Chapter 17

Seventeen

Kyrith

S tepping back, I wince as Jasper jackknifes up from the bed and vomits through my body in a spray the same colour as the blue potion I just tried to feed him.

It’s not working.

Why is it not working?

At times like these, it’s all I can do not to scream in frustration. All these years studying every text on healing magic that’s passed through my doors, and yet, when it really matters, I would give anything for real world experience.

“He can’t keep anything down,” Dakari notes, and I sigh.

While Jasper’s been improving until now, the other arcanist has been behaving oddly ever since pizza night, and I can’t understand it. His tone, already quiet and controlled, has become almost gentle. He even opened a door for me yesterday, despite how completely pointless the action was. There was never a moment before where I felt like he didn’t respect me, but now…

Now it’s almost like he’s going above and beyond to be considerate.

“I’ll try something else,” I murmur. “But I might have to wake him fully and see if exercise and a good diet can improve his symptoms first.”

That latest potion was supposed to help strengthen his magical well, but he’s rejected it, and the one before that.

“Is he well enough?” Dakari asks, and I nod.

“Oh, physically, he’s fine?—”

I cut off at the bell chime that echoes through the Arcanaeum. It’s early, just past the opening time rush, but that’s not what gives me pause.

The Arcanaeum is bristling. It sends me a picture of a silhouette by the desk, and then a low, deep groan of warning.

“What’s wrong?” Dakari must’ve noticed my puzzlement.

“I don’t know…” I murmur under my breath. “I’ll deal with it, but I?—”

The bell rings again, impatiently this time.

“That’s just rude,” I huff, and Dakari’s lips twist into a wry little smile.

“Want me to go bash some skulls together?” he asks, and I get the sense he’s very serious.

“I have books from the biography section on hand, if any skulls need bashing.”

If there’s one thing that never changes, it’s that academic arcanists tend to write long, self-aggrandising autobiographies. Some of the claims previous magisters have made are so ludicrous I’ve been tempted to add them to the fiction section.

With a last, lingering look of concern at Jasper, I fade out of the room, reappearing behind the desk with my arm carefully camouflaged behind the huge pile of books I keep there for this exact reason.

The immaculate blond man with his manicured hand hovering impatiently over the bell, ready to ring it a third time, pauses mid-motion. His gunmetal grey eyes stab into me, and it’s almost impossible to keep my expression bland as recognition hits.

He’s older now. Three years older, to be precise. The navy suit he’s wearing fits a little better on the more confident set of his shoulders. He’s clean shaven, his black shirt open at the neck, and his short hair is impeccably styled to show off the soft waves atop his head.

And of course, in something that’s becoming an annoying habit for gorgeous arcanists around here, he towers over me. I want to float higher to compensate or find myself a pair of those stiletto heels that some arcanist women have worn here over the years. At the time, I hated the noise. Now? I understand the appeal.

“Librarian.” Even that single word is tinged with private-school-educated posh, like he’s not content to simply look moneyed; he has to sound it, too.

“Mr Carlton. If you’ve come to protest your sister’s banishment, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

In fact, I’m honestly relieved it stuck. Between all the failed banishments and strikes I’ve been handing out lately, it’s a miracle I haven’t developed a complex.

I know without trying that this man will be the same. He was the second arcanist who ever made my palm tingle, though he never returned. That wasn’t surprising. Carlton has long insisted that they don’t need the Arcanaeum, preferring to build their own repository of knowledge to try to rival this one.

Like anything can rival a sentient magical library. Honestly. The hubris is insulting.

“That’s not why I’m here. I’m joining this year’s cohort late and need you to fetch the course books for me and bring me up to speed with the material.”

He knows. Somehow, he knows about North, Leo, and Lambert. Now he’s using it as an excuse to get close to Dakari and Jasper.

I can see where this is going, so I shut him down. “No.”

Not so much as a wrinkle crosses his expression, and I realise belatedly that he would’ve expected that answer and come prepared.

“That sounded a lot like you were giving the other families preferential treatment. Interesting stance for a neutral figure, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I tilt my chin up, feigning innocence and daring him to call me on it. “But I do know that there’s absolutely no reason for your sudden interest in the Arcanaeum beyond some attempt to harm the arcanists I have sworn to protect.”

He gives a little impatient huff, running the fingers of his left hand through his hair with disbelief.

“As the previous Carlton heir has recently been disgraced, it’s my duty as her replacement to attain a degree from the University of Arcane Arts before I can become parriarch.”

I open my mouth to tell him that’s not my problem, but he holds an imperious hand up to silence me.

The. Nerve.

“It won’t be too hard on your part. I’ve already mastered a more modern course set by my private tutors. Frankly, this is a waste of my time, but traditions are traditions, so let’s get this over with as quickly as possible. Now, where are my books?”

That was the most brusque, bossy, arrogant?—

The door behind him swings open and Magister Hopkinson strides through. His eyes light on the desk first, a huge smile breaking over his face when he sees us together.

“Excellent! Pierce, you’ve introduced yourself to the Librarian? That’s great. Librarian, it’s not often we get late additions to the year, but Mr Carlton has a gift for?—”

“Kyrith!” Lambert bursts in with the subtlety of a Great Dane puppy, brandishing a piece of paper in his fist. Behind him, Leo hovers with an amused smirk twitching at the corners of his lips. North, too, although the Ackland heir looks less amused and more exasperated.

The golden-haired fiend bounces across the Rotunda with a painfully brash energy that seems to seep into the Arcanaeum. Even Hopkinson smiles wistfully at his approach.

Then, when he reaches the desk, he beams even wider.

“Marry me?”

Then, before anyone can say anything, he’s pulled an honest-to-magic ring out of his pocket with his free hand and sunk to one knee.

“Get up, you fool,” Pierce mutters, regal scowl in place. “And wait your turn. The Librarian is fetching my books.”

“Is this prick bothering you, boss lady?” Lambert asks, remaining in place.

“Carlton,” Leo acknowledges, stiffly.

“ó Rinn.” Pierce nods. “Find what you’ll miss most yet?”

I don’t like the knowing glint in his eyes as he looks between the three of them.

Before he can do more than raise a brow in response, Lambert interrupts again.

“Please, boss? Don’t leave me hanging like this.”

“I don’t know what prompted this incommodious display,” I begin, trying hard not to compare the two blonds before me and failing. “But please desist.”

It’s like looking between a friendly Viking puppy and a haughty angelic prince, a comparison that’s only made more apt when Lambert stands, his full height a few inches taller than Pierce.

Too quickly, I realise I’m being surrounded by beautiful heirs. If Dakari and Jasper were here, I’d have a full set of tall, imposing parriarchs-in-waiting.

Part of me shudders at the thought, even as another tiny traitorous feminine part threatens to swoon. Like that will do me any good. It’s not like I can touch them or do anything about my ill-advised attraction.

Tucking the box back into his pocket, Lambert stands and turns to Leo, whispering, “What did that long word mean?”

Pierce scoffs. “My, the university’s standards are slipping.”

“Don’t you all have class?” I snap. “Mr Carlton, you can find your own books. My decision is final.”

“Ah, yes.” Hopkinson coughs to clear his throat, reminding all of us of his presence. “Librarian, I hoped you’d do us the honour of attending this lecture. We’re focusing on the influential arcanists from history, and I’m sure you have some fascinating insights.”

I want to tell him that I’m not that old, but then I realise I probably have met all the arcanists worth remembering in the last half-millennium. Oh dear.

“If you insist.”

Which is how I find myself hovering at the back of the room again as Hopkinson plays with his projector.

“Sit with us!” Lambert says, sidling over to me. “Come on, you look so awkward in the corner. You can have my lap if you want.”

I raise a brow. “Won’t Larissa mind?”

He blinks, honest confusion crinkling his brows. “Who’s that?”

“Ugh, you are just…”

“Handsome? Powerful? Funny? Sexy?”

Yes, but… “Never mind. I’m not sitting with you.”

“Class, your attention please,” Hopkinson calls. “We have a lot of material to cover today! Now, who can tell me who this is?”

With a flourish, he steps aside, tapping the projector to reveal a portrait painted in heavy dark oils which I recognise immediately.

Several hands go up, and Hopkinson calls on the girl at the front of the class.

“Miss ó Rinn, yes.”

A cousin of Leo’s? I glance at his usual spot, only to find him ignoring the class once again in favour of reading an illusion-covered book.

“The first rector of the university?” the ó Rinn girl phrases it like a question, though she had enough enthusiasm that I’m certain she knows she’s right.

“Correct! Adolphus Ackland. Those of you who read the assigned reading would know this already.”

“Wait, an Ackland started this place?” North hisses in Leo’s direction.

“Just the university,” Leo replies quietly. “The Library was a joint effort and originally a fortress. Didn’t you pay attention?”

North turns away sharply. “I had other stuff on my mind.”

“Adolphus was just thirty-seven when he took the post, and some of his syllabi are still being taught today!” Hopkinson continues.

“Which is not a good thing,” someone mutters.

Of course, it’s the Carlton heir.

“You don’t agree there’s value in the past, Pierce?” Hopkinson slides his glasses up his nose.

“Enough to inform the present, sure.” The blond prince leans back in his chair, and I feel the Arcanaeum’s glee as it stiffens the springs just enough to make him uncomfortable. “But if we’re still teaching the same things a thousand years later, that means we’ve not made progress.”

“A shortsighted argument.” Galileo startles most of us when he replies, voice silky with malice. “People learned to read and write then, just as they do now. The foundational principles of magic do not change, even if our understanding of them does.”

Hopkinson looks delighted at the debate going on before him, his round cheeks puffing up with a huge smile. “Librarian, do you have anything to add?” he asks.

Oh no, I refuse to get in the middle of this. “I believe that Adolphus was also involved with the creation of the University of Arcane Sciences, in Persia,” I say.

“Modern day Iran,” Hopkinson adds, helpfully. “Adolphus did so because he was interested in searching for arcanists who had fled overseas to avoid the witch hunts. As we all know, no such arcanists have ever been found, and if they did flee to other nations, it’s likely that they were killed by other superstitious inepts, just as they were in Europe. If there’s one thing all of humanity enjoys, it’s the persecution of those they perceive as different.”

He switches slides, then selects a new student to explain the next figure on the screen. All of these arcanists are before my time, though I know of most of them.

Then comes a face I should’ve anticipated.

I haven’t seen Rector Carlton since the day he was expelled from the Arcanaeum, and he must have paid the painter handsomely to do him so many favours. But those eyes are the same ones which looked dispassionately down at me while I struggled and?—

“Kyrith?” Lambert’s voice drags me back, his sunny, innocent concern a balm against the clawing memories in my mind. “You okay?”

I glance around the room, annoyed to find them all watching me. Even Hopkinson looks concerned, like he’s waiting for my answer.

“I didn’t know him well.” I smooth the front of my dress. “Next slide, please.”

Mistake. Huge mistake.

I didn’t think Magister Ackland ever did anything deserving of a portrait, but there he is. Every inch of him is as unassuming and scholarly as he was before. If the painting is to be believed, he’s more likely to be Santa Claus than a necromantic murderer.

I lose my hold on my form, dissipating into the fabric of the Arcanaeum without a word.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Of course, they would be included. One of the very reasons I was so starstruck by them both was how influential they were. Magister Ackland was credited with the discovery of over a hundred new runeforms for conjuration.

I know I told Hopkinson that I would stay for the lecture, but how am I expected to bear this? Who else will flash up there next? Edmund?

Taking a breath, which does nothing to calm me since I can’t feel it, I wonder if I should just woman up and deal with it. Yet, the mere idea of doing so leaves the halls chilly with my dread.

Am I being ridiculous? I ask myself honestly.

No. I decide at last.

I allowed biographies of my murderers and even their autobiographies into the Arcanaeum’s halls because, as much as I disliked it, I knew my hurt feelings were not more important than the history they contained. There’s no hiding from the reality that, aside from being murderous elitists, the magisters were also well-respected arcanists who contributed to society. Pretending otherwise to spare me discomfort goes against the principles of the Arcanaeum; knowledge should be available to all.

Censoring and banning books is a mechanism of controlling others, a stepping stone on the path to silencing divisive thought. I am not a dictator. I’m a librarian. It’s my job to encourage diverse reading.

Society grows when knowledge and ideas are shared, challenged, and revised.

But I don’t read those books, as is my right. I don’t hide them, but I don’t put them in the clock tower or on my desk where I have to see them. Any good scholar knows provenance is key, and though I’m not about to stick notes into the front proclaiming my pain for all to see—because some things should remain private—there are signs, alternate sources. Any true academic would want to read widely around the subject.

So no, I won’t stop Hopkinson’s lecture, but I don’t have to sit through it either. The world may not owe me comfort, but I will take it where I can.

With that thought firmly in my mind, armouring me against the guilt that accompanies letting Hopkinson down, I flee back to my tower and search for the most risqué inept romance novel I can find to take my mind off things.