The Second Siege (35 page)

“Dad is here,” he whispered, hugging her close to keep her warm. “You’ll see him soon.”

“I’m so glad,” she said, peering out at the surrounding campus.

Shadows loomed, dark and jagged on the bright snow. Max looked up to see Commander Vilyak and several members of the Red Branch standing before them, looking grim. All were armed.

“You’re back,” muttered Vilyak, shining a lantern upon their faces.

“Yes, sir,” said Max. “We have to get her inside.”

Vilyak paused a moment, scanning the faint scars and taller boy before him. Visibly puzzled but apparently satisfied, he glanced at Mrs. McDaniels. “And who is she?”

“Bryn McDaniels, sir. My mother,” explained Max, helping her to her feet. “She’s a graduate of Rowan.”

Mrs. McDaniels blinked at Commander Vilyak.

“It’s Deirdre Fallow,” she said. Max said nothing but stared at the snow upon hearing the unfamiliar name. Apparently, more surprises were in store.

“Deirdre Fallow?” gasped Commander Vilyak, stepping closer to shine the lantern on her face. “What
happened
? Where have you been all these years?”

“A long story,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “And I cannot tell it now—I am so very tired.”

“We’re taking her to the healing ward,” said Max, helping her past the Agents, who readily parted for them. “Please tell Ms. Richter that David needs to see her immediately.”

“Whatever you need to tell Gabrielle, you can tell me,” said Commander Vilyak. “The Director is very busy.”

“I’d rather tell her myself,” said David, coughing into his collar.

“And I’d rather hear it directly from David,” said Ms. Richter, walking smoothly across the snow, wrapped in a white shawl. She acknowledged Commander Vilyak with a nod before stopping to look at Max and his mother. A kind, understanding smile passed over her face as she gazed at Mrs. McDaniels. “Hello, Deirdre,” she said. “This is an unexpected but very pleasant surprise. I did not think we would see you again. I look forward to a long chat when you’ve rested.”

Walking forward, Ms. Richter placed a protective arm around David. Together, the four of them walked past the assembling onlookers and onto the Manse’s broad stone steps.

“Ms. Richter?” asked David while the Director shooed away a trio of gawking First Years. “How long have we been gone?”

“Over three weeks,” replied the Director. “We were beginning to lose hope. I trust you were successful?”

“I’m not sure,” said David, hugging the Book tightly to his chest and following Ms. Richter down the hallway to her office. Max escorted his mother to the ward, pausing every few steps so she could catch her breath.

When the Moomenhovens had tucked Mrs. McDaniels into a soft bed with a stitched quilt, Max made his way up the stairs and down the corridors to his father’s door. Mr. McDaniels answered on the second knock, rubbing at his eyes and blinking groggily. He had not shaved for days and looked a mess. For several seconds, his father did not say anything; Max imagined it must be quite a strange thing to look upon a loved one last seen sailing off into the blue.

“No, Dad,” said Max. “I’m here. I’m back.”

Scott McDaniels reached out a hand and cupped Max’s strong chin, his eyes wandering over the faint and fading scars.

“You look different, Max—older.”

“I
am
older, Dad,” said Max softly. “I’ve been away a lot longer than three weeks.”

“How can that be?” said Mr. McDaniels with a hesitant smile. “Where were you, Max? Where have you been all this time?”

“Far away,” said Max. “Under hills—in a different time. A strange place.”

“I wanted to go with you,” said Scott McDaniels hoarsely. “It’s a terrible thing to watch your boy go off into the unknown.”

“I know, Dad,” said Max. “Let’s step inside. There’s something I need to tell you.”

Inside Scott McDaniels’s room, the two sat on the edge of a rumpled bed that was still warm. Max reached for a framed photograph of his family taken when he was eight. He stared at the image of his mother, confirming that the sleeping woman in the ward was really she. Any remaining doubts fell away and in a quiet, patient voice he explained to his father that his mother had been found and was indeed alive, resting within the Manse. Max’s insides knotted into icy cords as he watched his father’s face flicker and then ignite suddenly into joy.

“There’s something you have to know,” said Max firmly. “Mom’s not how you remember her.”

Mr. McDaniels glanced sharply at him; his smile began to fade.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Is she hurt?”

“No,” said Max. “She’s not hurt exactly. I don’t know how else to say this, but she’s old now.”

“What are you talking about?” chuckled Mr. McDaniels. “She’s only forty-two!”

“Not anymore,” said Max gently. “Time is different in the Sidh. Only three
weeks
have passed here since David and I left, but I’ve been gone for a long time. It’s been three
years
since Mom disappeared, Dad. She’s a very old woman now....”

“I’m going to her,” said Scott McDaniels abruptly, standing up from the bed. Fastening his robe, he walked quickly to a mirror and ran his hand over his stubble. “I don’t want her to see me this way,” he muttered, filling the sink with water and briskly lathering his face with foam.

Rosy-cheeked and freshly shaved, Scott McDaniels put on his best shirt and gave his shoes a second glance before he and Max made their way to the ward. As they walked, Max informed him that Bryn McDaniels had also attended Rowan and that people here knew her as Deirdre Fallow.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” snapped Mr. McDaniels. “Your mother’s maiden name is Bryn Branson Cabot, and she attended St. Mary’s Preparatory School in New Hampshire. I’ve seen her birth certificate and yearbooks, for cryin’ out loud!”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” said Max. “It’s all a lot for me, too.”

“I know it is,” his father muttered. “I’m sorry.”

Quiet as mice, they crept into the ward where the Moomenhovens had already laid out chairs and a sleeping cot. Max’s mother did not stir. Scott McDaniels stood for a long time, his hands deep in his pockets. He finally eased into a seat to gaze thoughtfully at her tranquil face. There, in the low firelight, the two sat while the Moomenhovens knitted and frost patterned the glass.

“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” replied her husband, leaning close to kiss her cheek. She sighed and gave him an amused if disbelieving smile. Reaching out a fragile hand, she clutched his finger.

“I have some explaining to do,” she whispered. “You two must be very angry with me.”

“What happened that day, Bryn?” asked Scott McDaniels. “Why did you go away?”

“I received a visitor,” she murmured. “Someone from a life I thought I had left behind.”

Scott McDaniels nodded slowly, his face grave. One of the Moomenhovens hurried over with hot tea while Max and Mr. McDaniels propped up his mother on some pillows. She took a few tentative sips, and her voice became stronger.

“My visitor was a prescient I had known when I was a student here,” she continued. “He prophesied that my son would someday be lost—lost within the Sidh unless I was there to guide him home. The day was Midsummer and that very night a penumbral eclipse of the moon occurred. It is a most rare occurrence, my loves—a time when a gateway might be found to the Sidh. There was no time to lose! We made our way to Ireland, where he led me to a door on the banks of the river Boyne. For a time, I wavered—aware of the terrible pain I would cause. Dawn approached and the doorway began to fade. I went through. And there I have lived—within the Sidh, waiting for the day I would be needed. I have missed you more than I can say.”

“And who is Deirdre Fallow?” asked Scott McDaniels.

“
I
was Deirdre Fallow,” explained Mrs. McDaniels. “Until I left Rowan behind and would become your Bryn. Bryn was the life I chose, Scott—a life with you and away from all of this. I found happiness as Bryn McDaniels.”

“So you never attended St. Mary’s?” asked Mr. McDaniels, looking confused.

“No,” she said. “My new life required a new identity. I’m sorry.”

“Did you know William Cooper, Mom?” asked Max, suddenly remembering Cooper’s strange reaction to the photograph.

“Yes,” said his mother, sounding surprised. “He was a year ahead of me. We were sweethearts here, if you can believe it! He was a lovely person—serious, but lovely. They whisked him away to active service after graduation and we fell out of touch.”

“He looked after us, you know,” said Max. “Dad and me and David and the others on our journey.”

“And where is he now?” asked Mrs. McDaniels, smiling. “I’d like to see him again. William could always make me laugh!”

“I don’t know, Mom,” said Max. “We lost him in Germany.”

“Oh,” she said quietly. “I’m so very sorry.”

Throughout this drift in the conversation, Mr. McDaniels remained silent—a rounded block with a forward lean and a contemplative face. He abruptly stood up.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, I’m not so hungry,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “Old age gobbles up the appetite.”

She chuckled, but Max and his father did not.

“No, no,” said Mr. McDaniels, wringing his hands. “How ’bout Belgian waffles? You used to love ’em and I’ll bet they didn’t have any in the Sheee—or whatever it’s called. You can’t say no to golden-brown waffles with fresh maple syrup!”

“Okay,” said Mrs. McDaniels, smiling. “Breakfast in bed it is. I’ll be spoiled before long!”

“Back in a jiffy,” said Scott McDaniels, kissing her on the forehead. He walked briskly from the room, visibly pleased to be of service. Once he disappeared outside the door, Max’s mother sighed.

“The sweetest soul I’ve ever known,” she whispered. “How I’ve missed him.” She turned a pair of penetrating eyes upon her son. “I know who rules at Rodrubân, Max,” she said at last. “And I gather you now know his relationship to
you
?”

Max nodded and stared at the quilt’s red stitching.

“It’s awkward to discuss this, but I want you to know that I was never unfaithful to my husband,” she said. “Before you were born, Lugh came to me in my sleep and told me I would give birth to a marvelous boy. The boy would be a son of the Sidh—Céchulain reborn. Of course, I passed it off as a ridiculous dream.” Her eyes brightened. “You were such a beautiful baby! The nurses cooed and my heart nearly burst with pride to have such a fine son. And Scott! He rocked you back and forth while you squeezed his finger so tight it turned blue!”

They laughed together and Max reached for the small, gnarled hand that lay atop the quilt. It was no more than a wedge of bone and gristle and papery skin. He patted the fragile thing as she spoke, aware that she had been weakening appreciably ever since they’d found the Book.

“As you grew older, I knew it was no dream,” she continued. “It pained me to see you suffer so, always wrestling with that monstrous spark within you. You straddle two worlds, Max, mortal and immortal. I could feel the Old Magic growing—burning you from within and biding its time. Do you remember those terrible days?”

“I do,” said Max quietly. “I could never sleep. And the headaches . . . I thought I would die.”

“But you did not,” she said, shaking her head. “You managed as best you could. And now I must ask you to manage one more thing, if you can.”

“Of course,” said Max, leaning forward. His mother’s voice was hushed and urgent.

“
Never
tell Scott the circumstances behind your birth,” she whispered. “You’re all he has, Max! He has loved you as his son since before you were born. It would do no good to share such a secret.”

Max hastily wiped away a tear.

“I already made up my mind on all of that,” he said, summoning a smile. “My father lives at Rodrubân; my dad lives at Rowan.”

His mother said nothing but squeezed his hand with all the strength she could muster.

“You’re a fine young man,” she whispered.

Several minutes later, Mr. McDaniels returned with a covered tray.

“Voilà!” he said, setting the tray upon the bed. Upon a plate were four steaming waffles, a small pitcher of syrup, and a glass of fresh juice.

“Dear me,” said Mrs. McDaniels, “I might die of shock. These aren’t, er . . .”

“Burnt!” said Scott McDaniels triumphantly. “Yes, I know—I’ve learned a thing or two as well, my dear. Bob’s a heckuva teacher.”

“How
is
Bob?” inquired Mrs. McDaniels. “I used to chat with him in the kitchens until that awful hag arrived. I can’t imagine
she’s
still here—tricked a First Year into a cooking pot! Poor thing thought it was all a funny game until he was floating in chicken broth and sliced carrots. Thank god Kraken arrived to put an end to it! Oh, what was her name?”

“Her name is Mum and she can hear you!”
bellowed the hag from just beyond the doors.

“I should have said something,” said Mr. McDaniels, cutting his wife’s waffles into small bites. “You have visitors—lots of them, whenever you’re ready. Should I send them away?”

“Absolutely not,” said Mrs. McDaniels. “I’d love to see them—Mum, too!”

In came Bob and a scowling Mum. Following behind were Miss Awolowo, Mr. Vincenti, and Nolan, who held a sleek black bundle in his arms. The Director came last.

“Deirdre Fallow,” exclaimed Nolan, stooping to kiss the top of her head. “When I heard the news I couldn’t believe it! Deirdre Fallow back after all these years and Max’s mother to boot! Who knew?”

Everyone laughed and greeted her in a flurry of careful hugs and well-wishes. Nolan laid the dark bundle upon the quilt. It moved and Max saw it was a cat so black that tinges of midnight blue rippled through its fur. Luminous yellow eyes blinked as it stirred from sleep.

“Isis!” exclaimed Mrs. McDaniels, reaching out a hand to stroke the cat’s fur. “I didn’t know if she . . .”

“Was still kickin’?” asked Nolan with an amused twinkle in his eye. “Yes, indeed. Sleeps most days, though.”

Isis turned her head and sniffed Max’s mother. A deep, contented purring sounded as the cat pawed and patted her way up the quilt, nestling her head beneath Mrs. McDaniels’s chin.

“Isis was my charge, Max,” explained his mother, stroking the cat’s glossy fur. “I wasn’t sure if she was still alive, much less whether she’d remember me.”

“Some things don’t change,” said Nolan, smiling.

“And some things
do
!” declared Mum, elbowing past Nolan to peer closely at Max’s mother. “I’ll have you know I’m now a reformed hag and utterly indispensable to this establishment!” Mum suddenly abandoned her rant and sniffed casually along Mrs. McDaniels’s wrist. “Yes, yes, I remember you now,” she mumbled to herself. “Skinny girl with black hair; very suspicious—always watching. Should be served with a starchy side. Yes, yes . . . hmmm,” she said, sniffing again. She eyed Max and seized his wrist suddenly, inhaling deeply. “How I never put the two of you together is beyond me!” she exclaimed. “Mother and son, sure as Bel and me are sisters. I ought to have my sniffer examined. . . .”

With a massive hand, Bob gently tugged Mum away, reaching over her head to lay a bundle of roses on the bed.

“Welcome home, Deirdre,” said Bob, patting the covered lump of her foot. “Bob has missed his little Fallow. Or should Bob call you Bryn?”

Mrs. McDaniels glanced at Max and her husband.

“Bryn,” she said decisively. “I am Bryn McDaniels now.”

Max listened in fascination as the visiting faculty pulled up chairs and began to share a history of his mother he had never known. Apparently, she’d been an excellent student—winning Macon’s Quill for academic achievement with offers to join her pick of field offices. As proud as he was, it was strange for Max to imagine his mother walking the same paths, attending the same classes—even having some of the same instructors that he had.

“Has Sir Alistair retired?” she asked, referring to Rowan’s expert on diplomacy and etiquette.

“No,” said Miss Awolowo.

Mrs. McDaniels said nothing but rolled her eyes, to the amusement of all.

The conversation soon turned to questions of the Sidh. According to her account, Mrs. McDaniels had spent a good deal of time wandering about, learning the strange rules, laws, and customs of the place: which rivers were perilous, how to skirt the many marching armies, which kingdoms were to be avoided during certain months and moons. While sharing her stories, she perked up considerably, and Max felt a flutter of hope that perhaps the effects of the Sidh would fade and the accumulated years peel away like layers of paint to reveal the mother he remembered.

A slow, sharp rapping sound snapped his attention back.

Peter Varga stood in the doorway.

He was thinner than when Max had last seen him, but his prescient eye still stared white and ghostly within its dark, lidded socket. The rest of his face was handsome, if sallow. Since the previous spring, he had been spending his days rehabilitating after the dreadful injuries he suffered from Marley Augur. Peter limped into the room, leaning heavily on a sturdy cane and dragging his right foot.

Max bristled at the sight of him.

“What are
you
doing here?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

Peter glanced at Max’s mother, his eyes wandering over her gray hair and wrinkled skin.

“I came to welcome Deirdre back,” he said quietly.

“Her name is Bryn McDaniels,” said Max, “and she’s my mother and this is all because of you.”

Peter winced at Max’s words. He opened his mouth to say something before shutting it once again.

“Should I go?” he asked finally.

“No,” said Mrs. McDaniels, beckoning him over. “You are not to blame, Peter. Your vision was correct—I
was
needed in the Sidh.”

“What do you mean, he’s not to blame?” seethed Max. “He’s the reason you’re old! He’s the reason the witches want David! He’s probably the one helping Astaroth to get the Book!”

“Max,” warned Ms. Richter, shaking her head.

“But it’s true,” said Max, stabbing a finger at Peter. “Did David tell you, Director? We have another traitor! Someone with access to the Archives! A traitor planted that letter and talisman so we’d go fetch the Book for Astaroth!”

“Max!” said Ms. Richter, demanding silence with a curt gesture.

Max glanced at each of his parents. Then he shook off Nolan’s restraining hand and dashed toward the exit, letting the doors swing wildly behind him. As he rushed down the hallway, he passed a bewildered Hannah and her goslings as they waddled toward the healing ward.

“Max, honey?” called Hannah, concerned. He did not stop to answer.