The Archive of the Forgotten

by A J Hackwith

  “Someone’s coming,” Rami said, and Hero squinted. A speck in the mirror, which Hero had first mistaken for a flaw in the surface, was growing larger. It elongated into a slight figure, and Hero couldn’t keep his lip from curling as he caught sight of a pastel froth of lace and a fluff of bangs.

  “Probity,” Rami rumbled. He’d repositioned himself at Hero’s side. “I take it from your presence that your business in Hell is finished.”

  Probity clasped her hands in front of her skirts, wide eyes looking soft and full. “Not at all. I just popped back to report on the Library’s cooperation. How strange a coincidence to find you here.”

  “When we left I don’t believe the tenor of conversation was cooperation, specifically,” Hero said.

  “Thankfully, Brevity sees sense much more easily than you books do.” Probity’s cheerful voice tugged with an undertone of tension. Her amicable smile tightened, just at the edges. “I’ve known Brevity my entire life. She understands the importance of what I’m trying to do. She’s been nothing but helpful. And why wouldn’t she? We both have the best interests and well-being of all books at heart. Even yours.”

  “Even me?” Hero pressed a hand to his chest. “What radical ideas you have.”

  “I’m a muse. You’re a book. Do you even know how special that is?” Probity’s clasped hands flinched as if she’d suffered a stab of emotion. “We love all books and do not judge between the written and unwritten. Everything we do is for you.” Probity spoke as if the reminder was aimed inward rather than at Hero. She tilted her head, and her brow furrowed with pity. “How is it, Hero? Do you still feel your story?”

  A sourness welled up in Hero’s throat, but Rami answered instead. “He’s well. We are fine.” There was a gritty grind under those words, more of an unvarnished edge than Rami usually had. Hero looked from muse to angel, but Rami’s frown gave nothing away. “We are actually on a quest for the Library. We were hoping the muses could provide answers about the forgotten librarian and the makeup of books.”

  Probity paused, and her face softened. “The makeup of books? You don’t know what books are made of?”

  She paused, and Hero grudgingly shook his head.

  The sorrow that flickered across Probity’s face seemed genuine. “Oh, sweet creature. To not know yourself.” Then a glint in her eye turned harder, angry. “It’s wrong. It’s more than wrong. The selfish librarian has done more harm than even I could have anticipated.”

  “Claire has given everything for the Library.” Hero’s voice was sharp. It was a surprise to feel Rami bristle beside him too. But then his brain caught up with his mouth, and a little guiltily he added, “As has Librarian Brevity.”

  “Not everything. She could never give enough to make up for what she has done. Humans can’t understand the real meaning of sacrifice.” Probity no longer looked at Hero like a pitiful rescue. Her mouth thinned into a fine line, as if she was steeling herself. “Even a broken book is still loyal to the woman instead of the true librarian,” she said. “She’s not worthy of your devotion, little book. I wonder if you would be so fond of your human librarians and authors if you knew how many books just like you they’ve turned to dust. They’re a parasite on the Library.”

  “Watch your tone,” Rami said, low as a threat.

  “I mean no disrespect, Master Watcher.” Probity held up a placating hand, but the new tension in her shoulders wasn’t reassuring. “I do respect the work you do, securing and passing judgment on muddled mortal souls; it really is a wonder.”

  “I’m no judge,” Rami objected, and Probity tilted her head.

  “Well, you should be.”

  “Yes, humans are terrible. Not like you muses,” Hero said archly. “Tell me again, where were you on the day a demon came to burn us all? The only muse I recall seeing on the battlefield was Brevity.”

  Probity flinched. “The Library fights its own battles,” she said before adding, a little softer, “I would have come if Brevity had called me.”

  “So help now,” Rami said. “What do you know that we don’t? What do you know about the ink? Why did it remain when the books were burned?”

  Probity didn’t answer for a moment. She took a step forward, closer to what seemed to be the film of water separating them. “You really don’t know, do you?” Her voice was wondering. “But how could the human not know? Not recognize . . .”

  She trailed off, and the silence tripped past Hero’s last remaining bit of patience. “Not know what? If you will not help us, then why should the Library ‘cooperate’ with you?”

  Probity tucked her arms around herself until her hands disappeared in the volume of soft knit. She chewed on her bottom lip, and the prospect of something sadder that Hero couldn’t guess. “I’m trying to save you, little book. Whether you believe me or not. That ink represents the best opportunity to save stories that I’ve seen in all my many years. It deserves to be used, not locked up in a dusty vault. That ink is the heart of a story. Every story. I’d give anything to protect that.”

  “Then tell me what that means so we can fix it!” Hero threw up his hands even as he felt exhilarated. To save stories. The moment he’d laid eyes on the unknown substance, a quiet voice at the back of his mind had whispered a possibility. That ink could repair his pages where the Library’s efforts had failed, so Hero could see his story again after all. That was what Probity was hinting at; it had to be. That ink was the key. The hope he’d kept firmly buried began to worm its way up his chest.

  Probity appeared torn, debating before speaking again. “I’ve told you enough to unravel the lies the Library has told you. Anything more and you’ll run back to that cruel human with accusations. I might have even said too much already.” A sigh drained out of her like a surrender. Her eyes turned wet, and she diverted her gaze to the ground. “That can’t happen. It can’t. Things are too important, and moving too fast now for it to happen, no matter my own feelings. You wanted to escape Hell once, didn’t you?”

  Hero was too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice the sudden change in Probity’s tone. At least, not until Rami gripped his shoulder in warning. “We will be missed, should we not return soon,” Rami said carefully. “We’ll be on our way.”

  “Hell, one of the judgment realms.” Probity seemed to be considering to herself. “Really, they are all so very much the same. One damnation is the same as any other. I wonder how those are connected.”

  “Muse . . . perhaps we can speak to a different representative before we go,” Hero said carefully.

  “It’s for the stories. It’s . . . Brevity would do the same if she were here. I know it,” Probity whispered. Her voice wobbled, but her hand was firm as she raised it in front of her face. Rami jerked Hero back another step, but there was nowhere to precisely retreat to. Probity’s smile looked distinctly unhappy. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. But there’s no point in that. You were never here.”

  Probity’s fingertips tapped against the film of water, and there was a soft pop. Rami’s fingers dug into his arm, Hero drew a sharp breath, and the entire sphere of space dissolved into stars.

  19

  HERO

  Myrrh. I did not hold with my senior’s suspicions. At least, not until Librarian Ji Han was gone. Now nothing seems right. But I am not a scholar. I’m here because I am a failed storyteller—what can I know of books?

  Demons; demons I know. I caught a lesser infernal trying to sneak into the stacks again today, and this time I questioned him: why are Hell’s creatures interested at all in the Library? He seemed to not know himself, except the Library had always been here, and the books were irresistible to their kind, coveted by even the great dukes. Jackals.

  Hell was born with a library, or evolved one soon after. Men condemn themselves to Hell, but who passes judgment on mere books?

  Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 791 CE

 
; HANGOVERS WERE, TRULY, CREATIONS of the devil. Hero felt he could say that with authority. His head thudded, dull and constant as a drum. He was under no encouragement to open his eyes, or remove his cheek from the warm wood surface supporting it.

  “Hero.”

  Someone leaned over him. Someone with a voice like bourbon in a cut-crystal glass. Excellent, and matching the big hand that tentatively wrapped around his shoulder and gave him a shake. “Hero,” the voice said again.

  “Shan’t. Go away. Guards—”

  “You don’t have guards.” The voice paused, and an amused tone crept in. “Well, besides me.”

  “Then you’re dismissed. Go join the rebellion for all I care.”

  “Hero—”

  “But haul yourself out first. That’s an order.”

  Another pause. The hand left his shoulder and Hero idly leaned for the missing warmth. There was a huff of a laugh. “Did that kind of order even work in your story?”

  “I—” Hero’s sleepy mind tripped on that, and unfortunately it brought him fully awake. His eyes sprung open and he bit back a yowl as light weaponized itself like blades into his headache. Between squinted eyelids, he could just make out the uneven grain of a wood table that was battle-scarred but clean. Raising his head brought the world to a proper perspective. They were in a large room, cluttered with candles and a cheerful melancholy. Other figures were clustered in small groups at tables identical to his, but talk was subdued, words drifting through the sweetly spiced air like memories.

  “Where the hell are we? I mean, obviously not Hell, but . . . and why does my head feel as if I was kicked by a gargoyle?”

  “You’d be a lot worse if I hadn’t lent a hand. I believe the muse yanked the realm right out from under us back there.” Ramiel sat in the booth across from him. “Sat,” however, might have been a bit of a stretch, as the stubby, broad angel looked afraid to breathe for fear the bench would give up the ghost. “Dropped us straight into nothing, and with as long as we fell, you’d have arrived as so many paper scraps if I hadn’t had a hold of you. I’m not certain we were supposed to survive the trip.”

  “And you brought us here?”

  Rami looked abashed. “We . . . woke up here. On the floor.”

  “Probity. That harpy reject is dead when we get back,” Hero muttered. He rubbed his head tenderly, which at least kept Rami from correcting him on the lineage of muses.

  Ramiel made a sympathetic face instead and grabbed one of the cups in front of him. “Here, I think the tea helps.”

  The pot was a slender silver contraption, and Hero watched with amusement as Rami attempted to pour a cup the way most men might approach defusing a bomb. The liquid ended up in the proper container, for the most part. Hero took the offering and made a face as he brought it to his nose. “Tea. Why is it always blasted tea? Where’re the realms with magical coffee elixirs? Wine? A decent sherry? At least Valhalla had ale.”

  “That’d be a question for Claire,” Rami demurred. Hero noted he didn’t pour a cup for himself, so surely he agreed with the sentiment.

  Hero resolutely gulped the tea. It was the precise golden color of the light spilling from the candles, and had a sweet note to it. Perhaps licorice. “Where the blast are we anyway?”

  Rami’s gaze flickered over the room in a way that said he’d already spent time culling any useful details from it. “I’m not certain. Middle Eastern and Persian influences, that’s for certain. No one’s bothered us so far, so they must be used to new souls.”

  An active realm, at least. Not a cannibal realm that would attempt to eat them at the first opportune moment, at the very least. A well-fed realm might wait until the second opportune moment.

  Hero missed the Library sometimes.

  The tea was helping, at least. He took another determined sip. The tearoom—because that seemed the only thing it could be—was warm and subdued. Some of the inhabitants had the scruffy appearance of having not slept in a couple of days. On the other hand, a Persian grandmother bundled in a bright red blanket worked on some kind of yarn art in the corner, pausing occasionally to warm her bony hands on a mug idling by her side. Everyone seemed lost in their own thoughts or quiet conversation, all waiting for something.

  In Hero’s experience, there was nothing good worth anticipating in these kinds of realms. “We should get out of here.”

  “Yes, you’re right.” Rami nodded tightly, perhaps because any grander gesture would have risked tipping the bench. “What do you propose?”

  Rami’s eyes were somber, intense, and Hero found himself pinned under their focus. There was no mockery, no doubt, just patient attention.

  “Why do you do that?” Hero asked. The question was suddenly pressing, urgent as anything else he could accomplish.

  Rami turned to meet his gaze. “Do what?”

  Hero’s mouth felt dry and awkward. “Take me seriously. Why do you take me seriously?”

  That received a raise of one thick eyebrow. “Should I not?”

  No. No one should have taken Hero seriously. Earnest regard had weight, had consequences, had familiar ties and responsibilities. “The others don’t. I work very hard on the frivolity, you know. It’s handcrafted, artisanal even. But you ignore it entirely.” Hero realized he was staring but only seemed able to drop his focus from Rami’s eyes to his chin. “I want to know why, I guess.”

  Rami’s serious expression muddled with a kind of softness at the edges. He considered before speaking, “It’s a fair enough question. I mean, I can see you’re vain; you’re arrogant and irresponsible—”

  “Flatterer,” Hero muttered, but Rami wasn’t going to be derailed.

  “You choose to behave as a beast sometimes. And you’re very hard to tolerate, let alone like,” he said firmly. Then he paused, a complicated look ill settling on his features until it drifted off again. “But then there’s who you are when you’re taken seriously, treated with respect and thoughtful consideration. You’re insightful and kind. I like that man.”

  “Nobody likes me,” Hero said, a little aghast.

  Rami stopped, and a very un-Rami-like smile taunted the shape of his lips. It was a soft smile, and if he wasn’t careful, someone would accuse it of being fond. Not Hero; Hero knew better. But still. It was a dangerous smile, with what a less cautious fool than Hero could read into it.

  “You might be surprised. You seem to have found a home in the Library, at least.”

  Hero sniffed. “Only because I can’t return to my book, so I can’t be shelved.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Of course,” Hero said with a certainty that had been there a moment ago but was disappearing fast as Rami frowned at him. He managed to break the gaze, turning his head to fish through the crowd for anything, anything else to talk about. His attention lit on a tall figure who slipped through the tearoom with a peculiar kind of familiarity. The figure was dressed in a long tunic and flowing pants, belted loosely at the waist. They were broad-shouldered and thick-hipped, moving with the kind of surety that described a comfort in their own skin. The figure cut a sure path through the quiet crowd, saying a word here or there. Each time, the figure would withdraw, and the table would soon get up and leave through the curtained doors at the far end of the room. Some left with purpose, but many with reluctance.

  They stopped at a table not too far away, close enough for Hero to hear. “Last call,” the newcomer said quietly.

  “Can’t we stay, Sraosha?” asked an old man wrapped in gold-embroidered finery.

  The figure called Sraosha smiled, and when they shook their head, there was no malice in it. “Why would you want to stay? You’ve got family waiting for you across the bridge.”

  “I do.” The man didn’t seem comforted and suddenly looked at his hands. “I hope I see them.”

  Sraosha didn’t say anything to
that but placed a hand on his shoulder. “Everyone crosses the bridge sometime. Your family is waiting.”

  The man nodded and drained the last of his tea in one ponderous motion. His grip was white-knuckled, but after he finished, his courage seemed restored. He nodded to his companions and left at a march toward the door.

  They left their cups behind. Sraosha swept their hand over the table, and in a moment it was refreshed with clean cups and a steaming pot of tea nestled next to a comforting candle.

  Hero glanced to the side to see if Rami was observing all this. He was, frown pinned with a particular kind of concern. When Hero looked back, Sraosha had turned and spotted him.

  They approached the table at a glide. “Last call,” they said quietly.

  Up close, Sraosha struck Hero as likely fluid in gender presentation, but not in the slender androgynous fashion. Loose linens, a long braid of hair, but that wasn’t it. Wide shoulders, wide hips, and a stance of distinct ease. They had a solidness to their presence, an undeniable individuality that drew the eye. It struck Hero that most people were not so much themselves as this creature was. It was an intimidating authenticity, and Hero drew back just a little. “Oh, no, thank you.”

  That appeared to amuse their host. Sraosha tilted their head, considering. “No, I suppose you missed your call before now.”

  “Kind host,” Rami interrupted, raising a placating hand. “I’m afraid there is a misunderstanding. We’re not souls awaiting judgment. Hero and I are representatives of the Unwritten Wing of Hell’s Library.”

  Even after all this time, Rami still had trouble with the H word. His brow always did a microscale twitch as he stumbled over the word. Hero usually delighted in drawing it out, even if there was no time to do so now.