A Hackwith - The Library of the Unwritten

Claire touched her hand to the handle but paused when raised voices trickled through the rough wood.

“Showman like you, thought you’d appreciate admirers.”

“You’re not admiring, lad. You’re molesting.”

“Merely partaking of the simple joy of fine literature. I was bravely wounded in battle, you know.”

“Don’t think I can’t finish the job!”

Claire gave a sigh and pushed through the door. The study was still a picture of clutter and warmth, but this time a very agitated storyteller paced in front of the fireplace. Hero perched in an armchair and shook a partially unfurled scroll as a greeting. “Warden! I do believe I’ve found our host’s weakness. Had you merely rumpled his manuscripts in the ring, this whole nonsense would have resolved itself.”

“I see you’re feeling well enough to be a nuisance again, Hero.”

He was pale, but his wrist appeared restored, and the cuts on his face were gone. He didn’t rise from the chair, which could indicate some stiffness, but he seemed in one piece.

Hero chuckled. “The healers here are marvelous. I suppose they get some practice.”

Claire made sure the door was firmly closed before approaching the group. Brevity and Leto were present, the latter a dark shadow positioned closer to the door, having obviously taken the “keep Bjorn there” order with teenage seriousness. He gave Claire a tight nod as she entered with Andras. Darkness pooled under his eyes, and Claire made a mental note to enforce a rest when they had a chance. Demons didn’t need sleep. Human souls didn’t either, technically, but every human psyche needed a break. Mental breakdowns happened in the afterlife just as easily as they did in the world above, and Leto had been through more than enough.

“Brev, please see if Bjorn can point you in the way of a decent teapot.” Claire had her own ways of shoring up her psyche, after the interrogative game with the angel. Brevity wiggled her way free of couch cushions, and Claire turned her attention to the still glowering storyteller. “Problems, Bjorn?”

“He doesn’t like me reading his books… scrolls… things,” Hero offered.

“I don’t mind if you read. I mind if you converse with them,” Bjorn snapped, finally succeeding in sweeping the scroll out of Hero’s hands. He turned to Claire. “Who leaves a hero unattended in a library?”

“I watched him!” Brevity protested as she hung a small pot of water— no teapots in Valhalla, but it appeared Brevity had improvised—over the fire.

“Great lot of good it’s done. He’s been chatting up every tale he can get his hands on.”

“I’m a story. They’re a story. I was simply being friendly,” Hero said with an elegant shrug. “Besides, I learned a few things. Lots of strategic texts around here. Might help me keep my head on my shoulders next time I’m forced into the warden’s service.”

“Must you persist in calling me a warden?” Claire asked.

Hero’s smile was a calculated dazzle. “Would you prefer jailer? Or shall I curtsy and call you mistress?”

“Nuisance.”

“Warden.”

“Ass.”

“It’s not right!” Bjorn interrupted, leathery face creating even more wrinkles as he drew a hand over his long beard. “Learning changes a character. Changes a story . This is irresponsible.”

He was entirely correct, and a twinge of regret nagged at her. Claire knew Bjorn’s concern as well as any librarian. Hero was a character. He came out of his book with certain skills, certain knowledge, a personality, even, all based on who he was in his story. The longer he remained separated from his book and unable to go back, the more likely that would change.

If you considered Hero human, it was a good thing. But if you considered Hero what he was—a living portion, only one small part of a larger book—it was making him something other than his original character. It would be harder than ever to fit him back into his pages. It was why when books woke up, excepting the damsels, they were quickly put back to sleep again. But Claire was the one who’d dragged him along. She told herself it was necessary.

It was his choice if he wanted to change. It came with a strange, guilty foreboding, the idea of giving a character a choice again. Of making that mistake again.

“It can’t do any more harm than has already been done.” Claire finally settled on an adequate response.

“Bah!” Bjorn threw up his hands. “Sorry excuse for a party, this is. Just tell me why your apprentice hauled me out of my cups before dawn.”

“Answers, Bjorn. You owe us some, and we don’t intend to wait while you sleep off a hangover.” Claire fished in her pockets until she came up with the Codex Gigas scrap. “You’ve guessed why we’re here.”

Bjorn hissed, shrill like a teakettle. He shoved Claire’s wrist back into her pocket. “Don’t bring that thing out here.” Claire raised her brows and trailed her gaze down to his hand. Bjorn released her with a sigh. “That thing’s brought me nothing but trouble.”

“And yet you seem to have done a shoddy job of ridding the world of it,” Andras observed. Bjorn wheeled on him.

“Destroying it was your predecessor’s job, demon. Not mine. Direct your bellyaching to him. I was just supposed to find the bloody thing,” the storyteller said. He paused to fetch his half-empty mug of ale before continuing. “You must already know about the missing pages, then.”

“Yes,” Claire said before Andras could cast the acid she saw brewing on his lips. “It appears they’ve turned up in the world again. It’s very important that we locate them before any other… interested parties.”

“You mean Heaven, eh.” Bjorn did not phrase it as a question, and no one bothered to answer it. “That lot never did understand books. Well, I tracked the book the first time just as you would. The Arcanist brought me in because it was a book. It wasn’t part of my library, but she and I collaborated and created a calling card for the task. Tricky bit of magic, if I do say so myself.”

Claire was desperate enough to entertain hope. “You still have this calling card?”

“Why would I do a fool thing like that?”

“Call it a hunch.” Claire flicked her free hand at the catastrophic clutter around them. “You don’t seem like the type to get rid of anything.”

Bjorn’s fist tightened in his beard and he sighed. “Something wasn’t right. The way the old skinflint was acting about it. Hiding a thing like that on Earth. I mighta held on to a scrap, but it will do you no good. It’s too damaged to give a location.”

Claire’s hopes fell. “There’s no other way to track it?”

“Not by Library means, no.” Bjorn frowned into his mug. The logs in the fire ticked before he seemed to decide something. “But it’s not a book of the Library, not unwritten—it’s a book of the realms. There are means outside the Library.”

Brevity handed Claire her tea and crinkled her brow. “How’s that possible?”

Bjorn chuckled. “Which do you think came first, little apprentice? Books or tales? It’s like I told your senior before. The first library was a song. I daresay I’ve learned more about the sound of a story since I came to Valhalla.”

Claire could tell the old man was dancing around something he wasn’t exactly eager to share. “So, there is a way to track it. Out with it, Bjorn. Please.”

Bjorn pressed his wrinkled lips together. “There’s more to a story than just its pages. Yes, put together with my fragment, if that little paper of yours cooperates, you might have a way to go. But you’re not going to like what it takes.”

“The best stories are bled,” Claire muttered, almost like a chant, before shrugging. “I’ll do what’s necessary.”