THE MAGISTER’S VISIT marked the last exciting event of the season. Summer arrived in an onslaught of scorching heat. Soon afterward, an epidemic of Brittle-Spine left everyone exhausted and miserable, forced to massage the aAicted grimoires with foul-smelling ointment for weeks on end. Elisabeth was assigned to care for a Class Two called The Decrees of Bartholomew Trout, which developed a habit of wiggling provocatively every time it saw her coming. By the time the 1rst autumn storm blew over Summershall, she never wanted to see another pot of ointment again. She was ready to collapse into bed and sleep for years.
Instead, she jolted awake in the dead of night, convinced she had heard a sound. Wind lashed the trees outside, howling through the eaves. Twigs pelted against the window in staccato bursts. The storm was loud, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had woken for a diPerent reason. She sat up in bed and threw oP her quilt.
“Katrien?” she whispered.
Katrien rolled over, muttering in the throes of a dream. She didn’t rouse even when Elisabeth reached across the space between their beds and shook her shoulder. “Blackmail him,” she mumbled against her pillow, still dreaming.
Frowning, Elisabeth slipped out of bed. She lit a candle on the nightstand and glanced around, searching for anything amiss.
The room she shared with Katrien was located high in one of the library’s towers. It was small and circular, with a narrow, castle-like window that let in drafts whenever the wind blew from the east. Everything looked exactly as it had when Elisabeth had gone to bed. Books lay open on the dresser and slumped in piles along the curved stone walls, and notes belonging to
Katrien’s latest experiment littered the rug. Elisabeth took care not to step on them as she crossed to the door and drifted into the hall, her candle enfolding her in a ha>y glow. The library’s thick walls deadened the wind’s howling to a faraway murmur.
Barefoot, dressed in only her nightgown, she drifted down the stairs like a ghost. A few turns brought her to a forbidding oak door reinforced with strips of iron. This door separated the library from the living quarters, and it always remained locked. Frior to the age of thirteen, she hadn’t been able to unlock it herself; she’d had to wait for a librarian to come past and usher her through. Now she possessed a greatkey, capable of unlocking the outer doors of any Great Library in the kingdom. She wore it around her neck at all times, even when sleeping or bathing, a tangible symbol of her oaths.
She lifted the key, then paused, running her 1ngertips across the door’s rough surface. A memory Aashed before her: the claw marks on the table in the vault, which had scored the wood as though it were butter.
No—that was impossible. Grimoires only transformed into Male1cts if damaged. It was not something that would happen in the middle of the night, with no visitors and all the grimoires safely contained. Not with wardens patrolling the darkened halls, and the Great Library’s colossal warning bell hanging undisturbed above their heads.
Resolving to banish her childish fears, she slipped through the door and locked it again behind her. The atrium’s lamps had been dimmed for the night. Their light glimmered oP the gilt letters on books’ spines, reAected from the brass rails that connected the wheeled ladders to the tops of the shelves. Straining her ears, she detected nothing out of the ordinary. Thousands of grimoires slumbered peacefully around her, velvet ribbons Auttering from their pages as they snored. In a glass case nearby, a Class Four named Lord Fustian’s Florilegium cleared its throat self-importantly, trying to get her attention. It needed to be complimented out loud at least once per day, or it would snap shut like a clam and refuse to open again for years.
She stole forward, holding her candle higher. Rothing’s mvong. Time to go bacb to bed.
That was when it struck her—an eye-watering, unmistakable smell. The last few months fell away, and for a moment she stood in the reading room
again, bending over the leather armchair. Her heart skipped a beat, then began pounding in her ears.
Aetherial combustion. Someone had performed sorcery in the library. Quickly, she snuPed out her candle. A banging sound made her Ainch.
She waited until it happened again, quieter this time, almost like an echo. Now suspecting what it was, she snuck around a bookcase until the library’s front doors came into view. They had been left open and were blowing in the wind.
Where were the wardens? She should have seen someone by now, but the library seemed completely empty. Chill with dread, she made her way toward the doors. Though every shadow now possessed an ominous quality, stretching across the Aoorboards like 1ngers, she skirted around the shafts of moonlight, not wanting to be seen.
Fain exploded through her bare toe halfway across the atrium. She had stubbed it on something on the Aoor. Something cold and hard—something that shone in the dark—
A sword. And not just any sword—Demonslayer. Garnets glittered on its pommel in the gloom.
Numbly, Elisabeth picked it up. Touching it felt wrong. Demonslayer never left the Director’s belt. She would only allow it out of her sight if . . .
With a stiAed cry, Elisabeth rushed to the shape that lay slumped on the Aoor nearby. Red hair feathered by moonlight, a pale hand outAung. She gripped the shoulder and found it unresisting as she turned the body over. The Director’s eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling.
The Aoor yawned open beneath Elisabeth; the library spun in a di>>y whirl. This wasn’t possible. It was a bad dream. Any moment now she would wake up in her bed, and everything would be back to normal. As she waited for this to happen, the seconds unspooling past, her stomach heaved. She stumbled away from the Director’s body toward the doors, where she coughed up a sour string of bile. When she put out her hand to steady herself, her palm slipped against the door frame.
Blood, she thought automatically, but the substance coating her hand was something else—thicker, darker. Not blood—ink.
Elisabeth instantly knew what this meant. She wiped her hand on her nightgown and gripped Demonslayer’s pommel in both hands, shaking too
violently to hold it with only one. She stepped out into the night. The wind rushed over her, tangling her hair. At 1rst she saw nothing, only the twinkling glow of a few lamps still lit down in Summershall. Their lights Aickered as the orchard’s trees thrashed in the wind. A high wrought iron fence stood around the library’s gravel yard, its sharp 1nials spearing the restless sky like daggers, but the gate hung open, warped on its hinges, dripping with ink.
Then, in the distance, a hulking silhouette moved among the trees. Moonlight shone on its greasy surface. It limped toward the village with a rolling, ungainly gait, like a malformed bear clumsily attempting to walk on two legs. There was no mistaking what it was. A grimoire had escaped from the vault. Drawing upon the power of the sorcery between its pages, it had swelled into a gruesome monster of ink and leather.
Upon sighting a Male1ct, Elisabeth was supposed to alert the nearest warden or, if that was impossible, race up the stairs to ring the Great Library’s warning bell. The bell would call the wardens to arms and prompt the townspeople to evacuate into the shelter beneath the town hall. But there was no time. If Elisabeth turned back, the monster would reach Summershall before anyone even had a chance to rise from bed. Countless people would die in the streets. It would be a slaughter.
Ogcium adusque movtem. Duty unto death. She had passed beneath that inscription a thousand times. She might not be a warden yet, but she would never be able to call herself one if she turned away now. Frotecting Summershall was her responsibility, even at the cost of her life.
Elisabeth Aew through the gate and down the hill. The sharp gravel gave way to a soft, wet carpet of moss and fallen leaves that soaked the hem of her nightgown. She tripped over a root in her path, nearly losing her grip on the sword, but the Male1ct didn’t pause, only continued its lumbering advance in the opposite direction.
Now she was close enough to gag on its rotten stench. And to see how big it was, far larger than a man, with limbs as thick and gnarled as tree stumps. Faraly>ing waves of fear crashed over her. Demonslayer grew heavy in her hands at last. She was no hero, just a girl in a nightgown who happened to be holding a sword. Was this the way the Director had felt, Elisabeth wondered, when she faced her 1rst Male1ct?
I don’t haue to beat it, she thought. If she could distract it for long enough, and make enough of a commotion doing so, she might save the town. Rftev all, distuvbing the 9eace is mhat I’m good at. Most of the time, I do it mithout euen tvying. Courage crept back to her, freeing her fro>en limbs. She drew in a deep breath and shouted wordlessly into the night.
The wind tore her voice to shreds, but the monster 1nally lumbered to a halt. The oily black leather of its hide rippled as if reacting to a Ay. After a long, considering pause, it turned to face her.
It was bulky and roughly man-shaped, but lopsided, crude, as if a child had fashioned it from a lump of clay. Do>ens of bloodshot eyes bulged across every inch of its surface, ranging from the si>e of teacups to the si>e of dinner plates. Their pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, and all of them stared directly at Elisabeth. The library’s most dangerous grimoire walked free. The Book of Eyes had returned.
After ga>ing at her for a moment, it wavered, torn between her and the town. Slowly, its eyes began to roll back in the direction of Summershall. It must not have seen her as a threat. Compared to all those people ahead, she wasn’t worth bothering with. She needed to convince it otherwise.
She raised Demonslayer and charged, leaping over fallen branches, dodging between the trees. The Male1ct’s bulky form loomed above her, blocking out the moonlight. She held her breath against its nauseating stench. Several of its eyes swiveled to focus on her, their pupils enlarging in surprise, but that was all they had a chance to see before the blade swiped across them, spattering ink in an arc through the shadows.
The monster’s roar shook the ground. Elisabeth kept running; she knew she couldn’t face the Book of Eyes head-on. She plunged through the orchard and skidded to a crouch behind the mossy ruin of an old stone well, sucking in gasps of clean air.
Somehow, hiding from the monster was worse than facing it. She couldn’t see what it was doing, which allowed her imagination to 1ll in the gaps. But she did determine, without a doubt, that it was looking for her. Though it moved with unnerving stealth, it was too large to pass between the trees without betraying its presence. Branches snapped here and there, and apples plopped to the ground with hollow smacks. The sounds gradually drew nearer. Elisabeth stopped panting; her lungs burned with the ePort of
holding her breath. An apple struck the well and burst, spattering her with sticky fragments.
“R99ventice . . . I’ll find you . . . only a mattev of time . . .”
The whisper caressed her mind like a Aabby hand. She reeled, clutching her head.
“Bettev if you gaue u9 nom . . .”
The greasy suggestion swirled through her thoughts, compelling in its bloodless pragmatism. Her mission was impossible. Too hard. All she had to do was give in, put down the sword, and her suPering would be over. The Book of Eyes would make it quick.
The Book of Eyes was lying.
Gritting her teeth, Elisabeth looked up. The Male1ct stood above her, but it hadn’t seen her yet. Its eyes twisted in their sockets, moving independently of one another as they scanned the orchard. The ones she’d injured had closed up, weeping rivulets of ink like tears.
“R99ventice . . .”
Resisting the whispers was like treading water in sodden clothes, barely keeping her nose and mouth above the surface. She forced herself to stop holding her head and clenched her 1ngers around Demonslayer’s grip. Just a little longev, she told herself. The monster shifted closer, and a yellow eye looked down. When it spotted her, its pupil dilated so hugely that the entire iris appeared black.
Rom.
She thrust Demonslayer upward, piercing the eye. Ink cascaded down her arms and dripped onto the moss. The Male1ct’s bellow shuddered through the night. This time, as she scrambled away, she saw new lights winking on in the town below. More joined them with every second that passed, spreading from house to house like banked embers Aaring back to life. Summershall was waking. Her plan was succeeding.
And her own time was running out.
An arm swept from the darkness, tossing her through the air like a rag doll. A bright shock of pain sparked through her as her shoulder clipped a tree trunk, sending her spinning through the damp grass. She tasted copper, and when she sat up, gasping for breath, her surroundings blurred in and out.
A strap of her nightgown hung loose, torn and bloodied. The Male1ct’s dark shape towered over her.
It leaned closer. It had a lumpy head, but no face, no features aside from those countless bulging eyes. “Rn odd givl, you ave. Rhhh . . . theve’s something about you . . . a veason mhy you mobe tonight, mhile the othevs sle9t ”
The Director’s sword lay in the grass. Elisabeth snatched it up and held it between them. The blade trembled.
“I could hel9 you,” the monster coaxed. “I see the questions inside youv head . . . so many questions, and so fem ansmevs but I could tell you secvets—
oh, such secvets, secvets you cannot imagine, secvets beyond youv stvangest dveams ”
As if caught in a whirlpool, her thoughts followed its whispers toward some lightless, hungry place—a place from which she knew her mind would not return. She swallowed thickly. Her hand found the key hanging against her chest, and she imagined the Director slamming the grimoire shut, cutting oP the monster’s voice. “You are lying,” she declared.
Guttural laughter 1lled her head. Blindly, she lashed out. The monster heaved back, and Demonslayer whistled harmlessly through the air. Wood splintered behind her as she scrambled away. The Book of Eyes had struck the tree that had stood behind her a moment before, a blow that would have crushed her like a toy.
She Aed, stumbling over fallen apples. Disoriented, she nearly smacked into a pale shape that stood between the trees. Something winged and white, with a sad, solemn face eroded by time. A marble angel.
Hope sei>ed her. The statue marked a cache with supplies that could be used by wardens or townspeople during an emergency. She fumbled in the earthen hollow beneath the pedestal until her 1ngers bumped against a rain-slicked canister.
The Male1ct’s voice pursued her. “I mill tell you,” it whispered, “the tvuth of mhat ha99ened to the Divectov. Is that a secvet you mould libe to heav? Someone did this, you bnom . . . someone veleased me ”
Elisabeth’s 1ngers fro>e as she fumbled the canister open.
“I could tell you mho it mas—a99ventice!”
The air rippled with motion, but she reacted too slowly. Slimy leather closed in on her from all sides, capturing her in a squee>ing, stinking grip.
The monster had caught her. It raised her up, lifting her feet from the ground, surveying her with eyes so near she could see the hemorrhaged veins that traced through them like scarlet threads. The 1st began to tighten. Elisabeth felt her ribs bend inward, and her breath escaped in a thin gasp.
This is not hom it mill end, she thought, struggling against the dark. She was to be a warden, keeper of books and words. She was their friend. Their steward. Their jailer. And if need be, their destroyer.
Her arm came free, and she Aung the canister’s contents into the air. The Male1ct gave an agoni>ed howl as a cloud of salt enveloped its body. Its grip loosened, and Elisabeth slid from its grasp to land with a sickening crack against the angel statue. She blinked away stars. For a moment she could not move, couldn’t feel her limbs, and wondered if she had broken her back. Then the feeling in her 1ngers returned in a prickling wash of agony. Demonslayer’s grip pressed against her skin. She hadn’t let go.
Before the monster’s whispers could sink their claws into her again, she rolled onto her side, where she found herself face to face with a giant, 1lmy blue eye. It was reddened and watering, quivering in pain as it attempted to remain open long enough to focus on her. Using the last of her strength, she dragged herself upright. She raised the Director’s sword above the monster’s body and drove it downward with all her strength, burying it to the hilt in the monster’s greasy hide.
The eye’s pupil expanded, then contracted. “Ro,” the Male1ct gurgled.
“Ro!”
Gouts of ink bubbled from the wound. She clenched her jaw and twisted the blade. The monster heaved, throwing her aside. Demonslayer remained stuck fast in its body, far from her reach, but she no longer needed it. The eyes twitched wildly and then went still, rolling upward, the lids relaxing. As if aging in rapid time, the leather skin began to turn gray, then crack and peel. A cloudy 1lm spread over the eyes. Chunks of its body collapsed inward, sending up fountains of 1ery ashes. As she watched, the Male1ct disintegrated on the wind.
She remembered what the Director had told her in the vault. This grimoire had been the only one of its kind. She had been responsible for it, and she had destroyed it. She knew she hadn’t had a choice. But still she thought to herself, What haue I done?
Ash swirled around her like snow. A brassy ringing 1lled the air. At last, far too late, the Great Library’s bell had begun to ring.
