klevanski
patreon
Matabar. Chapter 38 - End of the long day
🕑 Added 2025-01-18 18:38:00 +0000 UTCStill carrying his knapsack that lightly tapped against his back as he walked and the satchel that would awkwardly get caught on his staff, Ardan opened the door leading to the stairs and… Well, there was nothing particularly remarkable there. Just ordinary steps that alternated with wide landings and iron railings meant to protect those climbing from a sudden fall.
Ardi leaned over the railing and took in the scale. The stairs descended only twelve landings, and the floor of the first level could be seen without difficulty. But looking up… was different. The staircases wound and twisted, disappearing somewhere above, shrouded in the steady glow of Ley-lamps.
This staircase, unlike the one at the Anorsky mansion where his feet had walked across marble and polished wood, was made of cold, gray concrete.
Ardi, counting the floors as he went, quickly climbed to his destination. The door at the top of the landing was nothing special, just a wooden panel with a few metal brackets and a simple handle. Ardan pulled it open and, for a moment, felt like he had stepped into another world.
Even compared to the impressive library at the Anorsky estate, the one belonging to the Grand seemed utterly unbelievable. He wasn’t standing among mere shelves and bookcases — it was an entire city. A narrow street beckoned him, wedged between two sections pressed tightly together, with delicate book spines lining them. It seemed to almost be drowning in the hushed whispers of the printed pages. Then, the path split at an intersection, expanding into a wide boulevard where heavy tomes gazed ponderously at passersby, surely containing equally weighty thoughts. Farther on, it vanished into a dark alley where curious eyes might discover sly, slightly mischievous newspaper clippings, monographs, and even a few dusty manuscripts.
Above, if one tilted their head (and carefully held onto their hat), rose the levels of the city. They were connected by broad bridges, arching not over streets and avenues, but over flowing canals and rivers. Signs along the way thoughtfully guided travelers in their search for knowledge, sometimes pointing out resting spots with a small table or a comfortable bench.
The city of books soared higher and higher until it disappeared into a ceiling shrouded either by mist or by the veil of its local ruler — book dust.
Behind him, the door closed with a long, drawn-out creak.
The sound, far from polite, shattered the illusion, and Ardan found himself standing in a vast library where countless sections rose several stories high, forming tiers connected by walkways.
From where he stood, it was hard to gauge how deep the rows of shelves extended, but judging by the echo that wandered through the space, it was far enough to get lost in.
His first instinct was to look at the sign beside the door. It had been printed on white paper, and was behind a glass pane set into an iron frame:
“Fire Exit. Left — Information Desk, Right — Sections 38-43, Directly ahead — Section 37, even-numbered divisions.”
Ardan hurried in the indicated direction. As he crossed aisle after aisle, passing intersections, he occasionally glanced at the spines of books and hefty tomes. However, their titles either proved too complicated for him to grasp, like, for example, “Principles of Ley Energy Concentration in the Morcain Node and the Resulting Seal Effect of Two Red Rays and One Green Ray” or were related to something highly specific, like, “Organization of Steel Production in a Region with a Literacy Rate Below One Tenth.”
At some point, Ardi managed to stop himself from gawking at the shelves and focused on finding the information desk.
“Watch out!”
Ardan skidded to a halt, nearly crashing into the person in front of him. Somehow, he managed to stay on his feet and avoid falling to the ground. Looking around, he saw no one, but recalling his encounter with Poplar, he glanced down.
On the floor, amid a scattered pile of books, sat a woman. Her skirt flared out around her and her knitted sweater — a soft, dusty pink with a pattern of wildflowers — looked slightly worn. She appeared to be about forty, maybe a little older.
Her hair, chestnut and voluminous, sat atop her head like an inverted strawberry. She was hurriedly gathering the fallen books, awkwardly tugging at a black cloak that hampered her movements.
Ardan’s breath caught. Black was the color of the Sixth Star, indicating nearly the highest echelon of magical science among humans. And on her shoulders, there were indeed quite a few impressive stars with an amazing number of rays: six, eight, another eight... An eight again, a five, and finally, one with two points.
But no staff was visible. Only books. Countless books.
“M-my apologies,” Ardi stammered, bending down to help her gather the manuscripts.
Together, they made quick work of the task. In just a few moments, Ardan found himself holding a stack of ten hefty tomes, while his satchel had somehow ended up in the plump hands of the female mage. He wasn’t sure how that had happened.
The woman, it turned out, was quite short — she wasn’t even a full one meter and sixty centimeters. And yet her cheeks, despite her age, shone with a youthful flush. Although, that perhaps had more to do with her plump figure. No, she wasn’t fat or stout, more… solid. Or possibly soft. Cozy, even. Or maybe it was just the sweater?
It was simple, but clearly made with care, despite a few imperfections. She had likely knitted it herself. As Ardi studied her, she seemed to be studying him in return.
After a few moments, she lifted her upper lip slightly, as if preparing to growl, and said in broken beast speech:
“You. Me. Hunter. We path. No prey here.”
Ardan nearly dropped the books again out of surprise. This language… He’d only ever heard it a few times from his grandfather, and occasionally from his father, in fragments. And from his forest friends of course, including Atta’nha.
The language of the Matabar.
The woman, seeing Ardi’s reaction, lowered her lip and furrowed her brow slightly.
“Did that sound off?” She asked in Galessian.
Ardan pondered for a moment.
“A little rough,” he admitted after a few seconds. “But overall, the meaning was clear. However, you probably shouldn’t have called yourself a hunter unless you’ve undergone the rite, and-”
“Oh, right!” The woman cut him off and began muttering indistinctly. “O’Shelly’s ‘Notes on Naturalism.’ Written in the year 247 after the fall of Ectassus, printed in 473. Published by the Imperial Scientific Society. Chapter Four, ‘The People of the Alcade: Culture and Customs…’” After this, she briefly closed her eyes before turning back to Ardi, who was now unsure of whether he should stay or flee. “So, how should that phrase sound when spoken correctly?”
It wasn’t that Ardan was eager to play the role of a guinea pig, but her black cloak and the impressive stars on her shoulders suggested that it might be wise to spare a few minutes of his time.
“You and I,” Ardi began, struggling to recall the language he rarely spoke these days. “We walk the hunter’s path. I am the hunter. You are the guest. There are no prey among us.”
“Exactly!” The woman beamed, her smile as warm and bright as spring sunlight. “Guest! I completely forgot that word. Not surprising, though. The Matabar language has no written form, and the recordings we have aren’t proper translations. By the way, Ard, you could write a brief guide on your language. It would have no practical application, but it would enrich the library’s knowledge-”
“How do you know who I am?” Ardan couldn’t hold back and interrupted the woman.
She paused mid-sentence, then grinned again, her warm, radiant smile returning.
“A two-meter-tall young man with a staff made of thousand-year-old oak, an upper lip that hides fangs, bright amber eyes, and…” She reached out and patted him on the forearm, “I saw your picture in the newspaper, young man. I’m not sure what gave it away — likely the oaken staff. After all, there aren’t many of those who witnessed the Old World left in the Empire.”
Ardan could only blink in confusion. The woman not only looked peculiar, but she also spoke in the most bewildering manner.
A thousand-year-old oak? Sure, the old tree beneath which his grandfather… No, his great-grandfather had used to tell him stories certainly had the scent of ages about it, but surely not to that extent... Right?
“Come along, young man,” the woman said as she turned toward one of the gaps between the sections. “These little ones need to be returned home.”
What she meant by “little ones” wasn’t hard to guess, though none of the books in Ardan’s hands could boast a waist thinner than four hundred pages.
“Excuse me,” Ardan called after the woman. “But I need to find the information desk…”
She didn’t slow down at all, continuing to move deeper into the library in her stately manner, all the while dragging Ardan’s satchel with her.
With no other option, Ardan sighed in frustration and followed after her.
For the next half hour, they wandered through the sections and bookshelves, climbing ladders and spiraling staircases, reaching new tiers, and weaving through walkways and intricate branches of corridors. Occasionally, they paused on benches, sitting quietly, and doing their best to avoid disturbing the silence that enveloped the place.
Since Ardan had found himself here anyway, he began to eagerly devour the wealth of knowledge around him. It seemed like there were so many books, tomes, newspapers, plaques, strange knotted ropes, mysterious statuettes, and even paintings that one lifetime wouldn’t be enough to read through them all.
Perhaps this is what paradise looks like, Ardan thought, remembering the stories his mother had told him about the afterlife while reading excerpts from the sacred texts of the Face of Light.
But all things must come to an end, and soon enough, when they descended back to what could be considered the “first” floor of the library, Ardan found that he was no longer holding even a single book, and the strange sorceress handed him back his satchel.
“Thank you for keeping me company, Mr. Egobar,” she said.
“Of course,” Ardan replied, taking his belongings back.
He glanced around, but there were no signs or directions to be found. They stood in the middle of towering shelves that stretched toward a ceiling lost in the misty haze, and Ardan had no idea how to get out of there.
“Could you point me toward the information desk?” He asked politely.
The odd mage, whose name Ardan still didn’t know, raised her eyebrows slightly.
“It’s right across from the elevators. You couldn’t have missed it, unless…” She looked at him again, smiling just a little, and reminding him, for some reason, of Atta’nha. “You took the stairs, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“The elevators made you uncomfortable, didn’t they?” She asked with a note of certainty in her voice.
“How did you…?”
“Sometime in your life, probably as a child, you were trapped in a small, enclosed space,” she muttered to herself, her thoughts wandering. “And that experience involved pain, fear, and something quite unusual that left its mark on you. At least, that’s what Dr. Anka Dorov’s monograph on claustrophobia suggests.”
“But I’m not afraid of confined spaces,” Ardan protested.
“You’re not afraid of all confined spaces...” She emphasized, her tone light but pointed. “I’ve long requested they lock that door. It’s hardly proper that students can sneak into the library without registering. But those bureaucrats are always full of excuses… Fire safety, public regulations, and a dozen more reasons to avoid doing anything.”
Despite her odd behavior, Ardan found himself somewhat charmed by the woman. Yes, she was strange and wore a cloak that testified to her immense magical power, but she also exuded something simple and warm. Being near her felt comforting, like sitting in Tenebry’s classroom with a difficult puzzle in front of him.
“Oh, I forgot to introduce myself,” she suddenly realized, smoothing her sweater down and extending a hand. “Velena Emergold, Chief Librarian of the university and, incidentally, the holder of several academic degrees, though we needn’t delve into details.”
Ardan carefully shook her hand, startled for a moment.
“Emergold… As in…”
“Thea Emergold is my grandniece,” Velena confirmed his guess with a slight smile. “It’s a pity her research on Ley Lines is overshadowed by that little scandal of hers, which was driven by a fit of jealousy.”
Ardan barely restrained himself from asking about the nature of the scandal that had led to a mage strike in the capital.
“You seem a bit surprised,” Velena noted, narrowing her eyes slightly. “But not by the fact that I’m related to Thea. What’s on your mind, Ard?”
Ardan didn’t hide his thoughts and silently pointed to her cloak.
“Ah, that,” Velena sighed, awkwardly hiding the cloak behind her back. “When I was younger, Ard, I thought that in order to study magic, one needed to be able to wield it in every form, which led to… well,” she gestured to the stars on her shoulders, “but as we grow older…”
“But you’re not even fifty yet!” Ardan blurted out without thinking.
Velena laughed in response.
“I never expected to hear that from you,” she said with playful exaggeration. “After all, wasn’t it your great-grandfather who, together with a very talented wizard, wrote an entire treatise on the Seal of Long Years? Surely he must have told you about it?”
Ardan felt a wave of dizziness. The air in the library seemed to thin, making it harder to breathe.
His great-grandfather had known Star Magic? But why… Why had he never mentioned it? Ardan had already come to terms with the fact that his great-grandfather hadn’t talked to him about the art of the Aean’Hane, but Star Magic?
Velena gently squeezed his forearm, her voice soft.
“If Aror Egobar chose not to share something with you, Ard, there must have been serious reasons for it.”
A new thought caused Ardan to regain his composure.
“You… you knew him.”
“Several unfortunate mages, some nearing two centuries of age, knew your great-grandfather,” Velena nodded, and in her brown eyes, a flicker of sorrow appeared. “When I was very young, he was finishing his last years of service in the Second Chancery.”
Ardan choked on the air itself in shock.
“What?”
Velena sighed and gestured toward a nearby bench.
“Shall we sit?” She offered.
After a moment of hesitation, Ardan sat down beside her, still holding his staff and satchel.
“Back then, two hundred years ago, after the Dark Lord’s army was defeated,” Velena spoke softly, twirling a loose thread from her sweater between her fingers, which made her look even younger, “your great-grandfather struck a deal with the crown. For fifteen years, he served the Second Chancery, teaching those the crown appointed about Star Magic. They were most likely hoping to extract information about the Aean’Hane from him, but they never succeeded.”
“But why would he…?”
“No one knows,” Velena shrugged. “Or rather, no one in the small group of people aware of Aror’s captivity in the Second Chancery knows why the right hand of the Dark Lord was offered such a deal or what price was paid for it. Everyone assumed Aror would eventually be executed. Some believe he simply wanted to delay his end, but… Your great-grandfather wasn’t just a powerful Aean’Hane, Ard. Though he possessed only three Stars, they were complete Stars.”
Complete Star… That term referred to Star that had all nine rays.
“And after all those years, he could have easily found a way to escape, even from the dungeons of the Second Chancery,” Velena continued. “Yes, Ard. We, the children chosen by the crown at the age of thirteen, spent entire days and nights by the closed door of his cell. We never saw your great-grandfather, only heard him. For fifteen long years, we studied under him, until, at last, Aror did find a way to escape. How or where, no one knows. He vanished as if he’d been swallowed by the earth. They searched for him throughout the Empire, then across the continent, and expeditions were even sent to the east and the far north. But he was never found. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air… And then, over a hundred years later, the tragedy of the Alcade happened…”
Ardan closed his eyes. Involuntarily, he recalled the “writings” left on the Mountain of Memory. Yes, Velena had been right. The Matabar had no written form of language. Their “writings” were songs and paintings. Sometimes terrifying ones.
“That was one of the many bloody events in the Empire’s history, young man,” Velena sighed heavily, and in that moment, Ardan felt the weight of all those years on her small shoulders.
And then he noticed her shoes. The laces were tied only on her right one…
“The documents at the information desk in the atrium were sent by air mail,” Ardan said, turning away. “But I delivered the envelope to the secretariat, which means the air mail was sent somewhere higher up… Maybe you recognized me because of my oak staff, but you were waiting for me here.”
Velena smiled, but this time, it wasn’t warm or soft. It was more like the smile of a cat who had finally caught the mouse.
“I spent several hours by the elevators,” she admitted, not denying the obvious. “My feet even got sore, and I had to take off my shoes. You probably noticed that I didn’t have time to tie both laces? Then I realized you might have used the stairs. I wanted to head for the fire exit, but just at that moment, the delivery of new editions, which had been delayed by road closures, arrived. It was a string of random events leading to our awkward encounter. Though a priest would call it fate, and you might call it…”
“A dream of the Sleeping Spirits,” Ardan whispered.
“I’ve always wanted to study the genesis of that belief,” Velena mused, tying the thread from her sweater into a knot and smoothing it down with her hand. “That claim that we are merely the dreams of spirits who see the world as they dream it up. But alas, I’ve never had the time to delve into that.”
Ardan shrugged.
He was far more interested in something else.
“Why did you want to meet me?” He asked.
“Would you believe me if I said it was out of curiosity?”
Ardan gave her a faint smile.
“This has been a very strange day, madam Emergold,” Ardan said with a touch of exhaustion in his voice. “This morning, I met a palace servant who turned out to be an operative of the Second Chancery, then a guard who turned out to be a follower of the Tavsers. After that, a random noble acquaintance revealed himself to be from the military aristocracy. I thought the day had exhausted its surprises, but then even a simple, albeit meticulous, student turned out to have connections to the Second Chancery, and now, here I am, meeting you… So, I’m willing to believe anything at this point. Even if you told me the bench we’re sitting on is a cursed ancient beast that’s about to bite off my-”
Ardan trailed off, his manners preventing him from finishing that sentence.
“Such is the Metropolis,” Velena spread her arms out with a slight grin. “Here, young man, nothing is quite what it seems to be. But rest assured about the bench, at least. It’s, if I’m not mistaken, made of morta pine.”
“That’s reassuring,” Ardi sighed.
They sat in silence for a moment.
“You know, Mr. Egobar,” Velena suddenly said, “I once hated Aror. For being the Dark Lord’s accomplice. For the crimes he committed. For the pain, fear, and death he brought upon people. But, and perhaps this won’t reflect well on me, I hated him even more for the devious assignments he gave us, for the lectures he deliberately made more difficult, for the way he cursed us when we failed, and for how much he didn’t care about us, making no effort to hide it at all.”
“Yes,” Ardan agreed. “That sounds like my… great-grandfather.”
“And I wanted to meet you because, to be honest, I thought that by getting to interact with the person Aror didn’t rob of a future, I could vent all that festering anger on you. That I could take it out on you… for losing my childhood, for spending all my youth in laboratories, and ultimately, for never finding someone with whom I’d want to start a family. And all of it simply because I fell under the spell of a thirst, Ard — a thirst without limits.”
“A thirst?”
“A thirst for knowledge,” Velena clarified. “Aror infected us, his students, with that poison. And perhaps that was his twisted form of revenge. Some went mad from that thirst. Some lost their lives. The rest of us, like me, were condemned to a miserable existence. One without family or children. Without friends or loved ones. Always chasing a horizon…”
Ardan turned to look at her and saw small, glistening threads of tears tracing down her cheeks.
“And even now, as I sit here with you, Ard, I am painfully curious as to how your Witch’s Gaze can pierce through all of my defenses,” Velena continued. “It’s making me say things I never intended to say. I can feel it probing my mind, sinking into my soul… and yet I don’t feel the urge to resist. It’s a monstrous power.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”
“I know you can’t control it,” Velena gently wiped away a tear with her fingertip, gazing at it as though it were something rare and delicate. “And I don’t even know, Ard, if something like that can ever be controlled… But what I do know is that I no longer have a reason to take my revenge on Aror through you.”
“Why?”
This time, her smile was sharp and predatory.
“Because what sense is there in taking revenge on someone who has fallen into the same trap we did so long ago?”
Ardan opened his mouth, but Velena spoke first.
“I saw how you were looking at the books, Mr. Egobar. I saw the hunger in your eyes as you devoured everything around you,” she closed her eyes, as though recalling distant memories. “He infected you, too… And now, you are also bound, hand and foot.”
“Nonsense!” Ardan exclaimed, jumping to his feet, momentarily forgetting who he was talking to and where he was. “My grandfather would never-”
“Your grandfather?” Velena scoffed bitterly. “He didn’t even tell you who he truly was, did he? Aror Egobar… Sometimes I wonder, Ard, whether your great-grandfather or the Dark Lord caused more suffering. And whether the Dark Lord was merely Aror’s puppet… But it doesn’t matter. If you don’t believe me, then recall the moment you lit your Star. Remember what you felt at that moment.”
“I remember it all perfectly well, and-”
“Do you know what other mages feel?” Velena cut him off. “They feel terror. A fear so intense it almost drives them mad. Think about it: you touch Ley energy directly when you light a Star. The force that runs through our entire world. It’s like standing on a fragile thread stretched out over an abyss… What did you feel, Mr. Egobar?”
Ardan faltered and fell silent.
“You don’t need to answer,” Velena waved dismissively. “I already know. At some point, you felt a thirst for power. For strength. For authority beyond anyone’s control. And it was that which compelled you-”
“I resisted that feeling,” Ardan cut her off.
Velena fell silent, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time.
“What?” She asked, almost incredulously.
“I resisted that feeling,” Ardan repeated. “You’re right, madam Emergold. After I lit the seventh ray of my Star, I did feel all of that. But I didn’t give in.”
“Then why did you start lighting the Stars at all if not for…?”
“Curiosity,” Ardan sat back down beside her. “And maybe because I thought, somehow, that it would help me regain something I lost as a child. Something that smelled like snow…”
“Snow doesn’t smell,” Velena corrected him softly, but Ardi only smiled in response.
Snow did smell… At least it did to him…
They sat there quietly once more. This time, the silence stretched for a longer period. Around them, the bookshelves stood tall, containing the thoughts of the past, immovable imprints of time itself. And, for a brief moment, Velena seemed as though she, too, belonged to that time.
“You came here for your textbooks, didn’t you?”
“Yes, my course-”
She didn’t wait for him to finish. She clapped her hands together, and her arms spread out wide. For a brief moment, a blurry, black seal flared before her. Then Ardan thought he heard the faint flapping of wings. Shadows swirled around the floor, and the silence of the library shattered as a strange, almost unnatural cawing filled the air.
High above, near the ceiling, a flock of birds suddenly blocked out the misty sky. They spiraled in a wild dance, and then individual “fliers” began breaking away.
Only as they descended to the lower tiers did Ardan realize that they weren’t birds at all, but books. Their spines flapped, their pages rustled, and just before reaching the floor, they folded their “wings” and neatly stacked themselves into a pile. A rather substantial and hefty pile, in fact.
“Here are all the materials listed for your course group,” Velena said in a slightly dry tone before the seals in her hands flared once more, and the flock of books flew back to their places on the shelves.
“You’re casting spells without-”
“I don’t need a staff for such simple seals,” she responded coldly and distantly. “Come with me, student Egobar. I’ll escort you to the exit. In the future, note that visiting the library without proper direction is a serious violation of university rules. Directions can be obtained at the information desk right across from the elevators.”
“But-”
“And remember, not all of Aror’s surviving students are as restrained as I am. For your own sake, try to never meet them. Now, please follow me to the exit. You’ve received what you came for, and your time here is done.”
She rose and walked ahead. Ardan hurried to follow her. The next quarter of an hour, as they wound through the shelves and sections, passed in complete silence. Velena Emergold did not speak another word.
When they arrived at a small desk standing amidst cabinets that all had many drawers full of thick paper slips, Ardan turned around to… Well, to be honest, he didn’t know why he did so.
But Velena was already gone. And for some reason, Ardi had the feeling that he would never see her again. Perhaps that was for the best.
With that thought, he made his way to the exit. He passed the long line of students waiting for the library staff (a young man and woman in red cloaks standing behind the desk) to tend to their requests, and approached the elevators. Joining a group of mages, he stepped into the demonic contraption and, pressing his back against the cabin’s rear wall, muttered with a stammer:
“F-First f-floor.”
The elevator operator twisted the accursed lever, and the doors slid shut.
***
Ardan stumbled out of the elevator and, gasping for air, leaned against the wall, finding solid and, most importantly, unmoving support there. Students passing by eyed him with a mix of curiosity and slight disdain, the way a teetotaler might look at a drunkard.
The elevator operators, however, remained indifferent. They continued ushering people into the steel boxes, pressing buttons, opening and closing doors, twisting that infernal lever, and sending students on what might well be their last journey.
Ardi shook his head to dispel these morbid thoughts and, straightening up, headed back toward the atrium.
Crowds of first-year students in red cloaks were gradually filling nearly the entire space, from the entrance to the farthest benches and couches. Most of them clustered near the staff, buzzing like bees around the tubes of the air mail system. For every dozen green-cloaked mages (second-years), there seemed to be at least a hundred red-cloaked first-years, their cheeks flushed the same color as their cloaks, their necks sweaty, and their hands trembling as they clutched the documents they were frantically trying to make sense of.
Ardi mentally thanked the Second Chancery for sparing him from the ordeal of standing in line with the main batch of first-years and instead allowing him to complete his enrollment right after the opening ceremony.
It was a pity that he’d missed the main event, including the rector’s speech, but life rarely granted you everything.
Speaking of…
Scanning the crowd, Ardan spotted a small group of first-years. How did he know they were first-years? It wasn’t always the case that red cloaks meant first-year students and green cloaks meant second-year students. The clue was in their conversation:
“My dad gave me ten exes for the month, and almost eight of those went to textbooks for the first year,” one of them sighed heavily. “Last year, they were sixty kso cheaper, if I recall right.”
“And the dorms are one and a half ex a month now,” another chimed in.
“Too bad I wasn’t smart enough to get a scholarship,” a third added. He was carrying a stack of hefty tomes, some of which Ardan recognized from his own required reading.
“Yeah…” The first one added glumly. “Or lucky enough to have your folks commit a massacre…”
Ardan almost stumbled as he followed the group.
Of course it would be common knowledge at the Grand that he was there by order of the crown. Everything paid for and provided in full, at that. It was only a matter of time before they realized Ardi hadn’t even taken the entrance exams.
And now that he thought about it, if he’d been in the shoes of these young people, who had worked tirelessly for years to meet the minimum requirements for enrollment and then taken out bank loans, or had even signed binding contracts with guilds, the army, or noble families… The circumstances of someone like him would surely have felt incredibly unfair.
It was an ever-present reminder that some hadn’t just “gotten lucky,” but had been born into the “right” family… A family of war criminals, no less…
Ardan shook his head.
He’d even been grateful to the Second Chancery just moments ago… In reality, they had, in the most natural way possible, ensured that he’d be a persona non grata. It fit with the words the Cloak had spoken to him during their meeting at the Anorsky estate: the descendant of Aror Egobar was better off staying away from the capital and avoiding unnecessary attention.
And now that he was here, among the best and brightest of the Empire, they had made sure that no one would want to form any connections with an unwanted intruder in their midst.
“Marvelous…” Ardan muttered, adjusting his bag that kept threatening to slip off his shoulder.
Following the group of first-years at a distance, he crossed the atrium, passed through one of the doors, and found himself in an arched corridor. On one side, high windows offered a view of Star Square, where townsfolk were slowly dispersing after the day’s festivities. On the other side, a wide avenue stretched out, its rain-soaked street gleaming under the headlights of passing cars.
More rain…
Mart had warned him that the weather in the Metropolis was unique. It had five months of autumn, five months of winter, three weeks of spring, and five weeks of summer, which was essentially a mix of all the other seasons. And spotting the sun in the sky was considered a rare stroke of luck. There was even a local joke about it: “The sun was out in Metropolis, but I was working that minute.”
Back in the prairie, Ardan had naively thought that Mart had been exaggerating, trying to impress or even scare the cowboy who knew nothing of the outside world, but…
Ardan raised his gaze toward the sky. Low and heavy, it looked like spilled oil that had been spread out thick and sticky over the land, then plowed and churned up by tractors. Dark and suffocating, it threatened to pull you in and smother you. And as if fighting against it, the city’s lights burned brightly, striving to pierce through the oppressive gloom.
What was it Mart had said?
“It is a city of contrasts. Contrasts in everything.”
He hadn’t been wrong…
“Well, well, well,” came a dry, crackling voice that sounded like moths gnawing through fabric. “What do we have here? F-f-first-yearrrrs…”
Ardan hadn’t even noticed that he, along with the group of students he was following, had passed through several doors and reached the end of a peculiar tunnel.
Together with the others, he stepped through a massive wooden door that had been secured from the inside with a bolt. Taking off his hat, Ardan looked around.
He found himself standing near yet another desk. It was battered, its paint peeling in places, the lacquer on its legs stretched thin and sagging like worn-out stockings. Behind it was a recently-cleaned staircase leading up and down.
Behind the desk, along with an open shelf lined with numbered compartments holding four keys each, stood an old man. He had an eyepatch over his right eye and his wrinkled face was covered in skin that looked like the dried peel of an overripe cherry. With a knobby finger, he was rudely picking at his long, hooked nose. His bald head was only partially covered by a few thin strands of greasy, gray hair that ran down his temples like dirty rivulets.
He wore a stained yellow uniform, and a blue cap hung on a hook, bending under the weight of an army coat — it was likely as old as the man himself. On his chest hung a single medal, polished so brightly that it reflected the faces of the first-years crowding around the edge of the desk.
“Listen up, recruits!” The old man barked, then broke into a fit of wet, hacking coughs. After spitting into a bucket below, he continued. “Lights out at twenty hundred hours sharp!”
“Twenty hundred hours?” One of the group whispered. “What’s that?”
“It’s military time,” another replied. “That’s how the army tells time.”
“Angels above… I thought Vit was joking when he said that the new warden was a bit obsessed with military service…”
“Shh! What if he hears you!”
But the warden hadn’t heard him. The students were speaking so softly that if not for Ardi’s keen Matabar hearing, he wouldn’t have caught a word either.
“No chattering in the ranks!” The old man roared. “After lights out, no one goes in or out! If you’re late, you’re sleeping outside. Got that?”
The students mumbled something incoherent.
“Speak up!” He bellowed, then launched into another fit of coughing, spitting once more into the bucket, and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He slapped the desk with his palm… or rather, his prosthetic hand. “Anyone caught sneaking out the window for some filthy business can stay out! And no bringing skirts in here! If I see even a single skirt, you’ll regret ever learning what to do with that thing between your legs! No magic in the barracks! If I see even one seal, you’ll be out of here faster than a cork from a bottle of sparkling wine! Now, sign your names!”
“Where do we do that…?”
“On your tiny di-” The old man cut himself off, breaking into a coughing fit once again.
Shuddering as he hacked up a lung, yellow saliva dribbling onto his already filthy uniform (the same kind worn by the elevator operators), he pushed the roster across the table. The columns were labeled: “Surname and First Name,” “Date,” and “Signature of Compliance with Regulations.”
“Now, everyone hand in your orders for assignment.”
“Our what?”
“Your blasted permits!” The old man barked.
The students flinched and handed over their documents from the secretariat. The warden pulled a massive, thick ledger out from beneath the table, its combined pages nearly a third of the width of the desk. When he opened it, everyone coughed as a cloud of dust rose up.
Methodically running his finger down the long list of names, the old man flipped through several pages until he found a blank one. Then, taking the permits, he began to carefully read and record the information. Once done, he filed the documents into the appropriate numbered compartments and handed out keys in return.
“Can we choose our roo-”
“No!”
“Can we swap rooms la-”
“No!”
“But can we at least-”
“You can do nothing!” The warden growled. “Next!”
The trio, burdened with trunks and satchels, took their keys and headed upstairs. Ardi stepped forward and handed over his documents.
“A tall one, aren’t you?” The old man grumbled. “You’d need a deeper trench.”
“Probably,” Ardan replied, not fully understanding the remark.
The warden muttered something unintelligible and took his permit. After reading it over carefully, he spat into the bucket once more, this time without any coughing.
“So, you’re one of them, eh… A half-blood,” he muttered. “Who’s the sinner? Your mother? Your father? Which one of them bedded the non-human? Though I guess it doesn’t matter. And that surname sounds familiar too… I swear I’ve heard it somewhere before…”
Ardan didn’t even blink. Life had long since taught him to ignore such situations. Expending energy on those who had a problem with Firstborn or half-bloods wasn’t worth it. Besides, the medal on the old man’s chest was for “Bravery in Battle.” Given his age and prosthetic, the warden, despite his unpleasant demeanor, deserved respect.
The warden bent down again and pulled out a different, much smaller book. Copying the information from the permit, he filed it away at the bottom of the shelf and handed Ardan a key.
“Thanks,” Ardan said, heading toward the stairs.
“That last name still sounds familiar…” The old man muttered behind him.
Ardan descended the stairs and found himself in a dimly-lit corridor with a low ceiling and a floor covered with a worn, green carpet.
The key was numbered “1,” so, logically, the room should have been near the front, but as it turned out, it was the opposite. After walking the entire length of the corridor, and counting thirty-two doors, Ardan finally unlocked the door to his new quarters.
The cramped room could barely hold two bunk beds, which were positioned so close together that two people couldn’t stand between them. Against the far wall, where a narrow strip of glass at the very top served as a makeshift window, stood the only desk, and it was equipped with four drawers.
There was no coat rack, no closet — not even a wardrobe. Just an open chest with four sections divided by fabric partitions.
And judging by the fact that the beds were empty except for some simple bedding and woolen blankets, Ardi was the first to arrive.
“This is only temporary,” Ardan promised himself.
It wasn’t that he was particularly spoiled, but he’d been accustomed to having his own space from a young age. Here, it wasn’t just that there was no such space, but on top of that, the moment he’d stepped through the door, his chest had tightened. It had felt as though he were back in the elevator. What had Velena said about claustrophobia…
But thoughts about finding better accommodations, about his first lectures, about his future roommates, about the secrets of his family that still refused to fully reveal themselves — those could wait until tomorrow.
He placed his satchel by the desk and tossed his bag onto the top bunk. Clumsily, he climbed into bed. The ceiling was so close that he could press his palm against it. He could see the old paint sweating from his breath.
Ardi smiled. That morning, he had woken up in a room in the Palace of the Kings of the Past. Now, he was falling asleep in a cramped university basement. It felt as though a brief lifetime had passed between the two.
The day had finally come to an end.
