Page 35 of Liminal
Relief surges through me, but it doesn’t last long.
The Arcanaeum wants that book, and Josef wants that book, meaning he doesn’t have it.
So who does, and why is it so important? Has it been destroyed? Is he still out there?
No. Even the most powerful masters of restoration have only managed to extend their lives by a mere hundred years or so. Theoretically, it should be possible, but given how much magic most restoration spells take, the amount needed to extend life indefinitely would be beyond any mage. Beyond probably even me.
Josef must have his own reasons, just like the Arcanaeum does.
I hate being in the dark about both.
“Then where is it?” North demands. “I need that book.”
I shrug. “Even if it was here, you’re no longer welcome.”
Three library cards blaze brightly into existence before them.
Galileo curses. “Please. Don’t do this. I need?—”
“It wasn’t their fault,” North interrupts. “They did it because I asked them to. You can’t banish them.”
But I can. And I will.
Fool me once and all that.
“Your card is revoked,” I whisper without an ounce of pity in my voice as I press one ghostly finger to North’s card and watch with satisfaction as the red X spreads out across it.
His body jerks, and I release the magic binding them in place so that the Arcanaeum can drag him from the Rotunda. His fingers claw at the tiles as he’s pulled backwards towards the immense main doors, crashing into furniture as he goes.
The front door rarely opens, and when it does, I catch a glimpse of a richly furnished living room before it snaps shut behind him.
I turn to Lambert.
“Hey, Kyrith,” he whispers, looking resigned. “For what it’s worth, I never wanted to hurt you.”
If my heart still beat, it would’ve stuttered at that; as it is, I don’t look at him as I press my finger to his card and say the words I never—for all the strikes I’ve given him—thought I would.
“Your card is revoked.”
His exit is more graceful than North’s, but only because he’s not fighting to grab the furnishings. His grimoire follows him through the front door, and it doesn’t escape my notice that the Arcanaeum has chosen to deposit him in the same room that North was evicted to, leaving all the conspirators together.
“Librarian,” Galileo looks at me desperately.
They often do this,I muse sadly.How many arcanists have pleaded with me for mercy? Dozens by this point, surely.
Yet their begging never moved me. Never gave me this odd, niggling surge of regret. Perhaps it’s because I watched Galileo, read with him, and his presence brought me peace, even whenwe didn’t speak. Perhaps there’s another lesson to be learned there, about the duplicitous nature of my own fantasies.
“You can’t do this. Please. Reconsider.” His voice is taut with too much emotion. “On my family’s honour, I swear?—”
“The Ó Rinn family honour ceased to mean anything to me when your parriarch conspired with the others to murder me,” I hiss, and his eyes widen beneath those wild ruby-tinted curls.
Reaching forward, I extend my cracked hand towards his card, finger inches away from banishing him.
The unearthly snarl that rips from his throat freezes me in place. Smooth, calm, quiet Galileo sheds the façade of civility and launches himself at me.
The sudden frantic move is so unexpected that when I gather my wits enough to dodge, I’m not fast enough. His hand latches around my already cracked wrist, touching me as if I’m a real, solid person, and not a ghost.
For the second time since my death, sensation, pure and agonising, consumes me. An all-too-familiarcrackechoes, and I pull myself back just in time to watch the fissures around my arm deepen and spread like lightning.
