Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“Why are you sad?” asked Mina, looking concerned.

“I’m not,” Max insisted, taking a deep breath. “It’s just that this is how I said goodbye to this little guy’s daddy. Does he have a name?”

“ She is called Nox,” corrected Mina.

“The Goddess of Night,” said Ms. Richter. “A fitting name for such a beauty. But should she be away from her mother?”

“They don’t nurse anymore,” replied Mina, scooting between them on the bench. “Nox is a huntress now. She gets all the mice Lila’s too lazy to chase. Just yesterday, she killed a rat that was three times her size!”

“Just like Nick,” said Max, grinning as Nox nipped his finger and grazed his chin with her velvety muzzle.

“She likes you,” Mina observed. “And she doesn’t like anyone else but me. I think you should keep her.”

“I’d like that,” said Max, gently easing the lymrill’s claws away from his neck. “But I’m too busy these days to look after a charge. Nolan will match her with someone else—a younger student.”

“No, he won’t,” said Mina knowingly. “They’ve already tried. Her brothers and sisters have all been matched, but Nox wouldn’t choose anyone.”

“Perhaps she’s chosen you,” suggested Ms. Richter.

“No,” sighed Mina. “I love squirmy little Nox, but she’s not my charge. She’s meant to be with fierce Max. She’s Nick’s last gift.”

Max said nothing but cupped the little creature in his hands. Closing her eyes, Nox retracted her claws and lay on her back, so dark and glossy she might have been a scoop of volcanic glass. From beneath the study’s door, Max glimpsed a faint pulse of light, followed by the sound of heavy boots.

“The Archmage is home!” Mina whispered.

The door opened and Elias Bram walked into the room. His face was ruddy, his gray robes wet and fringed with melting snow as was his tangled beard and crown of curls. He looked like he’d just been out in a heavy blizzard, yet it hadn’t snowed at Rowan in days. Leaning down, he kissed Emer on the forehead and asked Mina what she would be preparing for supper.

“I’m going to make stew!” the girl declared, hopping up from the bench.

“Very good,” said Bram, removing his cloak and tossing it to dry by the fire. “But follow a recipe, child. No more experiments.”

At last the man’s piercing eyes fell on Max and Ms. Richter. He looked briefly from one to the other, as though he’d just registered their presence.

“You’re both here,” he observed. “Well and good. Come in.”

Pushing the door wide, the Archmage beckoned Max and Ms. Richter into his study, a long and cluttered room whose bookcases and tables were laden with manuscripts, odd bits of amber and stone, and what appeared to be the skeleton of a humpbacked homunculus. There were several chairs scattered about, but these, too, were piled high with books and papers. Clearing two of them off with an unceremonious grunt, Bram urged them to sit while he went back out to fetch the tea.

It was only when the Archmage returned and shut the door and settled into another chair that Max experienced the room’s strangeness. Once the door closed, he began to see double. It seemed as though his eyes registered more than a cluttered study, but also an alternate version whose planes were constantly folding and warping to form bizarre, almost incomprehensible spaces as though it were simultaneously collapsing and expanding. The effect was extremely disorienting, and there were instances when Max could have sworn that he was upside down. Apparently, Ms. Richter noticed it, too.

“I wasn’t aware you had configured this room,” she said.

“I haven’t,” replied Bram, gazing about with mild interest. “It’s merely trying to configure and I won’t it allow it to complete the process. This room is more useful to me if it’s dimensionally unstable. But I’m fairly certain Rowan’s Director hasn’t visited to discuss my living quarters. Would you like to tell me why you are here?”

“Are you aware that Astaroth made a proposal to Max?” she asked pointedly.

“I am.”

“And are you aware of its particulars?”

“I think so.”

The Archmage betrayed no surprise or emotion as he answered Ms. Richter’s questions. His face was a mask of granite stoicism.

“Well,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m here to ask if you intend to harm this fine young man.”

Stoicism vanished. The Archmage’s eyes twinkled, as though her frankness amused him.

“I believe the question is whether or not he intends to harm me,” he replied.

“Of course he doesn’t,” snapped Ms. Richter. “This is nothing more than Astaroth’s attempt to sow dissension in our midst. Surely you can see that.”

Turning to Max, Bram calmly appraised him. “I see many things,” he reflected. “And I see not only Astaroth whispering in his ear, but also the Morrígan. The Hound is bound to that perilous blade and she is a part of it. The Morrígan lusts for war; she craves the blood of gods and kings, and she is very strong. Does Max possess the will to resist such powerful voices?”

Even as the Archmage spoke, Max recalled Astaroth’s plying words from the churchyard: He does not love you, Max McDaniels. You frighten him.… Bram knows there will be a day when he cannot stand against 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.”