Page 72 of The Teras Trials

She steps forward and tears Varro. Waving the volume dismissively in the air, Victoria says, “So we’re stuck on this side until we pass. Got it. Let’s not waste our time thinking about that when we have a fucking Nemean Lion to survive in the morning.” She looks back at the Blood Hunter, who is smiling at her, for some reason. “You’re the Doorkeeper, aren’t you? Ianus, ianitos—there’s no cult of Janus, it’s just you, monitoring the passage between the testing ground and the real University.”

He stares at her, not unkindly, but also not like she’s spoken some great revelation into the world. “Well, yes. Did you come here expecting to find a god?”

“We came here,” I say slowly, “for an artificer.”

“Is this another trial?” Silas asks.

The Blood Hunter glances at him. “No.”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”

A cock of the head, a sigh. “I am not supposed to help students win any trials.”

“Fuck this,” Fred says. She nudges me; I know what she wants. I oblige, because I’m getting desperate, and tired, and God, have you forsaken me, truly? Why can’t we catch a break? I reach into my pocket and cock the gun at the Blood Hunter’s head. Fred raises her chin. “What about now?” she says.

It feels different to pointing the gun at Peter Drike, or a teras, because this man is smiling. Not, I think, because he feels truly invulnerable—but because it would be mutually assured destruction. I pull this trigger, and what? At best we face tomorrow, and are torn apart and eaten, a gory meal for a monster. At worst, it will be a quick death: the dean won’t let us leave. It will be an execution.

My face must show my hesitation, because the Blood Hunter gestures at me. “Why d’you think you’re meant to petition an Artificer, Mr Jones?”

I flinch. It feels so much like a question that’d be lobbed to you in school. “So we don’t forget how much we need the resources of the University. So we are beholden to this place.”

It’s an obvious answer. It doesn’t appear to satisfy him. The Blood Hunter takes a deep sigh and walks towards the barrel, and I let him: I let him get close enough that all he has to do is gently push my wrist until I’m aiming at the wall.

“It’s creative, I’ll give you that. Resourceful, too. But it’s not the only way to beat this trial.”

I think of the hemlock. It’s the only advantage we’ve got. I know what he’s saying: that we have to be prepared to improvise, that inevitably there will be a time in our careers where we’ll have no information, no resources to fall back on, and we’ll have to fight a teras on instinct alone. But why should I let myself die when I know a way to survive?

“Well, it’s the way we’re going for,” I mutter. The others are getting agitated. I see Leo looking at me, rolling back his shoulders, ready to fight this man if he has to. I don’t look his way, in case I’m his trigger. “My brother was half eaten by a manticore. I plan to stop it. To kill it. It’s still roaming out there, you know. Feasting.” I step closer, so the Blood Hunter can see the sincerity in my eyes; the fear, too. I want him to see me as an honest man. A stupid one, maybe, but honest. “I can only do that if I make it out of tomorrow’s trial alive.”

A small smile softens his features. “Lad, you’re not killing that manticore.” He sniffs, sighs. For a moment, I’m certain I’ve lost him. How am I meant to know whether he even liked Thaddeus? But something shifts; obligation, I think it must be. Whatever it is that pushes him to relax, he’s still reluctant. “Alright,” the Blood Hunter says. “I’ll let you petition an Artificer.”

He steps towards the door. Silas unfurls his arms and tries to ruin this one good thing by saying, “Thought you weren’t allowed to help us.”

“You sure you want to question me, lad?” the Blood Hunter shoots back, just before he steps through the veil. “Don’t touch a fucking thing.”

* * *

We wait in cramped silence, all of us spread out as far as the tiny space allows.

The first thing any of us does—naturally—is to touch things we aren’t meant to. I move to the desk and promptly pocket the laudanum. Bellamy immediately goes for the orrery, but it just whirrs out of his way. Its lower tripod half extends rapidly until the vials and whatever strange map they’re following is high above any of our reaches. I’m surprised that Bellamy gives up, and even more so that Silas takes his place as resident chaos-causer. His are more scholarly efforts, though. He starts digging through pages, but when I hear him swear I know they’re all in Latin.

“Cassius,” he calls, begrudgingly, and I go, because I’m petty and enjoy knowing more than he does. But then I have to contend with the embarrassment of not knowing what it’s written in. It’s not Latin. Not Ancient Greek either.

“Aramaic,” I mumble—because I think that’s it. “Sorry, Silas. Don’t know that one.”

He makes a face at the pages and I leave him to it. I almost go to Leo. He looks at me and mouths, Are you ok? I want to mouth back, Are you? but I think I know the answer. I nod at him and smile and promise myself I have all tonight to mope about him. But Victoria is by the door to our campus, arms still folded, back to all of us. With Bellamy preoccupied with opening the tallboy filled with our blood, I need to use the opportunity to speak to her.

She flinches when she hears me approach, half turning. Her eyes are raw and red, bitter look making her lip curl.

“What’s happened?” I ask. “Beyond, you know. The trials.” Because it’s more than that—or I assume so.

She scoffs. I brace myself, expecting her to send me away. But she drops her arms and rocks forward until she’s stumbling out of the door. If she were to open her mouth now and howl—let out the most tortured cry—I’m not sure I’d even blink. I realise I’m hovering at the threshold, waiting for her to scream. Victoria doesn’t. She wanders to the willow and stares up at it. I follow after her, vaguely aware of the pain in my stomach and torso. I put a hand to it and wonder vaguely if it’s nausea or the harpy’s claws making me feel this way.

“This is going to sound ridiculous,” Victoria says very seriously when she hears me approach, not looking at me, “but I don’t think I was prepared for how hard this would be.”

That last bit she says in a quiet voice, and when she turns to look at me, it’s with searching eyes. Victoria is hoping for solidarity. And how can I not give it to her? She looks at me, rosy cheeks, sunken eyes, pinched expression as if bracing herself for a mockery. I killed a fellow student. I nearly lost my mind speaking to a harpy.

“Victoria,” I say breathlessly, half laughing, “I’d think you insane if you were handling this at all well.”

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