Chapter 14.5 The Academy
"Six years?" I ask after a moment. "How old were you when you first came here?
"
"Eighteen."
So he's twenty-four now.
"What were you doing before that?"
He seems uncomfortable at the question, tugging lightly at his starched collar.
"Marton?"
"I was.
..home. At my parents' house. My father owns a merchant fleet that he inherited from his father.
So we had an extensive house and grounds.
And library."
"Library?
" I home in on the word. The tense way he says it.
"What kind of books did this library hold?
"
"The usual kind." He doesn't look at me.
"History. Agriculture. Encyclopedaes."
"Anything else?
" I'm watching his face carefully, so I catch his slight wince at the question.
"There may have been some.
..novels. Fiction. Tales of—of magic...and adventure.
My parents were often busy with social engagements, so I stayed home reading by myself many nights.
"
I grin wide, picturing it in my mind.
"And the lonely rich boy found a new home in stories of magic. "
Marton grimaces.
"Admit it," I coo. "You wanted to study magical legends all along because you wanted them to be real!
"
Marton heaves an exasperated breath.
"I've already told you that I did."
"No.
You told me that you were a scholar at a school dedicated to studying legends, and that you believed that they were true.
You did not tell me that before you were a scholar, you were a boy who dreamed of magic.
"
"Before I was a scholar," Marton says quietly, huskily, "I was a boy who dreamed of magic.
"
Immediately, my heart goes soft, and my playful humor fades.
I touch his arm, pulling him to a stop. I look up into his face, and I'm just about to say something—or do something, maybe, I haven't decided—when my attention is captured by a painting hanging on the wall beyond his shoulder.
"Marton," I whisper.
"Yes?
" His question is a whisper of breath, his attention fixed on my face.
When I look at him, his eyes are heavy-lidded and his lips slightly parted.
Golden hair falls in a smooth tumble down to his jaw.
I itch to touch it. Touch him.
I clear my throat, indicating the painting over his shoulder.
"Look."
Marton turns, and then goes still.
The painting is more like a black and white ink sketch, rudimentary and faded, some of the lines blurred out with age.
But there's no mistaking the swooping forms of dragons and wyverns in flight, nor their perched figures sitting atop a mountainous cliff face.
The mountain that is the center of the portrait is like a beehive made of stone, its surface pitted and pocked with holes like man-made caves, each one large enough to accommodate a fully shifted dragon.
"Do you think that—" I begin. "Do you think the Trove is a place like that?
"
"No," whispers Marton.
"I think that is the Trove."
"But it's—What, a picture of the Dragomira's highly secretive lair just hanging here on the wall of the Academy?
"
Marton shakes his head slowly, eyes fixed on the picture.
"I don't know how. How it got here. Who recorded it.
But clearly it's old enough that everyone here has forgotten that it portrayed a real place.
I must have passed by this illustration hundreds of times while attending the Academy, and I never even thought about.
I forgot ever seeing it. I thought if it ever was a real place, it was long gone by now.
Erased by centuries."
"Maybe it was erased," I whisper.
"Maybe this is an older version—a bygone version—of where the dragons and wyverns live now.
Maybe the Trove was built as a—as an imitation of this, and it isn't the same at all.
"
"Either way," says Marton, tapping at the glass over the image.
"This means the information exists. That there should be records somewhere of a location where dragons and wyverns once gathered.
"
I exhale shakily. "Then we—"
I'm cut off by a door opening with a creak further down the hall.
I glance up and see a tall, stork-like old man, stooping as he eases shut the door to a small room that is positively cluttered with books.
As he turns down the hall towards us, he freezes, and I note the shock of white hair on his head and smile lines around his eyes.
And his gaze locked on Marton, his mouth hanging open in surprise.
Marton is once again stiff as a board next to me.
He takes a halting step toward the old man, executing a little bow.
"Master Albertson."
"Marty, is that you?
By the ancients! I thought you were dead.
"
"It's me, Master Albertson.
" Marty goes ghastly pale, expression that of someone awaiting a death sentence.
"But where have you been, boy?
Months without word... Good heavens! Look at you.
Great skies! By the gods! There aren't enough expletives in all the realm.
" A rickety laugh. "You're alive!" The old man moves with surprising nimbleness down the hall.
He clasps Marton by both shoulders and looks into his face, squinting.
Marton looks stunned by this reception, and his hands flutter up like butterflies to pat Master Albertson's wizened knuckles.
"I was—I'm—"
Master Albertson's eyes rove to me, and I'm not sure what to do as he squints in my direction.
"Hello—?" I've start to offer a cautious greeting when Albertson turns away, shaking Marton slightly by the shoulders.
"Distracted by a woman were you?
" His eyes narrow.
Oh hells, no.
I'm just working up a great big heap of offense on behalf of all womankind when Albertson ruins it by laughing.
He positively beams at Marton's white face, and then at me.
"That's good," he says.
"Women know more about the world than books can ever teach you.
They've lived on the underside of history.
"
We've...what?
Master Albertson drops his hands from the stunned Marton's shoulders.
He extends one to me. "Master Frankfort Albertson.
I was in charge of supervising Marton's education, once upon a time.
Before he took off." He casts Marton a shrewd look.
"Tarah," I mutter, accepting the hand.
"Tarah...Hastings. Marton's wife."
Master Albertson's bushy white brows crawl up his face.
"Wife? You've a lot to tell me, haven't you, boy?
"
Marton nods mutely, then seems to recover his faculties.
"I do! I was— We've been— That is, I left because—"
"Because you met sweet Tarah here?
" Albertson offers.
I'm torn between a scowl and laugh at being called sweet.
That's me. An absolute sweetheart.
But Marton latches onto this offering eagerly.
"That's it. Right. I was— I met her out in the city one day, when she was visiting our statue gardens.
We...hit it off, and—"
"And ran off to get married?
" Albertson concludes.
"Yes!
We've been honeymooning in the countryside since then.
I always meant to write you, but I never seemed to have the time.
And then...then I thought it would be better to just come back and explain myself in person.
Apologize."
"Mmhmm," says Albertson thoughtfully, his eyes flitting between the two of us.
He focuses on Marton at last, just staring at him for a long moment.
"Well," he says, smiling, "if that isn't the biggest pile of bollox I've ever heard, it's time for me to retire right now because I've lost my faculties. "
I bark a surprised laugh, but Marton's face blanches.
Albertson turns to me.
"Tell me the truth, girl."
My laughter catches in my throat.
"I—" I look helplessly at Marton. "We met in the city.
..?"
Albertson waves a hand.
"Marton, I've known you for six years, my boy.
And the scholar I've helped turn you into over the course of those years—the boy you were even before then—he was single-mindedly dedicated to the pursuit of a single truth.
So tell me again, where did you go when you left the Academy?
"
"I-I went to Ithyma," gasps Marton.
"You went chasing the tale of the dragon?
"
"Yes, sir."
"And?
"
"And—?"
"And what did you find, boy?
By the ancients! You weren't this dimwitted before you left, I'm certain.
"
"I didn't—it's not—I didn't find anything!
There was nothing there at all. Just ruins.
" Marton says this all in a desperate rush and then clamps his mouth shut.
He's an even worse liar than I am, apparently.
Albertson makes more humming noises and nods slowly.
His eyes go to me again. Back to Marton.
"Alright." His liver-spotted hands straighten the rumples they've made in the front of Marton's tunic.
"Best get on to see the Headmaster, boy.
Tell him your story. And think on your truth.
I'll be ready to hear it when you're ready to share.
"
"I—"
Albertson cuts him off with a shake of his head.
"Save it." He straightens the flow of his burgundy robes and hobbles off down the hall.
We watch him go in silence, and when he rounds the corner, I pinch Marton lightly on the side.
He hisses. "You're a terrible liar!" I accuse in a hush.
"Like you're any better!
" he whisper-yells back.
"But you were the one who was supposed to do the talking.
You might have mentioned that you would hardly be able to get a word out!
"
"You've heard me talk!
" he accuses. "More than that, you've heard me talk when I'm distressed.
You knew this about me already!"
"I hadn't realized you would be this distressed!
"
"Ahem." The noise startles us both out of our hissing argument.
Marton leaps nearly a foot in the air.
I tense. The man at the end of the hall wears flowing white robes and stands directly before the door marked in black script as the office of the Headmaster.
The man himself looks young and fit enough to be a soldier.
He has deep brown hair, brown eyes, and a finely groomed beard along his jaw.
He also has something...else.
Something that makes my dragon form stir awake within me and pay attention.
But what is it? I can't tell.
"Headmaster!" Marton gasps, bowing his head respectfully.
"My apologies, sir. If we disturbed you—"
"It's quite alright.
Whatever's going on out here seems far more interesting than the treatise I've been reading from the Kurian epoch.
" He smiles wryly, and my heart gallops in anxiety.
His teeth—are normal. Perfectly normal teeth.
What is it?
"Pundit Hastings," the Headmaster says slowly, expression become more serious.
"Perhaps you ought to step into my office.
We have much to discuss."
"Of course, sir," Marton takes a step forward, and I grab his wrist, stopping him.
Both men look at me in surprise. Confusion.
Dammit.
A part of me simply says no. Marton should not be alone with this man until I've figured out what this strange sense I have about him is.
But...what is it? I don't know. I scan him again, and he looks like an ordinary man.
And I'm well on my way to blowing our cover for the second time.
Marton's forehead pinches with concern as he gazes down at me.
The Headmaster's expression is inscrutable.
I swallow, focusing on Marton. "Just...I'll miss you.
" I force a smile that feels more like a grimace.
Then I go up on my toes and plant a kiss on his cheek, which is not something I've ever done before, and seems to startle him as much as it does me. "Careful," I whisper in his ear.
When I drop back on my heels, the Headmaster's eyes are fixed on me. He only looks away when Marton approaches him, and then he turns and holds open to door to his office. Marton slips into the room, and the Headmaster glances at me again.
I resist the urge to bare my teeth at him, but he seems to see something in my eyes. His eyebrows go up, and he steps inside the office, closing the door behind him with a snick.
I bare my teeth at the shut door, claws and scales moving underneath my skin.
Seething with a defensive urge I don't understand, I pace back and forth along the hall while the muttering voices of Marton and the Headmaster sound in the office. I listen in, the door no obstacle at all to my sharp senses. But there's nothing significant.
Marton repeats our cover story in a more calm manner on the second telling. The Headmaster asks questions, chides Marton gently for the hastiness of his actions. But he doesn't seem to doubt the story, doesn't bring up the missing money, and makes no mention of expelling Marton from the Academy.
All in all, a highly successful conversation. But I don't feel satisfied. We may be keeping our secrets, but the Headmaster is keeping one too. Only I can't imagine what it is.
This doesn't feel like what I felt when I met Inobar and the other wyverns. No sense of wrongness or danger. Just a sense of...somethingness.
Like walking through a pitch dark room and knowing you're about to run into a wall even though you can't see it. The danger is in the thing's invisibility, not in the thing itself.
I just need to figure out what the thing is.