Page 48 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter forty-eight

The Pit

The final day before the assignment was spent at her desk, where Fern sat silently arranging, perfecting and compiling her research. The eye, straining and awful and horribly aware, seemed to watch her from every darkness: the shadowy corridors of Carthane, the night sky, even the darkness behind Fern’s eyelids.

She longed desperately to tell someone of what she had seen, what she knew—anything to make her feel less alone with that horrible knowledge. But the risk was too great, and she had come too far, and she was too close.

So instead, she tried to prepare for the third assignment. It was the best she could do. It was the only thing she could do.

And even that was now becoming difficult.

She had known when taking down the Astronomy Tower ward that she had dug a little too deep, pulled too hard. Her reserves of magic had never been abundant to begin with, and they always regenerated slowly .

Now, trying to draw energy, even for the simplest spell, would be like scraping the edges of an empty jam jar with the tip of a knife.

But if Fern must scrape, then she would. What choice had she?

She would not go to Lautric for help, she could not, and this was for the best. He would be gone soon anyway. Fern had spent her adolescence learning how to lean on nobody else but herself. That’s what she must do.

A little after midnight, Fern re-entered the passageways, crushed by a sense of hopelessness.

The third assignment was tomorrow morning. Her research was ready, but she had next to no reserves left, no way of performing her spells.

She had made so many mistakes she could barely stand to think of them. She’d frittered away her powers to get into the Astronomy Tower, all for nothing. She’d failed to find Emmeline as she told Edmund she would do, and maybe even more candidates would go missing. Baudet had already been hurt at the hands of Edmund, and Srivastav was everyone’s greatest competition in this assignment. How long until something happened to him, too?

The closest thing to a friend Fern had managed to make was long gone, and the closest thing to an ally she’d found was probably the most dangerous of all the candidates, and she’d almost slept with him.

Mistake after mistake made, and now she was alone and powerless.

Fern remembered her conversation with Oscar when she’d returned from her trip to Santico. He’d told her one day she’d march herself blithely into hell and find herself alone in front of the devil.

Fern wasn’t so sure who the devil was in Carthane, but as she emerged out of the long stone tunnel of the Mage Tower passageway and into the undercroft, she certainly felt as though she had indeed marched through the gates of hell.

She’d come here despite the fears still lurking from her childhood, because she needed to be somewhere isolated and as far away from books as possible. She was about to attempt a pyromancy incantation with the help of Wild Magic, and she remembered all too well the story Srivastav had told on his first night, how combining Wild Magic and pyromancy had almost cost him his life.

And he was one of the most talented pyromancers in history.

But what choice did Fern have? She had come too far, and she’d never wanted anything else except this. If there had ever been a point to turn back, she was too far past it now.

Closing her eyes, Fern tried her incantation again. At first, she felt as though she were trying to draw water from an empty faucet. Then, she felt for the source of Wild Magic.

It wasn’t difficult. It was everywhere, ever present, and eager. Wild Magic wished to be used. Once called, it came easily, and once it flowed, its flow would take on a will of its own .

Fern reached for it with caution, and the power came immediately: it made the incantation rich with strength, it made the fire leap inside Fern with terrifying speed. Fern ended the incantation, and as she did, she started.

Her eyes flew open.

She could have sworn she had just heard a noise. Her heart lurched, her mind flashing the image of the tower, the Gateway, the eye watching her from the hungry darkness. She swallowed back her fear, waiting, her ears straining, but all was still. The cavernous chamber was full of the deathly silence of ancient stone. In the distance, the faint glow of lanterns indicated the doors. Nothing moved. Nothing happened.

She had probably imagined the noise, her senses, sharpened by the fear the illegal Gateway, transpierced her heart with fear. She began her incantation anew, voice loud and firm, echoing around the chamber. The ancient words slid seamlessly from her mouth, and the Wild Magic, now alive and responsive at her fingertips, rose to her will.

She felt the fire gather, the searing pain, so familiar now. Sweat broke over her forehead, and her muscles strained with force, her ribs seemed to splinter in the red chest of her torso. She threw her hands out and the flames poured forth, fed by Wild Magic, burning redder than it ever had before. And when Fern tried to end the incantation, the Wild Magic fought her, and the flames burned more vividly still, searing her fingertips.

Panic flashed through Fern.

If she could not stop the flow of the fire, it would consume her to ashes. She clamped the entire force of her will down upon the flow of Wild Magic, ripping away from it, and the flow stopped.

The flames wreathed from her hands and faded as though swept into nothing by a black wind. Fern stood in complete darkness, her hands throbbing with the memory of the fire, her entire body trembling.

She would have no choice but to use Wild Magic tomorrow during the assignment. She could only hope, now, that she would be strong enough to exert her will over it.

If not… she could not even begin to think of the consequences.

More hopeless and anxious than before, Fern was making her way back towards the passageway to the Mage Tower when she heard a noise. She froze, turned, scrutinising the darkness.

This time, she was certain. She had not imagined it.

The noise came again. A faraway, keening noise, like an echo of a scream. But it wasn’t coming from the direction of the Astronomy Tower. It was coming from deep within the other side of the chamber.

Fern’s heartbeat quickened. She knew where that side of the chamber led, should she plunge into its darkness. It would lead further down into the underground levels of Carthane, far into the ancient undercroft and towards the sewage systems. She could not venture there.

But the noise reached her again, high with despair, and this time, she was listening properly. A voice.

Someone or something was in the undercroft, calling.

Fern’s dagger was still at her waist. Her trembling, aching fingers sought the cold touch of the pommel. Even if it hadn’t been a voice, how could she turn away? Someone might need help. Fern wanted desperately to succeed in her candidacy, but not so desperately that she would do so with someone else’s blood on her hands. Not after everything that had happened.

For a second, Fern hesitated, thinking of Oscar’s warning about facing the devil alone. Oscar would have told her to turn back, to go find Sarlet, the Grand Archivists, the other candidates even. Oscar would have told her to go and get help. Reason told her so too.

But the thought of turning back was unbearable to Fern. Whoever was out there needed her help now . She had taken too long to get to the Arboretum that night when she’d stopped to help Lautric—her own enemy. She had made so many mistakes, she could not help but think turning back would be just another mistake.

So she lifted a torch from one of the sconces along the passageway halls, turned back towards the chamber, and plunged into its darkness.

The chamber stretched out for what felt like an age, growing colder the further in she went. At the end, the ground came to an abrupt stop, giving way to a yawning chasm, and Fern took several hasty steps back.

She held her torch low, following along the edge of the stone floor until she spotted some steps leading down. Steep and narrow, the stone staircase went further than she could see by torchlight, disappearing into the darkness.

Then the voice came again, more distinct this time .

A long, howling scream, desperate and heart-wrenching. A female voice. Fern’s stomach clenched, and her mind flew, of its own volition, to Josefa.

There was no turning back now. Torch held high, Fern descended the steps as quickly as she dared. By the time her foot touched the flat, solid surface of the next level down, the voice had stopped, and silence reigned, broken only by the low roar of a current of icy wind.

Fern looked around, raising her torch high.

She was at the end of a long corridor. Here, the air was so cold that her breath rose like ghosts from her lips. The stone walls were slimy with lichen, water dripping from the thick, glossy black pipes that crowded the ceiling. They gleamed obscenely in the torchlight, like the dark entrails of some colossal beast.

The voice had stopped, but Fern continued, following the corridor as it sloped slowly down. As she went, the sound of rushing water mingled with the low rasp of the wind. She was drawing close to the sewers.

“Hello?” Fern called out. “Can you hear me?”

Her voice echoed down the corridor, throwing her own words back at her as she kept walking.

Far ahead, she could see the end of the corridor, and from that entrance, the pungent stench of decay and filth emanated, confirming Fern’s suspicion. She had almost reached the sewer.

“ Help me !”

The scream was so close that Fern started. She broke into a run, plunging into the darkness, the stench, the sound of the rushing wind. At the end of the corridor, an archway dripping with algae and moss gave way to a cavernous chamber .

She entered cautiously, slowing down, and called out, “Are you here?”

“I’m here!” The voice was high, strained with despair, broken as though the person was screaming through damaged vocal cords. “Help me, please, help me!”

Fern stepped cautiously into the chamber. Further along, the floor gave way to a massive depression. Standing on the edge, Fern raised her torch. Dozens of pipes jutted out of the walls of what resembled an enormous pool. There, black water gathered, churned out ceaselessly by the pipes.

And in that black water, holding on desperately to the rusted metal of a pipe, was a pale figure. Her face was turned upwards, long red hair coiled to her neck.

Emmeline Ferrow.

Panic seized Fern. She leaned down, waving her torch. “I’m here, I’m here!”

“Help me!” screamed Emmeline, terror tearing the beauty out of her voice. She sounded younger and more vulnerable than Fern had ever imagined her to be. “Get me out of here, please!”

“I will! I just have to find a way down! I—”

Fern’s torch went out, the flame extinguished in an instant. Utter darkness swallowed her. The sound of footsteps rushed towards her.

She whipped around, hand flying to her waist.

The footsteps reached her just as she unsheathed her dagger. She smelled something oddly pleasant, like flowers or winter spices, and she sensed magic, potent and subtle, and then the figure was upon her.

Slashing out blindly, she caught something. Two hands slammed into her shoulders, sending her flying back. Her feet stumbled over stone, then nothing. Fern’s stomach dropped.

She fell through the darkness and into the pit.