“Is that an edict, Lord Prusias?” asked Ms. Richter.
“An observation.” The demon smiled, returning his attention to the scroll. “The first edict concerns Rowan’s lands, sovereignty, and safety. Rowan shall constitute a fifth kingdom under the reign of Astaroth. Its lands shall range from these shores west to the Appalachian Ridge, north to the Great River, and south to the Algonquin Chesapeake. Within these boundaries, Rowan may govern its own affairs and rule its denizens as it sees fit. No demon lord or aspirant shall invade these lands or harm its inhabitants under pain of death.”
There was a murmur of relieved approval among Rowan’s dignitaries.
“Is our safety guaranteed outside these lands?” asked Ms. Richter.
“Alas,” said Prusias, “our lord shudders at the thought of unreasonable promises. As I said, no demon may wander these lands unbidden, and we shall not make war upon you. If one of your people should leave these borders, they are subject to the whims and fates of the world.”
Max did not like Prusias’s casual shrug or the way the demon’s eyes became blank and unfocused whenever he was interrupted with a question. When considering his response, Prusias also had the habit of smoothing his beard and compulsively wetting his red lips. The effect was a revolting, predatory contrast to his smiles and diplomatic speech.
“We must look after ourselves,” confirmed Ms. Richter. “Please continue.”
“Many inhabitants of Rowan are blessed with mehrùn—the gift of ‘magic,’ in your tongue. As possessors of this gift, many of you may remember the earlier days, and thus you may keep whatever tomes and lore survive the Fading. However, the second edict is this: It is forbidden to transport any book, document, or written word whatsoever beyond the borders of this land. We shall consider the act to be a severe provocation.… Is this understood?”
Ms. Richter nodded like a schoolgirl receiving a strict lecture.
“Excellent,” chuckled Prusias. “Edict three: It is forbidden to teach reading, writing, or history to humans beyond Rowan’s borders.” The demon’s face became grim, and his gaze moved from face to face, lingering among the scholars. “Let me impress upon you the gravity of edict three, my friends. Should you teach reading, writing, or any history whatsoever to any human beyond these borders, the lives of the teacher, pupil, and every human within one hundred leagues may be forfeit. Is this clear?”
A silence ensued.
“We shall consider this,” said Ms. Richter at length. Max had never seen her look more miserable.
“By all means,” said Prusias, resuming his pleasant demeanor. He skimmed the dense parchment until he found his place once again. “Here we are … edict four. While the inhabitants of Rowan are free to live and prosper, its borders are hereby closed. No one shall enter without the explicit approval of our ambassador. Rowan and its representatives are further forbidden to seek other humans who have been born with mehrùn. To do so invalidates this contract.”
“But they’re immortal!” Max hissed to Cooper. “They’ll keep us in here like zoo animals until we’ve all died out and faded to dust.”
Cooper’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing and motioned for Max to be quiet.
“Edict five,” continued Prusias, “concerns the mystic arts of summoning. This branch of mystic study is hereby ended. All works that detail the summoning of demons—of se’írim, shedim, afrit, jinni, ahriman, lilin, marids, asura, devas, daitya, rakshasa, nephilim, vetalas, drudes, imps, and all other absurd names that humans attribute to our kind, including those nobles you have named ‘the Spirits Perilous’—must be removed from your teachings and destroyed. The summoning of demons is hereafter forbidden.”
“But how shall we gain knowledge?” whispered one of the scholars to his neighbor.
Prusias apparently heard this, for he abruptly turned and addressed the mortified speaker. “How, indeed?” he inquired. “I suppose, my friend, that you will have to pry such secrets on your own. You can imagine how tedious it has been for many of my kind to answer your beck and call throughout the centuries and pay in pain for doing so. Scholar, teach thyself!”
Prusias jabbed at the bearded, bespectacled scholar with his ivory cane and chuckled at the joke, but the man squirmed beneath the demon’s penetrating gaze and did not meet it. Max wondered at Prusias’s cane. It seemed a strange prop for one so powerful. Why did Prusias use one? Was it a tool to play upon one’s sympathies? Years ago, a disguised vye had used a cane to deceive Max into believing she was old and feeble. But somehow Max did not think that Prusias’s cane was a ruse. Max recalled Bram’s account: The wretched demon bared his teeth and dragged his limb, swearing vengeance.… Was Prusias still injured from his encounter with Elias Bram? Max turned and gazed at the statue and the wild, glaring face of its subject. Bram had given his life so that the refugees from Solas might survive to found another school. And here was Prusias sitting as plump and pleased as a feasting Falstaff. Max could only imagine Bram’s outrage.
“Our lord has issued edict six in the spirit of lasting peace,” intoned the demon. “Rowan shall not seek revenge upon the witches who, in turn, relinquish any and all claims regarding the contract known as ‘Bram’s Oath.’ This vendetta is over, and the witches have been granted their own lands within Lord Aamon’s kingdom.”
“Very well. And the final edict?” asked Ms. Richter.
“A simple one,” replied Prusias, smiling. “Also in the spirit of peace. Any new inventions, emigration, or interkingdom trade must be submitted, reviewed, and sanctioned by Lord Astaroth’s embassy.”
“And where is this embassy?” asked Ms. Richter.
Prusias stood and stretched, gazing about the campus quad. His eyes finally settled upon the smooth lawn beneath his feet. He tapped the grass gently with his cane.
“Right here should do,” he said, sounding oddly detached. “Yes, upon this very spot.”
The demon rose to his grand height and walked in a slow circle around the cropped grass he had touched with his cane. He appraised it and then glanced at the grounds about them, lingering upon the statue of Bram.
“Upon this very spot,” he whispered again, wetting his lips.
The demon’s gaze locked upon Max as he raised his cane high and then plunged it deep into the soft earth.
A screeching sound tore the air asunder, like lightning striking metal. Along with those around him, Max clapped his hands to his ears and fell back as the ground began to groan and buckle. His chair toppled over, and he found himself scrambling for purchase upon the cool grass, whose substance seemed to sift and change beneath his hands. Where Prusias had struck the ground, Max saw gurgling torrents of crimson blood stream from the soil as though Rowan itself were a writhing, wounded thing. From this spot, this singular point, coursed a wild, jarring force, wave upon wave of Old Magic that issued from the embedded cane like ripples in a pond. These ripples seemed to bend and warp the surrounding earth and air, twisting the elemental matter into a new form.
As Max watched, the grass beneath his fingers turned hard as the blades knitted together, smoothing and receding until they were as marbled stone. The Old Magic within him seemed to claw and twist like a wild animal seeking to escape its cage.
The earth howled and wailed as sheer walls of rock and soil were raised about them, blocking out the night and the moon and Old Tom’s tower. Higher and higher these walls rose, spilling bits of rock and soil as stony tendrils arced to form a sort of rib cage. Vines spilled forth from stone and interwove to form tapestries and paintings; musty toadstools became luxuriant divans; and the tongues of the bonfire were snatched by invisible hands and used to fuel lanterns and candles set within the grottos of what was rapidly becoming the richest, most splendid entry hall Max had ever seen.
Nature’s shrieks and wails died away. The subterranean rumbling subsided to quiet as the hall smoothed its rough edges into crisp, cosmetic perfection. His whole body trembling with energy, Max looked about and sought to ga
uge whether Cooper or Ms. Richter had been similarly affected.
They had not. Instead, this display of Old Magic, this casual gesture of creation, had shocked Rowan’s leadership into gaping silence. Not a protest was uttered. Instead, Ms. Richter and the rest merely craned their necks and stared about a hall whose frescoed ceiling and gilded walls rivaled Versailles’.
Max stared at Prusias, who seemed to sense Max’s gaze and emerged from his heavy-lidded, trancelike state to offer a most unsettling smile. The demon snatched up his cane and rapped it hard upon the marble floor, shattering the eerie silence. Max leaned forward to look for Ms. Kraken. He had once overheard a lecture during which the elderly Mystics instructor had said that the amount of magic needed to create a thing far exceeded the energy required to destroy it. Max could not imagine the stores of magic that Prusias must possess.
Max finally spied Ms. Kraken, whose folding chair had been replaced with an antique settee that she shared with Miss Boon. Both women looked terror-stricken, their bodies leaning away from the demon so that even their feet were curled under them as if the very ground were poison.
Max swallowed. To sit quietly and listen seemed a better option than it had before.
Old Tom struck nine o’clock, and from his seat, Max could see the white clock face, rippled and distorted, through an enormous stained-glass window. Prusias waited out the chimes and bid the grim standard bearers remove themselves to the back of his entourage, which were in turn seated comfortably amid the many chairs and couches. When the chimes ceased, the demon turned to again address Rowan’s representatives.
“I bid you welcome to our embassy,” he said, bowing low. “It shall be named Gràvenmuir—‘the Watcher,’ in your tongue. Here our representatives shall keep a ceaseless vigil on Rowan’s safety, hear whatever petitions may arise, and maintain peace between our kingdoms. I trust you have no objections.”
“No,” said Ms. Richter.
“If I recall correctly, Director, you had expressed some reservations regarding edict three,” said Prusias, leaning forward and wetting his lips. “Do you still require time to consider it, or shall we conclude this business with your signature? Our lord is most insistent about contracts, and I should take it as a personal favor if you would … humor me.” The demon smiled, but his eyes remained unblinking, unfocused.
Ms. Richter turned to her senior advisers—Kraken, Nolan, Vincenti, Watanabe, and others. The careworn replies and nods were unanimous, and Ms. Richter stood to approach Prusias, who held out the scroll expectantly. An imp approached with ink bottle and pen, and the scroll was signed.
“There!” boomed Prusias, snatching the scroll away almost before Ms. Richter had finished. He swiftly rolled it up and tamped it down into its obsidian case. “All finished. My secretary shall provide you with a copy. Now, we may bless this hall—bless Gràvenmuir as we should and celebrate peace between our peoples.”
The demons clapped, the vyes howled, and the ogres roared while creatures—hunched, larval-eyed servants—emerged from a doorway bearing platters of food and flagons of wine. The creatures hurried around, offering joints of beef and mutton and other fare to Rowan’s people, who stood about as awkwardly as students attending their first dance. Max furiously waved away one of the creatures once it had approached him for a second time. As though he sensed a breach of etiquette from afar, Sir Alistair Wesley appeared at Max’s side.
“It’s poor form to refuse food from a host,” the instructor whispered, taking a goose leg from the platter and thrusting it into Max’s hand.
“But I don’t want it,” growled Max.
The smile never left Sir Alistair’s face as he nodded to a passing demonness. “Young man, you will behave yourself. You will eat that goose with relish and you will smile. In other words, you will act like a gentleman and stop endangering our entire community.”
Grimacing, Max sniffed at the goose and managed a peevish bite. With an exasperated sigh, Sir Alistair glided toward several Workshop representatives as though they were dear friends. When Sir Alistair glanced over as though to invite Max to join them, Max stooped quickly on the pretense of tying his shoe. While he crouched, a pair of enormous black boots came to a halt mere inches away. Glancing up, Max saw Prusias towering above him.
“No need to kneel, my boy,” chortled the demon, waving him up.
As Max rose, nearby conversation hushed and then nearly ceased altogether. Up close, Prusias seemed even larger, easily seven feet tall and over half that span across his barrel chest. An enormous hand, laden with heavy gold rings, seized Max’s and shook it. The strength in that grip was terrifying. With a smile, Prusias pulled him closer so that he was nearly pressed against the black brocade of the demon’s tunic. Max felt a terrible, searing heat emanate from the demon’s body, as though beneath his fleshy guise, Prusias was naught but flame. His other hand lifted Max’s chin, forcing him to stare directly into the demon’s face.
“It is most refreshing to meet the ‘unconquered,’ ” said Prusias softly. “I thought I must suffer Alexander’s lament—‘no worlds left,’ and so forth. It is refreshing to discover at least one back that is yet unbowed. Come to Blys, brave Max, and my subjects shall travel for miles to look upon you.”
“At the pillory or the gallows, my lord?” asked Max innocently.
At this grim humor, Prusias laughed—a fine, piratical roar that made his great body shake. Releasing Max’s hand, he smoothed the banded braids in his beard and studied Max’s now-impassive face. Periodic chuckles overcame him like aftershocks, and small, perfect teeth—a child’s teeth—gnawed at the demon’s lips.
“Ah, I like you, Max,” replied the demon, winking. Looking past him, Prusias called jovially to Ms. Kraken and made his way toward her. Despite his smiling air, when Prusias crossed the hall, even the other demons parted, as do lesser fish when a shark glides into their waters.
As Max watched Prusias go, he noticed that many servants among the demons’ entourage were now clearing furniture away from the hall’s center. Silken cushions and bronze braziers were arranged around the perimeter to form a great ring some fifty feet across. When the braziers were lit, Prusias’s voice boomed out with the jesting tones of a ringmaster.
“Gather round!” he said, beckoning. “It is time for us to celebrate this occasion with médim. Please be seated while I acquaint you with its ways.”
Curious, Max watched as everyone present ceased their conversations and moved to claim a place among the cushions. Max took a seat near the back, scooting over as Nigel squeezed in next to him.
“Remember your promise,” Nigel whispered, looking anxious.
Before Max could reply, Prusias extinguished the hall’s many lights with a sweep of his cane. The coal-burning braziers provided the only illumination, and in these dimmer surroundings, the demons’ eyes gave off an eerie gleam. The heavy smell of incense filled the room. Prusias loomed within the circle’s center, and such was his presence that Max almost forgot that he was still at Rowan. The demon seemed not only master of the hall, but of all that might lie beyond it. His deep voice echoed slightly as shadows danced upon the gilded walls.
“Our kind,” he explained, “celebrate gatherings or the settling of disputes with sacred contests that we call médim. With these, we honor the Great Gifts from our Maker and those who have mastered them. The contests of a médim may vary, but they are always chosen from the three great arts—alennya, amann, and ahülmm. In your tongue, these are the arts of beauty, blood, and soul. We begin with alennya. Who shall champion Rowan in music and poetry?”
Prusias waited expectantly while Rowan’s Mystics and Agents glanced anxiously at one another. Several tense moments elapsed before Ms. Richter stood.
“Lord Prusias, we are unfamiliar with these traditions and I daresay we have not designated any champions of such things.”
Several demons audibly scoffed, and Prusias’s expectant grin disappeared.
“This is most unexpected,�
� he replied. “I’d been told you were a cultured people. Is there not a worthy musician among all these assembled mehrùn? If not, I am deeply ashamed for you.…”
The ensuing silence was almost unbearable. Rowan was giving the painful impression that it was not merely uncultured, but cowardly.
“Someone step forward,” Max moaned quietly.
At last someone did. It was Nolan, the man who oversaw Rowan’s Sanctuary, who stood from a group of teachers. As he entered the ring, it was clear that Max was not the only one whose pride had been injured.
“Give me a fiddle and I’ll give you a match!” the man shouted angrily.
Nolan’s spirit was contagious. Mystics and scholars, Agents and teachers all sprang to their feet and roared their support. None clapped or cheered louder than Max.
“Excellent!” crowed Prusias, his disappointment vanishing. “No simpering here—bring this good man a fiddle and let us hear his soul in every note and chord!”
A violin was fetched and Nolan immediately set to testing its strings and tune. There was an intense look of concentration on the man’s weather-beaten face. Once satisfied, Nolan nodded to Prusias, who had settled back onto his cushion. The hall became silent.
Nolan tapped his foot three times and began to play. He’d chosen an old Irish tune and played it as rough and raw as the violin would allow. Faster and faster he sawed at the strings, while Prusias looked on in delight. At last, just when Max feared the strings would snap, the chords converged into a single note of simple, mournful purity. The note held, then trembled, and finally died away.
“Bravo!” thundered Prusias, leading the applause. He strode across to shake Nolan’s hand. Looking spent but proud, Nolan stood aside as Prusias invited his own contestant into the ring.
The demons’ champion was a delicate, fox-faced demonness whose kind was known as kitsune. She wore a red kimono and seemed to glide to a gilded chair that had been set in the center of the ring. A vye brought forth an unfamiliar instrument. It was akin to a standing bass, but taller and more slender. While the vye set it into a stand, the kitsune flexed and stretched her long, slender fingers. There was something peculiar about her hands, and Max gasped.
The Fiend and the Forge Page 8
