The Lost Codex

by Lyons, Heather

  I lead her to a chair close to the fire bowl. She shoves the walking stick at me, knocking me into another chair. “I am not a Dog, Your Majesty.”

  The sharp edges of the rock dig into my palm. The urge to pluck my hair is utterly seductive.

  The Sage’s craggy face swivels; her nose wrinkles. She hisses—more cat than any dog. Hissing transitions to growling. The stick flings wildly about. “Show yourself!”

  Finn approaches. “I’m—”

  She whips the stick toward him, missing his knee by a mere inch. “Not you!”

  Irritated, yet undeterred, Finn continues, “My father and—”

  This time, the stick makes contact. Finn jumps as the mud-splattered tip cracks across upon his kneecap. “Not you!”

  I grab hold of him before he strikes her. He perches on the arm of my chair, rubbing his sore knee.

  The Sage inhales, her shoulders hunched, both hands on the cane. “Show yourself.”

  The Librarian rounds the table and positions herself next to Finn and myself. “I am here.”

  The Sage angles her stick across the fire bowl in our direction. The sound she emits is utterly inhuman, a keening cross between wail and growl that sets both teeth and nerves on edge.

  I left my daggers in the Keep, Finn the same with his pistol.

  “Be at peace,” the Librarian says. “No harm will come to you here.”

  Icy tendrils of unknown fear curl their way into my chest.

  A bestial slit slashes across the Sage’s face. “It is because of you that the Queen of Diamonds bade me to leave my sanctuary. You dared use one of my own!”

  “Take the rock back,” the Librarian says, her voice and face the eye of a hurricane, “and let us discuss what is necessary.”

  A cackle tears from the Sage, one so chillingly nightmarish that it is difficult to remember I once considered the woman benign. “You think to tell me what to do with my people? You are the trespasser. How dare you summon me.”

  Unnatural darkness swarms the tent as fresh squalls rattle the walls. “I am one of the trespassers, yes, and a dangerous one, too.” Shadows flicker from the fire bowl, throwing images upon the canvas. I fear I am losing my mind or at least dreaming when the outlines of three tall figures loom over the Librarian. “But I am not the one you must be concerned with, wicce. Not unless you wish I must be.”

  “I do not know this word: wicce.”

  Although logs crackle and spit within the fire bowl, chills leaps from the flames.

  “I think you do.”

  The Sage licks her cracked lips. “You cannot—”

  “I can,” the Librarian says, “and I will if you do not take back the damn rock.”

  The trio of mysterious shadows shift away from the Librarian and crawl toward the Sage. The old woman fumbles for her drawstring bag, but it falls just out of reach. Cold darkness veins across her face, forming tendrils of curling moss, or mold. Her bravado cowers beneath the covers as she cries out in terror. She grapples for her walking stick, only to deal a stinging rap against the back of my knuckles. The rock skitters to the floor, rolling beneath the fire bowl.

  Warmth eases back into the tent. The Librarian drags a chair closer to the Sage, a smile as bright as the fire on her face. “Excellent choice.”

  Finn massages my hand as I ask, “How did you know the rock ties its holder’s tongue?”

  “This one reeks of her affinity for the geological.” When the Librarian gazes across at the Sage, her gaze is as intense as if she is reading a book the rest of us cannot see. “She lives amongst rocks, seeks guidance amongst stones and boulders, and imbues pebbles with her magic.” She presses both pointer fingers to her lips, a sharp steeple tipped with nails. “What else but magic could silence the infamously stubborn Alice Liddell?”

  Her point, accurate as it may be, is entirely unwelcome.

  The Sage clamors to her feet, rooting around for her bag. “I would be amongst my rocks now, if it weren’t for you, vile sorceress.”

  The Librarian claps her hands, and then I know I am daydreaming, for three disembodied hands appear bearing cups of tea—one for her, one for Van Brunt, and one even for the Sage. “It takes one,” the woman I called colleague lifts her cup to her lips, “to know one, my dear. And I prefer witch.” One corner of her red-stained mouth ticks up. “Wicce.”

  Finn murmurs for the both of us, “Holy shit.”

  “But that is neither here nor there. There is a much nastier witch who we must concern ourselves with. Sit a spell.”

  The Sage does so with alacrity.

  A pair of the disembodied hands materializes before Finn and me, offering us tea. The Librarian merely nods encouragingly, as if we were small children urged to try a bite of a new food.

  Van Brunt stands behind his colleague, sipping his drink as if nothing were amiss.

  The Sage lowers her walking stick so she can use both hands to hold tea and saucer. “Fine. You have my attention. But you must first reveal your name, wicce. It is only fair, as you know mine.”

  Nearly a year of puzzling the Librarian out ought to have left me unruffled in such a situation. Yet, now that the moment of truth is upon me, I cannot help but grip Finn’s thigh.

  If she tells the Sage her name is the Librarian, I may very well rain bloodshed upon this tent.

  “Fair enough.” The Librarian holds her cup out; one of the mysterious appendages appears to take it and set it on the table. “I go by many names, but the one I think you wish to know is my oldest. I am Baba Yaga.”

  Baba Yaga. A Russian name for an Indian woman?

  The Sage digs several polished stones out of a pocket and rolls them, in succession, across her knuckles. “Crone, snake, goddess, wicked, horror, grandmother.” She nods thoughtfully, eyeless face angled as if she can see all of these things in the Librarian’s—no, Baba Yaga’s face.

  Finn clears his throat, once, twice. Says, whispers, asks, “You’re . . . Baba Yaga?”

  The smile the Librarian gifts him is indulgent, affectionate even. “You have never had anything to fear from me, Finn. Your bones are safe from my teeth.”

  I could swear Grymsdyke was dancing upon my spine once more.

  “I wish,” she says with a hint of sorrow, “you would not look at me that way, though.”

  Finn yanks off the hat, wringing it out, at the same time he yanks away his gaze. “You knew?”

  Van Brunt requires no clarification from his son. He runs a hand across the Librarian’s shoulder before he, too, sits down. “I have known since the day I became director.” A trace of amusement influences the corners of his lips. “You are the first of our line who will know before he or she takes office.”

  Finn lays the small hat near the fire. The muscle between thumb and forefinger twitches.

  Unnerved by how shaken he is, I wade into depths I had long wished to dive in. “I apologize, as my knowledge of witches is sorely lacking, but would someone care to illuminate which story Baba Yaga is from?”

  “My little, nosy queen.” The Librarian’s exasperation is more affectionate than anything else, though. “Always asking questions. Always pushing for answers. Because of my fondness for you, I will tell you a secret. I am not from a singular story or Timeline. People have whispered stories about me for. . .” She taps on her lips. “Well, more years than a polite lady ought to admit in public.”

  The Sage cackles once more. “How is it that Baba Yaga and the Queen of Diamonds are so closely intertwined, and that the Queen bears the wicce’s protection, yet Her Majesty knows so little of her benefactor?”

  Her protection?

  “My secrets,” the Librarian says, smooth as butter scraped across toast, “are my own.”

  “As is your true face.” The Sage hums appreciatively. “Alas, I do not have the power of transformation, not even amongst my rocks. It is a shame, for I, too, could have been a great beauty.”

  Beauty is not a word often associated with the Sage, physically or
personally, although many may find her proclamations equally soothing and distressing. I do not even know if I can term her purely human, with her small, wrinkled face defined solely by nose and mouth and her hair a twisting turret of steel and moss. Her back curves with a pronounced hunch, her limbs are gangly and disproportionate to her torso. When she speaks, it is with leashed winds.

  But the Librarian. . .

  The Sage motions for one of the Librarian’s disembodied hands to hold her tea. Another hands her the ratty drawstring tote she’d tried for so many times. After nearly a full minute’s worth of rummaging, she extracts several small stones that she plops into her drink. Several sips later, she smacks her lips blissfully. “Would you like one?”

  The Librarian holds out a hand, and the woman who has no eyes grunts. “Suit yourself.” She relishes another long, noisy sip. “Incidentally, who is the enchanted foreigner marked by two Wonderlandian queens?”

  When Finn makes to toss his untouched drink upon the ground, one of the mysterious appendages deftly grabs hold of it.

  The Librarian clears her throat. “He is also under my protection.”

  “Not yours. Although, you’ve done a shoddy job of it, eh? Letting that despicable sorceress get ahold of him when his path is so clearly aligned with the Queen of Diamonds.”

  “You know of the thirteenth Wise Woman?” I ask.

  The Sage’s nose juts toward me. She sniffs, a bloodhound in search of prey. “The who?”

  “The sorceress you spoke of.” I grip Finn’s hand. His skin is cold, too cold, for the warm tent. “The one who cursed Finn.”

  Her rotund nose twitches as she takes several exaggeratedly deep breaths. “Ahh, yes. Yes. I see what you mean. There are other spells, aren’t there?” The Sage taps the side of her nose as she leans toward the Librarian. “Not yours, though. Now that we know each other, I see yours. I can see the Queen of Diamonds’, plain as the day is long. And I can see the sorceress’, too, as well as someone else’s who tries to shield him. But this one . . . yes, yes. It’s nasty, isn’t it.” She inhales deeply, her chest juddering. “There’s something about it, though. Something that tastes familiar, but doesn’t all at the same time, it does.”

  Finn’s grip turns vise like, but I welcome it. “If you don’t mean the thirteenth Wise Woman, then whom do you refer to?”

  The Sage swirls her teacup so that the stones clink together. “I am beginning to have an inkling of why I am here, Baba Yaga. Dark magic is afoot in Wonderland. I have been forced to tolerate the abomination for as long as I have, but now. . .” She licks a finger and holds it aloft. “Now true evil embraces its origins.”

  When the Librarian leans forward, face illuminated by the fire bowl, I do not quite recognize her anymore. Unfamiliar lines grow and recede, eyes darken and lighten, her nose sharpens and softens. “They have purposely kept me blind, and I cannot stand for it any longer. Help me rid the worlds of these plagues, sister.”

  A broken, jagged excuse for a smile cracks beneath the Sage’s nose. “Only if you swear to rid me of my demon.”

  “Name your price,” the Librarian says, “and it will be done.”

  The Sage dips into her tea, extracting a stone. She sucks on it for several heartbeats before offering it to me. “What I desire most is the sorceress’ heart replaced with this. And I wish the Queen of Diamonds to be the one to do it. It is only fitting, eh?”

  The rock is small and jagged, black with red streaks throughout.

  “Oh, my dear Queen of Diamonds. My apologies.” The Sage rubs her thumb across the brightest ruby cord. “I forget, sometimes. I forget how she silenced me with one of my own rocks when she came. A small, petulant girl. I underestimated her.” She spits on the rock and it doubles in size. It shifts and groans, its shape contorting into the size of a fist. “Have you, though? I have often wondered. Maybe now that she has dared to come after you in this most painful, personal of ways, you are not so blind anymore.”

  A thin sheen of sweat breaks out along my hairline. Marble and red sandstone. “You speak of the Queen of Hearts.”

  Teeth I have never seen before sprout within the Sage’s mouth, elongating as she hisses and growls.

  Finn stands up. “The Queen of Hearts is a witch?”

  The Wonderlandian oracle’s nails curve into claws. Her jaw stretches, more snout than nose. The rock clacks against her lethal talon. “Take . . . the . . . rock . . . Diamonds.”

  The words themselves are stones ground between serrated teeth. I have spent hours with the Sage. Jace has, too. For hundreds of years, she has counseled our peoples and rulers.

  I do not recognize the beast before me.

  I quickly accept her offering.

  The teeth and nails and snout retract. The disembodied hand returns the tea to the Sage. She digs out the second stone from the cup and sucks on it. When she offers it to Finn, it remains small. She remains calm.

  Once we both have stones, she finishes her tea and then spits upon the fire. “The sorceress is the evilest magic wielder of my acquaintance.” She bares a gummy sneer at the Librarian. “Even more evil than you, Baba Yaga.”

  Over the rim of her cup, the Librarian murmurs, “We’ll see.”

  “How. . .” I stare at the stone in my palm. “Until today, I did not know that Wonderland had witches.”

  “Keep that safe, Your Majesty.” The polished stones reappear, rolling once more across the Sage’s knuckles. “I am Wonderland’s only native sorceress, and when I die, I will be its last. The one you speak of, though.” Her lips curl up, but no teeth are visible. “She was not born here, nor did Wonderland choose her, as it did you. She remains only through the strength of her insidious magic.”

  The Queen of Hearts is a witch.

  “Hearts was crowned on her eleventh birthday.” I rise from my chair and root around the Librarian’s tent for a scrap of paper. Notes must be taken to ensure I am not hallucinating. “Her parents were at the coronation. People from her village.”

  “Were you there?” the Sage asks.

  I knock aside several folders. “No, of course not. I was in England then.”

  “What are you looking for?” the Librarian asks.

  I glare at her. “Hearts’ name is Margaret. Her parents are Mortimer and Millie Mason.”

  “How do you know this?” Van Brunt asks.

  “Public records.” I hold a pencil aloft, victorious.

  One of the disembodied hands snatches it away from me.

  The Librarian says, “Sit down, Alice. You are not under the influence of Wonderlandian drugs again. And please remember records can be easily forged.”

  “How do you know the Queen of Hearts isn’t a native?” Van Brunt asks the Sage.

  The oracle hisses. “She doesn’t smell like a Wonderlander. Doesn’t taste like one. The rocks don’t recognize her, just like they don’t recognize any of you save the Queen of Diamonds.” She flips one of the polished rocks up. “She was prophesied to become one of our great queens. The other. . .” Her nose wrinkles. “The rocks do not like her one bit. The ground, either. Or the air. She isn’t meant to be here.” She tosses the stones into the air and they hover, a miniature solar system above her head. “What she’s doing is unnatural.”

  The stone in my hand grows warmer. “What is she doing?”

  “She’s forcing her will on that she has no right over.”

  She is doing the same as the Piper and the thirteenth Wise Woman. They are forcing their wills on to worlds, determining whether or not they will continue to exist, and the Queen of Hearts is—

  “Put the rock in your mouth.”

  I startle, as it is the size of my fist. The size of a heart.

  The size of Hearts’ heart.

  “No, Your Majesty.” The Sage scratches her beak-like nose. “Your lover.”

  He stares at the small object, so freshly wetted within her own toothless mouth.

  “Do you want your answers or not?”

  “
She cannot hurt you, Finn.” There is no amusement, no room for argument when the Librarian says this. “Nor can the rock. Not in here, not while this is marked my domain.”

  “Only,” the Sage grumbles, “because you hid yourself from me.”

  Finn places the rock on his tongue like a child with a sugar cube, waiting for it to melt. The Sage climbs out of her chair, knees creaking. I am aware of every step she takes toward Finn, every move of her fingers, every turn of the stones around her head.

  The three shadows reappear.

  “Be a good lad and open wide.” She stands on her tiptoes and reaches one of her gangly arms up, its ball and joint sockets abnormally large and wieldy. She plucks the stone from his mouth and then, quick as a heartbeat, sucks it in between her lips.

  After several minutes, she spits it out into her drawstring bag. “It is as I thought.”

  Finn asks tightly, “Meaning?”

  “She is forcing her will on that which she does not rightfully have say over.” She waves a gnarled hand at him. “Case in point: you.” Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth. “Her magic, her anger, corrupts Wonderland. You must be careful of the Queen of Hearts, Your Majesty. Her hatred of you has grown too difficult for even her own to control any longer.”

  “You speak in circles.” I am irrevocably finished with these maddening women and their verbal games. I am not a circus performer, leaping through blazing hoops alongside tigers simply to reach a dangling prize at the end. “If you have something of pertinence to share, do so. If not, get out of my way. Tomorrow, if Wonderland smiles upon us, I will face the Queen of Hearts, alongside other truly evil magicians. I refuse to waste my time attempting to pry answers out of you—or any of you—anymore.”

  The Librarian holds her teacup aloft.

  Knees bowing and creaking like branches in nearby trees during the morning’s storm, the Sage totters before me. “The sorceress has claimed your lover as her own, Your Majesty, with the help of another magic wielder. Their magics are strong, stronger than my own, stronger than any I know of. Not even your strength can save him.”

  Finn says, “Bullshit. This is—this is bullshit. And pointless, because we need to focus on the Chosen and the Piper, not some stupid love spell. I’ve already taken care of that.”