His hands steadied on the tabletop. “Thank you, dearest Aunt. It would be my pleasure to accompany you.”
“Then it is settled,” said Halab.
The dining hall fell silent. Ebon’s father stabbed his knife savagely into his meat, and his mother dabbed gingerly at her lips with a napkin.
EBON HAD ASSUMED THEY WOULD take a carriage, but Halab surprised him by proposing a walk instead. “It is not so great a distance, and I would find it most invigorating,” she told him.
As though he did not already know how far away it was. Ebon had memorized the streets between the manor and the Academy, though Tamen had never let him draw too close to the place.
Speaking of Tamen, Halab ordered him to stay at the manor, to give her some special time with her nephew. But she did bring Mako, and the man followed close behind them, almost within arm’s reach, so that Ebon felt his presence no matter how hard he tried to forget it.
Just past midday, the streets were busy with all manner of folk going to and fro. There were no open markets in this part of the city, and so no vendors screamed their wares at passersby, but there were shopkeepers, and deliveries of food and drink passing by on wagons. Among the crowds, Ebon often caught flashes of red—either the red leather armor of constables, or the red cloaks of Mystics. These last he noted with some keen interest, for the order’s strength had lessened in his homeland of Idris, and they did not often present themselves to his family. At least, not in any meetings that Ebon was privy to.
Halab soon noticed his wandering eye. “You find the Mystics intriguing, do you?”
“I suppose. It is only that they are very rare back home.”
“That is just as well. They are a meddlesome lot. And they have no love for wizards, except those who wear the red cloak as well. That means they would have a particular dislike for you.”
Ebon glanced at her with concern, but she laughed and gripped his shoulder before taking his arm.
“Sometimes I worry that you are too serious, though I think I may know the cause of that. It has not escaped me that your father puts great strain on you. You must forgive him for that.”
He did not have the faintest idea how to answer. Even with Tamen gone, he had no wish to speak ill of his father, for Mako walked close behind them both.
She patted his arm gently. “I know it must be difficult to speak of. You need say nothing. And I take back my words—you need not forgive him. He has not forgiven you for some things in which you were blameless.”
Ebon ducked his head, for suddenly his eyes stung. He spoke very carefully. “Momen’s loss was a great pain to us all.”
“It was,” she said, patting his arm once more. “Come. It is far too pretty a day for such thoughts. And we are nearly there.”
He looked up. There they were: the spires of the Academy’s four wings, and in the center of them all, the great tower. High and mighty the place stood, nearly as tall as the High King’s palace. But where the palace was laid all in stone of white and grey, with windows and bracings of gold, the Academy was of a stone so dark it was almost black, and its trimmings were in silver. Silver too were the banners that streamed from its many flagpoles, and all of them bore the simple white cross that stood for the four branches of magic, inside a white circle that was itself nested in an orb of black. Ebon had heard of the banner, but had never seen it until the day he had arrived on the Seat. Since then, it had remained ever in his thoughts.
Its size made it appear much nearer than it was, and still they had some distance to go. As they drew closer, Halab explained something of the place’s construction. Many of the details Ebon already knew, knowledge gleaned from whispered conversations with servants who should have known better. Still he drank them all in, for he felt he would never tire of hearing tales of the Academy.
“Four wings it has, for the four branches, of course. But that is only a symbol, and the students are not kept to each wing according to their gifts. Rather, they are arranged by their age—or, I should say, their year of study. Now, do you see how high the walls are? They were built a good distance from the central building, the citadel, and there they have the training areas where more advanced students learn their arts. Though the walls are tall, they are never guarded. They are not meant to protect the Academy from attack, but to safeguard the city from the students. It would not do to have a young firemage blow himself up and take half a dozen nearby buildings with him.”
Ebon laughed aloud at that, but Halab did not join him. He looked over to her, and saw that one of her eyebrows was arched.
“I am afraid that is no jest, nephew.”
He blanched and looked away.
At last they drew near to the wide front door, set straight into the wall itself. The door was made of iron, dark and unpolished, as though crafted by a smith of little skill. But as he drew closer, Ebon saw that in fact the door was carved with innumerable small characters in some tongue that he did not know. Ten of them were as wide as his smallest finger, and they covered the door from top to bottom and from one side to the other, except on the trim, which was made of burnished brass. He tried studying the symbols for a moment, but they made his eyes hurt, and he had to look away.
Halab glanced back, and Mako stepped forwards to swing the huge iron knocker twice. It was wrought in the shape of a wolf that gripped a brass ring in fierce jaws.
For a short while, no one came to answer. Ebon shifted back and forth on his feet, though Halab seemed unperturbed. He was just about to suggest they knock again, when finally he heard a hideous iron screeching on the other side of the door. But it did not open; instead, a tiny metal hatch slid open at chest height. Ebon had not noticed the hatch before. Through the hole appeared a tiny, wizened old woman, who must have been standing on tiptoes and yet could barely see through the opening. Both of her eyes were wide and crazed, and one was completely white.
“What do you want?” the woman screeched.
Ebon’s mouth fell open. Halab blinked and answered lightly. “Well met. I am here to visit my cousin, Dean Cyrus Drayden. He will be happy to receive me.”
The woman studied them for a moment of uncomfortable silence. Then she vanished, and a moment later the hatch slid shut with another rending shriek of iron.
They stepped back, expecting the door to swing open. But nothing happened. Ebon looked uncertainly to Halab, and then to Mako. The bodyguard seemed faintly amused, and he kept his eyes fixed on the door. But Halab looked up and down the street in both directions, blowing a long sigh out her nose.
Just as Ebon thought she might knock again, they heard the heavy snap of a latch being thrown on the other side. With a bone-deep groan, the door swung in. On the other side was a short, portly man, thin dark hair clinging determinedly to a balding pate. He wore black robes of unremarkable fabric, but they were trimmed with golden brocade of fine make that caught both the sun and the eye as he moved his arms, which was often.
“Cousin Cyrus,” said Halab, smiling graciously. “What a pleasure to see you.”
“Halab, Halab,” said Cyrus, stepping out to greet her. He took her hands in his and ushered her inside. “Come in, please. I offer my deepest apologies for the delay.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Halab. Then she turned to Mako. “Wait here for us.”
Mako nodded and stepped to the side, facing out towards the street with his hands clasped before him. Ebon hurried after Halab as Cyrus drew her inside, and an attendant swung the door shut behind them with a clang.
Ebon froze, dumbfounded by the sight before him. The Academy’s entrance hall stood at least ten paces high, its floor all black marble, thin white veins glinting with light from the many chandeliers hanging high above. A staircase with bronze railings swept up before them, seeming to promise the sky itself at the top, though Ebon could see it ended at a landing that went both left and right to vanish into hallways on the second floor. Other passages led off on either side of the stairway, while two doors stood close
d at both ends of the great chamber. All the doors were wooden, but polished until they shone like metal, and everywhere were tapestries of glorious make. Ebon thought he recognized Calentin craftsmanship in their weave.
Students and instructors bustled about in all directions, like ants swarming through a hive, and none of them spared even a glance for Ebon and the others standing in the entryway. The illumination from the chandeliers was joined and strengthened by the sunlight from great windows set high in each wall, and they were made of colored glass that depicted many tall figures Ebon did not recognize. But they were beautiful, and clearly ancient, and he felt that the figures stared down on him in judgement as he stood beneath them.
“How do they light them?” he breathed, not meaning to speak aloud.
Cyrus snapped a glance at him and frowned. “Eh? What is that?”
“The chandeliers,” said Ebon. “They are so high.”
“Ah,” said Cyrus. “The candles are placed and replaced by mentalists, and lit by elementalists, of course.”
Of course. Ebon knew he might have thought of that on his own, were his father not so adamant about refusing to allow Ebon any knowledge of magic and other wizards. He gawked up at the chandeliers, his mouth open, and tried to imagine the wizards lifting and lighting the candles with their spells.
With a start he realized that Cyrus and Halab had almost vanished from sight, making for the passage to the right of the staircase. He scurried after them, barely able to tear his eyes from the windows high above. Quickly Cyrus took them down the hallway, past many doors on either side, until it branched right and he turned. At last he reached his destination: a door of iron not unlike the one in the front, and Ebon saw that it was worked all over with the same small symbols. It swung open easily at his touch, and they followed him inside.
They were in an office now—the dean’s, Ebon guessed, for it was wide and well-lit and had a second half-floor reached by a narrow staircase to the right. All sorts of artifacts sat on shelves along the walls, and many were strange to Ebon: crystal globes and metal orbs and rods of strange materials, beside and sometimes on top of many books that stood in great stacks in every corner. On the second floor were more bookshelves, and windows that let light come pouring in from outside. But Ebon noted that the books and the artifacts all seemed unused, for they were covered in a fine layer of dust.
“My heart sings to see you, Cousin,” said Cyrus, going to Halab and kissing her on both cheeks before she kissed him on his forehead. “Again I must apologize for your treatment at the front door. Despite my years here, I have never succeeded in ridding this place of Mellie, daft old bat that she is.”
“I hope you do not trouble yourself about it,” said Halab graciously. “Allow me to present my nephew, and your second cousin once removed: Ebon, Shay’s son.”
Cyrus regarded Ebon with a cool tolerance. “Indeed. Welcome, Ebon. You travel in mighty company.”
He held forth a hand, and on it Ebon saw a ring bearing the cross-and-circle sigil of the Academy. For a moment Ebon was not sure how he was supposed to respond. After a moment that was just too long, he realized his mistake, and quickly leaned forwards to kiss the ring. Cyrus gave him a thin smile and turned away immediately.
“What purpose brings you here today, honored cousin? Is there any service you require of me, or anyone here at the Academy? Only name it, and it is yours.”
“In fact, I am here for Ebon,” said Halab. “Long has he dreamed of seeing the Academy, and as his family is busy in the palace, I thought to show him. Who better to introduce us to its labyrinthine halls than the dean himself?”
It looked to Ebon as though Cyrus tried to hide some slight displeasure. “Indeed. Certainly I would be happy to—ah!” He turned to Ebon again, and now his eyes lit with recognition. “You are the transmuter. Your father would not let you attend for schooling.”
Ebon felt his cheeks burning, and he lowered his gaze to the floor. “Yes.”
“A pity. And now you are … how old? Fourteen? Fifteen?”
“I have seen sixteen summers,” mumbled Ebon.
“Sixteen!” The dean shook his head and pursed his lips. “Such a waste. Such a waste. But then, it is only transmutation. And better a glimpse of opportunity lost than to never know it at all. It will be my pleasure to show you my school.”
He took Ebon’s hand in his own, smaller, clammy one, and patted it. Ebon felt an urge to withdraw, but he did not wish to appear rude. The dean was looking at him like he was some boy whose legs had been cut off in a farming accident.
Cyrus opened the study door again and motioned them out. He made his way through the hallways, his steps sure, though Ebon was already lost in the massive place. Soon they stood in the entrance hall again, and once more Ebon was left to marvel at its craftsmanship.
“The student dormitories are near the top of the central citadel,” he said, pointing up to where the staircase turned into hallways far above. “No need to visit them, of course, unless you like beds dressed in plain grey wool.” He tittered.
“No, indeed,” said Halab.
“Most of the classes are taught on the bottom floor, and here also are the kitchens and the dining halls. Come, let me show you where the students learn their spells.”
He took them to the hallway left of the staircase. Doors lined the walls to either side, but Cyrus passed them by. “Instructor’s studies,” he said, waving at them dismissively. Soon they reached a set of double doors on the left, and Cyrus threw them open with a flourish.
Inside were many students sitting at long tables, and at the front of the room, a podium. Behind it stood a thin wisp of a man, clutching the wooden stand as though for support. He had wide eyes like an owl’s, which blinked as fast as a heartbeat. His blinking sped still more at the sight of the dean.
“Dean Cyrus!” the instructor wheedled, leaping away from his podium as though from a coiled snake. He came forwards, wringing his hands together, mouth working as though chewing a tough bit of gristle. “What an unexpected visit.”
“This is Instructor Credell,” said Cyrus, putting a hand on Credell’s shoulder, from which the poor man shrank witheringly. “He is the beginner’s transmutation instructor—the man you would learn from, Ebon, if you were attending the Academy.”
“Well met,” said Ebon, holding forth a hand.
Credell stared at the hand with suspicion, then jerked his gaze up and tried to smile, but failed. “Are you a transmuter then? Fascinating! Where have you studied?”
“I am unlearned,” said Ebon, feeling a familiar blush creeping across his face.
Credell blink-blinked rapidly with his owl eyes. “Oh, I … oh.” Behind him, Ebon could see several of the students—all of them children far younger than he was—leaning to try and get a look at him.
“Mayhap we could leave these students to their studies,” said Halab, giving the room a smile. “After all, they have much to learn.”
“Of course, of course,” said Cyrus, clapping Credell on the back until Ebon thought the instructor might fall over. “Carry on.”
He stepped out and swung the doors shut again, whisking them a bit farther down the hallway to another set of double doors. Inside was a class of mindmages listening attentively to their instructor. The man’s eyes glowed as he made a small iron ball dance in the air. Ebon stared in wonder, but to his disappointment the instructor lowered the ball the moment he saw the dean.
Then Ebon noticed something else intriguing: though there were surely more than a score of students inside, they all wore the same simple black robes. At first he did not know why that caught his eye, until he realized that he could not tell which students came from wealthy families, and which from poor. In his own household, even if he did not know all the servants by name, he knew them by their dress, just as he knew a member of his own family the moment he saw their bearing. Here, all the students were equal. He marveled at it, though only for a moment before Cyrus began to speak again
, and Ebon had to pay attention to the name of the instructor as they were introduced to each other.
After a hurried explanation of the class, Cyrus pushed on to another room with another lesson, though Ebon could see no magic at play, and Cyrus did not say which branch the students were studying. They passed another room, and then another, as though Cyrus was in a hurry now and only wanted the tour to be over as quickly as possible.
Evidently Halab noticed Cyrus’ haste, as well as Ebon’s dissatisfaction, for she stopped the dean after he closed yet another set of classroom doors. “Good cousin, mayhap we could see the training grounds? I think my nephew tires of seeing so many classrooms that look the same.” Then, before Ebon could claim in politeness that he was fascinated by the tour, she smiled at him and said, “And I think I agree with him.”
Cyrus grew flustered and produced a silk handkerchief, with which he dabbed at his forehead. “Ah, of course, good cousin. The training grounds indeed—though be careful! They are not without peril.”
“I trust your ability to protect us, dear cousin.”
“Ah, I … ah, yes, of course. This way.”
He set off down the hallway now, faster than before, until Ebon nearly had to jog to keep up with him, although Halab’s long strides kept the pace with ease. After three turns that left Ebon utterly bewildered, he stopped at another set of double doors, these made of white wood. Cyrus hesitated only a moment before throwing them open.
Ebon’s eyes burned at the sudden daylight, and he had to raise a hand to shield his vision. Once he could see, he found himself in a stone courtyard that extended many paces from the Academy until it ended at a grassy lawn that might have been trimmed with a barber’s shears, it was so precise. And there, for the first time, he saw wizards using the full strength of their magic.
The Academy Journals Volume One_A Book of Underrealm Page 4