Sorcery of Thorns (25 page)

Silas slipped inside with breakfast. His yellow eyes traced over her, but if he sensed anything amiss, he said nothing. Elisabeth thanked him hurriedly as he brought the tray over, and upon realizing that her thank-you had sounded rather peculiar, seized a pastry
and stuffed it whole into her mouth. Nothing about this performance seemed to surprise him, as he bowed and departed without comment. She waited several long moments after he had gone, certain that his senses were far keener than a human’s. Then she scrambled to retrieve the mirror, ignoring the bite of its frozen metal.

“Show me Katrien,” she commanded, and breathed against the glass.

The mirror
swirled. Katrien was sprawled facedown on her
bed, partially burrowed into the crumpled balls of paper. After Elisabeth had said her name several times, she snorted awake and rolled straight onto the ground. Elisabeth winced at the thump she made on the rug.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Katrien stumbled over to the mirror, squinting in the morning light. “I was going to ask you the same question,
but I see you’re eating breakfast in bed.”

“I’m safe, for now.” Elisabeth hesitated. “Katrien, you look . . .”

Pale. Overworked. Exhausted. She cursed herself for not noticing it the other day. The bags beneath Katrien’s eyes and the grayish pallor to her brown complexion spoke of far more than just one night’s worth of lost sleep.

Her friend glanced over her shoulder at the door, and paused
for a moment as if making sure no one was outside. “Director Finch has been running the place like a prison,” she confessed, lowering her voice. “The wardens perform random room inspections every few days. He’s doubled the amount of work apprentices have to do, and we get thrown in the dungeon if we don’t finish it.” She rubbed her wrist, where Elisabeth glimpsed the swollen marks of a switch. “If
you think I look bad, you should see Stefan. But don’t worry. This won’t last for much longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d tell you, but I’m worried we’ll run out of time again. Trust me. I have the situation under control.” She leaned closer. “So, I managed to have a look at the records last night.”

Elisabeth sat up straighter. “Did you find it?”

Katrien nodded. “There were only two copies
of the Codex Daemonicus ever written. One went missing hundreds of years ago, and the other is shelved somewhere in the Royal Library.”

“So Ashcroft must have the missing copy. . . .” She trailed
off, thinking hard. She had found out from Silas that the Royal Library was one of the spired buildings overlooking the river, a short walk from Hemlock Park.

“Elisabeth,” Katrien said.

She looked
up to find the frost creeping back across the mirror, swallowing up Katrien’s face. Elisabeth’s heart leaped to her throat. “Only sorcerers are allowed into the Royal Library,” she said rapidly. “And scholars, if they receive permission from the Collegium—but they have to have credentials. I need to find a way in.”

“That’s easy enough,” Katrien replied. “Get a job there as a servant.”

“But they’ll
never let a servant study a grimoire.”

“Of course they won’t
let
you. You realize what you have to do, don’t you?”

Elisabeth shook her head, but her mouth had gone dry. Truthfully, she knew what Katrien was going to tell her, and she didn’t want to hear it.

“I know you don’t like it, but there’s no other way.” Her friend’s voice was fading quickly. “You have to find out where the Codex is shelved
in the Royal Library. You have to get in there,” she said, “and then you have to steal it.”

NINETEEN

F
INDING A JOB at the Royal Library proved less challenging than Elisabeth had anticipated. As it turned out, a maidservant had quit just that morning after a giant booklouse skittered up her leg, and the Royal Library was
in need of an immediate replacement. Elisabeth demonstrated to the steward that she would be an ideal candidate by lifting up one end of a cabinet in his office, uncovering a booklouse underneath, and stomping on it, much to the delight of a young apprentice who happened to be passing by. She then sat down opposite the steward’s desk and answered a number of job-related questions, such as how quickly
she could run, and whether she strongly valued keeping all ten of her fingers. The steward seemed impressed that she found all of his questions perfectly reasonable. Most people, he explained, walked straight out the door.

“But this is a library,” she replied in surprise. “What do they expect—that the books
won’t
try to bite off their fingers?”

After her interview with the steward, she had to
meet with the Deputy Director, Mistress Petronella Wick.

Elisabeth had never heard of a Deputy Director, but she gathered that the Royal Library was large enough to need one. She instantly understood upon entering the office that she was in the presence of an exceedingly important person. Mistress Wick wore the indigo robes of a decorated senior librarian, clasped high about her throat with a
golden key and quill. Her hair had turned silver with age, but that didn’t diminish the elegance of her artfully piled braids. She had dark brown skin against which her white eyes appeared almost opalescent, and her posture was so impeccable that Elisabeth felt her own gangliness fill the room like a third presence. She was certain Mistress Wick could sense it, though she was clearly blind.

“You may be wondering why you have been brought before me,” said Mistress Wick without preamble. “Here in the Royal Library, even the position of maidservant is a great responsibility. We cannot let just anyone enter our halls.”

“Yes, Mistress Wick,” Elisabeth said, sitting petrified in front of the desk.

“It is also a dangerous job. During my time as Deputy Director, several servants have been
killed. Others have lost limbs, or senses, or even their minds. So I must ask—why do you wish to work in a Great Library, of all places?”

“Because I . . .” Elisabeth swallowed, and decided to be as honest as she could. “Because I belong here,” she blurted out. “Because there’s something I must find, and I can only find it here, among the books.”

“What is it you wish to find?”

This time, she
spoke without hesitation. “The truth.”

Mistress Wick sat silently for a long time. Long enough that Elisabeth grew certain she would be turned away. She felt as though her very soul were being examined; as though Mistress
Wick could sense her true intentions for coming here, and at any moment would summon a warden to arrest her on the spot. But then the Deputy Director rose from her chair and
said, “Very well. Come with me. Before you begin your training, you must visit the armory.”

They exited the offices and walked together down a pillared hallway, their footsteps echoing from the vaulted ceiling high above. Reinforced glass cases were set into alcoves along the walls, casting strange, differently colored glows across the flagstones. The cases did not contain grimoires. Instead,
they held magical artifacts: a skull radiating emerald light, a chalice filled with a draught of night sky, a sword whose pommel was twined with morning glories, the flowers blooming, dying, and blooming again as Elisabeth watched, their fallen petals crumbling away to nothing. She forced herself not to slow down, mindful of Mistress Wick’s hand resting on her shoulder. But when she passed the next
case, she drew up short in surprise.

Inside it was a frozen mirror, the icicles so long that they had merged and formed a translucent pedestal. Frost crystals swirled around the mirror as though a blizzard howled behind the case’s glass.

“We are in the Hall of Forbidden Arts,” Mistress Wick explained. “Every artifact in this place was banned a hundred and fifty years ago by the Reforms. They
are relics of an era past, preserved to remind us of what once was.” She moved toward the case, holding out her hand. She traced her fingers across the plaque. After a moment, Elisabeth realized she was reading the engraved letters by touch. “This is a scrying mirror,” she said, drawing her hand away, “created by the sorcerers of old, with which one can gaze through all the mirrors of this world.
It is believed to be the last of its kind. The rest were confiscated and
destroyed, and no one knows how to make them any longer.”

Elisabeth inched closer. “Is the mirror dangerous?”

“Knowledge always has the potential to be dangerous. It is a more powerful weapon than any sword or spell.”

“But the mirror is magical. Sorcery.” Elisabeth knew she shouldn’t say more, but she yearned for answers,
not only about the mirror, but about the change taking place within her heart. “Shouldn’t that automatically make it evil?”

Mistress Wick sharply turned her head, and she immediately regretted asking. Yet the Deputy Director only placed her hand on Elisabeth’s shoulder and ushered her away, moving with such surety that it was obvious she could navigate the hall on her own. Elisabeth was the one
being guided through this dangerous place, not the other way around.

“Some would say so,” Mistress Wick said. “But there is always more than one way to see the world. Those who claim otherwise would have you dwell forever in the dark.”

The armory lay at the far end of the Hall of Forbidden Arts, guarded by two statues who held their spears crossed in front of its ironbound doors. Mistress Wick
flashed them her Collegium pin, and they lifted their spears away. The doors groaned open without a touch.

Elisabeth stared in amazement. Beams of sunlight fell from high upon cloaks and swords and canisters, and even upon archaic suits of armor that stood at attention along the pillars, their metal polished to a high shine. A line of statues arrayed along the back appeared to have been used
for weapons practice; they had chunks missing here and there, and weary expressions frozen onto their faces. Only one person was in the room. A boy stood at a trestle table near the center, spooning piles of salt onto the centers of scraps of fabric. The completed product
formed small round bundles, like coin purses, tied shut with twine. He looked up as they entered and offered Elisabeth a friendly
smile.

“Good afternoon, Parsifal,” said Mistress Wick. “Elisabeth, Junior Librarian Parsifal will make sure you are outfitted for duty.”

“Hullo,” said Parsifal. Elisabeth liked him at once. He looked about nineteen, his pale blue robes belted over a plump stomach. He had a pleasant face, and a short thatch of blond hair that stuck up in places.

After Mistress Wick left, he bustled around the
armory fetching items and laying them out for her on an empty section of the table: a leather belt, covered in loops and pouches, and a hooded white wool cloak, which was stamped on the back with a key and quill, and lined on the inside with a thin layer of chain mail.

“I had no idea I would be able to wear something like this,” she said, reverently touching the cloak.

“Even servants have their
own uniforms here,” Parsifal replied proudly. “Though of course, it’s mostly out of necessity. If you’re going to work in the Royal Library, you need to be wearing iron—especially these days, with everything that’s going on. Now, these are called salt rounds,” he said, demonstrating how to hang the salt bundles on her belt, and how the thin fabric burst when flung against the flagstones, releasing
an explosion of salt into the air. “If you ever run into trouble, using them should buy you enough time to run and alert a warden.”

“Do I get a greatkey as well?” she asked hopefully, glancing at the two keys on Parsifal’s key ring. Librarians earned the second when they graduated from apprentice to junior librarian.

He gave her an apologetic look. “Afraid not. Security reasons,
and all that.
You’ll have to knock on the staff door at the beginning of your shift, and someone will let you in. . . .” He frowned thoughtfully, looking past her. “Say, is that your cat?”

Elisabeth turned, confused. A fluffy white cat sat on the floor behind her, staring up at them with yellow eyes. It was quite small for a fully grown cat; it could be a kitten, she thought, or perhaps it was just dainty.
And strange . . . those yellow eyes looked terribly familiar. . . .

Her heart skipped a beat. “Yes,” she choked out, seeing no other option. “That is—my cat.”

“It’s all right,” Parsifal assured her. “Cats are always welcome in the Royal Library. They catch booklice, and they know to stay away from the grimoires. Having a cat with you might even help keep you safe, since they’re so talented at
sensing magic.” To her horror, he went over to Silas and picked him up, holding him aloft at eye level. “What a lovely cat you are! Are you a boy, or a girl?”

“He’s a boy,” Elisabeth said hastily, when Parsifal appeared to be about to duck his head and check. “His name is—er—it’s”—she gulped—“Sir Fluffington.”

Dangling from Parsifal’s hands, Silas gave her a look of extreme reproach.

Parsifal
beamed. “Lovely,” he repeated. “Well, you can have him back.” He passed Silas over. “I’ll show you around a bit, though don’t worry about learning your way just yet. You’ll have plenty of time to do that during training. First off, this is the Northeast Wing, where all the offices are. . . .”