That afternoon, Kiram tried to concentrate on his work but throughout the fine arts class his mind continued to wander back to that brief glimpse of terror contorting Fedeles' innocent face. The image found its way into each of the charcoal studies that Kiram produced.
At the end of the class the instructor raised one wiry white brow and inquired about the brain fever that had apparently burned away his sense of good taste.
Kiram apologized and promised to make the work up on his free day. In the hallway a few minutes later, Nestor simply handed him a few of his own sketches to copy.
"Thanks." Kiram was genuinely touched by the offer.
"No problem," Nestor replied. "I really liked the studies you did. They looked like those devil-haunted souls that are always carved into the underside of chapel altars."
"Is that so?" Kiram pulled one of the piteously contorted faces out from his leather satchel. It didn't strike him as anything like a holy image, but then he knew little of Cadeleonian iconography. Haldiim were not permitted in Cadeleonian chapels unless they were undergoing conversions.
"The eyes are too flat," Kiram said.
"Yeah, but that makes it all the creepier." Nestor grinned at the image. "He looks like he's been lost for a hundred years in the sorrowlands and is turning into a wraith."
"You want it?" Kiram offered.
"Of course." Nestor took the drawing happily and tucked it away with his own, far superior works.
In history class, Kiram was far too occupied to think of Fedeles. It took all of his willpower not to argue with the doughy instructor, Holy Father Habalan, while he rhapsodized over the glorious reign of King Nazario Sagrada. Among the Haldiim, King Nazario was remembered as the Crowned Impaler. His rule had been a time of mass executions and public torture. His purges were the reason that even now huge walls surrounded the Haldiim district in Anacleto and archers still stood guard atop them. Haldiim mothers might pay taxes to the Cadeleonian kings, but the memory of Nazario's atrocities ensured they would never trust Cadeleonian lords to protect them.
Kiram had no idea of how he would write an essay chronicling the king's innovations without his writing degenerating to a string of obscenities. He had to bow his head just to keep the plump holy father from seeing his revulsion.
Afterwards Nestor asked if he was sick.
"Just tired." Kiram forced a smile. It was difficult to look at Nestor and know that his ancestors were probably among those noblemen who hunted Haldiim shepherds for sport and impaled lovers for their evening's entertainment. And yet when he did meet Nestor's gaze, no such malevolence showed in his expression. Kiram felt his anger drain away. Nestor wasn't responsible for his ancestry. He couldn't help being Cadeleonian any more than Kiram could take credit for being born a Haldiim.
"I'll feel better after dinner," Kiram said.
"Maybe not," Nestor replied. "It's bean night tonight."
They shared a scowl at the thought of the flatulence- inducing stew they would soon be served. Then Kiram smirked.
"Poor Javier." Kiram smiled maliciously. "His white hell demon may well choke to death on the fury of my fart demon."
Nestor responded to that with scandalized laugh and clapped him on the back. "That's the spirit, Kiram!"
Nestor's company buoyed Kiram through their riding lessons and dinner. Though when Kiram noted Fedeles' absence from their table Nestor just replied that Fedeles did as he pleased, and more than likely, eating a sludge of beans didn't suit him.
After dinner Nestor left to attend his upperclassman and Kiram found himself alone, pacing the vast corridors of the academy library.
Kiram adored the Sagrada Academy's library.
Walls of knowledge surrounded him. Shelves abounded with rare texts, written before printing presses came into use, and displaying page after page of beautifully detailed illuminations. Filed among countless tomes lay treasures of unpublished scientific studies, penned more as letters between the scholars than as formal presentations.
Any other day Kiram would have been happy to pour over them for any details that might aid him in his project for the Crown Challenge. But this evening his mind wasn't occupied with steam pressure or cooling chambers. Instead he kept remembering Fedeles' tortured expression and Nestor's offhand explanation of his condition. He thought of the white flickers that played between Javier's fingers and his gaze fell upon the gilded spine of a book titled On the Nature of Hells and the Damned. What did it mean to be one of them? What kind of force was hellfire and how could it hunt a particular family? How could a script be legible only to the eyes of the damned?
Kiram took the book from the shelf and, feeling almost ashamed of his interest in Cadleonian superstition, he scurried up to the privacy of his room with the text tucked between two history books.
He cracked open the book and turned its ornate pages carefully, enjoying the leathery scent of the vellum as it wafted over him. Reading through the pompous language and gilded letters he soon discovered that many of the people described as possessed by the Cadeleonian priests would have been diagnosed with 'dancing nerves' by a Haldiim physician, like his uncle Rafie.
Again the image of Fedeles' terrified grimace came to him. It hadn't been nerves nor mimicry that Kiram had seen in his expression but terror and pain, and Kiram was now positive that Fedeles had been genuine in his appeal for help.
After considering the matter for a moment, Kiram decided that Javier would be the person to tell about Fedeles' troubling plea. After all, Javier took responsibility for Fedeles. He would want to know this and only the pettiest of men would withhold something so important.
It would be a relief to put his pride aside and just talk to the man, and he couldn't have asked for a better reason to do so.
Now if only Javier would make an appearance. Kiram glanced out one of the high windows. He knew from Nestor that several of the upperclassmen routinely went off academy grounds and rode down to Zancoda city to solicit the prostitutes at the Goldenrod Inn.
Kiram found it difficult to imagine Javier waiting in some dank tavern for his turn to dally with a worn-out barmaid. But there weren't many other places he could be spending his evenings. Kiram had wandered the grounds on many previous nights and while he refused to admit that he had been looking for Javier, he certainly hadn't stumbled upon him during any of his rambling walks.
Outside, the summer sun sank into the shadows of the surrounding orchards. Clouds glowed like beaten gold against the darkening blue of the sky. Maybe another half hour of light was left. Then the night warden would call for lights out, and the last roll would be taken to assure that all students were in their beds.
Kiram stood and paced the length of the room. Now that he wanted to talk to Javier, where was he? Probably having a big-breasted Cadeleonian woman scrub his back in just the way he liked.
"Kihvash," Kiram spat the Haldiim insult as crudely as a salt merchant. He glowered down at the stables. Then he noticed a tall figure in the shadows. His hair was black enough and his skin pale enough to be Javier. Even the man's height was close enough to have passed, but the way he moved was completely wrong. The figure shied back into the cover of ornamental hedges and then bolted wildly to a water trough. His arms flailed out, waving a piece of paper and then clutching it back to his chest.
It had to be Fedeles. He was already at the stable doors. An instant later he disappeared inside. Even Kiram knew that it would only take a few wild movements for Fedeles to spook one of the horses and get himself killed.
Kiram didn't pause to think about what he should do. His common sense would make a coward of him and he knew it. Of all Master Ignacio's lectures, it was the one Kiram hated to hear the most, and yet it fueled his sprinting legs and pounding heart as he raced out of the dormitory.