feet.
“You should be dead,” muttered a voice.
Max turned and saw Ajax. The battle-scarred captain was crouched within the guard’s perimeter, leaning on his sword and eyeing his commander warily.
“I didn’t know she was a witch,” Ajax breathed.
“What are you talking about?” said Max.
“That girl Umbra,” replied Ajax. “We came running when we saw the tent go up in flames. She was already here and dragged you out of the fire. One look at that wound and I wrote you off as dead, but she did something to you … some sort of blood magic.” He gestured at something on the ground. “She left those for you. Said we weren’t to touch ’em.”
Looking down, Max saw the
“Where did she go?” he asked.
“Dunno,” replied Ajax. “Hunting that assassin, I think. Scariest guy I ever laid eyes on. Would have opened me up like that beast if I hadn’t backed off.”
Max nodded. His wits were returning slowly. Everything had happened so fast, but his mind began to piece events together.
“Wait,” he muttered. “What beast? Where?”
Ajax hooked a thumb at the smoldering remains of the tent where a smaller crowd had gathered. Max slipped between his guards and hurried over.
Grendel was lying on his side, breathing slowly and bleeding from a gash across his belly. The Cheshirewulf’s powerful form faded as he breathed, growing translucent with each inhale. No one had dared come to the animal’s assistance; a glance at his jaws explained why.
“He’ll have your arm!” cautioned a woman.
Ignoring her, Max crouched down to examine the injury. It was a grievous wound, but perhaps only one of Cooper’s blades had been poisoned. Pressing the tear closed, Max scanned the surrounding faces. Most were his own troops, but he spied one delicate face peering from between a pair of archers.
“Kellen!” Max cried. The faun stepped hesitantly forward, gazing with a mortified expression at Grendel’s wound. “Do you know any healing spells?”
“Go get her,” Max ordered. “Right away!”
Dropping his basket, the faun dashed off. Max gazed down at Grendel’s broad muzzle and bloody snout. It had been the Cheshirewulf he spied slipping into the tent. He thought it had been attacking, but it had been trying to protect him from its maddened steward.
“Hang in there, Grendel,” Max whispered, stroking the animal’s ruff.
But as the minutes passed, Grendel’s low growling subsided and finally ceased altogether. The wound was no longer bleeding, but Max grew anxious as the Cheshirewulf’s brilliant yellow eyes began to dim. Max spoke quietly to him, but the animal’s breaths came ever more slowly.
From the growing crowd there was a shout, followed by a parting of bodies—some in awe and some in alarm— to make way for YaYa.
The ancient ki-rin slowed to a walk as she approached, oblivious to the surrounding press of humans. A dim radiance outlined her, a dusting of moonlight that shone upon her black fur and illuminated each plane of her noble, leonine face. YaYa stood taller than a man at the shoulder, but her massive paws barely made any impression upon the snow and grass.
The Cheshirewulf responded immediately to her presence, whining in his throat and straining to rise. Dipping her head, the ki-rin nuzzled Grendel still and then settled her bulk alongside him. He looked a mere kitten by comparison.
Turning to Max, YaYa gazed at him with a pair of blind, milky eyes. “You may leave us,” she said gently. “I will look after him.”
“It was Cooper,” said Max, shaking his head sadly.
“I’m aware,” replied the ki-rin, turning back to Grendel. “I know when any steward has harmed their charge. William Cooper must answer for this.”
There was an ominous edge to the ki-rin’s words. Max remembered the day when he and his classmates had been matched to their charges. On the occasion, each student had signed a book in YaYa’s presence and pledged to always honor and care for their creatures. Max tried to explain that Cooper was possessed, that he was not responsible for his actions, but the ki-rin was unmoved.
“You may leave us,” she repeated calmly.
This was not a request, but a command. Max stood, gazing down at the Cheshirewulf as YaYa cleaned his wound and brushed her ivory horn against it. A ki-rin’s spiral horn was known to have wondrous healing properties, but YaYa’s had been broken during the Siege of Solas centuries earlier. Max gazed dubiously at its chipped and jagged remains. He prayed it would be enough.
Leaving YaYa to her task, Max turned to Ajax. “Which direction did that assassin run?”
The youth pointed toward a nearby strip of wood that stretched east to the sea and extended almost all the way to Rowan’s wall and Southgate.
“We’ll go with you,” he offered, but Max shook his head.
“That’d only get people hurt,” he said. “I’ll have a better chance of finding him if I’m alone.”
“I’ve done my share of tracking,” insisted Ajax. “I can help you hunt him.”
Max gazed at the wood, a dark labyrinth of tangled trunks and branches.
“I won’t be hunting him. He’ll be hunting me.”
As the night deepened, Max stole through the forest. He made no sound as he wove through the trees and underbrush, scanning every tree and shadow and listening for any telltale sounds. His ring had grown cool, but the wood was eerily quiet, as though the wild creatures sensed a predator.
He searched far and wide, bending toward the sea and then back along the crenellated walls and watchtowers that guarded Rowan’s southern flank. As he padded west along the forest’s edge, Max noticed that an unusual number of guards were posted at Southgate and that they were searching not only those who wished to enter Old College, but also those who wished to leave. A quiet alarm had been raised.
The William Cooper Max knew would never leave a job unfinished much less flee by a main gate. Now that he had infiltrated Rowan’s campus, the Agent would remain close—patient and hidden—until another opportunity emerged. Max recalled the many times he had trained with the man, matching wits and skills in the Sanctuary. While the Agent was no longer Max’s equal in direct combat, he was far more experienced when it came to deceiving and stalking a target. Unless Cooper was apprehended, there would be another attack and Max knew— with dreadful certainty—that it would be planned with chilling, lethal precision.
These unsettling thoughts occupied his mind as he prowled about the woods. Max did not delude himself that he could track Cooper or penetrate his illusions, but his ring would warn him if the possessed man was nearby. To his knowledge, the Atropos did not know about the ring and Max hoped that Cooper—finding his victim alone and seemingly vulnerable—might be tempted to make a sudden, spontaneous attempt.
He hoped in vain.
It was well past midnight when Max finally abandoned the effort. He had searched from the sea cliffs to the Sanctuary wall, traversing every wood and field in the stretch along the southern borders of the Old College. His ring had remained cold throughout, and Max guessed that Cooper had probably doubled back and escaped in a different direction to throw off pursuit. Perhaps Umbra had had better luck. In any case, he needed to speak with her, and it could not wait until morning.
The refugees’ main camp had improved greatly since its earliest days. The sprawling slum of shacks, tents, and refuse had been cleared away, replaced by long barracks and small cottages that lined the broad clearing, small gardens, and grazing pens. Most of the windows were dark, but some dozen figures were huddled by the fires still burning by the training pits.
Max recognized none of their faces. Even with so many departures, there were still tens of thousands of refugees living within Rowan’s walls. Judging by their blank stares as he approached, they did not recognize him
