As he rounded a tower’s remains to head for Westgate, Max reined the horse to a halt as a family passed by. The father was laughing, holding the hand of one child while his wife tried to corral an escaped toddler who was stumbling after some giggling lutins. Max watched them go and was about to urge the horse onward when a rider caught his eye. Gazing up, Max saw Scathach coming toward him.
She was on a different horse and looked wearier than he’d ever seen her, but when their eyes met, the maiden smiled and stood tall in her stirrups. Max’s sorrow and dread evaporated. He had never felt such a rush of pure, unmitigated joy. All pain was forgotten as he shook the reins and wheeled his horse toward her. He called her name, grinning wildly and urging his horse into a trot.
As they closed, Max heard someone behind cry out his name. He had no intention of stopping, until the person yelled again with such terrible urgency he could not ignore it. Stopping, he turned around to see someone tearing through the crowds after him. As the person raced past the family, Max finally glimpsed her face.
The person was Scathach.
“Morkün i-tolvatha!”
Even as Max heard those terrible words, he realized his folly. Whipping back around, Max merely glimpsed Scathach’s smiling imposter as the mounted assassin swung the blade meant to decapitate him.
With a deafening roar, a huge black blur crashed in from the side.
Max was merely knocked off his startled horse, but the false Scathach was nearly pulverized as YaYa took her to the ground in a furious assault. Arms and legs were pinned instantly. There was a popping of blistering flesh and a piercing, ungodly scream came from the assassin’s throat. Max had never seen YaYa so enraged; the ki-rin was shaking violently, her jaws slavering mere inches from Scathach’s terrified face.
Already that face was changing. William Cooper’s own rough, brutal features were emerging as though YaYa were drawing them forth. The Agent’s eyes were black as pitch, his skin cadaverously pale. There were more popping sounds as smoke billowed off of the man’s body. Cooper screamed again as though he were being burned at the stake. With furious effort, he tried to writhe free, but the ki-rin was much too strong.
The real Scathach’s arms gently closed about Max’s shoulders as she crouched behind him.
“YaYa’s killing him,” Max said, utterly stunned and horrified by the scene.
“No,” Scathach whispered, holding him close. “She’s saving him.”
Max was not so certain. YaYa’s teeth were bared, and she was growling with such ferocity that she looked capable of suddenly tearing out Cooper’s throat. The man had ceased struggling and now merely offered a bloody smile.
“Go ahead!” he goaded. “There’s always another—”
With another roar, YaYa impaled him.
When her horn pierced his shoulder, Cooper’s scream was like nothing Max had ever heard before. Nearby spectators covered their ears and drew away. Fiery symbols erupted on Cooper’s skin, evil runes and symbols Max had glimpsed in David’s grimoires. Cooper was weeping now, pleading with the ki-rin to simply kill him.
But YaYa was unmoved.
At last Cooper’s screams and pleas ceased. He simply lay still on the wet grass and took slow, sputtering breaths while smoke hissed and crackled about the ki-rin’s broken horn. As the fiery symbols faded, Cooper’s eyes returned to their clear, pale blue. His hand twitched, and YaYa raised her bleeding foreleg to release it. Tears ran down the man’s scarred, ruined face as he stroked the ki-rin’s muzzle. His voice was barely audible.
“Tell them I’m sorry.”
When he closed his eyes, YaYa slowly withdrew her horn from his shoulder.
“Is he dead?” Max asked, clutching Scathach’s hand.
Dipping her head, YaYa nuzzled Cooper’s face. “He is at peace.”
~ 19 ~
Túr an Ghrian
Three weeks had passed when Max and Scathach met for a walk one morning beyond Northgate. His broken shin had healed in a matter of days, but Max had not returned to this place since the night of Rowan’s victory. He could hardly believe the transformation that was under way. The toppled walls and towers had been cleared away; the blood-churned fields had been tilled and smoothed. Scaffolding surrounded new tower sites and the cool April air was rich with the smell of wet soil, new turf, and budding branches. Max smiled at the sound of saws and hammers, the whinny of horses, and the chirping of innumerable birds as spring chased away the last remnants of winter.
But these were not the most notable changes to the landscape. That distinction belonged to the thousands of small white obelisks spaced in perfect rows. Now and again, he simply stopped to gaze at them, overwhelmed by their simple beauty and the sacrifice that each represented.
“People are calling it Hound’s Trench,” said Scathach, gesturing at the chasm just beyond them, the very chasm Max had made.
He stared at the great gorge, at its blackened edges and raw, jagged contours. Nothing would ever grow there; that part of the earth was dead forever.
Max shook his head. “I wish they wouldn’t do that,” he muttered. “It’s an ugly name, an ugly thing. I wish the gravestones weren’t so close to it. They shouldn’t be near anything like that.”
“I don’t see it that way,” replied Scathach, taking his arm. “These people drew a line in the sand, sharpened their swords, and kept a terrible foe at bay. Not one enemy set foot in Old College. Centuries from now, people will visit these graves, see that chasm, and know that heroes are buried here.”
Far too many heroes, thought Max. For the rest of the morning, they walked along the rows and looked at the names the Mystics had carved in clean white granite. Most were strangers, but now and again Max came upon a name he recognized. And, of course, there were some that brought him to a solemn halt. These names were not a surprise—he’d already heard of their passing and mourned them—but it was a strange jolt to see them etched with such terrible, beautiful permanence. Whenever Max came upon one, he touched the obelisk and spoke their name aloud: John Buckley, Rowan Academy, Sixth Year; Jesse Chu, Rowan Academy, Fifth Year; Laurence M. Renard, Senior Instructor; Annika Kraken, Department Chair of Mystics.…
Each sounded a different note in his soul. Max was almost surprised to find how deeply Ms. Kraken’s death had moved him. Apparently, she had cast such a powerful spell beyond Southgate that it destroyed her along with many of the Enemy and their battering ram. Max recalled the huge explosion he had glimpsed in that vicinity while YaYa was galloping over the sea. He wondered if that had been Ms. Kraken’s doing. She had always seemed such a cranky old shrew, the kind of teacher students dreaded to encounter in a hallway much less an exam room. But the woman had also been an institution, an academic rite of passage that had challenged and galvanized Rowan students for over sixty years. The school would not be the same without her.
But it was not Ms. Kraken’s memorial that brought a tear to Max’s eye. It was another set at the far end of a row near the sea and the beginnings of a flowerbed. The earth around the marker was trampled and its obelisk was far dirtier than most. Max smiled to see the varied prints in the grass and the unmistakable mark of a muddy paw above the man’s name.
GREGORY WYATT NOLAN HEAD OF GROUNDS
Max did not know the details of Nolan’s death. He didn’t want to. It was enough to know that the man had volunteered to serve along the outer walls and that he had died while doing so. Nolan had spent much of his life looking after Rowan’s weakest, most vulnerable creatures. Most often these had been charges, but sometimes they were students, too. The man had a talent for putting others at ease and making them feel welcome. There simply weren’t enough people like that in the world.