by Rachel Caine
I could never, Khalila thought. She dreamed about it, of course; in her secret, most ambitious moments she imagined herself in this same throne room, conducting the Great Library’s affairs, everyone bowing to her wisdom. It felt absurd now. Humility was the basis of her faith, and she trusted Allah to raise her up, if indeed she ever deserved it. But not now, in these desperate moments. She was grateful that Scholar Murasaki was here to bear this burden.
Even as she thought it, Murasaki heaved a long sigh and settled onto the Archivist’s throne. She put her hands in her lap and said, “I’m ready.”
Khalila turned toward the doors. She felt alone in this vast hall, but she wasn’t; besides Murasaki, there were close to a hundred others already here, but in this vast space that felt like such a fragile, lonely assembly. There were many High Garda soldiers stationed in the shadows. Khalila gestured, and two of them opened the huge doors at the rear of the space.
And the rest of the Great Library’s Conclave poured in. Thousands of black-robed Scholars. Ten times as many librarians and staff. Most had never been inside this hall, and, like Khalila, seemed struck with the gravity of the moment. Their steps slowed as they moved inside, and the crowd naturally flowed in to fill the space allowed. But the Scholars and staff present within Alexandria at this moment—those who were not stationed elsewhere, or who had fled with the Archivist—still seemed too small a number.
We are missing so many, she thought, and felt a deep stab of pain. So many. But her father and her brother were in the forefront of the crowd, and she clasped them both in her arms and wanted to weep in sheer gratitude for their survival. Her father was not well; he looked frail, and he shook with the force of his coughing. But he was alive.
Khalila framed his tired face in her hands and said, “Have you seen the Medica yet?”
“I will, my child. Soon. I promise.” His smile lit her world. “But I would not miss being here today, not even if I had to be carried.”
“Don’t listen to him. He walked under his own power,” her brother said, and picked her up in a hug that took her breath away. His smile was as broad as it had ever been, as if he hadn’t endured prison and near death. “Khalila. Who knew my little sister could be so brave?”
“You should,” she told him, and his smile moderated a little. “I was never afraid of you, after all.”
“I’m not particularly fearsome.”
That was a lie. Saleh was one of the most capable men she knew, and she knew a fair number of them these days. She decided not to argue the point, and instead cut her gaze toward her father. “Should he even be here?”
“Try to keep him away,” Saleh said. “I’ll be sure he sees a Medica. But give him this, sister. He needs to see the Great Library redeemed before he takes to his bed. So do we all.”
Now that the Scholars had entered and found their places, the next rank to enter the hall was formed of High Garda: sharply dressed companies of soldiers, solemn and proud. At their head strode Captain Niccolo Santi. He looked grave with the responsibility, and as his troops took their spots at the edges of the huge hall, he advanced down the long white space. The black-robed crowd parted for him, and he walked to the foot of the stairs and went to one knee, fist over his heart.
“Your service to the Great Library is beyond price,” Scholar Murasaki said. “As the elected Archivist, I thank you for your loyalty and vision, and I welcome you to this sacred place. Will you take your oath?”
“I will,” Santi said. “I swear to serve the Great Library with body, mind, and blood for as long as it pleases the Archivist. I swear to defend it against all enemies, within and without. I swear to uphold the laws and covenants of the Great Library, and when ordered to direct and lead the High Garda in battle. I swear to protect knowledge and its servants wherever they may be threatened.”
“Then, rise, Niccolo Santi, Lord Commander of the High Garda,” Murasaki said. “Captains of the High Garda: do you affirm this elevation?”
Each captain, Khalila realized, stood at attention beside each block of troops, and one by one, they took a step forward, put fists to their hearts, and said, “I do so affirm.” There were dozens of commanders here. The High Garda had united behind Santi.
Of course, not all the High Garda are here, she reminded herself. The deployed companies, the local Garda in the cities and towns, they’re not represented. And the High Garda Elite all broke for the old Archivist, and no doubt took some of the regular High Garda with them. How many, I wonder. Santi would know. She’d need to ask him for the figures and details on the captains who were missing. Murasaki would need that information as quickly as possible.
“Khalila?” Saleh’s whisper. She glanced at him and saw him watching Santi as he completed his ceremony and began to rise to his feet. “He is Scholar Wolfe’s lover?”
“Yes,” she said. “Though more than that. Partner for years, though I don’t believe they have formally married.”
Saleh nodded without taking his gaze from Santi. “Wolfe spoke of him,” he said. “Well . . . not to me. I suppose better to say he spoke to him when Wolfe was . . . unwell.”
“Unwell?”
“Prison was not good for the man. You should be sure he’s coping.” Saleh frowned and cast a look through the crowd. “I’d expected to see him here. Is he not?”
“No,” she said. “He’s hunting the Archivist.”
Saleh looked frankly shocked. “On his own?”
“He has help.”
“I hope he knows that,” Saleh murmured, and she almost laughed because it was a very legitimate concern. Wolfe was absolutely capable of believing he alone was tasked with bringing down the world’s most dangerous fugitive. That brought with it a stab of worry, belatedly; he had—she’d heard, at least—Jess with him, but Jess could just as often bring out more recklessness in people. The two of them together might well be a bad combination, especially with the grief that was bound to be consuming Jess just now.
She sincerely hoped Santi was aware of all that.
Murasaki seemed at home on the throne as she began the process of accepting the oaths of her High Garda captains. After that, the Scholars and librarians would renew their oaths as a body, along with the soldiers, and then the ceremony would be done—for them. Murasaki would have to receive the waiting body of diplomats, and then the Alexandrian Merchant Council. She had a very, very long day ahead.
Which meant, as her personal assistant, Khalila did, too.
As the captains finished their oath taking, Khalila embraced her brother again, kissed him on both cheeks, and said, “I have to go to her. Watch after Father?”
“Of course,” he said. “Don’t I always?”
Having a brother like Saleh was a gift, she thought, and she had never prized it as much as she should have done. She gave him a smile and he returned it tenfold, and she withdrew back to stand in the shadows near Scholar Murasaki’s throne, where she could hear any requests easily.
The parade of captains had been a tense time; if the old Archivist had any assassins in their midst, that had been the best moment for them to strike. Khalila noted the positions of High Garda snipers up in the galleries; Santi had taken no chances today, other than the ones imposed upon him. She imagined the man was raw nerves, with Wolfe out exposed to danger and the threat of violence hanging in the air here as well, but when she looked at Santi she saw nothing but calm. Some might think it complacency. Khalila knew he was at his most dangerous like this.
The next phase was the mass renewal of vows from the Scholars, the librarians, and the High Garda rank and file. Khalila spoke the words with them. In the name of sacred knowledge, in the eyes of every god in every corner of this world, I swear my allegiance to the Great Library of Alexandria. I swear to protect the knowledge of this world against all enemies, within and without. I swear to nurture and share such knowledge with all who wish to
learn. I swear to live, teach, preserve, study, fight, and die in this cause. The words gave Khalila gooseflesh, woke a breathless light within her. The thunder of thousands of voices together was powerful indeed.
Scholar Murasaki stood, and the cloth-of-gold robe she wore caught fire in the light. She raised her arms. “Knowledge is all.”
“Knowledge is all,” came the response, and then—though it wasn’t part of the ritual—someone let out a wild cheer of victory.
And then they were all cheering, and Khalila was weeping from the force of it. This was the Great Library. Not the old Archivist’s plots and schemes and cold-blooded power struggles. Not the heresy of his Black Archives, where he’d locked up forbidden knowledge. Not the prisons where he interred his enemies.
The soul of the Great Library was here, in this room, and in that transcendent moment with tears warm on her cheeks, she knew she loved it more than she would ever love anything or anyone else save for Allah himself.
* * *
—
Dario arrived late, just as the oath ceremony ended. She saw him slip into the room; he was wearing his Scholar’s robes, and he made his way to her side to whisper, “Forgive me, my love, I had duties. The envoys are waiting under flag of truce.”
“You didn’t take the oath,” she said quietly. The tears were dry on her cheeks; she hadn’t wiped them away. She wanted to feel them there, always.
“I couldn’t,” he said. “Someone had to greet these ambassadors.”
She understood that, but she also knew that on a certain level perhaps Dario preferred it this way. He did believe in the Great Library, most certainly, but like most politically inclined people he always had an eye for the main chance, and just now that trended toward the navies floating outside their harbor. He was of royal Spanish blood, and that would never change. She loved him. But in this one thing, she wasn’t altogether certain she trusted him.
“Well, Wolfe wasn’t here, either,” he said, a bit defensively, and she realized her expression must have betrayed her doubt. “And neither were Jess, Thomas, or Glain. Don’t single me out for doing my duty!”
“I’m not,” she said, which was a tiny portion of a lie that she would have to make amends for later, but for now she couldn’t spend time on the explanation. “Thank you, Dario. I’ll let the Archivist know they’ve arrived.”
He nodded and stepped back, taking it for the dismissal it was. She missed him acutely, wanted to follow him and stand with him and hold his hand, but she stayed at her post and moved to whisper the news to Murasaki. The new Archivist nodded, a single inclination of her head, and said, “See them made welcome.”
Khalila told Santi, who signaled to his guards at the door. Inefficient, she thought. There were reforms to be made to this space. Perhaps the Obscurists could create some messaging system that would allow this process to be more effective. Or even more automata to secure this room.
It occurred to her then that not a single Obscurist had been here to take the oath. That alarmed her, set her heart to pounding heavily, and she took deep breaths to right its rhythm. They haven’t broken faith, she told herself. Obscurists traditionally did not leave the Iron Tower for such ceremonies; instead, the Archivist made a journey to them to accept their oaths. But Eskander, the new Obscurist Magnus, didn’t seem one to stand on such tradition. Perhaps there had been urgent things to be done and the Obscurists couldn’t spare the time.
And, just perhaps, Eskander currently held far too much power—almost as much as Murasaki—and didn’t wish to concede it. It was a worry. One that Khalila would have to resolve for herself, before a real threat emerged.
But for now, the only real threat was coming into the room.
She watched as the great doors swung open, and the ambassadors entered under the silken flags of their kingdoms. They were dwarfed by the majesty of the hall, even a hundred strong, but they carried themselves with the gravity and confidence of kings. They knelt as a body to the Archivist, who acknowledged them with a gracious nod and signal to rise, and then one of the ambassadors stepped forward.
She knew him. It was Alvaro Santiago, the onetime Spanish ambassador to the Great Library. He’d sheltered them in his palace, given them safety and support. But now he didn’t spare her—or his cousin Dario, for that matter—a single glance. His attention was solely devoted to the throne.
“Honored Archivist,” he said, and he had an orator’s soothing voice without a doubt. “I am Alvaro Luis Honoré Flores de Santiago, ambassador to the Great Library of Alexandria. On behalf of His Majesty Ramón Alfonse of the great and sovereign nation of Spain, I bring congratulations on your appointment to this important and necessary position. May God grant you wisdom and strength.”
“I appreciate your congratulations and prayers, Ambassador Santiago,” Murasaki said. “Though not the presence of your fleet beyond our harbor.”
He pressed a hand to his heart and bowed slightly. Very slightly. “The Archivist understands that with the chaos, the Kingdom of Spain felt it necessary to ensure the safety of the Great Library from incursions by other, less scrupulous nations. Change is necessary, of course, but change is also a moment of weakness. We brought our nation’s strength only to ensure a peaceful transition of power.”
“How very interesting. Such a noble cause, of course,” Murasaki said. “And yet, as you see, our Great Library functions as it always has done, without pause or—as you said—chaos. Your concern is appreciated, most certainly. But I assure you that we neither need nor have requested your intervention. My sincerest thanks to your king, but I must now demand that you—and all the nation-states allied with you who stand at your side today—withdraw your warships and go in peace. I would also ask that before you go, you swear to renew the treaties your nations swore with the Great Library.”
That woke some whispers among the diplomats. One in the front of the crowd said, “Your Majesty—”
“I am not a queen,” Murasaki said. “Nor an empress. I am merely the most senior administrator. Please address me as either Scholar Murasaki or Archivist.”
“Apologies. Archivist, we aren’t authorized to renew treaties that our monarchs and governments have rejected. The criminal behavior that the Great Library has lately engaged in fully justifies this, I believe.”
“Criminal behavior,” she repeated. “I trust you are referring to the actions of our prior Archivist, who did indeed exceed the power vested in him. He should have been checked by the Curia of Scholars, except that he handpicked his allies to support him in most cases. But the Great Library itself has committed no such crimes, nor has it violated the terms of any of the treaties that have been in effect with most of your countries since the time of Julius Caesar. We have removed the offending person from his post, and I pledge to correct all the wrongs that he has done. What more can be offered?”
“Perhaps it’s time the Great Library realize that we can manage our own affairs.” The man who spoke was English, Khalila thought. Possibly Welsh. “And we can build and maintain our own libraries to fit our own needs. There’s common talk now of a machine that can print thousands of copies of a document in a day. If true, the Great Library has outlived its usefulness.”
It was a bold, shocking statement. It was also true, in some sense. It was what Wolfe had known, and Khalila had come to realize: that for the Great Library to continue, it had to change. It had to adapt.
Murasaki smiled. Smiled. “If you believe the Great Library is not useful, then I assure you, Ambassador, you have not studied nearly enough history to understand the import of what you have just declared. We will change to the needs of the world, as ever. But what we offer is not simply books on shelves. It is commonality of scholarship and knowledge. Without it, the world could easily fall into darkness and chaos, without a shared culture or understanding. And that, we will not allow. If you wish to withdraw from the Great Library’s
alliance, then you may do so. You may live in your small, dark corner and light a candle and pretend it is the sun; in time, you might even believe it. I certainly cannot stop you. But I will mourn for those you drag into the darkness along with you.”
Khalila caught her breath at the elegance of that cut. The ambassador’s face reddened, but when he opened his mouth to reply, Alvaro Santiago jumped in.
“Archivist, we may discuss treaties tomorrow, if you wish to do so. But today, we are gravely concerned for the state of this city and its vulnerability to attack. None of us can afford for the Great Library to be destroyed. So we ask your permission to enter the harbor, disembark our forces, and assign them to guard your most vulnerable treasures. Clearly, the Archives must be protected at all costs.”
“All costs?” Murasaki’s eyebrows rose. “You would advocate invading our city and taking ownership of our Great Archives to protect them? No, Ambassador Santiago. I am afraid that will not happen. We will protect the Great Archives, as we have for three thousand years. And no nation’s army will set its foot on the streets of Alexandria while I draw breath.”
If the ambassador was thrown at all, he certainly didn’t show it. “I certainly did not mean to imply invasion. We only offer our help to enhance your security.”
“An Archivist who stays in power with the help of foreign armies is not an Archivist,” Murasaki said. “So I once again must decline your offer. Send your fleets home, and I will welcome you back to your establishments here within Alexandria, and we may resume normal diplomatic discussions. Refuse, and I will see your embassies permanently closed and your staffs exiled to their home countries. I trust I have made myself clear, Ambassadors.”