We academics are dauntless in the face of every battle, Atticus’s own tutor, the retired Tarnan Eldreave, had once told him.Every battle, that is, except for the one which is fought with fists and swords.
Until now.
Atticus placed a trembling hand on the doorknob, his entire body numb with dread. He had already expected, from the moment Maude had informed him of the enemy’s arrival,that the sight beyond his office would break him. But nothing could have possibly prepared him for what he next saw.
Ten years ago, when he had been instated as an Elder Scribe, Atticus had specifically selected an office on the seventh floor, having taken a liking to its collection throughout his apprenticeship with Master Eldreave. There was something intimate, something heartening, about the topmost archive. The zenith of the arts. The summit of all knowledge.
But as he looked down from the balcony outside his office now, Atticus could not help but wince at the young, naive man he’d once been. Great heights did not mean great wisdom. All it meant was you had a better view of the madness beneath your feet.
Brilliant streaks of sunshine spilled through the skylight, flooding the Orphic Basilica in an ethereal, incandescent glow. But that only made the pandemonium unfolding below all the more evident. Scholars, professors, and librarians hastened toward the nearest reading rooms and study nooks, either scampering for safety or ascending from one floor and up to the next, borne aloft on glimmering alchemical runes pried from the pages of mystics’ spellbooks and forbidden grimoires. Tourists scurried aimlessly through the commotion, their tear-laced eyes darting back and forth with confused trepidation. Two men sprinted toward the stairs leading down to the second floor, one of them clinging to the other and the second carrying their son in the crook of his arm.
A pair of airborne scholars, whom Atticus recognized as Nemene’s apprentices, floated toward the skylight, casting intermittent runes at their feet to propel their ascension. Once the two made it to the base of the skylight, they peered through the window, scuttling around the edges, until one of them flung out their arm and pointed to the west. The other drifted over to their companion, their face paling with fear.
Maude came to stand beside Atticus, and after a moment, she whispered, “This is it, isn’t it?”
He wanted so badly to give her hope, to assuage the worries no doubt gnawing at her mind. But what could he say? Maude was no stranger to the nature of academia. They were, or had at least sworn among themselves to be, the peacekeepers of the realm. They were not to fight, not to swing swords and spill blood.
But none of them had been oblivious to the doom marching their way. They had heard whispers of the red-eyed, black-armored devils long ago, but it had only been once Atticus’s chosen candidates had returned from their research expedition, bearing portentous reports of the enemy’s whereabouts, that the academic community had begun to feel true fear, to count down their precious few days.
Before the Reaper could bring down its scythe, though, Atticus had work to do.
“Yes, this is the end,” Atticus said, then clapped a hand down onto Maude’s shoulder, the other clutching Holyborn. “I have heard stories of these creatures, Maude. Patiny even warned me in this damn poem he wrote, and yet I dismissed it as folly. Their gaze incites madness. It lingers like a sickness, like a disease.”
Maude cried, tracks of gleaming tears swiveling down her cheeks. “Master Walestone, what—”
“I know I have been reticent throughout your apprenticeship, though I promise you, child, this was not without reason.” Atticus spoke with haste, his heart thundering. “I vowed to keep secret what Eldreave passed on to me, and so I shall, but there is one thing I ask of you. One duty. It will be the hardest thing you will ever do. But do it, and our kind might yet be saved, our knowledge conserved.”
“What is it?” Maude asked, a quaver in her voice.
Atticus looked her hard in the eyes. “I want you to find as many scholars as you can, Maude, and then I want you torun. Run as fast and far as you can. I need the Protectorate and a few other scholars here to fulfill the obligation I was given, but the rest of you...” He held back tears. “Once the Protectorate has engaged the shield, and once I’ve opened the doors to the catacombs, run straight out the front doors. Lay low and take shelter until the day is done, however it plays out. Make art—books and poems, paintings and sculptures. Our history mustn’t fade. If we fall today, all will be lost. Thousands of years of painstakingly acquired information, gone. I will not,cannot, see that transpire.”
Maude stared at Atticus with a petrifying intensity. She stood stock-still with fear, as if rooted in place by the magnitude of the task set before her.
“Please, Maude,” Atticus implored. “If I could have asked you sooner, I would have, but I have sworn my promise. And now the day has come.”
It took some moments for Maude to recompose herself, but when she did, she nodded with an eerily calm confidence.
No, Atticus reflected,that is not confidence. That’s resignation.
She had known, for years now, the potential price of admittance within the Orphic Basilica. She had likely faced the same, or similar, abuse as that which Atticus had battled for most of his life. He hadn’t been privy to the details of his only student’s history and background, for he believed such a breach of privacy to be a transgression of the highest order, a trespassing of the boundary between the domestic and academic roads of life.
But now, as they stood within the shadow of the apocalypse, regret swirled in his stomach. He should have talked to her. He should have made a conscious effort, orpretended, at the very least, to sympathize with her suffering, to show her that he was as much her friend as he was her professor.
So many mistakes made, and yet, so little time to make amends.
“All right, Master Walestone,” Maude said, swallowing. “You can lay your faith in me.”
“Thank you, child. Now go,” Atticus said with insistent demand, pressing Maude lightly between her shoulders. “Go, Maude, and farewell. If all goes right, we shall meet again.”
Then Atticus stepped up onto the balcony railing, Holyborn in hand, and vaulted off. He closed his eyes briefly, relishing the sensation of weightlessness, of gravity challenged, and opened them. He drew in a deep breath, willing the magic stirring dormant within his veins to surface.
Calligraphic runes spiraled out of his fingertips, summoned from the indexes of memorized grimoires. A sheen of prismatic light momentarily encircled his body and then dissipated. He brought his hands down to his sides, redirecting his trajectory, and as the runes obediently followed the movement, he made his descent.
Atticus landed on the first floor.
The scholars running amok around him hastily retreated, then, recognizing who had joined the turmoil, drifted back into Atticus’s orbit as if entranced. He knew he could not save them, despite the efforts he would soon make to preserve their blessed sanctuary, but he seared into his memory the tentative hope shining through the masks of grave certainty set over their faces.
“Master Walestone!” they cried. “Master Walestone!”
