The Library of the Unwritten

by A J Hackwith

  But there was work to do, a purpose to her fate. And she owed something to those in her afterlife. She owed something to the Library, its books, Brevity. Now there were Leto and the damaged book to consider.

  Claire found herself well suited for damnation. Sorry, Father Roderick.

  By the time Claire and Leto returned, Brevity had put the hero to work trundling carts of books up from the recesses of the Library. The muse tolerated his sulky muttering with more aplomb than Claire would have, patting his slumped shoulder as she sent him off with another cart.

  “Truthfully? Those books weren’t even due to be inventoried yet,” Brevity admitted as he disappeared into the stacks again. “But it keeps him busy. How was Andras?”

  “Well-informed. Patronizing. Per usual.” Claire began to tick through her head as she calculated where to begin with the disasters on the Library’s plate. “How’s the hero doing?”

  “He’s wearing a pout that could curdle milk, but otherwise he’s bucked up. He just wants to be called Hero. Like, for a name.” Brevity poured a new cup of tea for herself.

  “That’s . . . quite the literal affectation.”

  “That’s what I told him in less fancy words.” Brevity lowered her voice as the cart emerged from a back aisle. “He sure seemed set on it. Said he thought it had a certain je ne sais quoi. And that’s when I put him on inventory.”

  Claire nodded and waved Leto over. No use putting this off. “Well done, but inventory needs to wait. We have new business. I am going to pull some supplies. Brev, I need you to take Leto here and prepare to shut down the wing.”

  The muse nearly choked on her tea. “What?”

  Claire began dumping the less necessary—and somewhat soggy—books out of her leather bag, and filling it quickly with an assortment of tools from her desk. “The entire wing. All books on lockdown. Nothing leaves. Jot a note to inform the muses. Earth is just going to have to deal with writer’s block until we get back.”

  “But that’s—if we—” Brevity made a strangled noise in her throat. “Begging your pardon, boss, but you give an order like that, I need a story.”

  Claire frowned as she ordered her pens in the bag’s side pocket. Brevity was a muse—a former, ex-muse, certainly. But it was the muses that would feel the blowback most keenly if the source of all unwritten stories was suddenly shut off. It was a tricky relationship between the Library of unwritten works and the muses that were tasked to inspire them. If the muses had their way, the Library would be empty, but that wasn’t the way creation worked. Sometimes inspiration was not enough. They would not take a closing well. “Get Hero up here, then. I’ve got no time to say this more than once.”

  Once Claire had briefed the others on the existence of the Codex Gigas, the danger of the remaining pages, and Andras’s plan to seek Bjorn in Valhalla, she took a long draw of her tea, carefully watching Brevity’s and Hero’s reactions. Brevity’s mouth had made a silent “oh” before she schooled her face. Her eyes took on the same intense glint she got when wrestling with a particularly stubborn acquisition.

  The newly dubbed “Hero,” on the other hand, had snorted at every opportunity throughout the tale, lips curling to express more disgust than concern by the end of it. “Why, again, are you haring off after a myth rather than leaving it to your betters?”

  “Because there’s a chance that my betters would either start a war or make it so that the Library—and all the books inside, mind you—never existed rather than admit the thing still exists in the wild.” Claire took a peevish sip of tea. “I have no patience for politics. Whatever game went on with this codex before, we have a job to do.”

  “We,” Hero repeated flatly, but Brevity brightened.

  “That means you’ll be needing me, right?”

  “I always need you, Brev.” Claire’s determination softened into a smile. “If that’s settled, every minute counts. Take Leto and get moving. Hero, you’re with me.”

  Hero sulked silently after Claire through the warren of the Library’s storage rooms. Claire measured him in brief glances between checking and locking doors. His color was better, his walk steady and smooth. For a thing that had just been cut out of his own entity like an amputated limb, Hero was doing remarkably well.

  Especially for a hero. In Claire’s experience, heroes of unwritten stories were often the most fragile. All that destiny and tragic backstory. It made it easier to force them into their books, but it left a sour taste in her mouth. Entirely useless. Nothing folded like a hero without a story. Even damsels were sturdier.

  Hero grimaced as she turned a corner deep in the Library, selecting a book here and there. “Here I was thinking I’d be spending my near future developing a nice, boring dust allergy.”

  “Buck up. There will be plenty of dust where we’re going,” Claire said. “Tell me, what kind of hero were you? More of a lover than a fighter?”

  “Decidedly a fighter.” Hero preened his nails. “Never had much use for love in my story.”

  “With cheekbones like that? I’m shocked.” Claire paused at the end of one of the aisles, eyeing the ornate suit of armor that decorated the endcap. Master craftsmen had unfinished works of art too, and the Library had a larger armory than one would expect. They were mostly elaborate work meant for noble showpieces but still well made. “Swords?”

  “Rapier, preferably. I’m not a barbarian. But a well-balanced basket-hilted broadsword is comfortable enough.” Hero watched with obvious skepticism as Claire rapped on the suit’s knuckles. The suit loosened its grip on its weapon, and she grabbed the pommel of the ornate sword. Claire gave it a cursory inspection; it was sharp and covered in excessive filigree—just like Hero, really—but that was as far as her weapon discernment went. She tossed it underhand to Hero.

  He caught it, gave it a careful heft, and sighted down the end of the blade. Claire took the moment to take silent stock of him. He certainly had the air of a hero, capable, with confidence that irritated like a hangnail. Still, Claire was more used to shelving characters than trusting them.

  Hero cast an unreadable glance at her. “Adequate.”

  “Excellent.” Claire waited until he’d stripped the blade’s sheath from the suit of armor and secured the weapon across his back. She started down the aisle again. “We need to get straight on a few things before we leave.”

  “Is this where we swear to be true and loyal in the face of certain death? Your short acquaintance has already branded me.” Hero held up the wrist that had been stamped.

  “Which is the only reason I’m bringing you along,” Claire said. That and a swashbuckling hero could not hurt their odds if that angel showed up again. Her little group needed him. That was an unfortunate fact he didn’t need to know.

  “Not worried I’ll slip the leash again?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you would try. I just trust my leash more.” Claire allowed him to catch up as they turned a corner. “I have no doubt you’ll do as I say, when I say. But I need you to swear to something outside of that.”

  Hero sniffed. “No, thanks. I’ve reached my inconvenient-oath quota for the year.”

  “I will make it worth your time.”

  “I doubt that.”

  Claire stopped. They could hear Brevity’s high, clear voice chattering at the far end of the aisle as books thumped around. “Inspiration.”

  Hero narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “You wanted your author to write her books. I happen to be on excellent working terms with the muses.”

  “It seems to me that the Library’s relationship with the muses is more adversarial than collaborative.”

  “Nonsense.” Claire waved her hand to cover the fact that his perception was entirely accurate. “We all care about the well-being of authors and books. Serve admirably on this trip, maybe I will suggest more focused efforts for young Miss McGow
an.”

  There was a gleam in Hero’s eyes that had not been present before. “What admirable service do you have in mind?”

  “Protect them,” Claire said. Too quickly, too urgently. That was a misplay when dealing with a hero who seemed as contrary as a tomcat. She picked her next words carefully. “You’re duty bound to do as I say, but I cannot foresee how this ill-advised errand will go. If I am not there to command you, Hero, I want your oath that you’ll not abandon Brevity and Leto—or Andras, I suppose, though he can take care of himself. See they return safely to the Library, to the best of your ability.”

  The gazes of both fell to the suit of armor capping the aisle. The hero leaned against it, draping one arm over the knight’s shoulder as he eyed the librarian. “Why?”

  “Why? Because I offered to inspire your auth—”

  “No, I mean, why do your assistant and your puppy-eyed hanger-on deserve my protection?”

  Claire chewed on the inside of her cheek. Truth was a gamble, but then all of this was. Claire hated gambles. “Because I’m not the monster you think I am. And I fervently hope, somewhere under that ridiculous coat, you’re not the childish brat I think you are. Brev is going to be librarian one day. A muse. First of her kind to run a wing of the Library, and she will deserve every bit of it. She’s clever, quick, and has more heart than I do. Maybe she’ll even be able to offer the unwritten that better life you seem to be obsessed with.”

  “And the demon?”

  “Leto.” Claire emphasized the name. “Leto is human, and may be more than meets the eye.”

  “A demonic book is on the loose, the world in peril, and you ask me to guard children.” Hero shook his head. “What priorities. I would have thought you would make me swear on my life to retrieve the codex pages without you.”

  Claire’s lips twitched. “I hadn’t thought of that. Can I get you to do both?”

  Hero’s snort was a decided answer.

  “I’ll stick with protecting Brev and Leto, then.” She took off toward the end of the aisle. “If you aren’t interested in my offer, of course, I could just lock you in with the damsels.”

  “Damsels? What are—” Hero had to untangle himself from the armor before sprinting to keep up. “Slow down, damnable woman!”

  “What, you thought you were the only book to ever wake up?” Claire stopped in front of a frosted-glass door. She knocked once, then ducked in. “You’re not even the prettiest.”

  She shut the door after Hero followed, stopping short just inside the threshold with a confused grunt. She couldn’t blame him. The room was a marked difference from the long book-lined canyons of the Library. It was a cozy sitting room; shelves cluttered the walls and overstuffed chairs dotted the corners, occupied by a cluster of animated figures, mostly women. One pored over a microscope at a far table, sleeves of a thick Victorian dress rolled up and stained with ink. A wartime housewife on the couch balanced a magazine on her knees as she showed off pages to a young boy. Near the fire, a fair-haired princess snuggled contentedly with a pigtailed girl in overalls. A captivating alien of no particular gender played a complex, vertical version of chess in one corner. Their entrance had gotten the room’s attention, and a dozen pairs of eyes roved curiously over Hero before Claire shooed them off. She’d never allowed herself to learn their names—Brevity had always been better at such things—but they all knew her.

  “What . . . what kind of prison is this?” Hero had to drop his voice under the censuring gaze of the pair of ladies nearest them.

  “No prison. A sanctuary, perhaps,” Claire said. “Most books wake up as heroes like you—sending out their most empowered, admirable characters into the world. Puffed-up peacocks set on making messes and throwing tantrums to get their way. We send them back to their own stories straightaway.”

  Hero opened his mouth to protest, but Claire waved him off. “And why not? Not that it’s my concern, but they’re perfectly happy as masters of their own domain in their stories. But sometimes, it’s not the hero.”

  “You called them damsels.”

  “Stupid name,” said the girl in pigtails sitting to their right. She met their looks with a wrinkled nose. “We ain’t even all girls.”

  “It’s just a category,” Claire said. “Sometimes, a book wakes up as a character that has reason to be dissatisfied with their story. No agency. Flatly written. Just another reward for the hero—”

  “Heteronormative bullshit,” the girl added.

  It would not be proper to be amused right now. “As she says,” Claire agreed. “They have no interest in living it out—they’re happy their story has gone unwritten. We call them damsels because, most of the time, they’re women. Wonder why that is.”

  Hero ignored the look cast at him on behalf of his gender.

  Claire continued. “If their authors are dead and gone, it seems unnecessary to send them back and simpler to let them stay, as long as they remain in the Library and entertain themselves. Learn things. Make up their own minds. Some even find families. So the damsel suite was established.” She turned to Hero with a speculative look. “Though I’m sure they might let a pretty hero like you join if you would rather stay behind.”

  Hero eyed the gathered damsels, color overtaking his cheeks as he made eye contact with a rogue with a wicked smile. Beside him there was a slender, pale-haired princess who flashed a charming smile and hesitantly waggled her fingers. The combined attention appeared to be too much. Hero looked down and surprised her with a flustered noise. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.” Claire leaned against the doorknob, indulging in a good modest gloat. Hero’s cheeks were still pink, and she didn’t miss the small interested glances he gave femme and masculine damsels in equal measure. “Frankly, I’d be impressed if you survived five minutes in here. I didn’t figure you for the shy sort, Hero. It is almost endearing.”

  “Whatever.” Hero stiffened as a damsel nearby got up and reached past him for a book on a shelf. She winked, which appeared to unnerve him more. He skittered back a step, rubbing a delightfully pink cheek. “Fine. Take me with you. I’ll agree to your little promise.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Claire paused to exchange a few words with the damsels. She didn’t bother with the details, but sketched a vague reason for the Library’s temporary shuttering. She guided Hero out the door, closed it with a click, and took off again. “It was a close call last time. Heaven’s not catching us defenseless again.”

  After they returned to the front desk, Claire and Brevity left the boys to finish packing. Librarian and muse disappeared into the stacks for several long minutes to conduct the arcane parts of shutting down the Unwritten Wing.

  Gradually, the Library took on a different tenor. The light spilling from shaded lamps drifted to a cooler tone, fading from amber to blue before dimming entirely. The shadows deepened. The deer that had frolicked in a nearby pastoral painting cast nervous glances outside the frame and disappeared into the oil-painted woods. The air became hushed and heavy.

  Claire’s last act of business was to pat the gargoyle as they slipped out into the corridor. “Hold down the fort, friend,” she murmured. She half turned to look back but abruptly thought better of indulging the guilt that twisted in her stomach. She squared her shoulders and led the party toward the stairs at the far end of the hall. “Hopefully Andras is ready to go.”

  11

  LETO

  Stories and books have had many forms over the centuries. Humans have written down words on paper, but also on wood, clay, bone, bark, ivory, linen, stone, and the skin of every creature under the sun. Logic dictates that the unwritten words would be the same. But the Unwritten Wing is filled, shelf after shelf, with sturdy leather-bound books. Proper, civilized books. Even the Librarian’s Log refers to current collection materials—books, not scrolls. I suppose the log must have some translation magic worked into it, b
ut the Library itself?

  It puzzled me until I came back to the simple truth: stories want to be told. And we, the librarians, are the only readers they have here.

  Unwritten books yearn, and unwritten books change. Yet we expect them to remain timeless. I would say that’s an accurate description of Hell.

  Librarian Claire Hadley, 1990 CE

  BOOKS WERE HEAVIER—AND muses stronger—than they looked. Leto had offered to carry Brevity’s bag and quickly regretted it. He scrunched his nose as he followed the others down the stairs.

  They passed through the Arcane Wing’s ornate double doors, and he nearly collided with Brevity as she came to a sudden stop. Claire’s back went rigid, while Brevity shuddered. Leto craned over her head to see what had startled the librarians.

  He really wished he hadn’t.

  At the center of the laboratory, Andras conferred with two very large lab coats. The sheer size required to fill these lab coats was surprising enough, but then the lab coats turned. The faces above starchy white collars were . . . not there. Or they were there in the same way that the Library’s gargoyle was there—that is to say, in angles and proportions that were only reality adjacent, best not considered straight on. But these faces didn’t just give you a headache, like the gargoyle did; they twisted and writhed and broke through your calm, like sanity-fed maggots. Their smiles contained screams.

  And there were so many. Leto looked away only to see another half dozen such creatures working the shelves. He was certain they hadn’t been there on his previous trip, but now their presence was overwhelming. Leto focused on his shoes and fought the urge to retch. Behind him, Hero made a queasy noise.

  Claire alone kept her eyes riveted straight ahead as she cleared her throat. “I didn’t know you’d taken on interns in the Arcane Wing, Andras. Let alone such . . . prestigious ones. Wherever did you recruit them?”

  The Arcanist looked up from his papers and glanced at the hulking horrors to either side of him with a fond smile. “It is so hard to find reliable help. I’ve had to devote quite a lot of time to recruitment lately.”