Page 7 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter seven
The Gate
A sign right outside the village indicated the direction of Carthane. It was needless; Carthane could be seen from so far away that even during her train journey, Fern had spotted it long before East Hemwick was even a shadow on the horizon.
A colossal monument of ancient stone perched high upon the cliffs, Carthane crouched at the end of the world like a megafaunal creature of forgotten times. A single narrow path of pebbled dirt led from the village up to the library, a clear message that this was a place unused to visitors.
Fern stood by the signpost of faded wood and stared up at the jutting silhouette of Carthane’s roofs and spires, clutching her suitcase so hard her hand ached. She felt so certain about her wish to come back to Carthane; she could hardly believe the effect Addie’s words had on her. But she could not deny the ripple of uncertainty now marring her conviction, making her hesitate where she should firmly tread .
Most of her early childhood memories of Carthane were intimate visions: a kitchen fireside, a small cot in a narrow bedroom, fat candles on a bronze plate, a cluttered garden shed, long, shadowy corridors promising mystery and adventure, the warmth of a male voice reading a story.
But Carthane now—as she saw it from the foot of the cliffs—seemed far from intimate.
It seemed remote, menacing, alien.
In ten years of working her way through university, through dedicated research and a distinguished career, curating her application for a role at Carthane until it was as perfect as she could make it, Fern had never once questioned herself. Carthane was the pinnacle of a librarian’s career, the only place in the world where Fern would be able to continue her research. Every road led her here.
Fern had never questioned this, not when she received her invitation, not when she handed in her resignation for a post she loved in a place she cherished, not when she left behind her friends, her colleagues and neighbours, her cosy apartment in New Copenhagen.
Wanting this wasn’t a career goal or a distant dream; it was the destination she had journeyed towards her entire life.
Fern shook her head. She had not come this far, after so long, having given up so much, to let strange coincidences and ominous words shake her resolve. Carthane was the greatest repository of arcane knowledge in the world, knowledge many sought to use for their own ends, to further their own dark ambitions .
Books should never be weapons; Fern believed that deep in her mind and heart. What nobler goal was there but to safeguard books?
No, Fern knew her purpose. She had known it for a long time, and she had never strayed from her path before. She would not do so now.
“Courage, Inkwell,” she murmured to the silent black shadow in her wicker basket. “All will be well.”
And with those words, Fern set off on the path up towards Carthane.
Dusk fell around Fern as she ascended the path towards the cliff’s crest. Bloated clouds hung low over the pitch-black sea, and above it, the sky grew in turn green, then blue, then a deep purple pinpricked with stars. A thick, cold mist rose from the sea, crawling at Fern’s feet and shrouding the moorland of tufted heather and cotton grass.
The path led Fern all the way up through the cliffs, past jagged rocks and twisted trees, until it finally came to an abrupt end at the foot of a colossal gate of wrought iron. Rain had started falling shortly after Fern began her ascent, and by the time she reached the gate, it had soaked right through her coat, dripping from her hair and running down her cheeks like tears.
At the side of the gate was a single lamp post, the gas beak casting a faint circle of trembling light. In that wavering circle stood a tall figure, partly hidden beneath the edges of a large umbrella .
Fern glanced at the figure with a frown. Ought she greet them? Professional courtesy would dictate so. But the stranger did not seem to notice her, so she trudged up to the gate and reached for the bell rope.
“Someone’s already on the way.”
Fern dropped her hand and turned.
The black umbrella had tilted back, revealing a young man in a large overcoat. Though his face was youthful and pleasing, he had a weary look about him: paper-white skin and shadows beneath his eyes. His black hair was cut short, choppy strands falling over his forehead like pitch on snow.
He held a cigarette in one hand, which Fern glanced at with distaste.
“Thank you,” she said.
The young man nodded, and to Fern’s surprise, he slightly extended his umbrella. Unwilling to appear rude and needlessly belligerent, Fern stepped beneath the offered shelter, only close enough so that her head and Inkwell’s basket would be safe from the rain. The young man lifted his hand to his lips, taking a deep drag of his cigarette and Fern turned slightly away to avoid his exhalation.
Wreaths of pale smoke still reached her. To her surprise, it was not tobacco she smelt, but something sweet and dark, like liquorice.
Fern and the paper-skinned young man remained silent for a while, but Fern’s mind was working restlessly. He was one of her fellow candidates, he must be, but which one? It was impossible to guess his career from his countenance. He might have been the professor of Arcane Arts from Druszke, or one of the alchemists from the Poison Tower of Santa Velia. There was no way to tell.
The only certain conclusion Fern could come to was that he was reserved and weary. Young, too, she guessed several years younger than her. He must have achieved much in very few years to have made his way to Carthane so fast. Perhaps he was a prodigy of sorts, a candidate selected on the basis of raw talent rather than academia or experience. Above all, a strange intensity emanated from him, like a violin string stretched too taut.
When he spoke, which he was the first to do, Fern almost started to hear the mild, pleasant tenor of his voice.
“What is your cat named?”
Fern glanced down, following the direction of his gaze. Inkwell lay in his basket—she’d assumed he was asleep, but the cat’s green eyes, twin gibbous moons, were fixed on the young man.
“Inkwell.”
Bowing slightly, he kept the umbrella steady while peering into the cage.
“He looks very soft.”
“He prefers not to be touched,” said Fern.
A hint of a smile played on his lips, as though he had understood something different from what Fern had intended .
Turning his attention back to Inkwell, he murmured, “Hello, Inkwell,” then raised his eyes to meet Fern’s again. “Have you travelled far?”
She nodded. He was probably trying to place her just as she was trying to place him.
“New Copenhagen. Yourself?”
His expression shifted ever so slightly, eyelids drooping over tired eyes as he took another drag of his cigarette. He didn’t answer her question directly, but instead asked, “Were you waylaid at East Hemwick?”
“Yes. Were you?”
A nod confirmed it. “Yes. Did you see the ostary? I’ve never seen one before.”
“Then you’ve been fortunate. Do you know wh—”
Before she could finish her question, the screech of metal interrupted her. She turned her head to find that the gate had opened. Fern straightened her back, her chest lifting on a sharp intake of breath. At her side, the young man tossed the remainder of his cigarette to the floor, crushing the glowing red stub beneath his heel.
He followed Fern as she stepped in front of the open gate. A pale figure stood there: it was the shape of a man, tall and broad-shouldered, and dressed in a plain back robe. But this was no man: the head, bald and pale, was featureless, as though the skin had been draped over the skull with no other ornament.
This was a Sentinel of Carthane, a man-made arcane creature of wax tasked with protecting and keeping its archives and halls.
Fern’s heartbeat quickened. Her childhood memories of Carthane were shadowed by fear of the Sentinels. Back then, her parents had done everything they could to keep her away from them. Servants were not permitted to have children while working on the grounds—because of the Gateways, nobody who worked and lived in Carthane could remain if they had children. It wasn’t just forbidden by the Reformed Vatican’s Sumbral Laws—it was common sense.
Even the archivists who had been married in their old lives were forced to live apart from their families and see them only occasionally. The Grand Archivists themselves were all famously childless.
Fern’s parents had broken the rules and kept her at their side when they should have sent her away to a boarding school. She had known even from a young age that her presence in Carthane would have cost her parents their jobs, and all the servants who kept the secret of her existence had made sure to remind her if she ever forgot. They had inculcated within Fern a deep fear of the Sentinels.
Now, though, there was no need to fear the silent creatures. In many ways, Fern was their future colleague.
Still, a cold shudder crawled through her when the creature’s head turned towards her. She stood quite still, waiting. The Sentinel’s head moved from her to the young man.
It stepped aside, allowing them both through.
Fern preceded the young man through the gate; as she passed him, he brushed his hand against her elbow in a fleeting, oddly courteous movement. An odd warmth spread through her; had he just used magic?
She glanced at him. His hand had already fallen away, his eyes were fixed on the Sentinel, and his mouth was closed. If he had spoken an incantation, she would have heard him, she was sure of it.
The Sentinel shut the gate with a rasping creak, and a sonorous click echoed through the air—the unmistakable sound of a hermetic spell. A powerful one, too. One would need to break down the colossal walls before they could ever hope to get through that gate, regardless of whether they wished to enter or exit.
Fern was suddenly reminded of Oscar’s voice reading her letter.
Once you accept and arrive at Carthane, you will not be able to withdraw your candidacy.
There had been ample opportunity to turn back. Fern had stayed the course, and now she was here. What else to do but succeed?