“Hmm,” Cullglass mused. “Yes, I see your argument. However, it's not without its potential flaws. For a beginning, you're relying all but entirely on supposition; we have as yet only the crudest understanding of what the Petrified Egg is or of how it works. And with all due respect, Mistress Thundertree, perhaps what you encountered wasn't a fear spell at all, or worked in some altogether different fashion to those you're familiar with. I hope you'll take it as no criticism if I point out that these priests were possessed of vastly greater magical knowledge than you yourself.”
“I know that,” Arein said. “Only, it was a fear spell.”
There was such certainty in her voice that Cullglass couldn't fail to hear it. He frowned, picked at the fingernails of his left hand with those of his right. “If you're right,” he said finally, “and I'm willing to accept that you may be…” The frown deepened. “That would certainly be cause for concern.”
“We were hoping,” Durren said, “that you'd look into it. That maybe there's been a mistake.” And as he spoke, he couldn't help remembering the similar conversation they'd had only days before, after they'd returned here with Blackwing.
Perhaps Cullglass's mind was working along similar lines, for he looked grave now. “Yes,” he said, “yes indeed. I'm persuaded that this matter warrants further investigation. After all, what could be worse than for us to inadvertently darken the reputation of our prestigious academy? I could never forgive myself if through some error I'd had you act as common thieves. I assure you, this matter will receive my utmost attention.”
Cullglass lowered his voice, leaning forward so as to bring his mouth closer to their ears. “In any case, I confess that I now feel the need to set my own mind at rest. There's a most unsettling possibility here. Unlikely, certainly unlikely, but if it were true—”
“You mean,” Tia said, “that someone in the academy might be manipulating quests for their own ends.”
Cullglass looked pained. “I'd hoped not to hear the matter phrased so bluntly.”
“But that is what you mean.”
The storesmaster nodded heavily. “Yes. It is.”
But, Durren thought, Cullglass had said that he received their quests directly from the Head Tutor himself. Was it conceivable that Borgnin was somehow being manipulated? The alternative was almost too awful to contemplate, let alone put into words: if Borgnin himself was abusing his authority then all of Black River, everything Durren believed in, was corrupt to its very core.
Cullglass hadn't said as much, but Durren felt strongly that the storesmaster was entertaining the same terrible conclusion.
“I must ask,” he said, “that you behave with the utmost discretion—if only to ensure your own safety. By the time we next meet, I sincerely hope that I'll have some answers for you. But until then, let us keep this matter among ourselves. I'm quite certain that there's an explanation, and a perfectly innocent one. Still, we would none of us be worthy of our places at Black River if we hoped for the best without at the same time anticipating the worst.”
Cullglass's eyes flickered from face to face, and it seemed to Durren that he was hunting for something: agreement, certainly, but perhaps also reassurance. Durren offered a hesitant nod; he saw no choice now but to hope the storesmaster was as good as his word. Anyway, the longer he'd spent standing in this oasis of light amid the gloom, the heavier his eyelids had grown, and the more his aching body reminded him of the demands he'd made. He was ready now for the day's events to become somebody else's problem.
Whatever Cullglass had been seeking, he seemed to have found it, for he clasped his hands together with a resounding slap. “As for the four of you,” he said, “you must let the matter trouble you no more. You did exceedingly well, and have every reason to be proud of your efforts. I've no doubts that such hard work will bear fruit in the not-too-distant future. Now, be off with you! Go fill your stomachs and rest your weary limbs.”
Those were precisely the words Durren needed to hear, and Tia and Hule seemed to feel the same way; already they were turning towards the door. Only Arein was hesitating, her gaze apparently unwilling to release the Petrified Egg, where it lay in its nest of wood and straw.
When Durren gently touched her arm, she flinched, and then looked up at him. It seemed to him that she was asking his permission: Am I really all right to leave it here?
Though Durren wasn't at all sure of the correct answer, he gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring. And sure enough, when he started after the others, Arein followed.
Durren felt aimless. He had been glad to see the back of Arein, Hule and Tia, but without them he felt oddly lonely. As he wandered through the passages, he heard the first bell of the evening sound. There would be no more classes or lectures today, but dinner wasn't for another hour. In theory, he was free to go back to the dormitory and try and rest. In practise, he felt full of a useless energy that made the prospect of relaxing seem impossible.
Instead, he wandered towards the library—the small one reserved for the rangers rather than the main one, which was intimidatingly grand—and selected a book he had no intention of reading, simply to waste a little time. He chose a manual on knife fighting, a subject he'd never had much aptitude for; he couldn't understand why anyone would want to get so close to an opponent, not when there were such things in the world as bows and arrows. Durren pored over the illustrations until the dinner bell sounded, absorbing nothing except a further conviction that anyone who considered a knife the best means of defending themselves was likely an idiot.
Evening meals were the only occasion when all the students of Black River came together as one. Within the vast dining hall, they were divided according to classes, and then again by levels. Nevertheless, Durren found himself straining to see if he could pick out Arein, Tia or Hule from amid the sea of downturned faces. He thought he recognised Arein at the end of one bench—not many wizards were small and stout—but he couldn't say for sure.
The food at Black River wasn't actively bad, though it was a long way from what Durren was accustomed to. His father had never been a glutton or even a generous host, but there was a certain basic level of luxury expected of a wealthy Luntharbour merchant. Here, the worst that could be said of the dishes was that they were plain and unvaried. Sure enough, tonight's meal consisted of overcooked rice and some sort of stew: the sauce was thick and brown, the chewier chunks were definitely meat and the mushier ones most probably vegetables, and it tasted of not much of anything. Still, the meal was likely nutritious enough, and Durren was sufficiently hungry not to care about trivialities like flavour. He kept his eyes locked on his bowl and ate with steady determination.
For that reason, Durren only realised something unusual was occurring by the steady murmur rising from his classmates. When he finally looked up, it was to discover that he was the only one still paying any attention to his nondescript dinner. All the other student rangers were gazing towards the far end of the room, or else leaning to whisper in friends' ears.
It happened that the rangers were in the furthest corner from the main entrance and that Durren was close to the aisle end of the table. His position gave him an unimpeded view all the way to the colossal doorway, with its ornate coats of arms and intricate carvings. He could see that a figure was approaching with rapid strides and, after a moment's concentration, that it was Eldra Atrepis.
He understood now why there was so much muttering and gasping going on; that the head of the ranger class should come here was surprising indeed. Staff didn't eat with students, and even the serving of food was the responsibility of the apprentices themselves. In fact, Durren couldn't think of another occasion when he'd seen a member of the faculty here in the dining hall.
As she drew closer, Atrepis's gaze began to rove across the gathered rangers. Much too late, it occurred to Durren that she must be looking for someone in particular. But his fear had barely begun to form when Atrepis's eyes found him and pinned him to his seat.
“Durren Flintrand.”
She was here for him. Her face, the barely controlled rage there, told him this was nothing good, and surely something very bad indeed. In fact, he felt he knew exactly what she wanted. And for an instant Durren couldn't escape the sense that his waking nightmare from up in the monastery tower had come true—or else had been a kind of prophecy.
Yet all Atrepis said was, “Follow me.”
Durren wasn't sure that his legs would work, and he surprised himself when he actually managed to stand up. Rather than acknowledge him, Atrepis spun on her heel and stormed back the way she'd come, and Durren saw no choice but to hurry after.
Just as he felt that he knew why she'd come for him, Durren knew, too, where they were going—at least from the moment it became clear that Atrepis wasn't leading the way to her own office. He couldn't but wonder why he was trailing along behind her, marching willingly towards his own destruction. Was he fooling himself with some cruel illusion of hope? Did he expect a last-minute reprieve? Yet more likely it was only that the one alternative his mind had to offer, of fleeing like a frightened child, was too ridiculous to consider seriously.
Then they turned a corner and there before them was a doorway much like any other in the academy, except that upon the capstone was carved in jagged script HEAD TUTOR. Seeing those words, all Durren could think was, I should have run. For surely that would have been better than what was coming.
Atrepis knocked twice, waited, and then opened the door and ushered Durren through, with a glare so penetrating that he felt it deep in his bones. Borgnin's office was not much more impressive than Atrepis's had been. The desk at one end, behind which the Head Tutor sat, was the only hint of extravagance. It was carved from a black wood such as Durren had never seen, the legs engraved with designs of shields and mythic beasts entwined with ivy. There were more shields mounted on the walls, with the heraldry of the four classes and an appropriate weapon—a sword, a bow, a wickedly curved dagger, a staff—mounted above. But, so far as decoration went, that was the sum total of Borgnin's indulgence. The only other furnishings were sets of drawers and shelves, all cluttered with books and scrolls that surely detailed a thousand matters relating to the running of Black River.
Turning his attention back to Borgnin, Durren realised that the Head Tutor was now holding up a document in one hand.
“Do you recognise this?” Borgnin asked.
Durren squinted at the sheet of parchment—and his heart turned to lead in his chest. Yes, he recognised it. There at the bottom, he could even see his own handwriting—though the name he'd scrawled wasn't his own.
Urden Flintrand. The forgery was perfect, if Durren did say so himself. But that hardly mattered anymore. Those hours upon hours he'd spent practising each line and curve weren't going to save him now.
“I see that you do,” Borgnin answered his own question. “I trust you aren't about to try and persuade me that this document was in fact authorised by Urden Flintrand?”
“No,” Durren said, “I'm not.” He felt unreasonably proud of the fact that he'd managed to keep his voice from shaking.
“You're prepared, then, to admit that the handwriting is yours? That the document is, in effect, a forgery?”
“Yes,” Durren said. “That's right.”
Borgnin nodded. There was no particular emotion in his face, not even irritation. Durren suspected that he was handling this matter with precisely the degree of concern and interest that he would handle anything, from the most minor of acquisitions to the entire academy unexpectedly bursting into flames.
“There are a few further questions I'll need you to answer,” Borgnin said—and behind the words, just as clear though unspoken, But understand that nothing you say will save you. “First, is your name really Durren Flintrand? Are you really Urden Flintrand's son?”
“I am.”
“Are you able to prove it?”
Durren considered. “Probably not.”
“Well. For the moment I see no choice but to take your word; we'll know the full truth soon enough. I assume, then, that your father is unaware of your presence here at the academy?”
“He doesn't know I'm here.”
“Does he believe you to be somewhere else? Does he know that you're safe?”
Would he care? Durren wondered. “He doesn't have any idea where I am,” Durren said. “Or even if I'm alive.” It felt strange to say out loud like that; he'd never considered the matter so bluntly before. Perhaps at this very moment there was an empty tomb in the family crypt bearing his name.
“And,” Borgnin continued, “this isn't a matter for the record, but I find myself curious nevertheless. I wonder, do you fully understand the import of your actions?”
Durren wanted to say that not only did he understand, he could see nothing wrong in what he'd done. Oh, of course he'd stolen, strictly speaking, but the money he'd taken from his father was little more than a drop in the oceans of his gold—and anyway, shouldn't any parent with the means to do so be willing to pay for his son's education? If Durren had had to rely on deception, then it was only because that was the one choice he'd had left.
However, he knew that wasn't what Borgnin wanted to hear—and that he was far past the point where arguing could possibly achieve anything. “Yes,” Durren said, “I understand.”
“You must realise, then, what the consequences will be?”
“I'm being expelled,” Durren said. The words were like acid in his throat, but he was determined that it should be he who spoke them and not Borgnin.
“If it were within my power to do more,” the Head Tutor said, “then I certainly would; this matter is likely to cause the academy a great deal of embarrassment. Not to mention—since we will surely have to return the funds you misappropriated to pay your fees—a great deal of money. Perhaps most frustrating is the fact that, according to Mistress Atrepis, you were beginning to show some genuine promise as a student.”
That last remark caught Durren utterly by surprise. And abruptly he felt a lump of pain welling inside him that, if he were to show even the slightest hint of weakness, was sure to turn to tears. Rather than surrender, he grasped for the most vindictive of the many thoughts clattering around his mind. “My father would never ask for the money back,” he said. “So you could probably keep it if you wanted to.”
For the first time, Borgnin actually looked annoyed—though still not quite angry. “I've tried to show you respect, Master Flintrand, by discussing this matter civilly instead of having you exit the academy on the toe of someone's boot. I ask you, please show this institution the same courtesy. I think you know perfectly well that Black River would never choose gold over its reputation.”
Not like my father, Durren thought. My father would choose gold over just about anything. Over his wife, over his son, over other people's lives, even over his own happiness. And once again, the tears threatened. He wanted to tell Borgnin that he was sorry, but the words seemed too useless to justify the effort. Being sorry wouldn't change what he'd done, or that he'd been found out, or what the results were to be.
“What happens now?” Durren asked instead.
“I will write to your father for instruction,” Borgnin said, “and send my letter by the morning post—which means that, given a prompt response, we shall know where we stand within twelve days at the most. Until then, since I can hardly treat you as a prisoner, you may continue your pretence of being a student of Black River, if you so wish.”
“I'd like that,” Durren said.
“Very well then.” Borgnin turned his gaze to Atrepis, who Durren realised only then had been waiting patiently by the door all this while. “Mistress Atrepis, perhaps you might show Master Flintrand back to his dormitory?” His eyes drifted back to Durren, and they were dark and hard as ebony. “And though it won't be necessary to post a guard on him, I hope he'll understand that his behaviour for whatever time he remains here will be expected to be beyond reproach.”
At fi
rst, all Durren could feel was a numbing pain rooted somewhere in the region of his heart. It was heavy, almost too heavy to bear, and made the possibility of moving seem impossible.
He thought that perhaps if he could cry, then the weight would go away, but he couldn't—partly because he was surrounded by other students, but mostly because he couldn't find the energy. Nor did he want to look, to listen, even to smell, because anything his senses reported would be a reminder of what he was soon to lose. If they had seemed valuable before, now the academy and his life here were the most precious things he could imagine.
Even those aspects of his existence that he'd never much cared for, even the ones he'd actively disliked, made the pain in his heart throb. Like this dormitory itself: he'd never slept well here, kept awake by the snores and whimpering night terrors of his fellow students. Yet the knowledge that in a few days this prickly straw mattress would be left vacant, or else given over to another student, made him want to cling to it as though it were a raft on a stormy sea.
And that was the very least of what he was losing. The truth was that every last part of this life he'd struggled so hard and against such odds to carve out for himself was about to be taken from him. He wasn't leaving, he was being thrown out. And the more Durren considered that fact, slowly but surely, the more his sorrow gave way to anger.
Though he hadn't said as much, it was clear Borgnin hadn't discovered Durren's subterfuge on his own. Nor could Pootle have been the one to reveal his secret; if the observer had reported back to Hieronymus or Cullglass, then surely Durren would have been marched to Borgnin's office the moment he materialised back at the academy.
No, someone else had told the Head Tutor—and there were only three people who knew. Durren couldn't believe that Arein would do such a thing, nor see any possible motive for her doing so. Hule had probably forgotten the entire conversation the moment it ended. That left only Tia. Tia, who was so determined to reach her second level that she'd risked all their lives to do so. Tia who had as much as told Durren she wanted him off their party, who'd made no secret of how she felt he was holding her back. And what class did she belong to? Only the rogues, whose entire job definition relied upon being devious and underhanded and achieving goals by any means necessary.
The Black River Chronicles: Level One (Black River Academy Book 1) Page 14