To trap the rest of the library in an enchanted sleep. That was what the Book of Eyes had meant, when it had told her that she’d woken while everyone else slept. Katrien was ordinarily a light sleeper, and yet even a firm shake hadn’t roused her. Meanwhile the sorcerer had needed the Director awake, alone, so that he could take her keys. . . .
But how had he gotten inside the library in the first place? All of its locks were made of solid iron, impossible to open with magic.
It didn’t matter. He had found a way. And now Elisabeth was to be given over to the sorcerers, any one of whom could be the saboteur, waiting for the chance to eliminate a loose end. No justice awaited her at the Magisterium. Only death.
She laughed—a strange, unpleasant sound that she barely recognized as her own. The warden had just arrived to deliver her daily meal, and he gave her a wary look as he pushed the tray beneath the door. He thinks I have gone mad. As darkness returned to her cell, seeping in from the corners like water over the deck of a sinking ship, she wondered whether he was right. It seemed that it was the rest of the world that had gone mad, not her—but if she was the only one who thought so, could she truly call herself sane?
The bruises on her arms, glimpsed every so often in the torchlight, faded from deep purple to a sickly, mottled yellow. A week passed in the world above. Her routine never varied, until one day, after the portcullis ground upward with a shriek of iron against stone, two pairs of boots echoed down the corridor instead of only one.
Elisabeth knew what this meant: the sorcerers had come for her at last.
SIX
LIGHT AND NOISE assaulted Elisabeth. She squeezed her eyes shut against the glare, deafened by the pounding of boots as wardens marched her through the hall. Finch gripped one of her shoulders so tightly that her bones ground together. After so long underground, she felt less like a human being and more like some small creature torn from its den by a hawk’s talons, fearful and flinching, confused by every sound. An ill-fitting dress pinched her ribs and flapped around her calves, foreign after years of wearing a comfortable robe. No doubt it was the longest one they had been able to find, and it was still a good six inches too short for her tall frame.
Somewhere nearby, a familiar voice called out to her. “Katrien!” she called back, her own voice ragged with disuse. She glanced around wildly until Katrien pressed into view, struggling to squeeze between two wardens. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and strands stuck out from her unraveling braid.
Elisabeth’s chest constricted. “You shouldn’t be here,” she croaked.
“I tried to visit you, but the wardens wouldn’t let me,” Katrien panted, barely seeming to hear. A warden thrust an arm in front of her, trying to force her back, but she ducked under it and continued her pursuit. “Then I organized a distraction—we disguised Stefan as a senior librarian and had him run through the archives with his trousers off—but one of the wardens still wouldn’t leave his post, and I couldn’t sneak past him.”
Even dizzy with fear, Elisabeth sobbed out a laugh.
“We wouldn’t have given up,” Katrien insisted. “A few more days, and I would have figured out a way to get you out. I swear it.”
“I know,” Elisabeth said. She reached for Katrien’s hand, but at that moment Finch shoved her toward the door. Their fingertips brushed before the wardens tore them apart, and she had the horrible feeling that that was the last time she and Katrien would ever touch.
“I’ll—I’ll come back,” Elisabeth shouted over her shoulder. She didn’t believe that was true. “I’ll write letters.” She was almost certain she wouldn’t be able to do that, either. “Katrien,” she said, as Finch shoved her out the door. “Katrien, please don’t forget me.”
“I won’t. Don’t forget me, either. Elisabeth—”
The door slammed shut. Elisabeth staggered, blinking spots from her eyes. She stood in the courtyard. Sodden autumn clouds filled the sky, but the natural light still pounded against her head like a hammer against an anvil. When her vision adjusted, she saw that she had emerged from the same door through which she and the Director had taken the Book of Eyes, with its inscription at the top, which now more closely resembled an accusation.
Why did I survive, and the Director did not?
A hoof raked through gravel, drawing her attention away. Two enormous black horses stood before Elisabeth, champing at their bits, and behind them, a coach waited. Emerald curtains hung in its windows, and its wood was carved with an elaborate design of twining thorns. The artisan had taken particular care to render the thorns in lifelike detail; she could almost feel the stab of their cruel points from where she stood.
A shadow swept across the courtyard. The wind picked up, scattering loose leaves across the ground with a dry, hissing rattle. Desperately, she glanced around until her gaze settled on one of the courtyard’s many statues: a towering marble angel with a sword clasped against its chest. Ivy twined up its robes, forming natural handholds. She knew from experience that she could shimmy atop it in seconds if she didn’t mind skinning a knee. With luck, she’d be off across the rooftops before the sorcerer could catch her. She sucked in a breath and bolted, her boots spraying gravel in every direction.
A whiff of burning metal scalded her lungs, and then the sound of cracking, crumbling stone filled the air. She skidded to a halt in front of the statue. It had begun to move.
Marble ground against marble as it opened its featureless eyes and raised its head. With a serene expression, it drew the sword from its scabbard and unfurled its wings above the courtyard. Emerald sparks danced over the edges of its pinions as the feathers spread apart, almost translucent in the morning light. Then the sword lowered, pointing directly at Elisabeth. The angel’s placid face gazed down at her without mercy.
She stumbled back, only to find that the entire courtyard had come alive. The hooded men in the alcoves above her head turned shadowed faces in her direction. Gargoyles stretched, testing their claws against the edges of the roof. Even the angels who clasped the scroll over the door looked down at her, their gazes pitiless and cold. Elisabeth choked down a scream. Now she understood why Finch hadn’t bothered to bind her hands. There was no escaping a sorcerer.
She took another step back, and another, until a shadow fell across her: the shadow of a man. She hadn’t heard him exit the carriage. Frost crept through her veins, freezing her in place.
“Elisabeth Scrivener,” said the shadow’s owner. “My name is Nathaniel Thorn. I’ve come to escort you to Brassbridge for your questioning, and I don’t recommend trying to run. Attempting to escape will only prove your guilt to the Chancellor.”
She spun around. It was him. The emerald cloak billowed at his heels, and the wind tangled his dark, silver-streaked hair. His gray eyes were just as pale and piercing as she remembered, but if he recognized her in return, he showed no sign. A faint, bitter smile tugged at one corner of his mouth.
She took a step back. Of course. He must be the real culprit. Why else would a magister embark upon this lowly errand? It would certainly be convenient for the saboteur if she never reached Brassbridge, the sole witness to his crime vanished by an accident along the way.