Max descended broad stone steps that curved into a hallway and led to a carven door whose relief depicted seven scrolls. The professor, a stooped and languid vye with tawny fur and yellow eyes, produced a key and slipped it into the lock.

“I speak English,” he informed Max in a soft voice. “My name is Volsu, the Apocrypha scholar. I will translate in Lady Nico’s absence.”

“What is Apocrypha?” Max asked.

Amusement flickered in the old vye’s eyes. “Truths or blasphemy,” he replied. “Apocrypha are contested lore and scriptures. Some believe them and some do not. Arcanum is riddled with Apocrypha.”

Archon spoke sharply and Volsu bowed.

“His lordship desires me to translate everything that is said.”

“Understood,” said Max. “What language is Archon speaking?”

Once he’d translated, the vye pushed open the heavy door. “Etruscan. Please come in.”

He stood aside to admit Max into a long, narrow room with a high barrel ceiling. Its crimson walls were lined with mahogany bookcases densely packed with bound manuscripts and labeled cases full of scrolls and sheaves of parchment. The room’s other furnishings consisted of a long table, a dozen chairs, and a candelabrum whose wicks kindled into pale gold flame at a word from Volsu.

Closing the door behind them, Volsu invited Max to make himself comfortable. Whenever the vye spoke, he made certain to translate for Archon, who lowered himself with some difficulty into a chair at the table’s center and gestured for Max to sit opposite him. There was a knock and a young servant entered, bearing a large tray laden with fruit, bread, hummus, and skewers of cold lamb.

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, along 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?”

“Just one shape,” said Lupo. “There’s human in us, you know. Masquing isn’t like hydeshifting. We’re not borrowing another creature’s shape but putting on our other face. It’s like turning your clothes inside out.”

“Would you show me?”

The guards stopped as Lupo paused and furrowed his brow. With a shudder, his face suddenly rippled and he changed into a skinny boy of ten or eleven with reddish brown hair, a weak chin, and a forehead spotted with pimples. One of the guards muttered something to another in Etruscan. Lupo whirled on him.

“I’m not done growing!”

The boy transformed back into a vye, but not before Max saw his face flush red.

“Do you know Eloise?” asked Max, changing the subject as they continued.

“Of course. She’s in the class ahead of me. Eloise is tops.”

“Tops?”

“Tops in everything,” said Lupo. “Masquing, fencing, elixae. You name it. If she’d been born male, she might have been Archon someday. See that statue? That’s Tiberius—he’s the Archon who tamed the first wyverns.”

Lupo pointed up to an alcove where a black marble statue glared down at them.

“Very nice,” said Max. “But is Archon a name or a title?”

“The master of Arcanum is always called Archon,” said Lupo. “Even masters from the other schools have to call him that, though they don’t like it much.”

“How many schools are there?”

Before Lupo could answer, a guard interjected in a harsh flurry of Etruscan. Max’s eager tour guide scowled.

“He says to watch my tongue,” huffed Lupo. “That information is for Archon to share. I’m to remember that you’re the enemy.”

Max glanced at the guard who had spoken. The vye returned his gaze with a look of cold, unblinking suspicion.

“But Eloise,” said Max, turning back to Lupo. “She can never be Archon? Even if she’s ‘tops’?”

Lupo laughed. “Of course she can’t! Whoever heard of a female Archon? If females could be Archon, the Lady Nico might succeed her father—not Fenwulf.”

“Who’s Fenwulf?”

“He’s the master of … one of the other schools. Everyone thinks he’ll be next. He’s not a fighter like our current Archon, but he’s a brilliant elixist. He re-created the Lupercan Draught.”

Again a guard snarled and Lupo ceased, albeit with a sulky glance. He stopped to direct Max’s attention over a stone balcony, which looked down upon a paved avenue that wound along the river. The avenue was teeming with Raszna carrying picks and other mining tools.

“Shift change,” explained Lupo. “My father’s probably down there. He’s been working like crazy since a gildhünd sniffed ormeisen off one of the new tunnels. He says the scent’s centuries old and the ore’s probably worthless, but you can’t let something like that go.”

Max was puzzled. “What’s a gildhünd?”

Lupo squinted, scanning the miners until he spied in their midst a dozen lean hounds with pale, silvery coats. “There’s a few. They’re special dogs that are bred to sniff out veins of precious metal. If ore’s close by, they’ll find it. They give off different yips to let you know what they’ve found. They’ve even got a yip for ormeisen.”

“What is ormeisen?” asked Max. “I’ve never heard of it.”

The vye looked very pleased to know something his famous guest did not. “Dragon iron, of course. I thought everyone knew that.”

Max let the comment slide. “What’s so special about it?”

“It can kill spirits dead. Even the big ones other metals can’t hurt.”

“That sounds like Zenuvian iron,” said Max, recalling the preposterously expensive substance he had acquired by bartering his torque with Madam Petra.

“Why do you call it that?” asked Lupo earnestly.

“Because it’s mined in Zenuvia.”

The vye laughed and promptly covered his mouth. “I’m sorry, but that’s just an awfully stupid name. I mean, ormeisen isn’t just found in Zenuvia.”

“Okay,” said Max, smiling tightly. “Why do you call it dragon iron?”

The vye offered a pitying look. He spoke slowly, as though to ensure maximum comprehension. “Because you only find it where a dragon was born.”

Max suppressed an urge to flick his guide’s nose and focused instead on this interesting tidbit. If Lupo was right and dragon iron lost potency over time, then the ore found in Zenuvia must have been located near a recent hatching. To Max’s knowledge, the only true dragon that had been seen in the last millennium was curled about Mina’s bedchamber. Was Ember the source of Zenuvian iron?

“Well, I see I’ve startled and amazed you,” said Lupo happily. With an impatient growl, the guard captain plucked him up by his ruff. Dangling the young vye like a misbehaving kitten, the guard invited Max to continue on their way.

As they walked, Lupo went limp as a noodle and vowed savage retaliation when he “hit his growth spurt.” Neither approach made much of an impression upon the stony captain.

“That’s the Hydeshifting wing,” murmured Lupo glumly, gesturing to an archway whose stonework was carved into the likeness of various beasts and birds. Apparently a class was letting out, for a score of young vyes in orange robes spilled into the hallway beyond the arch. Several females caught sight of Lupo and giggled.

“Put me down!” he hissed to the guard captain. “Please!”

The captain relented and Lupo quickly smoothed his ruff and robes. He glanced sidelong at Max. “I’m sorry if I was rude. I don’t mean to be. My mother says I can get too ‘familiar.’ Whatever that means.”

“It’s okay,” said Max. “But maybe we should get to Amber Hall.”

“Right,” said Lupo. “Would you mind if I just did one thing?”

“Of course not.”

The young vye turned to the watching girls. “Hound of Rowan!” he called, pointing vigorously at Max. “The other pages were too scared.”

Taking Max’s elbow, Lupo strode boldly ahead. He might have been leading a dangerous criminal to his cell. Max sighed.

Indeed, Baron Lynch was the first person he saw as they entered Amber Hall. He was standing with Lucia and Sarah before a vast mural that seemed to tell the story of the Raszna’s journey underground and the founding of Arcanum. Connor was pointing down to a section of floor beneath the mural that had been roped off, as though it was hallowed ground. Max’s eyes drifted up to the mural and surrounding walls, for the entire room looked as though it had been thickly glazed with amber. Its surfaces were as smooth as glass and gleamed in sumptuous shades of honey and gold, pale yellow, and sienna. Its colors were alive, dancing and shifting by the light of a single, massive brazier at the hall’s far end. Next to the brazier, a somber vye in black robes stood upon a dais next to a tall oil jug called a lekythos.

Scathach and her hostages sat at a long table playing a game that resembled chess but whose board had several tiers. Eloise was staring fixedly at the pieces on the lowest level, her tongue caught between her teeth as she rolled a captured bishop between her hands. Lady Nico and Lady Isu rose as Max and his escort marched toward them. Scathach, who had been trying to distract Eloise, pushed back from the table and hefted her spear. Her eyes fell upon the armed guards and her grin faded to a tight, hard line.

“I’ve brought him back,” announced Lupo, stopping before them. “You can release the Lady—”

“Quiet,” Scathach ordered. She looked keenly at Max. “Who was my youngest shield maiden?” she asked him.

“Ula.”

“Who fashioned the brooch at your neck?”

“My father.”

She nodded. “Are you wearing your favorite shirt?” she asked.

“I am.”

“Good.” With a fluid movement, she drew her poignard and stabbed his chest.

Eloise gasped, Lupo fainted, but Max merely braced himself. He felt a jolt of pain as the blade’s lethal point was turned aside by the nanomail corselet he wore beneath his outer clothes.

“Well,” said Scathach, examining the poignard’s tip. “It seems you really are my Max. A smee can’t replicate that—even if it has your memories.”

Eloise clapped with delight and turned to Lady Nico. “Did you see that, maman?”

“Indeed,” replied Lady Nico, taking her daughter’s hand. “We have had a clever keeper. Now that her Max has returned, will she permit us to go free?”

“With pleasure,” said Scathach, setting down her spear. “You’ve been very gracious hostages.” She made a small bow to Eloise. “Thank you for teaching me arcadia. How close were you to taking both my towers?”

“Four moves,” answered Eloise gravely. “Maybe three.”

“We’ll have to play again sometime.”

Eloise said she would be very happy to and stared at Scathach with something approaching reverence. Twice her mother had to tell her to get her woozy schoolmate a glass of water. Once revived, Lupo was plucked up by the guards, who carried him and his water glass out of the hall. Lady Nico turned to Max.

“How was your meeting with Archon?”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you the details,” he replied, scratching Nox’s chin as the lymrill sidled up to him.

Connor, Sarah, and Lucia came over to join them, also eager for news of Max’s meeting. Max turned to Lady Nico.

“Is there someplace we can bathe and change?” he asked. “Archon has asked us to attend tonight’s gathering. After horses and wyverns, I could use a change of clothes.”

“Of course,” said Lady Nico. “I keep an apartment here and you’re welcome to use it. We’ll have your clothes and packs brought to the room. Eloise can get you situated while I see Lady Isu back to my father’s quarters.”

Lady Nico’s rooms were not far from Amber Hall, just a brief walk down several corridors and up a short flight of stairs to a pair of large double doors. Pressing her small hand against a stone, Eloise growled a harsh, guttural command that unlocked the doors. Max realized he had yet to see Eloise or her mother in their natural guise. It was easy to forget the two were vyes.

Inviting them in, Eloise led them through the apartment, through a bedroom, and into a bathroom that had a large tub and a pair of marble sinks beneath a polished mirror. Max saw that the sinks and tub had copper faucets as if …

“Does hot water come out of those?” asked Lucia eagerly.

“Oui,” said Eloise, smiling as she demonstrated. The two spoke in rapid French. Max was able to make out something to do with the waterfalls and hot springs.

“The girls clean up first!” Lucia declared, snatching up a towel and ushering Max and Connor out of the bathroom. Eloise accompanied them into the sitting area, said a few words to Connor, and bowed as she excused herself.

“We’re to make ourselves at home,” said Connor, setting a copper kettle to boil in a fireplace. From the bathroom, Max could hear Lucia exclaiming with delight as steam trickled out from beneath the door. Failing to wake Kettlemouth from a nap within his cage, Nox came to settle on Max’s lap. Reaching in a pocket, Max found a remaining ingot and let her pluck it from his fingers.

“First chance I’ve gotten to see you alone,” reflected Connor, opening a canister of tea leaves. “What do you think of Arcanum?”

“I’m still in shock,” Max confessed. “About it. About you. What have you been doing, Connor? Archon said you’re to be honored at tonight’s gathering. What’s that all about? Why did Archon call you ‘ruva’ when we were introduced to him?”

“It means ‘brother,’ ” Connor explained. “I’m going to be made an honorary member of the Raszna.”

Max stared at him. “How did that happen?”

“It’s been moving in that direction for a while,” Connor answered. “When Lady Nico and I became close, I eventually met other Raszna and started spending more time with them. Some of it was business—cooperating on trade, planning initiatives against Prusias—but most of it was social. I liked them and they liked me. They made me feel at home. When they asked if I wanted to join the tribe, I said yes and have been earning my stripes, so to speak.”

“Was killing Lord Grael a requirement?”

Connor nodded, nosing about a few tins and finding one with several cookies. He tossed one to Max. “Not him specifically, but a ‘great enemy’ of the vyes. Grael did plenty to them in Malakos. No one else at the médim would have qualified, except you.”

“Am I really a great enemy?”

“To some vyes, you’re the enemy,” laughed Connor. “I’m not sure if you know anything about Magyarün, but you’re practically their bogeyman. The Raszna have heard all the stories.”

“Archon told me about Nolan,” said Max, watching Connor’s face carefully. He wanted to see if Connor had known, if his friend had been sitting on this shocking piece of news. Connor finished his cookie and wiped the crumbs from his cloak.

“I’m glad,” he said. “I wish I could have told you myself, but Även’s a big secret. Only Archon’s allowed to share something like that with an outsider. I only know because I’d heard Lady Nico tell Eloise about Nolan when he died. When they realized I knew, they swore me to secrecy.”

“Is Archon trustworthy?” asked Max. “I’m not asking as a representative of Rowan. I’m asking as a friend. Archon seems open to the idea of a Rowan-Raszna alliance, but if he was lying, this gathering could be dangerous for us.”

“Archon is trustworthy,” Connor assured him. “He’s tough and has a short temper, but he wouldn’t go back on his word. But there are others you’ll want to be wary of. Did Archon mention the Apocrypha?”

“He did.”

“Then you know there are some who see you as the moschiach. And there are others who find that idea crazy and would rather see you dead.”

“Where does Fenwulf fall?” asked Max.

Connor wrinkled his nose. “How’d you hear about Fenwulf?”

“Lupo mentioned him,” said Max. “He said he’s likely to be the next Archon.”

“Aye,” said Connor, sitting down and scratching Nox’s ears. “That’s true. I haven’t interacted much with Fenwulf since he’s normally at Silverfalls, which is another school a long ways east of here. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but the Harinean revolts are partially about Silverfalls.”

“How so?”

“Yuga,” said Connor. “I don’t know if you’ve heard about her, but she’s a demon the size of a freaking typhoon. She’s been devouring the eastern duchies and is getting close to where Silverfalls is hidden. It doesn’t matter that the school’s hidden in the mountains. If Yuga senses life nearby, she can get to it—even if it’s buried deep. Lots of goblin tribes have found out the hard way. Many braymas have lost their lands to Yuga. They’re furious Prusias brought her into this world and don’t think he’d have done it if he didn’t have some way of controlling her. They think he’s happy to let her gobble up his rivals while he pretends she’s beyond his control. Prusias doesn’t know much about the Raszna, but we’ve sent messages through these braymas and others trying to get him to do something about Yuga. Since he doesn’t bother to respond, we’re hoping the Harinean revolts will twist his arm a bit. To get Prusias’s attention you have to show you can hurt him.”

Max recalled his own narrow escape from the living, feasting storm. “Maybe you’re right, but I’ve seen Yuga up close. I’m not certain anyone can control her.”

“Well, Archon and Fenwulf mean to make Prusias try,” said Connor. “But when it comes to Fenwulf and the Apocrypha, I don’t think he’s a believer. He wants the Galian memorial removed from Amber Hall. Thinks it causes some people to deify her.”

“What memorial?”

“I was showing it to Lucia and Sarah when you came in,” said Connor. “Part of the floor’s roped off where a prophet was stoned to death. There are bloodstains and gouges that have never been cleaned. It’s become a holy place for those who believe in the Apocrypha. Fenwulf and some others want it removed.”

“Will he be here tonight?”

“Oh yes,” said Connor. “Silverfalls has been evacuated. Its people have crowded in here. Fenwulf’s been at Arcanum for a few months and I should be grateful. I can’t really become a proper member of the Raszna without him.”

“Why’s that?” asked Max.

But Connor only flashed an enigmatic grin as a knock sounded at the door. He set down his kettle to answer it. Several of Lady Nico’s guards entered, bringing their packs and belongings from the sledges. Among the items, Max saw Sarah’s naginata and searched in vain for the gae bolga. He demanded to know why it hadn’t been returned and was told to take it up with Archon. When the vyes had left, Max located his traveling coat only to find his spypaper was also missing.

“What are you looking for?” asked Connor, sipping his tea.

“A piece of old parchment.”

“Florentine spypaper,” said Connor knowingly. “The Raszna use it, too. Handy stuff.”

“Well, I want mine,” Max snapped. “David needs updates or he’ll think we’re in danger.”

“You are in danger,” Connor pointed out. “Not danger that you can’t handle or I wouldn’t have allowed them to bring you here. How is David?”

“Busy and probably worried.”

“Is he gonna send Cooper after you?”

“Cooper’s got his own assignment.”

“In the thick of things, I’d expect. Can’t believe he married Miss Boon! When Lucia told me, I nearly fell off my chair. Didn’t think he was the marrying type. Her neither, come to think of it.”

“People change,” said Max, eager to shift the conversation back to the Raszna while he had Connor alone. “How many Raszna are there?”

“More than you might guess,” said Connor. “There’s five schools. Arcanum and Silverfalls are the biggest, but there are two more in Blys and one in what used to be Brazil.”

“How many Raszna are in Blys?” asked Max. Raszna that lived overseas were too far to be helpful in a campaign against Prusias.

“A few hundred thousand?” said Connor. “Maybe half are military age.”

Max whistled. If the Raszna joined Rowan, they would more than double the size of its army. “Are they good fighters?”

“There’s an understatement,” said Connor, having another cookie. “We didn’t even have any war chiefs with us during the Grael operation. Those are some seriously big boys—even bigger than Grael.”

“Really?” said Max, trying to picture a vye of that size. It was a little unsettling. “If the Raszna are so strong, why have they stayed in hiding?”

“You’d have to ask Archon that,” replied Connor. “But with Astaroth’s rise to power and all these wars, it hasn’t been the best time to raise their profile. The Raszna aren’t in a rush. They’ve made a good home here, but vyes are meant to live under the sun and stars. The Raszna won’t stay underground forever.”

“Do you think they’ll be open to an alliance with Rowan?” asked Max.

Connor shrugged. “I couldn’t say. The timing’s good, common enemy and all that. And you’re the right person for Rowan to send—moschiach and all. But there are some who hate Rowan. And if the people get the impression you’re treating them as junior partners or inferiors, it’ll never happen. Are you offering good terms?”

“I really think we are,” said Max. “David put a lot of thought into them. Archon and Volsu seemed impressed.”

“Well, that’s a start. If you think Archon’s for it, that’s a good sign. His word carries a lot of weight. Even his critics respect him. Same with Lady Nico.”

“Speaking of which,” said Max. “Why aren’t she and Eloise in vye form?”

“They rarely are. Raszna who spend a lot of their time among humans get used to wearing their human skin. It becomes more natural—so natural they don’t give off any signs of being vyes.”

As he finished, the bathroom door opened and Sarah emerged, trailing steam from her wooly white bathrobe. “Have they brought our—”

She left off as she spied their bags and belongings. Padding over, she grabbed the girls’ packs and headed back toward the bathroom. “We’ll be out in a few.”

“Psst!” hissed Connor. “Lucia still mad at me?”

“Why should I tell you?” said Sarah coolly.

“Because I’m desperate.”

“Well,” she said, “if you’re that desperate, I’ll give you a hint. Lucia loves Kettlemouth and Kettlemouth loves to eat. Feed the frog, win the girl. His tin’s in the red bag.”

Sarah disappeared into the bathroom while Connor found the tin whose flowery design belied its slimy, foul-smelling contents. Nox sniffed with interest as Connor plucked up a limp, long-dead night crawler. Within his cage, Kettlemouth cracked a bleary eye.

Dangling the worm, Connor unlatched the cage to let its bulbous occupant squeeze out of the opening. With a splat, the crimson bullfrog hopped heavily onto the floor and followed Connor to a sofa, where he climbed onto the baron’s lap, rolled onto his back, and proceeded to dine on worms, beetles, and horseflies in the manner to which he was accustomed. Connor moaned softly.

“This is bloody disgusting.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Max as the girls came out of the bathroom. Easing Nox off his lap, he went to grab his pack. A bath would be excellent, and he was anxious to change his clothes. The Almuir finery was well and good, but he wanted to send a different message this evening. Military dress would be better. Rowan was asking the Raszna to go to war, not to a ball. When Max relayed this to the girls, Sarah and Scathach agreed readily enough, but Lucia protested.

“I want to look nice,” she huffed, toweling her wet hair as she laid out several outfits.

“School robes or travel clothes,” said Max. “We’re Rowan ambassadors tonight.”

“You and Scathach maybe,” Lucia sniffed. “Sarah and I are just along for the ride.”

“Nonsense,” said Scathach. “You laid the groundwork.”

Lucia rolled her eyes. “Please. The Raszna only revealed themselves when you and Max showed up. Our own mission was a failure.”

“Au contraire,” put in Connor, grimacing as he dangled another earthworm into the bullfrog’s expectant mouth. “You did lay the groundwork. Eloise vouched for you in a big way. She’s young but her mother’s Lady Nico and her grandfather’s Archon.”

“Is that really true?” asked Lucia dubiously.

When Connor swore that it was, Lucia took out her Rowan robes, laid them over a chair, and removed her magechain from its velvet box. It glittered red in the room’s lamplight, its rubies, fire opals, and red beryls a testament to her masteries. A magechain was part of the official Rowan uniform, but Max cleared his throat when she slid a gem-studded cuff over her wrist. Lucia headed him off.

“Not a word,” she warned. “You wouldn’t be here without me. And, after all, it’s just a little sparkle from my Connor.”

My Connor.

Max glanced over to see the Dublin youth’s face break out into a happy grin. Fishing through Kettlemouth’s tin, Connor plucked up a particularly juicy fly and placed it on the unfurling tongue.

Two hours later, the group’s playful mood grew serious when Eloise and Lady Nico returned, still in human form, with an armed guard to escort them to Amber Hall. Both the lady and her daughter were dressed in dark robes with amber trim.

Rowan’s representatives presented a more soldierly appearance. Sarah wore her corselet of silver mail, while Max and Scathach dressed in the formal uniforms of the Red Branch: a gray tunic over black mail, along with black boots and breeches. Scathach had her poignard at her hip, but the gae bolga was missing from the box. When Max asked Lady Nico about this, she assured him it would be returned when he left Arcanum. Rather than argue, Max went unarmed. In any case, it would send a more confident message if he went without one. Besides, he intended to rely on his aura.

Max had to be careful, of course—his control was still imperfect—but Galia’s prophecy had convinced him that his aura could be invaluable at winning the Raszna over. Archon had said the Raszna would only follow strength. If Max managed his aura properly, he might convince them they were not only following strength, but also following the moschiach. Even so, much would depend on Archon. How the Raszna leader positioned a Rowan alliance to believers and skeptics alike would be critical.

Amber Hall was packed when they arrived with Lady Nico. Its atmosphere was very different from the aged, scholarly reception that greeted them. The hall was hot, the air saturated with a wild, animal smell—a scent of sweat and blood and fur and musk. Conversations appeared intense and heated, sudden surges of movement and crowd flows indicating a simmering, escalating threat of violence. The Raszna seemed poised to riot.

Max had never seen vyes like these. As they paused at the threshold, his eyes fell upon some who stood twelve feet or more, nightmarish figures wearing gleaming armor of black scales. They looked like an entirely different species from the comically harmless Lupo. A few were so large they might have been mistaken for Egyptian statues of Anubis or Set. But these weren’t statues; they were laughing, arguing, or howling as the mood (and drink) took them.

“Should we go in there?” whispered Lucia, looking pale.

“Don’t get spooked,” said Connor. “War chiefs are a rougher set than the professors. They always shake things up.” He gestured toward a group of armored vyes standing near the roped-off, sacred spot of Galia’s murder. “Just don’t show fear, eh?”

“My God,” hissed Sarah. “They’re huge!”

Indeed they were. “Follow me,” said Lady Nico, leading them along the hall’s perimeter toward the burning brazier where Archon was seated at the foot of the dais. Among the nearby professors, Max saw Volsu and a tall, sleek black vye wearing pearly gray robes.

As they crossed the room, many eyes followed them. There were some in Amber Hall who had been waiting for this moment all their lives. Max carried himself with a calm, commanding arrogance that moved people out of his path. It didn’t matter if anyone liked him; he needed the Raszna to respect him. He wanted his aura to be subtle—an impression of self-possessed authority and command. If he was successful, not even the wildest war chief would consider challenging him.

“Moschiach,” gasped a voice to his left. Max turned to see an elderly female vye in crimson robes drop to her knees and bow her shaggy head. Several others followed her example, murmuring the sacred word and bowing as he passed.

It was an uncomfortable feeling. Max had seen people behave this way with Mina and it always made him uneasy. It was one thing to lead people; it was quite another to be seen as a religious figure or player in an ancient prophecy. Within the eyes of those who kneeled, Max perceived an unnerving array of emotions that ranged from love to fear to predatory hunger.

The hall grew quiet. Hundreds of eyes now followed Max, Scathach, Lucia, and Sarah as Lady Nico led them toward Archon. Connor left their group, falling back to stand with Lady Nico’s guards. Max walked on, his attention upon a towering war chief who was pushing roughly through the crowd to head them off.

But when he looked directly upon Max, the fearsome vye hesitated. Having nearly reached them, he suddenly stopped as if uncertain what to do. Slowly, he lowered his great head and stood at respectful attention as they passed. Max heard Sarah exhale. The hall was nearly silent. The only sounds came from the brazier’s flames.

As they reached the dais, Lady Isu helped Archon to his feet. The old vye looked solemn but pleased nonetheless to see them. He shook each of their hands in the human custom, unhurried and apparently unconcerned that the entire hall was watching in tense silence. Lady Nico introduced them to Professor Fenwulf, who was the black vye in the gray robes Max had seen with Volsu.

Fenwulf spoke perfect English with an Eastern European accent. Offering a civil bow, he asked why David Menlo was not present.

“He is with Rowan’s army,” Max explained.

“A shame,” said the Raszna. “It is customary for leaders to treat with one another, no? Instead he sends his proxy. Not an auspicious beginning.”

“He sent the moschiach!” hissed Fenwulf’s neighbor.

Fenwulf gave his indignant colleague an amused glance. “Our people are scientists and scholars, students of the great mysteries. We can’t make decisions based on the ramblings of an unbalanced woman who died a thousand years ago.”

“The Apocrypha—” retorted the academic.

“—are delightful fairy tales,” finished Fenwulf. “Not even Volsu believes them.”

This statement threatened to trigger angry debates until Archon silenced them. Even Fenwulf ceased at Archon’s command. He straightened and watched the Raszna leader as Lady Isu helped him up the dais steps. Clearing his throat, Archon’s deep, hoarse voice filled Amber Hall. Speaking in an undertone, Lady Nico translated for the visitors.

“Tonight, we remember Även. My sister’s grandson, our brother and friend. His bones lie at Rowan, but his spirit is free and hunts with Luperca in the afterlife. Tonight, I ask that you keep Även in your heart as I share with you matters of great importance. We must be wise, for decisions we make tonight will shape lives for many generations.”

“Moschiach!” cried a harsh voice from the hall’s far reaches. Several others took up the call, but Archon silenced them. Max gazed out at the crowd, composed. Focusing his mind, he let his aura intensify so that his presence was subtly—but undeniably—something more than human.

“Moschiach,” repeated Archon, glancing down at Max. “It is not so much a word as a hope—a dream that some have nurtured for a thousand years. Many here believe in Galia and pay tribute to where she was slain.” He gestured to the roped area beneath the mural. “Our Även held Galia’s words sacred. He believed the Hound of Rowan was the one she foretold—the enemy who would lead us out of hiding. And here he has come—here to Arcanum in the midst of war. Even Galia’s critics must acknowledge this is a strange coincidence.”

Fenwulf folded his arms, listening intently.

“The Hound knew nothing of our prophecies,” Archon continued. “He has come to us as an emissary. As you know, Rowan marches in force upon Blys. They desire us to march with them, to join them in this war and end the reign of Prusias.”

Archon held up his hand as many began to snarl and protest. “First, hear what they propose,” he urged. When they were quiet, the Raszna leader shared David’s proposals in a calm, authoritative voice.

Many vyes looked amazed. Even Fenwulf glanced sharply at Volsu, as though seeking confirmation that this was true. The Apocrypha scholar gave a subtle nod.

“I hold nothing back from you,” declared Archon. “We cannot make this decision with half-truths or secrets between us. That is not the Raszna way. And so, I will confess that I am a believer in Galia’s prophecy. I was not always, however. It was Även who made me see, Även who convinced me that Rowan did not have to be our enemy forever and that their Hound was honorable. I believe with all my heart that he is the moschiach of whom Galia spoke.”

Archon gazed down upon Max as he said this. And Max knew the old vye was not lying, for his eyes and his voice betrayed currents of deep and powerful emotions. Reaching beneath his robe’s collar, the vye removed a thick chain of interlocking silver hands. Leaning upon his cane, he raised it high above his head for all to see.

“A believer cannot lead us,” he declared. “Faith alone cannot dictate the path we take. If we are to join with Rowan, Galia’s skeptics must also believe it is the right course. Her skeptics must believe it is time to cast aside old grievances and embrace new possibilities. A skeptic should lead us. And thus, I bestow the title of Archon and my chain of office to the Master of Silverfalls.”

Lady Nico nearly gasped. It was clear she had no idea her father had intended to do this. Even Fenwulf looked stunned. He walked mechanically up the dais steps and bowed to receive the ponderous chain as Archon placed it around his neck.

Archon embraced his successor. “You are my brother and I have faith in you.”

“Thank you, Archon.”

The ancient vye smiled. “I am merely Üden once again. You are Archon. The chain is heavy. Wear it well.”

Fenwulf’s face lost every trace of its sardonic qualities. Max had to admire Üden’s cunning. The Master of Silverfalls struck Max as the type to snipe from the sidelines and imply he would make a more suitable leader. When thrust in that position, however, such people often developed a greater respect for their predecessors and the burdens of leadership. This seemed to be the case with Fenwulf. He was obviously moved by Üden’s gesture, but he also faced a pressing decision. The decision was not his alone, but the Archon’s opinion carried considerable weight. Should he turn Rowan down and risk angering those who believed the moschiach stood before them? He turned to face the Raszna, his long fingers fidgeting with the chain.

“This is … unexpected. Üden has led our people for many years and we owe him a debt we cannot repay. Let us remember that it was Üden who strengthened Silverfalls, plumbed the Grottos, and sent his own kin to infiltrate our enemy. We have not had a finer Archon since Tiberius himself.” He bowed deeply to Üden.

“But I am not Üden,” he continued, his voice growing stronger. “I was the Master of Silverfalls and we do not have an Amber Hall. We do not have Galia’s blood upon our floors or vow to keep these flames burning until the day of deliverance.” He gestured to the brazier behind him. “Arcanum is the Raszna holy land and I was not raised amid its prophecies. I am but a pilgrim here.”

Scathach frowned at these words, but Max remained impassive, aware that many eyes were watching their new Archon and himself.

“We are the Raszna!” shouted Fenwulf, spittle flying from his bared teeth. “We are strong without Rowan. Even now, the fires of rebellion burn across Harine. We did this! Our people have sunk ships, slain braymas, and sent a shiver of fear throughout Prusias’s empire. We must honor Titus, Vechna, Pollox, and Anthül.” He indicated four gargantuan war chiefs standing together. “They are heroes! We must honor the Lady Nico, for she has been at the heart of our operations on the surface. It was she who brought Enlyll’s ruler into our fold.”

To Max’s surprise, the new Archon turned and gestured for Connor to join him on the dais. This Connor did, looking somewhat queasy but determined. The new Archon rested a hand on his shoulder.

“This human—this mehrùn who was once our enemy—has fought with us, bled with us, and risked all to aid our cause. Üden has named him ruva, our brother, and Baron Lynch has pledged his life to our people. Shall he be our brother in name only, or shall he be our brother in flesh, blood, and spirit? Shall we make him a true Raszna?”

“Raszna!” roared the hall’s occupants.

From his robes, the Elder vyes’ great elixist produced a vial of dark, murky liquid. Its stopper was a silver wolf’s head and its glass was traced with glowing runes. The crowd howled as Fenwulf placed it into Connor’s trembling hand.

“Connor!” cried Lucia. “What are you doing?”

The Dublin boy turned to her. “I’m crazy for you,” he declared plainly. “I have been since our first day at Rowan. This won’t change that.”

Removing the stopper, Connor stared at the vial with mingled fear and excitement. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath before gulping the potion down. After the final swallow, his body convulsed and the vial shattered in his hand. He doubled over, gasping, his hand bleeding freely upon the dais. When Lucia cried his name, Connor swiveled his head and seemed to stare through her with a face that was no longer fully human. His eyes were pale yellow and feral, their pupils mere pinpricks as his jaw protruded slightly and his ears lengthened into subtle points. Max watched, horrified and fascinated by the transformation. Was Connor really going to turn into a vye?

The answer was no—not completely. Seconds later, the transformation ceased and Connor straightened, sweating and shaking, to take stock of his new self. He had grown several inches, his hands had lengthened, and his eyes retained their wild cast, but he remained predominately human. Embracing him, Fenwulf mopped away the sweat that had beaded on his brow.

“You have begun your journey,” he said. “In time, this form will look as we do, for Luperca’s essence has entered you, as it did our ancestors long ago. The draught makes you a true Raszna, not a lesser vye such as those infected by the Magyarün. Connor Lynch is forever changed; he is not dead. He will always be your human shape. Try and you will see.”

Nodding, Connor closed his eyes and diminished slightly. His features grew rounder and when he opened his eyes, he was the same old Connor they’d always known.

“Say something,” urged Fenwulf gently. “You are Raszna now and have a right to be heard in this hall.”

Max glanced at Lucia. She was crying, sobbing as Sarah comforted her. Both girls appeared in a state of disbelief. Clearing his throat, Connor wiped away his own tears and gazed out at the hushed and watchful crowd. He spoke in halting, uncertain Etruscan.

“Forgive my accent,” he said. “And please forgive my mistakes. I know you will—you’re family now and you can’t get rid of me.”

There was laughter in the hall and several vyes shouted, “Ruva!” Connor acknowledged them with a grateful smile.

“Brother,” he repeated, taking a moment to exhale as the word’s meaning and significance registered fully. “I like that. I feel like your brother—I’ve felt welcomed ever since Lady Nico brought me before you a year ago. I’ve never been one for destiny or prophecies, but I believe with all my heart that this was meant to happen.”

Connor paused, struggling with his emotions. He turned and looked at Max. “Moschiach,” he said. “I can’t call him that. I can’t even call him the Hound of Rowan. To me, he’s always been Max McDaniels—the first and best friend I made at Rowan. And I can’t speak to the Apocrypha or to Galia’s prophecies. Only you and Archon can decide if the Raszna should join with Rowan. But I will say that Max McDaniels and David Menlo can be trusted. I’m dead certain of that, and so was Även. They will honor the peace they have promised.”

Thanking them, Connor bowed and stepped aside.

“A new Raszna,” Fenwulf reflected proudly. “It has been almost a hundred years since we named a human ‘brother.’ And this is the first time we have shared Luperca’s essence with a former enemy. This is a day to mark with a white stone. But, as Üden said, the decision we face is one that will shape the lives of future generations. Üden has spoken for Rowan, but I think we must hear from them ourselves. Shall we invite the Hound to speak?”

“Yes!” howled the wild, fierce crowd. Several cries of Moschiach echoed in the vast hall. Turning, Fenwulf gestured for Max to join him upon the dais. Max did so, intensifying his aura even more as he climbed the steps. The more attention he paid to his aura, the more he found he could control it. It was like turning the knob of a finely made lamp. With each tiny adjustment, the flame would brighten or dim. While he could do it quickly if he chose, at the moment he increased by smooth, steady increments.

When he reached the top, he gazed out upon hundreds of anxious faces. Max took his time, surveying the audience in silence and letting them see him—truly see him for what he was. Max noticed that Sarah, Lucia, and Connor were gazing with the same expressions of frightened awe that marked the Raszna’s faces. They were not looking upon their friend; they were staring at a god.

“There is no such thing as Fate,” said Max, and his voice rang with irresistible authority. “Our choices shape our destinies, choices we make of our own free will. Rowan has already chosen. We have chosen to rise up openly against a tyrant who would conquer every people and every kingdom. We ask the Raszna to join us in this fight, to combine our forces against a common enemy and establish a new order—one in which Rowan and the Raszna are joined as equals.”

He paused, his eyes sweeping the hall and his enraptured audience. The air was still and hot. Sweat ran in a slow, steady trickle down his back.

“Do not join with Rowan because you believe I am destined to deliver you. Join because you choose to have that power—the power to leave these halls and return to the world above. You have allies there. You have friends. Friends who will ride, fight, and die with you. I am but one of them.”

His gaze settled upon the war chiefs, who stood at attention, their faces grim and fierce. Max knew the critical moment had come.

“Fate has no power,” he declared. “The Atropos have written my name in their Grey Book. According to the Fates, I should be dead. But here I stand. Alive. Strong. Defiant. Will the Raszna stand with me?”

Their answer was deafening. Amber Hall shook with the Raszna’s howls and its floor trembled with their stamping and the thud of great spears and halberds upon the ancient floor. There was a surge in the crowd, a parting as several war chiefs shouldered through the throng and took hold of the brazier’s base. Its keeper backed away, knocking over the lekythos, which spilled its oil in a vast, spreading pool that ignited as the brazier crashed to the floor. The crowd surged away as sheets of flame roared up, nearly licking the amber ceiling. Leaping clear, the Raszna war chiefs joined their brothers and sisters in a wild, exultant dance.

“It seems our choice is made,” said Fenwulf, backing away from the flames and turning toward Max.

“Are you with us, Archon?” Max asked.

Nodding, the vye embraced him, thumping his back as the hall’s roars grew even louder. As Max disengaged, he looked again upon his friends. He was glad to see Connor and Lucia holding hands, but something in their expressions as they gazed at him triggered an unmistakable twinge of sorrow. He found the same change on Sarah’s face and knew something might have changed forever. He was no longer Max McDaniels, their old classmate from Rowan. That Max was gone. They looked at him now as though he were something infinitely grander and even frightening. Sad as it was, Max could not dwell upon it. There was no sense denying who he was or what he was becoming. He took comfort in Scathach, who was also gazing at him, but with love and pride, not awe. She had been immortal in the Sidh and lived in the company of gods. Scathach would always understand him in a way that others could not.

Üden was coming up the steps, helped by Lady Isu and Lady Nico. The vye looked old and tired, but radiant—as though a great burden had been lifted from his broad shoulders. Giving Lady Isu his cane, he steadied himself before taking both Fenwulf and Max’s hands in his own.

“I am proud of you,” he said to Fenwulf, his daughter translating for Max’s benefit. “You listened to the people.”

Fenwulf bowed. “I am humbled by your faith in me.”

With a grunt, Üden cupped Max’s face with both hands. “Moschiach,” he said affectionately.

Max smiled. “I don’t believe in that.”

The old vye fixed him with a shrewd look. “I do.”

Releasing him, Üden reached into his robes and brought forth the gae bolga and returned it to its proper owner. The short sword hummed as Max’s fingers closed upon the warm handle. Max buckled the scabbard to his baldric, happy to have the weapon’s reassuring weight at his side.

“I need my parchment,” Max said. “David Menlo will want to know we’ve reached an agreement.”

Fenwulf nodded. “I’ll want to speak with your Director as soon as possible. It will take time to muster our forces and march upon Prusias. And we must discuss strategy. United, the Raszna and Rowan are formidable, but so is our common foe. Prusias controls the Workshop. His defenses are considerable.”

“We have someone working on that,” said Max.

“Who?”

“A professional.”