In many ways, Mina owed her life to both of the boys. Max had rescued her from the well; David had rescued her from Prusias, smuggling the entire household to Rowan before the demon could harm them. While Mina’s former housemates now attended school with other refugees, her emerging magical talents required a different sort of education.
Apparently this education had already begun. Squirming out of Max’s arms, Mina showed him not only a missing tooth but also her magechain.
“Look at that,” said Max, cooing over the chain along with the departed incisor that had been set to dangle alongside minor feats in Firecraft, Herb Lore, and Illusion. “You’ll be Archmage in no time!”
“That’s what Uncle ’Lias says,” she crowed, her dark eyes flashing with delight. Spinning about on her stocking feet, she laughed and raced back to her seat, anxious to resume her game of marbles.
Until the mention of his name, the gray-robed figure by the fire had resembled one of his own statues, huge and unmoving. But now Elias Bram leaned forward in his wooden chair. His voice was deep, its accent tinged with a faint Irish lilt. “That won’t do, Mina,” he chided softly. “We have company and you must make your leg for the Director. There’s a good girl.”
As Mina stood and made a proper curtsy, Max regarded Bram. Even when sitting quietly in his chair, Elias Bram exuded a gargantuan presence. Max suspected that Bram could sit unannounced among a host of kings and queens and dominate the gathering without ever saying a word.
He was rangy and rawboned with a high forehead, darkly chiseled features, and a beard to match his mane of snarled gray hair. He was physically imposing and seemed to simmer with a quiet, almost feral intensity. Within his pale gray eyes, one sensed an unyielding sense of purpose and conviction. For Max, the combined effect of the man’s legend and individual presence was more than a little frightening. He had not felt anything like it since Astaroth. People would either devote their lives to such a person or seek to tear him limb from limb.
“The ambassador has gone,” said Ms. Richter, brushing a strand of silver hair from her eyes. “He’s returned to his ship to await our answer.”
“An ultimatum, I gather,” Bram muttered, rising to heat some water and retrieve some chairs from his study. When they had been seated, the Archmage stooped to address Mrs. Menlo, who had been sitting mute by the hearth stroking a calico cat. “Hear me, Emer,” Bram murmured, smoothing her gray-blond hair. “Your pa and little David have to speak of serious matters. Take Mina to the Sanctuary to visit our YaYa. There’s to be a Matching this morning and I know you’ll like to see it. I’ll come find you when we’re finished.”
David’s mother blinked and nodded and reached for a nearby shawl.
“Can Lila come?” she wondered, her voice lacking all inflection. She smiled distantly at her father’s response. “Let’s go, Mina,” she called, as though the girl were far away and not already retrieving their shoes. “Let’s visit YaYa and watch the Matching. It will be fun.”
The pair departed, with Mina clutching Mrs. Menlo’s hand as they tottered out, each wrapped in navy cloaks. Cleaning her paws, Lila gazed out the window and seemed to reconsider the excursion. Nudged by Bram, the cat mewed and darted out the door, vanishing with a churlish swish of her tail.
As the water heated, Bram rummaged through various cupboards and retrieved an array of chipped cups, mismatched saucers, and old spoons. He arranged them on a small folding table that doubled as a chessboard. Something about the scene struck Max as odd, and it took a moment for him to realize what it was.
“You’re not using any magic,” he remarked, louder perhaps than he’d intended. Any Second Year apprentice would have been tempted to heat the kettle with a flick of their fingers. Had a Fifth Year been present, there would have been no searching for saucers and cups; they would have flown from the cupboard and stood at attention. And yet here was history’s greatest sorcerer methodically setting out cups and plates like any ordinary host.
“The fire’s hot,” Bram rumbled. “The kettle’s good. The water will boil soon enough. Do you shave with the Morrígan’s blade?”
Max glanced down at the gae bolga. “Of course not.”
“Wise boy,” said Bram. “Simple jobs don’t require dangerous tools. You and David can finish up while the Director shares her news.”
David measured out the tea leaves before grinding coffee for himself. Strong black coffee was his vice of choice, and god help the librarian who tried to confiscate his beloved thermos when David ventured down into the Archives. One could almost trace his studies by the rings left on faded tomes and forbidden grimoires.
“How was Zenuvia?” he whispered, leaning a shoulder into Max.
“Hot,” Max muttered, reaching for the kettle. “But worth it, I think. I’ll tell you more later.”
Serving the drinks, the two boys sat next to each other on the hearth bench while their elders sat facing one another in the chairs. Despite Bram’s attempts to be cordial, Max could tell that Ms. Richter and Miss Boon were nervous.
“Thank you for the tea,” said Ms. Richter, stirring hers pensively. “And thank you for honoring my request not to interfere with this morning’s audience.…”
Bram nodded and sat quietly as the Director recounted the ambassador’s visit, the looming threat of war among the kingdoms, and Prusias’s ultimatum. When Ms. Richter indicated that Elias Bram was to be handed over as Prusias’s final condition, the man remained stoic. The only reaction he offered was a surprised grunt when he learned that Lord Naberius had been the envoy. When Ms. Richter finished, Bram tapped his knee.
“You have not told me all,” he remarked, his soft tone an invitation rather than accusation.
“No,” Ms. Richter confessed, sipping her tea. “I thought it better if we focus on the bigger picture.”
“Better to share everything now,” Bram suggested.
Glancing at Hazel, Ms. Richter detailed Cooper’s unexpected absence from the morning audience.
“And this is out of character?” inquired Bram.
“Very much so,” the Director sighed. “It may be coincidental and it may not. We’ve dispatched another member of the Red Branch to search for him. With any luck, they’ll both be back by nightfall.”
Bram nodded but still looked expectant. “Something else remains. You have saved it for last, Director, because it frightens you.”
Glancing gravely at Max, Ms. Richter cleared her throat. “Prusias has revived the Atropos. They have entered Max’s name into the Grey Book. That is why they are content to seize only his sword; they say he is already dead.…”
Bram’s chair creaked as the big man turned to gaze at Max. “The boy looks alive to me. He is strong and has no family. The Atropos will find him more difficult than most.”
“What are the Atropos?” asked Max, looking to the rest. “I’ve never even heard of them.”
“An ancient assassins’ guild,” answered Ms. Richter. “They take their name from one of the three Moirae—the Greek Fates. Clotho spun the threads of life, and Lachesis measured a length for each man, woman, and child. And when Atropos cut a mortal’s thread, that person’s life was ended.…”
Max laughed. “The Four Kingdoms are riddled with assassins and ‘dark brotherhoods,’ each claiming to be more secretive and deadly than the next. I’ve faced worse, Ms. Richter. Please don’t worry about me.”
“No, Max,” interjected Miss Boon urgently. “She’s absolutely right to be concerned. It’s been centuries since the Atropos were destroyed, and it’s a terrible development if they’ve been revived. At one time, to even mention their name might lead one to the gallows.”