Michael Sullivan - The Crown Tower

“So to get to Sheridan, do you know how I would go?”

“Certainly. I ain’t never been, but plenty of folk going both ways through here. I talk to a few. Not many as nice as you, but I’ve talked to some. Seems the road splits just past the river. No sign or nothing Bib says, but the left heads to Medford-that’s the King’s Road. You want to stay right all the way up through East March, past the High Meadowlands. Bib’s never been that way-he only goes to Medford-but others say the school is near the Meadowlands, off to the east a bit.”

“Well thank you … Pratt, is it?”

“Yes, sir. Where you coming from, sir?”

“Colnora.”

“I heard of that. Big city they say. Not sure why people would want to live so close to one another. Unnatural really. And it’s people like that who come up here to escape Maribor’s wrath when he lets them know it. That’s what happened when that plague came through here six years ago. Plenty good folk died, and it was them that brought it. If it weren’t for Merton of Fallon Mire, we’d all be dead, I suspect. How are things down there now?”

“Strange, Pratt. Wet and strange.”

By evening, the sun managed to cut holes in the clouds, and slanted shafts of light streamed into Sheridan Valley as Hadrian approached. That Maribor-chosen look gave Hadrian hope his luck might have changed, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

Hadrian had been on a miserable streak ever since receiving the letter. How it found him in the wilds of the east was a miracle-or a curse. He was still working that one out. He had been deep in Calis in the city of Mandalin-the big arena with the white towers-which always had the best crowds. He performed three fights that night but remembered only the last one. Maybe he would have felt the same way afterward even if he hadn’t read the letter. He wanted to think so to restore some of his self-respect, help ease his guilt. The notion that it took his father’s death for him to quit suggested a connection and made him culpable. The idea was irrational, but sometimes those were the best kind. He wasn’t responsible, but he wasn’t innocent.

Pratt’s directions proved accurate, and the moment Hadrian spotted the bell tower to the east, he figured he had found his goal. He couldn’t remember a more pleasant valley. University buildings circled the shaded common like the stone monoliths in the jungles of the Gur Em. The tribal shrines had the same mystical quality, both sacred and inscrutable. These were just a lot larger. At the center stood a huge statue of a man holding a book in one hand and a sword in the other. Hadrian had no idea who he might be, perhaps the school’s founder. Maybe it wasn’t a statue at all but the giant who had constructed the mammoth buildings, somehow turned to stone. At least that would explain the stone halls. Hadrian hadn’t seen any exposed rock for miles, and it would take ten heavy horses and a greased sled just to move one of the blocks, much less stack them four stories high. If it wasn’t a giant, he couldn’t think of any other way to account for the place.

As he ambled into the circle, he spotted dozens of young men all dressed in gowns. They moved along walkways, careful not to get the hems of their robes wet in the lingering puddles. A number paused to look his way, making Hadrian uncomfortable, as he had no idea where to go. He had expected the university to be a single building, likely no more than one room, where he could just knock and ask for the professor. What he found was a good-sized town.

Reaching a bench, he dismounted and tied Dancer to the arm.

“Are you intending to be a student here?” one of the older boys asked, looking him over.

Hadrian got the impression from the wrinkled nose that the student didn’t approve. The boy had a haughty tone for someone so young, small, and weaponless. “I’m here to see a man by the name of Arcadius.”

“ Professor Arcadius is in Glen Hall.”

“Which one of these…” He looked up at the columned buildings that appeared even taller with his feet on the grass.

“The big one,” the boy said.

Hadrian almost chuckled, wondering which ones the boy thought were small.

The student pointed to the hall with the bell tower.

“Ah … thanks.”

“You didn’t answer me. Do you expect to attend this school?”

“Naw-already graduated.”

The young man looked stunned. “From Sheridan?”

Hadrian shook his head and grinned. “Different school. Easier to get into but literally murder to pass. Hey, watch my horse, will you? But be careful-she bites.”

He left the boy and three others standing bewildered by the bench, watching him cross to the big doors of Glen Hall.

Inside, the architecture continued to amaze him. Hadrian had spent most of his years since leaving Hintindar living in military camps. His scenery had been limited to tents and campfires, forests and fields. He’d seen a few castles, usually while storming the walls, but remembered little. A hundred men swinging sharpened steel and firing arrows made it hard to observe the subtle nuances of chiseled stone and carved woodwork. The closest thing to what he saw here would have been the arenas-the ones he fought in near the end after he’d left the jungle. Grand amphitheaters with ascending tiers filled with stomping feet and clapping hands. They had some of the scale but none of the quality. Glen Hall made him feel he should remove his boots.

The ceiling was three stories above the entrance, where a chandelier holding two dozen candles burned pointlessly, given that tall windows cast radiant spears across the marble. Voices echoed down from a grand stair that was wide enough for five men to walk arm in arm. He moved across the polished foyer, his boots clacking, and peered around corners. The only face he saw was that of an old man captured in a painting as tall as himself. He paused, wondering how a person went about making a portrait of that size.

The bell in the tower began to ring and the pensive mood shattered, replaced by scuffling feet and excited voices. A herd of young men rumbled down the stairs. Gowns of various shades poured through the front doors or peeled off to the side corridors. Hadrian pressed himself against a wall as if caught in a canyon during a stampede.

“No, that’s not right. Professor Arcadius said Morning Star was the stone that glowed,” one boy said. He was either tall for his age or one of the oldest.

“It was magnesia,” replied the one walking with him, holding a book to his chest. He was shorter and thin as a willow; Hadrian almost mistook him for a girl.

“I don’t think so.”

“Care to wager?” The boy with the book took hold of the other’s arm, causing the flow of traffic to break around them. “You take my chores for a month?”

“I’m the son of a baron. I can’t scrub floors.”

“Sure you can. I’ll teach you. Even the son of a baron can learn how to scrub floors.”

The baron’s son smirked.

“All right, Angdon, how about we trade meals for a month?”

“Are you insane?”

“It’s not poison.”

“It would be to me. I don’t know how you eat that slop.”

“You’re scared because you know I’m right.”

The baron’s son pushed the other to the floor and stood grinning. “I’m not afraid of anything. You’d best remember that.” He turned sharply, intent on making a dramatic exit. He would have succeeded except that Hadrian was standing in his way and Angdon, the baron’s son, walked straight into him. “Watch where you’re going, clod!”

“No, sorry, the name’s Hadrian.” He stuck out his open hand and accompanied it with a smile.

Angdon glared. “I don’t care who you are. Go away.”