Boreal

Chapter Eighteen

The guardians had no chance of catching him. Ptarmigan was like a greased eel, them fishermen with broken nets. Oh, they would remember him, no doubt. And no doubt they would go running to Harrier and Vivaan the moment change over arrived. But that wouldn't be for a while, he hoped, and that would be more than enough time to speak with Pater Rook. More than enough time to vanish until the gongs rang for the twenty-third time.

Their cries for him to stop fell away as he took the stairs two at a time, hurling himself across the swaying bridges and forcing his way through the crowds massing in the safety of the towers. And for good reason; as he stepped back outside, the wind drove daggers through his cloak. It was snowing, hard. The flakes had turned to needles, clawing at any inch of free skin they could find. It was mixed with sleet and rain, littering the cobbled street with half frozen water and patches of crystalising ice. The ground bit at the bare soles of his feet, but Ptarmigan didn't dare stop. While he'd heard no signs of pursuit from the guardians posted to watch greed, he couldn't let his guard down. The guardians should still have been on patrol, even in the face of the worsening weather.

He saw nothing, not one living creature, as he raced through the streets of the upper throws.

Ptarmigan was stood before the gates of the citadel in record time. The gilded iron bars were locked up tight, spattered with ice and rain. The great oak doors of the entry hall were firmly closed. The neatly trimmed bushes which lined the staircase writhed in the blustering wind, sending leaves and twigs tumbling across the stone. The courtyard was as deserted as the streets, and there was no one to stop him from scrambling up and over. He kept his head down, hood clutched over his head. Ptarmigan kept his gaze on the walls, on the windows. He didn't even to try the main entrance; if the gates were locked, then he was certain they would be too.

There! It was a story up, but as he rounded the corner of the front of the compound, he spotted what he was after. One of the study room windows, he reckoned, left open just a crack. He glanced behind him, ensuring the coast was well and truly clear, then made his move.

It was easier to climb than the tower had been. While the citadel's walls were also marble, they were heavily engraved, and there were plenty of places to put his hands and feet. In a matter of moments he was wrapping his hand around the bottom of the window frame and all but wrenching it open.

The room he found himself it was exactly as he'd expected. A sturdy desk and stool against one wall, and a neat little bookshelf directly opposite. The carpet was damp, the rain having slipped inside as he had. Ptarmigan wasted no time making his way over to the door, peeking out into the corridor to get his bearings. He was somewhere in the eastern wing, he thought. If this was the first floor...

His footsteps were measured as he moved out into the open. Ptarmigan kept one hand on the door, closing it as softly as he could, but still the thud was like thunder in the stillness. He flinched, breath catching in the back of his throat. Had someone heard? He wasn't about to wait around to find out.

He fought back the urge to run. If he did encounter anyone, then that would be more suspicious, right? If he kept his back straight, feigned confidence, then they might just pass him by. A left turn, then a right, then another right, and he was faced by a familiar set of stairs leading up to the hall where they would have their classes. His heart was hammering in his chest. He wiped his hands on his cloak as he approached and then, muttering a prayer to the gods he barely believed in, nudged the door open just a crack.

It was quiet and dark, in the lecture hall. Parchment and quills lay set out as though ready for a class of ghosts. Relief flooded through his chest as he spied a familiar figure at the chalkboard, tracing the shape of a dragon.