Henry Neff: The Maelstrom

“Greetings from Blys, Madam Director,” said the voice. “I am honored so many should attend this audience, but I had hoped for a more private discussion.”

“They would hear Prusias’s words and I would hear their counsel,” said Ms. Richter.

The litter’s drapes stirred as though something huge had turned or shifted within.

“There is one here who has waged open war against my king and violated every term of the peace,” the ambassador observed coldly. “It grieves me to see the Hound present, much less in a place of honor. Is this an insult? Or an oversight?”

“Neither,” replied Ms. Richter. “Max McDaniels knows the King of Blys well. He has been a guest in Prusias’s palace and his dungeons. Who better to hear your lord’s words and judge them? And if we speak of insults, what are we to make of an ambassador who addresses this court from behind glass and curtains?”

“The runeglass is a necessary precaution,” sniffed the demon. “These shores have grown inhospitable to my kind.” This was most certainly true. Since the events of Walpurgisnacht, many more rowan trees had been planted along the cliffs, as had whole gardens of the otherworldly flowers called blood petals. The former were merely an irritation to evil spirits, but the latter were dangerous. “These drapes are merely meant as a courtesy,” Naberius continued. “My form is not fair to mortals.”

“We will not be swayed by a pretty face,” remarked Ms. Richter.

“That is just what Prusias said when I urged him to send a fairer emissary,” laughed the demon. “My king has every faith in your sound judgment, Madam Director. He knows that Rowan and Blys shall enjoy a long and prosperous friendship once we address the unpleasant matter of your rebellion.”

“Against whom has Rowan rebelled?” inquired Ms. Richter frankly.

“Are you speaking in earnest?”

“Always.”

The demon began to chuckle. Those from Rowan watched uneasily as strange forms pressed and flopped repulsively against the runeglass, obscured by the purple silks. It looked as though some giant octopus sought to escape an undersized aquarium. The curtains were thrust aside and several of the scholars gasped.

There was no visible connection between the thing behind the glass and its honeyed voice. How such an alien form produced the necessary sounds was a mystery. The ambassador’s head resembled an ancient and sickly vulture that had been skinned and endowed with the large and multifaceted eyes of an insect. Perched atop a long, glutinous neck, the head swayed like a serpent’s behind the runeglass. While Naberius surveyed the hall, his pale, larval body slowly slid about the glassed interior, oozing pus upon his nest of scarlet cushions and blankets of golden samite.

“Let us review history,” he said, his throat pulsing with each syllable. “Two years ago, you signed a treaty, Gabrielle Richter. In exchange for Rowan’s peaceful independence, you agreed to abide by Astaroth’s edicts and look to your own affairs and people. Do I misspeak?”

“No,” replied Ms. Richter. “As you say, I was there.”

“Very good,” said Naberius. “But despite these generous terms, Rowan has violated almost every provision of the accord. We know that you have been consorting with humans beyond your borders, teaching them to read, recruiting the mèhrun among them, and permitting them to settle your lands. Each of these activities is strictly forbidden by the treaty you signed, Madam Director.…” The demon cocked his head at the Director, allowing the charges to resonate. “But King Prusias appreciates that humans are more sentimental than daemona. My lord admires this trait, as he admires so much about your kind. Had the transgressions stopped there, he might have been moved to overlook them in his desire to keep the peace. But as we know, the transgressions did not stop.…”

“Please continue,” said Ms. Richter, folding her hands beneath her chin. Her expression was open and thoughtful, as though she were listening to charges levied against someone else.

“You have attacked my king, murdered his vassals, and destroyed our embassy,” the ambassador seethed, heaving his body forward so that its bulk flattened against the runeglass in a white, corpulent smear. His hideous head loomed and swayed above them. “Rowan’s provocations have been so brazen that news of my impending visit nearly triggered an uprising in Blys. The braymas are howling for war, not diplomacy. They want your head, Madam Director, along with those of every man, woman, and child within this realm.”

“What is stopping them?” inquired Ms. Richter calmly, meeting the ambassador’s gaze.

“Prusias,” replied Naberius, his voice softening. He eased away from the glass, settling back down onto his cushions. “It is my king—wronged and wounded Prusias—who stands between you and annihilation. Despite Rowan’s recent madness, he would still extend an olive branch. Provided she makes amends …”

“That is very generous of him,” said Ms. Richter. “What terms would he require?”

“There are but three,” replied the demon. “Rowan shall swear everlasting fealty to Prusias. Rowan shall rebuild Gràvenmuir. And Rowan shall deliver both Elias Bram and the Hound’s sword to my king’s keeping.”

“Just the sword?” wondered Ms. Richter. “Not its owner?”

“The Hound himself is of no consequence,” said the ambassador, coldly eyeing Max. “The Atropos have already cut his thread and entered his name in the Grey Book. He is already dead. King Prusias requires only his blasphemous sword as the final proof of your allegiance.”

Throughout this chilling interlude, Max betrayed no emotion. He had never heard of any Atropos or an ominous Grey Book, but it was clear that Ms. Richter had. Her self-control was excellent, but Max was sitting right beside her. At mention of the Atropos, her face lost some of its color.

“What have you to say?” inquired Lord Naberius. “Will Rowan join with Prusias and help him bring peace to the realms?”

“You have spoken plainly,” replied the Director, “so I will do the same. If Rowan had committed the treasons of which you speak, I might be more amenable to your terms. But these attacks you mention and Gràvenmuir’s destruction were committed without Rowan’s blessing or knowledge.”

A long silence ensued while the ambassador circled slowly about the palanquin. His glittering amethyst eyes never left Ms. Richter’s. When at last he spoke, his throat flushed an angry crimson.

“The Hound sits at your right hand and you have the impudence to deny Rowan’s treason!”

“It is truth,” the Director replied, spreading her hands. “Almost two years ago, Max McDaniels left these shores, sailed to your lands, and lived quietly in the countryside. He might still be doing so had your king not found him and pressed him into service. Did Prusias not proclaim Max the Champion of Blys in his very own arena? If Blys’s own champion has attacked its ruler, it would seem an internal matter for your kingdom. It is hardly Rowan’s treason.”

“What of David Menlo, then?” demanded the ambassador. “Do you deny that he orchestrated the events on Walpurgisnacht? Do you deny that he poisoned Astaroth?”

“Another curious charge,” Ms. Richter observed. “David Menlo was expelled from this school for insubordination long before Walpurgisnacht. We reported this to Gràvenmuir and subsequently declared the Little Sorcerer an outlaw. Furthermore, David Menlo did not poison anyone. Astaroth willingly consumed the boy’s potions before his entire court after demonstrating their considerable danger. Tell me, ambassador, if I seize your blade, praise its edge, and cut my throat, should Rowan hold you responsible?”