The God of Lost Words

by A J Hackwith

  Home. That was it. That was the loss the raven road taunted him with, in the abyss. The loss of home. Belonging to no story at all.

  “Shall we?” Hero extended his elbow, not bothering to find a more elegant change of topic. One of the true graces of time was no longer feeling the need to outquip Claire all the time.

  Most of the time, yes. But that was just for the pleasure of it.

  Claire looped her arm through his, and they began the long descent through the mountain meadow together.

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Valhalla was an alien world to Hero. He was a fighter and therefore could recognize the trappings of warrior culture that Valhalla was decked in. But whether by influence of pop culture or belief, it was like a war game in technicolor. All the blades too clean, bearded men too loud, ale too fizzy. It was the kind of place that may have started as an afterlife reward for the devout but warped, over time, to something that might have been found in one of the comic books of the Unwritten Wing.

  Yes, he’d started reading the comics section. He’d been reading a lot lately. It was weird living alone in your own head for the first time. Reading helped.

  The doors of Valhalla’s main hall were banded with gold and ribboned with carvings of every kind of creature adorning a great central tree. A serpent twined around the roots. Hero hadn’t noticed that last time. It appeared as malevolent as the dim wind chime of bones hung above the arch.

  Claire pulled them to a stop at the bottom of the steps leading up to the doors. She crossed her arms and squinted up at the rafters of bones and birds. “Arlid,” she called.

  The black birds chattered into a sullen silence.

  “Arlid, I lack the patience to play this silly game with you right now. Don’t play silly buggers, you brute.”

  “Perhaps ‘amp up the imperialist voice’ is not the way to go, considering the British history with the Norse,” Hero murmured under his breath as a raven dropped its soil directly onto the step in front of them. Filthy creatures.

  “I can’t help the way I speak. It is called proper English. And I suppose you have a better idea?” Claire made a sour face. “Technically, they did most of the invading.”

  “Most! How novel for you.” Hero cleared his throat, removed his jacket, folded it, and placed it in a disbelieving Claire’s arms. Unencumbered, he pursed his lips into a whistle as he jogged up the steps.

  He made it one step farther than he had expected before a whistle of air through feathers stopped him. He had just enough warning to plant his toes, drop the hilt of his sword into his hand, and pivot.

  A steel weight met his, and the burn in his shoulders felt glorious. Hero dug in his toes and shoved the raven woman off. Arlid, sleek as a stiletto in leathers and feathers, grinned at him wickedly. She spun, nimbly sliding down a step to rise again on his flank.

  Movement was a joy. It felt like a treat to have the weight of a hilt in his hands again. Hero had the misfortune of being perpetually caught up in situations without his weapon, and though Rami sparred with him often enough, there was nothing to compare with the feeling of catching guard against guard with someone who would gleefully spill his guts. Arlid wielded daggers, shorter but wicked and long enough to catch the basket of his hilt and throw him off. They pivoted and danced up and down the steps for what seemed like only seconds before they were interrupted.

  Claire’s bag hit the dirt with a thud. “This is nonsense, and while I expected it of Hero, Arlid, you should know better.”

  “The paper man wanted to play,” Arlid said. It took her a long moment before she regretfully sheathed her daggers. Hero, even more regretfully, did the same with his sword. “Why did you bring the featherless scholar?” she asked plaintively of Hero.

  “Claire is my assistant,” Hero said with relish.

  “We are here to see Bjorn,” Claire corrected. She hesitantly placed a foot on the steps, as if still expecting an ambush. When none came, she joined them at the landing with a brusqueness meant to hide her nerves. “Library business.”

  One black brow on Arlid’s narrow face arched hopefully. “A duel?”

  “No, thank you,” Claire responded before Hero could weigh in. Just as well. Trading blows with Arlid was a refreshing break, but Hero had no desire to spill his blood to Uther, the Valhalla gatekeeper, again. Claire crossed her arms. “I believe we’ve already proven ourselves to the realm’s standards.”

  Arlid responded with a sullen look that could only mean agreement. She shrugged, turning her back as the shaggy mane of her Mohawk began to shift into a mess of feathers again. “Tricksy, you are, paper boy and book girl. I’ll be watching you.”

  There was an imprecise moment, when the space that consisted of Arlid seemed to be some horrifying conglomeration of leather, claws, feather, and bone. Then the air made a popping noise and a large black raven spiraled up to the rafters again, leaving Hero and Claire at the door.

  Hero shook imaginary dust off his shoulders and retrieved his folded coat from Claire. “Well, I feel welcome. Don’t you?”

  “Ask me after we’ve run the gauntlet of Vikings.” Claire heaved on the handle of one of the great doors, succeeding in squeaking it open by inches. With Hero’s help, she slipped inside, and they left the cackle of raven laughter behind them.

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  There was a match going on in the long hall when they entered. The immediate crash of steel and roar of spectators made Claire flinch, which cooled any interest Hero might have had in gawking at the competitors. He made use of his height to scan over the shaggy heads of the crowd. A circle of drummers was gathered around one of the many fires banked throughout the hall, but Bjorn was not among them. Hero nudged Claire. “His office, maybe?” Claire nodded her assent and didn’t appear to notice when Hero slid up on her right side, casually positioning himself between Claire and the trio of hirsute old men eyeing them. He recognized the look of a man trying to drink up the confidence to be obnoxious.

  “Claire!” Bjorn industriously picked his way around the clutter. He was surprisingly agile for an old man who appeared to be mostly beard and sinew, Hero would give him that. The old Norseman swept Claire up in a mead-wild hug, which Claire allowed with a surprising level of tolerance. She only subtly straightened her blouse when he put her down again.

  “Bjorn, you look well,” Claire said. Which was accurate if “well” was a pickled liver and a grin that missed two teeth.

  “Takes more than a fussed-up Valkyrie to get rid of me.” Bjorn gave a gap-toothed grin. He leaned back expansively in his chair. “What brings Hell’s Library to my doorstep? No angry angels at your heels this time, I hope?”

  “No, we left him home to mind the shop,” Hero said brightly, just to watch Bjorn do a double take.

  “What—”

  “It is a very long story. Suffice it to say that your assistance last time was fruitful,” Claire cut in, reserving a scolding frown for Hero. “Why we are here is a slightly more pressing matter. Perhaps we could speak in your wing?”

  Bjorn shifted his surprise from Hero to Claire, then his eyes narrowed. He ran a finger down his beard skeptically. “You want to see Valhalla’s wing? Whatever for?”

  “Library business,” Hero said in a tone that ended the argument.

  Bjorn’s eyes were a faded blue, and crow’s-feet multiplied around the edges as he considered. “You’re up to something, lad. Hell is always up to something.”

  “We’re not here on behalf of Hell,” Claire said quietly. “I can promise you that much.”

  Bjorn’s chair creaked on old joints. Finally, he heaved to his feet again. “Fine, but only because I trust Claire here. Not every wing takes to visitors like your Unwritten one.”

  If the Unwritten Wing, with its wards and its locks, was considered the hospitable wing of the Library, Hero thought
they were in for a bigger challenge than he’d originally estimated.

  “We’ll be discreet as possible.” Claire lied attractively, Hero would give her that.

  Bjorn made a grunt that expressed his opinion on that likelihood. “Fine, but if we’re going to the Unwon Wing, I’m gonna need me another drink.”

  * * *

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Bjorn took his sweet time securing an ale from the main hall. When he finally extracted himself from the crowd, at least he was carrying two smaller mugs as well. He handed Hero a simple cup, and Claire something that looked like a rough-thrown tea mug.

  Bjorn drained his pint in one enormous pull, deftly managing to allow only a dribble to escape into his beard. Hero and Claire took more polite sips as they followed the Norseman around the edge of the hall and through a door down an unfamiliar corridor. Hero couldn’t hide his surprise when Bjorn opened another door and ushered them out into the valley behind the longhouse.

  Night had fallen in Valhalla, according to whatever internal clock a realm held to—Hell didn’t so much have a night as a point in each day when Claire and Hero groused that their humanlike brains needed a break. The air was sharp with pine and frost. Grass crunched under Hero’s boots and torchlight reflected in Claire’s dark eyes and turned her skin to bronze.

  “No tricks, Bjorn,” Claire said warily, but he shook his head.

  “No, not a trick, lass. The Unwon Wing prefers a bit of . . . distance, you might say. Better for everyone, really.” Bjorn guided them through a field that had no visible path. As Hero’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he could see they were skirting the lake they’d encountered their first time through . . . gods, a romp that already seemed ages ago. When Hero had mostly been preoccupied with the many ways he could lift his book and give Claire the slip.

  Now he kept track of her in the dark as they approached a line of trees. The torch made shadows jump and stutter in ways that reminded Hero too much of the raven roads. He had the irrational fear that if he didn’t keep close track of Claire, the dark would snare and steal her away.

  Yes, very different from before.

  Claire frowned. “I thought Valhalla’s wing was unwritten sagas. Great war heroics or something like that.”

  “Something like that.” Bjorn’s voice had a somber quality that would have raised a red flag in anyone. Hero exchanged a cautious look with Claire, but she waved him on.

  “Understood. Not my place to question a librarian’s curation. Besides”—Claire forced a tight smile that was more of an accusation—“we trust each other, don’t we, Bjorn?”

  “Easy, lass. You’ll see what I mean in a moment.” Bjorn led them through a forested thicket in silence, following no discernible path. Finally, Hero strained his ears and heard running water a second before they broke through the bush. Water cascaded from a small rise, down a jagged frame of stones, into a small basin that wicked away to a stream.

  “The Unwon Wing is just behind the waterfall,” Bjorn said, pausing to kick off his boots by the side of the stream.

  “There’s nothing there but stone.” Hero stated the obvious. There was the hint of an alcove beyond, but the moving water reflected the moonlight well enough to show it was nothing but a depression worn down by water.

  “He don’t learn too fast, does he?” Bjorn asked Claire philosophically. He gestured to the riverbank, and Claire made a face before crouching down to start unlacing her sneakers. “Must get by on his looks.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. Hero might surprise you,” Claire said as she straightened. Hero absolutely did not acknowledge the small pool of warmth inside at the idea of Claire defending his intelligence. It was a very British kind of emotional defense, but Hero would take it.

  They were waiting on him, Hero realized. He unbuckled his boots, snatching Claire’s sneakers from the dirt to stack next to his boots higher up on the bank. Really, good leather should not be risked. “Are we just . . . wading?”

  “Through the waterfall,” Bjorn said with a nod.

  “I’d think you’d want to avoid bringing the damp into the wing,” Claire said, scandalized.

  “The wing doesn’t mind,” Bjorn said, lips pressed into a fine line again. “Now, are you two going to stand around bellyaching or are we going in?”

  “We’re going in.” Claire squared her shoulders but flinched as her foot splashed into the river. The wide fabric of her trousers began to darken and wick up water. “Really, the one time when skirts would be efficient and . . .”

  The rest of her complaint was lost under the roar of the waterfall. One moment, Hero could make out the water pelting over her shoulders, soddening her shirt to cling to her curves—Hero was not too much of a gentleman to notice, thank you very much—but in the next breath the waterfall held nothing but rock and freezing water.

  Hero turned to look at Bjorn, who simply grinned that demented-old-man grin at him. Bjorn twirled his hand in invitation. “Oh hell,” Hero muttered, bracing himself as he waded in. The water was just this side of ice, freezing even as Hero’s bare feet appeared to find every sharp stone in the basin. He gritted his teeth and, knowing how the insane logic of the afterlife worked, charged through the waterfall into what appeared to be a stone cliff face.

  It was reflex to close his eyes as the icy water closed over him. Hero half expected the sudden crunch of his face against granite, but abruptly the roar of the waterfall—if not the cold—was gone. Hero opened his eyes.

  Then blinked to make sure they were open.

  The darkness of the space they were in was absolute. He jumped when a cold hand slipped into his. “Hero?” Claire said, somewhat allaying the adrenaline that had dumped into his system. He could recognize her hand in his now, smooth but calloused at the fingertips from constant busywork, first with books, then with artifacts that sometimes bit back. Her hand was freezing, though. He gripped it by reflex, though his weren’t much warmer.

  “Where in the realms—”

  A sudden roar, then a popping sound interrupted him with a cold draft at his back. Bjorn bit back a hoot as he shook the water from his beard—icy droplets hit Hero in the face. “Whooo! That gets yer blood a-goin’ all right.” His voice was pitched low but still rang loud in the darkness.

  “I don’t suppose you brought a torch through that,” Hero said ruefully.

  “Or a towel,” Claire added.

  “There will be a fire up ahead,” Bjorn answered vaguely. Almost as he said it, Hero could detect a shift in the blackness; a glimmer of a shadow outlined a bend in the walls ahead of them, limned by the reflection of what could be firelight.

  “Fire. In a library.” Claire sounded as if she was starting to get a headache. “First the Unsaid Wing has a bloody pool, and you keep a fire. I can’t—”

  “Lower your voices, if’n you don’t mind,” Bjorn cut her off, despite being the loudest of the three of them. Hero felt him brush by and pat Claire’s shoulder. “The wing is a bit fragile, you might say. Better to maintain quiet.”

  Rarely was Claire the one to be told to keep quiet. Hero studied her as she pressed her lips into a thin line, as if to keep the rest of that sentence from spilling out. Bjorn nodded approval before raising his hand to guide them down the hallway. Hero trailed his fingers along the cold stone in the dark, as a means to orient himself. If there was one thing he had learned about libraries, it was that it was very easy to get lost and end up somewhere you hadn’t quite intended to go. The presence of dark and leaping firelight made this one seem particularly untrustworthy.

  19

  BREVITY

  Don’t underestimate Hell.

  The quiet path is one where the predator already treads.

  Librarian Ibukun of Ise, 808 CE

  It wasn’t that Brevity minded taking care of the Library—far from it, since being librarian was all she’d ever wanted si
nce she’d come to the Unwritten Wing. It wasn’t even that she minded, really, the addition of the Unsaid Wing’s inhabitants in all their chaotic, leafy green glory. No, what made her fist clench at her side wasn’t the work or the change; it was the staying behind.

  It made perfect logical sense when Claire had explained it. Brevity was the librarian and the Library was under imminent attack; it made sense that she would remain here while Claire and Hero traveled to the other Library wings as the emissary for the Unwritten. A librarian’s first responsibility was to her wing, though that had never seemed to stop Claire when she had the inclination to travel. Someone needed to be here to welcome new wings, as the others (hopefully) recruited them, and get them settled. Taking care of the books and maintaining their defenses—holding the line—was a vital part of the plan.

  But it felt ever so unheroic.

  There was no heroism in breaking up a fight between the Unsaid’s vines and a couple of the older, surlier books for the sixth time that morning. Little excitement in resolving a wandering tale that had been pushed out of its shelf by a pile of scrolls. If things were this contentious with just two wings sharing the same spot, she wondered, how in the world would the Unwritten Wing manage to hold all twelve wings together?

  Ice water turned her socks soggy. Brevity looked down to see another puddle had sprung up beneath her toes. She hopped back and groaned. “Echo!”

  There was, of course, no response. Brevity rubbed her hands over her face. The Unsaid Wing’s discorporate librarian and her children had done little to rein in their charges. After Claire and Hero had left for Valhalla, Echo had slipped back into her reflection and Pallas had been cosseted off with the damsels. Iambe hadn’t even waited that long—gods knew what she was getting up to.