The other students gradually rose, gathered their books, and headed for the door.
The few dozen people had mostly dispersed, leaving the lecture hall more than half empty.
Philips, having packed up his things, winked at Richard as he passed by.
"Guess I’m not included."
Carrying his bag, he ambled out.
Richard stood up.
Montague approached from the other side at an unhurried pace, his usual composure barely wavering, even in the presence of the two Grand Masteries.
Catherine came over from her corner, clutching her books.
Pendleton closed the lecture hall door for them.
Only two professors and three students remained in the vast hall.
With no outsiders present, the two Grand Masteries relaxed their hold on their Ether a bit.
In Richard’s Perception, the surface of the sea pressing down from above wavered.
Professor Macphie’s gaze fell on Catherine first.
"Blackwood. A Highland name."
Catherine stood up straighter. "Yes, Professor."
"Which part of the Highlands?"
"The north. West of Inverness."
The lines on Macphie’s stone-chiseled face softened.
"A Highland lass in Cheltenham. That’s a rare sight indeed.
These days, nine out of ten young lasses from the Highlands get snapped up by those ladies’ colleges to learn trifles like flower arranging and piano playing."
He sized Catherine up for a moment.
"I’m no stranger to that name."
"The Blackwoods have been Hunters in the northern Highlands for generations. Your clan has produced some tough characters."
Catherine’s spine stiffened.
"What was your great-grandfather’s name?"
The red-haired girl thought for a long while.
"I never met my great-grandfather... The family records say his name was Elpen Blackwood."
"Elpen Blackwood."
Something flickered across Macphie’s face, an expression worn faint by the years.
"Old El. I went on a field mission with him once."
Catherine’s eyes widened.
Standing to the side, Richard saw it all clearly.
"That year, trouble broke out in the northern Highlands."
Macphie lowered his voice, and each word resonated in the spacious lecture hall.
"Too many people had died near an old battlefield, and something foul began to fester in the soil.
"At night, the shepherds’ flocks went mad, herd after herd, and would kneel facing the same direction."
"The Guild sent a team. I was young then, tagging along to handle the Inscription side of things.
Your great-grandfather, Elpen, was the lead Hunter."
Macphie’s large hands were clasped in front of him:
"While everyone else was huddled by the fire shivering, he alone took up a silver blade and walked into that darkened land.
Before he went, he turned and said one thing to me."
"’Lad, you mind the reading, and I’ll mind the killing. What you can’t read, I’ll cleave open for you. What I can’t cleave, you’ll read through for me.’"
Catherine listened, perfectly still.
The lecture hall was quiet for a moment.
Richard could tell that the red-haired girl, who normally maintained such a cold demeanor, was anything but calm inside.
Her father had died young; to her, the glory of her clan’s "tough characters" and "generations of Hunters" were likely just a few dry names in a family tree.
Now, a Grand Mastery who had lived for over a hundred years was personally recounting her great-grandfather’s past deeds to her.
Richard, however, was thinking about another matter, one he hadn’t voiced.
’Blackwood and Macfee—the deadly feud between the two families.’
’And here was Professor Macphie, his surname just one sound away from Maggie’s.’
’So, is this professor connected to that generations-old blood feud?’
’Maggie didn’t seem to care about the old grudge, and Catherine probably didn’t either.’
Richard pushed the thoughts away.
Macphie shifted his gaze from Catherine to Montague.
"Montague."
"Professor." The blond young man inclined his head slightly, his etiquette flawless.
"How has the Old Count been of late?"
"Thank you for asking, Professor. My grandfather is well."
Macphie nodded.
The exchange was polite, to be sure, but lacked any real warmth.
The two professors were polite to him, but that politeness was directed at what the Montague name represented.
Montague the man had not yet earned the right to be seen as anything more.
Professor Mortimer had been cradling his teacup the whole time, saying little.
Now, he set his cup down.
"Little Richard, I wrote you a letter."
Richard tensed. ’Here it comes.’
"Yes," he answered respectfully. "I was honored to receive it, Professor."
"It was hardly a great honor."
Mortimer waved his perpetually trembling hand.
"I wrote that letter on Little Hutton’s account."
"I’m old. My memory is poor."
"Whatever good things I wrote about you in it, I’ve forgotten them all completely."
He raised his teacup and took a sip.
"What you said earlier... it had some merit."
"Let me ask you another question."
"If the thing inside the door can ’look’ back through your eyes...
...then why do so many in our profession continue to read, one after another, ever deeper?"
Richard gathered his thoughts.
This question struck at the very heart of the matter.
"I believe there are three reasons."
"The first is that we have no choice but to read."
"Seals weaken. Inscriptions fade.
If no one reads and reinforces them today, they will eventually seep out and bring harm to the living on this side of the door."
Richard paused.
"Second, if one reads to the very end, the thing inside the door ceases to be ’mysterious.’"
He recalled Professor Mortimer’s own words and repurposed them.
"Those in our profession delve deeper in order to transform an ’incomprehensible danger’ into a ’comprehensible peace.’"
Holding his teacup, Professor Mortimer looked visibly pleased.
"The third reason." Richard’s voice grew quieter.
"I can’t articulate this one as well, it’s just a simple observation."
"Speak."
"If a man spends his life standing at the mouth of a cave, torn and indecisive, his hesitation will be his own undoing."

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