by JA Hutson
“Talin!” cries Bell, the books nipping at her as she tries to protect her face with her hands.
I growl and rip my sword from its sheath, slashing at a fat black volume as it dives for my head. My green-glass blade cleaves that volume in twain, and I hurriedly hack at more of the darting books, trying to create some space so I can rescue Bell. Pages flutter around me like falling leaves, but the predatory books are undeterred. More of them are boiling up from the deeper reaches of the library, as if drawn by the blood that has been spilled.
“Away! Shoo, you little monsters!”
The nasal voice cuts through the dry rustle of the swarming books. I glimpse a small figure moving towards us through the swirling chaos, waving a crooked staff. The books disperse as he approaches, flapping away to vanish among the less mobile volumes resting on their ghostly shelves.
Sparing a glance at our savior – a gnarled old man with frizzy white hair and gold spectacles – I rush over to Bell, who is slowly uncoiling from the protective stance she’s taken. Her raven-dark hair is wild, and thin trickles of blood mar her arms from where the books have given her numerous paper cuts.
She blinks, dazed by that unexpected assault. I lift her shaking arm and inspect the wounds – good, nothing serious.
“And don’t you come back!” the old man yells, shaking his staff at the retreating books. Bell and I share a look as the man finally turns to us. He adjusts his golden spectacles, pushing them farther up his bulbous nose, and offers an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, my mysterious friends. That was certainly not a warm welcome to this hallowed hall.”
“What –”
“Were they?” the old man says, finishing my question differently than I intended. “Excellent query. Shows your intellectual curiosity that you immediately want answers, despite the harrowing ordeal you’ve just been through.”
“What –”
“A set that’s gone feral. Mostly romance with a touch of light erotica. Bare-chested barbarians and slave girls, that sort of thing. Books that go bad like that, I blame the writer.”
“No, what is this place? Who are you?”
The old man removes his glasses and gives them a quick polish with his sleeve, then settles them on his face again. He blinks at us owlishly through the thick lenses.
“By the sacred pen, you two are not saints. Mortals! No wonder the wild ones wanted a taste of you – they are desperate to be read, but they’ve forgotten how to attract readers in a less aggressive manner. Better covers and summaries, that’s what I tell them. You can’t just bite someone until they agree to peruse your contents, yes? You weren’t intrigued in the least to crack them open, were you?”
The old man has seemingly forgotten the questions I posed only moments ago. I’m on the verge of asking again – or grabbing him by the scruff of his robes and shaking him – when Bolivan emerges from between two soaring stacks of books. His face lights up when he sees us, but I can’t help but notice the wince that follows a heartbeat later as he catches sight of the gnome who saved us.
“Lahgokep,” he says without warmth.
Bell gasps, and recognition sparks within me. I’ve heard that name before . . .
“Bolivar,” says the old man.
“Bolivan,” hisses the blacksmith through gritted teeth.
Lahgokep peers at him, his face scrunching up. “Are you sure?”
To my surprise, Bolivan doesn’t explode at the old man. He strides forward and grabs Bell by the wrist.
“No time for this,” he grumbles as he begins dragging her away.
“Lahgokep,” Bell finally manages to say, goggling at the wizened little man. “The Truth Seeker.”
The old saint beams. “I haven’t heard that appellation for a long time! How marvelous.”
Bell strains against Bolivan’s grip, and reluctantly the blacksmith lets her go with a sigh. She stumbles towards Lahgokep, clearly awed. Lahgokep returns her wide-eyed stare with a smile that under other circumstances would suggest to me that he suffers from some slight mental impairment.
Then it strikes me: Poz. The saint reminds me of Bell’s scientist father. And I’m remembering a bit more about this Lahgokep – Bell had referred to him as the knowledge saint, and claimed he had ascended in Ysala.
“What is this place?” Bell asks, gesturing with a blood-spattered arm at the maze of books around us.
Lahgokep’s caterpillar eyebrows rise. “The library of the gods, my dear! Please forgive the mess – I’ve been trying to put the damn thing in order for centuries, but it’s been quite the struggle, since the books can wander about on their own.”
The knowledge saint turns back to the glowering blacksmith. “My goodness, Bolivar, have you brought mortals into the House? What if the Devourer catches wind of them?”
“I won’t tell him if you don’t,” Bolivan says, stepping closer to loom over the old man threateningly. “And you won’t.”
Lahgokep stares up at him blandly, apparently unfazed by his imposing bulk. “Oh, you know I’m not going to tattle on you.” He taps his whiskered chin thoughtfully. “Though it would make an interesting case study to see what the beast would do to mortals . . .”
“Don’t you dare.”
The knowledge saint holds up his arms. “I jest, I jest.”
Bolivan narrows his eyes, as if deciding whether he should believe the old man. “Come on,” he says gruffly to Bell and me. “I left the shadowdancer and the lamias outside the library so they wouldn’t get lost in here, but there are dangers out there as well.”
Bell looks torn, but she lets the big blacksmith pull her along.
“Wait,” Lahgokep says as I move to follow them. I hesitate as he steps closer to study my face intently. “Fascinating. You are one of the refugees, aren’t you?”
A jolt goes through me. “I’m sorry?”
“Your eyes. They’re silver.”
I’m frozen in place, my heart thudding. He knows something about my mysterious past. Bolivan is gesturing impatiently for me to come with him, but my intense desire to fill the abyss in my memories keeps me rooted.
“What are the refugees?”
Lahgokep cocks his head to one side quizzically. Then he holds up his splayed hand so that his fingers are nearly touching my face. His eyes flutter rapidly, and then he frowns.
“Interesting. Large chunks have been excised from your past . . . or perhaps misplaced.”
“Talin . . .” growls Bolivan warningly.
I hold up my hand to keep him quiet, realizing belatedly that I’ve just shushed a being only a few steps below a god. I find that I don’t care.
“Yes. But I need to know what I forgot. I feel strongly that the fate of the world may rely on it.”
That seems to catch Lahgokep’s attention. He pulls on his scraggly whiskers, studying me shrewdly.
“But it was your people that first put our home in danger. Perhaps if you recover the memories you’ve lost, the process of ushering in the demons will only accelerate.”
He does know something.
“Please,” I say, trying to keep my frustration from my voice. “I saw what the Shriven can do to a world. And if you can see inside my head, surely you can also tell how much I’ve come to care for this world.” My eyes flicker over to Bell, who is watching this exchange open-mouthed.
Lahgokep sighs. “You’re earnest, at least. Though usually it’s the most earnest ones who cause the biggest problems. Very well.” He bats dismissively at a thin volume as it bumbles past his head. “The problem, my dear refugee, is that this room is the collected knowledge of this world. And your . . . Shriven, did you call them? They are from somewhere else entirely. But there are still some relevant records. Long ago, many realms were linked by doorways, and the powerful traveled between the spheres with ease. Ancient texts speak of this time, and there is even a passing reference to the silver-eyed priests who acted as gatekeepers in one of the worlds closest to our own. All existence was a
vast web, with many glimmering threads holding it all together. But then something changed.”
Even Bolivan is listening intently now.
“Some . . . entities invaded the web. I don’t know where they came from, but they were ravenous. Insatiable. They consumed worlds, and when there was nothing left but dust and ashes they moved on to the next. In a panic, those realms that were not yet tainted by their presence damaged the pathways between the doors, hoping to confine the creatures to the worlds that had already fallen. But while it did slow the demons, it did not stop them. Somehow they continued to find their way through. Your world fell to them centuries ago. In the great web you are our neighbor, and when the few of you that escaped the devastation tumbled through a doorway into our world the gods of this place must have glimpsed what was coming behind you. It terrified them. The spread of these demons had proven unstoppable, and we were next in their path.”
The old man tilts his head up to stare at the shattered roof and the darkness beyond. “And so they left, destroying the House, heading for places unknown.”
“They abandoned us,” Bell says quietly.
“Aye,” Lahgokep says sadly. “But nature abhors a vacuum, and the universe plucked us mortals from our lives and bestowed some semblance of divinity. Why? I could not tell you.” He spreads his arms wide. “The answers to such mysteries are not to be found here. Perhaps there are no answers, it is just the way of things.” He shrugs. “But while my esteemed colleagues spend eternity lazing about spying upon the world below, I remain here, endlessly searching for understanding.”
“Not all of us lie around doing nothing,” Bolivan growls, sounding slightly perturbed. “I’ve been out there trying to find a way to change our fate.”
Lahgokep studies me with renewed interest. “And you think this refugee might be able to stop the demons from crossing over?”
“If it’s possible, he and his people are the key. A demon had already arrived and was allied with the Prophet, the one who first led the silver-eyed people through the doors.”
“And how do you know this mortal isn’t also in league with those creatures?”
“He cut the damn thing’s head off when it was trying to throw wide the door to his old world.”
“Interesting,” Lahgokep says, stroking his whiskers again. “Well, I can’t say I have much hope that your efforts will avert what is coming, but I wish you the best. And that you, dear Bolivar, don’t attract the attention of the Devourer by bringing these mortals into the House.”
“We’ll be in and out, quick and quiet as mice,” Bolivan assures the knowledge saint. “If these two will hurry up.”
Since the Devourer instills fear in these demigods, it’s something I don’t want to encounter.
“Let’s go,” I say to Bolivan, and then bow my head towards Lahgokep. “And thank you.”
The old man smiles as he adjusts his spectacles. “You’re welcome, my lad. I hope Bolivar is right and that you have a way of keeping the doors closed for a little while longer. Though for us immortals, there is no escaping what is coming, in the end.”
“We’ll see about that,” says Bolivan as he turns sharply on his heel. A book swoops down into his path and he swats at it, causing it to explode in a flurry of falling pages.
With one last glance at the knowledge saint standing amidst the swirling tempest of books, I hurry to follow the ascended blacksmith.
Bell is uncharacteristically quiet as we rejoin Xela and Deliah and continue on our way through the ruins of the House. The shadowdancer keeps pestering her about what we encountered in the library, but she merely shakes her head, her expression troubled. I wonder if it’s the revelations about the danger threatening her world, or if it is something else about coming face to face with the knowledge saint. Between him and Bolivan, it is becoming very clear that the saints are simply jumped-up mortals, and perhaps not worthy of adulation. They certainly don’t seem capable of saving anything.
Ahead of us, Bolivan keeps glancing at the sky, and I can feel him growing more agitated. It looks the same as before to me, full of strange images and shapes that burst and fade across the starry expanse.
The blacksmith saint finally breaks off his unintelligible muttering and rounds on us. “We’ve got to move faster. The stars are about to shift, and when they do I don’t know where we’ll be in the House. We gotta find the doorway to Ysala before then.”
Deliah and I share a confused look. Bolivan waves his hand at the gleaming firmament above. “The House will shuffle when the constellations change, and we could find ourselves far from where we need to be.” He shakes his head, his frustration evident. “Never mind. Just hurry up and don’t wander off.” Then he turns and begins picking his way over the shattered stone, his pace quickening.
He’s moving so fast across the treacherous landscape that I have to keep my attention on where my feet are falling. I want to more deeply consider what Lahgokep said and see if his revelations about ‘the refugees’ have jarred loose any of my hidden memories, but I really don’t have any chance to do this now. Perhaps when we get to the City of Masks—
“Talin.”
The whisper shivers through my mind like a bracing wind. I stumble and nearly fall, my thoughts scattering. Xela glances at me quizzically as she flows past, but she doesn’t stop. Neither do the rest of my companions – apparently I was the only one who heard my name. Or did I imagine—
“Talin.”
I glance around wildly, looking for who is speaking. But there are only broken white-stone walls, tumbled pillars, and a few listing doorways leading inside collapsed buildings.
“Come to me.”
This time the words seem to emanate from one of these shadow-choked entrances. I hesitate, wondering if I should call out to Bolivan. None of my companions appear to have realized that I’ve stopped for a moment, and they are getting farther and farther ahead of me. I grit my teeth, cursing my foolishness, and take a few steps towards the doorway from where the words issued. This is madness – and yet I know that voice. Placing my hands on the strangely warm stone flanking the entrance, I lean into the darkness.
“Are you in here?” I hiss, my heart thudding.
The reply floats back, thin and etiolated. “Yes. I need your help.”
Valans. The brother of Valyra, and also the mad Marquis of Ysala. The son of the Red Sword, who attempted to achieve sainthood so he could find his lost sister.
“Is this a trap?” I call out into the blackness. Stupid thing to say – of course it’s a trap. But despite being certain of this, I can’t help but feel sorry for Valans. He’d blamed me for the loss of his mother and his people . . . and in a way he’d been right.
I draw my green-glass sword, and the emerald radiance pushes back the shadows. The room is large but mostly empty, though several passages curve away into blackness. The one object in the room is a statue larger than a horse of a lion back on its haunches, its face some strange melding of woman and beast.
“Where are you?” I ask, waving my sword in the direction of the corridors to see if anything else may be revealed.
No. This is foolish. I turn to leave this strange chamber and Valans’s whispering voice, but cold shock floods me as my foot comes down on emptiness.
I cry in wordless terror as the ground opens up to swallow me, the stone peeling back like the lips of a camouflaged beast.
3
I’m falling for only a few moments, but it feels like an eternity, and I expect to be dashed to pieces when I strike whatever lies below. Instead, my breath is driven from me as I land on smooth stone, and though pain lances through my chest I’m still whole as I go sliding down a steep slope. I thrust out my arms, trying to arrest my downward momentum, but though I can feel stone curving up on either side of me it’s too slick, and my fingers scrabble helplessly for purchase. Fetid air rushes around me as I gather speed, smelling of a charnel house or a battlefield. I strain to glimpse what it is I’m tumbling towards,
but though there is a hazy, almost spectral light swelling larger. I can’t make out any details. Given the horrible smell rising up, I’m not sure I want to know what is waiting for me below.
The steepness of the incline tapers, and my hurtling speed begins to slow. Still, when the chute finally spits me out I roll several times before coming to rest in a great space infused with a soft radiance. I can only lie there, stunned, a tessellated ceiling of many intricate mosaics slowly revolving above me. I want to be sick, but there’s nothing in my stomach.
The moving ceiling stabilizes. Groaning, trying to ignore the pain pulsing in just about every part of my body, I sit up and look around.
And immediately wish I hadn’t made a sound.
A vast creature looms over me: it has the body of a lion, its tumbling silver mane framing a face that, like on the statue above, seems to be caught halfway between a woman and a beast. The massive paw resting on the stone a few dozen paces from where I’m sitting could cover me completely, and if its claws were unsheathed I imagine that they’d be significantly longer than my sword. Its tail is serpent-like, and coiled several times around its body.
I force myself to breathe as quietly as possible.
The lion-woman’s eyes are closed, and I’d love to believe that she’s dead, but from the rumbling traveling up through the stone beneath me and the gentle rise and fall of her flank I know she’s just sleeping. My panic rising, I look around for an escape. A wall carved with almost-effaced images soars up behind me, broken only by the circular hole through which I tumbled. Although the stone etchings are worn, I can just make out the largest near me, and it shows a giant cat-like creature scooping tiny men up into its gaping jaws like they were mice.
Great.
“Talin.”
The whisper echoes in the vast chamber, far louder than it was before. Cold fear sluices through me as the lion-woman’s face twitches, as if she’s being dragged towards wakefulness by the sound.