“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 mewhynecromancy 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 tugson 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 theArcanaeum. 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.”
