“Who are you? You’re not students.”
Hadrian recognized the face. Angdon, the baron’s son, who’d run into him in the foyer.
“Guests,” Hadrian replied. “And we already met. I’m Hadrian, remember? Bumped into me just an hour or two ago.”
“Oh yes—the ignorant oaf who doesn’t know how to get out of the way.”
“You got all that just from walking into me, did you?”
“You didn’t move, and you didn’t know where you were going, so yes. And who’s this creature with you?”
Hadrian didn’t like the baron’s son very much. “This fine young man across from us is Pickles.”
“Pickles? What kind of name is that?” one of the other boys said.
Hadrian saw Pickles diminish.
“Memorable, wouldn’t you say?” Hadrian responded brightly.
“It’s ridiculous—but clearly fitting,” Angdon said. “And whose guest are you that you’ve come to steal our food?”
“Professor Arcadius. Oh, and you were right about the Morning Star—the white not the red,” Hadrian offered.
“Do you think that makes you clever? Do you think I will praise you now for siding with me?”
“Just thought you’d like to know.”
“I already know. I don’t need an ignorant peasant boy to confirm my education. I also don’t need your filthy presence at my table. Take your stolen pie and your Pickle and eat outside where you belong. You miserable—”
All Hadrian saw was Pickles’s pie slam into Angdon’s face. The plate fell away, taking the lower crust with it. The rest hung on the boy’s cheeks for a second. The incident would have been hilarious if the pie hadn’t been piping hot. Angdon screamed, clawing the pie from his face.
Across from Angdon, Pickles’s face was also red. He was up on his feet, his hands clenched into fists, and Hadrian wondered if the boy was about to leap the table after the wailing baron’s son.
Scooping up his own pie, Hadrian grabbed Pickles and headed out of the dining hall while the other boys searched for towels and water to aid their friend.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Hadrian said, rushing Pickles from the room.
“You are so right. I should have beaten him with the leg of a stool.”
“That’s not what I meant. You were supposed to be doing the watching and the warning, remember? Not the hitting and the punching.”
They slowed down when they reached the stairs. “Forget it. We’ll share this pie in the dormitory. I wasn’t hungry anyway.”
“You should have let me fight him.”
“You’d get in trouble for doing that. He’s the son of a baron—a noble.”
“He did not seem very noble.”
“Besides, Angdon is bigger than you are.”
Pickles nodded. “But I am tougher than he is.”
“He has a lot of friends.”
“Maybe,” Pickles said. Stopping on the steps, he added, “But I have one worth more than all of his combined.”
Hadrian couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, you do. And apparently so do I.”
CHAPTER 10
THE HOODED MAN
Hadrian spent the night in the vacated bed of Vincent Quinn, who was decidedly shorter than Hadrian, or perhaps he also settled for dangling his feet off the end. The beds were all filled now with a kennel of boys that reminded Hadrian of any number of barracks he’d slept in. Hives of men, living austere lives with no more property than what they could carry—the war hounds of a duke or king. Not a bad life, but without purpose. That’s what ruined it for him. A soldier was meant to be a wheel on a wagon, to roll when ordered. Hadrian always found himself more interested in the choice of direction and annoyed by the sense he was a sword being used to chop wood.
Pickles was in his own borrowed bed, somewhere at the far end. None of the boys spoke to either of them, but they received plenty of stares. Whispers passed between the aisles, and Hadrian caught the words meat pie more than once. The mattress was hard—not as nice as the room in Colnora but better than the cold ground. He undressed, stretched out, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
It might have been a nightmare that woke him. Hadrian had more than his share, but they dissolved upon waking, leaving little more than a residue of unease. He opened his eyes. It was still dark, with just a hint of gray. He closed them again but that was no use. Instead, he lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling beams, listening to the snoring of a student named Benny and thinking about the hood he’d seen in the window. Maybe that had been the nightmare.
Have you seen his eyes? Cold, I tell you. Dead eyes.
Going back to sleep was a battle he couldn’t win. He decided to retreat from the field. Hadrian put his bare feet to the floor. Cold. He expected to find the morning warmer than those he’d experienced on the road. This was the first time in two days that he had woken up dry, but he’d also woken up naked. Casting aside the blanket, Hadrian shivered. The heat of a dozen boys should have warmed the dorm like horses in a stable, and maybe it did, but this was a big room. He grabbed up his clothes, a bit stiff but dry. Pulling them on, the little bed creaked under his movements.
Hadrian had no sense of time, except that he could see. The utter black of the room had retreated to vague shapes, and the windows, invisible before, were now a source of gray light. Nothing but a soothing chorus of deep breaths and the occasional rustled blanket broke the stillness. The nightmare—whatever it had been—left him with an unease that caused Hadrian to reach for his weapons. He buckled his belt, taking great care with his swords to keep metal from striking metal. When he took a step, a board cried with his weight. One student looked up with squinting eyes before turning over and burrowing back under his covers.
Outside the dorm, Glen Hall was filled with silent corridors of dimly lit wood and stone. Hadrian paused when he reached the main stair and glanced up the steps. He was on the second floor. The window he had seen the hood through had been on the third.
Are you up there?
It took a special kind of madness to believe that a killer had stalked him all the way to the university and even greater levels of lunacy to think he was still there. Yet Hadrian had been wrong on the barge and it had cost the lives of six people.
He climbed the steps, slowing down as he reached the north corridor. The lamps were out and he felt his way along the wall until he came to the end of the hallway. Lifting the latch, Hadrian opened the last door on the common’s side. It swung inward with only a modest creak. Already the early dawn had grown to a bright gray and revealed the interior of the small room. The size of a large closet, the space was used for storage and filled with crates, buckets, even a stack of cut lumber.
Looking to the far side, Hadrian saw the window with the half-moon top he remembered from the previous day. This was it. Third floor—end of the row.
Hadrian walked over and looked out. Below lay the common. Now empty, even tranquil with the dawn, he imagined himself and Pickles standing near the bench where Dancer had been tied.
A storage room.
Students wouldn’t come in there.
He has wolf eyes, doesn’t he?
Hadrian wandered the corridors that morning like a ghost. Glen Hall was larger and more confusing than he expected. He thought of waking Pickles—he probably knew the way better—but decided against it. They would be moving on soon and it was best he got as much sleep as he could.
Eventually Hadrian landed on the main floor and spotted the giant painting. He was near the main entrance and from there he knew the way to the meal hall. He could also hear sounds of plates and banging pots. Other early risers with books in hand waited with him in line for something hot before finding seats at the many vacant tables. Unlike the day before, what conversations there were came in the form of whispers.
“How did you sleep?” Cutting through the quiet with total disregard, came Arcadius’s voice.
The professor sat near the fire where most
everyone had gravitated, as the stone still held the night’s chill. On the table before him rested a cup and a small empty plate. The professor looked much as he had the day before with his white hair cascading in all directions like water hitting rocks. He continued to wear his glasses perched on the end of his nose, though he still did not look through them, and remained dressed in his deep blue robe, littered at that moment with crumbs.
“I don’t know, I just sort of put my head down and closed my eyes.”
The old man smiled. “You should be a student here. It usually takes months to break the habit of making unwarranted assumptions. Try the hot cider. It’s soft but if you get it with cinnamon it adds a little zest to your morning.”
Hadrian grabbed one and Arcadius indicated he should sit beside him. Hadrian settled in, feeling the growing warmth of the morning logs against his side. The steam from his mug billowed into his face and he warmed his hands against the cup. The professor reclined in a lush leather chair, one of only four in the room, indicating either he was one of the first to arrive or professorships had privileges.
“When I think about it, that’s my biggest problem,” Arcadius said, rubbing the sides of his own mug.
“What’s that?”
“Getting students to unlearn what they think they know. To erase bad habits.” The old man took a dainty sip even though his drink no longer steamed. “You see, everyone is born with questions.” Arcadius held up his mug. “Empty cups all too eager to be filled with anything that comes by, even if it’s nonsense. For example, what color is this table?”
“Brown.”
“How do you know that?”
“I can see it.”
“But can you describe a color without using a reference? How would you, for example, explain the color blue to a person blind from birth?”
Hadrian considered saying it was cool, or tranquil, or like the sky or water, but none really defined blue. Arcadius’s robe was blue and it was none of those things.
“You can’t,” the professor said at length. “We only know colors by relationships. Your father likely pointed to hundreds of objects whose only common feature was the color, and eventually you understood that the commonality of color equaled the word he used. A lot of things are that way, abstract ideas that have no object to define them. Right and wrong, for example. Problems tend to occur when people are eager to fill their cups and accept ideas by those who might be, metaphorically, color blind. Once an idea is learned, once it settles in, it becomes comfortable and hard to discard, like an old hat. And trust me, I have many old hats. Some I haven’t worn in years, but I still keep them. Emotion gets in the way of practicality. By virtue of time spent, even ideas become old friends, and if you can’t bear to lose an old hat that you never wear, imagine how much harder it is to abandon ideas you grew up with. The longer the relationship, the harder it is. This is why I try to get them young, before their minds petrify with the nonsense they learn out there in the color-blind world. I’m not always successful.” He stared at an older boy seated across from them and winked, causing the boy to scowl and turn away.
“I take it you found your friend Pickles?”
“Yes. We had dinner together.”
“I heard about that. Something about a thrown meat pie. Where did you meet this rash young man? Surely not in Calis.”
“In Vernes. On the way here. He’s not entirely civilized.”
“So I’ve heard. But tell me, what have you done with yourself since leaving home?”
“You must know some of it or guessed in order to have found me.”
“Your father said you became a soldier.”
“I told him I was leaving to join the army of King Urith.”
“And did you?”
He nodded over his cup, smelling the cinnamon.
“But you didn’t stay?”
“There was some trouble.”
“Veteran soldiers are rarely forgiving of being bested in combat, especially when the humiliation comes at the hand of a fifteen-year-old boy.”
Hadrian peered at the old man through the steam. “Took a while to learn that. I guess I thought they’d be impressed, clap me on the back, and cheer. Didn’t turn out that way.”
“So you moved on?”
“I did better in the army of Warric under King Ethelred. I wasn’t so quick to show off and I lied about my age. Made captain, but Ethelred got in an argument with Urith and I found myself lining up against men I had fought beside for almost a year. I resigned, hoping to join the ranks of a king farther away. I just kept moving until eventually I was in Calis.”
“The perfect place for a man to disappear.”
“I thought so, too, and it was—in a way.” Hadrian looked over his shoulder at the doorway as more students staggered in, their gowns disheveled. “Part of me certainly disappeared.”
Arcadius used his finger to stir his drink. “How do you mean?”
“The jungles have a way of changing you … or … I don’t know, maybe they just bring out what was already part of you. There’s no boundaries, no rules, no social structure to get entangled in—no anchor. You see yourself raw, and I didn’t like what I had become. Something snapped when I got your letter.”
Hadrian looked down at his swords. He’d strapped them on that morning with no more thought than when he pulled on his boots—less so, the boots were new.
“Have you drawn them since leaving Calis?”
“Not to fight with.”
Arcadius nodded behind his own cup. His eyes looked strangely bright and alert for such an old face, polished diamonds in an ancient setting.
“I can’t help thinking how many men would be alive today if I had listened to my father and stayed in Hintindar.”
“They might have died anyway, hazards of the profession.”
Hadrian nodded. “Maybe, but at least their blood wouldn’t have been on my swords.”
Arcadius smiled. “Strange attitude for a career soldier.”
“You can thank my father for that. Him and his stupid chicken.”
“How’s that?”
“Danbury gave me a newborn chick for my tenth birthday and told me it was my responsibility to keep the bird alive, to keep it safe. I diligently watched after the bird. Named it Gretchen and hand-fed the thing. I even slept with it nestled in my arms. A year later, my father declared his son would have roast chicken for his birthday. We didn’t have any other chickens. I pleaded and swore that if he killed Gretchen, I wouldn’t eat a bite. Only my father had no intention of killing Gretchen. He handed me the axe. ‘Learn the value of a life before you take it,’ he told me.
“I refused. We went without food that day and the next. I was determined to outlast my father, but the old man was a rock. For all my pride, my sense of compassion, my loyalty, it only took two days. I cried through the meal but ate every bite—nothing went to waste. I refused to speak to my father for a month, and I never forgave him. I hated my old man off and on, for one thing or another, until the day I left. It took five years of combat to realize the value of that meal, the reason I never took pleasure in killing or turned a blind eye to pain.”
“All that from just one chicken?”
“No. The chicken was just the start. There were other lessons.” Hadrian glanced at the other boys seated nearby pretending not to listen. “You should be happy to have the professor here as a teacher. There are worse masters.”
“He was teaching you the value of life,” Arcadius said.
“While at the same time training me on the most efficient ways to take it? What kind of man teaches his son to fly but instills a fear of heights? I wanted to do something with my life. Use the skills he pounded into me. What good is it being great with a sword if all you are going to do is make plowshares? I saw the others—rich knights who were praised by great lords for their skill—and I knew I could beat all of them. They had everything: horses, fancy women, estates, armor. I had nothing. I thought if I could just show th
em…” Hadrian drained the last of his cider and looked back at the line for breakfast, which had grown longer.
“So tell me, Hadrian, what do you plan to do now that you’re back? I assume you aren’t going to be joining the military ranks of any local potentate.”
“My soldiering days are over.”
“How will you live, then?”
“I haven’t thought about it. I have coin to last me a little while. After that, I don’t know … I guess I’m sort of avoiding the issue, really. Drifting sounds good at the moment. I don’t know why … Maybe I’m hoping something will just turn up—that something will find me.”
“Really?”
Hadrian shrugged.
The professor leaned forward, started to say something, then hesitated and sat back again. “Must have been a long trip from Calis to here. I trust your travels were pleasant at least.”
“Actually no—and it’s good you brought it up. Have you seen anyone around the school recently who isn’t a student? Someone wearing a dark cloak who keeps the hood up?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Six people were murdered on the barge I took up from Vernes to Colnora. Five in one night, throats slit. A guy in a hood slipped away before I could find him. I’m thinking he might have followed me here.”
Arcadius glanced at the other boys around them. “Why don’t we go back to my office. This fire is getting a bit too hot now.”
“Did I say—”
Arcadius held up a hand. “We’ll talk more in my office where I only need to be concerned with Sisarus the Squirrel spreading rumors.”
Arcadius was slow on the stairs, holding up the hem of his robes and revealing a pair of matching blue slippers.
Leave the mud on the street!
They reached the professor’s door, where Arcadius stopped and turned to Hadrian. “Do you remember yesterday when I spoke about your father’s dying wish?”
The Crown Tower: Book 1 of The Riyria Chronicles Page 15