Chapter 36

Thirty-Six

Galileo

“ A d Arcanaeum !”

The dozen pieces of paper I’ve been working on all morning threaten to slip from where they’re pressed against my chest as I shove through the door and into the library. I’m a mess. My curls are in my face, and my eyelids feel like they’ve been replaced with sandpaper, but none of that can dim the excitement coursing through me.

I’ve done it.

“Librarian,” I blurt, almost dropping the pages in my haste as I cast about the hall in search of her. “Kyrith. I have it!”

It’s after closing, but nowhere near midnight. She should be here?—

Her ghostly form appears before me in a wave of her unique ice and lily scent, making the hairs on my bare forearms stand to attention. For a second, I’m struck speechless by her, and I have to take a second, heft the paper in my arms higher, and breathe before I can remember why I’m here.

“I’ve deciphered it. Or at least, the first part,” I tell her, staggering to the nearest desk—part of a long line of others that run the length of the Shrouded Hall—and depositing my work on top of it.

My hands are shaking as I swipe through the charts and pages, pulling forward the ones that I had in front of me just minutes ago at my desk.

“If you look here, the constellation of Porthodines matches. It’s rarely used now because older charts didn’t realise that the eighth star varies in brightness, so its efficacy is unreliable?—”

Kyrith floats closer, and I step away to give her space to look through my workings. I’m practically vibrating like Lambert before a magiball game, but I don’t care. If this works?—

“I’ve already drawn up a template for a nullification spell that’ll begin to undo the first layers of the ensorcellment.” I draw the runeform I was working on closer.

“I’m not so sure,” Kyrith begins, slowly, after several seconds of study.

Irritation flashes through me, but I force myself to keep my cool. “I’ve checked and double checked. Porthodines is the only match.”

I haven’t even slept since the discovery. “If you remove the eighth star and align the remaining ones with?—”

“But you said yourself that constellation is unreliable,” Kyrith interjects, stepping back. “And this line is out by a fraction of a degree from where it would be if?—”

“I’m not wrong,” I protest. “I’ve figured this out. I spent hours going over everything.”

Instead of looking mollified, she clenches her cracked fists. “I’m not going to blindly agree with you when the consequences of making a mistake can be?—”

Taking a frustrated breath, I shove my hair out of my face and pace away from her. It’s only logical she would want to double check things; she’s older. Old arcanists always think they know the best. That’s part of the reason why my grandfather flat out refuses to hear any more theories about breaking the ensorcellment. They’ve given up.

I can’t give up. There’s a huge possibility that Lambert might die if I do. Or this building. It’s like a second home to me now. What if the curse decides to take that from me?

At least Kyrith is dead. There’s very little I can do to harm her—besides touching her.

“Look, I didn’t come here for you to tell me no.” I pick up the runeform I so carefully copied out and hold it out in the gap between us. “You’re the only person with the power and knowledge to do this. Try it, please.”

“No.” Her refusal only stokes the rage boiling in my stomach. “I don’t experiment on people.”

“It’s not an experiment.”

“Have you ever cast this spell before?”

“No, but?—”

“Would you try it on a child?”

“Obviously not?—”

“Then it’s an experiment.”

“I’m not a child,” I retort. “I’m a grown adult, and I’m telling you I know the risks, and I want you to cast it.”

If we can undo the first layer of this, that’s more progress than anyone else has ever made. And if that first layer happens to be the trigger? Then we wouldn’t even need to bother with the rest.

Granted, it’s likely not. The first layer is usually an anti-tamper mechanism, the armour of the spell, so to speak. Either way, it would be progress. A momentous victory after years of crushing fear. Hope.

Kyrith is already shaking her head. “You’re skipping important steps.”

The anger of earlier calcifies into stone. “You promised to help me. Do you know how many hours of my time I wasted searching for any references to soul bindings?” Hours I could’ve been spending working on my own problems. “I have cousins with this mark, Kyrith. Little children whose marks are already active.”

The day their marks turn red, the final countdown begins. If they’re lucky, it will just be a favourite toy that’s lost forever.

It rarely is, though.

Sooner or later, more families will be torn apart, all in the name of a Talcott’s revenge.

As if to torment me, I catch sight of him down the hall. He takes a few steps towards us, eyes narrowing as he reads the tension in our postures, before Kyrith catches sight of him and makes a shooing motion.

His mouth sets in a grim line, warning flashing in those eyes.

As if I’d ever hurt her.

He eventually takes the hint and leaves, but his nearness has my hackles up. The Talcotts would love nothing more than to sabotage this, and here he is waltzing around as if the Arcanaeum is his home.

“Give me two days.” Kyrith puts the runeform down carefully. “Once I’ve had time to look over this?—”

The thunderous look on my face cuts her off.

“You’re either helping me, or you’re against me,” I whisper. “And if you think I’m going to leave this lying around when the Talcott heir is right down the hall and ready to sabotage?—”

“Dakari has done nothing to you.”

Not yet. I let the two words hang unspoken in the space between us while she stares haughtily back.

“I don’t have time,” I finally say, deliberately gentling my tone because anger will only make her dig her heels in further. “And I don’t trust anyone else.”

The McKinleys might have the best nullifiers in the world, and the greatest sense of honour, but they’d never help for fear of the repercussions of fecking up the ó Rinn heir. The other families—magic, even my own family—might try to sabotage me in hopes of removing me from the succession.

It has to be her.

The knowledge hits her, and she turns away, tugging at her sleeve in that nervous way she does. If I had more time, I’d be gentler about this, but I’ve had a ticking bomb inked onto my skin since I was born. It might not have activated yet, but lack of sleep coupled with actual progress has anticipation riding me hard.

“If I do this,” Kyrith murmurs. “You cannot blame me if it goes wrong. I tried to warn you. I tried to stop you.”

“Yes, yes.” I wave away her concerns, then busy myself with tugging off my jacket.

“That’s not all.” She straightens her spine. “I want your word, as heir, that as long as you live, this Arcanaeum remains open and impartial.”

My fingers freeze midway through unbuttoning the silk of my shirt. That’s the kind of thing she would only say if…

I look at her, really look at her. The cracks now cover every part of her torso and arms. Over the weeks I’ve stopped noticing them, but they’re still there, and she’s clearly more worried about them than she’s let on.

News of her affliction has set the arcanist world on fire, and I’d be lying if I pretended there wasn’t talk about what a world without the Librarian would look like. My own grandfather left Belfast for the first time in years, simply to evaluate her for himself.

He returned saying the trip was a waste of time, and I agree. She doesn’t look like someone who’s dying. Aside from the cracks, she’s no different from her usual self. She’s not losing power, flickering out of existence, or suffering moments of impaired cognition. Her blue glow is the strongest light at this late hour, casting shadows around us.

If the cracks progress further, then that changes things, but right now, she’s stable.

“If it will make you feel better,” I concede. “But I will get to the bottom of the cracks.”

After this is done. After everyone is safe.

She hesitates, looking back in the direction Dakari left for half a second before thinking better of it.

“That’s not necessary. I release you from your promise to help me. Once your ensorcellment is broken, you can go about your life.”

I shake my head, still deeply uncomfortable with receiving nothing in exchange. Perhaps she doubts me, but once the curse is broken, I’ll devote all of my time and resources to finding a solution.

She picks up the paper again, waving me onto the empty bench as she does so.

“I copied it onto reinforced paper,” I tell her. “I figured it was necessary, since you don’t have a grimoire.”

Her face falls again, but I’m too busy taking off my shirt to pay it much mind. I’ve lost weight recently, too busy or too stressed to enjoy regular meals as I probably should, and my abs are sharper as a result of my self-neglect. The chill that accompanies her presence has my nipples hard enough to cut glass, and Kyrith’s gaze lingers on them for a second before she leans forward to examine the runeform and compare it to the one I’ve drawn.

I don’t dare move in case I touch her, but her breasts are right in my face, and my body apparently isn’t as exhausted as I thought because my cock stirs behind my fly at the sight.

My attraction to her is inconvenient, but at least I’m not dumb enough to try to do something about it like Lambert or make moon eyes at her like Jasper.

Kyrith is older than I am, and she’ll be around long after I’m gone. She’s also famously impartial and bound to the Arcanaeum. None of that lends itself to romance or even a quick hard fuck against a bookshelf.

Though my dick certainly isn’t opposed to the idea of the latter.

She starts whispering the words of the incantation I derived, and I find myself compulsively double checking her enunciation as she works, even though I know she’s probably better at this than I am.

It doesn’t matter. This has to work.

The prickling of magic crosses over my skin, washing through me in a way that makes me sit up straighter. I’ve always hated any kind of spells being cast on me. It’s a psychological issue, one I should’ve crushed ages ago, but it’s understandable.

“Ach!” The magic switches from tingles to sharp tugging at my bones, like it’s picking apart the threads of my being.

Kyrith continues chanting, undeterred, but I dig my hands into my kneecaps to try to stop myself from lurching away. Stars, why is this so difficult? Is it supposed to hurt this much?

Pinpricks of doubt start to wash over me, but it’s too late. A sunburst blinds me, the pain ratcheting up to unbearable levels before I lose control of my limbs and slump forwards.

Breathe. Breathe .

I can’t pass out now. We’re so close. What if Kyrith stops because…

Despite my best efforts, I lose consciousness. When I come back to myself, there’s a jar of something astringent and herbal being waved under my nose. I gag, retching, as I fold myself in half in an attempt to get away.

“Did it work?” I mumble, trying to force my eyes to focus long enough to look at my abdomen. “Did it?—”

The sight before me short-circuits my brain. I don’t think it even really registers for two of the longest minutes of my life. I’ve gone mute.

I was right. I double checked every calculation. I triple checked. I don’t understand. What did I…?

“Do you want company, or would you rather I left you alone?” Kyrith asks, her voice tentative, like she’s not sure she should be speaking at all.

My mouth works, but no sound comes out.

Because it didn’t work.

Worse.

It’s gone more wrong than I ever thought possible.

“In advanced runeforms, it’s common for the designer to lay traps to prevent counter-spells,” Kyrith says, and even though she’s not saying anything I don’t already know, it sends a spark of anger jolting through me. “If we’d taken more time…”

The now-red rune across my heart is pulsing, a sure sign that it’s activated.

I know what this means. My family keeps meticulous records of everything relating to the Talcott Ensorcellment.

A year.

At most.

That’s the longest any ó Rinn has gone once the curse runeform activates before they lose that which matters most.

I have less than three hundred and sixty-five days to figure this out. Worse, no one will come near me now. This is the arcanist equivalent of leprosy. The only person stupid enough to ignore the bright fecking warning lights all over my skin is Lambert, and he?—

“Leo?”

Her quiet voice stabs at my brain like needles. Some quiet, rational part of me knows that she’s not to blame, that she warned me, that she even asked if I wanted her to leave, and that I never answered. Unfortunately, that part can’t prevail against the tidal wave of pure fury currently lighting up my veins.

My limbs finally start working, and I snatch my things up from the table, deliberately keeping my mouth shut. If I open it right now, I’ll say something I’ll regret.

I need time. A humourless laugh escapes me at the thought.

Time. I had it before. Now…

“Leo, we can?—”

“No.”

“It’s not?—”

“I swear to magic, Kyrith, just stop .”

She shrinks back, all softness gone faster than I can blink, replaced with an eerie kind of blankness. The temperature, already chill, drops another three degrees.

“I’ll leave you, then.”

Her glow dims slightly, as she turns to float away, but a scuffle against the floor draws my attention past her, to where Dakari, striding closer with his hands balled into fists.

Has he come back to gloat? Or is he here for a more sinister reason? He’s been here the whole time. He’s had unfettered access to Kyrith and plenty of opportunity to talk her into magic-knows-what. Suspicion and betrayal ride in fast on the tail end of my shattered hope, and I glare at them both.

“Tell me, how much did he promise you to mess with the spell?” I demand, grabbing for my grimoire. “Or did he just have to take his clothes off like Lambert?”

Dakari puts himself between me and her like the loyal guard dog he is. “You’re out of line, ó Rinn. That isn’t what happened, and you know it.”

The pity in his black eyes has me seething, and before I know it, I’ve swung.

A barrier forms between the two of us before my fist can connect, and I over balance as my arm slides along it like it’s made of jelly.

“Enough.” Kyrith’s voice is like a blade, cutting through my hiss of rage. “Leo, go home and cool off.”

An arched door two shelves away springs open, and before I know it, I’m being shoved through, my papers and charts flung after me. They litter the wooden floor like the useless pieces of shit that they are as I rush back to the portal…

Only for it to slam shut in my face. Hard.

“ Ad Arcanaeum !” I yell at it, slapping my fist against my closet door until I know my hand will be black and blue by morning. “ Ad Arcanaeum! AD ARCANAEUM ! Fecking let me in , damnit!”

But it doesn’t work.

Of course it doesn’t. Kyrith isn’t masochistic enough to put up with some eejit arcanist mouthing off at her.

It’s only an hour later, when the anger-fuelled adrenaline begins to wane and I’m sitting, staring dully at the way my glowing curse mark now lights up the walls of my own bedroom, that I realise just how badly I fecked up.

Kyrith didn’t do anything wrong. She used the runeform I created. I double checked her pronunciation. She’s too fucking proud of being impartial to ever let the Talcotts influence her.

I shouldn’t have suggested it or pushed her away so harshly.

“FECK!” I curse myself, slamming my bleeding fist into my mattress. “Stupid, fecking eejit.”

My head falls between my palms, and I squeeze at my temples, trying to assuage the splitting headache growing there. It does nothing. Futile.

Getting Kyrith to help me again is now impossible. And it’s not like I have much time to regain her trust.

Her cracks are getting worse. It doesn’t take a genius to realise a ghost cracking is bad. I might’ve judged her stable, but it only takes one slip from any of us for her to decline further.

My best chance is literally shattering… and she likely won’t forgive me before more ‘accidents’ steal her away.

Against my will, my eyes travel to the portrait on the shelf beside my desk. My parents stare back at me. My mother—with her long blonde Winthrop hair that she bequeathed my brother—grins as she holds me, but beside her, my dad stares down the camera like a man condemned. It was only a few years after that when it all went wrong for them.

My chest constricts, and I screw my eyes shut.

I have to beat this. I have to.

I glance at my desk and the piles of papers there. I’ve split my time evenly between trying to save her and myself. I’ve read more on necromancy than most arcanists my age would ever dare to in an effort to understand her condition.

I thought I was onto something with the lich idea, but she dismissed it, and looking into it more, I agree with her. There are hundreds of spells needed for an arcanist to separate themselves from their magic and form a soul vessel. It’s not the sort of thing that can happen without planning and intent. It also doesn’t explain her nightly death reenactment.

Which means I need to start again from the beginning. More work that will pull me away from dealing with the curse that could detonate at any moment.

It’s a distraction I can’t afford, but I don’t want to abandon her. Losing Kyrith has somehow become just as awful a concept as losing Lambert. I owe both of them so deeply, and now it seems like the universe is forcing me to choose between a world without her quiet company or one without his playful banter.

Winthrop would collapse all over again at the loss of a second heir to the ó Rinn curse. But without Kyrith, the Arcanaeum will never be the same. I promised to try to protect it, but I’m one man. There are five other families who will fight over it the second she’s gone.

How am I supposed to choose? What if I choose wrong and fail, anyway?

Taking deep breaths, I try my best to shove all of my panic and terror deep down.

This isn’t a decision to be made emotionally. The logical choice is clear. It always has been.

Kyrith has lived five hundred years longer than Lambert. She’s more than capable of avoiding the heirs, but she actively chooses not to. She already freed me from my promise to help.

I think… I think she’d approve of the choice to save Lambert. If I frame it that way, I think she’ll even consider trying to break the ensorcellment again. She has a soft spot for him.

If she’s still alive after I break this stupid curse, or after it detonates, I’ll go back to working on her condition. Magic, if I fail to save Lambert, I’ll have nothing else to do.

Swallowing back the guilt that threatens to rise, I clench my fists, take a deep breath, and turn to the pile of star charts.