The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  “Heavy is the head that wears the crown, eh?”

  David shrugged and suppressed a yawn.

  “I’ll leave you to your business,” said Bram. “Thank you for helping me, David. And thank you for taking Solomon’s Seal—I feel better knowing that it’s in your possession. Focus on your army and the task before you. I’ll return to Rowan and see what else I can learn of Neheb and where we might find him. Shall I ask Mina to send Ember to you?”

  “No,” said David. “I’ll try summoning spirits first. If they can’t ferry the fleet across, we’ll see if Ember can help. Until then, I’d rather he remain at Rowan—especially if you’re going to be there.”

  “I’m grateful,” said Bram. “The more time I spend in Ember’s presence, the sooner my strength will recover. I fear I’ll need every ounce.”

  “Say hello to Mina for me.”

  “I will,” replied Bram, cupping David’s cheek before glancing down at the broken pieces of headstone. “Sorry about the mess.”

  David sighed. “What’s one more?”

  He opened the trunk and stood aside as Bram stepped within. With a grunt of professional approval, the Archmage descended the steps that would take him to the wormhole. When David shut the lid and turned his key, there was a pulse of light and the Archmage was gone.

  Stretching again, David sniffed and glanced up at a portion of the tent where the roof was sagging. The snow was relentless. Stirring a brazier’s coals, he let its warmth sink into his bones while he studied Solomon’s Seal by the firelight. How would demons react when they learned a cambion possessed and used the very ring they hated?

  Donning a heavy cloak, David exited the tent. Agent James stood outside, his beard crusted with snow as he warmed his hands by a brazier and chatted with another member of the Bloodstone Circle. When the pair saw the Director, they stood at attention.

  “At ease,” said David absently. He gazed about at the seemingly endless tents staked upon the beaches and along the cliffs. There were thousands of them, rippling in the gales that blew off the dark gray sea. It was the sea that interested David, that treacherous strait separating Rowan from the Italian peninsula and the final march toward Prusias.

  The Agents trailed him as he walked down to the shore, shielding his eyes from stinging needles of ice. Other than sentries, David saw few people. Most were huddled in their tents, waiting for the order to continue on. David trudged past tents and a makeshift cattle pen, inhaling the smells of livestock and cooking fires.

  Solomon’s ring grew warm as David stood at the water’s edge. He sensed naiads nearby, along with sea faeries, water demons, and elementals. Each would serve—even the old marid that lived far beneath the churning depths. They would check the wind and calm the seas and see the fleet to its final shore. David turned to Agent James.

  “We sail tomorrow.”

  Harine was one of the wealthier regions in Prusias’s kingdom. Comprising most of what had once been France, it nestled between Lebrím to the west and Blys to the east. Enlyll was a small but prosperous barony situated on Harine’s southern coast, an area greatly favored by the rich long before Astaroth came to power. At the moment, however, its beautiful beaches were gray, the grapevines were frozen, and the harbors were empty.

  Under normal circumstances, the road to Baron Lynch’s estate would have been broad enough for two carriages to pass one another. But a heavy snowfall had complicated matters. The long drive had been shoveled, but the snow still rose in steep banks on either side, threatening to bury the tall lamps whose staggered brilliance served to brighten an otherwise dark and dreary evening.

  Given the snow and the fact that many carriages were already parked along the drive, Baron Lynch’s bundled and harried servants were forced to direct traffic and clear lanes for those who were coming or going. Max and Scathach were among the latecomers.

  It had been over six weeks since they’d set out from the Isle of Man. Ten days had been spent aboard Ormenheid as the longboat battled the elements. Valiant as she was, the boat had been caked in ice and her sail was in tatters when they finally despaired of reaching Enlyll by sea and ordered her into the Bay of Biscay. Although Ormenheid had been leaking and battered, Max knew she would also repair herself—even as she sat in his pocket.

  The journey overland had been slow but far less harrowing. On the first leg, they’d had a guide—the very same faun that had escorted Sarah and Lucia to Enlyll. While Fenluc was amiable and intimately acquainted with the region, his routes through the backcountry necessitated long, cold treks through deep snow and thick brambles. Without David’s latest orders, they might still be slogging through the hilly Harinean forests.

  The message had come ten days ago, shortly after Rowan’s forces made successful landfall on Blys’s mainland.

  September 5

  Dear Max,

  An opportunity has arisen. It might be dangerous, but I believe the risks are worth it. Our forces have landed and seized Kathvha, a duchy along the King’s Highway some three hundred miles south of Blys. When we occupied the town, Peter Varga came across a piece of propaganda—a flier boasting that “Max McDaniels, the notorious Hound of Rowan, has been slain by King Prusias’s handpicked assassins.” Naturally, Peter saw the possibilities and brought it to my attention.

  Connor Lynch is hosting a médim later this month. Sarah and Lucia have procured a guest list and it includes a number of braymas and dignitaries who could be very valuable. While I know you had intended to visit Enlyll in secret, a public appearance by the “deceased” Hound of Rowan could be very valuable. Prusias will look either incompetent or untrustworthy: either serves our purpose. Your attendance would also send a clear message that Rowan has arrived as a world power. After all, our forces are now advancing on Prusias even as our representatives openly attend a médim within his borders. I think such a gesture could help make inroads with potential allies.

  Whether or not to attend is up to you and Scathach. Regardless, your primary objective remains the same: to open a dialogue with the Elder vyes and bring them over to our side. Classified reports suggest their abilities and numbers may be considerably greater than I’d assumed. If your observations support this, you’re authorized to negotiate everything I mentioned in the last letter. Candor will be key—don’t gloss over our history with them.

  Should you decide to make a public appearance, it’s critical you make a strong impression. Spare no expense when it comes to your dress or transport—you will be functioning as our official ambassadors. Rowan has secret accounts you can draw upon at Thaler’s or Gilderbach’s. Branches of each bank can be found in Almuir, the largest city you will pass en route to Enlyll. You should be able to buy whatever clothes and transportation you require. Bribes go a long way in Almuir and its residents couldn’t care less about Prusias’s war. Don’t pinch pennies.

  Sol Invictus,

  David

  p.s. Cynthia insists I say hello from her. Hello.

  Max and Scathach both agreed with David’s recommendation. Leaving the snowy hills and forests behind, they had made for Almuir. They spent less than a day in that bustling city but still managed to spend an extraordinary amount of Rowan’s money. When they departed Almuir, they did so in a royal blue carriage pulled by a team of spirited chestnuts that champed and snorted in the wintry air.

  “Stop doing that,” Scathach muttered as they waited yet again for their carriage to be waved ahead.

  Max glanced sharply at her. “Doing what?”

  “Fretting about your shoes.”

  “How did you know that?” he asked, amazed.

  “You keep looking to make sure you haven’t scuffed them.”

  Max glanced at them—boots of supple black calfskin polished to a subtle and uniform gleam. “I can’t help it,” he confessed. “They cost a month’s wages.”

  “This carriage cost ten years’ wages,” she pointed out, running a manicured hand over its leather and polished sandalwood. “You have t
o forget it. If you look self-conscious, it will spoil the whole effect. Pretend you’re back at Rodrubân.”

  Max grunted. “You want me to muck out stables?”

  Scathach playfully kicked his perfect boot. “No. Pretend you’re attending one of the festivals. You were dressed up at those and didn’t seem self-conscious.”

  “No one was watching me.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Scathach, smiling. “Forget about the clothes and the carriage and all of that. They’ll do their job and we’ll do ours.”

  “And what’s our job again?” he quipped, licking his thumb and trying to wipe away the scuff her shoes had left.

  Scathach checked her makeup in an obscenely expensive folding mirror. “To be that couple.”

  “The couple everyone despises?”

  Leaning across the seat, she kissed him. “The couple everyone’s talking about.”

  Borrowing her mirror, Max glanced at his new haircut and the thin white scar on his cheek. Scathach promptly snatched it away.

  “No looking in mirrors,” she declared.

  “Why not?” said Max. “You do.”

  Scathach shrugged and slipped the case back in her clutch. “I’m a woman. There’s nothing worse than a man aware of his own good looks. Cynthia told me it’s one of the reasons she fell for David. He’s not self-conscious in the least.”

  “David’s worn bathrobes to class.”

  “And now he’s the Director,” Scathach muttered, peering out the window to see if the traffic jam was relenting. “There must be three hundred carriages. Probably twice as many guests, and most owe their allegiance to Prusias. I know médim have rules prohibiting bloodshed, but we can’t let our guard down.”

  Max glanced at the gae bolga. The short sword was safely in its sheath, lying on the seat next to a dozing Nox. While violence was prohibited at médim, guests would still be armed. For many demons, their weapons were marks of rank and would be displayed in prominent fashion. While it was tempting to do the same, Max and Scathach had decided a more subtle statement would be better. The gae bolga would hang at Max’s side, attached to the baldric he wore beneath his tapered red justacorps. Max chose the color as a subtle reminder to those at the médim that he was Bragha Rùn—the “Red Death,” as so many had cheered on his way to victory in Prusias’s Arena. The long coat would permit a teasing glimpse of the legendary blade, but no more. Underneath his shirt and waistcoat, he wore his nanomail and the Fomorian’s sash. The wound’s dull ache was constant, but thus far the giant’s spell had kept it from opening.

  “These days everyone looks like an enemy,” said Max. “The gae bolga can fit under my coat, but what are you going to do? You can’t walk around with that at a party.” He gestured to Scathach’s nicked and oiled spear.

  “No,” Scathach sighed. “I suppose she’ll have to sit this one out. Spears and pearls don’t really go together. But never fear.” From her pack, she produced a slender poignard whose gray sheath was inlaid with a Celtic sun in mother-of-pearl. “A gift from the shield maidens when I was made captain.”

  She smiled, but Max caught a glimmer of sadness as she fastened the dagger to a strap about her calf. He couldn’t blame her. When Scathach left the Sidh, she’d surrendered more than immortality—she’d given up her home and friends. Some wounds could not be mended, not entirely.

  The carriage made a sudden lurch as the road opened up. When they’d gone another forty or fifty yards, they rounded a copse of snow-speckled trees and climbed the final rise to Connor’s manor.

  Max leaned over Nox to see Connor’s house coming into view now, a castle in the Renaissance style that stood atop a promontory commanding a view of the inlet far below. Its doors were flung open and its windows blazed with light so that its gables and towers shone pale and golden against the dirty red sky. Pavilions dotted lawns milling with figures human and otherwise. When they reached the circular drive, a human footman in a light blue coat opened the carriage door and bowed.

  “Welcome to Enlyll, Your Excellencies,” he said in French. “With whom do I have the pleasure to speak?”

  “Scathach and Max McDaniels of Rowan.”

  The prim footman blinked and switched to heavily accented English.

  “Honored,” he said. “We had word that you would be joining us. My name is Anton. Lord Lynch is looking forward to seeing you. While I am sorry to report the rituals have already taken place, the festivities will continue until dawn. Will you be staying with us?”

  “We will,” said Max.

  “Very good,” said the footman. “We’ll have your things brought to your room. You’re to stay in the same wing as Mademoiselles Lucia and Sarah. I understand you all know each other.”

  “We do.”

  Anton gestured for a pair of boys to remove the luggage from the carriage. “You are most welcome here, of course, but the situation is a trifle delicate. Do you wish to be announced or would you prefer a less conspicuous entrance?”

  “An announcement,” said Max. “Can the lymrill wander or should she remain in our room?”

  Anton shrugged. “Whatever she prefers,” he said. “The baron prefers a casual household. There are very few rules here.”

  Despite her freedom, Nox preferred to remain with Max and Scathach and followed the pair as Anton led them around a marble fountain toward a flight of broad steps that led to the front doors. Max’s warning ring burned so hot that he removed it and slipped it in his coat pocket. There was little point in being told demons were near when a dozen were in plain view, loitering outside by the fountain where they sipped wine and exhaled tobacco smoke in great curling plumes. One of them—a tall, owl-eyed demon with deep blue skin and an ibex’s curling horns—gestured carelessly with one of his six arms as he conversed with a fox-faced kitsune. The arm was grotesquely fractured, the bone pressing visibly against the skin.

  “Did he compete in the amann?” asked Scathach, referring to the “arts of blood,” a traditional médim contest.

  “That he did,” said Anton. “It was held yesterday. I’m sorry you missed it. Count Rhugal made a valiant showing.”

  “Who won?” asked Max.

  Anton lowered his voice. “Lord Grael.”

  Max looked sharply at Anton. Grael was a very powerful demon who ruled one of Blys’s ten grand duchies. What would Grael be doing here? His domain was Malakos, not Harine. It was unusual that so powerful a demon would bother attending a médim hosted by a minor brayma in a rival’s territory. Anton gave them a discreet but significant look as he escorted them up the steps.

  “We’ve had some unexpected …”

  Anton did not finish this sentence, however, for as they entered the marbled foyer, a number of heads—human and otherwise—turned to appraise the new arrivals. Clearing his throat, Anton struck a small chime on a nearby stand.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Monsieur Max McDaniels and Mademoiselle Scathach of Rowan.”

  Silence. At least it was silent in the foyer. From the ballroom, Max could hear music and laughter, but those guests standing about the foyer’s floor or lingering on its double staircase merely stared in open, unfeigned astonishment. As Max and Scathach bowed, an imp darted out of the room, nearly colliding with someone who was coming to see the new arrivals.

  “There he is!” cried Connor Lynch, brushing the imp aside. “Max McDaniels—it’s been too bloody long!”

  That it had. Max could not help but break into a broad grin as Connor came toward them, spreading his arms wide and splashing red wine over the rim of his goblet. He almost staggered into Max, crushing him in a brotherly embrace and nearly spilling his drink on Scathach’s dress.

  “My God,” he laughed. “It’s been what—almost three years?”

  Connor’s Dublin accent had thickened since leaving Rowan and indeed so had he. His chest was broader, his cheerful face rounder, and even his chestnut hair had expanded into a wild, Dionysian crown of tangled curls. His bright blue eyes were some
what glassy with drink, but still possessed their old mischievous glint.

  “Isn’t he supposed to be dead?” Connor laughed, turning to the other guests.

  “Well,” said Max, “don’t believe everything you hear.”

  “Rowan is at war with our king!” barked a brash, one-eyed oni from the lower steps. “Why do they find welcome here?”

  Connor merely laughed and turned his back on the demon. “I’m not welcoming Rowan. I’m greeting an old friend. And if you’re such a loyal subject, Gnoshi, why are your soldiers still at home?”

  Guests chuckled as the oni glowered. Connor turned his attention to Scathach.

  “Connor Lynch,” he said, bowing to kiss her hand.

  “Scathach,” she replied.

  “A lady of consequence, I see,” muttered Connor, noting the Red Branch tattoo on her wrist. “Would you give your host the honor of a dance?”

  Max rolled his eyes. “That didn’t take long.”

  Connor flashed a rogue’s grin. “I don’t see a ring, brother. And I’ll be dead and buried before I pass up a chance to dance with a girl this pretty.”

  “One dance,” Scathach agreed.

  “Or two!” Connor cackled, pulling her through the crowd.

  Lucia is going to murder him, thought Max, following after with Nox padding at his side. Following their stay with the Fomorian, the lymrill had undergone a growth spurt and was now the size of a large house cat, a house cat that fancied herself a tigress, for as Nox waddled forward, she thrust out her powerful chest and returned every stare with an air of defiance.

  Most eyes, however, were on Max. Their attitudes and reactions were almost as varied as the races in attendance. Some were hostile, but many were simply shocked, curious, or even awed. There were whispers and anxious glances. Aside from believing him dead, many people here had probably seen him fight in Prusias’s Arena, or even at Rowan. When Max’s blood was up—when the Old Magic drummed in his ears—he became something else, something divine and indomitable. It seemed many were having a hard time reconciling the terrifying tales of Rowan’s berserker with the youth now making his way through their midst.