Page 8 of The Deadliest Candidate (The Last Grand Archivist #1)
Chapter eight
The Threat
Carthane was a sprawling estate, its central and oldest building surrounded by labyrinths of gardens, hedges and trees. A semi-circle of towers rose around the central building, connected to it by skyways. Even then, Carthane itself dwarfed everything around it, towers and colossal pines alike.
Standing at the feet of its entrance, Fern looked up.
The dark rock of the building, with its Gothic ornaments and crouching gargoyles, rose so high it blocked out the sky, windows blazing gold with light. Fern had remembered Carthane to be an enormous place—it was still far larger than she remembered.
The Sentinel led Fern and her weary companion through the entrance and into a cavernous atrium.
Chandeliers lined the ceiling, hanging on thick chains, each link larger than a fist. The broad flagstones were of polished marble, perfectly reflecting the flickering glow of every single candle so that the ground seemed strewn with stars. The hall was supported with pillars, and interspersed between those were carved stone benches and the busts of saints and scholars.
“Welcome.”
In the very centre of the hall stood the woman who had spoken.
Her back was straight, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers linked. Her jet-black hair, streaked grey at the temples, was pulled back in a chignon; her face was lined; her green eyes were needle sharp. She wore plain clothing: a high-necked blouse and long black skirt. A grey sash crossed her chest, and a ring of keys was looped around her leather belt.
“I am Housemistress Sarlet. I oversee house matters and guests here at Carthane.” Her voice was dry and deep, her tone sharp and austere. “Should you have any problems during your time here, you may find me in my office here in the Keystone—our central building. If you cannot find me, simply send a Sentinel to fetch me. My duty is to ensure the safety of Carthane. Follow me, please.”
She led Fern and the young man away from the brightly lit atrium. As they walked through a maze of corridors and staircases, the housemistress pointed at various alcoves in the walls, where Sentinels awaited, silent and unmoving.
“Carthane, you will find, is a vast place, and it is all too easy to get lost within its depths. Until you become accustomed to its layout, you may rely on our Sentinels, who will serve as guides to you and your fellow candidates.”
They passed the double archway of an enormous chamber, and Sarlet gestured within .
“This is the Grand Hall. There will be a welcoming banquet later tonight and an address by the Grand Archivists. The occasion is formal; please dress accordingly. Tomorrow, you will be assigned your professional mentors.”
Fern could not help the small thrill of excitement that coursed through her. The Grand Archivists were amongst the world’s most renowned scholars: men and women who had blazed trails she herself had followed. Being mentored by one of them would be an extraordinary opportunity even for all the candidates who would fail to secure a post.
Sarlet continued on through the library.
“Until then,” she explained, “I am taking you to the Mage Tower. It is the safest place in Carthane: the entire tower is warded, and Sentinels guard its entrance. Your living quarters will be here, where you are also advised to take your meals.”
Housemistress Sarlet paused in front of a large door engraved with carvings and runes. Inscribed incantations, some so old and complex Fern could not begin to fathom them. Two Sentinels stood on either side of the door, half-hidden in their shadowy alcoves.
Fern, without meaning to, took an instinctive step back and almost bumped into the young man, who settled her with a gentle hand and a look of faint curiosity.
“This is the door to the Mage Tower,” Sarlet said. “Nothing inhuman can pass this door—not even our Sentinels. Once you leave the tower, though, you must navigate carefully and keep your wits about you. I advise you to keep to the study halls, the auditoriums, and of course, the archival and library wings. The Gallery is currently inaccessible until renovations are completed. As for the grounds, you may go about the gardens as you please, except for the peace garden, which you may visit in the daytime but is inadvisable once the sun sets. The Arboretum is open to visitors, but the Astronomy Tower is closed due to internal structural damage.”
Fern’s hand tightened around her suitcase handle.
She remembered well the collapse of the Astronomy Tower—it was the incident that had killed her parents, orphaned her and forever changed her life.
She had expected to be affected by her return to Carthane, the reminder of what had happened, but she had not expected the sudden knot twisting in her stomach, the surprising on-rush of old emotion. She caught a long breath and held it, steeling herself.
Oblivious to her inner turmoil, the housemistress continued in cool tones.
“Finally, the Gateways. I don’t need to remind you that Sumbral Laws are stringent and unforgiving. Each Gateway in Carthane is marked and officially registered. Access to them is limited and requires written permission from a Grand Archivist. I will not condescend you by reminding you of the Sumbral Laws. Any breach of those laws will be immediately reported to the authorities and the Reformed Vatican and will be dealt with as a criminal matter.”
She paused to lay a heavy look over both Fern and her companion.
Fern nodded—she knew Sumbral Laws well. Having conducted the majority of her research on the topic of Gateways and their entities, she had long learned how to navigate the murky waters of the many laws and regulations surrounding it.
As for the young man, he stood with a small notepad in his hands, calmly taking notes. There was neither surprise nor excitement in his expression, only the same weariness as before.
“Now for rules specifically affecting your candidacy,” Sarlet said. “You may go about Carthane as you please, aside from the places I have mentioned before, and of course the underground levels of the building, which are unsafe and strictly closed to visitors. You may send and receive letters, though they must pass through me first. We apologise for this disruption of your privacy, but our priority is, above all, the safeguarding of the knowledge kept here. And finally, as per the terms of your invitation here, you may not, under any circumstances, leave the grounds of Carthane. Doing so will result in the immediate termination of your candidacy. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Fern said.
The young man gave a nod, closing his notepad and sliding it into the inside pocket of his overcoat.
“Very well,” said Sarlet. “Let me show you to your apartments.”
She pushed open the carved door to the Mage Tower and swept past a circular atrium, her footsteps dry cracks across the polished chessboard tiles. They went up the wide spiral of a staircase, Sarlet indicating floors they passed on their way up.
“There, you will find the dining rooms where you may take your meals. On this floor, you will find a common room where you may wish to spend time or socialise. The upper floors are where you will find your apartments.”
They left the staircase to walk down the well-lit corridor of the fifth floor. The walls here were covered with red paper illustrated with constellations of pale gold, and a narrow rug spanned the length of the corridor. Gas lamps shone from cone-shaped sconces on the walls, and doors lined the hall on both sides. At the side of each door was a small table, upon which rested a lamp and a wooden tray.
Sarlet indicated the tables.
“I will leave your correspondence in these trays, both letters from within and outside Carthane. At the end of the corridor, you will find a linen room where you may leave and retrieve laundry and where you will find clean linens and towels. Unless you have any questions, I will let you make yourselves comfortable and rest from your travels. The welcome banquet will be at eight o’clock. Please remember to dress formally.”
And with that, she turned and withdrew, disappearing down the large spiral staircase. Fern glanced around, eyes searching the doors.
“Here.” The paper-skinned young man pointed to a door. Carved into the bronze placard in neat letters was the name F. E. Sullivan .
Fern cast him a sharp look. He knew her name; he must have guessed who she was when she told him she’d come from New Copenhagen. Clearly, he had done his research on his fellow candidates.
“Thank you,” she said, a little discomfited. “It seems you have the advantage of me. You know my name, and I don’t know yours. ”
He gave a wan smile. “It’s Léo.”
Fern scrutinised him for a moment. She had not expected him to respond so readily, but his name rang no bell anyhow. Her research, it seemed, was not as thorough as his.
With a polite nod, she excused herself and entered her room, closing the door behind her. She could not help the feeling that the young man had somehow managed to already gain the upper hand on her.
Turning her back to the door, she set the matter firmly from her mind. She would be formally introduced to her fellow candidates soon enough. For now she simply had too much to do to worry about the matter, especially when she suspected it was her pride, more than anything else, that had been impacted. She made a mental list of things she must do: unpack, wash, ready herself for the banquet.
And before any of that, there was something else she needed to do.
She propped her suitcase on the bed and the wicker basket on a chair near the window. She opened the wicker door, and Inkwell jumped to the floor before strengthening the dark length of his little body. Fern left him sniffing the air inquisitively to pursue her own investigation of her new living quarters.
First, she ran her hands over the smooth azure tiles of the bathroom: they were firmly set in. She checked the floor beneath the plush rug next to her bed—not a single loose slat. Unsatisfied, she checked the mantelpiece, the inside of the wardrobe. All to no avail.
She returned to the bathroom and finally found what she was looking for—high in the ceiling on the opposite side of the window was a ventilation grille of latticed iron. Fern grabbed the dressing table stool and moved it against the wall, stepping on it to pull the grille open.
The space there was small but perfect for what she needed.
She hastened back to the main room and threw open her suitcase.
From it, she took the two most valuable things she had brought with her: Oscar’s gift—the beautiful dagger—and her research notes. She wrapped both the casket and the notebooks in a scarf and placed the small bundle in the space behind the ventilation grille, which she carefully pushed back in its place.
It was unlikely she would be robbed, but she would be far from the only person with access to her rooms. It would cost nothing to be cautious.
Satisfied, she unpacked her suitcase and ran herself a bath. The water was blissfully hot, exactly what she needed after her stay in East Hemwick and her journey up the cliffs in the ice-cold rain.
Now that she was here, finally back in Carthane where she belonged, her worries had receded, her fear vanished. She was in control, sure of herself, secure in the knowledge that she knew Carthane better than any other candidate.
After her bath, Fern readied herself for the banquet. She brushed and dried her dark blonde hair, then twisted it back, securing it with large pearl-adorned pins. She usually favoured blouses and trousers over dresses, but since the occasion was formal, she wore a dress of pale grey taffeta. A simple, elegant garment, structured but comfortable, with long sleeves and a square neckline.
Fern had just slipped into her shoes when a noise startled her. She froze. Two voices. A tight, quiet conversation right outside her door.
Grabbing an empty glass from next to a jug of water, Fern padded over to her door. She placed the glass to the wooden panel and pressed her ear against the cold glass. There was a masculine voice, words muttered through clenched teeth.
“Tell anyone of this and you, too, will die by my hand.”
Something slammed into the door with a dull impact, startling her back. There were no more voices, just footsteps rushing away, and then silence. Fern set aside the empty glass and waited with her hand on the door handle, her heartbeat quickening.
If she opened her door, she might see the speaker who had uttered such a chilling threat—but he might see her too and guess she’d heard him. Was the knowledge worth the risk?
There was only one answer to that question, of course.
Knowledge was always worth the risk.