The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  “It’s only politics,” David reminded him. “I’m not selling my soul. As Director, I’m happy to speak with anyone—friend or foe—to advance our cause. I don’t pretend that Lilith harbors any love for Rowan. But I also don’t pretend that we can afford to ignore potential allies. Lilith could help tip the balance in this war. So could the Elder vyes. So could the Workshop or the witches. Rowan cannot win this war alone—particularly when we can’t count upon you to aid in the fighting.”

  “I’ve already done too much,” said Bram heavily. “Destroying those Workshop creatures weakened me. I’ve not spent so much energy since Solas fell. I can perform some minor magics, but it will be many months until I am myself again.”

  “Can you still teleport?” asked David, keenly aware that research into Astaroth’s origins depended heavily on this rarest of abilities.

  “Occasionally,” Bram replied, pouring himself the remains from David’s coffeepot. “Usually when I’m touching Mina’s dragon.”

  “Ember strengthens your magic?”

  Bram nodded. “When one’s near him—if he allows one near him—you can feel the Old Magic. It saturates the air. Ember’s no mere wyrm, but a true dragon. A stormdrake I think, for the elements seem to obey him. There is no snow on Túr an Ghrian when he is there and the flowers bloom when he slithers through its gardens.”

  “How big is he now?”

  Bram considered. “Two hundred feet. Maybe more. Within a year or two, he’ll measure thrice that. The oldest dragons stretched across entire river valleys and slumbered for centuries between feedings. Someday, I suspect, Ember will be such a one, but not for many years.”

  “Is he a danger to Rowan?” asked David seriously.

  “Not so long as Mina is nearby. In any case, Ember has no interest in humans as food. Unless he was provoked, I think there’s little danger.”

  “If he can control the weather, maybe he can help us,” David mused. “Do you think he would?”

  “You’d have to ask Mina,” said Bram. “The dragon won’t obey anyone else. She’s using Ember to help control the Sanctuary’s weather and ensure a harvest. And it doesn’t hurt to have a dragon at Rowan when its armed strength is elsewhere. If you use Ember for the siege of Blys, Rowan might become vulnerable.”

  I don’t need Ember for the sack of Blys, thought David. I just need him to escort the fleet as closely as possible. He glanced at his trunk. Could we teleport Ember here? He’d never fit in the trunk, of course. Perhaps we could make him smaller. David was an exceedingly gifted alchemist. He could brew a potion to change the size of most creatures, but he suspected dragons were impervious to conventional magic. There was much written about true dragons such as Typhon, Tiamat, and Yamata no Orochi, but few scholarly works about their biology or powers. Those who tried to study them were generally eaten or incinerated. David imagined that true dragons had much in common with humans like himself—the Old Magic within them made their capabilities wildly diverse and unpredictable. Still, a trip to Rowan would be in order.

  “Fair points,” David conceded. “I’ll take it up with Mina. But first I want to know why you’re here. Hopefully it wasn’t just to spy on me.”

  “No,” said Bram. “It was to ask for your help. I have been trying to locate Yaro.”

  “The other imp who served Astaroth. The imp Lord Salisbury mentioned.”

  David had not forgotten their interview with Lord Salisbury before Prusias’s attack on the fleet. The news that Astaroth had once used an imp other than Mr. Sikes was a significant finding.

  “Aye,” said Bram. “Mr. Sikes is untouchable, but Astaroth released Yaro from bondage and I doubt very much he was granted koukerros. Yaro may know little of Astaroth’s true past, but he is an important piece of the puzzle. Without a fuller picture of Astaroth’s origins, it will be very difficult to discover his truename or the means to destroy him.”

  “How are you going to find Yaro?”

  “With this,” said Bram. From his pocket, the Archmage produced a ring of brass and iron with a faded hexagram on its face. David recognized it at once.

  “The Seal of Solomon,” he breathed. “It’s been lost for two thousand years. How did you get it?”

  “Many rumors about this ring are false,” Bram replied. “It has been accounted for up until it came into my possession almost four hundred years ago. Djinn summoned by this ring laid the foundations of Túr an Ghrian at Solas. Since those days, the seal has been passed secretly to the Archmage whenever a new one was named. I cast it away when Solas fell lest Astaroth come to possess it. It has not been easy to find, but I have recovered it at last.”

  “What does it do exactly? The legends are vague.”

  “Its powers are many,” Bram answered. “Those who wear it will find they can perceive spirits, understand them, and even command those of lesser stature. If a sorcerer wears the ring, however, its true potency is realized. While wearing the Seal of Solomon, you will be able to summon and master all but the greatest spirits without bothering with inscriptions and truenames.”

  “That’s rather useful,” said David.

  “Indeed,” said his grandfather. “But like any powerful item, it has its dangers. Demons and spirits hate the Seal and the one who wears it. And the ring’s power is a temptation unto itself. King Solomon was uncommonly wise and possessed considerable restraint. He never abused the ring. I do not have his gifts, however. For me, the ring proved too enticing.”

  “How did you use it?”

  “Very poorly,” Bram muttered. “Not at first, of course. At first, I used it sparingly and only to serve the public good when I’d exhausted other means. But soon I found myself using it in other ways—to serve my vanity, to assert my superiority, and to acquire things that did not belong to me. In short, I used it for evil.”

  David looked hard at Bram. “Did you use it to win Brigit’s hand?”

  While his grandfather’s courting of Brigit was a popular legend, David had heard a darker version. In that tale, Elias Bram had not been a dashing suitor defying death for the woman he loved. Instead, he had been an arrogant, selfish man who could not stomach that his friend, Marley Augur, had found love before he did. Allegedly, Bram had threatened the woman’s father into naming a price for her hand—a price only he could meet.

  David’s question brought a flicker of pain to Bram’s face. “Aye,” he confessed. “Solomon’s Seal helped me complete the tasks set by Brigit’s father as conditions to wed her. It is the great shame of my life. I betrayed my closest friend and forced a woman who did not love me into marriage. You heard the tale from Astaroth I suppose.”

  David nodded. “He told Max. Max told me. Did Brigit ever grow to love you?”

  His grandfather said nothing for some time. When at last he spoke, his voice was clear but measured.

  “I believe so. Your grandmother was not one to hide her true feelings. She despised me when we were married—would not even look at me much less share my bed. But I was patient. Over time, I think she came to believe that it was her purpose to make me a better man and steward of the powers I’d been given. Our marriage had poisoned roots, but it found a way to grow and even blossom in its own peculiar way. Without her, there’s no telling what I might have become. She saved me.”

  “I guess legends aren’t always true.”

  “No,” said Bram. “It’s always dangerous to meet one’s heroes. We want them to be perfect, but of course they’re riddled with flaws—larger flaws, for they’re cast from larger molds. It took me decades to acknowledge my limitations and fallibility. You are much farther along that path than I am. Despite my criticisms earlier, I have great faith in your judgment. If I didn’t, I would not do this.”

  Bram handed his grandson the Seal of Solomon. The ring was surprisingly heavy and warm as David hefted it. He feared it would be too big, but once he slipped the ring over his finger, it contracted to a comfortable and pleasing fit. A tingling warmth traveled up his hand and a
rm and spread throughout his body.

  “I like this ring,” he remarked.

  “Good. I would like you to summon Yaro with it,” said Bram. “Astaroth knows I am weakened, David. He is hunting me. Twice now, I’ve barely escaped him and dare not travel through Nether until I am recovered. In the meantime, I must conserve and rebuild my energies. Even at Túr an Ghrian—even under Mina and Ember’s protection—I am in danger. The ring is useful for my quest, but I do not trust myself to use it. I know from experience its powers are too great a temptation. And thus I pass it along to a worthier keeper and ask you to call upon Yaro. I do not have the strength to do so without the ring and it is important that you hear whatever information Yaro may have. My quest may ultimately fall to you. We must stop Astaroth before he does something far more drastic than this unholy winter.”

  “I understand,” said David. “I’ll try to contact Yaro. Do you want to stay or would it be safer for you to return to Rowan? You can use the trunk.”

  “No, I want to hear Yaro for myself. I will observe in a different form.”

  “Will that weaken you further?”

  Bram chuckled. “I’ve changed shape so often it requires very little of me. It’s more of an instinct than spellwork.”

  “Very well,” said David. “Does the ring require me to do anything specific? Any special words or incantations?”

  “Merely concentrate on the spirit you wish and say its name. The ring will do the rest.”

  With a soft exhale, Bram changed into a gray spider smaller than a fingernail. It crawled up the trunk and slipped within the keyhole, turning about so that tiny eyes peered out from within its shadow. Stepping to the tent’s entrance, David set a ward upon it that would prevent anyone from entering.

  Once all was ready, he settled into a comfortable chair, ran his finger over the face of Solomon’s ring, and focused his mind on his objective.

  “Yaro,” he said softly. “The Seal of Solomon commands your presence.”

  A tall slab of worn and weathered stone materialized several feet away. It wobbled a moment before falling ponderously over and chipping a corner. Rising from his chair, David stared down at it.

  It was an ancient headstone whose faded inscription was topped by a sightless green man disgorging leaves and fruit from its fearful grimace. While David could make out a few words in Latin, the letters were shallow and worn, so it was difficult to make out much else. From its lichen-mottled mouth issued a dry, creaking voice.

  “Yaro is here.”

  “Yaro who once served Astaroth,” David confirmed, inwardly amazed by the ring’s power.

  “Astaroth and Taluman, Bankou and Phyrael, Malah and Allu. They are one and the same. I served him longest and in all his names and forms.”

  “And yet here you are,” David observed. “Bound in a headstone. Did Astaroth confine you here?”

  “It was Sikes. Mad and jealous Sikes. Curse him for eternity!”

  “I want to know everything from the beginning,” said David. “When and how did you come to serve the spirit now known as Astaroth?”

  “It began in Jericho,” Yaro answered. “At the time I served a human, a trifling magician. In the marketplace, he purchased a scroll from a hooded stranger—a foreigner by his speech—who spoke of a mighty spirit that could be called if one knew the proper words. I warned my master of the dangers, but he would not listen. He yearned for power. He called upon the spirit that very night.”

  “And Astaroth came?”

  “Allu,” hissed the green man. “He was Allu then. He wore the same robes the foreigner had been wearing, but when the hood was drawn back, there was no proper face. There was only a mouth. When my master beheld what he’d called, when he saw it step beyond the useless inscriptions, he fell to the floor and covered his eyes. I could only watch as Allu consumed my master and then his slaves, one by one.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “Allu wanted an interpreter. He needed someone to teach him the ways of men and daemona, for he was still a stranger here and wont to make mistakes in his speech or habits.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “I had never been in the presence of such power. I could only obey.”

  “So what is he, Yaro?” asked David. “Where does he come from?”

  “From Outside,” intoned the green man. “It comes from beyond the stars, beyond the veil, beyond Nether and the Void. It is not alive or dead, male or female, young or old. Its masters slide over us and under us and through us, but they lie beyond infinity.”

  David’s pulse quickened. “Astaroth’s masters?”

  “Yes,” Yaro hissed. “Old gods. Starving Gods that ruled a dying universe. That is all that Allu told me. He shared more with that treacherous mortal Sikes.”

  David looked sharply at the blank, haunting eyes of the green man.

  “What do you mean, Sikes is mortal? He’s an imp.”

  “No,” intoned the headstone. “Sikes was mortal once, a son of Egypt himself.”

  “Egypt himself,” David repeated. “You mean Sikes was the son of a pharaoh?”

  “Yes. He was Neheb then—youngest son of Nectanebo II, last of the Egyptian pharaohs.”

  “How did he become an imp?”

  “The only way a mortal can.”

  “Murder?” said David.

  “As you say. I am forbidden to speak of his crimes. But Neheb can tell you. Neheb can tell you of the Starving Gods and their servant’s truename. It was Neheb Astaroth loved. It was Neheb whom he trusted. Neheb holds the answers you seek.”

  “Sikes, you mean,” said David.

  “Neheb.”

  “They’re one and the same.”

  “Those who commit crimes against the gods cannot escape their punishments,” whispered Yaro. “Sikes may live free, but Neheb lies with the damned. And there, there may he rot until the Judgment!”

  As these last words were shrieked, the green man’s face split asunder and the headstone split down its center. The smell of brimstone filled the air, burning David’s nose as he crouched and examined the broken pieces. There was no trace of Yaro and no answer when David tried calling him again. The imp simply was no more.

  “He’s gone,” said David, turning to the trunk.

  The spider was already crawling from the keyhole to the floor. In a blur of metamorphosis, it became the Archmage. Crouching next to David, he plucked up half the green man’s face.

  “Very peculiar,” said Bram. “I’ve never seen anything like that before. It seems that Yaro triggered a powerful curse.”

  “A geis?” asked David.

  “Geasa don’t work instantaneously,” said Bram. “Very strange. It’s all very strange. It fairly reeks of a trap.”

  David nodded. “If Astaroth wants to hide his origins, why would he allow Yaro to live?”

  Bram frowned and studied the piece of fractured stone as he handled it. “It’s hard to say. Yaro served Astaroth for thousands of years. He might have been spared out of gratitude or to fulfill a promise. But of course Yaro might have been left alive for a more nefarious purpose. Astaroth is cunning. It’s not inconceivable that he would use Yaro to set a trap for anyone who was prying into his origins.”

  “So, you’re confident this Neheb really existed and that he became Mr. Sikes?”

  “Yes,” said Bram. “Spirits called by Solomon’s Seal cannot lie to its bearer. They are bound to truth—or what they accept as truth. Yaro believed that Astaroth hails from another universe, that he served these ‘Starving Gods,’ and that Neheb knows important information. Of that I’m certain.”

  David frowned. “I don’t like it one bit. Yaro introduced this Neheb, suggested he knew Astaroth’s truename, hinted where we might find him, and promptly vanished. That’s a baited hook.”

  “Aye,” said Bram. “But it’s bait we may have to take. We can’t afford to ignore such information. I will verify what I can, of course—the existence of this Neheb and so forth—but
if Astaroth set this trap, the ruse will withstand scrutiny.”

  “How could Neheb and Sikes be in different places if they’re the same person?” asked David.

  “Sikes must be fashioned from Neheb’s body and spirit,” said Bram. “A portion of Neheb’s remains—perhaps even a portion of his spirit—could be elsewhere.”

  “And do you have any idea where that might be?” asked David. “This place where he might lie until the Judgment.”

  “The pharaohs are famous for their tombs,” said Bram, “but if Neheb and his family were exiled from Egypt, we won’t find him in the pyramids. Yaro also said he was ‘damned’ for a crime against the gods. Murdering a royal parent or sibling would qualify and would further explain how he became an imp. I doubt he’s buried anywhere near his family.”

  “Do you think Neheb used magic?” asked David.

  “You’re thinking of the witches,” Bram observed.

  David nodded. “If the witches collect the remains of those who have used magic, Neheb might be in their ossuaries.”

  Bram began pacing. “I think it very likely that Neheb knew some magic. Either Neheb summoned Astaroth or he became acquainted with him in some other way. It’s possible Astaroth served his father as an adviser or court magician. Regardless, I think only a student of the arcane could spark Astaroth’s interest, much less become his most loyal servant.”

  “Maybe we can find someone who knows what became of him,” said David. “I’ve never been in the ossuaries. Do they have a place that’s set aside for the damned?”

  “If they do, I’ve never seen it. And I’ve spent a great deal of time in them.”

  David stretched and rubbed a bleary eye. With the fleet’s difficulties and incessant meetings, he’d not slept ten hours in the past week. Coffee could only do so much and he still needed to brief Max and Scathach, check on various missions, and investigate why Yuga never encroached on Prusias’s city. The amount of work was simply extraordinary. He knew he needed to do a better job of delegating, but that was easier said than done. Bram patted his grandson’s shoulder.