Page 52 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)

Chapter fifty-two

The Crossroads

By the time Fern reached the gates of Carthane, her head was pounding and her leg wound had reopened. Her shoulders burned, her muscles ached, even her skin felt sore. She pushed aside the pain, a problem she could simply not deal with right now.

She was about to pull on the bell rope when two dark forms appeared behind the ornate ironwork of the gate. Sentinels. It would seem as though Fern did not need to announce her return: Carthane awaited her.

In the daylight, the Sentinels were deathly pale, their skin stretched tightly over the outline of their skulls. They pulled open the gate, and Fern felt the force of the hermetic spell shifting as they did so. She passed through, and the Sentinels closed the gate behind her, but she did not wait to hear the heavy click of the gate locking shut behind her this time.

She sprinted up the winding path ahead of the Sentinels, her lungs tight, her breath frantic. She stopped only briefly, to check her watch. Fifteen minutes until the assignment. The other candidates must be making their final preparations, and as for Edmund, he must be out of his mind with fear and fury.

Fern broke into a run up the path, sensing the dark, silent presence of the Sentinel following her.

She reached the colossal steps of Carthane’s entrance, her body a beacon of pain, and came to an abrupt stop, almost falling over. Housemistress Sarlet, with her raven-black hair in its severe knot, stood in the entrance to the library, her arms in front of her, fingers interlaced.

“How did you leave Carthane?”

Fern bit back an angry retort. Did it not seem obvious to Sarlet that Fern had not left willingly? Could she not see Fern’s bruises or the blood seeping through the fabric of her trousers? Had she failed to notice the strange pattern of disappearances at Carthane?

She did not care. She had not cared about Josefa and she did not care about Fern. It was not her job to care. Sarlet was first and foremost Carthane’s guardian. Carthane was all she cared about.

“There’s a murderer in Carthane,” Fern said. “They trapped Emmeline Ferrow in the sewers and left her there, and tried to do the same to me. They’re probably behind Vittoria Orsini’s disappearance, maybe even the break-in of your office.”

Sarlet did not seem startled by any of this. She narrowed her eyes.

“How did you leave Carthane?” she repeated.

“I was pushed into the sewers and spat out to sea,” Fern snapped.

Sarlet raised an eyebrow. “By whom?”

“I don’t know yet. The same person who attacked the others. I assure you, I intend to find out. ”

Sarlet regarded her wordlessly for a moment, then she stepped aside.

“You need not concern yourself with this, Miss Sullivan. Carthane and its safekeeping is in my remit, not yours. For now, I advise you to make your way to the Grand Mage Hall, or you risk being late for your third and final assignment.”

Fern bit back an angry retort, her mind working quickly. Although she had no intention of leaving the matter in Sarlet’s hands, it would do her no good to antagonise the housemistress. She needed to take another approach.

The bell began to chime ten o’clock, echoing from the bosom of the library. The assignment was about to begin. Fern was out of time.

“Emmeline Ferrow is trapped in the sewers as we speak,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “She’ll die if someone doesn’t help her soon.”

Housemistress Sarlet bowed her head, almost in concession.

“I will inform the Grand Archivists and deal with the situation personally.”

Fern thought of Josefa, of how Sarlet promised she would be found only for the Grand Archivists to announce her exit from Carthane soon after. Sarlet had Carthane’s interests at heart, Fern did not doubt that for a moment, but as for the interests of the candidates, that remained to be seen. This time, Fern would not wait to find out.

With a quick farewell to Sarlet, Fern ran through the doors and sprinted to the Grand Mage Hall without stopping .

Her stomach clenched when she saw a tall figure pacing the ornate corridor, barring the path to the Grand Mage Hall antechamber. Not him, she thought, not now .

Lautric’s face was a map of emotions. Surprise, concern, pity and anger all merged into one another like the bleeding colours of a fresh painting.

In Fern’s mind, there had never really been a doubt that Lautric was the saboteur at Carthane. He had locked Josefa out of her room somehow, trapped Emmeline in the sewer pit and pushed Fern in.

Every path of inquiry led back to him: his deal with Vittoria, his family’s card in the missing Professor Saffyn’s drawer, his night-time wanderings, even the Astronomy Tower and the monstrous Gateway within it. Everything was linked to Lautric.

He was simply the weakest candidate, ridding himself of his rivals the only way he could.

But his expression now, the rawness of his emotions, seemed so vivid and genuine that Fern’s certainty faltered. She might have believed his anguish stemmed from her survival and the ruination of his plans, but this was not the case. Lautric was looking at her with mingled tenderness and distress, the way one might look at something precious and broken.

It made Fern’s heart hurt and her mind ache. She had no time for Lautric and his mysteries, no time for whatever emotion nestled in her chest, squirming and warm like a newborn creature seeking comfort. Just like Fern’s missing book, or her absent mentor, or the Gateway in the Astronomy Tower, she would simply have to deal with it later. She had too much to worry about: her candidacy, her injuries, Emmeline, helpless and scared and alone, waiting for her.

She needed to find Edmund, now. She tried to barge past Lautric, but he stood in her path.

“What happened to you?” he asked, a miserable expression on his face. “You’re hurt again .”

Fern steeled herself, her heart, her voice. “I told you to stay away from me.”

His tone was defeated. “ I’m trying .”

“Try harder.”

“It would be easier to stay away from you,” Lautric said, sounding more hurt than he ever had before, “if you did not insist on always throwing yourself head-first into danger.”

Facing Lautric, Fern asked in a low, cold voice, “And why exactly is it you care so much, Mr Lautric?”

“Please,” he sighed, “call me L—”

“I despise your family and everything it stands for. Do you know how many times I’ve been attacked under your family’s orders? You must think me the greatest of fools. Your family has wanted me dead for years now. So why is it you should care so much what happens to me?”

His expression was unreadable—not because it was barren of emotion, but because it was overwhelmed by a myriad of them. Shock, anger, resentment, sadness. Other emotions which Fern could not quite unpick from the others.

When he spoke, his voice was low. “You know why.”

A disconcerting lightness fluttered through Fern. What was he saying? Why now? And how should she feel? And though she knew she was being manipulated, why did it not feel like manipulation? And ultimately—what did it matter? She had no time for this.

“No, I don’t know why, Mr Lautric, nor do I wish to find out. Keep to your business and I shall keep to mine. Now I must ask you to step aside. I need to speak to Mr Ferrow.”

Lautric stepped aside without a word, his mouth down-turned in an unhappy grimace. Fern brushed past him, past his incongruous sadness and the sweet smell of him, and towards the Grand Mage Hall.

She knocked on the antechamber door before she had even regained her breath. It opened to reveal an archivist, blue sash across her waist. She raised an eyebrow, her gaze sweeping Fern, taking in her untidy hair, her bruised face, her borrowed clothes and bloodstained trousers.

“Um, Miss Sullivan,” she said in a tone of mild concern, stepping aside to let Fern through, “what happened to you? You’re late, they’re about to call your name.”

Fern threw out a quick apology and hurried past the archivist and into a long antechamber. Its ceiling was low, and it was barren of windows, lit only by a row of gas lamps. High-backed chairs were pushed back against one wall.

There, the other candidates sat waiting: Vasili Drei, long hair tied back, shuffling through some notes, Edmund pale-faced and hollow-eyed, clenching and unclenching his hands. Dr Essouadi and Baudet both looked up at Fern’s entrance, matching expressions of surprise on their faces. Baudet still seemed to be half-recovering from Edmund’s attack; Fern could not help but be surprised both were sitting in the same room.

Before Fern could take one more step, before she could even utter Edmund’s name, the door to the Mage Hall opened and Ravi Srivastav returned into the antechamber.

His skin was ashen, and his hands were bandaged, as though he’d burnt himself during his spellcasting. His eyes met Fern: his mien, normally so open and amiable, was closed and pinched with fear. Fern frowned; Srivastav had the greatest advantage in this assignment, his Elemency skills outmatching all the other candidates’ by leaps and bounds.

If he was afraid, then something must have happened during the assignment, but what?

Behind Fern, the archivist called. “Miss Sullivan. You’re next.”

Fern glanced at the open door, the glimpsed marble and gold of the Grand Mage Hall beyond, the archivist’s expectant frown. This was the final assignment, and she had come so far and worked so hard.

For a second, she watched the other candidates.

Dr Essouadi, worried and ill and exhausted. Srivastav, who looked as though he was about to throw up, excusing himself and leaving the antechamber in a stumble. Lautric, whose pretty eyes were set in beds of shadows. Vasili Drei, with his long black hair and tinted glasses, still and unruffled, like an immovable rock in a stormy ocean .

Then Fern turned to Edmund and saw, beyond the seething green of his hatred and frustration, the livid crimson of his pain, his terror. She felt trapped in that kaleidoscope of emotion she’d tried so hard to avoid, and now she’d come to a crossroads.

A choice was required of her. She could not choose wrong.

Turning away from the archivist, away from the door, Fern strode past all the other candidates to stand in front of Edmund.

“You need to come with me,” she said. “I know where Emmeline is.”

Edmund started as though he’d been whipped out of a dream and back into reality. “What did you say?”

“I found Emmeline.” Fern’s voice was tight with urgency. “She’s trapped in the sewer pit, deep below Carthane.”

“How?” Edmund asked, his voice strangled, his handsome face twisted with anger and shock. “Who did this? How did you find out?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know. We won’t have time to—”

Edmund stepped forward, forcing Fern to step back. There was no relief in his eyes, only pure distrust, and a hatred that made a shudder of fear scratch its way up Fern’s back.

“You’re a liar.”

“No, I swear, Emmeline needs our help, we—”

“If you both were attacked, then how is it you escaped but not my sister?” Edmund hissed, and, before Fern could answer, “ And why would you leave her? ”

“Edmund.” Lautric’s voice interceded, but Fern spoke over him .

“I had no choice, please, Mr Ferrow, believe me. I escaped, but—”

A hand came down to rest over Fern’s shoulder. She turned to look up into the archivist’s frowning face.

“What is this?” the archivist said. “Miss Sullivan. You are late enough as it is. What could possibly be more important than this?”

It was a good question, after all, but Fern was no longer certain she knew the answer.

“Someone’s been targeting candidates,” she said. “Someone trapped Emmeline Ferrow in the sewers. Please, you must inform the Grand Archivists, and we need to go find Emmeline, there’s no time to waste.”

The archivist ran out.

“Who would possibly do something like this?” said Dr Essouadi from behind Edmund, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Fern’s eyes flew to Lautric. He shook his head by the merest fraction, almost unnoticeable. As if to say, No, Fern, you’re wrong . Fern’s heart tightened. Part of her did not wish to believe it, but he’d lied before, and he’d been the one to warn her about what he was capable of.

It was Edmund who spoke first, a dull question falling from his lips.

“Where’s the general?”

Dr Essouadi answered. “He left a moment ago. I think he might be quite unwell, perhaps the pyromancy is taking its toll; he was absent from dinner last night. I assumed he was too unwell to eat.”

Fern’s heart sank, and a sudden silence reigned over her heart, her mind. Realisation dawned in that silence, bright and absolute and devastating .

Her mouth formed a name;she could not bring herself to say it. She’s made a mistake: yet another to add to her litany. A terrible mistake, this time, her deadliest one yet.

She turned and ran.