Page 70 of The Teras Trials

Silas and Fred. Bellamy and Victoria. They are established pairs.

I don’t know about Leo. I don’t know about myself.

“We don’t have time to sit around,” Leo says finally. He pushes off the mantle and nods at the door. “Come on. Before it gets dark.”

It’s not raining this afternoon, but it’s overcast. The grounds are empty and cold, the grey-tinge from the fuzzy sunlight sets everything gloomy, and a wind bites through all of us as we walk. I take Varro with me, but I haven’t smoked enough today, and the craving hits me. I press the volume against Leo’s chest and he takes it without a word; just a gentle smile.

By the time we’re in the courtyard I’ve smoked my cigarette down to a stub. I hesitate entering it, in case we come across Blood Hunters—not because we’re not allowed to be here, but because they unnerve me. I know they are always here. I know they can always find me.

“Which door?” Victoria prompts.

I bite my lip and point to the one on the left side of the quadrangle, where I saw the Blood Hunter emerge. “Try that one.”

We all go before it like supplicants, and even if Bellamy wants to laugh, there is a ritualistic feel to this gathering. And now that I’m looking, each side of the door bears Janus’ two-faced head, one face staring in each direction. There are two of these decorations on either side of the doorway.

“Knock,” Fred says with bravado, though her arms are tightly folded against her chest.

I lean forward and rap three times.

Nothing happens. Because, of course. It would all be too easy if anything happened.

I sigh and gesture for Leo to hand me the Varro volume.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, handing it to me. I flip to chapter 7 again, and read aloud the same passage I read the others, first in Latin and then in English:

O Planter God/ arise. Every-thing 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 when again there’s no response, I reach up to the Janus ornaments and fiddle with them, thinking they might twist or turn, but they’re only decoration. Then: “Fuck it.”

I knock again, endlessly, for close to half a minute until a lock clicks and the door opens extremely reluctantly.

The glinting whites of an eye grow from the darkness. I can make out nothing else beyond the silhouette of a leather tricorn hat and the deep shadow it casts across the rest of the face.

Whoever it is grunts out, “You are not supposed to be here.”

“Bullshit,” Leo snaps. He kicks the door wide; very little light pours in despite this. We are met only by an illuminated shadow—a long dark coat, a wide tricorn hat, pale skin and that one eye poking out from underneath it. Leo isn’t fazed. He says, “This is exactly what we’re meant to be doing.” Here he grabs Varro from my hands and shoves the volume forward, over the threshold. Immediately, half of it is subsumed in darkness. Leo flinches and pulls back.

“What,” he says—not a question.

Behind me, I think I hear Bellamy swear and step away.

“You are not supposed to be here,” the voice says again.

“An Artificer,” I say. “We are here to petition an Artificer.”

No reply. Leo hands the volume back to me, and I wonder if he’s squaring up to haul this doorkeeper over the threshold. But he seems reluctant to reach over the threshold, and instead he hovers, practically vibrating with frustration. I almost reach out to comfort him, until I remember the others are behind us.

Silas nudges me aside without apology. “Meléti said we could petition a graduate.”

The eye flicks to him, and the image of the doorkeeper—of this sullen and reverent figure, watching us from the dark—shatters. The doorkeeper sighs and the eye blinks out as their head dips forward in a bow.

Muffled, but barely concealed, we hear, “Fucking automaton piece of—” The door opens fully. “Fine. But you step over and that’s it, okay?”

Leo walks forward without a single care for his own wellbeing. The flesh of him ripples and shifts. Shadow on him looks like ink in water, undulating in patterns over his skin. He gasps and shudders to a halt, and when I try to prompt him he doesn’t answer me, just looks back; expression buried in the dark.

“No way,” Bellamy mutters. “Victoria, don’t you dare.”

I turn in time to watch Victoria wrench her arm free of him. She gives me a look I can’t parse—she’s unhappy, still, but I don’t know why—and goes to cross the threshold when Bellamy pulls her back.

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