Hahp

When the carriage wheels touched stone and began to turn, I felt my stomach clench. Gabardino reined in, pulling the stallion to a halt when my father told him to. The wheels gritted against the rock as the pony sidled in the traces, shaking his long mane. I sat, frozen, my arms crossed over my uneasy belly.
"Hahp," my father said, leaning close enough close enough that I smelled the scent of the soap on his skin. "Sit up."
I straightened. Gabardino was opening the carriage gate, pulling the hinged steps out for my mother. I stood, my ears thrumming with the sound of my own fear. I had seen the iron doors a hundred times from the carriage and had never realized how big they were. I had never seen them open. A ship could have sailed through them. It took me a moment to see the wizards standing on either side, their backs against the dark stone. Their black robs hid them like moths on bark.
My father cleared his throat. I climbed down, then helped my mother, my hands clammy with sweat. I stepped on her hem. She pretended not to notice and smiled at me. My father came last down the carriage steps and gathered himself, His shoulders, his heart high, looking around. We were the first to arrive.
I stood still, scanning the sky. I could see three tiny dots, carriages coming this way. I would fail at the academy. Why not? I had failed everywhere else I had been sent. My father's donations had always brought me lenience, and, in the end, a provisional letter of recommendation to the next school. I could not imagine the wizards allowing that.
What happened to the boys who walked inside those doors? No one knew. But the white pony's eyes reminded me of the cold, strange eyes of the wizards. I stared at the cliff's edge. It was high enough ten times over. If I ran straight out and jumped, I would die. I glanced at my father. I would never again have to hear how I disappointed and shamed him, how fortunate he was that Aben was the older of his sons, the one who would inherit. My mother would weep, but she would understand, I thought. Surely she had thought about it at least once, about escaping my father forever. And it would be better for her if I were gone. She stood up for me against him sometimes - and she always paid for it in bruises.
Trying to think, I looked past my mother at the sky again. The carriages were getting closer. I glanced at my father, then back at the edge. I had missed my first chance. This might be my last. Did I want to die? I tried to answer that question and could not.
Then I saw the messenger boy. He was coming to the top of the ancient stairs. I watched him appear in little upward jolts, his head showing first, then his shoulders, a little more of him viable with every weary step. When he finally topped the staircase he sank to his knees.
He wore rough-woven clothes
from some South End market stall. Sweat had plastered his dark curls against his scalp. When he stood up, he gawped at the carriages that were now alighting on the huge stone shelf. Messengers were street boys, always. No one else was hungry enough to except a few coppers to climb the endless stairs.
I wondered who had hired this one and why. A desperate family wanting to cure a crippled child? Maybe a woman too old to climb the steps, but frantic to help a bedridden husband?
Another carriage alighted on the dark stone and the messenger boy's eyes went even wider. He stared as the bay mare's hooves touched the stone, her gait perfect, smooth. I saw him swallow hard. All the carriages were fancy; all the parents in fine clothing. This had to be more silk and silver than he had ever imagined in his life. I envied him. Once he had delivered his message, he could go back down the steps. He could leave.
I heard my father's voice and turned. "Hahp? Are you deaf?" He said quietly, frowning. I tried to meet his eyes but found myself staring past him at the gigantic iron doors. Whatever was beyond them was invisible in the dark interior.
My mother came to stand beside me, and suddenly she had me walking, her hand on my arm as though I was supporting her, leading her along. My father stayed a half step ahead of us, square-shouldered and stiff.
I wrenched around to look back at Gabardino. He was waiting as he always did, at parties, at parades, at school, at wedding fests, waiting in the wind, in the rain, in the summer sun. But this time, he would leave without me. I felt a shadow fall over my face, and I lifted my head sharply as we passed into the shade of the overhanging cliffs. The monstrous doors were very close now, maybe twenty steps away.
"Good morning," my father said as we came closer. None of the wizards answered. I saw trickles of sweat coming from beneath my fathers iron grey hair. I hesitated, and my mother slowed with me, her hand still perched lightly on my forearm. My father lengthened his stride. My mother could not keep up, but she kept me moving. I closed my eyes as we passed from daylight into darkness.