Boreal

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ptarmigan's fists punched against the door, bloodied knuckles only smearing more crimson against the battered wood. He spat and snarled and fought, but no matter what he tried, the wrought iron lock and solid oak stood firm. He may as well have been trying to shift a mountain. He placed his forehead against the door and squeezed his eyes shut. Ptarmigan swore. He had to be missing something – anything – to get himself out of this.

The room was larger than the other studies Ptarmigan had seen at the citadel, stripped down to its bare components. The roofbeams were exposed, draped in cobwebs which waved like flags in some unseen draught. The wooden floor was discoloured, lighter in places where furniture had been moved. Only a desk remained, set beneath a set of large arched windows – too large for them to get it out of the door, he reckoned. No books, or scrolls – they'd even taken out the chair - nothing for him to use. Ptarmigan crossed the room, each footstep startlingly loud. The door was out of the question, which left only the window. In one movement he was up on the desk, pressing his hands against the window. He was at least four stories up, overlooking an overgrown courtyard, surrounded on all sides by corridors. Music drifted from across the city, flashes of riders dancing through the glowing clouds. Paters and altar boys hurried past behind fogged windows, oblivious to his plight. There was no ledge, to climb onto that he could see, no way out. He slammed his palms against the window, rattling the glass. Ptarmigan clenched his jaw. The door was a dead end, but...he'd survived worse falls than that before. How hard could it be, to break a window? He fumbled with his sheath, tugging out his knife. Ptarmigan placed the blade against the glass, practicing. He just had to hit it straight on, fracture the glass enough to punch the rest out. His breathing slowed. And, as he raised the knife, there was a knock at the door.

"Ptarmigan?" Pater Rook's voice was like dawn breaking. Ptarmigan fumbled to slip the knife back in its sheath as a key turned. He had just enough time to yank his shirt back down to cover the handle as the door creaked open, and the Pater poked his head through the gap.

"Pater," Ptarmigan replied, giving a slight nod. He stood atop the desk, folding his arms across his chest. The older man raised his eyebrows as he stepped inside, holding the door open.

"I'm glad I finally found you. Quickly now," he said. He opened his mouth as if to say something else but seemed to think better of it. Pater Rook pressed his lips together and motioned for him to hurry. Ptarmigan hesitated to follow, but just for a moment. Trick or not, he knew he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth, and a way out was a way out. And so, he gave a slight not, and hopped back down. Pater Rook opened the door fully as the boy marched across to join him. The old man raised an eyebrow. "May I ask what you were doing up on the table."

"Looking for a way out," he replied. There was no point in lying. Pater Rook said nothing, simply placing a hand on the small of Ptarmigan's back, guiding him forwards down a long, narrow corridor – nothing but whitewashed walls and bare wooden floors, with battered doors on either side. It was like some kind of sterile dungeon. Perhaps there were other troublemakers, behind each, desperately trying to make their escapes. Somewhere, though muffled by the walls, people were singing praises to Amok, and the blessings of the long season.

"I do wish you would be more careful, Ptarmigan," the pater sighed. "Less foolhardy. Though I suppose such is the folly of youth. You and your friends, you have gotten yourselves into quite the predicament, haven't you?" He was quiet for a moment, then added, "I'm sorry about your friend. Bale's son if I'm not mistaken?" The question caught him off guard, and as they reached a spiralling marble staircase, Ptarmigan stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes stung. His throat grew tight. Pater Rook gave a sad smile. "I apologise, I did not mean to upset you."

"I'm alright," Ptarmigan replied, quickly rubbing at his eyes. He was sick and tired of crying. Crying wouldn't fix anything. He clenched his jaw, swallowing what few tears still desperately tried to claw their way out. Where was it, that little angry flame that he'd latched on to when Vivaan had taken him away? Now, when he needed it, it had vanished – like smoke in the wind. "Pater, I Siskin and Ciarran, it wasn't them. You need to speak with-"