Chapter 41: Nav Keram
Dorian spent the afternoon clearing sand from Lucky’s cooling system. Between bouts of work, he wandered through the ruined waterworks. Toren would have knelt there, listening for life beneath the stone. Dorian caught himself preparing to explain why the channels could not simply be repaired. Then he remembered Toren was not there.
By evening, the heat had eased enough to risk flying. Dorian left the ruins with a growing dislike of the Desert and headed towards Mirrors College, hoping Lucky would survive the journey.
Once airborne, he checked the route back to Tavra Sol. Again. Knowing the way would not bring Toren back any sooner. He returned his attention to Lucky’s temperature gauge. At least that was a problem he could fix.
Mirrors College rose ahead of Dorian, surrounded by tall walls and mica watchtowers. Beyond them, glass towers and domes caught the evening sunlight. Far more buildings than he had expected.
Dorian brought Lucky down towards the College gates. The low sun struck the mica panels set into brass frames, sending a sharp glare straight into his eyes. He squinted, adjusted his approach and landed in the shade of the entrance.
Two guardians waited beneath the arch. Their long kaftans stirred in the wind, revealing leather belts over loose tunics. Headwraps covered their hair, noses and mouths, leaving only their eyes visible.
The guardians looked remarkably relaxed. Then Dorian noticed the obsidian blades at their belts. Short, narrow and wickedly sharp. He reconsidered his first impression.
One guardian stepped forward. “Your business?” he asked in Common, his Desert accent giving the words a faint hiss.
“The Senior Archivist.”
“Authority?”
Dorian took the Keeper’s sealed letter from his coat and handed it over. The guardian examined the seal, then passed the letter to the second. Both studied it for a moment before returning it.
“You may enter.”
Dorian packed Lucky into its storage capsule while the guardians opened the gates.
Beyond them, glass buildings surrounded broad courtyards and covered walkways. Rows of enormous mirrors caught the last sunlight, focusing it onto a large metal reservoir. Pipes extended from it towards the College buildings and workshops. A few more guardians watched the equipment.
Dorian slowed to examine the arrangement. Impressive. He would have liked to see how it worked.
Cool air reached him as he approached the central building. He recognised the familiar chill of cooling crystals, although none were visible. The temperature gauge beside the entrance confirmed that someone had achieved a very comfortable temperature. After his afternoon with Lucky’s cooling system, Dorian found that almost offensive.
He stepped inside.
Evening had already settled, but thousands of alchemical lightstones kept the enormous glass hall illuminated. Dorian examined one. The College’s invention absorbed sunlight during the day and released it after dark. He touched the stone. Cold.
Clever.
A middle-aged scholar approached Dorian. His long coat was decorated with intricate silver embroidery that caught the light as he moved. They exchanged greetings.
“Where may I find the Senior Archivist?” Dorian asked.
“This way.”
The scholar led him through several corridors to the Desert Mirrored Library in an older part of the College. He opened a heavy door, bowed politely and left Dorian with the Senior Archivist.
An elderly woman with silver hair looked up from a desk crowded with books and scrolls.
“Dorian Corvell. The Keeper of Haven sent me.” He handed her the letter.
She examined the seal, read the request and called up the holographic catalogue.
“The Keeper,” she murmured. “It has been some time.”
She found the entry and led Dorian to the archives. At the indicated cabinet, she checked the shelves twice. “The scroll should be here.”
“Apparently not.”
Back at her desk, she opened a thick ledger and frowned. “Same location. Something is wrong with the records.”
“How long to find it?”
“Tomorrow, perhaps. I need to check the older catalogues.”
“Comforting.”
The Archivist rang a bell. A young apprentice appeared. “Please arrange a room for our guest and show him the dining hall.”
Dorian thanked her and followed the apprentice out.
The dining hall was crowded, though finding an empty seat proved easy enough. Almost every table was occupied by pairs of students sitting opposite each other.
Their movements were oddly synchronised. At one table, two students raised their cups simultaneously, each using the opposite hand. At another, a pair reached for their plates, leaned forward and sat back in perfect unison.
Dorian collected his meal and settled at a table near the windows.
He was halfway through his meal when two students approached.
“May we join you?”
Dorian looked up. Two young scholars stood beside his table. The older one had short fair hair, a fine-boned profile and a slightly crooked smile. The younger, however, caught his attention rather more. Short brown curls, high cheekbones and large eyes of remarkably clear emerald green. Dorian had never seen eyes quite like them.
Then he noticed the scars. One above the older scholar’s left eyebrow, the other above the younger’s right. Almost identical.
Interesting pair.
“By all means.” Dorian inclined his head.
The scholars took seats opposite each other, with Dorian at the end of the table. A thin silver thread shimmered between their wrists, stretching across the tabletop. When the older scholar reached for his cup, the thread lengthened, then shortened as he drew his hand back. It neither sagged nor pulled at their wrists. Dorian studied it, curious how it maintained its tension.
The older scholar introduced himself first. “I’m Nerit.”
“Pan.” The younger scholar was openly staring at Dorian now.
“Dorian.”
“You’re a Mirrorwalker,” Nerit said with a smile.
“An observant College.”
Pan laughed. “Almost all our visitors are Walkers. Not all wear brass cuffs, though.”
Dorian glanced at the thread. “And I don't often see people tied together by magic. Is that compulsory?”
“Only during training,” Nerit answered. “We study reflective transformation.”
“Meaning?”
Pan smiled. The shape of their nose changed slightly, becoming narrower. Then their jaw shifted, their cheekbones rising until their face resembled Nerit's.
Dorian put down his fork. “Now that is interesting.”
Pan's features returned to normal.
“We train in pairs.” Nerit poured himself a glass of water. “One maintains the original reflection while the other changes. Then we exchange roles.”
“And the thread?”
“Keeps our reflections connected. It helps us maintain control.”
Dorian examined their faces again. “So the similarities are deliberate?”
“Mostly,” Pan said. “The longer a pair trains together, the more alike they become.”
“And how long have you two trained?”
“Twelve years, six months and two days,” Pan replied.
“Who's counting?”
“Both of us,” Nerit said.
Nerit looked at Dorian. “Have you ever tried changing your face?”
“Not intentionally. I have had several people attempt to rearrange it for me.”
Both laughed.
By the time the plates were cleared, Nerit had leaned closer to Dorian. Pan was watching him with considerably less academic interest than before.
Dorian was beginning to appreciate the College's approach to practical education.
Nerit led them into a small practice chamber with a low bed, two chairs and a cabinet. The air was cool and crisp, free of desert dust. Beneath its remarkable cleanliness, Dorian caught a faint, familiar scent of mirror-polishing oil.
Comforting.
Pan shut the door. “The College encourages practical study,” they said.
“And what, precisely, are we studying?”
“Reflective connection,” Nerit replied. “Among other things.”
“An ambitious syllabus.” Dorian smiled faintly.
Nerit kissed Dorian before he could enquire further. His mouth was soft, his fingers surprisingly steady on Dorian's collar. Pan slipped behind and began undoing the buttons of Dorian’s coat. Pan’s breath touched the back of Dorian’s neck.
They undressed one another with rather less coordination than the scholars had shown at dinner. Dorian pulled Pan’s tunic over their head, but the fabric caught in their curls. Pan laughed while Dorian freed it. Nerit struggled with a fastening on Dorian’s corset until Dorian took pity on him.
When Dorian turned back, Nerit’s face had changed. His jaw had narrowed and his cheekbones had risen. For a moment he looked almost exactly like Pan.
Dorian touched Nerit’s cheek. “Deliberate?”
“Mostly.”
“Splendid. Even your faces lack proper supervision.”
Nerit laughed. His features returned as he moved a chair closer to the bed and sat down.
Pan stayed close. They kissed Dorian, first lightly, then with sufficient enthusiasm to make him forget the conversation. Their short curls brushed his cheek, smelling faintly of rose water. Their hands travelled down Dorian’s chest. When Pan knelt and took Dorian’s length into their mouth, Dorian’s fingers slid into Pan’s soft curls.
Dorian glanced at Nerit. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Immensely.”
“Glad we could provide some entertainment.”
Nerit watched with a crooked smile, stroking himself. After a while, he rose, crossed the room and took Dorian’s outstretched hand. Dorian drew him into a kiss. Nerit’s fingers settled in Pan’s curls, gentle and familiar. The silver thread between their wrists caught the light.
Dorian noticed Nerit's eyes turning green. “Now you're both doing it.”
“Would you prefer us to stop?”
“Certainly not.”
Pan stood, took Dorian's face between their hands and kissed him. Their lips were wet, their breathing less composed than before.
They leaned close to Dorian’s ear. “You taste of silver.”
“I've been called worse.” Dorian drew Pan closer.
Pan laughed against Dorian’s cheek and pushed him to the bed. Pan climbed onto Dorian’s lap, their fingers exploring the scars on his chest. Nerit joined them, kissing Pan’s shoulder, then Dorian’s lips. A click came from somewhere behind Pan. The unmistakable scent of mirror-polishing compound grew stronger.
“Very thorough,” Dorian murmured.
“We take our studies seriously.” Nerit’s oiled fingers slid down Pan’s back.
“An obvious lie. Neither of you has opened a book,” Dorian murmured.
Pan's laughter ended in another kiss. Then Pan borrowed Nerit's straight nose and grey eyes; Nerit acquired Pan's extraordinary emerald gaze. Dorian could follow the changes only because their scars remained stubbornly in place. He found himself kissing one scholar while watching the other wear almost the same face.
The thread shimmered between them. Their breathing quickened, and the neat arrangement of sheets became a lost cause. At some point Dorian stopped trying to keep track of who had initiated which kiss.
Pan slowly sank onto Dorian’s hardness, exhaling as they gripped his shoulders. After a short pause, they began moving. Dorian held Pan by the waist, watching their expression as Nerit kissed the back of Pan's neck.
“May I join?” Nerit whispered.
Pan nodded, then reached back for him. Dorian drew Pan closer to his chest.
Nerit moved carefully, taking his time to join Dorian inside Pan. The three slowed to adjust before their movements gradually became quicker. Pan's breath grew uneven, their emerald eyes briefly turning grey before closing altogether. Dorian kissed them, feeling their fingers tighten against his shoulders.
Pan was the first to lose control, trembling between them with a breathless cry. Nerit held them close, his own breathing breaking a moment later. Dorian followed last, burying his face against Pan’s neck and holding them tightly as he released deep inside.
For a while, they remained tangled together, catching their breath. Dorian brushed Pan’s damp curls from their forehead. The silver thread still connected the scholars’ wrists.
Dorian woke before sunrise. The lightstones had dimmed, and the desert beyond the glass windows was still dark. Pan slept against his shoulder, one leg across his. Nerit lay beside them, his fair hair in complete disorder.
The room was surprisingly warm despite the desert night. Nerit stirred beside them, opened his eyes and looked at Dorian. “Morning.”
“Apparently.”
“How are you finding the College?” Pan's voice was still rough with sleep.
“Considering enrolment,” Dorian replied.
“You'd have to attend lectures,” Nerit said.
“A serious drawback,” Dorian said.
Pan laughed.
“How do you keep this place warm at night?” Dorian asked.
“Solar heat. The mirrors heat the reservoirs during the day. At night, the warmth runs through the walls and floors.”
“Thoughtful.” Dorian stretched one leg out of bed and rested his foot on the warm floor, considering the pipes beneath it.
Pan lazily traced circles on Dorian’s chest, then touched the volcanic stones of his necklace. “Beautiful thing.”
“My necklace?”
Pan ran their fingers over the porous beads. “Rare stones. We knew a Walker who wore something very similar.”
“Did you?”
“I think his name was Nav, or something like that,” Nerit said. “He used to visit the archives regularly.”
Dorian glanced at him. “Nav?”
“He looked rather like you. Curly hair, similar face and build. Older, though. And sounded less posh than you.” Pan chuckled.
“And what happened to him?” Dorian looked between the scholars.
Nerit shrugged. “Disappeared a couple of years ago. Simply stopped coming. Perhaps he finished his research.”
Dorian considered this. “Did he ever mention what he was researching?”
“No. The archives don't allow us to discuss visitors' work.”
“Remarkably discreet. Especially after last night.”
Pan grinned.
Dorian smiled back, but his fingers moved to the necklace. Nav.
By late morning, the desert heat was unbearable outside, but Mirrors College remained pleasantly cool. Whatever quantity of cooling crystals the College had used, they must have cost a fortune. No wonder it had such high walls and well-trained desert warriors guarding it.
The Senior Archivist was waiting.
“I found your scroll, Mirrorwalker Corvell. It had been moved to another collection, but I couldn't find any record of the transfer.” She carefully placed it on the desk.
“Can you check who last accessed the scroll?”
“The readers’ records are restricted.” She glanced at the Keeper’s letter. “But refusing a request backed by that seal would be unwise.”
“Most generous.” Dorian inclined his head.
She activated the holographic archive and searched the records.
“Nav Keram. A Mirrorwalker. He was the last person to consult it.” She brought up another set of entries. “He also requested several other collections.”
“Which ones?”
“Reflective inheritance. Binding of reflective abilities.”
Dorian frowned. “Interesting selection.”
“He was registered as a visiting researcher with a letter from the Institute of Reflective Studies in Netvoryn.”
“Netvoryn?” Dorian raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have thought they bothered with old-fashioned scrolls.”
Dorian looked again at the name displayed in the hologram.
Nav Keram.
He read the whole name backwards.
Marek Van.
His father.
For a moment, Dorian simply stared. The rough volcanic beads rested against his chest. Marek had been here only two years ago. Alive. Under another name.
Dorian examined the research records again.
What the hell had my father been doing here?
“May I have copies of those records?”
The Archivist made copies without comment.
By late afternoon, Dorian reached the official mirror to Steamhollow, not far from the College. The crossing was quick and uneventful.
Finding his father’s trail should have been good news. Dorian wished he could tell Toren. The Forest boy would listen, then ask the difficult questions.
But there was the matter of Marek’s research. Dorian could think of several innocent reasons to study reflective inheritance. Considerably fewer to study the binding of Mirrorwalker abilities.
And none that explained the false name.
