Vol.7, Ch.3, P.3
After much sneaking and many stairs taken, Björn and I had alighted upon the ground floor, and began now to make for the college entrance. Cross the doors and out into the open, and we could start at last to seek after our missing companies.
The plan was to bear south-eastwards thence. Björn and I, having joined up not far from the lectitōrium, had so far circled our way from east to north, and then hither the west, all the while having chanced upon not one trace of our companion quarries. That left only the south to search. Of course, Merkulov being large, it was possible that we might’ve missed some trace or token along the way. But considering the testimony from the princess’s lady-in-waiting—that Lise and company had fled southwards from the first chaos—that did not seem so likely.
The long-expected rejoining was at hand, then: with Lise, with Alban… in fact, I fancied they might even have met and merged with the princess’s party, if the fates were fair.
“…”
And would Emilie be there withal, I wondered. With a paling to protect her, I doubted the blast’s debris had done aught to her as it had me. Albeit if she’d taken head-on a wave of its washing heat, or a gust of its gashing air, then there’d be something to worry about. But nay. She was all right. I knew it.
“’Tis quiet,” noted Björn, searching all about as we briskly got on. “Inside, out—not a foesome sign to be sensed. Their chain of command must’ve all but died along with that rector.”
Sure enough, we’d crossed nary a pursuer since descending the fifth floor. We’d even made sure to glance out the windows whenever we could, to ascertain the state of affairs outside and assure ourselves that no ambush lay in wait… only to glean no movement thus far. Björn might be right: that the enemies here were now as sheep without their shepherd.
“Yet, rector and commander though he was, Vilmar was no mastermind,” I reviewed. “Finding our friends comes first, to be sure. But if chance allows, I should like to root out the ringleader, as well.”
Björn bent up a brow at me. “Ringleader, you say?” he uttered. “Supposing this show has a shadowy runner is one thing. But whether the scamp is come to watch is another.”
“Well, ‘ringleader’ wasn’t the exact term used,” I said, “but of a like figure, here in the flesh, have I overheard some mention. And from the mouths of what seemed like field captains, no less.”
To be clear, escaping this school was the chief imperative. Yet it sat ill with me to must flee none the wiser as to who the real weavers of this wickedness were. Indeed, this conspiracy deserved a good uncloaking, and the mastermind his unmasking. Failing this, I feared the next “surprise” might prove more of a success than we’d like. But the vital puzzle piece ought lie somewhere here yet, I’m sure.
“Let creeping vines thrive, and they’ll catch your ankles… Nay, better to uproot them ere they run,” I muttered to myself. A line out of a childhood book that was; a line more apt now than ever, much to my chagrin.
Speaking of, I rather lamented having to leave that bookhouse in such haste. Were this a quieter day, I should’ve liked to stay there and steep myself in its many tomes; for much is stored in bookhouses that archives and librāria do not fancy—the sort of fare too precious for pupils to peruse, for instance.
But as I so mused, Björn halted behind me asudden. And he was looking at me with eyes awfully wide.
“Björn?” I said. “What’s wrong?”
“‘Vines’…” he murmured. This was most unlike him. His moustache, that miserable bush that so oft bristled, was now quivering very slightly, if not strangely, as though its master was moved somehow—or haunted—by what I’d muttered.
Stopping, I explained myself, “Aye. Just a quote from an old knight’s tale. The hero opines at one point upon the dangers of doubts left undealt with. What? You find it strange?”
“Of course… a knight’s tale,” Björn mused hazily and heavily to himself. “Yes… yes, ’twas so, wasn’t it?”
The old man then let out a long and laboured sigh—as though undamming some tremendous emotion. Seeing this, I did not press him to explain, but rather waited patiently. At length, after staring distantly and yet most fixedly upon the floor, Björn spoke.
“Once before have I heard that selfsame line,” he revealed, “—as recited by my son.”
And ever as Björn said this, I saw passing his face an expression I’d seen upon him never before: a grey and gloomy regard, as one steeping in deep sorrow.
“Your son…? I see.”
That was all in me to say. Nothing more. And neither did Björn speak any further on the matter. After a moment, he got moving again, and I followed. We did not share any words as we strode. No enemies there were in earshot, nor even wind to disturb wall or high window; only the sound of our feet echoing emphatically through the corridors.
“…”
“…”
And amidst that silence, I pondered upon Björn’s speech, and withal his expression when the word “son” had left his lips. On one hand, it wasn’t hard to guess their meaning. But on the other, perhaps not so; perhaps I was a fool and knew nothing at all.
Every man has got a story to tell. Björn’s was no doubt a book doubly, or even triply, longer than mine. And more doubtless still had he lived days far beyond me to imagine. But of them I hadn’t got the conscience to enquire; of his son I could not bring myself to ask.
“…”
“…”
On and on we went, down a corridor that seemed to stretch all the longer within the lingering silence. Meanwhile, though my mind remained something of a mess, I made certain never to slacken my caution. Places near, places far, places we were set to cross; nothing escaped my scrutiny. But in spite of it, there sprang a surprise.
“…Hn?”
I saw it. In the floor, astride the corridor wall, there sat a hole—the mouth of some stairway.
This was passing strange. We were on the ground storey, meaning those steps would lead underground. But according to all intelligence as gathered by the Himmel, there ought be no undercroft anywhere here in Merkulov. Rahm’s soils allowed them little, by and large. Wells as seen at the studitōrium were about as “underground” as things got here. And I couldn’t suppose I’d missed any details that indicated the contrary, nor could I imagine the princess keeping these stairs a secret from us. Indeed, she and her retinue might be just as baffled, were they here to see them.
On that thought, I pointed to the hole and called the old captain. “Lo, Björn. Over there.”
No answer came.
“…Björn?”
I turned to him. But alas—Björn was gone.
Vanished, even. All but some seconds ago had we been walking abreast. Might he have taken a turn somewhere behind? Perhaps I ought turn back myself and see. Only, more strongly did those stairs beckon to me. For it much seemed the secret of these conspirators all along: a factor unfound by our intelligence; a feature that’d fled the eyes of our inspectors—now to stand, to gape right there afore my eyes.
“Well, as they say…” I uttered, “…nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
And then, perhaps imprudently, I made for that maw of an entrance; and with all caution, I crept down its throat-like stairway.
Long it went, and windingly withal, as though boring into the belly of some giant beast.
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