Boreal

Chapter Ten

The Lanthorn was, in Ptarmigan's humble opinion, the most beautiful and striking building in Kyba. It sat at the very eastern flank of the Academy, separate from the main building in much the same way as the Assembly Hall had been.

It resembled a lighthouse in its structure, wider at the bottom then narrowing as it reached the top. At the very tip, the glow of the beacon cast the white stone in a sickly blue light, like bottled gods' blood dimming over time. The beacon itself was ringed by a walkway, upon which the vague shapes of mounts and gulls perched. Large windows clawed their way up the side like the footholds of a climbing wall, and in each, Ptarmigan could just about make out the silhouettes of the Mappers going about their business.

Their footsteps were eerily loud as they entered the Mapper's courtyard. It was overgrown, weeds and thickets overspilling their planters to crawl across the cobbles. Rotting benches lay in tatters beside smashed pots.

In the very centre of the courtyard, sat a pedestal, upon which stood a statue of a dragon with its wings outstretched. In one hand, the dragon clutched a scroll, and dangling from its jaws, a compass on a chain. The entire thing had been cast in bronze and was heavily weathered. The details of its face were worn back, smooth, and the more delicate parts of its body – its ears and wingtips – had snapped off Emergences ago.

Ptarmigan paid it little attention as he made for the Lanthorn's great oak-wood doors, but Almas stopped, staring at the statue in awe. He expected her to give it a once over then continue on her way like most racer children did, but she remained firmly rooted in place.

"Who's this supposed to be?"

"Sorry?"

"The dragon, who's it supposed to be?"

He shrugged.

"No clue. Dragons are the favoured mounts of Mappers, though. They have the best stamina, is what they taught us back in Hayd, at least, so that's probably why."

"It has to be based on someone."

Again, he simply shrugged. Ptarmigan had never really thought about it, but he supposed the statue had to be based on someone. Probably long dead, by now, considering the wear.

Reluctantly, Almas trailed after him. Ptarmigan had to force his full weight against the doors to get them to swing open just enough for the pair of them to slip inside.

The Lanthorn was warm, and comfortable. Threadbare carpet had been draped across a faded wooden floor. Couches and chairs sat in circles around low tables stacked high with books. Despite himself, Ptarmigan found his gaze drifting up.

The tower was hollow, stretching towards the darkness of the uppermost level. Metal walkways had been arranged in rings, marking each floor, each linked by steep and narrow iron staircases arranged in an oversized spiral. The walls were drenched in manuscripts and scrolls and tomes; more words than one lifetime could read. Texts, collected from far and distant lands in times long since passed, by people who barely spent more than a season at a time in a single place.

Almas let out a little, startled gasp, less conspicuous in her gawking. Her chin was tipped all the way back, staring at the people and mounts picking their way around, somehow able to tell exactly where what they needed was in the sea of reports and documents.

It was quiet, though considering the looming Long Race and all the preparations needed to determine a safe route, he wasn't too surprised. A single wyvern stood near the central staircase, ascending, but also vanishing below, crawling its way down into the archives below. His head was bowed as he talked quietly with Shyam.

He was a falcon-morph, his under feathers and belly a soft cream, fading into a speckled brown along his back and head. He was impressively large, far more muscular than he'd expect of a wyvern – something shared by all Mapper mounts – to the point where, instead of assuming the upright position of a bird of prey, he was stooped over in much the same was as a swan would. But its most noticeable feature were his wings – or rather wing. He had only one, folded at his back like a cape, the other little more than a heavily scarred stump, the feathers stripped down to reveal the grey flesh beneath.