Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“Today, Rowan enters a new phase of existence—one that embraces the best of her legacy even as she rises up to break new ground. There have been many schools of magic, but Solas was the finest mankind has ever known and its high tower was a symbol for all that could be achieved. Solas may be gone, but Túr an Ghrian shall rise again.”

Following this statement, the Director and scholars and everyone else moved away from David and Mina so that the two were left alone in a broad circle. Max and everyone else watched nervously as Mina approached the cliffs, her Ascendant’s robes trailing her upon the grass. Those who were close enough and at a proper vantage might have seen that the girl was holding a small, charred rock. Given a closer look, some Rowan students might have recognized it as the Founder’s Stone. Normally, the object was hovering behind glass—one of Rowan’s six great treasures. But now it was resting in Mina’s cupped hands as she walked toward the cliffs’ farthest point opposite the Manse. Kissing the stone, she laid it carefully on the ground and walked back to David.

When Rowan’s sorcerer touched his cane to the ground, Max shivered as Old Magic saturated the air and caused it to shimmer. The earth shook and the crowds surged back as a great tower grew around the stone, rising up from the very cliffs where Gràvenmuir had been thrown into the sea. Higher and higher it rose, until the gulls that circled around its gleaming spire were distant white specks. And as the dust settled and the afternoon light turned its pale stone to gold, Ms. Richter announced that Túr an Ghrian—the Tower of the Sun—stood once more.

Back in the Observatory, Max exhaled and sat in his armchair, staring up at the dome’s slowly wheeling constellations. He was no longer wearing ceremonial armor but the simple uniform of the Red Branch and some well-worn boots. From the upper level, he heard a sudden rip of fabric followed by a startled oath. The second tear was more pronounced, as was the swearing. The third tear was longest of all, but no cursing accompanied it. Instead, both halves of David’s ceremonial robes were tossed over the railing. With a sidelong glance, Max watched them float down like two silken streamers.

“Don’t you have to return those?” he called.

“I won’t!” yelled his roommate, now flinging down a starchy shirt and a pair of black socks.

Glancing up, Max saw Rowan’s sorcerer—the very prodigy who had raised Túr an Ghrian—standing at the railing in his underwear. The boy’s face was even paler than usual.

“How much time do we have?”

“They said they’d be here at seven,” replied Max.

With a groan, David disappeared. Two minutes later, he stood at the railing wearing leggings and a blue tunic. Max shook his head.

“You look like a page boy. And those leggings keep no secrets.”

Mortified, David vanished again. He appeared three more times at the railing, but each outfit was even worse than the last. When there was a knock at the door, David gasped and drew the curtain around his bed.

“Keep them busy!” he yelled. “I just need a few minutes.”

Trotting up the stairs, Max opened the door and invited Scathach and Cynthia in. They both looked lovely: Scathach wearing a dark gray dress with a silver belt and Cynthia in her viridian robes with a white daisy in her hair.

“David needs a moment,” said Max, giving them a significant look and leading them downstairs.

“Take your time,” called Cynthia, scrutinizing the remains of David’s robe on the floor. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go to the celebration dinner?”

“Oh no,” wheezed David, evidently straining. “Those formal things are always so stuffy. And you’ll love the Hanged Man! Marta’s been cooking all day to get things ready. Have you ever had sweetbreads? I haven’t, but Marta’s a genius at desserts.”

Cynthia turned pale.

“Hello, Scathach!” called David pleasantly.

“Hello,” she replied, walking around the lower level and gazing about. She stopped at a runeglass case and peered closely at it. “Is this one of those pinlegs Max told me about?”

“Yes,” said David. “I spent so much time with it, I thought I’d hold on to it as a keepsake. I call him Chester. He just seems like a Chester.”

Scathach raised an eyebrow at Chester’s gleaming carapace, lethal pincers, and weakly undulating legs. “And so how did you manage to take control of those dreadnoughts?”

David finally emerged from behind his curtain, having opted for a wooly brown robe from the hamper. He beamed at Cynthia, who smiled weakly and said something about him looking “very comfortable.”

“Oh, Marta doesn’t stand on ceremony,” he replied, standing on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. “Anyway, Scathach, it was really pretty straightforward once I realized that the dreadnoughts had a fatal flaw. The spirits that controlled them were not only relatively weak, but they were also damaged. I no longer required their truenames to unlock them; I just needed enough power to kick down the doors. And Max helped provide it.”

“Fascinating,” said Scathach. “So was that Workshop engineer of any use?”

“Not so much. We could never really unravel all of Chester’s defenses. But in the end it didn’t really matter. Dr. Bechel doesn’t even begrudge the fact that we kidnapped him. In fact, he doesn’t even want to go back home.…”

David trailed off as Max shot him a horrified glance. The boys were silent for several moments before David begged the ladies to make themselves at home. Dinner would have to wait for an hour—maybe two—but he was confident that Marta could adjust. Running up the stairs, David abruptly abandoned their guests and vanished behind his bed curtain.

An hour later, he returned with an outraged smee.

Toby was literally trembling with indignation, twisting about in the sorcerer’s hands to lambast him in a thunderous baritone.

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be forgotten for over a month!” he roared. “To be left shuffling about a house in Blys, masquerading as some crusty engineer while all of Rowan is celebrating in your absence? Well, I can assure you that you’re going to pay for this! The meter’s been running, my friend, and when I factor in the overtime …”

The apoplectic smee was set upon a pillow by the fire, where he continued to seethe and gasp. But at last Toby sighed and fell still. Uncurling his body, he raised his yamlike head to gaze around at the rest of his audience. Pausing at Scathach, the smee cleared his throat and inched forward.

“Who are you, and why haven’t we met before?”

A month later, the Ormenheid lay rolling on the shallows of Rowan Harbor. Compared to Prusias’s war galleons, the Viking ship looked no bigger than a dinghy. While she might have been less imposing, she had her own special gifts. Even as the sun broke the horizon, her dragon prow faced east, her sail magically unfurled, and her oars dipped down into the waters.

Max thought she cut a very noble figure under the mackerel sky, her timbers creaking as the sea lapped his boots with shell and foam. Sloshing past him through the swells, Cooper climbed aboard and beckoned for the others to start passing along the many barrels, sacks, and crates stacked neatly on the beach.

“This is quite the honeymoon,” mused Miss Boon, glancing at her wedding band before heaving a sack of flour into Scathach’s waiting arms. With an indifferent shrug, Scathach swung the flour along the line to Sarah, who passed it to Lucia, who handed it to Max, who tossed it up to Cooper.