Chapter 14 The Academy
"Shoes?" I ask doubtfully, planting my bare feet on the brick path beneath the hem of my new dress as Marton tries to steer me forward with both hands on my shoulders.
We've been shopping for half the morning with the last bit of Marton's stolen money, trying to outfit in clothing suitable for a well-off scholar's wife.
Whatever that may be.
I'm in a starchy cream-colored dress with a corset that pinches abominably at my ribcage and presses so hard on my breasts that they're trying to escape through my neckline.
I've had my hair brushed and braided into a crown by a beautician who could hardly look me in the eye.
In addition to the fact that I already bathed in a stream before entering the city.
But I draw the line at shoes.
The hem of my dress is long enough to hide my feet anyway, and I like going barefoot.
It allows me to move more quietly, prevents me from having yet another article to remove before shifting, and if feels.
..freeing. My mother used to make me wear shoes on feast days in our village, and those were the days I knew I wasn't supposed to act peculiar or scare the other children.
Never mind that most of the people in our village went barefoot anyway because they couldn't afford shoes.
"You have to wear shoes," says Marton, once more nudging me in the direction of the cobbler's shop on the lane in front of us.
This, I assume, is another dictate of the male-dominated society I have grown up on the edges of.
Women must wear dresses that crush their waistlines to near invisibility.
Women may not attend school. Women must marry men whom their fathers pick out.
Women must wear shoes even if they don't want to.
"But... What if I need to shift?
"
"You aren't going to need to defend us from a school full of stuffy librarians.
And if you do, you can take your shoes off.
"
"If I can take them off, why do I have to wear them at all?
"
"People wear shoes, Tarah.
" He tries to nudge me forward again. When I don't budge, he sighs, dropping his hands.
Citizens out and about on the streets of Yarrow pass us by without a second glance.
In fact, I'm noticing that people in this city—maybe this whole nation—try really hard not to look at things that seem unusual.
It makes hiding what I am almost too easy.
Their eyes slide away from me automatically, and I don't have to work at concealing anything.
Marton comes to my side, glancing down at me.
His eyes scan my new dress and hair with a look I can't decipher.
He frowns.
"What?" I raise my hands, touching my silly hair first, then trying to pull up the bodice of my dress.
It hardly gives an inch.
"Nothing.
" Marton shakes his head.
"I look ridiculous, don't I?
" Like a serpent in a powdered wig, I'm guessing.
"You look very pretty," Marton assures me distractedly, his attention turning to the shopfront before us.
He turns back to me, then grabs the front of my skirt around my knee area and lifts it several inches.
My bare toes wiggle on the pavement. "But not very human.
" He looks pointedly from my feet to my face.
I tug my skirt out of his grip, crossing my arms as I scowl up at him.
"Then no one's going to be looking at my feet, anyway.
"
"Your feet," he repeats with emphasis, "are the problem.
"
"I—" I frown. "You mean the rest of me looks human?
"
A smile tugs at his mouth as he studies me.
"Not hardly."
I make a frustrated sound.
"Then why—"
"No one's going to look at you and assume the truth, Tarah.
Not here. But you need shoes, so as not to deviate too far from the social contract.
"
I have no idea what the social contract is.
Sounds terrible. But I'm getting awfully tired of this argument, and dragging it out is only further delaying us from rescuing Cherry.
"Fine," I sigh, shoulders slumping in resignation.
"Let's get me some shoes."
Half an hour later, we leave the cobbler's shop, striding out along the street toward the Dawn Academy at the city's center.
I wince with every step.
No comfortable boots or walking shoes for me.
No, I'm in a pair of slippers with an extra inch of height stuck onto the heel of each one.
I've never seen anything so bizarre, but Marton assures me it is the traditional fashion for women in Philostia.
Shoes you can't run in, fight in, or do much of anything in besides look a bit taller and clumsier.
I'm stewing so fiercely I almost don't noticed when Marton's steps begin to slow, his eyes fixed on the large domed structure that rises before us.
I follow his gaze, taking in the pristine center building, made of pale stone with a dome crowning its top, inlaid with carved patterns like embroidery on a dress.
On each side, collections of smaller building rise and fall, constructed along a similar pattern, though most of them don't have domes.
A set of stone steps leads up to the massive double-doored entryway of the main building, white columns holding up the awning to either side.
An inscription above the entrance, emblazoned in large block letters, reads The Eyes on Dawn Academy of the Arcane.
"Eyes on Dawn?" I read, bewildered.
Marton makes a muffled sound, his face pale as he stares, frozen, at the building before us.
"It means that our eyes—the eyes of the students and scholars who live there—are fixed on the Dawn of Days, the ancient history of the world.
Everyone just calls it the Dawn Academy, though.
"
"Marton." I tug at his arm.
He tears his gaze away from the Academy to meet my eyes.
"Yes?" There is a fine layer of sweat sheening his forehead.
"It's going to be alright.
They can't hurt you." Not with me around.
"But they can turn us away.
They can keep us from locating the Trove.
From going after Vakhrin and Cherry."
"They can try.
" The thought makes my dragon form stir beneath my skin, and I take a deep breath.
Settling. "If they do, we'll break in. We'll sneak.
We will find the information we need. This is just Plan A.
"
Marton nods, steeling himself.
He turns his attention back to the Academy, starting forward.
I hobble to keep up in my ridiculous shoes, and the people milling about the Academy's courtyard quickly avert their attention from the spectacle.
Ha. And Marton thought these shoes would help me blend in.
We make it up the steps and to the wide double doors unimpeded.
Then Marton has his hand on the ornate brass handles, pushing the doors open.
They swing wide, and I get my first glimpse of the interior of the Academy.
My first thought is.
..books. The entire upper story of the foyer, a massive room of oak and marble, is covered in shelves, and books line the shelves without a single empty slot showing.
There is a spiraling iron staircase leading from the upper story to the ground.
And on the ground floor, the view is something like what I remember from my brief encounter with the New Palace in Ithyma.
Smooth floors striated with white and gold, statues and suits of armor and sculptures on pedestals decorating the perimeter of the room.
Paintings of miscellaneous subjects covering the walls.
Along the wall to our left is a massive wooden desk, and behind the desk, a gaping man jolts to his feet, his gaze fixed on Marton.
Of the other people in the room, along the balconies and moving busily about the ground floor, a few more turn in our direction.
"Pundit Hastings!" cries the man behind the desk.
Pundit? Hastings?
Two unfamiliar words in a row that I would not know applied to Marton if the man wasn't looking directly at him.
"Novitiate Emes," Marton returns, nodding stiffly in greeting.
"Pupil now," says Emes as the wide doors swing shut behind us, casting the room in a softer light as the sun is blocked out and the chandeliers and sconces take over.
"Congratulations."
Pupil Emes shakes his head. "You have returned!
" The expression on his face is one that I can't quite decipher.
Shock, of course. But also something that seems a mixture of relief, uncertainty, and nervousness.
"I have," Marton says, straightening to his full height.
In his new clothes, with their firmly starched edges, his hair combed smooth behind his ears, and boots wiped clean of mud, he seems to become a different person before my eyes.
There is an upward tilt to his chin that reminds me almost of.
..Cherry. When she's putting on her princess demeanor.
"This is my wife, Tarah." He gestures to me.
Hearing my name and the word wife in the same sentence jolts me to awareness.
The scholar behind the desk turns his attention—alarmed—on me.
With wide eyes he looks me over from my upswept hairdo to the hem of my dress, seeming to grow paler as his perusal continues.
When his eyes land back on my face, I give him my widest, most unsettling smile.
Emes coughs out a wheezing sound and very quickly sits down.
Marton's hand goes to the small of my back, squeezing.
I read that as a reign it in warning and work to restrain my grin, shrinking it down to the politest curve of my mouth.
Emes seems to catch his breath, though he doesn't try to stand again.
"Master Albertson will be so pleased," he murmurs.
Marton palpably tenses beside me, and I flick my gaze between them, wondering who Master Albertson is.
"Pundit Hastings." The new voice that says Marton's unfamiliar title is smooth and crisp, cool as the chill wafting from the marble floor beneath our feet.
Marton slowly turns, and I follow his gaze.
The man who stands at the door to the hall leading out of the foyer is short and stout, with a pinched face and sparse gray hair on his head and jaw.
He wears a set of billowing burgundy robes parted over a crisp white tunic.
The shoes that peak out beneath his trousers and robes are the shiniest black leather I have ever seen.
On either side of him are two younger men, in the same sort of tunics, but without the robes.
One of them wears a sneer as he looks at Marton, and the other one looks hardly more pleasant, though the mountain of books he carries in his arms keeps him from devoting too much attention to us.
My hackles rise as I sense a confrontation coming.
"Marton Hastings," says the sneerer.
"What an honor that you've chosen to grace us with your presence once more.
"
"Patrick Dellmar," says Marton in the tone of the longsuffering.
"Tarah Hastings," I say brightly, taking two steps forward and extending my hand to this Patrick.
He takes a hurried step backwards, and then looks perplexed, as if he can't figure out why he moved away from me.
It takes him a moment more to recover himself, but he finally reaches out and grasps my hand with the lightest grip, shaking once before pulling away.
I watch his hand twitch by his trouser leg as he visibly resists the urge to wipe my wrongness from his palm.
I retreat to Marton's side, torn between feeling amused and a bit.
..disturbed. I wonder if Marton ever has to repress his reactions to my inhumanity.
I know he enjoys it, in an intellectual capacity, but does it ever bother his human sensibilities?
It must, though he makes being around me look so easy.
He slips an arm around my waist as I stand next to him, and I fight the urge to lean into him.
It's an act, Tarah. For show.
The older scholar looks between me and Marton with shrewd interest. A hint of disbelief colors his tone when he says to Marton, "You got married.
"
"I did." Marton draws me closer to his side, chin lifted.
"Master Jameson, allow me to introduce you to my wife.
Tarah Hastings, as she said. Tarah, this is Omar Jameson, a Master of Magical Studies here at the Academy.
"
"Magical Studies?" I repeat dryly.
"How exciting."
All three of the scholars before me frown.
Exciting is clearly not a word they like applied to their discipline.
"It is a most curious and challenging branch of history," says Master Jameson.
A stilted moment passes.
"Have you seen the Headmaster yet?
" asks Patrick Dellmar, with a cunning glance at Marton.
"Or Master Albertson? I'm sure they will both be so relieved to hear that you've returned.
You caused quite the stir when you left.
"
"We were worried something untoward had happened to you, boy," adds Master Jameson.
Marton is all tension against me.
"I was just about to head up to the offices.
"
"Well," Dellmar grins, "better get going then, eh?
" He tips his chin towards the stairs.
Marton give a stiff nod.
Muttering words of farewell, he tows me along as he makes his way over to the spiral staircase.
Up and around we go, and at the top Marton takes my hand and leads me along the mezzanine to a hallway that leads deeper into the building.
Down this hallway is more wood paneling, the same grain as the bookshelves.
The walls are decorated with arcane artwork.
The floor beneath us has a long runner of carpet the same deep burgundy as Master Jameson's robes.
Seeing that we're alone for the moment, I lean over to whisper to Marton, "Were those friends of yours?
"
He snorts. "Patrick Dellmar is another pundit, in a similar area of study to me.
He's more of a rival than anything, though our rivalry exists mostly in his head.
"
"Pundit?" I repeat.
This is not a word I'm familiar with, and it's what the man behind the desk called Marton earlier.
"It's the highest rank among the students here.
Novitiates, pupils, and pundits. Pundits are those that have reached specialization—almost mastery—in a particular field of study.
All that's left is to complete two years of practicum study.
Many pundits choose to do their practicum here at the Academy, working alongside a specific Master, assisting them in their work.
"
"That's what Pundit Dellmar is doing," I conclude.
"Working under Master Jameson."
"That's right.
" His voice is tight.
"But that wasn't what you wanted to do.
"
"No," he sighs. "I wanted to go out into the world.
To trace the provenance of several different legends of magic that exist in the world today.
To prove, if I could, that the so-called ancient myths we study have their basis in truth.
"
"And why do you sound so downtrodden about it?
You succeeded."
"I did.
" Marton looks miserable. "I was just remembering the way they all used to mock and belittle me for my beliefs.
And I can't even tell them what I found.
" He smiles ruefully.
"I could shift in front of them," I offer.
"I bet they'd believe you then."
Marton's eyes flare with panic at the thought.
"Absolutely not. That would create chaos.
It would put you in danger."
"I'm a dragon," I remind him, offended.
"And there are hundreds of humans in this school.
Hundreds of men who are comfortable believing that magic does not exist in the world.
Having that belief upended by the sudden appearance of a creature that could rip them to shreds in a single swipe.
.." He shakes his head. "There is a reason the protectorkin chose to hide from the human world in the first place.
Humans may not be a threat to any of you on an individual basis, but grouped together in large enough numbers.
.."
"You think they would try to hurt me?
To kill me?"
"I don't know.
But I don't like the idea of finding out.
"
"You'd sacrifice the completion of your life's work to keep my secret?
"
His eyes dip down to me as we continue slowly along the hall.
He licks his lips nervously before responding.
"I'd sacrifice six years of study and the chance to prove myself to narrow-minded men.
For the sake of your life. Your safety.
"
"Well," I say. Can't think of anything else.
"Well." I didn't know that he cared about me more than he cared about his magical studies.
There is something warm and bright, whirling around in my chest. I frown at it.
Stupid corset is cutting of my circulation, I can only presume.