Jonathan Strahan - Swords & Dark Magic - The New Sword and Sorcery

“And here,” said Molnar, moving his own finger. “This is a Statement of Informed Acceptance of Risk…and here, this absolves the custodial staff of any liability should you injure yourself by being irretrievably stupid…and this one, which certifies that you are armed and equipped according to your own comfort.”

Laszlo hesitated for a second, bit the inside of his left cheek, and gave his assent. When Casimir had done the same, Molnar snapped his fingers and the letters of fire vanished. At the same instant, the polished wooden doors of the Manticore Gate rumbled apart. Laszlo glanced at the inner edges of the doors and saw that, beneath the wooden veneer, each had a core of some dark metal a foot thick. He’d never once been past that gate, or any like it—aspirants were usually confined to the reading rooms, where their requests for materials were passed to the library staff.

“Come then,” said Molnar, striding through the gate. “You’ll be going in with two other students, already waiting inside. Until I escort you back out this gate, you may consider your exam to be in progress.”

Past the Manticore Gate lay a long, vault-ceilinged room in which Indexers toiled amongst thousands of scrolls and card-files. Unlike the Librarians, the Indexers preferred comfortable blue robes to armor, but they were all visibly armed with daggers and hatchets. Furthermore, in niches along the walls, Laszlo could see spears, truncheons, mail vests, and helmets readily accessible on racks.

“I envy your precision, friend Laszlo.”

The gravelly voice that spoke those words was familiar, and Laszlo turned to the left to find himself staring up into the gold-flecked eyes of a lizard about seven feet tall. The creature had a chest as broad as a doorway under shoulders to match, and his gleaming scales were the red of a desert sunset. He wore a sort of thin quilted armor over everything but his muscular legs and feet, which ended in sickle-shaped claws the size of Laszlo’s stilettos. The reptile’s cloak was specially tailored to part over his long, sinuous tail and hang with dignity.

“Lev,” said Laszlo. “Hi! What precision?”

“Your ability to sleep late and still arrive within a hair’s breadth of accruing penalties for your tardiness. Your laziness is…artistic.”

“The administration rarely agrees.” Laszlo was deeply pleased to see Inappropriate Levity Bronzeclaw, “Lev” to everyone at the university. Lev’s people, dour and dutiful, gave their adolescents names based on perceived character flaws, so the wayward youths would supposedly dwell upon their correction until granted more honorable adult names. Lev was a mediocre sorcerer, very much of Laszlo’s stripe, but his natural weaponry was one hell of an asset when hungry weirdness might be trying to bite your head off.

“Oh, I doubt they were sleeping .” Another new voice, female, smooth and lovely. It belonged to Yvette d’Courin, who’d been hidden from Laszlo’s view behind Lev, and could have remained hidden behind a creature half the lizard’s size. Yvette’s skin was darker than the armor she wore, a more petite version of Laszlo’s and Casimir’s gear, and her ribbon-threaded hair was as black as her aspirant’s cloak. “Not Laz and Caz. Boys of such a sensitive disposition, why, we all know they were probably tending to certain…extracurricular activities.” She made a strangely demure series of sucking sounds, and some gestures with her hands that were not demure at all.

“Yvette, you gorgeous little menace to my academic rank,” said Casimir, “that is most assuredly not true. However, if it were, I reckon that would make Laszlo and myself the only humans present to have ever seen a grown man with his clothes off.”

Laszlo felt a warm, unexpected sensation in the pit of his stomach, and it took him a moment of confusion to identify it. Great gods, was that relief? Hope, even? Yvette d’Courin was a gifted aspirant, Casimir’s match at the very least. Whatever might be waiting inside the Living Library, some bureaucratic stroke of luck had put him on a team with two natural magicians and a lizard that could kick a hole through a brick wall. All he had to do to earn a sixth year was stay out of their way and try to look busy!

Yvette retaliated at Casimir with another series of gestures, some of which might have been the beginning of a minor spell, but she snapped to attention as Master Molnar loudly cleared his throat.

“When you’re all ready, of course,” he drawled. “I do so hate to burden you with anything so tedious as the future of your thaumaturgical careers—”

“Yes, Master Molnar. Sorry, Master Molnar,” said the students, now a perfectly harmonized quartet of apology.

“This is the Manticore Index,” said Molnar, spreading his arms. “One of eleven such indices serving to catalog, however incompletely, the contents of the Living Library. Take a good look around. Unless you choose to join the ranks of the Librarians after surviving your nine years, you will never be allowed into this area again. Now, Aspirant Jazera, can you tell me how many cataloged items the Living Library is believed to contain?”

“Uh,” said Laszlo, who’d wisely refreshed his limited knowledge of the library’s innards the previous night, “about 10 million, I think?”

“You think?” said Molnar. “I’ll believe that when further evidence is presented, but you are nearly correct. At a minimum, this collection consists of some 10 million scrolls and bound volumes. The majority of which, Aspirant Bronzeclaw, are what?”

“Grimoires,” hissed the lizard.

“Correct. Grimoires, the personal references and notebooks of magicians from across all the known worlds, some more than four thousand years old. Some of them quite famous…or infamous. When the High University of Hazar was founded, a grimoire collection project was undertaken. An effort to create the greatest magical library in existence, to unearth literally every scrap of arcane knowledge that could be retrieved from the places where those scraps had been abandoned, forgotten, or deliberately hidden. It took centuries. It was largely successful.”

Molnar turned and began moving down the central aisle between the tables and shelves where Indexers worked, politely ignoring him. No doubt they’d heard this same lecture many times already.

“Largely successful,” Molnar continued, “at creating one hell of a mess! Aspirant d’Courin, what is a grimoire?”

“Well,” she began, seemingly taken aback by the simplicity of the question. “As you said, a magician’s personal reference. Details of spells, and experiments—”

“A catalog of a magician’s private obsessions, ” said Molnar.

“I suppose, sir.”

“More private than any diary, every page stained with a sorcerer’s hidden character, his private demons, his wildest ambitions. Some magicians produce collections, others produce only a single book, but nearly all of them produce something before they die. Chances are the four of you will produce something, in your time. Some of you have certainly begun them by now.”

Laszlo glanced around at the others, wondering. He had a few basic project journals, notes on the simple magics he’d been able to grasp. Nothing that could yet be accused of showing any ambition. But Casimir, or Yvette? Who could know?

“Grimoires,” continued Molnar, “are firsthand witnesses to every triumph and every shame of their creators. They are left in laboratories, stored haphazardly next to untold powers, exposed to magical materials and energies for years. Their pages are saturated with arcane dust and residue, as well as deliberate sorceries. They are magical artifacts, uniquely infused with what can only be called the divine madness of individuals such as yourselves. They evolve, as many magical artifacts do, a faint quasi-intelligence. A distinct sort of low cunning that your run-of-the mill chair or rock or library book does not possess.