“Hm.”
I took a long breath, let myself relax, and tried again. This time my mark hovered in the air for a few seconds before it faded out.
That worried me. Maybe I had burned more magic reanimating Madelyn than I’d thought. Everyone has their limits, of course. Like any exertion, spell fatigue was a real possibility, especially for young mages. I should have recognized it sooner, but I was mentally and physically on the verge of burnout already.
“Very good,” the doorman said. “Second floor. Take the stairs to your left.”
I nodded my thanks and continued into the Gallery. Upstairs, I found cultural exhibits from Africa. From centuries-old clothing to masks, tools, weapons, and elaborate headdresses, progressing to works from modern, African-descended artists. There was a strong North American influence over the recent paintings, which depicted slave auctions and the cramped conditions on prison ships.
I paused in front of a painting where black slaves toiled in a field while a white man cracked his whip over their heads. The slaver’s clothing and sadistic expression reminded me of Jesse, almost too similar to be a coincidence. The more I thought about the guy, the less I liked him. Did Jocelyn truly not recognize this part of her brother? Had he been this way before going underground?
I walked to the end of the exhibit, but saw nothing about Haitians, Vodou, or the answers I sought. I wondered if Agni had played me, sent me on a wild goose chase to give himself more time to prove my guilt.
A woman cleared their throat behind me. She looked the part of a museum employee, with a frumpy brown turtleneck, ankle-length dress, and shiny black hair bound in a plain tail. It did nothing to hide how attractive she was, and I suspected if she chose to, she could dazzle a room with her caramel skin and unusually dark eyes, such a dark brown as to be almost black. It gave her a naturally smoldering look.
“Alex Fossor. You are early,” she said. Her voice had a dry, matter-of-fact tone to it.
“Uh, excuse me?”
“This way.” She guided me to a door at the back of the exhibit, warded with an ‘Employees Only’ sign. Hands stained with blue and black ink produced a long, brass key and touched it to the door handle. I heard a shiver of magic, like a neon sign had been switched on. She opened the door and stood aside.
Beyond the door was a hollow tower, one so tall I couldn’t see the ceiling. A carpeted staircase spiraled upward, connecting to floor after floor of books arranged on shelves that extended as far as my eye could see. As I crossed the threshold into the tower, I knew I wasn’t in the Westbank Gallery anymore.
My breath caught just to see it. For the second time, I felt like something small in the face of the Rimbault Society, an ignorant witness to a global power that had reigned unopposed since before the United States.
But am I still in the city? My rational mind wondered. I didn’t combust, so I assumed I was still within the limits of Walter’s hex.
The woman strode to the center of the room, and her presence changed. She became the place, the way the perfect piece of art completes the space it occupies. I couldn’t imagine the tower without her. “You may wait here until your appointment, Alex Fossor.”
“You know my name?” I asked.
“I am Luciana Del Lago, Pillar of Knowledge, and this is the Library. If your name is written here, I know it. I know every word, on every page.”
I must have been staring too hard, because Luciana cleared her throat again.
“Sorry,” I breathed. “Just comprehending. So I have a file, huh? Don’t suppose you could show me?”
Her eyebrow curled. “No.”
I expected as much, but her candor made me smile. “So what’s the story of this place?”
“Construction of the Library began January First, in the year Eighteen Hundred, at the approval of the First Council. The project was completed on August Ninth, Eighteen Forty-Seven. I have served as its caretaker for seventeen years, after the previous caretaker passed. Since its inception in Seventeen Sixty-Four, the Society has strived to archive a near complete record of factual human accomplishment, both magical and mundane. The earliest of these records date to the seventh millennium before Christ.”
I blinked at the limitless stairwell spiraling into the distance above. “Not just a library. The Library.”
“Yes.” She allowed a hint of a smile to touch her face.
I cast my eyes heavenward again, considering the sheer scope of what I was seeing. I would have given my left leg to spend a few months browsing its contents. But I was on a literal deadline.
“So, you know about Haitian Vodou?” I asked.
The smile vanished. “Less than is satisfactory. General information is prevalent, Vodou has roots in African spiritualism, but the upheavals of European colonialism changed it on a fundamental level. The Versed of Haiti integrated themselves into the faith and are unwilling to share information on their more esoteric practices.”
“I came for answers, and now you’re telling me you don’t have them?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I do not. I was instructed to receive and escort you to the Lounge when it is time.”
“How long am I waiting?” I asked. “I don’t have a lot of time on my hands, if you’ve heard.”
“I have,” she said. “Council meetings are a matter of record. I must inform you that, in the event of your death, I must eject you from the Library to ensure no damage comes to the books.”
I burst out laughing. It was almost alien to my ears after the week I’d been having.
“Why are you laughing?” Luciana asked.
“‘In the event of my death’? Do you grab a broom and dustpan the ashes, or just toss my burning body out the door?”
“I am- I did not-” Color touched her cheeks. “That is not funny at all.”
I took a breath. “Sure it is. A macabre sense of humor came with the magic.”
She huffed and regained her composure.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything on necromancy? I’m not well-versed on my particular brand.”
“The Society’s policy is to deny mentorship or study to any Versed who wields inherently dangerous forms of the Art,” she said.
“Dangerous because it’s necromancy, or dangerous because it’s me?” I asked with a smirk.
“Yes.” Her expression didn’t change. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
Assume she’s way too clever for you, I thought.
“What makes necromancy ‘inherently’ dangerous?” I asked. “The Archmage can turn me to ash with a thought, and he won’t even be in the same room if it happens. How is that more dangerous than me puppeting a corpse about?”
Luciana hesitated. “Outside of the ethical and moral concerns of defiling the physical form of a deceased individual, and the potential coercion, entrapment, and wrongful harm of an individual’s soul?”
“Yes,” I said.
She blinked. “It is a matter of statistical record. If you will forgive the archaic nomenclature, the Society has classified six-hundred and sixty-six of the known forms of magic as the ‘Black Arts’. Records show that, without fail, their practitioners inevitably pursue actions that breach the Edicts, often in grievous ways. The risk increases exponentially with age. Versed are therefore forbidden from receiving mentorship from the Society, to dampen their development.”
I scratched my chin as I thought it over. “That’s a lot of mages the Society is stepping on.”
“The Edicts exist to protect the Untold from magical abuse.”
“Spoken like someone with the words branded to your brain.” A scowl came to my face. “And guys like me are your scapegoats. Told to bend the knee for your enlightened Society, just so you can put your boot on our necks.”
Luciana’s eyes darted to my arms. Wisps of fog snaked off my fingers. I gave them an absent shake.
“So the Archmage is a pyromancer,” I said. “Or a Pyrourge, since you Society types name your magic like it’s a
science doctorate. Sheriff Chakrabarti says he’s a Tilemetaforurge, like that isn’t two mouthfuls, but I have the air miles to believe it. What are you?”
Luciana took a breath. “I am a Grafiurge.”
“A what?”
She clasped her ink-stained hands in front of her. “Grafiurgy is a branch of Skafosurgy—the Art of enchanting man-made objects—that specializes in the written word.”
“Could you demonstrate?”
She tilted her head. “I know the driver’s license in your wallet is a forgery.”
“You can read it without even seeing it?”
“Every word on every page,” she restated. “My art allows me to be very efficient in cataloging, translating, and referencing our records. As the Library’s caretaker, I also have access to its distinct properties that improve my talents further. In many respects, I am the Library.”
It was a simple statement of fact, but I sensed a hint of pride in it, as well. And why not? If knowledge was power, then Luciana Del Lago stood several steps above everyone on the planet, including the Archmage. A woman of her position should be advising the Council. Or running it. Not playing receptionist to a nobody like me.
Still, I wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was the first Society member who didn’t immediately treat me like a potential threat, or a bug only worth stepping on. It was a refreshing change of pace.
“Then, if necromancy is off limits, is there anything I may read?”
Her eyes darted to a level above us. She opened her hand, revealing a ball of green light that expanded into the shape of a book. It solidified, hovering in the air before me as if resting on an invisible table.
“I will prepare the Lounge for you. Damage or theft of Library property comes with severe consequences. Do not explore the Library without escort.”
“Will I get lost?” I joked.
“You will be found.”
She left the statement hanging between us and walked to the door. With a flick of her wrist, a pattern of glowing runes appeared on its surface. She touched one, and the door opened into an unfamiliar white room. She closed it behind her as she left.
Found by what, I wondered. I didn’t see or hear anything. I didn’t feel any presence in the vast Library, but the absence of it only made me more suspicious. I put it out of my mind and opened the book.
Its author named himself Theodore of the Red Mantle, which I had to assume was a prestigious—or pretentious—title. Ted’s grammar and spelling were typical of 19th century English, but despite its age, it read like a basic history textbook for children, an overview of the Society’s founding, the fundamentals of its goals, and how it grew to be a global organization.
I frowned. Was Luciana trying to wag her finger at me for poking at forbidden knowledge? But I fought the urge to close it. I needed to know more about the Society, free of Visatori prejudice.
According to Ted the Red, the Society and the Edicts were a response to centuries of magical abuse, irreparable damage to human culture, and a self-destructive trend among the Versed. In-fighting and games of influence had been rampant, often involving human proxies who had no idea the wars they were fighting or the monsters they encountered in the darkness were the machinations of wizards trying to prove their superiority to one another. They brought entire kingdoms and nations to ruin, all to besmirch one mage’s reputation in the eyes of his contemporaries.
It didn’t surprise me. Men like Walter and the Council were as close to godhood as you could get this side of mortality. It wasn’t a tremendous leap to imagine them using humans like toys because they got bored.
But from that realization, the largest cabals and covens had convened in the late 17th century, in what many of its members considered the center of the world, London. Back then, humanity was taking its first steps towards becoming a global community, and its mages sought that same connection. The gathered mages debated, discussed, and decided the course of their kind for centuries to come. The Rimbault Society was born, a new nation of spellcasters named for the salon in which it was born.
From the Society came five Edicts, the laws that bound them together. Five would later become thirteen, and then seventeen as the knowledge of the Society grew, and they reinterpreted old traditions or norms to suit modern perspectives. With the Edicts to rally around, the Rimbault Society set about enforcing it on others. First in the nations its members considered home, and later to less ‘civilized’ parts of the world. That included any who refused to attend the convention, or were considered ‘too primitive’ to be invited.
I frowned. Ted’s recounting of an ‘enlightened magocracy’ sounded more and more like arcane colonialism. Enforcing their will and power over others, with their justification being ‘they don’t know better and we do’.
As sensible as the Edicts sounded on paper, the Society had been well aware of their imperialistic intent from how fast they turned the Edicts against their rivals. Who knew how much knowledge the Society had destroyed, or stolen and secreted away? What truths were lost, because they were ‘improper’?
As I flipped pages, the hair on my neck stood up. It felt like I was being watched. I looked around me, trying to pinpoint the source. The darkened rows of books offered plenty of places to hide.
Luciana cleared her throat behind me, and I jumped. She stood at the open doorway, stoic as ever. “Your appointment is waiting.”
The unknown presence in the Library vanished, quick as it had come. I backed away from the floating book and moved to her side. “I felt something, it was-”
“That is the Librarian.”
“I thought you were the librarian.”
“As the Pillar of Knowledge, I am the Library’s caretaker. But the Librarian is its protector.”
“I must have pissed it off, somehow.”
“You didn’t dog-ear a page, did you?”
I stared at her for a moment. “Is that- what?”
“Your appointment is waiting.” I saw a glint of amusement in Luciana’s eye as she led me through the door and closed it behind me.
SIXTEEN
The Society lounge was clean, inviting, and quiet. No infinite staircases or unseen observers, just plush chairs with low tables between them. I could hear rain washing against the opaque windows, further relaxing the atmosphere.
My ‘appointment’ had yet to arrive, so I sank into a chair, glad to be off my feet. The comfortable ambience threatened to pull me into an impromptu nap, but I reminded myself I was there for a reason.
When the door opened, I rose to greet my guest, but felt a chill run through me. My guest had the same piercing gaze and dark complexion as Samuel Kincaid. They could have been brothers. Twins. But the newcomer had a head of wiry black hair, a trimmed beard, and his tattoos—while also depicting cigar-smoking skeletons in top-hats—looked more jovial than sinister.
Like the mages I’d seen at my trial, he dressed in a way that both spoke of pride in his traditions and a lack of concern for modern norms. He wore trousers frayed off below the knees, a top hat rested on his head, a tattered black dress coat with tails hung over his otherwise bare torso. He carried a cane with him, capped with an ivory skull.
“They tell me you needed my guidance, gravedigger. I am Papa Williams.” He had a heavy Creole accent, unaccustomed to English, but confident and forthright.
I recognized the name. “You’re the mage Jocelyn spoke of. The representative from Port-au-Prince.”
He finally blinked, and his eyes swept the room in thought. “The one seeking her brother? I fear she will not find the man she seeks.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him. I’m Alex Fossor.”
“You have questions about my former companions.”
“Yeah, like why Haitian mages went into the drug trade, and what they hope to get from it.”
He shook his head. “Not simple mages. Bokor.”
“What’s the difference?”
“That depends on how much you know about Vodou, Mr.
Fossor.”
“Very little. But I try to keep an open mind.”
“We shall see. The mages of my faith enjoy a rare tutelage under the Iwa, or Loa. Passed down by the very spirits we serve. But mortal men—even we mages—must choose how to use that knowledge. The bokor are those who abuse that bond. To use their knowledge to harm others. You know of the Loa?”
“Spirits who serve God?” I asked.
He offered a slight smile. “In Haiti, they are the servants of Bondye, the Creator. So yes, and no. Our beliefs stem from traditions older than the Christian God. Or perhaps they are the same God? There are many nachons, many families of Loa. Some are Immortals, the primal beings who exist in the Far Lands, what you Society types call the ‘Outer Layered’. Others were once mortal, but Ascended. Do you know what this means?”
I had to puzzle over what I knew for a moment. “The Visatori explained that mages accumulate magical power over the course of their lives. Sometimes, a mage becomes so powerful that they transcend mortality. Ascend into the Layered as a kind of lesser god.”
“Or a devil,” he added. “Or a prisoner. Ascension is not necessarily a reward. The mage has become so powerful that the world abhors them. Nature—or perhaps Bondye—does not permit them to stay. So they must Ascend into the Layered, where their power can no longer threaten lesser beings.”
“So the Loa are prisoners?”
His smile deepened. “If they are, they are at least dutiful ones, serving Bondye. And we serve them in turn. They offer us great wisdom.”
“What about the Brothers Midnight?”
He frowned. “The Brothers are bokor. They broke their bonds to the Loa and used their knowledge for selfish gain. They are an affront to those like me, the houngan and the mambo, the priests and priestesses who serve the Loa.”
“I saw them performing a ritual last night.”
“Tell me what you witnessed.”
I recounted the events in the Arlington, as I had for Agni. Papa Williams’s face slowly twisted into a grimace of anger and disgust.
“These things you tell me, they sound familiar and yet very wrong.” He made a gesture to the open air above him. “They go against the ways of the Loa, and of Vodou. I cannot stress enough how much of a defilement this is to our beliefs, and the Loa themselves. These are not our ways.”
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