FOURTEEN: LAZARIAN

Orla

Orla clutched her bag against her middle and refused to meet the eyes of anyone she passed outside of the classroom.

"They let anyone into Sanctums now, I see," said Percival Reed, his slick black hair parted down the middle, his green eyes piercing and judgmental.

Next to him, Kendall Thorne pouted, and her long, sleek mahogany hair rippled with the movement of her head. "She's going to get us in trouble," she whined. "She makes our whole year look bad!"

"I wouldn't worry about it. Gatrell will see her kicked out of the program before long...."

Grinding her teeth, Orla kept her mouth shut and marched away from the classroom. Her heart beat too quickly in her chest, shallow and rapid as a snare drum, threatening to crawl up her throat and burst free. It throbbed in her ears, ached in her fingertips. She didn't pay attention to where she was going—and flinched when a hand closed around her elbow.

Vera let her go, startled by the wild-eyed look Orla threw at her. Slowly, she said, "We have to go this way. For lunch."

Swallowing, Orla nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She swiped her hand below her nose and thankfully found it dry, though her eyes kept stinging. She followed Vera along the corridor to the steps, the light of day waiting at the stairwell's bottom.

"It's going to be okay, you know," Vera said in that sharp, efficient manner of hers. "Master Porter said you'd have tutoring during study hall, and they'll jump-start you onto the right path. First year really isn't all that much material. You just need to concentrate, and I promise it'll come to you."

Her words did little to relieve Orla's misery. She rubbed at the spot above her navel, the spot Master Gatrell had indicated, willing herself to feel something like she'd seen in the textbook, but Orla didn't feel anything aside from queasy.

What would happen when Master Gatrell succeeded in kicking her from his course? Would she get kicked from the rest? What would she do?

Sensing Orla wasn't up for conversation, Vera chatted with Thornhaven during lunch, and afterward, she led the unhappy girl toward their next class. It wasn't far, Vera taking her to a door on the main floor of the Jove Wing, opening it to reveal a set of shallow, gray steps.

"It's darker here—watch where you're walking."

They entered the dim sub-corridor and needed only continue on to the passage's end to find where they needed to be. Arden Raferty was already waiting by the room's entrance, leaning on the wall with her bag at her feet. Orla didn't think she'd seen her at lunch.

Raferty's eyes opened and settled on Orla, her face blank. Stung, Orla kept her gaze on the floor, watching how the thick shadows flickered and twitched in the torchlight. The lock thumped open a minute later.

Vera's furtive summary on their walk over had prepared Orla for what she'd find in their History of the Western Empire class. The room was large—long, the walls dark aside from the bleached rafters arched against the domed ceiling, the sensation of walking inside not dissimilar to what Orla thought stumbling into a whale's belly might be like. A damp chill clung to the air, and it crawled over Orla's arms, sticky like a child's greedy, unclean hands tugging down on her wrists.

The room's sole occupant reclined behind a solid walnut desk, his body half curled over its organized surface. Careless strands of his oil-black hair fell across his brow, his skin pale, body more gaunt than lean. Though undeniably handsome, he had the look of a man who had or was overcoming a hard illness, though that did little to diminish his presence. It was different from Master Gatrell's, whose proximity fell over the room like a smothering thunderhead. No, when this man's gaze deliberately rose to watch those who'd intruded into his den, it felt like a knife carelessly held against Orla's throat. It made her afraid to swallow.

"Master Atlas Lazarian," Vera told her. "He's the Director at the House of Calarhl, and he's a bit, ah, unsettling."

Master Lazarian's yellow eyes followed Orla, Vera, and Arden as they crossed the threshold. Those eyes glowed unnatural in the weak, shuttered torchlight, and the color reminded Orla of something one could find on a lizard or poisonous creature lurking deep in a dark, damp jungle. It was a vivid, pulsating hue that repulsed instead of warmed, and it burned where it glanced against Orla's skin.

He said nothing as the trio went to find seats, and Orla almost wilted with gratefulness when Vera didn't insist they go to the front row. Beneath her feet, Morty churned like cold snow rising above her ankles, making it difficult to walk. Orla tripped when she sat down, and her bag collided with the chair's leg with a deafening thump.

Master Lazarian didn't speak. He kept watching like a lamp-eyed bog-spirit until he grew bored of the silent, twitchy teenagers and went back to reading what lay on his desk.

When the rest of their class arrived and the bell rang, Master Lazarian finally rose from his seat, all six feet of him unfurling like a riled snake. He idly pulled on the front of his long cloak, adjusting how the lapels laid against his chest, then fixed those few hairs that had fallen out of order, smoothing his hand back against his head.

"Good afternoon. Today, we shall be examining chapter six of your assigned text, exploring the initial years following the Western Empire's founding and the first dissension of Beliahl against the patron lord Soliahl." He studied his hands for a moment, rubbing his thumb against his clean, if sharp, nails. "We will begin with our reading, and then move onto supplemental material from first-hand sources that offer differing perspectives on Lord Beliahl's actions and those of Lord Soliahl's. Then, you will be assigned a short essay expressing your own opinions on the matter, so I would suggest paying attention. I expect better insight than what you all exhibited in your prior assignment." His eyes moved across the room, a lazy, roving glance. "Raviril. Start with the introduction to the chapter."

Raviril—or Peridot, the talkative brunette Orla had first met in the washroom of their dormitories—flipped through her textbook until she found the right chapter, and started reading.

Great, Orla thought to herself, shoulders hunched toward her ears. I don't have the book for class yet. Just great—.

Master Lazarian wandered toward the side of the classroom as Peridot finished a paragraph, and Lazarian called out, "Vanda," without looking up. Vanda continued where Peridot had left off while he glanced through the books on his shelf. There were many things on those shelves, including glittering stones, strange, carved discs, and skulls. Orla couldn't help how her nervous eyes lingered on the bones. Vanda fell quiet.

"Anderson."

As Alex fumbled over which paragraph to begin on, Orla glanced at the people next to her, wondering if she could nudge her desk closer to Vera's and if she'd mind sharing her book again. Her distraction led her not to see Lazarian until he was next to her, and she froze, finding herself the subject of his lurid yellow gaze.

Please don't call on me, please—.

"Darath," he said after Alex finished. In his hands he held a book he must have taken off the shelf, and when he quietly opened to a page and settled it in front of Orla, she realized it was the textbook, and he'd displayed the proper page in the chapter.

He's...helping me?

She glanced up at Master Lazarian, expecting an encouraging expression, but his face best resembled stone, and his eyes blazed.

"Tiernan."

He's learned my name already, Orla thought, but she didn't have time to consider the oddity because she had to scramble to find where Sovie Darath had left off. "Err—'the aftermath of Beliahl's dissension left scars on the Western Empire. Though the rebellion was quelled, the seeds of discord had been sown—.'"

When Orla reached the end of her passage, she breathed an audible sigh when Lazarian called on the next student, and he moved on. Vera threw her an encouraging smile, and Orla's shoulders finally loosened from their place by her ears. She set her eyes on the book and did her best to concentrate.

She calmed as the readings continued, Lazarian jumping from one student to another, though Orla couldn't relax entirely. The room was too eerie, her skin clammy, and Morty wouldn't settle. The shadows flexed and spiraled, pages of her neighbors' books fluttering, one of the torches going out with a guttering hiss. Lazarian turned to glare at it.

"Stop it," Orla hissed at the floor, and Vera glanced at her, confused. Orla shrugged and pretended she wasn't trying to dissuade her shadow from having a meltdown in the middle of class. It'd happened before, and she wasn't looking forward to it happening at Bilarthus.

Eventually, they finished the narration, and Lazarian moved on to reading the supplemental material aloud, slowly pacing the narrow aisles. He had a dry voice, quiet and faintly touched by an accent Orla thought might be some kind of English, but she couldn't tell. He didn't speak loudly, but his demeanor made it clear if he raised his volume, they'd all be sorry for it.

Lazarian passed Orla's desk—and stumbled. "Tiernan," he snapped. "Pick up your bag."

Orla snatched said bag up and tucked it farther beneath her seat, certain he'd tripped on Morty instead. He's going to get me expelled even faster at this rate. Morty, let me fail at my own pace. "Sorry, sir."

The Master finished lecturing, and he departed to his desk. He selected a folded bit of paper to read and ignored the room, leaving them to retrieve their journals and start their essays. Orla turned to ask Vera if she was meant to set up her paper in a specific way, and she heard someone whispering behind her.

"Bet you're happy this class is Talentless," the voice said, dripping with scorn.

"This class is pointless," another breathed, trying to avoid Master Lazarian's hearing.

"Not for a Bloodless," the first reiterated. "They need all the help they can get."

"Shut up, Crane," Vera snipped.

"Do you have something to say, Cicero?"

"Not to you."

"Oh? Do you think they brought her in as a pet for you?"

"Stop it, Itla," Peridot whined. "You'll get us in trouble."

Arden Raferty added, "He's going to look up in a moment if you don't be quiet."

"I think they did," Crane continued, undeterred. "Maybe they think if you put two Talentless freaks together, you get something close to a decent Seraphium."

"Shut up!"

The bickering grew in volume, matched by the discontent hum among the others—and Lazarian raised his head from his reading. The air trembled—and the lights went out, every lamp and torch pinched out as if by a giant, grasping hand, leaving them only with their instructor's vivid, deep yellow glower.

"Silence," Master Lazarian snarled.

No one dared breathe lest they do so too loudly. One by one, the lights returned until they could again see their papers, and Orla unclenched her fingers from around her trembling pen.

"Crane."

"Yes, Master Lazarian?"

"Detention. Five o'clock."

"...yes, Master."

xXx

History of the Western Empire drew to a close after an additional hour of Itla Crane letting out huffy, half-uttered comments behind Orla's back. Worse, others echoed what she said, murmurs of special privilege and allowances following her out of the classroom, growing louder once beyond Master Lazarian's hearing.

"Who is she?" they asked. "Who is she that they let her in without knowing a thing?"

I'm nobody, Orla reflected, fighting to keep her shoulders stiff and her spine straight. I don't deserve any of this.

"Orla?"

Vera's voice cut Orla's spiraling thoughts. "Yeah?' she replied, sniffling.

Vera fidgeted where she stood, anxious fingers once more plucking at the flap of her bag. "I found something I'd like to show you. It won't take long."

A pair of their classmates passed by; Orla didn't know their names, but she saw the taller one lean closer to the shorter girl, whisper something, and they both giggled. Orla shut her eyes.

Maybe I should have stayed in Dirgemore.

Opening her eyes again, she forced a smile, weak and crooked as it was. "Sure."

They didn't have far to go; Vera led Orla back into the waning daylight, through the open cloister along the Jove Wing, then up the stairs. Orla assumed she was taking her to the library at first, but then they veered off path and instead approached a corridor lined with bronze lift gates. Vera opened one, revealing a small, cramped room with one stool inside.

"That's...interesting," Orla commented. Vera rolled her eyes.

"This isn't what I meant to show you. This is a Chronicle Chamber. It's—well, come see."

Orla entered the room with Vera, uncomfortable with the tight space, though Vera paid her little mind. Instead, she'd approached the lectern by the stool, and she cleared her throat.

"Moira Byrne: Morsath Directory."

Orla startled, confused—and then startled again when a book dive-bombed them from somewhere up above. Vera snatched it up and turned, extending it for Orla to take.

"It's about a third of the way through," she explained, smiling when Orla accepted the modern, hard-backed tome. "I was looking through things, and I found this bit, and I just—I guessed you would want to see it. I thought it might make you feel better...."

Orla frowned as she turned the pages, searching for what Vera meant for her to see. There were little color portraits printed inside, all settled in a line on the outside of the page with short paragraphs included closer to the binding. Orla kept looking—until a passage leapt out at her, the letters glowing and golden.

"Moira Byrne, an esteemed enchantress and educational leader, serves as the Dean of the School of Enchantment under the House of Vitahl at Morsath Institute. Adept at both scholarly pursuits and practical enchantments, Moira's tenure as Dean elevates the School of Enchantment to unparalleled heights, solidifying her legacy as a luminary in the realm of Seraphium academia. Morsath Alumnus, 1964."

Next to the words, a woman gazed with a bland, professional smile toward the reader. Her blonde hair had been gathered in a braid that rested against her shoulder, and she wore a neutral earth color that complemented the light brown of her eyes. There was something familiar to the set of her jaw, a mischievous in her grin her daughter had gone on to inherit.

It struck Orla that she had never seen a picture of her mom before. Despite growing up in the house of Moira's father, there hadn't been a single image, no family portraits or records, no yearbooks or newspaper clippings—and Mr. Byrne had to have them somewhere. He had photos. They had simply been denied to Orla.

For her entire life, she had been denied.

The day had been too long, too frustrating. Tears overwhelmed, and she choked on a sob she tried keeping inside her chest, but it escaped, and soon Orla knelt on the floor, crying her eyes out over a bad photo in an old directory salvaged from a school's smoking ruins.

"I'm sorry!" Vera said, distressed. "I'm sorry, I didn't know—."

Her words were lost to the loud, heaving wails, but when her hand touched Orla's shoulder, the crying girl let it stay there. She savored the contact, however brief, and let herself bawl.

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