The Academy Journals Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 3)

by Garrett Robinson

  “I have heard that tale,” said Ebon. “But it would be foolhardy now. His guard has been vigilant ever since. And he was captured upon the King’s road, not within the palace itself.”

  “A brash plan may succeed where a more timid one fails, if only because one’s foes do not expect it,” said Theren.

  “And mayhap it is not the Lord Prince,” said Kalem. “Mayhap it is some other member of the royal family. Mayhap some king or young prince from one of the outland kingdoms. This is an ill finding. We should tell one of the instructors so that they may warn the palace.”

  Theren cuffed the back of his head. “Think. How could we tell them we came by this information? What is your plan? I can imagine your words to Jia. ‘Pardon me, Instructor, but I snuck out of the Academy after nightfall and found a plot to capture one of the royal family. Or I think I did—you see, I am not sure what I found, in truth.’ You would be put on the first ship home before you could finish the words.”

  “Yet great disaster might be averted,” said Kalem. “We do not have to tell them it was we who found this map. We could leave it where they could find it and let them deduce the rest for themselves.”

  Ebon sat scowling down at the map, only half hearing his friends. Finally he spoke in a low murmur. “We do not know what this means. We do not even know the full extent of our own ignorance, for this may lead to some other truth we cannot imagine. What if this is nothing evil after all? What if the man is an agent of the High King herself, carrying out some order?”

  Kalem frowned, and a moment passed before he answered. “Ebon, I can see why you would wish to believe that. It would mean your family plotted nothing untoward and that you were blameless in following your father’s order. Yet I think it is dangerous to so easily believe that is the case.”

  “How else can you explain his uniform?” said Ebon. “Surely those cannot be obtained from just any clothier. Mayhap he is in hiding, until he leaves upon his mission and must reveal himself to be the High King’s agent?”

  Theren and Kalem looked at each other uncertainly. After a moment they shrugged.

  “I think we should rest,” said Ebon. “Whatever the truth behind this map, it would be foolish to act too quickly upon guesses. The hour is late, and our minds may be befuddled. Can we agree upon that, at least?”

  “I suppose so,” said Kalem doubtfully.

  Theren let loose a mighty yawn. “I call those words wise. Very well. I am only glad we have had another night of excitement. We should do it more often.”

  “We should not,” muttered Kalem.

  Ebon rolled up the map and tucked it into his sleeve. Then he paused a moment before speaking, and he had to duck his head before he could. “I wanted to thank you both, by the by. For coming with me. I would have died were it not for you.”

  Theren flushed and looked away. “Well, you would not have been able to go were it not for me. I think that may balance things out.”

  Kalem smiled at her, and then at Ebon. “I believe that what she meant to say is, ‘You are welcome.’ But now I truly must go to bed, or I will fall asleep in my chair. Good night.”

  “Good night,” said Ebon.

  Kalem rose and went to his dormitory. Theren followed Ebon out, and silently they descended the stairs toward the older students’ dormitories. But when they reached the bend in the hallways where they were meant to part, Ebon stopped her for a moment.

  “I thanked you already. But I feel I owe you an apology as well.”

  That took her aback. She smiled slowly. “Why? You have done me no harm.”

  “No true harm, mayhap, but I have sometimes been impatient, or thoughtless, or simply stupid. Yet you have never abandoned me.”

  Theren shrugged as though bored. “You have not given me sufficient cause yet, I suppose. And besides, I have already said I find you a decent enough sort. For a goldbag.”

  Ebon stepped close and took her shoulders. He kissed one cheek, and then the other, before stepping away again.

  “What was that?” she said, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Her hand twitched, as though she restrained herself from rubbing at her cheek—or mayhap striking him.

  “A greeting, and a parting, for dear family and friends,” he said. “The custom of my kingdom—though one in which I am ill practiced, for there are few who I hold dear enough to earn it.”

  Theren’s jaw clenched, and she did not answer. To his surprise, Ebon thought he saw her eyes glistening. But she only said, gruffly, “Well. A bit more kissing than I am comfortable with, but then your kingdom is very strange. Good night. Goldbag.”

  She turned and quickly made off down the hall.

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Ebon met with his friends at every opportunity. During meals they would sit together and discuss the map. Every afternoon, Ebon would pore over it in the library with Kalem. Yet no matter how they tried to read the markings, they could find no further meaning in them.

  Once, Ebon went to Jia and asked her if there were any special significance to the colors of red and blue when used in mapmaking. She looked surprised at the question, and launched into some explanation of how farmers used them to mark the rotation of crops through the seasons. Though Ebon knew at once it had nothing to do with his own map, he found himself forced to sit and listen to the lecture.

  After he finally escaped and returned to Kalem, he slouched in his chair. “I feel nearly dead from boredom. I can think of nothing but cotton and wheat and the best dates for planting them. Only I have them mixed up, and would likely try to grow cotton in the dead of winter.”

  Some days later, the three of them sat huddled together at the midday meal. All were silent, staring into their bowls with no new ideas springing to mind. Ebon had thought for so long upon the map that he imagined he could see it splayed out on the table before them.

  “There is something we might do,” said Theren slowly. “Though I doubt Kalem will like it.”

  “With such an introduction, how could I refuse to hear your plan?” said Kalem, rolling his eyes.

  “We could go to the docks and see what we might find to explain the marks,” said Ebon.

  Both Kalem and Theren gaped at him, but Theren spoke first. “That is just what I meant to say. How did you know?”

  “I have thought the same thing myself,” said Ebon. “I did not mention it before now, because I thought that if even you had not spoken of it, it must be a terrible idea indeed.”

  “It is!” hissed Kalem, leaning forwards. “It is a terrible idea, and you must put it from your mind immediately! Already you have nearly gotten us all killed. Do you wish to risk our lives again?”

  “I know no other way to learn the truth of the map,” said Ebon with a shrug.

  “And this is entirely different besides,” said Theren. “Before, we went in search of a man who we knew—or at least suspected—was up to mischief. Now we are only going to see the docks.”

  “Mayhap we could go there during the daylight hours, to further reduce any danger,” said Ebon halfheartedly. But he knew it for a poor idea, and he saw the same thought in Theren’s expression.

  “That would likely teach us nothing at all,” she said. “Whatever this plot may be, we are unlikely to find it laying plain for us to find. If dark deeds are to be done, wisdom says they would be done in the dark.”

  “Another nighttime adventure, then,” said Kalem. “Well, you may count me out.”

  “Dear cousin Ebon! Might I have a word?”

  The voice shocked them out of their hushed conversation. Ebon looked up to find the dean standing over their table. He and Kalem froze. But Theren only leaned back carelessly, eyeing the dean with casual disinterest.

  “Dean Cyrus,” stammered Ebon. “Forgive us. We did not see you there.”

  “Please. ‘Dean Cyrus’ sounds so formal. ‘Dean’ is sufficient. Now, about that word …?”

  The dean looked pointedly at Kalem and Theren. Kalem took the hint at once and leaped from the bench a
s though he had been stabbed. In a moment he had vanished among the other children in the dining hall. But Theren only looked to Ebon, brow arched in question. He nodded. She removed herself from the table, though much more slowly than Kalem had.

  Dean Cyrus took a seat opposite Ebon. He had no food with him, and he leaned forwards on his elbows with a friendly smile. Ebon was keenly aware of the effect it had on the other students nearby. They seemed caught between wanting to watch and wanting to be as far from the dean as possible. He saw many students leaning away in their seats, as though they found even a few extra fingers of distance more comfortable.

  “So. How go your studies, Cousin?”

  “They progress well, Dean.” It was a lie, of course, but Ebon well remembered how Cyrus had treated Credell when he thought the instructor was not teaching Ebon quickly enough.

  “I notice you are still in Credell’s class.”

  “Yes, and he is working hard at my instruction,” said Ebon earnestly. He tried to smile but was afraid it came out as a grimace.

  “Clearly not hard enough,” said the dean, sounding annoyed. “A bright boy like you, and especially one so old, should have graduated his class already. I imagine he has you fooling about with that wooden rod trick?”

  “Yes, Dean,” said Ebon, ducking his head.

  “Such a simple spell. The basest alchemists can perform it. Some students come to the Academy already having learned it from a wizard in their homeland. You should be well past it already. I shall have to speak with Credell.”

  “I assure you that is not necessary, Dean,” said Ebon in desperation.

  Cyrus waved a hand airily. “Think nothing of it, my boy. Your loyalty is admirable, but you owe nothing to an instructor who does not give you enough attention.”

  Ebon wanted to sink through his seat and into the stone floor. But he said only, “Yes, Dean.”

  “Now, then. What of our dear family? How fare they? Have you had any words with Halab recently?” The dean leaned forwards, his fingers spreading across the tabletop, and Ebon caught a curious light in his eyes.

  Now we come to it—the true reason for this visit. Ebon knew full well that the dean cared little for his studies. But he could not imagine why he was interested in Ebon’s correspondence with the family. Unless …

  Ebon’s heart quailed with terror. Mayhap the dean was in league with his father, in whatever plot centered around the Shining Door. Mayhap they suspected Ebon had been the one to attack the man at the inn, and now the dean was here to investigate the truth.

  He chose his words carefully. “I have not spoken with Halab, nor with any other of the family, since I arrived here, Dean.” Other than Mako, he thought. But if he was right, and this visit was about the happenings at the Shining Door, then Cyrus would already know of Mako’s visits. And if he was wrong, Ebon doubted the bodyguard would appreciate a loose tongue.

  Cyrus’ eyes glittered. “Oh? Are you certain? Have none of them written to you? You may tell me, of course.”

  “They have not, Dean. Honestly. Mayhap … mayhap they have been too busy to write.”

  Come to think of it, it was odd that he had not received a letter. Father would never have sent one, of course, but enough time had passed that Albi could have. Then he realized that he himself had not yet written home, and his ears burned. It had been nearly two months since he left home. Albi would likely be furious with him.

  The dean smiled and shook his head. “Oh, Ebon. You cannot think me so simple as all that. If anyone in the family has told you something you do not wish to relay, let me rid you of your fear: I am fully informed of all goings-on back in Idris. I only thought we might combine our knowledge and see what we could surmise from it. I would be especially interested in correspondence with Halab, for she has not answered my letters in some days now.”

  Days? That meant Halab was still on the Seat. If she had returned to Idris, Cyrus would not have expected a response for weeks.

  “I have not written Halab,” said Ebon. “Though you have reminded me that mayhap I should, to thank her for sending me here. It was only by her grace that I was able to attend.”

  The dean’s mouth twisted, becoming something sour and foul. “Yes. Grace, indeed.” Then he leaned back, taking on a crafty look. “Well, we might speak of something else. Have you learned any … other … spells? That is, spells other than what Credell has tried and failed to teach you?”

  Ebon swallowed hard. He thought of the mists Kalem had taught him to spin. Did the dean know of that? How could he? Had Ebon broken some rule without knowing it?

  He realized he had taken too long to answer, and spoke in haste. “No, Dean. I have learned nothing else. I am trying to focus on Credell’s teachings.”

  Cyrus leaned still closer. “Come, Cousin. I was a student here myself once. I know students will often pass knowledge to each other of new spells they have learned. Has one of your alchemist friends taught you anything new? Mayhap that young copper-haired boy who was just here?”

  Ebon swallowed hard. “Kalem said it is unwise to learn our spells out of order. I have tried to persuade him, but he has only instructed me in the spell that turns wood to stone.”

  Cyrus’ expression darkened. His voice dropped to a whisper, one that Ebon could barely make out. “You would not do well to lie to me, boy. You could scarcely have a worse enemy in the Academy than the dean.”

  Ebon’s pulse sang in his ears. His throat had almost gone too dry to speak. “I am not lying, Dean.”

  For a moment they sat there, staring at each other. Then, abruptly, Cyrus leaned back.

  “Hm. Very well.” He folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe. His brows drew close, lips pressing into a thin line. “I understand the urge to guard your friends’ secrets. As for our family, I ask you this: should you hear from Halab again, please come and tell me at once.”

  “I will, Dean,” said Ebon earnestly.

  Cyrus stood quickly and swept off, leaving Ebon wondering as to his meaning. He knew only one thing: the jaws of the trap were closing still, and he could not think how to free himself.

  THE NEXT DAY, EBON WAS slumped against the wall in Credell’s class. He watched the instructor go back and forth through the classroom, giving the children advice and answering their questions. Just now Credell was beside Astrea, the wild-haired girl and the closest thing Ebon had to a friend here. The girl seemed to be on the cusp of transforming her wooden rod. Often Ebon had seen her eyes glowing with her magic, the wooden rod swirling beneath her fingers. But when she stopped, she still held only a wooden stick. Credell was turning the rod from wood to stone and back again before her eyes, explaining it to her with murmured words that Ebon could not hear.

  It made Ebon’s heart ache. Credell was not a bad instructor in truth, for Ebon could see how gently he dealt with the young children. Yet he still could not speak to Ebon without shaking, nor provide any answers to whatever unseen barrier stood between Ebon and his magic.

  A knock came at the door. Credell’s head jerked up at the noise, and for a moment he only stared. Then his gaze flitted to Ebon, eyes filled with fear. Ebon shrugged.

  Credell rose and went to the door. He ducked his head outside to speak with someone Ebon could not see, and when he closed the door he held a message in his hand.

  “Er … ah … Ebon, of the family Drayden,” Credell stammered. “You have a visitor. She awaits you outside the Academy. The dean has given you permission to go.”

  Ebon started in his seat. A visitor? Who would visit him here on the Seat? It could not be his father, for Credell had said she. And if Ebon’s parents had returned, his mother would never visit him alone. For a moment the thought of Adara flitted through his mind, but he dismissed it as foolish.

  Then it came to him in a flash. He shot from his seat and ran from the room, ignoring Credell, who flinched as he passed by.

  He burst from the Academy’s front door into the street. There she stood: Halab, wearing fabu
lous golden clothes interwoven with threads of real silver. She turned at the sound of the door opening, and as her gaze fell upon Ebon, she spread her arms.

  “Dearest nephew,” she said.

  “Halab!” Ebon cried, throwing himself into her arms. They embraced for a long moment, and then he remembered his manners. He pulled back, kissing her first on one cheek, and then another. She placed a gentle hand to his cheek.

  “Even now you have not forgotten courtesy. I am glad, for you are a long way from home.”

  “My heart gladdens to see you, dearest aunt,” said Ebon. To his great surprise, he found tears springing into his eyes, and against his will they leaked down his cheeks. “I have missed you most terribly. As well as all of the family,” he added hastily.

  She arched an eyebrow, as though she knew he thought of his father. “Indeed? Then I am only sorry I have not visited sooner. I have arranged for us to spend the day together.”

  “Truly?” said Ebon. He glanced back at the Academy’s front door. “I … well, then I am most grateful.”

  “Oh? Do you not enjoy your studies?”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “I cannot tell you how much joy I have found here.”

  “I hope you will tell me all about it,” she said, putting his arm in hers as she led him off down the street.

  Tell her he did, for nearly two hours as they made their way through the roads of the Seat, apparently without any aim or destination. He told her of the library’s many wonders, and of Kalem and Theren, and even Credell, though he left out some details of the instructor’s craven nature. Of course he said nothing of his adventures beyond the citadel’s walls, and especially nothing concerning Adara. He doubted Halab would disapprove, but he knew his father would, and some whispered word of it might reach home. Best to keep that to myself, he thought.

  By the time he had finished his tales, his throat was raw from talking. Halab had nodded and made little noises of appreciation at just the right moments. When at last he dwindled to silence, she chuckled and shook her head. “Had I known you would take so well to the Academy, I might have spoken to your father years ago. And yet, in another sense, I think you arrived here at precisely the right time.”