He collapsed into the snow in frustration while the Lufthund watched behind him, snorting from time to time as though mocking him. A flurry of snowflakes swirled around Barclay, burying him. Barclay was almost miserable enough to let them.
“Viola must be wrong,” Barclay huffed. “I don’t think the windcanbe controlled. It’s not light, like her Lore! It’s not precise. It’s… wild.”
The Lufthund nodded. Or perhaps Barclay imagined it.
“With Falk and Soren and Tadg, I managed it,” Barclay said. He yanked off his gloves, soaked from the snow, and examined his hands, as if trying to figure out the Lore they wielded. He frowned and picked at the dirt under his fingernails, then stopped when he remembered Master Pilzmann wasn’t here to scold him for it. “Why could I do the Lore right then but not now?”
The Lufthund padded over to him. Barclay tensed as it approached, and he froze altogether when it stood over him. But rather than attack, the Beast gently placed its paw on Barclay’s forehead, then it lifted it and pointed to itself. Like it was trying to tell him something.
He remembered yesterday how Ethel had said that the Lufthund looked like him, and Barclay could reluctantly admit that it did. Its wild black fur resembled Barclay’s long hair. Their eyes matched, irises so dark, they blended into the pupil. There was even a similarity to their expressions—equally stubborn, equally wild.
“?‘There’s a difference between a companion and a monster,’?” Barclay repeated Tadg’s words under his breath. Looking at the Lufthund, he wasn’t sure. There was something untamable about it, like the wind. But that didn’t make it a monster.
He shakily reached his hand up to touch it, wondering if the action would lose him a few fingers. But the Lufthund didn’t bite him. Instead, Barclay’s fingers ran through its shaggy fur.
“Root,” Barclay murmured. “Your name is Root.”
Root gave a light bark of approval at his name, then he nodded to the right, toward the streets where they had run the previous night. Barclay’s heart gave a thrilled thump. In Sycomore, there was no one to punish him for wild things. For running in the dark of night. For the tangles in his hair, the dirt beneath his fingernails. Barclay was no one here. He was free.
But then a rush of memories returned to him, the kind so precious and painful that he normally kept them locked away. Like his father reading him to sleep each night. How his parents’ house used to smell, like the sage and thyme that grew on the windowsill, like the logs burning on the fire. He remembered his mother’s hair—it was long and black, much like his own. How much they’d loved Dullshire, even with its many, many rules.
And he remembered who he really was: Barclay Thorne, a mushroom farmer’s apprentice and townsboy, the last person who’d ever want to go on an adventure.
Come back,Barclay told him, and Root ignored him, wagging his tail and once again motioning toward the road.
“We’re not running tonight,” Barclay told him bitterly.
Root woofed and padded excitedly in a circle.
“I saidno,” Barclay groaned.
Root’s tail fell in disappointment, and this time he didn’t fight returning to his Mark. Barclay stood up, dusted the snow off his coat, and trudged back to the Ironwood Inn. His cheeks were flushed, like they were when he lied. But there was no one around to lie to but himself.
SIXTEEN
On Lecture Day, the day before the second exam, Barclay found himself seated in a crowd in the snowy grass at the edge of Sycomore. Mandeep gave the first presentation of the morning, but Barclay only paid attention to Viola beside him, who continued to quiz him for the practical. She had two open books on her lap: a textbook Ethel had lent Barclay and Murdock’sA Traveler’s Logbeside it.
“Where would you find a Tadpike?” Viola asked.
“At this time of year, probably buried near freshwater. It’s too cold for them to be in the river yet,” Barclay answered, and Viola gave him a distracted nod.
After several moments, impatient for the next question, Barclay hissed, “Viola.”
“Sorry, sorry. I’m just interested in this chapter Murdockwrote about bonds between a Keeper and Beast. You might want to read—”
“Will you two be quiet?” Ethel snapped from his other side. “I can’t hear.”
“I thought you and Abel want to be Guardian Keepers,” said Barclay. “So why listen to Mandeep? He’s a Scholar.”
“It’s still really interesting!” Ethel said, flipping to a new page in her notebook.
Abel rolled his eyes. “You think everything is interesting.”
“I’m an interesting person,” she huffed. “I haveinterests.”
“I just don’t understand why you need a license to be a Scholar,” he said. “You don’t need to be part of the Guild to go to the library.”
“Certain texts are forbidden to anyone without a license,” Viola explained. “Being part of the Guild is important, even in some of the non-Lore-Keeper world. It’s why the Exhibition is so difficult. And apprenticeship is even harder. Only a small percentage of Lore Keepers are licensed by the Guild.”
