“This is Thomas Polk,” she announced, her eyes never leaving Max’s. “We’ve been dating for over a year and we’re engaged to be married.”
A pause. Max only hoped his shock wasn’t painfully apparent. “Congratulations,” he said. “Your parents must be very happy.”
“Not really,” said Julie casually. “They think nineteen’s too young for marriage. But they’ll get over it. Ultimately I think they’re just thrilled that I’m not dating you.”
“Julie,” said Thomas, tugging at her arm. “You’re getting upset. We should go.”
“I’m not upset!” she declared hotly, pulling away. “I’m running into an old friend and filling him in on all my exciting news. What’s
“Maybe some other time.”
“Ha!” she laughed, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “Some other time? And when will that be, I wonder? See you in a few years, Max. If you’re still alive, perhaps you can meet our children.”
“Julie!” exclaimed Thomas, glancing nervously at Max. “That’s a terrible thing to—”
“It’s okay,” said Max quietly, holding up his hand. “I had it coming. Congratulations on your engagement, Thomas. Congratulations to you both.”
Max left the pair behind, staring at his boots and listening to the wind in the trees, the distant drum of cold surf crashing on the beach. He walked past Old Tom and Maggie, glancing momentarily at the broken cliffs where Gravenmuir had stood. The ocean was gray and dotted with whitecaps and the sails of merchant ships. The harbormaster’s bell rang and he watched as a goblin carrack from Svalbard eased past the watchtower. The ship looked as stout and weathered as an old boot, pushing through the icy water and giving the Blyssian xebec a wide berth as it steered toward one of the loading docks.
The ambassador’s ship had not moved since its arrival. It was still moored in the harbor, tethered to the main pier by heavy ropes. Smoke drifted lazily from open hatches and stovepipes. The witch had disappeared from the deck, but the pillar of witch-fire remained near the prow. Max imagined the ambassador coiled behind runeglass in some luxuriant cabin, waiting for Rowan’s reply to his king’s demands. The solstice was just a few days away. Prusias would have his answer soon.
As he stared out at the xebec, Max tried to take Julie’s words and consign them to some safe place within his heart or mind. But they resisted. It was not that she’d said anything unjust or unfair; he knew he deserved what she’d said and more besides. It was her hardness that lingered, the hurt and disdain that surfaced as soon as she’d seen him. His Julie had been playful and mischievous, a vibrant and loving soul who was always seeking some new adventure. The sad truth was that this new Julie seemed diminished. It was not a physical decline—she was still as beautiful as ever—but her inner radiance had dimmed. Life and circumstance had worn down her youth and sapped something in her essence, some spark of fundamental optimism or joy. Max hoped that it was merely surprise and righteous anger at running into an ex-boyfriend, but that was a lie. The painful truth was that he had sensed the change before she ever laid eyes on him.
Turning, he left the bluff and its broad view of the harbor and the wide world beyond. At his back were Prusias’s armies; ahead loomed Maggie and the pinlegs deep down in its Archives. Max gazed up at the venerable gray building with her shale roof and squat chimneys puffing white smoke into the wintry air. With a sigh, Max kicked a stone and trotted up the path to her door.
It was a long walk down to the Archives, a twenty-minute descent down winding staircases that plunged deep into the earth. The trip always reminded Max that much of Rowan was alive. Old Magic had created the school, and something of these wild, primal origins still pulsed within the hollowed stone and arches. As Max descended, the walls became damp and almost seemed to aspirate as breezes from below sent the torches sputtering. Visiting the Archives felt like climbing down into the ribbed belly of a whale or dragon.
Where the stairs ended, they opened upon a tall vestibule whose double doors were guarded by a pair of shedu. At first glance, the enormous creatures looked like mere statues of man-headed bulls with great stony wings. But the eyes blinked and followed Max as he approached.
“Max McDaniels requesting access to the Archives,” he said, holding up his Red Branch tattoo.
The creatures stared implacably at the tattoo and at his face with fire-opal eyes. Shedu were bred to guard, to detect deceptions and illusions of all kinds. They were so effective that Max was not entirely surprised to hear an indignant sniffle behind him.
“You’re looking very well.”
Max turned to see Toby sitting dejectedly on a small bench that had been placed for visitors.
“How long have you been here?” asked Max.
“Oh, a day or so,” replied the smee glumly. “I tried to follow David down here—to help with the analysis. I tried to change into one of the scholars, but it was no go. I forgot about the ban. Instead of becoming a scholar, I just turned fire red like I was … like I was
“Hard to believe,” replied Max. He turned back to the guardians. “Would it be all right if he comes in with me? He was involved in a DarkMatter operation for the Director.”
The stolid shedu glanced doubtfully at one another, but at last the massive doors opened.
“I told you I was someone important!” roared Toby, twisting about to glare at each as Max carried him through the great archway.
“How on earth did you make it down here?” whispered Max once they were inside. “There must be a thousand steps.”
“Twelve hundred,” grumbled the smee. “And each a grueling humiliation … inching to the edge of each stair and flipping myself over like some acrobatic gourd. There should be a slide!”
“Shhh!” whispered Max as several scholars glanced up irritably from their tables.
“Well, I want to be able to change shapes at Rowan!” hissed Toby. “They should lift that silly prohibition. Promise me you’ll put in a word with the Director.”
“Okay,” said Max. “But keep your voice down. You have to be quiet down here—it’s like a big library.”
Indeed, the Archives were like a library, but one that was larger than any cathedral. It was a vast, arched space with many levels where millions upon millions of manuscripts were housed behind archival glass. Vaults were spaced along the main level, gargantuan steel doors set into the stone and protected with various runes and spells. One of these belonged to the Red Branch and housed their greatest treasures, but some belonged to different orders, including the Vanguard, the Minstrels, the Promethean Scholars, the Bloodstone Circle, and many other esoteric groups from Rowan’s early days. Light was provided by witch-fire lanterns and from pale shafts of daylight that filtered through translucent stone high above. Despite the crowded tables on the main level, the atmosphere was quiet and this reverential hush—even more than the space’s grandeur—reinforced the impression that one was in a holy setting, a temple of sacred antiquity.
A domovoi directed them to David, who was hunkered down in one of several top-secret laboratories housed in a restricted wing. Cupping Toby, Max walked past many windows behind which Mystics were peering at various objects or even creatures suspended within glass orbs that held swirling vapors or shimmering lights of every color. He stopped at one, peering at an evil-looking creature that turned about in its orb, glaring at its captors. At Max’s knock, one of the Mystics glanced up, did a double take, and hurried over to open the door.
“Hi,” said Max. “Sorry to bother you, but is that a Stygian crow?”
“A very nasty one,” confirmed the Mystic, a graying middle-aged woman wearing glasses. “We captured a sortie from one of Prusias’s detachments.”
“What are you doing with it?” asked Max as the creature gave a furious shriek that shot flames from its membranous blowholes.
“Testing its sensitivity to various concentrations of Blood Petals and Zenuvian iron,” replied the Mystic. “Most promising.”
Max nodded and took another gander at the hideous creature before leaving the Mystic to her work. David’s laboratory was at the end of the corridor, conspicuous among the rest with its circular iron door set into a wall of smoky runeglass. Max knocked.
Miss Boon answered, looking tired and careworn.
“Max,” she said, embracing him. “What a wonderful surprise to have you up and about so soon.”
