"Sir, what does that College of Winterhold you mentioned look like?"
"Oh, the College of Winterhold…" Skyl said. "It's a very serious sort of place. Compared with Hogwarts its buildings look downright shabby, but I've never doubted it's a fine college for mages."
He thought back to the first time he set foot in the College of Winterhold.
By then he was already on his own. Before parting ways with Kliman and the other two, they had a last drink together in Winterhold's only inn, the Frozen Hearth, drinking from daylight all the way to midnight. Skyl wasn't much of a drinker, but when he was with friends, he could never resist their urging. They drank until heaven and earth were spinning.
They started out with the food the inn served with the ale: boiled barnacles, fresh fish soup, raw oysters, little cakes of cheese. All of it was strong-smelling, and when those flavours mingled with the drink it was like a bomb brewing in your mouth, blasting straight up into your skull.
The four drunkards spent the night sprawled across the tables in the common room, fast asleep.
By noon the next day they said their farewells at the inn door and hugged one another. Skyl stood there and watched them set off on the road home.
Then he turned to face Winterhold.
According to legend, when the ancient Nords first landed on the continent of Tamriel, they founded a kingdom, and Winterhold was its capital. From the First Era to the Fourth, for thousands of years, Winterhold's political weight in Skyrim had been impossible to ignore.
But seventy-eight years ago, the Great Collapse occurred, sending most of the city tumbling down into the Sea of Ghosts. The once prosperous stronghold had become a broken ruin, as pitiful as a tiny fishing village.
The College alone had survived the disaster intact. The ground around it had crumbled away, and now it stood on a single pillar of rock like a lone, dim jewel rising out of the sea.
The road to the College was a suspended causeway, twisting upward into the air. The railings on either side were long since weathered and broken.
The wind blowing in from the Sea of Ghosts never stopped. Rumour said that people slipped and fell from that road every so often. Skyl was particularly careful as he walked; there were no steps on those paths, only carved patterns on the stone slabs to give your boots a little grip. Once winter came, those walkways would turn into a nightmare slide—if you went down, it was a straight drop to hell.
Faralda opened the main gate of the College for Skyl and told him to look for a mage named Mirabelle Ervine. She handled most of the College's affairs and was the chief instructor there—the equivalent of Professor McGonagall at Hogwarts.
Mirabelle was a stern Breton. That race mainly lived in High Rock, in the west of Tamriel; they tended to be of middle height, with softer-cut features, and they almost always had a strong affinity for magic.
When she learned Skyl was a new member of the College, Mirabelle personally took him on a tour and handed him his apprentice mage's robes.
The College was built in a ring. Most of the buildings stood around the circle, and the central courtyard was broad and open, planted with many common alchemical ingredients. In summer those plants grew thick and lush.
In the plaza stood a statue of Shalidor, and in front of it a fountain-like well that spouted raw magicka. The College might look plain and rough on the surface, but in places like that its deep foundations showed through.
At the northernmost point of the College, the tallest building was the Hall of the Elements. It had three levels: the ground floor was the main hall, used for classes, lectures, and meetings; the second floor was the library; and the third floor held the Arch-Mage's quarters.
There were two buildings for lodgings: the Hall of Countenance and the Hall of Attainment.
Skyl's room was assigned in the Hall of Attainment.
Just before Mirabelle left him, Skyl hurried to ask, "Are there any rules I should know about?"
"The College will not restrict what kind of magic you wish to research," she said. "But you need to understand that magic is a very rigorous discipline. Before you attempt anything, you must do all the necessary theoretical work, and whenever possible cast your spells under the supervision of an assistant or a master. And try not to dabble in necromantic magic and the like, the sort of thing that frightens ordinary folk. If you absolutely must, then do it outside town, or ask one of the masters for help. Our relationship with the locals is already very strained. Don't fan the flames."
Skyl nodded and agreed.
The Hall of Attainment was very quiet. The light from the enchanted candles was bright and cold. Everyone was busy with their own research and paid no attention to the new student. For the next few days Skyl was always alone in the library, studying theory and not talking to anyone. The food there was just bread, water, and wine—it really did feel like a medieval Christian monastery.
When he had time, he would slip off to a London supermarket to buy proper food and stock it in the Tower of Tomes. Gally cooked three meals a day for him.
Those days were dull, but thanks to Skyl's extraordinary learning speed, he soon mastered advanced spells just as he'd hoped. In time he also made some friends among the College's members. They would gather to share theories and discuss their research. Skyl stood out without even trying and somehow became the centre of that small circle.
Looking back, it had been a peaceful, quiet period of his life.
…
Every long story comes to an end, and every long journey comes to its destination.
After nightfall, the train began to slow down.
"We will be arriving at Hogwarts in five minutes. Please leave your luggage on the train; it will be taken up to the school for you." The announcement echoed through the carriages.
They were nearly there—Hogwarts.
The branches of pine trees swept past outside the windows, and the evening sky had settled into a tranquil, deep violet.
A powerful fear rose in Harry's chest. The end of this journey was a world he had never seen before; anyone would feel tense standing at that threshold. And Harry's fear was worse than most. He had no home of his own. Going to Hogwarts was like a gambler staking everything on a single roll. If the wizarding world did not accept him, those Dursleys who had been cowed by the visiting wizards would have no qualms about hurting him, beating him, shutting him in the cupboard under the stairs and starving him to death.
Ron still hadn't had his fill of Skyl's story. After they changed into their robes and followed the crowd off the train, the night chill on the pitch-black platform finally got the better of the new students. They clustered together, shivering, watching the older years chatting and laughing as they headed out of the station.
Ron watched them with pleading eyes, hoping one of his brothers would come over and say a comforting word. Hermione walked just behind Skyl, following his steps like a little duckling, and Neville had become separated from the rest of them somewhere in the crush.
"Harry!"
The half-giant was carrying an old-fashioned lantern. He was so tall that the other students could barely reach his waist, so it looked as though the light were floating in midair, a clear beacon in the dark.
"Firs' years, this way!" Hagrid bellowed. He lumbered up to Harry and the others, ruffled the boy's hair, then greeted the young man at his side. "You must be Mr Skyl, righ'? Professor Dumbledore gave special instructions about yeh. You'll be comin' across the lake with us to the Sortin'."
Only then did Harry and the others learn the young man's name. Until now he'd never actually introduced himself.
Skyl joined the first-years as they headed for the shore of the Black Lake. Halfway there, Neville caught up with them. The round-faced boy was terrified, sweat running down his face.
The path down to the lake was narrow and slick. Most things in the wizarding world kept a kind of wild, primitive roughness—that was part of its unique colour, a blend of carelessness and ferocious imagination.
The first-years, however, were having a miserable time of it. One misstep and they went skidding. They clutched at one another's robes and staggered along arm in arm. Four small hands were clinging to the back of Skyl's robes. His own steps were sure and steady, and each time his foot came down, it left a briefly glowing footprint behind.
"What spell is that?"
"Lumos."
Hermione stared in wonder, eyes full of doubt. "But my Lumos isn't like that."
"I'm using a special technique," Skyl said. "I'll explain another time if we get the chance."
Hermione still wouldn't let it go. She had an intense hunger for knowledge about everything. She kept questioning him all the way until they reached the lakeshore and climbed into the boats—four first-years to a boat, though once Skyl had squeezed in, his boat could only hold three others. Only then did Hermione finally stop asking.
Ron and Harry both let out quiet sighs of relief. Under his breath, the red-haired Weasley grumbled, "She really is annoying. She just goes on and on."
Harry nodded.
For the first time they saw Hogwarts Castle on the far side of the lake: towers shouldering up into the night, spires disappearing into the darkness, and hundreds of windows glowing like unwinking stars.
The little boats glided into the dock beneath the castle. The first-years followed Hagrid up to the great front doors and watched him knock.
The massive old oak doors swung inward with a booming sound, and out stepped a black-haired witch in an emerald-green robe—Professor Minerva McGonagall, the Deputy Headmistress.