Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3), Aaron Schneider [top 50 books to read .txt] 📗

in front of him. “For obvious reasons, we would like to keep this whole business as quiet as possible. With peace talks underway, the last thing we need is the truth getting out and spoiling everything.”

“We certainly wouldn’t want that,” Jorge agreed, nodding sagely.

Milo looked from the colonel to the general and back, gripping the table as though the floor might fall out from underneath him. There was a rushing noise in his ears, and something that was not exhilaration or terror but both at the same time seized him.

Peace talks?

Ludendorff read Milo’s face at a glance, and something that might have been pity raced across the old man’s features.

“It seems your man was not aware of the recent developments.”

Jorge nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the general.

“What else could be expected when he has been sequestered in Spandau this past month? He could hardly be expected to be aware of the situation when his treatment has been that of a prisoner of war rather than the savior of our Empire.”

Ludendorff shifted in his seat at the final proclamation, looking almost as uncomfortable as Milo felt.

“Fine.” The old man grunted, and his mouth puckered as though expecting something uncomfortably sour. With a sigh, he turned to look at Milo squarely and began in a tone that left little doubt he wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

“It seems that word reached the Americans of all people that there was some experimental weapons testing being conducted in Russian territory. When the former Russian warlords and their forces disappeared, notice was taken. Then Captain Lokkemand of Nicht-KAT mobilized his forces into Russian lands. Word made its way around the circles of military intelligence, and before long, the French reached out, willing to talk peace.”

“Which was just as well,” Jorge put in when Ludendorff paused. “One determined offensive and the entire Western Front would have rolled up like a rug.”

The news was too much for Milo’s mind to digest. He slumped in his chair, raising a hand to rub his aching head. The war couldn’t be over, could it?

“Regardless,” Ludendorff rumbled, drawing Milo’s attention back to the fore, “we would like to keep the knowledge of the ‘experimental weapon’ to ourselves, lest the entire world feel the need to throw itself off another cliff.”

Milo cleared his throat, and every eye in the room turned to him.

For a second, he froze.

He understood the power of lies, their allure and sweet promises, and with so much at stake, he couldn’t fault men like General Ludendorff and Colonel Jorge for seizing the opportunity for peace. But could a premise as hollow as this tremendous lie support something as monumental as the end of the war? And what would happen when it all came crashing down again?

“I understand that an end to the war would be best for the Empire,” Milo began, picking his words very carefully. A firing squad might still be in his future if he didn’t tread lightly.

“But what is going to happen when everyone discovers that you don’t have the weapon because I destroyed it?”

Ludendorff stared at Milo for a moment, then blinked several times before turning to Jorge.

“Sebastian, see to your man,” he ordered before a fit of coughing broke up his words.

Milo looked at Jorge, doing his best to hide the violent twisting of his stomach. Was even that too much?

“Milo, you didn’t destroy the weapon,” Jorge said softly, one hand settling on the magus’ shoulder. “You are the weapon.”

“To the experimental weapon!” Ambrose cheered before throwing back another stein of lager. “May the fear of him forever keep the peace.”

Milo didn’t return the toast. He looked out over the Alster river and watched the snowfall.

Jorge had arranged for Milo’s and Ambrose’s release from the Spandau prisoner of war camp and sent them to the Wellingsbüttel Manor, a fine estate north of Hamburg. Jorge had explained that the owners of the estate had fallen on hard times during the war and had been forced to sell it for pennies to the German Army, which used it as a recovery hospital for officers injured on the Western Front. As the war ground to a stalemate and officer casualties were reduced, the manor had been reduced to a skeleton staff, and then recently to a small family to keep the house and tend the grounds. Now that the war was coming to an end, the German Army was soon to auction the place off as it went about preparing for the next war.

As a result, Milo and Ambrose had the run of the manor, eating, drinking, and smoking in expansive dining halls or sitting in solariums like the one they were in now that overlooked the Alster river. A few days after their arrival, Rihyani rejoined them, and after a few nights of pure revelry, she’d decided now was the time to tell him what she’d been about since Petrograd.

“I couldn’t find it,” she’d whispered to him between Ambrose’s raucous toasts. “I couldn’t find a scrap of the notes, and Astor’s trail went cold almost as soon as I found it.”

Her breath smelled of apples and her lips looked even sweeter, but for all that, Milo could barely stir himself to take her hand.

“It’s all right,” he said, squeezing it softly. “It’s going to be all right.”

He felt her dark eyes staring at the side of his face, but he kept watching the snowfall. It had to be getting close to Christmas, didn’t it? Perhaps he’d go ask the housekeeper to find something to decorate the manor, something festive for the season. It would give him and Ambrose something to do besides drink and stuff their faces.

Why won’t you look at me? Rihyani asked. Are you angry with me, or is it something else?

No, I’m not angry, Milo assured her. I don’t want you to see how afraid I am.

Rihyani’s hand brushed his cheek, but Milo still refused to look away from the snow.

“You know, I heard somefin’,”