Give the Dark My Love(55)

The implication was clear. This hand—this cage—could be used to make a crucible.

“I told you, to be a necromancer, sacrifices must be made. Not just of yourself, but of those you love and who love you.” Master Ostrum stared down at the bony cage. “Perhaps that is one reason why necromancers are so hated, because their sacrifices extend beyond themselves. Wellebourne took his wife’s hand first and used it to create the crucible that raised the dead. That relic is in the treasury—broken, but a reminder of all that happened.”

Master Ostrum’s face was grim. “That crucible was taken when he was captured. Wellebourne was locked in the castle while he awaited trial.”

I remembered what Grey had told me, about how the castle was haunted.

“He was so desperate to escape,” Master Ostrum continued, “that he actually sawed his own hand off in an attempt to make a second crucible. He got that far.” He nodded to the hand I still held, and revulsion filled me. This was Bennum Wellebourne’s hand, burned and cursed?

“He called his son to him, the day before he was going to be hung.” Master Ostrum spat the words out bitterly. “He intended to burn the boy to ash and complete the crucible. His son was about twelve at the time. Of course, the guards in the tower stopped Wellebourne. The boy stole the crucible cage and escaped. And Wellebourne was hung.”

“How do you know all this?”

“These are Wellebourne’s own crucibles,” he said, looking me in the eye. “The copper one will only reveal its contents with Wellebourne’s blood.”

My gaze dropped down to the bright red on Master Ostrum’s finger and the blood he shared with the island’s greatest traitor.





THIRTY-THREE


    Nedra



“You’re—?”

“His descendant, yes,” Master Ostrum said. “The son who stole the crucible was my great-great-grandfather. I’m the last of the line.”

“I didn’t know,” I said.

Master Ostrum snorted. “It’s not something I publicize. My family has changed its name several times over the years.” He looked around at the office, at the floorboards covering the subbasement. “Ironically, quite a few of the professors who have resided in this office have been ancestors of mine. Wellebournes do have an affinity for alchemy, and we seem drawn back to this school.”

I put the crucible cage down on the floor. It didn’t disturb me to hold it while I knew it was made of human bones, but once I learned that human was Bennum Wellebourne, I was disgusted.

Master Ostrum picked it up. “My family has kept this hidden for nearly two centuries.”

“Why not just destroy it?”

“You think it would be that easy?” he asked in a low voice.

After a long moment, I asked, “Why are you telling me these secrets?”

“Because someone else has done all of this,” Master Ostrum said. “Someone has severed a hand, burned flesh to ash, spilled his own blood. Someone has followed all of the steps—and they’ve started the plague.”

Outside, we heard a noise—a thump of some kind, perhaps a door closing. Master Ostrum stood, returning the bones to the copper crucible and then packing it and the others back into their crate. He opened the hidden passage to the subbasement and motioned for me to follow.

The area beneath the floor was cool and slightly damp. My father would have been shocked to see books stored on the earthen shelves, but they showed no sign of damage or mold.

“My family has gathered what they could through the generations,” Master Ostrum said. “Guilt is hereditary.”

“You had nothing to do with—” I started, but he waved his hand, cutting me off.

“What’s important now is that so much time has passed, people have forgotten what necromancy really is and what it can do.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

“Nedra, you can see it, too, can’t you?” There was desperation in his voice. “You’ve studied this plague as much as any of the professors have. You know it’s not biological. It’s alchemical.”

“And targeted against the poor?” I asked. “Who would do that?”

“Someone rich.” There was bitterness in his voice. “Or merely one who doesn’t value human life. But you see it’s necromantic, don’t you? Now that you see the evidence, now that you see . . .” His voice trailed off, his eyes wide, searching mine.

And I realized: He wasn’t certain.

But he was eager.

Master Ostrum had spent his entire life with the secret of his family’s dark past. Now there was a hint of it rising up again, and his reaction was . . . excitement.

I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Master Ostrum and I had been studying the plague since my earliest days at Yūgen, but he’d never been as passionate for the cure as he seemed fascinated now with the curse.

“You can’t be sure,” I said. “People are afraid of necromancy. And this knowledge—” I swept my arm to the tiny collection of books and items hidden in the subbasement. “Who else would know all this?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Master Ostrum said, shaking his head. “But someone else must . . . There are books. Necromancy is illegal, but learning about it . . . There are books. Rare tomes. Hidden in corners of libraries, forgotten, old books with old knowledge.”