“A LITTLE COMMUNICATION WOULD HAVE been welcome.” I snatch the control bracer from Eidhin. Frustrated. It hasn’t helped that the first thing I spied after emerging from the Labyrinth was Praeceptor Dultatis’s smug expression. “I almost made it.”
The hulking red-headed boy’s gaze as I slap the device on my arm is implacable. Not defensive, not reactionary, just… steady. I open my mouth to say more, then exhale instead.
“We almost made it.” It’s not an apology. I’m just correcting myself. “You’re quite good with this.” I waggle my arm, indicating the control bracer, which is significantly lighter than the one from Villa Telimus. I make it a half question.
Eidhin grunts. Shrugs. “You were…” Vexation flashes across his face. “Gwyll cymlys,” he finishes, a mixture of exasperated and begrudging. Before I can respond, he’s walking away.
I frown after Eidhin as he stomps down the stairs into the maze. Gwyll cymlys: “better than competent.” A weak compliment, but that’s not what has me taken aback. It’s a phrase peculiar to the officially dead Cymrian language.
I study my partner’s burly form below, playing back our rare, brief exchanges over the past weeks. He certainly has the look of a southerner, but that applies to the far south-west, too. His short responses have to be at least partly from surliness, but if—
“Begin!”
There’s a savage satisfaction in the booming announcement; I suspect Dultatis has noticed my distraction. I scramble to orient myself as Eidhin sprints hard up the centre, and for an awful moment I think he’s simply going to plunge into the series of corridors from which it’s almost impossible to escape. But at the last second he dashes left, into a tight, twisting section that already branches into four quite disparate exits.
I can see his plan, I think, after another thirty seconds of chasing after him while he confidently twists and turns. He’s got a set path in mind, but it’s winding enough and he’s moving so fast that it’s difficult for the spotters to properly relay. They’re desperately yelling instructions, and then corrections, and then corrections of those corrections as even the two with their hands raised have to jog to keep up. The hunters are already drawing closer but there’s a hesitancy to their approach, an uncertainty bleeding over from how quickly their information is getting adjusted.
One thing’s abundantly clear: my partner doesn’t expect any help from me. I feel a flush of anger at the presumption. Eidhin’s tactic isn’t a terrible one, but he won’t win with it alone.
I’ve got the pace of his movement now. And the paths I think the hunters will be taking, based on the flashes I’ve seen from them. I take a deep breath, glance down to check I’ve got the right stone, and twist.
The way ahead of Eidhin slams shut.
“Go right!” I yell as the red-headed boy stops and wheels, scanning the balcony until his murderous glare comes to rest on me. He gesticulates furiously at the blocked way ahead, but I shake my head with equal fervour. “Go right!”
There’s a full second where he just stands there, frozen by frustrated indecision. Then he slaps the stone wall with his hand hard enough that it must surely hurt, and dashes off to the right.
“Alright,” I murmur, letting out a long breath.
For the next two minutes, I change the Labyrinth constantly as Eidhin runs. I’m hesitant, at first. Nervous. It shows in my first couple of adjustments, the rending of stone screeching across the chamber. But once I settle, that odd out-of-body calm, almost meditative flow, washes over me. I’m completely focused and I know I’m completely focused, some small part of my mind watching my actions and thrilling at how precisely I’m working. I’m seeing three, four choices ahead for the hunters, blocking off their best options at every turn. Redirecting them away not from where Eidhin is, but from where Eidhin will be.
I stop being worried about the crowd, about Veridius or Dultatis. My only anxiety now is that I’ll fall from this wonderful mind-state too early, falter, and lose confidence before I can finish.
Eidhin, for his part, has adapted well, responding to my opening or shutting panels exactly as I did for him. It’s a crude method of communication, though, and while we’ve maintained a safe distance thus far, the hunters are closing in.
“They’re trying to flank you! Take the second left and double back!” I shout the warning as I see it happening, knowing it’s giving too much information to the hunters, but left with little alternative.
Eidhin stumbles as he hears my yell. Fades to a stop. There’s uncertainty in his every line.
I remember our brief encounter earlier, and something clicks. “Take the second left ahead and come back this way!” I roar the command.
But this time, I do it in Cymrian.
There’s a raised murmur from the watching class, and I can’t help but enjoy the utterly startled look I elicit from Eidhin. He gawps in my direction, static.
Then, abruptly, he’s running again.
He takes the second left.
I continue to shout out instructions in Cymrian, excitement mounting as Eidhin takes turn after turn as directed. I’m far from fluent, but my mother was, and she ensured I was learning her father’s native tongue as soon as I could talk. These simple commands aren’t difficult to dredge up.
It’s almost easy, after that.
Between Eidhin going exactly where I need him and my increasingly confident adjustments to the maze, the hunters start to flail. The buzz from the class on the balcony grows louder and louder. Sixths crowd the railing, elbowing others aside and leaning over to get a better view.
I cannot remember a more satisfying moment than when I twist my last stone on the bracer, and then Eidhin is suddenly charging down the final corridor, hunters trapped in the passages on either side of him. He’s clear.
There’s no applause, only animated chatter from the rest of the class, but Eidhin still stabs the air in triumph as he jogs up the stairs on the far side. I laugh delightedly at the sight, then start unlacing the control bracer, hands shaking as the tension drains from my body. Ulciscor and Lanistia emphasised time and time again how important these tests were. I’ve done everything I can, today.
Dultatis and Veridius are both watching me when I look up. The Praeceptor’s face is flushed in the light of the fire, looking the very opposite of pleased. Veridius seems more intrigued than impressed. When he sees my glance, though, he gives me a deep, approving nod.
Eidhin joins us after a minute, just ahead of the spotters and hunters, who cut dejected silhouettes against the flames. He’s not smiling, but there’s an energy to his step. As happy as I’ve ever seen him.
Dultatis eyes us both as Eidhin comes alongside me. The red-headed boy still doesn’t crack a smile, but the way he stands is close to companionable.
“I enjoyed that,” he murmurs in Cymrian, staring straight ahead.
I feel the corners of my mouth tick upward, though I try to keep a blank face too.
Dultatis’s frown deepens, as if he suspects Eidhin just said something about him. “You did well,” he announces loudly, so the entire class can hear. “Unfortunately, you also broke the rules, so this won’t be entered into any official records.”
“What?” I blurt the word disbelievingly, and beside me, Eidhin tenses.
“You communicated in a foreign language. Code is allowed because it encourages planning, teamwork. Both of you knowing the same dead language is an advantage of coincidence, nothing more. It cannot be rewarded.”
“It was in code,” says Eidhin immediately.
“Pardon?”
“We. Spoke. In. Code,” he says, emphasizing each word deliberately, as if Dultatis were a child. “You did not say the code had to be in Common.”
“That’s true,” I agree calmly.
Dultatis’s eye twitches as a few titters echo through the class watching on. “Code is also allowed because there is the possibility of it being broken by the hunters if it’s not opaque enough. So while you are still to be congratulated”—he utters it through gritted teeth, the words undoubtedly for Veridius’s benefit rather than ours—“you are nonetheless disqualified.”
I stare at the Praeceptor silently. There’s that special rancour in Dultatis’s eyes again when he looks at me.
My gaze goes to Veridius, who’s standing a few paces behind Dultatis, watching. He gives me the slightest shake of the head.
Resentment boils deep in my chest. I’m a heartbeat away from exploding.
I calm myself through sheer force of will, and bow my head in grim acquiescence.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Eidhin looking between me and Dultatis, expression darkening. He whirls in disgust and stalks off to his usual position at the back of the class, whatever joy he’d taken from our victory vanished. I inhale, then make my way back to the other Sixths, refusing to look any of them in the eye. Any of the emotions I might see there—amusement, pity, whatever—could too easily provoke me right now.
I take up a position apart from everyone else, at the balcony railing, gazing out over the maze without really seeing it. In the background, Dultatis is picking a new pair to run. I don’t pay any attention to who. I don’t really care.
I watch the proceedings below alone, disinterested and brooding, as pair after pair run and fail over the next hour. I don’t bother to follow the class as they move along the sides, trying to keep view of the proceedings: Ianix and Leridia, it turns out, were by far the most skilled of the group. Nobody comes close to breaking through.
“What do you think?”
I start; I’ve been so lost in my frustration that I didn’t even notice Veridius sidling up to me. He’s watching this latest run with absent curiosity, not looking at me, but there’s no one else around he could be addressing. “Of?”
“Them.” He indicates the flurry of motion below and around the sides of the chamber. “These runs.”
I follow the current runner as he weaves pointlessly through passageways that are all but static, his partner up on the balcony already having lost three stones from his bracer. “It’s basically just one person trying to sprint their way through, hoping the hunters and spotters will be dumb enough to make mistakes. A lot of mistakes. And whoever has the control bracer seems to be there more to yell coded instructions than to actually adjust the maze.” It’s a blunt assessment, I know, but I’m in no mood for tact. “They’re terrible.”
I expect a rebuke, but instead Veridius just shakes his head. “They’re average,” he corrects me. “Just because you are good at something does not make others bad at it.” He winces as the boy below careens into a dead-end passageway, easily cut off by the single hunter in pursuit. “Well. Some of them are average.”
I feel a grin pull at the corners of my mouth, but it quickly slips again. “Praeceptor Dultatis doesn’t seem to share your opinion. That I’m good, I mean.” I fail to keep my tone light. “At anything.”
“Well. I fear that may be less about your performance, and more your name.”
I frown, finally glancing across at him. “What?”
Veridius looks as though he’s debating whether to expand on his statement. “Praeceptor Nequias and Praeceptor Dultatis were among those in charge here when I was a student,” he says eventually. “Praeceptor Nequias was all but guaranteed to be the next Principalis, and he would have picked the Praeceptor over there to be his second in command. Then your uncle…” He exhales. “Well. His death had ramifications.”
“So they were demoted.” My voice goes flat as I understand what he’s saying. “And they blame me?”
“They blame me. But they have no love for the name Telimus.”
My brow crinkles in frustration. While I’m not inclined to take Veridius’s word, what he’s saying makes some sense: the Hierarchy would be keen to punish anyone who oversaw the death of a prized student, no matter the circumstances. And it would have been an internal disciplinary matter for Religion. Ulciscor wouldn’t necessarily have known to warn me about a petty, long-held grudge like that.
“You can’t do anything about it?” I’m only half asking. I know the answer.
“It’s his class. His assessment.” Veridius shakes his head. “But even if I could, the Academy is meant to reflect the challenges we face in life, not protect students from their realities. Most pyramids out there are full of Dultatises. And Iros,” he adds meaningfully. “Whether the obstacles to our advancement arise from our ties or our actions, we need to learn to overcome them ourselves. It’s not fair, but nor is the world.” His expression is earnest, warm. Meant to encourage. “I imagine you already know something of that.”
“I do.” Veridius’s gentle, understanding manner makes it tempting to keep talking. To unburden myself. But the more I say to him, the more chances I’m giving myself to slip up.
Veridius sees I’m not going to expound, and straightens, turning back toward the rest of the class. “This place is often empty, early in the mornings.” He says it distractedly, talking more to the air than me. “And it’s never locked. An enterprising student might find it a good time to practice.”
He walks off, smiling and waving to another student he’s spotted. I watch for a while. He’s stopping and chatting with everyone. And everyone seems to welcome the conversation, is eager to bask in the Principalis’s brief attention.
I resume my ruminating glower over the Labyrinth, turning Veridius’s words over in my head. I can’t see any trap to them.
But even that realisation is an aggravation. I’m pinned down here. Stymied. Helpless. I can train all I want, and never progress past Class Six. I can physically feel the frustration building. A shortening of breath, a tightening in my chest.
As I watch another student fail below, I come to a decision. I need to do something. I need to act.
Tonight, I’m going to take a look at the ruins beyond the Academy’s wall.
