by Nick Martell
I let go of his wrist. “No.”
“Then I suppose you’re not a Shadow Fabricator.”
I grumbled as we walked on. “I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to know what my type is, or where to begin, or anything.”
“Listen to your body, Michael. All Fabricators use their specialization involuntarily before they learn how to control it. You’re no different, you just don’t recognize how you use it yet.”
“I always thought there was a more refined way to learn how to use Fabrications. This seems scattered.”
“There was a formal process once, but after Hollow Academy was shut down that knowledge was kept secret. Twelve Fabricators still know it, and all but one of them are employed by the High Noble families to train their armies. We don’t have the time to recruit one to teach you.”
“Guess not. What is using Fabrications like for you, then?”
“It’s like taking a deep breath in and then exhaling it.”
Trey had described it as attempting to lighten the world around him. But what was it for me?
I stopped and looked at him. “What is your specialization, anyway?”
Domet chuckled, and it surprised me when he didn’t reach for his flask. “Michael, you just learned never to share your Fabrication specialization until it’s absolutely necessary… so why would I tell you?”
“Because you’re supposed to teach me how to use Fabrications.”
“And I’ve taught you everything you need to know. The rest is up to you. Listen to your body, Michael. Fabrication is as much anatomy as it is magic.” Domet dropped five gold suns into my palm. “I have things I need to take care of, so we’ll part here for the day. Visit before first light tomorrow. You’ll need to be ready for the hunt. Don’t do anything stupid tonight.”
I watched him limp away, with a thousand thoughts within my head. Had my body been trying to tell me something for years and I’d been ignoring it? If I figured out whatever it was, would I be able to use my Fabrications? I didn’t have any answers, but I wouldn’t give up. I’d learn how to use Fabrications, and soon. If only I had listened to Trey.
Only after Domet was out of sight did I remember my other questions for him: about Dark having two Fabrication types… and why I would have forgotten two women from my past. I’d have to ask tomorrow or still be clueless the next time I dealt with any of them.
As I stood in the shadow of a tree, I ran my hands over my arms, trying to get warm. It was only moments before a warmth covered my body, easing the coolness from the breeze. This was the first time in days that I didn’t know what to do next. Would meditating for the day help me use Fabrications, or should I do something else? What was the most practical use of my limited free time?
Lyon and Trey wanted nothing to do with me, I had no new leads for natural or magical cures that could help my mother, and Gwen was… somewhere. She hadn’t been home and her shift in the asylum didn’t start until early evening. Sometimes she seemed to vanish and it was impossible to find her until she wanted to be found. I had no leads to find Dark, and though I could go search for Sirash and his family on the East Side, if Dark was still looking for me, then I didn’t want to lead him to them. I hated not knowing if Sirash was well, but he wouldn’t want me to get arrested instead of waiting a few days to hear from him.
Truly, the only thing I hadn’t prepared for, to some extent, was what would happen whenever I ran into the Mercenary again. I wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever, and eventually he’d come for me to reclaim his papers. I’d have to have a countermeasure against him for when he did. And the only things I knew about him were the contents of the envelope he had killed for: the first page of the investigation of Davey Hollow’s murder, a glass ring, and some handwritten notes about a battle where a Mercenary company had been after a book called The Journal of the Archmage.
If Dark was like his fellow Mercenaries, maybe he was searching for The Journal of the Archmage, too… and if I could find it, well, maybe I’d have something to prevent him from trying to kill me whenever we ran into each other again. Not that his last negotiation had gone terribly well for the opposing party.
Since I didn’t have any other bright ideas to fill my day and didn’t want to waste it meditating, I took off toward the Hollow Library to search for a book that might save my life. To get it, all I would have to do was barter with a madman obsessed with destroying my family’s legacy.
THE KING OF STORIES
The Hollow Library was huge.
There were bookshelves everywhere. Where they didn’t line the walls or fill the floor with stacks, the great wheels on each side of the bookcases ready to inch them along their tracks, there were tables and chairs, groaning under even more piles of books. Above it all, the painted ceiling depicted two dragons, one silver and the other black, circling around the skylight. The gorgeous colors had dulled and cracked with age, darkening everything beneath it in turn. At the very center of the foyer, beneath the skylight, was a curved redwood table with an Archivist, the caretakers of the written words, sitting at it. She had her red hood drawn up, her face almost completely obscured.
As I approached the table I said, “Hello. Could you help me find a book?”
“Certainly,” the Archivist said, putting her scroll aside. “Are you a noble or a member of Scales?”
“I’m—”
“The library is restricted to their use. I’m sorry, sir, you won’t be able to use the library. We have rules that can’t be broken for any—”
I moved my collar so she could see my brand. “I’m Michael Kingman, and I’ve come to barter. Information for information.”
Archivists claimed that, by nature, they were neutral in all manner of politics and rebellions and war, only ever desiring to preserve the true history of Hollow, always attempting to separate fact from opinion. Which was hard to do in a country where the rulers could lose their memories in an instant.
They had hounded me for a decade to share information about my father. Lyon and Gwen had both talked rather than spend years avoiding them. I never had, recognizing it as one of the few pieces of leverage I had against people in the city, and I knew I’d need something from them at some point. I just hadn’t expected it to come so soon. I had always assumed I would use it when I was old and grey, to make sure my family was remembered the right way.
The Archivist gave me a cautious look. “They’ll want to know about your father.”
“That’s fine, so long as it’s not about the murder.”
She paused, and then said, “What do you want in return?”
“Unlimited access to The Journal of the Archmage.”
That surprised her, and I wasn’t sure why. What was one book among thousands? It took her a few moments to compose herself, and then she said, “The Recorder will have to authorize the exchange. Follow me.”
The Archivist rose with an unexpected briskness and walked at a pace that I struggled to keep up with without jogging. I followed her, weaving through the movable bookshelves and down four sets of stairs, the temperature dropping every time we went further underground. There were Archivists everywhere, huddled in corners and behind wooden desks, though none of them glanced at us as we passed. The only light came from long translucent pipes that ran the length of the ceiling. I didn’t know how they worked, but it made sense to have an alternate light source: they would be moonstruck to allow open flames near all these books.
The Archivist led me to a door in a corner of the floor, unlocked it with a big iron key from the collection on her belt, and we entered the room.
A young man with a receding hairline and a nose that had been broken at some point was working at the only table. He was in an Archivist’s red hooded robe, and I recognized him immediately. His name was Symon Anderson, the self-proclaimed King of Stories. We had met before.
“Recorder,” the Archivist said, “Michael Kingman requests an exchange. Information about his father, excluding the murde
r of Davey Hollow, in exchange for unlimited access to The Journals of an Archmage.”
He scribbled a last word, looked up from his papers, and nodded. “I’ll allow it. Once you take a seat, we can begin the exchange.” The Archivist left as Symon carefully folded away his work and rummaged for a specific journal in his bag, and I took a seat opposite him. “How long has it been, Michael?”
“Years,” I said. “Let’s skip the pleasantries—last time negated any chance of sympathy between us. If there was any left after what you wrote about my family.”
“I told the truth.”
“You twisted everything my family has ever done to fit your perception. It was one thing to condemn my father for what he did; it’s another thing entirely to claim that my family controlled the Royals from the shadows since this country was liberated. You even went after the Mother Kingman, after all she did for Hollow.”
“There are numerous inconsistencies in the reports about her life, and I did what any self-respecting Archivist would do: shared my discoveries with my peers and the nobility.”
“You blamed my family for shattering the moon! Was that for pure academic purposes, too? Or one of a more personal nature?”
The Recorder smiled, showing a gap between his front teeth. “History will prove one of us right, and considering I decide what is reality and what is fiction in Hollow, I would be surprised if I were the one proven wrong. For now, be thankful only the Church of the Eternal Flame stands behind my assertions—though I suspect the Royals will, too, soon.”
“You’ll need more proof.”
A chuckle. “Do not fear, Michael. I’ll find some eventually.”
I held my tongue from saying all the colorful insults my mind had come up with for him. “How many questions do you want in exchange for unlimited access to The Journal of the Archmage?”
“Four.”
“Two. And none about my father murdering the prince.”
“Three. Two now, not about the murder, and one—with no restrictions—to be answered in the future.”
I hesitated. “Deal.”
“Excellent,” Symon said. He took up the quill, dipped it in ink, and held it ready. “First question: Where was your mother born?”
I wasn’t expecting that. “No idea. She always deflected the question when asked. All we know is that something forced her to flee after she met our father.”
Symon grumbled to himself as he recorded what I said. “I was hoping you might know what your siblings did not. Waste of a question.” He flipped through his book to another page. “We know your father was either a Darkness Fabricator, a Shadow Fabricator, or a Light Fabricator. Do you know which he was?”
“No. I don’t remember ever seeing my father use Fabrications. But my mother once claimed he was a Fire Fabricator.”
“Would you be willing to submit to a Light Fabrication to ensure your memories weren’t tampered with, so I can judge the validity of your answers?”
“Don’t believe me, Symon?”
“No,” he said. “Not when it concerns your father.”
“Fine, get a Light Fabricator in here.”
Symon held his hand out and a concentrated light began to form in it. I felt my mouth drop. Symon wasn’t a noble, so it had never occurred to me that he might be a Fabricator. One of his ancestors must’ve had noble blood; it was the only reason he’d be able to use Fabrications. Maybe it also explained how he’d become a Recorder so young, having such an advantage in separating the truth from a false narrative.
My entire body felt warm as Symon rose from his seat and walked around the table. “If you experience any pain, then tell me at once. Pain means your mind has been affected by Darkness Fabrications. Understood?”
“Here I was thinking that pain was from your voice.”
Without warning, he pressed the ball of light against the side of my head. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but when nothing did, I knew that we were both disappointed for different reasons. I still felt warmer than usual, but it definitely wasn’t pain. After studying me for a few moments, Symon collapsed into his seat.
“I wasn’t expecting you to be of sound mind, Michael. I was sure you had been affected with Darkness Fabrications.” He rubbed his eyes. “Maybe I’ve spent too much time reading.”
I was just as surprised. Being afflicted with Darkness Fabrications could have explained why I had forgotten the rebel woman and the girl in red; my only remaining theory was that I had used Fabrications inadvertently as a child and those memories were the price. But how could I have used them so much unnoticed? How emotional must I have been for my childhood memories to be so fragmented? Questions for another time.
“That’s everything,” I said. “Unless you want to use your third.”
“No,” he said. “I won’t use the third question until I’m absolutely certain I’ll get an answer I want.”
“Where’s The Journal of the Archmage?”
The Recorder blinked a few times in surprise. “Right here. We’re in the Archmage Room, Michael. You’re surrounded by them.”
Dark’s papers had never indicated The Journal of the Archmage was more than a single book. There were stacks of them in here, the top of each shelf labeled by year. There were easily over a thousand journals.
“The Archmage Room contains all of the first-edition copies of the journals he’s written since his teenage years. His apprentice delivers them every month once they’ve been copied. Commentaries are shelved above the journals themselves. Is there a particular event or a certain person’s commentaries you’re looking for?”
Dark’s notes hadn’t mentioned a specific volume of the journals. “How many of them are there?”
“About fifteen hundred by our last count.”
“When was that?”
“Maybe five years ago. Truth be told, the Archmage’s apprentice is the one who usually deals with this room. All the Archivists have keys to the room to keep it well maintained, while I use it whenever I want to avoid meetings in my office.”
I moved to the leftmost shelf and pulled out a random book. “This isn’t right, is it? This is dated over a hundred years ago. Who was the previous Arch—”
“There has only been one,” Symon said as he gathered his belongings from the table. “His earliest journals are on the left, through to the most recent on the right. He became Forgotten about halfway through… though we believe, as a side effect of his Fabrications, he is unable to die. I believe he’s about one hundred and twenty-seven years old. What’s with that look? Are you truly surprised someone could become immortal? Fabricators can create fire from their fingertips and a tempest with their breath. Immortality isn’t as far off as one might suspect.”
“Why would the Royals allow an Immortal to live in our city?”
“Besides being unable to kill him? The Archmage is a necessary evil. Who else is willing to sacrifice their memories to research the uses and limitations of Fabrications? The Royals need him, and since he doesn’t engage in politics, they allow him to do what he wishes. I imagine something would be done about him if he had any other aspirations.”
I was still too shocked about what was in front of me to process the ramifications of what the Recorder was saying.
“And despite being a Forgotten for years, he still researches and writes these journals?”
“Keeping these journals is the king’s only demand of him. He’s in charge of all the hospitals; we’d be set back decades if he disappeared. These journals are a preventive measure, a little security. And, from what I understand, he doesn’t mind, since he still rereads his old journals, making notes in them about why he did certain things. Anything too valuable or important to risk is tattooed onto his body. But that’s common enough for Fabricators.”
I suddenly wondered, since I was learning how to use Fabrications, what my first tattoo would be.
“I’m surprised,” Symon said, books in hand. “Didn’t you know about all of this befo
re you asked to see them?”
“No. Not at all.”
That elicited a laugh from him. “Well, good luck, Michael. I’ll make it known that you have access to this room, per our agreement, though the rest of the library will be off-limits to you. You don’t need any special identification. Your brand is proof enough of who you are. May the Wanderer help you find whatever you’re looking for in here.”
The door closed behind him, leaving me alone with over a thousand journals of a man who had achieved immortality.
Was Dark seeking immortality? Had he wanted the notes because they contained a clue or cipher to identify a particular volume? And why had the Mercenary company wanted these books all those years ago? Had they known it would take a lifetime to read them all?
There were small gold plaques over some of the shelves, indicating which books were in the section. Some of them were very specific, like The First Ten Years as a Forgotten, while others were more general. One plate read The Rambling Years. And among more than fifteen hundred journals, one of them might indicate what an entire company of Mercenaries was willing to attack the Hollow Library for—what, years later, another Mercenary was willing to kill just to get a clue to. Logically, any of the journals after the battle weren’t going to have whatever these Mercenaries were looking for. But how many did that eliminate from fifteen hundred? A few decades’ worth? I wouldn’t be able to read all of these in a few weeks, or even over a few years. How long would it take for me to gain basic familiarity with the journals to even separate the important information from a Forgotten’s ramblings?
Where should I even start? Was it best to start at the beginning and learn the entire story of this man’s life? Or was it better to find the battle and work my way backwards? Or should I start with my father’s execution and understand how the Archmage felt toward my family first—if that even mattered in this search.
There were too many variables. Too many factors I had a poor grasp of to think of an effective, methodical approach.
So I did the only thing that seemed sensible. I picked a journal at random, flipped it open, and began to read.