~14~
FAREWELLS

The incantation failed.

The words had cheated him.

Two days later, Max sat alone at the foot of his father’s bed. The room was so very quiet. The curtains were drawn to reveal a gray brooding sky.

Opening the armoire, Max checked his tie once again in the mirror. It was fine. His shoes were fine. The suit was, too. Scott McDaniels’s clothes were arranged throughout the armoire, and Max stared at them. There were flannel shirts and dress shirts, charcoal trousers, and a basket of dark socks. One of the shirts had almost slipped from its hanger. Max fixed it and slowly closed the door. The armoire’s faint scent of aftershave and cedar was a bitter reminder that his father had lived here, had inhabited this space.

Old Tom chimed three o’clock. There was a tentative knock and a deep, rumbling inquiry. Opening the door, Max nodded to Bob and the Bristows. Bob and Nigel wore black suits; Mrs. Bristow wore a gray dress that showed the round, promising lump of her unborn baby.

The walk to Rose Chapel was a silent dream, a blur of corridors, the sting of daylight, the resin scent of fir trees as they plodded through the damp chill. The chapel was located northwest of the Manse, past the last rows of the orchard. It was a humble, elegant building of white stone set within a clearing of spruce and ash and fir. Many mourners had already arrived, milling clusters of black suits and dresses like so many starlings. The priest arranged his notes and motioned for Bob, the Bristows, and Max to be seated in the front pew.

Max stared at the coffin.

Within it was his father’s body, pale and suited. What a strange job, Max thought—to comb a corpse’s hair and knot its tie. But it was just a vessel, he consoled himself, just flesh and blood, bones and teeth. Someone, some well-intended soul, had tried to beautify the deceased, but no makeup could mimic the life that had departed. Despite the effort at tranquil realism, the face looked off. It was a waxy counterfeit; it bore none of the spark or personality that had defined the man.

While the priest spoke, Max fixated upon his father’s hands. There was much more of him present in his hands than in the waxy veneer of his face. There was his treasured wedding band and a class ring from a Boston university that no longer existed. Calluses and scars from his kitchen duties. The bent forefinger from a childhood basketball injury. The hands were folded upon his broad chest in a gesture suggestive of modesty or piety or both. It seemed a silly pose, such a meek and apologetic sign. His father had never carried himself that way. Max wondered if he would have approved. Is that how one was supposed to bid the world farewell, with crossed hands in a pine box?

Turning away from the coffin, Max half stood and peered past Bob’s shoulders at the other mourners. Some dabbed at eyes and blew into handkerchiefs, while others sat in bowed, respectful silence. There were the Tellers, Julie’s appalled and tear-streaked face staring into his own. There was Ms. Richter, flanked by Miss Awolowo and Ms. Kraken. The Director’s expression was hard and thoughtful, her jawline sharp as scissors as she sat with her hands folded upon her black shawl.

David Menlo stood in the chapel doorway like a ghost, but this ghost had put on a suit. Even at a distance, Max could see tears shining on David’s cheeks. He stood alone in the doorway and shook, sobbing silently as the priest read from an old Bible.

Max listened to the priest’s consoling words, but they only made him angry. The Old Magic stirred from its deep slumber. Bob made a curious sound in his throat, twisting his old frame to gaze at Max with a watchful eye. The ogre must have sensed something, some subtle change in Max that the human mourners could not feel.

“We go outside now,” he whispered.

Panting, Max nodded and felt the ogre’s warm hand close over his own. There was a gentle pull on his arm, and he stumbled out of the chapel, ignoring the blur of faces and even David, who stepped aside to let them pass.

The cold air was a relief. Once outside, Max found that he was sweating profusely; he had soaked through his shirt and even the outer suit. Bob led him to a tree stump and lay his overcoat upon it so Max could sit and catch his breath. For several minutes, Max merely hunched over and panted, his mind reeling with so many thoughts it was impossible to order them.

“When did you decide to leave?” he finally asked Bob, clutching the ogre’s hand.

“Bob does not understand,” replied the ogre.

“Your homeland,” Max muttered. “What made you come to Rowan?”

“Hmmm,” said Bob, rumbling in his throat as though the memory were buried deep within his history. In the gathering twilight, it began to snow—tiny, crystalline flakes that settled upon his bald, knobby head. “Long ago, in Russia, I hear of place where old creatures can go. During the Great War, I come here and learn to cook. It is what Bob was meant to do.”

“Meant to do …,” muttered Max, musing on these words as the chapel’s bell began to toll.

Mourners began to stream out of the doorway, holding hands and speaking quietly while the bell’s clear note rang through the dark clearing.

Bob patted Max’s hand. “Do you want to see your papa one more time?”

Max stood and gazed at the open church door. “No,” he said. “He’s gone, Bob. He’s someplace else.”

The ogre nodded and shifted his weight, flexing his fingers to drive off the cold.

“Bob will see to details,” he said. “You go do what you must. Bob just asks one thing, malyenki?”

“What’s that?”

“Visit Bob one last time before you go,” rumbled the ogre. “He misses his little Mum. He will miss his fierce Max, too.”

“Who says I’m going anywhere?” Max protested.

The ogre merely smiled and shook his head.

“Before Bob was cook, Bob was ogre. Little ones not so hard to read.…”

Draping his overcoat over his shoulders, the stooped ogre lumbered back toward the chapel, stepping gingerly over the icy patches in the snow. As he did so, he waved absently at Julie, who stood upon the walkway some distance from her waiting family. Nodding politely to her parents, Max came and took her hand.

“Max, I’m so sorry,” Julie whispered, once again on the verge of tears. “I’ve tried and tried to find you these past days—”

“I know,” said Max. “I appreciate it, really. I needed to be alone.”

“My parents said they wrote you a letter,” she whispered, leaning into him. “Forget all about it—I don’t care what they say. I want to be with you.”

Max closed his eyes and felt them well with tears.

“Julie,” called Mr. Teller, a note of concern in his voice. “We’ve got to go now—Bill’s catching cold.”

“Just a minute!” she pleaded, then lowered her voice. “We’re going to be together no matter what my parents say.”

“Julie,” said Max. “Your parents are right. It’s not good being with me—bad things happen to the people I care about.”

“Nonsense!” she hissed, ignoring her father’s second summons. She opened her mouth to speak when a gloved hand touched her lightly on the shoulder. Julie turned and Max looked up to see a woman dressed all in black, her face obscured by a hat and veil.

“I wanted to pay my respects,” she said, her voice soft as smoke.

Brushing past Julie, the woman embraced Max and held him close. He felt the patterned press of lace against his cheek as the woman whispered through the veil. “Never forget you are the son of a king.”

Releasing him, the woman departed, moving smoothly through the crowd until she disappeared from view.

“Who was that?” asked Julie.

“I—I don’t know,” Max stammered.

By now, Julie’s father had lost patience and had stepped off the walk to reclaim his daughter. Condolences were muttered, apologies extended, and a protesting Julie was steered away.

It was better that way, Max thought. A prolonged goodbye would have been too painful, and it seemed there were endless people who wished to see him: Sarah, Cynthia, parents of classmates, teachers who implored him not to worry about homework at a time like this. There was Miss Boon, alone now that Cooper was off on assignment. She hugged him close, as did Miss Awolowo and even old, cranky Ms. Kraken, who seemed to bear no grudge from recent events. Limping up, Ronin shook Max’s hand and offered his condolences, as did Nolan, Monsieur Renard, and the other figures who had come to define Max’s life at Rowan.

It was touching, this outpouring of affection, of sincere goodwill. But Max still felt very much alone in this place, upon this earth. And David was nowhere to be seen. The rest of the mourners departed until there was just one left, waiting patiently by the chapel door as the last bell died away.

Ms. Richter.

It was dark outside the chapel now, and the snow fell steadily. The Director walked toward Max, her shoes scraping softly on the cobbles.

“I’m so sorry, Max,” she said, coming to a stop. “I wish there was something else I could say. Your father was a very good man. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose him.”

“Have you finished the investigation?” he asked pointedly.

“We both know there is no investigation,” she said simply. “I believe every word of your statement.”

Max felt conflicted. There was immense relief that Ms. Richter believed him, that his accusations and painful account had not fallen on deaf ears. But there was also a maddening frustration.

“If you believe me, then why won’t you do something?” Max asked.

Taking his arm, Ms. Richter walked with him along the quiet paths of the snow-sprinkled forest. It was a moonless night and dark beyond reckoning when one strolled beyond the radiance of the occasional streetlamps. At the Director’s summons, a pair of glowing orbs came into being and hovered just before them, lighting their way. It was a full minute before Ms. Richter answered his question.

“I wish I had an answer that would satisfy you,” she said quietly. “We could demand justice and insist that Lord Vyndra return to stand trial. He would, of course, refuse, and I cannot imagine the ambassador would assist us in the matter of extradition. Demons do not operate on human time, Max. Even if they chose to humor our request for criminal proceedings, Vyndra might not deign to appear for centuries—long after I, Nigel, even you have passed.”

“I don’t care about criminal proceedings,” said Max quietly. “I want revenge. I want to find Vyndra.”

“I know you do,” she said quietly. “It’s the most natural response I can imagine. However, I must implore you to resist that urge, Max. It’s very likely that Lord Vyndra wants you to seek him out and try your hand at revenge. Why else would he have made such an obvious, targeted attack? He wishes to bait you.”

“Well, he’s done it. And he’s going to be very sorry.”

“Max, Lord Vyndra is a monster. Don’t let him turn you into one.”

Max stopped and looked at the Director, genuinely puzzled. “Aren’t we monsters, too?” he asked. “What’s happening to the rest of humanity while we hide behind our walls and gates and treaties? Doesn’t our order exist to protect those who can’t protect themselves? Isn’t it our responsibility to hunt down monsters like Vyndra? Isn’t that the whole point of studying mystics and combat and all the rest?”

Ms. Richter sighed. “Max, you’ve hit upon the dilemma that all leaders face. Should a leader cater to present wants or future needs? Shall I indulge your anger, your demands for justice, and declare war upon Vyndra or Prusias or the whole of demonkind on Earth? That might scratch a powerful itch, Max, but it would come at a terrible price for many. Do you remember Winston Churchill and the Second World War?”

Max nodded.

“Well,” she continued, “early in the war, the British broke the Nazi’s secret code. Thus there were times when they knew precisely when and where the Nazi warplanes would strike. Despite this knowledge, Churchill had to stand by and allow certain targets to be bombed. Can you imagine why he would do such a thing?”

“Sure,” said Max. “If they always managed to defend the targets, the Nazis would have suspected that their code had been compromised.”

“Precisely,” said Ms. Richter. “Churchill had a critical choice before him. Should he act on his natural impulse to protect every target, or should he override this instinct to serve the greater good? Of course he chose the latter. Imagine the anger, the rage that some people must have harbored against him! Were they justified in feeling that way? Of course they were. But it doesn’t mean Churchill was wrong.…”

“You’re right,” Max said. “Leaders do have to make hard choices. But I’m not a leader, Ms. Richter. I don’t have to mind my behavior or wage a war in secret. I can make decisions for myself and do what I want to do—what I need to do.”

“Not while you live here, Max,” said Ms. Richter sadly. “If you live at Rowan, you must abide by our rules. I cannot allow you to indulge your anger and endanger everyone within this realm. If that’s what you choose to do, then you must do it elsewhere.”

“I understand that,” said Max.

“But I would urge you to wait,” added Ms. Richter. “Such a decision should never be made in haste or in grief. And even though you are of the Old Magic, you are still very young. There is much that we can teach you. There is still so very much for you to learn.”

“In a perfect world, I would stay,” replied Max quietly. “But this isn’t a perfect world. You were born to lead this place and these people. I was born for other things.”

A long silence fell between them, broken only by the low howl of the wind that bent the trees. When it became clear that Max had said all he intended, the Director smiled sadly at him.

“Where will you go?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” said Max.

“Well,” said Ms. Richter, “wherever that may be, I wish you well. But always remember that you have a home here at Rowan, Max. You have a home and people who love you.…”

Like most of their kind, the brothers Aurvangr and Ginnarr preferred to live belowground, and thus Max knew he must be patient. The dvergar lived beneath their smithing shop and must have been fast asleep when Max rang the bell in the deep hours of the night. Standing outside the shop, Max gazed about the township and clutched his bundle to his chest. The streets were largely deserted, the windows dark.

Verging on despair, Max gave the bell a final, furious pull. Inside, a light bobbed in the darkness—a flickering candle flame. The curtains were pulled, and a gnarled, curious face peered from behind the glass. Max stood by as Aurvangr unbolted the many locks and opened the door a sliver.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” whispered Max. “But I have urgent business. Can I come inside and talk with you?”

“Did you bring gold?” asked the dvergar, cocking his head at Max’s bundle.

“Yes,” said Max.

Opening the door wide, Aurvangr stood aside to let Max enter. Stooping beneath the archway, Max saw the cold hearth and the great anvil on which the brothers plied their trade. The building was low, the roof supported by heavy beams that were carved with ancient runes and scrolling images of earth, sea, and sky. Max ducked beneath a hanging rack of pliers and tongs while Aurvangr shivered and pulled his nightcap squarely over his bristly ears. With a grunt, he shouldered the door shut and turned to fix Max with a curious gaze.

“A knock in the night means evil is afoot,” sighed the dvergar. “What is it you want?”

“I want your boat,” said Max simply. “I’ve seen you and your brother out sailing in the bay. I’ve seen that ship sail of itself, and I need such a thing.”

“Ormenheid is not for sale.” The dvergar shrugged.

From the back stairwell, Max heard the flapping of feet climbing the stairs. A voice called out from below.

“Who is that, Aurvangr?”

“It is the boy,” replied the dvergar to his brother. “He wants our Ormenheid.”

“Does he, now?” inquired Ginnarr with evident curiosity. “And where are your manners, brother? Bring him down and let us hear him.”

Aurvangr frowned at his brother’s hospitality. Grumbling, he motioned for Max to follow.

Following the dim light of the lantern, Max climbed down the steps, where tree roots poked through scrolling stonework. They passed small storerooms and pantries and a coal room before the stairs terminated at a cozy hollow some thirty or forty feet below the earth.

This ceiling was low—no more than five feet at its highest point—and Max was forced to sit on the floor, as none of the chairs could accommodate him. In the dim light of the lantern, he could see that the room had been excavated into an octagonal shape, with each angle braced by a sturdy beam that arced toward the center. These were carved with great care and seemed to tell a story—a tapestry of runes and glyphs etched in sturdy tree trunks. Three deep nooks, like alcoves, were set into the walls. One contained a little claw-foot bathtub and a pair of water pails. The other two alcoves housed wooden beds whose mattresses were of mounded straw, a sort of blanketed nest. Ginnarr promptly burrowed in the one nearest a cast-iron stove, his braided beard hanging like a bib over the red wool blanket. It was a snug-enough room, Max decided, but the air was mildly damp, and the smell revealed the brothers’ affinity for ripe, moldy cheeses.

“Aurvangr was saying that you had a proposition for us,” Ginnarr began.

“Er, yes,” said Max. “I was interested in your boat, the Ormenheid.”

“And your business required you to inquire in the middle of the night?” said Aurvangr.

“Yes,” said Max. “I want to leave—leave Rowan. I want to do so tonight without all sorts of questions or prying or goodbyes.”

“That is your business,” said Ginnarr. “And your business is your own. Can you not book passage on a demon vessel? Why must you have Ormenheid?”

“I won’t sail on a demon ship,” said Max. “If you won’t sell me your boat, I’ll have to build or buy another. But I hope you’ll consider my offer.”

Reaching in his pack, Max removed a box of gems for which he’d exchanged his gold. It was a considerable amount of wealth, but the dvergar seemed unimpressed.

“My boy, you could not rent Ormenheid for that, much less buy it. Do you know what you are trying to purchase?”

“A ship that sails on its own.”

The brothers glanced at one another and smiled.

“No, Hound. You are trying to buy an artifact of our people—a relic of our greatest achievements. Have you heard of Skidbladnir?”

“No,” said Max. “I’m sorry to say I haven’t.”

“Long ago,” Ginnarr began, “the trickster Loki had angered the gods through his deceits. He enlisted the aid of our people—the sons of Ivaldi—to craft gifts that would make amends for his evil deeds. Three great gifts we forged—golden hair for the goddess Sif, the spear Gungnir for Odin, and the ship Skidbladnir for Frey of the Vanir. The ship could sail swiftly with all of the gods upon it and cleave wave and wind alike, for all the elements were its home. And when Skidbladnir was not in use, it could shrink to fit a child’s pocket. A wondrous thing, no?”

“Yes,” said Max, trying to mask his impatience. “But I’m not trying to buy Skidbladnir. I want the Ormenheid.”

“Ah,” said Aurvangr, sipping his tea. “But Ormenheid was the model for Skidbladnir. It is the greatest treasure we still possess. If you offered one hundred times the wealth in that box, we could not sell it to you.”

Max’s heart sank. His mind raced as he considered what else he might offer. He rummaged through his pack, sorting through his meager possessions.

“What is that?” asked Ginnarr, leaning forward.

From his pack, Max removed and unfolded a mail shirt. The supple armor had been a gift from the deceased Antonio de Lorca and was nigh impregnable.

“May we?” asked Aurvangr, peering greedily at it.

Max handed the shirt to the brothers, who held it between them and ran their leathery fingers over its smooth mesh.

“This is a pretty thing,” said Ginnarr.

“There are runes here,” observed Aurvangr, now peering through a jeweler’s lens. “Runes and relics, brother.”

The pair abruptly turned to Max as though they’d reached an unspoken agreement between them.

“We shall strike a bargain, eh?” said Aurvangr. “For the diamonds and this mail shirt we shall lend you Ormenheid for three years and teach you the words to master her. After three years, she must return to us.”

“I don’t know,” said Max dubiously. “That shirt’s a treasure of the Red Branch, and I might need it where I’m going. Besides, it seems an awful lot to pay for borrowing a little ship.”

“Then you must bargain with the demons.” Aurvangr shrugged.

“No,” said Max, considering. “I won’t bargain with them. You have a deal.”

While Aurvangr prepared the contract, Ginnarr shuffled over to a bookshelf stuffed with odd papers and tiny portraits of their ancestors. From a small glass box, he removed what appeared to be a minute replica of a dragon-prowed Viking ship whose tiny oars and striped sail were rendered in exquisite detail.

Placing it in Max’s hand, the dvergar patted it affectionately. “Here is little Ormenheid—the Gleaming Serpent,” he said.

Max listened carefully while Ginnarr ran through the words that would command the vessel. The final word, cautioned the dvergar, must be spoken only when the ship had been set adrift in open water, for it would transform the toy into a full-sized ship of some sixty feet. Ginnarr inscribed this word on a slip of parchment, taking care to write the phonetics so Max would not mispronounce the Old Norse.

Once the contract had been signed in triplicate, the dvergar seemed intent on returning to their beds, but Max ventured one last request.

“I know it’s late,” he said, removing the final bundle from his pack. “But I also wanted to see what you might do with this.”

Laying the cloth bundle upon the table, Max slowly unfolded it to reveal hundreds of razor-sharp shards of black metal and gray bone. To the layman’s eye, the shards may have appeared as so many scraps. But these were the remains of Cúchulain’s spear—the barbed gae bolga. Wounds inflicted with this weapon were always fatal. Max had shattered it within the Sidh but had salvaged every shard and splinter of the mythical relic.

A grim silence came over the dvergar, and they seemed to dismiss any thought of sleep. Bending over the table, they peered closely at the weapon’s remains but were careful not to touch them. In a murmuring voice, Ginnarr spoke to the metal, teasing forth its history.

“This is the blade of the Morrígan,” he croaked, staring at his brother. Both made a hasty sign and stepped away from the table. “We can do nothing with this. Nay, not even our forefathers would dare meddle with such a thing.”

“What do you mean, ‘the Morrígan’?” asked Max. “This belonged to Cúchulain.”

“It may have belonged to Cúchulain,” whispered Ginnarr, “but this is the weapon of a god—the Morrígan, who travels as wolf and raven among the dead and dying. She is the death-bringer, and these splinters hunger for it. Loathe should you be to set this thing to the fire and shape it anew. Scatter it to the four winds or bury it deep in hallowed ground. We will not touch it.”

Max pressed the issue, but the dvergar were resolute. It was clear that continued overtures would only serve to frighten or anger them. Thanking them for the Ormenheid, Max rewrapped the bundle and stowed it carefully in his leather pack.

By the time he left the dvergar’s shop, it was deep into the night and the time for a quiet departure was fleeting. Rowan Township was quiet as Max stole along the shadowy cobbles and plunged deeper into the Sanctuary in search of Nick. For nearly an hour he jogged along the wooded paths and climbed up into the hills calling for the lymrill by name.

By five o’clock, Max despaired of bidding Nick farewell and hurried back to the Manse. Entering his room, he was happy to find David absent. The hour was late, and Max had time for only one goodbye. Conscious of Astaroth’s prohibitions, Max allowed himself no books but took one innocuous paper—a private note that he tucked into the warm traveling cloak now secured by his ivory brooch from the Sidh. With a final glance up at the twinkling skyscape, Max hefted his traveling pack, strapped the sharp gladius to his back, and took up the long walking stick with which he hoped to scale the far mountains of the world.

Bob was still awake when Max knocked lightly at his door. The ogre lived in a converted storage space off the kitchen cellars, a high-ceilinged room with windows cut along the eaves. Clutching a book against his huge nightshirt, Bob made a bow.

“I am glad you came,” he rumbled. “I have something for you.”

Upon a small bench, the ogre had placed a large basket of preserves, cured meats, and a tough, durable bread called hardtack.

“What will you do for water?” he asked.

“Find it when I can,” said Max. “Use mystics when I can’t. Water is the least of my worries.”

The ogre nodded and accepted the bundle of letters and sacks of coins that Max asked him to distribute. It was strangely liberating as Max released them. Everything he now owned—or cared to own—was on his back. However, Bob insisted on making a quick inventory of Max’s supplies, granting his approval only when satisfied with the stores of woolen undergarments and a harpoon that could be socketed to his walking stick.

“Please explain the things I can’t,” said Max, gazing about the room, trying to remember every last detail. “I’ll miss you, Bob. You’ve been a good friend to me.”

“And you to me,” said Bob, stooping to look him in the eye. “Farewell, malyenki.”

Minutes later, Max closed the Manse door quietly behind him. Skirting the main paths, he wound his way down toward the harbor, detouring slightly to run a hand along Old Tom’s stonework.

Gràvenmuir was the last building he would pass. As always, the masked guards stood outside the gates, gangly and hideous. The more enterprising merchants were already setting up their stalls for the day, and despite the moonless night, Max kept to the hedges and shadows until he reached the stone stairs that led down to Rowan Harbor.

Each step seemed significant—a turning away from food and shelter, warmth and civilization. Another world lay beyond the harbor, and there were no guarantees that it held the answers, purpose, or vengeance Max so sorely craved. But he had to try. That was the thought that carried him along the rocky beach and away from the loading docks and private slips where prying eyes might follow him.

Clambering over rocks and sloshing through the ice-cold surf, Max walked a quarter mile before he deemed it safe to launch the Ormenheid. His teeth chattering, Max reached inside his cloak and set the tiny ship upon the black swell.

He leaned close and whispered to it. “Skina, Ormenheid, skina.”

Stepping back, Max waited for something to happen. He had expected a shower of faerie lights or something similarly dramatic. For several seconds Max entertained the awful suspicion that he’d been the victim of a colossal joke and paid dearly for a child’s toy while the real Ormenheid was moored elsewhere.

But he had not been deceived. The Ormenheid began to gleam, stretching sinuously through the water until it reached a length of some sixty feet. Its shape began to broaden, ribs emerging from the stiffening keel and curving up to form a shallow hull of overlapping planks. Within a minute, the frame had assumed the characteristic shape of a Viking ship. As the mast rose and the sail unfurled, the great prow lengthened and formed the head of a dragon.

Resting his hand against the gunwale, Max marveled at the reassuring solidity of a vessel that had recently resided in his pocket. Tossing his walking stick and pack aboard, he lifted himself out of the chilly brine and gazed out at the first signs of the approaching dawn.

Changing quickly into dry clothes, Max arranged his bedroll toward the back of the ship, where the gunwales tapered. As he set out the last of the blankets, Max noticed a figure standing on the beach some twenty yards away.

It was David Menlo.

Max’s roommate still wore his suit from Mr. McDaniels’s funeral and his face still betrayed a ghostly pallor. As a fresh flurry of snow whipped about his shoulders, David merely stared at Max with the same disquieting maturity he’d exhibited since he’d been a squeak of a boy.

“I came to say goodbye,” said David, his voice carrying eerily over the wind and waves.

“How did you know I was here?” asked Max.

David merely shrugged. “Do you know where you’ll go?” he asked.

“They’re saying the Great God has returned,” replied Max, smiling grimly.

“That they are.”

“Well, then, I’m off to find him.”

David offered a sardonic grin and a farewell wave that Max returned before setting the ship on its course.

“Leita Blys,” he commanded in a clear voice.

Long oars pulled through the surf, setting the ship into purposeful motion. A breeze filled the sail, and the ship eased out toward open sea.

Once he was away, Max retrieved a small spyglass and took a last glance at Rowan in his wake. There was David walking slowly along the gray beach toward the bright watch fires that lined the harbor’s curving seawall. Raising the glass, Max glimpsed the statue of Elias Bram jutting above the cliffs, a tiny white figure set against the black sprawl of Gràvenmuir.