The Lost Book of the White

by Cassandra Clare

  There was a mark across the side, a slash of black paint that looked familiar. It was the same design that had been graffitied on the side of the modern apartment complex that the Tracking rune had led them to, in their initial hunt for Ragnor.

  Magnus climbed the steps and peered into the open front door.

  The room inside was fairly bare. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, illuminating the plain wooden chair where Ragnor sat, glaring, in a shabby robe belted over trousers. He had evidently been expecting Magnus.

  “You stole my blankets,” he said sourly.

  “And a couple of pillows,” Magnus said. “You know how hard it is to find any kind of textiles in this place?”

  “I know very well,” said Ragnor. “Unless you like sleeping on old tapestries crispy with bloodstains.”

  Magnus looked more closely around the room. There was a simple platform in one corner, which Magnus assumed had been Ragnor’s bed before Magnus had stolen all the linens off it. There was a small wooden table, on which was, not surprisingly, the Book of the White. Ragnor’s chair had been placed facing the front door, as if Ragnor had been sitting and waiting for hours. He might have been.

  Magnus stood in the doorway. He hadn’t really made a plan that went further than this. “I wouldn’t have guessed that you would have done it,” he said cautiously. “Taken the third thorn of your own free will, I mean.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.” Ragnor’s eyes gleamed. “When it came to it, I decided that I didn’t want to die. Nor should you.”

  “Well,” said Magnus, casting his gaze around at the dingy interior of the temple. “Now that I’ve seen the perks that come with the job, how could I resist?”

  Ragnor sighed.

  Magnus could stand it no longer. “When you faked your death. In Idris. You told me you would contact me,” he blurted. “And then you didn’t. I assumed—”

  “You assumed that Sammael had caught me,” said Ragnor. “You were right, of course.”

  “I assumed you were dead,” Magnus said.

  Ragnor shrugged. “I could have been. For a while, I might as well have been.”

  It was so strange, talking to Ragnor like this. He sounded like—well, he sounded like Ragnor, Magnus’s first and oldest friend, who had done more than anyone to make Magnus into who he was. But Magnus could see the star of red light gleaming against Ragnor’s chest, and he knew that as gruff and familiar as Ragnor’s demeanor might be, he had become Sammael’s creature, maybe irrevocably.

  His curiosity was too great not to continue this conversation, though he knew he might not have time, that perhaps Shinyun or Sammael even now knew he was here. But he had to know. The question had eaten at him for too long now. “What happened?” he said.

  “Shinyun happened,” Ragnor said. “Take a seat.”

  There was another plain wooden chair next to the open door, and Magnus dragged it over and sat across from Ragnor, like he was interviewing him on a talk show.

  “Sammael was looking for me,” Ragnor said. “He was still mostly Void, and looking for a demon realm in which he could become embodied and make his plans. My name reached his ears.”

  “I remember,” Magnus said. “So you faked your death during the Mortal War and fled.”

  “Quite. Most people didn’t believe it could be the real Sammael who had returned, but Shinyun did. She found me, and she stuck me in a cage.”

  “A cage?” said Magnus.

  “A cage,” confirmed Ragnor. “It was not my most dignified moment. This was before Shinyun had sworn fealty to Sammael, you understand. But she knew about him. She knew about the way he’d been banished, knew he was able to return in brief, faint bursts. Knew he’d been looking for me. I was the bait she thought she could attract his attention with.” He smiled bitterly. “It worked.”

  Magnus was uncomfortably aware of the concept of “bait” as a central axis of his and his friends’ own plan.

  Ragnor went on. “She told me about how she had met you and Alec Lightwood, how she had been rejected by Asmodeus. How, in the end, you took pity on her. And rather than bringing her to the Spiral Labyrinth, or letting the Nephilim have her, Alec let her go.”

  Magnus let out a deep breath. “Alec is the one who let her go,” he said, “because he is a better person than almost anyone else I know. He told me about it when we got home from Italy. I think we both hoped that Shinyun would take that mercy as an opportunity to rethink her choices. To think about a different path than just seeking the most powerful entity available and declaring her loyalty to it.”

  “Well, it didn’t work,” Ragnor snapped, in a way that was so ordinary for him that Magnus almost smiled. “Shinyun understood that mercy to be from both of you, and she understood it as a pointed message about your power over her. A mockery of her. That holding her life in your hands, and letting her go, was toying with her. The way a cat toys with a rat.”

  “What did you think?” Magnus said quietly.

  Ragnor snorted. “I thought you had done her a totally undeserved favor, and the least she could do was show some gratitude. She didn’t like that.”

  “I bet she didn’t,” said Magnus.

  “When Lilith died, it drove Sammael from the Void and into Shinyun’s arms. So to speak. He ordered Shinyun to recover the Svefnthorn. And you know what happened next.” Ragnor shifted in his chair. “Shinyun and Sammael came to me together, with the thorn. Before Sammael struck me the first time, he told me it would increase my power, and that I would need that power to find him a realm. I refused, because at that time I did not fully grasp either Sammael’s or the thorn’s power and thought that some other path might exist than serving him. It didn’t, of course.”

  Magnus said nothing.

  “He struck me a second time, drawing a Greek cross upon my heart. I felt power surge within me. It was… a heady experience. I became briefly intoxicated with power and burst the bars of my cage. I meant to make my escape, but Sammael stopped me.” He smiled, as if nostalgic for a beloved memory. “I should have known better than to challenge him.

  “Shinyun demanded to be thorned as well. Sammael allowed her to take the thorn, but he explained the way the thorn’s magic worked: that she would need a third strike, and to become his servant forever, or the thorn would burn her very life out. She grabbed the thorn and took the third wound upon her without hesitation.”

  “And you?” said Magnus.

  “I resisted, of course,” Ragnor said. “I was frustrated, and willful, and did not yet understand the situation. Once I did, I took the thorn willingly. I did not want to die, after all.” He gave Magnus a stern look. “You do not want to die either, Magnus. There is no reason to martyr yourself to the cause of the angels just to make a point. We are Lilith’s creatures, after all, you and I, and it is fitting that we serve her eternal consort.”

  “I won’t betray Alec,” Magnus said. “Or Max.”

  “There’s no need to betray Max,” Ragnor scoffed. “He is Lilith’s child just as much as either of us. He would thrive, on Sammael’s Earth. As for Alec… well, that’s your mistake, I suppose. I told you long ago, many times, that the life of a warlock is a lonely one, and that pretending otherwise leads only to sorrow. And now here is that sorrow, come for you as we both always knew it would.”

  Magnus was silent, watching the play of light on the bare floor. After a long time, Ragnor sighed. “The rest of the story you can guess. I used my increased power, I found Diyu for Sammael, he took it over, and he began his preparations for war.”

  “Ragnor.” Magnus leaned forward. “Even if I can’t save myself… I can save you. You don’t need to remain here in Diyu. You don’t need to serve Sammael—or anybody else. I can free you.” I think. Maybe. He stood up from the chair, and slowly he drew the two swords, the White Impermanence and the Black, from where they were strapped to his back.

  He had a hunch. It was a very vague hunch, but he’d acted on less. Rarely when the stakes were this h
igh, though.

  He briefly worried Ragnor would attack him, but the other warlock didn’t move. “If by that you mean you can kill me, I think you’ll find you can’t, here in Diyu.” Ragnor’s voice was melancholy. “I am under too much of Sammael’s protection, and this place too full of his power.”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” said Magnus, although he had to admit that if someone said that to him while pointing two swords at him, he probably wouldn’t believe them.

  “Even if you could release me from the thorn,” Ragnor said, “you cannot save me. I have done too much, under Sammael’s command, to atone for now. Neither the Spiral Labyrinth nor Idris would ever allow me my freedom, even if the Archangel Michael came down and slew Sammael a second time, in front of my eyes.” He looked curious. “I hope that wasn’t your plan.”

  “No,” said Magnus. He turned the swords so that he was holding them with the flats of both blades toward the sky. “Do you know these swords?”

  “I don’t,” Ragnor grumbled, “but I bet you’re going to tell me about them.”

  “This one,” said Magnus, holding up the black sword, “says that there is no salvation for evildoers. This one”—he held up the white—“says that those who atone will be at peace.”

  “So they contradict one another,” said Ragnor. “Is that meant to be somehow meaningful?”

  But Magnus wasn’t listening closely. He felt his magic flow in and through the swords, and he thought, Heibai Wuchang. Master Fan, Master Xie. Your home has been taken, and the magic of the Svefnthorn flows through this place, where it was never meant to be. Your king Yanluo is gone, and he will not return. But if you drive the Svefnthorn from this warlock before you, I will release you back into Diyu, to serve it however you desire. Only do this one thing for me.

  After a moment, Ragnor said dryly, “Is something supposed to be happening? Your eyes are closed.”

  Magnus felt the swords jerk in his hands.

  His eyes flew open. A glow had formed around the swords, not the crimson radiance of the thorn’s magic but something totally different, white smoke and black smoke intermingling in the air between them.

  The swords wished to be together. Magnus felt them pull toward each other, like magnets. He watched in fascination as they transformed, from inert, inanimate objects to moving, visibly living things. As though they had never been inanimate at all, but only sleeping.

  Magnus hoped they didn’t mind too much that they had been stuck through a number of disgusting demon bodies in the past couple of days.

  He released the hilts of both swords, and they drifted in the air toward one another, each seeking its mate.

  In the middle they joined, blade alongside blade, and then they began to bend and twist around one another. Ragnor was simply staring at the swords, a look of utter astonishment on his face. He made eye contact with Magnus, and Magnus shrugged to indicate he didn’t know what was happening either.

  Light poured from the swords, and as their spinning and writhing ceased, Magnus could see that where there had been two there was now only one sword. He was sad to note that it was not actually twice the size of the other swords, but it was impressive regardless. The entire hilt was bright black horn, with the cross guard carved into twisting shapes that quite closely resembled Ragnor’s horns—his old horns, not the new spiked monstrosities that the thorn had made. The blade was of bone, smooth and long and, Magnus could tell, very sharp.

  He had just enough time to admire the sword’s beauty before it plunged forward and ran Ragnor through.

  Ragnor was thrown backward, his robe falling open. Magnus could see the third thorn mark now, a line cutting through the “Greek cross” of the first two wounds. The sword had plunged into the center of the convergence of scars, light shimmering out from the place the metal entered Ragnor’s flesh.

  Magnus dropped down to his knees immediately, next to Ragnor. His old friend didn’t seem able to see him—his eyes were staring straight ahead, filmed with a white blindness. Ragnor’s back arched, and the sword began to slide deeper into his chest, sinking slowly down. An acrid cloud of red mist drifted upward from the wound. It became denser and fuller, and then it was pouring from Ragnor’s eyes, too, and his nostrils, and his open mouth.

  Magnus leaned back. He didn’t know if breathing the magic fog was actually a problem, but he thought it was better not to risk it.

  The sword penetrated through Ragnor’s chest up to the hilt, and then just kept going, the hilt, too, passing through his chest as if through water. The red mist came out of his chest in spasmodic coughs, and then the sword was gone, and the red mist dissipated, and Ragnor was still.

  For a moment, there was only the sound of Magnus’s breathing, terribly loud in his own ears.

  But Ragnor wasn’t dead. His chest, Magnus saw, was rising and falling. Not a lot. Not powerfully. But enough.

  After what felt like a very long moment, Ragnor blinked his eyes open. He looked around until his gaze found Magnus, over to his right.

  “You,” said Ragnor, “are a terrible fool.”

  Magnus cocked his head, unsure what this statement said about Ragnor’s current evil-or-not-evil status. He did note that Ragnor’s horns were back to their normal size. His eyes and his teeth, also, seemed more familiar.

  “You had the power of gods in your hands,” Ragnor said. “They spoke to me. You could have wielded them in any number of ways against Sammael. And you wasted them on, of all things, un-thorning me.”

  Magnus laughed, unable to stop himself. He leaned over and grabbed Ragnor into a tight bear hug.

  “I assume,” said Magnus after a moment, “that you’re tolerating being hugged for this long because you are suffused with your love for me as your dearest friend and also your savior, and not because you are too weak to get away.”

  “Think what you like,” said Ragnor.

  Magnus pulled away and examined Ragnor’s chest from several angles. The thorn scars were, as far as he could tell, completely gone. Unfortunately, so were the swords.

  Ragnor drew himself up onto his elbows. “The Black and White Impermanence,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Where in all the realms of this universe did you get them?”

  “You’ll forgive me,” said Magnus, “if I don’t say. I’m only around seventy-five percent sure you’re no longer under Sammael’s thrall.”

  Ragnor shook his head somberly. “It was the wrong call, Magnus. Saving me. You’d have been better off using the power of the Heibai Wuchang to stop Sammael, or even to delay him or change his plans. I’d be better off left behind here. I told you, I’ve done too many things that cannot be atoned for.”

  Magnus held up his two palms and mimed balancing a scale. “No salvation for evildoers. Those who atone, be at peace. I’m sorry, Ragnor, but the death gods have decided, and they say, be at peace.”

  “Do you believe everything death gods tell you?” said Ragnor sternly.

  Magnus helped him to his feet. “Are they gone, do you think? Did I… did I use them up?”

  Ragnor said, “You can’t keep a god down, Magnus. They are Black and White Impermanence. You know, impermanent. After a time they’ll re-form in Diyu, I’m sure.” He looked around at the temple, as though he’d just noticed how dilapidated and grimy it was.

  “Ragnor,” Magnus said, “was stealing the Book of the White absolutely necessary? Did Sammael demand it?”

  Ragnor looked over at the Book on the table and started, as though he had forgotten it was there. Then he turned back to Magnus and barked a laugh. “No. It was Shinyun’s idea.”

  Magnus’s eyebrows went up. “He doesn’t want it?”

  “Well, no, he does,” Ragnor allowed. “He wants us to use it to weaken Earth’s wards, the ones put in place after he tried to invade the first time. So he can get back in.” He gave a wry look. “But Shinyun was very committed to the idea of retrieving it.”

  “Because she wanted to come visit me?” Magnus s
aid.

  “Not everything is about you, Magnus,” Ragnor said sternly. “Although yes, Shinyun has… complicated feelings where you’re concerned. But I think she wanted the Book for her own purposes. She may be Sammael’s favorite pet, but I know her, and she definitely is playing her own game, separate from Sammael’s.”

  “That’s exactly what I said!” Magnus exclaimed, gratified. “I said those exact words, ‘playing her own game.’ So, what game? A hedge against the possibility of his failure?”

  “Setting the stage for her own success,” Ragnor said. He stood up. “My stars,” he said, “I can’t believe I accepted this kind of accommodation just because I was willing to serve Sammael. What a dump.”

  “I can’t promise it’s any more comfortable,” said Magnus, “but let me take you back to Saint Ignatius. Well, Reverse Saint Ignatius. All the Shadowhunters are taking sanctuary there.”

  Ragnor hesitated. “I suppose I must,” he said. “Atonement has to begin somewhere. And Sammael isn’t going to just let me go back home.” He looked a bit lost. “My home…,” he said. “I can’t return there anyway.”

  “Let’s go,” Magnus said. “We can discuss your future when we get there.”

  Ragnor retrieved the Book of the White. He pressed it into Magnus’s hands, and Magnus took it. He didn’t feel like he was finally receiving one of his possessions back; he felt like this was just the latest laying of this burden on his shoulders. Nevertheless, he carefully shrank the Book down to a manageable size and tucked it away in his pocket.

  As soon as they left down the path away from the temple, Magnus could tell that Ragnor was in a weakened state. He walked slowly and placed his feet carefully, as though he wasn’t sure they would reliably obey him.

  After a few minutes of walking in silence, in the dark, with Magnus at least fairly sure they were headed the right way, Ragnor spoke up. “Magnus, I don’t know any way to undo the thorning. Now that the swords are gone, I don’t know how it could be drawn out of you. Or Shinyun, for that matter, not that she wants it removed. You’ll still be stuck with the choice, soon enough, to join Sammael or die.”