Chapter 35
It took Maeve the better part of an hour to zigzag through the north side of Gloam. She hated running and felt dead on her feet as she rounded each block, but she didn’t let herself stop. She kept going, weaving around buildings, then darting through the crowd of protesters still swarming the Post’s gate. She passed them by, then scrambled up the iced-over embankment that led to the tree line.
“There you are,” Tristan said as Maeve slipped through his secret entrance and onto the grounds.
She’d made it with minutes to spare.
He took her hands. “Where’s Nan?”
“Not here.”
Mopping sweat from her brow, she quickly went over everything that happened at the Herald , including the run-in with the constabulary courier. She then went into detail about the article going out with her name plastered across the top. Many would already be on display by now.
“Did anyone follow you?”
“I don’t think so.” But she didn’t take the time to look either.
“If someone near Blackcaster Square uses a tracking scribing to find you, they’ll hit the fence and realize they have to backtrack through the main entrance, which will give us a little time.”
“And if they’re already inside the fence?”
A somber expression settled on his mouth.
There would be more than a mere handful searching for her soon. The Sacrifict taught her how quickly gossip spread. If the article was truly out, she had minutes. “Were you able to finish the scribing?”
He pulled a thick emerald book from his saddlebag, the ancient cover tattered and stained from years of use. The gilt-foiled title was nearly rubbed away, but Maeve could still make it out.
“ Mythical Beasts of Barrow ?”
“A handwritten book that I was able to write a form scribing on.”
Her eyes widened. “Like the book that you left inside the Scriptorium all those years ago?”
“Yes. But this time I made sure to add in enough stipulations that whatever comes out of it shouldn’t hurt anyone. Regardless, you’re not allowed to open it until it’s absolutely necessary. Reading a single word could trigger the scribing.” He patted his saddlebag. “This book alone should buy us enough time, but I scribed two more just in case.”
Maeve halted in the snow. “Us?”
“If you think I’m going to let you face the woman that killed Cath all by yourself, you’re sorely mistaken.” His words brooked no room for discussion.
“If you show up, Sibilla might not talk.”
“Then I’ll keep hidden, but I’m coming with you.” He pulled out another decrepit book and tucked it beneath his arm.
Maeve wanted to be angry at him, but she couldn’t be. She found herself overcome with relief that she wouldn’t have to go in alone.
He tossed her a crematory ash satchel from his bag. “Coat your fingers before you open the book. If the form scribing’s manifestation comes too close to you, dust it a little. It should stay back.”
Maeve absorbed each word with a growing sense of foreboding. She had been determined only moments ago, but the reality of her situation was setting in now.
This was it. There was no turning back.
Tristan slipped a hand down her forearm to clutch her hand. “If it doesn’t work out, I can always bring you socks in prison.”
“If it doesn’t work out, you might be going to prison with me.”
“At least I’ll like the company.” He trailed a finger along the side of her neck, then took her elbow. Together they stayed off the main path and picked their way through the woods until the Second Library came into full view.
Lights were lit behind its glass door. A group of couriers passed it along the path, then a larger group of officers. Another two officers came in from the west, saluting their colleagues. None of them held papers with tracking scribings—yet.
“There’s so many of them,” Maeve said.
Tristan scanned the area around them. “Where’s Shea?”
“I’m here.” Shea stepped out from the shadow of a nearby tree and picked her way over to them, her cloak tight around her shoulders. “I thought I was going to freeze to death before you two ever got here.” She looked behind them. “Where’s Nan?”
“Still with her father. There’s no time to explain.” Tristan held out a hand. “Your key.”
Shea gave him her courier key.
“Here.” He dug in his bag and handed her another one of the ancient books, titled When a Demon Comes to Call.
“What is this?” She turned it over.
“A handwritten book that I happened to scribe.”
“You know how to scribe a whole handwritten book?”
He glanced at Maeve. “Sadly, yes.”
Shea opened the cover, and Tristan snapped it shut. “Do not open it here. I need you to walk to the other side of the Second Library, read the first page, then drop the book and act frightened. It should get the officers away from the door for a minute or so.”
He warned Shea to have her crematory ash ready in case the scribing got out of hand. To not approach it.
“I think I can manage it,” she said, then headed for the officers.
“How will we know when she’s read the scribing?” Maeve asked as Shea disappeared between buildings.
Before Tristan could answer her, there was a series of screams. The group of officers in front of the library ran in the direction of the noise.
“That’s how we know,” Tristan said, his mouth flattening.
Maeve took his hand and gave it a hard squeeze. “Nobody will get hurt this time. You said so yourself. In fact, you’re preventing others from getting hurt. Now let’s go.”
Maeve kept her cloak tucked tightly to her head. She ran behind Tristan through the entrance to the Second Library and into the small lobby area.
“Is Sibilla working tonight?” Tristan asked the archivist seated at the desk, a thin shouldered man who took them in with vacant features and the palest eyes Maeve had ever seen.
He picked at his chin hairs that weren’t quite long enough to be called a beard. “She’s shelving books around floor six below ground,” he said, then narrowed his eyes at Maeve. “Him I recognize, but I’ve never seen you down here before. I’ll need your name. I need to check it against our list.”
“She’s with me, and we don’t have time for a list, I’m afraid,” Tristan said, then shoved a key in the door’s lock.
The clerk’s eyes were fixed on Maeve’s shoulder. She brought a hand up and winced at the red curl that had snuck out of her braid.
“You’re her, aren’t you?” he said, standing slowly. “You’re the girl everyone is looking for.” He shuffled around the desk.
Tristan got the door open, then jerked Maeve through, slamming it behind them until it locked again. The archivist rushed forward and beat a fist against the glass, spittle flinging from the corner of his lip. Maeve thought he would try to come inside after them, but he turned and ran from the library.
“He’s going for help,” Maeve said.
Tristan nodded into the darkness. “Yes, which means we have less time than we thought.”
He held up his book. It was burgundy this time, with a title that read: The Nightmares of Huber Bramble.
He placed it on the floor beside the entrance. “Pinch some ash in your fingers and head for the stairs over there. I’ll meet you in a moment.”
Maeve did as he said, watching Tristan from the corner of her eyes. He held open the cover of the book for a few seconds, then dropped the book and shifted backward on his heels as something dark reached upward from the page. A skeletal hand manifested from ink.
For a moment, Maeve thought it would be another column of ink like the one that nearly choked Nan to death, but this hand was attached to a jointed arm. It felt for purchase along the stone floor, then laid its inky palm flat so it could push itself upward. A sluice of black ink spilled from the book as a skeletal man in a haggard tailcoat and top hat formed above the book, made entirely of ink. He held his head crookedly, a globule of ink flesh hanging in a looping ribbon from his sunken cheek. He moved in a slow rhythm, dragging one foot behind him, leaving a ghastly spill against the stone floor in his wake.
Another hand emerged from the book, this one with four-inch claws that appeared sharp enough to eviscerate flesh.
The manifestations weren’t dangerous, but they looked it. They resembled living nightmares.
Tristan caught up to Maeve. “Admit it, I have talent,” he said, but his features were ashen.
He must be terribly worried about the scribings hurting something.
“I’ll admit to your talent when no officers come after us. Let’s go.”
They took off down the stairwell, counting the levels as they moved. Maeve held her breath as they passed the entrance to the third floor, where the Aldervine specimen rested behind glass, then down more floors, until they reached a burning torch marking the entrance to the sixth floor below ground. It felt like an icebox. Maeve folded her arms tight across her chest, peering into the dimly lit space, but she couldn’t tell if there was anyone there; cavernous ceilings loomed over a maze of shelves that were impossible to see over.
The hollow clatter of a library cart echoed in the distance.
“Hear that?” Tristan whispered.
Maeve nodded, then quietly motioned for him to follow her. They searched the darkened floor for a few minutes but couldn’t find Sibilla anywhere. Then the cart rattled again, this time coming from near the stairwell; their expressions tightened as their eyes scanned the floor.
Tristan put a finger to his lips and crept to the end of the aisle, pointing to the direction they needed to go next—the stairs. Maeve came up beside him, halting.
A pair of officers now stood at the stairwell.
“Do you think they’re tracking me?” Maeve whispered.
Tristan shook his head. “If they were, they’d be heading in our direction.”
“There’s another stairwell down that way.” Maeve gestured at the narrow stairs she’d used weeks ago—that took her near the room with the Aldervine. “We could make a run for it.”
“They’ll see us.”
He was right.
“Hand me your book,” he said, and she gave him Mythical Beasts of Barrow . He waved it at the officers.
“What are you doing?” Maeve hissed.
“Giving us a way to escape,” he said under his breath, then turned to face the officers.
When the officers shouted, heading for Tristan, Maeve wanted to strangle him.
“I might consider staying back,” Tristan called to the officers, his eyes never leaving the book.
The second officer huffed a laugh, but there was a nervous edge to it. “Is this boy trying to bargain with us?”
“I was trying to warn you, but call it whatever you want. It doesn’t matter a bit to me.”
Tristan opened the front cover of the book. His hooded eyes scanned the contents of the first page, then he dropped the book. The spine cracked against the stone ground, and a rush of oil-black ink as thick as bile spilled from the center, pooling along the floor into a large puddle that behaved like the surface of a lake. Something large shivered and writhed from within it. Ink fingers broke the surface, then floated back down, and Tristan looked like he was about to be sick.
The hellish puddle spread to beneath the officers’ feet, then into the adjoining aisles. Tristan inched backward as manifested fingers made of ink slipped up an officer’s leg, dragging him down. More black limbs reached from the puddle, wrapping around the man’s torso. His hands passed through them like water as he struggled to free himself.
“It’s holding them,” Maeve said, her eyes locked on the spreading puddle. “We need to go.”
Tristan nodded and started toward her, but something sprang from the ink and clamped dripping arms around Tristan’s legs. A sinewy black hand slithered over his hip and wrapped around his waist, the manifested fingers drawing trails of ink across his torso.
Maeve doused her hand with crematory ash and came forward.
Tristan shook his head. “Don’t. You’ll null the entire scribing.” He looked from the trapped officers to his own ash satchel still hanging from his neck. “I’ll be fine. Find Sibilla before it’s too late.”
“You expect me to leave you?”
“I’m not particularly thrilled with it either, but we only have this one chance. I’ll wait a few minutes then come after you. I promise.”
Footsteps echoed from the stairs. Shouting. More officers were on their way, probably led by a scriptomancer with a tracking scribing. Tristan was right; if she nulled his scribing, the officers would be able to walk right through the puddle. But now it served as a barricade created by the one person she didn’t want to leave. But Tristan was right—she had to find Sibilla.
Maeve took one last look at him and ran for the second stairwell.