A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

“‘War is cruelty, and none can make it gentle!’” The words were out before Claire could think them. But they were not aimed at Bjorn; her gaze was locked on the other fight. Silver words flew, and sharp serifs struck deep across a monstrous, scarred face. Uther stumbled midswing, bellowing in pain as his maul dropped, and the giant man clawed at his face.

Bjorn stared, mouth gaping. Hero, to his credit, knew an opportunity when he saw one. He scrambled for his sword and took a hobbled leap at Uther, growl in his throat.

“Parker! Gilbert Parker!” Bjorn shouted, and the silver words wound around Uther’s face dissolved. But Hero was faster. The broadsword pierced his ribs deep, and Uther’s bellow became shrill, then silent.

The giant man convulsed, landing a grip on Hero’s shoulder. But it began to loosen even as they fell back to the earth. Hero twisted the blade with a snarl, and it struck Claire that his features were beautiful, even more so in fury. A purity in the hate that she recognized. She hadn’t thought books could truly hate.

“Clever. No honor, but clever.” Bjorn was solemn as Claire turned back to face him. There was a dark regard in the old man’s eyes, but he spoke before Claire could open her mouth to explain. “‘And hope buoyed like a flag, fragile on the wind. Death was the only freedom.’”

The gold words curled in the air and furled out, thick and unstoppable. The words were unfamiliar, even as they triggered something that burned at the edge of her brain. But they were strange, accompanied with dizzying shapes, birds in flight, cathedrals, and cobblestone streets. White cliffs and sunsets. She had no defense. She managed to retreat two steps before the gold letters slammed into her chest and drove her to the ground.

A thick, buzzing weight twined hungrily around her arms. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the ensuing pain, but it never appeared. After a moment, Claire carefully cracked one eye open. The words had wrapped her up neat as a present, and they thrummed warningly against her chest, but they did not cut unless she struggled. Bjorn stood over her, dark eyes regarding her with a mixture of disapproval and amusement. “No response, Librarian?”

Claire took a short breath—all she was capable of with the words twined so tight around her chest. “You have me at a loss, Bjorn. I must cede. Who’s the author?”

“Claire Juniper Hadley,” Bjorn said, and the crowd roared.

“YOU CHEATED.”

The room, like everywhere else in the lodge, was uncomfortably warm, and Claire picked irritably at the bandage on her arm. She sat on a cushioned bench, grudgingly sipping tea Bjorn had brewed to restore her strength and “put hair on your chest.” She’d insisted on bandaging her arm herself, freeing the healers to tend to Hero, who had been quickly whisked to an adjoining room after the fight.

“Do explain, lass. I’m in the mood to laugh.” Bjorn rubbed his bruised knee from the opposite side of the small table. They were in his personal study. The walls were lined not with books but with rows of capsae , hatboxlike containers that held scrolls and wooden slates of every shape and size. A fire roared in the fireplace that took up the far wall, and the study was as cozy as it was chaotic.

Claire shuddered to think what the Valhalla library must look like, if this was a tidy personal collection.

She took another sip of the tea and made a bitter face. “You quoted an unwritten author. That’s specifically against the rules of the duel. Worse, you quoted me . That’s not just cheating—that’s dirty.”

Bjorn raised a brow. “Would that be more or less dirty than turning your words against a noncombatant?”

“Uther was about to kill my character. He most certainly was a combatant.”

“Not your combatant.”

“Close enough.” Claire smacked the mug on the tabletop with a peevish frown. “He may be disconnected from his book, and he’s most definitely a pain in the ass, but Hero is still mine.”

“Well, you and your boy certainly set Uther straight on that.”

Claire remembered the mule they’d had to bring in to haul Uther’s body out of the arena, and she diverted her eyes to the table. “Yes, well. Sorry about your champion.”

“Don’t be.” Bjorn gave an airy wave of his hand. “He’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We’re in an afterlife for warriors, Librarian.” Bjorn leaned back, and his chair let out a long creak as he grinned. “Any who fall in battle today wake up fresh as springtime tomorrow. He’ll never wield Widowbane again—he’s been proven unworthy. But he’ll continue on. We do love a good fight, and Valhalla sees to its own.”

“Well, that’s… convenient,” Claire said. “Tell me, would it have been the same for Hero if he’d fallen?”

Bjorn raised his brows, considering. “He didn’t die a warrior of the halls, so… ah, probably not.”

“Good thing I cheated, then.”

“Good thing,” Bjorn relented. “Up until then, you did comport yourself well enough to pass. The hall will have you.”

Claire was quiet a moment before saying, “The book you quoted. How did you… I mean, have you read—”

“I was the librarian of the Unwritten Wing before your grandfather was a twinkle in anyone’s eye.” Bjorn’s lip curled as he toyed with the edge of the table, running a rough thumb back and forth. “I had time enough in that place to get familiar with lots of books. Including yours.”

“My books were there before I was even born….” A queer feeling flipped in Claire’s stomach, and her mind could not settle on a proper question to ask out of the hundred that bubbled up. She’d helmed the Library for thirty years, and it still felt like a mercurial kind of impossibility. A story was more immortal than its teller. Time had no play there, only potential. Claire had failed both. She looked up to find Bjorn studying her carefully. “They were readable?”

“I wouldn’t call them Shakespeare, but they were passable, yes,” Bjorn said. “You do have quite the collection.”

“Well… not that it matters now.” Claire’s eyes dropped, and she abruptly found an excuse to stand. The hearth needed poking; irresponsible to let the flames die down.

Bjorn followed her to the fireplace and rubbed a sore arm before glancing at her. “I heard about what happened, of course.”

The fire twitched behind the grate. Claire found her breath tripped up in her throat before she could let it out again. “There were a hundred tales about my ignominious rise to librarian, Bjorn. You’ll need to be more specific.”

“The rumor that goes against the tale. The one that says Gregor didn’t retire to his greater reward. The rumor that says he was attacked. Attacked by something with the power to unmake a human soul. Your mentor disappeared under… unusual circumstances, we shall say.” Bjorn said it calmly, as if recounting last night’s dinner. “And the attacker was never found, of course, so the retirement line was the one that took. Left you to take on the mantle far too soon, by most folk’s estimates.”