Chapter Thirty-Seven Simran #2
“I know this city,” said Vina in return. “I’ve raced through here with Matthias and Edmund so many times, I’ve lost count—hold me tighter,” she ordered, and her horse turned suddenly, sharply, leading them close to glittering water, the Tower looming in the distance.
They entered through the West Gate, which was wide open—blood upon the steps, and Galath standing with his axe at his side, waiting for them as if he’d known they would return. Librarians and witches were gathered behind him.
“The archivists ran or fled,” said Galath, when he saw Simran’s eyes fix on the blood. “But not all.”
“You did not need to kill them,” said Vina.
“Most live,” Galath replied, indifferently. “The ones who don’t were willing to kill us.” His eyes narrowed, studying her. “Something else is wrong. Tell me.”
“The Eternal Prince—King—is coming,” said Simran. “He comes to kill the Beast. We can’t allow it.”
“The Beast screams,” said Galath. “It howls and bites. If you stand against the Eternal King, he will kill you, and I will have no power to stop it. Nor will you. Let the Beast die.”
“The Eternal King is coming to the Tower to claim the archives as his own,” said Vina. “To use them just as the Queen used them. It won’t end.”
“Then Simran must focus on freeing the tales,” said Galath. He looked at her. “You must finish what you began.”
Simran knew he was right. And yet she couldn’t stop thinking of Adder’s vision in her skull, and the age and strength of the Beast. Time and fire hadn’t killed it. Its knowledge was magic. To let it die, truly die, felt like an unpardonable crime.
There was a silvery sound of approaching hooves, whispering ghosts. Galath straightened, grasping his axe.
“Go, and I will hold him at bay,” said Galath.
“No,” Simran said instantly.
“He can hurt me, but he cannot kill me,” Galath said patiently. “Go, Simran. Don’t tarry.”
“Galath,” Simran said. Her voice suddenly felt small, the hoofbeats louder than a death knell.
“I was a scribe. I know how limni ink tattoos work. You’ll die by your gift.
The gift of flight leads to a great fall.
A swift swimmer will drown. Your mark gives you eternity—so it must be eternity that kills you.
He can do it,” she finished, as Vina’s eyes widened in horror.
“He is the Eternal King. He can take your life.”
Galath lowered his head, gazing at his axe. At his forehead, his limni mark glowed briefly like fire.
“So be it,” he said. “Now go.”
“No,” Vina shouted.
“Galath,” said Simran. “You can’t. Don’t you understand? You will die at the hands of your gift. The Eternal King is your death.”
“Then I will face my death head-on,” said Galath.
“You can’t do it,” Vina said roughly.
“You can’t want to die,” Simran said. “You have—Hari. Vina. You have a life. Everything—everything Elayne should have wanted for you, and stole from you. You can’t want this.”
“Can I not? Surely after so many lifetimes, I’ve earned the right.” He turned to look back at her. “No,” he said after a moment. “I don’t want to die. But my time has come.”
He pushed her toward the Tower itself.
“Go and free the Beast,” he said. “The King is mine.”
“I’ll stay with you,” said Vina. “Fight alongside you.”
Galath shook his head.
“I’m a knight, Father,” said Vina. “And I choose to face the King alongside you. You can’t stop me.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Galath snapped, and for once his icy surface was broken—the love and rage beneath it bare.
“I know,” said Vina. “But I’m staying. You’re my family. I won’t leave you.”
She met Simran’s eyes. Her expression was full of love and determination—and the knowledge of what they risked. Go, she mouthed.
Simran’s feet felt as if they were rooted to the floor. But she forced them to move. She ran.
The corridors were empty—torch sconces broken, windows shattered. Galath had left a swath of destruction. Up the staircase she went.
The door of the room where the Beast crouched, chained, was well protected now with a snarl of cunning and maleficent magic. Simran called out, and Oliver peered around the curve of the stairs. Oliver twisted his hand, with a muttered blessing, and the traps parted, allowing her entry.
He looked exhausted. “Glad you’re back, Simran,” he said. “You need to finish this.”
“I know,” she said softly.
“My friend, hear me,” Ophelia was saying, almost a lullaby, singsong. “My friend, please…”
The Beast was raging. Its bonds were livid against the ink of its skin. Simran approached it. How could she explain to this creature in agony, this creature chained, that they were friends and wanted to set it free?
“You must trust me,” Simran said, trying to stand firm, gazing at it. She thought of Vina’s tenderness, a lifetime ago, with golden deer in the lost woods of Gore, dead with Bess. She kneeled. “Adder,” she said. “I am not your enemy. You’ve always been my friend. Let me be yours.”
The Beast leapt at her. She braced herself, but it didn’t throw its weight against her. Its human face had transformed into a great ridged snout, many-toothed. It peeled back its lips and snarled, agonized, torn between old trust and fresh bloody terror.
“Adder,” she said, grasping its many-toothed maw. It was chuffing, snarling, blood on its great teeth. It tried to bite. She squeezed her eyes shut, held it tighter, all her strength in the task. “My sweet friend. Let me cut your bonds, let me help you! Let us help you, please!”
The Beast was still snarling, but Simran took a risk and closed her hands around its chains. The Beast howled, terrified.
“Hush,” Simran said. “Hush, let me tell you—tell you a story—”
And Simran did what she’d known she had to.
She whispered stories to the Beast. Remember how you curled up against my belly, a warm kitten-thing, when I was sick?
Remember how, when the archivists harmed me, or I could not remember why I wept, you turned into a raven and stole penny sweets from a London market stall, and winged them onto my pillow?
Remember, Adder? You’re made of gentleness as well as grief.
Loving hands shaped your library for centuries, and here you are still. Here you are. Trust me, trust me—
“You were family when I had none,” Simran said to it tenderly. “Peace, my dear Questing Beast. You’ll be free soon.”
A chuffing noise. A growl that shook the grip of her hands.
I want my—home!
She felt the Beast’s voice in her skull, and met Ophelia’s eyes, and knew she heard it too.
I want to be the forest, the Beast wailed. The trees, the rivers—the houses high as mountains, the valleys that swoop. I want to live, to live, to live. No more hunting. I do not want to be hunted!
“Then you will not be,” Simran said, determined. She grasped its chains. “You will not.”
The chains broke.
The ink shattered like glass around them. It spun, burning fire, cutting her cheek.
The Beast, beaten and bloodied, raised its head.
It blinked lambent eyes at the gloomy hall.
And then its maw opened, all those teeth bared, and it cried out.
Not a scream, but a mournful chorus of voices—thousands upon thousands of them, all scrounged from the ash of the library, all saved within the Beast. The chained books rattled, the tales yearning toward it, seeking their kind.
Wings swept from its back. It raced forward, knocking over people and spellwork alike, and hurtled down the corridor. Ophelia raced after it, her footsteps thudding against the stone stairs.
It was going toward the Eternal King and the battle below.
Simran could not call after it, or follow as Ophelia had.
She shoved open the door the Beast’s body had barred, and stumbled into the room of incarnate books.
Her hands ached, her magic was stretched thin.
She grasped the first incarnate tome she could find, the leather soft under her hands, the pages sharp as blades.
She clutched it tight, and grasped the limni ink that bound it.
“No more,” she forced out. The ink fought her, but she would not allow it.
Her eyes were streaming. She could taste blood on her tongue.
“No more.” The ink had deep roots. Beyond the book in her hands, beyond the tale it held, it was tangled with chains upon chains of ink.
The archive itself, all the work of the archivists, the prison they’d built for tales.
She’d walked away from this once before, when she’d saved Margaret. She wouldn’t do it again.
“No more,” she said again, and wrenched the chains apart. Every single one.
The ink exploded around her, flying from thousands of books, swirling in the air in a maelstrom. It screamed as it flew, crying out like a thousand wailing voices, buffeting her with rough hands. She fell to the floor, head spinning, and covered her face until it passed.
Maybe she drifted, for some time. She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Sim,” Hari was saying urgently. “Sim, can you hear me?”
“I can,” she said, voice hoarse. She struggled to sit up.
“Maybe you should rest—”
“I’m fine.” She climbed to her feet, finding her breath. “We need to go. Galath’s in danger.”
Hari looked into her eyes. His face grayed.
“Take me to him,” he said.
They ran in the Beast’s wake; down toward the battle, and the chime-sharp clash of swords—and the sudden sound of a scream, as the sky darkened with portent.