The Library of the Unwritten

by A J Hackwith

  “Honor is nothing but cold pity for the dead. Better not to fail at staying alive. Or avoid the conflict in the first place,” Hero said.

  Andras’s eyes narrowed. “A rather unorthodox position for a hero to take.”

  A tic appeared in Hero’s jaw and was just as quickly tucked away. “I’ll choose to interpret that as a compliment. There are plenty of ways to be . . . heroic.” His brow knit, and he frowned into his drink before changing the subject. “Does it bother you that we seem to be left waiting around like useless lapdogs?”

  “I don’t know. You did get to star in that duel,” Leto offered, and Hero snorted.

  “The next call we have for a sacrificial lamb, the honor’s all yours.”

  “Could you have really died?” Leto asked, betraying more curiosity than he seemed ready to admit. Brevity had noted the way his eyes had brightened as he watched the fight, much more interested in the deadly slaughter between Hero and the giant than in Claire’s battle of words. He was a teenage boy, so some excitement might be expected, but she didn’t like the way Leto had finally seemed to perk up at violence and cruelty. Demon things, not human things, in Brevity’s opinion. Claire insisted Leto was human, but Brevity could see more. Leto was a human, but a hollowed-out human. Someone had scooped out his human life and filled him all up with darkness and demon stuff, like tar inside a candy shell. Brevity worried that unless they drained it out soon, the tar would stick. And that’d be a tragedy. Leto was sweet, and there was nothing more amazing than a human, in Brevity’s book.

  “I mean, being a book or . . . a character from a book and all,” Leto finished weakly.

  “I’m sorry—was my bruising not realistic enough for you? Prefer a little more ink on the sand? Did my wrist not crack in a convincing manner? Really, what more heroics do you expect of me?” Hero arched a brow. “Without a welcoming book that I can return to and escape damage, I am just as destructible as anyone else. More so, even, since I don’t have a soul like a human. I’ll crack and burn and fall to ash easy as anything.” Hero’s lip curled. “You saw for yourself—just because a book can be fixed doesn’t mean it can’t be ruined.”

  He’d done that damage to himself, but Brevity wasn’t about to rouse his irritation by saying so. Leto tilted his head. “But it’s not as if any of us are mortal—”

  “There are worse things done to a man than death,” Andras mused.

  There was a tone in the way he said it, academic and contemplative of potential. Hero’s disdain turned toward a new target. “That sounds like a threat, Arcanist. But you’re the cheapest puzzle out of all of us, I think.”

  Andras’s smile grew indulgent. He reclined in his seat. “Please, go on.”

  Hero didn’t need the encouragement. “You’re a demon, and demons seek power. You’re a former duke, so I am guessing you never shied from ambition. Yet you’re dusting trinkets in the Library. The Arcane Wing—and the relationship with Claire—what’s it get you?”

  The light of the longhouse had shifted as the celebrations had wound down, flickering torches and thick lanterns swaying under the jostling tremors of hundreds of Valhalla’s residents. The shadow that slid across Andras’s face could have been that, had it not pulled his features with it. Eyes darker, smile sharper, skin the color of old bone.

  “Perhaps it gets me left alone,” Andras said before Brevity could attempt an intervention. “Most learn after a brief period of my acquaintance to leave me alone. In case you haven’t heard, I’m retired.”

  “I was under the impression demons never retired,” Hero persisted.

  “I was under the impression that heroes weren’t impertinent fools.”

  “It appears we both exceed expectations,” Hero allowed. Brevity thought perhaps he would drop it, but of course not. “And what do you want with Claire?”

  “The librarian and I have a long history. You should remember that. She trusts me much more than she trusts you,” Andras said, acid sweet. “Does that chafe, young hero?”

  “Hardly.” Hero let out a dignified sniff. “I’d expect wardens to plot together.”

  “D-don’t take it personal-like!” Brevity was too happy to latch onto the insecure underbelly of Hero’s words. Her stomach was already tied up in knots. Hero and Andras were frowning at each other, trading feints to reveal a hidden weakness. It struck Brevity as pointless—of course they all had secrets, regrets. It was what Hell was for. She stole Hero’s attention by slapping him on the back. “Boss is really a softy underneath. She didn’t care for me much either when I showed up.”

  “That woman doesn’t have a caring bone in her body,” Hero said dismissively.

  Brevity’s smile pulled tight. “It’s a mite more complicated than that.”

  Understatement was something she’d learned from Claire. Brevity remembered cold tension, ashen skin, orders simmering with resentment, secrets tucked in the shadow of her eyes. The questions and library shelves Claire avoided. Muses were naturally drawn to humans, but Claire was an unwritten author. Brevity still caught her, now and then, staring at the inspiration on her skin, thoughts locked and far away.

  Muses loved humans, authors doubly so, but the relationship with authors was always more complicated. Brevity had broken through Claire’s hostility, in the end, with aggressive friendliness. Humans couldn’t see like muses—they were practically blind, relying only on what things looked like on the outside. So Brevity had shaped her outside to what Claire needed. A cheerful teenage girl in need of guidance. Her apparent age, her personality, the way she talked. Muses had a knack for understanding what an author needed.

  Claire had needed a friend. Maybe Claire still did.

  “Give her time. She’ll warm up to ya. You’ll see,” Brevity insisted, and put her full force of will into believing it.

  “Mmm, no doubt you’ll be eating out of the palm of her hand in time,” Andras said. “Characters are fools for authors.”

  “She’s not my author.” Hero sounded positively horrified by the idea. “Your whole library can burn for all I care.”

  Instead of taking offense, Andras smiled so that it reached his eyes for the first time. “You are such an interesting hero, aren’t you?”

  Hero came to an unnatural stillness. Before Brevity could figure out a new distraction, the door to Bjorn’s office boomed open.

  Claire slunk through at a simmer, shaking her head at a parchment in her hands. Bjorn followed, and made an injured sound when Claire rolled up the paper and slapped it at him. “Well, this complicates things.”

  “We know where the codex pages are, then?” Leto asked.

  “Bjorn’s trick doesn’t pinpoint a location, even with the paper shaving he has generously titled a calling card.” Claire pointed to the carefully folded map in Bjorn’s hands. “We can track it as far as an island in the Mediterranean. My educated guess would be Malta. We’ll have to hope that the so-called song is clearer when we get there.”

  “You’ll hear it. If you clear your head of other books.” Bjorn unfolded the map and Claire leaned over his arm as they made notations.

  Brevity took the chance to assess Claire. Her skin was waxy, shadows smudging her eyes and lips pressed thin. A pang of guilt washed over her, and she wondered if Bjorn’s method would have been easier if she’d accompanied her. There’d been a moment, as they prepared to leave, when Bjorn had cast a silent glance at her inspiration gilt, a question in his eyes. Claire could leave behind her books, and Brevity would follow her anywhere. But there were things Brevity could not leave behind. Blue lines itched and twined against the soft skin of her wrist.

  “The bigger question,” Claire said after they were done, “is how to get there. I suspect ravens don’t work both ways?”

  “Ravens travel the realms freely, but only go to Midgard on Odin’s word. If you think the ways of proving yourself to Valhalla are tediou
s, you don’t want to try to seek the All-father’s blessing.”

  “Fantastic,” Claire muttered. “I assume you’re about to suggest an alternative.”

  Bjorn grinned. “There’s always the boat.”

  Claire rumpled her braids wearily. “Trust Vikings not to leave a simple road in and out of their own paradise.”

  “Where would the fun be in that?”

  “Fun is not the primary—”

  Hero cleared his throat and gestured. “Pardon the interruption of what I’m sure is about to be a fascinatingly dry debate, but you may wish to continue this on the way out.” The mead-soaked chatter had shifted in the hall. Between bobbing heads and walls of armor, the two angels at the door had begun to argue. The tall woman in white—Uriel, Claire had said—turned abruptly and began to shove through the crowd. Her progress was hampered by the drum pit, but her gaze hunted through the crowd before locking on them.

  “I don’t think she wants a drink,” Brevity murmured.

  “So much for keeping the peace and slipping out quietly.” Claire turned to Bjorn. “I assume there’s another exit?”

  “Valhalla hosts a door to each site of battle,” Bjorn said grandly before adding, “and a couple to a nice picnicking spot or two.” He shoved open the door to his quarters. “This way.”

  Brevity made to follow but stopped when Andras caught Claire’s sleeve. They traded whispered words, and Claire looked displeased when Andras winked and stepped back into the crowd. Bjorn shoved the door behind them when they caught up. “About time that creature made himself useful.”

  Claire bristled. “Andras is a good—”

  “Oh, I know precisely what the Arcanist is,” Bjorn muttered grimly. He fished a tiny ivory tube from his pocket. It looked like a quill, but when he brought it to his lips, it let out a tritone trill. “Arlid, I got a task for your folk.”

  “I am sure she’s close by,” Claire said dryly.

  Not waiting for a response, Bjorn led them through a new door in his study that opened to one crowded hallway. A tuneless hum cut through the low roar of voices. Brevity realized it was coming from Bjorn, causing Valhalla warriors to shift as they passed. Once they were through, the crowd seemed to redouble their celebrations, creating a rowdy wall between them and the angels pursuing.

  “That’s a neat trick,” Brevity said.

  “Storytelling.” Bjorn gave a sly wink. “Try it sometime, lass. I bet you got a fair hand.”

  They shoved through a final door, and cool air swept some of the tension from Brevity. The wide meadow behind the longhouse was still and empty, painted indigo by starlight.

  Shadows untangled from the eaves above them. Arlid, captain of the ravens, rose out of a crouch and dusted her leathers. “You called, storyteller?”

  “We have some guests taking undue advantage of our hospitality. Not them.” Bjorn waved his hand as the raven women wheeled on Claire. “The angels are getting twisted about in the halls behind us. I reckon it might be time to show them the way back to Heaven.”

  “With pleasure.” Arlid’s mouth curved into an unpleasant smile. “But what about them?”

  “They are taking a different road,” Bjorn grunted. “Just find and escort the two angels—they’re likely getting into an illegal tiff with a hapless demon.”

  “One more, if I may,” Claire said, drawing their attention. She had her hands folded in front of her in that rigid way that she always had when she was pretending to be harsher than she was. “One of my companions will also be returning to the Library in Hell.”

  A wilted sound came from Leto. He stepped forward, already entreating. “Please, I can do this—”

  “Leto—”

  “We’re going to Earth. I’ve got a ghostlight and can help! I—”

  “You will,” Claire cut him off. Leto stopped and tilted his head like a confused puppy, and Claire squeezed his shoulder. Then she turned. Her eyes sought out Brevity, and Brev’s stomach dropped. “You have the books.”

  Brevity’s hand clenched around the bag she was still holding, then started to try to disentangle itself from it. “Me? No—boss, you need me.” Her voice cracked, threatening to show the start of a panic she was too proud to admit to. Claire more than needed her. Of all the people she thought Claire would set aside, it couldn’t be her. Brevity was her assistant. She was supposed to assist.

  She wasn’t quite sure who she was if she didn’t assist. Failed muse, now a failed assistant? No. The thought felt like a fist clenched around her gut. “You need— Well, you need all the help you can get. I’m—”

  “You’re a librarian of Hell.” Claire’s voice was steeled, unforgiving. She stopped Brevity’s movements and shoved the bag back into her possession. “I can’t take my books, and we can’t leave the Library unattended. I need you to return and take care of the books. This scavenger hunt may take longer than planned.”

  Her eyes were burning. Brevity tried to blink the despair away. “But—what changed?”

  “Angels. Secrets. Too many coincidences. Something about this is not right.” Her gaze flicked significantly over Brevity’s head before returning. “I’ll feel better knowing there’s someone responsible taking care of the books.”

  Claire’s compliments were rare things. In other circumstances, Brevity might have flushed under the praise. Instead, Brevity’s throat felt tight. “I’m your assistant.”

  “And you’re a librarian. I trust you.” The honesty in Claire’s voice stepped Brevity’s panic down to a simmer. Honesty from Claire was also a gift, when not wielded like a weapon. Her smile was weak, so instead Claire swiftly reequipped herself with a frown. She squeezed Brevity’s arm. “I’m just going on an errand. Don’t be so sentimental.”

  Anxiety still twisted tight against her ribs, but she forced air between her teeth. “You can count on me.”

  “Good.” As usual, Claire misread anxiety as eagerness. Brevity could barely enjoy the rare, warm smile that was there and gone. “Now, listen. Go back with the ravens. Wake up the Library—it will listen to you. I’ll send messages if I can—you can have Walter help you do the same. Business as usual, but if anything troubling occurs, you have full authority to lock it down. Got it?”

  “Lock it down? But I don’t—”

  “You can do this.” Claire swept her up into a smothering hug that was almost as alarming as her orders. Things were truly serious if Claire was hugging. “I expect tea when we get back.”

  Brevity felt like she’d swallowed a slug. “Don’t have any fun without me.”

  Claire made a dismissive noise. “No books, no annoying assistant, Mediterranean island. Going to be a vacation. Might not come back.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Further words were cut off by a disturbance of wood and steel coming from the longhouse. Arlid glanced at Bjorn, and he nodded.

  “If yer goin’, now is the time.”

  “We are.” Claire released Brevity and nudged her toward the raven woman. “Make sure she gets back safe.”

  “That’s up to her soul.” Arlid gripped Brevity by her shoulders, jerked, and then the meadow disappeared in a smothering rush of frost and feathers.

  18

  CLAIRE

  Books have songs, songs have stories, and then there’re humans at the heart of the jumbled mess. I’ve come to the conclusion that you just can’t subtract a human from the story, no matter how hard you try. Even death doesn’t do that.

  Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1712 CE

  BJORN LED THEM ON a serpentine path across the field, hiding their escape in a churn of lavender that tickled and tugged at Claire’s skirts and suffused the air with flowers. The day had passed twilight into the kind of crystal night seen only in the after-realms. There was no wind to carry sound, but no one spoke, and for once Claire was happy for an absence of words. Leto’s concern fluttered at her ba
ck like a wounded bird.

  She wasn’t running away, precisely. She was fulfilling her responsibilities, sending Brevity back to the Library. She’d waited too long to give Brev more responsibility anyway. Even if this all turned out to be a fool’s errand, it was good for Brev to get a feel for running the desk. Brevity was competent, talented. The Library would mind her, and nowhere was safer. She would be fine.

  She would be fine.

  “All aboard.” Bjorn broke into her thoughts as they stopped at the edge of a lake.

  It was the same shore that they’d arrived on, cold and barren. There was no dock, just a stone-mortared embankment jutting out into the dark water like a tooth. A shabby weapon stand and a coil of rope were the only things that marked any official status. A small, open wood boat swayed, half-anchored on the sand. It was larger than a canoe, and the lip of the thin wood was painted a cheery green that didn’t reassure Claire in the slightest.

  Thick gravel churned under their feet, and the water sent a shock of ice through Claire’s feet where it lapped at the toes of her shoes. She climbed aboard and Hero and Leto followed with significantly more reserve.

  “We’re sailing to Earth?” Leto asked, as if, after the day he’d had, that would be the logical conclusion.

  “Just till we get out of the realm.” Claire tossed Bjorn the rope that anchored them and passed an oar to Hero.

  “I hope you know more of sailing than I do, warden.” Hero eyed the oar with reluctance but positioned himself to row.

  “Head toward the mists, fast as you can.” Bjorn braced a foot on the bow of the boat and gave a shove to dislodge it from the gravel. “I’ll handle the rest.”

  “Right. You’ve got the hard part.” Claire caught herself as the boat began to hitch and bob beneath her.

  “Just find those blasted scribbles before Heaven does.”

  “Beat an archangel, divert war, save our souls. Simple as that?” Claire called.