The Wolf

the form of a broad, stepped pyramid; the top echelon of which was a tower that rivalled the Central Keep in its reach towards the heavens. The lower levels were like desiccated honeycomb: more window than wall and more space than structure, eased into the island on which they stood by a slight meniscus. A deep defensive lake surrounded it, crossed by a solitary strand of stone. From the vines that scaled its earthenmost twenty feet, to its ancient alignment with the star Thuban, to the water that surrounded it, so clear that some evenings it was not easy to tell where the dry winter air ended and the lake began, it was perfect to Keturah. It was a better marriage of wilderness and refuge than she had seen anywhere else in their rugged country: the edge on which function and form combined. And at the apogee of this building was a great metal structure that burnt in bright sunlight and hardened before clouds: a cold silver eye.

Keturah crossed the bridge (scarcely necessary at this time of year as the lake on either side was clouded ice), delivering a patronising smile to the berserkers who watched over the doors. These were the guardsmen of the Academy, trained to recognise the robes of the historians even when at their maddest, though Keturah remained scornful of the decision to entrust the security of the Academy to these most unstable warriors.

She passed them, passed through the open stone arch behind, beneath a carving of a spread-winged angel with giant, spidery hands, and through the gaping jaws of the Academy. The hall within was fresh and cavernous, with the inner edges again lined with vines. Corridors led off on three sides and in the middle of this hall was a woman in the thick cream robes of an acolyte, kneeling next to a small fire set in a depression in the floor. The smoke was escaping through a hole in the roof and a blackened copper pot was sitting beside it, half-filled with tumbling water.

Though her head was covered by a hood, there was something familiar about the acolyte’s posture. “Sigrid?”

The acolyte looked up and Keturah saw the two light grey eyes of Gray’s wife shining like daylight beneath the hood. “Keturah.” Sigrid stood and gave Keturah her strange smile: a narrowing of the eyes and a slight raise at the corners of her mouth. The two women embraced over the fire. “You’re here to see the Chief Historian?”

“I am. She knows I’m coming, where can I find her?” asked Keturah.

“You wait here for her, but she’ll be some time. Share the fire with me.”

Sigrid gestured at the empty stone floor and the two knelt together, Keturah a little too close so that her knees became uncomfortably hot and she had to retreat slightly. Sigrid gave the smile that was not really a smile and took up the copper pot, pouring some of the steaming water over a sprig of pine set in a wooden bowl. She offered the bowl to Keturah, who accepted with an inclination of her head and set it aside for a time, waiting for the brew to cool. The Academy was famously cold, hence the thick robes of both acolytes and historians and, in spite of the fire, Keturah found herself cooling swiftly on the damp day.

“I heard you were coming,” said Sigrid, pouring a second bowl of hot water and pine needles which she took herself and set aside as Keturah had done. “I asked to be gatewoman today. Why do you want to see the Chief?”

“There’s a chant I want to hear. And I have an interest in the acolyte’s robes. Have you settled on a cell yet?” A cell was a trio of historians, led by a senior academic, that specialised in the total recollection of four hundred and thirty-one years of history.

“For now I am happy as an acolyte, but one day, perhaps the robes of a Deep Historian will appeal to me.” Sigrid paused for a moment. “Though I’m not sure I shall ever be ready to renounce my marriage. Unworthy a motive as it may be, I may end up joining a cell as my refuge.” To become a full cell member and thus be entrusted with the identity of the Black Kingdom, a woman had to renounce her marriage and live within the walls of the Academy itself. She became part of the country: something too precious to be chanced elsewhere, and too important to risk corruption through marriage and alliances to those outside the Academy. Sigrid meant that she was only likely to take this harsh and disciplined way of life when Gray was killed in battle: close to an inevitability for a man serving in the Sacred Guard.

Keturah thought of herself as an astute judge of character. The motivations and temperament of others were there to see if she only looked, and she could not imagine a time when Sigrid would be unhappy. The older woman, though serious, had a serenity about her that made her company restful even though she barely talked. But that silence just seemed to make the words she did utter weightier. If Keturah was in awe of one person in the Black Kingdom, it was this woman. She was quiet, so Keturah was quiet too. Just being in the presence of her tranquil companion, beneath the sheltered stone of the antechamber and with the frozen lake stretching out before them, Keturah felt peace descending over her. The Academy offered clarity. Sitting here, the appeal of joining this institution was obvious.

They were silent for a time. From a pouch at her belt, Sigrid produced a couple of handfuls of hazelnuts which she split with Keturah. The hazelnuts were slightly dry so both women roasted theirs next to the fire and Keturah began to sip at her pine-needle tea. It was resinous, aromatic and refreshing.

“Which is the chant you wish to hear?” asked Sigrid.

Keturah was aware of