Northlight (10 page)

Terricel's heart pounded, his muscles wound so tight he felt the smallest touch would make him burst open. He pushed himself to his feet, the chair legs scraping on the tile floor. He moved away from the table, brushing against a delicate potted fern. It took all his control not to strike out at it.

The house snake had completely disappeared, waiting for the humans to leave and its natural prey to emerge. There was no sign of its mate.

Not trusting himself to speak, Terricel turned and left the room.

All the way to the University, Terricel struggled with his roiling emotions. By the time he arrived, he was able to talk in a normal tone of voice, although his hands still had a distressing tendency to shake. He told himself that once he got started, he'd calm down and concentrate.

To make matters worse, his presentation had been scheduled for a second-floor seminar room that he particularly disliked. It was too white and too big, too reminiscent of his mother's house. He supposed Wittnower had requested it to make him feel at home. But at home he didn't have to pass by the rows of formal portraits of University Deans and Senators, past and present, that lined the walls of the main building, larger than life in their gilded frames.

Esmelda hated her portrait, although Terricel was never sure if that was from personal modesty or good taste. It depicted her with one hand clutching a weighty tome and the other pointing to the horizon, where the city she had saved still burned.

Terricel once asked her how she lived with the constant reminder of what Laurea owed her. She'd shrugged and said, “By understanding it means nothing.”

Normally he passed the portrait without any particular notice, but this morning the painted eyes seemed to follow him, measure him. He paused in the middle of the corridor and glared up at it.

“This is mine,” he muttered under his breath. “
Mine.
And you can't stop me.”

The committee was assembled and waiting for him, even the old Sociology master who was notoriously ten minutes late to everything. As he took his place at the head of the conference table, Terricel decided this was a good sign, although his stomach churned uneasily. He was glad he hadn't eaten much breakfast.

He glanced around the room, seeing only the politely blank faces, each invisibly stamped with the authority of a different field within the School of Humanities — three Histories, one Philosophy/Sociology, one Art, fortunately from Written rather than Visual or Music, and, of course, Wittnower, who was History but who, as his mentor, couldn't vote. Because his field wasn't in Natural or Applied Science, he didn't need a gaea-priest present to sanction the proceedings.

The Department page brought in a tray with mint tisanes and scones for everyone, and the committee members munched and sipped. Terricel cleared his throat, tried to look poised, and opened with a discussion of the importance of Humanities, specifically History. He implied that no educated Laurean could be ignorant of his past, that a thorough understanding of what had gone before was necessary not just for a scholarly life but for a good life.

He thought he was doing well. The faces remained blank, but the eyes softened and from time to time he caught a faint, almost drowsy nodding. Perhaps the committee found solace in the timeless academic ritual, a reassurance that even in these days of uncertainty, the pillars of the University — students, masters, examinations, theses — still held firm.

Gathering confidence from his early success, Terricel raised his voice. “Laurea is Harth's oldest settlement, yet there's no concrete evidence we evolved here — for that matter, why do we have the
concept
of evolution?”

Well, perhaps that was a bit much. Sociology and Written Art coughed and shifted in their chairs. It was only a small departure from the orthodox, not a fatal misstep.

Before he could say anything more, Ancient History, who had appeared half-asleep, sat bolt upright and demanded his references for an exogenous origin of humankind on the cultures of Harth. Terricel pulled out his prepared list of fourteen published papers.

“You can't count Alladora's work,” Sociology interrupted. “Her treatment of the desert nomad myths demonstrates scandalously poor methodology.”

“Yes, you can,” Comparative History snapped. “Her conclusions are absolutely correct, and her insights into the repeated motifs of occult wisdom from sources as diverse as the Archipelago epic chants and — ”

Terricel couldn't afford to have his proposal taken over by an ongoing departmental feud. He remembered stories of other presentations, when committee members had so diverted the discussion that the candidate was failed for an incomplete proposal.

“If we didn't arise here,” he began again in a loud voice, “then where did we come from? The few studies that address the issue of our origins have been essentially negative — studies of what
isn't
there. But there's one source of information they haven't examined.”

Terricel placed his hands on the table and leaned forward for emphasis. He was sweating hard, but at least he'd stopped shaking. “And that's our oldest artifact, the Starhall itself. What it will tell us is that we didn't come here from someplace halfway across the night sky, we came from a place very much like Harth — ”

 Ancient History leaned forward with an expression of predatory interest. “Describe the mathematics of this dimensional relationship.”

Don't let the question throw you!
Terricel stumbled through a superficial explanation. He knew to expect irrelevant questions, even misleading ones. They were testing his poise as well as his knowledge.

It came back to him now, that night so long ago when he'd dared to creep into the Starhall alone. As he'd made his way past the public areas, he swore silently that he wasn't crazy, he wasn't a coward and he would show them all, his mother and the Councillors and everyone.

Darkened passageways gaped at him and shadows turned ordinary objects into eerie shapes, but still he continued. The weight of hundreds of years, all the layers of wall and ornament, bracing and expansion, seemed to bear down on him. His breath rasped in his throat, loud enough to wake a sleeping guard, but no alarm came.

Deeper and deeper he'd gone, down one flight of stairs and then another. More than once he'd thought of turning back, and each time he'd stood against the wall, knees trembling, gulping air, fighting back the growing vertigo, until he was able to force himself on. At last he came to a landing, deep underground, dimly lit, the air gauzy with dust and cobwebs, and then he could go no farther. He told himself there was nothing more to find, but even then he did not believe it.

There was something hidden under the Starhall, he felt it then as he did now, in every nerve and fiber of his body. He had thought to face it as a child, whatever it was, face it and conquer it. But when he stumbled home, retching and sweat-soaked, the feeling had not vanished. The following morning, when he accompanied his mother to the Starhall, the sensation of prickling unease had been replaced by sudden, whirling nausea and bone-deep shivers.

Terricel pulled himself back to the present. From the partly-opened windows came the muted sounds from the courtyard below. Someone called out, the words indistinct. Boot heels clattered on paved walkways. His head spun for a moment with the overwhelming normality of it all — students rushing to classes, masters examining candidates. But things were not normal: Pateros had been cut down in plain day, and Laurea would never be the same again.

“Are we to understand,” Sociology asked slowly, “that you propose
excavating
the
Starhall
— physically
dismantling
the oldest and most
revered
structure in all of Laurea — not to mention the
risk
of
disrupting
vital government functions — now, at a time of national
crisis
— all this, on the basis of a highly questionable
theory?
”

“Yes, there's a certain amount of...of disassembly that must be done,” Terricel stammered. “Removing the wooden paneling, maybe, and some of the plaster.”

Even as he spoke, he knew it was the wrong thing to say. He shouldn't be debating how much damage might be done to the Starhall, he should be — he couldn't think what he should be doing. He glanced at Wittnower, hoping for some sign, but met with only a bland, impassive stare.

“We won't know how deep the artifact lies,” he went on, praying he sounded more clearheaded than he felt. “Not until we actually dig. I want to get beyond the foundations and there's already been some — I'd work at night and there wouldn't be any disruption — maybe a little inconvenience, but it's not as if — ”

“And you have the Senate's permission for this?” asked Modern History.

“Well, no. I didn't want to apply until I had an approved topic.”

“And have you consulted a gaea-priest as to the ecological correctness of this action?”

“I didn't think — ”

“You mean you kept your scheme a
secret?
” Classical History demanded. “Why was that?”

“More to the point, is there any historical precedent to your proposed excavation?” Sociology asked.

Stammering, Terricel tried to address their questions. Facts and arguments slipped through his grasp. His thoughts disintegrated into gibberish. His voice stumbled on and on, but every point he thought of, no matter how rational it seemed, only made things sound worse.

Afterward, he couldn't even remember what he'd said.

They let him leave the room while they debated his fate. He leaned against the smooth, white-plastered wall and shut his eyes. He couldn't hear anything through the door.

A few junior students wandered by. Terricel recognized them from the beginning courses he tutored. One of his friends from History, a tall redhead named Ralle, paused, looked at the door with a pained but sympathetic expression, clapped Terricel on one shoulder, and continued on his way without a word.

He shifted from one foot to the other, debating if he should just leave. He'd learned to master his body during those long years at the Starhall. If only he could control his emotions as well.

Finally, the door opened. Wittnower stood there, one hand on the latch, his expression unreadable. His eyes seemed blank, tired.

The committee began filing out, heads up, eyes level. They glanced briefly at Terricel, as if they were passing him in a hallway on the way to yet another lecture. Acknowledging his existence, nothing more.

“Come in, sit down,” said Wittnower.

Terricel's hands were wet and cold. He kept them under the table.

Wittnower lowered himself into the nearest seat, turned it so they were almost facing, and ran his fingers through the meager fringe of his hair. Terricel stared at his teacher's hands, the age-mottled skin draped over the tendons except where the arthritic knuckles pulled it taut and shiny. There was an ink-flecked callus on the inside of the right index finger. Terricel thought his own hands would look like that in another fifty years.

“I never cease to wonder at the eternal optimism of the young.”

“It was that bad?”

The old man sighed. “What are we going to do with you?”

“If I fail, I fail like everyone else.”

“Have I said the proposal was a failure?” The wooden joints creaked as Wittnower straightened in his chair. “It was delivered with far more passion than precision, but so are many others, and, I might add, for the good. Would we want masters' projects no one cared about? I warned you when you first suggested this subject, and a few days ago I reminded you again, but no, you insisted on a topic that relies on evidence you cannot possibly obtain.”

“That's not true!” Terricel burst out. “You said it would be difficult, not impossible. Besides, the evidence is all there, under the Starhall.”

 “Suppose the priests gave their blessing and the Senate agreed to allow the excavation — and after all that, you found nothing but a pile of rusty framing — ”

“But there
is
something! There must be — I know there is — ”

“What if, by some perverse and wildly improbable mischance, you prove to be mistaken? Have you considered what would happen then? I assure you, the committee has.”

Terricel brushed the question aside. “Worst-case scenario, then — I'd prove it
wasn't
a starship. We
didn't
come from another planet. It's worth the degree to eliminate that hypothesis.”

“All it would cost
you
is the difference between a brilliant thesis and a mediocre one.”

“So what's your point? That it would cost someone else more if I'm wrong?”

If I were anyone else, anyone else at all, they'd let me try. It would be my own responsibility if I was wrong. But I'm Esme's son...

He could fight Wittnower, he could fight the committee. He could even fight Esme herself. But how could he fight what she meant to Laurea?

Terricel's shoulders sagged. Even if the department gave its approval, the Senate would never agree. He must have been smoking ghostweed to think they might. “I guess I'm out of History.”

Wittnower waved one hand in negation. “We're not such bullies, and you're not such a bad student. We're giving you a ‘no show.'“

Terricel blinked, then digested the words. ‘No show' — just as if he hadn't come. As if the morning had never happened.

If this were another time, he could begin again. Begin where Wittnower told him to, with a topic of guaranteed success. In another semester or two, when things had settled down in Laurea, he'd pretend he'd never seen those ancient log books. He'd slog his way through the standard literature searches and put together a coherent presentation. He'd come before the committee again. It would be a scene out of memory, with the mint tisanes and scones, the imperceptibly nodding heads. This time they would shake his hand as they filed past, shake his hand and smile.