SIX: BEYOND THE GATE

Orla

A large black car waited at the end of the road.

Orla didn't know much about cars, but she knew it was old and probably expensive for its time. The wide headlights peered from the gleaming chrome grill, the bumper low to the asphalt with wheel wells like the scrolled arms of fancy filigree. A coat of arms covered the door, but the angle of the sun gleaming against the glossy paint made it too difficult to discern.

Mrs. Porter opened the back door and held it for Orla. The stunned teenager stumbled into the car, feeling too grimy for the cream-colored leather seats and embellished bronze finishes, but she managed to shrug her bag off onto the spot next to her and fumbled for the lapbelt.

"We have a few hours ahead of us," Mrs. Porter commented as she got behind the wheel and settled in her seat. "Nothing too strenuous, but do tell me if you need a break."

Orla watched as the woman reached into the inner pocket of her blazer and retrieved a small velvet bag. Inside was a collection of different coins—gold and silver and bronze, but nothing that looked like the quarters or dimes Orla would recognize. Mrs. Porter noticed Orla's interest and took a few coins out, gesturing for Orla to hold out her hand. She did so, and Mrs. Porter dropped the heavy currency onto her palm.

"It's a particular metal minted the Capital Depository," she explained. Orla brought the largest coin closer to her face and inspected it, rubbing the pad of her thumb over the crest pressed into the surface. "We call them Standards use them as currency in the Western Empire. The metal susceptible to Seraphium Talents, able to hold an imprint of them within the material. That means Seraphium who are skilled in particular areas license a certain number of coins a year and fill the metal with their area of Affinity. The better they are at wielding Talent, and the rarer their specific Affinity, the more exclusive the Standard they can license and earn a commission. These Standards can be used both as money, and for their utility. At the moment, we need one of these."

Mrs. Porter selected one of the many bronze coins she had, a little thing about the size of a nickel. Orla watched as she pressed the coin against the steering column—and only then did she realize there wasn't a place for a key to be inserted. Instead, the coin glowed orange and dissolved under Mrs. Porter's fingers, and the car's engine revved to life. Orla found another of the little bronze coins and turned it over in her hand, squinting. There was a tiny gear imprinted in the metal.

"Wouldn't—err, wouldn't it be easier to use a key?" she asked as she handed the coins back. Mrs. Porter accepted them, and the velvet purse returned to her blazer.

"Perhaps, if the vehicle were powered by gasoline and combustion. But this is not a normal car, Miss Tiernan."

The tires lurched into motion without Mrs. Porter having to touch the pedals or the wheel. Orla's eyes widened as they pulled onto the road and started driving. It didn't take long for Forestry Road, then Dirgemore, to fall behind them as their trek took them farther north along the highway, weaving upward on the coastal cliffs.

"Mrs. Porter?" Orla said after a time, getting the woman's attention. "When you talk about these—Talents, I guess I don't really understand. It's a lot to take in."

"Ah. Consider them in a new context, then. I imagine your friends in school, for instance, excelled in different areas from one another."

Orla didn't tell her she didn't have friends. She didn't need the pitying look. "Uh-huh."

"At their core, Talents are somewhat similar. Your Talent is your base ability to manipulate the world around you. Your Affinity is how your Talent naturally wishes to express itself. A child may excel at playing piano, or public speaking, or participating in football. For Talents, a Seraphium could be more adept with manipulating fire, or changing the nature of materials, or encouraging plant growth. That is Affinity. It's varied, and our academies work to help students thrive in their stronger Affinities while assisting them in becoming proficient with their Talent in areas they may not have a natural inclination for. We call the different areas where Talent is learned to be used Arts." She made a short, thoughtful noise. "For example, I told you I am an Aeromancer. The Affinity of my Talent—or the way it innately expresses itself—is with manipulations of air. I attended academy to hone my ability, and earned my certification as a Master Aeromancer—an Air Artist, you could say."

Orla chewed her lip and nodded to indicate she understood, though she had a lingering question. "Are there Talents that others can't see?"

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know. Something like—ghosts? Or invisible things?"

Mrs. Porter raised her eyes to the rearview mirror and looked at Orla. She didn't look at the shadow that sat himself in the seat next to her, looming too tall and too bony to belong to something natural.

"There are as many Talents and Affinities as there are people, Miss Tiernan. Every person is different. I can't think of a specific ability that matches your question, but it's not impossible for it to exist."

Orla fidgeted with her bag's strap, nodding toward her knees. "What happens if I don't have a Talent? Will I have to go back to Mr. Byrne? Will he even take me back?"

"You have Talent, I assure you. At the academy, they'll teach you how to recognize your strengths and abilities, and you won't feel so uncertain of yourself once you start to learn. If you're struggling to detect your Affinity, they will help you." Mrs. Porter looked ahead again. "Everything will work out as it's meant to, Miss Tiernan. Orla. You'll see."

Orla turned her attention out the window as they continued their journey, leaning her arm on the door and her chin on her arm. Cars and trees whipped by, and had she cared to turn her head and look out of the other window, she would have seen the sea, striped in gold as the afternoon sun passed over the mountains, dark where heavy clouds crawled upon the horizon. Summer hadn't failed yet, but the autumn fog swelled thicker the farther north they traveled.

Orla had never been so far from home.

She had a million questions she wanted to ask, but she didn't quite know where to begin. The magnitude of the afternoon's events still stunned her. "You said there's a bank? So you have special money?"

"I wouldn't say special, but different from American dollars, yes. They're called Standards."

Orla spared a thought for the few scrunched bills she'd shoved into her backpack, saved from Mr. Byrne's frugal allowance. "Uh, Mrs. Porter?"

"Yes?"

"Going to school costs money, yeah? Especially something like an academy. I...don't have any."

"You don't have to worry about that," Mrs. Porter replied, brushing aside her concerns. "There are funds set aside for students in situations like yours. It will last for the duration of your schooling."

"How long is that?"

Mrs. Porter fidgeted, her fingers tapping an idle rhythm against the steering wheel. "It depends. Bilarthus Academy has three standardized years, and then, instead of enrolling in a college or mundane university, you can specialize in a particular school. We have seven, named after ancestral Seraphs who established the Talents found therein. We have the House of Arbarhl, the House of Undariahl, the House of Ignarhl, and then the Houses of Terrahl, Luxiahl, Calarhl, and Vitahl. Talents fall within a certain element of nature—a certain Art, as I explained—and those Arts are then categorized by Houses. A few Seraphium will forgo specializing for whatever private reason, but the majority choose to move on to better their chances of finding a career they enjoy, or to explore the full extent of their abilities."

"And I'll have three years to figure out which of these houses I'll want to be in?"

Again, Mrs. Porter fidgeted. She cleared her throat. "Well, no. You'll have two. You missed your first year, and the second began earlier this month. Besides, you'll most likely wish to choose a House that aligns with your Affinity."

Orla thought she might throw up. "What?!" she exclaimed. "I've missed a year?!"

Mrs. Porter sighed. "As I mentioned in your home, Henry reached out to us when it was time for our representatives to begin visiting our future first-years and informed the Academy he had enrolled you somewhere else. It surprised a few that he would reach out of his own accord, but there was no reason to think anything was amiss at the time."

Orla's brow furrowed. "Wait. If no one thought anything was wrong, what changed your mind? Why come now?" She remembered the gleam of sunlight off white masks. "Because of that man who attacked me?"

"Not...strictly, no. That was an unfortunate, ah, side-effect. An interested party made inquiries. The administration decided it best if I pop by for a simple check-in." Mrs. Porter's mouth pressed into a firm line forbidding further pursuit of the conversation, and so Orla stopped asking, though she didn't forget that man in the fox mask. She didn't think Mrs. Porter was being fully honest, and it worried her.

"What am I going to do? If I missed a whole year, won't I be too far behind?"

"No, not at all. Our Masters are excellent instructors and will have you caught up in no time. There's no reason to be fearful about what you've missed."

"Can't I start in my first year? Just a bit—older?"

"I wouldn't put you through that. Talent becomes more volatile as Seraphium age, and particularly by sixteen or so, you'll need the classes that will teach you how to anticipate and handle the adjustment. You will be able to catch up with the rudimentary instruction with a bit of extra tutoring, I promise."

Orla listened to her reassurance, but it didn't make her feel much better. She'd never been the best of students. Morty caused problems in the classroom, and her teachers had never liked her. The label of liar had followed her from year to year, from elementary to junior high—and even high school had started with her homeroom teacher giving her the side-eye. Orla didn't think beginning her new life late and a year behind would endear her to any of her instructors.

The mist thickened, the light dimming behind the encroaching fogbank. The car's headlights blinked to life on their own, and Mrs. Porter turned onto a shoulder Orla hadn't noticed at first. The offramp dipped from the highway and meandered like a snake's tail against the wooded cliffside. When the trees parted and revealed the seaboard again, Orla startled.

"What is that?"

"One of our gates," Mrs. Porter said, indicating the large stone circle rising out of the gray water. The highway became a bridge that crossed the water and delved right through the center, through the obscuring haze that floated inside like a long, translucent curtain. Orla twisted in her seat to watch it as they passed. "A gift from the Seraph Morsiahl. It—well, to keep the explanation short—it provides us with secure passages to travel through. These passages are invisible to the mundane world."

The ocean sprawled into the distance, ridden by thick, billowing whorls of mist. The car kept on driving without Mrs. Porter touching the wheel, and they passed other vehicles that appeared at random in the gray fog. Some were older cars like the one they were in, and one was a towering carriage pulled by something that definitely wasn't horses, but it disappeared too quickly for Orla to get a better look.

I must be dreaming, she thought, incredulous.

Other highways merged or diverged from theirs, an endless warren of lanes like the strands of a spider's wandering web. They drove for an hour over cresting ocean waters, and Orla watched the seabirds, or studied the road signs with their strange symbols and numbers. She leaned between the seats in front of her to see out the windshield as they approached another looming stone gate. Again, they passed through the meandering haze, and it crawled over the car in a thick film. On the other side, the sun peeked through the clouds.

"Welcome to Bilarthus, Miss Tiernan."

The wind pushed back the mist, and a gray mountain peak pierced the heavens, the jagged edges tearing apart the clouds like a knife's serrated teeth. Waves bashed themselves against the crags, and Orla wordlessly gaped at the sudden landform. The highway delved into a tunnel bored through the mountain's face, and the temperature dropped several degrees as they plunged into the dark. Moments later, they emerged into the light once more.

The campus sprawled like a small town over the foothills and toward the far side of the island where Orla could still see a sliver of water glimmer above the treetops. The buildings resembled those she'd only ever seen pictures of in textbooks, brick and stone walls with scrolled columns and soaring towers steeply pitched, appearing as if they'd been transported from the heart of warm Italy to this green, sea-bound place, papered in lichen and ivy, surrounded by pines, spruces, birches and maples. Through it all wended cobbled paths lined by hedges and open-flame lamps, guarded by granite statues with wide, watchful eyes. The statues wore odd clothes or had strange forms—too many limbs or eyes or extra parts. Orla couldn't stop staring.

The highway was the only road she could see leading in or out of the island; it ended in a roundabout circling a reflecting pool before a large, domed building. There was a parking lot sequestered nearby, but Orla didn't see many vehicles there.

The car came to a sudden halt, and Orla crashed into the seat in front of her, smashing her nose. "Oof!"

Mrs. Porter either didn't notice or chose to ignore her scrambling to sit upright. The woman opened her door, and Orla did the same, remembering at the last second to snatch up her bag. The doors banged shut on their own once the pair stood on the asphalt—and the car lurched into drive, swerving toward the parking lot with a disgruntled screech of tires.

"This way, Miss Tiernan."

Orla brought her attention back to the building in front of her—the building, and the long, sweeping steps leading up to the sheltered entrance framed by several pillars. They had long banners hanging from their tops', bearing different sigils in different colors, all below a large crest formed of seven fields.

Mrs. Porter considered the shadow cast by the sun behind the high mountain and how far it reached across the campus. "I hadn't expected needing to bring you back this afternoon. Let's hope Miss Garner is still at her desk."

"Miss Garner...?" Orla trailed off as they crossed through the open door, and the smell of old, oiled wood and floor polish filled her nose. The shine from the chandelier reflecting off the glossy hardwood had Orla squinting, and it took her a moment to see the long marble counters and the few people still milling about at their desks.

Mrs. Porter approached the first desk—an untidy, over-cluttered station closest to the marble counter's end—where a short woman with cropped hair and too-large glasses stressed over her unorganized mess.

"Miss Garner," Mrs. Porter said. When she got no response, she cleared her throat, and then repeated, "Miss Garner."

The woman scattered paperwork when she startled and gawked, blinking her large, befuddled eyes. "Oh! Master Porter! You're back!"

"Apparently," Mrs. Porter replied, dry. "You appear behind on your tasks, Paulien."

"Behind? No, no, no—I'll have this cleaned up in no time! I promise!" Miss Garner gathered as many of the fallen sheets of paper as she could in one fell swoop, then scrambled for something to change the subject. Her eyes landed on Orla. "What've you got there? A student out of bounds?"

"A new student," Mrs. Porter corrected. "I need you to begin her registration and to put in the proper requisitions. She'll need funds allocated from the Assistance Program. Is the Dean in?"

The rapid-fire statements clearly rattled Miss Garner, who gawked again before nodding quickly. "Dean Samson hasn't left yet. He should be—."

"Then I trust you can handle yourself for a moment." To Orla, she added. "I'll return shortly, Miss Tiernan. Stay here with Miss Garner, and she'll help you get started."

"O—okay?" Orla replied, still struggling with the speed of everything happening. She nonetheless nodded, and Mrs. Porter spared her a brief, encouraging smile before looking at Miss Garner again. She sighed, then snapped her fingers, summoning the scattered pages off the hardwood into her hands. She gave Miss Garner one final, stern glance as she handed the paperwork over and departed.

"Uh," Miss Garner commented, clearing her throat. "That was—welcome to Bilarthus, I guess! Assistant Garner, at your service."

"Hi." Orla waved, feeling awkward in her second-hand clothes carrying a worn backpack, surrounded by the hall's expensive gleam. Were they sure this hadn't been a mistake? Surely someone like her didn't belong somewhere as fancy as that.

"Let's get you sorted, shall we?" Miss—or, rather, Assistant—Garner said, smiling. It didn't look like a fake smile, which Orla was more accustomed to seeing. "Alright...now where is that...?" She sank back into her padded seat and dug through her desk. "Here it is! Let me just—."

Orla watched as the woman fed a fresh sheet of paper into an old typewriter. It didn't look old, all the parts shiny and kept in optimum condition, but it definitely wasn't something a person could find sitting on the shelf at their local store. Orla noticed there didn't seem to be much in the way of technology here. It hadn't occurred to her until she searched for signs, and now she could see even the lamp not two feet away from her looked odd. The bulb was unusually shaped and filled with a lazy, flickering flame that gently swirled inside the glass like a restless fish.

"What is your name, hon?"

Orla blinked the spots of light out of her eyes. "Orla Tiernan?"

"Age?" Her fingers flashed over the keys, the loud tack-tack-tack of the mechanism echoing in the mostly empty room.

"Fifteen."

"Mhm. All right, that fits...." Tack-tack-tack. "Your Talent?"

"I—." Swallowing, Orla felt nervous sweat build on the underside of her palms. "I don't know—err, do I have one?"

"Not sure, hon?" Assistant Garner said without looking up from the typewriter. "That's fine. We'll just leave that blank—."

Tack-tack-tack.

She kept typing, little bursts of light glowing from the keys each time the striker met the page. Orla stared, questions lodged in her throat, and watched the strange machine work.

She was so engrossed she didn't notice the other girl until she cleared her throat.

"Excuse me."

Orla turned and barely avoided knocking into the person standing behind her. She was a few inches taller than Orla and considerably more annoyed, her black eyes flashing and slightly red. She dressed in a school uniform, one much nicer than anything Orla had seen at her other schools, dark in color with brass buttons on the blazer's front and on the simple shoulder epaulettes, paired with a skirt that reached her knees and black stockings. Her shoes looked rather posh, like Mr. Byrne's had been.

She stepped up to the counter when Orla moved. The girl's clothes didn't appear odd aside from the dated style...but Orla couldn't help but stare at the short cape that fell mid-way down her back. It had the same shield and crest she'd seen on the banners outside, plus two plain, white circles underneath.

Assistant Garner glanced up from her typing. Her expression tightened.

"Miss Cicero, how can I help?"

"They've locked me out of the room," the girl said without missing a beat. She sounded on the verge of a hysterical outburst, and Orla eased away a step. "Again."

"Oh, dear," Assistant Garner said, more frustrated than concerned. "And your key...?"

"They took it. Again."

"Ah." All the while, Assistant Garner kept typing until the typewriter let out a loud chime and rattled like a sack of coins. "I guess I'll get that sorted. If you could wait just over there—and you as well, Orla. I'll be back in a jiffy."

She indicated a wooden bench set against the wall, and both girls went to sit on it, Orla's bag making a soft thump as it landed by her feet. The other girl crossed her arms and her legs, muttering under her breath. Orla sat perched at the edge of the bench and fidgeted with her hands as Assistant Garner left the building through the main entrance.

"Ridiculous," the girl muttered, glaring into space. "They're ridiculous."

Orla peered at her, considering, and chewed on her lower lip. Fifteen minutes passed wherein the other girl did nothing but stew, and Orla's backside started to ache from sitting on the unpadded seat. Trying to help people had never done her any favors in the past, but maybe just this once—.

"Are you, uh, okay?"

"Perfectly fine," the girl retorted, seeming to not really hear Orla, but then she paused to look at her, and her gaze lingered on Orla's clothes. "Are you a student here? I don't think I've seen you before."

"I guess I am, starting today."

The girl's frustrated posture eased, and her tone mellowed. "Oh. I'm sorry, I didn't—never mind. Why are you coming now? The school year's already begun."

Orla shrugged. What could she say? The man posing as my foster father decided he liked me best ignorant? "Mix-up with my guardian. Mrs. Porter said I'm supposed to be starting in my second year?"

The girl blinked. "I've never heard of that before," she said, and rather than sounding annoyed, she sounded intrigued. "From everything I've read, it's unusual for Seraphium to decline admission into one of the academies, especially with the law passed five years ago. But I'm sure you know about that."

Orla flushed. "Er, no. I just found out about all this a few hours ago."

The girl gaped. "Really—?"

Approaching footsteps paused their conversation, and both girls looked up to see Mrs. Porter returning, joined by a man wearing a long, gold coat. He was handsome, Orla guessed, and he surely knew it by his confident stride and easy, pearly-white grin. Product kept his blond hair artfully mussed but out of his eyes, and he had a carefree amount of graying stubble on his well-shaped chin.

"Hello!" he said when he and Mrs. Porter reached them. He grabbed Orla's hand to shake it and nearly wagged her arm off. "Dean Samson, at your service. Wonderful to see a new student joining our ranks! Especially ol' Henry's granddaughter! How is the sour grape?"

Orla ground her teeth.

The man continued without waiting for a response. "And already making friends! My, you're off to a great start! Vera here is an excellent student, and in your year! How auspicious!"

Mrs. Porter saw the other girl sitting with Orla and exhaled a similar frustrated sigh to the one Assistant Garner had given. "Has Miss Vanda locked you out of the room again, Miss Cicero?"

The girl pressed her lips into a line and nodded. Mrs. Porter opened her mouth to say something, and Dean Samson let out a loud guffaw.

"Kids will be kids," he said, placing his hands on his hips. "Why, I remember in my own school days—."

"I believe it's not the time or the place for old stories, Horus," Mrs. Porter told him, her voice strained. "This is the second time Miss Vanda has barred Miss Cicero from their room this semester—."

Dean Samson snapped his fingers. "Well, why don't we settle Vera in with Orla here? They can be roommates!"

The girl—Vera—visibly winced. "Dean Samson, I would really prefer my own room—."

"Nonsense! All students at the Academy need a roommate—."

Orla wilted after hearing Vera's quick rejection. Had she already done something wrong? Why was the other girl unhappy to be bunked with her when they'd only just met? Surely she was better than someone who locked her out of their room?

I don't stink, do I? Orla gave her shoulder a discreet sniff. Vera saw and raised a brow. I thought I was going to be grounded in my room, not whisked away into a new life. Don't blame me for not having a shower first.

From her shadow, Morty sent flickers of reassurance. Orla noticed the Dean shiver.

Vera continued her tentative arguing while Dean Samson chatted undeterred, clapping his ringed hands. "That's that, then. We'll get Orla here settled in for the night with you and have her schedule arranged in the morning. I love it when things work out so neatly."

Mrs. Porter looked less pleased with Dean Samson's quick arrangements, but she took it all in stride. "Very well. I had planned for a more structured introduction, but it is getting late. Miss Cicero, would you mind showing Miss Tiernan the way to the dormitories? Once there, you may gather your things and move to the new room. I assume Assistant Garner has gone ahead to unlock the door and chastise Miss Vanda?"

"Yes, Master Porter."

"Good. Miss Tiernan?"

Orla raised her head from her inspection of her knees. "Yeah?"

"I will see you in the morning after breakfast. We will report to the Arbitrator to get your schedule and see about arranging a time to purchase your school things."

"Sure—I mean, yes, Mrs. Porter."

"Master Porter in the school, dear."

"Master Porter."

The woman nodded, and Vera rose to her feet, straightening her skirt, so Orla stood up as well.

"Great! Off you two go!" Dean Samson gave them a jaunty wave, then turned to Master Porter. "How about a nightcap, Hadiza? All this business has me parched."

"For Soliahl's sake, Horus...."

Orla shouldered her bag once more and followed Vera back into the evening light.

-