The Maelstrom

summoned, and the five were promptly whisked to a choice banquette in a candlelit corner. Many of their fellow diners eyed the party as they crossed the room. Some appeared awestruck, some discreetly curious, and still others looked vaguely hostile—as though the presence of Max and David boded ill. While Max was highly conscious of the stares, he was even more so of his ring. Its metal remained cool. Pushing it from his mind, he tried to relax and enjoy the company of his friends.

“How did you manage this?” hissed Sarah, taking her seat. “I thought we’d wait forever.”

“They are celebrities,” said Lucia, nodding at the boys while slipping Kettlemouth beneath the table. “Celebrities do not wait. I told the owner they would sign some menus.”

“Marta will never forgive me,” sighed David, passing the bread.

Lucia ordered for the group, perusing the menu with an authoritative air and inquiring about several dishes before making her final choices. Max did not recognize half of the selections. The only sticking point occurred when she flagged down the sommelier and requested a wine list.

“But the young lady is not eighteen,” sniffed the sommelier, nodding at her viridian robes.

“My parents always let me have wine,” she declared indignantly.

“Perhaps the young lady should have brought her parents.”

With an irritated wave, Lucia transformed her robes from viridian green to a blazing scarlet—a Sixth Year’s colors. “Is this better?” she asked, gesturing for the list. When he declined to hand it over, she sprouted a luxuriant mustache and raised her eyebrows inquiringly. Max almost spit out his roll.

“An impressive addition, but alas I must say no,” replied the sommelier, smiling. “I will send over some sparkling cider … on the house.”

“Puritans,” grumbled Lucia, returning both her robes and facial hair back to normal.

“That’s quite a trick,” said David. “Are you specializing in Illusion?”

“Firecraft,” replied Lucia, tapping the concentration of red stones and copper links among her magechain. “Illusion’s just a hobby.”

“Well,” said David, raising a flute of cider, “you’re very good at it.”

“Hear, hear,” said Max. “I’m only sorry Connor didn’t see his beloved Lucia with a handlebar mustache. How he’d have laughed!”

“Well, if that’s not a sign to share your news, Lucia, I don’t know what is,” remarked Cynthia.

“Okay, okay,” sighed Lucia. “Twist my foot, why don’t you?”

“Arm,” said Sarah stiffly. “She’s twisting your arm. You’ve been speaking English for years, Lucia. I think you do that on purpose.”

“So what if I do?” she said innocently. “Anyway, here is what Cynthia is twisting my leg about. I let you read it yourself. Some parts are for you. But not all!”

She smiled in spite of herself, her cheeks turning rosy as she handed over a pouch of oiled silk containing folded sheets of thick parchment.

My Lucia,Sending this letter is like wishing on a star. Each day I think of you and the life I left back at Rowan. Each day I think of our friends, grouchy Miss Boon, Old Tom’s chimes, and even—God forbid—my homework! Kyra must be cursing my name, and I don’t suspect my family thinks much of a son who sold his soul for a spot of land and a fancy title across the sea.That’s behind me now, but try as I might, I can’t forget about a certain long-lashed beauty who struck me dumb the first day I arrived at school. How’d she win my heart? Every way a girl could.Enlyll is what they call my little province. Lord is what they call me, although you may laugh to hear it. Down on the docks, they give me other titles—Baron, Master, Jester, and some other things that aren’t fit to print. Enlyll’s a coastal province, you see, and trade’s what keeps my subjects in food and wine, silks and servants. Rowan’s a fair place, but it’s got nothing on our golden hills and wineries, forests and orchards. Someday, I’ll show them to you.Enough of all that. I hope you’ll share this letter with David and Max and the rest of our friends. I miss the lot, particularly David and his way of always seeing things for what they are. Funny bloke— I’ve heard tales of him and Max all the way out here. Sounds like they pulled quite a job last April. They’ve got all of Blys stirred up. Saw Max fight an early match in Prusias’s games. Still can’t believe he was Bragha Run. You should have seen him, Lucia! If you ever read this, Max, I hope you know I actually commissioned a painting of Bragha Run after the tournament. Serves me right for trying to act all lordly. What a tosser—for a whole month there I am eating my breakfast beneath a life-sized oil painting of my new hero only to find out he’s actually my mate. I was red for a week. Sorry, but my shame demanded that I give you the boot from the castle. You’re hanging in one of the gardener cottages, where I hear you’re supervising the shears and doing a stellar job. Well done.I know Rowan’s in a bind these days and wish I could help, but I’m sworn to Prusias. Could be worse—his imp pretty much lets me alone so long as I meet my quotas and keep trade lively. No one looks to wee little Enlyll for soldiers—the braymas come here to relax, drink good wine, hold medims, and conduct some business. Happy to say the war hasn’t really touched me yet, but for Rashaverak’s ships prowling beyond the harbors. They’re trying to barricade, but he doesn’t have enough ships and his spies and sailors are a sorry lot. Don’t catch one in ten of my cutters and soon it’ll be one in twenty. They can kiss my behind—doubly so if they’re reading this letter. (Honestly, where’s your respect for privacy?)You know where to find me, Lucia. You say the word and I’ll send a ship. Your face could launch a thousand, but I don’t yet have that many. Give me a year or three and I just might. Anyway, that’s my attempt to dazzle you with some Homeric charm. Did it work? I bloody well hope so. Be sure to tell Morrow I remembered my Iliad; he’ll drop that pipe and turn a cartwheel.With love and an affection that burns really, really hot! Connor Lynch, Lord of Enlyll

Max read the letter twice, grinning as he imagined his friend’s Dublin lilt bouncing over each word and syllable. When Connor had departed for Blys, he was in many ways a broken person, a boy whose naturally buoyant personality had been smothered by a sense of guilt and thoughts of vengeance against his captors during the Siege. But that was over two years ago, and it seemed that both time and a change of scenery had been wonderfully therapeutic. It was the old Connor that Max heard in the letter—the cocksure, mischievous boy with a mop of brown curls and an irrepressible spirit.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” said Lucia, practically swooning.

“Yes, it is,” said Max, leaning back as the waiter set a plate before him.

“David,” growled Cynthia, waving her hand before his blank, glassy expression. “Don’t you think it’s wonderful, too?”

“Sorry,” said David, blinking. “Yes … yes, it’s a wonderful letter. Very romantic and all that. But do you notice anything unusual about its beginning?”

“What about it?” asked Lucia, snatching the papers away from Max. Her eyes raced across each line until she declared. “He loves me. It is beautiful!”

“Yes,” said David, sniffing eagerly at a bowl of mussels. “I don’t doubt that’s true, but wouldn’t you say that the first few paragraphs are a little … stilted? The rest flows naturally, as though Connor were here talking to us, but the beginning seems off. And then the fourth paragraph begins ‘Enough of all that’ as though he were shifting to another topic entirely.”

“Are you grading my magnificent letter?” inquired Lucia, clutching its sheets to her chest and looking outraged. “Are you marking him down for grammar?”

“No,” replied David calmly. “On the contrary, I think Connor may have written an even more impressive letter than you suspect. May I see it again?”

Slowly, reluctantly, Lucia allowed Cynthia and Sarah to pry the letter away and slide it over to David. The sorcerer glanced at it for a mere instant before asking if anyone had a quill. Fortunately, the waiter obliged, bringing one to David along with a bottle of ink and a clean sheet of parchment.

“Score one for the Pot and Kettle,” he murmured. “Marta would have tossed me a can of bacon grease.” Studying Lucia’s note once again, he quickly jotted down a seemingly random sequence of letters. “These are the first letters of each sentence in the first three paragraphs,” he announced. “If I group them by their respective paragraphs, they spell out three words.” The Little Sorcerer held up the paper so all could see.

SEEK THE ELDERS

Cynthia wrinkled her nose. “Who are the Elders?”

“Vyes,” Max breathed, staring at the letter. “I met two Elder Vyes in Blys—Nix and Valya. They were good friends. They said the Elders hail from the original stock, direct descendants of Remus.”