~5~
GILDED GRÀVENMUIR

The wind moaned and torches sputtered as demons climbed the stony steps to Rowan.

At Cooper’s direction, Max had joined the rest of the Red Branch in ushering the crowd away from the bluff and the winding paths to the Sanctuary. He had promised Julie he would join the bonfire when he could, then returned to the cliff to stand among those who remained—assorted Mystics, Agents, faculty, and scholars, along with the visitors from the Workshop. They watched as a longboat launched from the galleon to cleave across the breakers, torches illuminating the smaller craft’s progress to the rocky beach below.

As the demons climbed the long stairs to the cliff’s top, Max realized that his breath was becoming short and shallow. Was it fear? he wondered. He mused on the huge ship moored off the coast, the silent procession of unknown visitors, and concluded that yes, he was afraid. But he was angry, too. It had been Max who had dug a grave for Jimmy, who had looked after the boy’s bathroom, giving outdated haircuts and drenching the unwary in cologne. The merry domovoi had been discovered in a horrific state following the Siege. The little man had done no harm, and yet now he lay beneath a bed of tulips near the Manse’s north wing. These visitors, or their servants, had killed Jimmy as he struggled to join the others in the Sanctuary.

His fingers twitched, and he felt the slow churn of sickening force begin to quicken within his body. A tremor ran through him, and he dropped to one knee.

“What’s the matter, Max?” asked Cooper, coming to his side.

“This is sacred ground,” croaked Max, glancing beyond the Agent at Bram’s statue, where he had promised Nigel that he would behave. “The demons shouldn’t be here.”

Cooper’s face remained a mask of stern appraisal. “You’re in the Red Branch,” he said, pulling Max to his feet. “Master yourself.”

Max nodded but found that his heart was beating wildly within his chest. He inhaled the cool night air and focused on the fire that had been built in the center of two large arrangements of seats. The fire was building, sending sparks up into the night and casting an amber glow on the faces of Rowan’s people as they took their places. Ms. Richter was seated in the center of the first row, her face grave as she stared out toward that point along the cliffs where the demons would emerge. Heading toward the bonfire, the pair took their seats, with Cooper sitting at the Director’s right.

“You are the son of a king,” Max whispered to himself, repeating Scathach’s parting words. Cooper glanced at him but said nothing. Max closed his eyes and repeated the mantra in his head. All around him, he could hear the hushed, nervous conversations and antsy creaking of chairs.

And then all of it stopped.

Max opened his eyes and saw two identical standards rise above the crest—Astaroth’s circular seal perched upon long wooden staves. The banners fluttered in the night breeze as their bearers came into view and began a silent procession across the lawns.

Throughout the Enemy’s approach, Max sat utterly transfixed, his attention focused upon the nightmarish things that bore Astaroth’s flags. The standard bearers were taller than men but thinner, gangly beings whose faces were hidden behind great mummers’ masks. These masks—crude and primal—were fashioned to resemble a great ram or bull, and they extended a full six feet from the shoulders of the creatures as they glided across the lawns, trailing their patchwork robes. Max found them horrifying—pagan dolls that had been jolted to life and set to a dark purpose.

A growing phalanx of other strange creatures followed.

Max did not find the armored ogres strange, or even the wolfish vyes, whose feral eyes gleamed in the firelight. The rest were presumably demons, and they were much more varied in appearance than Max might have imagined.

Some met Max’s expectations—powerful, diabolic figures with curving tusks and fearsome, militant faces. Others, however, appeared meek and scholarly, including one chinless, peach-colored imp no larger than a toddler. Compared to their ogre and vye guards, the demons were richly dressed. As they approached, the very air before them seemed to shimmer as though a great, noxious heat was emanating from the motley host.

When the masked standard bearers reached the arranged chairs, they stopped and stood at attention. For a moment, utter silence reigned as Rowan’s residents merely stared at the demonic entourage.

Finally, Ms. Richter stood and spoke. “Peace is made in quiet times when the crows have left and the earth is still. Rowan bids you welcome.”

A booming cackle erupted from the throng. There was a sound of small, merry bells, and the ogres and vyes and lesser demons stepped aside as something made its way toward the center. The laugh sounded again—an abbreviated, cheerful bark, as if the owner struggled to restrain himself.

“Ms. Richter, you do us too much honor,” exclaimed the voice. “Your greeting has a poetic lilt, the pleasing rhythm of spellwork.… We have not crows in the barrens of my homeland, but I shall send some there, and they shall be known henceforth as harbingers of peace, not war.”

An enormous man-shaped figure strode beyond the standard bearers and leaned his bulk upon an ivory cane.

Compared to the other demons, Prusias was decidedly human in appearance. As in the accounts Max had read, his guise was that of a huge, powerfully built nobleman gone to seed. His chest was broad and barrel-shaped, and he was clad in a rich black tunic. His legs were disproportionately small and slender, comparative stilts to the bulk of his upper body. His handsome features were deep and pronounced, as though sculpted by a bold, assured hand. He was olive-skinned and deeply tanned, and his every crease and wrinkle suggested a persona inclined to laughter. The demon’s face and expressions were defined by scale. His was a face suited for the stage. A wild mane of black hair and a long braided beard heightened the dramatic effect. Despite his kingly attire, Prusias exuded the air of a tribal chieftain rather than that of refined royalty. Set within the hollowed eye sockets, however, was a pair of round blue cat eyes—a startling reminder of his demonic heritage.

The peach-colored imp hopped forward and cleared its throat. “May I present Lord Prusias, Exalted Ruler of Blys, Defender of the—”

“Enough, enough,” growled Prusias, shooing the imp away. “We are among friends—such formalities are unnecessary. There will be time for introductions later, but Gabrielle Richter I already know. Where is the one called David Menlo?” inquired the demon, scanning the crowd. “My lord specifically bade me to extend his greetings.”

Heads turned and whispers coursed through the crowd.

“He is not here,” said Ms. Richter, her voice admirably measured. “He is unwell.”

“It grieves me to hear it,” said Prusias, smiling. “I had longed to meet him. And where is the other child of the Old Magic, so I may greet this champion?”

All of Rowan turned to Max, who closed his eyes and wished that he were far, far away. At Ms. Richter’s bidding, Max stood, the moonlight falling full upon his face. One of the demons—a tall, armored rakshasa standing behind Prusias—bared its teeth and cocked its head in surly appraisal.

“Caia, Prusias!” exclaimed another demon, a beaked creature with the wide, staring eyes of a lemur. “Lihuar connla nehunt ün homna. Connla breargh ün Sidh.”

“Vey, miyama.” Prusias nodded, speaking to the demon as though it were an inquisitive child. “But it is not polite to speak in tongues before our hosts.”

The staring demon bowed by way of apology and retreated a step.

“What did it say?” asked Max, returning the stares of the demons that crowded and jostled to gape at him.

Prusias suppressed their chatter with an irritated glance. “To her eyes, you do not seem human,” explained Prusias. “In the moonlight, your aura shines and flickers like those from our realm … and others. Are you certain you’re not a demon, Max?”

For several seconds, the startling question merely hung in the air. Finally, Prusias winked. Round, jovial features contorted into an amused grin as he offered Max a courteous bow. Max did not return it.

Several of the demons gasped, and a palpable tension saturated the air. Max felt Ms. Richter’s eyes boring into him.

Rising slowly, Prusias’s eyes flicked up and met Max’s own. “This will not do,” said Prusias, cocking an eyebrow at Ms. Richter. “The conquered must have manners.”

“Max,” said Ms. Richter, her voice preternaturally calm. “Please greet Lord Prusias appropriately so we may begin this important business.”

Max turned and looked at her, but she might have been a character in a film. She was not real; she did not truly exist. Her eyes pleaded with him, but she seemed to grow dim. There was a drumming in his ears—a thousand drums and a thousand calls and a thousand horns that stirred the Old Magic within his blood.

“I am not conquered.”

Something was pulling at his arm. It was Cooper. Max merely looked at him; he might have been a child. Leaning down, Max pointedly removed the man’s hand.

“Max McDaniels does not speak for Rowan, Lord Prusias,” said Ms. Richter, standing to bow low. “I offer our sincere apologies. He is still a boy.”

Max glared at Ms. Richter, but her attention was fixed upon Prusias, who watched these events unfold with a patient, watchful air. The demon offered a modest, understanding smile, but his eyes gleamed with a lingering malevolence. At length, he shrugged and his shoulders shook with a sudden laugh.

“Do not trouble yourself, Director,” he exclaimed, beckoning her to rise. “This is a time for celebration and merrymaking! I sympathize with our young friend—it is always thus after such misunderstandings arise. Let us turn to the tasks at hand. There are several points of order before our celebration can begin in earnest. With your permission, Max, may I share Lord Astaroth’s terms? They are most generous.”

Max stared at Prusias. The demon leaned upon his cane and returned the stare with a calm, contemplative expression that suddenly made Max feel that he was being childish. Slowly, Max took his seat.

At Prusias’s command, the demons were seated in the first row of chairs across the fire from Rowan’s senior representatives. There were about a dozen of them, some armored in elaborate suits of mail, others sleek and robed. Behind them stood the vyes and ogres, huge and grim, flanked by the standard bearers.

“Where is our charming messenger?” asked Prusias, beaming, as he turned to address his entourage.

One of the vyes loped forward, tugging gently on a leash to pull something that had been hidden behind the mountainous row of ogres. Max sat up. It was a middle-aged woman—at least that was her appearance. She stooped along, dressed in the gaudy silks and curling headdress of a jester. The woman’s graying hair was matted with sweat, and her simple, uncomprehending eyes stared about her surroundings. She clutched a large obsidian scroll tube with trembling hands.

Prusias smoothed the woman’s hair and whispered something in her ear with a kindly, paternal air. Sliding the gleaming tube out of her hands, he patted her on the head and she was led back to her place, where she sat on the lawn and dug her fingers in the grass.

Leaning on his cane, Prusias eased himself into the chair opposite Ms. Richter. He gave a broad grin and drummed his fingers on the case.

“The Four Kingdoms salute you,” he said. “And I am honored to speak for them.” Unscrewing a silver cap from the black tube, he removed and unrolled a long scroll whose dense script was penned in red ink. Prusias held it up and tilted the parchment so he could read by the firelight.

“The realm of Rowan shall be vast!” he proclaimed, his voice rising so all might hear. “Once you agree to the terms and sign the document, this land shall be yours. Rowan shall govern its own affairs and flourish here in a haven and harbor of its very own.…”

For a moment, Prusias sat in silence. His eyes, sapphire orbs suffused with an inner glow, wandered over the assembled Rowan and Workshop dignitaries with an expression of patrician magnanimity.

“And what are these terms, Lord Prusias?” asked Ms. Richter, breaking the silence. At her words, Prusias blinked and reexamined the scroll.

“There are but seven, I believe,” he purred, twining a braid of beard about his finger. “Seven Sacred Edicts are all that your people must follow to guarantee our lord’s goodwill. They are most reasonable.”

Prusias pivoted in his seat and craned his neck to look around the campus and the night.

“As you have undoubtedly noticed, our Lord Astaroth has been cleansing the world of its accumulated filth and disease. Once again, the air is pure, the soil is rich, and the oceans teem with life. Mankind may begin anew under the tutelage of wiser, gentler stewards. This is Year One.”

“Is that an edict, Lord Prusias?” asked Ms. Richter.

“An observation.” The demon smiled, returning his attention to the scroll. “The first edict concerns Rowan’s lands, sovereignty, and safety. Rowan shall constitute a fifth kingdom under the reign of Astaroth. Its lands shall range from these shores west to the Appalachian Ridge, north to the Great River, and south to the Algonquin Chesapeake. Within these boundaries, Rowan may govern its own affairs and rule its denizens as it sees fit. No demon lord or aspirant shall invade these lands or harm its inhabitants under pain of death.”

There was a murmur of relieved approval among Rowan’s dignitaries.

“Is our safety guaranteed outside these lands?” asked Ms. Richter.

“Alas,” said Prusias, “our lord shudders at the thought of unreasonable promises. As I said, no demon may wander these lands unbidden, and we shall not make war upon you. If one of your people should leave these borders, they are subject to the whims and fates of the world.”

Max did not like Prusias’s casual shrug or the way the demon’s eyes became blank and unfocused whenever he was interrupted with a question. When considering his response, Prusias also had the habit of smoothing his beard and compulsively wetting his red lips. The effect was a revolting, predatory contrast to his smiles and diplomatic speech.

“We must look after ourselves,” confirmed Ms. Richter. “Please continue.”

“Many inhabitants of Rowan are blessed with mehrùn—the gift of ‘magic,’ in your tongue. As possessors of this gift, many of you may remember the earlier days, and thus you may keep whatever tomes and lore survive the Fading. However, the second edict is this: It is forbidden to transport any book, document, or written word whatsoever beyond the borders of this land. We shall consider the act to be a severe provocation.… Is this understood?”

Ms. Richter nodded like a schoolgirl receiving a strict lecture.

“Excellent,” chuckled Prusias. “Edict three: It is forbidden to teach reading, writing, or history to humans beyond Rowan’s borders.” The demon’s face became grim, and his gaze moved from face to face, lingering among the scholars. “Let me impress upon you the gravity of edict three, my friends. Should you teach reading, writing, or any history whatsoever to any human beyond these borders, the lives of the teacher, pupil, and every human within one hundred leagues may be forfeit. Is this clear?”

A silence ensued.

“We shall consider this,” said Ms. Richter at length. Max had never seen her look more miserable.

“By all means,” said Prusias, resuming his pleasant demeanor. He skimmed the dense parchment until he found his place once again. “Here we are … edict four. While the inhabitants of Rowan are free to live and prosper, its borders are hereby closed. No one shall enter without the explicit approval of our ambassador. Rowan and its representatives are further forbidden to seek other humans who have been born with mehrùn. To do so invalidates this contract.”

“But they’re immortal!” Max hissed to Cooper. “They’ll keep us in here like zoo animals until we’ve all died out and faded to dust.”

Cooper’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing and motioned for Max to be quiet.

“Edict five,” continued Prusias, “concerns the mystic arts of summoning. This branch of mystic study is hereby ended. All works that detail the summoning of demons—of se’írim, shedim, afrit, jinni, ahriman, lilin, marids, asura, devas, daitya, rakshasa, nephilim, vetalas, drudes, imps, and all other absurd names that humans attribute to our kind, including those nobles you have named ‘the Spirits Perilous’—must be removed from your teachings and destroyed. The summoning of demons is hereafter forbidden.”

“But how shall we gain knowledge?” whispered one of the scholars to his neighbor.

Prusias apparently heard this, for he abruptly turned and addressed the mortified speaker. “How, indeed?” he inquired. “I suppose, my friend, that you will have to pry such secrets on your own. You can imagine how tedious it has been for many of my kind to answer your beck and call throughout the centuries and pay in pain for doing so. Scholar, teach thyself!”

Prusias jabbed at the bearded, bespectacled scholar with his ivory cane and chuckled at the joke, but the man squirmed beneath the demon’s penetrating gaze and did not meet it. Max wondered at Prusias’s cane. It seemed a strange prop for one so powerful. Why did Prusias use one? Was it a tool to play upon one’s sympathies? Years ago, a disguised vye had used a cane to deceive Max into believing she was old and feeble. But somehow Max did not think that Prusias’s cane was a ruse. Max recalled Bram’s account: The wretched demon bared his teeth and dragged his limb, swearing vengeance.… Was Prusias still injured from his encounter with Elias Bram? Max turned and gazed at the statue and the wild, glaring face of its subject. Bram had given his life so that the refugees from Solas might survive to found another school. And here was Prusias sitting as plump and pleased as a feasting Falstaff. Max could only imagine Bram’s outrage.

“Our lord has issued edict six in the spirit of lasting peace,” intoned the demon. “Rowan shall not seek revenge upon the witches who, in turn, relinquish any and all claims regarding the contract known as ‘Bram’s Oath.’ This vendetta is over, and the witches have been granted their own lands within Lord Aamon’s kingdom.”

“Very well. And the final edict?” asked Ms. Richter.

“A simple one,” replied Prusias, smiling. “Also in the spirit of peace. Any new inventions, emigration, or interkingdom trade must be submitted, reviewed, and sanctioned by Lord Astaroth’s embassy.”

“And where is this embassy?” asked Ms. Richter.

Prusias stood and stretched, gazing about the campus quad. His eyes finally settled upon the smooth lawn beneath his feet. He tapped the grass gently with his cane.

“Right here should do,” he said, sounding oddly detached. “Yes, upon this very spot.”

The demon rose to his grand height and walked in a slow circle around the cropped grass he had touched with his cane. He appraised it and then glanced at the grounds about them, lingering upon the statue of Bram.

“Upon this very spot,” he whispered again, wetting his lips.

The demon’s gaze locked upon Max as he raised his cane high and then plunged it deep into the soft earth.

A screeching sound tore the air asunder, like lightning striking metal. Along with those around him, Max clapped his hands to his ears and fell back as the ground began to groan and buckle. His chair toppled over, and he found himself scrambling for purchase upon the cool grass, whose substance seemed to sift and change beneath his hands. Where Prusias had struck the ground, Max saw gurgling torrents of crimson blood stream from the soil as though Rowan itself were a writhing, wounded thing. From this spot, this singular point, coursed a wild, jarring force, wave upon wave of Old Magic that issued from the embedded cane like ripples in a pond. These ripples seemed to bend and warp the surrounding earth and air, twisting the elemental matter into a new form.

As Max watched, the grass beneath his fingers turned hard as the blades knitted together, smoothing and receding until they were as marbled stone. The Old Magic within him seemed to claw and twist like a wild animal seeking to escape its cage.

The earth howled and wailed as sheer walls of rock and soil were raised about them, blocking out the night and the moon and Old Tom’s tower. Higher and higher these walls rose, spilling bits of rock and soil as stony tendrils arced to form a sort of rib cage. Vines spilled forth from stone and interwove to form tapestries and paintings; musty toadstools became luxuriant divans; and the tongues of the bonfire were snatched by invisible hands and used to fuel lanterns and candles set within the grottos of what was rapidly becoming the richest, most splendid entry hall Max had ever seen.

Nature’s shrieks and wails died away. The subterranean rumbling subsided to quiet as the hall smoothed its rough edges into crisp, cosmetic perfection. His whole body trembling with energy, Max looked about and sought to gauge whether Cooper or Ms. Richter had been similarly affected.

They had not. Instead, this display of Old Magic, this casual gesture of creation, had shocked Rowan’s leadership into gaping silence. Not a protest was uttered. Instead, Ms. Richter and the rest merely craned their necks and stared about a hall whose frescoed ceiling and gilded walls rivaled Versailles’.

Max stared at Prusias, who seemed to sense Max’s gaze and emerged from his heavy-lidded, trancelike state to offer a most unsettling smile. The demon snatched up his cane and rapped it hard upon the marble floor, shattering the eerie silence. Max leaned forward to look for Ms. Kraken. He had once overheard a lecture during which the elderly Mystics instructor had said that the amount of magic needed to create a thing far exceeded the energy required to destroy it. Max could not imagine the stores of magic that Prusias must possess.

Max finally spied Ms. Kraken, whose folding chair had been replaced with an antique settee that she shared with Miss Boon. Both women looked terror-stricken, their bodies leaning away from the demon so that even their feet were curled under them as if the very ground were poison.

Max swallowed. To sit quietly and listen seemed a better option than it had before.

Old Tom struck nine o’clock, and from his seat, Max could see the white clock face, rippled and distorted, through an enormous stained-glass window. Prusias waited out the chimes and bid the grim standard bearers remove themselves to the back of his entourage, which were in turn seated comfortably amid the many chairs and couches. When the chimes ceased, the demon turned to again address Rowan’s representatives.

“I bid you welcome to our embassy,” he said, bowing low. “It shall be named Gràvenmuir—‘the Watcher,’ in your tongue. Here our representatives shall keep a ceaseless vigil on Rowan’s safety, hear whatever petitions may arise, and maintain peace between our kingdoms. I trust you have no objections.”

“No,” said Ms. Richter.

“If I recall correctly, Director, you had expressed some reservations regarding edict three,” said Prusias, leaning forward and wetting his lips. “Do you still require time to consider it, or shall we conclude this business with your signature? Our lord is most insistent about contracts, and I should take it as a personal favor if you would … humor me.” The demon smiled, but his eyes remained unblinking, unfocused.

Ms. Richter turned to her senior advisers—Kraken, Nolan, Vincenti, Watanabe, and others. The careworn replies and nods were unanimous, and Ms. Richter stood to approach Prusias, who held out the scroll expectantly. An imp approached with ink bottle and pen, and the scroll was signed.

“There!” boomed Prusias, snatching the scroll away almost before Ms. Richter had finished. He swiftly rolled it up and tamped it down into its obsidian case. “All finished. My secretary shall provide you with a copy. Now, we may bless this hall—bless Gràvenmuir as we should and celebrate peace between our peoples.”

The demons clapped, the vyes howled, and the ogres roared while creatures—hunched, larval-eyed servants—emerged from a doorway bearing platters of food and flagons of wine. The creatures hurried around, offering joints of beef and mutton and other fare to Rowan’s people, who stood about as awkwardly as students attending their first dance. Max furiously waved away one of the creatures once it had approached him for a second time. As though he sensed a breach of etiquette from afar, Sir Alistair Wesley appeared at Max’s side.

“It’s poor form to refuse food from a host,” the instructor whispered, taking a goose leg from the platter and thrusting it into Max’s hand.

“But I don’t want it,” growled Max.

The smile never left Sir Alistair’s face as he nodded to a passing demonness. “Young man, you will behave yourself. You will eat that goose with relish and you will smile. In other words, you will act like a gentleman and stop endangering our entire community.”

Grimacing, Max sniffed at the goose and managed a peevish bite. With an exasperated sigh, Sir Alistair glided toward several Workshop representatives as though they were dear friends. When Sir Alistair glanced over as though to invite Max to join them, Max stooped quickly on the pretense of tying his shoe. While he crouched, a pair of enormous black boots came to a halt mere inches away. Glancing up, Max saw Prusias towering above him.

“No need to kneel, my boy,” chortled the demon, waving him up.

As Max rose, nearby conversation hushed and then nearly ceased altogether. Up close, Prusias seemed even larger, easily seven feet tall and over half that span across his barrel chest. An enormous hand, laden with heavy gold rings, seized Max’s and shook it. The strength in that grip was terrifying. With a smile, Prusias pulled him closer so that he was nearly pressed against the black brocade of the demon’s tunic. Max felt a terrible, searing heat emanate from the demon’s body, as though beneath his fleshy guise, Prusias was naught but flame. His other hand lifted Max’s chin, forcing him to stare directly into the demon’s face.

“It is most refreshing to meet the ‘unconquered,’ ” said Prusias softly. “I thought I must suffer Alexander’s lament—‘no worlds left,’ and so forth. It is refreshing to discover at least one back that is yet unbowed. Come to Blys, brave Max, and my subjects shall travel for miles to look upon you.”

“At the pillory or the gallows, my lord?” asked Max innocently.

At this grim humor, Prusias laughed—a fine, piratical roar that made his great body shake. Releasing Max’s hand, he smoothed the banded braids in his beard and studied Max’s now-impassive face. Periodic chuckles overcame him like aftershocks, and small, perfect teeth—a child’s teeth—gnawed at the demon’s lips.

“Ah, I like you, Max,” replied the demon, winking. Looking past him, Prusias called jovially to Ms. Kraken and made his way toward her. Despite his smiling air, when Prusias crossed the hall, even the other demons parted, as do lesser fish when a shark glides into their waters.

As Max watched Prusias go, he noticed that many servants among the demons’ entourage were now clearing furniture away from the hall’s center. Silken cushions and bronze braziers were arranged around the perimeter to form a great ring some fifty feet across. When the braziers were lit, Prusias’s voice boomed out with the jesting tones of a ringmaster.

“Gather round!” he said, beckoning. “It is time for us to celebrate this occasion with médim. Please be seated while I acquaint you with its ways.”

Curious, Max watched as everyone present ceased their conversations and moved to claim a place among the cushions. Max took a seat near the back, scooting over as Nigel squeezed in next to him.

“Remember your promise,” Nigel whispered, looking anxious.

Before Max could reply, Prusias extinguished the hall’s many lights with a sweep of his cane. The coal-burning braziers provided the only illumination, and in these dimmer surroundings, the demons’ eyes gave off an eerie gleam. The heavy smell of incense filled the room. Prusias loomed within the circle’s center, and such was his presence that Max almost forgot that he was still at Rowan. The demon seemed not only master of the hall, but of all that might lie beyond it. His deep voice echoed slightly as shadows danced upon the gilded walls.

“Our kind,” he explained, “celebrate gatherings or the settling of disputes with sacred contests that we call médim. With these, we honor the Great Gifts from our Maker and those who have mastered them. The contests of a médim may vary, but they are always chosen from the three great arts—alennya, amann, and ahülmm. In your tongue, these are the arts of beauty, blood, and soul. We begin with alennya. Who shall champion Rowan in music and poetry?”

Prusias waited expectantly while Rowan’s Mystics and Agents glanced anxiously at one another. Several tense moments elapsed before Ms. Richter stood.

“Lord Prusias, we are unfamiliar with these traditions and I daresay we have not designated any champions of such things.”

Several demons audibly scoffed, and Prusias’s expectant grin disappeared.

“This is most unexpected,” he replied. “I’d been told you were a cultured people. Is there not a worthy musician among all these assembled mehrùn? If not, I am deeply ashamed for you.…”

The ensuing silence was almost unbearable. Rowan was giving the painful impression that it was not merely uncultured, but cowardly.

“Someone step forward,” Max moaned quietly.

At last someone did. It was Nolan, the man who oversaw Rowan’s Sanctuary, who stood from a group of teachers. As he entered the ring, it was clear that Max was not the only one whose pride had been injured.

“Give me a fiddle and I’ll give you a match!” the man shouted angrily.

Nolan’s spirit was contagious. Mystics and scholars, Agents and teachers all sprang to their feet and roared their support. None clapped or cheered louder than Max.

“Excellent!” crowed Prusias, his disappointment vanishing. “No simpering here—bring this good man a fiddle and let us hear his soul in every note and chord!”

A violin was fetched and Nolan immediately set to testing its strings and tune. There was an intense look of concentration on the man’s weather-beaten face. Once satisfied, Nolan nodded to Prusias, who had settled back onto his cushion. The hall became silent.

Nolan tapped his foot three times and began to play. He’d chosen an old Irish tune and played it as rough and raw as the violin would allow. Faster and faster he sawed at the strings, while Prusias looked on in delight. At last, just when Max feared the strings would snap, the chords converged into a single note of simple, mournful purity. The note held, then trembled, and finally died away.

“Bravo!” thundered Prusias, leading the applause. He strode across to shake Nolan’s hand. Looking spent but proud, Nolan stood aside as Prusias invited his own contestant into the ring.

The demons’ champion was a delicate, fox-faced demonness whose kind was known as kitsune. She wore a red kimono and seemed to glide to a gilded chair that had been set in the center of the ring. A vye brought forth an unfamiliar instrument. It was akin to a standing bass, but taller and more slender. While the vye set it into a stand, the kitsune flexed and stretched her long, slender fingers. There was something peculiar about her hands, and Max gasped.

“She has seven fingers on each hand!” he hissed, elbowing Nigel. “That’s unfair!”

Nigel shushed him as Prusias resumed.

“Your man has done you proud,” the demon observed. “We honor him for sharing his gift and sparing Rowan an unseemly showing. Now we shall see if Lady Akiko and her belyaël can match such a spirited performance.”

The hall grew silent once more as Lady Akiko closed her eyes and placed her hands in precise arrangement upon the instrument. Giving the belyaël a soft, collaborative tap, the demonness began to play.

The resulting music was not merely beautiful, but strangely hypnotic. Lady Akiko’s fingers were almost a blur along the belyaël strings. As she played, each hand’s dual thumbs deftly flicked beads up or down the many strings, altering their tension and imbuing the instrument with a range far beyond anything Max had ever heard. The piece was intensely moving, a rapid patter of notes interrupted by brusque chords and a simmering dissonance. Max’s hopes sank—the kitsune’s hands were blessed with seven fingers and each danced with superhuman dexterity. Nolan was a skillful amateur, but the demonness seemed born to this single purpose.

Lady Akiko had undoubtedly earned the victory, but Max still complained when Prusias announced his verdict.

“Of course he picked his team to win,” he griped to Nigel. “And how can you judge something like that? It’s totally subjective!”

The same could not be said for the rest of the médim. While there were other contests subject to Prusias’s judgment, the majority were coldly objective affairs that left no doubt as to the demons’ superiority. Natasha Kiraly—a swift runner and member of the Red Branch—was beaten badly in a race around the hall. Archery was utter humiliation as a demon lord named Vyndra shot three bull’s-eyes before Rowan’s Agent had even nocked his arrow.

Max practically writhed with frustration. Already there had been several matches he believed he could have won or made a better showing in than the competitors Ms. Richter chose. The médim was proving that the demons were not only stronger and faster, but also more skilled and cultured. Music, archery, fencing, poetry … the demons dominated them all, and their growing exultation was unbearable. As the losses accumulated, Max became mutinously silent.

“Hang in there,” Nigel whispered.

“By tradition, unarmed combat is the médim’s final contest,” said Prusias. “It is the oldest of all the contests and the primary sport of amann, the arts of blood. Who shall be Rowan’s champion?”

Even as Prusias said this, the demon turned and fixed his eyes upon Max.

“Ignore him,” said Nigel. “Cooper will handle this.”

Indeed William Cooper had already risen and was making his way toward the ring, removing his black cap to reveal the white scalp and its patchwork of pale yellow hair. Prusias cocked his head at the Agent’s approach.

“Madam Richter, is this truly Rowan’s champion?” inquired the demon. “I’d heard so many tales of Rowan’s little Hound, and yet he has skulked behind his elders throughout this entire médim.…”

Max almost leaped to his feet, but Nigel gripped his arm and pleaded with him to sit.

“Don’t take such obvious bait,” he warned. “Remember your promise.”

Max nodded, but his fingers twitched and trembled.

With a sigh, Prusias turned to address Lord Vyndra. “I had thought to put you forward once again, but I question whether the man is worthy. I leave the decision to you.”

The great rakshasa had been sitting stoically amid his lieutenants. He was a proud, fearsome-looking demon, resplendent in burnished mail that shone like coppery scales. Three eyes were set within his horned, tigerlike head, and each was gleaming as though a furnace blazed behind them. Rising, he came forward to tower over Cooper.

For several moments, the demon looked Cooper up and down. But then he stooped to look the Agent directly in the eye. Cooper bore this strange inspection for a full minute before Vyndra shook his head in disapproval.

“He is afraid,” declared the demon. “I will not meet him as an equal. Grahn can humble this pretender.”

Max seethed at the sight of Vyndra turning his back on the leader of the Red Branch. Between warriors there was no greater sign of disrespect. It was a grave insult, but Cooper merely stood quietly, his hands clasped before him.

Returning to his seat, the rakshasa gestured lazily at one of his lieutenants, a potbellied demon with tusks and four hairy arms that looked capable of ripping a man in two. Max gaped at the new challenger.

“Dear lord,” muttered Nigel as the creature practically leaped into the ring, howling with such fury that the hairs on Max’s neck stood on end. Cooper went about preparing himself, pulling off his shirt of nanomail, revealing a wiry, pale torso that was crisscrossed with scars. Grahn howled again as vyes removed his thick iron breastplate. Four muscled arms, each thicker than an ogre’s, began to shake and snatch at the air as though grasping and throttling an imaginary adversary.

“Nigel,” Max breathed. “I should be the one in there. Cooper shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Cooper can look after himself,” croaked Nigel, looking faint. “Do not interfere.”

“But—”

“But nothing,” snapped Nigel. “Now sit still and tell me what’s happening. I don’t think I can watch.…”

“The rules are simple,” said Prusias. “No weapons, no magic, no murder. Combat ceases upon the loser’s submission. When the bell sounds, let the amann begin.”

Many of the demons were now puffing eagerly from hookahs as Prusias took his seat. The air was thick with a smoky haze and the amber light from the braziers. Grahn howled again and paced a mere arm’s length from Cooper, whose hands were clasped while he stared at the rug at his feet. The man’s posture suggested a prisoner resigned to execution rather than a willing combatant.

The demon settled into a bristling crouch as though every muscle and nerve were coiling for a sudden, devastating assault. The hall became still and unbearably tense.

When the bell sounded, Grahn leaped.

Max had never seen Cooper move so fast. With a blurred sidestep, the Agent evaded the demon’s grasp and delivered an exquisitely timed blow to his temple. The resulting crack made the audience jump. Even Max had to swallow his cheer when he saw the result.

Grahn lay in an unmoving heap on the ground.

Had Cooper killed him?

For a moment, even the Agent seemed uncertain. Rounding on his heel, he shook the impact from his fingers and stared at his prostrate opponent. Grahn was splayed in an awkward heap, oblivious to his comrades, who were bellowing at him to get up. Vyndra watched the scene with cold disgust, but Prusias seemed genuinely amused.

“Do you submit, Grahn?” called Prusias in a mocking tone.

One of the demon’s arms twitched. Then another.

Max’s attention shifted to Cooper. While the Agent watched to see if Grahn would rise, he tentatively shook and flexed his fingers. Max groaned—he was sure the hand must be broken.

“What’s happening?” asked Nigel, his hands clapped over his eyes.

“Cooper knocked him flat,” replied Max. “But now he’s hanging back and letting the demon recover. Why doesn’t he just finish him?”

But the Agent did not press his advantage. To Rowan’s collective dismay, Grahn regained his senses and clambered to his feet. The left side of the demon’s face was swollen, his piggish eye sealed shut with caking blood. He tottered drunkenly, staring at Cooper all the while. Finally, Vyndra roared at the demon in their own language and Grahn gathered himself and went on the attack.

Once again, Cooper hit him with a blow that might have killed a lesser opponent. This time, however, Grahn managed to keep his feet and stagger through the punch to bear down upon Cooper.

Max heard Miss Boon’s shriek as the Agent was wrenched violently off the floor. Four arms encircled him, hugging him against Grahn’s chest as the demon howled and crushed him like a rag doll.

“He’ll break his back,” muttered Max, horrified.

“He submits!” cried Miss Boon. “He submits!”

“The combatant must submit,” Prusias reminded her, his eyes fixed on the contest.

Again and again, Grahn shook Cooper in sudden, horrifically violent fits. The Agent’s body had gone limp, and Grahn cackled.

“Does the little man surrender? Does he submit, or does his skin go up on Grahn’s pretty wall?”

When it appeared the Agent would speak, the demon ceased the throttling. But Cooper merely grinned while blood ran down his nose. Tightening its grip, the demon howled and wrenched him up again.

“SUBMIT, WILLIAM!” cried Miss Boon, her voice hysterical.

Time slowed to an excruciating crawl. Max could not bear to watch. Cooper would never submit—he had far too much pride. Max bolted to his feet, determined to intervene.

But even as he did so, Prusias spoke.

“That is enough, Grahn.”

The demon abruptly ceased, but swiveled his savage head toward Prusias in disbelief.

“Yes, that is enough,” reiterated Prusias calmly. “The man is unconscious and cannot submit. No deaths will mar this médim.”

Howling, Grahn tossed Cooper’s body aside. The Agent’s body crashed into one of the braziers, where he lay still. Miss Boon rushed to his side.

“A pity,” Prusias observed, gazing at Max. “A pity that your man was hurt while Rowan’s champion cowered in the shadows.”

It was too much to bear. His face burning with shame, Max wriggled free of Nigel’s grip and bolted to his feet. He knew he was making a spectacle of himself. He knew he was disobeying orders. But he did not care. It was bad enough that Rowan had meekly signed a treaty and been humiliated throughout the médim. But seeing Cooper beaten to a pulp while he sat idly by was too much by far.

He stormed across the hall toward the doors where the silent, masked standard bearers stood. They stood aside to let him pass. Once outside, Max ran from the embassy as though the Furies themselves pursued him.