Page 69 of The Teras Trials

“It’s true. Under the watchful eye of the dean, who so gladly throws us all to the teras,” I say. “I pulled the trigger. You might have heard it, before you went to pray the other night. If you think something as shapeless as morals will stop either one of us from pulling this trigger, I advise you to make your peace with God now.”

“I’m not telling you shit,” Drike says.

“Then most of us will die tomorrow.”

I’m horrified that I sound so sure of it, but I’m right, aren’t I? The trial behind all these sadistic little games is this: navigating an institution run by neurotic academics, seeking information from lost tomes and fragments, never knowing if your information is correct or valid, never being able to verify it. That is academia; that is the study of the ancients. Only, in our world, a lack of sources can easily mean our deaths.

Drike snarls, but there’s an exhaustion in his eyes, his face. He hasn’t moved from the couch. I wonder if the trials, and the truth of them, is hitting him the same way.

“By the library,” he says. “There are doors. You must knock. Automaton mentioned Janus, so,” here he kicks the pile of books and loose pages on the floor, eventually revealing an old volume of Varro. He picks it up and waves it at me. “Was hoping something about it was in here.”

“Thank you,” I say. I can figure out the rest—I know about Janus. The distinct Roman god with no Greek equivalent. The god of gates, and transitions, and portals. I grab Leo by the arm, and he relinquishes Thaddeus’ gun immediately. We turn to leave. Drike clears his throat before we step over the threshold; before we step through the portal to the campus, away from Drike’s realm.

“What are we meant to do?” he says, in barely more than a whisper. “Tell me. Please.”

The last word is a plea. Leo grabs my arm firmly, a squeeze that says to drop it and let Drike flounder. I’m almost petty enough to do it, but I’m not sure I want to be the man that lets this place condemn us to death.

“Nemean class teras are susceptible to hemlock,” I tell him. It is the only lifeline I offer.

Bastard doesn’t even say ‘thank you’ as we leave.

20

LESSON TWENTY

Varro’s De Lingua Latina is in our apartment, because of course it is. I feel no joy or sense of genius when I pluck it from the shelf.

“Explain it to me again,” Victoria says. I don’t know where she’s been, and I don’t ask—she says she found no further information, but I secretly suspect she wasn’t looking. Her eyes are puffy; not sunken in from lack of sleep but inflamed from crying. I won’t comment on it, and no one else does.

All of us are back in the sitting room, in a circle again, with a new wave of melancholy washing over us. Sleep feels distinct, our desire for it like a dream, but none of us can afford to rest with the next trial so close. My gut still aches, and I have to shift awkwardly to keep my body from complaining. Every so often a sharp jolt of pain reminds me how close I came to being torn open.

Bellamy and Victoria are together on the couch, those she looks put off by him; hugging herself close. The Lins are hovering by the wall again, Leo by the fire. I’ve wrenched Varro free from the shelf and stand in the centre of them all.

I heft the book in my arms. “If we assume the Nemean Lion is the next teras we face, and we know it’s susceptible to hemlock, then Silas is right. We’ll need to find a way to administer it. And yes, Bellamy—even if it takes a good hour to take effect. It might be our saving grace.”

I turn to chapter 7, and scan for the reference to Janus the index promised me. The book is old and dusty, with that worn-in smell of age and ink.

“So we knock on this door, and what?” Victoria asks. Then she sniffs and readjusts. “We need weapons. I need—I need a gun. Or an axe.” She fiddles with her hands to hide the welling tears in her eyes. She’s panicking. I’m so useless I pretend I don’t know what’s happening.

“We knock on this door, and a graduate opens it. Drike said we have to petition them, to see a graduate.” I know they’re about to ask ‘how’ but at this point, I know as much as them. “Here,” I say, before anyone can speak. My finger on the passage, I read it aloud.

Cozevi oftorieso. Omnia vero ad Patulc(ium)

commisse. laneus mm es, duonus Cerus es, du(o>nus lanus. Vew(i>es pom melios eum recum . . .

O Planter God/ arise. Everything indeed have I committed unto (thee as) the Opener. Now art thou the Doorkeeper, thou art the Good Creator, the Good God of Beginnings. Thou'It come especially, thou the superior of these kings. .

“And that means what, exactly?” Fred asks.

“It’s a prayer. A Salian Hymn. Janus is an elusive god; there’s not much written about him. But you see here, he’s referred to as the Doorkeeper.”

“And the Good Creator,” Silas whispers. “Perhaps a god of procreation, or crops. But it’s a threshold—”

“Yes! Liminal spaces. Intermediary zones. Transition from one place to another; a portal.”

I don’t mention the other thing: that I saw something that first night, like the shade of a student studying in the halls. Bellamy rolls his eyes anyway. I slam the book shut. “We have to take it seriously,” I tell him. “Because we already had one ritual to get here, and they took our blood. To track us. If this institution is serious about it, we must be too.”

He puts up his hands dramatically; Victoria carefully implores him to calm down. We’re all splintering—not that we were particularly close beforehand. Still, I can tell it’s getting worse.

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