Ebon fought to reply, but pure terror had seized him. It was all he could do not to flee, and suddenly he had a desperate need for the privy. Everyone in the room stood frozen.
But it was Dasko who stepped forwards at last, still shaky on his feet but with a stern look in his eyes. He put a gentle hand on Xain’s shoulder.
“Dean Forredar,” he said quietly. “No one can begrudge you your wrath, nor your grief, which must be boundless in equal measure. These children are as confused as we are, certainly, and far more frightened—for to their mind, they have seen a walking corpse. Ebon was flippant in a moment of foolishness. That does not mean he is evil.”
The instructor’s words were gentle, his tone soothing. But Xain did not subside—rather, Ebon saw his eyes go wide. He took a step back as though he was regrouping, collecting himself.
“A walking corpse,” he whispered. He turned stark eyes on Isra’s body. “A walking corpse.”
Ebon knew not what the words meant, what dark thing Xain thought he had discovered, but it only increased his fear. Jia stepped forwards into the sudden, awkward silence. “They should return to class, Dean Forredar, unless we have anything more for them.”
Xain did not answer. He only turned back towards the body upon the bed.
“Out with you,” said Jia quickly, brushing them away. They made for the door. She followed them out and around the corner, where she stopped them. Ebon was reminded of the last time she had pulled them aside to speak privately, when they had been caught sneaking into the Academy’s vaults.
“I tire of repeating myself,” she said ruefully. “But I must ask you to forgive the dean. None of us can imagine the pain of losing a son.”
“Of course, Instructor,” said Kalem politely. Theren only stared off into nothing, while Ebon was still thinking of Xain’s look of dark recognition.
“I know he is angry with you, and anger may not always prompt honesty,” Jia went on. “So I will ask you once more—is there anything else you know or have seen that could help? I am afraid there is little hope Erin is still alive, for we have heard nothing from his captors since he was taken. Yet we must cleave to what little hope remains.”
That drew Ebon’s attention. Jia must not know of the ransom note Xain had received. That meant Xain had not told the rest of the faculty. But he only shook his head and muttered, “Nothing, Instructor. I am sorry.” Kalem and Theren gave soft words of agreement.
She sighed. “Very well. Then I have only one more thing to ask. Ebon, please go and see Astrea immediately. I have sent word to Perrin already. She will excuse the two of you. You seem closer to her than most, and so she should hear of this from you.”
Ebon balked, looking back towards the healing ward for a moment. “I … I have no wish to tell her of Isra’s death, Instructor.”
Jia’s eyes grew mournful. “Nor have I, Ebon. Nor has anyone. But would you rather she hear it from your lips, or as a rumor whispering through the Academy halls?”
He hung his head. “From me, I suppose. But I do not wish for such a duty.”
She put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Ebon. Your compassion has never been lacking—and that is why I keep my faith in you.”
They left her then, and made their silent way through the halls. Ebon wondered if his friends, too, felt the presence of the corpse behind them long after the healing ward was out of sight.
EBON’S STEPS GREW HEAVIER THE closer he drew to Perrin’s classroom, and when at last he reached her door he stopped short. Lifting his hand to turn the latch seemed an impossible task. He very much doubted Astrea even wanted to speak with him just now, as withdrawn as she had become, and he had no wish to speak to her, either, with the news he bore.
Then he thought of her sitting in the dining hall and hearing some whispered word at her elbow. In his mind he saw her turn at the mention of Isra’s name and ask a sharp question. He saw the harsh, emotionless mask of her face break down a piece at a time.
Shaking his head, he opened the door.
A few of the students looked up at his return, but Astrea was not one of them. Ebon walked past her and went to Perrin. The instructor looked down at him with sorrow in her eyes.
“Instructor,” Ebon murmured. “Jia has asked me to speak with Astrea alone, if I may.”
“I think that is best,” said Perrin. From the pain in her expression, she must have heard about Isra, and knew how hard Astrea would take the news.
Together they approached her, and when they reached the front table Perrin put a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. So great was her size that her hand nearly stretched the width of Astrea’s back.
“Astrea,” she said quietly. “You are excused for a moment. Please follow Ebon outside upon the grounds. The two of you must speak.”
She looked up at Ebon for a moment, her fingers still fidgeting with a flower she held in her hands. Her eyes were emotionless.
“I do not want to.”
Ebon shared a look of confusion with Perrin. “Come, Astrea,” he said. “It will not take long, but we must speak. I have something I must tell you.”
“I do not want to hear it.”
“Please, Astrea,” said Perrin. “It is good for us to speak of the things that trouble us, for otherwise they can fester in us like a sickness.”
“I know that well enough by now,” said Astrea, and grief sounded in her voice for the first time. With a sigh of resignation she pushed herself down the bench and stood, going to Ebon’s side with a swish of her robes.
“Take whatever time you need,” said Perrin. “And Astrea—if you do not wish to return to class afterwards, you need not.”
Astrea shrugged and followed Ebon from the room. He felt suddenly uncertain, even more than he had before. He would have expected fear or grief from Astrea before she heard the actual news, for all tidings had been dark of late. He did not know how to react to this sullen indifference.
“Let us step out upon the grounds,” said Ebon. “It is too stuffy in these halls.”
She shrugged and followed him out through a white cedar door. Outside, students were practicing their spells in the open air, and he quickly guided her away from them, towards the hedges and the gardens that were free of any onlookers. Above, the sun shone bright in a clear sky, too clear and blue for Ebon’s liking. He was exhausted after a night of shadows and death, and now he was the unwilling bearer of grim news.
“Would that I were like Dorren of old, and the skies changed to suit my mood,” he said aloud. “Then the day would not be so cheery, as if it meant to mock me.”
To his surprise, Astrea nodded. “I have sometimes wished the same thing. But then we would be firemages, and I am glad to be an alchemist.”
“Perrin would tell you to say ‘transmuter.’ But I am not she.”
“You said it anyway,” said Astrea. Though the words came out sounding harsh, she glanced up at him from under her wild, frizzy hair and gave a little smirk. It gladdened his heart—but it also pained him, for he knew the words he must say would tear that smirk from her lips and mayhap keep it away for good.
Get it over with, he chided himself.
“Come. Let us sit,” he said, waving a hand towards a stone bench. She sat with him, staring at her hands in her lap, though her fingers did not fidget.
“Have you come to tell me that Isra is dead?” she asked suddenly, even as he was taking a deep breath to speak.
Ebon deflated at once, and his mouth worked as he fought for words. She glanced up at him and must have seen the answer in his eyes. “I … who told you?” Ebon stammered at last. “They should have let the word come to you from the right lips.”
“Who cares where the words came from?” she muttered, looking back down at her hands. “But no, no one told me. I guessed it. Why else would Perrin let you take me from class? It is not as though anyone else could have died. I have no other friends left.”
He knew she must break down at that—yet she did not. She onl
y stared into the distance.
“Are you … all right?” he said, uncertain of what else to say.
She only shrugged.
“Astrea—”
“What should I say, Ebon?” she snapped. “I have told you I hate it when you ask if I am all right. Do you think I can be all right? Isra is my sister.”
“Of course I did not mean that,” he said quickly. “I only mean … I thought you might weep. No one could blame you if you did.”
She turned away again. “How will tears help? Mayhap I spilled them all for Credell and Vali. I cannot cry any more.”
Ebon leaned over, trying to catch her gaze, but still she would not look at him. He saw the great bags under her eyes, dark and hollow, so like Isra’s had been. And he saw how thin and spindly her fingers had become and how gaunt and sallow her cheeks, and he wondered if she was eating enough. Mayhap grief and anger had taken such a toll on her body that no amount of food or rest could repair it.
And then he remembered seeing eyes like hers before, and hands and cheeks as well—but he had seen them in a mirror, and they were his own, and that had been when Momen died. And suddenly he thought he understood her better. He reached out and put a hand on hers, and she did not pull away.
“I had a brother. Did I ever tell you that?” he said. “I do not like to speak of him. He died when I was very young—just your age, in fact. When I heard what had happened I went into my room, where I remained for days while everyone waited for me to stop weeping.”
She turned to him, eyes flashing. “I have told you already that I do not need to—”
Quickly he raised his hands in token of surrender. “I do not mean that you should weep. For in truth, I did not. Tears would not come. But that does not mean I did not grieve. I missed him more than I could imagine. It still hurts to speak of him, though I am no closer to crying now.”
That gave her pause. Her fingers fidgeted. “You did not feel bad? Because you could not grieve?”
“I felt terrible,” he murmured. “Sometimes I still do. But in time I learned that I could not blame myself. We all face loss in our own way. If I could have spent less time in guilt, I would have. I suppose that in the end it was hard for me to believe he was gone. I never even saw his corpse, for he was burned in the distant land where he was killed, and there, too, were his ashes scattered.”
Astrea looked down at her shoes. “That is an ill thing.”
“We do not always get to say good-bye,” said Ebon. “And in truth, I know it does not matter. If I had seen his body or been there when they burned it, he would not have heard my farewell. Sky above, even if I had been there when he passed and we had whispered our parting to each other, nothing would have changed. He would still be gone, and I would still be here. Yet mayhap the pain would not be so great. I like to believe it would not.”
Then he looked at her carefully. “What of you, Astrea? Do you wish to say your farewell? I could ask for it, and I doubt any instructor would refuse you. Not even the dean.”
For the first time he saw tears in her eyes, though she was quick to blink them away. She shook her head quickly. “No. You said you wish you could have spent less time in mourning. I want the same thing, and I do not think that seeing Isra would help me. It would only make things worse. You had no choice in the matter—but I do.”
He nodded. “Very well. Your words are wise beyond your years—but then, that is no great surprise to those of us who must suffer in class beside you, always overshadowed by your wit.”
She glanced at him, and he gave her a sad smile. She did not return it, but her eyes softened, and she shook her head disdainfully.
“Do not be an idiot, Ebon.”
“As well tell the sun not to shine—and we know already that that is futile. Will you walk with me?”
“If you want me to,” she said. But he could hear the gratitude that lay beneath her words, and she leaped up to follow him with surprising eagerness. And the day’s beauty no longer seemed so offensive as they strolled along.
THE MIDDAY MEAL PASSED SILENTLY for Ebon and his friends, for they did not find themselves much in the mood for talking. Together they made their way through the halls towards the library and wordlessly climbed the stairs to their nook on the third level.
As they reached their armchairs, Ebon saw a note resting upon one of them—the one upon which he usually sat. It was only a brief scrawl: Come to Leven’s tavern tonight.
Ebon looked it over and then met the eyes of his friends. “It must be from Mako.”
“Truly? Do you think so?” said Theren in mock surprise, her eyes wide.
Soft footsteps made them fall silent, and they turned to look behind them. Ebon froze where he stood. It was Lilith, hands tucked into her sleeves, eyes shifting uneasily as she tried to avoid their gazes.
“Good day,” she said quietly.
For a moment no one answered her, nor even moved. Then Ebon and Theren had the same thought at the same time, and both leaped towards his armchair to turn it about. But they ran into each other instead, and both stepped back awkwardly.
“I will—no, I will fetch another,” said Theren quickly.
“Of course. Here,” said Ebon, waving Lilith down into the chair.
She took her seat, still not meeting his eyes, while Theren fetched another armchair and placed it beside Lilith’s. But she sat in it instead of offering it to Ebon, and so he was forced to take her armchair instead. Kalem had stood in silence, gawking at the proceedings with wide eyes, and it was only after all the other three had seated themselves that he started, as if waking from a dream, and took his own chair.
For a long moment, silence reigned as they all looked at Lilith in the lamplight, and she tried to avoid looking back at them.
“Where is Nella?” said Ebon, desperate to break the stiffness that had settled over them like a sheet of ice.
“We have opposite study schedules,” said Lilith.
“Ah.”
Again, a long quiet stretched. Ebon’s fingers drummed on the arms of his chair.
At last Lilith cleared her throat. “Well,” she said quietly. “I suppose there is no use trying to pretend that this is not very strange for all of us.”
Theren let out a hysterical bark of laughter, too loud and too high, and then fell silent. Ebon quashed a snicker. Kalem only frowned. “Did you … and understand that I do not mean you are not welcome. But did you come to us for any particular purpose?”
Lilith nodded. “I had heard what happened to Isra,” she said. “Is it true that the three of you saw her corpse?”
Ebon met eyes with his friends, hoping they all knew better than to say anything of the events that had transpired the night before. “We did,” he said.
“Is it true she is long dead?” said Lilith. “That is what the rumors are saying.”
“That is true,” said Ebon. “Though we are not sure how.”
“Because you saw her living, and little more than a week ago,” said Lilith, nodding. “How can that be?”
“We have an idea,” said Theren, sitting up.
“Theren,” said Ebon.
She glared. “Lilith has not betrayed our trust thus far, Ebon. And mayhap she will have an idea for how Isra did it that we have not yet thought of.” Lilith leaned forwards to listen, and Theren went on. “I have never heard of magic that could do something of this sort. My first thought was therianthropy, but if the corpse were a weremage it would not look like Isra—”
“—and if it had been a weremage in the kitchens, they would not have had mindmagic to battle you,” said Lilith.
Theren slumped in her chair. “That is just what we said.”
Lilith frowned, looking into her lap. For a moment Ebon hoped beyond hope that she would, in fact, know how such a feat might be accomplished. But when she lifted her gaze, she only shook her head. “I have no idea how it might have been done. I am sorry.”
“It is hardly your fault,” said Theren with a
small smile. Lilith returned it. Kalem grimaced.
A thought struck Ebon, and he worked it around until he had thought of a question that seemed to pose no danger. “Lilith … have you heard aught of Gregor since last we sought him out?”
Lilith’s mood darkened, and she shook her head. “I have not—not exactly, anyway. But something happened upon the Seat just last night. A fear has spread throughout my family again, just as it did when the Seat was attacked and the High King suspected us of being complicit. Now our terror is not so great, but it has certainly returned. I will try to reach out to Farah again and see if she knows what happened.”
“And we will ask Mako,” said Theren, giving Ebon a meaningful look. He thought he understood—they must keep up appearances that they knew no more than Lilith did.
“Will you see him soon?” said Lilith. “Mayhap I should come. We could pool our knowledge.”
“No,” said Theren at once.
Lilith frowned. “I do not mean to—”
Theren shook her head. “You are not the one who worries me. Mako would not be pleased to see you. You have been through enough already, and I would not bring you within arm’s reach of that man, not for all the gold upon the High King’s Seat.”
That made Lilith subside, and she gave Theren a wry smile. “Are you certain? I wonder if you know how much gold that would be. It is a large amount. I myself would not hesitate to have a meal with Mako if I could get my hands upon it.”
Theren smirked. “You goldbags. Your coffers overflow, and yet always you seek more.”
Lilith giggled, and it was a sound so foreign that Ebon froze in amazement. She stood and brushed at her robes.
The Academy Journals Volume One_A Book of Underrealm Page 70
