Ash and Quill

by Rachel Caine

  "Maybe we don't want to leave," Santi said. "This castle is strong and defensible, well situated to withstand any kind of attack. Brightwell was right about one thing: running into the Archivist's city like brave heroes of old will get us cut down. I don't want to see that. Neither do you."

  Wolfe glared at him, and Jess saw the rage simmering in him, barely contained. Jess knew that feeling, because he'd just felt the helpless shudder of it, the desire to lash out. He'd walked away from his brother because of it.

  "So we stay here, in this--overstuffed prison, waiting for the Archivist to turn the High Garda on us? I won't. I can't!"

  "Chris--"

  "No!" The word came out of Wolfe in a barely checked snarl.

  Santi threw up his hands and stalked away to stare out the mullioned window at the darkness beyond. They were all raw, Jess thought. Too raw, too angry, and still too far from right.

  On impulse, Jess said, "Do you still smell it, too?"

  Wolfe frowned at him. "Smell what?"

  "The smoke." Jess's throat convulsed as if a finger had brushed the back of it, and the nausea broke cold sweat onto his brow. "Sweet and rotten. Every time I think about being trapped, I smell it. Feels like I'll never cough it all up."

  The silence after he said it was profound and painful, and Wolfe dragged in a breath and then shook his head without speaking.

  Santi opened the window, and a blast of pure, cold air rushed into the room. It felt . . . clean. He turned and looked at Wolfe and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't understand."

  Wolfe managed a sick little laugh. "No. Neither did I. The things we think we put behind us . . ." He gazed down at his feet. "We don't ever put it behind us. I should know that by now. I never meant to take it out on you, Nic. I'm sorry."

  Santi walked over to stand facing him and held out his hand. Without looking up, Wolfe took it.

  "This isn't a time to make choices, sir. We'll make bad ones," Jess said, which was three-quarters of a lie; he was making choices, wasn't he? But he needed to keep Wolfe and Santi from anything more . . . aggressive.

  "You're likely right," Wolfe said. "You'll be working with Thomas on the press, I presume?"

  "I will."

  "Then you need to pay attention for the same from him. Thomas has exceeded what anyone could have thought he could do. But . . . I know how the Library's cells can break a person, and sometimes they don't even know they're broken. Anger is as poisonous as arsenic, and it rots you from the bones out." He looked up at Jess, and it felt like the old days, like being pinned under the Scholar's gaze like a butterfly to a board. "If he falls, you must be the one to catch him."

  Santi, Jess noticed, was standing close to Wolfe, standing as if he expected to have to catch his lover. The press was pure tragedy for Wolfe; it was the physical expression of an idea that had destroyed his life and sentenced him to unimaginable pain. The symbol of all his hopes and dreams, and all his despair, too. And now Jess could hear the echoes of it in his voice.

  "I'm all right, Nic," Wolfe said, and finally looked at him. "We walked through the dungeons under Rome, survived Philadelphia, and this perfumed cage won't bring us to our knees. We're all stronger than that."

  "All right," Santi said. "But don't ask me to stop standing next to you. Because you know I will, however much you shout about it."

  "I know." For the first time, Wolfe smiled. It was such a kind, unguarded sort of thing, it didn't seem to fit on him. "That's what makes me live when the alternative seems so peaceful."

  Without answering, Santi placed a quiet kiss on his lover's lips. It began quietly, at least. They'd never been prone to public displays, but that kiss . . . that was more intimate than most Jess had seen, and clearly, neither cared who was watching.

  Santi laughed softly when it ended and said, a little regretfully, "Now, that's a proper hello. Haven't had one for a while. And you haven't talked to me about Philadelphia."

  "True for you, too."

  "I'm a soldier."

  "That just means you hide it better, not that it didn't leave marks on you."

  The two of them weren't paying Jess any mind now, and he wasn't wanted here, or needed. He silently turned to go.

  "Jess." The two men were still close, still with their arms around each other, but Wolfe had turned to look at him. No rage in those dark eyes now. Just something like concern. "You'll stop tasting that smoke. You never leave it behind you, but even that fades with distance. Even that. All right?"

  Jess nodded and kept walking. He was swinging the door shut when he said, "Make sure you lock the door. I don't trust my father any more than you do."

  He waited until he heard the thunk of the lock being turned, and then leaned against the wood, heaved a great sigh, and wished he could push away the plan that was forming in his head. Because it was starting to come clear to him exactly what his father had planned for them, and why his brother still wasn't being honest about the whole of it.

  And it was horribly clear that the wild idea that had come to him at dinner, watching his brother, represented the best chance any of them would ever have to accomplish the impossible . . . but it would cost them dearly.

  It would cost him everything. But if he was right . . . it had to be done.

  EPHEMERA

  Text of a letter from Callimachus, first Archivist of the Great Library, near the end of his service. Interdicted from the Codex to the personal records of the Archivists.

  I look back on this road we have together paved, stone by stone. I have served my pharaoh faithfully, but my gods more faithfully still, and the Library itself most of all. I have put it ahead of my own happiness, my own achievement. This is not a sorrow for me, and here is where I depart from this road, into the setting sun.

  But I warn you, my successors: even now, in such a short space as my single lifetime, I come to understand that knowledge is like any other treasure: it can be hoarded. It can be stolen. It can be scattered to the winds. And worst of all, it can inspire greed of a particularly poisonous kind.

  For who am I to say who should know a thing? Who am I to say to you, a farmer, that you may not read of a mason's work, or to you, a mason, that you may not read of a priest's duties? Who am I to say this is too dangerous, and that is not? Some say that women should not read, for they may be led astray into impurity, as if our women are not fit guardians of their own worthiness. Some of my fellow Scholars, to my eternal shame, say those of different skins and faces and nations are too backward to learn, and when that false belief is proven wrong, they claim such examples as prodigies, as exemptions, instead of realizing their own grave errors of evil pride.

  It is a terrible arrogance to think that there are any of humankind who are better or worse, or worthy or not. It comes of a pitiful need to believe in one's own worth when one is hollow within. We are all worthy. And none of us are, all at once. Once that is acknowledged, that hollow, howling space may be filled with understanding.

  But so many cling to their emptiness, and I fear that they may yet prevail.

  I worry, you who come after me, that we will stray from this barely begun path of truth, and instead set our stones toward . . . more. More wealth. More power. More authority. Away from a path up, and toward one that seems easier, and leads down.

  Never forget that we, too, are mortal. And the greed that the Library has already felt to possess, to control, to judge . . . and if it continues, all will end in fire.

  CHAPTER TEN

  He couldn't sleep.

  Jess prowled the halls of the castle, which were mostly deserted; he ached and felt a terrible drag of weariness, but the bed held no real comfort for him. Neither did dreams, because he knew, without question, that they would turn to nightmares.

  When he tapped quietly on Morgan's door, he heard nothing from within, but her door wasn't locked, and after hesitating only a few breaths, he eased in, closed the door, and whispered her name.

  She touched a glow beside the bed, and the warmth of it
spread over her, shimmering in her skin, her eyes, the fall of her tousled hair. It took him a second to realize that she was fully dressed, still. Wearing the same thing she'd worn down to dinner.

  "Can't sleep," Jess said. "You?"

  She sat up and shook her head. "I keep waiting--waiting for something. The moment I close my eyes, it's there. Coming in the dark."

  It perfectly described his restlessness. "Walk with me?"

  She nodded and slipped off the bed. Stupid, he shouted at himself, because he wanted to be in that bed with her, the way that Wolfe and Santi were no doubt already in theirs, and put everything else away for a time. But it wasn't right now. He could feel it.

  It was freezing outside, and Jess fetched coats and blankets. The drawbridge was up. There was little inside the walls except the smooth, paved courtyard, but they walked down the steps into the cold, heavy moonlight.

  "There," Morgan said, and pointed. To the south side of the fortress wall, part of the grounds had been tamed into a garden. Hedges and an arched iron gate, and beyond that, a beautiful little oasis. A fountain bubbled softly, though the water ran thick, on the verge of icing over as it dribbled from the edge into a bowl below. The cold had already stripped the trees bare, but the hedges were still full, with sharp, waxed leaves. A few winter-blooming flowers struggled on. The grass had gone a pale yellow.

  And it was still oddly peaceful.

  Jess spread the blanket, and they sat on it, with another wrapping the two of them together. Cold, clean air cut hard into his lungs and plumed out as he exhaled, and somehow, Jess imagined that vapor was cleansing him of everything still left of toxins and terrors. They looked up at the stars in silence for a few moments. Then Jess turned his head and saw her watching him.

  "Can it stay like this?" she asked. "Just like this?"

  He leaned close and kissed her. Gently this time, but a kiss that lingered. Her lips were cold, but so soft. "I wish it could."

  She took his hand in hers and held it to her cheek--his fingers warm, her face chilled. Contrasts with her, as always. "It's beautiful here, you know."

  "It's nearly winter."

  "No, really. Look." Her grip on his hand tightened, and he felt something strange twinge inside him, almost a pain, and then his head began to ache as well . . .

  And he saw. Exactly what he was seeing was hard to fathom; the world around him took on form and space, colors, shifting lines. None of it made sense, but all of it had a shimmering, breathtaking, living sort of beauty. He watched the leaves of a hedge across from them blur and shake and shift colors, saw the sap rising red through the trunk and branches, saw the life of it, muted by the cold . . . and then the pain in his head took on the sharp edge of an axe cleaving his skull, and he cried out and closed his eyes.

  Suddenly, it was all gone. The headache drained away like water from a broken glass. Morgan's hands touched his forehead, smoothed the last of the pain away, and she whispered, "I'm sorry, I didn't know that would hurt you."

  "Is that--" He could barely speak, and his throat felt strangely dry. "Was that what you see? What Obscurists see?"

  "I have a gift for it; at least Wolfe's mother said I did. The colors you see, that's the quintessence, the element of life. It exists in everything, living or not. The difference between living things and nonliving things . . . it's smaller than you might think. It's only a matter of . . . activation. Or removal. We are all made of the same eternal material."

  "Did they ever teach you this in the Iron Tower?"

  "No. They taught us just the opposite, but as usual, they lied. Layers and ages of lies, until nobody recognized the truth anymore. They warned us we'd all go mad, we'd become Gilles de Rais if we questioned their rules, but it isn't true. Quintessence isn't good. It isn't evil. It's just a force, like fire. And they never intended us to really use it for what it was." She hesitated a moment. "I need to show you. Come with me."

  He followed her to a stone bench under the tree. He sat, but she didn't.

  "Stay there. No matter what. Understand?"

  "Why? Morgan, what are you doing?"

  "You remember the fields?"

  The memory grabbed him deep. The smell of dying things, rotten crops. The despair and anger of the people. "That was a mistake," he said. "You're better now."

  "It was a mistake then. I spent my time on the ship learning. I won't hurt anyone by accident anymore." She walked to the center of the clearing. "Stay there, Jess. It's important."

  Morgan held out her hands. There didn't seem to be any effect at first, and then he saw a mouse creep from the shadows. It was a field mouse, a small one, and it hesitantly made its way across the dried grass toward her. It stopped a few feet away and rose on its hind legs, nose twitching.

  A larger movement. A rabbit, hopping out into the clear space and stopping around the same distance. Then another mouse.

  "That's enough," Morgan whispered. "Forgive me."

  Suddenly, the mouse on its hind legs twitched, rolled, spasmed, and fell flat on the grass. It went still. Jess shot to his feet, heart pounding, and he didn't know where to run--toward her. Away. He only knew that there was something powerful and dark happening in front of him.

  "Jess, stop! Stay there!" Morgan's urgency froze him in place, and the rabbit slumped and rolled over. It shivered and went limp. Then the other mouse. Something plummeted out of the air above her: a night-flying bird, graceless as it landed broken on the grass.

  Dead.

  Insects were not exempt, either. Beetles struggled to the surface and died. Worms thrashed and went still. He could see the glimmer of tiny bodies like jewels thrown across the grass.

  Morgan opened her eyes and breathed in sharply. Her eyes seemed flat and lifeless for a moment. He didn't dare move, and she didn't speak. It was only when he saw a moth flap past her, unharmed, that he rushed forward past the invisible boundary in which the dead things lay.

  He grabbed her. She felt solid and rigid, like a statue. Cold. "Morgan? What did you do? Morgan!"

  "I'm here," she whispered, and blinked. Some life came back into those eyes, but not nearly enough to settle his fears. "Here." She suddenly sagged, and he had to catch her. "Now you see." She took a deep breath.

  His own throat felt tight, his stomach roiling. "For Heron's sake, Morgan--what--what is this?" He already knew, but he needed her to explain it in a way that made sense to him.

  "Practice. I started small," she said. "Flies. Spiders. A sparrow. A mouse. Rats. The rabbit . . ." She swallowed and blinked, and tears welled in her eyes. "The rabbit was the largest I've done so far. Oh, Jess. I felt how afraid it was . . . but he didn't feel pain. None of them do; I make sure of that. But anything near me, in that circle . . . even the grass . . . I took the life from it. Just as easily as dousing a candle. I used it to make myself stronger."

  He held her closer, though he had no real comfort for her. What she'd just said dried up his mouth and locked any capacity to speak. He just held her as she shivered and wept, in a circle of dead things.

  Finally, he asked, "How long have you been at this?"

  "Since we boarded the ship," she said. "Doctor Askuwheteau told me it was a corruption of my ability, that once I healed, once I rested, it would go away. But it didn't. I killed a fly that had gotten in the cabin on the ship--I saw the spark of it, and . . . I turned it off. It was gone before it fell out of the air. Then a rat I found creeping in the corner. After that, I was afraid--I was afraid to touch anyone. Afraid I couldn't control it, but the more time I spent out looking at the water, seeing the life out there, taking bits of it . . . the more I knew I could control it. And that was actually more frightening. This isn't a corruption. It's a talent, and we'll need it. Dr. Askuwheteau's a good man. I don't think he would ever understand what I'm saying."

  What she was saying, Jess thought, was that she was not as good. And maybe she was right. Maybe a lifetime of fear, of hiding, of knowing her future held slavery . . . maybe being wholly good was so
mething that had never been in her, any more than it was in him.

  It was a hard truth that right now, they didn't need to be purely good. They needed to be capable of anything.

  Her hands fisted in his shirt, as if she never wanted to let him go. "Say something," she said. "Please."

  "Morgan--" He rested his cheek against her hair and ran a soothing hand down her back. "It's all right."

  "Do I frighten you?"

  "No," he said. He wanted to believe that. Morgan was Morgan. Fearing what she could do was as bad as fearing what Santi could do with a gun. What Thomas could invent in his workshop.

  Fear turned minds, and he would not be afraid of Morgan.

  But he was now afraid, very afraid, that he knew exactly how best to use her.

  By the time he finally found his bed, it was well on toward morning, and the thick, soft mattress let him doze, but not really rest. Between the High Garda, the deprivations of running from the Library, and a prison house in Philadelphia, his body had grown used to hard, lumpy beds and--as he discovered when he lacked appetite for the rich breakfast--unaccustomed to the greasy sausages and eggs that his family preferred. Buttered toast seemed like an indulgence, but he allowed himself that much, along with coffee that seemed weak, after Alexandria's.

  Strange, he'd been away from home for such a short time and had changed so much. Like Morgan, he'd grown into something new. He had no idea if it was something better, but he knew one thing: this Jess Brightwell was far, far stronger than the green, innocent one who'd boarded a train to the Great Library, hoping to find his place.

  "Good night, elder brother?" Brendan clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed, then left off when Jess didn't wince. "The guards saw you go out into the garden with your girl last night. Must have been freezing out there, but I suppose you found a way to keep warm."

  Morgan wasn't here, but Glain was, and she missed absolutely nothing from where she sat contemplating a single poached egg and toast. Apart from her, the dining room was deserted, save for a servant putting more hot sausages in the warming tray, and so Jess put his plate down, met Glain's eyes, and then turned and grabbed Brendan hard by both arms. He shoved him up against the fine wood paneling and pressed very close, close enough that Brendan couldn't miss the seriousness in his eyes.