Chapter 9
Nine
Kyrith
North is late for Hopkinson’s lecture. When he arrives, he falls into the spare chair between Jasper and Lambert with a stiffness that speaks of barely concealed pain.
His dark hair is brushed forward in a poor attempt to conceal his slow-blooming black eye, and his black shirt is stuck to his back in a way that makes me suspect he’s bleeding underneath.
This has to stop.
I’ve been discreetly lingering in a bookcase to their left, enjoying the lecture, but I shift to float invisibly behind him to get a better look.
“Riviel Treame,” I utter. “Cinciel megir donetre.”
A huge stripe of golden light, invisible to everyone but me, bisects his spine diagonally, along with the fainter glow of a broken rib and muscles pushed to the point of strain. I bite my lip as I debate how well he’ll take being healed in the middle of class.
It will be uncomfortable, but surely no more so than trying to focus on Hopkinson’s slideshow on arcanist law like this? The Arcanaeum is already combining herbs in a flask in the clock tower, starting the heat to brew something to ease the muscle pain.
“Don’t react,” I whisper in his ear.
“Kyrith—” He grunts as I murmur a healing spell too softly for the rest of the class to hear.
The skin of his back stitches together, and North’s stiffness doubles, a hiss of air whistling out from between his teeth. Lambert glances over in concern, noticing with a grimace the white-knuckled grip that his friend has on the arms of his chair.
The rest of the class is oblivious, their attention on Hopkinson as he flicks to the next slide.
“Fuck off,” North growls under his breath. “You’ll just make it worse.”
Jasper jerks, then relaxes as he realises he’s not the target of North’s aggravation. He unerringly pinpoints my location with those warm brown eyes, sending me a secret, welcoming smile.
Surely that was just luck? I suppose I should be grateful that he’s not smiling at the ceiling like a loon. I certainly should not be smiling back.
Reluctantly, I release the magic healing North.
“We’re going to talk about this,” I tell him sternly.
The Ackland heir just rolls his eyes, slumping a little lower in his seat, which I take for acquiescence. Unfortunately, Hopkinson catches the gesture and frowns, pointing directly at their table.
“Northcliff, how about you?”
There’s a guilty pause, where it becomes painfully evident that North wasn’t listening, and Hopkinson huffs.
“Try to pay attention. I was referring, of course, to Necromancy. As the parriarchs are responsible for upholding the law within their own families, they are also the ones responsible for dealing with anyone practising the forbidden school. For this reason, the parriarch is always the most powerful member of their house.”
I scoff under my breath, because that’s all well and good in theory.
If the parriarch is the most powerful arcanist, they should be able to overpower any necromancer.
However, the fatal flaw in that plan is that when the parriarchs themselves take up dark magic, no one else can hold them accountable. Few even notice.
The other members of their family could, in theory, group together to deal with them. To my knowledge, that’s never happened.
Yet, I know for a fact that at least six parriarchs have practised it in the past. Statistically, there’s likely more, but most necromancers are only caught when they try to take power for themselves.
Collectively, the parriarchs control all arcandom.
The only position more powerful than theirs is that of the rector; a title that’s mainly symbolic and transfers between the families in a fixed cycle.
The deterrent of the others has so far prevented any one of them from trying to break that ancient power-sharing agreement.
“Now, necromancy is punishable by…” Hopkinson surveys the room, but one of the students at the front answers without raising his hand.
“Public execution, by magical overload.”
North frowns, scribbling the last two words in his notebook, circling them, and adding a question mark.
“It’s where a parriarch forces so much magic into their body that they’re torn apart,” I advise him sadly. “It’s unpleasant, but it will be your duty once you ascend.”
Beside him, Jasper looks almost queasy at the idea, and Lambert won’t even look up from his textbook, but Leo simply sighs, resigned.
“Yes, well done,” Hopkinson continues. “As we all know, the last person to be tried and convicted for practising necromancy was Riley Carlton.” His focus lands briefly on the side of the room where Pierce sits alone, his posture completely at ease.
“Parriarch Isidora discovered her husband’s interest and executed him before he could endanger their young family. ”
The tale does spark some flicker of memory, though it must’ve been over two decades ago that the rumours were circulating.
“Isidora was only heir at the time, but the scandal caused by the revelation led her father, Benjamin, to abdicate. After all, no one wanted a parriarch who couldn’t recognise that his son-in-law was practising dark magic beneath his very nose.
To this day, he remains in voluntary exile among the inepts. ”
Without even a moment of hesitation, the magister moves on. “Now, who can tell me why necromancy is worthy of such a harsh and public punishment?”
Pierce raises his hand lazily, and Hopkinson visibly flounders. His discomfort is plain on his face as he searches for someone other than the man whose father he just used as a case study to answer his question and fails.
“Pierce.” The magister won’t even look at him.
But Pierce couldn’t seem less bothered about the situation as he replies, “Because necromancy is the manipulation of life force and requires the death of the donor. Thus, most necromancers are also prolific serial killers.”
“Correct.” Hopkinson switches the slide back to the tree of life diagram from so many weeks ago.
“If you’ll look here, you’ll see why many regard restoration and necromancy as opposites, but they’re actually two sides of the same coin.
A skilled restorationist is able to nurture flagging life-force using their magic.
A necromancer would drain that same energy for their own purposes. ”
“But Magister, what does necromancy actually do?” a portly ó Rinn girl at the front asks.
Hopkinson sighs the long sigh of someone fed up with repeating themselves. “Manipulates life energy—”
“I get that, but what for? What can they do with it?”
He stills, cocking his head to one side and pinning the student with a narrow-eyed stare.
“Many things, none of which are required knowledge for your exams. The University frowns on teaching any information that might encourage students to take up the forbidden school, even if the majority of you are too weak to attempt it.”
“A short-sighted approach,” Pierce argues. “Without teaching students what necromancy looks like, none of them will ever be able to recognise the signs, defend against it, or report it to the parriarchs.”
Oh magic, it grates to agree with him on anything, but he’s right. Ignorance is a weapon which only harms the wielder. If I’d known what necromancy looked like all those years ago…
No. I don’t think I would’ve suspected the parriarchs who killed me, even then. They were well used to hiding their secret. But perhaps there are others out there who might’ve been stopped earlier, had those closest to them recognised the signs.
Hopkinson strokes his bushy moustache. “A fair argument. However, I personally know very little, and I aspire to forget what rumours I have heard through the years.”
My lips purse, and I debate interrupting, but before I can, he continues, “Now, necromancy might be the most egregious use of magic, but there are plenty of other illegal magical acts. Who can name them?”
Plenty of hands rise into the air, but the Arcanaeum tugs on my awareness, drawing my attention away from the lecture, towards a commotion brewing in the foyer.
Oh, for goodness’ sake, what now? This is only the first day of term.
I disappear and reappear there without a thought, frowning at the arcanists piling through the doors, grimoires open and at the ready.
Their starched navy uniforms are rigid and pin-neat.
Their long jackets fall to mid-thigh, with slits up the sides and severe high collars that brush the rigid set of their jaws.
Enforcers.
Arcanists in service to the parriarchy, whose job it is to track down criminals. Sometimes they pass through alone, in pursuit of their quarry, which I permit out of goodwill. They’ve never gathered like this, though.
There must be a dozen of them, if not more. They’re scanning the faces of my patrons, who have started to retreat deeper into the library proper under the threat of such open hostility.
It doesn’t take a genius to realise that they’re looking for someone. Unfortunately, I have no way of knowing which parriarch ordered this preposterous invasion. Is it Isidora searching for Jasper? Josef searching for Eddy? Or someone else entirely?
I bristle, and the building slams every single door closed one by one. Separating the small army on our doorstep from the Botanical Hall.
“What is the meaning of this?” The temperature of the room drops to just above freezing as I manifest my ghostly form above the gilded silver letters set into the floor before them.
“This is the Arcanaeum. I have been tolerant of your actions in the past, but if you think you’re about to rip the Library apart while you conduct one of your hunts, you are sorely mistaken. ”
One of them, a man with well-trimmed stubble and a wicked scar at his hairline steps forward. If memory serves, his name is Michael ó Rinn, and he’s a distant cousin of Leo’s. There’s little resemblance between the slender heir and the bulky man in his forties before me.
Determination is written in his hard green eyes, but I simply arch one brow, waiting. In this building, I am the only authority, and I have little patience for the parriarchs’ dogs today. The embroidered red lines at his collar mean less than nothing here.
“Librarian, we’re here to apprehend a dangerous arcanist. It would be best if you got out of our way—”
“No.”
Watching the vein in his temple pulse at the refusal is satisfying.
“You’re refusing to cooperate with the parriarchy?”
“On the contrary,” I reply, gliding away. “I would have had no issue helping you apprehend someone, had you come alone, approached the desk, and sought my assistance as your people have in the past. However, this display of hostility within the Arcanaeum’s walls will not be tolerated.”
“The suspect killed a parriarch,” he objects. “The circumstances necessitated extra precautions.”
That freezes me in place…
The last time a parriarch was murdered was… Magic, it must’ve been some sixty years ago. A crime of passion, if I remember rightly. Didn’t his wife stab him in his sleep?
“Who?” I ask before I can stop myself.
It’s only natural that I should need to know. The Arcanaeum will be dealing with the parriarch’s replacement for years to come.
Of the six, Josef, Abe, and Isidora are in their prime. Halinor is older, but far from an easy target. Artemius ó Rinn I could see dying of natural causes, given his age, but he’s malicious enough that any attempt to murder him would be risky.
Georgina Winthrop isn’t as strong as the others, but she spends a lot of time and effort on alliances and pandering to her supporters’ ideals of adept superiority.
Popularity can be its own shield, but who can really trust one’s friends?
I shrink a little as I imagine telling Lambert that his aunt is dead, then deflate as I imagine him as a parriarch.
He’s not a magister yet, so there’ll be a few years where a vicegerent will have to take care of things on his behalf, but—
The Arcanaeum tugs my attention to the vault, to a brand-new grimoire already shelved and catalogued, and I realise my mistake. No. It wasn’t Georgina.
“Josef Ackland,” Michael confirms with cool martial brutality. “His heir, Northcliff, is wanted for his murder.”