An instant later, Max appeared in Prusias’s throne room, a marble chamber fit for a Roman emperor. Another thunderclap heralded his arrival, its force sufficient to send the room’s occupants hurtling back against high walls and massive columns. As its rumble subsided, there were faint groans, the crunch of broken glass, and a heavy, rhythmic thumping somewhere outside the grand chamber. It sounded like a battering ram. Apparently Rowan’s forces had won their way into the palace and were trying to force their way within this final sanctum.
Max glanced down at his companions. They lay sprawled about him on the dais that served as a lofty stage for the king’s throne. Cooper and Hazel were stunned and Peter Varga was retching. That was hardly unusual—queasiness was a common by-product of teleportation. Prusias was in a ball at Max’s feet, his imp clinging to his leg like a frightened child. Max surveyed the rest of the room, his black eyes sliding over hundreds of minor braymas, armored guards, bewildered imps, and semiconscious courtiers lying among broken statues and marble busts. Behind him, Prusias’s gruff voice called out.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
Max turned to find that the king’s massive throne had toppled over, nearly pinning a second, heavily armed Prusias, who was now struggling to his feet. Gripping the golden pommel of his broadsword, this Prusias stabbed an accusing finger at the demon curled at Max’s feet.
“Who is this imposter?” he demanded.
Silence.
“I am the king!” roared the body double, substituting volume for conviction. “And I demand you leave my chamber at—”
He never finished the sentence. Under Max’s implacable gaze, the double’s eyes bulged with helpless horror as his body began to soften and collapse, sinking to the floor as though all of its bones had turned to jelly. There was no distinction between his armor and his person—all were liquefying together, blending into each other as if they were made of the same gooey dough. Within five seconds, an unusually large and terrified smee lay quaking on the inlaid floor.
Silence reigned over the room. Every eye was fixed upon Max. His attention wandered from face to face in the vast hall, registering each. All the demons averted their eyes and bowed their heads. He expected nothing less. Their kind was profoundly hierarchical and almost always deferred to greater strength.
Max pointed the gae bolga toward the chamber’s gilded doors, now barred with three stout beams. The beams shattered into splinters, and the vast doors swung inward so violently that one was ripped off its hinges. With startled cries, the demons and courtiers scurried away from the opening as the king’s enemies poured into the chamber.
In they came, a roaring flood of Raszna war chiefs and Rowan soldiers, brandishing their weapons, faces alight with the prospect of victory. The demons and their servants nearest the doors retreated to alcoves and the area behind the dais.
Max watched Rowan’s forces with indifference as they fell into silence and lowered their weapons. They shuffled forward uncertainly as their comrades crowded in behind them. Within seconds, the throne room was nearly filled with enemies and allies all gazing up at the dais where Max stood. A hushed and expectant silence settled over the room.
With just his will and aura, Max could mold this entire throng into whatever he wished—his servants, his soldiers, even his worshippers if he was so inclined. The idea had some appeal. Max had spent years taking orders and completing missions for superiors. Those days had ended.
At his feet, Prusias groaned. Reminded of the demon’s presence, Max heaved him up by his thick black hair and displayed the demon to the crowd as one might a hunting trophy. His voice rang out, cold and imperious.
“The war is over. I have ended it.”
Cries of “Sol Invictus!” and “Moschiach!” greeted this pronouncement, but Max did not acknowledge them. To do so might have made him emotional and he was having a hard enough time controlling the monstrous energies coursing through him. They radiated from his core, pulsing and surging, triggering a dangerous impulse to dominate or destroy everything around him. If he was not careful, those thoughts would consume him. He’d be as mindless as Yuga.
Cooper; Hazel; Varga; the Raszna war chiefs Vechna and Titus; Natasha Kiraly of the Red Branch; even Ajax, a refugee who had served under him in the Trench Rats. Max knew their faces and identities, recalled relevant bits of data and history, but that was all. He felt no emotion toward them; he merely sorted them according to their relative power, hostility, and usefulness. Love and affection were intellectualized concepts, not a personal reality. Such feelings had died with Scathach.
But some feelings remained. The strength flowing through Max thrilled and terrified him. He no longer had a truly fixed form but could shift at will between flesh and spirit, matter and energy. Releasing Prusias, he gazed at his hand and watched impassively as it changed from muscle and bone into white-hot fire and back again. No earthly weapon could harm him; nothing on earth could possibly stand against him. He was an immovable object and an irresistible force all in one.
This is why Astaroth wanted to possess me. This is what Bram feared.
Fear. It permeated the entire throne room. Max could sense it any number of ways, but its most obvious manifestation was visual. Auras trembled before him, their contours rippling and buckling. Each told a story. The brayma with the angry red aura would kill him if he could; a trio of kitsune were hiding something—possibly tangible, but most likely a secret allegiance. The imps were universally terrified, but Max could tell they would abandon their masters the instant he commanded their obedience. Reading auras wasn’t mind reading, but it was very close. And Max could read hundreds simultaneously. All he needed was a glance.
And while these telltale auras were prevalent among the demons, they were just as common throughout Max’s allies. Among Rowan’s coalition, many were not merely afraid or awestruck by a divine presence; they were not even certain of what they were witnessing. Had a tyrant just been vanquished or usurped?
Once Max beheld the Morrígan, not even he could say.
She moved silently among the crowds, taller than the tallest men with a mane of black tangles that hung about a dusky, ageless face whose hollow eyes flickered with tiny lights like corpse candles. Her broad, almost lipless mouth was so encrusted with blood that she might have been wearing a muzzle. As before, the goddess wore a shroud of raven feathers, but now she had adorned it with garlands of entrails that swayed and dripped with each deliberate step.
Closer and closer she came, weaving her way through the press of Raszna and Rowan soldiers, unseen and unheeded. But those ravening eyes never left Max’s. Within his head, he could hear her voice, that chilling whisper brimming with violence.
“Our butterfly has finally spread his wings. And they are bright, and beautiful, and strong. You see now that I spoke the truth. You don’t need my blade, Hound. It needs you. And so does the world! For who else is fit to rule?”
The goddess came closer, slipping between the oblivious soldiers.
“Who else is there?” she pressed. “Not Bram. He’s no leader and cares little for the affairs of lesser men. His grandson is clever, but too weak, too corrupted by tainted blood.”
“Mina,” replied Max telepathically. “Mina can rule. She would be just, and she is strong enough.”
The Morrígan stood but ten feet away. Beyond her, no braziers smoked or flickered; no soldiers breathed or blinked. Time had either stopped or slowed to such an extent that its passage was imperceptible. The Morrígan spoke aloud now, her voice ripe with outrage. “Lugh’s son would crown a child instead of himself!”
“She’s hardly an ordinary child.”
The goddess laughed. “Because she banished the Great Red Dragon? You burned the Beast to ashes! Do you imagine the Faeregine could do such a thing? Nonsense! She is but a rose—a rose with thorns—but a rose nonetheless. This world needs a hammer.”
The goddess came so close he could smell the blood on her breath. She paced about him, walking through the frozen bodies of Prusias, Cooper, and the rest as though they were vapor.
“A true hunter always eats his kill,” she hissed, dragging her nails across his shoulders. “And you are a hunter, my prince. You were born to hunt and slay, to rule and master. This is your nature and you can deny it no longer. It must be embraced here and now. In this world, alas, for you have forsaken the Sidh.”
Max glowered at her, but the Morrígan jabbed an accusing finger.
“I did not smash that brooch,” she hissed. “I did not squander Lugh Lamfhada’s gift on a mortal he exiled. Did you expect the High King to claim her dying soul again?” The Morrígan shook her head as though he were pitifully naïve. “Immortality is the greatest honor we can bestow. Such gifts are not given twice.”
“Scathach didn’t expect any gifts,” said Max coldly. “She came to this world without any thought of herself. She came to help me.”
“And she has. Her death unraveled the final threads of your cocoon. Her death has given you the world you are destined to rule.”
“There is still Astaroth,” said Max darkly.
“What of him?” she sneered. “He would never dare stand against you. Not now.”
Max considered this a moment. “But the Book of Thoth—”
“Has no authority over you,” said Morrígan, stroking the hand that held the gae bolga. “Your truename is not in it. But it does hold power over your kingdom. If you destroyed Astaroth and seized the Book for yourself, you would be master of all …”
Letting go of his hand, the goddess lifted his chin and stared at him with petrifying intensity—searching, scouring, rending, judging. “But leave Astaroth for tomorrow. Today, all factions must unite under one banner. Today, a god must declare himself king!”
And having said this, she released him and withdrew back into the crowds of speechless, staring soldiers. Time appeared to be flowing once again for braziers were smoking and Max felt Prusias stir weakly at his feet.
Max closed his eyes, shutting out the goddess. Not even the Morrígan would rush him into such a decision. He recalled when he’d seen Elias Bram obliterate Gràvenmuir—the instant Max realized the world had changed forever. That moment had been so poignant, so grand and terrible in its implications. And yet it paled compared to this. This was not destroying an embassy; this was imposing a new age. Max McDaniels was not witnessing history; he would be shaping it for untold generations.
He knew the instant he seized power, many friends would become his enemies. David would view the act as a betrayal. So would Mina. Bram would view it as a confirmation of his misgivings.
And what would the Raszna, his new allies and followers, think? He recalled his conversation with Archon and the immense trust the ancient vye had placed in Max’s promise of an equal stake in the new order. All that goodwill would vanish the instant Max declared himself king. His name would be cursed from Arcanum to Silverfalls.
But did any of that matter? These were details, mere bumps that time would smooth or history could rewrite. Max was strongest. This was not a boast or boyish wish; it was a bedrock fact, as certain as sunrise. David would forge elaborate alliances while analyzing countless scenarios. Max could bypass all these complexities and headaches by embracing a simple truth: he was a god among lesser beings.
He would hammer the Four Kingdoms into one empire while bringing all the world’s far-flung settlements under his authority. Rowan could continue to exist, as could Arcanum and other schools of magic. They would simply answer to him. And while some would undoubtedly call him a tyrant, they would be mistaken. Tyrants weren’t fair and just; they didn’t use their immense power to protect the people and improve their lives. But the god-king would do that and more. It could all start today, this very instant …
“Max.”
A voice interrupted his thoughts, calm and familiar. Max opened his eyes to see David Menlo standing before him, flanked by Miss Awolowo, the Archon Fenwulf, and a dozen Promethean Scholars. The Director’s face was grave, but his eyes were full of understanding. There was no fear in David’s aura. There was only empathy.
“Max,” he repeated gently. “Someone is asking for you.”
“Who?”
“The Fomorian,” said David delicately. “The giant is badly injured.”
The Morrígan’s voice seeped into Max’s mind, angry and impatient.
“No mortal instruments can slay the Fomorian, young king. The sorcerer is manipulating you, cheating you of your moment. Declare your rule and cast this serpent from your hall!”
Max tore his eyes away from where the goddess stood by the broken door. He would not be manipulated by anyone, including her. The Fomorian was Max’s kinsman and had answered Rowan’s call. He stepped down from the dais.
“Take me to him.”
As he and David left the throne room, three black ravens circled and screeched among the rafters. Their hateful cries followed the pair out the doors. The Morrígan had disappeared.
The two made their way out of the palace, sweeping past smoke-choked hallways and luxuriant halls being looted by Blys’s former slaves. Exultant cries were all around them as people celebrated their victory, their freedom, or both together.
Exiting the towering entryway, Max and David descended the palace’s many steps amid swirls of cold snow and hot ash. The skies were a dirty red, pressing down upon the world as though they meant to smother it. There was no moon or stars, just the faintest hint of dawn in the light outlining the eastern mountains. Throughout the burning city, horns were sounding—joyful horns trumpeting victory.
An open carriage awaited them, drawn by four of the Raszna’s enormous horses. David stood aside to let Max climb aboard. When they were seated, an invisible driver shook the reins and they began the steep descent through the city.
Max was glad for the open carriage, glad for the cold, which helped to clear his mind. The more it emptied, the less he felt like such an alien within his own body. He was changed certainly—changed forever—but he found that his old persona had not been drowned in the flood of Old Magic. The farther he got from Prusias’s throne room and the Morrígan, the more he gradually felt like his old self. His fiery form was beginning to seem like a dream. The gae bolga was no longer white-hot, but black and merely warm to the touch. Unbuckling its scabbard from its belt, he sheathed the blade and felt its metal go cold.
His mind drifted to the Morrígan. How close had he been to declaring himself king? As sickening as he found the prospect now, Max could not pretend the idea hadn’t been wildly seductive. Without David’s appearance, Max was almost certain he’d have seized power. He wondered if his friend had any inkling as to the catastrophe they’d just avoided.
The idea was too horrible to contemplate. Looking about, he saw that some mansions in the capital’s upper tiers remained undamaged. But most were burning, sending up gouts of flame and smoke to mingle with ashes and snow.
While the city’s sights were grim, its streets were packed with soldiers, with half-starved regiments that moved aside and thumped their banners to salute when they swept past. All Max could muster in response was a distant stare.
“Well done on Prusias,” said David, glancing over. “Capturing him alive should prove immensely—”
“Scathach is dead,” said Max, cutting to it. Rediscovering his humanity was bittersweet. He felt like he was experiencing the pain and loss all over again.
David wilted. “I … I’m very sorry,” he said heavily. “With all my heart, Max. When I saw she hadn’t returned with you … Well, I hoped there was another explanation.”
Max stared rigidly ahead. “The clones cornered her. I didn’t get there in time.”
David digested this slowly. “And the clones? Are they still alive?”
Max smiled bitterly. “Of course they’re alive. They’re my kin, and I’m forbidden to slay them. It’s part of my geasa.” His whole being was trembling. Max almost laughed at the absurdity—a god afraid to confess a secret!
“You learned your geis, then,” said David.
“I have two,” said Max indifferently. “Would you like to hear them?”
“No. That is not for others to—”
“The Hound may not refuse a dying wish or knowingly slay his kindred.”
David sighed in a manner suggesting he regretted Max’s geasa and the fact that he’d heard them. “I see. So slaying the clones would have sealed your own fate. Perhaps that’s why the gae bolga is reluctant to strike them.”
“Probably,” said Max. “But I didn’t need the gae bolga to avenge Scathach. I could have snuffed the clones out like candles. There they were—burning like torches, clinging to a wall like beetles waiting to be squashed. But I held back and let them scuttle away. All because I feared to break my geis.”
Max fell silent, consumed by disgust and disbelief. Scathach had sacrificed her home, friends, and immortality for him. And when it had come time to avenge her … he’d saved himself. Time might heal many wounds, but not shame. Shame had unique properties. Shame could linger forever.
“You ended this war,” said David gently, gesturing at the smoldering devastation around them. “You captured Prusias. That means peace, Max. Peace for years to come.”
Max merely gazed ahead as they passed beneath a broken archway.
“Slaying the clones might have satisfied your honor, but at tremendous cost,” David reasoned. “By staying your hand you attained something far greater than personal vengeance.”
Max laughed bitterly. “You make it sound like I was serving some grand purpose. But that isn’t true, David. I thought only of myself.”
David spread his hands. “As you wish. I won’t pretend to know your motivations. I’ll ask only one question.”
“What?”
“Would Scathach have wanted you to break your geis?”
Max rubbed his temple. “No. She would have wanted me to complete the mission.”
“And you did,” said David firmly. “Scathach will be avenged, Max. Now that Prusias has been defeated, others can pursue the clones and dismantle the Atropos. There will be no shortage of volunteers from Rowan or the Raszna.”
Max grunted. He might be hamstrung against the clones, but nothing would save the Atropos. The entire organization would be destroyed. He’d see to it personally. Thoughts of that guild led his mind back to the Workshop and the footage he’d seen.
“Did you know Alex Muñoz is a member of the Atropos?”
David twisted about. “How do you know that?”
“I saw a video at the Workshop. He bought the clones for the Atropos.”
“You’re certain?”
“Positive.”
“One moment,” David muttered, quickly conjuring a small orb of golden, swirling vapor. “A message from Director Menlo. Baron Lynch of the Raszna is not to harm his prisoner under any circumstances. We need that prisoner for questioning.” With a snap of his fingers, David sent the orb zooming back toward the palace.
Max raised his eyebrows. “So Connor finally got Alex. How’d he catch him?”
“Some Raszna found him trying to hide among the palace slaves.”
Exhaling, Max watched his breath mist against the reddish sky. The air was biting and tinged with smoke, but it was good to be outside after his journey underground. His adrenaline had dissipated, leaving a yawning void in its wake. Heartbroken as he was, he was slowly appreciating just what they had accomplished: Blys was sacked, Prusias had been captured, and Rowan had made new allies and forged the basis for an ongoing partnership. There was much to celebrate, even if he was in no mood to do it.
“I’m sorry, David,” said Max. “With all that’s happened, I forgot to congratulate you. I can’t imagine there’s ever been a finer general.”
David waved off the compliment. “I merely coordinated efforts,” he said modestly. “You recruited the Raszna. The Coopers sabotaged the gargoyles and unlocked the gates. The troops did the fighting. I paced about a tent.”
“With Lilith,” said Max, recalling his glimpse of the demoness in David’s mirror.
“Ah,” said David, taken off guard. “Well, don’t be too outraged. She was very helpful when it came to neutralizing the city’s more powerful residents. I summoned and Lilith negotiated. The brighter ones understood that our proposal was more attractive than their alternatives.”
“Was capturing Prusias alive part of the proposal?” Max asked.
“It helped,” said David. “But I wanted him alive anyway …”
David trailed off as their carriage finally reached the city’s lowest tier, where the outer wall and great gates were located.
It was eerily quiet at this level and difficult to see. The horses whinnied, tossing their heads as they clopped reluctantly forward. Through the reeking haze, Max could make out the suggestions of broken walls, obliterated buildings, and fire-gutted factories. The stench of burning flesh and garbage was everywhere. The carriage swerved as they passed the frozen carcass of a half-charred wyvern. On the roadside, Raszna were laying out the bodies of the dead—allies and enemies alike. The vyes watched the carriage pass with dark, inscrutable eyes. Max looked away. He dreaded seeing a familiar face among the endless rows. Soon enough he would know the names of those who had fallen, but not now. With a hard swallow, he cleared his throat.
“The Fomorian?”
David pointed toward a dark mountain of wreckage.
As the carriage approached, the mountain resolved into distinct shapes and forms. A dreadnought’s black tentacles were the first things Max could identify. Each was hundreds of feet long, their undersides riddled with lamprey-like mouths and suckers. They were almost artfully arranged—some draped, some curled, some twisted into agonized poses. The colossal bodies from which they sprouted were barely recognizable, for they had been beaten and bludgeoned to such an extent that it was difficult to make much sense of them. Here and there, Max saw an elephantine leg or a glassy eye, but the general impression was a pile of mangled flesh and machinery that nearly reached the battlements. Among all that carnage, it was difficult to spot the Fomorian. When Max did, he jumped out of the carriage.
The giant was leaning against a cracked gear, huddled like a beggar with his horned head bowed between his knees as though he could not support its weight. His size had diminished to such an extent that he looked tiny against the backdrop of dreadnoughts. While the Fomorian was still much larger than a man—twenty feet at least—his body was but a detail, a speck amid all the destruction he had wrought.
The giant’s arms—or what remained of them—hung limp at his sides. He was utterly still, but for the occasional twitch of a ram’s ear or a slow exhalation that sent up a cloud of mist.
When Max reached him, he could hardly believe the Fomorian was still living. Hundreds of pinlegs stingers riddled his legs, their stems poking from the giant’s blood-matted fur. His left arm and upper torso were almost entirely stripped of their flesh, leaving little more than glistening bone, bits of muscle, and frayed sinew. Each ponderous breath brought a soft wheezing from punctured lungs.
Very carefully, Max reached up and touched one of the horns on the giant’s bowed head. It was smoother than Max anticipated and formed a graceful spiral like a nautilus. Even its coloring was more beautiful than Max had supposed—subtle swirls of chestnut and speckled gray with an underside of cream. Stroking the horn, Max leaned close to the torn and bleeding ear that twitched beneath it.
“Can you hear me?” asked Max quietly.
The Fomorian shifted toward him ever so slightly, inclining his head so that its weight pressed against Max’s hand. From the giant’s throat murmured a deep voice, so hoarse and faint that Max strained to hear it.
“I want to hear the sea.”
“I’ll take you,” said Max. “Would you like David to come? He’s here, too.”
The giant gave an almost imperceptible nod.
There was a group of Raszna nearby and a large sledge that had been used to transport siege equipment. With the vyes’ help, Max hooked a team of horses to the sledge while David levitated the Fomorian off the ground and laid him gently on its pine planks. The giant’s weight pressed the sledge’s runners deep into muddy snow until David tapped them with the cane and they rested lightly upon the road. Once he’d checked the harnesses, Max came around to sit by the giant’s head and stroke the curling horns. Four tawny eyes, some round as an owl’s, others more goatlike, stared up from a half-skinned face and watched his breath mingle with the falling snow. When David clambered onto the sledge, he thumped its side and, once again, an invisible driver got them under way. Within minutes, they had left the city, crossed one of the serviceable bridges, and followed the ancient Tiber as it flowed toward the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Max stared at Blys as the city receded. So much smoke poured from the mountain-ringed city that it almost resembled an active volcano. Mortars had wholly destroyed three bridges while another looked ready to topple at any moment. The remnants of Grael’s legions littered the icy plains, a glinting feast for countless crows that swarmed like horseflies. The birds’ cries carried over the wind, a delighted chorus that followed them over the snow-bound hills.
Despite the furs the Raszna had heaped aboard the sledge, the cold was so intense that Max’s hands were numb before they’d gone half a mile. The Fomorian’s face was almost blue with cold, but he grunted his displeasure when Max and David tried to lay their furs atop him. Exposed to the elements, the giant merely stared up at the sky and hummed.
Even with an enchanted sledge, it took over two hours to reach the sea. They passed ruins and forests, snow-capped tombs, and lonely towers looking west. What had once been Ostia was now a small port city that Rowan had occupied before the final push toward Blys. The city lay as Rowan left it, largely undamaged since its brayma fled before the invaders had arrived.
Slowly, the Fomorian raised his mangled arm and pointed toward a distant outcropping, away from the city and its empty harbor. Turning the sledge, they made for it, the horses tossing their heads as the runners plowed shallow furrows in the ice-crusted snow.
They reached the outcropping within half an hour, climbing a gentle rise until they reached the summit of a hill crowned with seven cypress trees. Once there, the Fomorian indicated that this was where he wanted to be set down.
David and Max helped him do so, David levitating the giant from the sledge and Max helping him lean his ravaged body against one of the cypress trunks. This time when Max wrapped furs about his body, the giant did not refuse but simply stared out at the choppy waves, his eyes half-lidded as he sniffed the air and hummed in his throat. At last he spoke to his companions.
“Let me see you, kinsman. And you, little Sorcerer.”
They did as he asked, walking around and standing before him, Max leaning upon the gae bolga and David upon his cane. All four of the Fomorian’s remaining eyes fell upon Max, scrutinizing him closely.
“You are changed,” he murmured. The eyes wandered from Max to the spear he carried. “Did I work good or evil in mending you?”
“Good, I think. We’ve defeated Prusias.”
“It is not Prusias that frightens me,” said the giant significantly. At length, he turned to David. “I would ask a boon.”
“Of course,” said David.
“Forgiveness,” muttered the giant. “You are not a trickster or a serpent. I should not have judged you so.”
“You are forgiven,” said David. “But surely there is something else we can do. We have excellent healers—”
The Fomorian shook his head decisively. “I am beyond the aid of any that walks this earth.…” With a trembling hand, he drew aside a torn flap of skin and revealed a pumpkin-sized hole in his chest. Past the jagged, broken ribs, Max could actually see the Fomorian’s gray-blue heart beating within the shadowed cavity. But things were clinging to it, a dozen finger-sized, metallic creatures that were wriggling like hungry grubs. They resembled tiny pinlegs and were almost certainly related in some capacity. Even as they watched, one bored its way into the Fomorian’s heart and disappeared.
The blood drained from David’s face. “Will it be over soon?”
“I am of the Old Magic,” said the Fomorian, grimacing. “These abominations cannot kill me. But they can torment me. I did not know man could make such things.”
The giant said nothing more, as though resigned to this Promethean fate. But his body shivered from the unimaginable horrors taking place within.
“What if we take you to your island?” said Max. “It’s where you’re strong—”
“I cannot return,” interrupted the giant dispassionately. “That was the price of leaving.”
Max was aghast. “But it’s your home.”
Closing his eyes, the Fomorian shifted his weight slightly. “This must be home.”
“I didn’t know you wouldn’t be able to go back,” said Max. “I’m so sorry—”
The giant furrowed his brow. “Do not be sorry. Be just. Rowan has won a war, but it must share this world. Even with wild things. Swear this to me, both of you.”
Once they did so, David cleared his throat. “I have another oath to fulfill. It is time Elathan’s son had a truename.”
The Fomorian did not stir. “I saw no Book.”
“I do not have the Book of Thoth,” said David. “But this cane contains one of its pages. Prusias used most of its power, but I’ve saved what remains.”
At this, the Fomorian gave a shuddering exhale. His bloodied, ramlike features adopted a hopeful, almost childlike expression. “Can you truly do this for me?”
By way of reply, David unscrewed the cane’s bejeweled top and drew forth a tissue-thin parchment that was rolled within its interior. Sheltering the page from the wind, David came very close to the giant, almost standing beneath his plaited beard. As David unfurled the yellowed parchment, Max saw that its surface was swimming with silvery words and letters, all truenames. They rose and fell, glided smoothly past, or sank out of sight as though the page had depth. Some of the truenames were written in hieroglyphs, others in runes and alphabets whose origins Max did not recognize. Within several seconds, untold thousands had churned within view. He could not imagine how many a single page must contain. And yet, there was room for only one more.
The words faded at David’s command so that the parchment appeared blank. Touching the giant, David whispered something so softly that Max could not catch its syllables. A word appeared on the page, very long and comprised of Ogham runes, which Max had learned in the Sidh. Among the marks and slashes, Max recognized the word for grandfather but this was the only portion he understood.
Whatever its full meaning, the name’s appearance brought a sudden, sharp intake of breath from the Fomorian. A shiver ran from his curling horns down to his cloven hooves. Hard, tawny eyes cracked open to gaze down at David.
“You kept your promise. I honor that, and you.”
As David bowed, the runes sank into the parchment and disappeared. Rolling the page back up, David placed it inside the cane and set it within the giant’s hand. Clutching the cane, the Fomorian closed his eyes.
“You may go.”
“No,” said Max. “I’m not going to leave you here in this agony.”
“You can do nothing for me.”
“I can end your suffering.”
David turned abruptly. “Max—”
But Max kept his attention fixed on the Fomorian, whose face betrayed a war of conflicting emotions. Eyes screwed tight, the giant shook his shaggy head and clutched the cane tightly. “Be careful what you ask, kinsman. I will answer true.”
Standing on tiptoe, Max embraced the giant’s head and felt his warm tears upon his skin. “But I am asking,” he whispered. “You have your name at last. There’s no need to suffer any longer. Not when I have the means to give you peace.”
With a shudder, the broken giant clutched him tight.
“Do you wish it?” Max whispered.
When his kinsman nodded, Max kissed his cheek and withdrew two paces. Head bowed, the giant began a lilting, dirge-like song in a voice so deep that the earth trembled. The words were in a tongue that Max did not know. But their meaning was plain enough. The Fomorian was saying farewell to earth and stone, wind and sky, and the seas that were dearest of all.
And as he sang, a dryad slipped out from one of the cypress trees, a lithe young woman with deep green skin, tangled brown hair, and silvery eyes. Stepping lightly over the snow, she came to kneel near the giant.
Others arrived to hear the giant’s song. From the nearest woods came five slender fauns, three goat-legged satyrs, and an ancient centaur wearing a crown of twisted holly. Creeping close to the ring of trees, they bowed their heads and listened in reverent silence. From the sea came water sprites, childlike figures riding wisps of mist whose bodies were all of swirling seawater.
But it was the faeries Max was happiest to see. They came by the dozens, luminous little figures that descended from the skies or skimmed over the snowy countryside to settle atop the giant’s shoulders or nestle in his beard and listen. When at last his song was ended, the Fomorian raised his head and gazed with clear eyes at the gray waves.
When Max pierced the Fomorian’s heart with the gae bolga, the giant did not cry out. He merely gave a great exhale, like an emptying bellows, and leaned heavily against the cypress tree. Withdrawing the spear, Max backed away and came to stand by David.
Blood ran freely from the giant’s chest while steam rose off his body, melting the snow and ice about him. Where the snows melted, the earth came to life, sprouting grass and gorse, sea campion and corn marigolds that fluttered in the wind. Extending a hand, the giant touched them, patting them lightly before bowing his head and closing his eyes. The faeries left him then, taking to the air as the Fomorian’s body hardened into rough, weathered stone.
Wiping the gae bolga clean, Max turned and walked slowly back to the sledge. David remained to gather up the furs, dragging them over the snow and tossing them onto the sledge where Max sat gazing solemnly at the sea.
“Why did you do that?” David asked quietly.
“He was in pain,” said Max. “I couldn’t let him suffer like that. Not when I could help him.”
David’s voice was thick with emotion. “But your geis.”
“Is broken,” said Max indifferently. “It’s for the best, David. You don’t know what I’m capable of now. I don’t either.”
“You will grow into your power,” David assured him.
“Never invite a god into this world.”
Max removed his hand from beneath his mail shirt, where he’d been clutching the wound made by the Atropos knife. He had been clutching it since the giant turned to stone, since he’d felt it tear apart beneath its sash. Gazing down, he saw the hand was red.
Within half an hour, Max was back at Rowan.
The moment he’d seen Max’s bloody hand, David had summoned air elementals to transport them—horses and all—in a swift, frigid flight to his command tent. Racing past the bewildered guards, David flung open his battered trunk and levitated a half-conscious Max down its staircase and pulled the lid shut. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, David spoke a password and Max felt a powerful tugging as the wormhole activated.
An instant later, Max lay sprawled atop a bed, staring up at the stars and constellations winking beyond the glass dome in the Observatory, the dormitory room he and David had shared since they were twelve. Nearly a year had passed since Max had been here, and the faint smells of wood smoke and old books were comforting. Less comforting was the fact that something was wriggling beneath him.
“David,” Max murmured. “I’m on top of something.”
“Of course you are,” said David distractedly. He was standing by the bedside table, trying to slide the gae bolga’s scabbard over the blade without actually touching the weapon. “Sheets, pillows. Maybe a bolster.” Nudging the sheathed spear aside, he pulled up Max’s mail shirt to delicately touch the area of his wound. “Does that hurt?”
“No,” replied Max dreamily. And it was true. The flesh around the wound was cold, but it did not hurt in the slightest. The problem wasn’t pain, but the steady trickling of warm blood down his midsection. Max’s extremities were growing numb and he felt increasingly dizzy, like his head was a helium balloon bobbing on a string. The sensation was not unpleasant and might have bordered on euphoric if a cat-sized creature hadn’t suddenly writhed out from beneath him with a shrill, insectlike chittering. Max gave a startled cry as a pair of antennae brushed his chin.
“Don’t worry,” said David. “It’s only Chester.”
“Get it off me!” Max yelled, pushing feebly against the pinlegs’ segmented forelegs. Issuing an ear-piercing ululation, Chester promptly jumped onto his face, mandibles clicking as it turned about in apparent confusion. Scolding his pet, David tossed the flailing pinlegs aside before pressing a bath towel against Max’s stomach.
“Keep pressure on it,” said David sternly. “I’m going to get the healers.”
“Put Chester in his case,” Max pleaded. “Lock him—”
But David was off, dashing around the walkway and out the door. The next five minutes seemed an eternity as Max listened in rapt horror for any hint of the pinlegs’ location. At last, David returned with five moomenhovens bringing a stretcher and several medical bags. The matronly, cow-legged healers worked quickly, assessing Max’s injury with gentle, probing fingers. They applied several different ointments at its fringes, studied the wound’s reaction to them, and exchanged nervous glances.
“Max,” said David. “What do you know about the weapon that did this?”
“It was the knife that belonged to Set,” said Max, his dizziness returning. “Prusias gave it to the clones. The Fomorian said it’s killed a god before.”
“Osiris,” David muttered gravely. “It must be the blade he used to murder Osiris on the Nile.” He turned to the moomenhovens. “Is anything working?”
They shook their heads, shooing David aside. Cutting away the Fomorian’s sash, they smeared a pungent ointment into the wound along with three slips of papyrus inked with spells. The papers began to smoke and curl like dying slugs. Frowning, the moomenhovens removed them, making gestures in sign language for David to apply a tourniquet.
“Where are we going?” Max murmured as they slid him onto the stretcher.
Max felt buoyant, as though the canvas stretcher were a magic carpet. David and the moomenhovens trotted beside it, guiding it out the door and down the dormitory corridor past a few stunned or curious faces peering out from their rooms.
By the time they reached the Manse’s foyer, Max could stay awake no longer. As they rushed out the double doors, he glimpsed only a starless night before his eyes closed and a wolfhound padded through his dreams.