Chapter Text
There was a gentle rap at the door, followed by the shrill creak of its hinge as it opened a few inches. Cyrus longed to have it dealt with, either by some hired worker with an oilcan or by his own hand if it came to it, but this was not the only improvement his temporary new office needed. As far as priorities went, it ranked well below the leaky ceiling and the windowpane seemingly permanently jammed somewhere between open and shut.
But even as he was a tenant in this drafty old building, the office felt like his own. He had found it, selected it, paid the rent deposit. He had arranged for the most important of his books to be boxed up from his Academy office and shipped to him. He had bought a used desk and found a volume of perfect depth to slide under the one leg that was shorter than the others. And, knowing the day would come when he would need to consult that particular book, he identified an appropriately sized replacement and filed it away inside a drawer.
The new office was not a benefit of his employment and could not be so easily taken away from him—not unless he somehow ran afoul of his new landlord. Given how pleased the old man had been to finally lease the space, that seemed highly unlikely. Cyrus had been glad to not need to explain his situation when he applied to rent the two-room suite. It turned out that no one in the outside world questioned the word “sabbatical”, though, admittedly, he had never questioned it himself until it was being used as a euphemism for his involuntary leave.
The rumour was preposterous—an illicit relationship with the princess, for gods’ sakes—and just a bit too neat. The allegation came not long after that unpleasant interaction with the headmaster about who, exactly, had the right to certain knowledge. Cyrus’s position was that everyone deserved to know everything; Yvon disagreed and tried to pull rank. Cyrus anticipated that the next faculty meeting would be uncomfortable. Suddenly, conveniently, he was no longer invited.
He would need to be placed on leave given the severity of the allegation, Yvon said. To dismiss Cyrus outright would be tantamount to an admission of guilt, and so he would be sent away quietly while the matter was investigated. This felt off; had he been headmaster, he reasoned, he would deal with such an accusation with transparency. He would want to reassure the faculty, students, and their families that something was being done. He would want to encourage other students to come forward to assess whether there was any truth to the rumour or, worse, whether the problem was more widespread than initially believed.
He would do the exact opposite of what Yvon was doing.
It was the headmaster’s assistant, Lucia, who had proposed framing the leave as a sabbatical. Cyrus was approaching the point in his tenure where sabbaticals were common, it was true, and the development was unlikely to raise too many eyebrows. The main question would be why he was starting a sabbatical before the term officially ended, but stranger things had happened. It was also still less likely to prompt questions and rumours than an internal memo reading “Professor Albright has been placed on administrative leave effective immediately pending the outcome of an investigation.”
Nonetheless, something gnawed at him.
Cyrus Albright was a man of reason, a firm believer in evidence and proofs. He did not draw conclusions lightly; he expected his students to support their arguments with research and data, and he held himself to the same standard. It was not enough to believe something was the case but vitally important to know why. Intuition was a valuable tool, but it needed to be backed up by reason. And yet there was a whisper of a voice somewhere inside him now, quiet but insistent, repeating an allegation for which he had no definitive proof yet explained everything.
They want you out of the way.
Even after one of his students approached him and confessed to being the source of the original rumour, something felt amiss. Therese was an intelligent girl, if a bit shy, and not someone who wouldn’t grasp the consequences of such an allegation. Any romantic relationship between faculty and students, including graduate students who were legally adults, was expressly forbidden. This was made abundantly clear in the code of conduct signed by all students on an annual basis and reinforced at an assembly that took place at the beginning of each term. That Therese would think this sort of rumour would only get him into “a little trouble” seemed unlikely—not that Cyrus hadn’t bent the rules to further his own education in his own student days. There had been the night he’d picked the library lock to sneak into the restricted faculty section undetected. The advanced classes he’d secretly audited without permission. The time he’d disappeared into the Frostlands for a week to try to conduct primary-source research about the Church of Flamesgrace.
This, though, was different; his own actions had never called a teacher’s ethics into question. Had Therese merely wanted more focused instruction, as she’d claimed, she could have asked for it. Against his better judgment, and at the risk of impacting the investigation he’d been told—but didn’t fully believe—had already begun, he’d asked her for details. What, exactly, had she told the headmaster?
“That you have favourites,” she’d replied, her voice cracking. “That you spent more time answering the princess’s questions than everyone else’s. I knew it wasn’t true, Professor. I’m so sorry.”
“Did you tell him I was engaged in an inappropriate relationship with the princess?” he’d asked. The look on her face was all the evidence he needed that she had not. Such an expression could not be faked. What she had alleged might have warranted an informal conversation, maybe even a verbal reprimand. But not a suspension. Not an investigation.
His internal monologue was still soft-spoken, but no longer whispering. They just want you out of the way.
And then there was the book. A routine trip to the archives a few weeks prior had revealed that some volumes were missing. Cyrus had made some inquiries as a favour to Mercedes, the librarian, and discovered that one of his colleagues had been stealing and selling Academy property. Russell was caught and expelled; it wasn’t lost on Cyrus that he might face the same permanent consequence if he wasn’t able to disprove the allegation about the princess. But something else arose from the case of the stolen books: there was at least one other missing tome, one whose disappearance had been recorded some 15 years prior—well before Russell had joined the faculty. Titled From the Far Reaches of Hell, it was a history and repository of terrible ancient magic. Cyrus's interest was piqued. But mere hours after learning about it, he had been placed on “sabbatical”, his office locked, his classes reassigned. He had only discussed From the Far Reaches of Hell with Mercedes but could not rule out the possibility that someone else had overheard—and beaten him back to the Academy with the details.
The timing, at first, seemed almost fated. He had begun to mull researching this mysterious book on his walk back to campus; being placed on leave almost immediately thereafter only made him want to uncover more details. He would have the time to travel the continent, now—perhaps a visit to Quarrycrest and his erstwhile colleague, Odette, would help him start off on the right foot. Odette had left the Academy nearly a decade prior but might have had some memory of the book’s presence in the archives. Failing that, she was a scholar of the history of dark magic. Yes, he would pack his things and make the long journey to the Cliftlands. The change of scenery would do him good.
But the voice in his head had grown louder, now: That's what they want. They want you out of the way. They are doing everything they can to get you out of the way.
His mind had no sooner been made up when he changed it. It was too risky to leave Atlasdam now, with the fate of his professorship hanging in the balance and a cast of untrustworthy characters left to control the narrative in his absence. The allegation against him was trumped up as it was; to be seen to skip town might come across as a confession. To allow Yvon, Lucia, and gods knew who else to spread rumours unchecked would be an abdication of his responsibility to the Academy, his students, and himself.
He could still, he'd thought, investigate from here. He would need to enlist help, of course, but he could communicate with Odette by mail. There were one or two trusted colleagues inside the Academy who might be willing to access the faculty area of the library for him. He would find a way.
And so he arranged to rent a two-room office on the top floor of a creaky stone building a few minutes from the Academy, sourcing mismatched furniture on the cheap. Mercedes agreed to clandestinely obtain the books from his Academy office under the guise of storing them in the archives during his leave, then arrived with a stack of boxes. He hung a sign, hand-fashioned from a flat piece of wood and his trusty quill, outside the main door:
Cyrus Albright
Independent Researcher
He was almost set. His one remaining need was threefold: help with administrative tasks, facade as to the breadth and scope of research that was actually going on, spy.
In short, Cyrus needed a receptionist—and he had just the candidate in mind.
It was only a matter of time before he happened upon her strolling through town, out for a walk or running one errand or another. “Therese!” he called out, waving. “Over here!” Her face broke into a smile when she saw him; she rushed over and pointedly greeted him as “Professor” despite his current status.
“How have you been?” she asked, gripping both of his forearms. She briefly considered trying to embrace him but decided against it; he had been her teacher, and gods willing, he would be again. “Are you keeping well?”
“Gods, Therese,” he laughed. “You speak like I’ve been away for months. I’ve only been on sabbatical for three days.” The teenager giggled. “Things are indeed well,” he said. “I am setting up a place to conduct research not far from here.”
“That sounds ideal, Professor.”
“I’m glad to see you, however. I have a proposal for you.” (Had there not been one facet of human interaction that Cyrus didn’t fully grasp, he might have chosen his words differently. Therese had assumed that her affection for him was patently obvious; if it hadn’t already been so, she reasoned, it would certainly be after the word “proposal” turned her face a deep shade of red. But her professor failed to notice.)
“I was wondering whether you might be interested in some part-time work,” he continued. “Just a few hours a week, outside of school hours—paid, of course. Without the resources of the Academy at my disposal, I could use some assistance with paperwork and other clerical matters.”
Therese nodded. Her head was spinning. She thought he had been spirited out of her life, possibly for good, and she had worried he would want nothing to do with her given her unintentional role in his departure. But here he was, offering her a job—one that would let her spend time with him. There must be a catch.
“Why me, Professor?” she asked. “After what I—after what happened?”
“Oh, you mustn’t fret about that, dear girl,” he said. “The truth is that the headmaster wanted to keep the specific allegation quiet—and that is because he knows it is false.” She nodded knowingly. “And that makes you one of the only people in the city who know about it, which in turn makes you one of the only people in the city I can trust..”
“I swear I didn’t tell them that,” she cut in.
“Of course not, Therese. I believe you. You only know what the allegation is because I shared it with you, and I trust that you haven’t told anyone else.” She shook her head somberly. “I need assistance. I’m researching a matter of great sensitivity and importance, and I cannot risk hiring someone who might believe that the rumour is true if it were to become public.”
“I understand,” she said.
“The job will not be arduous, but I cannot handle everything myself,” he went on. “Not with the amount of research I have to do. And there is one other thing you can do for me.”
“Yes, Professor?”
“If you happen to overhear anything about me at the Academy, whether it be from faculty, your fellow students, or anyone at all,” he said, “please let me know. Do not involve yourself. But quietly take note and report back to me. Would you do that?”
Therese nodded. Had these requests come from anyone else, it might have all felt a bit underhanded. But Professor Albright had been wronged, and while she had inadvertently played a part in that wronging via her unwise gambit to secure more of his attention, it had also been twisted and leveraged against him in a way she hadn't intended. She did not presume to think she could make it up to him, but he was asking for her help now, and she was not about to refuse.
“As I said,” he said, “I’ll provide a fair wage.” Her instinct was to shake her head—her family was well-off and she wasn’t in immediate need of extra money—but he nodded insistently. “And you would be more than welcome to spend quieter moments doing schoolwork, of course. Out of curiosity, which of my colleagues took over my lectures?”
“Professor Vaughan.”
Cyrus’s mouth curled into a smirk.
“In that case,” he said, “we should probably also block off some time to go over the material. Otherwise, you might not learn very much at all.”
Cyrus glanced up from the unkempt pile of manuscripts strewn about his desk as the door creaked open, and Therese poked her silvery head into his office.
“The mail’s arrived, Professor,” she said, entering with a small stack. “A few invoices, one letter delivered here by mistake, and a parcel postmarked in Quarrycrest. Looks like it’s from Professor Sinclair.”
Odette? Cyrus had been exchanging letters with his friend and former colleague for the past few months, after he'd opted not to visit Quarrycrest in person—but it was unlike Odette to send parcels. Her letters were typically short and direct, and sometimes so terse that Cyrus wondered whether she spent more time addressing the envelope than writing the message. But the brown paper taped around what felt like a substantial book did bear Odette’s handwriting, and he opened it carefully. A piece of paper fluttered to his desk, and he placed the parcel down and turned his attention to the letter first.
Well, Cyrus, you were right.
He let out a low chuckle. That was Odette: no time to bother with greetings and salutations. Straight to the point, as usual.
I have to admit I was skeptical about your deductions relating to the sewer, but you were correct. We found some horrible things down there, and we were too late to save some of the missing townspeople, but quite a few are now thankfully safe. I take solace in knowing that’s better than nothing.
Cyrus winced. If he’d only pieced the bit about the sewer together sooner, or had his letter with the suggestion only reached her faster… but it was gratifying to know that Quarrycrest’s mysterious disappearances had finally been solved.
It pains me to say a fellow academic was behind all this. He put up a good fight, but he was no match for me in the end. Perhaps I missed my calling as a killer-for-hire. (I’m joking, Cyrus, in case that isn’t obvious. About the killer-for-hire bit, I mean. I did make short work of our unseemly “friend”. Some scholars just can’t handle being repeatedly hit over the head with an encyclopedia.)
This was among his possessions; obviously, I felt you should have it. Please accept it with my thanks for your help.
I hope you find what you’re looking for.
Odette
Cyrus pulled the book out of its paper wrapping and pressed his palms against both sides of the cover, trying to get a feel for its density. He traced his fingers along the embossed back cover. A faded border design, one that looked like flames, adorned the edges. The spine felt cracked, as though the volume had been well worn. He turned it over to examine the front, and—
“Egads,” he gasped. He held the book up to show Therese its cover, which featured the same discoloured flame border and a carefully hand-scripted title:
From the Far Reaches of Hell
“She found it?” Therese asked. “It’s real? It’s here ?” Cyrus flipped through the pages, quickly at first and then with increased deliberation.
“Yes,” he murmured. “And yet, no. I don’t believe this is the original. It’s been translated into the vernacular and quite possibly abridged.” He looked up, eyes full of excitement all the same. “But it’s the biggest break we’ve had so far.”
Therese felt a surge of emotion at the word “we”. She hadn’t done anything except bring in the mail, but she liked feeling like a part of the action. Even if she was only playing a small role in this research, she liked being on board. Most of all, she liked being nearby.
“Then I’ll leave you to it, Professor,” she said, smiling, and shut the door in front of her as she backed out of the room.
Cyrus sat back down. He placed the book on the desk in front of him but didn’t let go, seemingly afraid that if he released it from his grip it might vanish into thin air and take its secrets with it. He’d had no idea there was an edition in the common tongue—perhaps there were other copies in other languages floating around Orsterra as well—and while the art of translation was a subjective one, and he could not be sure this version captured all of the nuances of the still-missing original, it would at least get him started.
There were now two tasks before him: discerning the book’s contents, or however much of its contents had made it into this abridged copy, and determining where, exactly, this version originated. He would start with the former; a world of knowledge lay within the pages
He turned, with great care, to the interior title page. The painstakingly scripted title was accompanied by intricate drawings of what appeared to be demonic beasts revelling in hell’s fiery pits. There was a pattern towards the bottom of the page—a decorative embellishment, or a message in some other tongue? He would need to sort that out later. He turned to the next page and found it covered in equally precise calligraphy.
“In the beginning, there was the Void.”
A chill ran down his spine. He may not be able to trust that this was an entirely faithful translation, but to finally get a sense of what was in the book—and to try to understand what made it worth stealing all those years ago—was a strange and wonderful feeling. He wondered exactly how many people knew that From the Far Reaches of Hell existed, or were aware of its contents. Someone had presumably wanted to hoard the original's secrets for themselves or they would never have pinched it from the library. Cyrus took no small pleasure in working to thwart this plan, to find the true copy and return it somewhere it could rightfully be accessed by anyone. Knowledge is for one and all.
He was roughly a hundred pages in, furiously scribbling observational notes onto blank manuscript paper, when another quiet knock sounded at his door. Therese always popped in to say good night before heading back to the dormitory for the evening; had he been engrossed in the book for that long? He glanced out the window and saw that, no, the sun had not yet begun to set.
“Come in,” he called out. Therese leaned in hesitantly.
“Professor, uh…” she began. Something seemed off; the reluctance was unusual. He rose and instinctively began towards the door to see what was going on in the other room.
“No, no,” she said. “Don't get up. It’s just… I wasn't expecting this, Professor.”
“What is it, Therese?”
“We—you—well…” Her voice dropped down to a whisper, as though she was imparting some terrible secret.
“You have a client.”