Bright Flame, Deep Shadow (lesbian story)

Ardyan

I'm wearing my black cloak with the hood up, and it's too cloudy for stars or moonlight, anyway. The curve of the circular outer wall blocks the nearest towers from view. Most people are busy studying or sleeping. Hestia is in Martel's intervention thing. Nobody will see me, but that doesn't stop my hands from shaking as I clumsily pick the lock on the shed door.

I glance over my shoulder. The forest here is sparser, and the wind howls through the bare branches like a phantom hunter whistling for his dogs. Twenty metres away, there's a sheer drop until the school itself begins, jutting out of the mountainside to hang over the river below. I hope Davorin isn't watching me somehow, because I'm making an arse of myself as I keep jamming the pick into the lock. I've never stolen something before, or trespassed, or anything. I should've asked Hestia to help.

At last, the heavy lock clunks and clicks and the door opens with a scream. I just hope the howling wind covers it and nobody comes out looking for a murder victim.

I step into the shed and out of the biting wind, wiping my stinging eyes on my sleeve as I yank the door closed behind me. It takes a moment for my ears to stop ringing after the battering they took outside, but when they do, my blood turns to ice as I hear them scratching.

The vultures.

They're not really vultures, though I wish they were as easy to kill. Nobody knows what they are or where they came from, though some people say they're evil souls that never got to move on after death. All I really know that they're the reason I had nightmares every night for six weeks after my first trip into the Shadows.

They are the reason we never, ever look up, and now there must be about five of them trapped under the floorboards I am standing on. How are they here? How can they even exist out here?

Whatever the answer, the vultures know I'm here. They don't need to eat, but I know they'll rip me apart if they get the chance. I flick my dagger out—it works on the strands, and the vultures are creatures of the Shadows. Perhaps I can use it on them if they get free.

Keeping my tread as light as possible, I pick my way over the scythes and pitchforks and hoes that litter the floor, though none of them look like they've ever been used. When I get to the far left corner, I take out the candle and match I'd brought with me and light it. The long, flickering shadows do nothing to calm my pounding heart. The light doesn't exactly pacify the vultures, either. I can hear their claws scrabbling against their wooden prisons, and my forehead breaks out in a cold sweat. I don't know if I can do this.

I have to.

I kneel down and find the trapdoor exactly where Davorin said it would be. This is the only part of the floor which is silent. I grab the tiny ring and heave the trapdoor up, my fingers burning as I do so. It opens silently, almost as if the hinges have been oiled.

Below me is a staircase. It spirals down for a few metres, then it looks like it starts going straight downwards and north, under the courtyard, but I can't be certain.

Only one way to find out.

With my candle in one hand and my dagger in the other, I descend into the gloom. I was right—the stairs spiral for about three metres, then a long, sloping corridor begins. At least, I think it's long, because I can't see the end.

This place is oddly neat. The walls are made of reddish sandstone, just like the rest of Lour Castle, though the school itself is granite, like the cliff. I guess I'd been expecting that kids had discovered it already and had left...I don't know. A mess. But the passage must be as pristine as the day it was built.

I stop at another spiral staircase at the end of the passage. This one is much narrower than the last one, and even steeper, if that's possible. I hold my candle out and strain my eyes against the dark, leaning out as far as I dare without falling. I can't see the bottom, but it's too late to turn back now.

I fumble along the wall for support as I descend. There's shallow grooves in the stairs where archivists past have taken the same route, and it makes the hair on my arms stand on end, though I know that's illogical. Maybe someone does still maintain this place, but there's no way they'd come down here at this time of night.

I hope.

I must be underneath the school itself by the time I reach a heavy wooden door at the bottom of the stairs. It's not locked—it's probably here to keep the draught out more than anything. I pause a moment, letting my dizziness from the descent fade, before I enter.

My breath catches in my throat. The walls are lined with shelves upon shelves of books. I slowly make a circuit of the room, keeping the candle flame well away from the dry paper. There's books with thick leather bindings and books with no bindings at all, held together with string. There's books several sheets thin and books as thick as the width of my hand, the shelves buckling under their weight. The only parts of the wall that aren't shelf are the parts where they break off into tunnel-like corridors overflowing with yet more books on shelves, in neat stacks, and in messy, crooked piles. How am I going to find Davorin's document in here?

Someone's been down here recently, that much is clear from the look of the desk in the centre of the circular room. There's a tidy stack of books on one side, and a wooden box holding several frayed quills on the other. There's even a half-melted candle, as well as an armchair next to the fireplace behind me. Someone really made themselves at home here. As I take this in, the hair on the back of my neck starts to rise, and the room suddenly feels very small. I tell myself I'll come back tomorrow night, and even though I know there's no chance of getting caught, I use the Shadows on the journey back to my room. Not that it would be much help if I ran into someone who was also in the Shadows, but tonight, knowing I'm invisible to the rest of the world is a comfort.