Give the Dark My Love(48)

“And yet, you seem to have a natural inclination.”

I stood up so suddenly that my chair clattered to the floor, protests already bubbling on my lips.

“Peace, Nedra,” Master Ostrum said. “I meant that as a compliment.”

His words surprised me, and I reached behind me for the chair, setting it upright again.

“Necromancy itself is forbidden,” Master Ostrum said, “but studying it, knowledge of it, is not.”

His eyes were intent on mine, and I felt the weight of his words settling on my shoulders. This was a test.

“Nedra,” Master Ostrum said, “how long have you been helping me research this plague?”

It felt like all my life.

“And yet,” he continued, “you know as well as I that we are no closer to a cure. What causes it?”

“We don’t know.”

“How is it spread?”

“We don’t know.”

“Is it pneumonic or septicemic?”

“We don’t know.”

“Why does it affect some in the extremities, and others directly in the heart or brain?”

“We don’t know.” With every admittance of our limitations, my voice became more and more desperate until it broke.

Master Ostrum leaned over the table. “Doesn’t it strike you as odd that this much time has passed, and we don’t even know how the disease is transferred?” he said. “It is a simple test. If nothing else, a control group could determine if the disease is airborne or blood-borne. And yet, the answer is elusive.”

I frowned, still not understanding.

“Today, Nedra,” Master Ostrum continued, “you came very close to a form of alchemy few know anything about. And yet I cannot help but think you came closer to understanding this plague than anyone else has to date.”

“What are you saying?” My voice sounded distant, as if someone else were asking the question.

“I am saying that, at least within the confines of this laboratory, we must consider that perhaps the plague is caused not by a disease, but by a necromantic curse.”

He waited for the words to settle on me, a truth I couldn’t dispute. We had been dancing around this idea ever since he had given me The Fourth Alchemy.

“But if that is true,” I said slowly, “how can we fight it?”

He leaned back in his chair. “How indeed,” he said slowly, his eyes glittering as they appraised me. Then he frowned. “You disagree with me? Even after today, after reading the book, you doubt this is necromancy?”

He made this conclusion a long time ago, I realized. He just didn’t trust me with it until now.

“No, what you’re saying makes sense,” I replied. “But who could be the necromancer? It’s nearly impossible to make an iron crucible.”

Master Ostrum barked with bitter laughter. “Oh, it certainly is.”

Something about the way he said it made me feel uneasy. He noticed my change and shook his head. “No,” he said gently. “I don’t have one. I am no necromancer. I am just a scholar.”

“Of necromancy.”

“Of all forms of alchemy.” He did not break his gaze.

“But no one has practiced necromancy in almost two hundred years.”

Master Ostrum’s eyes widened. “Two hundred—you think Bennum Wellebourne was the last necromancer? No. There have been others, although none so advanced or well-known. Anyone who has come even close to creating an iron crucible has been put to death. It is rare, though,” Master Ostrum allowed. “It requires a specific type of individual. Not everyone can be a necromancer. In Bennum Wellebourne’s private journals, he called it ‘death in the blood.’”

“You mean, you have to be born with something inside of you?” I asked, frowning.

Master Ostrum shook his head. “That part is unclear. It could be an inherent trait. Or it could be merely a willingness to allow oneself to be infected by death . . .”

My eyes shot down. I thought of how Death had felt in my hands as I tried to save Dilada. How I had invited it inside me.

How I wanted more.

“The Fourth Alchemy wasn’t clear,” I said, keeping my tone even, “but to make an iron crucible . . . it seemed extraordinarily difficult.”

“It’s not a matter of difficulty,” Master Ostrum said. “It is a matter of sacrifice.”

“Sacrifice?” I repeated, the word barely audible.

Master Ostrum nodded. “There are other books than the one I gave you. Most of them focus on the sacrifice the necromancer must make himself. The more sensational volumes say that the necromancer’s soul is traded for the power.” He dismissed this. “But they all mention that the necromancer does have to give up something. Health. Blood. Something.”

I thought of the painting of Bennum Wellebourne hanging in the quarantine hospital. I wondered what he had given up.

“The older books are clear,” Master Ostrum continued. “Truth gets watered down over time. The more I go back to the earliest texts on necromancy, the more I see that the necromancer must sacrifice more than himself.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Runes, for one.” Master Ostrum didn’t look at me; he looked at a book on his shelf, but I couldn’t tell which one. “Carved into the flesh of someone you love, or who loved you. The books differ.”