by A J Hackwith
Praise for
The Library of the Unwritten
“This book is so much fun, and you should be reading it. Trust me. Stories about story are some of my favorite kinds. This book definitely makes the list. I am so glad I read this.”
—Seanan McGuire, author of The Unkindest Tale
“A muse, an undead librarian, a demon, and a ghost walk into Valhalla. . . . What follows is a delightful and poignant fantasy adventure that delivers a metric ton of found-family feels and reminds us that the hardest stories to face can be the ones we tell about ourselves.”
—New York Times bestselling author Kit Rocha
“Hackwith has artfully penned a love letter to books and readers alike and filled it with lush, gorgeous prose; delightfully real characters; a nonstop, twisty, and heart-wrenching plot; and an explosive ending that gave me chills.”
—K. A. Doore, author of The Unconquered City
“A delightful romp through Heaven, Hell, and everything in between, which reveals itself in layers: an exploration of the nuances of belief, a demonstration of the power of the bonds that connect us, and a love letter to everybody who has ever heard the call of their own story.”
—Caitlin Starling, author of The Death of Jane Lawrence
“Like Good Omens meets Jim Hines’s Ex Libris series, a must-read for any book lover. Hackwith has penned a tale filled with unforgettable characters fighting with the power of creativity against a stunning array of foes from across the multiverse.”
—Michael R. Underwood, author of the Stabby Award finalist Genrenauts series
“The only book I’ve ever read that made the writing process look like fun. A delight for readers and writers alike!”
—Hugo Award finalist Elsa Sjunneson-Henry
Praise for
The Archive of the Forgotten
“This book pulls apart what a book is, what a book could be, and gets to the soul of what it means to tell a story, all while delivering queer chemistry and intricate world building.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Powerhouse fantasy. . . . Writing in stirring prose, Hackwith imbues her high-concept metafictional tale with color, action, and high-flying emotion. This imaginative ode to the power of fiction is sure to delight.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Hackwith’s writing is just as beautiful as before . . . inventive worlds and wonderful prose.”
—The Nerd Daily
“The character development throughout was also stellar, a perfect balance of incremental and revelatory.”
—The Roarbots
“The Archive of the Forgotten is a beautiful follow-up . . . brilliantly explore[s] the natures of Claire and Brevity.”
—The Lily Cafe
“If you like high-stakes adventures, found family, magic, and a little dark humor, this is the perfect book for you.”
—Seven Acre Books
BOOKS BY A. J. HACKWITH
Novels from Hell’s Library
The Library of the Unwritten
The Archive of the Forgotten
The God of Lost Words
ACE
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2021 by A. J. Hackwith
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
ACE is a registered trademark and the A colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Hackwith, A. J., author.
Title: The god of lost words / A.J. Hackwith.
Description: First Edition. | New York : Ace, 2021.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021011056 (print) | LCCN 2021011057 (ebook) | ISBN 9781984806413 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781984806420 (ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3608.A254 G63 2021 (print) | LCC PS3608.A254 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021011056
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021011057
First Edition: November 2021
Cover design by Faceout Studio/Jeff Miller
Cover art: universe line art © Sybille Sterk / Arcangel; image of hand by VERSUSstudio / Shutterstock
Book design by Alison Cnockaert, adapted for ebook by Maggie Hunt
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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To Becky
CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for A. J. Hackwith
Books by A. J. Hackwith
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Wherefore do you so ill translate yourself
Out of the speech of peace, that bears such grace,
Into the harsh and boist’rous tongue of war,
Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,
Your pens to lances, and your tongue divine
To a trumpet and a point of war?
William Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part 2
1
HERO
Maybe a library isn’t defined by what it holds. Maybe it is defined by what it does.
Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1433 CE
When a book runs, a librarian follows. It was the law, part threat, part promise, of the Unwritten Wing. Hero knew this; all the books knew this. It was thoroughly known.
What was unknown was what a book was supposed to do when the librarian ran.
The Arcane Wing had become a carefully layered thicket. No, not a thicket�
�a fort. Hero danced between half-crumpled crates of artifacts, malice and wonder dribbling out from between the cracks. A stack of folded gold cloth tilted precariously, and Hero sidestepped the silk avalanche.
It was worse than Rami had described when, in the low, gentle tones of a worried sheepdog, he’d asked Hero for help. “She hasn’t conducted an inventory in a month. Not since . . .” He trailed off, finding it either impossible or unnecessary to indicate the epicenter of Claire’s distress. Of everyone’s, really. A mysterious ink that stained and threatened to possess Claire, a muse angling for revolution, Hero’s book . . . gone. No one emerged from that nonsense with the unwritten ink okay. Under different circumstances, Hero would still be sunk into a dark corner of Hell and an even darker corner of whatever passed for a bottle of ale in these parts—he suspected Walter could point him the way. But those were different circumstances, and this . . . well, this was Claire.
The Arcane Wing had been ruled by Claire’s discipline, iron will pitted against magical chaos. But now order had been discarded, however temporarily, in a search for answers that weren’t there. Hero cleared the last wall of defense—a particularly cluttered table where ornate jewelry lay in a tangled nest—and found the center of Claire’s warren.
“Go. Away.”
Ah, this was why Rami had asked Hero to help. Ramiel was a steady assistant, could lend infinite wise guidance and support. That patently wasn’t what Claire needed right now. People only ever brought Hero in when there was monstrous prodding to be done.
The Arcanist was slouched in the chair behind her desk. She had an absurdly large book held up like a shield. Hero cleared his throat. Predictably, Claire ignored him.
“Sulking doesn’t suit you, warden,” Hero said.
The book lowered a fraction. Claire’s face did an enjoyable contortion before settling into an arch frown as she saw him. Bodies didn’t change much in Hell, but Hero thought he could detect new, exhausted lines around her eyes that had not been there before. She rose and brushed past him with precisely the brusque, offended air he’d been hoping to elicit. “I don’t have time to sulk—or for you.”
“But I’m a delight.” Hero shadowed Claire’s steps as she stopped to straighten a particularly teetering stack of crates. Even when cultivating chaos, Claire was tidy. “And you must have time. You’ve wasted nearly a month on self-pity.”
“Not self-pity. Research.”
“Ever your vice. Personally I would prefer if you were a drunkard. It would be infinitely more entertaining for the rest of us.”
“I apologize for boring you.”
“Never that, no.” Hero smiled as Claire finally halted at the head of a row of shelves to look at him. “You are never that.”
Claire sighed, but Hero could see her shoulders relax by inches. “What do you want, Hero?”
“The same as you—answers. But we already know we won’t find them here.” Hero stepped closer, still feeling a thrill of wonder when he reached out to touch her chin and she allowed it. “We’ve already faced the worst, Claire. What are you hiding from?”
There was a moment when Claire drew a breath and her lips parted and Hero thought he’d reached her. But then the answer came out of the darkness behind him. “The consequences of her own actions, if I was asked to wager a guess.”
The voice crashed against them like ice water. Hero stepped back out of reflex. Claire’s mouth snapped closed and she turned with a poise she reserved for only the worst things. “Why, Malphas. To what do we owe the pleasure of a visit, Grandmother of Ghosts?”
Malphas was seated at a worktable near the front doors, enthroned in a brown-red cloak. She was a lean older woman, although demons could appear any age they wished. Age sharpened her edges rather than softened them. The soft light from the lamps deepened her wizened features and made the fabric appear to puddle into dried blood in the folds. At least, Hero reverently hoped it was a trick of the light. A smile pinched her wrinkled features and she raised her voice to carry. “Never cared much for that name. ‘Grandmother’ insinuates I’d claim anyone as kin.”
“A shame; she’d make a delightful evil stepmother,” Hero mused under his breath.
No one should have been able to hear him at this distance, but Malphas pinned him with a glance. It was precisely like a pinning, so much steel and malice in her regard that a cold smear of terror streaked up Hero’s spine. He felt a small bit of relief when Malphas turned to Claire with a trip-wire smile. “If only it were bloodshed. No, nothing so pleasant. Worse: accounting.”
Malphas said the word with the precise feeling with which Hero might say “polyester,” or Claire would say “coffee.” Claire’s lip twitched. “Poor thing. Don’t you have a lesser devil of details to see to that for you?”
Malphas appeared to miss the wordplay. “They’re the ones who brought it to my attention. I need an inventory.”
The amusement faded off Claire’s face. Hero was fairly certain only he could notice the muscles in her jaw as they twitched. “An inventory? Surely you don’t mean my wing.”
Leather stained the color of dried blood creaked as Malphas folded her arms and tapped a sharp claw against her elbow. “For a start. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch, child. I’ll be asking the Unwritten too.”
Claire smiled, and it was a very particular smile. One she reserved for disasters and imminent death. Really, it was alarming how familiar Hero was with that smile. “I’d be happy to comply; unfortunately, Hell doesn’t have authority over the Library to make such a request. We’re sovereign, remember.”
“A right shame—we do so love cooperating with Hell,” Hero added.
“You aren’t sovereign, not when it disturbs the power balance of the realms. There was a sudden drop in the ambient power of the realm a short while ago—coincidentally centered on the spaces where we generously host the Library wings. Almost as if something was removed.”
“Well”—Claire gestured with a theatrically loose shrug—“your measurements are inaccurate. As you can see, here we are.”
“It isn’t your whereabouts that concern me—for once,” Malphas said. “In our realm, the inventory of souls might as well be our borders and defense. We have a right to protect our assets.” The trap in Malphas’s smile sprang, and she stepped forward. “I find it strange that a soul loss would register here of all places, given your attendance. Don’t you?”
Claire had her right hand clutched behind her skirts. Only Hero saw the flinch and reflexive clench of her fingers, hard enough to turn the knuckles pale. It was the same hand that had been stained black with the ink of destroyed unwritten books mere weeks ago. A stain that had subsequently spread, had haunted and nearly destroyed her. Hero might have—they might have—lost her had it not been for a fateful confrontation in the Dust Wing. In a struggle with Probity, a muse set against the Unwritten Wing, Claire had unleashed the ink. Rami had recognized the tattered souls in the ink, like had called to like, Claire had been saved, and the fragmented souls had joined their brethren in the Dust Wing.
At least, that was the current theory. Hero wasn’t sure any of the Library’s little family knew precisely what the hell had happened to any of them.
Claire had been haunted and then purged. Brevity had been tattooed, then scarred. Hero . . . well, Hero had been a character from a book. With that book destroyed, he wasn’t sure what that made him now.
Ramiel, their angelic resident soul expert, insisted it all came down to the revelation of the secret the Library had been hiding: books are made from fragments of soul. Or, at the very least, human souls and stories were made of the same stuff.
Souls were one thing in Hell: power. When they’d released the ink, Hell had taken notice.
Hero’s mind spun up a dozen ways to divert Malphas from this line of inquiry and discarded all of them as doomed to fail. His spiraling dread was only interrupted by
an irritated tch sound as Claire clicked her tongue. “Well,” Claire said after a moment, sounding irritated. “No need to make it out so dramatic, General. I don’t have time to meddle with your little power plays and schemes. I’m positive you’ll find all our inventories in order, but if you insist—”
“I do,” Malphas said.
“—then I suppose we can produce yesterday’s inventory. Will that suffice?”
“With proper authenticity, perhaps,” Malphas allowed. Claire turned on a prim heel and strode toward the far aisle of shelves, waggling a hand over her shoulder as an invitation to follow. Malphas did so, shouldering past Hero with more weight than her fragile old grandmother appearance warranted.
There was no inventory, at least not one completed yesterday, or last week. Only years of professional villainy kept the blasé smile on Hero’s lips. Years, and the firm belief that Claire was not so foolish as to let slip what the Library had discovered to the blood-soaked grand general of Hell. He wiped a palm over his face before hurrying to follow Malphas.
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
He caught up to them back at the oubliette of paperwork that Claire liked to call her office. It was more of an alcove, really, inset off the back corner of the Arcane Wing, conveniently located adjacent to Claire’s twin priorities of tea and secrets. Even Malphas didn’t care to follow the curator all the way into the bookkeeping stacks. Claire resurfaced after a moment with a box not quite succeeding to contain its pile of vellum sheets.
“Here, the most recent inventory, signed and countersigned by Walter, as a matter of fact. I assume that’s sufficient?”
Malphas frowned, but even Hell’s general wasn’t going to question the good name of Death. The terrifying yet oddly charming gatekeeper of Hell was a rather clumsy giant and, secretly, one of Claire’s greatest allies. Malphas eyed the box with significant prejudice. “This is your idea of filing?”
“Oh, I defer to my predecessor. All Andras’s files were kept in just such a manner. Who am I to change the system?” Claire’s smile was delightfully malicious, and Hero was glad he had a moment to admire it as Malphas reluctantly took possession of the box.
