The Maelstrom

you. Given the man’s past, do you really believe he will let that day come?

“I don’t know,” said Max quietly.

Ms. Richter grew pale, but Bram nodded his approval.

“It’s wise to admit as much,” he remarked. “Against such forces, fear and humility are better shields than hubris.”

“Astaroth said you’re afraid of me,” said Max. “He said that someday I will become stronger than you and that you would never allow that to happen.”

“Ah,” replied Bram, touching his fingertips together. “Astaroth’s wordplay is at work. As we know, he never lies, but he is very clever in how he presents his statements. He is only sharing those facts he chooses, and even these are carefully framed to shape their interpretation. Did Astaroth actually state that I would attack you?”

“No,” said Max, considering. “He said that you did not love me and that I frightened you. He had told me stories—awful stories—about your past. Then he asked me if I thought you would ever let the day come when I could threaten you.”

“That sounds like the Astaroth I know,” replied Bram, smiling grimly. “He states a truth or two, arranges a clever context, and leads his audience to draw conclusions that suit his purpose. If his listeners are not careful, they may later convince themselves that Astaroth put forth their own conclusions as established fact when really such things are no more than their own manipulated assumptions. He never lies, but he is the most devious being I know.”

“So you have no intention of harming Max,” Ms. Richter clarified.

“Do I intend to harm him?” replied Bram. “Of course not. Max McDaniels is a ‘fine young man’ to use your term, Director. But he is also quite a bit more than that, which you seem unable—or unwilling—to grasp. The Hound of Rowan does frighten me, and my younger self would never have endured such a threat to my person. Long ago, I would have taken matters into my own hands. However, I am now a bit older and wiser and understand that Rowan needs its Hound.”

“In the days ahead, Rowan will also need its Archmage,” replied Ms. Richter pointedly. “Why have you done nothing to aid us? When Prusias comes, can Rowan count on your help?”

“Tell me, Director,” mused Bram. “How many soldiers do you have to defend this land?”

“One hundred and eleven battalions,” she replied. “Some hundred and thirty thousand troops.”

“And how many Mystics scattered among that number?”

“Roughly two thousand,” she replied.

“Firecrafters, aeromancers, spiritwracks, phantasmals, enchanters …,” muttered Bram, ticking off various schools and specialties.

Ms. Richter nodded uncertainly.

“And how many creatures and spirits from the Sanctuary have pledged themselves to Rowan’s cause?” continued the Archmage.

“Eleven hundred, give or take a few,” she said.

“Centaurs, dryads, domovoi, Cheshirewulfs, fauns … even a roc and a reformed ogre, if I hear rightly.”

“Yes, but—”

“And of course there is my grandson and the Hound, and let us not forget little Mina. In this dire hour, Rowan boasts no less than three children of the Old Magic, along with a massive host to contest the armed might of Prusias. But tell me, Director, who is contesting the might of Astaroth?”

Ms. Richter said nothing.

“There is but one,” continued Bram grimly. “And as I’ve said before, I believe that Astaroth poses the greater danger. As long as he possesses the Book, it is not just Rowan’s sovereignty that hangs in the balance, but the fate of this very world. I do not have the power to destroy Prusias’s army, Director. Only the Book of Thoth is capable of such a feat. If your current forces are not enough to stave off Prusias, Rowan’s independence is ultimately doomed whether or not I come to your aid. Astaroth has made far less noise than Prusias, but he has not been idle. He is lurking, Director—watching and waiting for a chance to turn things in his favor. He and I are like two kings on a chessboard, locked in a stalemate. If I divert my focus and energies to oppose Prusias …” He shook his head as though the consequences were too terrible to contemplate.

Max leaned forward. “What is Astaroth?” he asked. “You said yourself that he isn’t really a demon, that he only masquerades as one. If that’s so, then what is he and where does he come from?”

“That remains a fundamental question,” said Bram, rising and brushing past them to sort through a stack of ancient parchments and manuscripts. “Astaroth has always tried to hide his past from me, but there have been glimpses, impressions that I gained while he was my prison. He is a profoundly alien entity. Most demons are corrupted stewards—spirits of Old Magic that rebelled against their given purpose. But Astaroth is far older than they are. I believe he comes from another universe altogether. I have been trying to discover his origins, how he came to be in this world and—most importantly—why he stays.”

The Archmage handed Max a small stone carving whose chips and cracks spoke to its ancient origins. Turning it over in his hands, Max gazed upon a grinning figure with its hands clasped together.

“What is this?” asked Max, finding the figurine oddly disturbing.

“That is Astaroth,” remarked Bram, staring at it. “It was made by the Olmec people thousands of years ago.” He handed Ms. Richter a piece of tortoise shell on which mysterious characters had been carved. “And this is from China. It was recorded by one of the emperor’s magicians and tells of a day when they tried to summon a river spirit to quell a flood, but something else appeared … a ‘Smiling Man’ who caused the waters to recede and showed them how to improve their plantings and their harvests. He was soon admitted to the royal court. The pharaohs told similar accounts; so did the Mesopotamians, the Nubians, and the Aborigines. Astaroth’s presence on this earth predates recorded history.”

“And so is that where the investigation ends?” asked Ms. Richter.

“No,” replied Bram. “Fortunately, there are means of digging further. In this regard, the witches hold the key. Rowan boasts its Archives, the Workshop has its museums, and the witch clans have their ossuaries.”

“What is an ossuary?” said Max.

“A place for keeping human remains,” answered Ms. Richter, studying the tortoise shell.

“Indeed,” said Bram, “grave robbing has long been practiced by various professions—physicians, artists, and, most infamously, necromancers. But the witches are the most prolific. Over the centuries, they have pried into coffins, crypts, burial mounds, tombs, and mausoleums of every kind and from every culture to amass their collections.”

“And what exactly are they collecting?” asked Max.

“Mostly dirt and dust,” said Bram, smiling, “bones if any remain; canopic jars and urns. What they find is not as important as who they find. The witches have been studiously collecting the remains of every mystic, shaman, and sorcerer they can get their hands on—the remains of anyone they believe has trafficked with the spirit world or possessed knowledge that they value. They have collected many thousands of specimens and organized them as meticulously as Rowan’s Archives.”

“But I thought the witches were all about the wild and living things,” said Max. “They worship nature. I’ve never heard they practiced necromancy.”

“They don’t,” said Bram. “At least, not necromancy as it’s usually defined. The witches are not interested in animating corpses to serve some dark purpose. They use the remains to communicate with the dead and gather wisdom from the past.

According to their beliefs, the practice is not a desecration but a great honor—the deceased’s counsel is sought and valued even after their spirit has left this world. The witches see themselves as communing with nature, not violating it.”

“How are the ossuaries aiding your pursuit of Astaroth?” pressed Ms. Richter.

“They allow me to communicate with shamans and spirit guides from many thousands of years ago—people who lived before any cultures kept written accounts,” explained the Archmage. “And some of the oldest recall a pale being that followed their tribes at a distance and watched them as they huddled by their fires. Many years might pass between its appearances, but its coming was always viewed as an evil omen. Whenever they saw the pale being, women were wont to miscarry, brothers quarreled, and the hunt became scarce. But there was one shaman in the far north who finally mustered the courage to approach it. He asked what it was and where it came