Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Briony
“I’ve never actually been in here before,” Fly whisper-confesses as he huddles behind me and Clare in the entranceway of the library, his gaze darting around suspiciously as if he expects the library to start flinging books at his head any moment now.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Clare says, blinking behind her glasses.
Which is easy for her to say. She’s never had the library attack her before. She is literally the library’s little pet. I think the library would do anything for her, although Clare seems to disagree.
“Library,” Clare announces, taking a hold of Fly’s arm and forcing him to stand beside her. He shifts on his feet, looking so awkward it’s untrue. “This is my friend, Fly. I don’t think he’s ever been to a library before.”
“I have,” Fly says in outrage.
“We wanted him to come and see how amazing you are, how beautiful, how truly well-stocked.” The library lights flicker with obvious pleasure.
“And you’ll remember my friend Briony too.
” The atmosphere in the library seems to turn instantly more frosty.
“Library,” Clare says, stepping forward and holding out her hands.
“We’re in trouble and we need your help.
In fact, I think you’re the only one that can help us. Please hear us out.”
The lights above our heads flicker again, and I take it the library is considering Clare’s request. Then the shelves slide away and we follow the path they’re creating right to the very back of the building.
“Thank you,” Clare whispers as we’re safely entombed by high bookshelves stuffed full of books of all shapes and sizes. I think it would be impossible for anyone to find us hidden back here.
Clare repeats the story I told her earlier this morning in hushed tones, and the library is so still and quiet there’s no doubt that it’s listening to every word she has to say.
When Clare comes to the end of the story, the point where we’ve made a decision to come to the library for help, that silence and that stillness continues.
My heart and stomach drop. Maybe this isn’t going to work after all.
The library is probably still angry with me for ripping that page from the book; after all, the library never exactly liked me in the first place.
But then a book drops from a shelf off to my left and slides slowly across the floor, halting by our feet. Clare crouches down, brushing dust from the velvet cover and reading the golden letters embossed on the cover.
“Lumomancy,” she says out loud.
Instantly my gaze falls to my hands.
“That’s right,” Clare says. “Briony is a lumomancer. Show her, Briony, show her what you can do.”
I’m not sure if that will help my situation, but I hold out my palms nonetheless and let my magic speed through my veins, sparking into my palms and causing great beams of light to hover in the air in front of my face.
Clare and Fly have both seen me do this numerous times before, and yet they still gasp with amazement.
I almost gasp myself. I’m still not used to how easy this is becoming, like it’s second nature.
I can draw magic now like I can draw words from my mouth or breath from my lungs.
Again, there’s silence. But this time, I swear, the atmosphere in the library has shifted, as if every molecule hovering in the air is tense and watching me.
And then something incredible happens.
The bookcase resting against this far wall of the library – a bookshelf I’ve never seen move before – slowly swings outward, revealing another dark passageway, one that was hidden behind all the books.
I extinguish the light in my hands.
“Have you ever seen this before?” I ask Clare.
She shakes her head. “No. Never.”
I step forward and peer inside the tunnel, ignoring Fly’s anxious draw of breath.
I think he’s half expecting the library to push me into the tunnel and block and lock me in with a bookshelf.
After all, we’ve always assumed the library is on our side, but maybe she is loyal to the Empress and, with me a traitor, plans to capture me.
But the tunnel is similar to the one I climbed through from the Highlands with Fox, and as I bring my light back to brighten its darkness, I see those same strange symbols carved into the walls. The books vibrate on the shelves around us, a humming noise swimming through the air of the library.
“I think she wants us to go in,” Clare says.
“Is that wise?” Fly counters.
Clare shrugs and walks straight past him and into the tunnel. I hesitate and then I follow, and once again Fly has no choice but to come with us. As soon as we step inside the tunnel, the bookcase slides back into place and Fly whips around in despair.
“Great, and now we’re trapped,” he says.
“Not trapped,” Clare points out. “Hidden. The library is protecting us, Fly.”
“I hope you’re right,” he mutters.
“I am,” Clare says confidently. “Can you light the way, Briony?”
I do as my clever friend says and we follow the tunnel a short distance until it emerges into a larger room.
It’s similar to the dungeons down where the Professor’s room lies – same stone walls, floor, and ceiling – only in this room an old chandelier hangs on a chain from the ceiling and it’s more than simply a secret section of the library.
It houses several old, creaky-looking beds, dusty covers strewn across their old mattresses.
Several shelves are stacked with more linen clothes and what look like stores of food.
Next to that hang old, ancient weapons, the likes of which I’ve never seen before, even back in the palace in the Onyx Quarter.
In one corner is what must be some ancient kind of sink, fed by a natural spring from down below – I can hear it gurgling.
And then finally, on a decorative shelf stand three large books, ancient tomes that seem to brighten as I enter the room, drawing my attention their way.
“What is this place?” Fly says, strolling right to the packed shelves as Clare’s gaze lifts upward and all around the room.
“It looks like some kind of safe room,” Clare says. “Somewhere someone could stay hidden in the academy.”
“Why would the library have a safe room?” I say. “And why would it not open for you, Clare, but it would for me?”
“I’m guessing you’re more in need of a safe place right now than I am, Briony,” Clare says.
“I knew the library was holding something back, some secret, something she couldn’t tell me or wouldn’t tell me until…
” She flicks her gaze back to me. “She had to know you were a lumomancer. She had to see it with her own eyes.”
“The library has no eyes,” Fly points out.
“It’s a manner of speech,” Clare says a little sniffily.
“You think there’s something in these books that can help us then?” I say, almost as excited as my nerdy friend.
“Most definitely.”
Clare strides to the nearest shelf with utmost confidence, reaches out her hand to pull out the first book from the shelf, and then snatches her hand away, yelping as she does.
“Ouch!” she says. “It stung me!”
“Books don’t sting,” Fly says, still peering back down the tunnel.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Fly?” Clare says.
“This is a magical library. She obviously doesn’t want me to touch that book.
But maybe…” She reaches out her hand to the next one, yelps again, and finds the same thing happens with the next book too.
She drops her hand in frustration. “Why send us in here if we can’t read any of the books? ”
“Clare,” Fly says, “the library let Briony in, not us.”
This clearly ruffles Clare’s feathers. She’s used to the library being her best friend and doing what she wants. But then she thinks better of it.
“You try then, Briony. Maybe she’ll let you read one of the books.”
I join her by the bookcase and cautiously reach out my hand. My forefinger meets the top of the first book’s spine. Nothing happens. I hook my finger inside the fabric and slide the book from the shelf. A load of dust comes spiraling with it and the three of us choke.
When we’ve finished coughing, I cradle the book in my arms and turn the first page. Instantly my stomach sinks. It’s the old language. And even Clare, with all her millions of brain cells, will probably struggle to read it.
“We could take it to the Professor,” I suggest. But even as I say the words, I know it won’t be possible.
The library won’t let us take these books.
I could try bringing him down here, but if the library was reluctant to let Clare enter, her favorite pet, I don’t think it’s going to let a vampire inside the secret room.
I growl in frustration. Every time we seem to make progress, every time we seem to take a step forward, we end up falling another two back.
“It’s hopeless,” I despair.
And in my frustration, I let the book fall from my hands.
It lands on the stone floor with a bang, more dust shooting into the air and then, to my amazement, the pages shuffle through and a great ray of light shoots from its pages and forms an image in the air, right in front of our noses, so like the ghosts that had risen from the bones out in the demon wastelands, it’s uncanny.
Only these ghosts don’t hang in the air wistfully, bemoaning their ghoulish existence.
These seem to be acting out a scene. A scene from the past?
There are the ghostly forms of people, their hands outstretched, light, like mine, dancing from their palms into the air.
And then there are other people too – dark shadows swimming from their outstretched hands.
And I expect for a moment it’ll be a scene showing the old battles against the demons, when light wielders and shadow weavers, along with the dragons they tamed, fought to try to keep back the demon forces that had invaded our lands.
Except that’s not what I see. It’s not what I see at all.
And I’m frozen in horror, standing sandwiched between my two friends as I see the scene enacted before me.
Light wielders, shadow weavers, fighting one another, like I’d seen in the tournament at the palace.
Except this fight doesn’t seem to be a fight for entertainment. It seems to be a fight to the death.
The shadow and light magic crash together and splinter, and men and women are hit by magic, falling lifeless to the ground. And soon it’s clear the shadow weavers are dominating this battle. Soon there are no light wielders standing. They all lie motionless.
And then a great dark shadow forms, swoops across the vision, and it disappears, falling like dust back into the pages of the book.
Once again we’re silent. I can hear my own heartbeat racing in my ears and my friend’s panted breaths beside me.
It’s Fly who speaks first.
“What does that mean?” he says.
I gather the book up in my arms again and flick through the pages, but it’s no use, I can’t read it. I offer it out to Clare, who hesitates at first as if she expects it to bite her, then takes it into her arms. This time there’s no electric shock.
“It’s in the old language,” I mutter, dejected.
She scrunches up her nose and peers through her glasses at the strange text written on the page. “I can give it a try,” she says, already scanning the writing.
“I thought you said you were no good at reading the old language?”
“And you believed her?” Fly rolls his eyes.
“Don’t tell me,” I mutter, “you’re actually an award-winning scholar in the language.”
“No!” Clare yelps, then mutters under her breath, “although I did gain full marks in the old language exams.”
“Did you really expect anything different?” Fly laughs, Clare’s nose already buried in the book.
“I guess not.”
I go pick up the next large tome standing on the shelf. When I open this one, I find it’s written in our language, although the phrasing, the spelling, and the script is old-fashioned. I hand this one over to Fly, who also hesitates before taking it into his arms.
“Start reading,” I command him.
He gives me a little salute, and soon his eyes are whizzing across the page as well.
Then I take the final tome left standing on the shelf.
It looks just as old as the others, and when I open the pages I see, like Fly’s book, it’s written in my language, just phrased a little more old-fashioned.
It’s hard work reading the swirly calligraphy, but I scan my eyes across the text as quickly as I can, flipping pages as I go.
We all read silently – just the distant sound of dripping water, the flipping of pages, and our own breath the only sound in this entombed part of the library.
I don’t know how long we’re in there reading.
We’re all thoroughly absorbed by the history written down in each of these books.
But finally, we’re all slamming them shut – Clare first, then me, then Fly – and then we’re all looking at each other.
“What did yours say?” I ask Clare first.
“It’s a history of the realm,” she says.
“From hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of years ago. A time before there were demons, when there were light wielders, shadow weavers, dragons, shifters, vampires, and all sorts of other magic too. A time when there was no academy, no Quarters. When the emperor or empress was chosen by the people.”
Fly and I stare at her aghast. It had never even occurred to me that that could be a possibility. The Emperor – Empress in our time – has always been the Empress. It’s never been a question of someone different, of someone we could choose.
I snap my head around to Fly.
“What did yours say, Fly?”
“It’s later than Clare’s, although still pretty damn old and odd, and it’s less of a utopia sort of thing.” He scratches his cheek. “Let’s say things are starting to fall apart.”
“What do you mean?”
“Factions, infighting. People trying to seize control of the throne, undermine the voting of the people in their choice of emperor.” I nod again. It makes sense. “What did yours say, Briony?”
“It’s the story of the end,” I say. “The end for light wielders like me.”
They both look at me quizzically.
“The shadow weavers killed us.” They don’t look surprised. It’s the scene we saw enacted before our eyes – one we now understand.
I take a step back and swing my gaze between my two friends, who are looking at me and not the book in their arms.
“It means the shadow weavers killed the light wielders. Destroyed them. It wasn’t some consequence of fate. It wasn’t the fading of our magic. It wasn’t demons.”
All along I’d known it, right from the beginning, that the shadow weavers were my enemies. And now I know it for certain.
They killed my people. They killed my kind. They killed my sister. And now they want to kill me too.