by A J Hackwith
“That necessitates that we act without a plan.” Andras was displeased. “I’m a very big proponent of plans. Ardent fan, even.”
Claire waved a vague hand as they left. “Can’t be helped. We’ll be doing this the human way: quick and improvised.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
THE MAIN HALL HAD progressed beyond boisterous celebration and into clusters of dedicated drinkers industriously working toward a stupor. This worked in Claire’s favor, as the path had eased and the largest warriors still blocking her path had become significantly less mobile. She and Andras wound their way through the stifling hall toward Bjorn’s study.
Claire touched her hand to the handle but paused when raised voices trickled through the rough wood.
“Showman like you, thought you’d appreciate admirers.”
“You’re not admiring, lad. You’re molesting.”
“Merely partaking of the simple joy of fine literature. I was bravely wounded in battle, you know.”
“Don’t think I can’t finish the job!”
Claire gave a sigh and pushed through the door. The study was still a picture of clutter and warmth, but this time a very agitated storyteller paced in front of the fireplace. Hero perched in an armchair and shook a partially unfurled scroll as a greeting. “Warden! I do believe I’ve found our host’s weakness. Had you merely rumpled his manuscripts in the ring, this whole nonsense would have resolved itself.”
“I see you’re feeling well enough to be a nuisance again, Hero.”
He was pale, but his wrist appeared restored, and the cuts on his face were gone. He didn’t rise from the chair, which could indicate some stiffness, but he seemed in one piece.
Hero chuckled. “The healers here are marvelous. I suppose they get some practice.”
Claire made sure the door was firmly closed before approaching the group. Brevity and Leto were present, the latter a dark shadow positioned closer to the door, having obviously taken the “keep Bjorn there” order with teenage seriousness. He gave Claire a tight nod as she entered with Andras. Darkness pooled under his eyes, and Claire made a mental note to enforce a rest when they had a chance. Demons didn’t need sleep. Human souls didn’t either, technically, but every human psyche needed a break. Mental breakdowns happened in the afterlife just as easily as they did in the world above, and Leto had been through more than enough.
“Brev, please see if Bjorn can point you in the way of a decent teapot.” Claire had her own ways of shoring up her psyche, after the interrogative game with the angel. Brevity wiggled her way free of couch cushions, and Claire turned her attention to the still glowering storyteller. “Problems, Bjorn?”
“He doesn’t like me reading his books . . . scrolls . . . things,” Hero offered.
“I don’t mind if you read. I mind if you converse with them,” Bjorn snapped, finally succeeding in sweeping the scroll out of Hero’s hands. He turned to Claire. “Who leaves a hero unattended in a library?”
“I watched him!” Brevity protested as she hung a small pot of water— no teapots in Valhalla, but it appeared Brevity had improvised—over the fire.
“Great lot of good it’s done. He’s been chatting up every tale he can get his hands on.”
“I’m a story. They’re a story. I was simply being friendly,” Hero said with an elegant shrug. “Besides, I learned a few things. Lots of strategic texts around here. Might help me keep my head on my shoulders next time I’m forced into the warden’s service.”
“Must you persist in calling me a warden?” Claire asked.
Hero’s smile was a calculated dazzle. “Would you prefer jailer? Or shall I curtsy and call you mistress?”
“Nuisance.”
“Warden.”
“Ass.”
“It’s not right!” Bjorn interrupted, leathery face creating even more wrinkles as he drew a hand over his long beard. “Learning changes a character. Changes a story. This is irresponsible.”
He was entirely correct, and a twinge of regret nagged at her. Claire knew Bjorn’s concern as well as any librarian. Hero was a character. He came out of his book with certain skills, certain knowledge, a personality, even, all based on who he was in his story. The longer he remained separated from his book and unable to go back, the more likely that would change.
If you considered Hero human, it was a good thing. But if you considered Hero what he was—a living portion, only one small part of a larger book—it was making him something other than his original character. It would be harder than ever to fit him back into his pages. It was why when books woke up, excepting the damsels, they were quickly put back to sleep again. But Claire was the one who’d dragged him along. She told herself it was necessary.
It was his choice if he wanted to change. It came with a strange, guilty foreboding, the idea of giving a character a choice again. Of making that mistake again.
“It can’t do any more harm than has already been done.” Claire finally settled on an adequate response.
“Bah!” Bjorn threw up his hands. “Sorry excuse for a party, this is. Just tell me why your apprentice hauled me out of my cups before dawn.”
“Answers, Bjorn. You owe us some, and we don’t intend to wait while you sleep off a hangover.” Claire fished in her pockets until she came up with the Codex Gigas scrap. “You’ve guessed why we’re here.”
Bjorn hissed, shrill like a teakettle. He shoved Claire’s wrist back into her pocket. “Don’t bring that thing out here.” Claire raised her brows and trailed her gaze down to his hand. Bjorn released her with a sigh. “That thing’s brought me nothing but trouble.”
“And yet you seem to have done a shoddy job of ridding the world of it,” Andras observed. Bjorn wheeled on him.
“Destroying it was your predecessor’s job, demon. Not mine. Direct your bellyaching to him. I was just supposed to find the bloody thing,” the storyteller said. He paused to fetch his half-empty mug of ale before continuing. “You must already know about the missing pages, then.”
“Yes,” Claire said before Andras could cast the acid she saw brewing on his lips. “It appears they’ve turned up in the world again. It’s very important that we locate them before any other . . . interested parties.”
“You mean Heaven, eh.” Bjorn did not phrase it as a question, and no one bothered to answer it. “That lot never did understand books. Well, I tracked the book the first time just as you would. The Arcanist brought me in because it was a book. It wasn’t part of my library, but she and I collaborated and created a calling card for the task. Tricky bit of magic, if I do say so myself.”
Claire was desperate enough to entertain hope. “You still have this calling card?”
“Why would I do a fool thing like that?”
“Call it a hunch.” Claire flicked her free hand at the catastrophic clutter around them. “You don’t seem like the type to get rid of anything.”
Bjorn’s fist tightened in his beard and he sighed. “Something wasn’t right. The way the old skinflint was acting about it. Hiding a thing like that on Earth. I mighta held on to a scrap, but it will do you no good. It’s too damaged to give a location.”
Claire’s hopes fell. “There’s no other way to track it?”
“Not by Library means, no.” Bjorn frowned into his mug. The logs in the fire ticked before he seemed to decide something. “But it’s not a book of the Library, not unwritten—it’s a book of the realms. There are means outside the Library.”
Brevity handed Claire her tea and crinkled her brow. “How’s that possible?”
Bjorn chuckled. “Which do you think came first, little apprentice? Books or tales? It’s like I told your senior before. The first library was a song. I daresay I’ve learned more about the sound of a story since I came to Valhalla.”
Claire could tell the old man was dancing aroun
d something he wasn’t exactly eager to share. “So, there is a way to track it. Out with it, Bjorn. Please.”
Bjorn pressed his wrinkled lips together. “There’s more to a story than just its pages. Yes, put together with my fragment, if that little paper of yours cooperates, you might have a way to go. But you’re not going to like what it takes.”
“The best stories are bled,” Claire muttered, almost like a chant, before shrugging. “I’ll do what’s necessary.”
Bjorn’s eyes dropped to the bag on her hip. “You have to give up your books until you find it.”
Claire nearly snorted into her tea, and she set the mug down carefully. “I beg your pardon? Not more of this duel nonsense—”
“Not for a duel, Librarian. Until you locate your quarry, you have to leave your books. It won’t work otherwise.”
“The notes I brought are the only tools I’ll have in the mortal world. You’re asking us to continue on completely defenseless. With two violent representatives from Heaven at our backs.” Claire narrowed her eyes. “You’re going to have to explain a bit more than that.”
“The voice of the book. The music—the song of the tale.” Bjorn paused with a glance toward Leto and Andras. “Every book has it—you know, the book’s way of talking, the words it uses, the rhythm of the speaker in your head as you read. Its voice. Each one a bit unique to the author and the tale. Before the written word, it was even more important. Every storyteller worth their salt knew how to create their own voice, mimic others, and find the beat that wove it.”
“Well, obviously not every storyteller.” Claire was droll. “You’re talking about an actual . . . narrative voice . . . of books. A sound. A song. That’s ridiculous.”
“Says the woman accompanied by a muse, two demons, and Prince Charming,” Andras added.
“I’ve been librarian for three decades and never heard of such a thing.”
“A whole three decades? Goodness.” Bjorn didn’t hide his disdain.
“It . . . makes sense,” Brevity said slowly, drawing Claire’s attention. She fidgeted, fussing with the cooling pot of tea before looking up. “Muses see more parts of a book than librarians do. They got these colors, these— Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if they got a song too.”
“Just so,” Bjorn said. “The Library wouldn’t have bothered with it much. Too many books, too many restless tales coming and going. I didn’t know about it till I got here. Things are . . . more sedate here.”
Hero snorted.
“You learned how to work with these ‘songs’ here in Valhalla,” Claire guessed. “And you think you know the voice, the . . . song . . . of the codex?”
“I don’t.” Bjorn gestured a knobby hand at her skirt pockets. “But if that paper will tell me, I know how to listen. Coupled with the calling card, we might be fixed to jigger a clear tune. A book of the realms won’t be sharing a song with any other book, so it should lead you right to what you’re seeking.”
Claire considered. “You still haven’t explained why I have to leave my books.”
“Too noisy! Too loud. You’re already going to be tryin’ to pick out a who-knows-how-old song out of a million stories in progress in the mortal world. There are ways of sorting that out—written stories, existing stories, simple enough to mute and filter out. But those unwritten books and personal notes in your bag, Librarian? Coupled with your own words? Unwritten stories are like ink in water. You’ll never follow the thread if you’re distracted.”
A disquiet began to creep up Claire’s back. She flicked an unsettled glance at the rest of the group, and Brevity shook her head emphatically. Abandoning her books was antithetical to every duty a librarian had. The only powers she had were with the tools of her office. Even trusting them in the care of another librarian felt . . . wrong.
Without them, she’d be more vulnerable. She’d be more . . . human. Claire dropped her gaze for the first time and studied the fraying edge of the bandage that wrapped around her left arm.
It all came back to finding the lost pages of the codex. Hero’s return to his book, Brevity’s training, Leto’s mystery, even her own duties as librarian of the Unwritten Wing, had all taken a backseat the moment she’d decided to close the Library and follow a raven out of Hell. She was responsible for those that followed after her, though.
It had changed the moment Andras painted a future where the Library could be destroyed for doing its duty. Where Heaven was willing to wage war for a secret. The archangel and the Watcher outside were nothing compared with what that would look like. And if she and Leto, as human souls, got caught outside Hell when their ghostlights went out, even worse things would be after them. She was risking all of them, in various ways.
Abandoning her books would open her to more risks. But it was the only clear path ahead for any of them.
“Teach me this ‘song’ of yours, and I’ll consider leaving my books. Consider it.” Claire paused. “Except one. Hero needs to keep his book nearby, for obvious reasons. Unless Hero believes he’s found his kin in Valhalla?”
Hero let out a mirthless laugh. “Stay with this bearded mayhem? I’d rather eat my sword.”
“See, he’s warmed right up to us. Like family, we are,” Brevity chirped.
Bjorn shuffled his feet, slanting a disgruntled gaze at Hero, before nodding. “It’ll be better if he can keep it quiet, but keep him at a distance when you’re listening, and it might work.”
Claire felt the gathered eyes shift back to her. It felt like a weight settled on her shoulders. She stood, slinging the bag from her grasp. She first dug out Hero’s book, newly replaced pages still gleaming glaring white next to their faded yellow cream brothers. She held it out to him with one hand. “You’re still in Special Collections, mind. Don’t make me regret this.”
“As always, your faith sustains me.” Hero found an inside coat pocket, and the book diminished slightly to fit.
Claire carried the bag over to Brevity and slung the strap over her assistant’s head before she could protest. “Hold these for now.”
Brevity’s nose crinkled as she took the bag. “What are you thinking, boss?”
“Just hold them. We’re not leaving quite yet,” Claire said, dodging the question. That part could wait. Rid of her possessions, she turned again to Bjorn. In her chest there was a lightness that was unexpected. Hollow, vulnerable, but it was done. The act of doing had a decisive power in itself. “Ready when you are, storyteller.”
Bjorn nodded and turned toward the bookcase near the fireplace. He shuffled the scrolls on the middle shelf for a moment before there was a thunk. The shelves melted into thin air to reveal a night full of stars behind it. “We’ll need to get away from my collection as well, if we’re going to be proper about it.”
17
BREVITY
[An entry barely legible through a halfhearted attempt to blot and scrape the parchment clean:]
I’ve been through the records. Each apprentice in the Library can expect, on average, at least a couple decades of education before the sitting librarian retires to wherever they go.
Decades.
. . . I had three years.
I can’t do this. Gregor, I can’t do this. Please.
[Entry followed by a much clearer addition:]
Arcanist Andras has politely offered to assist in the Unwritten Wing until I can brief myself on the full log of instructions. He’s been efficient and helpful, and not asked any more questions than necessary. He’s a godsend, as blasphemous as that phrase may be in my present situation. More than that, he’s been kind. He brought me a new teakettle the other day. God knows where you acquire such a thing down here.
I suppose I’ll have all the time in the world to repay the kindness.
Librarian Claire Hadley, 1989 CE
VALHALLA WAS A CANDY jar to a muse. Brevity’s fingers traced th
e carved wood handle of her mug and she grinned into the fizzy drink, a little drunk on the feeling of it. Valhalla was as full of art and beauty as any afterlife, but what set it apart was passion. Strength and survival and unbridled passion, not anchored to a single song or story but lived. Knit in the blood flow. Salted in the sweat. Simmered in the saliva.
Hmm. Yes, it had definitely gone to Brevity’s head. Not that she could be faulted; if inspiration was the trade of muses, passion was their fuel.
After Claire had foisted her bag onto Brevity and followed Bjorn, Hero had announced he needed to drink, and Brevity followed under the guise of making sure he didn’t disappear with his book. That had been nearly an hour ago. Now Hell’s contingent took up a table at the far side of the hall and sat—human, demon, book, and muse—avoiding one another by contemplating their drinks. It struck Brevity that Claire had picked them all up, for one reason or another, like toy soldiers. Without her abrading presence, they fell apart.
Brevity, at the very least, could fix that. “Whatchya got?” she asked, perhaps a bit too loudly, pointing to Leto’s drink.
He nearly choked on his sip. “Cider. Hero found it for me.”
“From the kids’ table,” Hero supplied with a wink.
“Not sure Valhalla would have that,” Brevity said.
“With these savages, it wouldn’t surprise me if there was. Can’t you see it? Murderous children! Slaying toddlers for honor and other useless virtues . . .” Hero managed to get his bandage wet as his drink sloshed. He pulled a face. “At least there’s liquor.”
“No desire for honor?” Andras joined in, which surprised Brevity. In all the years she’d been in his acquaintance, the Arcanist had possessed excellent manners but also a low tolerance for small talk. Now he looked at Hero like he was a particularly novel new artifact.
