I write in greatest urgency. The Enemy has begun a great work of which the missing Potentials are but a part. The Enemy believes Old Magic exists once again among our Order, and this signals an opportunity to recover Astaroth.
Max, the Demon is not dead, but imprisoned in a painting! Furthermore, the Enemy believes it is already in possession of the accursed thing. Many works now hanging in museums are clever forgeries—the stolen paintings in the newspapers are merely to divert Rowan’s attention from other thefts that have gone undetected….
There are whispers of a matchless child—a child whose arrival they have foreseen and whose help they require to free the Demon. Verifying the existence and identity of this child is of great interest to them.
Max—your name is known and has been mentioned many times in their councils. Be on your guard! There is at least one traitor among you. Rowan is not safe. I am close and watching—look for me at Brigit’s Vigil. Incinerate this!
Ronin
Max scanned the letter several times, committing its details to memory. “Brigit’s Vigil” was a mystery, but much of the letter made grim and disturbing sense. He had to speak to David immediately. David was operating under the assumption that the four paintings he had identified still hung safely in their respective museums, now under careful watch. And David might well be the matchless child the Enemy was seeking.
He crumpled the letter in his fist and reduced it to ashes with a blue flame.
As Max’s eyes followed a drifting flake of ash, the room suddenly shook with the deafening sound of Old Tom’s chimes. Max clamped his hands over his ears and pitched forward in his chair, eyes screwed shut. His eardrums rattled and vibrated for what seemed an eternity until the bells finished striking eight o’clock.
Opening his eyes, Max yelped as he realized he wasn’t alone in the old library. Miss Boon was standing some ten feet away.
“I’m sorry to surprise you,” she said. “I gather this is your first visit to Rattlerafters?” She took a deep breath and looked around. “I used to come here, too, when I wanted to be alone.”
Max nodded as the ringing subsided in his head.
“Some students said they’d seen you come this way,” she explained, gesturing toward the stairwell. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Flustered, Max zipped his backpack and started to get up from the table.
“No, but I already said I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
The corners of her mouth stiffened a moment before relaxing into an amused smile.
“I’m not here to discuss your behavior this afternoon. Please have a seat—I’d like to talk to you.”
Max casually swept the letter’s ashes off the table while Miss Boon took the chair opposite him. She reached into her bag and produced a thick book bound in worn green leather. Interlacing Celtic designs in faded gold ran along its borders. IRISH HEROES AND FOLKLORE was stamped on the front cover.
“What’s this?” asked Max.
“Interesting question,” mused Miss Boon. “I happen to think it may be you.”
Max looked across the table. Miss Boon leaned forward, her mismatched eyes locking on his as she raised her hands and murmured a word of command. Instantly the book sprang open, its pages flipping past until they stopped at an illustration of a fierce-looking warrior standing in a chariot. His black hair was plaited and he clutched a barbed spear in his hands. Max read the chapter title aloud: “Cúchulain—The Hound of Ulster.” The name sent a tingle up his spine.
“Not ‘koo-choo-lane,’” Miss Boon corrected, “koo-hull-in. Yes, Max, this is the very person I’d been hoping you’d research in an effort to better understand your vision. You have thus far refused to look for him, so he has come looking for you.”
Max balked at her tone and eyed his watch.
“Is everyone else doing research on their visions?” Max asked, trying to stall. “Because I’m having a hard enough time with classes as it is. I don’t think I should be taking on any more work.”
Miss Boon glanced quickly at the stairwell and gave Max a guilty smile.
“Fair enough. You see, Max, I’m really asking you for a favor. I want to understand more about your vision. I know it had something to do with the Cattle Raid of Cooley. But I need to know more—I need to know precisely what you saw.”
Max’s stomach tightened up. There was something in her eagerness that reminded him of Mrs. Millen.
“I’m not sure,” Max lied. “It’s kind of hard to remember. Why’s it so important?”
“Most of the time, a vision is something pretty and without much meaning behind it,” she said. Max fidgeted uncomfortably; Mrs. Millen had wanted to know if his tapestry had been pretty. “But yours is a bit different. Your tapestry was of a very definite person. From what little Nigel told me, your vision illustrated a very particular scene. If it’s true, that’s very rare. Almost unique, in fact. I’ve been doing a lot of independent research on visions, and I don’t know of one like that in over four hundred years. Since before Rowan was founded.”
Max took a quivering breath; he already knew the answer to his next question.
“Who had the last one?”
“Elias Bram,” she said.
Max thought of the last Ascendant’s apple floating in the Course’s trophy room.
“You think he had the same vision I did?” Max asked.
“No. His was very different. But, unlike all the others—and similar to yours—his was tied to history and myth. According to Bram’s letters, it was of the Norse god Tyr placing his hand in the mouth of the Fenris Wolf. Do you know the tale?”
Miss Boon smiled at him; she always seemed pleased when she knew something that someone else did not.
“The Fenris Wolf was a monstrosity,” she explained. “It was capable of wreaking unimaginable havoc unless it could be controlled. No chain could bind it, and so the gods, in secret, procured a cord wound with spells so as to be unbreakable. When they challenged the monster to test his strength against the cord, the wolf laughed but was suspicious of such a feeble-looking fetter. It agreed to be bound only if one of the gods would place a hand in its mouth as a gesture of good faith. Only Tyr stepped forward.”
Max winced. “What happened?” he asked.
“The Fenris Wolf could not break the magic binding,” she continued. “When it realized it had been caught, it bit off Tyr’s hand and swallowed it. Tyr had made a mighty sacrifice, but the monster was rendered harmless until Ragnarok—the End of Days—when it would burst its bonds.”
“Didn’t Elias Bram sacrifice himself at Solas?” Max asked. “So others could flee?”
“He did,” said Miss Boon, looking closely at Max. “I take it you can now imagine why I want to help you understand your vision.”
Max was not so certain.
“It’s like I told you,” he said. “It’s hard for me to remember. Maybe we should talk about it with the Director.”
Her eyes widened momentarily and she shook her head.
“No, no! This is just between us.” For a moment, she looked sheepish. “Ms. Richter doesn’t know I’m doing this research. She might think it’s taking time away from my…teaching duties. You understand, don’t you?”
Max glanced from her face to the book several times before finally nodding.
“Good. I thought you would.” She smiled and pushed up from the table. “I’ll leave this with you in the hope that you’ll read it. Perhaps it will jog something in your memory. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Max hesitated, before blurting out a final question.
“What’s Brigit’s Vigil?”
Miss Boon turned around.
“Where did you hear that term?” she asked, her nose wrinkled up in curiosity.
Max panicked; he had obviously made a terrible mistake.
“I heard Mr. Morrow say it,” he lied. “It just made me curious. I’d never heard it before.”
Miss Boon smiled and walked back over.