The Second Siege (38 page)

“Where have you been?” asked Max after a moment’s pause. “Why didn’t you come to Rodrûban with me? I was all alone there.”

“I could not,” explained Mr. Sikes. “That place is wound with many spells—no stowaways permitted. You may rest assured that I tried many times to visit, but I was always found and sent back. They are prejudiced against my kind there, I’m afraid. My troubles are of little consequence, however. The real question is how
you
are doing, Master McDaniels. It is a terrible thing for a boy to lose someone so dear. . . .”

Max nodded but said nothing. Throughout the night, he sat in the treetops and silently wept while Mr. Sikes’s soothing voice spoke of hope and healing on the eve of his mother’s funeral.

Before dawn, Max crept back to the Manse and padded down the hall to the showers. When he returned, David was already dressed in his formal Rowan uniform, sitting by the downstairs fireplace. Max carefully combed his hair and buttoned up his shirt before tackling his tie with stiff, mechanical movements.

Along the paths they went, their way lit by the gas lamps that still burned bright in the gloom. They walked past Old Tom and Maggie and crossed to the rocky bluff, where they climbed carefully down the carved stone steps that led to the sea. Bob was already present, placing the last of many folding chairs that were arranged in neat rows. The ogre was dressed in an enormous black suit, and his craggy face was downcast as he ambled over to shake their hands.

“Is everything as you would wish?” asked the ogre.

“It is,” said Mr. McDaniels, looking over the seating and fiddling with a paper in his breast pocket. “Was it difficult bringing everything down?”

“Not for Bob,” said the ogre with a gentle smile. He pointed to a stretch of sand near the empty dock where the departed
Kestrel
had once been moored. There, on the beach, was a slim gray boat. Max saw his mother lying within it, wrapped in white silk, with her arms folded upon her breast.

“Good, good,” said Mr. McDaniels, unfolding his paper and glancing at it. He thrust it at the ogre. “When the time comes, would you read this for me, Bob? I don’t think I’ll be up to it.”

The ogre took the paper and peered at it through his monocle.

“Bob would be honored,” he said, folding the paper and putting it in his shirt pocket.

Max and his father took the seats nearest the little skiff while people arrived, walking down the stone steps in small clusters as Nolan played a plain but beautiful tune on his old, worn fiddle. Hundreds came: faculty and students and families, arriving in silence until they filled the many seats or stood in the cold sand or along the lawns atop the bluff. Max saw Bellagrog and Mum dabbing at their eyes, the pair stuffed into ridiculous dresses of black velvet and green doilies. Hannah waddled down with the goslings, which followed after their mother without so much as a disruptive peep. Max saw Ms. Richter sitting across the way, flanked by Miss Awolowo and Miss Kraken. The Director’s face was grave; her gray eyes stared out at the sea. When the sun rose, a faint yellow haze beyond the thin veil of mist, Nolan brought his playing to a close and Miss Awolowo stood.

She was dressed in beautiful black robes, with clacking necklaces of jet and cowrie shells. With her regal carriage, she walked across the beach to stand by the skiff. While her rich voice carried over the sound of the gulls, Max knitted his hands together and stared at the pale gray boat and the small, lifeless body within it. He was vaguely aware that others spoke, too: Ms. Richter, Miss Kraken, and an elderly teacher whom Max did not know. When Bob stood, Max tore his eyes away from the skiff and watched the ogre carefully unfold the paper. His lumpy features crinkled with concentration; his words rolled in Max’s mind, deep and hopeful.

At the poem’s conclusion, the ogre refolded the paper and handed it to Mr. McDaniels, whose shoulders shook. Bob looked out over the mourners and gestured for all to stand, and Nolan began to fiddle once again. Taking hold of the skiff, Bob slid it into the water. The ogre walked into the ocean up to his waist, guiding the boat through the rolling swells until he gave it a gentle push and it floated out upon the sea. Max watched the skiff go, bobbing like a cork on the gray swells, until it passed beyond Brigit’s Vigil and was lost in the morning mist.

Bob led the mourners away from the beach and back up the stone steps. Max and his father filed out last, while Nolan continued playing behind them on the sand.

As Max climbed, a member of the Red Branch glided past them down the stairs, scarcely pausing to give them a second glance. Max was puzzled and stopped to watch the man’s progress.

A sudden bellow erupted above them, followed by the sound of people screaming.

Leaving his father’s side, Max dashed up the steps just in time to see Bob toppled onto the ground while another member of the Red Branch swiftly bound the struggling ogre. Several nearby people were unconscious, sprawled about the snow like scattered tenpins. Max heard Ms. Richter’s voice call above the din, and he glimpsed her standing next to Cooper.

There was a sudden, terrible blow to the back of Max’s head, and all went black.

“A coup,” croaked his father sadly. “Vilyak says he’s in charge now. Ms. Richter was knocked unconscious, and he stripped a ring from her finger before she was carried away with the others.”

“Who?” asked Max, shutting his eyes.

“Bob,” said Mr. McDaniels, “and Nolan. Awolowo, Kraken, Vincenti, and a bunch of other teachers, too. Cooper tried to help, but I guess Vilyak had been expecting it. Hazel practically went crazy trying to help William, but they got her, too—dragged them all off somewhere.”

“Where?” asked Max, gesturing in frustration when the words were slow in coming.

“I don’t know,” said his father. “Somewhere in the Manse.”

“The Hollows,” whispered Max.

“Yes,” said his father, nodding. “I think I heard one of them saying that.”

Despite the thunderous pounding in his head, Max tried to sit up. His father shook his head and pushed Max back down onto the bed.

“No,” said his father. “You need to lie still, Max.”

“David?” asked Max.

His father’s face fell.

“They got him, too,” he said. “Caught him in some sort of rope that made him go limp as a fish. I don’t think he was hurt, though. I saw Connor taking him back to your room.”

“Oh God,” moaned Max, forcing himself off the pillow. “I’ve got to go—they’re going to surrender David to the witches!”

“You can check on David later,” said his father, trying to ease Max back down.

“There’s no time, Dad,” Max said, forcing himself up from the bed and staggering toward the door. The Moomenhovens tried to bar his way, but Max slipped past them and through the doors.

Staggering down the hallway, Max made his way to the shallow stairwell, clinging to the banister until he arrived in the foyer. Dashing down the hall to Ms. Richter’s office, Max saw members of the Red Branch barring his way. A tall man with steel-gray hair intercepted Max and held him upright on his wobbly legs.

“Let me in,” panted Max, struggling weakly against the iron-strong grip. “I have to talk to Vilyak.”

“Director Vilyak’s busy right now, McDaniels,” said the man. “Sorry about that little tap I gave you earlier. Orders, you know.”

Max glared at the man, who returned his gaze with unflinching calm. Ignoring the pain and dizziness in his head, Max strained and kicked and thrashed against the Agent’s hold until several others had to help restrain him. The door to Ms. Richter’s office swung open; Vilyak’s angry voice filled the hallway.

“What is the meaning of this noise? I specifically ordered . . .”

His voice trailed away as his eyes fell upon Max.

“Agent McDaniels,” he said quietly. “I’m pleased to see you up and about.”

“What are you
doing
?” seethed Max.

“Serving Rowan’s interests,” replied Vilyak coolly. “Yours and mine and everyone else’s, although you may not yet appreciate it. Come see for yourself.”

At Vilyak’s command, the Agents loosened their hold on Max and marched him into the office. Seated in chairs before Ms. Richter’s desk were two robed figures. The first Max recognized as the witch he had last seen in the company of Astaroth. The second figure was robed in white and hooded, its face hidden behind a black, beaked mask similar to those worn by medieval healers. Astaroth’s symbol was carved into its forehead.

“Greetings, Hound,” said the witch, inclining her head.

“Dame Mako,” breathed Max.

“Indeed,” said Vilyak, seating himself behind Ms. Richter’s desk. “Here also, at my invitation, is Astaroth’s emissary, Lord Aamon.”

The evil that radiated from the white-robed figure was nearly tangible. It bowed its head to acknowledge Max; no eyes could be seen behind the mask. Max felt he was staring into the very same abyss that had confronted him in the Course.

“How can you invite that here?” rasped Max.

“Our business is nearly concluded,” said Vilyak. “And then our guest will go, never to return. Isn’t that so, Lord Aamon?”

“The Book,” whispered the masked figure, raising a gloved finger.

“I’d hoped we’d settled that,” said Vilyak gruffly. “The Book stays here to ensure that you honor our pact. Fair is fair.”

Something that might have been a laugh sounded from behind the mask. The figure leaned forward, its voice little more than a hiss.

“Two choices lie before you. You may give the Book unto Lord Astaroth as a token of your allegiance and be richly rewarded. Or you may spurn my lord’s friendship and our servant will simply deliver the Book himself while Rowan reaps our wrath.” The figure shrugged. “The Book is already ours, Yuri Vilyak. We merely extend you the courtesy of giving it to us.”

“An empty threat,” said Vilyak.

“It’s within our reach even now, fool!” laughed the figure.

A terrible realization dawned upon Max. He wrenched himself free from the others and dashed out of the room. Racing to the foyer, he hurtled up the stairs to the third floor of the boys’ dormitories. He galloped past startled students and adults, skidding finally to a stop before his door and fumbling for his key. Throwing the door open, he stepped inside and nearly screamed.

There, slumped against the foot of his bed, was David. A Passive Fetter had been fitted around his neck, glowing dully, while its other end was fastened to one of the bed’s sturdy wooden legs. A sharp blade was pressed against David’s throat by an assailant who cradled the Book of Origins.

The assailant was Connor Lynch.

“Now, Max,” chided the ruddy-faced boy. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”