The head librarian grinned. “Then you, my friends, have come to the right place.”
He pushed the door wider and beckoned them inside.
The Church library rivaled the one within the Citadel, as far as sheer volume went. It was just as beautiful, too, though in a different way. Where the Citadel library was bright and airy, the Church library was austere, everything made of dark, gleaming wood and lit with the golden glow of gas lamps. The room was at least four stories high, though the upper floors were reached by a sliding ladder rather than clever staircases. Long tables ran the length of the room, and down the center of each was a domed glass lane with small hinges placed at equidistant points. A few ancient-looking books rested beneath the glass, where they could be read but not touched. A small door set into the shelves opened on what looked like a reading room, with another glass-covered table. The shelves in that room were full of much thinner books, with covers embossed in gold lettering too ornate for Lore to make out from a distance. Small potted plants had been placed along the bookcases, green tendrils snaking over shelves. There were no windows to provide sunlight, so Lore didn’t know how they grew, but they all appeared to be in perfect health.
“Religious theory, you say?” Malcolm walked to one of the books on the long tables and opened a small door in the glass above it. He slipped his hands into a pair of pale gloves before gingerly reaching in to close the cover, then picked the book up with the care of a father to an infant. “That’s a rather broad topic. Narrow it down for me.”
“Information on Spiritum,” Gabe said. “Mostly theories on how it might manifest.”
“Easy enough.” Malcolm opened one of a series of drawers on the back wall and gently placed the book inside before soundlessly sliding it closed again. “That’s the same thing Anton’s been researching.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Answers mean nothing without the right questions.
—Kirythean proverb
The next week fell into an easy routine. Gabe and Lore would wake up, eat breakfast, and go to the Church library. Then they’d spend hours poring over old manuscripts and bound copies of notes from the years after the Godsfall, Compendiums translated from Eroccan and Kirythean and even old Myroshan, from before Myrosh was subsumed by the Kirythean Empire and the language was outlawed. The mentions of Spiritum, when they found them, were brief. Still, they came every day, looking at the books Malcolm had already procured for Anton, trying to find something to make everything—Bastian, the bodies from the villages, what August and Anton were planning—coalesce into sense.
Their studies included more obscure subjects, too. Namely, texts on the strange things accomplished by channeling elemental power leaked from the minor gods. Someone had made a ship sail faster by using the power of Caeliar; another had managed to make events from dreams mirror in the waking world with the power of Lereal. It made sense that Anton would’ve researched such things, if he suspected that the sudden deaths were due to leftover elemental magic. But nothing in the books resembled what had happened to the villages.
For six days, Malcolm let them work in relative silence, keeping his curious looks to a minimum. When the questions finally came, Lore was surprised it’d taken so long.
“You know,” Malcolm said slowly, “you could just ask Anton what he’s found out.”
Lore froze. Across the library, bent over a book, Gabe did, too.
They’d both known that at some point, they’d either have to come clean to Malcolm or come up with a plausible lie. On that first day, Gabe had conferred with his fellow Presque Mort while Lore looked at the books and told him that they’d rather the Priest Exalted not know of their current project. Lore had tensed, but after a brief moment of silence, Malcolm agreed. He and Gabe were old friends, and from what Lore understood, the librarian wasn’t quite as devoted to Anton as Gabe was. If Gabe was asking him to be discreet, Malcolm knew it was for good reason.
But now, Gabe didn’t move, so Lore made a quick decision. She stood from the bench and stretched out her back, feigning nonchalance. “What exactly is Anton researching, again?”
“He didn’t give me specifics,” Malcolm said, sliding another book from its shelf and giving it a cursory study. He’d given Lore and Gabe a pair of the gloves he always wore, but neither of them were allowed to touch the rarest books even with them on. “He wanted everything with a mention of Spiritum’s practical application brought to him. I assumed he had an idea for how it might be used to counteract the Mortem issue, but since it’s been a couple of months and he hasn’t broached the subject, helping doesn’t seem to be his objective.”
There was something brittle in Malcolm’s voice. Lore slid a look to Gabe; the Presque Mort was looking at his friend with his lips pressed together, a line drawn between his brows.
Malcolm didn’t notice, attention absorbed by his books. He carefully opened the one he’d just retrieved to a certain page and slid it beneath the glass in front of Gabe. Then, removing his gloves so as not to soil them, he retrieved a small watering can from the corner and began carefully tending to the incongruous plants growing along the shelves. “All the references to Apollius granting Spiritum-channeling abilities to the Arceneaux line seem to be metaphor for them being His chosen rulers of Auverraine. No Arceneaux has ever actually channeled Spiritum. It’s all around us, just like Mortem is, but it’s not something that can be grasped.”
“Neither was Mortem, until Nyxara died,” Lore said.
Malcolm pointed at her. “Precisely.” Clearly, he didn’t get many opportunities to debate theories of magic; he seemed nearly giddy at the prospect, his dour manner from earlier forgotten as he finished his plant tending and retrieved his gloves. “So if you subscribe to the idea that Apollius isn’t dead, just waiting in the Shining Realm, it makes sense why no one can use Spiritum. There isn’t a body for it to leak from.”
“If you subscribe to the idea?” Gabe looked up incredulously from the book he’d been reading through the glass.
“You did say your research would be heretical.” Malcolm shrugged, pulling his gloves back on. “I’m just living up to your example.” He gestured with one hand, then the other, indicating one thing following another. “Whoever has the power has to die—or, for the sake of pious sensibilities, we’ll just say experience a change of state—in order for someone else to use it.”
Even with the concession, Gabe didn’t seem terribly pleased by the direction the conversation had taken. With a furrow of his brow so deep it shifted his eye patch, he looked back at his book.