“It is,” said Max, slipping it off and letting her handle it. “His final gift.”
“It’s unbreakable,” she said, as though divining its properties at a touch. “A Fomorian made this for you. I can hear his song in the metal. What was he like?”
“The Fomorian? Well, he was as big as a house and he had ram’s horns and several eyes and he was very strong and old and … sad. He’s been living a long time, Mina, and I think he’s been very lonely on his isle and in his caves beneath the sea.”
“We could invite him to live here,” she declared. “Then he wouldn’t be alone.”
“You are very thoughtful,” said Max, letting her scoot next to him. “But I don’t think he would come. The Fomorian belongs to another age. He’s like a living fossil and follows older laws and customs than we do. It could be dangerous to have someone like him at Rowan.”
“But he made this for you,” she remarked, turning the gleaming torque over. “And your sword.”
“Reluctantly,” Max replied. “David almost lost his head in the bargain. Speaking of which, how is he?”
“Busy,” she replied a bit sullenly. “He’s working with Agent Varga and studying that crawly pinlegs. They both use canes, you know. I followed after them with a stick of my own to play Three Blind Mice, but David told me it was bad manners and wouldn’t let me past the runeglass.” She sighed. “I’ve had to take my lessons with Ms. Kraken. She’s always cross and she smells like an old lady.”
“She is an old lady,” Max pointed out, “and that’s not very nice. But what about the Archmage? I thought he was giving you lessons.”
“Uncle ’Lias is worse than you and David,” she pouted. “Much worse. Always running off, disappearing in a blink and reappearing in the middle of the night. He makes such a racket when he returns—clomping in his boots, lighting lanterns, and digging through old books. It scares Lila half to death. But by the time she peeks out the door, he’s already gone. She thinks his room is haunted.”
“What’s the Archmage doing?” asked Max.
The girl leaned close. “Hunting for Astaroth,” she whispered with something like real delight. “Always hunting, never sleeping. I should not like to be the Demon. When Uncle ’Lias gets an idea in his head, he doesn’t let go. He’s wild like you and wise like David.”
“Has he had a look at the pinlegs?” Max wondered.
“No,” she replied. “He says it’s our job to save Rowan. He must save everything else.”
“You know, Mina,” sighed Max, “I don’t entirely know what to make of our Archmage.”
Old Tom struck ten o’clock. Placing the torque around Max’s neck, the little girl grinned. “He says the same thing about you.”
With a farewell kiss, Mina scooted off the bed and scampered out of the room, waving farewell to the healers and dashing past the door wardens.
The moomenhovens released Max the following morning. Four of them had gathered around his bed to unwrap his bandages. Curious faces peered, unblinking, at the many wounds, pausing now and again to give shocked and covert glances at one another. One consulted a chart, jotting furious notes while her sister healers poked and prodded and gauged to see if any of their tests caused Max any discomfort. They did not. The tests were nearly complete when one of the kindly creatures gestured at a scar on Max’s face, a thin pale line that ran from cheekbone to chin. It was the only scar that remained, the only blemish on an otherwise perfect specimen of health, strength, and vitality.
“I got that years ago,” Max explained.
What he did not explain was that he’d received the wound from Scathach, the warrior maiden who lived in the Sidh and who had instructed Max in the greatest arts of combat. He had been slacking late one afternoon on the battlements of Lugh’s castle when she had whipped her blade across his face in a sudden, stinging reprimand. The scar had never faded. Whenever Max looked into a mirror, he saw the thin white line and remembered beautiful, deadly Scathach. He wondered if she ever thought of him.
The moomenhovens brought Max his clothes, cleaned and folded. Rips had been sewn, boots cleaned and polished, and even the hauberk’s rings had been repaired so that no tear or rent showed when he held it up to the window. Dressed, Max thanked the healers for their kind care and buckled on the
There were at least fifty other beds in the main ward, and each was occupied with an Agent or Mystic who had been wounded in the line of duty. To Max’s knowledge, none had been released during his stay. He imagined each must be badly injured.
For the rest of the morning, he walked down the line of beds and visited quietly with those who were awake. He knew relatively few of the patients, but they all knew him. Those who could manage it sat up or shook his hand with whatever vigor they could muster. Max smiled, looked into each face, and tried not to stare at the appalling wounds that each had suffered. It was such a strange realization that they would look to one so young for strength or assurance, but the fact was undeniable.
“I didn’t think you’d make it,” croaked one aged Mystic through her bandages. “This whole place was in a panic when they brought you through here. You should have seen yourself, child. So bloody, so broken. And here you are … tall and straight as a sapling. You give me hope, boy. Not for me, but for Rowan. They’ll never break us while we have our Hound.
He had many such conversations. Some wanted only to meet him and hear a bit of encouragement. Others wanted to share their stories. Throughout the morning, Max listened to tales of smuggling weapons, infiltrating witch camps, sabotaging Prusias’s shipyards.… The scope of Rowan’s espionage and intelligence operations was enormous, and Max soon realized that his and David’s efforts were but one slender thread in a complex web of activities. Some initiatives were grand and others were small, but all were engineered to slowly, methodically tip the scales in Rowan’s favor. Whether recruiting well-placed informants, intercepting critical shipments, or sowing false information to mislead the Enemy, Rowan was already fighting a secret war with everything she had.
It was past noon when finally Max left the healing ward. He strode out of one of the Manse’s side doors, inhaling the scent of evergreens and wood smoke as he gazed out over the Old College and the academic quad. It was cold, but the sky was blue with thin, nacreous clouds drifting above. The pathways were shoveled and glistening, the walkways crowded with students hurrying off to lunch or some final class. Max smiled to see garlands of holly strung about the streetlamps.
Purchasing some minced pies from a vendor’s cart, Max walked along the shoveled walkways toward Maggie. Wolfing down the warm pastries, he nodded hello to passersby but was ever mindful of his ring. When would it grow hot, he wondered. When would the Atropos make another attempt?
It was wearing to view everyone with suspicion, to maintain constant vigilance even among one’s friends. Aside from the physical toll, a state of perpetual caution cast a miserable pall on life.
He had resolved to live when the sight of an approaching figure made him question his decision. Julie Teller was coming up the path. She had not yet seen Max but was listening attentively to her companion, a slight man of about twenty with curling blond hair, a fringe of beard, and ink-stained fingers. Max thought about veering off onto a side path or even turning around when Julie’s brown eyes flicked up and met his own. Max felt his cheeks flush scarlet.
“Hi, Julie.”
She stopped dead in her tracks, gaping at him as though he were a ghost. Brushing a strand of auburn hair from her eyes, she walked calmly forward.
“Why, it’s you,” she observed wryly, clutching her companion’s arm. “Celia said you were here—at Rowan, I mean. But then one hears so many rumors about Max McDaniels. I never know when you’re here or away keeping us safe or ‘finding yourself’ or whatever it is you do.”
The barb found its intended target and burrowed deep. Julie’s tone was cool and reserved, but her eyes had grown very bright. Her bottom lip was trembling, but every other aspect was poised for confrontation.
Max cleared his throat. “It’s nice to see you,” he said. “I’ll be going.”
“Of course you will,” she said tightly. “That’s what you do.”
Max stopped in midstride. Julie gazed back at him, angry and defiant, her eyes now brimming over with tears. The young man leaned close and whispered to her.
“C’mon, Julie,” he muttered. “Let’s go.”
