Chapter 6
Chapter Six
B riony
Our pieces of paper contain the names of our rooms, a map of the academy and some starkly written rules. I expected coming to a school like this the list would be endless – after all the rule book had been thick back home in Slate Quarter. But there are just three.
No Killing
No Maiming
No Stealing
I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I already know this place is going to be hellish – does it make a difference what the rules are? If there are hardly any rules at all?
We squint down at the map. The campus is so huge – more like a small town than a school – that the pictures and names are tiny. Eventually, though, we spy our rooms. Side by side.
For the first time, I feel a bubble of hope – yeah, I know that’s stupid. But I seem to have made an acquaintance – I’m not sure if I can call Fly a friend yet – we’ve known each other less than a day, and it seems we’re going to be neighbors. Maybe the next twelve months won’t be all bad.
The campus is eerily quiet as we weave our way between the tall towers, so tall they bathe us in gloomy shadow, right to the east corner. Here the towers are oldest, made from thick gray stone, crumbling in places, the windows so small I can’t imagine they emit any light.
“Cozy,” Fly remarks with flared nostrils as he pushes his weight against the heavy wooden door and we step inside. The temperature drops immediately and the air is dank and smells of damp.
We climb a winding stone staircase, the steps worn in the center, passing other doorways as we go, and find our rooms right at the top underneath the thatched roof, a gale whistling through into the stairwell and making it colder still.
“See,” Fly says, “this is our punishment. We’re going to catch hypothermia or influenza or both and then we are going to die.”
“It isn’t a cellar,” I point out, trying to be positive. “No rats or mice.”
“There’ll be both in that roof,” he says, pointing above our heads before turning the iron ring on the door marked Arison and pushing his way inside.
I stare at my own door, marked Storm .
“How did they do that?” I ask, tracing my fingers over the embossed lettering.
“Magic,” he calls from his room. I hear him flop down on a mattress, the bed creaking under his weight. “I’m going to sleep. If I’m not out waiting for you in the stairwell in thirty, come wake me up. You owe me for that cake!”
I twist my own iron ring and push the door open. It’s dark inside, the narrow window just as small as all the others in this tower and it’s definitely no warmer than the stairwell. I find a switch on the wall by the door and press it. A dull bulb hanging from a cord in the exposed ceiling flickers on. Immediately, there’s a scurrying in the roof. I’m guessing Fly’s right about our furry roommates.
The bulb casts a dull light across the room and I stand and stare at it for several minutes. Back in Slate Quarter there’s electricity in the factories and workhouses, places the like of me are sent to work. But in the homes, we rely on candles and gas lamps. I’ve spent a lifetime scrambling around for matches. Light has never been something that can be summoned at the flick of a switch.
Fuck the shadow weavers – this is magic. Invented by some clever nerd in Granite Quarter. And yet it’s those damn shadow weavers who earn all the privilege, all the praise and all the riches. Just because they were lucky enough to be born with magic in their veins.
The room is bare, straw scattered over the cold stone floor, a wooden bed with a hard–looking mattress and rough blankets standing in the center, and an old wardrobe propped against the far wall, a cloudy mirror pinned to its door.
I half expect to find a bucket in the corner for me to do my business in, but as there is none, the bathroom must be elsewhere.
I stride directly towards the wardrobe, flinging back the doors. The left side has a rail, the right three shelves, and the door a hook. I hesitate. It’s not exactly secure. I can lock the bedroom door, but if anyone gets inside …
I scoff. I’m being silly. Why the hell would anyone want to come into my room? Especially a room like this?
There’s no need to worry.
Still, I unpack my bag, laying my few pieces of clothing and my meager possessions on the shelves – one photo frame, two books and a collection of broken pens and pencils. Then I lay my almost empty bag in the bottom of the wardrobe, beneath the rail and, pulling one of the blankets from the bed, bury it underneath.
I stand back and examine the effect. It’s well hidden. Of course, someone might question why I’d leave a blanket in the cupboard when the room is so cold and if they were to go rummaging, they’d find it. I just have to hope that won’t happen.
The final shelf I reserve for the pile of gray uniform clothes. The material is scratchy and repaired numerous times. It looks suspiciously like a potato sack.
With a sigh, I close the wardrobe, catching a glimpse of my reflection as I do. My hair has come loose, wisps floating around my head.
I remove the clip, unwind my hair, then brush in the loose strands with my fingers, wind it in a tight coil and secure it firmly to the base of my skull.
Then I follow Fly’s lead and lie down on the bed. The one pillow is lumpy, the springs in the mattress clearly rusted solid, but it’s more comfortable than the tree, better than the floor.
I close my eyes and the image of the shadow weaver comes hurtling back into my mind, his pale eyes boring into mine, the weight of his solid body pressing me into the earth.
I swallow, pushing the memory to the back of my mind.
There are hundreds of us at the academy and I’m betting they’ll keep the shadow weavers separate from the rest of us. Wouldn’t want us polluting their air.
I’ll probably never see him again.
I wake to a pair of hands shaking me fiercely.
“You were meant to wake me up!” Fly says right in my face as I blink awake.
“Oh shit, are we l–?”
“Late? Not if you change into your uniform right now and we start sprinting.” I glance at him. He’s already changed into a pair of gray pants, a gray shirt and a tatty old gray blazer – the Firestone crest embroidered on one side.
“I’m giving you three minutes, Cupcake, and then you’re going to have to fend for yourself.”
“Shit,” I mutter, as he dashes out the door and I strip off my grubby clothes and pull on the uniform. It scratches against my skin and smells of moth. At least I won’t be the only one wearing this, though. It’s the one benefit of this uniform. We’re all going to look hideous together.
Once we’re out on the cobbled pathways, we realize we’re not as late as we feared. There are other new students out here too, all walking in the direction of the central campus building.
There are no shadow weavers among us. Everyone trudging along with us looks as exhausted and worn-out as we do. Most have gray shadows under their eyes, several have cuts and bruises to their faces. One or two are even hobbling.
I may have ended up with the worst bedroom in the academy and no points awarded for the first trial, but it seems it may have been worth it after all. I think of the girl out by the tent. Madame Bardin said she’d fainted. Was that true?
However, it doesn’t seem to matter that the shadow weavers spent the night torturing and abusing everyone else. The other students are still chattering excitedly about them as if they weren’t responsible for the torture last night.
“What do you think they’ll have us doing first?” Fly asks, chewing on his fingernails and ignoring the talk around us.
“I guess they’re going to start testing us straight away. See what skills and talents we have.”
“Do you have any? Talents, I mean?”
“Me?” I say laughing. “No. You?”
He shakes his head. “Except the ability to look good in anything including this shit.” He peers down at the uniform, curling a lip in disgust. He’s wrapped a belt around his lean waist. It gives the outfit some shape which is more than can be said for mine. It hangs off my frame exactly like a potato sack would.
We arrive at the Great Hall where we’ve been instructed to gather. It’s not a gymnasium hall like I was expecting, or like the halls in the factories back in Slate Quarter. No, this hall is more like a cathedral. It’s built from a yellow sandstone and around its high walls feature carved arches with no openings and long stained-glass windows.
Right outside the Hall’s entrance stands a magnificent bronze statue – a giant egg and around it three swooping dragons their wings spread wide, their jaws filled with rows of sharp teeth, their talons long and deadly, and their eyes alert. Even in today’s muggy light the statue glows, the egg itself seeming to brim with fire.
We all line up like we did on the platform, including, much to my surprise, the shadow weavers.
I see I was wrong. We’re not all in this together.
Their academy uniforms are not hideous like ours. They’re black not gray and the flames on the crest on their blazers flicker with life. The material is not the scratchy stiff kind our uniform is stitched from. It’s soft, holding its shape and hugging the form of every single one of them.
They stare back at the rest of us with smirks on their arrogant faces, whispering to each other and laughing among themselves.
I hate them. I knew I would and everything I’ve seen so far only confirms it.
They are a bunch of self-satisfied jerks.
I don’t care what I’ve been told. I’ve never believed it, and in this moment, I believe it even less so.
Because I see it clear as day – in their eyes, in their attitude, in the way they glare at us.
It was no accident. Whatever they did to her was deliberate. And I will discover the truth.