The Red Winter

by Henry H. Neff

  David grunted. “A yurt.”

  From within, they heard Chester’s high-pitched chittering followed by a scream that might have reached the Burrfoot clan. Max and David hurried away with the four Agents in tow.

  Their friends were waiting in the Manse’s foyer—Sarah, Lucia, Connor Lynch, and a fully recovered Cynthia. The girls did not have to be in their scarlet Seventh Year robes until later and wore casual clothes. Baron Lynch, however, was here in a diplomatic capacity and dressed accordingly. He’d arrived two days ago with a sizable Raszna contingent that included scholars, soldiers, and students. Thus far, Connor had only assumed his human form. Max suspected this had nothing to do with diplomacy and everything to do with making a favorable impression on Lucia’s protective father.

  “There they are,” Connor exclaimed, hoisting Kettlemouth as though the comatose bullfrog might actually greet them. “We almost thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Sorry,” said David, smoothing his navy robes and adjusting the recovered Founder’s Ring. His office had rigid standards of attire, a fact he bitterly resented. “Are they still serving breakfast?”

  “You’re the bleeding Director, David,” said Connor. “You can get breakfast whenever you want. We just have to slip into the kitchens quietly.”

  “What do you mean?” said Max as they headed down a flight of steps. Once he heard the voice holding court in the dining hall, no explanation was required.

  No one was eating in the dining hall. Instead, Max saw twenty young Raszna wearing Rowan First Year robes and standing at attention. The vyes were arranged in a line, shortest to tallest, their eyes fixed on the same pillar. Among them, Max spied Lupo, the talkative page who had been his guide at Arcanum. Miss Awolowo and a Raszna professor stood off to the side looking rather uneasy as a hag addressed the young vyes. While the clasped hands and measured pacing suggested the hag was a person of some consequence, she chose to remove any doubt.

  “You will never meet anyone more important at Rowan,” she declared, pivoting suddenly to see if a young Raszna was eyeballing her. He was not. “I control not only your food supply but also your access to reasonably priced soaps and personal care items. If you offend me, ignore me, or laugh at the ogre’s jokes, you will face my wrath. Is that understood?”

  “Mum!” cried Miss Awolowo. “Get on with it!”

  The hag made a hideous face that Miss Awolowo failed to catch, as she was now apologizing to her Raszna counterpart. Mum turned back to her audience.

  “Pay no attention to that interruption,” said the hag breezily. “Now, if you’ll pull back your sleeves, we’re going to play a little game where I give each of your arms a teensy sniff.”

  “Why do you do that?” asked a Raszna girl.

  “So I know not to eat you, dear.”

  “I heard you once tried to eat the Director,” said Lupo.

  “THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO!”

  The hag’s outburst and subsequent tirade presented a perfect opportunity for Max and the others to slip inconspicuously into the kitchen. There, they found Bob hunched upon a stool and spooning dough onto baking sheets. “Is Mum frightening the guests?” he muttered, glancing at David’s bodyguards.

  “She’s doing her best,” said Sarah, standing on tiptoe to kiss the ogre’s cheek.

  Setting down his spoon, the ogre appraised them with grandfatherly affection. “My little ones are all grown up,” he sighed.

  “And hungry,” said Sarah. “Did you save us anything?”

  The ogre nodded toward a chafing dish beside a stack of plates and silverware. A cloud of steam rose as Sarah raised the cover.

  “Ooh!” said Connor, reaching past her to grab a sausage. “I almost forgot about these. My chef tried to make them but they just don’t taste the same.”

  The ogre shrugged. “Bob has gift.”

  “You’re a baron!” Lucia hissed at Connor. “Use a knife and fork like a human being.”

  “But I’m not a human being,” said Connor, taking Cynthia’s fork. “Not entirely anyway.”

  Lucia groaned. “Don’t remind me. If my father knew you were Raszna, he’d never let me sail with you.”

  “Where does Lucia go?” inquired Bob.

  The Italian beauty lifted her head proudly. “Arcanum. I was chosen to lead a Mystics course as part of the academic exchange.”

  “Lead?” said Connor, his mouth full of ham. “I thought you were a teaching assistant. Like one of five.” He froze when he noticed Lucia’s expression. “What? Did I get that wrong?”

  “Anyway,” said Cynthia quickly. “We’re very proud of Lucia. Lots of students volunteered and only a few got picked. It’s an honor.”

  “It is,” said Bob decisively. “I know you stay put, Cynthia, but what about Miss Amankwe? Is she leaving us, too?”

  “No,” said Sarah, heaping a plate with fresh fruit. “You’re stuck with me for at least another year. But once I graduate, I plan on joining the Vanguard.”

  “Not Red Branch?” asked Bob. “I thought Red Branch was best.”

  Sarah laughed. “Not even Cooper made the Red Branch right out of school. But give me a few years, and who knows?”

  “Well,” said Connor, “I know someone who’s going to be mighty disappointed to hear you’re not coming back with us.” While in Blys, Sarah had struck up a romance with a young captain in Baron Lynch’s trading fleet.

  “Markus can write me,” said Sarah primly. “And now that trade’s resumed, I think his boss could send him to Rowan now and again, don’t you?”

  “That could be arranged,” said Connor, inspecting some sweet rolls.

  The ogre turned to Max. “And what of you, malyenki? What will you do now that the … troubles … have passed?”

  “I don’t know,” said Max, happy to pretend that they had. “The first thing I have to figure out is where to live. David and I are being evicted.”

  Connor stared. “From the Observatory? But that’s your room!”

  “It’s a Manse dormitory room,” David corrected. “We need it for students. With the Raszna and a new class starting in the fall, space is tight.”

  Baron Lynch did not approve. “You should make the Observatory a museum,” he said. “Someday, people are going to want to see where Max McDaniels and David Menlo lived. It’s got historical significance.”

  “Listen to you,” said Cynthia. “So cultured!”

  Connor wiped his hands on a dishtowel. “I know about these things. My people in Enlyll have been saving every little thing from the médim. Heck, someone tracked down the carriage that Max and Scath …” He trailed off, looking anxious.

  Few people spoke Scathach’s name in front of Max. Avoiding it had almost become an art among those closest to him. Another taboo topic was Max himself. Connor, Sarah, and Lucia never mentioned the time Max unveiled his true nature while addressing the Raszna in Amber Hall. They treated Max as they always had. And for that, he was very grateful.

  “Well,” said Max, trying to put Connor at ease, “I hope the carriage fetched a decent price. It was expensive.”

  “It fetched a bloody fortune,” said Connor.

  “So, where will malyenki live?” Bob persisted.

  “There’s a caravan I might use,” Max replied. “At least until I figure something else out.”

  “Mmm,” said the ogre, eyeing him shrewdly. But he said no more.

  When Old Tom began chiming, David quickly downed his coffee.

  “Where are you off to?” asked Cynthia.

  “Meeting with Archon,” he replied. “We’re touring possible sites for the ‘Bram Institute of Advanced Magical Research.’ What do you think of the name?”

  Cynthia wrinkled her nose. “It sounds very technical.”

  “Good,” said David. “That’s exactly what it’s going to be. Do you want to come? We’re thinking about putting it near Southgate.”

  “Can’t,” said Cynthia. “I promised Lucia I’d help her pack.”


  “Well, I’m off, too,” said Sarah, setting her plate in the sink. “I’m demonstrating Euclidean soccer to the Raszna students. You should come, Max. It’s been ages since we’ve had a game.”

  Max smiled, but demurred. He’d tried kicking a soccer ball a month ago and nearly torn his wound wide open. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m meeting the Coopers in the Sanctuary.”

  “Don’t be late for the treaty signing,” said David. “You’re center stage.”

  “Ah,” said Max, snagging a last sausage. “But unlike you, I don’t have to say a word. I can just stand there looking serious. Thanks for breakfast, Bob.”

  Max headed through the inner kitchen before slipping out a service door. With all the visitors and activity at Rowan these days, he rarely used main entrances or pathways. He was the Hound of Rowan, Bragha Rùn, the Raszna’s moschiach, the shining hero who’d conquered Prusias and slain Astaroth. Not even Mina’s renown approached his.

  And this was not a good thing. Max could barely walk through Old College without being mobbed. While he refused to have a security detail, he appreciated David posting Agents to restrict access to their hallway. This was not merely a precaution against the Atropos but to prevent people from pestering him at all hours. Max could not even eat at the Hanged Man without people seeking autographs or interviews.

  To protect his privacy as best he could, Max varied his routine and attire and sometimes employed illusion. He was getting so good at changing his appearance he’d even fooled Cooper once or twice. At the moment, however, his disguise consisted solely of an old cotton jacket whose length hid the gae bolga and whose hood hid Max’s hair and the torque around his neck. Still, with his eyes downcast and his hands thrust in his pockets, he might have been any tall, introverted teenager. Rowan had plenty of those.

  The path he took through the orchard was nearly empty. While this was certainly welcome, Max had come this way to visit a certain class tree. It took him a few minutes to find the apple he sought, a particularly large one that had turned to gold the instant Gabrielle Richter died aboard the flagship. David deserved every bit of credit and acclaim he’d received for leading Rowan to victory. But in people’s eagerness to praise him, they often overlooked his predecessor. Max did not.

  Touching the sacred apples was forbidden, but Max paused to pay his respects before continuing on. For some reason, he felt closer to Ms. Richter here than by the memorial they’d erected for her by Northgate. There were so many graves there. There had been many white tombstones and memorials following the Battle of Rowan, but the number was growing quickly as ships returned from Blys with the remains of the fallen. Even those without remains to bury were given their own marker, their name and unit chiseled in the stone. The graves were all past Northgate, many thousands of them on either side of the Hound’s Trench, that dead black chasm Max had made with the gae bolga. Max hated to look at it. He rarely ventured past Northgate.

  The Sanctuary was where he spent most of his time these days. Not because it was warmer than anyplace else—David had ended the red winter as soon as they obtained the Book—but because he felt most comfortable there. Ever since Rowan had become an island, it felt small to Max. Strange as it seemed, the Sanctuary was much more spacious than the entire island that housed it. There was room to roam, and the wild things that lived in the foothills and mountains did not particularly care who he was, so long as he left them alone.

  The Sanctuary gate was open and Max received more than several curious stares as he passed people in the leafy green tunnel. Many were Rowan students or faculty, but there were outsiders, too—Raszna scholars, witch envoys, representatives from distant human settlements, even a proud-looking brayma who had fought against Prusias in the war. Thousands had sailed to Rowan to partake in today’s history-making events, and almost all wished to see its famous Sanctuary for themselves.

  Skirting the busy township, Max made for the lagoon by the Warming Lodge. The Coopers and Bristows had already arrived and had set up blankets and baskets for a picnic. Nigel, ever immaculate in a pressed blue shirt and tan slacks, saw Max coming and picked up his daughter Emma in the hope she might wave hello. But the toddler wriggled out his arms to resume playing with Lucy, a robust pink piglet that was rolling in the nearby grass.

  While the Bristows had always been the picture of domestic bliss, the Coopers were a different story. Marriage might have changed William Cooper, but fatherhood triggered complete metamorphosis. The man lay on his back upon the blanket, holding up a tiny bundle in his wiry arms. He was cooing to it, his scarred face twisting into grins of idiot delight whenever the baby so much as gurgled. This was an unprecedented sight, as was the image of him barefoot, bareheaded, and wearing summer clothes. A green linen shirt? If not for the Red Branch tattoo and the sheathed kris lying casually on the blanket, Max would not have believed it was Cooper.

  “William,” said Hazel, perusing the morning Tattler. “I think we should put her under the parasol. She’s getting too much sun. Frankly, so are you. Do not—do not put her by Grendel!”

  Max only now noticed the Cheshirewulf lying in the grass by the blanket. With each slow breath, the beast’s powerful, gray-striped body faded entirely from view.

  “C’mon, love,” said Cooper, now cycling the baby’s legs. “Grendel’s gentle as a lamb with her.”

  “Just watch he doesn’t roll,” said Hazel, adjusting her sun hat. “Max!” she exclaimed, catching sight of him as he walked up. “So nice you could make it. Have a muffin. I made them myself. Who would have guessed I have a talent for baking?”

  Max peered at the blackened lumps lovingly arranged in a tin. “They look great, but I just ate with Bob in the kitchens.”

  “Was Mum there?” asked Nigel, pouring Max a juice.

  “She was.”

  “And was she behaving?” Nigel inquired hopefully.

  “Of course not,” said Max. “She was terrorizing the Raszna students.”

  “You need to have a talk with her, dear,” said Emily Bristow, brushing grass from Emma’s dress. There was little mistaking mother and daughter; both had strawberry-blond hair, fair skin, and light freckles. “She won’t take you seriously otherwise.”

  “I know,” said Nigel, frowning. “But Gabrielle’s the only one Mum ever really listened to. She barely behaves with Ndidi.”

  Cooper plucked up the baby and rose to join them. “Maybe this Gabrielle should set that hag straight.” He kissed the infant’s tummy as she blinked and gazed about like a sleepy puppy. Cooper handed her to Max. “Here you go. You share a birthday, after all.”

  This was true. Gabrielle Cooper had been born on March 15, the very day Max turned nineteen. Max was not terribly familiar with babies. He’d spent a little time with Emma Bristow and there had been Gianna, Isabella’s daughter at the Blys farmhouse. But he still regarded them as mysterious beings. Hefting Gabrielle like a loaf, he peered at her, smiled with kindly intent, and watched her round little face curdle with disapproval. This person was not familiar to her, was not even practiced in the art of holding babies. She must be returned to her father—immediately. Her crying ceased the instant she was handed back.

  Cooper was visibly pleased by her loyalty. “She just needs to get used to you. A bit of babysitting and you’ll be old friends.”

  “Ha!” boomed a familiar baritone. “Max McDaniels a babysitter? Don’t be absurd, man.”

  Max turned, gazing about until he spied a small yellow towel on which Toby was lounging in his native form. He had mistaken Toby for a pair of shoes, for there was a second smee right next to him. The other specimen was somewhat larger and paler, but rapidly turning an angry red in the bright sun.

  “Toby,” said Max. “I didn’t see you. When did you get back? Who’s your friend?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know me, sir,” said the other smee. “It demeans us both.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Max, coming over. “Do I—”

  “Reginald was
Prusias’s body double,” Toby explained. “We go way back. Had a few adventures in Monte Carlo back in ’74.”

  “Seventy-three,” corrected Reginald.

  “Right you are,” said Toby agreeably. “Well, it’s been ages since I’ve bumped into this scoundrel. Didn’t even recognize ol’ Reggie when you popped him out of his disguise. No offense, chum, but you’ve put on a few.”

  The other smee raised his apparent head to peer at his midsection.

  “Anyhoo,” continued Toby. “When I finally recognized him, I told William they couldn’t clap ol’ Reggie in irons—he was just an actor hired to play a part. Once they let him go, we’ve been catching up and seeing a bit of the world. Had to get back for tonight, though. Peace always brings out the ladies. Ladies in high spirits. Ladies with a new zest for life …”

  “Dear Lord,” sighed Hazel. “Toby, you are disgusting.”

  “Ha!” laughed the smee, flipping over. “You’re just sorry you’re out of the game, my dear. When I’ve got a tan, it’s not even fair.”

  “How am I looking, Toby?” inquired the other smee.

  “Crispy, Reggie. Crispy.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s fantastic.”

  Max left the smees to their chortling, rather optimistic predictions for the evening and sat on a blanket to talk with the others. After thirty minutes of perfectly pleasant chitchat and several unsuccessful baby holdings, Cooper nudged him.

  “Could I get a private word?”

  “No shop talk, William,” said Hazel, changing Gabrielle. “Not until noon. You promised.”

  “It’ll just take a minute,” said Cooper, leading Max a little ways around the lagoon where the selkies Frigga and Helga were turning lazing circles in the water.

  “What’s up?” said Max.

  “I know you keep turning down security, but I don’t think you should be walking around alone,” said Cooper. “Not in the Manse. Not in Old College—certainly not through the Sanctuary tunnel. If I’d known you were going to do that, I’d have come to get you.”

  “You’re worried I can’t look after myself?” said Max.