When he entered Atrepis's office, a nondescript room in a corner of the wing given over to the rangers, she was busy reading from a pile of papers and didn't look up. Durren wondered if he was supposed to sit, decided he didn't dare. Instead, he stood patiently waiting, and took the opportunity to discreetly study the Head Ranger.
The sharpness of Atrepis's features, which made her face severe even in repose, made Durren wonder if there wasn't elf blood in her ancestry somewhere. Her black hair, cut short just past the level of her eyes, was barely flecked with grey, the only real clue towards her age. Merely from looking at her, Durren suspected that she must have been a remarkable archer in her day.
In fact, likely she still was. One of the few pieces of decor was the bow mounted above her desk, a beautiful weapon of black wood and graceful curves; moreover, the moss-green robes Atrepis wore were cut like a ranger's rather than an academic's, designed so as not to impede her motion. Durren found it easy to see how she'd have attained so high a position in the academy. Indeed, he'd heard talk among the other students that she might succeed Borgnin as Head Tutor one day, and he could readily believe that too.
Finally Atrepis slipped the papers into a drawer of her desk, looked up. “Ah, Durren Flintrand. A student whose name promised great things and whose performance has so far failed to deliver.”
Durren found himself wanting to ask her why coming from a rich family should be any special guarantee of ability. But common sense told him that provoking Atrepis was the least astute course here. Unable to think of any more useful reply, he stayed silent instead.
“Perhaps,” she suggested, “you're never going to live up to such potential.”
This Atrepis phrased as a question, and Durren wondered what response she was expecting. Both yes and no both seemed like equally wrong answers. “I think maybe,” he said, “that I could do a lot better than I have been doing.”
Atrepis left just long enough before answering that Durren had time to think through all the things he should have said instead. Had he been too vague? Perhaps not vague enough? Was it sensible to claim he could do a lot better? Mightn't he have been wiser to hedge his bets? Then again, the last thing he wanted was for the Head Ranger to suspect he'd been purposefully underperforming.
“Yes,” Atrepis said finally, “I do believe you're right. Certainly the reports I've had from your tutors these last few days note a marked improvement, enough that I felt it worth my time to meet with you especially and commend your efforts. Tutor Ashbless has proposed that we acknowledge a rise in your intelligence. Three more points and you'll be worthy of advancement to level two, and to publicly use the title of Trainee Ranger of the Black River Academy—a considerable honour in itself.”
Durren was so taken aback that he barely knew how to answer. In the end, he settled for, “I'll do my best.”
Atrepis nodded. “I do hope so,” she said. “Well, that's all. You may see yourself out.”
Only afterwards did it occur to Durren how good he'd felt to be commended by Atrepis. Praise had been a rarity at home, and when it had come was invariably for achievements he took no pride in: smartness of dress, neatness of person, or staying silent at gatherings where his presence was a necessary inconvenience. And since coming to Black River, he'd deliberately avoided doing anything praiseworthy. In fact, the more he thought, the more he was convinced that his meeting with Atrepis represented the first time anyone had applauded his efforts for something he actually cared about.
Durren knew he was on the cusp of a significant decision, and still he had no idea what choice to make. Did he dare risk doing his best? Could he bear not to? He realised that the thought of disappointing people—Atrepis, Arein, even Tia—bothered him. Yet the prospect of what might happen if he didn't troubled him equally if not more.
Durren was still tormenting himself with those same questions the next morning, after a long and restless night, when the summons for their next quest came from Cullglass.
8
T
his time, Durren was third to arrive, with Hule tramping down the passage only a few steps behind him. Tia and Arein, however, were both waiting by the door. Arein offered a tentative smile, while Tia seemed her familiar, perpetually hostile self.
Though actually, as he drew nearer, Durren noticed that she looked even surlier than usual. “Is something wrong?” he asked, before his brain had had time to point out what a terrible idea the question might be.
“Is something wrong?” Tia echoed. “I suppose it depends on your perspective. I've been promoted to level two, which you'd think would be good news. Except that I can't be, because none of the rest of you have. So, whatever this quest is, we're going to do a perfect job of it. I'm not going to let any of you get in my way.” She jabbed a finger his way. “Especially not you.”
Durren was taken aback. “What's that supposed to mean?” he managed.
“It means you're not trying. It means you're going to be the last of us to level up. It means that I don't know what you're up to and I don't care, but you're not going to stop me doing what I came here to do.”
He wanted to argue, he really did. But what could he say? She was right and they both knew it, and the worst thing was just how easily she'd seen through him. In fact, rather than be angry, Durren wanted to tell her about the efforts he'd been making all week, and about his commendation from Atrepis.
But Tia had already lost interest in him, and now she rapped hard upon the door.
This time Cullglass opened all but immediately. “Ah, there you are, my young accomplices. Greetings, greetings.”
However, for all his show of enthusiasm, Cullglass's expression was businesslike and glum. He led the way without further word to the office portion of the room, which seemed more cluttered and unruly than ever. There he turned on them and, with the sombre fervour of a tragedian, pronounced, “Magic.”
Just as Durren was beginning to wonder if that was all he had to say, the storesmaster picked up his own dangling thread. “Magic is a cornerstone of our civilisation. In the right hands it can achieve great good. However, in the wrong hands…” Cullglass gave a slight but visible shudder. “In the wrong hands, magic is a fearful thing.”
Durren was coming to suspect that the storesmaster possessed an inclination towards drama. In this instance, however, his anxiety seemed genuine—and that alone was reason enough to be nervous. For if Cullglass was worried, then surely they should be doubly so; whatever the threat, they'd be the ones to face it.
“It has been brought to the Head Tutor's attention,” Cullglass went on, “that a priesthood in the hills east of Fort Jargen, formerly famous for their good deeds and responsible use of magic, have grown somehow corrupted. Where in the past they strived to heal the unbalance, now they seem actively to be exacerbating it, abusing their power without the least concern or accountability.”
Remembering all that Arein had told him, Durren looked to see her reaction. Sure enough, her eyes were wide with horror. This quest had already become personal for her, and he wasn't at all certain that was a good thing.
“We further believe,” Cullglass said, “that this change in their behaviour may have something to do with the item with which they've been channelling their power. It's a stone, no larger than this”—and he clenched his fists together to illustrate—”known as the Petrified Egg. We've been unable to ascertain precisely what it is, for its nature has always been closely guarded by the priests. Suffice to say that it's sure to be dangerous, and that your task will be to recover this so-called Egg and return it here.”
Cullglass stepped back to consider the four of them gravely—as though, Durren thought, he was committing their faces to memory in case he should never see them again.
“I won't lie to you, students…this is a gravely dangerous quest. If I were to be absolutely honest, I'd have to admit that I begged Head Tutor Borgnin not to give it to you, arguing that a higher-level party would be better suited. Sadly, the Head
Tutor was not sympathetic; he told me that he's eager to see whether your recent success was an anomaly. Nevertheless, if you should ask me to, I'd gladly repeat my apprehensions. Frankly, to do so would be a weight removed from my conscience.”
Durren knew what answer Tia and Hule would give. Yes, of course we'll steal a magical doodad from an entire monastery of crazed priests intent on the destruction of reality. And though Arein might have her concerns, she'd go along with it anyway, purely out of timidness. That left only Durren himself to give the cowardly but sensible answer: that this was entirely above their level, and perhaps even beyond their ability to survive.
Only, he couldn't. Not after what Tia had said, and not after his meeting with Eldra Atrepis. He couldn't be the one to let them all down.
Cullglass nodded solemnly. “Then know,” he said, “that I'll be watching over you, ready to intervene in an emergency. And know too that, when you succeed in this—as I'm certain you shall!—your tenacity is sure to be rewarded.”
Hieronymus seemed indifferent to their return, but Pootle at least was pleased to see them—or at least to see Arein. The observer flew close to her and then completed half a dozen rapid circuits around her head, while she chuckled with delight.
“Now then,” Hieronymus said, “I'd hope that even you four understand how this works by now.”
Tia led the way down into the shallow pit at the centre of the chamber and, without further ado, Hieronymus began his incantation. Once again there came the sparks of light, the sense that the room was beginning to run and smear like melting butter. Then walls, floor and ceiling were gone altogether, replaced by whirling gold and purple and the sensation of falling without falling.
The next Durren knew, there was mossy stone beneath his feet and a cool breeze ruffling his hair.
As his vision and swirling stomach began to settle, he saw that for once they'd arrived in view of their target. A low valley ran beneath the hillside they'd materialised upon, a river flowing languidly along its base. The slope descending at their feet was overgrown with thorny ambergale bushes and great spreads of the delicate blue flowers called wolf's toe. The monastery, meanwhile, was on the river's far bank. Presumably the priests ground their own flour, for a millwheel jutted from the building's near side, through which the water plummeted to a pool below.
The monastery itself was evidently ancient, as old perhaps as Black River. And like the academy, it had been rebuilt and modified over the years, left to ruin in parts and added to in others, so that newly carved stones nestled against blocks that might have been cut a dozen generations ago. The structure was imposing—particularly the high tower jutting from its middle—and eccentric in design.
However, the place didn't entirely emit the sense of brooding malevolence Durren had been expecting. In fact, with its whitewashed walls, many small windows and gently curving arches, the monastery appeared quite peaceful. He was reminded of the grand market halls further along the coast from Luntharbour, of the fishing villages they'd occasionally visited when he was a child.
Tia pointed to the tower. “That's a focal point. It's where this Egg thing's most likely to be.” She studied the sheer walls for a moment. “I think I can climb up.”
Durren had barely absorbed what she'd said before she'd begun to march downhill, towards where a narrow bridge arched across the river.
He had to run to overtake her. “Wait,” he said, “just wait a minute.”
Tia scowled at him, looking half ready to simply shove him aside. “What is it?”
“This is what you always do!” he said. “If you really want us to level up, then it's time you admitted that you're as much a part of the problem as we are. You decide on a plan, you go off on your own, and you couldn't care less what the rest of us are doing in the meantime.”
“And,” Tia said, “it's worked every time.”
“If you call the four of us almost getting captured by angry rat people working. If the goal was for me to be nearly stabbed to death by a furious unicorn. Anyway, you're missing the point! If you do everything yourself, then of course you're going to level up and we won't. You're not giving us a chance.”
Durren was so busy preparing himself for her rebuttal that it took him a moment to realise she hadn't spoken. Whatever he'd been expecting, it certainly wasn't the look of earnest deliberation that Tia wore.
“Fine,” she said. “My suggestion is that I climb up to the tower, break in and steal whatever this Petrified Egg is. I'd find that a lot easier if I had a diversion. Do you think you three could provide one? I'll need about, oh, ten minutes. Is everyone happy with that? Does anybody have a better suggestion?”
The other two had caught up by then, and Tia looked from face to face. Arein shook her head, while Hule was preoccupied with scratching behind one ear and appeared not to have heard the question.
Finally, Tia's ash-grey eyes fell on Durren. “Well?”
“It sounds like as good a plan as any,” he admitted. “But do you really think you can climb that tower?” The ascent looked impossible from where he was standing.
“I can climb it,” she said.
Suddenly remembering, Durren pointed out, “I have a rope. I mean, if that would help.”
Tia looked at him as though he'd offered her a wooden spoon to scale the wall with. “I'll manage, thank you.”
This time, when she started down the slope, Durren followed after. He scrutinised the building before them, wondering if anyone might be on guard and have seen their arrival—but if there were eyes watching, then their owners were well hidden. In fact, the scene was altogether tranquil. All he could hear was the steady song of water coursing over stones and the twittering of small birds from among the ambergale bushes. Close up, the monastery retained its air of quietude; it was hard to imagine any wrongdoing occurring within those brightly whitewashed walls.
Which made it the perfect hiding place, Durren insisted to himself. Or did he believe the priests should have painted their home in blood and hung skulls from every jutting beam, just so that passers-by would be left in no doubt as to how evil they were?
The four of them tramped over the footbridge at the base of the slope. They were almost upon the building now, the nearest wall only a few paces away. Abruptly, Tia sat down in the damp grass and began to rummage through her pack.
At first, Durren took the four items she drew out for weapons, for that was what they looked like: each ended in a broad metal spike of about a thumb's length. Only as she slipped one over the toe of her left boot and drew a strap tight did he begin to understand. The second went on the other foot, and the remaining two—which were of a subtly different design—she slid around her outstretched hands and gripped tight.
The result was that each hand and foot ended in a vicious-looking point. These must be the items Tia had selected from the storeroom on that first day, implements no doubt designed specifically with her nimble, sneaky class in mind.
Now Durren understood the reason for her confidence. Still, the spikes would not be much use in and of themselves, not without the experience to pick the right route and the strength to hammer those blades into the slender gaps between stone blocks. Even with the tools of her trade, Tia still had a daunting task before her.
If she was at all concerned, she certainly hid the fact well. Reaching the wall, Tia stared upwards for the better part of a minute, as though memorising every detail for future reference. Then she placed one foot, experimentally. Almost quicker than Durren's eye could follow, she flung up a hand and dug her fingertips into a crack, not even relying on her climbing spike. Already her entire body was off the ground, suspended by one foot and the tips of three fingers.
Tia glanced back at them. “Well, what are you waiting for?”
Durren would have liked to wish her good luck, but he suspected she'd find a way to take the comment as an insult, and in any case she was no longer paying them any attention. Instead, he led the way onwards, towards the front of the
monastery and where he assumed the entrance to be. When they reached the corner he glanced back, to find that Tia was already halfway up the wall and still making steady progress. She made the work look simple, though Durren had no illusions that it could be.
This time, however, he wasn't convinced that their own part would be significantly easier or less dangerous. All well and good for Tia to tell them to cause a distraction, but what exactly was that meant to entail? The last time they'd drawn attention away from her, it had nearly ended badly for all of them—and mad priests bent on the corruption of reality were an infinitely more intimidating prospect than a bunch of irate rat folk.
“We need a story,” Durren proposed. “Some plausible reason to be here.”
“Hule says we should just fight them.”
“We're not fighting anyone,” Durren said, and was surprised when Hule let the point drop. “Arein, this is more in your area of expertise than ours. Do you have any suggestions?”
Arein looked uncomfortable. “There's nothing worse a wizard can do than deliberately aggravating the unbalance. Even just refusing to take responsibility for your own magic use is awful. If the people inside are as bad as all that, I'm not sure any story we make up is going to be much help.”
Durren sighed. He knew she was probably right, but he'd hoped for a little more reassurance. Suddenly Hule's plan—or at least the plan of letting Hule charge in on his own—seemed almost sensible. Still, they needed something, and it looked as though the task of coming up with a suitable fiction would fall to him. At least, Durren thought, lying was a subject he had practical experience in.
“Arein,” he said, “will they know you're a wizard? I mean, just by looking at you? Is there a thing where wizards can sense other wizards, like how you knew where Blackwing was?”
The Black River Chronicles: Level One (Black River Academy Book 1) Page 10