On these nightly forays, Hadley and Peashot were the only ones who agreed, on occasion, to accompany him. The others were kept in their beds by the fear of Dun’s cane or of the academy ghosts that were well known to drift down the dark hallways and attack any wandering student. Of course, it was always the same students who saw them and who gained considerable popularity by speaking of these harrowing encounters.
One night, after Lorrimer had made a series of spooked objections, Aedan wanted to know what it was about bed sheets that would keep anyone safe, and if Lorrimer was so well protected by them, why not wrap himself up and come along. Then all the other ghosts might see this new giant apparition and float away screaming. Lorrimer told him to shut up and go to sleep, saying those who looked for trouble always found it. The second part sounded acceptable to Aedan and he slipped out, Peashot in tow.
“You scared?” whispered Peashot.
“Nope.”
“Oh. Uh, me neither.” Peashot kept close, twice stepping on Aedan’s heels as they padded down the dark corridor. He began whispering again. “All those ghost stories are such nonsense. Don’t know who would believe them. I completely don’t. Not even for a moment. Never even – Wait!” He grabbed Aedan’s arm. “What was that sound?”
“Don’t know. Can’t hear anything over your constant talking.”
“Oh. Sorry. Just letting off steam. I get really irritated with all those made up stories. None of them true. All made up … All of them …”
For all his reckless – even fearless – trouble-hunting, Peashot, like Lorrimer, was hopelessly given over to superstition.
Tonight was the night for Aedan’s most defiant adventure so far. There was a sign on the outer wall of the main buildings that forbade climbing. It was as good as an invitation. The fangs of terrifying gargoyles would provide excellent grips, and the shoulders and noble heads of imposing statues seemed to have been made for a climber’s boots.
“You know we’ll be in the rat cells if they catch us?” Peashot whispered.
“No different to the time we slipped into the seniors’ museum.”
“Yes it is. At least there we could hide. How are we going to hide on these walls?”
“You tucking tail?”
“You’re not the one with three charges and a final warning. One sniff of trouble and –”
“Shhh!”
They slipped off the open corridor, hurried over the lawn and crouched behind a large green soapstone carving of Olemris – a robed man missing most of his hair and part of his nose, hand outstretched, delivering a forceful lecture to the geraniums. The boys quieted their breathing. A lone student tottered along behind the colonnade, leaning forward as if the books under his arm had transferred their weight to his head.
“Probably fell asleep in one of the libraries,” said Aedan.
“At least he knows how to get the best use from them.”
They waited until the grounds were deserted, then Aedan led the way to a tall arch. He had spent days studying the possibilities. The dean’s alcove provided the most interesting challenge. It was a deeply featured arching frame that led up to the knobbly face of the second floor.
After wiping his hands on his trousers, Aedan placed his fingers in one of several long vertical grooves, leaned back against his arms and worked his feet up the opposing surface of the groove, so that arms pulled while legs pushed, creating a kind of reverse clamping effect. By shifting one hand and one foot at a time, he worked his way up the pillar of the alcove until he reached the first gargoyle. He was puffing hard when he clutched at a feature, which turned out to be a wart-encrusted nose, and pulled himself up to a small ledge where he could rest.
Peashot took a while longer to scale the pillar. When he reached for the gargoyle there was something of desperation in the way he snatched.
The climbing from then on was easier, but the height made up for that.
When they reached the fourth floor they pulled themselves over a railing and onto a little balcony where they sat puffing and grinning at the view – in the light of a half-moon the spectacle was enchanting.
“I’ve always wanted to know what’s in here,” Aedan said, turning around and pressing his forehead against a glass pane. “These balcony doors are bigger than the museum’s.”
“Did you bring a candle?”
“Candle, flint, steel, char cloth, all of it. But we’ll have to be careful to hood the flame. The guards would see it from the far end of the campus.”
“I’ll hood. You light.”
The plan was not the best they had ever made. The candle produced a lot more light than Peashot was able to hood, even before he got distracted by the interior of the room and burned his thumb. With a muffled exclamation of pain, he pulled his hands away revealing a bright flame – to a guard who had been puzzling over the dull glow.
“Thieves!” the voice rang out from far beneath.
“Don’t worry, it will take them ages to reach us,” said Aedan. “They will have to climb four storeys worth of stairs –”
“Shoot!” the guard yelled.
Even the dim candlelight was enough for the boys to see each other’s faces pale. The balcony door turned out to be less solid than it had appeared. They kicked it open and dived inside, arrows plugging into the doorframe and wooden ceiling boards. The candle dropped but was not extinguished. Aedan picked it up, looked around, and groaned. It was the biggest, most important-looking office he had ever found, which meant more trouble than he had yet managed to harvest. And were those exam papers?
He had seen enough. The inner door was wooden but felt like iron. It took several swings with a marble bust to break the lock. As stone and wood sprinkled the floor, Aedan understood that there would be no saving them if they were caught. A raucous chatter of heavy boots was growing, echoing up a nearby stairwell.
The boys heaved the door open and fled.
Fit and balanced from years of training, they darted at a giddy speed over the polished floors from one long corridor to the next, skidding around corners and vaulting down stairwells. They ran until their breathing was ragged. The darkness was only slightly relieved by moonlight spilling in through the windows. It made navigation tricky, but they were fairly certain that they were now on the opposite side of the academy, though exactly what this section was, they weren’t sure. Not even Aedan had been here.
“It might be best if we split up on the way back,” he said. “They will be looking for two.”
Peashot agreed.
It was in the subsequent maze of passages that Aedan’s sense of direction betrayed him. When he got out into the open, the moon had vanished behind cloud. He found what seemed to be the outside of his dorm. The wall looked right, the window looked right, and though he didn’t remember the entry being such a squeeze, he climbed through and dropped to the boards inside. There was a light burning, which was strange. Peashot was probably telling the story.
He rounded the bend and stopped with a sharp intake of breath.
The layout was completely different – no line of desks, no alcoves, no Peashot. There were only three sections to this room. The wall-lamps were brass, the furniture delicate and painted white, the books plentiful, and the occupants awake. Three young men and three young women lounged on the carpet with several bottles between them. Both the wine and the mixed company in dorms were expulsion offenses. The alarm in their faces said as much. But the alarm was giving way to something else.
Aedan backed towards the wall. He had to get away from here. Away from them. The young men were beginning to move, and a hardness in one of their faces was tolling an alarm that Aedan knew he dared not ignore. He took another step back and was just about to turn and scramble out the window when the hard-faced one stood. He was a tall student with heavy arms, heavy brows and eyes that were now dark with anger. Fists clenched and face seething, he strode forward.
In just that glimpse, Aedan saw the terror that had stained his younger days. T
hough he fought it, he could not keep the talons from sinking in. With sickening realisation, he felt every muscle go slack and his legs dropped him to the floor. It was the same thing he saw in his father, the same monster. It had owned him before and it owned him still. It towered, pressed against the roof and walls, and Aedan whimpered under its giant presence. Then the blows began to fall.
When the man was satisfied he stood back.
“Name?” he said.
Aedan was too shaken to think. He gave his name in a trembling whisper.
“Really? The apprentice marshal who supposedly took on a gang of thieves?” He laughed, a hard cracking sound full of blades and stones. Ridicule and contempt. “Your spine is as hollow as chicken bones. Listen to him crying!” The other men and two of the women laughed as well. One woman looked distraught, but made no move to interfere.
“You’re also the one who’s been trespassing on our boulevard, aren’t you? Yes, I recognise you now. I’ve been wanting to collar your insolent little neck for a long time, and here you are. Finally snooped right under the watchman’s heel. What are you doing here?”
Aedan managed to stutter out something about getting lost and using the wrong window.
The young man stared down at him for a long time. He bent, grabbed the hair behind Aedan’s head and turned his head up. “My name is Iver,” he said. “And you are going to pay for your intrusion here. Don’t try speaking of the girls or the wine. We’ll have a version of the story that will keep us in the clear and muddy your name for good. I’ve managed the expulsion of three who disagreed with me. I could easily make it four – or wait – you marshals don’t get expelled do you? I seem to remember something about prison. Yes … that will work too. Now get out of my quarters, you little writhing worm, and report to me tomorrow.”
Peashot was waiting at the dorm, still grinning. Aedan mumbled something about being too exhausted for chatter, and crawled into bed, wishing he could explain, hoping Peashot would understand while knowing he wouldn’t.
His thoughts were black. As much as he wanted to avoid admitting it, what Iver had said was true. His spine had a secret hollowness to it. His father had done something to him, broken something in him that could be easily overlooked. He himself had been able to overlook it for years now. But overlooking it had not made it go away.
It was like a missing support in a bridge. He could take weight as easily as anyone, until that damaged section was tested, and then he buckled, none more surprised and dismayed than himself. As the helplessness swelled in him, so did the hate for his father. He was the cause of this.
For the next few days, Aedan wholeheartedly disobeyed Iver’s last instruction and kept clear of any area where the barbaric senior might discover him. He had no intention to fawn and cower. He had no intention of reporting to someone like that. He spent his breaks in a secluded garden, telling the others that he needed a bit of time to think. It lasted for a week. Then, one day, he looked up at the sound of footsteps to see the dreaded face.
Aedan got to his feet and raised his fists, but as Iver marched forward, his presence caused all Aedan’s poisoned memories of his father to swell into a choking cloud. His knees grew weak and dropped him.
“So you thought you could avoid me?” Iver said, walking up and kicking Aedan over. “One of your friends was good enough to point me in the right direction. And he’s agreed to do so for the rest of your stay at the academy.”
Aedan crawled away, shaking. Behind Iver, he caught a vague distorted glimpse of Malik and Cayde who watched with interest. Malik had finally discovered the perfect weapon. Ilona had been right – her cousin had a frightening capacity for resentment.
“You are going to listen very carefully now,” Iver said. “I expect to see you, any time I choose, in the company of your friends. If you make me search, it will be worse for you.”
He dropped to his haunches and peered into Aedan’s face for a long time before speaking.
“I have written up a detailed account of your cowering performance the other night, attested by all three of us. The women, if you remember, were never there. I have made copies. What would be left of your life if the story reached every one of your future comrades? Or your future enemies? Imagine the interest in a marshal who is a hollow-boned coward? If they don’t believe the story, I could always prove it, couldn’t I? Maybe they could too. No need to even hit you, just threaten. No danger to me, complete ruin for you. Just imagine everyone watching as you crumple the way you just did.”
He raised his fist and Aedan cringed, seeing not the man, but the dark, infinite terror, the sickening nightmares from his childhood.
“Good. I think we can both see that this will work. You won’t get any more warnings. Next time you test me, the story is out. But tell me – how did you manage to make it so far without being discovered?”
Aedan couldn’t answer.
“As a student of law, I’m always impressed by someone who can hold a lie together for any great length of time. You must be something of an expert to have convinced them all for so long. Don’t misunderstand me – I still think you’re pathetic – but I can appreciate the skill. So how did you do it?”
He looked at Aedan with an appearance of genuine interest that almost masked the sneering sarcasm. Gradually his face relaxed into its natural shape – haughty eyes, cruel mouth. The false interest vanished. “Yes, I thought so,” he said. “Waste of time seeking the thoughts of a worm.”
He lowered his voice. “Now I have a collection for you to make. An hour after dark, you will throw a rope over the wall at the south-west corner. My contact will attach a parcel. You will bring it to me. Understood?”
Aedan understood all too well. The worst of it was that Iver understood him. Clauman had shaped this handle on his son, and Iver discovered it fitted him well. From that hour, Aedan lived in constant fear of being exposed. Exposed for his weakness, and exposed for the smuggling he was being forced into. The days grew bitter indeed.
He became a kind of slave to the senior.
Iver, he discovered, was a thirsty man who did not want to run the risk of sneaking his own wine into the buildings. It became Aedan’s job. When Iver called, he ran to obey, writhing with embarrassment when his friends saw his obvious servility. Like others of his kind, Iver loved to be observed with his subject before him and so made sure that he confronted Aedan where many could see. Often, Aedan resolved that the next time he would stand up to the senior, but even with his friends around him, something about Iver always triggered the horror from his past and reduced him to a shivering child. Malik made no attempt to hide his delight.
Once, Aedan saw Iver beating a much younger boy. He could have reported it. Instead he ducked out of sight and ran away, trembling, hating himself with every step.
They crossed paths a few days later, both making deliveries.
“Are you the coward?” the boy asked.
The combined fear and rage that took hold of Aedan led him to a place he despised with his whole being, but he did not hold his fists back. He didn’t know why. It was easier to hit, like letting go, drifting with a fierce current. In that one decision to give in to his deep hungry urge, the current dragged him a long way down. He told himself that the next time he would stand against it more easily, but he knew it would not work that way. The shame that poured over him afterwards only added to a flood of self-loathing in which he was already half-drowned.
What did it matter? What did he care anymore?
Iver quickly established his dominance and made it his business to find Aedan regularly so he could bark at him for things not done and parcels that had been jostled – though Aedan knew he could not have been more careful. With increasing hostility, he was accused of all manner of outrageous and obviously invented crimes. More than once, he was taken around a corner to be thrashed. Iver gorged himself on the fear he detected, and worked hard to cultivate it. For all his attempts to pass himself off as someone of class – a law
student of the academy – he was no more than a brawler, a thug with enough sense to cover his tracks, who raised himself on the battered frames of those who fell under him.
But the violent blackmailing worried Aedan less than his own weakness. The demon that had shadowed his first home had found him again. He had thought his weakness conquered at the festival during the gang fight, but he understood now that he would have crumpled had his father been there. And Iver was his father in a different form.
Though his friends grew deeply concerned, Aedan would not speak of it. They urged him to just confront his tormenter, offering to back him up. But they did not understand. How could he explain this? Even when he visited his mother, he avoided answering questions about his darkening mood. Explaining would mean revealing what he would not have anyone know. So he withdrew into a dark inner silence that was rank with bitter thoughts.
In his dreams he took his revenge. Not against Iver, but against the one who had started it all.
Clauman would approach him, eager, repentant. “Aedan, my son,” he would say, “I’ve been looking all over for you. I need to talk with you, to say sorry and –”
Aedan would turn his back and walk away, ignoring his father’s hurt voice, swallowing the acrid draught of hate. It rushed through his veins, a surging fever of power. Yet it never strengthened him. When he woke in the morning, all that lingered was the sour memory of what he had done in his dream world, and he was as weak as before.
But instead of curbing his need to wander and discover, this new imprisonment drove him to recklessness and to something he would never otherwise have considered, or dared. It was time to find out why that forbidden corridor would send a student to jail.
Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) Page 48
