The Second Siege (36 page)

Out of the Manse and into the bright morning he ran, almost knocking over some older students and an elderly couple walking their dog. He raced through the orchard and down the path to the Smithy, punching in the codes that would take him down to the Course.

“Er, what level do you want?” asked a tall South African boy.

“Nine,” said Max quietly.

“Seriously now,” said the boy with a nervous chuckle. Level Nine was never accessed; the button’s Roman numeral gleamed perfectly crisp and sharp compared to its worn and rounded neighbors.

“Level Nine,” Max repeated, staring at the floor.

“Be my guest,” said the Sixth Year, backing away from the panel.

Max leaned over and pressed the button. A woman’s voice sounded from a speaker above them.

“Voice authorization required.”

“Max McDaniels,” he growled, stepping back to his spot.

“Access granted.”

The elevator rocketed straight down, accelerating to dizzying speeds until it stopped at Level Five. The Sixth Years hurried out, a jumble of whispers and sidelong glances.

“Bye,” said Max, glancing up, but the older students just stared at him until the doors shut once again.

Down and down he went, lost in his thoughts, until the elevator finally came to a halt. When the doors opened, Max found himself staring at a very rumpled-looking analyst. The man coughed and straightened his glasses, patting down his hair in a futile attempt to pretend he had not been sleeping.

“Special Agent McDaniels?” the man said, nodding politely at Max.

“Yeah,” said Max, blinking at the title. He glanced at the red mark on his wrist. “I guess so.”

“I’m Jürgen Mosel,” said the man. “The analyst assigned to Level Nine. I’m honored to finally meet you and I apologize that I’m not more prepared. It’s just that . . . no one ever really comes down here.”

Max glided past him, taking in a small octagonal room furnished with a desk, a computer monitor, and a couch whose cushions betrayed the fading imprint of the disheveled analyst.

“Where’s the programming panel?” asked Max, gazing at the single silver door across from the elevator. There were none of the usual controls.

“Nothing to program,” said Jürgen with a shrug. “Level Nine scenarios are randomly generated—you’re not to have any idea what to expect. I’m told objectives are revealed as you go. Before you enter that chamber, however, I’m required to warn you that—”

Nodding dreamily through the unsettling disclaimers, Max focused instead on the rising tide of energy and emotions within him. When Jürgen had finished, Max opened the door a crack and gazed in silence upon a void. The emptiness before him was almost tangible, endless stretches of numbing blackness. He thrust his hand forward and watched it submerge in the abyss as though he’d plunged it into a tub of ink. Slipping inside, Max closed the door behind him. He felt his body pulled gently but irresistibly away until his fingers slipped from the doorknob and he drifted out into the void.

Two hours later, Max emerged from the chamber to find the monitoring room filled with people. Jürgen had been relegated to an irrelevant seat on the couch, while members of the Red Branch spoke quietly to one another. Commander Vilyak was at the desk, peering intently at the computer screen. He tapped it several times and scowled.

While Jürgen fiddled with the computer, Vilyak rounded the desk to grip Max’s sweaty, shaking hand.

“We came as soon as we heard,” he gushed. “Sneaking off to Level Nine without so much as an auxiliary? Ha! I knew you were worthy of the Red Branch.”

Raising Max’s brand high in the air for the others to see, Commander Vilyak quickly made introductions. Max tried to remember the nine names—six men, three women—but he was exhausted and mumbled through his hellos. Despite their different races and nationalities, they all shared a common calm demeanor. With one or two exceptions, most appeared to be middle-aged. All had lean, purposeful faces.

“Have you fixed it yet?” called Vilyak to the analyst.

“I don’t think there’s anything to fix, sir,” replied Jürgen.

Vilyak frowned and rounded the desk to peer at the screen.

“Of course there is,” he barked, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Before I could see, now I can’t!”

“I understand, sir,” said Jürgen. “But nothing indicates any sort of malfunction. What you see—or
don’t
see—is what actually occurred in the scenario.”

Max walked over and peered at the screen while Vilyak scrolled back impatiently. There was Max, in the center of a circular chamber. Within the scenario, he was blindfolded and his right arm had been bound behind him. He clutched a thick wooden baton while his final adversaries surrounded him. There were no monstrous or supernatural enemies in this scenario—Max’s opponents were the other members of the Red Branch, including Cooper. Vilyak slowed the images to a crawl as the assailants closed like a noose.

Max blinked at the scene; even in slow motion, his image skipped across the screen. Knives flashed, but the baton smoothly parried them and then swung in a blur, cracking against ribs, knees, knuckles, and cheekbones with appalling accuracy. Weapons were knocked away and opponents crushed down to the floor, where they scrambled away to regroup and attack again. In the midst of all the activity was Max, a beautiful, harmonious whirl of motion and feints as he sensed his opponents’ positions and anticipated their every move.

As the fight raged on, however, he had begun to tire. Max winced as he saw the replay of Cooper’s pommel crashing into the base of his neck. In the split second that his legs buckled, the others were upon him. As he was being borne to the ground, the image was suddenly lost in a flash of white light. Text appeared on the screen:

SCENARIO COMPLETED
OVERALL SCORE: 92

“Er . . . I beg your pardon, sir,” said Jürgen, calling up another screen and directing the Commander’s attention to the readout. “But Max is the only one who survived.”

Vilyak blinked and read the report, his eyes darting rapidly across the screen.

“Extraordinary,” he muttered, rewinding the recording to study the lethal patterns and arcs of Max’s movements. “What style is that you’re using? It’s not ours.”

“It doesn’t have a name,” said Max. Scathach had no use for such things.

“And what happened here?” Vilyak asked as the moment arrived when the screen went white.

“I don’t remember,” said Max truthfully.

Vilyak glanced sharply at him, his black eyes disbelieving.

“Well,” he said, sighing and tapping the blank screen, “perhaps in time you’ll share your secrets, eh? But we have not come solely to applaud your performance, Max. There is an important meeting you must attend. They are waiting for us to begin now.”

Several hundred attendees had convened in Maggie, crowded upon the many benches of a large Mystics classroom. Entering behind Vilyak, Max saw many of the older faculty and scholars seated, looking rather curious and uneasy as they chatted quietly amongst one another. Among them were dozens of unfamiliar Agents and Mystics, recent arrivals from Rowan’s fallen field offices. Max spied Rasmussen sitting at the far end of the first bench. The man’s eyes widened in apparent surprise before offering Max a sly, knowing smile. Ignoring him, Max took a seat among the other members of the Red Branch. Vilyak strode to the lectern.

“Agreed,” said the other participants. Max watched a long cream-colored scroll snake its way swiftly through the crowd, passed from hand to hand as each attendee signed under the watchful gaze of the Red Branch. When the scroll came to Max, he hesitated a moment, wondering what sort of meeting could possibly require such secrecy. He glanced about for the faculty he knew well; none were in attendance. The supervising Agent placed the pen in his hand and gazed at him impassively. Max was about to sign when there was a knock on the door.

“It is the boy,” said Vilyak. “Let him in.”

Another Red Branch member strode to the door and opened it. Max could not see who was there, but heard an exclamation of surprise—of joy even. The attendees leaned forward to glimpse whoever had arrived. Footsteps sounded. Max gaped as Connor Lynch strode confidently into the room, giving a jaunty salute to Vilyak before taking a seat on the first bench.

Another figure walked into the room, accompanied by the Red Branch Agent.

It was Cooper.

Max scribbled his name and passed the scroll to the next person as Cooper walked forward and exchanged quiet words with Vilyak, who embraced him like a son. Making his way through the attendees, Cooper took a moment to scrawl his name on the scroll before taking a seat next to Max. The Agent turned his ruined face to look full upon him. Many scars, some very fresh, twisted into the hint of a smile.

“Cooper!”
Max whispered, beaming. He was bursting with a hundred questions.

The Agent patted Max on the shoulder and put a finger to his lips as Vilyak began to speak.

“Well, this is a most auspicious beginning,” said Vilyak, rolling up the scroll once the signatures were complete. His gaze flitted from face to face; his authoritative voice filled the lecture hall.

“I will speak plainly—I know no other way. I’ve asked each of you here to discuss the current crisis of leadership that plagues Rowan and is driving her toward ruin. While we all acknowledge that Gabrielle Richter is a fine woman with many excellent qualities, the fact remains that her policies and decisions as Director have thrust us to the brink of catastrophe. Since her mishandling of the witches, we operate under threat of a curse, have driven the witches to Astaroth’s camp, abandoned the field offices, and failed the Workshop in their hour of need. We now stand alone—a crippled, hidden harbor for refugees—while all outside falls under Astaroth’s sway. The one bit of recent hope is the acquisition of the Book of Origins, achieved through the heroic efforts of Agent McDaniels, who has replaced Antonio de Lorca among the Red Branch. With the addition of this bargaining chip, a moment of truth has arrived when those who love Rowan must act on her behalf. You are here because I know you to be patriots who recognize that our first loyalty must be to Rowan and not to any one individual. It is time for decisive action.”

“Hear, hear,” called several people.

An elderly Mystic raised her voice. “What do you have in mind?” she asked.

“Three things,” replied Commander Vilyak. “The first and most immediate is the deposal of Gabrielle Richter as Director. We do not have time for the ordinary protocols, and thus I propose that the Founder’s Ring be taken by whatever means necessary and that she be confined to the Hollows forthwith.”

“That’s treason!” gasped an elderly woman who taught in the Languages department.

Max glanced in shock at Cooper, but the Agent merely stared stonily ahead.

“Second,” continued Vilyak, barreling through the woman’s protests, which continued until her neighbors hushed her, “that I take possession of the Founder’s Ring and resume leadership as Director, invested with all necessary authority to command and negotiate on Rowan’s behalf.

“And finally,” he concluded, “that we meet with the witches, the Workshop, and Astaroth’s emissaries to negotiate an agreement that is satisfactory to all. Even before we had the Book in our possession, I have been assured that our proposal would meet with a favorable reception.”

Max leaned forward to glimpse Rasmussen, who sat with his hands folded on his lap, nodding as Vilyak spoke. One of the other Agents, a bearded Scot with a fringe of red hair, spoke up.

“And what is this proposal?”

“It is simple,” said Vilyak. “In exchange for its allegiance, Rowan shall be left alone, free to administer its own domain without interference from Astaroth. This domain will comprise all of New England and New York State. We will accept refugees from other regions as our capacity allows, giving strict preference to those with needed skills. Current inhabitants who do not meet our requirements will be deported.”

“Deported
where,
exactly?” asked the Languages instructor.

“That is not yet determined,” said Vilyak coolly, registering the questioner with a glance. “Rest assured, they will be looked after. Where was I? Oh yes—Jesper Rasmussen is to be reinstated in charge of the Frankfurt Workshop, and together we will pursue a policy of closer cooperation. Meanwhile, we will eliminate the threat of a curse by placating the witches and honoring a portion of their old agreement with Elias Bram. David Menlo will be given unto them, as he should have been last autumn.”

Max had opened his mouth to protest when he felt Cooper’s hard fingers dig into his hand. The Agent’s jaw tightened and he gave a barely imperceptible shake of his head; Max was to keep silent.

“And what of the Book?” asked an anxious scholar.

“The Book will stay with Rowan,” said Vilyak proudly. “The threat of its power will ensure that Astaroth honors our agreement. Its secrets will help us to rebuild our strength; we will not only persevere but, in time, achieve the might and glory of our forebears.”

“Negotiating with Astaroth?” muttered a willowy Mystic. “This sounds like surrender! It goes against everything we stand for!”

“What we
stand for,
Miss Chen, is the continued survival of the human race,” said Vilyak, tapping his finger against the lectern. “I am ensuring that survival. And I take issue with your use of the term
surrender.
Those who surrender neither expand their territory nor dictate the terms of their peace and autonomous rule. That is what I intend to do. Perhaps you would prefer that we continue with this foolish charade of fractured resistance until we have squandered all basis for meaningful negotiations? Is this what you are proposing, Miss Chen?”

The woman shook her head and glanced meekly at those around her. Vilyak sighed and rested his hands on the lectern.

“My friends, I do not pretend that we would choose this unhappy course of events. But each of us has been taught that effective decision making requires an objective assessment of the situation. This is not the time for heroic stands or idealistic posturing; this is a time for survival. I urge you to consider carefully what I have said. I require your answer by tomorrow morning.”

An ancient-looking Mystic in navy robes spoke up.

“It seems to me that a very important detail is missing from your proposal,” he said. “How do you intend to depose the Director? She is most formidable and has the support of many.”

Commander Vilyak smiled at the question.

“Leave that to the Red Branch.”