The Library of the Unwritten

by A J Hackwith

  But even an end is just where you run out of book. Stories change, and stories go on. Maybe souls do too.

  Librarian Bjorn the Bard, 1598 CE

  RAMI HAD WATCHED UNTIL the librarian and the book had disappeared across the crocodile beast’s back.

  He’d waited while the creature churned the water and disappeared again, leaving behind only a gentle foam that melted into bright blue waters. The abandoned stretch of beach stilled, waters turning idyllic instead of frothy. As if none of it had ever happened. As if a human soul hadn’t just been sacrificed to satisfy some pagan thirst. As if the needless sacrifice hadn’t been because they feared the justice of Heaven.

  Because they feared him.

  Fear not. The voice in Rami’s head was sour, mocking, and too similar to Uriel’s timbre for his taste. Angels were supposed to be feared. By evil, by forces of chaos. They were made to be feared to drive the darkness back. Not to drive suffering young souls into the mouths of hungering beasts. That, Uriel and Rami had done on their own.

  The ruins were cold. Rami turned away from the arch and rubbed the gooseflesh out of one forearm, staring sightlessly at the bones churned to dust at his feet. None of this sat well with him. They’d drawn blades against mortal souls. They’d made a deal with a demon, and as a result, the armies of Hell would be arraying against one another. If demons were at one another’s throats, even if—and Rami felt it most unlikely—Lucifer himself got overthrown, surely it would result in a stronger position for Heaven. He could return to Uriel and get orders on how to proceed next. The petty losses and trials of those who would serve Hell were none of his concern.

  And yet, he couldn’t get the image of the boy on the scale out of his head. Couldn’t forget the broken noise that shattered from Claire’s throat as the jaws descended.

  A lost soul, she had called him. Lost souls had been Ramiel’s duty once. All the Watchers had owed their services to humanity, once, before the Fall. Rami’s responsibility had been the guidance of the lost.

  Rami hadn’t felt competent to guide anything in a very long time.

  But the look he’d seen on the boy’s face hadn’t been lost. His eyes had been clear, and his chin had been set. Even broken, he’d stood straight as the shadows closed. That kind of calm, that kind of peace, didn’t deserve oblivion in a dead god’s realm.

  It took Rami only a thought to return to Heaven from Earth. He arrived at the Gates practically before he realized he’d made a decision. The Gates felt smaller, the light less bright somehow. He cut through the cattle line of dead souls, ignoring the sputtered cries of the lesser cherub that had filled his place at the desk. He strode past the guard, not toward the Gates but toward the tower. He hesitated only a moment to be surprised that the door was unlocked before he shoved his way in.

  “Ramiel.” Uriel raised her brow from where she leaned over her desk, archaic maps spread before her. “Report.”

  He paused, clasping his hands behind his back as he considered how to approach the plan shaping in his mind. He opted for formality. “The adversary escaped through an undocumented gate.”

  Uriel stiffened. “Hell?”

  “No. Some afterlife of a local dead religion. Worshippers long extinct. Water worshipping and sacrifices. I didn’t recognize it.”

  “Continue.”

  “I stationed myself and observed their progress. They lost a b . . . an ally. It’s now just the librarian and the unwritten book. They proceeded deeper into the realm. I believe they will seek a direct exit to Hell. They won’t come back to Earth again.”

  “Good, very good.” Uriel seemed preoccupied with her maps. “That will buy us time for our next plan.”

  Rami squinted, but couldn’t make out the gibberish scrawled across the maps between them. “Sir?”

  “Hell.” Uriel looked up, and Rami nearly stepped back at the bright, hungry gleam in her eye. The archangel made a fist on the surface of the map. “You heard the demon. That’s where he’ll take the codex pages.”

  Rami held very still. “You want to infiltrate Hell.”

  “Not infiltrate, invade.”

  “That means war and the Creator has forbid—”

  Uriel’s fist thudded against the desk. “The Creator is not here to forbid! Think. The point of getting the codex was to decrease Hell’s power and return our god to our realm. Why settle for a piece of paper when we could present our maker a kingdom?” Uriel looked up and the zeal roaring in her eyes diverted as she studied him. Her shoulders relaxed. “But you, of course, are not part of my forces anymore. You need not concern yourself with it.”

  Rami felt off-balance. “Sir?”

  “Yes, of course. We had a deal. You didn’t succeed in procuring the codex, and I should point out your commitment wavered at times, but . . .” Uriel made a dismissive gesture. “You acquitted yourself well. I will speak to the Host as soon as this whole library business is behind us.”

  The fuel in Uriel’s fireplace cracked as the silence drew out. Galaxies burned and grew cold.

  The Host. He’d thought he’d made up his mind, but Rami’s resolve wavered. In his mind’s eye the Gates opened for him, the first time in millennia. It’d been so long he could barely imagine what lay behind them, but he could feel it. He could taste it, gold and warmth, peace and absolution. He would be allowed to go home.

  But even in his imagination, his step paused at the threshold.

  Rami sought for some footing, some words to say. He was being dismissed. And he discovered, somewhat to his surprise, that success left him hollow. He frowned down at the carpet. He didn’t care for Hell. The whole realm could fall into the abyss for all he cared, the Library with it, though a twinge in his chest said that wasn’t entirely true.

  The Gates in his mind whined on their hinges.

  Uriel’s vengeance would lead to war. Her zeal would lead to fire and scorched earth. But realms would always war against realms, and Rami wasn’t made to care for realms. He was made, from the core of his being, to care for souls.

  The Gates shut in his mind. And then the words were out. “Their ally they left behind. I want to try to secure him and bring him back here as an asset.”

  His skin was cold, hollowed out with the first chill of his decision. His nerves pricked, but Rami looked down at his hands and found they were steady and clenched into fists. Uriel looked up with a mild frown, as if she’d already mentally dismissed him and was annoyed her office was still occupied.

  “Value being . . . ?”

  “Information. He was working closely with the librarian. Might be able to tell us what to expect.” Rami saw the skepticism in Uriel’s eyes. He felt a stab of reluctance but added, “He also could grant us access—he was one of Hell’s, and he may be able to get us in or draw their forces out.”

  That did it. He saw the shift as Uriel’s gaze thawed from skeptical to calculating. She considered Rami for a long moment. “This is a tactical mission?”

  “Yes, sir,” Rami lied.

  “Fine.” Uriel waved vaguely at the door as she turned back to her maps. “The guards outside can procure your old equipment for you. See that this lead bears fruit for Heaven, Ramiel.”

  For the first time in ages, Ramiel left to rescue a soul.

  34

  CLAIRE

  At some point you just get tired. Is it possible for a soul to get tired? It has to be. I was young when I came here, and my skin never ages, but I feel the creaks inside. The poorly settled joins where time whistles through my thoughts like a sieve.

  It’s not a sad feeling. I know what I’m about. I know what’s important. I know the weight and feel of my life in my own hands. I’m a rock, ready for the sling. I’m tinder, ready to ignite.

  They’ll send me an apprentice one of these days; I’m sure of it. I can’t drag another soul into my fight. If I’m going to act, it has t
o be soon.

  Librarian Poppaea Julia, 49 BCE

  STORIES SAID GRIEF WAS heavy. Stories lied. If grief had a weight, had a mass, Claire could have ground the crocodile god’s bones into the bottom of the river. She could have sunk her heel into the knobs of chill scale and felt a god break beneath her toes for what it had done.

  But grief did not have a weight. Or if it did, it was counteracted by another force. Rage. Rage had an upward lift, was a superheated force that crawled up her throat and wanted to do all the things Claire couldn’t. Punish the crocodile. Punish this realm. Punish Ramiel. Punish Hero. Punish herself.

  She’d felt it, when the scales had tipped. The crocodile’s jaws had closed, and her screams had hitched as she had felt it. She shouldn’t have. This was not her realm, not where her soul was tethered, but she had felt it like a tear in her lungs.

  Had she heard a scream? Had she heard a tear of flesh? Or had she just heard the staccato sigh of a soul unraveling, winking from the universe? She couldn’t tell. Her mind was a muddle, and the only thing she knew was that Leto, the one being she’d encountered in thirty years she thought she could actually save, was gone. For her.

  Claire did not fancy herself an optimist. She had been in Hell too long for that. She saw things clearly. But somewhere along the way, what she’d seen most clearly in Leto was hope. Hope for him had become hope for her, and she’d believed. Believed he was a good soul and that good souls would not be punished by realms. Believing was supposed to be power here, power to protect him. It hadn’t.

  She hadn’t.

  It felt like she was walking on Leto’s bones. But nothing of Leto remained here, not after the crocodile had judged him. She was walking on his ending, and for that, she walked lightly, calmly. For Claire was not one to throw away her life rashly for vengeance. She respected vengeance. Vengeance deserved time.

  And she was already contemplating ways to return to this blighted, half-dead realm one day and burn every inch of it to the ground. She didn’t care if she burned with it.

  The instant their toes touched the sand of the opposite shore, the creature began to sink. By the time Claire had gotten her bearings enough to turn around, all that remained was the dark froth of churning water.

  Claire stared ahead. The beach on this side of the water was very like the beach they’d left behind, but instead of endless sand, the shore rose to a great wall of bone pale stone that staggered a dozen feet over their heads. It terminated in what looked like the craggy ruins of a temple, long in decay. Nothing but gap-toothed bits of wall and column remained.

  Hero’s gaze was a physical thing, heavy and insistent like a hand on her back. She had said nothing, not since cursing the angel at the gate. No words as they walked the crocodile’s back, no commentary or speculation on the realm they were in, no orders for what they would do next. Claire felt his silence deepen, first into pity, then into worry, then judgment.

  She couldn’t find the energy to care.

  They struggled up the beach and stopped in front of the impenetrable wall. Without discussion, they took a right and followed its edge, trudging through sucking, wet sand. It swallowed any chance of conversation. Hero asked no mocking questions; Claire offered no confident explanations. They paused only once, when Claire’s low sneakers filled with sand, and she bent to kick them off. She tied their laces together and instinctively went to loop them over her bag. When her hand met open air, she came to a stop with a sharp, halting breath. She swung them over her shoulder instead.

  Hero observed the error with quiet pity.

  The sand dug grit into the tender skin between her toes. A break in the wall appeared behind the curve. It wasn’t a proper doorway. Instead its arches were shattered like a splintered bone in the ribs of the ruins. Inside, the ground turned from sand to smooth, hard-packed earth. It ran straight with thick walls rising on either side, open air above.

  “A maze?” Hero ventured.

  “So we’ve reached the Minoan part of our tour.” Claire wiggled her toes into the sand. It should have been warm from the sun. Instead it was cold enough to make her bones ache. “It’s a labyrinth. Souls were meant to wander until they met their demise at the center of it. Lucky us.”

  “Every maze has its exit.”

  “You obviously haven’t read enough Greek tragedies,” Claire said. Still, it was the only gap they’d encountered, and the sun had begun to creep down in the sky. Claire didn’t fancy the idea of spending the night on the beach, so close to the crocodile. She shook the sand from her toes and stepped onto the unforgiving dirt.

  They followed its turns until they came to the first intersection of two paths. The pavers were wet with mildew and thick with identical shadows. At least Hell had the occasional gargoyle, Claire thought dully.

  Hero hummed. “Left or right?”

  “Left. If we keep following the left, we’ll find the exit eventually. If there is one. And if something else doesn’t find us first.”

  “Read that in a book, did you?” Hero’s smile faltered as he received only silence. He twisted a hand through his hair and muttered dark nothings to himself as he followed.

  Claire became aware of a distant noise, a low groan that ground out the spaces between the sound of their steps. It slowly resolved into a gutted howl; somewhere there was an animal in unbearable pain. Claire almost felt a kinship with it. It took another half dozen turns before Hero reached the limit of his patience. “He insisted it was our only chance.”

  A flare of heat broke through her calm before she could ruthlessly tamp it down. Maybe. But not a chance I wanted.

  Hero took silence as a sign to propel forward. “I argued. I said he shouldn’t be hasty. You might convince the angel to let us back through. Aid us, even, the way you like to talk. He said he saw the way they looked at us, and there was no chance. He . . . he said he blamed himself, for the ghostlights, for losing to Andras. For doubting.”

  Claire’s bare toe tripped over nothing as she sped up.

  Hero caught up with Claire and released a helpless sigh. “What would you have had me do?”

  “Stop him.” It came out like a hiss, but caught on its own jagged edges. Claire’s eyes burned and the path began to waver ahead of her.

  Hero shook his head. “I think he wanted to make the choice. To ensure you got back to the Library. He was so certain, so at peace, and then . . .”

  The calm inside her shattered. Claire whirled on him. “What? Then what? The nine-stone-soaking-wet teenager overpowered you? You should have stopped him. Held him to the bloody ground if you had to! He was just a child. He didn’t know—”

  “He was a man who made a choice. You don’t get to take that away from him.” Hero’s voice was hard. It brought Claire up short. “He made a choice, and you’re doing his choice a disservice by calling him a child. Leto wasn’t a child. He was a human, a young person who’d had everything taken from him, yet he deserves . . .”

  Hero pursed his lips, as if stopping himself, and seemed to jump to a different train of thought. His tone cooled to clipped edges. “I am a book. A creation. A possession. As you are so fond of reminding me, I am bound to go only where the Library allows me and will spend all my foreseeable eternity having decisions denied to me.” He held up the wrist that Claire had stamped when she’d cornered him, what seemed a lifetime ago.

  “But Leto, Leto was a human, and he had a right to his choices. You helped him remember that.” Hero lifted his shoulders. “I might have disagreed with his choice, but I would not steal his right to make it, because I know how that feels.”

  Words caught on her lips, clotted just under her tongue. Claire disliked the taste of guilt that came with it. The swoop of regret in her stomach. She’d stamped Hero, bound him to her will, and doomed Leto. Claire struggled with the impulse to deny the rage, and the grief that drove everything like a flood in her head. Instea
d, she turned away. Took another left. “Let’s just keep going.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  THEY KEPT GOING.

  Claire lost track of time, lost track of the number of lefts they took as the sun sank lower. It became a blur of stone and distant moans that threatened to burrow into her skull. Until they came to the stairs.

  Labyrinths didn’t have stairs.

  They were set into an empty expanse of wall, worn, but sufficiently intact to look as if they’d bear a person. The uneven steps were hemmed by more stone and quickly twisted upon themselves, a curved staircase that didn’t reveal more than a few steps before disappearing upward. Claire tilted her head up. The walls were high but open to the perpetual twilight. Not high enough for a second floor, not high enough for the stairs to lead anywhere, despite the strange new light that dribbled down them, just around the bend. The stairs couldn’t lead anywhere, couldn’t exist, no matter how she twisted the physics.

  If this place had physics.

  “It could be a way out,” Hero suggested.

  “More likely it leads directly to the creature we’ve been hearing for the last few hours.”

  “Probably. But . . . it is on our left.”

  That, against all reason, decided it. Claire swallowed her doubts and ascended the stairs. After three corkscrew turns and a dozen steps, they broke upon the landing of another long, tidy hall. Unlike to the ruins they’d left behind, this hall was well maintained.

  The sky was still open above them, but the darkness was lit intermittently by torches ensconced at regular intervals along the hall. Hero swept up one of the torches that kept the deepest shadows at bay. “Just in case,” he muttered a bit sheepishly.

  As they turned another corner, they could see a new break in the wall up ahead. A soft light rippled out of an arch and pooled on the stone floor. A chill danced up Claire’s neck, and Hero had tilted his head. “Do you hear music?”