by Joe Ducie
“And brought me back.”
“And brought you back.”
“I suppose I should thank you…”
Jade shook his head slowly. “We owe each other no thanks.”
*~*~*~*
My shop door was unlocked and the books undisturbed. Jade had collected his meager possessions just after noon and left me to rise or fall of my own accord. His—Mathias’s—old banana cart leaned forlornly and abandoned in the heart of Riverwood Plaza.
Entering my shop did not feel like coming home as returning to Ascension City had seemed. As time flew, I had died ten days ago on this shop floor and just two days ago in Atlantis. I had difficulty wrapping my head around all that had happened, but then the very idea of time travel was absurd.
If time flew as straight as an arrow, then I had been dead a little less than forty-eight hours.
I stood in the half-light which seeped through the cracks in the boarded up windows. Dust particles danced across the leather-bound tomes. I stroked the scar tissue on my palm where the petal of immortality had pierced me and brought me back to life.
“Roper? Detective? Are you here?”
Silence.
Could I go back to this? To my exile and this shop, to drink away the days writing an endless story? Did I have a say in the matter? Did Forget know I was dead? What had happened to Atlantis and my friends upon the Plains of Perdition?
Too many questions. Perhaps I should have just been thankful to be alive when so many weren’t. I had failed Clare, as I had failed Tal. Marcus had been right all along, and on some level, I’d known that for the truth.
Only the guilty understand the cost of true power, Aaron had said. He’d got that right.
I headed upstairs for a shower and a change of clothes. The shirt and waistcoat I wore felt as though they belonged to a dead man. I spent a good hour under the scalding hot water, trying very hard not to beat my head against the tiled wall.
In my closet was a row of fresh shirts and trousers. I selected a black waistcoat and, given the torn and bloodied state of my grey one, bestowed the coat with the dubious honor of “favorite”. I shrugged into it carefully, being careful to not pull too much at the taut, hard skin across my stomach.
Now what?
Being alive… it didn’t feel real, somehow. I felt as though I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Yawning, I sat down on the edge of my bed and thought of Clare. I remembered her, just a week ago, getting dressed here in a shaft of sunlight. She had been beautiful.
Distantly, I heard the bell above my door downstairs chime as someone let themselves in. I hadn’t locked it behind me, and the wards weren’t up. Was it someone come to hurt me, or just a customer?
I grabbed a copy of Figley’s Assassin, the very same Jeffrey Brade had tried to use against me, and headed downstairs.
The shop was quiet. I couldn’t see anyone.
Barefooted, I stepped lightly along the floorboards. “Who’s here?” I asked, my voice a harsh whisper. “Show your—”
Sophie barreled into me at top speed when I rounded the edge of the shelves. Her tiny weight almost sent me tumbling over a stack of fiction, but I caught myself against the wall. “Well, hello there, ‘Phie.”
“I thought you were dead, you idiot!”
“I… was.”
Sophie swatted me on the chest. “Where’ve you been? What happened? I’m sorry we couldn’t help you—Marcus, he pulled us back across to Ascension City and then here. He burned Tales of Atlantis, Declan. Without it we—”
“It’s okay. I know. He did what he thought was right and probably saved your lives.” Selling me out to Renegade and plunging Forget back into war as well, but that was revenge for another time. “Are you okay? Is Ethan?”
“Ethan? Yes, he’s fine. He’s at university.” Sophie looked at me. Really looked at me. “God, you look so unwell. Come and sit down.”
I didn’t argue. She led me over to my comfortable window alcove and sat me down in front of the typewriter. A half-written page hung in its teeth. Writing was the farthest thing from my mind.
“Declan, please, what happened?”
I looked into Sophie’s face and shrugged. She deserved to know that I saw Tal again, if nothing else. I told her everything. She sat and listened, with her legs tucked underneath her on the leather sofa. She listened quietly, scared, and I could see a thousand questions blazing behind her eyes. I finished and reached for a bottle of scotch.
“You were dead,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You saw Tal.”
“Oh yes.”
Sophie looked down and bit her lip.
“Were you expecting something else? Something more?” I chuckled, but it hurt. “For all of us to live happily ever after?”
“Is that silly?”
“No. A touch naïve, perhaps, but in the best way.” I stood, joined Sophie on the sofa, and slipped an arm around her shoulders to pull her close. “Perfect endings… they don’t exist, ‘Phie. Only in stories, where nothing ever really changes. Here, right now, isn’t a story. There is no happy ending, because it’s not the end. Do you understand?”
Sophie sniffed and placed her hand on my knee. “I miss Tal.”
Me too.
*~*~*~*
A day later, the bell above my door chimed and heavy, somber boots clipped a steady beat on the floorboards. Someone slowly but surely was navigating my maze of books, and he or she was not a customer, unless I’d lost my wits entirely somewhere between Atlantis and the land of the dead. I didn’t bother to lift my head from the unedited pages of my novel on the counter.
Honestly, I didn’t care.
“So this is the afterlife?” asked a deep baritone voice.
“Haven’t you heard?” I reached below the counter, fetched another glass. “I’m immortal these days, Your Majesty.”
I poured Jon Faraday two fingers’ worth of Glenlivet 12. He didn’t get the spicy 15. Not after his piss poor performance on the Plains of Perdition and the whole exile under pain of death affair. He took the glass with a nod of thanks.
“Yes. That’s a rumor spreading faster than wildfire through Forget. Declan Hale, the Immortal King of Atlantis.” Faraday chuckled and took a sip. “Certainly not a part of the plan, to feed your legend, but even the very wise cannot see all ends, hmm.”
“You let this happen, Gandalf.” With a few sad days to think on it, such a miserable conclusion was the only thing that made sense. “What do you want now?”
“You know what I want, Hale.” Faraday stroked the rough stubble coating his chin. “The Renegades destroyed, Forget united, and your head on a pike paraded through the streets of Ascension City, amidst the sounds of imperial trumpet calls and wild, mindless ovation.”
“Well…” I had to choose my words carefully. “Click your heels three times, Dorothy, and wish real hard.”
“I suppose I owe you thanks, in a way. If not for you and your penchant for sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, Renegade may well have seized the Infernal Clock and used it to destroy us all.”
“You let me escape the Fae Palace, didn’t you? You let Clare and Ethan think they’d been so clever in their rescue and let me seek Atlantis and undo the Degradation… You played me.”
“Let us be honest, Declan. Can we be that, just this once? You wanted to be played.” He looked around at my dusty old shop with a sneer of distaste. “Sitting on the bench was insulting for you, wasn’t it? After the Tome Wars? You were chewing at the bit to be tagged back in.”
“People were hurt. Clare Valentine suffered, Jon. She died afraid.” Goddamn it, she died without knowing how much I cared. I pressed my thumb and forefinger against my eyelids. “True love never saves the damn day, does it?”
“Her death was a regrettable loss, but look at the outcome—the Degradation undone, Morpheus Renegade, our greatest adversary, dead. His legions are in disarray and treasures lost ten millennia ago are being retrieved fr
om the ruins of Atlantis as we speak. Small regions of Renegade-controlled Forget are rebelling, as word of his death spreads, but that is manageable. This was a win for the home team.”
“Emily, his queen, is still out there. She has at least a half-dozen petals from the Infernal Clock as well as the Roseblade.”
“And all the reason in the world to want you dead.” Faraday chuckled. “I fear she will be your problem before mine. But then who can blame her? You’ve always made better enemies than friends.”
“What if I’d failed? What if the Everlasting had barred my path? If Morpheus had killed me before I reached the Infernal Clock and undid the Degradation? If what’s left of Tal stopped my heart?” I threw my hands up. “Or a thousand other things that could have gone wrong.”
Faraday nodded. “All taken into consideration. If you’d been killed, then that was one less treasonous madman to deal with. Your death would have solidified my powerbase beyond question. It still will, one day—and soon, no doubt. I don’t believe your immortality for a moment.”
“I’m alive. I was dead. That should give you pause.”
A cheap romance novel caught his eye, and Faraday pocketed the paperback. “However, you didn’t die, did you? Well, not until it didn’t matter anymore. But even that didn’t keep you down for long. No, you saved the day. And now I’m the king that recovered Atlantis for the people, and the king that destroyed Morpheus Renegade. All roads, Declan… fortune and glory.”
“Did you come to gloat?”
“Partly.” Faraday helped himself to another splash of scotch. “And partly to make sure you understand that this changes nothing. Your exile stands. Return to Forget and a cell on Starhold will be the least of your concerns.”
So, I’d returned to the start of all this, in a way. I let a carefree grin spread across my face. “I’m going to burn your kingdom to the ground and piss on the ashes.”
King Faraday finished his drink and shrugged. “Perhaps you will. Take care, little brother.”
My fists unclenched as Faraday saw himself out. The desire to fight, to unleash the Will within… was damn near overwhelming. A ripple of tension shuddered through my arm and an impossible door swung wide open in my mind, away in the ether and the Void beyond.
I looked down. The words on the page were glowing.
*~*~*~*
The End of
Book One
Loved Distant Star?
Declan Hale will return in 2013!
Broken Quill
The Reminiscent Exile: Book Two
JOE DUCIE
Bonus Story!
The Forgetful Library
A Tale of the Knights Infernal
I
There are three types of books in the Forgetful Library.
Well, no, that’s not right.
There is every type of book in the Forgetful Library.
But that’s not right either. Although not entirely wrong.
I’m not explaining this very well. Broken quill! You think I’d have a way with words. I’m the chief librarian of the largest collection of books in all creation and I can neither explain nor define the tomes under my protection. Let me see…
There is a library. Yes, good. Start small, Aloysius, as my father used to say. Keep it simple, stupid. Rome wasn’t built in a day, Al. Well, it may have been, for all I know—I wasn’t there—but the old bastard’s words fit just the same.
The library. Or, the Library. I’ve always thought of it as Library with a capital ‘L’. The endless stacks and infinite catalogues carry an air of sentience, after all. An enormous, slumbering awareness as vast as the stars or the space between stars. An intelligence found in the scent of wood shavings, of spilled vanilla and the aroma of freshly cut grass. Of good, old leather and dusty pages.
That starts to paint a pretty picture, does it not? This is a special library. A unique library. Forged to house the books of the abstract. The books of the never-were, the could-have-been, the lonely-and-lost. That’s a fanciful yet fine way of putting it, actually.
The books in the Library are infinite and they are of three distinct kinds. A solid enough definition.
Kind the First: The Forgetful Library contains every book never written.
Kind the Second: The Forgetful Library contains every book that ever existed and was lost.
Kind the Third: The Forgetful Library contains every book found within books.
The first two kinds are rather straightforward and speak for themselves. Kind the Third is a bit more wistful, a bit more… intangible. Think of books inside other books. The unpublished cases of Sherlock Holmes mentioned by John Watson on occasion in the actual stories. The Red Book of Westmarch, purportedly the source material used by Professor Tolkien for his fantastical tales. Or Lovecraft’s mad poet, Abdul Alhazred, and his blasphemous tome of eldritch lore—The Necronomicon. All such stories can be found on the polished jarrah shelves of the Forgetful Library. The last is kept in a dungeon of its own, buried deep beneath the earth. It has a habit of attracting… unpleasantness.
Which I suppose is the reason I’m writing all of this down. Recent unpleasantness. The reason I’m writing a story that will never find its way into my Library, for I intend the whole wide world, and every realm of Forget, to know the truth of this matter—to know the truth of my grandson, Declan, and his mistreatment at the hands of the ‘lauded’ and ‘incorruptible’ Knights Infernal.
I have never been one for the fight. Aloysius Hale, a tall, bespectacled gentleman with a penchant for bowties and old pocket watches could never be mistaken for a man of action, for a hero.
But I have lived with heroes.
I have walked in their shadow (or lack thereof, as the case of young Declan may be) and watched them fight their wars against men and less than men. Creatures of the Void—monstrosities that would eat the essence of my Library and feast well on the possibility of all the Thrice-Kindly works.
The Forgetful Library has existed since the first written word and is much a part of the Story Thread as the books of actual reality, of the books available at your local corner bookshop or, more so these days, online in electronic format. I don’t resist the change to e-books, as they’re known on True Earth (and many other Earths, come to think of it), and the Library has adapted to all the e-books not written, that have never seen a printed page. There is an annex to the left of Persistent Memory which houses all the encyclopaedias of things that never existed fit to burst with e-books. Still, there is something to be said for the weight and heft of a book. Something… simple, stupid. But where was I? Ah, heroes—men and women of the Will.
Like Declan.
He does not deserve the scorn being placed upon his head. King Faraday sits on a stolen throne spinning lies about my grandson and his deeds. Declan fought the Renegades and the Voidlings through two campaigns and carried the mantle of the Knights Infernal with an integrity unmatched. I’m certain—certain—he had good reason for doing what he did, for unleashing the Degradation and sealing away the Lost City. For sacrificing Tal Levy, his love, and selling his shadow to Lord Oblivion. I would ask him those reasons, if I could, but his forced exile prohibits such contact. Yet I suppose that is not the tale I set out to write here today.
There are so many myths and legends wrapped around the boy that I imagine the truth is blurred more by the absurd tales than King Faraday’s campaign of misinformation (and I write those words knowing full well I forfeit my position in the Library, if not my head). To support Declan now is to court treason. Well, so be it. Here, at least, you will find one small truth. One true story.
Here is a tale of the Forgetful Library and the night Declan Hale bested the devil.
*~*~*~*
II
Aloysius stood alone in the vast, cathedral-like central dome of the Library with his hands clasped behind his back. Beams of dull orange light cut the marble floors into long squares. He waited patiently, his neatly pressed suit and knotted bowtie belyin
g the panic he felt.
He was alone in the Library, save for the hidden unpleasantness. The entire staff and custodial service had been dismissed for the evening, given what had happened to young Barnaul in the catalogues of Elusive Thought. Aloysius was confident the unpleasantness had been contained to that area of the Library, specifically within the subsections of Bountiful Doubt, but who knew with these things? Declan would, which was why he had been summoned.
Before sunset, the winged messenger had promised. He supposed he had Fenton Creed to thank for that particular piece of magicked mechanical fascination. That wasn’t a fair thought, really. A messenger bird that could seek out his grandson across entire worlds, wherever he was on Earth or in Forget, in less than an hour deserved some admiration. It just grated that the overpowered sycophant had a hand in its construction. Aloysius did not care for how Jon Faraday had wrapped Fenton and a dozen other strong-Willed men like him around his little finger. It stank of unbalance.
The Dragon Throne has sat unclaimed for too long.
Ever since King Morrow’s command ship flew into the Void. An unbalance, yes, and now… insurrection was on the horizon. The signs were clear.
As the last of the sun’s rays scattered indigo light across the crystal walls, the enormous entrance hall doors swung open on silent hinges to admit Declan.
He strode into the Library’s lobby grim faced and tall. His dark hair hung lank against his forehead. There was a nasty cut across his cheek and he looked as if sleep was a distant memory of happier times. Declan was not alone. He grasped the hand of a young woman, wearing a white summer blouse stained with what could only be blood. Despite that, she smiled as they drew level with Aloysius.