Page 87 of The Deadliest Candidate

She sank into her research heart and soul.

It was, in a way, a relief. To fill her mind with knowledge and push away all the complicated feelings that had been taking up space there. Vittoria, Saffyn, the body in East Hemwick, the scream in the Arboretum, her parents and the Astronomy Tower, Josefa, St Jerome’s, Lautric and his nightly excursions and the pink wet mess of his kiss-bruised mouth, more deadly than a poison. All were forced to make way now, to be pushed away and replaced with research.

The history of the elements was long and complex, water and fire especially. Hours of research only made Fern realise how much she would need to learn before she could even make a choice. Pyromancy, for example, was often said to be the oldest arcane art in the world, and tracing its roots would be akin to tracing out the very beginnings of human history.

Fern tapped her pen against her lips. Should she save pyromancy for last, since it would be the most difficult to research? Or should she get her research for it out of the way early?

She settled on the latter. Working on pyromancy first would motivate her to go faster, and she would get thebulk of the research out of the way. She had already picked up Ferier and Lacio’sA History of Pyromancyand Goltry’sForbidden Fire: an Encyclopaedia of Pyromancy. The first would help her draw up a timeline, and using the second, she could cross-check and geographically place the origins of spells.

She spent her morning on her timeline and stopped after compiling a list of twenty spells she had placed at the earliest point of the timeline. Outside the high windows, a furious wind screeched against the glass, the sea a distant roar.

Lifting her notebook, Fern peered at her twenty spells.

Now, how to narrow them down? Many of these spells predated recorded history, their incantations passed down by word of mouth, their origins lost. Some of these spells were simple, some incredibly complex. Were the oldest spells not more likely to be simple? Incantations only developed over time, and with the aid of the trans-dimensional creatures of Sumbra.

Fern stood, stretching her stiff back.

The incantations should be her next port of call—she could not proceed without first examining them. Taking her list of spells, she left the safety of her dark corner and headed for the third floor of the Elemency Tower.

The lunch bell had chimed some thirty minutes ago, so Fern assumed the tower would be clear. She passed the central cage in which red flames danced behind their lattice of wrought iron. There was a directory near the door, which she consulted.

She was turning a corner in search of the collected pyromancy spell books and incantation scrolls when she stopped in her tracks.

“Oh! General Srivastav.”

The general sat stooped over a collection of essays. He wore a tunic of ochre cotton and embroidered shoes, and his lustrous hair gathered in a bun atop his head. He looked back with his customary smile. Unlike the one she’d seen him give Edmund in the Palissy Auditorium, this smile was full of warmth and kindness.

Still, Fern sensed a change in him, a sort of indefinable tension. Pyromancy was his area of expertise; Fern could only imagine the pressure he must feel. Nor could she forget what Edmund had said about the general, how his empire had ended a war just to send him here, how failure would not be an option for him.

She thought of his daughters, whom he often discussed with Dr Essouadi, and an uneasy emotion stirred in her chest.

“Ah, Miss Sullivan,” Srivastav said, unaware of her train of thought. “How do you do?”

The spark in his eyes and the openness of his smile seemed to have waned over the time he spent at Carthane. It made her heart ache to see him so altered. She smiled back without being able to help herself.

“Please,” she said, “call me Fern. I’m well, thank you, a little tired, as I imagine we all are. Yourself?”

“Yes, tired. This is not tiring the way the battlefield is, and the weariness I feel is not one I am used to.” He pointed towards the nearest window. “And I miss the sun.”

Fern thought of New Copenhagen, the colourful facades of the buildings, the blue river and the sun, a coin of clean white gold shining high in the sky even on the coldest day.

“Me too,” she said.

She hesitated. She wanted to ask him how he was, if he missed his daughters, but it was not her place, and she’d promised herself she would keep her distance, and this was the opposite of doing so. She drew back just as Srivastav asked, “What brings you here?”

Should she be honest? Could Srivastav use any information she gave him against her? She doubted it—he had the natural advantage over this assignment. Her best hope was to come second to him—nobody would beat him to the top score.

“I’ve come looking for incantations,” she said, waving her list of spells in the air. “I’ve chosen to start with pyromancy, perhaps unwisely.”

“You’ve chosen the cleverest of the elements, and the deadliest.” Srivastav smiled. “You’ve chosen well, of course. May I see your list?”

Fern hesitated, then handed him the list. He scanned it with dark eyes and a thoughtful expression and asked without looking up, “Why so many?”

“I’m trying to narrow down the oldest.”

“Hm.” Srivastav stroked his hand through his beard, which was streaked on both sides with grey, reminding Fern of Oscar, and pointed at two spells on the list.

“These are both old, but variations of these two.” He pointed to two different spells. With each movement, Fern smelled wafts of his perfume, floral and warm, like jasmine and cardamom. “And here”—he tapped anotherspell—“Wave of Flame. Its incantation is a continuation of the incantation ofWall of Flame, which therefore precedes it.”

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