“A place for keeping human remains,” answered Ms. Richter, studying the tortoise shell.
“Indeed,” said Bram, “grave robbing has long been practiced by various professions—physicians, artists, and, most infamously, necromancers. But the witches are the most prolific. Over the centuries, they have pried into coffins, crypts, burial mounds, tombs, and mausoleums of every kind and from every culture to amass their collections.”
“And what exactly are they collecting?” asked Max.
“Mostly dirt and dust,” said Bram, smiling, “bones if any remain; canopic jars and urns. What they find is not as important as who they find. The witches have been studiously collecting the remains of every mystic, shaman, and sorcerer they can get their hands on—the remains of anyone they believe has trafficked with the spirit world or possessed knowledge that they value. They have collected many thousands of specimens and organized them as meticulously as Rowan’s Archives.”
“But I thought the witches were all about the wild and living things,” said Max. “They worship nature. I’ve never heard they practiced necromancy.”
“They don’t,” said Bram. “At least, not necromancy as it’s usually defined. The witches are not interested in animating corpses to serve some dark purpose. They use the remains to communicate with the dead and gather wisdom from the past.
According to their beliefs, the practice is not a desecration but a great honor—the deceased’s counsel is sought and valued even after their spirit has left this world. The witches see themselves as communing with nature, not violating it.”
“How are the ossuaries aiding your pursuit of Astaroth?” pressed Ms. Richter.
“They allow me to communicate with shamans and spirit guides from many thousands of years ago—people who lived before any cultures kept written accounts,” explained the Archmage. “And some of the oldest recall a pale being that followed their tribes at a distance and watched them as they huddled by their fires. Many years might pass between its appearances, but its coming was always viewed as an evil omen. Whenever they saw the pale being, women were wont to miscarry, brothers quarreled, and the hunt became scarce. But there was one shaman in the far north who finally mustered the courage to approach it. He asked what it was and where it came from. He asked why it was bothering them and driving all the animals away. The shaman’s people meant it no harm. It should leave them alone.”
“What did it say?” asked Ms. Richter, spellbound.
“It pointed to the stars and tried to emulate the shaman’s speech, but struggled to do so. Abandoning the effort, it pointed again at the sky. The shaman decided that it was trying to show him where it came from. Interestingly, the shaman also sensed that it was afraid—not of him, but of something out among the heavens. The shaman smiled, named him Wanderer, and tried to indicate that he understood. The Wanderer mimicked his smile and then seized his hand. When the shaman shrieked and tried to flee, the being released him and simply walked away. The next morning, the tribe awoke to find dead caribou arranged and heaped about their camp. It seemed the Wanderer had left the animals, but the tribe would not touch the meat and never returned to that place. The unfortunate shaman grew ill and died within the month.”
Max found that he was holding his breath. He exhaled, his mind fixated on the primitive but eerie similarities between Astaroth and this ancient Wanderer of the shaman’s tale. He envisioned Astaroth’s ever-present, masklike smile and wondered if it was a sort of ingrained mannerism that stemmed from his early interactions with people: Humans do this to put other humans at ease and be welcomed. This thought made Astaroth seem even stranger and more alien to Max than before.
“What do you make of this?” asked Ms. Richter quietly.
“I still have much more to learn,” replied Bram. “But I do not doubt that this ‘Wanderer’ from the shaman’s account was Astaroth, as he is now known. And I do not doubt that the ‘Smiling Man’ and the Olmec carving are also him. It was not until the Middle Ages that he even assumed the identity of ‘Astaroth’ and that dreadful name began to appear in the scholars’ lists and grimoires. By that time, Astaroth had essentially become a ‘demon’ as we tend to think of them: He assumed their aura, he could be summoned, and, despite his great powers, he was bound by certain rules and strictures. Scholars believed that he was one of the greater corrupted stewards and fit him into their hierarchies. Even other demons took Astaroth for one of their kind and served him out of devotion or fear until his humiliation on Walpurgisnacht.”
Finishing his tea, Bram sat back down and gazed into the cup with a dark, melancholy air.
“And this strange being,” he muttered. “This imposter—this ‘Wanderer’—who has masqueraded for millennia as both demon and man possesses the Book of Thoth. Nothing—not even Rowan’s fate—is more important than recovering the Book and destroying Astaroth once and for all.”
Setting down her tea, Ms. Richter gave a nod and stood. “These revelations about Astaroth are disturbing,” she said. “A part of me—a childish part—wishes I’d never heard them. Thank you for your explanations. I suppose it was my greed. Despite all the forces we’ve arrayed against Prusias, Elias Bram is a mighty weapon and I wanted him in my arsenal. Now I understand.…”
“You are not driven by greed,” said Bram gently. “It is your love of Rowan and all who shelter here that drives you, Director. I admire you. You’re a far better leader than I ever was.”
She bowed appreciatively. “Well,” she said, “I’m overdue in Founder’s Hall. We will leave you to your labors, Archmage. Do I have your word that you will leave Max McDaniels to his?”
“You do,” he promised. “But we never even discussed why I originally sent for him.” Bram glanced beneath the door to make sure Mina wasn’t eavesdropping. “I know about the attack by the Atropos,” he said gravely. “A very ugly business, and I don’t want Mina to hear about it. It would upset her terribly. In any case, my own charge has asked my permission to serve Max for the time being.”
“YaYa?” said Max, confused.
The Archmage smiled. “It’s been many years since YaYa carried a rider into battle, but I don’t think you will be disappointed. The Enemy fears her, for good reason, and your soldiers may find greater heart and courage in her presence. Will you accept her service?”
Max nodded, speechless at this unexpected boon. When Bram opened the door, the study’s disorienting effect ceased and Max felt like his feet were planted firmly on the floor once again. In the common room, they found Emer dozing in her chair, Lila scratching at the door, and Mina stirring a large pot and peering at its contents with an anxious, irritated expression.
With a groan, the Archmage strode across the room and flung open the windows.
“It just needs more basil,” Mina assured him.
“No, it does not,” Bram declared. “It needs less garlic. Didn’t I tell you to follow a recipe?”
“I did follow a recipe!” shouted Mina, defiantly flinging the rest of the basil into the pot.
“Show it to me, then.”
“I threw it in the fire!”
“What have I told you about lying, child?”
“To get better at it!”
~ 16 ~
In the Dragon's Coil
One week later, Max sat astride YaYa and surveyed the Trench Rats as his battalion stood at attention. While the afternoon sun may have caused the soldiers to squint, its rays also imparted a coppery gleam and pleasing uniformity to the rows of dented helms and mismatched armor. Max was grateful for that sun. He was grateful for the weather in general. On dark days when it was bitter cold, the troops could not stand still for long; they tended to fidget and stamp, appearing less like a crack battalion and more like kindergartners during an assembly. But not today, reflected Max proudly. Today they seemed content to stand at attention, bask in the warm breeze, and allow the sun to work its ennobling magic.