WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, YSA and I would often make a game of escaping our studies through the twisting palace hallways, dodging servants and tutors alike who would be guaranteed to either order us back, or inform one of our parents. I was always better at it than she. There’s a feeling in the air, when someone’s about. An oncoming presence that I’ve always been able to sense in enough time to duck into the shelter of a doorway, or double back around the corner before they come into view.
A skill for darker times, these past few years.
The other three boys in my room have all settled into regular breathing patterns within an hour of the lantern winking out. I wait another few minutes just to be sure, then slide out of my cot, pull on my sandals, snatch up my empty leather satchel, and pad to the door. No one stirs.
I keep a sharp ear for anyone else awake as I slip through the corridors of the Sixths’ dormitory, but everything’s quiet. Soon enough I’m at the door to the external staircase, and out into the biting night air. There’s a sliver of moon tonight, though it’s diffused by a thin layer of cloud. I pause at the top of the stairs, letting my eyes adjust. Everything’s coated in dulled silver, the bright reds, whites, and golds of the buildings all muted into shades. Nothing stirs below.
This is my last chance to turn around. To wait for a safer opportunity. There’s a tacit curfew in the Academy, and if one of my roommates wakes and notices I’m gone, I doubt they’ll hesitate to inform someone. Being caught roaming the Academy grounds this late will come with hard questions. Being caught past the wall will mean expulsion.
But if I can’t advance, can’t get a room to myself, a safer opportunity will never come. And the Festival of the Ancestors is looming. Even if Ulciscor can’t get me past Dultatis, I at least need something to make sure he doesn’t lose faith in me. Doesn’t decide I’m a failed experiment, and send me to the Sappers.
I descend and start for the far side of the compound.
The violent illumination of the quadrum is something I give a wide berth, opting instead to keep to the trees that line the boundaries of the Academy. I spot occasional figures—Praeceptors or Octavii, I assume—but they’re all in the distance, travelling well-lit paths and never once turning in my direction.
It’s not long before I’m at the stables. I listen and then duck inside, risking the light to snatch up the sturdy set of leather stirrups, small lantern, and strip of armour I tucked away earlier. I’m gone again in moments, no alarm raised.
The wall is an imposing proposition from up close. Fifteen feet high and smooth, shadowed, Will-cut stone—no handholds. A forest of thin, vicious spikes at the top, painted grey by the dim moon. I consider them for several grim seconds before giving a last, cautious glance around, then unslinging my equipment.
It takes me a dozen attempts at leaping and flicking the stirrups upward, heart in mouth the entire time at the noise I’m making, before they finally settle over one of the spikes with a scratching clang. I give the leather a guarded tug, then test my full weight against it. Nothing budges.
I exhale. No cries of discovery so far. There are no moving parts atop the wall, so there can’t be any simple Will-based alarms. I’m confident that there won’t be any Conditional ones set, either; those would surely be far too expensive to add to every inch of the Academy’s boundary, even for the security-conscious Veridius. Surely.
I hook the cataphract armour over one wrist, and start to climb.
My muscles cord as I pull myself up, the leather of the stirrups creaking, metal scraping against the spike it’s caught on, the armour on my wrist clanking as it drags fiercely. It’s loud against the surrounding hush but I forge on, reaching up and finding purchase on the edge of the wall with my fingers, arms trembling as I haul myself level. With a final heave, I sling the saddle up. It clatters over the top of the jagged array.
I have just enough anxious strength left to heave myself into an awkward, precarious sprawl atop the scaled armour. My side grazes one of the still-exposed spikes. It’s keenly edged, sharp all the way along.
I hold my breath. Crane my neck around, gazing back into the shadows of the Academy. Despite the noise, there’s no movement. Torches burn low at the entrance and in the quadrum, but the only other light is the soft silver filtering through the clouds.
I don’t waste time staying exposed at the top of the wall, inching across the cataphract-covered spikes. Sweating as I twist and slither and try not to envisage what would happen were one to find its way through a gap in the plating. I stop only to carefully disengage the stirrup from its spike and secure it to another on the other side, letting it dangle. There won’t be patrols outside the grounds, and I can do without the noise of attempting to hook it back on again when I return.
Finally I slide around until I can grab the stirrup with both hands and lower myself. Hold my breath once I hit the ground, eyes closed. Still no sound from the other side.
I’m out.
I turn to face a forest that’s dense, dark, and immediate. The gloom is deeper here, cut only by the occasional beam that finds its way past a canopy of constantly shifting leaves. Rustling alone breaks the hush.
I unsling my small satchel and retrieve the lantern from it, quickly checking it survived the climb before shuttering it and striking it to light. The way ahead is far too dark, the terrain too treacherous, to depend on the moonlight.
I orient myself, and strike out eastward.
My tension doesn’t abate as I press through a wall of bracken and then into the trees. I’ve been told by multiple people that alupi—the enormous, intelligent wolves indigenous to Solivagus—don’t come close to the Academy, but I know that’s a generalisation rather than a rule. Every shifting shadow beyond the lamplight makes me twitch.
It’s fifteen minutes before I hit anything that looks like a path. Not much more than a well-worn animal trail, really, but I can see the vegetation’s been cut away in places, and the hint of a heelprint or two in the dirt. It’s probably the track that joins the main way between the Academy and the Transvect platform.
I follow it, ducking under stray branches that whip in the wind, skin itching at the worry of being stumbled upon at every turn. There’s no one, though. The trail meanders but always keeps to the same general direction. I endure another ten minutes, at least, of picking my way anxiously forward.
And then up ahead, a hazy nimbus over the trees.
I slow. Extinguish my lantern, stow it, and depart the trail in favour of thick brush, ignoring the way the dry twigs dig at my skin. My ears strain, but there’s only the scratching of branch against branch in the breeze, the skittering of fallen leaves.
I finally come to a stop, crouching, as the source of the light emerges from behind the last screen of shrubbery.
The ruins of an ancient structure—or structures—stretch out before me, cracked and moss-coated rubble covering a clearing that must be five hundred feet wide. Most of the broken grey stone is no higher than my waist, but in the middle of it all stands a tall domed building, several holes in its curved roof the only immediate sign of damage. It’s ringed by a dozen bright lanterns, the gently swaying lights casting shifting blacks through the scattered stone nearby.
I watch for a minute. Five. Nothing moves. In the shadows, I spot a door waiting at the end of the short colonnade leading into the structure. The door’s intact. Closed.
I circle the edge of the clearing, concerned about those lanterns. They could have been lit via Will from anywhere—be for precaution or convenience, rather than indicating someone’s presence. But if Religion is willing to waste Will and oil doing that, then there will be security measures, too.
I don’t see anything unusual in my tortuous circuit. Walls guarded these ruins once, but no longer: only a line of rubble remains as a barrier to the space beyond. The outer sections appear to be the remnants of a vast complex. Away from the lanterns, diffuse moonlight paints jagged stone. A chill breeze off the ocean unsettlingly rustles the long grass that grows between the boulders.
Most concerningly, there are no other obvious entrances into the central building. Doors are one of the easiest things to secure with Will: they can be harmonically linked either with an alarm on the other end, or simply with something so heavy they’re impossible to open.
But there’s nothing else out here to investigate. No other option, unless I turn back.
I creep from cover, and start picking my way across to the domed building.
Moving anything here could trigger a Will-linked alarm, so I take care where I step, ensuring I tread only on grass. Twice I take the time to clamber over stone where a more obvious path would require shifting rubble aside. There are still no sounds other than those whispered by the wind. I twitch and duck at every imagined movement, feeling far too exposed as I traverse the pool of light cast by the lanterns and then pass into the murk of the colonnade.
Once I’m at the door I stop, peering back out into the woods before inspecting the entrance. Up close, the building is in worse repair than I realised. The stone has crumbled away around the edges of most of the bricks, and there’s more green than grey visible. It’s not Hierarchy-era, that’s for sure. It’s been here for hundreds of years. More, maybe.
It could even be pre-Cataclysm, just as Ulciscor claimed. From the era of the Aurora Columnae, made before recorded history.
Now my eyes have adjusted, I can see the door’s not stone as I first thought, but rather solid steel, cool to the touch. That’s good: steel is much, much harder to imbue. Strange symbols are inscribed on its surface. Another language, I think. I don’t recognise it.
I stand there, calculating. The door could be locked, in which case my evening is at an end. If it’s not, there’s still a good chance that opening it will trigger some kind of alarm back at the Academy. A self-imbued Veridius taking the trail at a run could probably be here in twenty minutes. Call it fifteen, to be safe.
Not much time to see what’s inside.
I start a mental count and, blood pulsing in my ears, push.
The door swings open at a touch. Silent. Faint light spills out and I take a nervous half step back. There are no shouts though, no movement or sound. I slip inside, trying to mix the need for haste with prudence. There’s only a single, large chamber. A circle of marble columns rings its centre, perhaps twenty feet in diameter. Leaning against the columns are tools—pickaxes, shovels. Rope.
I squint. The light’s off, a dull green tint to it. As I creep farther in, I can see its source: a gaping hole at the centre of the circle. A rope tied to one of the columns vanishes down into the area of missing floor, which looks as though it has been smashed away.
Fourteen minutes.
I force myself to ignore the natural drag of caution and hurry forward into the green light. The hole leads to a tunnel not too far below, and the rope dangles to its floor. I grab it, test it, and swing myself down, palms burning from the speed of the descent. My sandals meet stone with an echoing thud.
I shake out my legs to lessen the smarting impact of the landing as I look around, though its sting is quickly forgotten as I take in the long passageway.
Everything’s lit down here, but not by lanterns or flame.
Writing carves its way through the stone on both walls, and each and every letter glows a sickly green. Thousands upon thousands of words. Not carefully etched, though. Not done by an artisan’s hands. These are scrawled. Uneven. Rushed.
Thirteen minutes.
“What in all hells?” I whisper it as I edge closer, though there’s no one down here to hear me. I’ve never heard of anything that can illuminate stone like this. And the writing… it seems deep, engraved, and yet the way it flows speaks of someone hurriedly scribbling. Farther down, I can see words giving way to diagrams, complex drawings with more glowing notes scratched around them.
It’s not a language I’ve come across before, I conclude after another minute of assessment. There’s nothing familiar, no spark of recognition at the forms. I move my mouth silently to sound out the words, but some of the letters are completely foreign to me, rendering many of them even phonetically mysterious.
The passage stretches out in both directions, but I jog toward where the writing is broken by the series of small diagrams. These again have the appearance of being hurriedly sketched, yet are incredibly detailed—schematics of some kind, I think, dozens of lines and arrows criss-crossing a sea of notations. Strange symbols repeat on every single one. Numbers, perhaps? A sequence of instructions to create… something. The various stages of construction aren’t clear enough for me to divine exactly what.
Eleven minutes.
I rock on my heels, the fingers of my self-imposed time limit resting light around my neck. Torn between studying the images for a better understanding of them, and pressing on to see what else this place might contain. This won’t help Ulciscor, so the latter wins out. I tear my gaze from the strange glowing schemata and set out at a cautious trot, moving as fast as I dare while staying wary for any signs of company. The tunnel, and the writing, stretches unbroken for as far as I can see. I start to regret my decision. Every second I move away from the entrance is one I’m going to have to spend getting back.
I keep going for another two minutes, each step increasingly anxious. How far does this shaft go? It runs straight and narrow; smaller passageways occasionally split off but those are cloaked in darkness, unappealing even if I had time to spare. There are more diagrams amid the pulsing green scrawl that light my way: some are small, while others consume several feet of wall. I don’t give any of them more than a cursory look as I pass. Whatever they’re depicting, it’s alien to me.
Until, that is, I spot a series of familiar symbols.
I stop. Frown. Take a few seconds to place them, but once I do, the surrounding pictures begin to take shape.
The symbols are the same as the ones in the Labyrinth.
And the diagram, I think, shows how to make the bracer that controls it.
My hand itches for something to copy this down. Instead I study it fiercely, trying to etch every line into memory. I don’t know what this means, exactly, but it must mean something. Ulciscor will want to know about it in as much detail as I can give him.
I’ve almost resolved to turn back when I realise the tunnel ahead widens into an opening. I break into a jog.
Eight minutes.
The end of the passage is an archway that segues into a much larger space beyond. There’s something written across it in that same glowing green scrawl, but the language is different. This one’s recognisable. Not Common, but an old form of Vetusian. Native to this area, once.
In trying to become God, they created Him. I think that’s the translation, anyway.
I creep the last few feet and peer through the arch. The hall beyond is enormous, more than fifty feet high and at least three hundred long. No writing in here but still lit entirely in green, thanks to the rows of dimly illuminated cavities cut into both walls. Maybe ten feet high and wide, and equally far apart. There are tens of them. Hundreds.
It’s their contents that captures my attention, though. Makes my breath catch and blood freeze.
In each one, skewered by a long black blade through the chest, is a single, naked corpse.
I’m motionless, wide-eyed, for five seconds. Ten. My hands tremble as I prop myself up against the edge of the entrance. The green light is coming from the slabs of stone against which the men and women lie, making it seem as though they’re in some sort of garish display. Little more than silhouettes, and yet there’s no mistaking what I’m seeing.
They’re not skeletal, either, I realise faintly. Not shrivelled from dusty centuries of waiting in this tomb. From what I can make out of their faces and bodies, these people look as though they could have been killed yesterday.
Seven minutes.
“Rotting gods,” I whisper, mostly to steady myself. Whatever Religion are doing down here, I don’t want any part of it. But Ulciscor’s going to want to know more. Will value detail.
I take an unwilling step into the hall. Two. My footfalls echo. The imagined eyes of the dead bore into me. I ignore my crawling skin and break into a hurried stride, moving to the closest of the open coffins.
Features resolve as I near. The man was square-jawed, athletic. Black hair is combed back neatly from his face. His skin is smooth, unblemished save for where the darkly glinting sword pierces the skin above his heart. His eyes are closed. There’s no blood.
I stop six feet away. The blade is entirely obsidian, I think. Worth a small fortune.
Six minutes.
I mutter a low, frustrated curse. I need more time. At a dead run, it’s not more than a couple of minutes back to the rope, then another two to be up and out into the safety of the forest. I tear my gaze from the corpse and take another look around.
Now I’m farther in, I realise that the bodies don’t take up the entirety of the room: there’s a slender section in the centre of the far end which is dark, solid. Part of the wall there looks different. Shimmers.
I hurry across the vast expanse of the hall. The errant space between the macabre green-lit coffins is about twenty feet wide, and there’s a plate set into its centre, roughly a man’s height and width, which appears to be metal rather than stone. Not steel, though. Bronze? More strange words like on the walls outside are inscribed into it, though the writing’s different. Fastidiously neat, etched with a steady, meticulous hand.
I stand close to the wall, squinting in the dim as I try to make out anything familiar. The metal’s tarnished. I impatiently reach forward and brush my fingers against the cool surface, trying to make some of the symbols clearer.
There’s a tingling shock where my skin makes contact. I snatch my hand back.
A low, resounding thrum shakes the room.
I retreat a step and then spin as new light blooms behind me. The stone floor in the centre of the hall undulates with white light. Glistens and ripples, as though water has formed and somehow ignited. Those swells are quickly coalescing, drawing themselves into three large, separate pools. Outcroppings of light start to rise within them. Firm into shapes.
Through the shock, I recognise the contours in the left-most one.
It’s Solivagus.
The likeness to the island becomes more obvious as sections of the liquid light pull upward, hardening into peaks and troughs to create impossibly detailed mountain ranges, valleys. Lakes and rivers and headlands. Individual trees. A topology I’m partly familiar with from looking out the window of the Curia Doctrina.
The other two pools are forming land masses, too. The one on the right seems identical, but as I look closer, I can see that the contours differ. There are sloping beaches to the north, rather than sheer bluffs. A mountain missing in the west. An entire section of forest cleared in the shadow of a cliff, a small town nestled there.
The centre-most image differs significantly from the other two. There are no trees, though there are similarities to the land’s shape in the east. To the west, though, there’s nothing but a crater, barren except for an unsettling, hovering sphere in its centre. To scale, it’s the size of a small mountain.
I study it in bewilderment, then let my eyes trace the shoreline to the south. It matches the two maps on either side.
That’s Solivagus, too, then. But utterly destroyed.
Even as the realisation comes, a rasping voice starts drifting through the hall. Speaking Vetusian, I recognise after a startled moment. The words just slow and precise enough for me to translate.
“Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death.”
And on. And on.
I whirl, skin crawling, looking for the source. There is none. Soon another voice joins it, perfectly in unison. Soft and harsh and sad. And then another. The sound fills the hall. I flee, skirting the brilliant map, fearful of what may happen if I touch it. The illumination from it overwhelms the dim green, casting the corpses to the sides in sharp relief. I catch a glimpse of a man to my right.
His eyelids flutter open. There’s nothing but bloodied sockets beneath.
Cold fear claws at my chest. I stare at the body, frozen. It stares back. Unmoving. Ebony blade jutting through its chest.
“Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death…”
Its lips are moving.
I stumble back, almost fall. My gaze goes to the body in the next cavity. It’s watching me with an eyeless gaze, too. And the next. And the next. All whispering.
“Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate. Synchronous is death. Obiteum is lost. Do not open the gate.…”
I run.
Back through the tunnel of pulsing scrawls, lungs burning, not looking back. I’ve left the whispers behind but I don’t stop; I reach the rope, leap at it, and haul myself up with manic energy, swinging wildly, panicked breathing loud in my own ears. The skin on my hands hasn’t recovered from the slide down and it hurts but I ignore it, wrenching myself upward again and again until my feet are scrabbling for purchase on the floor above.
It’s only when I’m through the hole and into the perceived safety of the upper building that I calm enough to bring myself back under control. I collapse with my back against the cold stone, gasping, letting my stinging hands shake. Just for a few seconds. Just until I can find the strength to roll and lurch to my feet again. I’ve lost track of the count, but I need to get out of here. Now.
I flee into the crisp night air, pausing only to yank the steel door closed again, the warm, natural light of the lanterns ringing the building feeling like home after the nightmares inside. I’m quickly past their illumination and into the silver-coated ruins.
I’m halfway to the forest when I hear the faint, sporadic gasps of breathless conversation coming closer.
I skid down behind one of the broken walls, hunkering deep into shadow as another muted exchange filters into the clearing, this one louder, though the words remain indistinguishable. Two men, I think. The rapid crunching of footsteps echoes. They’re approaching at a sprint.
Then the footsteps slow. Break into the clearing and falter to silence as fresh light creeps over the rubble.
“See anything?” It’s Veridius, exertion straining his voice. I risk a peek around the corner of my boulder. A torch is hovering aloft in front of Veridius and his companion, ten feet up, lighting the area. Veridius himself is scanning the ruins grimly. His eyes are black. Three obsidian daggers hang at his waist.
“Maybe… just let me… breathe first.” The other man is swarthy and thin, around Veridius’s age. Unlike the Principalis though, he’s doubled over, hands on his knees. Uncoloured horn-rimmed glasses perch on his bird-like nose, reflecting the burning light.
Veridius responds by sending his torch higher still, letting it swirl above the ruins. My shadows melt briefly away, but I’m concealed from the two men by stone, and I hold my nerve. After thirty seconds of fruitless observation, the Principalis scowls. “I’m going inside. Stay back in the trees and keep watch. If I’m not out in ten minutes, or someone comes in after me, go back and contact Xan. He’ll know what to do.” Before the still-winded man can protest, Veridius moves past him into the lantern-light, stretching out his hand. The floating torch glides toward him; the Principalis takes it from the air without breaking stride, then pushes open the steel door and vanishes inside.
The next few minutes stretch interminably. The man keeping watch—he’s vaguely familiar, but not a Praeceptor or staff as far as I know—does as he’s told, disappearing into the nearby shadows of the trees. I have no way of seeing where he’s looking, can’t tell if it’s safe to move. All I can do is wait, and breathe, and let my still-trembling hands come back under control. I don’t think about what I saw in there. Can’t dwell on it. Not yet.
Veridius reappears soon enough, his frown turned from forbidding to thoughtful. He waves vaguely toward the forest, a signal to his companion. “They’re all there, Marcus.”
“You’re sure?” The other man, Marcus, emerges from the trees, brushing bits of leaves from his tunic. He joins Veridius, nodding in apologetic acknowledgment to the Principalis’s reproachful look. “Alright. Rotting gods, that’s a relief. But then what set off the alarm?”
“Who. Who set off the alarm.” Veridius is talking absently, still thinking. “Someone was here, not ten minutes ago. Everything’s still lit up.” His gaze sharpens and sweeps the ruins. I jerk back, though there’s no way he can see me in the darkness.
“You think the island’s been breached again?” The tension in Marcus’s voice is obvious.
“Perhaps.” There’s a long pause. “Go back to the Academy, as fast as you can. Taedia will be on her way here; get her to turn around and check that none of the Thirds or Fourths are missing from the girls’ dormitory—if she asks why, tell her to talk to me after she’s done it. You go and check on the boys. Thirds and Fourths. And Sixths,” he adds, almost an afterthought. “I’m going to look around inside some more.”
“Be careful.”
I calculate furiously as the crunch of Marcus’s hurrying footsteps fades away. He was already tired from running here, has to relay a message to Praeceptor Taedia on top of that. I can still beat him back. Maybe.
Veridius, true to his word, is heading back into the ruins. I wait until the steel door has shut behind him.
Then I run.
I try to vary my progress along the path between bursts of sprinting and brisk walking, all too aware that I’m trailing Marcus. It’s unlikely that I’ll catch the man, but I have to countenance the possibility of him stopping to rest, or at least pausing while he talks to Praeceptor Taedia.
It’s five minutes before I reach the point I carefully noted when I first found the path, and another ten of me crashing heedlessly through brush and over uneven ground, risking a turned ankle in the heavily dappled moonlight, before I miraculously reach the Academy wall with only myriad scratches and shredded clothes to show for my recklessness. My chest heaves as I drink in the sight of it. Everything considered, I’ve made good time.
My makeshift rope, barely visible in shadow, dangles not a hundred feet from where I emerge; I rush over to it, focusing more on speed than stealth, all too aware that seconds could make the difference between safety and discovery. Even if he stopped somewhere along the way, Marcus is probably back at the Academy entrance by now. I just have to hope he decides to check the upper floors of the dormitory first.
I leap and snatch the stirrup at an angle, allowing my momentum to swing me up. It works, but when I reach for the edge of the wall I’m already higher than I realise, and tired, and I brush my urgently grasping hand against a spike instead. Pain flares, hot and sharp, along my palm. I bite back a curse and almost lose my grip, almost fall. Somehow, desperation overcoming pain, I haul myself up using fingertips alone.
I’m bleeding copiously as I unhook the stirrup from the spike, then lift the scaled armour, flinging them into nearby bushes below with an uncomfortably loud clatter. I’ll be able to duck out and collect them tomorrow night when I’m at the stables again. A dark smear on the top of the wall glints even in the dim light, but there’s no time to clean it.
I jump for the grass of the Academy, rolling to lessen the impact before scrambling to my feet and sprinting for the dormitory, wary for any signs of light or movement, half nursing my hand. Dark droplets shake loose as I run.
It takes me another three minutes at a lung-burning sprint to get back to the dormitory, only once having to deviate from a straight line when I spot some distant figure hurrying through the quadrum. There’s nobody in sight, but there are lights burning in the windows of the top floor. Too many.
I finally slow my mad dash, pausing in the shadows of the parkland outside the tall building, tearing a limp strip of tunic off to wrap my smarting hand. I’m a mess: dirty, sweaty, bleeding, arms scratched, and clothes torn. But I can fix the worst of that by quickly rinsing myself in the fountain at the entrance; the scratches I can cover, and I have spare clothes. My hand’s a problem—the cut’s deep, throbbing—but I’ll just have to hope Marcus is not doing more than a cursory inspection.
Lights begin to wink out on the top floor, and the upper door to the external staircase opens. I shrink back as a slim figure hurries down to the next level, disappearing inside. This is going to be close.
I scrub myself madly in the fountain, pulling off my tunic and using it to towel myself dry, anxiety a shield against the sharp chill of the night. Then I’m taking the stairs two at a time, quietly as I can. There are voices drifting from the floor housing the Fourths. Lamplight fills their windows.
I’m up the stairs to the first floor. Inside, padding down the hallway to my room. Nerves start to mix with disbelieving jubilation. I’m going to make it.
I slip into my room, pull the door shut behind me, and turn to find Eidhin twisting at his desk and staring at me.
Neither of us say anything, frozen. Eidhin’s shuttered lamp is bright enough to show me naked to the waist, carrying the very obviously bloodied tunic that I used to clean myself. His gaze goes from me, to the tunic, and then back to me again.
“Strange dream,” he says eventually in Cymrian. Softly enough that the other two boys don’t wake, but firmly. Meaningfully.
Then he turns to his desk and bows his head over the book he’s reading.
I stare at his back for a half-second longer, then scurry across to my bed, pulling a fresh tunic from my satchel and hiding the soiled and torn one in its place. I have clean clothing on and am beneath the blankets, eyes forced closed, within half a minute.
It’s not two minutes after that when our door creaks open again, and bright lamplight swings into the room. I can hear one of the sleeping boys mutter and turn restlessly at the intrusion.
“Ah. Eidhin.” I recognise Marcus’s voice. “I didn’t expect anyone to be awake.”
A chair scrapes. “Sextus Carcius?” Eidhin evidently recognises the man. “Why are you here?” It’s said in halting Common. Almost as many words as I’ve heard from the burly boy all at once.
“Have you seen or heard anything out of the ordinary tonight?” I can feel Marcus’s gaze sweeping over the beds. I focus on deep, steady breathing. The slash across my bound palm aches. “There’s been a small disturbance off-campus. Nothing to be concerned about, but I need to make sure no students were involved.”
“I woke only… hour ago. Nothing since.”
“You’re sure?” An awkward cough. “I don’t have to remind you of the consequences to your people of lying. Or the benefits of cooperating.”
“You do not. I am sure.” There’s more than an intimation of anger in the deliberate, cold response.
“As you say.” A long pause, Marcus evidently considering. “No need to wake the others, then. But do let me or the Principalis know if you hear anything.” The lamplight begins to retreat, then lingers in the doorway, casting half the room into deep shadow. “And get some rest, son. Even the Aedhu need more sleep than this.”
The door shuts. Footsteps pad away down the hall to the next room.
I don’t move, even after I’m confident Marcus has gone, half expecting Eidhin to demand an explanation. There’s no sound from the other boy, though. Just the occasional scratching of a page being turned.
After a minute, my pounding heart eases enough for me to breathe and take stock. The scratches on my arms are light enough that they should be barely visible by morning, and I can wear clothing over them. I’ll need to dispose of my torn and bloodied tunic, but I have plenty of time alone at the stables during dinner. I can burn it then without anyone being the wiser.
The wound on my left hand is another problem entirely. The cut is deep, is going to hamper me. And I’m fairly sure it’s still bleeding. I’m probably going to have to go to Ulnius and have it tended in the morning. He’s going to ask how it happened.
I don’t think I left much blood on the spike atop the Academy wall, but if anyone notices it, the timing of my injury is going to look more than suspicious. I can’t risk that. Not with what I saw out there tonight.
Whatever it actually was.
I repress a trembling shudder as my mind unwillingly returns to the crypt beneath the ruins. I didn’t imagine those bodies opening their eyes. Did I? Their faces were shadowed before that strange map appeared. I was flustered, panicked.
Any momentary doubt is quickly stilled by the memory of their message, though. That whispering. My fear didn’t conjure that. Another reference to Obiteum that I don’t understand, the same word as in Caeror’s hidden message to Ulciscor. And a clear warning.
I’m quite certain their eyes had been removed, too. Strange and unsettling, but also familiar. I can’t help but wonder whether Lanistia’s accident during her Iudicium is somehow tied to all this.
There’s so much to sort through. My mind races, battling with exhaustion.
I don’t get much sleep.
