Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“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.”

“You mean Remus … as in Romulus and Remus?” wondered Sarah. “The babies who nursed from a wolf?”

“Not a wolf,” Max corrected. “A wild spirit in the guise of a wolf. The Elder Vyes go back a long time. The goblins steered clear of them. They can use magic. The ones I met were almost admitted to Rowan until the Potentials test revealed what they were.”

“Pshaw!” scoffed Lucia. “How could a vye attend Rowan? And besides, my Connor would never have anything to do with such vile creatures.”

“I don’t know, Lucia,” Max mused. “If you heard Nix and Valya talk about their lives on the run from Agents, you might think differently. In any case, not all vyes are evil. Nix and Valya certainly weren’t. And in his new life, Connor might have encountered quite a few.”

“Why do you think Connor would want us to seek them?” whispered Cynthia, beckoning for the letter.

“Perhaps he’s met some and thinks they can help us,” reflected David. “After all, I don’t think the vyes are happy that they’ve been pushed aside by the demons. Elder Vyes are an old legend at Rowan. During the eighteenth century, a group of Agents based in Prague argued that they existed in larger numbers than anyone imagined. They theorized that the Elders had started their own schools of magic and might have even infiltrated our ranks.”

“So what came of those theories?” asked Sarah.

“Nothing.” David shrugged, flagging down a waiter for coffee. “Some investigations, a few minor discoveries in Eastern Europe and central Asia, but nothing to suggest a population of real scale or significance. Maybe Connor’s found something.…”

Max was going to respond when he noticed a number of hushed and urgent conversations taking place throughout the dining room. Several tables called for the maître d’, quickly settling their checks and gathering their things. In the corner, a faun was playing a sonata upon a grand piano, its soothing melodies strangely out of sync with the rushed and hurried departures.

“What’s going on?” asked Cynthia, putting the letter aside.

“I don’t know,” said Max, just as a waiter set down an ice bucket and a bottle of champagne. “What’s this?”

“The sommelier has finally come to his senses!” declared Lucia.

“Compliments of the lady in red,” announced the waiter, popping the cork and pouring five crystal flutes. “She would like a word when Master McDaniels has a moment.”

Scanning the room, Max spied a splash of scarlet and found that Madam Petra was leaning casually back and observing them.

The smuggler was wearing an embroidered gown of brilliant red silk along with a creamy stole of arctic mink. Her hair was up and adorned with an obscenely large jewel she had not possessed when she’d arrived at Rowan. Her companion was a well-dressed portly man who exuded a jowly air of self-importance. Max recognized him at once; he had been a wealthy industrialist before Astaroth’s rise to power. Inclining her head, Madam Petra gave a knowing smile and raised her glass.

“Who is that?” asked Lucia suspiciously.

“I told you about her,” hissed Cynthia. “That’s Petra Kosa. She came back with Max and David.”

“She’s very pretty,” Lucia said with the steely, subdued air of a competitor.

Max slid out of his seat. “I’d better see what she wants.”

Taking his champagne, he walked over to the table and gazed down at the smuggler, who smiled and sank down luxuriantly into her stole.

“Max,” she cooed, “meet Victor. In our former lives, he was a somebody . I’m happy to say he still is. He’s been helping Katarina and me get settled after our harrowing arrival. Victor, this is Max McDaniels.”

The man grunted, but his eyes never left Madam Petra.

“I’m glad to see that you and David are keeping a cool head, my dear,” she observed. “It would seem the news has everyone else in a panic.”

“What news?”

The smuggler gave him a skeptical look over the rim of her wineglass.

“You honestly don’t know?” she asked, sounding pleasantly surprised.

The industrialist grimaced, swirling and staring at his port as though it held his fortune.

“Prusias has won, boy,” he declared flatly. “Devoured Aamon and executed all of his officers. Rashaverak’s to surrender tomorrow. Lilith’s already sworn fealty.”

Max glanced about the nearly empty restaurant. “So that means—”

“War.”

The word rolled off Madam Petra’s tongue like some dark prophecy. The industrialist stood and pulled out her chair. With a wistful smile, the smuggler stood and clinked glasses with Max.

“Savor the champagne, my dear. You might not taste any for a very long time.”

War was declared the next afternoon.

No grand gestures accompanied the news. There were no crowds or trumpets or defiant proclamations. Hostilities were announced with no more than a letter. The Director delivered it herself to Lord Naberius’s ship, descending the cliffs alone and bracing herself against the ocean gales as she walked the long dock. One of the ambassador’s servants accepted the slim envelope and brought it inside. Within the hour, the sinister black xebec weighed anchor and sailed out of Rowan Harbor, navigating around Gràvenmuir’s treacherous remains.

The rejection of Prusias’s demands triggered a firestorm of controversy. Many labeled the Director a fool; others questioned her authority to make such a monumental decision. She was skewered in the press and hanged in effigy by frightened mobs that marched upon the Manse demanding explanations. Ms. Richter met them on the steps and calmly explained that Rowan was a haven for free peoples and that it would fight for that freedom. Any who lacked the necessary courage or conviction to make such a stand was welcome to leave. The choice was theirs.

In the weeks that followed, thousands took the Director at her word, packing their families and possessions onto carts and wagons and heading west into the continent’s vast interior. Max was not sorry to see them go. With war on the horizon, Rowan would face her greatest challenge; she needed stalwart volunteers, not halfhearted conscripts.

This very thought occurred to Max very early one February morning as he hurried across the campus. Some hundred yards ahead, a lone wagon was making its way down a cobbled lane toward Rowan’s massive Southgate. Skulking out while everyone’s asleep , Max mused, eyeing a lean man walking alongside the horse. When the wagon passed beneath a streetlamp, the eerie light illuminated a blond and familiar head. Max quickened his pace.

“Nigel!”

Halting, Nigel Bristow turned and peered back through the murk. When he saw who it was, Max’s old recruiter smiled and shook him warmly by the hand, standing aside so Max could say hello to Emily Bristow and their toddler, Emma. The pair was sitting in the wagon’s driver’s seat, bundled up against the chill.