Page 63 of Liminal
How many times must I apologise?
I take a deep breath to calm myself. She can’t be comfortable knowing that I’m aware of her weaknesses. I'm not about to share my own secrets, but perhaps a little tit-for-tat will give her the impression that we’re on a level playing field.
Can’t hurt to try. “I’m cursed.”
“Curses are?—”
I cut her off with a shake of my head. “I’m aware it’s not the proper term, but it’s apt in this case. Some generations back, a Talcott placed a generational ensorcellment on my bloodline. I have an unknown amount of time remaining until that magic activates.”
No need to get more specific than that. Thankfully, she’s distanced herself from society, so she doesn’t realise what I’ve told her is common knowledge. Even if she wasn’t, she’s the first personI’veever told. There's vulnerability enough in that.
Kyrith freezes, her head cocked as she processes what I’ve just confessed.
“You don’t bear a mark.”
She’s wrong. I do. My fingers catch the top button of my black shirt, efficiently undoing it and the two beneath, just enough to display the topmost edges of the ensorcellment runeform which covers my right pectoral.
Kyrith floats closer—I doubt she even realises she’s doing it—but I close the fabric before she can examine me closer. Her eyes linger on the spot for a second, and I wonder idly if she’s using a divination spell to look beyond the fabric. I didn’t see her lips speak an incantation, but her abilities are beyond the norm. She doesn’t speak at all for the manipulation spells she uses to handle things daily. That’s a skill that takes years of repetitive spell use to even be possible, and even then, requires immense focus.
For the briefest instant, I wonder if she likes what she saw. Dismissing the notion as swiftly as it comes—because although she’s beautiful, nothing can ever come of it—I observe quietly as she realises what she’s doing and then draws away, fixing her doe-like eyes on the wall behind me.
Her attention is as flattering as it is sad. Much like my own. Kyrith is a fascinating woman, but unlike Lambert, my logical mind is all too able to see the ridiculousness of flirting or pretending anything can come of our mutual interest. Even if she’s likely the one woman in the world who can’t fall victim to the Ó Rinn family curse.
“And you wish for my assistance because…?”
It appears my admission didn’t do anything to settle her unease, and I sigh, running a hand through my curls. Perhaps she could sense that it was already common knowledge. Perhaps she’s seen more than enough ensorcelled arcanists that I’m nothing special.
“I promised to look into what’s happening to you,” I remind her. “It would help if I knew more about your reanimation.”
Using that word makes her eyes narrow, as it should. I’m fishing for information, but more than that, I want to hear her confirm it.
Kyrith died as a byproduct of necromancy. It’s so painfully obvious I don’t understand how no one has realised it before.Perhaps they have and turned a blind eye to it, but I suspect not. The problem with adepts is that often, we’re so surrounded by magic that the extraordinary is simply…ordinary. When something like a ghost running a library happens to exist, no one questions it.
For the longest moment, I don’t think she’ll answer me. Understandable. It’s a huge leap of faith.
“I was killed by the parriarchs,” she mumbles under her breath, turning so she’s not in any danger of catching sight of me. “The day before my first term at the university would’ve started. I couldn’t tell you what magic they used, only that it backfired. I was not supposed to become this.” She waves a hand at herself. “I was supposed to…remain dead. My magic was to be used to protect the building and the knowledge within.”
She pauses again, and I open my mouth to say something when she turns and pins me with those huge, soulful eyes. “I was not the first. They chose liminals with no connections. People no one would miss. Young students who didn’t know any better.”
That makes sense, as much as it sickens me.
My ancestors murdered her. Lambert’s ancestors, and North’s… A good portion of the arcanists who pass through the Arcanaeum’s doors must be related to her killers. It twists my gut, wondering just how much we resemble them.
No wonder she’s always so prickly around us.
“So all six families were responsible? And there are other ghosts?”
That’s an angle I hadn’t considered. If the building isn’t sentient, as I suspect, perhaps other ghosts are responsible.
“Yes. It was all of them.” Kyrith turns away again. “Have you got enough to go on now?”
No. Not nearly enough. She’s feeding me crumb by frustrating crumb and never quite giving me enough to paint the full picture. She never answered me about other ghosts, either.
“We’ve been focused on Ackland’s grimoire, but if all six were involved, perhaps they?—”
“I have the other five grimoires.” Her words silence me. “They’re in the Vault.”
Carefully, my mind whispers,we must tread carefully.
