The Maelstrom

within a few years.”

“The Atropos?” Max wondered, a chill creeping up his arms.

“No,” Bram snapped, his eyes flashing. “The man died of fear and gout. Let his folly be a lesson to you, Max McDaniels. The Atropos are formidable, but they are not the Fates, and fear was ever their greatest weapon. You and I will speak more of this, but other matters press. Director, you have told me of Prusias and his ultimatum, but what of Astaroth? Did Naberius mention him?”

“He did,” said Ms. Richter, glancing out the window as rain pattered on the glass. “He said that David had humiliated Astaroth before all and that none would follow him again. It would seem the demons scorn him and will no longer bend to his will.”

“Then they are fools,” said Bram quietly. “And we are fools if we share their beliefs. It is Astaroth who poses the true peril, not Prusias or any other ambitious demon among the kingdoms.”

“Six months have passed,” said Miss Boon quietly, “and we have heard and seen nothing of Astaroth.”

Bram shook his head. “That troubles me far more than grand displays of his power. What are six months to Astaroth, Director? Whether six months or six millennia, it is all the same to him. He is weakened, yes, but he still possesses the Book of Thoth, and while he has it, he still controls the strings. Astaroth may lie hidden and forgotten for a day or a century, but when he chooses to jerk those strings, the world will jump.”

“Why don’t his former servants and fellow demons share your fear?” asked Ms. Boon.

“Because they don’t truly understand him,” replied Bram gravely. “The daemona believe that Astaroth is one of their kind—an ancient spirit, cruel and clever. I suspect they are mistaken.”

The Archmage said nothing for some time. No one dared speak, but Max glanced at David, who hugged his knees and stared at his grandfather. Max guessed the two had already discussed this topic. The rain fell harder now, the drops drumming against the window while the first winds of winter swept past in sudden gales and moaned within the chimney.

Bram cleared his throat. “I believe Astaroth is something else entirely,” he muttered. “He has masqueraded as a demon for ages and fooled them, but I suspect that Astaroth is something far older and stranger than Prusias or any of his ilk.”

“How do you know this?” asked Ms. Richter quietly.

“He was my prison for many years,” explained Bram, studying his hands. “I have glimpsed what lies beneath that grinning mask, and it is no demon. Astaroth is no corrupted steward or wild spirit from the first days—he is not from this world or any other within our little universe. Prusias and the others are deadly enemies, but their motives and desires are clear. We can understand Prusias’s greed and lust for power—we know what he covets, and this makes him far less terrifying than one so alien as Astaroth. My liberation has weakened this outsider, but he is still lurking about—unaccounted for and still possessing the Book. Prusias may menace the world’s kingdoms, but Astaroth is a threat to the world itself.…”

As the man lapsed into silence, the logs cracked and a plume of sparks momentarily brightened the darkening room. Indeed it was dark, Max reflected—too murky for midday and far too dismal to discuss such disturbing matters. Reaching past David, he put another log upon the fire and rose to light several more candles. Watching the flames catch upon the wicks, Max reflected upon Bram’s assertion that Astaroth was no demon but something else. It was a disturbing revelation, but it also echoed and reinforced Max’s own hazy misgivings. Other than Bram, Max had spent more time with Astaroth than anyone at Rowan, and there were occasions when he had stared into those merry, black eyes and sensed naught but the void behind them. Prusias could be a bloodthirsty tyrant, but his sensibilities and tastes were far more human. Max was reluctant to admit it, but there had been moments when he’d actually enjoyed the demon’s humor and energetic company. He had never enjoyed Astaroth’s. No matter how courtly or chivalrous Astaroth’s manners may have been, his grinning white face had always seemed an impenetrable mask.

“You claim that Astaroth is the greater threat and I believe you,” said Ms. Richter solemnly. “But you also say that he may lurk for a thousand years and take no action. That is too abstract a problem for our present dilemma. Rowan is threatened now, Archmage. Due to your actions, we have six short weeks to make amends with Prusias or gird for war.”

At this hint of reproach, Bram’s expression hardened into a stone mask. Seconds ticked by slowly. When he finally spoke, the man’s voice was quiet but unyielding.

“I have put you in a hard place,” he acknowledged. “Perhaps I should have consulted you before casting that abomination into the sea. In my outrage, I may have cost Rowan a few days to prepare her defenses. For that I apologize. But let me be clear, Director … Gravenmuir was doomed the moment I saw her. And despite this farce of an overture, Prusias has no intention of sparing Rowan. That was plain when he set the Morrigan blade and my person as conditions for peace. These are the only weapons he fears. If Rowan is foolish enough to weaken herself and surrender these things for a demon’s promise, Prusias will merely laugh and launch his ships.” The Archmage rested his elbows upon his knees and gazed gravely at the Director. “Prusias is coming for Rowan, Gabrielle Richter. The only questions are how soon and whether or not he succeeds.”

Ms. Richter’s cup clattered in its saucer as she set it down.

“I’m well aware of this,” she retorted stiffly. “But we do appreciate you clarifying the key points. I suppose it’s my responsibility as a leader to swallow my pride and glean whatever other insights our exalted Archmage has to offer. He has started a war and has now been kind enough to admit as much. Perhaps he might also suggest a way to win.”

A ghost of a smile flickered in Bram’s pale eyes. He inclined his head. “Well said, Director. But I think it best if I concentrate my energies on Astaroth and leave the defense of Rowan to you and your counselors. I would not wish others to think that the ‘exalted Archmage’ has superseded your authority. And if it’s strategy you desire, my grandson can serve you better than I.”

At Ms. Richter’s invitation, David unfolded from his perch and began to pace back and forth like he often did while deep in thought.

“Prusias has millions; we have thousands,” he mused. “Even if he engages the bulk of his forces against the other kingdoms, he could still dispatch an army to Rowan much larger than anything we can muster. We must do everything we can to delay that outcome for as long as possible—stall negotiations with Naberius, sabotage shipyards in Blys, disrupt his trade, and incite his enemies to attack him.”

“Very sensible,” remarked Ms. Richter smartly. “Many of these initiatives are already in place. In fact, I believe Max has news to report from Zenuvia?”

“I do,” said Max, shoving aside thoughts of Astaroth and the Atropos. “Traveling along its coasts, I heard a very consistent message among the smugglers. It could be false intelligence, of course, but I don’t think so. The rumor is that Lilith opposes Prusias but will not join with Aamon or Rashaverak until battle has begun. Her reasoning is clear enough—given the distance between Zenuvia and Blys, it’s unlikely that Prusias would attack her with a force of any real size until he’s defeated the alliance between the other kingdoms. Should that happen, the queen could claim she never opposed him and sue for better terms. If Aamon and Rashaverak are winning, however, Lilith can join the fray and tip the balance at a critical moment. In either case, she limits her risk and may even be able to seize her allies’ kingdoms should the war cripple them.”

Ms. Richter nodded her approval. “What of our agreements with the Khoreshi smugglers? Are they still in place?”

“For the moment,” Max reported. “But they’re opportunists. Since Gravenmuir, they’ve charged us triple market prices plus hazard freight and compensation for any lost ships. If Rowan goes to war, we should expect those costs to multiply tenfold.”

“Are those prices worth it?” she inquired, arching an eyebrow.

Max considered this. “I think so. As David says, if and when Prusias attacks, we’re likely to face a force much larger than our own. In addition, our own Agents and Mystics will be spread very thin; the majority of our army will consist of refugees who have little to no training. We need that iron ore from the Zenuvian mines. For some reason it’s far more effective on the demons and other spirits. I’ve brought a raw sample to share with dvergar. Perhaps they can replicate its properties. If we can equip the refugees with such weapons, they become much more valuable.”

Ms. Richter made a note within a slim notebook. “And what of the nonhumans? Are any of the goblins and vyes open to discussions?”

“Unclear at this stage.” Max shrugged. “The greedier goblin clans might be, but the language barrier is difficult