed at Max’s heels as he climbed the staircase, greeted a speechless brayma, and joined the girls in their little balcony.
Sarah Amankwe was the Sixth Years’ most promising Agent-to-be while Lucia Cavallo was an incredibly gifted Mystic who was highly adept at Firecraft. Tonight, the pair looked like fashion models. A strapless black gown complemented Sarah’s athletic figure and gleaming brown skin while Lucia wore a dress of pearlescent green that went perfectly with her olive complexion and dark brown eyes. While Sarah’s hair was close-cropped, Lucia wore her black tresses in a French braid that showcased her singularly lovely face.
“You two look beautiful,” said Max, embracing each of them while Nox rattled her quills in greeting.
“When David told us you were coming, I couldn’t believe it!” exclaimed Sarah, giving him a sisterly once-over. “Everyone was saying you were …”
“Dead,” said Lucia matter-of-factly. “But you are not. You look good, but too skinny. I blame Toby.”
The Italian beauty frowned. She had never cared for the smee. It was something of a minor miracle she had not flung him overboard when they sailed across the ocean together. Max laughed.
“Why do you blame him?”
“He ate everything on that boat,” she snapped. “Three times I caught him stealing Kettlemouth’s sardines!”
“Where is Kettlemouth?” asked Max. Lucia was rarely without her charge, an enormous red bullfrog whose unpredictable singing could trigger amorous feelings.
“In our room,” Lucia sniffed. “Wrapped in furs by a fire. This weather is no good for my baby.”
Sarah rolled her eyes. “We couldn’t chance him singing,” she explained. “Maybe Nox would like to keep him company.”
Apparently this sounded agreeable to Nox, for the lymrill rattled her quills again and gazed up at her steward expectantly. Nox and Kettlemouth had gotten along famously on their voyage—the lymrill enjoyed napping beneath the frog’s dewlap.
“Where’s your room?” Max asked.
“In the south wing,” said Sarah. “I’m sure Eloise will be happy to take her.”
Even as Sarah spoke the name, a plain-faced servant girl of twelve or thirteen came forward from where she’d been standing unobtrusively by a column. Upon her uniform was the Enlyll emblem, a blue chevron adorned with three white seashells.
“Eloise has been spoiling us since we got here,” said Sarah.
The little maid reddened and gave a slight curtsy.
“Eloise, this is our friend Max McDaniels,” said Lucia, speaking French. “He’s cute, no? But the real beauty is Nox. Would you take her to our room, please? She and Kettlemouth are old friends.”
“Tout de suite,” said Eloise, stooping as though to lift Nox. Upon glimpsing the lymrill’s claws, she paused and spoke in halting English. “The creature … is friendly?”
“Very friendly,” Max assured her in his own version of French. “But don’t pick her up—she’s too heavy. Just wave one of these and she’ll follow you to the moon.”
From his pocket he produced a handful of thin iron plates and handed them to the young maid. “Nox,” he said. “This is Eloise. She’s going to take you to see Kettlemouth. I’ll find you later.”
With a snort, the inky black lymrill trotted after the grinning Eloise as she led him down the arched, lamp-lit corridor.
“I need to be down there,” said Max, gazing down at the ballroom floor where Scathach had finished dancing with Connor and was now conversing with a trio of kitsune wearing red silk robes. He needed to be seen and make as many contacts as possible. “Come with me.”
“You go, Sarah,” said Lucia, furrowing her brow. “I’m staying where I can watch everything that scoundrel is doing.”
Sarah shot a glance at Max. “Someone isn’t very happy with Connor.”
“Look at him!” hissed Lucia, her knuckles whitening on the balustrade. “He can hardly stand up. And those girls—giggling like hyenas at everything he says!”
Max spotted Connor by a pair of glass doors that evidently led out to some gardens. The Lord of Enlyll was gesticulating wildly as he regaled a group of pretty young women with a story that had them spellbound. With an offhand gesture, he delivered what was apparently the punch line, for they all burst into peals of laughter. Connor, looking pleased, called for more wine. Lucia merely looked murderous.
“Come on,” urged Sarah. “You can’t spend the entire médim this way. He has to entertain his guests!”
“Ha!” scoffed Lucia. “ ‘Entertaining his guests.’ That’s all he does! And always the pretty ones. Look at that girl he’s talking to. She used a trowel for that makeup.”
Sarah threw an arm around her friend. “Putting that girl down won’t make you feel better. Connor’s being a jerk. Boys—sorry, Max—can be jerks! But you’re Lucia Cavallo and you’re on an adventure! Don’t let Connor spoil it. Let’s go have fun.”
Lucia lifted her chin, revealing a hint of her old, formidable self. Dabbing her eyes, she took a long, slow breath. “Of course, you are right. I promise to be better …”
She paused as Connor led the young lady out onto the floor. Max heard Lucia mutter something as she made a subtle gesture with her hand. Below, Connor’s partner sneezed in a violent spasm that covered his appalled face in phlegm.
“Starting now,” said Lucia, her eyes twinkling as one of Connor’s servants rushed in with a handkerchief.
“Lucia!” hissed Sarah.
“I feel better,” said Lucia serenely. “Let’s go down, shall we?”
As they made for the stairs, Sarah filled Max in on the médim.
“Things really began two nights ago,” she said. “That’s when most of the guests arrived and they held the alennya. The braymas and more important merchants spend the days in private conferences or going off in little hunting parties.”
“What are they doing?” asked Max, pausing at the top step.
Lucia’s eyes flashed. “Conspiring about what they’ll do—or won’t do—to support Prusias in the war.”
“Have you been able to attend any of these meetings?” asked Max hopefully.
“Of course not,” said Sarah. “There are people here who’d like nothing better than to turn us over to Prusias. But we’ve gotten some information.”
“How?” asked Max.
“Eloise,” replied Lucia. “I dote on that girl. She doesn’t attend the meetings but other servants do. She’s been very good at getting information out of them.”
“And?”
“There’s lots of dissension,” answered Sarah. “The human braymas want to side with Rowan because they think it’s only a matter of time before the king turns upon them. But since Prusias has their souls as collateral, they’re frightened to do anything too openly.”
“What about the demon braymas?” asked Max.
“Mixed,” replied Sarah. “Some are loyal, but almost none approve of his relationship with the Workshop—they worry its technologies will be used against them. Some have threatened to abandon Prusias unless he destroys the Workshop.”
“Prusias will never agree to that,” said Max, descending the stairs.
“Most share your view,” said Lucia, “which is why many are waiting to answer his call to arms as long as they can. No one thinks Rowan can defeat Prusias, but some hope we might weaken him so they can topple him after we’ve failed.”
“Which braymas feel this way?” said Max.
Sarah waited for a tipsy couple to pass them. “Most of the braymas from Raikos and Bryllbatha,” she whispered. “Yuga forced them to flee their lands and they’re demanding that Prusias give them new ones. And there are some here who used to serve Rashaverak. Prusias promised to spare Rashaverak’s life once he surrendered, but no one’s seen him since. Most think he’s either dead or being tortured in Prusias’s dungeons. Rashaverak’s braymas aren’t very happy about that.”
“Have you told David this?” asked Max.
“Of course,” said Lucia.
Max paused by the stairwell.
“Any luck making contact with Elder vyes?” he asked.
“We’ll fill you in later,” said Sarah as they reached the ballroom floor.
“Just tell me if any are here,” said Max.
Lucia nodded and glanced significantly at a slender, middle-aged woman in a beaded orange gown. The woman stood not five paces from where Scathach was now conversing with a massive brayma wearing steel-riveted plate.
“What’s her name?” he murmured.
“Lady Nico,” Lucia whispered. “We don’t know for certain, but—”
She stopped as several laughing guests emerged from the stairs behind them.
The hall was growing even more crowded as guests returned from hunts and news of Rowan’s Hound got about. Most conspicuous among these was a group of armored oni. As Max joined Scathach, he noticed Connor bowing before them and making gestures of explanation. Whatever he was saying, it did not appear to appease them. The largest, a boarlike hulk, thrust Connor aside and strode toward Max. The crowd parted rapidly as he advanced. Max turned as the demon loomed above him.
“You’re not welcome here,” the demon growled, his breath tinged with sulfur. The air about the oni shimmered with heat, as though it were about to ignite. Other than Scathach, nearby humans looked spellbound by the angry spirit’s aura.
“You’re not my host,” Max observed calmly. A number of onlookers gasped as the oni unsheathed a sword whose serrated blade must have been six inches wide. Connor ran over, his face growing pale as he spoke rapidly in the demon’s language.
“Véda! Véda, Rikku Brayma! Juthir nùl molo médim!”
The oni whirled on Connor. “Nùl piro elu-daemona, homna!”
Connor flushed with anger. “I am mehrùn,” he said firmly. “And I am your host, Lord Rikku. You will address me properly and obey the rules of médim.”
“You are mehrùn,” the oni acknowledged grudgingly, “but you’ve no right to speak our tongue. And this one,” he said, pointing his sword at Max. “This filth is the enemy of my king—of your king. You should mount his head on a spike!”
Connor stubbornly shook his head. “This is Bragha Rùn. Prusias himself declared him Champion of Blys. Of course he is welcome here. Even if he was not, violence is forbidden at médim.”
The demon spat on the floor. “This is no médim!” he roared. “No human may host médim! I spit on this farce. I spit on you. And I spit on the Hound!”
Whirling, Rikku swept his blade at Max’s head. Max’s reactions were supernaturally swift. Dropping his wineglass, he swept the gae bolga up in a blur that shattered his attacker’s blade and decapitated him.
The Morrígan’s blade gave a triumphant, piercing scream as Lord Rikku’s headless body crashed to the marble floor. The rest of the hall was utterly silent as guests and servants gaped in tense, mute horror. Max stared past Connor at Rikku’s companions, the other braymas grouped by a large marble pillar. They looked grim but did not appear to have any intention of attacking. The gae bolga went silent as Max sheathed it.
Max bowed to Connor. “I beg pardon for breaking the médim’s customs. Would you like me to leave?”
“No,” said Connor, recovering his wits. “We all saw it was Lord Rikku who violated tradition.” He raised his voice so all could hear. “To Bragha Rùn!”
“Bragha Rùn!” roared most of the hall, raising their glasses in salute.
Max’s heart was beating swiftly, but his hand was steady as he borrowed Scathach’s glass and raised it in acknowledgment. He sipped the wine—a spicy red—and reveled inwardly at his good fortune. Lord Rikku could not have done them a greater favor. Not only was Max McDaniels alive, but he also had publicly and blamelessly dispatched a powerful brayma. The point would not be lost on Rowan’s enemies—or potential allies. By dawn, news of the evening’s excitement would have reached every corner of the kingdom.
“Well, come on!” cried Connor, after draining his glass. “There’s still good wine to be drunk. Let’s hear something lively!”
The musicians struck up a spirited reel as Rikku’s imps rushed in to retrieve both parts of their former master. While Connor went to ask one of his admirers to dance, Max felt Scathach’s warm hand close about his.
“That was a perfect bruud gine,” she observed complacently. “I’m craving a dance, but I don’t think now is the time.” She nodded at the growing throng of guests eager to make his acquaintance.
Max was not surprised. Demons placed tremendous store in displays of skill, strength, and bravado. Even those who despised Rowan would honor what they’d just witnessed.
Releasing his hand, Scathach left his side to greet Sarah and Lucia. The two looked badly shaken by the sudden outburst of violence. Max could not worry about that, however. He turned to find that Coros had pushed to the fore of those wishing to speak with him.
“I abhor bloodshed,” lied the merchant, adjusting his fez. “But I’ve never seen such speed, such mastery with a sword! I was a fool to wager on the grylmhoch! What an honor to have made your acquaintance.”
“Thank you,” said Max. “Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to introduce those with whom I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“Of course,” said Coros, pivoting on a golden slipper. “It’s my delight to introduce the Lord and Lady Gris of Livalia, a marvelous estate outside Almuir …”
The crowd turned into a sort of receiving line, with Coros embracing his role as social lubricant. The merchant knew everybody, and he often peppered his introductions with anecdotes and details that helped Max remember names and faces, and assign their potential value. While he hoped some might join Rowan’s side, if he could convince others to simply stay out of the war, so much the better.
As the evening wore on, the names and faces began to blur. There was Baron Tarkan, the Countess of Bryndle, the notorious Widow of Verdival, assorted merchants, a shipmaker named Tinto, and a slew of other dignitaries. Most were demons, but several were human. One elderly gentleman Max even recognized as a former resident of Rowan—a retired teacher who chose to accept the offer of land and titles that Prusias had made to mehrùn.
These people were wealthy, of course, and lived on lush estates replete with art and servants, but few wielded real power in their persons or the forces at their command. And thus there was a decided change in atmosphere when Lord Grael entered the hall.
Max saw him at once—a twelve-foot rakshasa with a tiger-like face, three green eyes, and an eland’s corkscrew horns. Blood hissed as it dripped from the demon’s broad muzzle and fell onto his breastplate. Either the duke had just returned from hunting or something much more sinister had transpired. When their eyes met, the Duke of Malakos strode casually toward Max, wiping his face with a towel handed up by a white imp, just one of a dozen attendants. The demon’s aura was astoundingly powerful.
Guests scattered from the demon’s path like startled quail. Max had just been introduced to Lady Nico, the woman Lucia said might be an Elder vye. At Grael’s approach, she politely excused herself even as Scathach came to stand by Max’s side. Connor hurried over, so drunk by now that he nearly crashed into one of Grael’s imps. He twisted aside at the last second and merely fell at the duke’s feet.
Lucia darted in to help him, muttering angrily in Italian as she pulled him to his feet. For a moment, Connor managed to focus on her fuming, heartbroken face before he craned his neck up at Lord Grael. His words were barely intelligible.
“No vilenss,” he slurred. “No vilenss at maydeem …”
Instead of becoming angry, Lord Grael seemed bemused as he shifted his gaze from Max to his host. The demon’s voice was a patrician baritone, both courteous and dismissive. “Please instruct us on the rule of médim, Baron Lynch. You articulate them so clearly.”
“No. Vilens!” repeated Connor emphatically.
“Violence, did you say?” said Grael. “Of course not. Médim doesn’t end until dawn. I wouldn’t think of violating our traditions. Please introduce me to your guests.”
Connor leaned heavily on Lucia. “This is Max McDaniels and—wait, what was the lady’s name?”
“Scathach,” said Max stiffly.
Grael bowed to her. “Charmed,” he purred. “Lord Lynch was undoubtedly safe at home and in his cups during the Siege of Rowan. But I recognize you. You answered Gunnir’s challenge on the battlefield and rode out to meet him. I honor you, Lady Scathach. Gunnir was a fine archer but no swordsman.”
“Are you a fine swordsman, milord?” she asked politely. The difference in their sizes was unsettling. Scathach barely came to the demon’s waist.
Grael gave a deprecating smile and patted the pommel of a brutal-looking greatsword. “I dabble. Perhaps someday we’ll meet on the field, eh? Your spear against my sword.”
“I look forward to it,” said Scathach.
“Splendid,” said Grael, lighting a pipe and taking a long, luxuriant pull. As he exhaled, his emerald, luminescent eyes flicked down at Max. “Well, I see Prusias was mistaken. The king has been crowing of your death.”
Max met the demon’s gaze. It was impossible not to be impressed by Grael. Aside from his size, the demon exuded an aura of power and command that simply compelled lesser beings to fall in line. Max understood why some thought he was a threat to unseat Prusias. A being like Grael would only respect someone as arrogant and assured as he was.
Max decided to increase his own aura and experienced a pleasing sense of control when it responded just as he wished. His display was very brief, like an invisible solar flare. His friends would not perceive it, but the demon most certainly would. And, if Grael was as intelligent as Max suspected, the little glimpse of Max’s true nature would give him pause.
“Prusias is always crowing of my death,” said Max pleasantly. “But here I am.”
Grael cocked his head with a knowing smile. “Aye,” he said. “Here you are. I’ve longed to meet you, Hound. Vyndra was a very old friend, as were others you’ve slain.”
“You must be very lonely.”
Smoke shot out the rakshasa’s nostrils. “Oh, I manage. Alas, I cannot blame you for their deaths. This is war, after all. And Vyndra murdered your father—or rather the poor fellow pretending to be.” The demon chuckled. “No, this evening gives me great pleasure. To think I’d find you in this backwater!” The demon laughed and inclined his great head. “Enjoy the médim, Hound, and don’t forget that it ends at dawn. One would hate for anything to happen to you.”
The room almost gave a collective sigh of relief as the duke left to converse with the oni that had been Rikku’s companions. While tensions had eased, some guests still looked unsettled—as though Grael’s mere presence at the médim was a cause for concern. Max glanced over as Lady Nico reappeared at their side.
“Well,” she said, “your arrival has certainly made the evening more exciting. I fear Lord Grael has a point. When the médim ends, things could get even more interesting. How long do you intend to stay in Enlyll?”
“We’re in no rush,” said Max. “Baron Lynch is an old friend and we enjoy meeting his new ones. I haven’t even had a chance to go hunting.”
“Are you an avid hunter?” inquired Lady Nico.
“For food,” said Max. “Not much for sport.”
“Well, fox hunting is all the rage here,” Lady Nico sighed. “It’s a bore and even more excruciating to watch overdressed fools galloping up and down the countryside blowing their silly horns. No style or subtlety—nothing like falconry.”
“I’ve never tried it,” said Max.
“Oh, it’s far more interesting,” said Lady Nico, tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. Everything about her manner and clothing suggested she had a refined upbringing, but she wasn’t stiff or overly formal. While some would say her nose was too long and her green eyes rather small and far apart, the woman’s self-confidence gave her tremendous charisma. “The relationship between falconer and falcon is one of mutual respect rather than one trying to dominate the other. I imagine you and your lymrill enjoy a similar bond.”
“No,” said Max. “Our relationship is completely defined by dominance. I’m practically her slave.”
Lady Nico smiled. “She seemed happy enough to follow you across the hall. Do you ever take her hunting? I would like to see a lymrill hunt.”
“She hunts on her own,” said Max. “And unless I’m craving worms, rats, or metals, I don’t think I’d care for what she finds.”
A young servant approached Lady Nico and curtsied. “I beg pardon, my lady, but you asked to be told when it was approaching two o’clock.”
“Thank you, Marisela,” said Lady Nico, before turning to Max and Scathach. “I do apologize, but I must say good night. My home is several hours away, and I have important business tomorrow. Given this snow and the roads …” She rolled her eyes. “It was a pleasure meeting you both. Perhaps we’ll go hunting someday.”
As she turned to go, Connor staggered over.
“Don’t say yer leaving!” he cried, mopping sweat from his brow. He fumbled at Marisela’s sleeve. “Tell yer coachman Lady Nico’s stayin’ the night. Run along.”
Lady Nico gestured for Marisela to remain where she was. “Alas, I must bring my evening to a close. Perhaps you should do the same, Lord Lynch. After all, dawn is but a few hours off and you must be fit to bid your guests adieu.”
Connor sulked like a petulant child. “I’m not going to bed. It’s my bloody party.”
“Then perhaps some hot tea,” suggested Lady Nico. “Not everyone finds your current state or behavior very becoming.” She nodded toward Lucia, whose teary eyes were boring holes in his back. Connor turned to face her.
“What’s got you in a twist?” he demanded.
It was a slap heard ’round the world.
Connor recoiled, wincing as Lucia’s scarlet handprint surfaced on his ruddy face. Throughout the hall, there were a few hoots but most looked on with embarrassed disapproval. Without another word, Lady Nico swept from the hall.
Connor seemed oblivious to the highly public scene that was unfolding. Rubbing his cheek, he gave Lucia a painfully artificial laugh. “Pretty good!” he exclaimed. “Better ’n tea, anyway. That slap done made me thirsty. Where’s Royce?”
A slender, reserved-looking youth in Enlyll regalia seemed to appear out of thin air to fill Connor’s goblet. The Lord of Enlyll drank deep, wine dribbling down his chin to run down the front of his embroidered shirt. As he tipped the goblet back, he lost his balance and thudded onto his backside. The great hall was nearly silent, the only sounds those of the winter winds howling outside.
“You are not who I thought you were!” Lucia cried, her tears flowing freely as she clutched her wrap and walked swiftly out of the hall. Sarah hurried after her, leaving the side of a young man with whom she’d been dancing earlier.
Max was disgusted. He scowled down at Connor, who seemed more intent on salvaging his wine than any shred of dignity.
“Get up,” Max hissed, extending his hand.
“I’m okay,” Connor mumbled, reaching for the goblet before it rolled away.
“Get up!” Max snapped, grabbing a fistful of Connor’s sleeve. With a curse, the Irish boy slapped his hand away and half rose as if he intended to strike Max. But the baron slipped, falling hard onto his hip and kicking out at the goblet in his frustration.
As several girls and servants went to assist his “lordship,” Max glanced at Scathach. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s see how Lucia’s doing.”
The two walked swiftly from the hall. Max struggled to balance his conflicting emotions. He wanted to throttle Connor, to dunk him in water until he stopped making a fool of himself. But Max was heartbroken, too. It was unspeakably painful to see Connor reduced to such a state. Max had looked forward to this reunion for years only to find that his old friend no longer really existed. Wealth and leisure had not been good for Connor Lynch.
Several guests tried to say good night, but Max merely nodded and swept past them. Lord Grael stood by the hall’s entrance, a wry smirk on his imposing face as he raised his glass to them. Max ignored him and asked a valet to take them to their room.
As Max and Scathach climbed a curving staircase, they passed many revelers and caught sight of more out on the grounds where lamps burned like ghostly sentinels among the snowy gardens. From below, music was playing once again, but its superficial gaiety only served to sour Max’s mood. Thus far, their mission to Enlyll felt like a professional success and a personal failure. Had they failed Connor somehow?
Scathach knew what he was thinking. “We can’t live others’ lives for them,” she said. “We can try to help them, but their lives are their own.”
“I know,” Max said. “But it still hurts. I feel bad for Lucia. And I’m sorry you didn’t get to meet the Connor I remember.”
“Don’t lose hope,” said Scathach. “I’m sure Lucia hasn’t.”
If Lucia hadn’t lost hope, she was doing a marvelous job of hiding it. When Sarah answered their knock, they overheard seething torrents of Italian.
“Come in,” said Sarah graciously. “Look out for flying footwear.”
Even as she spoke, a pair of glittering pumps soared across the elegant chamber to join a heap of other shoes. Turning, Scathach thanked the maid, who hurried away as Lucia let fly with more obscenities and a pair of stylish boots. Slipping inside, Max and Scathach closed the door and locked it behind them.
Lucia stood barefoot by a canopy bed piled high with clothes and furs and expensive-looking luggage. Upon the bed’s pillows lounged Kettlemouth and Nox. The former was wearing a flannel nightcap and losing his perpetual battle with consciousness while Nox seemed to be having the time of her life. Not only was the lymrill sitting on a pillow (something Max would not allow), but also Lucia had given her a mound of stockings to chew—silk stockings! This she did with great enthusiasm, giving mewls of solidarity whenever Lucia launched a shoe.
“What are you doing?” asked Max delicately.
“Packing!” shouted Lucia, flinging a fur stole into a suitcase.
“That’s quite a wardrobe,” said Scathach. “You didn’t bring all that from Rowan.”
“Oh no,” said Sarah, leading them to several chairs by a comfortable fire. “Connor’s been very generous since we arrived. He’s given us clothes, shoes, furs …”
“Everything but respect!” raged Lucia, launching the last of her shoes before padding over to slump against the marble mantel. Her lip quivered, and she gazed at them with an expression Max had never seen on her before. She looked pitiably young and lost.
“I just want to go home,” she sobbed, looking at them in hopeful, earnest appeal. “I never should have come here. I feel so stupid.”
Before anyone could reply, there was a soft knock at the door.
“Who is it?” called Sarah.
“Eloise,” replied a small voice.
Max got up and opened the door to find the maid standing on the threshold with four mugs, a steaming carafe, and a plate of cookies on a silver tray. The girl curtsied. “Pardon,” she said. “I thought my mistress might like some chocolat?”
Lucia waved her into the room and blew her nose as Eloise set the tray upon an ottoman and filled the mugs with cocoa. Sliding a sugar cookie onto a plate, she brought it and a mug to Lucia.
“Thank you,” Lucia sniffled, throwing her arms around the maid. Eloise looked a little startled but touched by the gesture.
“It is nothing,” she said modestly. “You and Mademoiselle Sarah have been very kind to me. Good guests,” she said, offering a shy smile.
“I want to give you something,” said Lucia. “I’m leaving tomorrow and never coming back. Take what you like,” she said, sweeping her arm at the mounds of expensive clothes. “Take everything.”
The young maid considered the pile a moment with a shrewd eye. “You know what I really like?” she said, turning back to Lucia. “I like to see the butterfly again.”
“Really?” Lucia sniffled. “But that’s nothing.”
“Not to me,” said the girl, bringing the others their hot chocolate. “It reminds me of summer.”
Lucia glanced at the mullioned windows, all spidered with frost. “Very well,” she said. “The butterfly you shall have. Eloise’s butterfly.”
With a word, she extinguished the room’s lamps so that the fire was the only source of light. The flames obeyed Lucia’s coaxing hands like a living thing, sinuous and mesmerizing as they snaked out of the hearth to form twining symmetries. Eloise stared as the flames became a shimmering butterfly. As the butterfly grew, its trembling wings blossomed with colors in a shifting, prismatic display that made Eloise gasp. Larger and larger it grew, its translucent wings nearly touching the walls as it hovered above them. It floated there a few moments, impossibly beautiful, before unraveling like a spool of fiery thread and returning to the hearth.
“That is magic,” sighed Eloise, her face aglow as she searched the ceiling for any glimmering traces. “Thank you. Does my lady truly mean to leave us so soon?”
“I don’t know,” said Lucia glumly, sipping her hot chocolate. “I want to leave this minute but we’ll need to make proper arrangements.”
The maid curtsied. “Just ring for me if you need anything.”
“You should go to bed,” said Sarah. “It’s so late.”
The maid gave a rueful smile. “Médim does not end until dawn. Until then, it is work, work, work.”
“If you see the baron, give him a kick for me,” muttered Lucia.
“As you wish,” said Eloise gravely. “Thank you for the butterfly.”
Taking the empty carafe, the maid departed, leaving the four to discuss Lucia’s righteous anger as well as Lady Nico and other interesting—and potentially valuable—people they’d met that evening. Sarah, a fine warrior herself, could not get over the suddenness of Max and Rikku’s encounter.
“It was over so fast,” she marveled. “I was looking right at you but didn’t even see you strike him.” She turned to Scathach. “Did you teach him how to do that?”
“I taught him the technique,” Scathach replied. “But you can’t teach that kind of speed or instincts. Max was born with those.”
“It impressed Lady Nico,” said Lucia. “I was watching her.”
“I want to know what you’ve learned about the Elder vyes,” said Max. “What made you suspect she might be one? She doesn’t exhibit any sign of being a vye in human form—no sneezing, no reddened eyes.”
“She can do magic,” replied Lucia simply. “There have always been rumors that Elder vyes have their own schools.”
“How do you know she can do magic?” asked Scathach.
“Connor dragged me out on a hunt, but I lagged behind when he started flirting with one of those village trollops. When the hunt galloped past the woods, I saw her slip out of them holding the fox.”
“And?” said Scathach.
“She set the fox loose, changed into a falcon, and flew away.”
“Maybe she’s a witch,” said Max.
“She has no skinscrolling,” Sarah reflected. “At least not that we can see. And her estate is supposed to be one of the wealthiest in Harine. Witches live with their clans in the wild. Lady Nico learned real magic somewhere and it wasn’t at Rowan.”
“What did Connor say?” asked Max. “I assume you asked him about her.”
Lucia scowled. “He wouldn’t say anything. Not anything worthwhile. The idiot writes me love letters and tells us to ‘seek the Elders’ and then ignores me and refuses to talk about them.”
A clear restatement of her grievances threatened to rekindle her former fury. Before those flames could catch, however, Scathach changed the subject. “It’s a shame she left so soon. What do you know about those kitsune—those three in the flowery robes? They didn’t seem to have much love for Prusias.”
This sparked a broader discussion of the braymas, merchants, and other guests they had met throughout the evening. They needed to update David, and Max wanted to give him more than a generic list of names but a prioritized assessment of those who might be helpful.
“Grael muddies things,” said Max wearily. “Some of the guests seem nervous that he’s here. They’re probably afraid he’s reporting everything back to Prusias.”
Sarah looked anxious. “Do you think he intends to attack you once the médim is over?”
“Possibly,” said Max. “But I doubt it would happen right at dawn. If Grael intends to attack, he’ll wait for a less obvious opportunity.”
There was another, almost apologetic knock at the door.
“It’s almost five o’clock,” moaned Sarah. “Who could that be?”
“If it’s Connor, slam the door,” said Lucia firmly.
This time Scathach got up to answer. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Pardon,” came the familiar voice. “It is Eloise.”
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.