The Sanctuary was more crowded than Max had ever seen. By the time the McDanielses arrived, the commencement ceremony was ending. Hundreds of students, faculty, and alumni sat around long candlelit tables, sipping champagne and nibbling hors d’oeuvres as Ms. Richter awarded the last diploma to a beaming Sixth Year. Tea lights shimmered on the pond, swirling slowly in the wakes of Frigga and Helga, who turned lazy circles in the water. Dozens of giant phosphorescent seashells decorated the clearing, each illuminating the surrounding grass with a radius of soft yellow light.
“Want some champagne, Dad?” Max asked as a faun passed by with a tray of drinks.
“Dear God, yes,” muttered Mr. McDaniels. He reached for a glass while the faun gave his shoes a peevish glance.
The McDanielses sat toward the back at an unoccupied table. Max bowed his head and focused on the sound of water lapping at the lagoon banks as people caught sight of him and began whispering. Glancing up, he saw Anna Lundgren and Sasha Ivanovich staring daggers at him from several tables over. Max ignored them and turned to Ms. Richter, who now stood to speak.
“We’re very proud of all of our graduates,” Ms. Richter said. “And while we permit our beloved Course analysts a few more minutes to put the finishing touches on their highlights reel”—here the older students groaned—“I’d like to dedicate this moment to Rowan’s annual awards. That is, unless you’d prefer to simply wait for the film.”
The student body began to yell and jeer in protest. Sir Alistair hid his face in a napkin.
She chuckled. “Well, I suppose we can squeeze them in. As you all know, these awards are very special at Rowan; each of them symbolizes qualities that are a necessary component of what we do and what we stand for.”
As Ms. Richter finished her speech, six gleaming glass cases on tall stands of polished wood materialized near the head table. Inside, lit from within, floated the artifacts from the Course trophy room.
“Would you look at that?” breathed Mr. McDaniels, pinching Max’s elbow. It was now very quiet in the Sanctuary.
Ms. Richter then awarded Macon’s Quill to a blushing Fifth Year girl for her academic achievements, while the Giving Belt went to a student known for her diligence in the Sanctuary. Max clapped hard along with the Sixth Years when Jason Barrett’s name was called for the Helm of Tokugawa. Jason strode forward from the tables of graduates, eliciting a laugh from the audience when he produced a pen and pretended to carefully write his name on the plaque.
Ms. Richter cleared her voice and continued.
“It is exceedingly rare for an Apprentice to win one of these awards.” Max felt his stomach tighten as the audience turned toward him once again. “And yet I can think of no student during my tenure as Director who has been more deserving. To present this award, allow me to introduce an alumnus and former winner, Mr. Peter Varga.”
Max’s head shot up.
A blushing, plump little woman in a nurse’s uniform emerged from behind a row of seated faculty, pushing Ronin in a wheelchair. Several of the alumni exchanged glances and whispers; the students offered a smattering of hesitant applause.
Ronin looked drained but happy. He shared a few quiet words with the Director, who amplified his voice with a wave of her hand.
“I would not be among such fine company if it was not for this young man,” he croaked, shutting his eyes from the effort. The audience was utterly silent. “Nor would dozens of children who will soon return to their families. For outstanding courage before the Enemy, the Gauntlet of Beowulf is awarded to Max McDaniels.”
A roar of cheers overwhelmed Max as he made his way dazedly toward the head table. Ronin’s head hung heavily, but he was smiling as he offered a trembling handshake.
“When did you get here?” whispered Max, taking his hand and leaning close so Ronin could hear him over the applause.
“Few hours ago.” He smiled, closing his eyes once again. “Insisted on it.”
“You shouldn’t have come,” Max said. “You’re not well yet!”
“Not yet—but he will be,” interrupted Ms. Richter, placing her hand on Max’s shoulder. “Mr. Varga is not present just for your award, Max; he will finish his rehabilitation here. Congratulations, my boy! Now go take your place.”
Max shook her hand, glancing up at the fathomless silver eyes. He walked over to his award. The gauntlet’s dented plates and rivets gleamed inside the lighted case. More cheers erupted, and he looked down to see his name written in flame.
Max found it almost impossible to concentrate for the remainder of the awards ceremony. He felt very small and exposed, doing his best to clap dutifully for the remaining winners. As Ms. Richter brought the ceremony to a close, Max looked for Ronin but he was already gone.
Two days later, most of the students had left and the Sanctuary was quiet. Under a hot afternoon sun, Max caught his father’s throw and tried to herd the goslings away from the wrapped sandwich he had left lying on the grass.
“There you are!” a familiar voice called out. “Come here, my darlings! Mother’s all soft and gorgeous again!”
Max looked up to see Hannah waddling toward them from the hedge tunnel. Walking behind her was Julie Teller.
The goslings abandoned Max’s sandwich and went off honking toward their mother. Julie stepped gingerly around them, looking very pretty in a blue summer dress.
Max glanced at his father, relieved to see him nibbling on his sandwich and chatting amiably with Frigga and Helga as the sisters basked on the banks of the pond.
“Hi!” said Julie, coming to a stop.
“Hey.” He grinned, shielding his eyes from the sun. “Are you leaving today?”
“Yeah. I wanted to come say good-bye for the summer.” She looked down at her shoes. “I have something for you.”
Max fumbled for words as she handed him a little unsealed envelope of pretty stationery. “Uh, thanks,” he finally said, turning the envelope over in his hands.
“I read it during Humanities—in Morrow’s favorite book, of all things! It made me think of you.”
Max flipped open the envelope.
“Oh God!” she laughed, covering her mouth. “Don’t read it now!”
“Sorry!” Max exclaimed, snatching his hand away from the letter.
“Well, have a good summer, Max. You can write me if you like. My address is on the back, and it would be nice to hear from you.”
Blushing furiously, Julie leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. A second later, she was gone, walking quickly back over the grass toward the Sanctuary tunnel. Max watched her go; her figure grew smaller with every step until she disappeared into the dark green foliage.
He dropped his ball and glove on the ground. Reaching inside the envelope, he retrieved a folded sheet of stationery. The words were written in careful, graceful script:
Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for a time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than the other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.
—Herman Melville,
Moby-Dick
Max read the note several times before folding the paper again, careful to keep its original crease. Placing it in his back pocket, he breathed in deep and watched a flight of black swans streak across a sky the color of marigolds. Frigga and Helga slid silently back into the water, leaving father and son alone in the Sanctuary. Mr. McDaniels was smiling now. He pounded his mitt as he took up a spot near a tall backstop of hay bales. Max reached for his glove. His first throw was high.