The Library of the Unwritten

by A J Hackwith

  Claire shook her head. “And here I thought I was your only mentee. I’m crushed.”

  “You’re still my favorite.” Andras gave an indulgent smile.

  “What are those things?” Leto hissed to Brevity.

  “Horrors, they got a lot of different names aboveground. You don’t usually see them outside the lower levels of Hell. Demons use them sometimes to keep a legion in line.” Brevity frowned at the lab floor as she hung back.

  “They most definitely shouldn’t be here.” Claire dropped her voice so it wouldn’t carry to Andras’s very sharp hearing. “The Library isn’t supposed to deal in torment. Or tormentors.”

  “Not for humans at least,” Brevity said, catching Claire’s gaze with a coded look.

  “Not normally dealing in torment,” Claire corrected after a weighted moment. “This is not normal.”

  “Maybe they’re the runts. Castoffs and rejects of the proper Horrors,” Hero suggested. He’d recovered enough to pull level to Claire and sneer at the creatures that towered above them. “Seems this place deals in that kind of thing.”

  “Either way, it’s none of our business.” Claire let out a little breath as the Horrors turned away. Leto found it comforting that even she was unnerved by them. She nodded to Andras as she raised her voice. “If you’re ready to go . . . ?”

  “Absolutely. Just through here.” Andras led them farther into the lab, winding around shelves, limned with dust, that held strange artifacts. A rusted ring that glowed black. Spectacles that didn’t quite reflect the same image in their lenses. Red gems, black pearls, white bones. And stacks of books, books that were still, not lively like the unwritten ones. They emanated a thick, pulsing power nonetheless. It made Leto long to wipe the goose bumps off the backs of his arms.

  The raucous cawing of ravens could be heard all through the Arcane Wing, but it grew louder as they drew closer to the back. Turning the corner of a tall row of shelves revealed a rookery of cages, each filled with a black bird. Ruffled feathers and suspicious eyes turned to meet them. Andras brought the group to a halt and fiddled with a large key ring, occasionally fitting a key to a lock on a cage as he muttered.

  “I assume you’re familiar with such conveyance,” he said.

  “In theory, yes,” Claire answered, looking about as displeased to see the ravens as they did her.

  Andras finally opened the first cage with a flourish and paused to give her a sideways glance. “You’re certain you and your people are up for this, Librarian?”

  “Capable and willing. Your concern is kind, Andras, but misplaced.” Claire tightened the bag across her chest. “We’ll have time before there’s any cause for alarm. A trip to Valhalla’s wing is unusual but still in the bounds of my duties as librarian.”

  “And then? Surely you don’t think Valhalla holds what we’re looking for.”

  “After Valhalla . . .” Claire hesitated, and Leto caught the way her eyes measured him in a glance. “The ghostlights will buy us time once we hit Earth. It’ll be suspicious, but His Nastiness won’t bother sending Hounds until it’s obvious we’ve flown the coop without permission. I suppose we will just need to avert disaster within twenty-four hours and return before the lights run out.”

  “A reasonable assumption.” Andras did not seem as sure, but he turned back to the caged ravens. “As you say. Demons do not need to worry about such things. But the afterlife would be such a dimmer place without you in it, mind.”

  “Oh, get off it. You’d be moving the furniture in my wing in a heartbeat.” Claire almost but not quite stifled a smile. “Let’s get going.”

  “Right, then.” Andras cleared his throat and expanded his address to everyone. “Simple process. Pull a feather, give the bird your treasure, then run like the dickens after it.”

  “Run where?” Hero asked with a frown.

  “Wherever it takes you. All ravens know how to get to Valhalla—they’re creatures of Odin. But they’re contrary beasts, require a firm hand, from what I can tell. The path between realms is treacherous.” Andras settled into a tone that made it obvious he was used to issuing orders and not answering questions. “Ravens have myopic, greedy natures. They can be bought, for a price. You must offer it something you dearly value. The shinier the better, but you’ll need to be quick to reclaim it at the other end.” He raised his brows expectantly at Claire, who nodded.

  “Leto and I have our ghostlights. Hero, you will offer your sword. And Brevity . . .”

  “Stupid raven better not claw it up.” Brevity was already picking at the skin of her wrist. Leto blinked as the edge of one propane blue tattoo slowly came away from her skin. Brevity kept it pinched between two fingers as delicate translucent lines twisted and squirmed in the air. It glimmered in the low light, like the shed skin of something beautiful and rare.

  “What is that?” Leto asked. He tried to keep his voice down but knew he was gawking nonetheless.

  Brevity’s answer was muttered, quiet enough that Leto barely caught it. “Inspiration.” After a moment, the muse raised her voice but didn’t risk more than a glance at Leto. “I kept it. Muses are just supposed to transport inspiration to humans, deliver it at the right time and place, help things along. That’s it. That’s why I was kicked out. I was a good muse at first, but . . . well, build enough dreams for other people, and you start wanting to make something for yourself.”

  “Inspiration?” Leto repeated. “You mean that’s someone else’s sto—”

  “It’s mine.” Brevity’s voice cracked.

  Claire cast an oblique glance at where Andras and Hero were engaged in dickering about his sword, then rested a hand on Brevity’s shoulder to guide her a polite distance away. She lowered her voice. “Brev, it’s okay.”

  Brevity flinched. She gave Claire an uncharacteristically bleak look before her gaze shied away to her arm again. “Muses aren’t supposed to keep anything for themselves. I was sent to the Library for punishment.”

  “Muses aren’t my biggest fans,” Claire explained.

  “You weren’t exactly thrilled yerself, boss.”

  Claire’s mouth twisted. “I refuse to be anyone’s punishment.”

  “If we’ve all got our valuables . . .” Andras cleared his throat, breaking the sympathetic quiet that had derailed the two librarians. His eyes were sharp, though, and Leto had the uncomfortable feeling that no incidental admission made in front of the demon was missed. “I thought you may want to take your companions through first, and I’ll bring up the rear.”

  Claire composed herself. “You’re the arcane expert here, Andras. Perhaps you should lead.”

  The Arcanist and the librarian exchanged a look, held just a second too long to be casual, before Andras nodded. “Off we go, then. Try to keep up.”

  Andras opened a cage and hauled one of the birds out by its legs, awkwardly enough to make the whole rookery take up complaint. He dodged snapping beaks and thumped it harshly on the side of the head until the poor bird lay still. He plucked a single black feather from its side and offered a tiny silver dagger from his pocket in exchange. A fragmented jewel in the hilt shone and glimmered independent of the light.

  The raven eyed it, tilting its head to one side, then another, before snapping up the bauble. Andras had to jerk back his hand to preserve his fingers. He swore, but in a fitful burst of feathers, the raven launched into the air and took off down the aisle.

  Leto watched, wide-eyed. “But where’s it—”

  The raven, with Andras close on its heels, passed through the rocky face of the far wall. The rock shifted, then snapped back into place with a vaguely jelly-like wobble. Leto’s stomach swam to watch it.

  Claire rattled at the lock on the next cage. “There’s your demonstration. Let’s get moving. Brevity, you next. Then Hero and Leto.”

  Claire reached into the cage with far more care than
Andras had and came out with a calm—if gravely annoyed—raven perched on her wrist. She passed the bird to Brevity, who took a steadying breath before plucking a feather and offering the bird her shimmering ribbon of light. The bird snatched it up, and they were off, running toward the same rock face at the end of the aisle.

  Hero cast a shrewd glance toward Claire. “I don’t suppose you’ll let me carry my own book. You might get lost after all.”

  Claire snorted and shook her head. “Your care for my well-being is touching, as always. I’ll be along with the book right behind you.”

  “The connection—”

  “I’ll risk that it’ll hold. Now go, book.”

  Hero allowed one disappointed curl of his lip before he repeated the procedure. His raven took off, flying with ease despite the large sword clutched in its talons. Leto supposed immortal magic birds were bound to be strong.

  Claire turned to Leto. “All right. You’ve seen how the others did it.”

  “Right.” Leto eyed the wall, which looked worryingly solid. The others hadn’t even had the courtesy to flinch. He wondered what happened when you flinched. He wondered what happened when you fucked this up too.

  “The running is the easy part.” Claire stroked the waiting raven’s head. “The vital thing is to keep your eyes on the raven. It can be tricky in there. It’s a road between worlds, nowhere and everywhere at once. No matter what you hear, no matter what you think you see—follow the bird. Stay focused. Got it?”

  Leto doubted anything in the world could possess him to abandon a magical lifeline, but the creases in the librarian’s brow prompted him to nod with more confidence than he felt. “Got it.”

  “Good. I’ll be right behind you.” Claire handed him the raven. Its claws were gentle as they clamped around his wrist, dry but smooth and hot. The bird was surprisingly heavy and swayed on his forearm. Dark beady eyes regarded him with a canny kind of judgment. The bird gave only a disgruntled croak as Leto plucked the smallest feather he could manage from its chest. He swallowed hard, then opened his hand to reveal the ghostlight.

  It had once again become a white candle upon its return to Hell, though slightly shorter and with a melted pool of wax around the wick. Leto had worried it wouldn’t be shiny enough to be acceptable, but the raven gave it a careful once-over, then snapped it up. Hard nails pinched momentarily into his skin as the raven launched itself into the air.

  And then they were running. Leto was so concerned about keeping up that they’d passed through the rock face before he’d had a chance to anticipate the impact. The moment they were through, shadows swam up and engulfed him. The world narrowed to only the bobbing bird ahead of him, white candle clutched in its claws like an arrow pointing the way. Frost ticked up the back of his neck, but he kept his eyes locked straight ahead.

  Not so bad, Leto thought.

  Then the whispers started.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  “BOYS. STOP BEING LITTLE monkeys and smile for the picture.”

  Leto stumbled. His stomach dropped as he spun in the direction of the voice. It echoed around him, as if the speaker was lost in the cavernous dark. He twisted around and barely caught sight of the black bird disappearing into the fog. He broke into a run again, but it felt slower, as if he was covering less ground than before.

  “You got to check this out.”

  “That’s crazy.” Leto’s lips moved around the response. It was his voice, and they were his lips that spoke it, and they felt like his words, but it was wrong, all wrong. As if he were watching himself from far away. His legs gave out beneath him, and it was a shorter fall to the ground than it should have been. His knees banged against a soft surface that was suddenly slippery and pliable. Leto smelled chlorine and sun-warmed rubber, an inner tube in a shady backyard pool. The laughter that cut up through his constricted throat felt like a foreign presence. “Did you see the one where he—”

  “I know, right? We could totally start our own channel.”

  The other voice was young and gleefully confident, just over his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure swirled through the deep mist, and it took every inch of self-control not to twist to face it. He shoved to his feet, though he could feel his body changing. The bob of the ghostlight was a speck in the dark. He ran, even as his legs stretched and returned to something like normal.

  “You never got time to chill anymore.” And now the voices sounded older.

  “I’m just busy. You know.” The words were frosty with apathy. Leto tried not to say them, but they forced their way out anyhow.

  “Yeah. I know.”

  Everything felt familiar, like an echo. Leto clutched his fist over his chest, where an ache bloomed. The ground swayed, roiling with the mists, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his feet. The raven didn’t care. He was swimming after the bird to—where, forward? Backward? Deeper in or farther out? Time dilated, a drip of fatigue in his veins. Like bleeding out. A lulling exhaustion, spiked with dread.

  His lips parted again, and there was no fighting this painful script. “Stop, Darren. I don’t have time—”

  No. Don’t, Leto thought.

  “I just thought—”

  Stop. Leto tried to bite his mouth closed to keep it in. You don’t know—it ruins everything. Don’t say it, don’t—

  Pain blossomed over the horror, and Leto’s lips bled as they parted. “Well, don’t. Shit, Darren. Don’t bother thinking. Just don’t.”

  The feather crumpled in his fist, and a new pain brought him back. The quill had pierced his fingertip. It wasn’t in the script. It was enough. He gasped and stumbled through the fog. The raven’s distant form abruptly swerved up. It took a panicked scramble before Leto found where the ground inclined, rising up toward liquid shadows that poured between a gap of nothing that seemed thicker, darker, somehow.

  “Who? Darren? God, no. He just always hangs around. . . .”

  Again his voice betrayed him, stealing his breath. This time it came with a chill of calculation. Hope. The primal adolescent instinct that pointing to someone weaker somehow makes you strong.

  Acid burned up Leto’s throat and pooled on his tongue. It tasted bitter, like loathing. Leto hated that voice and hated himself. Maybe he deserved to be lost here. Maybe the others would fare better without him. They would, wouldn’t they? Leto twisted to find the voice but stumbled midstep. And then he was falling. Leto’s arms windmilled out for something, anything. An alien sound intruded, a digital ping that Leto struggled to place in his panic. Then a last voice that hissed out and bounced into the darkness:

  “If you want to die so bad, why don’t you hurry up and do it, then?”

  Leto didn’t even try to fight it this time. The voice was cruel and viciously cold. The voice was his.

  Light. Air. Cool hands pressed on the back of his neck. Grass tickled his hands, and the air filled his lungs with the smell of green, sunlit things.

  12

  CLAIRE

  A librarian exists in service to the books, and takes peace in that. Future librarians, I exhort you: do not meddle in the affairs of Hell or concern yourself with the mortal world. Our time there is past, but the stories we shepherd are immortal. What we do here echoes in eternity.

  Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 971 CE

  [Scribbled at a much later date in a slightly sloppy hand:]

  Bleed that. We got a job to do, sure, but what good’s a librarian without a story of his own?

  Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1253 CE

  THE MOUNTAINS WERE BLACK and sharp, like the ribs of an ancient giant rimming the field of flowers. The closest peaks were spotted with white snowfall and a sparkle of glacial ice. It was daylight, but traces of northern lights played hide-and-seek against the far clouds drifting like passing thoughts. It was a perfect blend of mythic reverence and dreamlik
e impossibility. It was ridiculous, half-forgotten heroics with changing faces, half mead and belief turned legend turned pop culture. It was Valhalla.

  Claire had time to soak it in only after they retrieved their possessions from the ravens, who left in a huff. Brevity had been the fastest, snatching her own glimmering ribbon from her raven and pausing to drape it gently over one wrist. It twitched a protest, then absorbed seamlessly back into the complicated patterns tattooed on her arm.

  A strangled cry caught her attention. Leto had arrived last, even though Claire had brought up the rear. That alone wasn’t concerning; the raven roads were always changing. Each path was unfathomable and personal. However, the way he crouched in the grass, breath short and hands fisted tight in his hair, drew everyone’s attention.

  “Leto.” Claire dropped to a knee beside him. His shoulders spasmed violently away at her touch, though the rest of him didn’t appear to acknowledge her at all. His breath was a fevered, shallow wheeze. She gently threaded his fingers away from his hair before he pulled it out by the roots. “What’s wrong?”

  Leto stared at his hands in reply, fists clenching and unclenching. Claire could feel his pulse merging into a single fluttering drumbeat under her hand. She was about to try to shake him out of it when Brevity jostled between them.

  “He’s having a panic attack,” Brevity said crisply as she clasped Leto’s clammy hands and rubbed gently up his arm. “Leto, hey, buddy. We’re safe. Doesn’t feel like it, but we are. We’re gonna take as long as you need, okay?”

  Leto didn’t respond, so Brevity dropped to her knees next to him. “You’re right. Brains are fuckin’ liars. But you got this. No rush. I’m going to count to four; maybe you can breathe for me. Four in, four out.” And then, a few moments later, “Want to walk around? No? Good choice—this grass is kind of scratchy, don’t you think? And that air—smells like butterfly farts, yeah? Look at those squishy, weird flowers. Wonder if you can eat ’em. . . .” Brevity kept up the words, grounding him, creating a steady, soft patter that, over a handful of minutes, slowly eased Leto’s shoulders away from his ears. Brevity produced a small blue bottle from her bag and pressed it into his hands before shooing the rest of them away to give Leto a chance to recover.