I don’t yet know what it means, but I’m committed to finding out.
“Keep up, Kyrith,” Magister Ackland scolds. “We shan’t be late on account of you.”
As if to punctuate his words, the clock tower above begins to chime. Midnight. I shudder and double my pace, rushing to follow them across the mosaic-laid floors as they hasten down the southern hall, ignoring the hundreds of shelves and the gallery above in favour of taking a direct path to the Rotunda.
The library’s heart.
I’ve never been here after hours before. The darkness adds a hushed layer of reverence to the atmosphere, making it at once both eerie and peaceful.
“Ah, they’re already here,” the rector announces upon reaching the circular hall.
I wonder how he can tell, but then I realise the rug which usually covers the entrance to the Vault has been drawn back, and the brass grate below unlocked and left open.
The magister and the rector don’t hesitate, but I do. Beneath the Arcanaeum is a centuries-old crypt, supposedly full to the brim with forbidden and restricted texts. Only magisters are permitted down there. Rumours say the library summons arcanist grimoires to the Vault after their owners die, preventing them from falling into inept hands.
But rumours also say that liminals are halfwits, barely better at magic than their inept parent. Still, a sliver of dread worms through my gut as I peer down into the darkness below.
“Kyrith!” Magister Ackland calls, and I jerk as I realise I’ve stopped with my foot on the top step of the narrow stairs.
Taking a deep breath, I shrug off my misgivings and begin my descent. It doesn’t take long for me to catch up to the parriarchs, who are now illuminated by several conjured wisplights, which twirl around their raised hands.
Scurrying after them, I pull a scrap—a single-use spell written on a small piece of paper—from my pocket, then draw power down from the well in my chest and through my fingers into it, like Magister Ackland taught me. The paper dissolves away, and my own wisplight flares to life in my palm, making me smile at the comforting glow.
Instead of looking proud, the magister frowns.
“No need to waste your magic,” he says, continuing down the stairs. “You’ll need it soon enough.”
Frowning, I release the spell and hasten after him.
“If I may, magister,” I begin. “Why are we here? It’s so late, and the banquet is still…”
He stiffens, embarrassed, glances at the rector, and then hisses, “Notnow, Kyrith.”
Oh, I duck my head in silent apology.
I never meant to speak out of turn. Normally, he’s quite happy to answer my questions, but I suppose the rector’s presence changes things.
“It’s quite all right,” Rector Carlton assures him. “We’ve a way to go yet, and the girl may as well learn something.” He pauses, regarding me fully for the first time. “Tell me, what has Mathias taught you about the Arcanaeum?”
I fidget under his attention, fussing with my skirts. Do I look as nervous as I feel? Probably. I force my hands to stop fidgeting with the material and brush a stray strand of hair out of my face. Mistress Ruby was very thorough when she pinned my braid into a neat bun at my nape, but some of the shorter wisps just won’t stay put.
“It was built after the purges,” I answer, looking at Magister Ackland for confirmation, but he’s resumed walking and is paying no attention to me. “As a safeguard for our knowledge.”
Only six families survived the purges. They did it by splitting up and hiding until the worst had passed and the inepts had begun to doubt magic even existed.
“The idea was that, should history repeat itself, the Arcanaeum would be a self-sustaining fortress, in which their heirs would be protected, with the combined knowledge of all their forebears at their disposal.”
And knowledge is power. Especially when the arcanists’ spells rely on the funnelling of magic through complicated runic diagrams using incantations. The more difficult the spell, the more intricate the runeform.
“Correct,” the rector announces. “Mathias taught you well. The university was a natural development, a place of learning attached to the repository of knowledge.”
It’s odd to hear someone use the magister’s given name. I don’t think I even knew it until this evening, but I forget all about it as the stairwell finally opens out, revealing a vast dark atrium encircled by over a dozen floors, each crammed with shelves of books.
The stairs follow the curve of the Rotunda above in a spiral that descends around the edge of the atrium, pausing on every level. The low, thin decorative metal railing between me and the drop, combined with the narrowness of the steps, make my stomach flutter nervously.
Every inch of this grand vault is crammed with books and scrolls which haven’t seen daylight for a thousand years. The place is lit by purple flames which crackle coldly in stone braziers, and the shadows they cast seem to dance across the shelves.
Creepy. My earlier scepticism evaporates. Now that I’m here, I can easily believe that thisisa grimoire repository. Just the thought of how much magical knowledge is down here makes me shiver, or perhaps that’s just the chill permeating the place.
