by J. M. Frey
“But don’t you worry that someone will find that chest in the hayloft and steal the mask, if it’s so valuable?”
“Nobody knows it is there but you, my dear,” I breathe into her ear, then nibble on the lobe.
“But if someone did?” she insists, pushing back on my chest enough to allow her lust-greened eyes to slide over my face, looking for something, something I cannot guess at. I let all the affection I feel for her flood my expression and hope that it satisfies.
“It still would not work,” I say, serious now. “There is a pass phrase that I must tell my successor.”
“What if you die before you can tell them?”
“Then the mask and sword melt into mist and return to the elves and dwarves that cast them. They can reforge both, knowledge intact, and re-gift them to the king, who then chooses a new Shadow Hand.” Now it is my turn to study her expression. “Pip, where is this coming from?”
Lust diminished, her eyes are nearly brown for the first time; less like deep pools, as I’ve heard other brown eyes described, and more like flitting, living shadows.
“Nowhere,” she says, a bit too quickly. “I’m just curious.”
“This goes beyond curiosity,” I say sternly.
“I’m worried, then, okay? I don’t like the idea of Bootknife getting at your Shadow Hand stuff and using it.”
“He would never be able to open the chest—the locks are magic and require my physical presence to open.”
“But he could steal the whole thing.”
“I suppose. But I am confident that they don’t know where it is, at all.”
Pip wraps her arms around herself. “It just scares me. The thought of the Viceroy with all that knowledge.”
“The mask would not accept him,” I say confidently. I wrap my own arms around her, and am only partially surprised to feel that she is shaking. “Are you cold?”
“Yes,” she says, and her voice is a croak. I watch carefully as we arrange ourselves under a blanket beside the fire, but she does not put her hand to her throat this time. I lean back against a stone, and Pip takes up my favorite of her positions when we cuddle—her back to my front, snugged between my thighs, surrounded by me. It gives me unencumbered access to her neck, which I am finding increasingly pleases me. I had not expected to be as possessive as I am, but Pip doesn’t seem to mind when I leave love bites on her skin, or when I breathe in the scent of her where it is at its most concentrated, just below her ear, and cage her with my limbs.
She is happily kept.
For now, at least.
✍
The Shadow’s Gate is blocked by thorns, but they are not as thick a tangle as they are around the other entrances. When Pip asks why, I admit that I cannot know. The Library was cut off from the rest of the world centuries prior—perhaps it just means that the spellcaster who enchanted the Library did not know of the Shadow’s Gate, as I’d hypothesized.
“Why did he do it? Cut it off?” Pip asks as we stare at the bramble and try to plan our strategy.
“The spellcaster?” I say, rubbing at the sweat that has collected under my hairline. That inn and its glorious tub suddenly seems much further away than eight days. What I wouldn’t give to cuddle with Pip in my favorite position in a soapy soaker right now, instead of being out here in the summer sun, dust and pollen sticking to our skin. “He was a mage, spiteful and prideful and jealous of the information in the Library. He wanted it for himself, wanted to keep his rivals ignorant, so he shut it up with this spell.”
“How did he get in?”
I shrug. “Another spell, I assume.”
“Where is he now?”
“Centuries dead,” I admit. “And the spell never wore off. The Library forever waits for him, and remains lost to the rest of us. I admit I am extremely excited at the prospect of perusing its shelves. What spells have we lost to memory? What tales? What songs?”
Pip smiles and rolls her eyes. “Spoken like a true academic. You know we only have time to fetch the vellum.”
“Yes,” I agree. “But once we decipher a way in, I can come back again. I’ll have lots of time to read once you’re . . .” The words dry up in my mouth, and I can’t finish the phrase. I don’t want to.
Pip seems to understand anyway, for she comes over and places a soft, sweet kiss on my lips.
We lean into one another and consider the wall of greenery. “There’s a fairytale, where I’m from, called Sleeping Beauty,” Pip says. “About a princess who was cursed to sleep until her true love came and kissed her awake. Or, you know, had at her while she slept and the agony of childbirth woke her. Depends on the version of the fairytale.”
“Charming,” I say dryly.
Pip laughs, a sudden jolt of mirth startled out of her. “Yes! That was the prince’s name. Anyway, in some versions of the story, the whole castle fell asleep with her, and was then overrun with thorns and brambles, like this. Magic ones. In some versions, Prince Charming has to hack his way through them, and they fight back. In others, they recognize him for who he is and part for him.”
I raise an eyebrow at Pip. “Is this you being scholarly about the hero’s quest again?”
“Well, think about it,” she insists. “Kintyre would just have at the brambles with his sword. A villager might go at it with an axe. And knowing Elgar Reed, they would probably fight back. In all likelihood, the mage has spelled the plant life to fight against intruders.”
“But if we are not intruders . . .”
“Exactly. I think if we wiggle through without inflicting damage, it might let us.”
I lean down and press another sweet, affectionate kiss to her mouth. “You are a wonder.”
Her expression turns wry. “I wish you’d stop saying that.”
“Why?” I ask, turning to Dauntless and stripping off my sword belt. I hang it from the pommel of his saddle, and he noses me affectionately.
“You don’t really know what I’m like, away from here,” she says, and copies me, removing anything from her person that the plant life might consider a threat and leaving them tied to Karl. The cup hangs from her saddlebag, leaving a wet patch on the grass by Karl’s flank, but removed enough that the horse isn’t getting splashed. The cup fills so very slowly, so by the time one drop of seawater falls, the previous one has already been sucked into the ground.
“You jog more, I assume, and quest less,” I tease. “And spend time with your family. Beyond that, what is different?”
“Loads,” Pip says, but does not elaborate.
✍
It is a tight squeeze, and slow going, but Pip’s guess is right. As long as we don’t harm the vegetation, it remains quiescent and does not return the hurts. For the first time in my life, I am genuinely grateful that I am not robust like my brother. He would never have been able to scramble through some of the narrower gaps.
There is a tense moment when I accidentally break a young branch off the vine, which tightens hard enough around my waist that I feel the thorns prick through my clothing and press into my flesh. “Pip!” I gasp.
“Hold still,” she says. “Don’t move; I’ll come to you.”
I do my very best to obey, terrified of the thought of the thorns sliding into my skin, gouging and flaying. When she reaches my side, Pip begins to brush her hands over the vine that has me trapped. It is about the width of my wrist and brown with age. Slowly, gently, she is able to pull the gap open wide enough for me to free my clothing from the thorns’ grip and wiggle free.
Sooner than I expected, we come to an end of the foliage. I realize that, while the wall of greenery is dense, it is not wide. “Oh,” I say, standing and brushing the leaves and twigs from my clothing and hair.
“Yeah,” Pip agrees. “That was . . .”
“Huh.”
“Yeah.”
Together, we make our way to the building before us. It is squat and yellow, made up of uneven blocks of the local sandstone, with very little ornamentation. It is
three stories high, but absolutely sprawling. Wings and additions reach in every direction, unplanned and seemingly organic. Whenever the Library required more space, it seems the builders just chose an open area and dug in. I shudder to think of the shelving system. If there is one, at all.
“You’d think a library would be a bit, you know . . . more grand,” Pip says, staring up at the thin windows in the main building.
“Why?” I ask. “It’s what’s on the inside that matters.”
“I’m just thinking of your origin story,” she admits, as we walk the overgrown path to the front entrance. “If you all think you came from the pen of a writer, shouldn’t libraries be, I dunno, temples, or something? Revered?”
“Libraries are just a place to store books,” I say.
Pip puffs out a laugh. “Right. Okay. Practical. No organized religion, huh? No centers of worship? Of course not. Poor worldbuilding, Mr. Reed.”
I do not bring up our conversation about how I feel our world was abandoned by our creator. We have had it once, and I could not bear repeating it.
We pause together before the doors of the Lost Library, brown wood and black fittings and looking entirely too normal for my own ease. I wish I had a weapon with me. Pip turns the handle slowly, carefully, pushing the door open. We are both on edge, breathing quietly and listening intently. The hinges groan in protest, probably rusted, but otherwise, there are no sounds.
“Could it be booby trapped? Like, with magic and stuff?”
“Possibly,” I allow. “Let me go first.”
“Why?” Pip asks, bristling with self-righteousness. “So you get flambéed instead of me? I don’t need a protector, Forsyth.”
“Because I will be better able to detect charms and wards,” I explain patiently. Her anger is cute, especially when she’s defensive about being mollycoddled. “Unless you have made a thorough study of the signs?”
She huffs. “Right, fine, go ahead.”
I enter the Library first. The narrow windows let in enough dusty light for us to see where we are going, but not so much that the books would be damaged or fade. The beams of light don’t even touch the shelves and only illuminate the passageways. Clever architects.
Slowly, with every step we take, it becomes clear that there is nothing in this Library but ourselves—no spells, no traps, no wards. If they were once here, they have long ago crumbled with age.
“So, the Parchment that Never Fills . . .” Pip asks, as we traverse the length of the Lost Library. The dust is so thick on the ground that we are actually leaving behind footprints. “Do you know its story?”
“No,” I admit. “This is something I know nothing of.”
Pip pulls me to a stop with a tug on my sleeve, and I turn to face her. “So, it might not even be here?” she hisses, aggrieved. “Why did you pick the Lost Library, then?”
“It seemed the most logical place for a magical piece of paper to be stored.”
“Okay. Right. That makes sense,” she says, but her brow is furrowed. I lean down and brush a dry kiss across her forehead, and the wrinkles smooth away. “So, where would it be?”
“Either hidden or on display,” I say. “That is what I would do if it were my artifact and my library. It would be in a very safe place deep underground, in a dry area where the damp and the rot could not reach it, or it would be in a glass case in a place of pride.”
“Let’s start with the place of pride, then,” Pip suggests. She turns in a circle, taking in the design of this central building, and then points up. “There,” she says, her voice echoing slightly through the muffled hush of the abandoned building.
The Library itself is open, the second and third stories really just overlarge balconies that allow us a view of the roof from the ground floor. On the second level, there seems to be a sort of platform built against the wall. There are no bookshelves on the platform, and only a bit of red swagged curtain, rotting on its pole, tied to the ornate railing of the balcony. If I were to show off a treasure, that is where I would place it; right within eye line of anyone entering the Library.
Together, we make our way through the shelves to a spiral staircase carved out of stone. I very heroically resist the urge to run my fingers along the spines of the books we pass. It would leave more of a trail for anyone who might be following us—not that I suspect that anyone is—but worse, it might damage the books themselves. They are old, old beyond memory, and might easily crumble to dust the moment they are touched.
If—when—I return here, it will be with archivists who can Speak Words of Preservation, and gardeners who can Speak Words of Calming. We might not be able to clear away the protective vegetation entirely, but perhaps we can convince the foliage to leave a gap in the barrier for the public to use. It would be fantastic to be able to reopen the Lost Library.
A little of the worry and caution that has been flooding my body as we walk ebbs away. I am growing slowly more confident that we really are alone in this massive complex. The floors don’t even squeak, made of highly polished black marble as they are. I feel like a ghost, able to move unseen and without affecting any of my environment, invulnerable. Which is why I am so badly startled to see a monster when we reach the second level.
It is large, and hairy, and is sitting on the floor watching us with luminous dark eyes.
“Shit!” Pip yelps when she sees it. I can’t help the involuntary step back. My heel hits air, and I wheel my arms, grabbing Pip to keep from tumbling back down the spiraling stairs. We both regain our balance, and then, with the instinct of a small rodent faced with a predator, we freeze. I slide my hand to my hip, the movement hidden from the creature by Pip’s body, and resist the sudden, furious urge to curse—I left my sword behind! Foolish!
Terror swims up my spine. We are defenseless!
The monster shifts on its haunches and sneezes at us. Dust billows up around it, poofing off its lanky, long fur, but otherwise, it seems unimpressed with our appearance. It is blond-brown, a sort of sandy color that matches the stone of the Library, and I wonder if some magic birthed it from the Library’s walls. Beyond that, I have no idea what sort of creature it is. It rather resembles a bear, but also a great dog, and also again a lion. There are no distinctive characteristics, like with a chimera; just a big body with limbs and ears and a snout that recalls one animal or another, but is not firmly of each.
“It’s . . . not attacking us,” Pip says.
“I ca-can s-s-see th-that,” I say.
“No, why isn’t it attacking us?” Pip asks, exasperated by my fear-induced obtuseness.
“Because we ha-haven’t advanced toward the p-podium yet?” I move my head slightly to the right to look at the curtains and the raised platform, trying to do it as slowly and unobtrusively as possible so as not to set off the creature. As I suspected, there is a single plinth in pride of place, right beneath a skylight. There is also another swag of rotting red velvet draped over the top of the plinth, to protect the contents from direct sunlight.
Pip takes a step forward. I tighten my grip on her arm, ready to haul her back down the stairs if I must, and wait. The creature cocks its head to the side, watching us, but does nothing else.
This tension is horrific. I feel like an overwound child’s toy, ready to spring into a chattering dance and being held back forcefully by cruel fat fingers locked on the winding key. I wish something would let go, wish something would just happen so I can react.
Pip takes another step, deliberately aiming her body toward the podium, and I am forced to take a shuffling step as well to keep her within arm’s length. The creature tenses now, preparing to stand. Pip takes one more deliberate step, and that’s it, she seems to have crossed some line. The creature lets forth a sound that blasts against our ears, a rusty pulley sort of roar, short and sharp.
“Stop!” I say, and pull Pip back against me. “Don’t move.”
The creature heaves itself to its feet, weight equal on all four legs, so it is not biped
al, as I feared it might be. It cannot wield weapons of its own. Of course, having four legs means that it could definitely outrun us. And there are its teeth to consider. Things like this always have teeth.
It chuffs another bark, and I feel the purring growl beneath it slide across my skin, a clear warning.
“What’s that?” Pip asks, pointing at the floor beneath the creature.
I look, but there’s nothing there. No vellum, no trap door, no indication that the creature was guarding something else. Just a clear patch of wear-polished marble where the dust has not settled upon the ground.
Hmmm. Now that I am looking, there is no indication that the creature has been here for long, save for all the dust collected on its fur. There are no bones of previous meals, no water dish, no piles of feces, and yet clearly it has been here, sitting in one spot, for days, weeks, possibly years going by the thickness of the dust on the floor around us.
What an utterly incredible creature the mage has conjured.
And utterly terrifying, for it is completely unlike any other beast of the world, entirely untouched by the needs of biology and time. If we were to strike it, would it even bleed to death? Or would it just keep coming?
Pip seems to be just as in awe of the creature as I am, but unlike me, Pip’s stubborn curiosity is drawing her closer. I wonder if this is another moment like that in the Crystal Caves, if the creature is somehow bringing Pip in toward it. Because I can honestly say that no power in the world would make me get closer to the massive thing of my own volition.
“Pip!” I hiss. “Don’t get any closer!”
“No, look,” she says, not looking back over her shoulder. “It only gets agitated when we step toward the platform.” She takes a step to the right, breaking my sweaty grip on her arm, and the creature snarls. She takes a step back to the left, and it quiets. Then she takes a step toward it, and it perks up one floppy ear, like a curious puppy.