Page 41 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter forty-one
The Pyromancer
It was time for Fern to remember her priorities.
She had failed to help Josefa or find Vittoria. She had been too late to rescue whoever had called for help in the Arboretum that night, and she had no way of accessing the Astronomy Tower until she found a way through the ward.
But she had not come here with the intention of helping others. She had come here to secure a job at the world’s greatest arcane library and to work on her research. The Grand Archivists themselves had told her to remember why she was here and why it mattered.
Fern was still determined to do the right thing—but she would have the power to do much more good once she became a Grand Archivist. She might not be able to change the world, but she could fix some of its wrongs, if nothing else.
And to do that, she must stay focused.
She set off to the Elemency Tower determined to avoid the other candidates. It had been her intention from the beginning, and she’d faltered from the path she’d set herself. No more.
Thankfully, the Elemency Tower was enormous and complex, full of places to hide.
Each floor was dedicated to a separate element. Earth on the ground floor, then water on the first, fire on the third, air on the fourth and Sumbra—the fifth element which had once been called aether by alchemists—on the topmost floor.
Each section was decorated according to its element, with the ground floor full of plants and creeping ivy, the second floor featuring a fountain in its centre and the third floor a matching firepit in a latticed cage of wrought iron. On the fourth floor, cross-shaped arrow slits pierced the thick stone walls, allowing the wind to whistle through.
As for the top floor, it was unadorned and plain, a maze of bookshelves underneath a high, pointed roof. A dormant Gateway stood in the middle of the room, half-hidden by the maze of bookshelves. It had been inactive for over several hundred years and looked like nothing more now than a rickety archway of ancient stone. Even the indicative sigils carved into the rock were half-faded.
Darkness and cobwebs overhung all, and dust danced in the rays of pallid light cast by four windows high in the walls.
It was there that Fern sought refuge, picking up books from each wing on her way up and carrying them awkwardly with her good arm. She would not be disturbed here; she doubted any of the candidates would want to spend time so close to a Gateway—she did so herself with much reluctance. Even if a Gateway had been dormant for centuries, they were unpredictable and had a will of their own; they could never be fully trusted.
Fern delved into the labyrinth of shelves and took a seat at a dusty desk. In the heavy silence, she set her books down and cracked a new notebook open. This assignment would determine the candidates shortlisted for the next assignment—she could not afford to do anything now but excel.
She sank into her research heart and soul.
It was, in a way, a relief. To fill her mind with knowledge and push away all the complicated feelings that had been taking up space there. Vittoria, Saffyn, the body in East Hemwick, the scream in the Arboretum, her parents and the Astronomy Tower, Josefa, St Jerome’s, Lautric and his nightly excursions and the pink wet mess of his kiss-bruised mouth, more deadly than a poison. All were forced to make way now, to be pushed away and replaced with research.
The history of the elements was long and complex, water and fire especially. Hours of research only made Fern realise how much she would need to learn before she could even make a choice. Pyromancy, for example, was often said to be the oldest arcane art in the world, and tracing its roots would be akin to tracing out the very beginnings of human history.
Fern tapped her pen against her lips. Should she save pyromancy for last, since it would be the most difficult to research? Or should she get her research for it out of the way early?
She settled on the latter. Working on pyromancy first would motivate her to go faster, and she would get the bulk of the research out of the way. She had already picked up Ferier and Lacio’s A History of Pyromancy and Goltry’s Forbidden Fire: an Encyclopaedia of Pyromancy . The first would help her draw up a timeline, and using the second, she could cross-check and geographically place the origins of spells.
She spent her morning on her timeline and stopped after compiling a list of twenty spells she had placed at the earliest point of the timeline. Outside the high windows, a furious wind screeched against the glass, the sea a distant roar.
Lifting her notebook, Fern peered at her twenty spells.
Now, how to narrow them down? Many of these spells predated recorded history, their incantations passed down by word of mouth, their origins lost. Some of these spells were simple, some incredibly complex. Were the oldest spells not more likely to be simple? Incantations only developed over time, and with the aid of the trans-dimensional creatures of Sumbra.
Fern stood, stretching her stiff back.
The incantations should be her next port of call—she could not proceed without first examining them. Taking her list of spells, she left the safety of her dark corner and headed for the third floor of the Elemency Tower.
The lunch bell had chimed some thirty minutes ago, so Fern assumed the tower would be clear. She passed the central cage in which red flames danced behind their lattice of wrought iron. There was a directory near the door, which she consulted .
She was turning a corner in search of the collected pyromancy spell books and incantation scrolls when she stopped in her tracks.
“Oh! General Srivastav.”
The general sat stooped over a collection of essays. He wore a tunic of ochre cotton and embroidered shoes, and his lustrous hair gathered in a bun atop his head. He looked back with his customary smile. Unlike the one she’d seen him give Edmund in the Palissy Auditorium, this smile was full of warmth and kindness.
Still, Fern sensed a change in him, a sort of indefinable tension. Pyromancy was his area of expertise; Fern could only imagine the pressure he must feel. Nor could she forget what Edmund had said about the general, how his empire had ended a war just to send him here, how failure would not be an option for him.
She thought of his daughters, whom he often discussed with Dr Essouadi, and an uneasy emotion stirred in her chest.
“Ah, Miss Sullivan,” Srivastav said, unaware of her train of thought. “How do you do?”
The spark in his eyes and the openness of his smile seemed to have waned over the time he spent at Carthane. It made her heart ache to see him so altered. She smiled back without being able to help herself.
“Please,” she said, “call me Fern. I’m well, thank you, a little tired, as I imagine we all are. Yourself?”
“Yes, tired. This is not tiring the way the battlefield is, and the weariness I feel is not one I am used to.” He pointed towards the nearest window. “And I miss the sun. ”
Fern thought of New Copenhagen, the colourful facades of the buildings, the blue river and the sun, a coin of clean white gold shining high in the sky even on the coldest day.
“Me too,” she said.
She hesitated. She wanted to ask him how he was, if he missed his daughters, but it was not her place, and she’d promised herself she would keep her distance, and this was the opposite of doing so. She drew back just as Srivastav asked, “What brings you here?”
Should she be honest? Could Srivastav use any information she gave him against her? She doubted it—he had the natural advantage over this assignment. Her best hope was to come second to him—nobody would beat him to the top score.
“I’ve come looking for incantations,” she said, waving her list of spells in the air. “I’ve chosen to start with pyromancy, perhaps unwisely.”
“You’ve chosen the cleverest of the elements, and the deadliest.” Srivastav smiled. “You’ve chosen well, of course. May I see your list?”
Fern hesitated, then handed him the list. He scanned it with dark eyes and a thoughtful expression and asked without looking up, “Why so many?”
“I’m trying to narrow down the oldest.”
“Hm.” Srivastav stroked his hand through his beard, which was streaked on both sides with grey, reminding Fern of Oscar, and pointed at two spells on the list.
“These are both old, but variations of these two.” He pointed to two different spells. With each movement, Fern smelled wafts of his perfume, floral and warm, like jasmine and cardamom. “And here”—he tapped another spell—“ Wave of Flame . Its incantation is a continuation of the incantation of Wall of Flame , which therefore precedes it.”
Fern scribbled his feedback down, making a mental note to cross-check the information later, just in case. She liked Srivastav, and he reminded her of Oscar, but she would be foolish to trust him just because she liked him, especially this far into the candidacy.
“Should you be telling me all this?” she asked, half-smiling.
He chuckled, the laugh lines around his eyes crinkling. Fern imagined, briefly, what he might be like as a father, and if his daughters missed him.
“It’s going to narrow down your list, nothing more. Whatever help I lend you now, Miss Sullivan—Fern—the universe will send back to me.” His smile faltered, his tone grew thoughtful. “Just like magic, everything must be paid for, in the end.”
“Well, then you must allow me to return the favour, should you ever find yourself researching Sumbra.” She handed him the list tentatively back. “Any other thoughts, before I go?”
With a silvery laugh, Srivastav took the paper from her hand and laid it on his desk. He scrawled some notes down, his handwriting looped and neat, and handed Fern her list back.
“I hope this helps.”
“Thank you,” Fern said. “I mean it, General. If there’s ever anything I can do to repay this favour, you need only name it.”
“Ravi. And think nothing of it,” Srivastav said. He pointed at her arm, still a little weak and awkward, books wedged between it and her chest. “Would you like some help with your books?”
“No, thank you,” Fern answered. “You’ve helped me so much already, and I’m only on the top floor. It’s not such a long way to go.”
Srivastav bowed his head and turned back to his work. Taking it as her cue to leave, Fern continued on her way.
Back at her desk, she cross-checked Srivastav’s annotations. He had not told her one lie. Not only was the information he’d given her useful, but it drastically helped her narrow down her list, saving her hours of research.
That evening, Fern went to dinner, intending to thank Srivastav for his help. To her surprise, he wasn’t in the dining room with the other candidates. He was probably working hard on his own research. Still eager to avoid the other candidates, Fern filled a plate with food and went straight to her room to eat alone.
She didn’t see Srivastav at breakfast the next day and vowed to thank him when she next saw him. Returning to her desk on the top floor of the Elemency Tower, she spent the rest of her day working.
Once she was done selecting her pyromancy spells, she began her research on water spells. They were fewer by far than the pyromancy spells, and it took her no longer than an afternoon to narrow down a shortlist of potential spells and their incantations.
She stood to return her books to their places, finding the room steeped in shadows where the dim lamplight could not reach. The sun had long gone down. Outside, a fierce storm raged, rain crackling against the windows .
After returning her books, she passed by the desk Srivastav had occupied the previous day. She turned the corner. Somebody was there, but it was not the pyromancer.