Page 27 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter twenty-seven
The Wretch
The Invocation Wing, reflecting the importance and grandeur of its great school, was lined on one side by long tomb-shaped windows through which thick ribbons of light fell across a marble floor and ornate escritoires.
At the far end of the wing, the wall was draped with an enormous tapestry, woven with threads of silver and gold, depicting a cosmic scene of gods and mythical creatures. Beneath the tapestry, a raised dais held an ancient lectern upon which rested the legendary Codex Arcana , written by hand by the founders of Carthane.
On both sides of the lectern, two grand staircases spiralled upwards to a mezzanine, the railing of the staircase adorned with delicate carvings of angels, their eyes set with tiny amethysts and selenites. Balconies of gilded marble overlooked the main floor, each hosting a subsection of Invocation. Summoning, Conjuration and Banishment, Occlusion, Warding and Sealing, and, of course, Transgressive Invocation .
The rest of the candidates were already scattered throughout the wing when Fern and Lautric arrived. Fern, in the lead, made the choice of a pair of escritoires half-hidden behind the fanning leaves of a majesty palm close to the book directories. Lautric set his things down and ambled away, returning a minute later with two cups of coffee.
“Where do we begin?” he asked, handing Fern a cup and sitting down with his.
“By reading,” Fern said, tapping her notebook with the tip of her pen. “We have many branches of Invocation to choose from—our choice should be educated, and I’m not an expert on Invocation. Unlike you.”
Lautric had been pulling his small notebook from his pocket and paused, looking up with an expression of confusion.
“You studied Transgressive Invocation, did you not?” Fern asked, a hint of irritation clipping at her syllables.
She wondered how much Lautric had contributed to his alliance during the Alchemy task. He seemed almost too tired to be clever, as if his mind was too mired by exhaustion to function at regular speed.
“You studied Sumbra,” Lautric said in a thoughtful tone, “would you consider yourself an expert on the subject?”
“Of course not, but—” Fern interrupted herself. Her mind burned with a question, she asked it almost on impulse, “Since we are partners in this assignment, would you be willing to tell me your score for the first assignment?”
“Sixty-three. ”
He sounded neither embarrassed nor reluctant. He reached into his pocket, rifled around and pulled out a folded envelope, which he handed Fern. She took it and read the letter within. It was the same as the one she had received the previous morning, confirming that he had just told her the truth about his score.
“You don’t seem impressed,” Lautric said when Fern handed him his letter back.
“I thought you’d achieve a higher score, given you worked with Santa Velia alchemists.”
“They are not to blame, I am. I was distracted during the assignment, my symbols lacked accuracy as a result.”
“Distracted?” Fern said, trying to stifle her outrage. “What could possibly be more important than the assignment?”
Lautric tilted his head, watching her in silence before answering her question. He seemed to be scrutinising her, and he seemed as outraged by her question as she had been by his statement, only his outrage was not so much judgemental as melancholy.
“Don’t you have things you care about outside of this candidacy?”
He posed his question gently, thoughtfully, but it struck Fern like a needle to the chest.
“If this candidacy wasn’t the most important thing to me, then I wouldn’t be here,” she said.
“More important than your only friend, the librarian?”
The needle struck deeper, a sharp stab right to the heart. Unbidden, the image of Oscar’s face, his dark, harsh features and hawk eyes, the streak of white in his beard, his quick, brilliant smile over a glass of brandy. Fern swallowed back a wave of violent, sudden emotion and narrowed her eyes at Lautric.
“You do not know me well enough to be implying what you are implying right now,” she said.
“Which is?”
“That my ambition makes a poor friend of me.”
Lautric’s mouth fell in consternation. His fingers clasped his notebook, almost nervously. He shook his head.
“I don’t think you’re a poor friend. I saw the way you helped Miss Novak, how kind you were to her. I find it merely sad that you should care more for a job than for anything else when you’re so—”
He stopped himself. A bitter taste was in Fern’s mouth now.
“When I’m so what?” she said coldly.
“Forgive me,” Lautric said, and now there was a miserable tilt to his mouth. “I spoke carelessly. It was not my intention to hurt you.”
“You don’t have the power to hurt me, Mr Lautric.” Fern stood, mustering her dignity like armour. “Our partnership requires neither your opinions on my personal affairs nor your pity, so I politely ask you keep those to yourself. Since enough time has been wasted on this conversation, I’m going to get started on my research and strongly suggest you do the same. Tomorrow, we will reconvene and select the type of Invocation we’ll be focusing on for our assignment. Until then.”
Lautric nodded and said nothing, his eyes turned up to Fern’s with an expression almost like a plea. Simmering with quiet fury, Fern turned and walked away and felt the yearning pull of his pleading gaze long after she’d left his line of sight.
Fern skipped dinner that night, determined to avoid Lautric and too tired to deal with the other candidates anyhow. She made a quick stop by Josefa’s room, using the key with the blue ribbon. It was empty now—as though she had never been there at all. All her effects were gone. Fern closed her eyes with a frustrated sigh.
Her scruples might have cost her precious information. She should’ve read the letter.
When she returned to her apartment, she found everything as she left it. If Sarlet had searched her rooms, then she had taken great care to leave everything as it was.
Inkwell was the only clue that the room had been disturbed. His food and water bowls were both half-full, kept regularly maintained by either Fern or the servants who cleaned her apartment. His wicker cage was still near the window, where Fern had set it when she’d arrived.
But Inkwell himself was nowhere to be seen.
“Inkwell,” Fern called. “Where are you, little inkpot? Come out. It’s only me.”
She waited for the familiar pitter-patter of small paws, but only silence answered. A weight settled on Fern’s stomach as she set her things down. Was it possible Inkwell might have made his way out of her room while Sarlet searched it? Inkwell did not like strangers .
Fern searched her apartment, checking under the bed and chairs, checking inside and above the wardrobe and bookshelf. She checked the bathroom, the console in the tiny vestibule by the door, under her coat where it was draped over a chair and behind the curtains of the windows and bed.
Not you too , Fern couldn’t stop thinking. Not you too.
She had confirmed in writing that she had permission to bring Inkwell with her, and Inkwell would never leave her side, no matter how standoffish he was. He had been with her too long, and they were too used to one another, their tacit, silent affection for each other.
She thought of what Lautric had said earlier, that she was too ambitious and that she did not love well enough, and her heart sank. With Oscar so far away, she only had Inkwell left. Without him, she would be completely alone: the sad, lonely wretch Lautric had implied her to be.
Fern seized her key and checked her watch, shaking herself out of her despondency. Some spoiled nobleman’s words would not bring her down like this. Inkwell was probably lost somewhere nearby, trying to make his way back to her. Fern would simply go find him.
She’d reached her door when she felt something butt against her boot. She looked down and let out a strangled laugh, half-anger, half-relief.
“You perfect little idiot.”
She crouched, and Inkwell rubbed his head against her knee, sweeping her with his tail before circling away. Fern slumped back against the wall, and stayed on the floor for a long time, blinking wet eyes into the darkness of the unlit vestibule.
The following morning, Fern woke up full of grim purpose and requested a meeting with the Grand Archivists. She was summoned only an hour later, right after her breakfast, into a grand office on the fourth floor of the Keystone.
Three of the Grand Archivists sat behind an ornate desk facing her: the old Lord Battyl, stony-faced Dr Auden and austere Professor Incera, their black sashes gleaming across their chests.
Fern knew before she even spoke that she was unlikely to get much out of this meeting. The faces looking down at her were closed and indifferent—distracted, almost. There were probably a thousand things the Grand Archivists considered to be more important than this, but it did not matter. Fern was determined.
“Please, sit,” said Professor Incera curtly.
Fern did as she was told, laying her hands on the table in front of her and lacing her fingers. This would stop her from fidgeting and appearing nervous. The people facing her now, as intimidating as they were, might soon be her colleagues. She could not allow them to see her as weak or easily daunted.
“How may we assist you?” Dr Auden asked coolly.
Fern had thought long and hard. Her instinct, and perhaps her pride, told her to ask the Grand Archivists to grant her a new partner. This would be a mistake. More than a mistake: it would show weakness and a lapse in professional resilience .
No, she was stuck with Lautric for this assignment. But she was acutely aware of the advantage all the other candidates would receive, especially the strongest pairs, such as Srivastav and Essouadi, and she needed to seek an advantage somewhere. She had shown grace and patience thus far. It was time to claim what she was owed.
“I’m hoping to find out when I might be able to request a meeting with my mentor.” When the Grand Archivists said nothing, Fern added, “Professor Saffyn.”
Dr Auden said nothing for a moment, exchanging a quick look with his colleagues. He was a handsome man, in his fifties, with a swarthy complexion and intelligent eyes, but there was a sort of dourness to him that Fern, having now noticed it, could no longer ignore.
“Professor Saffyn is currently unavailable,” Dr Auden said.
“Yes.” Fern stared at the Grand Archivists pointedly. “He has been since the start of my candidacy. I understand that unforeseen circumstances are unavoidable, but I’m reaching a point in my candidacy when I would appreciate some guida—”
Lord Battyl interrupted her. “Mentors were assigned before the start of the candidacy. I assure you, Miss Sullivan, that Professor Saffyn’s absence will not affect you negatively.”
Fern was familiar enough with bureaucracy to know she would not be getting far. A viper of resentment and irritation coiled inside her chest, but she steeled herself before speaking.
“Of course,” she said. “I understand that, and I’m not here to complain, rather I would like to find out— ”
“Professor Saffyn’s absence is unfortunate, and I understand your position,” Lord Battyl said. For such a stately, elderly man, his voice was high and almost plaintive. His words implied empathy—his tone did not. “Once he returns, we are certain he will do his best to assist you in whatever way he can.”
“Might you be able to tell me when Professor Saffyn might return to Carthane?”
Fern sensed no hostility from the Grand Archivists, but something worse: a great, frosty distance, as though a wall of perfectly transparent ice separated them from her. They looked at her almost as though they hardly saw her—as though she was not important enough to be seen.
“Unfortunately, Professor Saffyn had to leave Carthane for an important personal matter,” Lord Battyl said. “Rest assured, Professor Saffyn’s absence will not have a detrimental effect on your candidacy.”
“Thank you,” Fern said, though the viper of resentment was slowly transforming inside her chest, its scales growing sharp and pointed, gleaming dangerously. “Is it likely that this… important personal matter will keep Professor Saffyn away for much longer?”
“We certainly hope not,” Dr Auden said, casting a sharp glance at Lord Battyl.
A thought flared to life in Fern’s mind for the first time. Could it be the Grand Archivists themselves were not aware of Professor Saffyn’s whereabouts?
“He should be back presently,” Professor Incera added .
“In the meantime, we thank you for your patience and understanding,” said Lord Battyl. “Is there anything else?”
“No, thank you very much.” Fern stood. She was stuck with Lautric whether she liked it or not, and she had no choice but to continue without a mentor for the time being, but she was not shackled, and she was not helpless. “My apologies for taking up your time, Lord Battyl, Dr Auden, Professor Incera. Good day.”
She turned and left, feeling the concentrated weight of their fixed stares through the wall of ice they seemed barricaded behind.
They had told her all they would, helped her as much as they were willing to, which was not much at all. As for Fern, she had done exactly what was required of her and followed the formal process, deferring to her superiors.
Now, it was time to take matters into her own hands.