Edmund's summons arrived just after breakfast.
It was not a letter, nor a message delivered by an owl. A house-elf appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room, bowed to the assembled cousins, and announced that Edmund wished to see every young McArdour in the eastern courtyard.
"Every one?" George asked.
"Every one, Master George."
"Even the ones who've already been there?"
"Especially those who have already been there," the elf replied, with the solemnity of someone repeating an instruction whose importance had been impressed upon him.
Mars glanced at the others. Tristan was already pushing back his chair. Arthur looked delighted, while William wore the expression of someone who suspected that an enjoyable morning was about to be converted into a solemn one.
Cyrus, seated beside Mars, had gone quiet.
"You know what this is about?" Mars asked him.
Cyrus gave a small nod. "I think so."
Before Mars could ask more, Luxia appeared at the breakfast-room doors.
"Come along," she said. "All of you. And don't make Edmund wait."
They followed her through the house and out into the eastern courtyard. The morning was clear, the air cool enough that the cousins' breath showed faintly when they spoke. Beyond the courtyard, the estate's fields rolled away toward the distant tree line. Somewhere on the grounds, a dragon gave a low, rumbling call.
Edmund was waiting beside the old stone path that led toward the hill.
He stood with his hands folded over the head of his walking stick. His silver hair caught the sunlight, and his face had the patient, unreadable look he wore when he had decided that a matter was important enough to deserve everyone's full attention.
"You're all here," he said.
"More or less," George murmured.
Edmund's eyes moved to him.
"Entirely," George amended.
"Good. Today is the day you begin your initiation."
The chatter stopped.
Mars had known it was coming. They had spoken of it after the estate tour, and Edmund had made it clear that the younger generation would soon be called to prepare. Still, hearing the words spoken aloud gave the occasion a weight that the earlier conversation had not.
Arthur II straightened. William looked from Edmund to Luxia. Tristan's expression became thoughtful.
"Are we going to the temple?" Julian asked.
"We are," Luxia said. "And before anyone asks, no, you will not be allowed to wander off and explore on your own."
"I wasn't going to," Julian protested.
"You were thinking about it."
"I was thinking about looking."
"That is what wandering off usually begins with."
A few of the cousins laughed. Luxia's expression softened, but she did not lose the air of authority that had gathered around her.
"Come. Stay together."
They set off along the path.
The temple stood in a hollow beyond the old orchard, partly concealed by a shoulder of rock and a stand of ancient yews. It was not a grand building with a towering façade, nor did it resemble the bright, open temples Mars had seen in books about the ancient world. The McArdour mithraeum had been built to feel like a place withdrawn from the ordinary world: a sanctuary within the earth, a cave made by human hands and then made older by magic.
Mars had visited it many times. He knew the path, the low entrance, the smell of stone and lamp oil. He knew where the light fell through the narrow opening above the outer chamber, and how the air cooled as one went deeper.
The others, however, were seeing it with fresh eyes—or, in some cases, seeing it properly for the first time.
"Is that the original entrance?" Edward asked as they approached.
"Part of it," Luxia said. "The sanctuary has been altered over the centuries. The oldest stonework is beneath the newer facing."
"Roman?" William asked.
"Some of it. Some older. Some newer still."
"Then how old is it?"
"Old enough that you should be respectful."
"That doesn't answer the question."
"It answers the one you need to know."
George leaned toward Mars. "She's been practising Edmund's answers."
"I heard that," Luxia said without turning.
George immediately found something fascinating about the path.
The entrance was low and narrow, framed by dark stone. Above it, a carved wheel and a cluster of stars had been cut into the lintel. The carving was worn at the edges, but the lines remained sharp enough to catch the eye. Beneath the stars was a small inscription in Latin, its letters filled with a faint gold that glimmered when the sun struck it.
Arthur paused to study it.
"Is that the Big Dipper?"
"Among other things," Mars said.
Arthur looked at him. "You've been here before."
"Several times."
"Then you're not allowed to explain everything."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good. I want to discover it myself."
The cousins passed through the entrance one by one. Inside, the outer chamber opened into a long, dim room. Lamps burned in shallow niches along the walls, their flames steady despite the movement of people. The ceiling arched overhead, its stone painted a deep blue-black. Tiny silver stars had been set into it, forming constellations that seemed to shift when viewed from the corner of one's eye.
At the far end stood a second doorway.
"Those stars move," George whispered.
"They don't," Mars said.
"They did."
"They're enchanted to appear differently depending on where you stand."
"That is moving."
"That is perspective."
George frowned at the ceiling, apparently dissatisfied with the distinction.
Two long stone benches ran along the sides of the inner passage, facing one another across a central aisle. The benches were not polished or comfortable. They had been shaped for people to sit together, shoulder to shoulder, rather than for anyone to recline in luxury. Between them, the floor sloped gently downward toward the sanctum.
"Why is it built like this?" Julian asked.
"Because the temple is meant to represent the world," Luxia answered. "The heavens above, the earth beneath, and the path between."
"Like a cave?"
"Like a cave. Like the cosmos. The old teachings use both images."
They entered the sanctum.
The chamber was broader than the passage, though its ceiling remained low enough to make the space feel intimate. A great relief occupied the far wall. It showed Mithras, wearing a Phrygian cap and a cloak that swept behind him, kneeling over a bull. One hand held the animal steady; the other guided a blade toward its neck. The bull's body twisted beneath him, powerful even in stone. A dog and a serpent reached toward the wound, while a scorpion clung beneath the bull's tail. Above the scene, the Sun and Moon watched from opposite sides.
The relief was illuminated from below by a line of lamps. Their light rose across the carved figures, catching the folds of Mithras's cloak and the bull's tense muscles. The god's face was neither furious nor triumphant. It was intent—solemn, unwavering.
Arthur stopped in front of it.
"He looks younger than I expected," he said.
"He is often shown as a young god," Mars replied.
"And that's the bull?"
"Yes."
"Why does he kill it?"
"That," said a voice from the shadows, "is one of the questions we are here to understand."
Helios stepped forward.
He was an older initiate and the priest of Mithras, broad-shouldered and silver-bearded, wearing a dark robe fastened at the throat with a small disk of gold. The cousins greeted him respectfully. Mars had heard him speak in the temple before, but never to a group quite so young.
"Come nearer," Helios said. "You need not crowd the relief. There is room for all of you."
The young cousins moved toward the benches. Luxia remained standing near the entrance.
"Cyrus," she said, "you may go through to the inner chamber with Mars. The rest of you will wait here."
Cyrus glanced at her. "You're not coming?"
"I will join you shortly."
He hesitated, then followed Mars through the narrow doorway behind the relief. The others watched them go.
"Why can't we go?" George asked.
"Because this part of the ceremony concerns the initiates," Luxia said. "And because you have not yet been called."
George opened his mouth, then thought better of it.
The inner chamber was smaller, lit by a single lamp suspended above a low altar. The rest of the family had gathered there already. Clement stood beside Castor, while Edmund occupied the place nearest the altar. Hugh and Tristan were present, along with several older relatives whose faces Mars knew from family gatherings and temple ceremonies.
Cyrus moved to stand beside his father.
Mars found a place near the younger end of the gathering. He could hear the quiet murmur of voices, the occasional scrape of a shoe against stone. The ceremony had not yet begun.
Edmund looked toward the doorway.
"We are missing one person."
"Lady Amelia is on her way," Castor said. "The Ministry detained her longer than expected."
A faint smile passed around the room. No one seemed surprised.
"Then we shall wait," Edmund said.
"Mother's meant to lead the ritual?" Cyrus asked.
"She is an initiate and knows the rites," Castor replied. "For this stage, we need a woman who can conduct the ceremony."
Mars looked toward Luxia, who had come through the doorway behind them.
"Why can't you do it?" he asked.
"Because I am your mother," Luxia said simply. "I cannot initiate my own son."
Mars nodded. He had heard enough about the solemnity of initiation to understand that it was not a matter of convenience.
"But mother can?" Cyrus asked.
"She can," Edmund said. "When she arrives."
The room settled again.
From the larger chamber came the faint sound of the cousins whispering. Helios, who had remained with them, raised his voice just enough to carry through the doorway.
"While we wait, perhaps you should hear the story."
The whispering ceased.
"The story of Mithras?" Arthur called.
"The mystery of Mithras," Helios corrected. "A story may be heard by anyone. A mystery must be approached with care."
He stood before the great relief. The lamp-light moved over the carved bull, and the young cousins turned toward him.
"Look upon the image," Helios said. "Mithras is shown slaying the bull. That is the central sign of our faith. But the bull is not merely an animal, and the blade is not merely a blade."
He paused, allowing them to study the relief.
"In the teaching of our house, the bull represents Zeus—not the kindly image some poets make of him, but the tyrant beneath the thunder. A god who took what he desired from mortals, who pursued women without regard for their will, who struck down those who displeased him, and who demanded obedience because he possessed power."
William's brow furrowed. "But Zeus is a god."
"Power does not make a thing just," Helios replied. "Nor does divinity excuse cruelty. The old world was full of those who believed that the strong were entitled to rule the weak. The bull stands for that tyranny: the claim that another's life, body, labour, or future belongs to whoever can seize it."
He turned back toward Mithras.
"Mithras slays the bull. Not because he delights in killing, but because the tyrant must be brought to an end. The blade cuts through the claim that might is the same as right. From that act, freedom becomes possible."
"Freedom for whom?" Julian asked.
"For mortals," Helios said. "For those who would otherwise be ruled by the whims of the powerful. Mithras grants us the strength to form free associations, to bind ourselves to one another by choice rather than fear, and to change the course of our own lives. He teaches us that we need not be conquered merely because someone stronger wishes to conquer us."
Mars watched the cousins absorb this. Even George had stopped fidgeting.
"Mithras is Sol Invictus," Helios continued, "the Unconquered Sun. He is the power that cannot be subdued. He moves through the heavens and sets the great order of the sky in motion. The constellations turn; the seasons pass; the wheel of heaven advances. Yet the god remains."
He lifted his hand toward the painted ceiling.
"Look at the Great Bear. The stars we call the Big Dipper appear to turn around the pole of the heavens. In the old image, it is a wheel, moving onward through the dark. It reminds us that the world does not stand still. Tyranny may seem eternal to those trapped beneath it, but the wheel turns. No ruler, no empire, no mortal power can hold the sky in place forever."
A quiet settled over the chamber.
"Then Mithras can change our fate?" Arthur asked.
"He gives us the strength to act," Helios answered. "He does not make our choices for us. Freedom is not a gift that excuses us from responsibility. It is the power—and the burden—of choosing what we shall become."
From the inner chamber, Edmund's voice carried softly.
"Well said."
Helios inclined his head, then returned his gaze to the young cousins.
"There is more to the mystery than the story. The relief is a sign, not the whole truth. The rites will teach you what words cannot. And beyond the rites lies a secret guarded by those who have earned the right to keep it."
"Is that the secret of the Light-Bringers?" Cyrus called from the inner doorway.
Helios's expression changed—not into a smile, exactly, but into something warm and knowing.
"Yes," he said. "Mithras may grant the initiate the secret of the Light-Bringer. But no one should mistake the promise for the revelation. The secret is not given merely because one has heard its name."
Footsteps sounded in the passage.
A woman entered the temple, her travelling cloak still fastened, a narrow leather case tucked beneath one arm. She was composed despite the haste of her arrival, with a keen gaze that swept the room and missed very little.
Castor stepped forward.
"Amelia."
"Castor." She gave him a brief, affectionate look, then turned toward Edmund. "Forgive my lateness. The Ministry was determined to make one last matter my problem before I left."
"Then you have arrived at the right place," Edmund said. "We have been discussing problems of power."
Amelia's eyes moved to the relief of Mithras and the bull.
"I see."
Helios bowed his head to her.
"Lady Amelia Bones McArdour," he said, his voice carrying through the sanctuary, "Chief of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, initiate of this temple, and the woman entrusted to guide these young ones through the rites."
The cousins straightened. Cyrus looked relieved. Luxia stepped aside, making room for Amelia to approach the sanctum.
Helios's gaze returned to the young initiates.
"The wheel turns," he said. "The tyrant falls. The unconquered Sun rises—and Mithras may grant you the secret of the Light-Bringers."
Amelia laid her case beside the altar.
"Then," she said, "let us begin."