The Queen of Dreams (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 6)

by Thomas K. Carpenter

  We retired soon after. It took me a long time to fall asleep. Before I did, I noticed Santiago lying in the moonlight cast through the window, weighing the alchemical chocolate Morwen had given to him. Eventually he put it away, and curious no longer, I slept, dreaming about scattered blood in the snow.

  The next day, the streets were more congested. The sounds of a festival reached us from the next street over. A group of men wearing bloodred loincloths and carrying a sickly looking older gentleman with wrinkly skin on their shoulders marched past, singing a rousing song.

  "A celebration," said Santiago in response to my upturned eyebrow. The men disappeared around the corner. Later, I heard cheers from a crowd and a host of hand rung bells.

  The streets drained of people and vehicles the closer we got to the library. I sensed a change in the mood in the solemn glances and quiet responses when Santiago asked for directions. It wasn't fearful as much as reverent, like a sinner in church.

  I plucked the phrase anwar e'e toche from each speaker's lips, recognizing it as the name of the library in the local tongue. To my surprise a hrevanti with tortoise-shell fur responded in broken English, only parts of which I understood. As we walked away, the translated version revealed itself to my English-starved ears.

  "What did he call the library?" I asked Santiago.

  "What do you mean?" he replied, taking longer strides.

  "The anwar e'e toche. The place you call the library. That's your name for it, isn't it? What's the translation?" I asked.

  Santiago squeezed the hilt on his saber until his knuckles were bone white. "It's just a name."

  "It sounded like he called it the Library of the Dead," I said. "Am I right?"

  Ben, who had been meandering along clearly busy inside his head, took notice. He didn't seem surprised. Mostly just curious, with one eyebrow raised.

  "You are correct," said Santiago. "That's the translation."

  "Why is it called that?" I asked.

  "It doesn't matter," said Santiago. "It's the burden I must bear. Not you."

  The stiffness of his shoulders indicated he had no wish for further conversation, so I did not press. Ben's demeanor wasn't maudlin, so I knew the task wasn't fatal, just unpleasant for some unknown reason, despite the grim descriptor. I decided to let their minor conspiracy rest.

  The remainder of the day was spent mostly in silence, the frequent civics lessons disappearing completely after that moment.

  Near evening, when the strips of sky had dulled to silver gray and the crystalline lamps hanging from iron poles warmed the streets, casting shadows in all directions, we reached the library. The Library of the Dead.

  In truth, I did not make much of the ominous name. Golgotha in Jerusalem meant "Place of the Skull," though it was only a rock-strewn hill. I'd once visited a town in Sweden called, in the local tongue, Gallows' Slope. The buildings and people had been lovely, and I'd never had a better cup of coffee.

  Usually more worrisome were those grandiose places that had been built with blood and treasure. Even the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg, a place dear to my heart, had been built on the bones of tens of thousands of serfs sentenced to labor for Peter the Great. The lower class called it the City on Bones, though never in front of nobility of any station.

  Santiago took us to a stone door, arched and split in the middle. After he thumped his fist against the entrance, a rust-colored female hrevanti dressed in a long flowing skirt and a cream blouse opened the gate. She wore a silver brooch in the shape of a book.

  After a few abortive attempts to communicate, she shifted into passable English, heavy on the rolling Rs.

  "Scholarship and wisdom," she said as way of a greeting. "I am Lathroso, Lower Gray Keeper of the Seventy-Second Ward. Do you bring harvest?"

  Santiago gave a perfunctory bow. "Scholarship and wisdom. I am Santiago Lopéz, the once Lord of Biscay, former Resident Keeper of the Fifteenth Ward. Yes, we bring knowledge."

  Lathroso's furred face revealed a smile. "Knowledge! My shame for incorrect word. Former of Fifteenth? Must you know High Keeper Silank?"

  Santiago spread his palms wide. "It was long ago that I lived in these walls. Much has changed, I'm certain."

  The hrevanti gestured towards Ben and I. "Knowledge givers?"

  He tapped on his chest and shook his head more vehemently than I would have thought necessary. "Only myself. But these are my companions. Princess Katerina Dashkova and Ben Franklin."

  Then he shifted into her language and they conversed back and forth. The cadence felt like it was a negotiation with offers and counteroffers. Lathroso did not look at Ben or I even once, keeping her attention firmly on Santiago, whose voice grew more distressed the longer they spoke.

  Lathroso shifted back into English. "Sorrow for your cause. I cannot accept offer. The balance would not be paid. Good travels and may knowledge find your ears."

  The hawk-faced Santiago reached out and grabbed the stone door. Lathroso grew agitated quickly, barking at Santiago. I sensed we might soon see the library's guards.

  "What's going on?" I asked Santiago as he was waving me off.

  Lathroso tried to dislodge Santiago's fingers. When I saw the former Keeper move for his saber, I stepped between them.

  Ben moved behind me and grabbed Santiago by the shoulders, yanking him away. His olive skin was splashed with the crimson of passion.

  Lathroso looked to us. "Tell your fool friend. No trade. His knowledge known. No balance."

  Before she could go back inside, I grabbed her arm, receiving a withering glance.

  "Wait," I said. "Tell me. What's going on?"

  When I pulled my hand away from her arm, she addressed me. "Knowledge not free. You bring, we trade. No knowledge, no trade. Balance must be equal."

  Santiago shook his head. "She said I have nothing more to offer, but she doesn't understand."

  Lathroso barked back. "I understand. It you who not understand."

  "Wait. If we have knowledge that you need, we can trade for what we need?" I asked.

  "This how it works," said Lathroso, each word punctuated with a sharp staccato beat. "Not by taking."

  "Then I offer my knowledge," I said, to protests from Santiago.

  "What do you offer?" asked Lathroso, suddenly curious.

  "Knowledge of Jinn-Se-San. The Shard of Time."

  Lathroso went perfectly still. Her wolfish smile put a stone in my gut.

  "Balance accepted. You may enter."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two more Keepers appeared as if by magic once we stepped beyond the stone door. At a brisk pace, Keeper Lathroso led us through passages and great halls furnished with intricate rugs and grand paintings that reminded me of the old palace in Paris.

  The presence of such treasures explained much about the library's relationship with the rest of the city. All roads flowed to the Keepers and their knowledge. They were no different than royalty perched at the crown of the hill, skimming the cream from everything.

  It explained the furtive glances from the nearby city folk. A mixture of admiration and jealously. An institution not so different from the Vatican, I imagined, yet without the complications of religion.

  Santiago caught up to me as I was admiring a row of brightly painted statues in contemplative poses. The majority were hrevanti. I assumed they were honored Keepers from the library's past.

  "You should not have offered your knowledge," he said under his breath.

  "We must have the maps that Morwen seeks," I said, thinking about Catherine's warning. "The long way is too dangerous. If there is some sacrifice to make, I am willing to make it."

  "What you must do to trade is too dangerous. I sought to shield you from it," he said.

  "Tell me," I said through gritted teeth, but Santiago motioned towards Lathroso, indicating it was too risky to speak in front of her.

  We moved through a tight hallway. The imprints on the dusty floor of the alcoves we passed indicated small sta
tues had been recently removed. In an adjoining passage, a robed figure passed, setting my heart to thumping.

  The Uthlaylaa's ringed mouth puckered a lipless grimace. Its slender tongue passively flicked out in a nervous tic as it marched forward, oblivious to my staring.

  It had been years since I'd seen a memory thief, but the horror of its visage stuck deeply, igniting a primal fear. My forehead was coated in sweat, even from the brief viewing. I rubbed the back of my neck, remembering the worm it'd placed there to steal my thoughts.

  It was the Uthlaylaa that had started this whole thing. Probably not that particular one, but one of his kind. Seeing it gave me the chills.

  After a series of stairs that climbed to an upper level, we entered a gondola, where I composed myself before anyone noticed my distress. Ben had not seen the creature, or at least had not reacted as strongly as I had.

  The car lurched forward, then its movement smoothed out as it slipped through the sky above the library. We floated over courtyards lit with crystalline lamps, the glittering light tossing jewels across the paths.

  To our right, far above the city, a massive airship traveled to some unknown location. Keeper Lathroso noticed my staring but declined to explain.

  The gondola entered a tower reminiscent of Notre Dame. The flying buttresses formed a skirt around the building. Inside, we were led to a lower level and ushered into an apartment. It had three small bedrooms off a main living area. A tray of bread, fruit, and other foods sat in an alcove.

  "Please enjoy. Leaving nothing. Tomorrow Master of Ward bring. Scholarship and wisdom," she said, then closed the door.

  Ben checked outside to find two hrevanti Keepers in light mail standing guard.

  I turned on Santiago. The ache in his gaze worried me.

  "What have I agreed to?" I asked.

  "Remember the man who called this place the Library of the Dead?" I nodded. "Did you see any books or scrolls while we traveled through the halls?"

  "None," I said. "Do they keep them somewhere else?"

  "No. That's because there are no books," said Santiago, pacing away.

  A chill entered my breast, crept up my throat, and stilled my tongue.

  "The Keepers of Inverness claim secrets from across the multiverse," explained Santiago, tracing his finger across a stained-glass window in the shape of a gondola. "To keep such knowledge in book form would require a library as large as a planet. Yet, they need a space millions of times smaller. Think on this, Katerina. How much knowledge can one human brain hold?"

  I placed a hand to my unbelieving lips. "How can they?"

  Santiago gave a little shake of his head, the whiteness of his hair dancing against his olive skin. His gaze was haunted by the past.

  "When a man or woman is near death, they can offer themselves to the library in exchange for benefits for their family or loved ones. They are taken to the Halls of Knowledge, where they are prepared to join with the rest. They are effectively dead, their brains turned over for the use of the library to store knowledge," said Santiago.

  "The Uthlaylaa," I said, hearing the anguish in my voice. "They're called Archivists, aren't they?"

  Santiago's snowy eyebrow arched with surprise.

  "I saw one in the hallway. Ben and I encountered their ilk a few years ago when they were sent to steal our memories," I said.

  A measure of annoyance passed across Ben's face. "There are still events I cannot remember from those thieving worms."

  "You're lucky to have retained the memory of losing your memory," said Santiago. "Most never know it's gone. But yes. The Archivists help maintain the library. It's their skill that allows the nearly-dead to contribute to the whole. And they are also the means by which knowledge is exchanged. Which means they will have access to your mind."

  Ben spoke up before I could. "I did not explain to Santiago why you could not be connected to the library. Only that it shouldn't happen."

  The prophecies. Ben rightly worried that the Uthlaylaa might gain access to that wealth of foreknowledge in my head. The ways that my knowledge could be stolen became abundantly clear.

  "I've made a terrible mistake," I said.

  "Maybe not, Katerina. Had you not offered, we'd be locked outside with no chance to gain our goal," said Ben.

  "I cannot risk them...seeing inside my head," I said.

  "I will not press on the specifics of this danger, but tomorrow morning the Ward Keeper will arrive. Falsely offering knowledge is a great crime," said Santiago.

  "Is there some way to delay?" asked Ben.

  "Only if you're sick, crazy, or mentally infirm," explained Santiago.

  "It wouldn't matter," I offered. "We need those maps for Morwen...wait? If there are no books, no scrolls, no paper, how will we bring that back to Morwen? How will we even find it? Would it be like finding the right snowflake in Siberia?"

  Santiago pulled the scroll case Morwen had given him from his satchel and threw it on the table. "She said those drawings would trigger the information and that she could extract it from me later."

  "This is doubly bad," I said, digging my hand into my hair and pulling until it hurt a little. "Letting Morwen in my head is as bad as the library. I don't know what passes between her and the other two, but it cannot happen."

  "Is there a way we can access the library ourselves?" asked Ben.

  The cap on the end of the carved wooden case slipped off with a satisfying pop. When I tilted it, a couple of items slid down its length and tumbled onto the table. A steel ring, unmarked and unblemished by time, rolled around the table until it came to a slithering stop. A second item skipped off the smooth surface and landed on the floor. It was an intricately carved beetle, with double wings, that fit in the palm of my hand. A tiny antenna had broken off from the impact with the floor.

  A rolled up painting lurked inside the case. Ben spread it across the table, placing his hands at the corner. I leaned against his shoulder, feeling the tension wound into his muscles.

  The woman on the painting brought a whistle from Santiago's lips. Her visage had been captured during a formal sitting in an outdoor garden with a wooded hilltop in the distance. The darker shades indicated a Renaissance era artist. She wore a peasant gown and her dark eyes looked possessively at a large serpent in her lap, draped over her arm. It might have been a regular painting from that time, except for a couple of striking differences.

  She was beautiful, but not in the classic way. Her features were angular, almost like a jaguar in human form. Which made her expression almost obscene by Puritan standards. The jaguar woman, as I began to think of her, had short cropped hair and wore a necklace that included the carved beetle with double wings.

  Ben tapped on the part of the painting that included the forest, grabbing our attention.

  "Do you see that?" he asked.

  Upon closer inspection, I found what he had indicated. Lurking in the shadows of the trees was a hut with knobby chicken legs poking from its bottom.

  "Baba Yaga," I breathed.

  "Is she some fourth incarnation?" asked Santiago. "She doesn't look like any of the others, but then again, they're not similar to each other at all."

  Ben rubbed his chin. "They're powerful enough sorceresses to modify their appearance. Though it doesn't explain this fourth."

  "Neva once explained that, long ago, there were many versions of her from other universes. I thought it was only the three that traveled in the hut, but maybe once there were more. Which would explain why Morwen needs information from this jaguar-looking woman. She must have traveled the paths that Morwen wants to go, the paths we need to take," I said.

  "It doesn't make sense that one of them, this jaguar woman as you call her, traded information with the library. That'd be too risky of an endeavor," said Santiago.

  "Then it was someone with her," I said. "A guardian or traveler."

  "But what happened to her?" asked Ben, the question hanging darkly on his brow.

  I couldn't
concentrate on Ben's question because I'd spied the signature at the bottom of the painting. It felt as if my heart turned into confetti. A flush passed across my face.

  "The artist. I know this signature. I once had a private tour in the Vatican," I said.

  Ben squinted at the scrawl in the right-hand corner. "Da Vinci?"

  A weird sensation came over me as I realized the extent of these women's travels and influence on our world. I'd grown up creating history at the side of Empress Catherine, yet the events were so personal I had not the perspective to truly understand them.

  Here was a painting of Baba Yaga from the great Da Vinci. What secrets had she shared with him? Had she inspired him in other ways? My perspective of history was shattered by this thought.

  "I wish I knew her name," I said, my hand hovering over her face.

  "So we know now who has the information we need in the Great Library. This doesn't help us with our immediate problem," said Santiago grimly. "That the Master of the Ward is coming tells us the importance of the information Katerina has offered. They will not simply release us from our obligation. Though it is forbidden to take information forcefully, some of the Masters were corrupt in my time. It's a big risk if we're still here in the morning."

  "I'm not leaving without the information," I said, thinking about Catherine's warning. "It's too important."

  The prophecies shifted in my head. I had the impression that they agreed with my assessment, though I wasn't sure how I had interpreted it that way. Maybe the longer the prophecies were in my head, the easier it was becoming to understand them, much as I had in the Shard of Time, when they were leading me up the shifting tower.

  "What should we do?" asked Ben, a twinkle in his eyes. "We're trapped in this tower with no way to access the information we need."

  He was prodding me. I knew him well enough to know that. But he needn't have. I was already considering our options.

  "First, we need to get out of the tower," I said.

  Santiago strolled near the door with his hands on his blades. The guards had let us keep our weapons. I guess they thought we were trading information freely.