The woman at the receiving counter counted the people behind me, then looked at the warrant.
"One passenger."
"The others are returning with the carriage," I said.
She marked the line and pushed a numbered slip across the counter.
"Keep this visible. Your cases go to the weighing desk."
That was my introduction to the capital gate.
I had imagined a shining arch, a short walk, and the Eastern Spires waiting on the other side.
The arch existed. I could see part of it through an opening beyond two sets of rails.
Between us stood several desks, a room full of benches, and enough luggage to furnish a small house.
I took the slip.
The attendant followed with the first case while one guard brought the second. Our other guard had remained with the driver. By evening, all four would be on the return side of this arrangement.
I would be somewhere else.
The thought was pleasant until I reached for the travel folder and realized the attendant was still carrying it. "I'll take that."
He handed it over.
One thing I needed to stop assuming would happen by itself.
The weighing clerk set the first case on a broad metal platform. A pointer moved, settled, and moved again when he added the second.
He checked my booking.
"One standard passenger allowance. These exceed it."
The attendant looked at the two cases as if someone must have made an error in their construction.
"The household booked carriage luggage through to the capital," he said. "The onward cargo charge..."
"Hasn't been booked," the clerk finished.
I opened the folder and found the line.
Personal baggage included to the stated limit. Additional cargo by separate warrant.
The words had been there yesterday. I had understood them without connecting them to the two expensive cases in front of me.
"Can the difference be paid here?" I asked.
"For the next available cargo allotment. Not necessarily this crossing."
Money solved the fee. It did not create space on a filled transfer.
I looked toward the benches, where a man was removing books from a wooden trunk while someone beside him argued about whether shoes counted as cargo. I had a useful example of what not to do next.
"Open the cases," I said.
The attendant brought them to a low table against the wall.
Inside lay neatly arranged clothes, polished boxes, and several things whose purpose seemed to be protecting other things I didn't need immediately.
I lifted a fitted lid. Gloves.
Three pairs, despite my having discussed practical supplies at considerable length.
I hadn't actually removed the gloves from the list. I could hardly blame someone else for packing them.
"One pair."
The attendant took out the other two.
Next came the second formal coat, a silver-backed brush, and a box containing spare clasps for clothing I wasn't sure I would wear.
Each removal made the case look less appropriate for a noble heir and more appropriate for someone who might need to carry it up steps.
I considered that an improvement.
"The primer?" the attendant asked.
He held the old circulation book over the open space.
"Keep it."
"The binding is heavy."
"I use what's inside."
He placed it near the bottom, wrapped in a shirt.
The small notebook stayed in my coat. The transfer receipt and my practice notes stayed in the folder. Water and bandages went into the bag I would carry myself.
Food could be eaten before we crossed if its weight became the last argument.
I wasn't leaving the clean cloth behind to make room for silver.
We packed what I was keeping into the larger case. The smaller one held the rejected clothes and boxes, ready to go back with the carriage.
The clerk weighed everything again, including the bag I had hoped he might overlook. He didn't overlook it.
We removed a pair of shoes. The pointer settled inside the marked allowance.
"Accepted," he said.
He tied a numbered tag through the case handle. The items I had removed would return with the household party.
The attendant made a list of them before closing the spare case.
"The changes were mine," I told him. "Put that on the list."
He looked up briefly, then wrote it down.
I didn't need the household asking why he had sent an heir away without the correct collection of brushes.
Our numbered slip led to a bench with a view of another desk.
We waited there for most of the morning.
Occasionally, a clerk called someone forward. Papers moved between counters. A porter collected cleared cargo from behind a rail that passengers were not allowed to cross.
The gate remained partly hidden beyond it all.
I couldn't see why the process took so long. That wasn't the same as proving it could safely be shorter.
I reminded myself of that when the second hour passed.
At midday, the attendant brought a meal from the receiving hall's kitchen. I ate with the folder resting against my knee and watched a young student across the aisle argue with an older woman about a coat.
He didn't want to wear it. She didn't want to carry it home.
In the end, he put it on despite the warmth.
I wondered whether he had already passed his examination or would take the same one waiting for me. His papers might have told me. His face didn't.
The game had supplied names and affiliations when people entered a scene.
Here, he was simply a boy sweating inside a coat he had lost an argument about.
I returned to my meal before he caught me staring.
The afternoon brought an identity check.
"Cedric Valdrake Arkhen."
I stood at once.
The clerk compared my face with the description on the warrant, checked the household seal, and asked me to confirm the destination.
"Eastern Spires. Academy receiving station."
"Eastern Spires gate station," he corrected. "Academy transport follows. This warrant covers this fixed corridor."
He indicated the route printed beneath the destination.
I looked at the line more carefully.
The gate wasn't a place from which I could choose anywhere in the world. It connected this station to one other. Reaching the academy required the onward transport already listed on the booking.
"Understood."
He returned the folder and kept the slip.
Then he gave me a different slip.
I managed not to laugh. The effort deserved something better than another bench, but that was what I received.
By late evening, my back ached from sitting upright. My hand had swollen slightly beneath the travel wrap. I loosened it in the washroom and took a few slow breaths before returning to the waiting area.
No practice. No experiment to make the time feel useful.
Tomorrow would provide enough opportunities to hurt myself.
Clearance came nearly twelve hours after we first joined the queue.
The guard carried my accepted case to the departure rail. The attendant checked the bag, then placed the water bottle so its strap wouldn't catch beneath my arm.
"The spare cloth is at the top, young master."
"I know."
He withdrew his hand.
I checked the stopper anyway.
For a moment, neither of us moved. He had no more tasks on this side of the journey. I had no useful instruction left to give him.
"The return expenses are covered?" I asked.
"Yes. The driver holds the order."
"Good."
He bowed. The guard did the same, then took the rejected case and turned back toward the receiving hall.
I watched them go until the gate attendant called my number.
Then I lifted my own bag and followed.
Beyond the rails, the arch was taller than I had expected. Light filled the opening without showing anything behind it. Narrow lines ran from its base into the floor, where workers checked fitted stones beneath removable covers.
A gate attendant stood beside a painted boundary.
"Wait for the signal. Walk straight. Keep hold of your small belongings."
My case joined the cleared luggage on a low wheeled platform. I kept the folder against my chest and stepped behind the passenger ahead of me.
The signal came.
For a second, I saw the white surface reflect a blurred outline of Cedric's face.
Then I walked through it.
My ears closed as if I had dropped underwater. The floor seemed to tilt, though my feet remained beneath me. I took another step because stopping in a doorway I didn't understand seemed worse.
Cold air struck my face.
Someone on the far side indicated a clear space beyond the receiving marks.
I went there and concentrated on keeping my dinner where it belonged.
The crossing had taken minutes, including the small stops before and after. Beyond the station windows, the world had changed.
Dark ridges rose against the sky. Lights climbed their sides in uneven lines. I couldn't see the academy yet.
I could see stairs.
Naturally.
A transport official checked our onward tickets and directed us to the scheduled lift. The departure board put the academy journey at four hours from the station.
I looked at the time and counted forward.
Founding Day would begin before we arrived.
The lift carried passengers and luggage up an enclosed shaft. I felt the rise through the soles of my feet and gripped the rail with my left hand.
After that came another platform, a careful transfer of the tagged cases, and the shuttle that would carry us toward the floating grounds.
I found my seat and put the supply bag between my boots.
Nobody offered to take the folder. I was getting used to that.
The shuttle left the station while I was still settling the strap across my lap. Lights slid below the window. For a few minutes, I could follow the roads between them.
Then cloud covered the glass.
I slept badly, waking whenever the floor's vibration changed. At one point, I checked the notebook in my coat and found my fingers already resting over it.
The announcement near the end of the journey used a new date.
Founding Day.
I sat upright and wiped a small patch of mist from the window.
Lights appeared above the clouds. Then walls. Bridges. A stretch of dark land with nothing beneath its edge but open air.
Astral Zenith Academy.
I knew the shape of its main towers from a screen. Seeing them rise beyond the shuttle made every familiar picture feel too small.
The bridge nearest the approach shone with rows of lamps. Far below it, the clouds moved through the gap where solid ground should have been.
I pulled the bag closer with my feet.
The crew told us to remain seated until docking. For once, following an instruction required no effort at all.