Chapter 10

Ten

Kyrith

T he only reason I know something’s up is because the trapdoor to the Vault is heavy and rusted from disuse. So much so that opening it makes the very floor of the Rotunda protest.

My own stupid unwillingness to have anything to do with the Vault is my salvation. It yanks my attention from the distraction that is Lambert and his beautiful, tattooed arms.

Momentary confusion is replaced by true, brain-freezing horror, as I search through the building and discover a presence that doesn’t belong. No. Not just a presence. The presence.

Ackland is here, making his way into the dark depths of the Arcanaeum with careful steps.

Too quickly, the pieces of my downfall line up. The tutoring sessions, the deliberate attempts to get to know me, to get me to lower my guard. Lambert and Galileo are a diversion. They’re Ackland’s little minions sent to keep me from suspecting anything is amiss as he makes his way down into the Vault.

If he finds my body, what will he do? Is that his father’s plan?

“ Scaesh .” That single incantation is infused with all of the Arcanaeum’s raw power.

The traitors are crushed, first to their knees, then to the ground in a mockery of a bow.

“You. Dare.” Dare to make me think, to give me hope…

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It’s happened all over again. Just like with Edmund. When will I learn that no arcanist alive wants to know me for me. I’m just a pawn to them.

Glaring down at Galileo and Lambert, I realise I hate them more than I hate North. At least he never tried to hide his motivations. These two aren’t going anywhere, but there’s no time to deal with them.

I disappear, keeping the magic pinning them in place in a secure grip as I sink into the building, spreading my essence through the Arcanaeum and reforming.

He’s so far down already. Almost within sight of the altar. A thought from me, and the stairs before him disappear entirely.

I can almost hear his heartbeat pick up as his foot hovers over empty air before he snatches it back.

“ Omubolosi .”

His body is petrified, literally unable to move, but the golden fire in his eyes turns molten with rage. Unfortunately, he can still speak.

“Let me go!”

I don’t oblige. With a flick of my fingers, I drag his worthless body through the air and back up the way we came. When we return to the Rotunda, the decorations are gone. The Arcanaeum bristles, its anger and mine so thoroughly entangled I can’t separate them. I don’t care to.

The other two are already on the floor of the Rotunda when I reach them, still pressed over in that mockery of a bow. I hate that even like this, I can appreciate how beautiful they are. I hate myself for the slither of guilt creeping through me, and the tiny part of me whispering that perhaps I should show mercy.

That stupid, na?ve little part is shut down under the reminder that it was all false. There was no friendship. Just a lie that my pathetic, desperate, lonely mind latched onto.

I slam North down beside them, then ease up until the three of them are able to lift their heads.

“Why were you trying to get into the Vault?” I demand.

The trapdoor slams shut behind my desk as I say the name, and the rug unfurls back over the top of it.

“We need—” But Lambert cuts off as North shoots a quelling glare at him.

“None of your fucking business. You caught us. Now let us go.”

I pin him with a glare and reach deep into my arsenal of spells. “ Virecot .”

Galileo grunts. “Don’t say a?—”

“ Solinci .” The silencing spell hits him hard, and he gags noiselessly.

For most other arcanists, holding three spells like this would be next to impossible. I see that knowledge flicker in the ó Rinn’s cool eyes as he swallows past the pain of being magically gagged.

They’re all so used to seeing the meek, useless Librarian who uses her power to summon books and rarely interacts with patrons except to give out strikes or banishments. This new side of me must be a shock.

Good.

“Why did you break into the Vault?” I demand answers from the stubborn Ackland with my gaze, but half of my attention is elsewhere. The Arcanaeum is checking for missing books. For any sign that he stepped off the staircase to take something.

Nothing.

North opens his mouth, and I can tell he wants to tell me to go to hell.

“I need to get Magister Mathias Ackland’s grimoire for Josef.”

The silence in the room is thunderous, and my jaw drops open. Incredulity breaks my focus, and the last spell I cast unravels before I can catch it.

“You idiot,” Galileo hisses. “It’s a truth spell. Don’t say anything.”

I throw my head back and release a shocked cackle of a laugh, even as my mind breaks in relief.

“Your attempts to please your necromancer father are in vain,” I tell North, smirking. “That book isn’t here. It’s never been part of the collection.”

Relief surges through me, but it doesn’t last long.

The Arcanaeum wants that book, and Josef wants that book, meaning he doesn’t have it.

So who does, and why is it so important? Has it been destroyed? Is he still out there?

No. Even the most powerful masters of restoration have only managed to extend their lives by a mere hundred years or so. Theoretically, it should be possible, but given how much magic most restoration spells take, the amount needed to extend life indefinitely would be beyond any mage. Beyond probably even me.

Josef must have his own reasons, just like the Arcanaeum does.

I hate being in the dark about both.

“Then where is it?” North demands. “I need that book.”

I shrug. “Even if it was here, you’re no longer welcome.”

Three library cards blaze brightly into existence before them.

Galileo curses. “Please. Don’t do this. I need?—”

“It wasn’t their fault,” North interrupts. “They did it because I asked them to. You can’t banish them.”

But I can. And I will.

Fool me once and all that.

“Your card is revoked,” I whisper without an ounce of pity in my voice as I press one ghostly finger to North’s card and watch with satisfaction as the red X spreads out across it.

His body jerks, and I release the magic binding them in place so that the Arcanaeum can drag him from the Rotunda. His fingers claw at the tiles as he’s pulled backwards towards the immense main doors, crashing into furniture as he goes.

The front door rarely opens, and when it does, I catch a glimpse of a richly furnished living room before it snaps shut behind him.

I turn to Lambert.

“Hey, Kyrith,” he whispers, looking resigned. “For what it’s worth, I never wanted to hurt you.”

If my heart still beat, it would’ve stuttered at that; as it is, I don’t look at him as I press my finger to his card and say the words I never—for all the strikes I’ve given him—thought I would.

“Your card is revoked.”

His exit is more graceful than North’s, but only because he’s not fighting to grab the furnishings. His grimoire follows him through the front door, and it doesn’t escape my notice that the Arcanaeum has chosen to deposit him in the same room that North was evicted to, leaving all the conspirators together.

“Librarian,” Galileo looks at me desperately.

They often do this, I muse sadly. How many arcanists have pleaded with me for mercy? Dozens by this point, surely.

Yet their begging never moved me. Never gave me this odd, niggling surge of regret. Perhaps it’s because I watched Galileo, read with him, and his presence brought me peace, even when we didn’t speak. Perhaps there’s another lesson to be learned there, about the duplicitous nature of my own fantasies.

“You can’t do this. Please. Reconsider.” His voice is taut with too much emotion. “On my family’s honour, I swear?—”

“The ó Rinn family honour ceased to mean anything to me when your parriarch conspired with the others to murder me,” I hiss, and his eyes widen beneath those wild ruby-tinted curls.

Reaching forward, I extend my cracked hand towards his card, finger inches away from banishing him.

The unearthly snarl that rips from his throat freezes me in place. Smooth, calm, quiet Galileo sheds the facade of civility and launches himself at me.

The sudden frantic move is so unexpected that when I gather my wits enough to dodge, I’m not fast enough. His hand latches around my already cracked wrist, touching me as if I’m a real, solid person, and not a ghost.

For the second time since my death, sensation, pure and agonising, consumes me. An all-too-familiar crack echoes, and I pull myself back just in time to watch the fissures around my arm deepen and spread like lightning.

Galileo watches in mute astonishment as I yank my hand away from his grip, cradling it to my chest. My other hand snaps out, finger pressing to his card before he can react.

“Your card is revoked.” The words are a pain-drenched whisper, and I can’t help but fall to my knees as he’s dragged backwards.

His piercing gaze hits mine, and I hate the calculating intelligence in them as he silently allows himself to be dragged from the hall.

The door slams behind him, and I choke back a tiny sob as I disappear and reappear beside my own crystalline corpse.

My entire sleeve-covered arm is now spider-webbed with cracks that branch all the way past my shoulder. Veins of the dark magic run over the square neckline of my dress, stretching like evil fingers towards my throat.

I examine the damage with pursed, trembling lips.

This confirms it.

Every single arcanist whose touch tingled as they entered the Arcanaeum is a threat. I just banished three of the five, but is that even going to stick?

Or will Lambert stroll in tomorrow, ready for class, with a perfectly unblemished library card, just as he has every other time I’ve given him a strike?

What if there are more arcanists out there with the same devastating touch?

My shoulders sink, and the building creaks sorrowfully.

“Why?” I ask, though it never answers.

Why is it that the biggest threat to my existence are the people it won’t let me keep out? Is this simply my time?

Is there some greater reason for the library’s decision? Or are they exempt by virtue of the same innate power that lets them harm me with just a touch? I don’t know, and the not knowing terrifies me, so I sit hunched against the altar with my head in my hands, trying to quiet my own racing thoughts.

Whatever the answer, I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow.

It seems fatalistic, but I can’t help but wonder if this is all predestined. Am I meant to die? And are they equally meant to be the harbingers of my destruction? The natural end of my unnatural life, decided by some cosmic power?

A hoarse, low, humourless laugh escapes me.

Death—true death—is on the line, once again brought to me by the arcanists I so envy, and yet, here I sit, pondering philosophy like the sad, pathetic little ghost I am. Perhaps death would be a mercy, stopping me from falling deeper into a truly awful stereotype.