Romantics claimed that its silhouette resembled a woman staring out to sea and named it Brigit’s Vigil.
Little was known of Bram’s daughter. Her name was Emer and the historians rarely mentioned her. From the few accounts, it seemed that Emer was a sickly, simpleminded child who had been shunned by the community even before she’d been orphaned. There was no indication that Emer had ever studied at Solas or Rowan, and all mention of her ceased after her mother’s passing. As there was no gravestone bearing her name or any documentation of her death, the scholars concluded that the unfortunate girl had been driven away or left to fend for herself in the wild.
Where Emer went or how she managed to survive, Max did not know. But by now it was clear that the Old Magic was in her. For one, she was now centuries old and yet looked no more than forty. For another, she had given birth to David, whose own ties to the Old Magic were plainly evident. Miss Boon theorized that Bram’s unfortunate daughter had inherited all of the Archmage’s power and none of his constitution. As most mortals were far too fragile a vessel for the Old Magic, the teacher surmised that its energies had overwhelmed Emer’s mind just as they had overtaxed David’s body. For Max, this seemed as logical an explanation as any.
When they finally reached the ironbound door, Miss Boon cleared her throat. “Are you certain anyone’s here?” she hissed. “He’s often away, you know.”
The sound of a child’s laughter answered the question. Drawing herself up, Ms. Richter knocked. A moment later the door was opened by a wizened domovoi with blue-tinted spectacles pulling an empty cart. He peered up at them, his lumpish face grinning amiably.
“Jacob!” exclaimed Ms. Richter, sounding surprised and somewhat relieved. “Here I was expecting Elias Bram and instead I find the estimable Jacob Quills. What brings you up from the Archives?”
The creature bowed and touched a bristly knuckle to his forehead. “I’ve been seeing to the Archmage’s books, Director,” he replied. “Our lord’s been catching up on what he’s missed, and three centuries makes for a crowded nightstand.” With a chuckle, the domovoi stood aside to let them enter before slipping out the door, pulling his wobbly cart.
Bram’s quarters comprised several old classrooms that had been modified into an apartment with a large common area, two small bedrooms, a snug study, and an old-fashioned privy. The walls were cream-colored plaster whose only adornment were the latest maps of Rowan’s territory and the Four Kingdoms. Turkish rugs had been strewn upon the floor, although they were barely visible beneath stacks of books, unrolled scrolls, and loose-leaf parchments. Bay windows faced south and west, but they offered little light on such a damp and gloomy morning. To compensate, several lanterns had been lit in the common room and a small fire flickered in the fieldstone hearth.
Of the four people gathered around that fire, David Menlo was closest. He sat with his back resting comfortably against an ottoman while little Mina flicked marbles toward him across the floor. David glanced up at the group as they filed in. He was a blond boy of about sixteen, very small for his age, whose youthful face was offset by an expression of frank intelligence that made him seem much older. When his eyes met Max’s, they brightened with pleasure.
While David could convey volumes with a nod, Mina was more demonstrative. Shouting Max’s name, the seven-year-old barreled into him with an energy and exuberance he’d not have imagined possible when he’d stumbled upon her in Blys nearly two years ago. Then she’d been a mere wisp of a girl, an unwashed and half- starved creature gathering firewood for the farmhouse where she lived with fellow orphans and several adults. The adults had not been welcoming and soon sent Max on his way. It was only by chance that he returned and found that Mina had been left as an offering to placate a monster that lived in a nearby well. Max had slain the monster, but it was weeks before the traumatized child would even speak, much less smile. And it was months before Max realized that the quiet girl who shadowed his every step was a Mystic of uncommon ability.
In many ways, Mina owed her life to both of the boys. Max had rescued her from the well; David had rescued her from Prusias, smuggling the entire household to Rowan before the demon could harm them. While Mina’s former housemates now attended school with other refugees, her emerging magical talents required a different sort of education.
Apparently this education had already begun. Squirming out of Max’s arms, Mina showed him not only a missing tooth but also her magechain.
“Look at that,” said Max, cooing over the chain along with the departed incisor that had been set to dangle alongside minor feats in Firecraft, Herb Lore, and Illusion. “You’ll be Archmage in no time!”
“That’s what Uncle ’Lias says,” she crowed, her dark eyes flashing with delight. Spinning about on her stocking feet, she laughed and raced back to her seat, anxious to resume her game of marbles.
Until the mention of his name, the gray-robed figure by the fire had resembled one of his own statues, huge and unmoving. But now Elias Bram leaned forward in his wooden chair. His voice was deep, its accent tinged with a faint Irish lilt. “That won’t do, Mina,” he chided softly. “We have company and you must make your leg for the Director. There’s a good girl.”
As Mina stood and made a proper curtsy, Max regarded Bram. Even when sitting quietly in his chair, Elias Bram exuded a gargantuan presence. Max suspected that Bram could sit unannounced among a host of kings and queens and dominate the gathering without ever saying a word.
He was rangy and rawboned with a high forehead, darkly chiseled features, and a beard to match his mane of snarled gray hair. He was physically imposing and seemed to simmer with a quiet, almost feral intensity. Within his pale gray eyes, one sensed an unyielding sense of purpose and conviction. For Max, the combined effect of the man’s legend and individual presence was more than a little frightening. He had not felt anything like it since Astaroth. People would either devote their lives to such a person or seek to tear him limb from limb.
“The ambassador has gone,” said Ms. Richter, brushing a strand of silver hair from her eyes. “He’s returned to his ship to await our answer.”
“An ultimatum, I gather,” Bram muttered, rising to heat some water and retrieve some chairs from his study. When they had been seated, the Archmage stooped to address Mrs. Menlo, who had been sitting mute by the hearth stroking a calico cat. “Hear me, Emer,” Bram murmured, smoothing her gray-blond hair. “Your pa and little David have to speak of serious matters. Take Mina to the Sanctuary to visit our YaYa. There’s to be a Matching this morning and I know you’ll like to see it. I’ll come find you when we’re finished.”
David’s mother blinked and nodded and reached for a nearby shawl.
“Can Lila come?” she wondered, her voice lacking all inflection. She smiled distantly at her father’s response. “Let’s go, Mina,” she called, as though the girl were far away and not already retrieving their shoes. “Let’s visit YaYa and watch the Matching. It will be fun.”
The pair departed, with Mina clutching Mrs. Menlo’s hand as they tottered out, each wrapped in navy cloaks. Cleaning her paws, Lila gazed out the window and seemed to reconsider the excursion. Nudged by Bram, the cat mewed and darted out the door, vanishing with a churlish swish of her tail.
As the water heated, Bram rummaged through various cupboards and retrieved an array of chipped cups, mismatched saucers, and old spoons. He arranged them on a small folding table that doubled as a chessboard. Something about the scene struck Max as odd, and it took a moment for him to realize what it was.
“You’re not using any magic,” he remarked, louder perhaps than he’d intended. Any Second Year apprentice would have been tempted to heat the kettle with a flick of their fingers. Had a Fifth Year been present, there would have been no searching for saucers and cups; they would have flown from the cupboard and stood at attention. And yet here was history’s greatest sorcerer methodically setting out cups and plates like any ordinary host.
“The fire’s hot,” Bram rumbled. “The kettle’s good. The water will boil soon enough. Do you shave with the Morrigan’s blade?”
Max glanced down at the
“Wise boy,” said Bram. “Simple jobs don’t require dangerous tools. You and David can finish up while the Director shares her news.”
David measured out the tea leaves before grinding coffee for himself. Strong black coffee was his vice of choice, and god help the librarian who tried to confiscate his beloved thermos when David ventured down into the Archives. One could almost trace his studies by the rings left on faded tomes and forbidden grimoires.
“How was Zenuvia?” he whispered, leaning a shoulder into Max.
“Hot,” Max muttered, reaching for the kettle. “But worth it, I think. I’ll tell you more later.”
Serving the drinks, the two boys sat next to each other on the hearth bench while their elders sat facing one another in the chairs. Despite Bram’s attempts to be cordial, Max could tell that Ms. Richter and Miss Boon were
