The Burning Page

by Genevieve Cogman

  On the floor above, the room followed exactly the same pattern, but green-bound books filled the shelves. The covers seemed to mock the two of them with their unhealthy shade, the glistening emerald of a fly’s body. Zayanna looked around and cursed. ‘You should just have put the lights out,’ she accused Irene. ‘He couldn’t have a shadow in darkness . . .’

  ‘And then we’d be trying to find our way round here in pitch blackness,’ Irene snapped back. ‘It’s bad enough trying to find our way in here with the lights on.’

  ‘Darling, he’s going to kill me.’ Zayanna was apparently calm now, but Irene had the impression of a lid hastily nailed down over a seething cauldron of panic. ‘And you too, but frankly I’m more worried about me. Do something!’

  It didn’t take a great detective to see that Zayanna was having multiple second thoughts about the whole expedition. ‘We keep moving,’ Irene said, sounding calmer than she felt. ‘If he’s got to find us first, then let’s make him work to keep up.’ She pointed further up the staircase.

  ‘And then?’

  That was the question. How could she fight Alberich in a library where he controlled the environment? This whole place was a perversion of the true Library, with books that contained only nonsense, rooms that were indistinguishable from each other, without even an index . . .

  Alberich’s voice rose from the depths towards them as they ran up the stairs. ‘I’m impressed,’ he murmured.

  ‘Is he really?’ Zayanna asked.

  ‘No,’ Irene said.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be impressed? You found your way here. You persuaded your companion to help you. I’d thought you were competent, but I didn’t know you were that competent.’

  Irene was only half-listening to the words. Either they were merely one more attempt by Alberich to persuade her to join him, or he was simply playing with the two of them and something horrible would happen the moment they let their guard down. Neither option was useful. Then, as she and Zayanna stumbled out into the next room, she caught sight of Zayanna’s face. An unpleasant thought brought Irene up straight, as though someone had yanked her hair. Which of the two of us is he trying to convince? And what if Zayanna listens to him?

  She needed to find the centre of this place fast. She needed a map. But all she had was books of nonsense . . . which, come to think of it, were an essential part of this place. She could use that.

  Zayanna screamed and pointed. The shadow was levering itself up the staircase. Long twig-like fingers splayed across the floor, reaching for them. They ran.

  Irene grabbed a book off the shelf in the next room as they stumbled inside. It seemed to throb in her hands, its dull orange leather binding the shade of rotten autumn leaves. She flipped it open, but the contents were just as much nonsense as the ones she’d looked at earlier.

  ‘Is this the time for reading?’ Zayanna snapped.

  ‘Depends on the book.’ Irene took a firm grip on it. ‘Book which I am holding, lead me towards the centre of this library!’

  The book in her hands shivered as if it was trying to squirm free, then tugged unmistakeably towards the doorway on their left. But at the same moment the shadow was in the room with them, stretching from floor to halfway across the ceiling. It reached for Irene.

  ‘Lights off!’ Irene screamed at the top of her voice. Every light in the room, and in all the adjacent ones where her voice could reach, shut down. Total darkness enshrouded her. She reached out for Zayanna’s hand, and felt it warm and trembling in hers.

  And then something touched her shoulder. ‘Really, Ray,’ Alberich’s voice breathed just behind her. ‘Did you think that would stop me?’

  Irene bolted in the direction of the doorway, led by the book she was clutching. Her voice had carried well: she and Zayanna stumbled blindly through two darkened rooms before they came to one with lights on. The book tugged her towards the stairway and down. Behind her, she heard Zayanna gasp in shock, and turned to see what had happened.

  ‘Get it off, darling!’ Zayanna pointed at Irene’s coat. ‘Quick. There’s something on the back . . .’

  Where Alberich touched me . . . With the speed of sheer panic, Irene shrugged her coat off and dropped it on the floor. There was a patch of mould on the shoulder, shaped something like a handprint and visibly spreading. She shuddered in disgust, then tried to squint over her shoulder to see her back. ‘Is it still there – did it seep through?’

  ‘I think a bit got through onto that robe thing,’ Zayanna said, inspecting it. She pursed her lips as Irene discarded that as well. ‘All right, darling, I think you’re clean. It’s a good thing you’re wearing so many layers.’

  The mould was growing faster now, colonizing the overcoat in vile streaks of grey and white, the same shade as the bone-coloured books on this room’s shelves. ‘We have to keep moving,’ Irene said. ‘If I don’t use the Language and if we don’t stay in one place, it’ll take him longer to find us. I think. I hope.’

  ‘I can’t think why it’s taking him so long as it is,’ Zayanna said as they ran down the stairs, following the book’s tugging. The clock in the distance seemed to be sounding a counterpoint to their running steps, its steady tick like a constant pursuit. ‘If he can see everything in here, why can’t he just reach out and squish us?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I’m not going to complain.’ The book led them to the right, then three rooms along straight, then down again. The tugging was stronger now. ‘I think we’re closer.’

  ‘You realize this could all be a trap.’ Zayanna’s tone was more speculative than nervous.

  ‘Some things are worth risking a trap for.’

  ‘For you, darling.’ Zayanna glanced at the violet-bound books they were passing, then shrugged. ‘I’m a people-person, not a book-hunter.’

  ‘It’d be nice if I could be just a book-hunter.’ Irene was on edge, twitching at every creak or groan from an overloaded bookshelf, eyeing the shadows nervously in each new room. The clock seemed louder now, each separate tick a footstep of oncoming doom. ‘I was happy when it was just books!’

  ‘Were you?’ Zayanna shrugged. ‘I’m no judge, darling, but you seemed to me to be having a perfectly splendid time getting along with those friends of yours back there. I wonder if we’ll ever see them again?’ The question was casual rather than serious, toying with the idea, rather than actually worrying about it.

  ‘I have spent most of my life preferring books to people,’ Irene said sharply. ‘Just because I like a few specific people doesn’t change anything.’

  ‘Do you like me?’

  Common sense urged Irene to say of course and reassure Zayanna. But she was justifiably bitter over those multiple murder attempts and the fact that Zayanna was complicit in Alberich’s attempt to destroy the Library. All reason supported a tart response: after all, Why on earth should I like someone who’d do that? Finally Irene said, ‘More than I should.’

  The next room was ominous: it was the first one they’d come to so far where the books were all bound in black. It had no staircase and only two doorways: the one they’d come through, and another on the far side of the room.

  ‘This looks terribly exciting,’ Zayanna said.

  ‘Not my chosen adjective.’ Irene stepped forward to the far door. ‘Be prepared for anything.’

  She prodded it with the orange-bound book that she was still holding.

  Rather to her surprise, the door swung open at once. There was a wide-open space beyond, a terrain clustered with freestanding bookshelves, which ranged in height from waist-high to multiple-storey. In the distance, perhaps half a mile away, she could see an openwork tangle of stairs and points of light. The entire space was huge – larger than she had thought could be contained inside the beehive network they’d come through. It extended to either side. And as she looked up, she thought she could see bookshelves hanging from the ceiling incredibly high above. A blood-red light from some unseen source of illumination filled the place, gleamin
g on the dark wooden floor. The clock’s tick rang in the background, imperceptibly faster.

  ‘There is no way there isn’t going to be some sort of alarm,’ Irene said softly. ‘We’ll have to go fast and quiet.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To the centre, where else?’

  ‘He’ll be expecting us to go there.’

  ‘That’s our hard luck.’ Irene took a deep breath, tucked the book under her arm and crossed the threshold.

  The sound was like a thousand dentist drills biting into a thousand innocent teeth. It shook the whole area, and jarred painfully in the ears. Books clattered down from their shelves: the ones falling from a greater height tumbled like startled birds, in a flurry of bright covers and pale pages which ended in a sudden crash against the floor. Irene reluctantly gave up on any hope of stealth, and simply ran.

  ‘Surprise,’ Alberich said from behind her.

  Irene turned in time to see a set of shelves as high as a Georgian mansion falling towards her. It didn’t move with the speed of normal gravity, but like the finger of someone’s hand being folded down to touch their palm. Its shadow blocked out the red light, and there was no time left to dodge, no time to use the Language—

  Zayanna shoved into her from behind, throwing her forward. Irene lost her balance and went tumbling, rolling forward frantically in an attempt to keep moving and avoid that terrible impact. Then the bookcase hit the floor, and the concussion of the blow knocked her another ten feet. She came to a painful halt against the base of another bookcase. Books tilted out of it and came landing on her in small aftershocks, thudding down on the arm she’d automatically raised to protect her head.

  Silence.

  She looked up.

  Zayanna lay pinned beneath the edge of the bookcase, half her body trapped underneath it, in a spreading pool of blood.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Irene scrambled across to where Zayanna lay. Everything was quiet, apart from the clock’s remorseless counting of seconds. No further bookcases fell. The ground didn’t open under her feet. Nothing tried to kill her.

  Of course it won’t, she thought from somewhere in the depths of her rage and grief. Not yet. Not till after Alberich has seen me watch her die.

  ‘Zayanna,’ she whispered, touching the other woman’s wrist. There was still a pulse there. But the pool of blood was spreading, black in the red light. ‘Zayanna, hold on, let me get that off you. I’ll pull you out and then . . .’ And then what? The Language could temporarily seal a wound or set a bone, but it couldn’t heal, and it couldn’t bring back the dead.

  ‘Darling?’ Zayanna’s eyes fluttered open, but her gaze was unfocused. She coughed a little, trying to breathe, and reached for Irene’s hand.

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’ Irene tried to keep her voice reassuring. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this. Just hold on. Let me—’

  ‘Don’t waste your energy,’ Zayanna murmured. ‘You’ll need it.’ Her hand tightened on Irene’s, a silent we both know I’m dying. ‘The funny thing is?’

  ‘Yes?’ Irene prompted, as Zayanna’s voice faded for a moment. Her eyes were dry. Fury was building inside her, hot as lava, and it left no space for anything that would blur her vision or distract her from her aim.

  ‘I didn’t have to push you.’ Zayanna blinked, like a child going to sleep. ‘I could have been lying to you all along. I could have let him kill you.’ Her voice was barely audible now, thin and thready. ‘I don’t understand . . .’

  Her breathing stopped. The clock ticked on.

  ‘How curious.’ It was Alberich’s voice. Irene looked up to see the shadow splayed across the ruined bookshelves above her. It was thirty feet tall, twisted and hunched so that the head tilted down towards her. ‘I recruited Fae who had every reason to hate the Library, ones who’d suffered because of things Librarians had done. When Zayanna asked for you in particular, it seemed ideal. Why did she change her mind?’

  Irene released Zayanna’s hand. ‘Human error?’ she suggested. Her skirts were stained with Zayanna’s blood, though in the scarlet light the blood was black rather than red.

  ‘Hers?’

  ‘Yours. She really wasn’t the type to hate anyone.’ Something twisted in Irene’s guts at the thought. ‘She was a much nicer person than I am.’

  ‘Was being the operative word.’ She could feel the shadow watching her. No, it wasn’t just the shadow, it was this whole place, and Alberich had somehow embedded himself in it. ‘I suppose I should give you a chance, Ray. We still have a few minutes before the clock reaches midnight and the Library . . . stops. Have you come to me in order to join me? Is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I . . .’ Irene let her voice trail off, gulping back an audible sob. This had to sound realistic. She’d only get one chance. ‘I thought we could stop you. I thought . . . Oh, Zayanna . . .’ She bit her tongue hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, and bent down to cradle the dead woman in her arms. Her hand, shielded by Zayanna’s body and Irene’s own skirts, sidled along the ground until it felt the wetness of the pool of blood. Working by touch and memory, she began to trace her fingers across the floor. It was a trick she’d played before, and she knew it. If Alberich actually paid attention to what she was doing, rather than to her tears, then he might realize, too. But it was the only trick she had left . . .

  The clock’s tick seemed judgemental, counting down to a verdict. ‘I am disappointed, Ray,’ Alberich’s voice whispered from all around her. ‘I thought you had vision. I thought I could make something of you. But you don’t learn from your mistakes. You repeat your errors. You are weighed in the balance and found wanting. Any last words?’

  It was an obvious opening for Irene to try and say something in the Language. She could feel the floor tremble beneath her, no longer as solid as it seemed, just waiting to gulp her down before she could even finish speaking a word. The bookcases loomed above her, prepared to drop on her and smear her to a pulp. The air hummed with anticipation.

  And all Irene could think was, I may take a while to learn from my mistakes, but I get there eventually. But Alberich hasn’t learned from his at all. She blindly traced a final long curve across the floor with bloodied fingers, finishing two words in the Language.

  Not Alberich.

  Power exploded outwards in a soundless concussion that knocked the air out of Irene and threw her right back into the bookcase where she’d lain only minutes earlier. She lay there with her head ringing, trying to muster conscious thought and stand up and move. That quality of presence, suggesting imminent movement, had been withdrawn from the floor and bookcases around her. She’d guessed correctly – she hoped. Alberich was possessing this entire library, and since it was all a metaphysical whole, if he was locked out of part of it through the Language, then he must be locked out of all of it. At least for a little while. It made sense, or she desperately wanted it to make sense, especially when energized by panic and stunned through a minor concussion.

  Something wet was trickling down her face. She raised her right hand to touch it, then remembered she still had Zayanna’s blood on her fingers, and used her left hand instead. Not surprisingly, she had a bad nosebleed.

  There was a noise in the distance, something less even and precise than the deep pulse of the clock. It was footsteps.

  Panic seized her heart and twisted. She struggled again to get to her feet. Her head was still empty and buzzing with the after-effect of overstraining herself. She had to lean on the bookcase to pull herself upright, and even then it was a struggle.

  That was either Alberich himself, in the flesh, or some trusted servant. She had to reach the centre of this maze before they caught up with her, or before Alberich could fill the Library with his presence again and crush her.

  Irene shuffled between two bookcases, trying to keep her steps as quiet as possible. She didn’t look back at Zayanna. There wasn’t any time for affecting farewells to the dead or last promises of vengeance. I’m sorry, Zaya
nna, she thought. Would you have wanted this as an end to your story? Or would you rather have stayed alive? That’s the problem with getting too much into character . . .

  With a wrench she pulled her mind away from morbid self-indulgence and back to the present situation. Her concentration and her sense of balance were coming back now that she was moving. She had got this far. Zayanna had died to get her this far. Irene was not going to let Alberich win now.

  While she wasn’t tall enough, or situated high enough, to see the overall layout of the library between her and the central point, she could get an impression of it. Main roads of empty space radiated out from the centre like the spokes of a spider’s web, and smaller gaps between bookcases ran between them at irregular distances.

  The footsteps behind her had stopped now. She thought she heard a voice speaking, very distantly and quietly, but not clearly enough for her to make out the words.

  So what would I do if I was Alberich? I’d know that I was making for the centre. So I’d either get ahead of me – damn these pronouns – and wait to ambush me. Or I’d get up high where I could look down and spot me coming . . .

  She stopped to look up at the bookcases around her. They were as tall as tower blocks – impossibly high for their size, structurally unsound, constructions that should have toppled over even before they were loaded with books. But nobody was standing on the top and looking down at her that she could see. Yet.

  Irene wove a zigzag course towards the centre, taking side turns and avoiding taking a single open roadway between shelves. She tried to combine silence with as much speed as was humanly possible. Alberich might be able to enter the physical environment again shortly. At which point she would be a messy smear on the landscape.

  She turned a corner, lurking in the shadow and looking to the left and right. No sign of Alberich. But something was wrong. Her instincts were screaming at her.