Page 16 of The Deadliest Candidate

She led Fern and the young man away from the brightly lit atrium. As they walked through a maze of corridors and staircases, the housemistress pointed at various alcoves in the walls, where Sentinels awaited, silent and unmoving.

“Carthane, you will find, is a vast place, and it is all too easy to get lost within its depths. Until you become accustomed to its layout, you may rely on our Sentinels, who will serve as guides to you and your fellow candidates.”

They passed the double archway of an enormous chamber, and Sarlet gestured within.

“This is the Grand Hall. There will be a welcoming banquet later tonight and an address by the Grand Archivists. The occasion is formal; please dress accordingly. Tomorrow, you will be assigned your professional mentors.”

Fern could not help the small thrill of excitement that coursed through her. The Grand Archivists were amongst the world’s most renowned scholars: men and women who had blazed trails she herself had followed. Being mentored by one of them would be an extraordinary opportunity even for all the candidates who would fail to secure a post.

Sarlet continued on through the library.

“Until then,” she explained, “I am taking you to the Mage Tower. It is the safest place in Carthane: the entire tower is warded, and Sentinels guard its entrance. Your living quarters will be here, where you are also advised to take your meals.”

Housemistress Sarlet paused in front of a large door engraved with carvings and runes. Inscribed incantations, some so old and complex Fern could not begin to fathom them. Two Sentinels stood on either side of the door, half-hidden in their shadowy alcoves.

Fern, without meaning to, took an instinctive step back and almost bumped into the young man, who settled her with a gentle hand and a look of faint curiosity.

“This is the door to the Mage Tower,” Sarlet said. “Nothing inhuman can pass this door—not even our Sentinels. Once you leave the tower, though, you must navigate carefully and keep your wits about you. I advise you to keep to the study halls, the auditoriums, and of course, the archival and library wings. The Gallery iscurrently inaccessible until renovations are completed. As for the grounds, you may go about the gardens as you please, except for the peace garden, which you may visit in the daytime but is inadvisable once the sun sets. The Arboretum is open to visitors, but the Astronomy Tower is closed due to internal structural damage.”

Fern’s hand tightened around her suitcase handle.

She remembered well the collapse of the Astronomy Tower—it was the incident that had killed her parents, orphaned her and forever changed her life.

She had expected to be affected by her return to Carthane, the reminder of what had happened, but she had not expected the sudden knot twisting in her stomach, the surprising on-rush of old emotion. She caught a long breath and held it, steeling herself.

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, the housemistress continued in cool tones.

“Finally, the Gateways. I don’t need to remind you that Sumbral Laws are stringent and unforgiving. Each Gateway in Carthane is marked and officially registered. Access to them is limited and requires written permission from a Grand Archivist. I will not condescend you by reminding you of the Sumbral Laws. Any breach of those laws will be immediately reported to the authorities and the Reformed Vatican and will be dealt with as a criminal matter.”

She paused to lay a heavy look over both Fern and her companion.

Fern nodded—she knew Sumbral Laws well. Having conducted the majority of her research on the topic of Gateways and their entities, she had long learnedhow to navigate the murky waters of the many laws and regulations surrounding it.

As for the young man, he stood with a small notepad in his hands, calmly taking notes. There was neither surprise nor excitement in his expression, only the same weariness as before.

“Now for rules specifically affecting your candidacy,” Sarlet said. “You may go about Carthane as you please, aside from the places I have mentioned before, and of course the underground levels of the building, which are unsafe and strictly closed to visitors. You may send and receive letters, though they must pass through me first. We apologise for this disruption of your privacy, but our priority is, above all, the safeguarding of the knowledge kept here. And finally, as per the terms of your invitation here, you may not, under any circumstances, leave the grounds of Carthane. Doing so will result in the immediate termination of your candidacy. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Fern said.

The young man gave a nod, closing his notepad and sliding it into the inside pocket of his overcoat.

“Very well,” said Sarlet. “Let me show you to your apartments.”

She pushed open the carved door to the Mage Tower and swept past a circular atrium, her footsteps dry cracks across the polished chessboard tiles. They went up the wide spiral of a staircase, Sarlet indicating floors they passed on their way up.

“There, you will find the dining rooms where you may take your meals. On this floor, you will find a common room where you may wish to spend time or socialise.The upper floors are where you will find your apartments.”

They left the staircase to walk down the well-lit corridor of the fifth floor. The walls here were covered with red paper illustrated with constellations of pale gold, and a narrow rug spanned the length of the corridor. Gas lamps shone from cone-shaped sconces on the walls, and doors lined the hall on both sides. At the side of each door was a small table, upon which rested a lamp and a wooden tray.

Sarlet indicated the tables.

“I will leave your correspondence in these trays, both letters from within and outside Carthane. At the end of the corridor, you will find a linen room where you may leave and retrieve laundry and where you will find clean linens and towels. Unless you have any questions, I will let you make yourselves comfortable and rest from your travels. The welcome banquet will be at eight o’clock. Please remember to dress formally.”

And with that, she turned and withdrew, disappearing down the large spiral staircase. Fern glanced around, eyes searching the doors.

“Here.” The paper-skinned young man pointed to a door. Carved into the bronze placard in neat letters was the nameF. E. Sullivan.

Fern cast him a sharp look. He knew her name; he must have guessed who she was when she told him she’d come from New Copenhagen. Clearly, he had done his research on his fellow candidates.

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